#darkness befallen ashes remains

[rw-repurposed]

A n c i e n t s

So, in the first image are the five main ancients of Chasing Wind.

From left to right:

Nine Howling Vessels, Silent Night. Head of the Maintenance Council.

Darkness Befallen, Ashes Remains. Constructor of Chasing Wind, Head of the Society Council.

Four Rising Suns, One Setting Moon. Leader of the Ancient Colony, the Grand Councilor.

Stains of Shadow Over A Realm's Sorrow. Chasing Wind's Administrator.

One Direct Goal, Infinite Curved Paths. Head of the Research Council.

They will be the ancients who have the most effect on Chasing Wind and the lore as a whole.

[gojoux]

『 𝐍𝐎 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐄 』

· Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

· Summary: Life has decided to lead you to him or lead him to you, knowing that you two are destined together despite your differences. This told story is just a glimpse of a few memories between you and him, one that he remembers dearly.

· CW: 8.6k // Mostly fluff. True Form!Sukuna. Heian Era. Overprotective + Possessive Sukuna. Very subtle sex scenes. Slight violence.

Late post because the app screwed me over a divider. As you see... it’s thicker like him than usual.

The infamous King of Curses had only one weakness—you.

Ryomen Sukuna, the most fearsome sorcerer (or used to be one) alive, would melt in your presence. His usual cold and cruel demeanor vanished when he was with you, replaced by a gentle sweetness he showed to no other.

From the very first moment your paths crossed, he was utterly enthralled, something he would never expect to feel in his life. You’re someone he doesn’t even know or heard of and he doesn’t find the appeal from you, but there’s just something about you that makes him enchanted at first sight.

Your luminous soul called to him like a song. He knew you were destined to be his. And so he courted you as tenderly as his blackened heart would allow, coaxing you to return his affections.

Slowly, gently, he broke down your defenses. His smoldering gazes made your heart flutter. His feather-light touches from his big, strong hands and fingers sent shivers down your spine. Before long, you realized you were falling for this demon who looked at you with such longing in his crimson eyes.

He could shower you with all the passion and devotion he had been holding back. He cherishes you, catering to your every desire. Just being near you was euphoric for him.

When apart, he counted the seconds until he could see you again. And when reunited, he was unable to keep his hands off you, showering you with passionate kisses and whispers of sweet words.

“You are mine. Remember that,” he would murmur against your skin as he held you close. “Always.”

You had tamed the beast. Or so you thought.

While Sukuna was nearly defenseless against your love, it also ignited something far more sinister—his jealousy.

The mere idea of losing you made his blood burn with rage. Other men were not even permitted to look at you, lest they get torn limb from limb.

Though deeply in love, Sukuna’s possessive nature remained. And woe befall any who dared threaten what was his.

The first time it happened was weeks after you’d become his. A young lord from a clan sent you gifts and flowers, seeking your affection. When Sukuna discovered this, the fury in his eyes turned them molten gold.

“He dares think he can steal you away from me?” Sukuna seethed. In an instant, he vanished to hunt down the offending lord.

He returned hours later drenched in blood that was not his own. You shuddered to imagine what cruel fate had befallen the misguided young man. Sukuna said nothing of it, simply pulled you into a bruising kiss and swore you’d never leave his side again.

After that, the corpses started piling up.

A guard who eyed you lasciviously, eviscerated.

A peasant whose longing stare lingered too long, executed.

Anyone who so much as looked at you with desire was signing their own death warrant.

You begged Sukuna to show mercy, but your pleas fell on deaf ears. “They try to take what is mine,” he would snarl. “They deserve no less than agony and death.”

His demonic nature had fully resurfaced, and you realized just what you had unleashed. Sukuna would slaughter legions and burn the world to ashes if it meant keeping you.

You were terrified of what he had become. Yet some traitorous part of you thrilled at being so coveted, so passionately loved, even if it came at a bloody cost.

He was an obsession incarnate, and you, his obsession.

No matter where you turned, his shadow loomed.

There would be no escaping the King of Curses’ dark desires.

You were his.

How did it all start? It’s been too long since it went past your head already.

But you do remember vividly when you were walking that one night when your gut told you not to, you did.

You should have listened to your instincts. But there was something about the forest at night that called to you, beckoning you to explore its moon-bathed paths and whispering trees.

Curiosity won out over caution, and you decided one quick walk couldn’t hurt.

You set out just after sunset, relishing the kiss of cool night air on your skin. The woods were serene and lovely in the deep blue hush just before true darkness fell. Night blooms perfumed the air as you wandered along aimlessly, simply savoring this secret world.

Until you realized you had lost your way. Suddenly the trees seemed more ominous, the shadows deeper. You paused, peering anxiously through the gloom.

