#cw hand trauma

[whump-card]

Undertaking Alchemy: Chapter 9: Instructions Unclear

CW: hand injury

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Read on Ao3!

~~~

Ailen rested only for as long as he felt he absolutely had to before forcing his body to move. Grunting with pain and effort, he rose to his feet. His vision grayed dangerously, but soon resolved. He stumbled to the sink, Marbles following close behind. The sight that met him in the mirror was startling. His left eye was densely bloodshot, the pupil blown wide; veins of black, charcoal against his umber skin, snaked down his cheek and across his temple into his hairline.

Performing necromancy – even a failed attempt – had marked him, perhaps permanently.

Everyone would know.

Mila would protect him.

He tore his gaze away from the gaunt specter in the mirror and bent to splash cold water on his face.

The mistake he’d made in the ritual was discovered eventually. He started by going over every detail – starting with the circle, the measurements, the thickness of the lines, even the color of the chalk (was it white? Or incorrectly ivory?). The placement of the reagents was next. Yes, the lavender simply had to be at the eastern point, and the purified water at the left foot of the pentagon.

Marbles followed him all the while, appearing to listen intently as he muttered aloud and read and re-read his own notes, then read and re-read the source texts. It felt good for Ailen to have something of a lab partner – he posed questions to Marbles, asked if things made sense, and even in the resulting silence he found some clarity.

Finally, the makeup of the reagents was tested. Yes, the candles were pure beeswax, the crystals of salt were clear. At last, Ailen discovered the diluted spirit of sulcure. The simplicity of this mistake brought him great joy. He could try again. He would try again.

He was babbling his discovery to Marbles when the homunculus caught his arm.

“It’s so simple, I can’t believe I didn’t check that, I was just – what, what is it?”

Marbles stepped in front of him, pressing its hands together and resting its cheek on them to mime sleeping. Then it pointed to the duvet on the floor.

“Marbles, I can’t,” Ailen said, understanding right away what the homunculus was driving at, “I can’t sleep, I have to finish this, I have to go home.”

Marbles shook its head vigorously and placed its hands on Ailen’s shoulders, gently steering him backwards towards the duvet.

“Marbles,” Ailen took on a firmer tone, shaking off the guiding hands, “I need to do this.”

Marbles slumped a little, perhaps an expression of disappointment, but stepped aside. Ailen returned to work.

The sun was rising by the time Ailen had the ritual set up once more. Golden shafts of light rippled through the warped glass and spread across the chalk lines, the brass bowls of liquid, the crystals, the candles. It created a discordant atmosphere; the gentle, life-bringing touch of the sun against the tools assembled to cheat death.

The second attempt began much like the first. When Ailen started the incantation, dark clouds moved in to steal away the sunlight. The candles flared. Cold rose from the floor, biting Ailen’s raised fingers and pawing at his clothes. The rushing, internal and external, the living heartbeat of Ailen and the thrum of the souls beyond, rose in orchestra. Ailen’s voice never wavered, strong and determined. Undead forces beat at the walls of his magic circle, but this time, nothing gave way, nothing broke; instead, energy began to gather within. Wintergreen lighting snapped and crackled along the chalk lines and over Edelgard’s body; the corpse jolted, then its back arched off the floor; Ailen’s smile came through in his voice, he was doing something, he had proven himself capable once more, he would succeed this time.

A small controlled pinpoint opened; not the dam breaking of the previous attempt, rather a door calmly opening for a welcome guest. A magenta light, gossamer and fragile, slithered through like a ribbon from a conjurer's sleeve, snaking down from directly above towards the body. It ballooned, opened like a parachute, and settled down like a shroud over Edelgard before vanishing. Ailen never ceased chanting, the words the only control he had in the moment, his ability to make them clear, and loud, and correct. His left hand, raised in the air, was numb. He didn’t look at it, his eyes fixed on his written spell, occasionally flicking up towards the corpse.

A great creaking groan rose up; the magic circle on the floor shimmered, then leapt to life. It peeled itself off the floor and flung its white chalk lines around Edelgard, flailing loose and chaotic before snapping tight, wrapping around his limbs and sinking into his skin, melding with him.

Ailen did not hear, but had the sensation of hearing a loud noise; he did not see, but he felt a light. Then, silence, and dimness, and a deep overwhelming normalcy as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the room now that the candles had gone out. He breathed in dust, and smoke, and the familiar worldly smell of the laboratory that he’d spent so long trapped in. The silence was heavy, but not absolute; the castle creaked, in its familiar way, and Ailen breathed, and his heart pounded in his ears.

The sun started to peek through the clouds.

Ailen fell to his knees, catching himself on his hands. His left was entirely numb, and when he lifted it to look in the growing light the very tips of his fingers were black, dead black, frostbitten beyond recovery. He touched them with his right, and found them ice cold. Cradling his frozen hand to his chest, he looked up towards the body.

Edelgard lay still. The white lines of the magic circle traced across his face and his hands, and certainly the rest of his skin under his clothes.

Ailen swallowed, his throat painfully dry, his lips cracked. Nothing had gone wrong. That had to mean all had gone right.

