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hyperesthesias · 1 year ago

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Decisions & Desire Part II

Notes: Look, what I want you to take away from this is: 'I love you. Most ardently'. I even got the rain thing going. Song choice for this installment is: Arrival of the Birds by The Cinematic Orchestra.

Context: Anya and Viktor are childhood friends who have reconnected seven months ago. Anya is a mage, and a theoretical physicist; she is also a patron of Viktor and the Academy. They have rekindled their friendship, and are in love with each other. Because Anya is a different species, who lives for hundreds of years, and takes only one mate for her lifespan, Viktor has recused himself from her life, not wanting to cause her further pain. However, Jayce has some choice words for his friend. Anya also learns more about transformation rituals from her temple elder.

word count: 4,411

Tag List: @uniquedeerwitch ; @funcoolchickie (Let me know if you would like to be tagged!)

AO3 link

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Anya kept the company of her kinfolk, while Viktor kept himself confined to his laboratory. She had not seen him in nearly a week – neither had she heard from him, despite her occasional visits to the lab with pertinent information and translations of runework. Whenever she made an appearance there, Viktor always seemed absent, and her work was relayed solely through Jayce, who asked her no questions, neither pressed any agendas about the crystal or her relationship with her friend. It only made her feel more alone.

Despite the happy faces and the welcome invitations from her kin at the temple, Anya felt no desire to join them in preparations for the Autumnal Equinox festival – she had no mirth to contribute to the festival at all, and instead planned on recusing herself from the event. Regardless of where she went, or with whom, the abstinence of her friend’s love, and desire for their bonding, followed her – a horrible shadow that clung to her, even when the Sun shone brightest. His life was fragile, its length short, and she saw his grappling as a hindrance to the time that could be shared between them, despite the obstacles presented to them.

Her elder, Nana, was the only one of the temple who asked nothing of her, nor expected her presence in any capacity, except for that of a cup of tea. Nana was seven hundred years old, and she was the oldest and wisest among their community. She had long, silver hair that ran past her feet, and that matched her age; she had weathered skin and a warm smile that crinkled her eyes. Her home resided on the temple acreage, and she tended the sacred trees and flora and fauna that made the grounds lush and vibrant. Her cottage smelled of herbs, and the couch was well worn from visitors who sought her company. She was quick to listen, and slow to scold, but always had advice when it was asked of her.

“I have more ideas about the transmutation spell you asked me about some while ago,” Nana said, and served Anya a cup of berry tea. “I found a codex in the old catacombs of the temple. Don’t tell anyone.”

Anya smiled lightly, and held the cup in her lap. She had no desire to speak.

“There are many legends of shape shifting, as you know,” she continued with a huff and a grunt as she sat down on the couch. “Many talk of our ancient ancestors who could change into jaguars or hummingbirds during the heat of battle. Even dragons. But birds and cats sounds more believable to me,” she eyed her young guest with a simper. “Though much of what is written in these codices are thought of as fantasy by the majority – superstition and stories meant to inspire awe and terror into the hearts of enemies from long ago.”

“Do you believe it is possible?” Anya asked.

Nana looked at her and shrugged as she took a sip of tea. “I’ve seen too much to disregard anything at all. There are some who are gifted with the abilities of magic – like you and your parents; others who can communicate with animals and spirits. Who’s to say there is not a gene somewhere out there, wandering around, that can cause someone to shape shift? Maybe it got lost,” she chuckled.

“Did the codex suggest wanting anything in return for this power?”

Nana looked at her, suspicious, but she conceded: “No, there was no mention of an exchange – it was a power bestowed by the divinities. A gift. There were times it was granted as a way to smite an opponent in battle. Others, it was given as a way to protect a village or a family.”

Whatever the secret had been of transmutation, it was evident it was long lost, and was now regaled into the nebulous mythos of cultural tales. Anya set her untouched tea on the table in front of them, and nodded. “Thank you, Nana. But I do not feel up to having anything at the moment. I think I will leave.”

“What is wrong, my dear?” Nana asked, and held out her hand that she might stay.

“It is nothing. Childish things.” She shook her head, afraid she would think her a fool for her despondency. Viktor’s stubbornness was a sufficient burden, but Nana’s disapproval would be more than she could bear.

Nana gave her a sad smile as she watched the affliction on her soft face. “There is no such thing as too small a grief.”

Anya looked to her, reticent. She debated on what to say, but knew that if there was any one person in her community who could be relied upon, it would be Nana. “It does not feel small,” she admitted.

“This isn’t about runes.” Nana set her cup of tea down.

“No. It is not.” She looked out of the window at the far end of the room, she watched as the wildflowers blew, delicate and limber, in the afternoon sun – their stems and leaves had begun to turn brittle as Summer ended and as Autumn began. Soon, they would be wilted and returned to the earth from which they first grew. Viktor’s ailing health pressed upon her heart and she resisted the stinging in her eyes. She swallowed the hot, salted water that had gathered at the back of her throat, and she kept her head down. “There is someone with whom I wish to bond,” she said. She could not bring herself to say anything more.

“Have they refused you?” Nana asked.

“The desire is mutual. But he will not bond with me.”

Nana could think of no reason why someone would be so indecisive. Anya was well off – finances would never be a concern; there were no wars in which their kind had been involved, in Piltover or in Zaun, that could have amassed prejudice; there were no quarreling families within their own community that would prevent a peaceful union with Anya – a union with her would have been covetous. “Why?” she asked, bewildered.

“He is human,” she said. The tears she fought gathered at the edges of her eyes, and she struggled to keep them at bay as she looked at her elder. She turned away as a droplet ran down her face. “His health is frail, even by the standard of his kind. His lifespan will be cut short. He will not bond with me, so that I will not be alone when he dies.”

“That is honorable.”

“Too honorable,” Anya sniffled.

Nana smiled. There were few who understood and heeded the ways of their species – especially humans. To find someone with such zealous respect was both a blessing and curse.

“Nana – What is it like? To have a bonded who is no longer here.”