How long have you been walking?

Which way was home?

As you turned around in circles trying to get your bearings, a blow of wind appeared behind you. You froze, heartbeat thudding in your ears.

“Well, what do we have here?”

You whipped around with a gasp. Emerging from the trees was a tall, powerfully built man. But what drew your wide-eyed stare were the four arms crossed onto his bare, toned chest.

You stumbled back in terror, but he moved unnaturally fast, appearing before you in an instant. Up close, details that had escaped you at a distance were now frighteningly clear. Tattoos are carved on his face and body. His eyes burned crimson.

You were face to face with the King of Curses himself.

“Please…” you whimpered, trembling. “I mean no trespass...”

Sukuna tilted his head, considering you with evident amusement. He reached out an arm towards you, his fingers gliding along your jaw, tipping your chin up. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for death.

But instead of tearing you apart, he simply chuckled. “Open your eyes. I will not harm you.”

You cracked them open hesitantly. Sukuna was observing you closely now, intrigued.

“Fear not. I merely wondered who was wandering my woods at this late hour,” he purred. “But I see now… you are no threat at all.”

His touch was surprisingly gentle as he traced the line of your throat. You shivered but did not dare pull away. The heat of his skin felt feverish against yours.

“What brings you here to me, I wonder?” he murmured, his piercing gaze seeming to lay your soul bare.

He tutted, circling you slowly. “These woods are dangerous at night, especially for tempting morsels like yourself. Do you have any idea what lurks in the shadows?” He paused expectantly, but you were too petrified to respond.

You licked your dry lips nervously. “I… I was simply exploring. I did not mean to disturb—”

“Quiet.” A finger pressed lightly over your mouth. “How shall I punish this trespass? I do hate uninvited guests.”

You finally found your voice, though it trembled pitifully. “P-please, I meant no intrusion. If you let me go, I swear I will never—”

“Let you go?” Sukuna tilted his head, looking almost offended. “Now, why would I do that? No, you will not be leaving.”

Your heart hammered at those enigmatic words. Just what did this dangerous being want with you? Surely not anything good.

As if reading your mind, Sukuna laughed once more. “Worry not, little one. I only wish for some company.” In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance between you, caging you with his body. This close, the heat pouring off him was incredible, the coils of his tattoos seeming to slither and shift before your eyes with your heart hammering wildly.

A violent shudder went through you, though not entirely from fear now. Being clasped in his strong embrace had stirred something unexpected within you. A strange exhilaration at having caught the eye of this exotic and terrible being.

He leaned down, inhaling deeply near the crook of your neck. “Mm, such fear. I can taste it rolling off your skin… intoxicating.” His lips grazed your fluttering pulse, making you shudder. “You are afraid, yet also thrilled to see me, aren’t you?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Was it that obvious, the traitorous excitement you felt being so close to this dangerous demon? You just couldn’t tear your eyes away from his unusual beauty.

“I thought so,” he purred, looking utterly satisfied. He brushed a finger lightly down your cheek. “It seems fate has brought you to me for a reason.”

Sukuna sensed your reaction and made a small pleased noise. In one smooth motion, he swept you up into his arms and started carrying you deeper into the woods.

You gasped, hands braced against the solid muscles of his shoulder. “Where are you taking me? Please, I never meant to intrude! I am sorry! just—”

“Shut it.” His grip tightened. “Do not fight me. Submit, and it will go easier for you.”

Tears of panic spilled down your cheeks. But despite your fear, you felt your body responding to his proximity, pulsing with alarming warmth. Your thoughts scattered as Sukuna claimed your mouth in a searing kiss, tasting your helpless whimper.

“What are you…” you gasped, too speechless to find a word to fight back.

As if reading your mind again, Sukuna adjusts the way he’s carrying you to brush his lips against your own in a feather-light caress. “I hope you are not too afraid, little one. I have been alone for so long, you will keep me company. And I have no intention of letting you go.”

Some part of you recognized the truth in his words. No matter how your mind recoiled, your body was betraying you, longing for more of his addictive caresses. He sensed your crumbling resistance, his smile triumphant.

“You are mine now. Do not fight it.”

You stared around in awe at the sprawling shinden-zukuri as Sukuna placed you down and led you inside. Paper screens glowed warmly with lantern light, illuminating opulent tatami rooms decorated with priceless scrolls and vases, and through meticulously tended gardens dotted with tranquil ponds. Everything about this place spoke of immense power and wealth.

It was a far cry from your own humble village dwelling. You could scarcely fathom how a demon lord had come to possess such a magnificent noble estate out here in the remote forest.