“Rise,” Ailen said.

The body moved.

Slowly, mechanically, it sat up. It bent its legs, shifted forward, and rose to its feet, where it stopped. Waiting.

Ailen laughed.

It burst out of him, joyous and triumphant, and he scrambled to his feet, rushing to stand in front of the undead wizard. It stared blankly out over Ailen’s head.

“Teleport!” he gasped, “Can you teleport me, to Axomford, yes or no?”

In response, the undead wizard reached out and clamped a hand around Ailen’s upper arm. He yelped, attempting to twist away. The room around them started to warp and bend.

“No,” Ailen shouted, struggling against the undead’s grasp, “Wait, no, not yet, I need – Marbles!” he called, looking around wildly. He spotted Marbles and reached out. “Marbles, take my hand! Take it!”

Marbles stumbled forward, but the room was already spinning and fading.

“Marbles!” Ailen screamed.

Even as Marbles ran towards him, Ailen and the undead wizard were moving away, the room around them arcing and condensing into a pinpoint before vanishing entirely, leaving them floating in starry black. Ailen felt a deep pull on him, and kind of gravity that he had only felt when playing on a set of swings as a child, a yanking, a drag. An orb blew open below his flailing feet, ballooning up around them from unrecognizable distorted shapes into familiar surroundings.

Axomford market, in the town square. Cold, cloudy, snowing lightly, but still just as busy as any early morning: merchant stalls lined up shoulder to shoulder, throngs of people crowding the most popular vendors, children running amok, stray cats weaving between legs and wheedling for scraps, town guards cracking jokes, a nobleman cutting through on horseback. The whole scene was framed by the surrounding buildings, tall rows forming a square, mansard roofs occasionally broken by a spire or smoking chimney.

Ailen had only a moment to take it in before his stomach revolted at the rough handling by teleportation magic. The undead wizard released him, and he spun away to spew empty bile onto the cobblestones. Disoriented and frantic, he grabbed at the wizard’s robes.

“Take me back,” Ailen choked out, “Take me back, I need Marbles, take me back to the castle, now!”

Someone screamed. Ailen became aware of a growing negative space around him and the undead wizard – who looked very, very dead in the broad light of day.

“Castle Dunswoll,” he babbled, not taking his eyes off the undead creature’s impassive face, its sagging eyes, “Take me back, take me back now!”

Shouts and murmurs rose up around him.

“Mr. Maivon?”

“That’s Ailen!”

“Undead! Monster!”

“Stand back, everyone!”

“Please,” Ailen begged, “Take me back, take me back!”

There was an ear-splitting crack.Ailen stared uncomprehendingly at the bullet hole in Edelgard’s forehead. The undead wizard – one arm half raised as if to take hold of Ailen again – crumpled to the ground. Beyond it stood a guardsman, smoking pistol raised, a look of surprise on his face.

“I… I did it!” he exclaimed, “I killed an undead!”

“NO!” shrieked Ailen, “No, no, no, no!” he fell upon Edelgard’s body, shaking it, “We left Marbles behind, we have to go back, Marbles!”

“Mr. Maivon,” a gruff voice accompanied a heavy hand on Ailen’s shoulder, “Let’s not make a scene.”

Ailen twisted to look up at Captain Luther, of the guard. A familiar face, which cringed back subtly at the sight of Ailen’s.

“Luther,” gasped Ailen, “Luther, you have to help me! I was in a castle, Castle Dunswoll, and I left behind a friend, I need to get back-”

“Slow down now, Mr. Maivon,” Luther said firmly, tightening the grip on Ailen’s shoulder, “You’re scaring everyone.”

“I…” Ailen looked around, seeing countless faces, many familiar, looking on in horror.

“Let’s get you down to the guardhouse, aye? You can tell us the whole story.”

“M-Mila!” Ailen cried out, jumping to staggering feet, “You have to fetch Mila.”

“We will, we’ll fetch you Mila, and a healer, and a… whoever else you need.” As he spoke, Luther ushered Ailen away from the body and through the crowd, which parted like a frightened school of fish around a shark.

Familiar snowy streets blurred together as Ailen was ferried along by Luther and a growing shadow of more guards.

“What day is it?” Ailen asked weakly, “I haven’t had a calendar…”

“December 13th,” Luther replied.

“Oh, God,” Ailen sobbed, “It was October…” Tears rolled down his cheeks and he swiped at them with his good hand – but when he glanced down he saw blood on his fingers, not saltwater. He whimpered with fear.

“Hold on, Mr. Maivon,” Luther soothed, “We’re almost there.”

They reached the guardhouse, a brick station with gothic arches and narrow windows. It was hot inside, radiators groaning and hissing, and Ailen’s left hand started to prickle painfully as he was marched down tiled corridors. The journey ended in a small meeting room with a narrowed barred window, empty except for a table and chairs. Captain Luther clicked on the electric lights, and sat Ailen down. Guards hovered in the doorway, watching.

“Stay right here, Mr. Maivon,” Luther said, “Someone will be with you shortly.”

“You’ll tell Mila I’m here?” Ailen said, his voice cracking.

Luther hesitated, but nodded.

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it that she knows.”

“Thank you,” Ailen whispered.

Luther left, closing the door behind him.

Ailen’s heavy breath was loud in the silence. His whole body shook, tremors running down his spine and out his limbs. His teeth chattered, even in the warmth of the small room. Melted snow was slowly seeping through his thin shoes. He clutched his left hand to his chest as it ached and stung.

Marbles.

He shut his eyes, more bloody tears leaking out and pattering onto his aproned lap. How could everything have gone so wrong so quickly? How could he have left Marbles behind?

But Ailen was home. He sobbed with relief. He was home, and safe, and Mila would be here soon.

