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yiga-hellhole · 4 months

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TFTK CHAPTER 20: ENDURING RESOLVE

Ganondorf has gone into hiding. His two most loyal servants guard the desert in his stead. Hyrule approaches, knowing not what kind of death awaits them, deep beneath the sands. Zant tests out his blade.

FINALLY DONE! sooo sorry my beloved tumblr readerbase. this update has been available on ao3 for a little over a week now, but i had to steam through a pretty bad art block to get this promo image done exactly how i liked it. so without further ado, here it is!! i have a real doozy for you all today! again, thanks so much to @bulgariansumo and @orfeoarte for betareading the chapter! there's a couple secret languages in this chapter again... thanks very much to @unironicallycringe for helping me with figuring out Akkadian. as for the translations, well... you go puzzle it out!

content warnings this chapter for: graphic violence, animal death, medical gore, domestic violence/physical abuse (for lack of a better term)

ao3 mirror

They rose before the sun had even fully set, thieving their love-nest of its purpose hours too early. Any preparations they could do, save donning arms and armor, would have been too late in this final moment before battle, but they had to be ready to defend themselves at any moment. The air was tense, dead-silent so as not to alert any potential enemy scouts. But in that deep silence, every nervous sigh, every jingle of chainmail, grated the ears from miles away.

So sat Zant in his chambers, eyelids still thick and heavy with sleep, but nonetheless perched at the edge of his bed, gazing out into the night sky. Ghirahim lied where he’d left him, sunken into his pillows and layers of sheets. In this companionable silence, there was as much to be said, as there was a lack of words to convey them. Indecision to what topic could suit the last hours before this all-out battle, they spoke of nothing at all. Yet there was deep understanding in it, a bond between them that only needed a glance of the eye to be conveyed.

Pacing anxiously was unnecessary. Ghirahim lay comfortable; to him, nothing enriched the soul like battle, and he was ready to rise every minute of the day. No need for armor, for food, for a minute to come to his senses. He could jump up the second the warning horns blared.

Thus, he dozed, his eyes on the tense Twili beside him until they wandered to the portrait above him. When had he moved it above his bed, he wondered? To think a man so reserved could be so vain. The gold of its canvas glittered in the weak light, egging on the stars in the sky beyond with its own splendor. Ghirahim felt a smile creep up on him and his eyes drew to a close.

He didn’t quite keep track of how long he lay there simply sifting through the favorite contents of his core, before that line of thought was interrupted, and a warm static forced itself through his mental imagery. It started deep in his chest, washing over his every extremity in waves. His skin tingled, his breath hitched. A contented sigh dragged out from him and joined the warm air in the room. This feeling, how long ago it was since he last felt it. It could only be…

Sat on the carpet beside the window was Zant, the Demon Scimitar before him. Moonlight could not hope to pierce the deep black of their blade; their masterpiece was a shadow among shadows. A vibrant teal glow pulsed throughout the veins in its fuller, like light beneath the ocean waves. That glow slowly grew richer, occasionally interrupted by the stroke of a cloth across the blade.

Ghirahim shuddered. There was the source of that odd feeling, that sent shivers up his back and caused his face and stomach to flush an embarrassing red. Soon Zant caught him staring at him past the mound of sheets and met his eyes – glowing, giving him no choice but to witness them – with a smile.

“Pardon me. Did I disturb you?”

“Disturb is a strong word,” Ghirahim said, unable to suppress a shuddering groan. From fingerguard to its point, the cloth rubbed away every speck of dust and smudge of oil.

The sound that escaped him piqued Zant’s interest immediately. Eyes that should pay attention to the razor-sharp edge of their sword widened at him. “You can feel this?”

Taps of powder against the blade. Puff, puff, little clouds of white dissipating in the gentle breeze. “To some degree, yes.”

Bright, amber eyes narrowed. “What is it like?”

Adjusting comfortably, Ghirahim sank back into the sheets, hiding half of his face. He stared him down no lesser, though. “There is hardly any equal to this feeling, Zant,” he hummed, pleased by the sensation of gentle polishing. “But if I had to describe it… Something akin to having my hair brushed, or hands stroking my back, I suppose.”

Zant’s eyes turned to the sword, now carrying a certain spark. He beheld it in a different light. “I see. How fortunate to know.”

Ghirahim shifted, curling himself in the mass of sheets to get a better look at his machinations, but without abandoning the glow of their joint warmth. Their companionable silence returned, the quiet room filled only with the whisper of cloth against metal, and the gentle churning of his core. Warmth buzzed through him in waves, like fingers with long nails tapping and tracing the features deep in his chest. That so-abstract sensation turned ever warmer, more squeezing, when that familiar smell of cloves arose, and Zant turned to oiling the blade. Ghirahim cocked his head, watching intently. “Tending to it again? So soon?”

Zant only glanced at him before returning to his focus. “Our sword is in its infancy, Ghirahim. It has to be nourished in its first year.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Ghirahim smirked.

“You hardly gave me any choice, Ghirahim-hasir,” Zant smirked right back.

Another honorific! He laughed fondly, ever-so-amused by Zant’s habit of slipping into mother tongue. “That one is new! What nonsense are you up to, this time?”

“No more than usual,” Zant hummed, a touch of cheer in his voice. “Now get back under the covers and leave me to do my bidding. We must be in top shape before dawn, you and I,” he crooned, stroking the cloth down their blade in emphasis.

Ghirahim smiled, sighed, and complied.

That morning, Hyrule conquered the southern settlements in a matter of minutes. The market streets the pair had grown so familiar with, committed to memory through the smells of spices, pastries, and smoked meat alone, decimated at once. Not that they’d made it particularly difficult for their adversaries; a minimal amount of monstrous troops were stationed there. This was their bait. A little trick tucked in falsely heightened morale, to fool the Hyruleans into thinking them weaker than they were. Besides, the locals stationed within sight would surely be healthily enraged by the sight of their beloved settlement being torn to the ground. Zant had planned for a bloody start.

The two of them were thoroughly locked away in the North. The Gerudo Temple Complex was a dark and swirling thing, a monumental goliath of sandstone and brick, its dimly lit corridors designed to trap anyone outside the clergy in the bowels. Deep within, it hid the Coliseum. A holy ground to desert peoples, later desecrated by Hyrule and turned into an executioner’s oubliette. Better known as, ‘The Arbiter’s Grounds’. Since its reclamation by the Gerudo (according to Zant, one of the few good things brought on by shattering the Mirror of Twilight), Hyrule was to never touch it again. The labyrinth would guard it for as long as it stood.

In other words, it was the ideal place to watch the battle unfold from afar. Their intel detected signs of three commanders: Link, the Goddess’ favored hero; Lana, still missing her counterpart; and an unfamiliar Sheikah warrior. Knowing the Hyruleans, they likely had more tricks up their sleeves. They needed caution above all.

Zant was eerily silent for most of their stay, retreating within his helmet. Had Ghirahim not known any better, he would have suspected him of sleeping on the job again. On the contrary, the Twili could not have been more alert. The ace up their sleeve was heaving and buzzing restlessly deep underground below their feet. The Twilit Bloat, Queen Mother of Zant’s favorite pets, spent days spewing forth countless Shadow Insects, which he’d hidden away in every nook and cranny he thought would make a decent vantage point. They were acting as his eyes in the field and to keep track of them all required his utmost concentration.

Until at long last Zant withdrew from meditation, the segments of his helmet squeaking as he straightened himself and turned toward his co-lieutenant.

“They are inching closer to the oases. While they busy themselves there, now is the best time to start our preparations,” he said, beckoning him with a wave of his hand as he made his way through the keep.

Ghirahim, glad to finally have something to do, grinned. “You mean to set up the… Shadow puppets, you mentioned, yes?”

“I have told you of my plan,” Zant agreed, scaling the steps to the decrepit altar at the center of the Coliseum. His visor rolled up to reveal a grin. “But not yet of its execution. It should be most familiar to you, however,” he turned, his hand outstretched and palm facing the skies.

Ghirahim smirked and followed, taking his hand to have him lead him further up the steps. An arm curled around his waist, and he rested his on Zant’s shoulder in return. “How courteous of you, Twilight King. Won’t prancing about distract you from your own casting, though?”

Zant smiled in turn. With a small pull at his waist, they quickly sank into a rhythm, waltzing under the sunbeams that peeked through the stone walls. “We must enact our spell in utter synchronicity, Ghirahim-ili. This is the best way.”

A pulse coursed through him. Diamonds rose from their footprints, flickering with signs of their blooming magic. The beating of their feet and chiming of his core accompanied their dance like a dozen tambourines. Through their joined hands, sparks of power crossed into one another, melting together until the pictures in their minds became clear as day, a single being.

“I shall be the source, and you, my conduit. My power is yours to steer, puppeteer of mine,” Zant’s words echoed, but Ghirahim couldn’t be sure if they came from his lips, or snuck into his mind without his notice. How cheeky.

And soon, that power manifested into being. Rising from the shadows, Ghirahim’s second pair of eyes came into view – or rather, he came into its view. A second Ghirahim took shape, its features growing more defined by the second. Terrible vertigo struck him, causing a temporary lapse in his steps. There was a disconnect, a duplication of his sight, but no identical one. He could see through his own body but through his double’s, too. His core swirled as he looked himself in the eye, standing in the sand with its muted colors and stiff stance.

“It’s easier if you close your eyes,” Zant whispered with a low croon, “try not to think. Let me lead you, my Blade.”

Easier said than done, he’d say, did it not make such a drastic difference. Ridding himself of his second-sight made it all the easier to at least gather his bearings without the spinning surroundings there to distract him. But reaching this double somatically remained a challenge. It was like trying to steer a phantom limb. The tether was weak, but undeniably there, and getting it to move was akin to timidly pressing the keys on an old harpsichord. All the while this buffoon requested him to dance.

But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Channeling their magic? He was no stranger to their bodies becoming one, in many senses of the term. It wasn’t just his own magic he had to focus on, but the force linking its fingers with it, too.

Synchronicity. The picture through the eyes of his double became vibrant and clear as day.

His double twitched its fingers until they were veritably his, then took a stumbling step. Then another. Then more, stably, rolling its shoulders and bouncing on its heels. The shuffling of dancing feet was soon nothing but background noise, far removed from where his mind settled. Housed in this spectral clone, Ghirahim grinned, braced his fingers, and snapped.

The desert heat felt like room temperature. Or rather, like nothing at all, in this doubly-false skin. Having teleported himself, he stood a ways from the Southern Oasis, surveying his surroundings. Friend nor foe had spotted him yet, concealed as he was by the heat shaking the sights of their surroundings, but they’d have no choice than to witness him soon. He sprinted across the desert, intending to snicker to himself, only to find not a sound passed his lips.

A gap in their illusion. How embarrassing it would have been! What if he had attempted to taunt their foe, only to be caught missing his voice? He quickly suppressed the urge to scold Zant for failing to inform him of this flaw. To cause dissonance between his two selves would collapse their plans like a house of cards. Which, obviously, he couldn’t afford, as he was already perched on the walls of the Oasis Keep, staring right into fiery red eyes that pierced into him with malice.

The Sheikah man would be his first opponent.

His perch high up above did nothing to deter this stranger whatsoever. A long dagger whistled through the air just past Ghirahim’s ear, missing him only thanks to his own last-minute dodge. Ghirahim hadn’t yet the chance to righten himself before his adversary took a running start and leapt against the corner wall, kicking himself off to clamber up and meet him at eye level. It hadn’t even taken him five seconds to get to him.

This was going to be interesting. Ghirahim knew he couldn’t lose his composure so early in the battle, but a warrior so quick and nimble made the stars dance in his core. The Sheikah was upon him in a split second, a long knife in each hand, eyes red and full of death. His strikes were lightning-fast and precise, but not fast enough to break past Ghirahim. This man was an entirely different territory from that white-haired dog. Where Impa combined her tremendous speed with heavy blows, her replacement depended entirely on the fleetness of his feet. And it carried him well. The two of them danced across the walls, locking blades like a pair of cats fighting atop a fence.

But, truthfully, Ghirahim was only humoring him. Against another human, the slashes of the Sheikah’s knives would have been lethal. But to Ghirahim, razor edges struck his sword with gentle taps at most. He had to put this boy in his place. Hilt in both hands, he boldly raised his blade to bait him with an opening – swung down quickly, to bait a crossing of knives, and catch his sword in between.

The Sheikah were a near-ageless folk, living potentially centuries longer than Hylians, if they so chose. This very moment, the Sheikah proved his youth, his inexperience, despite his prodigal martial skill. He acted exactly as Ghirahim predicted.

Now locked, Ghirahim shot him a grin, before pushing his bulk into his sword and tossing him sideways. The Sheikah shouted in surprise, stumbled. With the assistance of a showy flip and roll, he dropped off the wall and down into the dirt, quickly righting himself in fear of being ambushed.

Not a second too late! Ghirahim leaped for him, point of his sword aimed for the heart. Or, rather, aimed for the dirt, as the Sheikah darted away quickly. The pair exchanged blows, barraged each other with throwing knives, but their mutual bulk and speed resulted in nothing more than superficial injuries.

Ghirahim couldn’t outspeed him. So, he’d just have to surprise him, instead. With only a small chime to announce his departure, Ghirahim disappeared into diamonds and landed himself square in the Sheikah’s way. The boy gasped in surprise, only barely managing to stumble out the way of the obsidian sword that flew toward him in a pitch-black streak. Now, all bets were on discombobulating his foe. The Sheikah was forced to face him more carefully, locked in a fierce combat. For every escape, every attempt at sprinting away for another trick, he was punished by the phantom that appeared in his shadow and threatened to rend him to pieces.

Dark blue Sheikah armor tore to show flashes of skin and bleeding gashes, staining a deeper red every second. But Ghirahim found himself not as unscathed as he’d normally be – this puppet was fragile, meaning even the small enchantments on this warrior’s knives could hurt him. It wasn’t the same pain as he’d feel on his surface when injured. This was a magical, conjured pain, manifesting as a headache and stuttering of his core. But, injuries or not, he was winning. The Sheikah was slowing, growing into an easier target for his thrusts and merciless cleavings with every pace. And there he darted off again, some desperate manner of escaping! Of stalling time! Blood hung in the air, its particles catching delectably on his lolling tongue. He chased its source hungrily, wishing so it was his true self instead who would get to kill this wretched little thing, a mere pup in comparison to his superior. Ghirahim ached to run him through with this blade! Just a few more paces, another leap –

There was a track in the sand. In the corner of his eye, he spotted another. The Sheikah stopped at the joining of lines, readying something curved and golden.

The harp. The harp! His eyes shot to the Sheikah, who grinned at him with a squint, fingers at the ready over his blasted holy implement. Ghirahim looked back to the ground, where he now spotted an outline… And himself spot in the middle of it. An ominous hum, a faded glow, resonant below him as fingertips tensed the strings. Ghirahim turned to flee, but a second too late. With a mockingly cheerful tune, the magic glyph was activated, and a blinding field of light magic launched him out the gates of the Oasis Keep.

He skidded to a halt, clouds of sand trailing his heels as they coursed through. In his concealment, he was fortunate to find his first flaw; a black patch, crackling on the surface of his puppet. Their illusion was falling apart.

Now is the time to flee.

They thought it simultaneously, with Ghirahim immediately annoyed by Zant’s meddling.

Shielded by this cloud of sand, he turned tail and fled. Soon enough, fleeted feet dashed through the sand a little ways behind him.

Just like he wanted! Bloodlust made blind!

The next phase of their plan was imminent. He had to cross the sands to get to the cliffs, where he could funnel this little songbird into its cage. This seemed easier said and done, because the Sheikah’s tendency to make pot-shots at the enemy made it increasingly more difficult to conceal the black cracks left on his surface. He kicked up as much sand as he could in his sprint to keep himself shielded from prying eyes.

It was a mad chase. In short bursts, his adversary seemed to be faster than him, leading him to blink around to get away from the scatter of needles flying his way. A haphazard, zigzagging trail of metal pins traced their trajectory. Yet, the Sheikah seemed to be letting him escape, at least a little bit. Did he hope he was fleeing to some kind of hideout, and lead him straight there? Oh, if only he knew!

It was a good thing he didn’t. They crossed into the Cliffs Keep, revealing a dead end. Realizing it’d been a trap, before the Sheikah could fully turn, the gates slammed shut behind them.

The enraged eyes of a cornered animal met with a dark grin. The two men flung at one another, daggers in hand. But Ghirahim felt weakened – the magic holding this form together barely persisted through its many cracks, and it was slowing his reflexes. To save himself some power, he dismissed the false cape, at once revealing the web of deep black fractures spreading across his skin.

This staggered the Sheikah for a moment, but baited him all the same. Daggers crossed, he lunged forward, and drove the tips towards his core. They tangled, tipped over, and landed in the sand, Ghirahim pinned between steel and soil.

For all this man knew, this was how a Sword Spirit died. The daggers sank into his chest, and Ghirahim let the illusion crackle into shards with a pained groan.

But not before leaving his parting gift. The Sheikah choked out a breath, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Ghirahim had driven a dagger right into his side.

He didn’t have the privilege to see if this caused his opponent to collapse or not, for his eyes caved into dust soon after this deceitful blow. Then followed the rest of his body, leaving only a cackle to fade on the wind.

Deep black turned into an outrageously bright light. With a gasp, Ghirahim came to, finding himself held up by Zant’s arms. Never before had he felt this unsteady on his feet, this jittery like a newborn foal. His shadowy double was gone, which left him to deal with the dizziness of returning to his body. How convenient that this animate coat rack of a man was there to assist him in doing so.

Ghirahim patted Zant on the sleeve, wobbling to righten himself. “Deliciously dramatic timing, Twilight King.”

“Thanks. I thought so too.”

Zant laughed, patiently assisting Ghirahim through the last seconds of his vertigo. Once Ghirahim collected himself, Zant parted from him, again turning his gaze meditatively to the skies. “We shall let them struggle with this predicament for a little while. Then, I will take your place on the battlefield, Ghirahim-ili.”

The battle unfolded just about how they expected it would. The gates they so merrily left open were breached by opportunistic troops zealously at first, but with the imprisonment of their Sheikah general, anxious caution took the wheel. Nevertheless, critical movement took place: Lana, who had been moving through the desert, succeeded in capturing the Northern Oasis; while Link, having first guarded their home base in the Bazaar, crossed the southern sands to attempt a rescue mission.

This was their cue. While their demonic troops clashed against Link’s brigade, Zant hopped back on his feet, extending his hands.

“Care to assist me once more?”

Locked again in dance, they watched as a shadowy form knitted into being by their pedestal. The illusory shape of Zant, darker and more muted than usual, readied itself for its host. Much to Ghirahim’s chagrin, Zant was clearly more adept than he at shifting his consciousness, as his double was up and moving in mere seconds.

“You close your eyes too, Ghirahim-ili.”

“Then who will keep watch of where we’re putting our feet? Moron.”

Ghirahim jested, but nonetheless allowed himself a brief respite, and did as he was told. Behind his darkened eyelids, he saw (though subtly) the world through the eyes of Zant’s shadowy double. He briefly worried if Zant had been spying along with him, too. Then, he felt some smug satisfaction in the knowledge, as he thought he’d made for a riveting battle just then.

Not a second longer did Zant let his puppet stick around and promptly sent it away. Just in time for Ghirahim to spin the both of them around and prevent them from tumbling off the altar.

Ghirahim’s impressions of this battle were vague, bestowed upon him in flashes through Zant’s incomprehensible sense of sight. The world was a blur of overly saturated colors in the Twili’s eyes, splitting into sharply defined contours at every moving object. Of course, the rapidly approaching emerald green and blue was then clear as day, as was the glowing blade that cut through the air towards him.

But Link could not land a single hit on the Usurper’s false shape. Zant blinked himself across the sand and clapped his hands pompously, a playfully mocking tribute to Ghirahim’s favored spellcasting. At once, every gate in the battlefield slammed shut, isolating the three generals in their own death traps.

Wrathful Gerudo, Bulblins, and Stalfos poured from whatever crevice they could force themselves through to descend upon the now-isolated warriors. Whether they would surpass the Hyruleans in martial prowess remained to be seen, but surely, they’d leave not a shred of their morale untouched.

Yet Zant led the Goddess’ little hero away from the onslaught, seeming to prefer a one-on-one duel, though there’d be nothing honorable about it. This battle was an absolute waste of time, drudging Link along through the scorching desert to chase after his constantly teleporting apparition. Even if his opponent couldn’t hear it, Zant couldn’t help but giggle. With such a jovial mood, one would expect victory, but aside from Zant’s violent retaliations, his health rapidly failed him. Not only was his double on the verge of collapse, but nearly every hack and slash it endured bore down on its host. Dancing with a smile, blood gushed from Zant’s nostrils with every hit he took. Ghirahim doubted whether the desperation on his double’s part was an act – it contorted, stomped, flailing its arms and hurling wild bolts of magic at whatever blue banner-bearing shape it could see. But Zant seemed at peace, even as his puppet raised its arms to ready a bomb of pure, hexing shadow, only to find itself ran straight through by the Knight’s holy blade.

At once, the tether to their puppet was gone.

“... That’s it… Our first ruse is up,” Zant mumbled, before slumping forward, just barely caught by Ghirahim’s frame. The blood trickling from his nostrils was worrying still, so Ghirahim allowed him to collapse, lowering him carefully to sit at the edge of the pedestal. Yet, Zant declined any fussing over him, preferring instead to retreat into his mind again and survey the damage they’d done. With his ‘death’, every single gate in the battlefield flew back open – save for the Temple complex. Sitting side by side, Zant relayed what he saw through the eyes of his countless insect servants. Among the Hyruleans, there was relief, rallying cries spreading through the battlefield as they once again rushed forth to seize new territory. Their own forces still held fast. The defeat of their Lieutenants sowed seeds of anxiety, which their captains and commanders did not allow to sprout among the common infantry. Though the full plan of today was relayed to very few, every officer of repute knew not to lose hope when all seemed over.

They’d seen the captured beasts in their chains, after all, and had yet to see them surface in this battle.

One unexpected problem remained. When the gates to the Sheikah commander’s imprisonment were opened, he was already long gone. The trail of blood scaling the cliff wall toward the Temple clued them in where he could have gone. He was trapped in here with them, somewhere. Zant seemed to take nothing but amusement in that thought.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a surge in confidence among the Hyruleans that would raise their might and lower their guard. If this took mere minutes or hours, then the blood spilled to tip the scales would simply have to be an acceptable sacrifice. Time ticked away mostly in silence. On occasion, Zant orated an update from the battlefield with his vacant, manic gaze. Ghirahim stared at the man beside him, bloodstained as he was, and wondered how far the gray blight had crawled up his arms today.

Zant perked up sooner than Ghirahim expected and turned to him. “Their bases are almost settled. They are transporting their goods. Now is the time, Ghirahim. Will you do the honors?”

Ghirahim grinned. “Gladly.”

Within a blink, Ghirahim disappeared from the Arbiter’s Grounds and materialized far below the earth. Deluge streams of sand poured down from above – he found himself in an underground cave, discovered long ago by the Gerudo when digging for water reservoirs. Quicksand pools from above fed this ever-filling chamber with gold, like an hourglass that would never tip. Behind him was a nearly-buried gate leading to the old waterways. In front of him were cages. He didn’t want to keep the beasts inside waiting any longer; he’d kept them unfed a little too long. They frothed at the sight of him, spurred on by Zant’s blood caked into his suit.

“You’ll find something far tastier on the surface, my dears!”

One, two, three showy snaps of his fingers, and the chains bearing the monsters down disappeared. With a flex of his hands, his fist cloaked itself in glowing, purple magic. He took a running start, heading straight for the back of the cages (where the monsters’ eyes hungrily followed him), and launched himself at the massive lever that stood there. With one solid punch, the old mechanism screeched back to life, and past all its rust, the switch was flicked. A rattling that could only be produced by a machine at the end of its life echoed throughout the room. Tugged upwards by heavy chains, the cage doors were lifted, and out stormed their inhabitants.

But before they could make for the little creature that stood antagonizing them, a cascade of sand cued them in on the blue skies above. A ring tunnel of diamond magic pried open the quicksand pitfall in the ceiling and allowed these beasts the first glimpse of sunshine they’d seen in weeks.

Not to mention, the smell of fresh carcasses.

The Manhandla, a four-headed, man-eating plant; threw itself against the wall and clambered up through its web of roots. The Molduga, the very giant sandworm Ghirahim had stolen away scarce a month earlier; took to the skies and flew through the opening. The Lanmola, a cyclopean centipede; swam up the stream of sand.

But that was merely the first wave. This was the Southern Desert’s treat: the North would get its very own collection of nuisances. His next teleportation took him to the mesas in the northeast, where six pairs of eyes furiously eyed him down from within their cave prison. The caverns in these rocky mountains were straightforward tunnels, opening right into the deserts. After opening the cages, all he had to do was give them an incentive to break free.

So, naturally, he brought the entire cave to a collapse. As soon as the beasts panickedly rushed out of their prisons, Ghirahim snapped his fingers and perched himself on the Mesa’s edge, overlooking the monsters’ exit holes.

The first to break free were the two Dodongos, bulky, rock-clad lizards; curled up and rolling, shot out like cannonballs. Then came the Helmaroc King, a giant prismatic bird; shrieking wildly and leaving a storm of feathers in its wake as it beat its wings and flew off. Finally, poking out one head after the other, came the Gleeok, the three-headed dragon; with stout little legs and clumsy, serpentine necks, it sauntered to the mouth of the tunnel somewhat timidly. But at the first sight of prey below, it roared viciously and spread its draconic wings, and set off in pursuit of violence.

Ghirahim returned to his post at once, finding Zant just as vacant as he’d left him, but with far greater amusement sketching his face. The Twili didn’t appear to notice him as he sidled up next to him, hands in his sides.

“Satisfied by my handiwork, Twilight King?”

“More than, Yima Zeeioitneit,” he responded. Zant had cleaned himself up a bit in his absence, but was looking no less gaunt. “Would you like to see the fruits of your labor?”

“Gladly, I would,” Ghirahim said, keeping his apprehension about Zant’s intrusive, meddling magic to himself.

Zant shook himself out of his daze, at once standing with his eyes bright and glowing. “Then allow me some time to recuperate. I will share my clairvoyance with you in the meantime, Ghirahim-ili.”

Before Ghirahim could utter a word of questioning or protest, Zant’s shape turned pitch-black, becoming no more than a silhouette with shining eyes. A rustle sounded as the shade before him ducked down and turned into nothing more than a smudge, and, shockingly… Melted into the floor. Just like that, Zant seemed to have crawled into his shadow. There was the alarming presence of magic, certainly, but otherwise, he felt not a thing of it. At least, not until Zant fulfilled his promise. Ghirahim then learned, intimately, just what he meant by ‘clairvoyance’.

A sudden burst of droning visions took over his sight, shaking him into an unsightly stumble. Each flashed by for mere seconds before Zant flicked him over to the next, all blurring into the same haze. Only after sitting there, hands in his hair and groaning audibly, did he piece together just what he was looking at. It seemed that Zant had planted more of his Shadow Insects on the skulls of their monsters, and thus, allowed the both of them front-row seats to each individual rampage.

To the north, the Helmaroc crested to dizzying heights, carefully eyeing its companions. Yards below it, the Gleeok was circling the desert, scarcely avoiding flurries of arrows from piercing its wings. It found its point of interest in a line of provision wagons, which already had its many hands full with the giant lizards besieging it from both sides. Claws extended, it swooped down in an instant, plowing through the line of them with its razor-sharp talons.

Now out of a meal, the twin Dodongos sought their fortune elsewhere. They turned straight to the oasis, where they expected to rake in the biggest rewards, only to find the place heavily guarded. Grimoire in hand, Sorceress Lana nervously eyed down the two approaching beasts. She was a nimble woman, swiftly evading raking claws and blazing fire, but she did not take well to being surrounded. From the eyes of this Dodongo, she swooped in dangerously close. Just as the massive reptile thought to swallow her down in one gulp, a large, translucent cube was lodged in its gullet, and with the touch of the Sorceress’ hand, electrified. It shrieked and convulsed, reflexively clamping its jaws hard enough to crack its teeth, and just like that, collapsed.

This Dodongo was down for the count. But before its Shadow Insect died with it, it captured just a few more seconds. From the sound of blazing fire and the screams of their opponent, the beast’s twin appeared to hold fast.

The southern desert was similarly infested. The Manhandla had dug its roots throughout the sand, sprouting additional heads across the desert to drown it in a poisonous haze. Soon, only the dead could wander here, and the very bold. Those who dared approach the floral menace disappeared quickly past its massive teeth. Monitoring this monster led the pair of lieutenants to begrudgingly note that one of its four heads seemed to have gotten hacked off somewhere along the way. Though, they doubted they minded. If the victory was all too crushing, there would not have been any honor in it. Much less satisfaction.

This next vision was fully dark, until it burst with sudden light. How the fragile insect managed to cling on to this creature through all the sand was a mystery. From the shrill bellowing, these could only have been the sights of the Molgera, soaring through the skies in pursuit of prey. And what a target it had chosen! Skidding away from the sandworm, bow and arrow boldly drawn but visibly alarmed, was their favorite green-clad menace, his blue scarf long lost in the scuffle. He had felled the Lanmola in record time. From the look in his eyes, that wouldn’t be his only trophy of today. Whether he would fulfill that ambition was another question. The Molgera roared and dove for him, but shrieked when an arrow pierced it someplace unseen, and veered off course. It burrowed beneath the sand once more, plunging their vision in darkness. Through the roaring of sand surging past the giant beast, there was a sound; footsteps, hurrying away. The Molgera homed in on its source and launched for the surface.

It breached, it opened its maw. A scream was heard, then muffled by the resounding clap of the Molgera’s jaws snapping shut. As the Molgera twisted itself through the air, not a trace of the Hero of Legend remained.

Cackles and shouts of triumph and astonishment echoed through the Arbiter’s Grounds. Had the Twili stood beside him, rather than lie hidden in his shadow, Ghirahim would have embraced him and thrown him around the arena for good measure. What an undignified end for the little Hylian! Ghirahim was ecstatic. Already he swell with pride over the thought of informing their Master of this victory. The pair of them sang praises of this magnificent sandworm. Even after they’d treated it so cruelly, it hadn’t let them down in the slightest. Whether it could hear their words conveyed through the Shadow Insect, wasn’t their concern.