As Sukuna guided you deeper into the manse, you passed several elegantly dressed women in simple yet elegant kimonos, all keeping their gazes demurely lowered.

‘Servants,’ you realized. But where had they come from? Were they taken like how you are now? Were you about to become another of his servants?

When you reached the main manor, Sukuna slid open the screen to reveal a grand receiving chamber. Priceless ink scrolls and painted silk screens adorned the walls. The opulence was staggering.

“Do you like it?” he asked, noting your awe. “I claimed this estate long ago from its previous owners.”

You shivered at the implication behind those words but said nothing as he guided you deeper inside.

Your bemused wondering was interrupted when Sukuna slid open a screen door, ushering you into a lavish bed chamber. A large futon covered in silks took up most of the space.

“You must be weary, little one,” he stroked your hair. “Rest now. I will have my servants draw you a bath.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead before gliding from the room. Still stunned by your opulent surroundings, you wandered over to the open window. Beyond the manicured gardens and koi ponds you could see nothing but dense forest stretching endlessly. Just how far had Sukuna brought you?

You had little time to ponder before two servant women appeared, bowing deeply. They poured hot water into a carved wooden tub and then added cherry blossom-scented oils.

You let them help you disrobe and sink into the fragrant bath, the tension in your muscles unwinding. The demon’s domain was still terrifying and foreign, but you couldn’t deny the comforts he lavished upon you. His possession had a gentleness to it that left you conflicted.

This place treated you better in less than two hours than your whole life in the village.

After your bath, the servants dressed you in silken robes layered in rich hues of wisteria and spring leaves. Darkened your lips with crushed berries. They arranged your hair with jade combs and dabbed perfume at your wrists in a courtly fashion.

Examining their work in a bronze mirror, you barely recognized yourself. The simple village girl staring back from the bronze mirror was gone, replaced by someone who looked like a noblewoman.

Sukuna was waiting when you emerged, hungry eyes sweeping over you appreciatively. “Beautiful,” he pulls you close to him. His lips grazed your wrist, inhaling the perfume there. “You will come to appreciate the comforts of being mine.” His words sent an illicit tingle through you.

“Thank you,” was all you could say as you felt your body sway toward him, eyelashes fluttering downward demurely. His attentions were clouding your caution, making you forget the circumstances that had brought you here.

Sukuna seemed pleased by your response. He took your hand and led you to a candlelit room where a feast awaited. You kneeled on plush cushions across from him. There, your eyes widen at the sight—dishes you could only dream of tasting.

“Uraume is my best cook. They know how to make delicious food,” he brags, pointing at the person with white bob hair with his eyes. Uraume bowed respectfully before excusing themselves.

As the night deepened, Sukuna kept your cup full, his burning gaze holding yours in the romantic glow. Here in this place of luxury, it was easy to forget he was someone who had stolen you away.

“Come.” He held out one of his hands. “It is time you rested.”

Back in the bed chamber, he guided you down onto silken sheets while your pulse quickened. His eyes roamed your body hungrily before he leaned down to claim your lips in a deep kiss. You knew you should resist, but his touch ignited a dangerous fire inside.

His fingers trailed delicately along your skin as he peeled away each layer of your robes until you were laid bare before him. “You are so lovely, little one,” he rasped. He pressed you down into the silken futon, his eyes focused on you. “I will teach you pleasures fit for an empress,” he growled.

“And you will learn to crave my body above all else.”

His words sent a spike of fear through you, even as your traitorous body responded hungrily to his. His burning caress left no doubt of his intentions. You trembled, but didn’t refuse him.

Here in this beautiful prison, you were his to do with as he pleased. And some traitorous part of you craved to experience the passions he promised.

As Sukuna’s body covered yours, you surrendered completely to him. Within these walls, you now belonged utterly to him.

You had been living as Sukuna’s pampered pet in his lavish manor for several days now. He gifted you an ornate silk kimono, adorned your hair with jeweled combs, and ensured you lacked nothing. At night, he would lay you across silken futons and set your body aflame with new realms of pleasure.

But each morning after, as he caressed your skin and murmured endearments, doubts crept in. Were there others that he touched this way? The thought filled you with unease.

You wanted his passion reserved only for you.

When Sukuna appeared in your room this evening, he found you quiet and distant, your smile restrained. Brow furrowing, he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze.

“What troubles you, little one? Have I not provided for you well?”

You gathered your courage. “I… I have a request, My Lord…”

He raised one brow, “Oh? Speak.”

“If we are to share such intimacy, I wish it to be only between us. No other lover, in any way.” You held his gaze evenly. “Will you vow this, please?”

For a moment Sukuna only stared, stunned by your bold demand. Then a sly smile curved his lips.