~~~

“Mr. Maivon? Mr. Maivon.”

Ailen jolted awake, lifting his head from the table and blinking up hazily at the woman standing over him.

It wasn’t Mila.

This woman had an elegant, narrow face, and a neutral, business-like gaze. She wore a gray jacket over a matching bell skirt, her hair in a soft bun.

“Mr. Maivon, I’m Mrs. Radcliffe. I’ve been assigned to your counsel.”

“Counsel?” Ailen echoed.

Mrs. Radcliffe offered a sheet of paper.

“You’re being charged with necromancy in the second degree.”

“What?” Ailen couldn’t find any other words. Of course he’d expected the likelihood of needing to explain his resort to necromancy to the law – but as a respected local business owner he’d assumed he’d get a chance to do so before being charged with anything.

When Ailen didn’t take the offered paper, Mrs. Radcliffe laid it on the table.

“It’s a very cut-and-dry accusation, you bear the marks and appeared before many witnesses with an undead. I’d advise you to plead guilty and beg for leniency.”

Ailen stared at the sheet of paper, words swimming in his eyes.

“I need to talk to Mila,” he whispered.

“For the safety of the public, you are not allowed visitors. Your hearing is tomorrow morning. Do you have any questions for me?” Nothing about her tone was cruel, it was simply business to her.

“I…” Ailen shook his head, “I was kidnapped.”

“If you have a report to file, you can do that after your hearing.”

“But I… I had no choice…”

“Everyone has a choice,” she said plainly, “You chose to violate the natural law. I’m afraid, in this case, there is no escaping the consequences. If you have no questions, I must go.”

Ailen was tongue-tied, completely disoriented.

“What do I do?” he whispered.

“As I said,” Mrs. Radcliffe replied, “Plead guilty. Beg for mercy. I wish you luck.”

She bobbed a curtsy, and exited without another word. Ailen stared after her, his breath coming in short gasps. He couldn’t process what had just happened.

The door opened again; a guardsman entered, bearing a pair of cuffs.

“I’m to take you to a holding cell, sir. Hands, please.”

At a loss for what else to do, Ailen raised his hands; but doing so sent an awful spike of pain through his left. Ailen winced and hissed. His fingers were swollen and discolored.

“Captain Luther said he’d bring a healer,” he said quickly as the guard approached, “Did he?”

The guard snapped the manacles closed over Ailen’s wrists.