Amidst their celebration, the Molgera suddenly groaned. Shuddered. Slowed in its flight. It contorted itself, squeaking in pain, until it tore its mouth open in a shriek. The Shadow Insect lost all functionality. Its host could only be dead.

What happened? It was in the air – how had it perished!?

Zant apparently had the same questions. He frantically browsed through the Insects still alive, until he found a proper view of the events through the eyes of the Manhandla. The Molgera fell from the skies, its spiked belly slit wide open. A rain of blood and guts splattered onto the ground before its multi-ton body hit the sand, sending forth an explosive dust cloud to shroud the battlefield from all.

Surfacing from that shroud, visible through the makeshift sandstorm by a glowing silhouette, was a newcomer to today’s battlefield. Fi, doll-faced as ever, but her blue gemstone surface now tainted with viscera, had surfaced from the Hero’s blade, and freed her ‘Master’. Offering her wing, she stuck herself halfway into the Molgera’s eviscerated stomach to pull Link free, soaked in mucus and blood. The morbidity of it all seemed completely lost on her gentle smile, as she stood watching him gather himself.

Ghirahim grit his teeth. “It seems they’ve taken a page out of our book, Twili… They’re hiding commanders!”

“And where there is one, there may be more. They think they have us for fools.”

With the appearance of Fi, a Hyrulean war horn sounded in the Southern Desert. The troops in the North responded. Surfacing from Lana’s shadow was none other than Midna, who immediately clenched a keratin fist around the head of an ambushing Bulblin commander. A sense of fury bubbled forth from his shadow, and lingered somewhere in Ghirahim, too. But as much as the arrival of the Twilight Princess spelled trouble, something about her appearance soothed Zant’s mood into a bubbly giggle.

She was an imp again.

The war horn sounded in the North. Two responded; one from the Western mesas, and one from the South. Through the eyes of the Helmaroc King, a far more alarming sight poured into the desert. The troops they had fought so deftly to thin out were filling their numbers again. Vast swathes of Zora and Gorons arrived through glowing portals and raced to assist the overthrown Keeps. Only to then clash against equally large numbers of frothing demon forces, pushing each other back and forth past a faultline of trampled steel. This visceral desperation of gnashing teeth and battered armor only left the frontlines in stasis for so long. The Zora Princess, her arrival announced by a tidal wave sweeping along her own troops in massive schooling, forced an opening through the simple measure of washing away everything in her path. She came out the other end of the first line of infantry clad in silvery armor, spear in hand, looking back at the dizzied and drowning mass of demonic forces behind her. This very measure would carry her to the northern desert, where she quickly joined Lana’s side.

Lana startled when the Dodongo just in front of her was sucked into a maelstrom and launched across the sands. When she turned to find Ruto, some sort of sentimental conversation was surely being carried out. Watching from the Gleeok still soaring above the keeps, neither Ghirahim nor Zant cared to hear it. Their despairing, confused prattles were far more interesting.

The Gleeok swept in closer, ducking out the way of an impending lightning bolt sent from the Sorceress’ grimoire.

“I don’t understand, Ruto,” Lana cried. “Ghirahim and Zant were defeated, but their armies haven’t slowed down whatsoever!”

Ruto intercepted an incoming belch of fire with a watery shield, bursting it apart in glittering projectiles as she dismissed it. The Gleeok shrieked when one of its many eyes was pierced. “Desperation, it must be. It takes a pair of cowardly men like them to rig such posthumous traps!”

“Are we sure it was really them Sheik and Link defeated?” Midna cut in, surfacing from Lana’s shadow to glare down the limping Dodongo in the distance. “Like you said. They’re cowards! I’ll bet my entire treasury that the foes we saw were nothing more than illusions!”

A troubled expression dawned on Lana, which soon turned to anger. She burst out in front of the Zora Princess, spellbook at the ready, and sent out another burst of lightning. Though, this one was different. It broke apart like fireworks, each spark lighting its own deadly branch, that darted in zig-zags through the air. The Gleeok, hopeless to dodge such a flurry, lost one of its wings to countless tears and perforations and then crashed to the ground.

Before the beast could stomp its way inside the keep, Lana blocked its entrance with a crackling barrier and whipped around to look at her companions. “Then- The real Ghirahim and Zant… They must be hiding somewhere, commanding from afar!”

“Oh, they can’t be that far. Those two draw to carrion more than a common fly,” Midna grimaced, squinting to peer out into the scorching desert. “Just so happens, I got just the trick up my sleeve to get to the bottom of this. Ruto! Cover me!”

Ruto nodded, readying her spear to join Lana’s side. Lana’s barrier did not hold much longer. Every passing second, the Gleeok was driven to madness by two voices balking commands into its triplet minds, and could only think to throw itself at the magical wards harder. Finally, it burst through, and wasted not a moment to start snapping at the two warriors in its way. Lana fought grimoire in hand, turning scattered parchment into razor-sharp projectiles, while Ruto threatened every impending bite with a thrust of her spear.

While the Gleeok was rapidly losing scales to the combined assault, Midna stretched out her hand, readying a spell amidst the chaos. A gap tore itself through the fabric of reality, manifesting as a spreading shadow on the ground, soon thrumming and glowing with runes.

Stepping out of the shadows was a little girl, no older than eleven, who curtsied under the protection of her parasol. “Agitha has waited patiently as you ordered, Miss Kitty! How can she be of assistance?”

Lana was almost as disturbed by the girl’s appearance as Ghirahim and Zant, but clearly for different reasons. “A-Agitha? But… The two of you can’t just go out there alone. There are still giant monsters alive!”

The Zora Princess glanced over her shoulder, the second of distraction nearly costing her a fin to the jaws of the Gleeok. “Sorceress, if you wish to accompany them, We will hold down the Oasis.”

“Ruto, are you sure? In this weather, the Zora-”

“Do not doubt the resilience of Our people,” Ruto interjected, jabbing her spear between the plates on one of the dragon’s jugulars. “We know where their limits lie. Place your trust in Us. Now, go! Waste no precious seconds!”

“My, what a shame,” a voice echoed from the dragon. “They’ve become aware of our little plan quicker than expected.”

Zant figured to broadcast his mockery through the Shadow Insect still perched on the dethroned creature. Bleeding heavily from one of its throats, its still-living heads contorted their faces into toothy grins, the Gleeok puffed out its chest and stanced imposingly. The spread of its wings blotted out the sun above the keep, casting it in shadow.

Ghirahim found it a fine idea. “Then let them come find us! We’ll finish them off right away!”

Thus, precious seconds were wasted. By some incomprehensible measure of lollygagging, Midna stuck around while Lana and Agitha made for the desert. The pair of girls slipped past the Dodongo only thanks to Midna’s uncouth taunts, who sent wolves yipping and nipping at its front legs. A little of Zant’s own hatred for the Twilight Princess must have leaked into it, then, because the beast took the bait hook, line, and sinker. So focused it was on the hounds and the woman cheering them on behind them, that it failed to notice its remaining surroundings. Its maw opened wide, readying a blazing inferno, and aimed straight for its annoyance.

Only for said target to dodge out of the way at the very last second, dragging the Zora Princess out of the trajectory along with her. Instead, the hellfire launched across, square into the chest of the already wounded Gleeok and melting everything in its way. A weaving path of coarse glass glittered in the sand, tying the two monsters by a thread of aggression. Their dragon could not resist retaliation and lunged for its treacherous comrade.

Thus, in the Oasis, two of the beasts were tearing each other down. In the sand wastes, one last beast made itself useful. The King Helmaroc, contrary to its name, was an obedient creature, and soared as high or hovered as low as they needed it to. Through its eyes, they saw Midna had joined the pair a little after her charade of chaos.

From this vantage point, Ghirahim and Zant quietly observed their desert trek. At least, until Zant clicked his tongue, seeming annoyed. “I see now why they brought the girl. I should have expected this.”

“Somehow, even when we share the same thoughts, you manage to puzzle me. Get to the point.”

“Look closely. They have a Goddess Butterfly. It will lead them straight to us, and the labyrinth will not keep them.”

Once again, silence fell between them. Less time wasted in the labyrinth meant fewer opportunities to whittle down their strength. With this many enemy commanders, such a head start was crucial.

Even so, the thought of their plan failing ever so slightly, filled Ghirahim with a strange sense of excitement. “An unfortunate twist, but… Frankly, I was getting bored. I’m itching for a fight.”

Then, as if Zant had taken note of his excitement, he felt the warmth of a smile inside his mind. “Ghirahim-ili… When they arrive here, let us fight our hardest.”

Of course, the Helmaroc understood nothing at all of such banter. It was far more focused on the triad of two-footed creatures zipping through the sand sea. To a bird, this entourage of warriors must have looked awfully like a line of ants.

It dove down for them, talons outstretched, as if they were.

The first to react was not the Sorceress, nor was it Midna. Instead, the young girl turned a pouting face to the sky and popped the cork off a glass jar.

In an instant, a massive, emerald beetle appeared from thin air and swung its horn full-force into the Helmaroc’s gullet. Their eyes in the sky shrieked. An explosion of feathers obscured their vision as the panicked bird flailed its wings, knocked entirely off balance by the throttling of this massive bug. Zant’s quiet marvel for the adversary’s familiar was drowned out entirely by Ghirahim’s rage. How preposterous! This massive bird of prey, knocked out of the sky by a mere insect!? He took the reins immediately.

The beetle now dismissed, the Helmaroc King chased after the girls on foot, pouncing at them with its claws and jabbing with its beak. But just as it started to get the drop on the group, the Temple complex was in sight, and the doorway they slipped through would never fit their bird.

When the Helmaroc was left behind them, squawking and pacing indignantly at the gate, the trio chased the little glowing insect through the Temple’s ever-twisting halls. Following this journey proved to be a pain. Zant had only set up Shadow Insects in so many corridors, and tracking their trajectory was a dizzying flurry of different angles and crowding soldiers. Yet, Zant managed to follow them in glimpses. Hyrulean and Demon soldiers alike had swarmed the place, fighting pointless battles in corridors leading nowhere. Undead gaolers were already scavenging the heaps of dead and injured, either locking those still breathing in chains, or ripping the bones from the freshly deceased to replenish their own limbs. Thus, the pair of women led a child over this carpet of corpses. The girl’s fighting ability mattered very little here – they were under the protection of Midna and her wolves, but even then, little ‘Agitha’, as they’d called her, looked too stunned to do anything but keep running.

Along the way, found tearing the talons of a Dinolfos to replenish his throwing needles, was the Sheikah warrior. He had forfeited his turban to use it as a makeshift bandage for the wound in his side. The group swiftly urged him along. Striking down whatever station guards stood in their way, they reached the deeper bowels of the temple, where lines of defense grew more and more scarce.

The three eldest of the company grew more skeptical with each step. Midna leaned closer to Agitha, whispering something the Shadow Insect could not perceive.

“The Goddess Butterfly is never wrong, Miss Kitty,” the young girl assured. She seemed to have full confidence in the butterfly’s sense of direction, and faltered not even a second in chasing after it. And that confidence was well within her right, for Ghirahim recognized these corridors. They would reach their location in no time flat.

Soon, the ground beneath the group’s feet turned sandier and sandier, until the stone tiles were completely covered. They reached a dark chamber, lit only through the cracks of ventilation slits above the massive stone door across them. The butterfly fluttered across without a care, landing on the dusty surface of the door, and fanned its wings in rest. Agitha was about to tromp right after it, but the Sheikah stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. He pushed her back, right into Lana’s protective embrace.

Painfully slow, annoyingly cautious, the Sheikah inched into the clearing of the room step by step. He could check for traps, he could listen for mechanisms and dowse for curses or enchantments, but he would find none. Instead, something found him.

A stinger, tall enough to almost scrape past the ceiling, shot out from the sand, and jabbed at the intruder. Its menacing needle missed only by the grace of the commander’s reflexes, pushing the tail out of its trajectory with a talon dagger, but failing to crack carapace. Shaking itself out of the sand, the final bastion had revealed itself. The Moldarach, a massive scorpion of centuries old, screeched and chittered a word of warning. Its pincers snipped menacingly, tendons tight and fierce. Yet, under the threat of its lightning-fast stinger, the little girl was least afraid of them all.

Agitha looked up at the Moldarach in awe and rummaged in her basket, not taking her eyes off the creature once. “Ohh, I’d hate to hurt such a beautiful bug… I’m sorry, li’l one! But I don’t have a big enough bottle to keep you in!”

From it she retrieved an armful of glass jars, brandishing them as if they were explosives. Her entourage backed away hastily, clearly knowing far more about the contents of those jars than the Moldarach could. She tossed the jars with a sweep, racking them on the scorpion’s hard carapace at first impact. Out swarmed dozens of glowing, spectral butterflies, that headed straight for the first sign of soft flesh they could find: the Moldarach’s eyeball. The beast recoiled, pawing at its face in an attempt to shake the pests off, but it was fruitless. It could now only depend on the eyeballs hidden within its pincers, but in doing so, it revealed the soft tendons holding its claws together. Midna and the Sheikah exchanged a look, seemingly sharing an idea.

Getting up close to this creature proved to be a challenge. Lunging in to take out its claws also meant being subjected to the monster’s lightning-fast reflexes, and Midna found herself trapped in its clutches soon enough. It squeezed, digging the teeth of its claws into her flesh dangerously. They hardly even needed the Shadow Insect for this – they could hear her cries of pain through the door. A little more and it might have killed her, had the Sheikah commander not severed the tender meat in its other claw. Its grip on the imp loosened in its distress and she managed to slip away, evading its gaze long enough for it to lose sight of her. The clash of claw, stinger, and blade continued, though the Moldarach grew more fatigued by the minute. Butterflies continued to eat at its face and attached themselves to whatever nerve opening they could find. Thus the creature slowed, its jabs and lunges losing their accuracy, until at long last it ceased its attacks altogether. They saw no use in waiting until the monster fully died; their little band of foils took this earliest opportunity to flee and push through the door.

The door slid open, grinding down coarse sand of centuries old as it slotted into the wall, and allowed the quartet of Hyruleans into the Coliseum. In the center they saw Ghirahim, lounging atop the Keep’s crumbling walls and examining his nails.

Midna scowled, her fangs bared. She felt at the wounds on her chest, already scabbed over – so quickly? – and glanced to her side, where the child stood waiting expectantly. “Great work, Agitha. Now get out of here.”

At this command, Agitha looked to the Sheikah man with big, glittering eyes, smiling when he met her gaze with a nod. She curtseyed – if Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he’d think it was at him – and, with a dainty clutch of her frock, hopped down a Twilit portal.

“There you are, Demon!” Midna turned to foul, biting language the moment less-matured company was out of earshot. “Just you, huh? Go on. Cough it up! Where’s Zant? I don’t believe we got rid of him back in the desert. Not one bit!”

Ghirahim laughed, once again donning his gloves. Now more appropriately dressed, he hopped down from his perch and landed with a feathery flourish. Now that he seemed to be alone, and outnumbered at that, he decided he could afford a bit of taunting. He hummed, tapping thoughtfully at his chin with a wildly exaggerated gesture. “Oh, who can say? You make such a poor host out of me. All these questions, yet I’ve no intent to answer them!” Resting his hand on his cheek, he turned to Midna with a grin. With a puff of diamonds, he vanished, then reappeared before Midna, leaning down to glare at her with one pair of big, buggy eyes to another. “Say, I have one of my own. You look different. New haircut?”

Midna bared her teeth in a snarl, the fist at the end of her ponytail balling tightly until its fibers threatened to give. She lunged for him, the massive orange hand open and clawed. When his defending sword caught on the curved metal of her bangle, she leaned in with a grin. “Real jester you are! I take it this was your idea, then? That gaudy-masked imp told me to send you its regards.”

Majora. Ghirahim winced. It was getting a little too quiet on the Arch Demon’s front, he’d thought. But to rear its head again and mess with the Demon King’s enemies… There was no telling of its little plans. He turned his blade with a flick of his wrist, threatening to sever her hair at the shackle, and forced her back. “If I wanted you to be cursed, I’d ask someone more reliable.”

His eye flicked to the ground. Where he stood now, the low angle of the light stretched his shadow to that of the Keep’s walls…

Zant emerged from the shadows in an instant, mere inches behind Midna, and swung at her like wings on a windmill. She shielded herself with the hair-clad hand of her ponytail, only to realize within a split second that the Twilight King’s new blade cut right through it. Ducking quickly out of the way, she spun through the air, launching herself to stand closer to her two companions.

“It is a shame about your plight, Twilight Princess. I would have preferred to fight you in a more dignified form.”

When Midna forfeited a reply to glare him down, he laughed, turning to the altar behind him. “Nostalgic, is it not?” Zant waxed, his arms spread as he spun himself to the center of the coliseum. “The birthplace of our people. And perhaps, where the last of us will meet our end.”

Midna then made the grave mistake of taking his poetics as an opening and launched for him, the hand on her ponytail outstretched. The giant fist clenched around empty air when Zant promptly warped out of her way. Placing himself beside her momentum, he swung his scimitar down like a cleaver.

In an instant, magical wards were shattered. Showered in a foreboding glitter of gold, Midna cried out and smacked to the ground. But before Zant could lift his blade again and cleave her in half properly this time, the Sheikah dashed in to intervene. Only to then, himself, be driven to his knees by the daunting force of the Twilight King’s blade. It was two against one; each time Zant had subdued the one foe, the other would step in to try and take him out through his flanks. But Zant was too quick, his blade too sharp. Screeches rang out when the scimitar coursed past the edges of the Sheikah’s daggers, filling their cutting edges with worrying chips. Then, the first of them shattered to pieces completely.

Amidst it all, Zant cackled maniacally, madness tugging at his sweat-drenched brow with each swing of his sword. “Witness me, Ghirahim! We are unstoppable!”

But Ghirahim had very little time to witness. Lana had chosen him as her opponent and did everything in her power to keep him from uniting forces with his co-lieutenant. Frankly, he was a little amused that the Sheikah had not dared to face him a second time. But moreso, insulted, that the Demon Lord was not deemed a terrible enough foe to require backup to challenge. Tongue lolling from his lips in mockery and Annihilation in hand, he decided to make the Sorceress severely regret underestimating him.

Scratches tore through his robes and the strikes that hadn’t broken through his leather mail had surely bruised him, but Zant didn’t seem discouraged by injury whatsoever. Instead, he pushed through, seeking risk after risk and tearing through everything that opposed him. Soon, that boldness was awarded. Midna held up her hair-clad fist to defend herself, and Zant carved through two of its fingers as if it were made of wet paper.

Zant screeched with delight. “Your weeks of bedrest have atrophied your skills, Princess! While you lay there rotting in your own misery, I have gotten stronger!”

Midna growled, ducking behind the Sheikah to conceal herself from his bloodthirsty glee. Ghirahim, though, could see everything. Portals appeared in the shadows and from it surfaced a trio of wolves, each raising its hackles before bursting past the Sheikah and charging at the Usurper.

“Such cheap tricks will not work a second time,” Zant clicked his tongue.

Then, with a gust of wind, he launched himself backward and well out of range of the two warriors. With a single twirl, he drew a circle in the sand with his feet, and raised his arms to the skies. When he parted his lips to speak, every shadow stilled at once, slithering beneath the feet of each combatant, turning the air thick and heavy.

The air grew heavy, stopping every warrior in their tracks. A pale blue light shone from above, but none dared take their eyes off him to look for its source.

One by one, limbs limp and gangly in their descent, three creatures fell from the sky. Upon hitting the ground, their bodies contorted as they rose, each more bizarrely and stiffly than the next. They were massive, gray things, fitted with stone masks upon their faces and a mass of wet, slithering tentacles pouring from their faces.

Without even having to command them, the monsters galloped on all fours to throw themselves at the hounds. They entangled in a mess of rune and shadow, tumbling through the dust in a bestial scuffle. Midna looked on with horror.

Her companion had different concerns. Distracted by the sounds of magic, she whipped around. “That spell… How does he know that spell!?”

Just as Lana yelped, beset once more by the Demon Lord’s blade, Zant scoffed. “Did I not say I have gotten stronger!?” he taunted, knocking another brittle dagger out the hands of the Sheikah.

“Stronger!? And yet you rely on them?” Midna shouted, hurtling herself past her fellow commander to throw herself at Zant in a raging flurry. Where Zant could not parry her, he settled for shooting her from the air at point-blank with his projectiles. “How dare you utter even a word of affection toward our people, when you force their mutilated bodies to fight for your own gain!”

“Make your dogs stop attacking them, then,” Zant said, thoroughly nonplussed. At last, he forced both combatants off of him with a resounding shock wave, rattling even Ghirahim’s core where it rested in his metal.

When the ringing in his mind subsided, a different, familiar sensation took over Ghirahim. A blinking sound deep within him, imperceptible before, now alerted him to the presence of his kin. Fi – and by extension, most likely the green-clad knight tagging along – was fast approaching. “Oh, thank Our Lord, your cavalry is arriving. I was worried it would get a little too easy.”

Lana fell to the ground as Annihilation jabbed into her ribs. Its point bounced off stronger wards than he’d been met with before, and though Ghirahim didn’t exactly break skin, she clutched her chest with a groan either way. All three of their opponents exchanged a worried look, doubtlessly contemplating how to best gang up on them as they were bound to do.

Just as each of the Demon lieutenants took a step forward, deciding whose head to lop off first, new presences made themselves known. Pointing the glowing Goddess Blade forward in dowsing, Link entered through the stone gate, with Fi soon joining by his side. This second of distraction, a spark of hope for Hyrule, was just enough for the lot of them to scramble back to their feet and cluster into tight formation.

“Everyone, watch out,” Lana shouted, grimoire at the ready. “Only those with the Triforce can wield that magic!”

“He still has it?” Midna asked, eyeing Zant with her fangs bared.

Not expecting that reply, Lana turned to Midna, eyes wide with shock. “Still!?”

“Oh, so you remembered,” Zant chimed, making his way to the clustered group without hesitation. “Our Master is quite generous with his gifts. A small piece of that power is all I need to decimate the lot of you, who now have none at all. You would do better not to underestimate us!”

Midna’s eyes darted between her companions. A heaving, determined sigh tore through her. Then, her enraged expression twisted into a malicious grin. Her arms raised, she placed her hands on either side of her helmet. “Doesn’t matter. I could best you then, and I can do it now!”

The Coliseum was bathed in shadow. Midna drew darkness to her like a cyclone. Where Zant’s shadowy magic was warm and suffocating; a pulsing, all-consuming parasitic disease, hers was an eerie chill. From the pitch-black surrounding her feet, three ancient stone artifacts, the Fused Shadows, surfaced and encased her like a tomb.

When the first spidery legs burst forth from the bottom of the Twilight Princess’ stone-hewn armor, Ghirahim found himself beset by his own opponents. Link, drenched almost completely red with monstrous blood, ran for him, aiming right for his chest. Disappointed, almost, that the boy had learned nothing, he took hold of the blade with his bare hand, flicking it aside just in time to be able to step out the way of Fi’s impending kick. They were teaming up against him again, just as their other, more wounded companions were now piling on Zant. Where worry once would have possessed him, Ghirahim was now buzzing with nothing but thrill. The boy was already exhausted. He would get to tug the cords of his life from him strand by strand, and he hardly had to break a sweat to do so.

With that ever-lasting nuance and his dancing blade demanding his every second, Ghirahim couldn’t spare a glance at his battling compatriot. Not even as tendrilous arms, gnarled and glowing like smoldering branches of wicker, scampered around this battlefield, their incessant thumping shaking the rubble off the walls. Dust and pebbles rained down from above, only to be meticulously carved into halves by his sword. Some time ago, the duo of Link and Fi had bested him.

But back then, he didn’t have this blade. Annihilation soared and carved, striking hard enough to make even the stone-faced Goddess Blade wince as he parried her swinging legs. With this power, enemy numbers didn’t matter – he would win.

A twinge of anxiety simmered in him nonetheless. While he could indeed not spectate the battle behind him directly, he caught impressions from the piece of himself, wielded by his co-lieutenant. A screech of metal, a beast recoiled. Hair-coiled fists he so easily carved through minutes past now felt solid as rock. Midna could not find a way through his defenses, and the ground shook as she struggled away from his offenses. Those that dared to try left a taste of blood upon his blade, however slight. Weapons crashed into each other in such a cacophony he could no longer distinguish the flashes of light in his own battle, from the ones imposed on him by Zant’s hands. To any mortal, such a barrage of violence would render them collapsed in the confusion, but to Ghirahim, it was Paradise.

Yet, this could not last long. Caught in bladelock with Link, he swiftly kicked the boy off of him when an alarming sensation overtook him. The part of him resting within the Demon Scimitar overloaded him with visions. With the uttering of strange words, Lana had bypassed Zant’s wards. Metal groaned eerily, then exploded, shrapnel shooting into the sand. An inky-black fist clutched around an equally black steel javelin, then threw it whistling through the air. But Midna didn’t aim for the now staggered Zant – she aimed at the ceiling. Chunks of stone and wispy sands rained down, blinding all who waited below, until the dust cleared. Zant noticed it before anyone else, and burst out into a shriek when sunlight flooded every corner of the Coliseum.

They hounded him like a pack of starved wolves. More blinded than ever and his skin blistering, Zant couldn’t defend himself from the Sheikah’s assault, nor Link’s, nor Lana’s, all the while Fi kept Ghirahim across the arena. His guard dog, forced away from its flock. With every second in the sun, Zant was weakening. He simply couldn’t keep up, not while blinded and in agony like this. With desperate flings of their sword, he only barely managed to deflect the blows that would have otherwise sliced his head off. Blood stained the sand around him as strike after strike tore through his armor like it was no more than air. When his weapon finally fell from his hands, Midna took it as a sign, and grappled his battered body with a tendril for each limb. When he lifted his face, his stare was aimless, but full of malice.

“Sheik, now!”

Lana commanded, desperately eyeing the still-bleeding Sheikah commander. He complied with a nod too serene for such a boyish warrior. A glow gathered in his palms, abstract and foggy at first, until he grasped it, held it before him, and drew the string. Fuzzy sparkles shed from the light-made object, revealing its true form.

A bow. With a single blink, the Sheikah’s eyes turned from red to crystal blue.

It was the Princess! Ghirahim’s body froze over. In Zant’s current state, that single arrow would be fatal. What could stun their Master was deadly poison to his underlings.

An inhibition, once hard-coded into every fiber of his being, now shattered. Annihilation felt feather-light in his hands but crashed into Fi with the force of a stampede. A single facet chipped off her core, and would still be floating in the air when Ghirahim bolted to the center of the arena. Step, after step, after step, pummeling the sand into craters. The arrow nocked and braced, was then released. Ghirahim disappeared. A whistle, fletchings quivered in the air. Ghirahim burst into view in the middle of the Coliseum, arms outstretched. He grabbed Zant by the shoulders, and with a chime of diamond magic, they were gone.

The arrow pierced into the Keep wall. A piece of Fi’s core fell into the sand. Out of the five warriors present, none of them had been able to prevent their escape.

He needed shadows. There was only one place that would suffice. Around them, the world turned monochrome. With the Twili tucked carefully in his arms, he set his sights far beyond the labyrinth and took them both to the Palace. Nowhere would be darker than the quarters of the Twilight King.

Sheets hastily ripped off, bedding drenched in darkening blood. Zant lay stiff and unmoving, gasping like a fish, struggling none as Ghirahim ripped his clothes from him. A decorative fastening pin flew and clattered across the tile floor. Zant’s portrait above them looked on with a smirk.

Hyrulean weapons had gone right through his armor. He was a mess of red-stained wool and torn leather, gaping wounds pulsing fresh blood. Far too much of it. Ghirahim ripped the cork off a potion bottle with his teeth and shoved the glass opening to Zant’s lips, who coughed and sputtered as the thick liquid gushed down his gullet.

“Just this- Just this, and you will be alright. Stay with me,” Ghirahim hissed, keeping a close eye on the Twili’s battered body. Wounds closed up, but too many remained raw and open. Cursing under his breath, he snipped his fingers, keeping one hand – glove bunched underneath his grip – pressed heavily to a gash on Zant’s thigh. And what a useless measure it was. This wound was just one of many that needed his attention. The sheets he tore from the cupboards, drenched in water from his nightstand washing table and spilled bourbon, soon lost their white cleanliness to deep, deathly red.

Needle and thread summoned themselves with a snip of his fingers. Sewing implements, but Ghirahim had little else in his reach. Zant cried and whined when the makeshift gauze was now pressurized by a knee, Ghirahim’s hands too occupied with the needle. Bent into a rounded angle around his finger, sterilized with a flame. He thread the needle and set to pushing it through flesh.

“I’d say your crying brings me misery, Zant,” he grinned, an expression creeping on him purely from his nerves, “but do not stop. At least then I know you are alive and conscious.”

Pierce, tug, tie, and snip. Rhythmic and perfect, Ghirahim mended wound by wound. He knew how to carve flesh, so too, did he know how to sew it back together. Each wound bled with different severity. His midriff, his legs, his chest. There, he’d been carved down to the rib, surrounded by irritated flesh and glowing veins. The body tormented by these injuries cried and cried, but had not the strength to even writhe. As focused as Ghirahim was, his eyes still strayed and flicked to his right. Zant’s naturally pallid complexion helped him absolutely none in telling how much time he had. But his fading patterns did. Their teal glow almost ceased. Another potion. This time, he poured some of it directly on the still-opened wounds, hoping their sizzle would burn the veins shut. Zant was awake enough to swallow the rest of it, but not to protest against the drops that snuck into his windpipe. Only when Ghirahim had turned him on his side to tend to his back did the healing liquid’s magical effect rejuvenate him enough to rasp and hack it up. He shrieked immediately when the sudden jolt caused Ghirahim’s needle to stick him.

“Keep whining, please,” Ghirahim muttered. “If you have enough energy to act childish, then…”

Zant hissed, growled, snarled, every tug of the thread now an affront. His toes curled and his fingers dug in the sheets, weakly, but characteristically, either way. When every wound he could see was stitched, Ghirahim took the cords of lacing out the loops at his back and rid Zant of his final layer. Red, white, black; teal slowly returning, if it wasn’t simply the phosphorescent glow of the room around them. In a few days, this body would be a rainbow of bruises. Should he last that long.