She took a long, slow breath, and memories passed her eyes as she thought on what to say. Her own bonded had been gone for nearly fifty years. It felt like an eternity. “I can still feel him – as I always did. When you bond with someone, you can feel what they feel, you can know where they are, and see the world through their spirit. It is the same, even now. He is still alive, somewhere. But not here. I feel that he misses me, as much as I miss him,” she gave Anya a smile, one full of joy and longing. She caressed her face – bright and full of youth and knowing. “This man loves you. Human men make no sacrifices for things they do not love. What will be, will be. Even if you love him from afar.”

Another tear fell onto Anya’s visage, and Nana gently brushed it away.

Anya returned to her quiet, cavernous home as clouds began to move their way through the sky. She recalled a rainy day in Zaun, where her mother told her to search for a bucket in the scrap heap around the corner from their house. The roof had sprung a leak, and Anya spent the night bailing out buckets of water. She was stricken with the cold, and became bed-ridden and ill, her mother tended to her with poultices and compresses for a week.

Her mansion made of marble had no leaks, and every gutter led to the gardens beneath. There were beds for vegetables and fresh herbs, there were fruit trees and bushes that yielded plentiful stone fruits and berries. She wanted for nothing. Except for the love she could not have.

She sat alone the rest of the afternoon in the salon, with a well lit fire and a hot cup of coffee as the rain began to fall, persistent and dour against the breadth of the windowpanes. She had numerous books on runes and shape shifting spread across the cushions, but she resented each of them. They all reminded her of Viktor.

Viktor arrived at the lab in a foul mood. The previous night left him restless, and what little sleep he gathered was listless and fitful. His mind was tired and overworked, and his heart had grown numb from the final exchange he shared with Anya; it sat on his stomach like a stone, and he felt himself pinned beneath it. Though he gave little credence to the tenements of Fate, he was beginning to believe in something far worse: bad luck. Luck, that he had reconnected with his friend after a decade and a half, and bad luck to have sabotaged his relationship with her. He lost the love of his life. He had no one other than himself to blame.

Viktor said nothing upon entering the lab and he promptly sat at his workbench, hunched over his journal; he analyzed the data he gathered the previous evening, along with several of Anya’s notes taped to the inside of his notebook. He could feel Jayce’s eyes on him from across the room.

Jayce sat not far away – he had been studying the crystal under a lens, having arrived at the lab nearly two hours before his partner. He leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh, his hands ran down his face – every facet of the crystal was beginning to blur into one another, and he could hardly tell the difference between the runes anymore. He looked up towards his friend again, who seemed to share his same, glossy-eyed look.

“You hungry?” he asked.

Viktor gave no reply.

Jayce tilted his head, trying to see the expression on his friend’s face. It was stern, guarded, and unmoving. Viktor was not often outwardly expressive, but he was not devoid of feeling altogether, and he had come to know Viktor well enough to see when his friend was perturbed – despite the few indications he might give evidently. Jayce rolled the chair closer to his partner. “Hey –” he tapped his shoulder.

Viktor started and took a sharp breath. “What?” he growled as he shot Jayce a glance.

“I think we could both use a break. Why don’t we get something to eat.” A drop in blood sugar would explain Viktor’s harsh disposition.

He waved him off. “I am fine, go on without me.”

Jayce stared at him with scepticism. “You don’t look fine.”

Viktor closed his eyes and slowly inhaled. “There are things in my private life I would like to keep private,” he said. Jayce had become a friend – Viktor’s only friend besides Anya; and while his two friends were each other’s acquaintance, Viktor was careful never to divulge more than the superficial in regard to Anya and her background. He had given Jayce no knowledge as to her species, or her capabilities as a mage; the extent of his appraisal had been their friendship in childhood, and her success at the Academy. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Concern built itself deeper into Jayce, and worry furrowed itself into his features. Not long ago, Viktor saved his life from the broken ledge of his apartment. The chill of that terrible night’s air gripped him by the throat, and he refocused himself onto his friend, instead. “You don’t have to suffer in silence.”

Viktor stopped, overcome with the memory of watching Jayce nearly step over the ledge and into death. They never spoke of it. They did not have to. It was a hermetic secret between the two of them, one that was never forgotten, and never mentioned. But Viktor could hear between what was not said. He sighed and turned on the stool, throwing the pencil on the notebook. “There is a dilemma, in my personal life, that has no favorable solution,” he said. “My only choice is to accept the consequence, and proceed with my life. My work,” he motioned to the notebook.

Jayce stared at him, more confused than before, his worries no more allayed. “Are you…getting fired?”

Viktor scoffed. “No. Although, I supposed I could be,” he murmured. His position at the Academy forbade any fraternization with a donor. It was yet another obstacle that bid him forget about whatever childish emotions welled themselves inside of his mind. “My affections for Anya have grown beyond that of friends,” he admitted. The feeling of her soft skin imprinted itself on his hands as he spoke, the feel of her breath as he kissed her, the sweet taste of her – she flooded into him all at once, and his chest tightened.

Jayce’s face softened and he began to smile.

“There is nothing to be done about it.” He turned back to his workbench.

“What do you mean?” Jayce asked, taken aback.

Viktor rolled his tongue in his mouth, his jaw stiffened and his eyes pierced through the pages of the book underneath his palms. He debated whether to speak of Anya’s species, but if he knew anything of his friend, he knew Jayce understood the value of a secret. “Anya is not like you and me. Her species is capable of living for a thousand years. In that time, they will have only one mate. It is for their lifetime. It is a bond that will last, even after death. My affection for her now will be meaningless in five hundred years.” He swallowed and closed the notebook. “She would be alone. That is not something I will allow.”

“So you’re not going to say anything?”

“I already have.”

“And? What did she say?”

“We have not spoken in a week, since.”

“Well what the hell did you say?”

Viktor rolled his eyes. “I was honest with her. It is what she deserves. I told her my affection, and also told her it was better we do not bond.”

“She deserves the opportunity to decide for herself, Viktor.”

The lines in Viktor’s face drew deeper, and he felt offense flush his face.

“You made the decision for her. What if she wants to be with you?”

“Then it would be better for me to suffer the next thirty years alone, than her for centuries more.”