“My little one wishes to tame me, is that it?” He trailed a finger lightly down your cheek. “You seek to bind me to yourself alone?”

Heart pounding, you gave one short nod.

Sukuna threw back his head with a delighted laugh. “You fascinate me endlessly. No mortal has ever dared make demands of me.” His expression softened by looking at your innocent face. “But for you, I will agree.”

He leans down, face to face with you, “From now on, I am yours alone.”

Relief washed through you at his oath. As Sukuna drew you into a passionate kiss, you yielded completely for the first time, holding nothing back.

“My sweet, little love…” He lifted you in his arms. “I will make you forget any existed before this night.”

And he did. Laying you down, hands and lips he worshiped you, wringing gasps and cries from your lips as you arched desperately, mindless and pleading beneath him.

At the height of ecstasy, his burning gaze held yours. His heated gaze seared into yours at the pinnacle, fierce and possessive. “No other shall ever know you as I do.”

The feeling when your body joined, the sensation was beyond words, it felt like coming home. Like a missing piece of your soul had been restored. Wave after wave of bliss crested over you both, leaving you entwined in breathless ecstasy.

As lantern light faded to silvery moonbeams, Sukuna held you close, your heartbeats synchronizing. You now belonged only to each other in body, heart, and soul.

“Mine,” Sukuna rasped against your skin, his canine digging into your neck, marking you as his. “Just as I am yours. This, I vow to you, little one, from now until the end of days.”

His words echoed long in your mind, even as spent passion gave way to sleep in his enveloping embrace. The King of Curses himself was now bound to you irrevocably. And you to him.

The vow had been spoken, the ritual complete.

The days had settled into a predictable routine in Sukuna’s residence. He would vanish for hours or even full days to attend to mysterious “business”, leaving you to wander the chambers and gardens alone. You never ask where he went or what occupied him. Some fears were best left unspoken.

But your heart would lift eagerly whenever Sukuna returned, no matter how late the hour. Just knowing he had come back to you was enough. You took to waiting anxiously by the engawa, ready to greet him.

At first, he returned spotless and composed. But soon the blood became noticeable.

It would decorate his arms, spatter his chest and face in drying rust-colored patterns. The life essence of whatever poor souls had crossed him in the nearby villages. You didn’t need to ask how it got there.

The first time, you gasped and shrank back in horror. But Sukuna just smiled and opened his arms to you. “Come, let us get cleansed of the day’s exertions.”

You forced yourself to look past the gore, seeing only your demonic lord who needed tending. Taking his hand, you led him to the bath chamber.

There you gently sponged away the carnage, breathing relief when his skin emerged clean again. Sukuna watched you intently, eyes glowing with unspoken emotions. You didn’t dare examine it too closely.

When you were done, he would pull you into his lap, nuzzling against your throat almost tenderly. As if your ministries had tamed the beast lurking within.

“My little one,” he would rumble. And your heart would swell under his praises.

Before long, you began living for his returns. The hours apart stretched endlessly, your thoughts consumed with concern for his well-being. Your chest would tighten with loneliness in his absence. Maybe you craved him because you have no one to come home to, that’s why you are willing to be with him.

Surely he must share your needs, right?

The moment his shadow appeared down the corridor, you flew to him, embracing him heedless of any lingering blood. Sukuna laughed indulgently, hands gentling your desperation.

“Such passion, little one. Did you miss me so terribly?”

You nodded, not caring how you exposed your dependence on him. He tipped your chin up, his sharp eyes looking at you softly. “As I missed you. The time apart is agony.”

His admission made you smile in relief. After bathing him, you would prepare tea and draw him into quiet conversation, savoring this domestic intimacy. Here with you, he almost seemed content.

At late night, his lovemaking took on new urgency, as if reaffirming your bond. You matched his intensity, wanting to erase any distance the day had built between you.

“You are all I need,” he whispered afterward, cradling you close. And you knew then you were hopelessly lost to this dangerous creature. He had become your entire world.

When Sukuna departed each morning, part of you went with him. Until he returned to make you whole once more. There was no denying the truth—you were his, mind, body, and soul.

You see, life with Sukuna provided came at a terrible price—the waiting.

And so you hatched a plan.

You requested the finest silks from the seamstress and described the revealing garment you wished to craft. An elegant yet alluring yukata, hinting at the beauty beneath.

On the night of his homecoming, you adorned yourself carefully, arranging your hair over your bare shoulders, sketching your lips crimson. The ensemble left you feeling exposed, but also powerful.

When Sukuna entered the bed chamber, the sight of you made him halt in his tracks. Eyes widened as they traced over you hungrily, taking in every contour the diaphanous fabric outlined.

“Little one,” he rasped. “You look like divinity itself. What is all this for?”