Only then did Ghirahim allow himself to draw breath. Not as a necessity, but as a soothing tic, to come back to his senses and for a second empathize with a mortal man. He slumped onto the bed, his head resting on Zant’s chest. It was in this rest that the full gravity of the past minutes reached him. Rather, it jumped full force onto his back, its weight forcing him into immobility and sinking him into the bed. Ghirahim couldn’t recall when he started weeping; he’d been on auto-pilot from the second Zelda nocked her arrow.

Zant’s heartbeat thumped against his forehead, hard and heavy as it would whenever the Twili had a lump in his throat. Its pace quickened when Ghirahim spoke. “I almost lost you.”

Zant’s hand raised, then dropped onto Ghirahim’s back. Cold fingers stroked him softly. “You may still, Oibedelrik, Yima Daegge Esweteli,” Zant whispered hoarsely, forcing his words out with the nigh manual contracting of his rib muscles. “Odowuni kem idzidiy Iya, ee Iya-” he murmured, his eyes rolling to the backs of their sockets. His eyelids fluttered shut, then shot back open, revealing darting pupils as if he’d just remembered where he was. “I am not yet bandaged,” wheeze, “and when my blood returns to me,” wheeze, “I may yet fall to fever.”

“Shut up.” Banish the thought. As if he would be so negligent! A doctor, he was not, but as much as he could bring death, he could also spot its tellings, and he did not intend on letting it rear its head again. Ghirahim closed his eyes, listening intently to his pulse – as if it would slip away if he turned away for even a second – then raised himself to finish the job.

He had to go back to the battlefield. There was no telling whether all their beasts had been defeated or not, or whether they even had a chance to take down Hyrule’s commanders. He would return, alone if he had to, Ghirahim decided as he stroked a warm, wet cloth along the dried blood on Zant’s torso where his stitches did not taint him. But he’d only leave when Zant was stable.

In his spiraling, Zant’s hand had found its way to his hair, running its fingers through the strands. For once, Ghirahim cared not how bloodstained he would get. Zant’s weak voice muttered, slipping between heaving breaths. “All of them, at once… I foresaw many, but every caste and clade…”

“I know, I know,” Ghirahim responded, wringing the blood from the reddened cloth. “But the more we whittle down today, the less prepared they’ll be when Master strikes.”

“There is no ‘we’, Ghirahim. I cannot fight like this. I was bested once again.”

“I will take care of it,” Ghirahim muttered, a frown on his brow. He thought it ripe time to change the subject. “The Princess, disguising herself as a Sheikah... I’d almost say she exceeded us in trickery today.”

Zant sighed, his arm quickly becoming deadweight in his hand as Ghirahim took it for bandaging. That strange gray on his skin had spread almost no further. “Posing as a substitute for General Impa, I reckon.”

Ghirahim left Zant to his musings and grew oddly giddy with his own. The thrill of battle and clawing his companion away from death’s door scalded him from within, filling him with an inexplicable well of energy.

“But if the Princess is here… That’s good news, wouldn’t you say?” Ghirahim began to prattle, a manic tug at his brow as he pinned the last few bandages in place. “Fewer commanders are guarding the palace than we expected. If we hurry and inform Master Ganondorf, surely–”

“Ghirahim–”

But Ghirahim did not hear him. Whatever he said then, he could not even recall himself, so thoroughly he was caught up in a whirlwind of plans.

“Ghirahim, stop.”

The pair met eyes in silence, one still wearing a bewildered grin, the other lying grim and pale on what was almost his resting place. “There is no point. Your revelation will fall on deaf ears. We were never meant to leave this desert.”

Ghirahim’s expression dropped, managing only a slight grin in his confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Master sent us here to die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ghirahim frowned, fighting off a pit of dread in his gut. This was just his usual delirium, he thought. The same madness shaken into him by fear and injury, like it had Volga.

Zant, however, did not take his struggle kindly. He frowned at him indignantly. “You call me ridiculous? You deceive even yourself. Face it, Ghirahim. We are two against seven of Hyrule’s finest commanders. This was a suicide mission from the start, as I suspected Death Mountain must have been, too.”

“... But-” Ghirahim struggled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Zant was a liar, he knew this. But now? To him? About something like this? Neither possibility, not Zant deceiving him so brazenly, nor being abandoned by his Master, computed in his mind. “We were- What could I have done to displease him to this degree? Why would he want to be rid of me? You speak nonsense!”

“You did nothing, Ghirahim. You are perfect. Your sole crime was associating with me. For me, it was only a matter of time until he did away with me. He is unworthy for the throne, and, one way or the other, I would have stopped him from seizing it.”

Ghirahim froze. Pieces fell on the ground before him but he didn’t dare to watch them assemble. Something hot and furious was starting to thaw the ice of his shock from within. “What?”

“Your surprise tells me he did not even bother to confirm his suspicions before abandoning you.” With a huff and groan, he shifted, trying to prop himself upright on his pillow. The grimace he pulled in his pain remained in his face, molded from rage and hatred. “I detest him, Ghirahim, and finally he has noticed it. He must have known I wished for his death, and that I intended to follow through.”

Ghirahim staggered away from the bed as if pushed. An instant revulsion forbade him from staying anywhere near the wounded man before him, and in his disgust, he willingly followed this instinct. He scowled at him, wide-eyed and vicious, tongue lashing and drenched with venom. “So your title was given to you for good reason. I cannot believe my ears. Immature little boy, you are! Our accursed usurper, unable to keep his grubby claws off any throne when he grows the slightest bit displeased. You ungrateful wretch!”

“Ungrateful? You know not what you speak of,” Zant scowled right back, tears of rage welling up in his eyes and his teeth bared. The Lord of Twilight turned to him unflinchingly, hunched like a pouncing beast as if his drive to convince him had filled him with fresh vigor. “In my time, Ganon was to me what Demise was to you. My God, I adored him,” he waxed, hands covering his face in grief. “I did his bidding. I worshiped him, freed us both from our decrepit prison. Yet, when I gave my life for him, he broke his promise to me. Instead of freeing my spirit to rule by his side, he took everything I ever worked for. And then- then-” Zant paused, hands falling limply into his lap. “When defeated by his little foil, when the strings of his soul dared touch upon mine to beg for my assistance, I denied him.”

Zant’s eyes turned to him again. The first hints of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “You understand, don’t you? It was no hero, no princess, who slayed the Demon King in the age of Twilight. The one to deliver the final blow, was me.”

That very second, a little part of Ghirahim’s world shattered. When he realized the consequences of plotting alongside a man so treacherous, the rest shattered with it. Right under his nose, Zant had made an enemy of his Master, and by extension, of Ghirahim. There were questions he wanted to ask, insults to be hurled. He could only think of one question, that bubbled to the surface of his heart like scum in a boiling pot. “How long have you plotted this?”

Zant lowered his gaze, for as far as the stare of a near-blind man mattered. “From the very start,” he admitted, sighing. “After such a betrayal, to awaken to another manifestation of my tormentor, and have him once again demand my services… He may as well have spat in my face. Though, I admit, for a little while, I buckled. Somewhere, I must have loved him still, drawn to his power and our shared hatred for Hyrule as I was. I wanted to see if I could trust this version of him, who seemed so noble. But after your stories, Ghirahim, how his incarnations cast you aside so carelessly… I made up my mind. Ganondorf does not change.”

“So then all of this was just a lie, part of your plans?” Ghirahim asked, his voice quaking. He didn’t care for Zant’s excuses, not when they pulled every minute he spent by his side into question. Not when they sabotaged everything he’s ever stood for. “I, too, just a little scheme for you?”

Zant gasped, inching closer to the edge of the bed to look at him in pleading. “No, Ghirahim. How could I have foreseen this? I came to you seeking an ally, and I found a new reason for my heart to beat. For every lie I have told you, I have spoken to you as many truths tenfold, in how I’ve grown to love you. It is only because of you I have made it this far. You’ve given me peace, soothed my soul when I threatened to bubble over. And, more importantly, Ghirahim-ili, you have made a warrior of me.” Zant urged, attempting a smile, his hand outstretched. “Which is why I ask you to join me.”

Ghirahim was too stupefied by his words to answer. So Zant took advantage of his silence to continue. “You know now of my hatred, my every motivation. Yet you stay loyal to him, even if you must know he will not spare you. He has not spared you, for he resigned someone so loyal to him to the same fate he did a traitor.”

His arms snaked around himself, his nails digging in the false skin of his arms. Ghirahim took another step back; the Twili’s presence alone made it feel like insects were crawling inside his steel, tunneling through him like termites. His mind hit a roadblock, reached a final terminal, and the logic Zant asked from him sat horizons away where his tracks would not reach. “... Then if Master wills it-”

Zant shot up in his seat, snapping at him before he could finish his sentence. “Do you know how it hurts me, Ghirahim? To see someone so precious to me tear himself apart over someone who would shatter him on a mere whim? After all you do for him, he denies you at every turn and punishes you for the barest things. It has taken every shred of composure I had not to tear into him when he threatened to hurt you. If I had not hated him before, the way he treats you would have convinced me to.”

He’d avoided his eyes up until then, but Ghirahim now shot his gaze straight at him. They exchanged a scowl, each gnashing teeth, one from hatred, one from love. Desperation seized him and sharpened his edge.

Ghirahim made for him and pushed him back into the pillows. “You know not what you ask of me. To think I would care what hurts you now, after what you’ve told me! You speak of whims? You’re asking me to abandon my every purpose for something as small as your mortal love. My purpose is all I have. It is me. To ask me to betray Demise is to doom myself to scrap, Zant.”

Zant had refused a squeak when he was shoved. With tears in his eyes, he simply laid there, glaring at him. He cradled a freshly ruptured suture through its bandages. “You are not yourself when you speak of him! Listen to the words you spew! Scrap!? So highly you think of yourself, you carry yourself as the priceless artifact that you are, yet when around him, you are degraded to the ranks of mere tools.”

Ghirahim gripped his hair in wild frustration. “Because- I am precisely as perfect as I am because of Him! Without Him, without a hand to wield me, I am nothing.”

Zant stared at him, perturbed, before groaning in his agony and sinking into his pillows. For a moment, he wilted again, speaking bitterly as he resigned himself. “Then you have been, and will be nothing, for a very long time.”

In an instant, his vision went red. “How dare you!”

Ghirahim pounced him, hands outstretched and clawed, landing square upon his chest, ignoring the grit of Zant’s teeth, his squirms, his pained squeaks. All he paid attention to were his wide-open eyes and the fear he could milk out of them. He gripped him fiercely by the shoulders and shook him as he spoke. “It’s all your fault, isn’t it!? Why he would not wield me! Why I could not gain his trust!? All because of your greed, he now sees me as a conspirator to your rotten betrayal.”

His hands found Zant’s throat and squeezed. Ghirahim leaned in close, fangs bared. Zant did nothing. Just the sight of those glowing pupils fueled the fire of his rage. “A thousand miserable years I’ve waited, working hard to see him again. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Your puny, mortal mind could never comprehend the lengths I’ve gone to!”

He reared back his fist, and still Zant did nothing. “Now I can wait thousands more, and he will never wield me again!!”

Ghirahim panted amidst his accusations, tears streaming down his cheeks the second they beaded in the corners of his eyes. He scanned the Usurper’s eyes for substance, for anything that wasn’t pity. When he didn’t find it, he snapped. Before he knew it, his fist connected to Zant’s cheekbone. Crack. “How could you do this to me? We were going to win!” Crack. “I would finally have been happy, after I’ve been alone for so long, and you RUINED everything for me!”

Crack. Snap. A whimper. There wasn’t an inch of Zant’s face untainted by blood and bruising, and still, that horrible fool did nothing to stop him. “I should kill you!”

He sent Zant’s head twisting left to right, right to left, with each punch. His heart had broken twice over today. First, shattered to pieces from all hope of becoming his Master’s blade. Then, its shards were trampled by the very man below his relentless assault, who had punished him so severely for daring to open himself to that mortal love. What a complete and utter fool he’d been. He should have expected to be punished like this, for entering a world he didn’t belong in.

And still, past the swollen, blood-smeared skin, Zant did not take his gut-wrenching eyes off of him, trying to fool him into loving him again to save his own measly life. It was an outrage! A betrayal this massive, and Zant had the gall to try and garner his sympathy. To assert they were alike in fate. There was only one who had lost everything, whose prospects were null, and who was only living on borrowed time. Only one banished from his home, his every goal snatched from before his nose. Only one whom his Master truly abandoned, to never be forgiven.

… No.

There were two.

Before his fist could crash into him once more, a convulsion tore through Zant’s body below him. Within the blink of an eye, he changed. His skin lost all color, turning a deep, shadowy black, while his patterns dimmed, and his hair bristled into a brittle white, like spider’s silk.

Zant was dying.

The ties to the Demon Scimitar pulsed in his chest. There lied that rebellious little dagger, the one that thumped against the walls of his core whenever this wretch would look at him in his strange ways. Did it not feel good? Its little voice whispered in his mind. Even if it was such a small piece of you in his hands, did it not fill you with joy? Master will not wield us, and this world has so few who are worthy of us. Is it not better to rest part of you in capable hands, than in nothing at all?

Ghirahim clutched his head, begging for silence. He could not handle even a second of doubt, of weakness. If this man were simply dead, everything would be so much easier. If he were the one to kill him, Master would forgive him. But are you ready for him to die?

He was. He would have to be. He wanted to be. It would be so simple. He just wanted to be wielded. To be held in someone’s hands, to be part of something greater.

He wanted to be loved.

Please, help him.

Oh, God. What has he done?

He detested the despairing little squeak behind him as he walked away from that deathbed. Even more, he reviled himself, for glancing behind and allowing the teeth of guilt to sink into him at the pitiful sight of that beaten creature.

What he hated most was how he’d been convinced to return after his brief departure, healing elixirs in hand, and seeing tear-drenched eyes looking at him with a bloody smile.

Don't look at me like that, you horrible man. You’ve ruined my life.

But that pitiful part of him felt relieved how Zant could smile at the sight of him still. How Zant was glad to see him, even after attempting to take his life mere seconds earlier. A withered hand shook as it reached out for him. Ghirahim took it and squeezed.

The room was silent as Ghirahim nursed Zant back to health. Far, far into the desert outside, chaos was unfolding. The few remaining giant monsters were now surely being slaughtered, and their troops would have to cherish idle hopes of succeeding in their reign of terror, in their commanders’ absence. Deep, deep below the ground, Gerudo and Bulblin who could not fight were taking shelter in the dungeons, waiting for the pounding footfall to fade away and leave them in peace.

Neither side knew they were here. They would sit in this room, disturbed only by the glare of Zant’s portrait, judging this pathetic display. Zant strained to breathe. His complexion had inverted almost to its original colors, while his hair returned to its original, rosewood shade. However, some strands retained that ghostly white from before. Ghirahim hoped it would be permanent. He hoped he would remember this accursed day every time he was confronted with his reflection.

Never before had shadows bothered him. Now, in the deep darkness of Zant’s bedroom, it suffocated him. Neither of them said a word. There was nothing to say, but in this stifling pit of nothingness, he began to crave the slightest noise. He wished he could go back to a time when this dark was comforting, to be filled with nothing but idle chatter and the grappling of their bodies. Like this, through noise, through touch, Ghirahim could only think to hurt him.

So, Ghirahim seized the bridge of Zant’s nose and cracked what cartilage he hadn't shattered back into place. He took hold of his jaw, counted to three in his head, and popped the crooked thing back in its sockets. If Zant had cried out in pain at any of this, he wouldn't have noticed. The ringing in his ears was just too loud. His handiwork now finished, he trusted the potions to do the rest.

Then, he waited. For anything, really. For the battle raging outside to dissipate. For their forces to come bursting through the castle gate cheering with glee, or for the enemy to come raid it of every worth and woman inside, and drag the two of them to the gallows, while they were at it. But mostly, he waited for any change in Zant.

Look at him. He cannot even raise a finger to hurt you. You could end this right here, right now, Ghirahim thought to himself. Yet he sat and did nothing. When his eyes met the ones that stared glossily back up at him, filled with agonized gratitude, that thought snuffed out, and its wicker would burn no longer.

Ghirahim swallowed his apprehension, inhaled sharply, and sighed. “What will you have me do?”

Zant opened his mouth to speak, but the shards of crumbled teeth fell into his throat as he uttered his first syllable. Ghirahim sat and watched as he choked and spat them out on his pillow.

“We are to wait out the right time to strike back for the throne, but today, we cannot. So we will have to fool them with one more ruse. Return to the battlefield, Ghirahim,” he wheezed, swallowing the blood from a dry throat. “Strike at whoever is closest. Be vengeful. Be fierce. You must fight like you never have before.

Zant breathed deeply. With each chug of air, another wound closed up, though their scars and deep black bruises remained. “You are to disappear with me. They must be convinced that I succumbed to my wounds.”

You should have.

“And, to their knowledge, you will take to the grave with me. Come closer,” he said. His hand searched beside his face on the pillow and retrieved a shard of tooth, long and pointy, almost complete. With a tiny crack, he then reached over, and fastened it to Ghirahim’s earring, to an empty link remaining there. “A memento, to convince them of my death.”

Ghirahim rose again in silence. A little piece of bone so small dangled from his ear, but the weight of its burden could tip him over. Zant continued to speak as if this was the simplest matter in the world. “Take our blade. My power rests within it, still, and it is all the help I can afford you.”

Listlessly, mechanically, Ghirahim rose from his seat before Zant even finished his sentence. The sword lay by his bedside, hastily thrown to the side along with Zant’s armor. He picked up that shard of himself and apologetically wiped it of its grime.

A roar reverberated from outside, echoing past the sands and through the castle walls. Zant called to his attention again with his glowing eyes aimed straight at him. “The Gerudo are innocent in all this. The least we can do is scare this vermin away from their homes. I trust you to have tricks up your sleeve, Yima Mionaida.”

Despite it all, his little nicknames stirred in his chest. Ghirahim clenched his fist harder around the grip of the Demon Scimitar, as if to smother it. His Diamond. The miserable, manipulative cretin that he was. And Ghirahim was doing all his bidding.

Just before he could turn his back to leave, he was halted one last time. “Ghirahim,” Zant started, but he knew saying his next words would only draw his ire. His face said every letter anyway. I’m sorry.

Ghirahim ran. Within a flash, he was back in the sweltering heat of the desert, bolting from the Temple Complex and kicking up sand trails in his escape. He tore past keeps, the slain corpses of their monsters, and field battles still unfolding between forces too stubborn to believe the war was won. Those who dared bar his way were dealt with swiftly, their heads rolling. He left the perfect trail like this. A pristine white lightning bolt with a sword sharper than the cruel edge of time, such a description could only fit one man. The eyes he sought snared onto him. Enemy commanders, skeptically scouring the desert and leaving not a stone unturned for a trace of Ganondorf’s finest. Now, they found him and were giving chase just like he wanted.

Blood and plate mail carpeted the vast sands racing below his feet. Rock outcroppings raced past; trampled patches of desert scrub – Safflina and a type of sagebrush. The smell of drying vegetation filling the air was the same as when Zant held sprigs from them up to his nose for inspection – and, finally, the gate to the bazaar, zipped past him. Almost, he, the false deserter, had gotten away with leading the lot of them out into the wider desert, until a familiar rumble ripped him from his concentration.

Ghirahim swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding a boulder that barreled past him. It skidded to a halt before him and unfolded, though he didn’t have to see that transformation to know what nuisance stood before him. There was, once again, Darunia, Chief of the Goron Tribes.

“Not one step further, Pebble.”

The sight of him was enough to startle even Ghirahim, though he was too jaded to find any delight in it. Darunia’s torso was heavily scarred, and his right arm, gone. In its place was a jumble of machinery, with pistons and gears whirring noisily to heave the weight of a massive hammer at the very end of the prosthetic limb. Beyond a solid steel helmet, the Goron Chief wore a wide grin, though one less eye stared back at Ghirahim than last time.

“Thought to slip by us, did you? All on your lonesome?” said the Goron Chief, brandishing his weapon. “I wasn’t looking forward to facing off against that nutcase anyhow, but a lil’ something tells me my siblings took care of that for me…”

Ghirahim looked back. The peaks of Gerudo Palace were no longer in sight. For whatever chaos he would unleash… This would have to be far enough. All he had to do was stall for time until the rest of the Hyrulean commanders caught up to him.

“You truly wish to keep me? Very well,” Ghirahim replied, holding the Demon Scimitar up to the sun. Sand powdered his bodysuit from top to bottom, crusting gray and gold in every crease. But their blade remained immaculate. Its silvery edge still shone into his pupils, like teeth flashing in a hungry grin. “Make this worth my while.”

Darunia’s hammer pounded into the ground fiercer than ever. The springs on his arm, hefty as it might have been, gave him untold speed and force with each swing. Ghirahim couldn’t stop the speed of that hammer anymore – where there were once bulging veins now sat machinery, forged from a steel he dared not chip the Demon Scimitar on. So, he had to settle for the rest of this massive creature. They clashed like this for what felt like hours, neither showing any signs of tiring. The resounding clanks of the warhammer striking upon resonant steel had surely deafened them both, and everyone daring to come near them. It was thoroughly inelegant. Ghirahim hissed, roared, lunged at him with wild swings wielding a sword leagues to big for his frame. Such wild desperation hampered him as much as it worked in his favor. A grief-stricken foe was always quickly underestimated. Even with his new accessories, Darunia would not leave this battlefield unscathed. A blade made from the heart would know how to find another without effort. As he riddled the Goron’s bulging ribcage with scars, a foreboding chime in his core once again alerted him of his pursuers. They were getting closer. He could feel it.

Then, for a second, he could feel nothing at all. A split second of distraction cost him dearly, when it allowed for Darunia to come within arm’s reach and drive his hammer straight into him. The flat of the giant hammer drove into the side of his head with such a deafening impact he thought his head might snap clean off. Instead, he remained intact, launched across the bazaar to tumble through ruined market stands and trampled carpets. When he came to a halt, all he could see was dust, the approaching Darunia not more than a shadow in the clouds of sand. Ghirahim stood up, a hand to his wounded cheek to find it just that – wounded. Through his false skin, he could feel chips taken out his face, like little razor-sharp dimples on his cheek.

The rest of them were approaching now, right outside the gate. Ghirahim found the least he could do was give them a proper welcome spectacle. Concealed by the dust, he launched forward at the shape of the Goron Chief in ambush. Its wicked, curved tip aimed at the jugular. Darunia staggered away, but every twitch of movement just made the scimitar slice him deeper. With just one more stumbling step, Ghirahim got the vengeance he wanted. An arc of blood gushed from the Goron’s collarbone, splattering to accessorize Ghirahim’s wounded face. Clutching his bleeding wound, Darunia thrust his metal arm forward to push the Demon away from him and hobbled back into the dust.

Ghirahim gave chase until he remembered his task. Wind whipped through his hair and took the sands with it, revealing at last his surroundings to him. Standing in an arc around him, barricading his way to the desert, stood the mightiest of Hyrule’s army. There was nowhere left to lure them, this would have to be his final stand. He could not fight all of them at once – not Link, not Fi, not Zelda, not all of the other pompous royals gathered here. But he could make them see. The blade, the tooth dangling from his ear. Now, he would make them witness his sorrow. To their knowledge, it would be grief for a fallen friend, but in the depths of his core, he felt nothing more than disgust for obeying the word of another.

Tears gushed from his eyes. He was doing this – he was betraying his Master. Ghirahim (was he even worthy of a name?) contorted his face into a maddened grin. The carnage, the destruction, the pure, unfiltered chaos this final gambit would unleash might have pleased Him, but it would not be in His name. It was moot! He should have accepted his fate in the Arbiter’s grounds. He should have stood patiently waiting in executioner’s row, to be pierced by the very same arrow that he saved his conspirator from. If his Master willed him to shatter, to turn to dust and forgotten in the eyes of history, then that was to be his fate, and nothing more.

Instead, the Sword Spirit glared down the approaching Hyrulean commanders with the same manic grimace, and readied his spell.

“Šamu dullu-ya, Majora! Bēlu ellāmu-adāni, Lā Naparkû Umṣu! Anāku bussuru kâti bursaggû, naqrabu napištu. Banû annûm āra-šu ašītu, baqāru tidintuka!”

He danced and danced through the sand, flickering himself atop every surface he could find to evade the grasp of his assailants. Midna and Lana were the first to stiffen, to call for someone to put a stop to this, but none of the arrows sailing past could hit their mark. Every word drained more and more energy from him. This was a true summoning, a bargain driven. Within the first uttering of the Arch Demon’s name, he could feel it watching, stalking around him like a wolf with gnashing teeth, licking its lips until it found his offer sufficient.

He would have thought it an infernal illusion, ripping him to some other plane of existence, did he not notice the straw hat atop the mask and the blue sky expanding behind it. The Skull Kid floated before him upside down, looking him dead in the eye. With a single tap on the nose, it shook him out of his paralysis.

“Took you long enough. Don’t let me get bored again, Ghirahim-ili!”

It mocked, it shrieked with laughter, and it rattled its mask. Arms to the sky, it hovered squeaking and groaning with strain, and then with the same great effort, swung its clawed little hands down as if pulling a massive lever. Then, it waved cheerfully and disappeared within a blink.

Silence. Nothing at all. The commanders still around him stood waiting with caution, alarmed by the Arch Demon’s arrival, and just-as-sudden departure. Only when a rumble shook the pebbles on the bazaar grounds did they think to look up.

Not Ghirahim. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the skies for even a second. He saw it the second Majora disappeared. A small dot, a mere speck in the endless blue of the cloudless heavens, approaching rapidly. The Moon was falling down on Gerudo Desert.

Cries of panic, of retreat. Chimes of magical transportation rang around him. Hyrule’s commanders were fleeing en masse. Perhaps he would not strike his intended targets, but he didn’t care. This battle would find no spoils or prisoners. Nothing but a wasteland would be left, leaving not the slightest bone for the vultures to scavenge. Swirling clouds of condensation shrouded the Moon in its rapid descent. It was hypnotic, almost, Ghirahim thought, standing in the center of its massive shadow. He considered then what would happen if he simply stayed here. The clouds dissipated as the Moon crossed their threshold. By all means, he was insane for dawdling here, and yet he took the time.

Head cocked curiously, but eyes blank, he peered up at a giant visage that scowled back. Like it challenged him, almost. He was forged to survive any impact, surpassed only by weaponry that rivaled him in magic ability. But he’d never been hit by a meteor before. Would it shatter him? Did that matter? Oh, how tempting the thought was. He was a dead man walking either way. Where would he go if he survived such an impact? Master would break him.

Ah, his trump card was getting a little close for comfort now. He could feel the heat of its approach on his skin, its tremors shaking the ground beneath his feet. There were mere seconds between this moment and the inevitable crater the Moon would leave. He turned his stare away from the skies and turned to look around. Not a soul remained in the bazaar, but the soldiers that fled – be they friend or foe – certainly weren’t far enough to escape the blast radius. They’d be dust soon, blend in with the sands.

Playtime was over. He’d fantasized plenty. Zant was waiting for him; whether he’d find him succumbed to his wounds, or in a prime state to kill him himself, he’d have to see when he got there. Whether he’d have the guts to see him to his end…

Now, to get out of here.

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autumnshighlady · 7 months

Text

I've Always Liked to Play With Fire (part 20)

NESTA ARCHERON X ERIS VANSERRA X FEMALE!READER

summary: reader meet's Eris's mother, and Azriel offers a helping hand. An unexpected visitor comes to autumn, I cannot do summaries to save my life

warnings: graphic violence/torture, Cassian slander, tw B*ron sucking but also kinda slaying, implied SA, themes of depression, angst because apparently i can't write happy things

word count: 7.4k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: two chapters in one day to spoil y'all as thanks for waiting so long for part 19 lmao. sorry if this chapter seems slow, but the next two chapters are doozies so gear up!

part 1 // part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / part 17 / part 18 / part 19

read on ao3

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You barely heard the hushed voices of the servants as they fiddled with the wedding dress. Pins poked at your skin as adjustments to the garment were made, but you didn’t care. You simply stood there silently, staring at the husk of a female who looked like you in the mirror. Nobody had asked you anything – not for your opinion on the dress, how it felt, nothing. Not that you expected them to. They were all aiming to please Beron Vanserra, not you.

For the past week, you hadn’t heard from or seen Nesta. Or Eris. Ever since Malgorm paid you an unexpected visit that night, Eris had warned you that it would be too dangerous to meet up for the next while. That Malgorm was likely to be excited about his new bride, and the risk of him showing up unexpectedly was too great. You hadn’t even dared to use the bond to communicate with Nesta, for fear the magic would somehow be detected by Beron’s many complex wards.

Once again, you were completely alone.

It was hard not to fall back into that panic you felt when you had woken up in Rhysand’s dungeons. That same feeling of helplessness washed over you again and again, and you had no idea what to do. Nesta, Eris, and Azriel had all promised you that this marriage wouldn’t happen, but refused to let you in on any of their planning.

“It’s too risky,” Azriel had pointed out to you when you protested. “You cannot know anything about what we are planning. If Beron or Malgorm finds out, we cannot risk you being implicated.”

Naturally, you had bitched and complained about how they didn’t have a right to risk themselves for your safety, but it landed on deaf ears. One hard look from your mate was enough to make you shut up about the matter.

They had promised to do something, yet the wedding grew closer every day. Beron had originally planned for Eris and Nesta to be married first, but whispers from the servants informed you that Malgorm had insisted that his wedding be moved up as fast as possible so he could breed you sooner. The thought made you want to vomit. Shockingly, Beron had agreed, his apparent reasoning being it gave them more time to plan the grand wedding of his eldest son.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you stared at yourself in the mirror. The dress was pretty – a thick satin gown made with the purest of white fabric, with long sleeves and a high neck. Gold thread was embroidered around the neckline, going down the bust and arms like tendrils of flame. It was a suitable wedding dress – definitely not as elaborate as Nesta’s would be, but befitting of a marriage within a royal family.