Jayce stayed quiet as he watched his friend anguish.

“My refusal to bond with her is not out of arrogance or self-centeredness.”

“Viktor, she won’t wait for you forever.”

“That is exactly the point,” he denounced him. “Thirty years from now, I will be dead. And in three hundred years, she will find another she loves.”

“What if she doesn’t find anyone? What if it’s only you?”

“Statistics would argue otherwise.” He sighed and looked away from his friend as he leaned back in the chair. “I would never fault her for wanting to love another. But we will have already been bonded.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, not bad – foolish. We are not the same kind. We were not meant to bond.” He ended the conversation and returned to his notes.

Jayce gave him a disgruntled frown, though he knew Viktor was unable to see it. He remained silent, and only watched his friend compartmentalize his pain – despite how well Viktor assumed he was hiding it, Jayce could see his grief plainly. They had not known each other long, but knew him to be a lonely, stoic man, who devoted his life to proving his worthiness through science and advancement. He was a good man, who always thought of others before himself. Who thought of the woman he loved before his own desires. Jayce could not say the same about himself. Though he did not know Anya well, he knew she was the only one who could make Viktor laugh and smile without restraint; when they were together, Jayce saw enjoyment in his life – rather than only discipline and hardship.

Perhaps he lived vicariously through his friend – that the merit of perseverance could be met with reward and happiness. Perhaps he resented him for refusing to accept such happiness. Or perhaps he was merely frustrated with his friend’s stubbornness. “You’re fighting this really hard,” he said.

Viktor took a grated breath and threw up his palms, knowing he would not get any work done with Jayce’s ever-optimistic meddling. “What would you have me do?”

“Stop sabotaging yourself.”

“And when she is left alone with no one, with nothing? What then? I will not be responsible for her suffering.”

“You already are.”

Viktor gnawed the inside of his mouth and looked away.

“You can’t live your life in the theoretical.”

Life was incalculably more complicated than the theoretical, or the practical – it was an egregious amalgamation of both, that fit neither descriptor. And sometimes, there were no viable solutions. Sometimes, there was only the best that could be done. Viktor’s parents did the best they could, despite their poverty, despite their flaws and faults. There were times, much like this, he wished he could talk to them. Ask for their guidance and advice, their life experience. But even without it, Viktor did the best he could.

That was all that could be done.

Viktor drove a carriage from the Academy, after Jayce left the lab in the late afternoon. The Sun was setting, and dusk and rain were easily approaching on the horizon – cooler hues of orange and magenta sunk with the dark, impending clouds behind the Piltover skyline, and Viktor recalled a time when he could not see the Sun set, nor when it rose. He drove in silence as he mulled over the arguments of his friend, and the blistered emotions that imprinted themselves within his chest. The ability to intuit the machine beneath his hands allowed his mind to wander freely; he shifted it from each of its gears without fault or hesitation, and his left leg moved with ease to control the clutch and acceleration. The ability to pilot a machine granted him freedom from the physical fetters that plagued him daily – the rare moments in which he felt his body free from restraint, granted his mind clarity and respite.

Anya deserved honesty, he concluded. Honesty – not only in his emotions, but in his actions. There was a distinct line he observed: to deny them both the opportunity of bonding was dishonest, to himself, and also to her. Jayce, for all his meddling, had been correct: Anya deserved to make her own honest decisions, and Viktor was required to trust her instincts, and trust the decisions she made for the course of her future. It was iniquitous, and it was presumptuous to determine her future for her. It was her future. Not his. But together, they could share the present.

The road to her home was winding, along a paved path lined with trees and wildlife. Though her mansion was modern, even by the Kiramann’s standards, the reclusivity and pastoral beauty of its location was something that appealed to him. Her culture revolved around the natural world, around the connection between their species and all life around them. It suited her that her home was deep within the forest. The fresh air of the treeline, and the onset of clean rain was a relief to his lungs, and to the memories of Zaun’s filth that permeated his mind.

The carriage pulled into the circular driveway, and he could see a dim light through the many windows of the house. Rain pummelled his shoulders the moment he stepped out, and he hurried with his cane as well as he could across the cobblestone for cover underneath the porch. But the winds were shifting through the forests and mountains around them, and despite the cover of the overhang, the rain smattered him sideways. He pulled a gilded knocker on the door, and tapped it three times. He waited, eagerly, and mulled over everything he wanted to say while he attempted to keep a chill at bay.

Moments seemingly blurred into hours, and, presently, Anya answered the door.

“Viktor?” She stared at him, shocked – misery clung to his features, and she knew he had not slept; hunger drew the color from his face, and the rain drenched him from his hair to his shoes.

Everything he wanted to say, everything he planned on saying – every point he wanted to make suddenly vanished. He stood there – dumb and silenced.

“Are you alright?”

But everything he wanted to say, could be condensed into one singular phrase: “Anya, I love you.” He met her eyes with pleading, and swallowed; he felt bare having said the words aloud. “I do not know anything with certainty, but that I love you. I do not know the future. And I know nothing of magic. But, I try.” Even in the downpour around them, his throat felt parched. “I want to try. For however long the future will have me in this life. If you will have me.”

Anya’s heart raced within her, and she saw their future written plainly on his face: one of happiness, and one of hope – despite whatever hardships they might face. Her smile trembled at the thoughts and images that played before her mind’s eye. She nodded, breathless.

But he shook his head, afraid she had given her blessing too soon. He reached for her, as if to implore her, and petition her grace. “I cannot give you status. I can give you no children –”

She dismissed his fear, and cupped his face. “I do not bond with you for what you can give me,” she said. “My bond is my love for you, Viktor. Always.”

Viktor weakened at her words, and water flushed his face – though from tears, or from the rain, he could no longer distinguish. Her hands were warm, and any part of him that had been frozen or chilled melted at her touch. He nuzzled his cheek into her palm, and took her hand to kiss it – his cane moved to the crook of his arm. He breathed in her scent and revelled in the benevolence of her softness, with the thought of awakening to her beside him every morning, and falling asleep to the sound of her every night. He looked to her one last time: “Are you certain?”