You steeled your nerves and went to him, guiding his fingers to untie your sash with hands that trembled.

“I wish to ease your burdens tonight, My Lord. Will you permit me?”

A growl escapes his throat as your robes slip to the floor. The intensity of his gaze seared into your skin everywhere it touched. Strong arms pulled you fiercely against him.

“You test my restraint, beloved. Are you certain?”

At your whispered yes, his control shattered. With infinite care he bore you down onto silken sheets, praising every inch of newly bared flesh until you were dizzy and pleading.

Even at its peak, he kept the pace languid—long, delirious strokes of passion. The pleasure was sweet agony. You arched and moved as one, minds entwining as deeply as your bodies.

When it ended, you were changed. Sukuna held you tenderly as languor claimed you both, as if you were the most precious treasure in the world.

Perhaps you should have been afraid of this obsessive devotion. But you could not imagine life without him now.

As nice as it is living comfortably with everything provided for you, sometimes his residence becomes a gilded cage. You yearned to walk beyond the gardens, to visit the nearby villages you glimpsed from afar.

After much pleading, Sukuna finally relented. “If it will make you happy, we shall go. But you must stay close to me.” His eyes held an unspoken warning.

The day came at last. Taking his arm, you ventured out onto the winding forest paths, buzzing with excitement. Sukuna watched you closely, as if to imprint each delighted reaction.

When the first simple thatched dwellings came into view, you gasped. “Oh, look! Real village life, just as I remembered.”

“Then let us explore it,” he said indulgently, strolling by your side.

You moved through stalls selling woven reed baskets, hand-dyed yukata, and carved jade amulets. The smells of grilling fish and blossom-scented steam from tea houses mingled in the air. Your smile was radiant.

Most villagers averted their eyes and scrambled away at the sight of his presence. But their fearful deference only seemed to amuse Sukuna as he guided you along.

Pausing by a fountain, you turned joyfully to him. “Thank you for this, My Lord. I haven’t felt this happy in…” Your voice trailed off as you noticed a young man staring from across the village square. His gaze was fixed on you, his handsome face breaking into a flirtatious grin, looking at you with his eyes signaling interest.

Before you could react, Sukuna had crossed the distance between them in two swift strides. You watched in horror as he seized the insolent youth by the throat and slammed him against a wall, baring razor fangs.

“You dare look at her that way?” he thundered. The young man choked out pleas for mercy as Sukuna’s grip tightened relentlessly.

“My Lord! Stop!” You rushed over, clutching his arm. “I beg you, let him go!”

With obvious reluctance, Sukuna released his hold and stepped back. The terrified man crumpled to the ground, wheezing with his face pale. You tugged Sukuna (he didn’t resist) away quickly as onlookers gaped.

Once you were back within the secluded forest path, he rounded on you. “Why did you stop me?” he demanded, eyes still burning with fury. “That whelp was openly desiring what is mine.”

You trembled. “He meant no true offense, My Lord.”

Sukuna exhaled harshly, drawing you against him. “You are too forgiving, little one. Next time I may not be so lenient.” The promise in his voice chilled you.

Nonetheless, in the days that followed, you persuaded him to let you visit the village markets again. Sukuna acquiesced, but his mood turned brooding whenever you went out together.

It was not long before a repeat incident occurred. A passing noble’s gaze lingered on you a moment too long. Sukuna's reaction was swift and merciless. Before you could intervene, the shrieking lord was engulfed in infernal flames, his ashes scattering to the wind.

This time, Sukuna was deaf to your pleas for restraint. “They continue testing me, presuming they can admire my possession with impunity,” he snarled. “I will suffer this insult no more.”

Numb with horror, you could say nothing as he took your arm and led you from that place of death.

Sukuna would never change his nature. His jealousy and possessiveness were as innate as the demonic power coursing through his veins. And you were helpless to curb them.

Trying to tame such a savage spirit had been foolish. Where his claim over you was concerned, no mercy would ever sway him.

The journey back to the estate was made in tense silence. You could feel the rage rolling off Sukuna in scorching waves as he strode ahead. His jaw was granite, fists clenched and shaking.

Only once you were behind the privacy of the chamber walls did he finally unleash it.

“How can you defend him?” he roared, making you flinch. “Those pathetic mortals who dared to covet what is not theirs. It is unacceptable!”

You stood your ground. “I make no defense, only ask that you temper reactions. This endless jealousy causes nothing but suffering.”

Sukuna’s eyes blazed, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “You ask me to watch passively as they dishonor my claim on you? To permit their vulgar ogling?” He swept a hand savagely across a lacquered table, sending the vase crashing.