You had been completely overwhelmed the past week with the amount of servants flocking you to prepare for the wedding. They fiddled with your hair and makeup, poking and prodding you like you were a doll for dress up.

You shuddered to think of how much more chaotic it would be for Nesta and her wedding with Eris, the eldest. After all, Malgorm was only Beron’s second youngest.

When you weren’t being prepared for the wedding, you spent your time alone in your room, laying on the bed and watching the raindrops trickle down the window. You dared not wander the halls to entertain yourself, the fear of running into Malgorm too great. Realistically, he knew where your room was so if he truly wanted to find you, nothing could stop him. But you did not want to take the unnecessary risk.

Every time you slept for the past week, your dreams were plagued by nightmares of Malgorm. You’d wake up in tears most of the time, yearning for Nesta’s comforting presence or Eris’s smooth words to soothe you. You could still feel his hand around your throat, the remnants of the bruises still visible.

Conveniently enough, the neckline of the dress was just high enough to cover those marks on your neck.

A quiet knock at the door snapped you out of your trance. The servants scurried into whatever formation was required of them seconds before the wooden door opened. You tore your gaze away from the mirror to see a petite female with long auburn hair entering your room. Her skin was pale as snow, covered in heavy green robes. A sheer gold veil covered her head, as if meant to hide her from the world. Her russet eyes landed on you and she let out a small smile.

“My lady.” One of the servants said in greeting, bowing her head. The female’s face was unreadable, a mask of boredom so similar to the one you saw Eris wear.

“Leave us, please.” Her voice was weak, as if she was not accustomed to using it. “I would like to spend some time with my daughter.”

Your heart ached at the Lady of Autumn’s words, even though you knew they weren’t entirely genuine. You missed your own mother so terribly, that hearing someone else refer to you as their daughter was bittersweet.

The servants obediently trailed out of the room, closing the door behind them. You bowed your head respectfully, and when you met her eyes again you nearly crumpled. Gone was the Lady’s mask of boredom. It was replaced by one of sadness and pity, as if she were looking at a younger version of herself in the mirror. Lucien had told you about the horror his mother had endured under her husband’s cruelty, his stories making you shudder. How ironic it was now, that you were to be subjected to the same fate it seemed.

“Greetings, (Y/N),” She said. “I am the High Lord’s wife, Lirilla Vanserra. It is a pleasure to meet my son’s bride.”

A single tear fell down your cheek. The heavy fabric of the dress was stifling, and your lungs felt like they weren’t getting enough air. But you were too tired to properly cry. You had weeped for the first few nights, and it seemed your body was drained. All you could do was stand there numbly, letting that singular tear make its way down your blotchy skin.

“It is an honour to meet you, my Lady.” Your words did not feel like your own as you spoke them. “And a blessing to be engaged to your son.”

The look that Eris’s mother gave you was one that could only be described as utterly heartbreaking as she said, “Oh my sweet, I think we both know that is not true.”

You were taken aback by her bold words. Every time you had seen the Lady of Autumn this past week it had been like catching a glimpse of a ghost. She had never spoken, keeping her head down and scurrying around like a frightened mouse. While she still seemed frail, her bluntness surprised you. Perhaps Beron wasn’t the one who taught Eris to put on a mask.

“It’s alright, we may speak freely here.” Lirilla said, as if she could read your expression. “The guards at the door are loyal to me, and the ears of this castle do not reach this corridor. May we sit down?”

You nodded, following your future mother-in-law to the edge of the bed. She sat down elegantly, smoothing her skirts with the poise of a female ready for her appearance at court. You, on the other hand, were less graceful, pins stabbing you as you tried to collect the white skirt.

“That is a lovely dress,” Lirilla said. “Is it to your liking?”

“Yes.” You said. “I’m just not used to this much skirt and heaviness. I pray I do not trip on my way down the aisle.”

The Lady’s expression darkened, melancholic sadness shadowing her face. “I am sorry,” Her voice was quiet and hushed. “That you are to be wed to the cruellest of my sons. I do not know how you ended up in this situation, but it is clear that this marriage is against your will.”

You frowned. “The High Lord did not tell you my circumstances?”

Lirilla smiled sadly. “My husband does not tell me most things. And I suspect yours won’t either. Malgorm was, is, the most difficult of my children. I did my best to raise him to be a good male, but like almost all my other sons, he fell into the clutches of my husband too easily.”

“All except Lucien?” You asked tentatively, unsure if you were overstepping. A grave expression crossed her face for a moment, the pain of her youngest son’s banishment from her court evident.

“He told me about you, you know.” Lirilla’s russet eyes were glazed with the memories of the past. “That's why I came to see you. I had to make sure it was the same female that Lucien had befriended all those years ago. How is your family doing, my dear? Is your mom still baking for the local schools?”

Your heart sank, both at the memory of your family and the fact that Lirilla was so cut off from the events of the outside world. “They’re all dead,” You said solemnly. “Hybern attacked my village, and I was the only survivor.”

Her eyes widened with shock. You bit your tongue, resisting the urge to tell her everything as you remembered Azriel’s words. Begrudgingly, you knew he was right – as much as you wanted to break down and tell the Lady of Autumn everything, it was too risky. The less people who knew the better, and while the female had survived Beron’s cruelty for this long, you couldn’t bring yourself to be selfish enough to burden her with the knowledge of everything else that got you into this situation.

“I am terribly sorry,” Lirilla put a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I wish I could say that things will get easier, but they won’t. Not with Malgorm. I do not wish to scare you, but I will not sit by and let you go into this marriage blind. Malgorm does not treat females kindly, including me. He will humiliate you, and cause you pain in more ways than one. I will do what I can to shield you from it, but I cannot stop this and for that I am sorry.”

You shook your head, fiddling with a pin in the white skirts. “No, I cannot ask that of you, my Lady. This suffering I am about to endure is mine to bear, and mine only. Please, do not put yourself in harm's way to try and protect me.”

Another devastatingly sad smile pulled at Lirilla’s lips. She gently reached up and stroked your cheek. “Oh, my love. I am in harm’s way every day in this castle. That will not change. You are to be my daughter, my first daughter. I may not be able to stand up for you, or even spend much time with you outside of stolen moments like this, but that doesn’t mean I won’t protect you however I can.”

Your voice cracked as you spoke. “I don’t want to marry him.”

“I know. But outside of this room, you must face it with a stiff lip. Any sign of reluctance will be punishable. Give Malgorm what he wants. He always gets what he wants in the end, and trying to resist does more harm than good. It is unpleasant, but that is the safest way to handle him.”

You shuddered at her words. You knew that she meant more than just fetching the male his afternoon tea, and your stomach churned. The breath you took trembled from effort to not cry. How had everything come to this?

“Oh honey…” Lirilla gently pulled you into her, wrapping her tiny arms around your trembling body as you let out a muffled sob. “Growing up, I always wanted a daughter. Yet now I have grown to fear the day I get blessed with a daughter-in-law, because I cannot bear to see this vicious cycle repeat over and over again for centuries.”

You cried into your mother-in-law’s arms, letting her warm embrace chase away the chill in your bones. You knew that once you were married, Malgorm would likely not leave you alone unsupervised, especially with his mother. This might just be your only chance to receive some sort of wisdom and comfort from the Lady of Autumn, so you held onto her tightly and let her stroke your hair.

“It’s ok, my child.” She soothed. “Be strong. If you are hurt, have one of the servants seek out the healer Doreah. She will be able to take the pain away and heal internal damage while ensuring the external wounds can still be seen by Malgorm. Should you need access to a safe place, take the first stairwell on the left all the way down into the basement. There is a library there with food, fresh clothes, and anything you need. The guards around it are loyal to me and will cover for you if your whereabouts are questioned. Nobody except for me and my most trusted staff knows about that place. I have had it glamoured by an old friend so that if anyone sees you going down the stairwell, it looks like you’re headed to the female-only bathing area. Not even my husband or Melgorm would follow you there.”

You felt Lirilla gently ease you out of her grip, sitting you upright. She pulled out a handkerchief and gently dried your face, muttering a spell and erasing all evidence of your crying. “I can hear Malgorm coming to visit you,” She whispered urgently. “Remember everything I’ve told you.”

The Lady of Autumn pulled away from you just in time as the door swung open, the uninvited visitor not even bothering to knock. Lirilla’s kind, pitying look had swiftly been replaced by her submissive, passive mask. She stood up hastily at her son’s arrival, bowing her head. “Malgorm,” She muttered, keeping her eyes on the floor. “It is bad luck to see your bride in her wedding dress before the–”

“Quiet.” Malgorm snapped at his mother, and she flinched as if she had been struck. You wondered how much of it was an act, and how much of it was genuine fear of her son. Malgorm’s amber gaze fixed on you greedily. “I don’t give a shit about such stupid tradition. I should be able to see my wife whenever I please. Now get out, father wants to see you.”

Lirilla nodded, gathering her skirts and hurrying past him like a ghost. Her feet made no sound on the floor as she left the room without a hint of a glance back. You were nervous, left alone with the cruel Vanserra brother. But you stood up and bowed your head, trying to mimic Lirilla’s submissive demeanour.

Malgorm made a disapproving sound as he eyed up your dress with disgust. “My father wants you to look pure and traditional,” He scoffed. “To have as much of your body covered up as possible. If it were up to me, you’d be walking down that aisle with your tits and cunt on display for everyone to see.”

Your face burned at his words, and you swallowed the bile in your throat and spoke as sweetly as possible, “I shall do whatever pleases you, my lord.”

Malgorm snickered, his dirty hand coming up to roughly yank a lock of hair out of your face. “That you shall. Luckily for you, this wedding is about pleasing my father. So you will be nice and covered up until the event is over.” He chuckled darkly, his hot breath fanning across your face as he leaned in too closely. “But the second it is over, you belong to me. And I will rip this pretty dress to shreds and stuff that tight cunt of yours every hour until you are bred. Understood?”

You nodded, even as the room swayed around you. “It will be a great honour to bear your child, my lord.” The words felt wrong on your lips, like oil had been poured in your mouth and choked you as it slid down your throat. You were saying what you had to say to keep him happy, you reminded yourself. Nesta and Eris would stop the wedding before it got to that point. Eris had reassured you that even Malgorm would respect the High Lord’s wishes to wait until you were wed to him to bed you, but you couldn’t help but wonder if Malgorm was unhinged enough to do it anyways.

“I expect you to give me sons.” He said coldly. “If you dare curse me with a daughter, I will tear her from the cord and feed her to my brother’s hounds before you can even see her face.”

You swallowed thickly, fear making the hair on your arms raise at the image. You wondered if Eris had built a reputation that was so cruel his brother was sure he would have no qualms about letting his hounds murder a newborn child. The thought made you shudder. You knew Eris had to play a role to survive his father’s court, but you did not know how far he would go. And while you trusted him, that did not erase the inkling of fear.

“I shall pray day and night that the Mother blesses me with sons.” You managed to get the words out without stuttering, which you were happy with. Luckily, Malgorm seemed satisfied enough with you answer.

“Excellent.” He said smoothly, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a sharp knife. Your blood ran cold. “Now, let’s play.”

*********************

You couldn’t be bothered to try and wipe the blood off your stomach. You had no energy, no strength to even curl your naked, bloody body up into a ball against the cold chill of the room. Your wedding dress was neatly hung up in the corner, Malgorm having been smart enough to get it out of the way before he went to work.

Your body stung with every cut from his blade. Most were shallow cuts that would heal in a day or so, but by the Mother there were so many of them. Your skin felt shredded, like a ruined canvas suffering the wrath of an angry artist. Malgorm had delighted in slicing his blade across your skin, avoiding your hands and face – the only parts of your body that would be visible in the wedding. You could still feel his wet mouth and tongue sliding over the wounds like a venomous snake, the sensation making you want to rip your ruined skin from your body.

Luckily, the male had obeyed his fathers command and not tried to fuck you. He kept his hands away from your centre, seemingly content to ruin other acceptable parts of your body instead. No doubt he wanted everything down there perfect and intact for the wedding night.

A soft shadow grazed your fingertip. It curled up your arm like a ribbon, coming to your face. It seemed to whisper words you couldn’t understand, especially in your lifeless state. “Az…” You murmured, his familiar scent on the small shadow that seemed to inspect your body.

A few moments later, you felt a presence standing over you. “By the Mother…” Came Azriel’s shocked voice. “What did he do to you...”

The shadowsinger emerged from the darkness, leaning down to inspect the dozens of wounds littered across your skin. His hazel eyes were filled with horror as a scarred hand grazed a cut on your collarbone. You watched helplessly as his eyes trailed down to the significant pool of blood beside you that trickled from a deep wound in your stomach.

Right where the letter ‘M’ was carved below your belly button, a few inches above your core.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care about your nakedness in front of the shadowsinger. Malgorm had already begun to strip you of your dignity anyways. But Azriel quickly grabbed the blanket from the end of your bed, gently wrapping it around your body and hoisting you upright. You winced in pain. “We have to stop meeting like this, shadowsinger.” You croaked. “With me being tortured and all.”

Azriel snorted. “Stop getting yourself into these situations then.”

“Couldn’t help it.” Your reply was weak, but earned a slight twitch of the spymaster’s lips, a hint of a smile. “How’d you find me?”

Shadows skirted over your skin, their gentle coolness soothing the sting of the wounds and making you sigh in relief. “I was meeting with Nesta and Eris,” He answered. “She could feel something was wrong… through the bond. Eris sent me to see what happened.”

You frowned. The shadowsinger never stumbled over his words in the entire time you had known him. He already knew Nesta was your mate, so his stutter made you ask, “Why’d you say it like that?”

“What do you mean?” Azriel’s expression gave nothing away, but you could tell something was bothering him.

“What, you don’t like that two females are mates? Is that it?”

The Illyrian departed to your washroom, fetching a damp cloth as he responded. “No, no, Mother above, no. I take no issue with that and you know it.”

“Then what is it?”

Azriel sighed, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead as he returned and knelt down beside you. He carefully pulled back the blanket, revealing the bloody ‘M’ on your stomach. He pressed the wet cloth to the wound, gently cleaning it. “Something happened,” His tone was cautious, as if he wasn’t sure how much to say. “Between Nesta and Eris. It’s changed things slightly. They’re still trying to figure out how to end the engagement between you and Melgorm but… it’s difficult.”

“How so?” You frowned, trying to sit up straighter only to get gently pushed back down by Azriel. “What do you mean?”

He sighed. “Gods, I really do not wish to be involved in this little love triangle.”

“Well too bad,” You snapped, ignoring the sting of your wounds and fixing him a glare. “Because you already are. So tell me.”

“I can’t decide if you’d be the worst interrogator in Prythian or the best.” Azriel grumbled, moving the cloth to begin wiping down the wounds on your left arm.

“Stop dodging the question.”

“It’s really something they should be the ones to tell you–”

“For fuck’s sake, if I have to march out of this room bloody and naked to find Nesta and Eris so help me I will actually do it.”

Azriel glared at you, snarling. “You’re fucking insufferable, you know that?”

You shrugged, tilting your head and waiting for him to tell you exactly what happened. The shadowsinger let out a sigh, and began cleaning your other arm as he spoke. “Remember how you said that Estelle mentioned Nesta had more than one mate, but Cassian was not one of them?”

You nodded.

“I guess that really is true, because a mating bond snapped for her the other day apparently. Between Nesta and Eris.”

Your jaw went slack. You couldn’t describe the emotions that rushed through you at Azriel’s words. It wasn’t the surge of mately jealousy you expected, nor was it anger per se. Sure, Nesta and Eris were a strong political match, but mates? The thought had never even crossed your mind. But it made sense, in some wicked way. Nesta and Eris had similar magic, and could both hold their own in a court of vipers. Perhaps they truly would make strong offspring, which you supposed was the main reason mates were created. Or so you had been told.

Azriel’s brow was furrowed at your silence. “You don’t seem surprised.”

You shrugged, trying to calm your racing mind. “Not entirely. Better it be Eris than someone potentially worse. It will work well in their favour, I suppose.”

The spymaster’s normally unreadable face was riddled with confusion. If you were not in pain, you’d have laughed at his expression. He shook his head, continuing to dab at the wounds on your chest as he spoke. “I do not understand,” Azriel continued. “When the bond snapped between Rhys and Feyre, Cassian and I could barely look at Feyre without him snarling at us. I may not have a mate, but I know mates are supposed to be utterly possessive of one another. Why are you not enraged that your mate has another bond?”

You sighed. Azriel would never truly understand – it was obvious that a mating bond was something he desired greatly. For Nesta to have not only one, but two mating bonds surely brought him discomfort. And truthfully, while you were certainly experiencing a whirlwind of emotions at the new information, none of them were associated with anger or jealousy.

Love comes in many forms and unexpected ways, your mother had once told you. Those words had stuck by you all these years, and growing up in Spring had exposed you to all different kinds of relationships. Males had courted males, females had courted females, and you had often heard stories of an individual having multiple courtings, all of which was done with nothing but love, devoid of possessiveness or jealousy.

“Nesta is someone who has not experienced nearly as much love as she should,” You began, meeting Azriel’s hazel gaze. “She is my mate, and nothing will ever change that. There is nothing she can do that will make me love her any less. But I don’t believe the amount of love an individual can receive should be restricted to one person. If Eris is her mate and can grow to love her, what kind of mate would I be to want it denied from her? Nesta deserves all the love that the world can offer her, and if that comes from both me and Eris then I do not see how that could be a bad thing.”

The Illyrian was quiet for a moment, his shadows swirling around his neck as if they, too, were deep in thought. “You make it sound so simple.” He said after a minute.

“Because it is. Nesta and Eris had a connection before the bond snapped into place. They are good for each other, and you know it. You just need to get past your one sided hatred for the male and see it.”

Anger sparked in Azriel’s face. “And what about Cassian?”

“What about him?”

“He loves Nesta. You claim that the Mother… Estelle… told you that Cassian was not one of Nesta’s mates. But there is something between them, both he and Nesta know it. He loves her.”

You curled your fingers into fists, nails biting the sweaty flesh of your palm. “Cassian is no concern of mine.” You snarled at the shadowsinger. “He is for Nesta to deal with. And he is not in love with her, he loves the idea of being with her. You aren’t a fool, Azriel. Every interaction they have turns into a battle, with Cassian making it his mission to push her buttons and disrespect her boundaries. Can you truly look me in the eye and tell me that they are a better match than Nesta and I? Or Nesta and Eris?”

He opened his mouth as if to instinctively defend his brother, but nothing came out. “Thought so.” You continued. “If Feyre and Rhys were not mates, you all would not be pushing for Nesta to be with Cassian as hard as you have. You act like she has to become worthy of his love, as if he is some perfect male. He’s 500 years old, quit making excuses for him and his shitty behaviour.”

Azriel put the blood soaked cloth down, gently pulling the blanket back over your shivering form to cover your body once again. You pitied the male slightly, guilt creeping in for the position he had gotten himself into. You knew Azriel had been loyal to Rhysand for five centuries, and it was clear that this was the first time he felt truly torn.

“If Cassian and Nesta are not mates, then why did Rhys make such a statement?” Azriel asked, turning his body so he sat beside you. A giant wing gently grazed your blanket covered shoulder, as if to provide some sort of comfort. “Does he truly believe they are mates, or was it a lie? I cannot think of why he would lie about something that big.”

“I can.” You snorted, earning an eye roll from Azriel.

“I will not deny my brother’s horrid actions,” He protested, voice edged with anger. “But he loves Cassian, and lying to him about the mating bond–”

“Would be a way to try and lure Nesta back to the Night Court.” You interrupted the shadowsinger. “A means to control her, and convince her to stay.”

Azriel shook his head, scarred hands fiddling with the hilt of his dagger. “You don’t understand. You know Nesta, but I know Cassian. He’s been acting like a male whose mate has been taken from him. His behaviour is erratic and unreasonable, more so than he has ever been. I cannot think of an explanation for that aside from a mating bond, (Y/N). Besides, he can feel her somehow. There’s something tying them together.”

“I believe the Mother more than your High Lord. If she says that Cassian is not Nesta’s mate, then I believe her.” Truthfully, Azriel’s confession about Cassian’s mood lately unsettled you, having lined up with Emerie and Gwyn’s note about the general being unhinged. You had to admit, they sounded like the actions of a distressed mated male. Azriel was right, something was tying them together. You just didn’t know what.

“Regardless, that bears little relevance to the situation currently.” The spymaster said, echoing your thoughts as he steered away from the uncomfortable topic. “You are set to be married to Malgorm by the end of next week. Nesta and Eris are to be wed soon after. Eris is coming up with a plan to stop your wedding, and I suspect killing his father as well. There is no chance that he will be able to defy Beron and end your engagement and get away with it. Beron has to be eliminated, it is the only way to ensure your safety.”

You felt ill. Killing Beron was something you hadn’t thought of as much in light of the problems of the foreseeable future. It only doubled the risk of everything, trying to execute two life-altering plans within such a short window. You didn’t even know if he and Nesta were ready to take on a High Lord. Sure, they were incredibly powerful fae, but Beron had centuries of experience on them. He was cruel, but not stupid.

Eris was risking his entire plan to become High Lord to ensure you weren’t made to marry his cruel younger brother.

Shadows wisped around your face, as if they could hear your thoughts. Beside you, Azriel remained stoic, but spoke softly. “Eris cares about you, too.”

“Sometimes I think I understand him, and other times I feel like I could not be more wrong.” You sighed, tightening your grip on the stained blanket. “He’s a male whose actions are driven by his own secret agenda. I understand how helping Nesta fits into it, but me? Helping me is a courtesy, a generous one even for him. I… I don’t understand why he’s risking so much for me, unless it’s all because Nesta is his mate too.”

“There might be more to Eris Vanserra than I could have ever imagined. Whether that is for better or for worse, I do not know. I will not lie, it makes me uneasy that your fate will be in his hands. But for some reason you have trusted him this far. Time will tell if that trust has been misplaced.”

Deep down, you knew it wasn’t. Perhaps it was because you shared a mate with him, a commonality that would keep you united no matter what. Or perhaps it was that foolish part of your brain that fancied the eldest Vanserra brother from a distance, who had teasingly called you his little fox on the rare occasion he ran into you with Lucien.

You shivered as another chilly gust of wind seeped into the room through the cracked window. It soothed your still stinging wounds beneath the blanket, but you wrapped the fabric even tighter around you. “Whatever Eris is planning, I hope it works.” You mumbled.

“Me too.” Azriel said dryly. “For all our sake.”

*********************

You tried to keep your breathing steady as you stood on the second step of the dias below Beron’s throne. Grand torches lined the red and gold carpet leading up to the throne, illuminating the tapestries lining each wooden wall.

It had been mid morning when the servants flooded your room, scrambling to get you ready for an appearance in court. When you frantically asked what the fuss was about, you were surprised when you received an answer.

“His Grace has received an unexpected visitor,” The oldest of the servants said in a hushed tone. “You and your betrothed are expected with the rest of the family to greet them.”

It had taken less than five minutes for your hair to be done and your dress to be fitted properly before a set of guards had escorted you to the throne room. Upon entering, you had snuck a glance at the other figures on the dias. Lirilla stood left beside the seated High Lord, her head bowed and hands clasped in front of her. Eris and Nesta were on Beron’s right, one step below. Both adorned royal outfits in similar shades of red, each wearing an almost identical mask of boredom. Nesta’s arm was linked through Eris’s as a formality, but you noticed how tense she was. Her breathing was shallow, as if being in such close proximity to Eris was too much. Luckily, it appeared to be something only you noticed. To everyone else, they appeared the stone-cold politically arranged couple they were meant to be.

You had tried to reach out to Nesta through the bond, but were met with a wall of stone. You tried not to let it sting as she shut you out, choosing to focus on keeping your expression neutral as you held onto Malgorm’s arm the same way Nesta was with Eris’s. It felt wrong, and every part of you wanted to recoil at his touch. Your skin still felt flayed from the events of last night, but as predicted the dress that Malgorm undoubtedly chose for you this morning covered up all evidence of his actions.

So you fought through the pain, ignoring the sneering looks of Beron’s other sons whose names you did not know. You were almost grateful when harsh words from the High Lord threatening punishment to his offspring put them in line.

The tension in the room was thick. You hadn’t dared try and look back towards Nesta and Eris, not with Beron breathing down your necks. It was only a few minutes after the Vanserra family had gotten in formation when the heavy doors to the throne room opened, and the High Lord of the Night Court strode in.

Your mouth went dry. Your mind flashed with images of that forsaken dungeon, the dark tendrils of the High Lord’s power carving through your skin like butter. Was he here to snatch you away? Piercing violet eyes landed on you as Rhysand approached the foot of the dias, swarming with a mixture of fury and confusion. Nevertheless, he bowed his head to Beron. “High Lord,” Rhys said smoothly. “You are looking well.”

You weren’t fooled by the feigned respect. Luckily, Beron wasn’t either, and you heard the male scoff. “Do not bother yourself with false pleasantries, we both know you don’t actually mean them.” Beron said coldly, his aged voice echoing through the throne room like the power of an ancient god. “Give me one reason why I should not execute you for entering my territory without permission.”

Rhys straightened his shoulders, cocking his head and stuffing his hands in his pockets as he met Beron’s words with a cool tone. “Last I checked, meetings of diplomacy were still favourable between two High Lords, were they not?”

“And yet you have no excuse for the uninvited part.”

“I fear my concerns were too urgent and important to notify you in advance.” Rhys’s voice was saccharine, a veil to disguise his true intentions. On a younger, more inexperienced High Lord, it may have worked. But once again, you found yourself strangely grateful for Beron Vanserra. The older male saw right through his words, and would not be afraid to challenge him.

“And what is so important you had to barge in on my court uninvited?” Beron growled, the flames from the torches along the carpet flaring slightly.

Rhysand’s face was smug, and he looked at you directly as he spoke. “You have in your midst a valuable asset of mine. I want her back.”

A cold pit formed in your stomach as you met his stare evenly, despite your bones trembling beneath his gaze. You were right – Rhys had come to spin some lie about you that was designed to make Beron hand you over to the Night Court. You were a fly trapped in a web, and your hand clenching nervously around Malgorm’s arm was not entirely for show.

“Do explain.” Was all the High Lord of Autumn said in a bored tone.

“The female standing at the bottom of the dias belongs to me. Your eldest son infiltrated my court and kidnapped her on the full moon. He is holding her here against her will in a pathetic attempt to hold leverage over me. I ask that you punish Eris Vanserra for his insubordination and return Lady (Y/N) to me, so I can bring her home where she belongs.”

Your blood ran cold. Rhys wasn’t just trying to get you back, but Nesta as well. He wanted to take down Eris in the process, which would force Beron to not only send you back to the Night Court, but Nesta too since the engagement would be broken off and she would have nothing tying her to Autumn. Panic began to stir inside you. This couldn’t be happening. You braced yourself for Beron’s wrath, demanding Eris be brought to the dungeons for immediate questioning.

But instead, the cruel male just laughed. A bitter, hoarse sound like a broken instrument. “That was a pathetic excuse of a story, even for you, Rhysand.” Beron said, making the Night Court Lord blink in surprise. “Not even well crafted. How dare you come into my court and attempt to manipulate me?”

You heard Beron rise in his throne, and the torches began to flare angrily as the High Lord’s temper rose. “I am no fool. I know that you are only here because you’re desperate from losing your spy that had valuable intel on you. A spy who fled your clutches seeking sanctuary with me because of what you did to her.”

“I did nothing.” Rhys said, which angered Beron even more.

“You lie again! I am well aware that the girl was trained as a spy against her will to repay her debt to you. You were an immature fool to trust a prisoner to spy for you, which is one of the many reasons your court is run so poorly. I saw the wounds you inflicted on her, boy, when she found out you planned to take the title of High King.”

Rhys’s expression revealed shock for a split second, the loss of composure making you laugh internally. You hadn’t expected Beron to defend you so vehemently, especially against another male. But you still clung to every breath nervously as he continued to speak.

“Have you not considered that this information she so eagerly gave you might be a ploy to get you to wage war on my court?” Rhysand said carefully.

“So you admit then that your story was false?” Beron had impressively backed Rhys into a corner, catching him in his lie. “That she was indeed your spy turned rogue?”

Rhys had the nerve to shrug. “All that matters is that she is a member of my court, and I demand you release her to me.” He kept his tone neutral, but you could feel the desperation coming off of him in waves.

“My daughter is no longer a member of your court.”

Rhysand’s face blanched visibly at Beron’s words. He went utterly still, even the pulsing aura of power that always seemed to be around him quieting. His violet eyes found you again, but you kept your chin high. He glanced down at your arm entwined with Malgorm’s, who was no doubt smirking proudly at Rhys. It was strange, hearing Beron refer to you as his daughter.

“What?” The High Lord of the Night Court said quietly.

“As a reward for her bravery in fleeing your grasp, and for the useful information she so willingly provided us with, I have given her the honour of marrying my son Malgorm. She is my daughter now, and you will not take her from me.”

You felt an invisible hot flame on your arm, undoubtedly the power of the High Lord. It beckoned you, pulling you towards the throne where he had seated himself once again. Malgorm had seemingly felt it too, for he guided you up the steps to where Beron sat. You looked into the eyes of the High Lord for the first time. His hair was slicked back identical to Malgorm’s, but faded to an ashy grey in contrast to his son’s fiery red. His sharp face took you in, amber eyes glowing like a snake in the dark. He extended a hand towards you, fingers clad in rings more expensive than everything your village in Spring had owned put together. You smiled as you took it, ensuring you looked grateful. To further paint the image of Beron’s new daughter, you lowered your head and gently kissed his aged hand as a sign of respect for your father-in-law.

Beron looked at you proudly, pulling you closer so you were standing right next to him. His hand was clammy and his grip was ironclad, but you showed no signs of resistance. Malgorm took up his post slightly behind you, an arm on the small of your back in a display of ownership.

Rhysand’s mask had slipped entirely as you stared defiantly down at him, disgust and shock written all over his features. He had not even given Nesta and Eris a second glance, his fury towards you overriding his diplomatic practices. But you did not feel frightened, not with Nesta, Eris, and especially Beron in the same room.

Nothing would happen to you. Beron would protect you for his own selfish reasons, but it was reassuring nonetheless.