“More than anything.” She brushed the water from the stern lines of his countenance, and gently pulled him towards her.

Gladly, he met her lips and drank in the sweetness of her taste. He caressed his palms around her face, where he left behind streaks of rain on her skin, and on her clothes. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him taut, pressed against her.

Viktor took a breath and leaned against her face as she nuzzled her head into his shoulder. A pang gathered in his throat: not one of sadness, nor of the grief that had so despairingly plagued him the last week, but a pang of great and overwhelming emotion. Which emotion he could not clearly ascertain: happiness, relief, uncertainty and anxiousness of the future. It was akin to the peace and quiet calm that is only left behind after a storm. He felt a tear escape him, amidst the serenity inside of him. “What must I do,” he asked, his voice overcome with whelm and affection, “to bond with you, with the ritual of your people?”

Anya held him tighter with gratitude for his recognition, and moved to see his eyes: “You must find me a feather, and braid it into my hair.”

The carnal intimacy of her sacred hair – to caress it, and comb it, to bring her pleasure with it, seldom occurred to him, but the thought was ardent and clear to him now. He stroked the side of her face, where the back of his hand graced against the edge of her mane; she emanated a quiet purr at his touch, and he relinquished his hand, flustered – though she had made no effort to pull away from him. He took her hand, instead, and kissed it once more.

Anya invited him inside, to warm himself by the fire; he sat on the couch where she had staked herself throughout the afternoon – books were still strewn across the salon, he chose one as he put his leg up onto an ottoman. Before he could protest, she poured him a hot cup of coffee of his own, and offered him a helping of sweet bread and fresh cheese.

“Thank you,” he said, and took the cup and plate.

“You forgot to eat again.”

“Bad habit,” he looked at her, diffident.

She raised a brow. “Which means you have also forgotten your medicine.”

Realization struck him, and he searched his pocket for his pill case. In the wave of ecstasy and emotion, he had not felt the pain in his back and hip, but as his mind anchored itself again, he felt it worm itself into the forefront of his attention.

Anya sat next to him, and leaned against him as he ate, and drank, and swallowed his pills. He looked at her, in the firelight – she was the beauty of a brilliant star, illuminated by the cosmos. He wrapped her in a blanket that was thrown behind them on the couch. He wondered, what life would be like thirty years thence, when he was frail, when he had even less to give her – nothing except the love he would always have for her. He saw his own future with her, as the fire danced across her: lenitive, contented, and a life in which he may always be free from fear. With her, Viktor felt safe. He always had. He always would.

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cassmouse · 6 months ago

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I'm really emotional today but I'm also really busy and also experiencing the most severe inability to sit down and write I've ever had and my god I want to write a Checkmatch oneshot fic but my god I physically cannot

Also if I'm gonna write anything I really need to write Flowers Bloom 😭 lord help me

#I haven't written an actual coherent paragraph in about two weeks and a half and I'm getting concerned now #like this has never happened to me before #I'm struggling to sit and read novels properly too I'm very concerned #I'm really busy and definitely burnt out in twenty different ways academically and my god I'm emotional recently #but I'm SO SAD because this happened to be when I'm desperate to actually write a Phelody fic #maybe soon I'll actually be able to write something who knows #also flowers bloom update... I AM working on the next chapter I promise I am trying #cass thinks ab stuff

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kakusu-shipping · 2 months ago

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I wanted to tell you; on a whim I decided to check out the first Wayward Children audiobook looking for something to listen to at my long shift at work lol. I saw you rb something and went Oh yeah, huh, I'm curious about Jill since he mentions her sometimes and I do like a good portal fantasy. (I was shocked it was as short as it was, I finished it in one shift!)

I really liked it! I wanted to hear more of the worldbuilding though lol I got frustrated it was breezed over so often by Nancy going "well they explained it and I didn't get it" 😭 Lmfao but I loved Jack and Jill a lot!! I want more of the portal worlds so much. It's also darker than I was expecting hahaha

I have to wait a bit cause the second book's checked out but I just wanted to share I got hooked cause of you!

THIS IS THE GREATEST NEWS I'VE EVER HEARD I'M SO HAPPYYYYYYYY

As for world building yeah the first book isn't really GOOD at selling the interesting parts of the series (but it does hand us the characters who are great hooks) BUUUUUUUUT Every other book in the series is a Prequel that covers individual worlds (book two is Jack and Jill's Moor), so muuuuch better story telling. (Book 3 goes back to the main cast, book 4 is a prequel again, etc)

I'm so glad my being Insane about Jillian Wolcott one of the Characters Ever got you to try the series, we love a portal fantasy that is all about fleeting youth, comfort, and safety in an environment <3

#Wayward Children #Jill #I love heeeeeeeeeer I'm so excited please tell me what you think of book two as well <3 #There's a character in it just called The Master who's who my Self Insert replaces jsyk #This is all I want in life. Is to infect people with Hatoful Boyfriend Suikoden and Wayward Children brainrot #And Emmy is now ALL THREE (granted she was into two of them before I met her)#I SWEAR AS SOON AS THE LAST CHAPTER OF YYTD COMES OUT I WILL REPAY THE FAVOR #AND GET UNHINGED OBSESSED WITH IT!!!!#PROMISE!!!!!

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threestripeslider · 2 years ago

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WMAS update has me like

i’m fine i promise i’m so normal.

#turtle files: fic rec #we'll meet again soon #IM COOL IM FINE IM COOL COOL COOLCOOLCOOLCOOLCOOL NO DOUBT NO DOUBT–#i promise one day im gonna write a completel unhinged comment #had to read the chapter on two separate train rides #WHY AM I SO BUSYYYY

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misano17 · 2 years ago

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So I drew Ritsu.