You jumped at the destruction but forced yourself to meet his volcanic glare. “I am not possession or prize to be claimed, My Lord. You cannot punish all for one foolish man’s gaze. I have told you this before, but I am not harmed.”

“Not harmed?” Sukuna bellowed, slamming his fists into the bloodwood pillar with a crack. “Not yet! But their desire will grow brazen if I do not act decisively now.”

He stormed toward you, making you back away instinctively. “You are mine. No other shall covet or touch what belongs to me. I would see this whole wretched village burn first.”

As his tirade raged on, you felt tears rising, spilling silently down your cheeks. The possessive diatribes, the limitless fury—you were exposing the folly of trying to gentle the devil’s heart.

Sukuna abruptly halted his pacing at the sight, chest heaving. His blazing eyes took in your hunched, trembling form. For an instant, something like shock flickered across his face. He blinked rapidly, swaying slightly.

“No… My little love…” All at once, the frenzied anger seemed to drain from him. He reached for you hesitantly, as if expecting you to recoil. When you stayed rooted, he enfolded you in his shaking arms.

“Forgive me,” Sukuna whispered. “I should not have raised my voice. But the thought of losing you…” One hand stroked your hair, then gently tipped your chin up. His thumb brushed away the tear tracks on your skin.

“You are everything to me in this wretched world,” he murmured. “I could not bear it if harm befell you.” His eyes were molten and his voice raw. “Tell me you know I would never let anything hurt you, not even myself in the madness of my rage.”

You searched his face and saw the sincerity burning there. With a fragile nod, you laid your head against his chest. His exhale was ragged with relief.

“I will try to be more merciful. For you, at least,” he sighs. “But you must understand it rages in my blood when I see them desire my most precious treasure.”

You stayed silent in his embrace. Perhaps this was the most he could concede—ferocity tempered with remorse. You could not change his possessive heart, only help him master what flowed within it.

And for now, it would have to be enough. His jealousy was a storm that would never fully be calmed. But like the storm’s eye, at the center there was still tenderness he reserved only for you.

Once more, the days dragged endlessly when Sukuna was away. You had explored every corner of the estate a dozen times over. The loneliness gnawed at you.

So when he left at dawn one morning, you made an impulsive decision. Donning a cloak, you slipped outside the manor walls while the servants slept. Your steps quickened as you neared the hill path leading down to the village.

You had only meant to take a brief, harmless walk to lift your spirits. But the smells of grilled squid and sweet adzuki buns drew you like a magnet. Your stomach rumbled, reminding you it had been ages since you tasted simple street food.

Checking over your shoulder, you darted to the nearest food stall when no one was looking. The elderly vendor smiled in delight as you pointed to the snacks that tempted you most. It felt deliciously naughty, this minor rebellion.

You were waiting for the bamboo skewer of piping hot squid when someone jostled you from behind. Whirling around angrily, you found yourself staring up at a rugged, unkempt man looming over you. His bloodshot eyes raked down your body in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Well now, what do we have here?” His words slurred drunkenly. “You’re that demon’s little toy, ain’t ya? His pretty pet.”

When you shrank away, the brute caught your wrist in a painful grip. Revulsion rose in you. “Let go of me!”

The man just sneered. “Where is your master now, hmm? Bet he doesn’t like you sneakin’ off alone.” He swayed closer, sour breath hot on your face. “Maybe I oughta teach you some manners, whore.”

Outraged tears stung your eyes. You opened your mouth to scream for help when suddenly the man’s hand was wrenched away from you with a sickening crack. His shriek split the air.

Whirling around, you saw Sukuna standing there, eyes blazing infernos. The man who had seized you was now suspended off the ground, clutching his mangled, dangling arm.

“Please, mercy!” he whimpered piteously. But Sukuna’s face was a merciless stone.

With a snarl, he slammed the offender down, pinning him by the throat. “You dare speak to her that way?” His voice was deathly quiet. “Dare lay your filthy hands upon her?”

The man gurgled pleas, legs kicking uselessly. Sukuna tightened his grip. “No. There will be no mercy for you.”

And before your eyes, he ripped the man’s head from his body in one savage motion. Blood sprayed hot across your face and cloak. The headless corpse slumped with a wet thud that echoed horribly in your ears.

You stood there, frozen. You’re sick to the stomach—it’s nauseating—looking at the brutal sight that your lover could do.

Rooted in shock, you barely registered Sukuna turning to you. He grasped your shoulders firmly. “Did he hurt you?” At your numb shake of the head, fiery rage flooded back into his eyes.

“Good. Because I would have drawn out his torment for years if he had.” With that, Sukuna flung the lifeless body contemptuously through the door of a nearby hut.