“My eldest son did not kidnap the girl.” Beron said coldly, his grip on your hand never faltering. “The day you claim it happened, Eris was assigned to meetings with my courtiers from sunup to sundown, all of whom can act as witness.”

You pushed down your confusion – Eris was most definitely not in meetings that day, and how he had managed to pull this alibi off was something you would have to ask him about later.

Beron continued, authority strong in his voice. “She came to me willingly, and I have welcomed her with open arms. I know who she is – a girl from the Spring Court whom you rescued then used as a pawn in one of your little games, only for her to outsmart you in the end. Never again will my daughter fall into suffering under your hands, Rhysand. If you try to do anything to harm her or remove her from my territory, I will burn your entire court to the ground. Just as I will do if you ever think of claiming the title of High King of Prythian.”

Beron spat the title out, his power filling the room. “You are an immature boy playing games you don’t understand,” He continued dangerously. “And any attempt at seizing lordship over this land will be met with the slaughter of everything you hold dear. I will erase your name from the history books, and there will be nobody left to remember Amarantha’s Whore. And if you think any of the other High Lords would bow down to you, your arrogance is even more stupid than I thought. Now get out of my court, half-breed. And do not return.”

taglist (comment if you want to be added): @queercontrarian @kitkat-writes-stuff @moonfawnx @sevikas-whore @weird-and-wise @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet @kingshitonly @ladyofcherries @eerievixen @readingwritingwatching @peacecoffeeandflowers @a-frog-with-a-laptop @shadowqueen25 @lana08 @highladyofillyria @rachelnicolee @ladespedidas @little-darlingo @manonblackbeakquidditchteam13 @demirunner @terorovaerangi @hauntedandhopeful @younxii @microwaveallthedemons @fanfictioniseverything @lovra974 @maddietheshoe @peaceandcrackers @emy1-9 @lostinfantasyworldsbi @issybee0611 @thoughtfulshepherdmongerkid @belledawnidk @whhyyynottt @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @littlebbb @piceous21 @sevendeadlyshins-blog @searchingford @marigold-morelli @thesapphiclibrarian @nikovasbitch @chasing-autumns-chill @the-sweet-psycho @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @red-bees

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corviiids · 30 days

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sparknotes for chapter 9 of as you like it because a very kind commenter asked for a breakdown and if theres one thing im good at it's breaking down

(spoilers for the fic obviously)

tihs chapter gave me so much trouble. i sat on it for so long i literally hated it by the time i posted it but im starting to forgive it now. it was, as ive said, originally way longer, and the next part of the fic was supposed to be the second half of this one... but it was starting to get absurd and i realised that neither part would have the weight i needed them to have if they were lumped in together. (with some relief, honestly, because i kind of had wanted them to be separate initially but didn't think they'd be long enough. i dont know myself very well.) anyway, the next chapter should be a bit of a doozy now although hopefully not SO absurdly long.

this chapter picks up where the previous cliff hung off, which is to say, after the 'shadow' akechi reveals that he's actually just the real ass guy. akechi in the palace what will he do. the chapter doesn't immediately kick off with ren's reaction though and that is because ren is the most repressed man alive and does not know how he feels about it.

so, akechi disguised himself to enter his palace, which is significant for a few reasons:

1. he's disguised as himself

which i think is ironic in a fun way, but it's also just a very basic nod to the fact that akechi pivots between which of his personae is his default. this isn't necessarily super meaningful, but he does later refer to the black mask suit as

a costume, instead of an outfit. i mean, don't read into it too much, he's just talking, but i did think that probably points to how he feels about his appearance generally.

2. more importantly, his disguise involves taking off his mask.

so he's disguised, yes, and he's disguised as himself, yes, but that disguise is a literal unmasking, which is also kind of ironic. in presenting himself this way he has literally and figuratively made himself vulnerable. they're inside his heart, and the entire time he's in the palace, he is exposed... again both literally and figuratively because he also starts sharing more with ren than he ever has. look, i just think it's fun to have a character who has so many layers that he has to lie so hard that he becomes himself again.

i only want to point this out because (this is also part of larger meta about mona lol) akechi knew about the metaverse, but there is no way to intuit the method of stealing hearts without guidance. it's such a specific and involved process. thje most akechi could work out on his own was that if you killed a shadow, that person would have a mental breakdown. no way to guess that if you send a calling card and then go in within the next 24 hours and take a physical manifestation of a thing that you didn't know existed (process) would lead to that person ahving a change of heart (result). so even if akechi had a palace and knew about it, even if he wanted to do something about it, he would have assumed there was nothing he could do about it - i also have no idea what the process would be for sending yourself a calling card, even if he DID know about the process. so basically in this fic akechi found his palace and just assumed that was it. he was like, fucked up lol. anyway

this just straight up isn't true HAHA so i put in the silly little dichotomy of akechi gently taking ren's arm to protect him from slipping on the ice while telling him that he lied about caring about him. i think in this chapter as akechi begins to openly explain more and more of his thought process, this is probably the first truly clear glimpse you get of exactly what akechi's distortion is and how deep it runs.

the things akechi says with total conviction in this chapter are just... not true, not a fair or founded way to view the world (or the art of performance haha), but he says them with total conviction, and hopefully it should show off how unreliable he is as a source of exposition. one commenter asked about this moment of akc's eyes going yellow and if it was somehting that happened in canon - not really, i was just thinking about those little moments in the game after you send a calling card where the game cuts from the person to their shadow to do a little oneliner about their distortion.

akechi's IN his own palace, so i thought it would be fun to kind of make it a physical thing that can happen to him where he sort of merges with his shadow for a brief second in the moments when the distortion is strongest.

OKAY this is one of my favourite bits of the chapter HAHA the deep soda lore. i dont expect anyone to remember all the way back to chapter 3 but:

literally nobody asked about this but i love the phantom thieves!!! i dream of all the little silly moments of being a team that they must have that we don't get to see in gameplay, for obvious reasons of it wouldn't really work in a game, but i can imagine them in my brain. i can imagine their trickshot contests that get their asses kicked. i can imagine them chanting at each other to chug while joker and oracle compete to down an entire bottle of brand neutral mountain dew baja blast. i can dream.

soda lore is gay.

i dont honestly think it's inherently a bad thing necessarily but this part does kind of set up like... you can see akechi very early on in life forming this worldview that the truth isn't always what you want, you know? this was a 'lie' he and his mother both bought into, they both knew what the truth actually was, so it wasn't real dishonesty, but they just had this little fantasy. i just thought it would be fun for akechi to have a way to bond with his mother and feel closer to her, and that way is by buying into this white lie. idk

akechi's mother isn't really a character and i don't want to form her into too much of one because i think it's very much the point that, like... he made this point in an earlier chapter but having lost her at a pretty young age i think it's quite crucial that akechi doesn't really have a fully formed image of who his mother is outside of what she was to him as a child. so i actively don't want her to feel too real or defined. im not interested in making an oc out of her because i think it defeats the purpose. that said, this line exists to maybe gesture very vaguely at the notion that akechi's mother was a very bright person who similarly was stuck in circumstances that didn't serve to foster her real potential. just the image in my mind of a person who's clever enough to get across algebraic notation in chess by flipping through a book in a few minutes, but was never exposed to the opportunity to learn chess until this moment in someone else's house, and also the particular situation of learning this skill WHILE at someone's place as a call girl, i dunno . i hope im treating this with the grace it deserves but i wanted to build just this particular image in vivid colour while also keeping the reality quite blurry and vague, just to give the reader a sense of where akechi came from while still preserving his limited pov.

my thoughts on the phantom thieves' methods (and how they compare to maruki) are definitely too long and involved to put into a post about this fic chapter specifically, but maybe one day. i also wanna stress im not like... strictly anti-phantom thief or anti-heartstealing lol but i do have thoughts about the philsophy of it and the thieves' hypocrisy WHATEVER that's not for this post. i bring this up only to crow about finding a way to bring up the experience machine (ie maruki's reality) in this fic without it being royal compliant and have it be... hoepfully... sufficiently relevant to the plot. wa hoo! the experience machine came up for the first time back in chapter 4 and im just delighted that i finally got to close that loop. by the way, that experiment is also called the lotus eater machine after the lotus eaters in the odyssey! i dunno that it's actively my favourite thought experiment but it's definitely up there and i think about it a lot.

TITLE DROP

i think i spoke once about what 'as you like it' means. it's obviously the name of the shakespeare play from where 'all the world's a stage' comes, but it has a couple more layers to it as well - akechi's palace is a place where he performs to what he believes other people want or need to see from him - so his appearance is as you like it. and his accusation of the thieves' heartstealing methods is that they twist a person's internal reality to suit their vision - that's the meaning he's taking here, claiming that joker is turning akechi into an unfamiliar new thing, as [joker] like[s] it. you get it.

this running joke of ren really hating vents wasn't something i planned but im attached to it now. prayer circle for his knees

ive basically given up on making sense of samerecarm, which is par for the course for any rpg or video game really where reduction to 0hp/revival are mechanics. like, im inclined to think 0hp is more equivalent to unconsciousness, because... well... otherwise it's pretty cold that they left akechi dead in the engine room without even looking for a way around the wall. lol. but one of mona's revival lines is 'being dead isnt easy!' or something like that, so i kind of just give up and assume it's video game logic you'r enot meant to look at too hard lol. the way i reconcile it for my purposes is to say it's a sort of metaverse-exclusive state of being which is not quite dead but sort of in a limbo state wher eyou can be brought back with specific revival magic, which i refer to as being down. that's uhhh, that's different from the battle status of down... which you get after being hit with a crit/technical/weak skill... look, don't think about it. joker in crow's arms.

this is literally meaningless i just wanted to include a cameo of my very favourite persona q2 battle theme.

#rookfic #thank you sunlitpearl on ao3 for asking. all my love forever to everyone who enables me to yap non fucking stop #rookposting #i need to actually have a tag for this fic specifically because i talk about it so much #AYLI #< there #long post #eta i forgot to mention but goro figuring out the stamp thing but continuing to play along anyway #was very very very loosely based on my experience as a kiddo with santa HAHAHA #i was 3 y/o and clocked that 'santa' used the same wrapping paper as my parents. and i thought that was sus.#then i asked mother if santa was real and she went 'do you want the truth' and i was like well never mind. i know NOW.#idiot smartass toddler!! i was so pleased about figuring it out i didnt think about cutting off the present supply.#kept playing along for the fun of it tho although 'santa' started receiving carefully price matched lists from me instead of letters #anyway #tangent from my childhood tales

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tommykinard6 · 4 months

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Invading your inbox, like you asked :) <3 I would love to hear more about your omega Eddie, alpha Buck and omega Tommy headcanons? If you want to share them. 🧯🚒.

Nonnie, this ask makes me very happy, thank you 🥹

First off! This here is my Buddie a/b/o fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/24914782/chapters/60292255

I haven’t updated in a long time and I’m not sure when I will; my writing style has changed. But that’s something!

Omega Eddie is very much house husband, stay-at-home dad vibe. Not that I personally think he’d leave firefighting, but it’s the vibe, ya know? He’s been in control and struggling and trying to do everything alone for all his life. He needs to be pampered and taken care of. He definitely wants more kids, but is hesitant to commit to having more without knowing they won’t be abandoned again.

Buck is a gentle alpha. All he wants is a family and to provide the life, love, and stability he didn’t have growing up. Protective mode goes hard with him. Any threat to his mate(s) and he’s gone.

Tommy is commonly mistaken for an alpha. He’s not built like a stereotypical omega, all muscle and bulk. It’s partially a shield, against his family and the world around him, and partially just who he is. He finds it hard to be an omega, convinced that he’s always doing it wrong. He’s primarily attracted to alphas, but no alpha has ever felt secure standing side by side with him. Not to mention the fear he had working at the 118. He hid his secondary gender, pretended to be an alpha, but the captain was aware of all of his mens’ designations. And as we know, Captain Gerrard was a fossil, out of his time and not one for omega rights.

Indulge me in a little polyfire for a moment.

Buck doesn’t know what he’s doing, courting two omegas at the same time. Both of them have walls up, wary eyes and reluctance to be truly themselves. He knows both of their pasts. He knows that Eddie was abandoned by his alpha (after a long and tenuous relationship where neither were innocent) and lives with a constant fear of it happening again. He knows that Tommy’s been failed by every alpha figure in his life save one army mentor and has been rejected too many times, always too much for his previous partners. They’re both haunted, and so is he. The idea of courting both at the same time is ludicrous.

But then he watches them as they open up towards each other, accepting each other as prospective mates and partner omegas. Nothing quite stops the rumble when he comes home to find them both asleep in the nest, curled around each other.

And he watches as they both open up to him, the wariness leaving their eyes. And he thinks it could actually work, the three of them together.

Now when the discussion of pups comes up, that’s a doozy.

If you want to hear my NSFW headcanons for the a/b/o 911 verse, feel free to ask further!

#911 abc #9-1-1 #911 show #tommy kinard #evan buckley #bucktommy #buddie #buddietommy #eddie diaz #omega tommy kinard #omega eddie diaz #omegaverse #alpha evan buckley #a/b/o dynamics #tk6 talks a/b/o #tk6 answers

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30somethingautisticteacher · 3 months

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Excerpt: Anyway," Buck continued, oblivious to the silent exchange. "Are you guys ready to hear the rest of the story? Because trust me, it's a doozy." TK and Carlos exchanged a grin, settling back against the pillows as they prepared to listen. "We're all ears, Buck. Let's hear it." There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of Buck clearing his throat. "Okay, so before I go much further, TK, you're a paramedic, right? Have you had much experience with viral encephalitis?"

#bucktommy #tevan #kinley #firepilot #evan buckley #tk strand #tommy kinard #carlos reyes #911 abc #911 lone star #30sat writes #tarlos

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vintagepresley · 1 year

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Pretty Baby

Chapter Four: That's What You Get For Loving Me

Pairing: Elvis Presley x OC Reader

Word Count: 13,854

Warnings: 18+ SMUTSMUTSMUT Angst, lots and lots of angst, cheating, Linda is kind of a bitch, fluff, physical arguments (no one gets hurt), slightly toxic behavior, talks of porn, rough sex, slapping, dirty talk, use of the word 'whore', fingering, unprotected sex, crazy power dynamics between these two. Just a lot of drama. Typical Elvis stuff.

Author's Notes: Hello besties!! Chapter four is here and it's a DOOZY. I did not mean for it to be this long but here we are as usual. This chapter is going to be a bit wild and has a lot that's going to progress the story further. Side note, I didn’t remember who Jerry was dating around ‘75, so I used Sandy, lol. I hope you all enjoy it! Possible spelling errors!

Pretty Baby series

“And he looked at me, like there was something in me worth looking at.”

Morning had come quickly and Rebecca was turning over onto her side with her eyes half open as she checked the time on the alarm clock that said 9:15. She let out a soft groan and buried her face into the pillow. She just wanted to stay in bed the whole day, she didn’t think she could face Elvis after what happened last night between the two of them and these confusing feelings she had for him. She pulled the blankets over herself just wanting to hide away from the world. As she laid there she could hear some noise outside of her room, it was Elvis. She was surprised he was up so early and she listened as she heard him moving things around in the living room. Elvis had invited everyone up to have breakfast in the suite, he was doing his best to put what happened last night behind him but he couldn’t help but wonder why she was so determined to deny what she felt for him. He just couldn’t understand it. There was a spark between them and he felt it especially last night and was just left feeling sad. But it was only her second day in Vegas and the last thing he wanted was to make her feel uncomfortable and want to go home. He didn’t want to be alone and she made him feel less lonely, so he decided if she didn’t bring it up; he wouldn’t.

Once Elvis had everything set up for breakfast he hesitantly walked over to Rebecca’s room door and he stood there for a moment and carefully placed his ear against the door to see if she was awake. He couldn’t hear anything and then he knocked lightly. “R-Rebecca? You awake, honey?” he spoke softly. She lifted her head up when she heard his voice and she turned over onto her back and popped her head out of the top of the blankets and she stared at the door. Elvis could hear her moving around in there and he furrowed his brow when he got no answer. She wasn’t sure if she should say anything. But she also didn’t want to say anything. She didn’t want to see him, truthfully. Not now. Elvis let out a soft sigh and he placed his hands on either side of the door frame as his head hung low. “I-I-If you are awake, honey, I’ve invited everyone up for breakfast and they’ll be here soon. I hope you’ll join us..” he said softly. Rebecca just listened and still didn’t say a word and then she heard him eventually walk away and she exhaled softly before she threw the blankets off herself and then she climbed out of the bed and headed into the bathroom. She wasn’t going to be rude and not join everyone for breakfast. She figured with all his friends and their wives there she would feel less uncomfortable if it was just the two of them.

Elvis sat down on the couch in the living room and he kept staring back at Rebecca’s room door and he was hoping she would join breakfast. He sat there silently playing with the rings on his fingers and he perked up glancing back at her door when he heard the shower suddenly start from inside her room. A small smile formed on his lips, as hurt as he may have felt he just wanted to see her, be near her at any cost. Elvis got up from the couch when he heard a knock at the door figuring that it was everyone and he went to answer it, letting them all in. “Where’s Rebecca?” Joan asked as she and Joe came into the suite.

“She’s just gettin’ ready. She’ll be out in a bit. I ordered breakfast and all will be up any minute now.” Elvis replied.

As everyone took a seat at the table Rebecca could hear all the chattering going on outside the door when she got out of the shower and she took a few deep breaths as she got herself ready. Once she had finished brushing her teeth and doing her usual skincare, she only put on her light pink lipstick and a bit of mascara and brushed her hair out. She then opted to wear her tan crochet bell sleeved mini dress that clung to her curves and she paired it with some cute floral print platform clogs. She took one look in the mirror and nodded in approval of her cute outfit and she headed toward the door, taking a deep breath as her hand grasped the doorknob and then after a few more seconds she opened the door and headed out to see everyone had started eating but then suddenly staring at her as she walked out. Elvis stood up out of his chair at the sight of her with a warm smile on his face as he stared at her. She looked beautiful as always and it was obvious he was starstruck by her. Rebecca noticed the way he was looking at her before she looked away from him and cleared her throat as she walked toward the table.

“Good morning.” she hummed softly.

Everyone greeted her with a good morning and Elvis stepped over to the chair beside him and pulled it out for her to sit. “Good mornin’, honey.” he said in his deep southern drawl. Rebecca exhaled softly, still trying to avoid eye contact with Elvis as she sat down hesitantly in the chair he pulled out for her.

“Good morning, Elvis.” she said softly as she soothed out her dress.

Elvis smiled as he sat back down beside her and everyone continued to dig into their breakfast and Rebecca began to reach for some food to put on her plate. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Elvis staring at her. But she refused to look at him. He reached over to grab the bacon and offered it to her. But she shook her head not saying another word to him. He set the bacon down and now he was starting to notice that she didn’t seem to want to talk to him or look at him. He sighed softly. As breakfast continued on it was obvious to everyone that something was going on between the two of them because she had hardly spoken more than a few words to him even as he was talking to everyone during breakfast and getting everyone to engage. She would just nod and smile at his words, but not share a glance with him. She wasn’t trying to be rude, but after last night she just couldn’t pretend as if everything was okay. She wasn’t okay because she didn’t understand her feelings and had wished she could just turn them off. As she had gotten lost in her thoughts Elvis had reached over to place his hand over hers and holding it as he was talking about what Rebecca thought of the show last night and she snapped out her thoughts and snatched her hand away and looked at him.

“Can you not?” she mumbled to him.

Elvis leaned toward her with his brow furrowed.

“What?” he mumbled back.

“Don’t do that.. Don’t touch me..” she mumbled through her teeth putting on a smile for everyone else at the table.

“Everyone is here, don’t start, Rebecca.” he whispered in a heavy serious tone as he glanced up to see his friends doing their best to act if they didn't notice what was happening at the end of the table.

Rebecca scoffed at his words and she stood up from the table and angrily walked away to her room, slamming the door closed. Elvis, embarrassed by her behavior stood up and excused himself for a moment. He went to her room not bothering to knock and just barged in slamming the door behind him and Rebecca was facing away from him and he grabbed a hold of her forearm and turned her around to face him. “What is your goddamn problem?! You hardly said a damn word to me out there! I hold your hand and suddenly I can’t touch you??” Elvis said in an angry whisper.

“I’m sorry I can’t pretend that everything is okay when it isn’t!” Rebecca shouted not giving a damn if his friends heard as she pulled her arm out of his grip.

“Are you talkin’ about last night?” he asked.

“What else would I be talking about, Elvis!” she yelled.

“Keep your goddamn voice down. I don’t understand you, Rebecca. You want us to be friends, that's what I’m doin’ as hard as it is for me!” he said softly.

“I-I don’t know what I want! I’m confused.. I don’t know how to feel.. I just.. I-I don’t know! I didn’t even want to see you this morning.” she said frantically as she paced around the room.

Elvis watched her pacing back and forth and he raised an eyebrow as he listened to her talk. He really could not understand her or what she wanted. One minute she wants them to remain friends and the next she doesn’t know how to feel. Elvis approached her and grabbed her to make her stop walking because it was making him nervous and he forced her to face him and they shared a longing look with one another.

“Just answer this question.. Did you feel what I felt when we kissed?” he whispered.

She looked away and then pushed him away from her.

“I told you I don’t know how I feel!” she snapped at him.

Elvis exhaled sharply and now he was getting frustrated.

“You're in denial and don’t understand why. I know you feel something for me, Rebecca. Why can’t you just fuckin’ say it?? You’re doin’ my damn head in with all these mixed signals!” he shouted.

“Are you fucking deaf, Elvis?! I told you I don’t know how I feel!!! It’s not my fault you assume I want you.” she screamed.

Elvis was growing tired of this now and he grabbed her by her arms and roughly pulled her toward him and he shook her in his tight grasp.

“Goddamn it! What is wrong with you!? Can’t you fuckin’ see I love you! You heard me say I loved you! I know you feel the same for me! Just say it!! Just say it, baby.” he yelled at her as he shook her.

Now he was scaring her and she was not one to scare easily and as much as she wanted to admit the feelings that she knew she couldn’t deny anymore, she just couldn’t. She was scared. Scared at the thought of loving him; loving anybody. She decided to say the thing she knew would hurt him and break his heart to hear. But she felt it was best just to make him stop wanting her because she was not ready for whatever he wanted them to be. Elvis continued to shake her violently and yelled at her to just tell him she loved him. She began to hit him as she tried to wiggle out of his grip. Now everyone outside the room was growing concerned because of all the commotion and screaming that they weren’t sure if they should intervene.

“Stop it! Let me go! Stop it, Elvis!! I don’t love you and I could never love you!!!” she screamed with tearful eyes as she pushed him off. She knew those words were a lie.

As soon as those words left her mouth Elvis stopped and he felt like his world was crashing down around him and he let her go. She rubbed her arms as her tears began to stream down her face, she could see the hurt in his eyes. The last thing she wanted was to ever hurt him because she got to know him so well and knew the loneliness he constantly felt and she was a light in his life that made him feel less lonely. Suddenly it was silent between them and Rebecca now had tears streaming all down her face and Elvis in shock and close to tears himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to be upset now because was filled with anger.

“You’re a goddamn liar, Rebecca. Y’know somethin’, honey? Out of everyone you’re the last person I expected to hurt me.” he muttered angrily, giving her another look and shaking his head before he stormed out of her bedroom and slammed the door shut. She inhaled shakily as she burst into tears. She never meant to hurt him and now she was scared she may have ruined everything between them.

As Elvis came back out it was obvious his mood was noticeably different as he plopped back down in his chair and didn’t say a word to anyone. He was so upset he couldn’t even eat and after sitting down at the table with everyone for another minute or so he just got up without saying a word and went to his room slamming the door so hard he could’ve broken it from its hinges. That was everyone’s cue that they needed to leave and they all made their way out quickly. When Elvis was alone in his room that’s when his anger had turned to sadness and now he was in tears as he sat on the edge of his bed trying to comprehend what just happened. He had hoped that she didn’t mean what she said that she could never love him. Hearing those words hurt him the most. What was it about him that she could never love? He knew he hadn’t looked like he once did and that he was much older than her, but she never seemed to mind. Now he had all these anxious thoughts running through his head and feelings of loneliness creeped up inside of him. Why couldn’t she just love me? Why? He thought to himself.

Rebecca couldn’t stop crying. She had never cried for anyone like this but she was so overwhelmed with all her feelings that consumed her and the hurt she caused Elvis she had no other way to let it all out. She frantically grabbed her cigarettes fumbling through the carton as her hands were trembling and she ended up dropping the carton and her cigarettes all fell out. “Shit!” She cried and she just walked away and sat down on the bed sniffling softly as she continued to cry and now more than ever she needed some sort of guidance or advice and so she picked up the phone and decided to call the two people she knew that would be able to help her, Paul and Abby. She knew it was early in New York but she was hoping one of them would be up. As she dialed the number and held the phone to her ear she tried her best to stop her crying as the line trilled until there was a click and someone had picked up.

“Hello?” Abby said groggily.

“Abby? It’s Rebecca.. Did I wake you?” she muttered softly between her quiet cries.

Abby could sense something was wrong just from the sound of Rebecca’s voice and she sat in bed as she grew concerned.

“Rebecca, is everything alright? You sound strange.” she asked.

“N-No.. Something happened with Elvis and I..” she said softly and now she started to cry a bit more.

Abby sat right up in bed and she was fully awake now. It was unusual for Rebecca to be in such a state that she was crying. So she knew something really bad happened.

“What happened? Did that asshole hurt you??” Abby said, concerned.

“Oh god, no, no, no… Nothing like that.. We got into a fight.. I said some things I probably shouldn’t have said. I don’t know what to do..” she said with a sigh.

“What did you say? What happened? And tell me everything.” Abby asked.

Abby had a feeling Rebecca was leaving something out. She was aware of how close she and Elvis had gotten and she was no fool the times she met Elvis, Abby could see how smitten Elvis was with her and the connection between them. But Rebecca loved to self-sabotage a good thing because of past relationships.

Rebecca let out a soft sigh and she took a deep breath deciding to catch Abby up on everything that had happened between her and Elvis since coming to Vegas. Abby wasn’t the least bit surprised when she found out Elvis was in love with Rebecca. But she was more surprised at the fact that Rebecca said what she did to him when it was quite obvious she loved him too.

“Becca, you fool. Why would you do that? That man is in love with you and probably has been since the moment you met. How could you say that to him?” Abby asked, now feeling bad for Elvis.

“I-I don’t know.. It just came out. I.. I just wanted him to stop. I didn’t mean it.. I didn’t. I..” Rebecca stopped herself as she was on the verge of tears again.

“As your best friend... Tell me honestly, I mean it. No bullshit here, man. Do you love him?” Abby asked.

There was a silence that felt like it went on forever between them as Rebecca was hesitant to answer because that meant admitting her true feelings.

“Rebecca? Hello? Do you love him??” Abby questioned.

Rebecca wiped the tears from her face and held the phone close as she breathed in and out deeply.

“Yes..” she said faintly into the phone, finally saying it out loud to someone that it felt like a weight lifted off her shoulders. There was another silence and Abby just smiled.

“Why couldn’t you have told him that?” she asked.

“I was scared. I’m still scared. Being in love scares me. You know that. But being in love with him? It’s terrifying. I know it sounds silly, but does he love me for me, or does he love me for what-.. Nevermind.” she said softly, forgetting her own friends had no idea what she did for a living. Abby furrowed her brow wondering what she was going to say, but not dwelling on it.

“Has he ever given you a reason to be scared of loving him?” Abby asked.

“No, of course not. He’s the sweetest and so caring towards me. When I’m around him it’s like I become this different person. A softer person. He just.. I don’t know.. The way he looks at me like there’s something in me worth looking at. He makes me feel good. But I just still have my reservations about him. What could he want with me? Why me? He’s so much older that it just makes me suspicious. But maybe it’s just me trying to find something wrong with him.” she said with a sigh feeling herself begin to calm down.

“Well, the only way you’ll find out is by giving him a chance to show you. If you just let him.” Abby remarked.

“I know, I know.. I can’t now. I know he’s upset with me. You didn’t see what he looked like.. The hurt in his eyes. I probably ruined everything. I’m going to give him space and maybe go out just to get some air and think. You know?” Rebecca said, hoping Abby would agree.

“You do what you think is best. But you should tell him how you feel regardless if it’s ruined or not. You owe him that.” Abby replied letting out a soft yawn.

“Okay. I’ll let you get back to sleep. Thank you, Abby.” she smiled.

“Mhm.. That’ll be $100 dollars for my services.” she laughed tiredly.

“Shut up. I’ll talk to you soon, bye.” Rebecca laughed softly as the both of them hung up.

Rebecca needed time to decide on what she was going to do and maybe going out for a while and getting some air would help her think. She went to the bathroom to fix herself up and she did her best to reapply her makeup, but her eyes were so bloodshot and puffy from crying that she did what she could. She then grabbed her purse and headed out of her room, seeing that everyone was gone and no one had finished their breakfast, she sighed and looked over at Elvis’ room door wondering what he was doing and thinking at that moment.

Elvis had closed all the curtains in his room and he climbed into his bed and had made a call for Dr. Nick to come up. He made no plans to leave his bedroom until the show that night. That part of him wished he could cancel, but he knew the Colonel would be furious. So, he hoped that whatever Dr. Nick prescribed to him would help and put him to sleep. Elvis heard the sound of Rebecca’s heels as she walked through the suite and then he heard the front door open and close and he raised an eyebrow wondering where she was going. Now he was worried that she decided to leave Vegas all together. He quickly got up and walked out of his room and went to her room to see that all her things were still there and he let out a sigh of relief seeing she hadn’t left him. Despite him being so angry with her he also still cared deeply for her no matter how she may have felt for him. It was something he couldn’t shake. There was a knock at the door and Elvis knew it was Dr. Nick at last with his medication. He would soon fall into a deep sleep with the pills he prescribed to him.

Rebecca had decided to venture along the strip of Vegas on her own just needing fresh air and time to think about everything. As she walked she was still so amazed by Vegas even during the day it still seemed so bright and flashy with all the big marquee signs and all the people. She went into a few different gift shops to get a few souvenirs for Abby and Paul and stopped for food since she never did get a chance to eat her breakfast. Rebecca had stayed out for hours, she could’ve gone back to the hotel but she was afraid of going back and facing Elvis even though she knew she had to talk to him. But she decided to just spend as much time as possible out as a way to avoid her problems. Since there was so much to do in Vegas there was no limit to what she could do.