I wanted to design an outfit for him from my au and I think it turned out pretty good <<33.

anyways he is a shark demon :)

I gave him blood powers cuz A. Sakuma, and B. The potential to make him a blood inkling, a sharkling, if you will. I’m mostly thinking about comedic effect rn. He is so goofy <<<333

#ritsu sakuma #sakuma ritsu #ensemble stars fanart #ensemble stars #Epicedium Orfeo #more bullshit for my au #I swear chapter two will be here soon I’ve just been drawing a lot #I promise there will be a new chapter soon ToT #anyways I wanna draw more of the knights #They’re all so pretty ToT #I can’t wait to write about Ritsu absolutely decking his brother #I had so much fun drawing this <<33 #my art <3 #tw blood

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catwings-writes-things · 5 months ago

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A while ago, I was talking to my mom about my writing and saying something about how the things that are important to a writer tend to naturally come through in their work, and she asked me what comes through in mine. I thought I should tell you all what I said.

“The inherent interdependence of people, and the hard and messy work of loving unconditionally.”

I love writing, y’all.

#in case anyone wants to know what I consider the themes of my work to be #there are definitely more but there are two big ones #and yes i am working on #AWOHO chapter 12 #fic: a world of his own #the jailbreak verse #no promises but hopefully it’ll be ready soon

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sparrowmoth · 2 years ago

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Written in the Scars • [AO3]

Teen | 3.2K+ | Marlos-centric/OT4 | Heavy Angst, Devotion, Whump

A/N: More detailed notes on AO3, if you're interested, but here, I will just say thank you to my lovely friend Blake (@finitevoid) for talking through this fic with me and inspiring me to push the plot further, plus impressing upon me the image of an insanely tall Maleficent, which has now become secret canon in my mind dajkgsjdkg <3

CW: Heavy angst, verbal and physical child abuse, emotional manipulation, non-graphic usage of medieval torture implements, threat of self-harm, a lot of swearing, and a hurt/no comfort kinda cliffhanger in this first chapter (sorry).

Chapter One: Birdcage Religion

The knife isn’t dropped with a clatter to the stone floor. It is thrown at the feet of the Mistress of All Evil—Mal’s mother, her queen and, at a whim, her executioner. She’ll be that today, from the look on her face—the way her eyes flick to the knife and she tells Mal to repeat that.

“You heard me,” says Mal, stepping out in front of Carlos.

He doesn’t try to pull her back, though from the corner of her eye, she can see his hands twitch, like he’s thinking about it. His face has gone blank, but she reads fear in his quiet, the way he stands like a ghost, trying not to be seen. He thinks he’s caused enough trouble.

That makes Mal want to cause more.

She doesn’t shrink when her mother stands slowly from her throne, rising to her full height of seven feet and then some. Her horns add another foot and she’s standing on the dais. The candlelight behind her casts a shadow that much longer—a monstrous form, in all—

“So disappointing,” says Maleficent, voice dripping sickly sweetness. She takes her staff from where it’s leaning and takes a slow stride off the dais, almost gliding toward her daughter. “It seems your heart’s grown like a tumour in that precious little chest of yours.” Her words warp to a snarl as she lifts her staff up, spearing it forward, striking Mal hard in the sternum, sending her stumbling back into Carlos.

Mal grabs the end of the staff to keep from losing her balance, eyes flashing green as she glares at her mother, whose own burning gaze comes down the length of the staff. Only hatred there. No, intent—

“PROVE YOURSELF, GIRL,” roars Maleficent, wielding the staff in an arc as she kicks at Mal’s shin, sending her down and out of the way, leaving a path to Carlos. “THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.”

Carlos, in a slight daze from having hit the stone floor—hard—recovers quickly at the sight of Maleficent encroaching, her staff poised to strike, coming down like a falcon, everything a blur—

Mal throws herself in front of him just in time to take the blow.

In some far part of his mind, still dazed, Carlos hears her ribs crack like a shot. He feels the part of a rabbit having watched the hound dog take a bullet for its prey, right from its master’s rifle—

Then, Mal is slumping across him, wheezing for breath, and he’s trying not to panic as he tries to sit up, tries to drag Mal away, tries to think through the thought stream of stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid—because he’s scared and he’s angry and he doesn’t understand. Why didn’t she just do it? Why didn’t she just hurt him? Why didn’t she…

“Ah, so it is a cancer,” says Maleficent, practically in a purr. She’s put the end of her staff under Carlos’ chin now, forcing his gaze up. She smirks when his open, vulnerable face turns quickly to something vicious. “You don’t fool me, boy. I can see your weakness…”

Mal’s arm shoots up and she grips the staff hard, pushing it away.

“Leave him alone,” she grits out, struggling up while half in Carlos’ lap still. “This is…” She coughs, blood speckling her lips. “Between you and me…” she manages, craning her neck to meet Maleficent’s eyes, high as a god’s above hers, staring ever down, down, down.

Maleficent smiles, something sinister, and she yanks her staff back easily out of Mal’s fist. “Do you know what I think?” she asks, the point of her staff hovering just above the stones. “I think… what’s between us are three little problems… and he happens to be one.”

With that, her staff comes down in an almighty bang, cracking open the stones and ushering in the guards—a group of boar-headed men with wide-set, matte black eyes set in wiry, mud-brown fur. They are dressed in leather armour with a dragon scale design, and various weapons hang from their belts or are carried in their hands—

They need no instruction beyond the simplest nod.

Carlos bites down on the first hand that reaches past him, trying for a fistful of Mal’s hair to drag her up. He draws a crude noise from the guard he’s wounded, but another moves in quick enough—

Mal is grabbed tight around the waist, weakening her kicks as she gasps for breath. Carlos is hoisted by the scruff of his jacket, but he writhes so much that he slips out from it easily, landing light on his feet, where he would normally make a break for it, except—

“Carlos,” Mal chokes out, a note of pleading in her voice.

He knows what she wants, what she’s trying to tell him.

He knows, if she could manage, she would say it’s an order.

But he doesn’t try to run.

Mal’s desperate eyes are the last he sees before a guard comes up behind him, pulling a sack down over his head and drawing the string tight, making him reach for his neck before his hands are roughly yanked away and burly arms lift him off his feet again.

Thick as the bag is over his head, the noises around him are slightly muffled, but loud as his breathing now sounds in his own ears, he hears Maleficent sigh, like this is all some inconvenience—

“Prepare the birdcage,” she addresses the guards, “and some chains for the mutt. No food, no water.” She pauses, then adds with a dark sense of promise, “If even one escapes, there will be pork roast for dinner, do you quite understand? Good. Now, to the dungeon.”