Screams arose from within as you stared at the gore coating Sukuna’s hands. The brutality finally jolted you from horrified paralysis. Voice trembling, you begged him to take you home.

The journey back was made in silence. Once behind the walls, Sukuna rounded on you like the last time.

“How could you go without my permission?” He paced like a caged beast. “See what nearly befell you? The filth who could do anything to you?”

You flinched beneath the verbal onslaught, too numb to defend yourself as he kept raging.

“You are forbidden from leaving again! Do you understand?” He seized your shoulders roughly. “It is too dangerous for you.”

You nodded, mute and hollow. With a harsh exhale, Sukuna pulls you against him as four of his arms envelop you in a warm embrace, some of the frantic anger leaving him.

“Forgive my harsh words, my little love. But I do not like you being treated like that.” His voice broke on the last word. He clutched you tighter, as if to reassure himself you were real.

After that day, whispers followed you through the residence like ghosts, for no clear reason. Servants offering polite smiles that never reached their eyes, only to resume their hushed gossip once you’d passed.

At first, you tried ignoring the sidelong glances and murmurs. But still, the cruel words leaked through.

“She is just a plaything to him.”

“Once the master is bored, she will be discarded.”

“He is only using her on the bed.”

“Once he tires of those pleasures, her time here will end.”

Their cruel words haunted you, sinking claws into vulnerabilities you’d buried deep. Did they speak the truth? Was your whole purpose here just to entertain Sukuna’s baser appetites? The thought you might be expendable shook you to your core.

You managed to conceal your anguish and distress at first. But the doubts festered, stealing your appetite and sleep. When Sukuna finally noticed the toll on your health, alarm flared in his eyes.

Gently taking your hands, he scoops you onto his lap, facing him. “What is bothering your pretty little head, hm? You know you can tell me anything.”

You shook your head, “It is nothing, My Lord. Not a big problem.”

“I do not like you lying to me, little one,” he shakes his head, not buying your secrecy.

“I am okay. Please, no need to be concerned about me.”

“How can I not? What is it? Tell me,” he holds your chin still to make you look at him.

Both of your stubborn banter goes back and forth until you’re both getting impatient.

You wavered, then spilled out the vile gossip you’d endured in silence. Sukuna listened gravely, thumb idly stroking your wrist. When you finished, he let out a long breath, gazing at you earnestly

“You believe their hateful lies? That you are some plaything to me? You know in your heart these claims are untrue.” He grasped your shoulders, staring intently into your eyes. “You are everything. Your faith in me is worth more than a million mortal lifetimes.”

He brought your hand to his chest, holding it over his steadily beating heart. “Do not let petty jealousies make you doubt what we share.”

Overwhelmed, you buried your face against him. “Forgive my doubts, My Lord,” you whispered.

“There is nothing to forgive. The fault is theirs, not yours.” Stroking your hair, he pressed a fierce kiss to your head. Then his tone turned cold. “As for these spiteful women, I will make them regret ever speaking such lies.”

You quickly squeezed his hands. “Please, do not harm them. I only wished to explain my melancholy, not see others punished.”

Sukuna frowned. “You ask me to ignore those who hurt you so? Who makes you doubt my devotion?” His grip on you tightened. “I cannot be so forgiving.”

“I know it comes from care,” you soothed. “But replying to anger with more anger will only breed misery.”

He paused, then exhaled harshly, pulling you close. Resting his forehead to yours, he went on. “I swear to you, my feelings run deeper than they comprehend.”

“Leave this to me now, little one. Just rest easy.”

True to his word, the gossip ceased quickly. You didn’t ask what Sukuna said or did to silence loose tongues. But the servants now bent over backward to please you, their once spiteful eyes now carefully respectful.

Their newfound reverence somehow bothered you more. But Sukuna seemed satisfied. “Let the wretches make amends for causing you pain,” he said nonchalantly.

Some part of you recoiled at his methods. Yet it warmed your heart to know he would avenge any slight against you without hesitation. Perhaps it was wrong to take comfort from his possessiveness.

But you needed to feel cherished after so much doubt. And Sukuna left no room for uncertainty in how deeply he treasured you. Each tender glance and touch slowly healed the wounds until you were whole again.

When he came to you beneath the silken sheets now, the passion held new meaning. A reaffirming of what you were to each other.

You were his sanctuary. Just as he was yours.

The gossip no longer stung when you knew his heart with such certainty.

Sukuna had told you he was taking a few days off to spend with you. With him home beside you for a blessed few days, the gloom cast over the estate seemed to lift. His four muscular arms caged you securely against his broad chest as you sank comfortably into his embrace.

He was attentive in ways you’d never seen before, constantly drawing you into his arms, asking questions about your childhood, your dreams, anything to get to know you better.