6:00pm - Elvis’ Suite

Elvis was just waking up from his long slumber and he felt groggy and tired as he laid in his bed almost forgetting where he was for a moment, he rubbed his hand over his eyes and once his vision cleared he looked at the time and saw it was almost time for the first show and that he had to get ready. He slowly sat up in bed and placed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and he let out a long exhale as he sat at the edge of the bed before he finally stood himself up. He had wondered if Rebecca had come out because he didn’t hear anything. He walked out of his room to see this morning’s breakfast still on the table and the suite silent. He walked over to her room and knocked on the door and he got no answer. “Rebecca?” he said in a low voice. He knocked again and opened the door this time to see no sign of her and everything as it was the first time he came into her room. Now he was beginning to worry. Where could she be for so long? He walked back to his room and grabbed the phone calling down to Joe’s room and impatiently waited for him to answer as the phone rang. When someone finally picked up it was his wife, Joan.

“Joanie, it’s Elvis, have you seen Rebecca?” he asked.

“Uh, no Elvis.. Isn’t she there with you?” she replied.

“N-No.. She left. All her stuff is still here so I thought maybe she went out with a few of you girls.” he said, trying not to sound worried.

“Mm, no, I’m sorry I haven’t seen her, Elvis.” she hummed, part of Joan wanted to ask was he okay after what happened this morning, but she knew better to leave it alone.

“Will ya tell Joe to keep an eye out and ask the guys if they’ve seen her?” he asked.

“Sure, of course, Elvis.” she said before they hung up.

Now he was more worried than ever if the girls hadn't seen her. She never been to Vegas so there was no way she could’ve possibly known anyone. He knew she was a grown woman and that she liked to remind him that she was a big girl. But she was a young girl and not that big at all and he was thinking of all the terrible things that could’ve happened to her going out into that wild city. Not only did he have to deal with the nerves of the show, now he had to be worried that something happened to the girl he loved. He went back to his room and freshed himself up before he had to go down and get changed and ready for the show. Jerry, Charlie and Sonny were coming up to meet Elvis to take him down to his dressing room backstage. When he heard the door open he assumed it was Rebecca and he came running out only to see it was the guys and he sighed.

“Have y’all seen Rebecca? She’s been gone for hours..” he asked. But they all shook their heads assuming she was up in the suite with him. After this morning they didn’t even want to bring her up to him.

“Maybe she made some friends and she’s out with them? I’m sure she’ll turn up, EP.” Sonny said.

Elvis sighed and shrugged. “Maybe so.” he mumbled. He couldn’t help but feel worried when he knew he shouldn’t feel anything after how she hurt him this morning, but it was not in his nature to be uncaring especially toward someone he cared so much for no matter what. He couldn’t continue to dwell too much on it because he had a show to get ready for and all he could do was hope she’d turn up and still come to the show despite everything. Elvis grabbed his glasses and headed out of the suite with the guys down to the showroom where they were getting things ready for the show and he went backstage to get his jumpsuit on.

Meanwhile Rebecca was finally heading back to the hotel she figured she’d still show up to the show tonight even if Elvis may not want her to be there. After watching him perform last night she wouldn’t miss it. Once she got back the place was filling up fast with Elvis fans dying to see him and she made her way through the crowd to the elevator so she could drop off her bags and freshen up a little. She got into the elevator and hoped that Elvis was gone already she wasn’t ready to run into him. She couldn’t take seeing him so angry and hurt again. She got onto the floor of his suite and walked down the hall getting her key out and unlocking the door and heading inside. Everything was still as it was when she left and Elvis’ room door was open and no sign of him and she felt relieved as she headed into her room to set her things down to quickly freshen up for the show. She didn’t have long so she did her best to hurry, she wasn’t even sure if she still had a seat. She just assumed Elvis would want her there. As she came out of the bathroom the phone began to ring in the other room and she went to answer it. The hotel front desk said there was a call on the other line for Candy. She knew it was probably her manager back in New York she had left the hotel she was staying at with him in case there were jobs out in Vegas. Something she had failed to mention to Elvis that she had agreed to do even though he said he’d pay her for work she’d miss. But taking his money didn’t feel right.

“Yes, that’s me. I’ll take the call.” Rebecca said.

As the call was put through a man’s voice on the other line came through the phone.

“Candy? That you?” her manager said.

“Yes, it’s me. I have to be somewhere so I don’t have long. What’s up?” She replied.

“I just wanted to let you know there’s a skin flick being filmed out there and they’re looking for a girl. I recommended you to the director. If you want it, it’s yours.” he said.

“Oh, uh.. Can I think about it and get back to you?” she responded, with everything going on with Elvis she didn’t feel right about going to work and having some guy fuck her. What once made her feel liberated now slightly repulsed her because of her feelings for Elvis.

“Um, sure, but you’ve got until tomorrow or they’ll find someone else, Candy.” he said.

“Okay, thank you.” she said before hanging up. She glanced at the time and grabbed her purse quickly headed out of the suite where she bumped right into Jerry.

“Rebecca! Thank goodness. Elvis has been worried sick about you.” Jerry said relieved to see her.

“H-He has? Why?” she asked, trying to hide the small smile that formed on her lips.

“Yeah, he wanted me to come and see if you had come back. He had no idea where you were.” Jerry said as the two of them walked down the hall to the elevator.

“Oh, I just went out to explore Vegas and to think. I didn’t mean to worry him. Please tell him I’m alright.” she smiled. Jerry nodded as they both got onto the elevator and took it downstairs and she followed Jerry to the showroom where he took her to the same seat as last night and he headed back to Elvis. When he got backstage he saw Elvis almost ready to take the stage and Jerry went over to him with a smile.

“I found your girl, E. She’s out in the showroom in her seat.” Jerry said

Elvis smiled when he heard Rebecca was okay and that she was at the show tonight. He felt so much better that he almost forgot what happened this morning. He was more than ready to take the stage now. Rebecca looked around to see that there were more people than the night before and as the lights went dim and the music began to play she smiled when she saw Elvis take the stage and the women in the crowd screaming their heads off as she stayed seated in her chair, staring at the godlike figure on the stage. Elvis spotted her in the crowd and the two of them locked eyes and for a moment it seemed like things may be okay between them. Rebecca gave him a little wave and he winked at her before he began the show.

When the first show came to an end Rebecca didn’t think she’d be able to stay up long enough for the midnight show. It had been a long day and she was tired. Jerry came back over to get her because Elvis wanted to see her.

“I better not. Tell him I loved the show and I’ll be upstairs in the suite.” she said softly with a smile.

“Did you want me to walk you up?” Jerry asked.

“I keep telling you guys, I’m a big girl. But thank you.” Rebecca laughed as she headed out of the showroom and upstairs to Elvis’ suite. She knew he’d be a bit more upset with her since she didn’t go backstage, but she needed to talk with him and she wanted to do so in private and she didn’t want to do it while he was still amped up from his show and preparing for the next. As she waited for him she showered and changed into her pajamas, an oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties. She also cleaned up the mess from that morning and fixed the living room up and she plopped down on the couch and turned the television on trying to do anything to keep her from being so anxious about what she was going to tell him. She began to bite nervously her fingernails as her heart was racing waiting for him for those few hours that passed.

When Elvis finished his second show he was a little disappointed that Rebecca hadn’t come back after the first show, but he understood things weren’t okay between them still. So, instead of lingering backstage to meet some of the people who came to his show he wanted to get upstairs to Rebecca and a few of the guys walked him up and when he came in Rebecca was laying on the couch nearly falling asleep until she heard the door closed and she sat right up swallowing harshly when she seen Elvis. Much like last night he had a towel around him and he was covered in sweat and his hair a mess. She chewed on her bottom lip as she stared at him and he stared back.

“Hi..” she whispered.

“Hey.” Elvis responded.

Things felt so off between them that they acted as if they didn’t know how to talk to each other now. But she knew she had to be the one to start the conversation. She needed to apologize to him.

“Can we talk, Elvis?” she asked as she turned the television off.

“I’d like that, honey.” he muttered.

“Did you want to shower first? I can wait.” she said softly.

“Nah, I’m okay.” he said as he made his way over to the couch and sat beside her.

Rebecca turned to face him and she took a deep breath as she stared at him trying to find the words to say to him.

“I-I’m really sorry about this morning, Elvis. I never meant to hurt you. The last thing I’d want to do is ever hurt you.” she said as she placed a hand over his.

“Rebecca.. You don’t have-” but she stopped him before he could get another word out.

“Please.. Just let me say this. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since our fight. I spoke to Abby because I was so upset and she knocked a bit of sense into me.” she exhaled sharply as she took both his hands into hers and Elvis raised an eyebrow as he turned his body to face her more. “I lied to you this morning about what I said about loving you.. I said it to hurt you. But I didn’t mean it. I was just scared and honestly I’m still scared. But it’s not helping you or me to continue to deny what I feel for you.” she said softly as her nervousness took over that her hands began to tremble in his.

“And what is it that you feel for me?” he asked curiously, grasping her delicate hands in his big strong hands.

“I..” she paused as she took a deep breath as she squeezed his hands in hers and she looked away as she spoke. “I care about you deeply. I was so scared of that feeling because of what followed the more we spent time together. But.. I-I love you, Elvis. I’m in love with you. I’ve never felt so deeply for someone but there’s just something special about you that just drives me crazy. But I’m scared of this feeling.” she looked up to see him smiling ear to ear.

“You love me? Really?” he asked as he scooted closer toward her, he didn’t need to hear anymore. He had already forgiven her and just wanted to kiss her and as he went to lean in she leaned back and placed one of her hands over his mouth.

“Elvis, please, did you hear what I said? Loving you scares me...” she whispered.

“Why? I’m not goin’ to hurt you. I wouldn’t. I just want to take care of you.” he muttered as he kissed her hands.

“I-I know, well I think.. But do you really love me or love me because of what I do? Because I’ve had men in the past say they love me when in reality they just loved what I did for work and how cool it made them seem dating a pornstar. But I’m not that person.. That's Candy.” she confessed.

Elvis slipped his hands out of hers and he cupped her face in his hands and lifted her head to look at him and he shook his head at her.

“Now you listen to me, honey, I know exactly how you feel not knowin’ if someone loves you for you or who you are or what ya do. But I’m tellin’ ya, I love you for you. I love Rebecca. I don’t like that you do porn.. Honestly, I hope you quit.” he said softly as he stared into those green eyes that drove him wild.

She reached up to place her hands over his and she smiled as she got teary eyed.

“You mean that, Elvis? Because I love you for you. The soft and sweet man I’ve gotten to know over the past few months. I didn’t like you or your music to begin with so that should tell you my honest feelings.” she teased, laughing softly. Elvis had joined in on her laughter and he pressed his forehead against hers as they continued to laugh softly.

“I can always count on ya to be honest, baby.” he chuckled and a small silence fell between them as their eyes met for a brief moment and their noses brushed against one another as their lips grazed upon each other’s before they embraced in a deep kiss. The softness of his lips consumed her and made her feel completely drunk that she wanted more. His hands ran along her body and brought a chill down her spine and she lifted herself up and pressed him back against the couch as she climbed into his lap. The two of them continued to kiss passionately and his hands running along her thighs and tugging her shirt up just a little and she whimpered softly against his lips as her hands ran along his chest and his round belly. Elvis pulled back from the kiss for a moment and tried to catch his breath.

“I ain’t showered yet, baby.” he mumbled.

“I don’t care..” she whispered before crashing her lips against his again. They wanted each other more than ever. Their hands squeezing and groping at each other. He made her feel aroused in ways she never had before. He reached beneath her shirt and his hands ran along her panties and he slowly shoved his hand down them and she whimpered against his lips as she felt his fingertips graze along her pubic hair and his fingers slipping between her pussy lips that caused shockwaves throughout her body. She reached down frantically unzipping his jumpsuit. As things were getting hot and heavy between them the phone began to ring. Elvis pulled away looking toward his room. She grabbed his face to make him look at her. “Ignore it, Elvis..” she said breathlessly, kissing along his neck as one of her hands slipped into his jumpsuit. He listened to her running his finger along her clit and getting aroused feeling how wet she was becoming for him and she moaned softly as her hips moved against his hand. The phone stopped ringing for a moment and Rebecca was relieved until it began to ring continuously.

Elvis pulled away and shook his head.

“Mm, sorry baby, it could be important.. It’s probably the damn Colonel.” he sighed. Rebecca rolled her eyes and climbed off his lap fixing herself and hoping he wouldn’t be long and Elvis got up fixing his jumpsuit as he went into his room to answer the phone. He was met with a surprise at the end of the line. It was not the Colonel calling. It was Linda and she was furious. Elvis had been making excuses as to why Linda couldn’t come out to Vegas and when she tried to get some answers from the guys and a few of their wives, no one could give her an answer. She figured out there had to be another girl. As she continued to yell at him he quickly shut his door which caught Rebecca’s attention and she raised an eyebrow.

“Ah hell, would ya calm down? I told you in two weeks you can come out.” he whispered on the phone.

“You’re hiding something from me, Elvis! I just know it! Why can’t I come out there now? It’s another girl, isn’t it?” she yelled on the other end.

“I told you, Linda.. I’m just too busy right now. Would ya stop actin’ like a naggin’ ass wife!” he whispered angrily.

The two of them continued to go back and forth over the phone with Linda getting more upset especially because Elvis hadn’t denied there being another girl. Rebecca began to listen in on his conversation and she furrowed her brow because it did not sound like a conversation with his manager. She got up from the couch and quietly made her way to the door and pressed her ear up against it and she listened to him talking. She could hear someone yelling loudly on the other line. It sounded like a woman and she was hysterical. The way Elvis spoke to her sounded like this was someone he was close to. He was calling her honey and baby, which began to make Rebecca upset. Who was this person? Did he have a girlfriend? When she heard him say there was no else and he loved her that’s when Rebecca’s heart dropped and it felt like a lump was in her throat. She slowly backed away from the door and she didn’t know if she wanted to cry or kill him. She stood at the door silently waiting for him to end his phone call and she could feel her blood boiling as tears filled her eyes. When he finally hung up he let out a soft sigh and the moment he opened the door and saw Rebecca standing there with tears streaming down her face he knew he was in trouble. His heart began to race and it looked like he had seen a ghost.

“You fucking asshole!” Rebecca screamed and began to hit him.

“Rebecca, honey, I-I can explain!” he said frantically trying to get her to stop as he grabbed at her hands.

“Explain what!? That you’ve had someone else this entire time!” she pulled back from him and she walked away from him and he tried to stop her by grabbing her arm.

“Take your fucking hands off of me!!!” she screamed in his face.

“Baby, please, j-just lemme explain!” he yelled.

She ran off to her room and slammed the door closed and locked it, crying softly. She felt like such an idiot.

Elvis pounded his fist against the door.

“Baby, please let me in so that I can explain..” he pleaded.

“I feel like such a damn fool! I knew it. I knew I should’ve trusted my gut when it came to falling in love with you. You’re a liar and a damn cheat! I don’t want anything to do with you, Elvis!” she yelled through her tears.

“Rebecca.. Y-You don’t understand, honey. That relationship is over. It's been over for a while. I haven’t been happy with her in a long time and I’ve been tryin’ to leave her. The moment I was fallin’ in love with you, I’ve been tryin’ to end it. You gotta believe me, honey.” he pleaded.

“How long?” she muttered.

“What?” he answered.

“How long have you been with her, Elvis?” she asked, sniffling softly.

He sighed as his forehead rested against the door.

“Three years..” he mumbled.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Rebecca blurted out as she began to cry even more.

“But it’s over! It’s done!” Elvis yelled.

“It didn’t sound fucking over! I heard you tell her there was no one else and you loved her. So I guess I mean nothing to you?!” she yelled.

“N-No.. Honey.. I.. It’s.. It’s complicated.” he stuttered.

“Save it, Elvis. I don’t want to hear anymore of your bullshit.” she snapped, wiping her tears. She grabbed a pair of pants and slipped them on along with her shoes and then she began to gather up her blanket and a pillow and she unlocked and opened the door to see Elvis standing right there and she pushed past him angrily toward the front door.

“Where are you going?” he asked as he followed behind her.

“Away from you, asshole.” she sneered.

She quickly headed out the door slamming it in his face before he could approach and he quickly opened it to see her hurrying down the hallway. She decided to go to Jerry and his fiance’s room, hoping they would let her sleep there until she could get her own room away from Elvis. He watched her disappear down the hall and he sighed and went back into the suite, slamming the door closed. “Fuck!” he yelled. He was so angry that he began to knock and throw things over in a fit of rage before he tired himself out and was nearly out of breath, plopped down onto the couch and put his face in his hands. He didn’t know what he was going to do now.

Rebecca made her way to Jerry’s room and knocked on the door and Sandy, his fiance, was surprised to see Rebecca but she knew something was wrong because she was in tears.

“I’m sorry to be bothering you.. But Elvis and I got into another fight and I just needed somewhere to sleep for the night. If that’s okay?” she said, wiping the tears from her face.

“Oh my gosh, of course. Come inside.” Sandy said sweetly, helping her inside.

“Thank you.” Rebecca smiled.

Jerry came out of the bedroom wondering what was going on and then he saw Rebecca was crying and he furrowed his brow. “Is everything alright? What happened?” he asked.

“She and Elvis got into another fight..” Sandy said, looking at Jerry and without saying much, asking him to give them some privacy. He nodded and headed back into the bedroom.

“I know it’s none of my business, but did you want to talk about what happened?” Sandy asked.

“Did you all know?” Rebecca asked without hesitation.

“Know what, honey?” she said softly.

“About Elvis’ girlfriend..” she murmured.

Sandy clenched her jaw and cleared her throat a bit. She didn’t want to lie because they all knew Linda of course. But they were so used to Elvis and the different women he’d bring around they didn’t think much about the relationship with him and Rebecca. But Sandy was soon realizing things were becoming more serious with him and Rebecca from the way breakfast went that morning.

“Y-Yes.. We did. I’m sorry.. We–” Rebecca put up her hand to interrupt her.

“It’s fine. It was his responsibility to tell me about her. Not his friends. What’s her name?” she asked.

“Um.. Linda. Linda Thompson.” Sandy answered.

Rebecca nodded and didn’t say a word as she made herself comfortable on the couch.

“There’s another bedroom if you’d rather sleep there.” Sandy said.

“I’m fine on the couch. Thank you.” Rebecca said softly as she laid on the couch. Sandy nodded and began to head back to the bedroom with Jerry who was hoping she’d fill him in on what’s going on. Rebecca laid there for a moment staring up at the ceiling and then she sat up and grabbed the phone, dialing her manager's number. She knew it was late in New York but he kept late hours working in the porn industry so she was bound to catch him awake. She was so upset with Elvis that just to spite him and piss him off she was going to take that job her manager offered. When he finally picked up she didn’t give him a chance to say hello.

“Harvey, it’s Candy. I’ll take that job.” she said softly and she quickly grabbed a pen and paper to jot down the details of where they were filming and then she hung up and slipped the paper into pants pocket before she laid back down. She didn’t know how she was going to get any sleep. She felt heartbroken that Elvis had been lying to her this entire time and betrayed her trust. She just felt so stupid. She turned over and the more she thought about it the more it brought on the tears that she cried herself to sleep.

Elvis, all alone in his suite, had finally calmed down and had decided to sleep on the couch in case Rebecca had come back in the middle of the night. But as time went on he soon realized she wasn’t coming back that night. He was so scared of losing her and just wanted to explain everything to her in hopes of understanding his situation. The longer he waited up for her he eventually ended up falling asleep in the most uncomfortable position on the couch and waking up anytime he heard a noise hoping it was her.

The Next Morning

Rebecca had gotten up early before Sandy and Jerry were awake and she quietly gathered her things and headed out of their room and back up to Elvis’ suite. She had to be at the set early so they could get her fitted for her outfit and to do her makeup. So, she needed to shower and get dressed and she was hoping that lying, cheating bastard as she began to call him in her head was in his room asleep. When she got back to the suite she snuck inside to see him asleep on the couch still in his jumpsuit and she rolled her eyes at him. Just seeing him made her blood boil. She hurried to her room and shut the door which woke Elvis up and he could hear her shuffling around in there and then the shower running. He quickly sat up and stared at her bedroom door. He was hoping she calmed down a little so they could talk this out. He decided just to wait for her to come out because he didn’t want to anger her more than she probably already was with him.

When she finished showering she brushed teeth and her hair and got dressed, sporting a pair of denim bell bottoms and a crop top. She then packed her little bag with a few things she always brought when she’d be making a film and once she made sure she had everything she headed out the room to see Elvis awake and staring at her and she rolled her eyes making a b-line for the door. Elvis jumped up and ran over to her.

“Leave me alone, Elvis.” she hissed.

“Where are ya going?” he asked.

“Work.” she answered, not looking at him.

“W-Work? Where??” he questioned.

She sighed and turned to face him with her hands on her hips.

“Yes, work. I’m a pornstar, remember? My manager set me up with a job. They were looking for a girl and I took it.” she said.

“Don’t fuckin’ do this, Rebecca. I told ya, I didn’t want you doin’ this shit no more. No girl of mine–” Rebecca scoffed, cutting him off.

“I am not your girl, Elvis! You made that abundantly clear last night! We don’t always get what we want.” she yelled.

Elvis tried to grab her to stop her from opening the door and she snatched her arm away from him.

“Touch me again and I’ll kill you.” she snapped, swinging the door open and slamming it shut as she stepped out and headed to her destination.

Elvis was furious and the last thing he was going to do was allow her to make that film. He went and grabbed the phone calling up Joe and practically yelling for him to get the guys up and get their asses to his room. When he hung up he went to his bedroom to shower and get dressed. The guys were already waiting for him in the living room of the suite, confused as to what was going on and what was wrong with him. As soon as Elvis emerged from his bedroom he was dressed in a two tone black and white colored suit with belt sewn into the suit jacket and his glasses on. The guys were more confused than ever because Elvis had made no plans to go anywhere today.

“Everything alright, EP?” Sonny asked.

“What was the uh.. the damn name of that guy who invited us to that porn set months ago where we met Rebecca?” Elvis asked.

The guys looked at one another, none of them remembering what his name was but knew exactly who he was talking about.

“Wasn’t it like Harvey or somethin’?” Charlie chimed in.

“Do y’all still have that bastard’s number?” Elvis asked.

Sonny, who didn’t want to admit he kept in touch because he liked a few of the young girls Harvey managed and sometimes had a thing with them.

“I may have it somewhere, EP. Why? What’s going on?” he asked.

“He sent Rebecca to do some damn film and I need to know where the hell she is. Just get the goddamn number!” Elvis yelled impatiently. Sonny nodded and headed out and down to his room to look in his little black book and he tore the page out and headed back up to the suite nearly out of breath.

“Call ‘em up and ask that fucker where he sent Rebecca. But don’t use her real name. She never uses her real name with ‘em.” Elvis said. Sonny didn’t hesitate to call Harvey up, especially seeing Elvis’ mood today. As soon as he called Sonny and Harvey chatted like they were old pals with the amount of times Sonny had spoken to him for his benefits. He began to tell him about Elvis and if he remembered the girl who left with him and Harvey knew right away that it was Candy/Rebecca he was talking about. Sonny lied saying Elvis wanted to know where she was filming because he wanted to see her again and since Harvey liked Elvis and the guys he happily gave them the address. Sonny hung up as soon as they got it. All of the guys headed out to Elvis’ Cadillac where Charlie hopped in the front seat to drive and Jerry sat up in the passenger seat. While Elvis and the rest of the guys sat in the back. Elvis was silent the whole ride, his leg bouncing and shaking as he stared out the window. He was pissed and upset and felt Rebecca was doing this because of last night. He understood she was hurt and upset. But she didn’t have to be spiteful. He was determined to get his girl back at any cost.

Rebecca had arrived not too long ago and she was getting fitted in her costume for the film. She was wearing just a black and red corset with black stockings and a pair of heels. She finished getting her hair and makeup done and was waiting for her scene where she was supposed to be seducing the guy and then letting him fuck her. She had to admit she didn’t actually want to do this, she felt disgusted by her job now because of her feelings for Elvis and this just feeling wrong to her. But she was angry and hurt. She wanted to hurt him the way he hurt her and this was the way because she knew he hated her doing this.

Once they arrived at some house Elvis and the guys got out of the car. Charlie and Joe stayed outside while the rest of the men barged in with Elvis who walked in on Rebecca in the middle of her scene of seducing the guy. He clenched his jaw staring at her. The director had yelled cut the moment Elvis walked in and disrupted the scene, but he had not recognized Elvis at first when he began to yell. Rebecca sighed wondering what was going on until she looked up and saw Elvis standing there staring at her with that angry glare of his. She felt like a little girl who got caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing. She stood up and backed away from the guy as Elvis continued to stare at her.

“What the hell, man!? Can’t you see we’re shooting something!” he yelled as he walked toward Elvis, Sonny and Red moving in front of Elvis to stop the guy from coming any closer and he finally realized who it was. “Holy shit.. You’re Elvis Presley!” he beamed. Elvis completely ignored him as the guys kept the director away as Elvis made his way over to Rebecca who was scared of what he was going to do.

“E-Elvis.. How did you find me?” she said nervously.

But Elvis didn’t say a word as he grabbed her by the forearm and began to drag her back with him to one of the bedrooms so they could talk. Rebecca began to squirm and try to fight against his strong hold over her. But he was much stronger than her and had a tight grip on her. “Elvis, let me go!” she yelled. The director, confused as to what was going on, tried to stop Elvis but the guys grabbed him to stop him. The entire cast and crew were terrified and confused.

When Elvis and Rebecca got to a room he pushed her inside and shut the door closed, locking it. As soon as Elvis turned to face her she slapped him right across the face. She backed up, afraid of what he might do. But he rubbed a hand over his face and smirked a bit, not saying a word. Then he grabbed her and slammed her up against the wall and he grabbed her face in his right hand and his face got close to hers and she began to squirm and whimper, reaching up to slap him and claw at him.

“What the hell did I tell ya, Rebecca? No girl of mine is goin’ to be doing this shit! Why do you insist on hurtin’ me, baby? Huh?” he growled.

“Oh fuck you, Elvis! You’re the one who’s been lying this whole time!” she mumbled out as he gripped her face harder. He slammed his other hand against the wall beside her head.

“I told you, she means nothing to me. I love you!” he yelled.

“Bullshit! You don’t love me!” she yelled back and began to hit him again, knocking his glasses off and now he grabbed her arms and slammed them against the wall, pinning them down to make her stop. She swallowed harshly as the two of them breathed heavily fuming in anger at one another as their bodies pressed against one another. She hated that part of her was turned on by this seeing how jealous and pissed he was when he walked in seeing her straddling another man. The possessiveness in him was so animalistic that it aroused her.

“I do love you! Why can’t you fuckin’ understand that! I love you and only you, Rebecca!” he shouted in her face with his jaw clenched.

“Then fucking prove it.” she whispered to him, challenging him.

They locked eyes and both filled with so much anger and lust for one another that the only way he knew how to prove his love to her in that moment was what he’d been wanting to do for a long time. There was so much tension in the air between them that it was almost hard to fight against their urges. Rebecca’s gaze fell from his eyes and to his lips and she kissed him hard and deep and distracted him enough that his grip on her arms loosened and she pulled them away and pushed him roughly that he nearly fell back and then he pushed her back and their pushing one another ended up with Elvis grabbing her, turned her around so her back was facing him and pushing her up against the vanity that was in the room and she fell against it knocking things off. When she tried to turn around to face him he stopped her and grabbed her by the throat, his hand grasping around it tight and she let out a soft gasp, becoming even more turned on and he leaned in to whisper into her ear. “The only man who’s gonna be fuckin’ you like a little whore is me.. Do you understand?” he mumbled as he pressed himself up against her ass.

She captured her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded her head slowly as she stared at him through the mirror of the vanity.

“Yes, daddy.” she whispered to him as her hands gripped onto the vanity, she could feel her pussy already dripping wet for him just by how forceful he was being with her and the feeling of his already erect cock pressed firmly against her ass.

He smirked at her calling him daddy. He ran his hands along the corset that hugged around her curves and he wrapped his hands around the back of it and he tightened his grip around the cheap fabric and he tore it off of her and she let out a soft gasp as it fell from her body and his big strong hands cupped her breasts, squeezing and groping them tight as he kissed a few places along her neck slowly. She began to grind her ass slowly against his cock as she continued to watch him from the mirror and she could feel him growing and throbbing for her, a low groan escaping him. She continued to move her ass along the front of his crotch and up toward his belly and she let out a soft giggle when she heard him groan again. He grabbed her arms and forced them behind her back and he slammed her upper body against the cold wood of the vanity causing more items to fall and she hissed softly from how rough he was being.

“You fucking asshole.” she mumbled under her breath as her face was pressed up against the vanity.

Her words only caused him to smirk because he knew she was enjoying every minute of this and held her arms back with one hand as he used the other to trace over the fabric of her stockings and her ass, giving it a hard slap and she let out a soft squeal because his rings made the slap hurt even more. “I don’t want to hear another goddamn word from you.” he said angrily through gritted teeth. He gave her ass another hard slap which made her body jolt and then his fingertips traced against her stockings before he made a hole in them and ripped them open and his hand coming in contact with her bare ass she squirmed beneath him. He squeezed and ran his hand down her ass and slipped two of his fingers in between to spread her thighs apart and he raised an eyebrow when he felt her thighs slicked in her own juices.

“You filthy little thing.. You’re wet for me already, huh?” he smirked.

She whimpered softly wanting to close her thighs around his hand as it ran up and down in between them playing in her juices before he slid his hand up and his fingers traced along her pubic hair and he licked his lips as his rough fingers landed against her clit and she let out a soft moan. Her thighs slightly closed around his hand and she could feel the coldness of his fingers brush against her thighs as he began to painfully rub slow circles against her lip as he continued to keep her arms pinned against her back with his other hand. She begins to moan louder the more his fingers pressed firmly against her sensitive swollen clit and his hand becoming covered in her sweet nectar. The feeling of his fingers only gave her more pleasure and caused her to become so aroused that she was dripping wet around his hand and slowly beginning to grind against it.