Maleficent’s dungeon is not unfamiliar.

Mal, Carlos, Jay, and Evie had plumbed the depths of the castle when they were all children. That was different than this, being carried down blind, hearing the echoes deepen, feeling the damp press in, a chill like death’s hands, goosebumps spreading—

There is sobbing, screaming, quiet moaning, and pleas behind the first door that opens at the bottom of the stairwell. They pass on through without a word from the guards or Maleficent herself.

Several more doors open and all sense of presence in the cells fades away to nothing. Now, there is only the footsteps, the rattle of chains and the clank of metal, words exchanged between the boar men in a guttural language, and underneath it all, the faintest of whimpers—

“You see now,” says Maleficent, “what your defiance will cost you, so I wonder…” She trails off and Carlos hears some shuffling, feels the bodies shift around him, and a hand pressing down on his head—

He’s forced onto his knees.

The bag is ripped away to reveal Mal, standing in front of him, with her mother behind her, one clawed hand on her shoulder—the other holding a knife, offering it for Mal to take—

But Mal’s just looking at Carlos.

“Slit his throat,” Maleficent whispers into her trembling daughter’s ear, lips close enough that she must tickle the flesh, “and I may just reconsider your punishment.” She trails her hand down from Mal’s shoulder, grabbing her wrist and guiding her puppet-like to grasp the knife. “Go on,” she urges. “His life is yours. He belongs to you. That’s what you’ve told me. Now, I’m telling you… to prove it…”

“Mal,” says Carlos, barely audible. I’ll come back goes unsaid.

She knows that. She knows that. Why won’t she just kill him?

This is the closest to mercy she will get from her mother.

Mal’s fingers twitch and Carlos holds his breath. He watches, heart pounding, as she slowly takes the knife, and then—much quicker than he can process such a stupid fucking decision—she’s whirling around, poised to stab her mother’s chest, no hesitation at all—

But Maleficent reacts, too fast for Mal to land the blade.

Her wrist is ensnared. Her mother’s face is stony.

This time, the knife is dropped.

It clatters to Mal’s feet and lays there, abandoned.

The silence that follows seems almost unnatural, as thick as it is—like a spell that can be broken by only Maleficent. And she does, but at her leisure, first gripping Mal’s chin with a punishing pressure—

“Do you want so much to die?” she asks, voice low and predatory.

Mal just stares at her, breathing hard and ragged, a soft-edged anger in her eyes, like fear is threatening to resurface—

She has no time to react before Maleficent withdraws her hand and brings it back with a hard slap that echoes off the stone walls and almost seems to make the torches flicker. The force of the blow should send Mal to her knees, but Maleficent grabs her, fisting her jacket, yanking her up. She takes a fistful of Mal’s hair and whips her head toward Carlos, forcing her to meet his eyes again—

“ANSWER ME, GIRL. WOULD YOU DIE FOR THIS DOG?”

Carlos, holding Mal’s gaze, almost imperceptibly shakes his head.

Mal stares at him for a moment, eyes bright with unshed tears, then her expression hardens and she spits blood at the ground, a trickle of red spit dribbling down her chin as she strains to tilt her head back and look at her mother, saying everything with her silence—

Maleficent’s lip curls. Her knuckles whiten, paler than pale—as though her skin is translucent, showing the bones. “Very well.”

She stoops, bending down to Mal’s ear—

“But know that, this time, you will not be buried.”

Maleficent straightens to her full, monstrous height, shoving Mal to her knees before she commands her, voice thunderous, to surrender her weapons, her jewelry, her outer clothing and her boots—

Pridefully, Mal looks back up at her mother as she moves to comply, slipping out of her jacket to show the knives strapped to her arms.

She removes them, one by one, and simply tosses them aside.

Carlos watches, breathing ragged, red creeping in at the edges of his vision. She’s giving up—and for what? “FUCK YOU, MAL!” he bursts out, startling the guards on either side of him; their grip on him had slackened, so he slides easily to the ground. “I’m not fucking worth it,” he growls, staring dead into Mal’s eyes. She looks stunned, on the verge of anger; then, the knife’s pulled from his boot, and—

“NO!” She’s up on her feet, lunging for Carlos before a pale, clawed hand hooks her upper arm, dragging her back with an effortless tug.

Carlos’ knife is at his own throat, and the guards who, at first, had moved to disarm him, are melting slowly back away. Their eyes are ever on their mistress, who has one hand raised—a silent command.

“Carlos,” Mal gasps softly, straining hard against her mother’s hold.

His eyes are raised above her head.

Maleficent is smirking.

She… wants him to…

Carlos falters, lowering the point of the knife from his throat to his collarbone. He looks at Mal, takes a breath, makes his decision—

And plunges the knife into the nearest boar man’s knee.

They squeal and the sound of it, so piercingly loud, rings in Carlos’ ears as the guards bear down. He thinks, for a second, somewhere through the din, that he hears Mal laugh—in spite of everything—

The thought is interrupted by a boot to his gut, leaving him winded. No time to catch his breath before he’s dragged up by his arms—and Mal is screaming now. He’s sure of that. He can’t focus on the words because there’s too much stimulation—the rattling of chains, the icy bite of metal, the hot breath on his face. He tenses under large hands checking over him for weapons, taking each as they’re discovered—

Carlos’ too-small boots are yanked off and he briefly feels the stone floor, burning cold beneath his bare feet; then, the chains hooked to his wrists are pulled up sharply toward the ceiling. The ground goes out from under him and he struggles not to flail, feeling panic swell up in him. He strains to touch the ground, but only manages on his tiptoes—and that’s only for a moment before a hard shove sends him swinging, shooting pain down through his shoulders—

The boar men snort with laughter as Carlos struggles, seemingly in vain. He gets a grip on the chains attached to his shackles and, with all the upper body strength he can muster, swings himself with legs outstretched—just when the guards have turned their backs to him.