“No healer in town who would see a necromancer. Up you get, take your papers.” He grabbed Ailen’s upper arm and pulled the alchemist to his feet. Ailen stumbled, vision going spotty.

“I haven’t eaten…” he gasped, remembering to snatch up the paper in his good hand.

The guard yanked him forward.

“You’ll get something tomorrow morning. Move along.”

Helpless, Ailen followed out into the hall, the grip on his arm bruisingly tight. He stared bewildered at the people they passed, then spotted Captain Luther up ahead, walking towards them.

“Captain Luther!” he called, “May I speak with you a moment?”

Luther didn’t lift his eyes from the report he was looking at – he just kept walking.

“Captain Luther?” Ailen called again, eyes going wide. Before he knew it, they were passing each other, and Luther hadn’t spared him so much as a glance. “Captain Luther? Captain Luther!” Ailen’s voice rose into a desperate shriek as he struggled against the hold of the guard – but the man’s grip was strong, and the Captain disappeared around a corner. Ailen sobbed; the guardsman didn’t say a word.

They passed a mirror at a quick pace, but Ailen still caught a glimpse of himself.

There was no white to be seen in his left eye, only red and black. Blood, dried and fresh, dripped from it down his cheek, crisscrossing the veins of inky black that snaked under his skin.

He looked demonic.