“Goddamn, baby, this little tight cunt of yours is soaking for me.. Such a good girl..” he mumbled.

He slid his middle finger down and traced small circles around her entrance teasing his finger in and out of her tight hole and her thighs trembled around him. “Gonna stretch this little hole of yours to my liking and make you remember who you belong to..” he whispered.

She nodded her head in response as she continued to moan out softly, desperate for him to shove his cock inside of her. He pulled his hand away that was covered in her slick and he admired it and loved the mess she made already, wanting her to make an even bigger mess on his cock. After staring at his hand for another moment he took it and smeared it all over her face and she gasped, desperately licking and tasting herself. He was so turned on he couldn’t fight the urge to fuck her any longer and he let go of her arms to start to unbutton his pants and while he had his guard down, she lifted herself off the vanity, turned to face him and she grabbed a hold of his pants, shoving her hand down them once he hand them undone and she wrapped her hand tight around his cock, squeezing him in her grasp and he grunted loudly. She got close to his face, smirking. “Did you think I was going to let you be in complete control?” she whispered, before she crashed her lips against his and now he could taste her pussy on his lips as they kissed and he pressed up against her as she still had a hold on his cock. She giggled seeing the needy look in his eye as her fingers grazed along the length of his cock.

She let him go and lifted herself up onto the vanity and brought her legs up, and firmly pressed her heels against the rough wood as she spread her legs apart in front of him, her throbbing, dripping pussy on full display for him and he licked his lips staring at the beautiful sight of her little pussy that was begging to be fucked. She ran a hand down between her thighs and traced her index and middle finger along her pussy and spread her soaking lips apart for him to get a better view of her. His jaw was nearly on the floor as his eyes never left her pussy as he slowly began to remove other parts of his clothing, revealing his upper body to her, she bit her lip as she stared at him at his hairy chest and his round belly, she thought he was the sexiest man she had ever seen. “Well? What are you waiting for? Fuck me.” she cooed.

He quickly tugged his pants down and as he moved in between her legs she lifted her right leg up and pressed the sole of heel against his bare chest and it pierced his skin, causing him to groan. “Don’t you dare cum inside of me..” she hummed demandingly. He nodded at her words, willing to do whatever she asked like a little puppy the way he wanted her. She smiled and set her foot back down on the table, her legs spread wide apart for him still as he moved in between them and one hand clung onto her thigh and his other hand reaching down to grab his cock and he teased the head of his cock between her soaking lips and the feeling of her pubic hair tickled against his cock as he groaned softly feeling her velvety folds brush against him. Rebecca tilted her head back against the mirror and let out a soft moan. After his little teasing he slowly guided his cock inside of her and he grunted and groaned lowly as he entered her and he stretched her pussy open inch by inch with his cock until he completely bottomed out inside of her. She gasped loudly and shut her eyes tight as she moaned, grabbing onto his big arms.

“Ah, fuck, baby, you’re so tight..” he mumbled under his breath as he began to thrust his hips roughly inside of her and she whimpered and cried out his name as he forced her pussy to open up around him and take him deep, leaving her no choice to adjust to the size of him.

“Oh, daddy.. You f-feel so good inside of me..” she said breathless.

Her hands squeezed around his arms so tight that her nails began to dig into his skin as his hands grabbed her waist and tugged her forward as he began to slam his hips into her, fucking her roughly that the vanity beneath them began to shake and wobble, the mirror slamming up against the wall to the tune of his thrusts, her legs wrapping around him and her heels digging into his sides as she panted heavily and her eyes rolled back as she moaned and whimpered, nearly screaming his name with how his cock hit inside of her, so deep and hard that she could feel him hitting against her cervix and stretching her open that his cock fit like a glove inside of her. He leaned down to kiss along her neck and he was breathing heavily and grunting loudly with each thrust as sweat gathered at his brow and he kissed down to her breasts, his soft lips taking one of her nipples into his mouth and she kept one hand on his arm still and brought the other up to tangle into his hair as their bodies slammed against one another, moaning and breathing heavily in sync with each other. It was so loud that everyone could hear what the two of them were doing. He kissed back up to her neck until he reached her lips and they kissed sloppily and passionately as he lifted her up and began to slam his cock harder inside her, determined to make her remember just who she and her pussy belonged to. “Oh god.. Elvis.. Fuck.. Just like that!” she screamed, pulling at his dark hair. The faster he fucked her the louder the squelching sounds of her pussy became, she was soaking for him that it was making a mess of them.

The both of them had so much pent up sexual tension that this little game they were playing of power dynamics and the anger they felt toward one another, but also the love was building up into something more and ready to explode at any minute as they continued to fuck each other. The louder she moaned the louder his groans and grunts became, their bodies growing weaker and numb to the pleasure they were giving each other as their orgasms built within in approaching the surface quickly as they continued on until they couldn’t hold on any longer. Rebecca was screaming his name as her orgasm hit like a train that her eyes rolled all the way back and her body went limp as she came all over his cock. He couldn’t hold himself back the moment she did and remembering what she said he grabbed his cock trying to slip it out of her stretched cunt as quick as possible and his warm cum shooting out onto her stomach in thick ropes all over and she watched with delight until he finished and collapsed against her. She slipped her arms around him as the two of them tried to catch their breath as their bodies laid trembling against one another. Her soft whimpers escaped her lips as she buried her face into his hair.

“Oh, fuck.. Fuck.. That was amazing..” she mumbled.

All Elvis could do was nod at her words before he pulled himself off her and she sat up, her legs feeling wobbly and her pussy sore from his rough pounding that she slowly climbed off the vanity and she grabbed a few tissues to wipe his cum off her stomach and she kicked off her heels and slipped out of what was left of her stockings. Elvis watched her as he got himself dressed and it was silent between the two of them now with some of the tension gone, but very much present between them. She glanced over to see him staring at her with a smirk.

“Don’t go getting crazy ideas. I’m still mad at you.” she said softly as she continued to clean herself.

“Are you? Because it sure didn’t seem that way, baby.” he said with a chuckle.

“It was just sex. That’s it.” she mumbled.

“No, it wasn’t. We just made love and you know that it was more than just sex.” he replied.

Elvis furrowed his brow as he watched her shake her head and once he had gotten his clothes back on he walked over to her and pulled her naked body against him, kissing her deep and she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him back. She loved him. She wouldn’t be able to stop loving him. But she was still hurt that he lied to her. She pulled back from him, shaking her head as she looked up at him.

“Elvis.. This doesn’t change anything. You lied to me. You broke any trust I had for you. It’s going to take more than us fucking to fix that.” she said softly.

Elvis sighed and he knew it was a long shot to hope that the two of them making love would fix everything. He knew he was wrong and that he should’ve been honest with her from the start. “I’m sorry, baby. I-I didn’t mean to.. I want to fix this..” he said.

A small smile formed on her lips, she nodded slowly.

“I know you are. I know you want to fix this. But it’s going to take time..” she said as she pulled away from him and grabbed her bag of clothes. “I’ll meet you out there.” she hummed as she headed into the bathroom to shower and get dressed. Elvis let out another sigh as he fixed himself up before heading back out to see everyone staring at him knowing what had just went on in that room. Elvis approached the director that Sonny and Red still had a grip on.

“Let ‘em go, fellas.” Elvis said, the two men listening and letting the guy go. Elvis got close to him as he slipped his glasses back on. “Find yourself another girl because she quits.” he muttered before pushing past him and toward the front door where he stood to wait for Rebecca. She finished up in the shower and quickly got dressed and grabbed the rest of her things and hurried out of the room, seeing everyone staring at her and she just continued to walk, not making eye contact until she reached Elvis who took her hand and the both of them walked out together with the guys following behind.

International Hotel

When they got back to the hotel Elvis and Rebecca headed to his suite alone as the guys went their separate ways. It was a quiet walk to his suite as they continued to hold each other’s hand and shared glances with one another. Elvis got his key out as they approached the door and opened it and much to both of their surprise there was a woman sitting on the couch who stood up the moment they walked in. It was Linda. She had flown from Memphis to Vegas because she had enough of Elvis’ lies and secrets and she didn’t trust a word he had said over the phone. She decided to surprise him with a visit just to catch him in his lies and his new girl. Rebecca furrowed her brow wondering who the strange woman was in his suite.

“L-Linda..” Elvis mumbled.

Rebecca pulled her hand away from him and looked at him and then Linda and then back at him.

“This is Linda?” she said softly.

“And you must be his new shiny toy.” Linda said snidely.

Rebecca didn’t like her already as she narrowed her eyes at the woman and now she slipped her arm around Elvis feeling possessive over him.

“Rebecca is my name.” she said sharply.

“Right.. Do you mind? I’d like to speak with Elvis alone.” Linda said, looking her up and down.

“Actually, I do fucking mind. Whatever you have to say to him you can say it in front of me.” Rebecca snapped as she tightened her grasp around Elvis who was too stunned to even speak and now both women were basically fighting over him.

Linda scoffed and shook her head. Elvis finally cleared his throat and looked over at Rebecca.

“It’s okay, baby. Just give us a minute, please?” he asked.

Rebecca rolled her eyes and nodded at his words as she stared over at Linda out of the corner of her eye as she leaned up to press several soft kisses to Elvis’ cheek just to piss her off before she walked off to his bedroom on purpose, closing the door. Linda rolled her eyes in disgust as she turned her attention back to Elvis. As usual Rebecca was listening in on their conversation.

“So, that’s her? She’s pretty. Super young.” she remarked.

Elvis sighed.

“Don’t give me that shit. What are you doin’ here!?” he shouted.

“I wanted to see her for myself. Now I have and well I hope she’s the one this time.” she said softly. She had no tears left to shed for him after dealing with his infidelity for the past three years.

“She may be the one. She makes me happy and she challenges me, she’s honest with me. Something no one else seems to be around here.” he replied.

Linda laughed, nodding.

“Right.. Sure..” she grabbed her purse and began to head toward the door, grabbing a hold of the doorknob and turning back around toward him for a moment. “I just hope she realizes you only like the beginning of things.” she muttered as her last parting words before she slipped out that door and out of his life forever.

Elvis sighed and shook his head at whatever hell that meant as he stared at the door for a moment and felt a wave of relief that Linda had ended things between them so he wouldn’t have to. He turned back around to see Rebecca standing in the doorway of his room, looking up at him with those beautiful green eyes, she heard everything and the last thing Linda said really stuck with her. She stared at Elvis as he walked over to her, slipping his arms around her and pulling her into his embrace. She didn’t put her arms around him, she didn’t even move.

“It’s over, baby. It’s officially over. I promise ya” he said softly as he looked down at her. She was staring up at him and she shook her head and pulled away.

“Elvis, I-I think I’m going to go back to New York tomorrow..” she whispered.

Elvis furrowed his brow, confused.

“What? Why?” he asked.

“I need space from you. I need time to think.. I told you no matter what happens us having sex the two of you finally being over doesn’t change the fact that you still lied to me. What did she mean by you only like the beginning of things? How can I trust you not to do to me what you did to her??” she said as she backed away from him.

“Ah, baby, don’t listen to her.. She just said that to stir shit up. I would never do that to you. I love you. I only want to be with you. Please don’t go..”

“I don’t believe you, Elvis. I don’t trust you. I need space... I can’t stay here. So, I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I’m sorry. I want things to work between us because I love you too, but if you mean what you say and want to gain my trust back it’s going to take more than you just saying it or fucking me.” she said as she began to walk away.

Elvis grabbed her hand, pleading for her not to go.

“Please.. I-I need you, baby.” he said softly as his eyes welled up with tears. Rebecca shook her head and now tears were streaming down her face.

“Then when you finish your engagement here, you come show me how much you need me and love me. You know where I live..” she said before pulling out of his grasp and going to her bedroom, shutting the door and locking it to keep him out as she gathered her things and began to pack. She could hear Elvis out there pleading for her to not go but she ignored him.

She felt horrible leaving him but she needed to. She needed space to think away from him and she’d hope time away from her would help him think about what he really wanted. She couldn’t get what Linda said out of her head. She knew she probably did say that knowing she was listening just to cause another problem between her and Elvis. But either way, her mind was made up and first thing in the morning she was catching a taxi to the airport and heading back home.

He only likes the beginning of things…

Tagging: @18lkpeters @peaceloveelvis @iloveelvis @elvispresleygf @wanderingelvis @richardslady121 @dkayfixates @doll-elvis @kendralavon7 @honey6578 @marie73ep @wanderlustingtomboy @powerofelvis @lindszeppelin @idontwanttoputanything @amydarcimarie @returntopresley @literally-just-elvis-fics

#elvis presley #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #elvis x oc #elvis smut #elvis fanfic #elvis fluff #elvis angst #elvis fanfiction #elvis fandom #pretty baby series

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yourneighborhoodporg · 9 months

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The Guardian

Chapter 9: Ancient Implements

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: Angst, fluff, banter, medical scans/lingo, reference to injuries, exhausted Reader, descriptions of violence, anxious/concerned Obi :(

Summary: Following a rainy conversation, Obi-Wan accompanies you to the Jedi Infirmary in hopes of finding some answers about your condition from Healer Rig Nema. Consequentially, in the face of new discoveries and futile coping mechanisms, the Master Jedi is driven to finally intervene. Through an unconventional strategy, nonetheless.

Song Inspo: Broad-Shouldered Beasts — Mumford & Sons

Words: 9.4k

A/n: Hope everyone celebrating enjoyed New Year’s! Some references to events/thoughts in Star Wars: Wild Space here. No context needed, just some short moments not covered in the Prequels/TCW. So, this chapter very much sets us up for the absolute DOOZY that is the next one, so best to buckle up LOL. My bad about the delay in this one. I had to teach myself brain chemistry 🤪 (sorry to any med students reading in advance). Made up for it in length 💀

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Series Masterlist

The earth laughs in flowers — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Obi-Wan reclined, allowing his back to press against the inner glass of one of the Infirmary’s privacy dividers as he folded his arms snugly across his chest.

Internally, the Master Jedi was hoping to disguise the slight unease that crawled up and down his spine for deep concentration, furrowing his brows as if he’d entered a profound state of thought or meditation.

But no matter how carefully he postured impressions of levelheadedness in the face of your paled features, Obi-Wan couldn’t ignore the low thrum of concern that occasionally tugged on his sternum. He couldn’t help but feel the air around him thicken from newly discovering a weeks-long affliction impacting The Guardian.

Impacting you.

A being, that if ever unwell, could place a critical prophecy in jeopardy.

A being, on account of those responsibilities, he promised to protect.

It was to the point where his steadily swelling desire for some answers had languished passing minutes into what seemed like hours. All while he waited across from you for your examination to be completed.

However, once Kenobi glanced at the chronometer’s green glow on the opposite side of the observation room, he soon realized the actuality of how much time had elapsed. Obi-Wan couldn’t believe it’d only been twenty minutes since he escorted you to the Infirmary. Twenty minutes since you were both welcomed with open arms by one of the Temple’s prime physicians, Master Rig Nema, at the facility’s main entrance.

As a Healer known not to waste time, she immediately submitted an inquiry into why you were visiting. But it wasn’t until Master Nema took in your slightly sluggish form, that the doctor was quick to usher you both into a private cubicle, barely enabling the bearded Jedi to finish his symptomologicol report as he was whisked away alongside you.

Clearly, the presence of painful headaches pervading for weeks on end had stoked the Master Healer’s intrigue just as equally as it steamed Obi-Wan’s smoldering wariness. A fascination so zealous, that she pointed to and instructed the infirmary’s only two available medical droids to carry out a number of cranial scans as you all walked down the hall. Their wheeling bodies materializing by your side once the three of you entered one of the far observation rooms. Whirling and weaving to gather that first set of images before you even had the chance to sit down.

Master Kenobi couldn’t argue with the efficiency with which Master Nema accomplished her work. Nearly all of the ordered scans had been completed in a relatively short time.

But the urgency with which the doctor questioned you, while a whirlwind of droids circled your head like a pack of strike-Vultures, still had the repercussion of stoking Kenobi’s apprehension to the point of slowing down time itself. The longer Master Nema professionally fired query after query while dissonantly beeping droids traveled to and fro, the more Obi-Wan’s mind drifted to the idea that something really was wrong. And his anticipation of that theory swelled enough to knock each minute beyond his reach. As if shore waves towed sequential seconds farther out to sea.

Of course, as a broader consequence, Master Kenobi could already feel the delicate kindling of a faraway guilt emerge in his gut. Especially once he considered his delay in approaching you.

Had he spoken to you sooner, would the doctor have found her concerns to be less pressing? Would the results you were both still awaiting have proven to be more favorable?

But these thoughts only had the effect of stimulating a dull ache throughout Kenobi’s already tensed back, tightening around his spine like sentient vines as your short conversation with Master Nema reached its end.

Even as the Healer excused herself, his constant mix of disquiet and curiosity about your condition drove his eyes to follow the doctor, all the way up until her marbled head crest disappeared around the corner framing the narrowed doorway. As if her vanishing figure held the answers he sought.

Still, your mysterious affliction was not the only item that’d stoked an air of unease in the resting Jedi. Returning to the inside of the Infirmary’s borders had yanked back memories of his last dalliance with its muted decor and antiseptic aroma. The wounds he’d earned from the Battle of Geonosis were tended to by a similar set of droids in the chamber parallel to this one. A sliver of glass scarcely separated him from recollections of bruised ribs, broken bones, and an exceptionally disorienting concussion.

And, transparently, with reminders of discomfort came booming echoes of the harrowing days that bookended that medically invasive afternoon.

Memories he didn’t want to explore again.

Admittedly, in addition to masking this compounding unease, Master Kenobi had other motivations for his steadily declining posture, amplified as he leaned further back into the sturdy, sleek dividers that bordered you both. It happened to also be the only way Master Kenobi could offer you any semblance of space in such a cramped compartment. One that was so obviously designed for a single patient and no visitors.

You were tiredly perched on the infirmary bed’s side, legs dangling loosely. All while the last stubby medical droid completed a few final, even waves around your head with its hand’s built-in scanner. Yet, despite being planted in the opposite corner from the Master Jedi, the two of you still stood mere feet away from each other. A fact that was further highlighted by that same, pesky droid bumbling into Obi-Wan’s resting elbow for the fourth time as it maneuvered between you and the short wall of green luminescent data screens installed to his right.

Indisputably, it would’ve been easier to vacate these tight quarters to solve such a matter.

But Obi-Wan decided against it. He was still reticent to leave you completely alone.

Both of you knew Master Nema would be returning soon. The Healer had assured you that she’d only be gone down the hall for a few minutes to scan your results from the datapad in her private office. Yet, despite this mutual understanding, Obi-Wan immediately clocked from your shifting eyes toward the empty doorway that her brief withdrawal had fueled second thoughts about your decision to come here. This, in combination with the subtly doubting expression that stuck to your face the whole journey here, had easily convinced the Jedi Master that stepping out would’ve electrified that arch as a beacon of escape, driving you to follow those faintly perceptible impulses.

So, hence this observation, Master Kenobi decided it best to instead act as a tenuous deterrent, marking his territory between you and that sweet exit with an additional cross of his legs as he settled further into the glass wall.

The quiet beeps of scanning droids and ding of pinging monitors faded into a duller tone as Obi-Wan released his mind to wander through the events that led up to this point. It was true, that the Master Jedi had long been pondering what exactly was plaguing you in the time since you’d arrived at the Temple.

The bearded man was quite observant, first catching signs of sleeplessness during those few days on the shuttle back. And in those instances, the occasional flicker of despondency that cursorily contorted your features at the mention of his former Master’s name.

But those rare moments had never succeeded in dulling that reassuring spirit and attuned presence he’d become so accustomed to these past few weeks. It’d never challenged the composed strength that saturated your being so absolutely that it leaked from every inch of exposed skin like water from a wringing towel.

At least, not until the last week or so.

It was around then, Obi-Wan soon realized, that something had changed. And while he didn’t quite understand what exactly was occurring, he did know that some undisclosed element was uniformly snatching away threads of light from those two bright, silver eyes of yours. A physical feature that he’d recently registered as having one unintended effect:

They refreshed his senses from a mere glance alone.

Master Kenobi couldn’t deny to himself that after only a month or so of war, he’d become exhausted by not only the newly amplified duties placed upon him, but also by their militaristic, warlike nature. Missions of peace and humanitarianism had quickly devolved into defending free territories from heavily encroaching enemy lines.

The Council meetings that followed only stoked more of the same. Strategizing troop movements, assigning interplanetary campaigns, addressing casualties…

Had Obi-Wan had the ability to expose his former Padawan self to this future, he knew that young Kenobi would’ve never believed that the Jedi could ever be so entrenched in the politics and military responsibilities of a conflict at this scale.

But when he caught a flash of silver reflection from down a hall? At the corner of the refractory closest to his quarters? Near the edge of his vision in the Temple Gardens?

That weight suddenly felt just a little bit lighter.

The General wasn’t entirely sure why he became so overwhelmed with this sensation just at the mere sight of you. A sudden ease, a calmness that permeated his being in a way he’d never been able to summon on the battlefield.

Though he did have a few guesses.

You had always carried an air of serene confidence, of compassionate power, that struck at Obi-Wan’s core. Yes, these were all attributes expected of a Jedi. But your being didn’t simply carry these characteristics, Kenobi maintained. It was as if you had the artistry to will these qualities into existence from deep within your being. Like the vivid, lapping flames that encompass the entire mass of any radiant star.

And, to him, you wielded such strengths with absolute grace.

It was one such instance that Obi-Wan was still trying to wrap his head around. During your first duel with Anakin, the inclusion of one, brief conversation about his emotionally-charged behavior seemed to have knocked more sense into his impatient former Padawan than Kenobi had ever personally precipitated.

When he later inquired about the dialogue, The General readily respected your decision to keep the specifics of the exchange private. But it was when you relayed to him the vague takeaway of the power of compassion that Obi-Wan realized the reality of your statement.

That had he been in your same boots, applying that same dogma, Master Kenobi still wouldn’t have had much success.

The blue-eyed Jedi had always tried to be considerate with his former Padawan. He was hard on him at times, sure. And the two of them certainly had their many rows. But in the end, Obi-Wan always aimed to keep Anakin’s past in perspective.

He’d tried to protect him by teaching him of the importance of letting attachments go. Dispelling his fiery emotions, his ruffled history, and the people that were now a part of his past.

He tried to be a friend to him. A gentle reminder here. A reference to the Code’s importance in the life of any Jedi there. Yet still, the results were never so transformative.

And it was hard for the Master Jedi not to blame himself for that.

Though that load was slightly lifted by the hope your presence imbued.

Truly, Kenobi was thankful that one of Qui-Gon’s previous Padawans had emerged to partially aid him in fulfilling that deathbed promise he’d made to his former Master so long ago. Even if it was during a time following Anakin’s Knighthood.

Training the boy encompassed not only combat, but also the mastery of softer elements pertaining to becoming a wise Jedi capable of realizing The Chosen One prophecy. It was those latter skills that Obi-Wan never found complete success in communicating as Master to Padawan, having himself become an instructor the very same day he’d completed the Knighthood trials.

Yet, it seemed that addressing those weaknesses in his teachings came to you with relative ease. Something that made him wonder how things may have differed on the day of Geonosis had he discovered your existence earlier.

It was his inability to properly drill the importance of patience in the young boy that later led to the loss of his arm. Obi-Wan was convinced deep down, despite Anakin’s self-punishments, that in the end, it was his own fault. Kenobi’s fault for not equaling your effectiveness in addressing these matters.

Kenobi’s fault for the loss of Anakin’s arm.

Had he found you sooner, could it have all been avoided? Would you have made a connection with little Ani and trained him out of that nearly fatal mistake before he made it?

And what of the days that followed? When Anakin was recovering from that calamitous wound in this very Infirmary.

Obi-Wan vividly recalled the striking images from when he first visited his former Padawan after the battle’s devastation. He could never forget the complete agony that radiated off Anakin’s gnarled face as he stirred from a nightmare. He could never shut out from his mind those words that chestnut-haired Jedi screamed at him, red-veined eyes pulsing as he let slip his mother’s passing.

“And it’s all your fault!”

His heart clenched at the memory.

He didn’t know the details of her death, but he understood vaguely the visions which plagued Anakin in the leading days. Specters that he didn’t realize pointed to a surmounting danger.

And Anakin blamed him for it.

Would you have figured it out faster than him?

If so, then maybe, things could’ve been different.

The possibilities dashed by the delay in rescuing you from that desolate ice planet only lengthened the Jedi Master’s perceptible regret. Possibilities that would’ve become attainable through some mastery of connecting with Anakin’s being. Some familiarity so remarkable that it must’ve been willed by the prophetic elements of the Force itself long ago, Obi-Wan convinced himself.

A conclusion that left him to wonder why you were having an oddly similar effect on him.

Perhaps it was due to your separation from the war. Your lack of experience on a real battlefield freed your being from the weights chained to every Jedi who’d experienced its turmoil. Because even when news of ongoing skirmishes trickled in through visiting clones— tempering moods and gradually effervescing the bubbling anxieties among him, Anakin, and Ahsoka— you still appeared to ignite the surrounding air with sparks of anti-gravity the moment you entered the room.

When any one of them expressed concerns about the front, your soothing smile, teasing jabs, and intelligent reassurances had soon acclimatized the bearded Jedi to associate those hopeful eyes with your comforting existence, and the relaxation it imbued in him.

It was probably also why now, much like the last week in a half, Obi-Wan felt particularly disconcerted.

Without fail, he would be the first to catch on to those subtle dips in your lips in the refractory. The uncomfortable quirk of your brow in the Archives. Sometimes, even, an unexpected twitch of the nose while strolling down a Temple walkway. Always to be followed by a quiet farewell and your quick yet controlled retreat, leaving him without the opportunity to inquire about your condition without necessitating chase.

So it goes without saying that the Master Jedi was particularly relieved when Anakin approached him. Of course, not by the story of your incident in the Starfighter. But by the fact that he finally had a valid excuse to seek you out and investigate this ongoing issue. A trouble that he’d originally surmised as related to Qui-Gon before he was proven to be severely wrong.

Your reality was quite more bothersome.

Honestly, had you not been a force-sensitive being, Obi-Wan would’ve been less concerned. Headaches can be quite normal for the average individual.

But for a Jedi?

It had far more serious possibilities.

Pain in the mind could’ve pointed to an imbalance in the Force. And considering your true identity, and Qui-Gon and the Council’s reasons for hiding it, Kenobi had reason to take note.

Still though, you‘d been through a lot these past few weeks. The death of a Master. Leaving a home you’d known all your life only to be thrust into a far busier and more complicated environment. Finally facing down a dangerous legacy with galactic implications. It was an existence far more demanding than was expected of the average Jedi. Perhaps these migraines were simply a reflection of that fact, he considered.

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan wanted to make sure. He was no specialist in the medicinal aspects of the Force nor in how its energies physically manifested. And that meant the only other option was to consult someone with more expertise. Someone he equivocally trusted to make the right determination.

Qui-Gon was right. Kenobi did think about the future a little bit too much.

“Obi-Wan, if you keep staring at me like I’m about to drop dead, I’m gonna kick you out.”

Master Kenobi’s vision instantly refocused, lips parting slightly as he realized his gaze had accidentally wandered and stuck to your subtly dulled, silver orbs.

Immediately, he used his back to push off the screen, summoning a hand to check his beard’s placement in hopes of hiding the chilly embarrassment that ever so slightly crimsoned his cheeks. No matter, he doubled down, approaching you in a few steps with broad shoulders declaring self-assurance.

“You’re not getting rid of me quite that easily,” he casually quipped, dropping his arm loosely to the side once certain that brief flush drained from his ears.

At the same time, the pine-green medical droid stationed before you embraced this sudden split in the previously long-held silence as his cue. The machine wheeled around Obi-Wan, this time rudely knocking into the back of his leg in its scurry toward the screens spread out on the far wall. All the while releasing a flurry of affirmative beeps to signal the examination’s completion.

Of course, Obi-Wan’s eyes were careful not to reflect his mild agitation at the droid’s lack of spatial awareness while his gaze followed it.

Continuing to observe the green machine, Kenobi spoke, paying careful attention to its arm’s mechanical tendrils that extended into the wall’s receiver.

“I was taking the time to consider your situation.”

“What situation?” You emphasized rhetorically.

Obi-Wan’s features sobered in an effort to remind you of the potential gravity of your symptoms.

But you brushed aside his hardened brows, instead bouncing your gaze toward the uncoordinated droid as it finished retracting its arm from the console. Your vision remained locked, following its triangular head while the machine spun toward the room’s doorway, clipping the frame with an unfortunate clunk and shocked beep before reorienting itself to swerve down the parallel hall.

Even then, you extended the interval, allowing its buzzing gears and occasional clicks to grow more distant before continuing with a lowered voice.

“I went from living my life on an ice planet to now spending weeks in a much warmer climate. I’m probably not used to this environment yet. That’s all.”

The unconvinced man spied your eyes soften.

“I’d rather not be wasting medical resources for something that’s probably nothing. Especially in the middle of a war.”

Master Kenobi’s mouth twitched into a frown. “It’s not a waste if it provides the answers you’re looking for.”

“I’d agree if I believed the answers were medical,” you argued.

“This is a Jedi Infirmary,” he spotlighted. “Master Nema will be considering all phenomena that may affect a force-sensitive. Even an imbalance.”

Your brows fluttered inquisitively at this. “Is that what you think is happening? Some sort of imbalance?”

He hummed, hand reaching for his chin as his eyes drifted in thought. “I’m not quite sure. The mind of a Jedi is a complicated thing. The way in which it realizes our connection to the Force is often unpredictable. But headaches resulting from an imbalance are not unheard of,” he exhaled. “Although, I don’t feel anything strange in the space in or around you.”

Obi-Wan cocked his head, stretching out to the swirling energies around you both to confirm his observations from the last few weeks before meeting a familiar wall in the connecting strands.

“But I must admit, I do have trouble sensing your mind within the Force. So, I may be wrong.”

The nearly imperceptible sigh that escaped your nostrils drew his searching orbs back toward your lowered gaze in an instant.