He catches the nearest one around the neck, legs quickly constricting until the boar man starts to choke, clawing at Carlos’ skinny ankles as two of his fellows rush to assist him—

One grabs hold of Carlos’ leg and tries to pry it back, even almost succeeding—until his sweaty hands slip and Carlos’ leg snaps back with force, catching the choking man right in the snout. His tusks dig in to Carlos’ flesh, but the pain is distant from Carlos’ fury—

Until the weight of a spiked club connects with his hip.

He bites down on a cry as his legs come loose from around the boar men’s neck and heavily succumb to gravity. His shoulders ache and his hip throbs and he feels numbness in his fingertips.

Still, when a guard stoops to seize his good leg, Carlos spits down at their head and meets a snarl with a snarl. His ankle is shackled to a short length of chain, attached to an iron ball that’s set a little away.

His toes can touch it if he stretches, but it’s too heavy to drag nearer in any hope that he could stand on it, so he just glowers at the boar men as their numbers start to dissipate—

And Mal comes sharply back into focus.

She looks beaten down, quite literally, on her knees in front of her mother, wearing nothing but her thin, black underwear. There’s an open cage behind her, in the shape of a person much taller than her, albeit nowhere as tall as Maleficent, with her horns that scrape the ceiling. She is a god here on the Isle and she carries herself as one.

Huge, even at a distance, Maleficent’s stare turning suddenly on Carlos makes him feel like a lame deer in a grizzly’s line of sight.

“Still alive, I see,” Maleficent remarks.

Mal’s head jerks up and she meets Carlos’ eyes.

“There’s cruelty in you yet, child, to not have spared him this torture when I gave you the chance.” Maleficent smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “His pain will be immeasurable, and all because…” She tips forward, bending at the waist, one hand slowly extending until she cups Mal’s stubborn chin and forces it upward. “You are a sadistic, selfish little girl,” Maleficent coos, her voice like poisoned honey.

Mal tries to shake her head, but her mother holds her chin tight.

“He begged for a quick death, but you denied him…”

“SHUT UP!” Carlos bellows, writhing in his chains despite the pain that lances through him. He can’t listen anymore. He can’t just feel this helpless. “YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW?” He glares at Maleficent, all fear in him burnt up.

The air seems almost to coagulate, growing thick with a tension that holds the guards in their places, their eyes on their mistress as she rises to her full height, reaches out to take her staff, and—

“DON’T HURT HIM!” Mal bursts out, struggling up to her feet. She puts her arms out like a pair of spread wings—a feeble sort of shield.

Maleficent simply takes her staff in hand, face plain and unmoved.

“Speak again,” she says, addressing Carlos, “and I will cut out your tongue.” She looks at Mal, eyes dead of emotion, then lifts her staff and slams it down against the stone. “Enough of my time has been wasted on you.” She circles behind Mal, who turns to face her, wary as a mouse in the presence of Bastet. “Had I only known you’d be so human, so stupid and WEAK…” She takes a menacing step forward, backing Mal up to the birdcage. “This would have been your cradle.”

Maleficent shoves Mal and she goes stumbling backwards, right into the cage. Her head slams against the iron bars and she sinks dazedly down onto what feels like a stove with the switch just flicked on—

Her mother steps back and gestures for a boar man—one who shuts the iron cage, turns the key in the padlock, then—throwing his head back, jaws open to the ceiling—drops the key right down his throat and forces a swallow. He suppresses a cough before opening up his mouth again, presenting his throat for Maleficent’s inspection—

She perks an eyebrow, leaning over him, then gives a curt nod of approval. “Finish it,” she says with a snap of her fingers, and two boar men rush to operate a pulley made stubborn with rust—

Maleficent watches as the birdcage is raised several feet in the air—then higher still at her direction. Only when it is hanging out of the reach of any normal person does she utter, “There. Now secure it.”

Mal chokes down a whimper, just now starting to squirm.

Her mother regards her without any emotion, and somehow, that’s worse—worse than laughter or gloating or even… disappointment, because if Mal’s blood were pure, she would already be screaming.

“Mom.” The word escapes Mal as Maleficent turns her back—

She stops—and from his vantage point, Carlos sees her teeth flash.

It’s a moment, only, and then she’s icily calm. “Guards,” she says, and they come quickly to attention, awaiting her orders. She holds the room in silence uncomfortably long, slowly tapping her fingers against her staff. “You will inform Jafar and Evil Queen that I have withdrawn protection of their wretched whelps. Furthermore, that I will not tolerate any sight of the two in the shadow of my castle—and should they appear to darken my doorstep… I expect you will report to me with a body to be buried. Do you quite understand?”

She glances over her shoulder, then starts toward the door.

Mal stares after her wide-eyed, fists clenched tight around the iron bars. Her knuckles are bloodless, but her palms are reddening.

Her lips are parted, but she doesn’t speak.

Carlos is quiet, too—teeth grit so hard, his jaw aches. He’s breathing hard through his nose, glowering at Maleficent as she glides through the door, and all the boar men with her. The door slams shut and the jail keys jingle, locking up this cell that will, in days, become a tomb.

When all the footsteps have faded, Carlos finally screams—

Pure fury. Unspent anger. Hatred. Bloodlust. Wrath.

He’s not afraid. He will come back. He will come back. He’s not afraid. Death is familiar. He will come back. He’s not afraid. It isn’t that. It’s not the dying. Not the torture. Death’s familiar. So is pain.

It’s just that—if he hadn’t kissed her—

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated. And feel free to subscribe on AO3 if you want to be alerted when the next chapter comes out. Kudos and comments are lovely, as well! ♥

#descendants #marlos #rotten OT4 #descendants fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #descendants fandom #man it took me like a week to get this chapter out of my brain #it kept making me sad so I had to stop writing ajkgjsdkg #but it's finally here #and chapter two is vivid in my mind #so I will start writing that soon #though I might finish evil puppy carlos's adventures first #we shall see we shall see #I am really on a marlos kick #but I promise Jay and Evie are coming next chapter #and they have a huge role to play #plus they are going to commit crimes!#nothing like a murderous jayvie <3

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oldestenemy · 1 year ago

Text

every me, every you, every moment passing through (pt. 1)

Baldur sails them to Northguard without needing a reason.