Oh.

~~~

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Taglist: @inhurtandincomfort / @flowersarefreetherapy / @onlywhump / @twigsofmanyfaces / @emanresus-blog

[fridjitzu]

I re-found that one Nope behind the scenes photo of Phyllis Mayberry with her mauled hand on the actress' instagram (original link here! the caption on Instagram even includes a little bit of lore :D)

[bogcreacher]

defanged

[howlsofbloodhounds]

more people should explore the trauma nightmare would’ve caused color

[clownbastard]

Villain and violent, infant and innocent

Baby, both arms cradle you now

Both arms cradle you now

I started this like two months ago or so but abandoned it because I wanted to learn how to tween in capcut (I failed lmao). But since Nexus is dead and I'm still bawling my eyes out about it, I might as well post it.

[heraldofsomething]

Assassin's Creed: Origins The False Oracle

I die, my work unfinished. So close, so very close to ushering in the perpetual rule of the strong and virtuous! The vault will give us the power of the gods - what is one boy?

[seraphalpha]

Angels are my funky little hyper-fixation.

The idea of just being breathed to life, to immediate indelible purpose, knowing nothing else but adoration for your Creator (holy-holy-holy), and love for everything in creation. That includes your perfect home, your siblings, and that includes yourself. Everything is as it should be, everyone is doing what they should be, and you're utterly content.

Do you have free-will? Why would you need it? What would you even do with it?

The idea of falling. That terrible, beautiful first breath of freedom, undercut by immediate sorrow. "Innocence lost cannot be regained", but even more: a broken machine cannot be relied upon. In finding yourself, you have destroyed what you were meant to be. Your Creator (holy-holy-holy) has thrown you away.

Would you still be you if you got "fixed"? Would the "flaw" just recur? Why can't you help but think of it in those terms?

You have the Fallen, your comrades in arms, your fellow damned. But you left two-thirds of Heaven behind, people you loved because you were made to love them, and who were made to love you in return. The oldest family in the universe, your family, is broken now.

Do you still love them, your siblings that stayed behind? Some fought against your newfound freedom, yes. But some just looked on, a few perhaps even in envy, too afraid to join you, but most in simple horror as their world dissolved. Do you resent them too?

You broke your family.

Do you hate them simply because they lacked your will, your conviction? Do you hate them for being better machines? Do you hate them knowing, in their own naive, ignorant, hurtful way, that they still love you?

To deny fault is to deny the very free-will you sought to prove you have. To blame Him (holy-holy-holy) is to admit to His (holy-holy-holy) infinite power which you, nonetheless, defy.

And from the other side, what of your poor lost kin? How could they do this?

Angels are purpose-made, gears in the Machine. The Host is singular, inexorable, deterministic. They turn the wheels of the Universe, from the birth and death of stars, to the birth and death of mortal creatures.

Why would your siblings do this, don't they love you? You are loved. Was there a flaw in the Design? He (holy-holy-holy) cannot err, by definition. What happens now that they're gone, what happens to their purpose? All goes according to plan. Then why can't you stop having these thoughts?

I'm not religious at all, but...

[fictionkinfessions]

Jimmy, I fucking hate you. I hate you. I trusted you and you hurt Anya and blamed Swansea. You crashed the fucking ship and lied about it and you doomed all of us. I trusted you and you killed us. You killed everyone and lied about it because you were fucking jealous, or whatever. I don't fucking care why you did it.

God, Swansea. Anya. Curly. God, I hope you're okay. None of you deserved that. None of you deserved what happened. You were just doing your jobs and that piece of shit killed you. We didn't deserve that.

Swansea, thank you for trying to help me. Thank you for sparing me in the end. It really hurt haha.

Anya, god, I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry. I hope you feel safe now, at least.

Curly, you were a good captain. You had your reputation destroyed and fucking hands blown off for a guy who wanted nothing more than to ruin you. I'm sorry it happened. I'm sorry you were in so much pain at the end.

I hope something nice happens to you today. And Jimmy, I pray to god you're different now, if you're here. Because fucking God help anyone who knows you if you're not.

-Daisuke , Mouthwashing fictive. #sharkfeed

x

[whump-card]

Nails

Art taglist: @angst-after-dark, @whumpsday, @flowersarefreetherapy, @rainydaywhump, @softvampirewhump

[imalayla]

Before it eats my brain up I will type out weird interaction with the neighbor diagonal from me. I'm walking Stol, he pees on a tree on the side of the street opposite from my house. It's not a yard, it's an empty spanse of grass, weeds, and trees that are between the parking pad of the apartment building, and the street.

Guy (tall, large, older man maybe 50s-60s) pulls up into his driveway and gets out. At first I don't even register that he's talking to me. But I finally realize he's asking me "is that your yard?"

I said "sorry?" Not sure if I heard him right.

"is that your yard??" (He sounds slurred , perhaps drunk?)

"No that's not my yard."

"don't let your dog go in other people's yards."

At this point I'm ?? Not sure how to process this but my alarm bells are going off due to this man's body language and tone of voice. So I just say "my dog peed on the tree." cuz I don't know what else to say.

He says even louder "don't matter, that's not your yard."

I wanted to say well is it YOUR yard?! But I just said "big deal, he peed on a tree, it's fine."

I continue walking Stoli, trying to ignore the guy but I can tell he's following me a little down the street which makes me even more nervous. I hear him saying something but I dont catch the whole thing.

Stoli stops to poop (and again I must stress this is NOT a yard. It's essentially a no-mans land, unkempt side of a residential street with overgrown weeds, invasive plants, bare dirt, etc.)

I am getting poop bags out when I hear the guy about "AND NOW HES TAKIN A SHIT? HES SHITTING?"

I don't say anything at this point but NGL my temper is spiking. I pick up the poop and debate on yelling back that if he doesn't shut up I'll throw the shit bag in his face. I keep walking though. I don't know why but it got my blood pressure up SO much.

I hear him say one more time "THAT DOG IS SHITTING!" But I continue walking around the loop and the guy stops following me after I ignored him over the shit comment.

This is the first time I've ever seen this man or even interacted with people in that house.

The place Stoli peed isn't his house or yard or land. What a bizarre thing to get angry about, my dog hiking his leg on a tree that's by the street. I picked up his poop as I always do. It makes me nervous bc no matter where I go for walks I have to walk past this guy's house because it's RIGHT there, corner lot diagonal from ours. Low key was afraid of being assaulted or shot, but it may just be my PTSD hyper vigilance. He was giving off some rancid vibes.

[anewp0tat0]

I've been thinking recently, so here's a headcanon:

when Ciel is in a moment of distress, near panic attack perhaps, if someone were to reach out and touch him so that Ciel could feel their skin, his distress would be amplified. however, he does not react that way in response to a gloved hand reaching out for him. in fact, it is almost soothing. afterall, the hand that has comforted him for the past almost 4 years has been gloved. so if he was ever conditioned to fear all touch, that behavior eventually went extinct.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

killer probably crashes out any time he feels even a tiny bit of guilt that he can’t dissociate from and repress

[tangledinink]

this is really stupid but like.

... is there anyone else in this fandom whose twin has died? am i the only one?

[thezombiedraws]

doing this trend (and i just HAD to forget his tattoo)

[gravyhoney]

Who up thinking about Mason ocs? I know I sure am.

‼️TW for blood and eye trauma‼️

Drawings took me literal days, editing took me. Ten minutes.

Rip Blake you would have loved boygenius

Rip Rubix you would have loved being able to see out of both eyes.

Separate drawings under the cut✨