“However,” he readily subsisted. “These are no ordinary scans. If these headaches are related to an imbalance, Master Nema would be the first Healer I trust to make that determination.”

But the one-sided stillness continued. The General spied your eyelids fold shut while you breathed deeply into the emptiness, kindling your despondency in such a way that it intensified Kenobi’s own discomfort. Mostly because he was growing more and more convinced that his reassurances were clearly making things worse.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear—“

“That’s ok, Obi-Wan,” you smiled at him tiredly, legs stretching as your gaze drifted toward your knees. “I heard something similar from Master Windu. If these scans don’t reveal anything, I’ll just return to those meditation sessions he suggested. They’ll have to reveal something eventually, medical or otherwise.”

Once again, Obi-Wan crossed his arms, a silent protest to the security you placed in that impractical solution. Assuming he’d properly understood your version of events from that earlier, rainy conversation, meditation had only made your migraines more unbearable.

A notion that certainly disturbed the seasoned Jedi.

Throughout his life, Master Kenobi took great comfort in connecting with the everlasting serenity that was the Force. Even as a youngling, when his imagination wandered less and less into daydreaming realms, he’d cherished these moments of silent outreach as a way to center his mind and hone his presence in the Galaxy.

But for you, in the last few days, it had only caused you pain. For you, these headaches actualized a blockade, sequestering your being from one of the most sacred acts known to any Jedi. Isolating you from peace.

And he refused to allow that to continue

Obi-Wan was dragged from his thoughts as your straightened legs limply fell back against the bedside, drawing his blue eyes toward spots of perspiration on your now stretching neck and sinking eyelids.

Seeing you like this, pushing yourself to the physical brink as a last-ditch attempt to tame these incidents, heaved upon him a draining atmosphere similar to those that weighed him down more heavily in these months of war.

Sensations he was still trying to put a name to.

But Obi-Wan didn’t need a title to know that his being was firm in at least one judgment— he didn’t want this affliction to torment you any longer.

Those words…

Name. Title.

It drudged up an abrupt thought in the ruminating Jedi. It was something you’d said. Or more, he soon realized, something Mace Windu had instructed you to do.

“Remind me,” he began with a punch, drawing your sparkling eyes toward his as he unstitched his shoulders. “Master Windu advised you to give a name to these incidents, yes?”

You nodded, eyes wandering toward the doorway as Obi-Wan continued steadfastly in his speech

“Silvey,” he called softly, drawing your attention back to him.

“What was the name—?”

“I’ve had a chance to review your scans, Silvey.”

Master Nema spoke resonantly as she materialized, carrying a polished bearing while pivoting through the open-aired doorway and toward your seated figure. Her cerulean-tinted eyelids and lips stood in stark contrast against lime-green shoulders, a distinction emphasized by bowed eyes that held affixed to the blue glow of the datapad in her dominant hand.

Regardless of the thickly sliced air, the Healer continued to evenly scroll through the device, having unknowingly cut off the previous exchange before you’d even had the chance to absorb Kenobi’s inquiry.

“And I don’t see anything of note. Just some heightened activity here.”

Obi-Wan watched as the gray-robbed Halaisi finally raised her gaze, extending the datapad toward your now curious form.

Taking the device, you scanned it quickly, eyes squinting while you mulled over some image stamped at the screen’s center beyond Kenobi’s view. Though you only mulled over the datapad for a few seconds before glancing up at the Healer candidly, a somewhat sheepish expression attempting to push through your unbending forehead.

“I’m not very familiar with the anatomy of the brain,” you admitted.

Shimming to your side without bumping into the bedside, Master Nema pointed a long, viridescent finger at the datapad. “This brighter, center portion here consists of your amygdala and hippocampus. They are responsible for several functions related to memories and emotional processing.”

She glanced at you.

“May I ask you to describe the weeks leading up to these migraines? Primarily, I’d like to know which locations you’ve visited and the activities you were engaged in.”

Obi-Wan sighed internally, biting his tongue. Even before Master Nema had finished her inquiry, the bearded Jedi was swift to realize a new issue— that your inevitable yet necessary response may undermine the accuracy of the Healer’s determinations.

And for an instant, Kenobi nearly imagined that you’d read his mind.

Not a second later, you subtly glimpsed at The General’s now very watchful stare, only to confirm with determined eyes that you knew what you needed to do.

And that he had no chance of changing your mind.

Because Master Yoda and Master Windu advised that such truths must remain hidden. As revealing your real identity could amplify the very real threat to your life. So, without their permission, your predetermined fabrication needed to become the truth to Master Nema as well.

“I’ve recently returned from a years-long mission for the Council,” you dispassionately parroted. “However, I’m unable to discuss it in detail.”

Master Nema nodded unflinchingly, having become long accustomed to the importance of discretion in most Jedi matters.

“I understand,” she relayed, retrieving the datapad from your outstretched hand. “Can you share if you’ve had any occurrences similar to these during your assignment?”

Unblinkingly, you confidently answered.

“I did not.”

“Good,” she expressed, satisfied. “Further details will not be needed.”

Lowering her arm to rest the datapad by her side, the doctor angled herself more fully toward both you and Obi-Wan as she delivered her diagnosis.

“From these symptoms and affected regions, and with no other indications of illness on your scans, I understand that you are experiencing a side effect of prolonged stress.”

Obi-Wan covertly peered at your reaction, curiously taking in the unexpected neutrality that characterized your countenance.

“Stress?” You repeated, asking for confirmation.

“Yes,” Master Nema established, unbothered by your unconvinced manner as she turned away and strolled toward the gentle green glow of busily flashing screens plastered by Obi-Wan’s side.

“It’s quite common,” she maintained, her exposed upper back greeting you both as the displays’ ceaseless stream of looping data commandeered her sight.

“But I must admit,” she noted. “I’ve only seen these cases more recently, since the war began.”

Cunningly rearranging several charts of what Kenobi saw as an assortment of disparate numbers and calculations, the Jedi Healer soon centered on a corner window before beginning the long trial of analyses inputs, gathered from the occasional glance toward her purposefully angled datapad as she expounded.

“The Jedi are involved in prolonged duties of war that they were never meant for. And without time for meditation, it has caused many to internalize these experiences. This is why the symptoms of these strains usually begin after returning to the Temple. When their bodies are given a chance to rest and connect with the Force, the effects of prolonged stress are then allowed space to materialize.”

“Materialize as headaches?” Obi-Wan questioned from his once quiet perch.

Master Nema broke away from the left screen mid-data entry, angling to face the bearded Jedi with golden-rimmed eyes and a forthright manner.

“This is the first time I’ve heard of headaches as a symptom,” she admitted. “But from the general history described, the causes appear to be the same. Also, the hippocampus and amygdala are known to respond to stress-inducing environments. And headaches are not a far stretch from the primary indicators. Lack of focus, exhaustion…”

Master Nema stretched to eye your figure thoughtfully.

“I believe you’re showing the latter.”

At that remark, Kenobi immediately noticed a chink in your impartiality as a flake of disappointment slipped past the corners of gently pursed lips.

His forehead crinkled at the trickle of confusion dripping down his hairline. Obi-Wan thought you’d be relieved to hear that this affliction was not as dire as it had the potential to be.

It appeared that the Jedi Healer must’ve noticed the same shift in expression as she offered you a diplomatic smile. Those that are often reserved by doctors for their more unfamiliar patients.

“Rest, Silvey. Meditate. Do something to take your mind off of the stresses of your mission. It’s over now.”

And, in response, you offered a simple nod.

“Thank you, Master,” you relayed sincerely, offering a flash of amicability. “I’ll try to do that.”

You pushed off the medical bed with sudden haste, toes landing on the floor gingerly as your legs briskly steered through and out the doorway. The skilled maneuverings easily drew Obi-Wan’s attention, compelling him to detect a precise shift in your most noticeable features as you passed by.

How your eyes submerged into a subtle, gray glaze, and how your jaw inappreciably tightened.

It was enough to provoke him to launch a pursuit of his own, hoping to make up for the past few weeks of mistakes in not doing exactly this. All with the intent to close the distance with your quickly departing being after exchanging a parting nod with Master Nema.

“Silvey,” he projected, pacing toward your weaving form beyond the last few cubicles that pointed to the Infirmary’s exit like an arrow.

He caught your gate slacken as you entered the connecting Temple walkway, casually pivoting toward his quick steps while you waited for him to catch up. Still, you didn’t give Kenobi a chance to finish his approach before beginning to speak unapologetically, offering a straight face and a hand on each hip as you made a particularly bold statement

“It’s not stress.”

Had he not been present in the observation room, Master Kenobi would’ve unequivocally believed your statement right then and there. From three, fearless words alone. Spoken with such sheer simplicity that it was as if you were reminding him that Coruscant’s sky was, in fact, blue.

Still, disregarding the momentary speculation your confidence imbued, Obi-Wan held onto the reality of your situation. Or, more accurately, the relative soundness of Master Nema’s diagnosis while his pace effortlessly eased by your side.

“You don’t know that,” he contested as you pivoted, carrying on your trek down the pillared and lilac-carpeted walkway while his legs seamlessly moved in sync with yours. “The history you provided may not be accurate, but that doesn’t mean stress isn’t the source. Master Nema said the scans support her diagnosis.”

“It’s not stress,” you reflexively repeated, the same, unshakable conviction as pulsing as before that locked Kenobi’s gaze onto you while you continued.

“Stress is natural. It’s our being’s way of telling us something. Reminding us to take a break. To take time for ourselves. But whatever this is,” you gesticulated into the air, hand twirling as if it was conjuring the very affliction from the surrounding pillars’ essence. “It isn’t natural. It’s different. Deep inside me, but not. Disconnected—“

From a lightning flash of sliver, Obi-Wan was temporarily taken aback as he was forced to absorb your stilled yet rich perseverance. Bleeding through eyes that whipped over to challenge his stare, drawing you both to a sudden halt.

While emphasizing each consonant, you calmly declared once more your obstinate verdict.

“It is not stress.”

For a few seconds, the Master Jedi searched your face, keeping an eye out for any inkling of a quiver in your fortitude. Any sign of withheld doubts. Any indication that there was something you weren’t comfortable sharing.

But quite immediately, The General realized that even if he’d stood there for days, all would’ve remained the same. There were no hints that you could’ve been convinced otherwise. No way for him to persuade you that stress affected the body just as mysteriously as the Force.

So, he acquiesced.

“Alright,” he acknowledged, a gentleness enveloping his tone. “For now, let’s agree that it may not be stress. You’ve been managing them with the same approaches Master Nema suggested, no?”

“I have…” you skeptically concurred. “But it’s not sustainable.”

The sound of your exhale roped Obi-Wan’s attention as you reached up to rest a palm on your eye. Your cheeks sagged in resignation, subduing your voice while you spoke.

“I guess I’ll just try to get some rest.”

Obi-Wan’s brows creased in an unpleasant recognition.

Those disjointed eyes? The carefully constructed monotonousness you’ve held since making your escape from the Infirmary?

Unfortunately, Obi-Wan was quickly becoming a master at pinpointing the signs.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” He delicately inquired.

You shook your head incredulously, a small smile inching out of the corner of your mouth as you peeked at him.

“Is it that obvious?”

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure exactly why he did it. Why his arms reached for your shoulders, grasping their cold frames with a pleasant squeeze. As if some foreign entity now controlled and commanded both limbs with a set of knotted strings. A mind other than his own that believed the only way you’d hear his words was through physical and visual touch alone.

For a split second, at the base of his subconscious, with eyes locked onto yours, Kenobi speculated that perhaps it was a piece of Qui-Gon left behind that commandeered his actions. You’d mentioned to Obi-Wan that your former Master believed your stubbornness to be a considerable strength, yet a ramifying weakness. Something the bearded Jedi certainly recognized as he spent more time with you in the past few weeks.

Knowing the dearly departed, your at times cloaked stubbornness on such affairs plausibly necessitated Master Quinn to rely on similar measures to finally break through.

So why not do the same?

“Let me help you. You’re not on Hoth anymore. There are beings that can assist you here,” he frustratingly exhaled. “You told me yourself that rest has done nothing. I can provide a suitable distraction, if you’d allow me.”

Kenobi’s careful gaze caught the minute disorientation that blinked from reactive brows. You clasped your hands and, for the first time since he’d known you, an air of timidness encircled your ears.

“I appreciate the offer,” you began conscientiously, displaying a thankful smile “But that wouldn’t be fair to you. I know that there are probably a number of Council tasks you’ve sacrificed to check on me, which I appreciate. But I shouldn’t keep you away from those responsibilities any longer.”

“You and I both know that the Council’s activities have laxed since the incident with the communications system,” he securely reminded you as the bud of a perfect excuse blossomed into the puff of levity that captured his voice.

“Besides, this would be more of an exchange than a sacrifice.”

“Oh?” You uttered.

Your demure smile stretched into an infectious smirk, which only amplified Obi-Wan’s gaiety through brightened cheeks.

“You seem to have forgotten your promise,” he bantered.

Your head tilted.

“My promise?”

“The Muntuur?”

The bottom half of your face instantly transformed into a broad grin.

“Ah, yes,” you exaggerated teasingly. “How could I’ve forgotten a promise as dire as that.”

“Then you agree?” He quickly inquired. “You instruct me on how to use the device, and you can be confident that I will ask enough questions to keep your mind occupied.”

“I believe you may be on the better side of this deal,” you poked.

Kenobi watched as your eyes wafted toward the far-reaching Temple ceilings in thought. And in pondering his request amidst the absurdity of this exchange, Obi-Wan was fortunate enough to just barely catch your attempt to stifle a laugh.

“Alright,” you feigned defeat, silver orbs flickering as you glanced at him.

“I agree.”

—

Kenobi drifted deeper into his settled posture, legs folded in angled balance as he extended his deliverance into the swirling energies of the Force. Straightening his back, his focused mind welcomed the omnipresent stream to encircle him in the empty training dojo, never to be hindered by its milky white walls nor wood-bordered panels.

Wherever he was, The General sensed this to be true. That the Force would always be with him.

Rationally, Obi-Wan knew that any second, you’d be strolling through those two gray sliding doors to join him, Muntuur in hand after retrieving it from your quarters per his request. Yet still, Kenobi found that even in the most cursory of moments, meditation proved to always be a feasible endeavor. Despite sometimes having only a few seconds to fully connect with his surroundings, Obi-Wan found that stretching into the constant flow would still center his mind in a manner that could last for hours. Perhaps days, if he’d found particular focus.

But he hadn’t always had the aptitude to enter those cavernous reflective states so rapidly. Especially as a Padawan, when his mind took a little bit more tugging to wrench it away from concerns of the future so to focus on the here and now. It was a realm he always had to strive toward. A speedy existence he’d been further compelled to master had he any hope of engaging in such comforts during the ceaseless activities of war.

A lifestyle he knew he’d be returning to soon.

From the final review of the Temple’s security system this morning, it was ultimately discovered that there had, in fact, been a leak in the communications system. Specifically, an exposed transceiver code. And, of course, of the many technical specialists and machines tasked with rooting out the issue, Artoo, Anakin’s prized blue-and-white droid, was the one to discover it.

Due to Count Dooku’s formerly wide access to sensitive Temple data, Master Yoda had decided to alter all related security measures so to ensure that the Separatists were not given a tactical advantage after The Battle of Geonosis. That included identifying and deactivating the extensive array of transceiver codes that Dooku was aware of.

But, unfortunately, it seemed that one was missed. A single line of digits once only privy to Council transmissions during Dooku’s short stint as a member, long before Obi-Wan’s time. An easy mistake that proved to have significant consequences, setting back the Republic’s stance by forcing the Jedi off the battlefield as clone battalions temporarily took command.

And just after they’d finally gotten one step ahead of the Separatists following the Republic victory on Christophsis, no less.

Either way, The General understood that he’d soon see the damage himself once given his first return assignment. A mission that would include you, considering Master Yoda’s decision to separate you from Anakin on the battlefield for the time being.

But there wasn’t time for such considerations any longer. No more musings about what the future held. Not in a time when he should’ve been blending his mind with the rippling stream.

A time cut short.

The whoosh of an automatic door releasing tickled his ears, followed by a cool gust of creeping air that further drew Obi-Wan out of his concentrative state. A quick wrench akin to similar interruptions by Commander Cody during those off-world campaigns in the months prior.

His eyelids peeled open at the new, subtle presence before him. And in the moments that followed, it didn’t take long for Kenobi to take note of your more upbeat figure, revitalized by the prospect of the coming distraction in the form of teaching a lesson on ancient implements, Obi-Wan hoped. A divertissement to be governed by The Muntuur whose glint caught the bearded Jedi’s eye.

“Excellent,” Master Kenobi expressed, raking his gaze over the half-circle metal headpiece that hung loosely from your fingertips while he untangled, placing a hand on his knee to help him stand. “Now tell me how it works.”

Obi-Wan spotted a quirk in your brows as you steadily approached, a token of entertainment at his eagerness, no doubt.

You hummed flippantly. “It would be easier to just show you, you know.”

And Master Kenobi wholeheartedly agreed, but that wasn’t why he was doing this. He couldn’t deny that he’d been ardently waiting since you told him about The Muntuur to put the apparatus to the test. But, right now, he had more important matters to address than his budding curiosity.

To focus your mind on easier topics. On the intricacies of a long-lost Jedi device. And on the concentration required to explain it to him.

And that meant putting some skin in the game.

“I’d much rather hear it from your own voice,” he contended, nonchalant gaze somewhat lowering to meet yours as your shorter, slightly amused figure stalled within arms reach of his chest.

And with your quick-beat response, it was clear to Obi-Wan that you’d in some measure caught on to his ruse.

“Well, how could I deny such a charmed request?”

A tickled smile crawled across Kenobi’s features at your faintly sarcastic tone. An expression that persisted fervently despite noticing a sincerity wash away your brief masquerade.

“I must warn you, Obi-Wan. What I’ve learned about this device was through significant trial and error. Not even Qui-Gon really understood it.”

Still, the Jedi Master’s encouraging regard never quivered. A long-held desire to grasp and digest your knowledge radiated from his being. Strong enough, it seemed, to persuade you to continue as you held up The Muntuur for easy viewing.

“If you have the imagination, and the specifications, you can program it to simulate virtually anything. Any drill or duel you can imagine. Any environment. Any foe. As long as you know the strengths, behaviors, and appearances involved in your desired program, then it can be created by inputting them here.”

Obi-Wan adjusted as you turned your back toward him to display the device’s rear. Specifically, the small, anciently designed input panel whose miniature screen emitted an amber gleam between your secured fingers.

He craned his neck farther over your shoulder, the fragrance of star jasmines wafting from your loose hair and into his nostrils as he strived to take a closer look.

“My holobooks often provided enough information for me to recreate their contents for training purposes,” you continued to explain. “Honestly, I’ve used The Muntuur so much that I still have a number of designations memorized. Including…”

Master Kenobi scrutinized the tiny display as your fluttering fingers tapped away, making selections and adjusting parameters so expeditiously that it was as if an invisible memory bank of numbers and terms were stored in your wrist. You readied the device so expertly, in fact, that the brief trailing off of your voice was smoothly picked up following the short, concentrative pinch.

“…this little guy.”

He watched while your thumb danced to the small, circular black button resting in the panel’s corner, pressing and holding it down until a startling beep cheered from the device. An unexpected noise that swiveled your figure back toward the Master Jedi, arm outstretched in offering as a barely hampered enthusiasm elevated your features.

However, with an undetermined inspection narrowing on the instrument, Obi-Wan suddenly felt hesitant to accept.

He often found comfort in understanding the more nuanced aspects of unknown technologies before diving right in, unlike his former Padawan. Consequently, The Master Jedi had honestly been anticipating a more detailed explanation. But from the rapid fire of input codes and language specifications that manifested from your exceptional proficiency, Obi-Wan now realized that, even with your guidance, such in-depth adroitness was sure to take weeks if not months.

Time he, unfortunately, did not have.

“Don’t worry,” you brightly assured, arm still extended with the gleaming metal headpiece. “The safety protocols are engaged. It won’t bite.”

Kenobi’s stare snapped toward yours as he cautiously took the device.

“Safety protocols?” He inquired, turning over the cold metal in his palms as he observed its ornate craftsmanship. “I’ve never heard of a simulation creating a safety issue.”

“It’s more than a simulation,” you elucidated, jutting a thumb toward his grasp. “Notice how there’s no visor?”

Obi-Wan flipped the device, realizing the accuracy of your statement as his befuddled eyes met its rather barren fore.

“It functions by triggering the electrical impulses in your neurons. Because it creates the simulation with your mind, certain programs need to be active to prevent the more subconscious parts of your brain from confusing artificial injuries with reality.”

“That is…quite fascinating…” Obi-Wan uttered, taking one last scan of the unique instrument before glancing at your intrigued features, captivated by a typhoon of ruminations on the device’s remarkable functions, he assumed.

“So I won’t feel pain?”

You shook your head heartily, emphasizing each word that followed. “No, you’ll certainly feel pain. But you won’t receive any grievous injuries.”

And the General’s spine stiffened from shock at this. Eyes wide as he searched your matter-of-fact countenance for clarification.

“Silvey, are you saying this device can cause real-world harm?”

“Only if the safety protocols are off,” you undauntedly reminded before your voice relaxed into a fonder, more reminiscent timbre.

“I learned that piece of programming the hard way,” you chuckled. “Qui-Gon almost threw the whole thing away after I nearly bled to death from a stab to the shoulder. A fairly treatable wound in the likes of Coruscant, I’m sure. But when you have no choice but to work with a few, expired bacta pads, it can become a little dicey.”

Master Kenobi’s once intrigued disposition had slowly devolved into a frown.

He knew this implement was old. Likely used by ancient Jedi who followed a widely contrasting set of rules in a lawless world of dark adversaries. But he never predicted that their training equipment would allow for such risk in the name of growth. There was a reason younglings learned on training sabers. So that they need not face the same life-threatening dangers that you seem to have faced every day at their age. Whether through an unpredictable apparatus or the nature of your icy asylum.

Obi-Wan barely noticed the thickening of a faintly simmering temper, mixed with frustration and confusion as he finally considered the reality of your upbringing. The bearded Jedi cared for his former Master deeply, and he clearly understood that Qui-Gon had done his best to protect you under severe circumstances. But the auburn-haired man couldn’t get over the sheer recklessness that characterized his decision-making as your custodian.

Had he not checked this device thoroughly before handing it off to a child? That didn’t sound like the wise man he’d known for all his life. Though Qui-Gon did have many responsibilities on top of your secret existence. Most of which likely prevented him from imparting the same thoroughness and circumspect to which he gifted Obi-Wan.

Still, it was no excuse.

And the longer he sat with that realization, the more your recollection ruffled Obi-Wan. Especially when your cavalier attitude proved your innocence to the underlying issue that Kenobi was so peeved by.

A reaction that you just seemed to notice, but failed to correctly attribute.

“Obi-Wan.”

You spoke gently, reaching out a cold, comforting hand to rest beneath his, providing a little extra lift in supporting the gadget’s portable weight. His eyes followed your arm, naturally landing on the two, strikingly silver orbs that relaxed his tensed muscles and unsettled thoughts with mollifying memories of uncomplicated talks and silent company.

“I promise you, you’re not gonna get hurt. I would never have agreed to share The Muntuur with you had I believed for a second it would cause serious harm.”

And there it was again. Those gentle, sparkling features that cozily blanketed Obi-Wan’s line of vision with honest poise. Accompanied by relieving words that freshly astounded him in every instant they fell from your lips.

Your life. Your upbringing. Devoid of connection and saturated with harsh dangers in an inhospitable habitat. Yes, a Jedi was expected to forgo all attachments, but this isolation had been to an extreme.

Yet every day. In every moment he had the chance to grace your presence. To get to know you. You’d shimmer like a being who’d known unconditional love from the galaxy, and was simply acting as a conduit to relay that benevolence onto others.

But that wasn’t your reality, Obi-Wan reminded himself. Besides Qui-Gon’s disbanded guidance, you had only known the cold.

Still, even that jarring refuge was likely more enticing than the prospect of facing a dark nemesis too soon.

You’d only known struggle, yet diffused compassion.

You really were something.

“I trust you,” Master Kenobi finally spoke, raising The Muntuur to secure its chilly, rigid form atop his head.

While his hands lowered, Obi-Wan felt a slight dig as the device morphed to fit his skull’s dimensions. A low, mechanical purr was followed by strange tingling sensations that danced across his temples like docile Endorian ants.

But after a few, stagnant seconds, in which a stillness recouped the air, nothing else occurred.

The Jedi Master knew that you’d intended for some program to run, yet he saw nothing. Just the dojo’s durable, cream-tinted walls supported by pillars of hickory brown wood.

“How do I know if the simulation has begun?” Obi-Wan questioned, eyes glancing toward your figure as you purposefully ambled backward to grant more clearance to the focused Jedi.

A delighted smirk tugged up at your countenance from chin to ears as you slowed to a halt about twelve meters away.

“Oh, trust me. You’ll know.”

A deep, guttural roar bellowed from behind, provoking a somewhat startled Master Kenobi to detach his lightsaber mid-whirl as he faced the blare with the blade’s instantly ignited, blue glow.

Coiled into a stalking pose at the opposite wall was the brown-gold body of a particularly irate Nexu. Its four, beady red eyes pierced Kenobi’s senses, drawing considerable attention to the broad set of dagger-like teeth that stretched across half its face as the beast soon began to circularly prowl. The inchmeal movements of its sharp claws and flicking tails quickly compelled Kenobi to step into a cautious counter, sidestep after sidestep so to avoid closing that precarious gap.

“I believe we have different definitions of what qualifies as a ‘little guy!’” Obi-Wan sarcastically called out, his readily extended saber maintaining the standoff while he kept a slow, methodical distance.

“I think he’s kinda cute!” You gushed.

Obi-Wan’s head whipped to stare at you in utter disbelief, hoping to communicate his complete disagreement with such a statement. In fact, he manifested with his eyes alone the question of whether you were truly seeing the same ghastly brute as him.

But any answer he sought would have to wait, it appeared. The momentary glance at your chuckling figure was cut short by the beast’s consciousness of Kenobi’s brief distraction.

Its paws struck the ground with a sharp crack, signaling the Nexu’s powerful charge toward Obi-Wan as the latter’s attention snapped back toward the rapidly closing-in creature. One, he now noticed, whose approach could be viscerally sensed, further persuading the Master Jedi to poise himself for the coming strike that he felt through the surrounding flow.

“I can feel its movement within the force!” He called out while dodging a quick slash of the right set of claws. “How is that possible?!”

“It’s part of the programming,” you leveled candidly while Obi-Wan sprinted for a better vantage point toward the far wall, slithering beast on his tail.

“I think that’s why Qui-Gon assumed it was built for the Jedi,” you continued. “Never could figure out how that part worked.”

Drawing on the stream around him as he reached the dead end, Kenobi leapt onto the wall, maintaining his momentum while he followed its architecture around the training room.

Still, the slobbering huffs of the Nexu stayed close behind, especially once the creature’s biting claws lodged into the same partition, empowering it to launch into a rather slippery chase while its talons fought against the smoother sectionals.

However, the agile Jedi persisted, formulating a plan as his eyes locked onto an abruptly nearing corner.

With the blustering beast just a few steps behind, Kenobi broke away toward the opposite intersecting wall. Then, with cold air resisting against his face, Obi-Wan exercised the boost to reach and thrust against this new push-off point, barreling into a flip back toward the growling beast that still struggled to skitter across this raised vantage point.

Swiftly, while the Master Jedi glided midair, Kenobi brought down his blue luminescence to slash at the Nexu’s back. It was in that instant, that he successfully severed several of its sharp quills, a pink ooze soaking the creature’s fur while it wailed out in agony.

Embracing the Force to cushion his descent, Obi-Wan partially floated to the stone floor, toes centering his landing as the beast once clawing across the dojo wall writhed into a short plummet, striking the floor with a boom just meters beyond his feet.

Kenobi watched on while the Nexu pitifully rolled to its side, emitting a flurry of pained squeaks and whimpers in its parade to expose its underside, a symbol of surrender.

But that white flag wasn’t what prompted Obi-Wan to abruptly unfasten The Muntuur from his skull and end the program, leading the now docile Nexu to fade into nothingness as the device hummed through its deactivation.

No.

Instead, the slightly panting Jedi’s attention was seized by a sudden burst of laughter from the far corner, flinging his bewildered yet slightly curious gaze toward your bent-over form leaned against the dojo’s gray doors.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just, this is the first time I’ve seen someone use The Muntuur from an outside perspective and I’m—” Another fit of giggles poured out of your gut, squeezing Obi-Wan’s brows to raise in delight at the sound.

“I’m just now wondering how Qui-Gon kept a straight face! With nothing there for me, it just looks like you’re running around in circles, and—“

Another howl of laughter colored the air, touching his chest with a strangely familiar sensation. One that he couldn’t quite clearly recall, but knew still that it had been something he’d experienced a couple times a year as a young Padawan.

On those few evenings in the fall when his training had ended early for the day, young Kenobi would run off to the Glitannai Eslpanade to experience the Festival of Stars. And while he appreciated the joy of dancing beings and the artistry of performative acrobatics, he’d only really had one motive for sneaking off with a nut brown robe tightly concealing his Jedi identity amongst the bustling crowds.

It was to gawk at the falling Ithorian rose petals, flung from the sky like euphoric tears at each year’s parade on Coruscant.

A sight he could never drag his eyes away from, no matter how hard he tried.

This wasn’t exactly what Obi-Wan had planned when he decided to focus your mind on matters separate from those stress-induced headaches. But he certainly wasn’t going to complain about finding success through other means. The undeniably beaming expression on your face meant that something he did had lessened the headache that’d emerged following your infirmary visit, at least.

Perhaps that was what gave rise to his inner appreciation for your enlivened state. Because when he heard your laughter spring throughout the room, it confirmed for him that he’d finally taken a little bit of your pain away.

And that idea alone tugged fiercely at his facial muscles, coaxing him to give rise to a smile.

But Obi-Wan shoved that down, instead adopting a rather unimpressed gaze as his voice oozed with sarcasm.

“I’m pleased you find my defensive techniques so amusing.”

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