The wizard holes up in the cargo hold and tries to stop the shaking and the sobbing to no avail.

Should they have told the death students? Malorn and Duncan at least? Penny had never met Malistaire, and Marla had never expressed the same disappointment or mourning for the loss of her professor like the other two had. They told Cyrus at the time, he hadn’t pushed for more information, the wizard hadn’t wanted to see the look on his face when he made the connection, when he understood what it meant. They hadn’t wanted to see it when he realized he was looking at his brother’s murderer again.

It had been bad enough the first time.

“We have docked. I have business here, so if you wish to stay—”

“—I’ll be out soon.” They reply, voice muffled by the fact that they are still resting their head against knees. “Thank you, Baldur.”

“Of course. You always have a friend here, as you know.”

They sit in the dark among crates of trade goods from Wizard City for a few more minutes. Waiting for their eyes to stop burning, for their nose to clear well enough to breathe.

Grizzleheim is always an escape.

Which, the more the wizard thinks about it, feels ridiculous given the proximity to the force ostensibly driving every single decision they make. But they aren’t here for Raven, she can sit alone atop her tree and watch their breakdown if she wants, they’re not in any headspace to care.

They make their way down the little path below the frontmost edge of the land, running their fingers through the waterfall as it tumbles off into nothing. The halls of Nidavellir are colder than the air outside, but they don’t mind. Looping around to one of the lower levels, doors that go… nowhere as far as the wizard is aware.

Except…

No.

There is a circle here, a dungeon sigil before the lower moon door.

Had they missed something?

Unlike most of the worlds they’ve visited, they were sure they had done everything anyone in Grizzleheim had ever asked. Any excuse to spend time here had been taken. They’ve never seen this sigil, both the lower doors of Nidavellir had always been shuttered.

They press one hand to the door, feeling the magic lock that holds it shut thrumming under their fingers.

Something waits behind this door, something for you alone.

Raven’s voice is stronger here since her release in Hrundle Fjord.

“What is it?” Their voice echoes through the emptiness, into the cavernous drop below the hall. “Tell me. Tell me!” Frustrated, they slam a fist against the door, the impact following the echo of their voice. Is it a distraction? A waste? A secret? Another horror waiting to be unleashed? Another trapped soul they’ve forgotten to save?

Raven doesn’t answer.

Something for the wizard alone.

As if that were much different from anything else.

Fine. It gives them something to do that isn’t wallow in their own mistakes. The wizard steps into the dungeon sigil, feels it drag their feet into proper placement, lets the timer tick out.

Darkness.

Silence.

"You truly think to face me, Wizard?” The low rasping voice of their very first final battle. The wizard’s vision clears to Stormdrain Tower, and the sight of Lord Nightshade. “Do you have any concept of what I am? No mere ghost lost in the ether, I am Darkness. King of the Dead, Lord of the Nightshade, Master of the things in the dark which float and scream. And now you have the honor of becoming one of my subjects."

Ha.

The wizard smiles a little, head tilting to one side as they step forward. They could vanquish Nightshade with barely a flick of their wand nowadays—

—wait.

The wizard is jolted backwards, hitting the ground by the tower door.

Looking at the back of their younger self.

They reach out a hand just for it, and the tower, to dissolve around them. Voices swirl in a cacophonous wave, nothing standing out amongst them, driving into their skull like a sledgehammer.

Heat.

Breath draws ash and sulfer. They know where they are before the illusion fades in, colors swimming into focus to reveal the top of the Great Spyre. The wizard looks to the version of themself in the ring, finds dragonscale armor and a saber from one of the Gallium Paladins. Squeezes their eyes shut until the dark returns.

“This is their castle isn’t it?”

“One of ‘em.”

Go back, turn tail and run.

“I want to see a baby battledrake!”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“I deserve this. Show me.”

Hero. Child. Student. Savior. Shining one. Spellbinder.

Harbinger of Death, of Light, of Shadow.

You with starlight on your tongue and the spiral in your eyes.

Marked by the Raven and the Spider.

“Stop it.”

Murderer.

Oni Slayer.

Dragon Tamer.

Peacemaker.

Time weaver.

Liege of the Falling Sky.

“Quiet. Stop it!”

Damned by nature.

Divine by purpose.

Living Breathing Ever Changing Paradox.

Empty Vessel.

“Enough!” Their voice shatters the darkness and leaves them standing in a room of carved blue crystal. Every surface shows their own reflection, splintered, years and worlds apart. At the far end of the room they see the odd one out. A face that isn’t theirs anymore. Gaze far away but happy. It moves and shifts with them, as they all do, but it’s muted and off color. There are other smiles, dozens of moments frozen in time, covered in pixie dust or cat scratches or—

They meet the eyes of the one staring blankly back at them. Flat gold eyes and armor coated in glittering glass dust. When the wizard presses their fingers to the glass, they can hear the far off screaming of Azteca as it dies.

Every image of them stands solitary. Alone in the moment caught.

“Aha! The spell is working!”

The reflections flash so bright it’s blinding and then go dark.

The wizard stands alone, in front of the book of secrets. Laid open on a pedestal that had not been there moments before. The words on the page are accompanied, as always, by Raven’s voice.

What kind of wizard are you now?

Who have you become?

The wizard grits their teeth, slams the book shut and hurls it into the far side of the room, where it impacts and shatters the crystal of the wall. The reflection of them from earth is left misshapen, but still smiling softly.

They turn away, chest heaving, lungs drawing air that burns for the chill of it.

“Okay,” Their voice echoes a hundred times over, every reflection sharing the word. “you have my attention. What do you want.” But it’s in asking that they see cracks form along every splintered reflection of their past. Every word sends the fractures skittering further along. Interconnecting, doubling over, weaving—

The wizard’s stomach drops.

They aren’t fractures.

It’s web.

Read the rest here <3

#wizard101 #wizard101 fandom #wizzy fandom #wizard101 fic #wizard101 fanfiction #there WILL BE A CHAPTER TWO #soon #i promise #stevie is still stuck in the spiral

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