At first, you were shy, unused to being the object of such focused interest. But Sukuna’s patient gentleness soon had the words spilling freely from your lips.

You happily opened up to him in turn, chatting lightly about your days spent tending the garden, studying scripture with the monks, or watching the koi fish circle lazily in their pond. No detail was too small or mundane—he drank in every insight into your character with eyes that never once glazed in boredom.

He listened intently, his crimson eyes focused solely on you. As frightening as he could be, you knew this powerful being cherished you in his own way. You were likely the only person in the world he cared for.

When you finally worked up the courage to ask about his early life in turn, his gaze darkened briefly. “There is little of worth to tell,” he muttered.

He went on tonelessly to describe his parents casting him out as an infant, cursing his existence. Forced to eke out a living on the streets, he learned quickly that mercy was for the weak.

“I was not always like this,” he rumbled. “Once I was a human, born to parents who did not want me.” His fingers tensed where they rested on your back. “As an infant, they discarded me on the streets to die. But I survived, growing up feral and alone.”

You looked up at him sadly, heart aching at the thought of him helpless and abandoned with no one to care for him. You raised a hand to gently stroke his cheek.

Sukuna closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. “I do not tell you this for pity,” he said firmly. “My past made me strong.”

His eyes opened again. “When my cursed technique manifested, I used them without mercy, cutting down any who dared stand in my way. I reveled in my growing strength, the thrill of battle and blood... they satisfied me. I honed my skills until I became unmatched.”

You nodded solemnly. His description matched the legends told of the terrifying Ryomen Sukuna.

Now you know why he lacked mercy.

You take his hands in yours, kissing his palms. “The past is behind you now,” you told him. “What matters is who you choose to be from this day forth. My love for you is unconditional.” You smiled up at him warmly. “But I promise to teach you the ways of empathy and love, even if you protest.”

Sukuna huffed in amusement, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “Little one, you may try, but do not expect miracles. I am what I am.” But his embrace around you was gentle, belying his words.

You poked his chest teasingly. “I will make it my mission to show you how wonderful love can be, the joys it brings to our lives.” Laughing, you added, “Just you wait, I will have you reciting poetry and picking wildflowers before long!”

“Hmph, do not get carried away,” he grumbled, but you could tell he was secretly pleased by your playful vow.

You cuddled against his chest, determined to shower this damaged soul with all the love and tenderness he had missed in his tragic early years.

The next morning, as soft sunlight filtered into the bedroom, you lay wrapped in Sukuna’s strong embrace. Your head rested on his muscular chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. His breathing was slow and even, still asleep.

You traced idle patterns on his bare skin, your fingertips grazing over the tattoos adorning his body. Your mind drifted back to the conversation from the night before when Sukuna had told you a bit of his past.

Abandoned and unloved, forced to survive on his own from infancy. Your heart ached for the small, helpless babe he had been. The thought of him growing up without affection or care weighed heavily on you.

You understood now why love and empathy were so foreign to him. But you were determined to show Sukuna what he had missed, to fill his long existence with the warmth and joy he deserved.

Your short mortal life worried you, however. Sukuna had lived for centuries, he would go on existing long after you passed on. Would he find someone new to love? How would losing you affect him? Immortal beings were not meant to give their hearts to fleeting humans.

You must have tensed in concern, because Sukuna began stirring, his four arms instinctively tightening around you. “What troubles you so early, little one?” his deep voice rasped, still groggy with sleep.

You tilted your head up to peer at him. “I was thinking about what you told me last night, about your past. My heart breaks imagining you alone as a child.”

He regarded you seriously. “It was long ago. Dwelling on what cannot be changed is pointless.”

“I know,” you murmured. “I only wish I could have cared for you then. But now I worry… what will happen when I am gone? My life is so short compared to yours. Will you find someone new to love?” Your voice caught on the last word as you averted your gaze. You weren’t sure you even wanted to hear the answer.

He was silent. When you worked up the courage to look at him again, his crimson eyes were looking at you intensely. With a swift, motion he flipped you beneath him, bracing his weight above you and capturing your face between his big hands.

“You think I could simply replace you when death takes you from me?” His thumb brushed your cheek tenderly. “No other has touched my soul as you have. Long was my existence before you, yet I was empty.” Leaning down, he touched his forehead to yours.

“Your fragile mortality may one day steal you from my side, but what we have cannot be replicated or replaced.” He lifted his head to gaze deeply into your eyes.

“When you are gone, I will be lost again. I accept that your life must end as mine continues.” His jaw clenched. “But I will find no peace with another. What we have is beyond replacement.”

Tears blurred your vision at his heartfelt words. You had not realized the depth of his attachment, that the absence of your love would leave him emotionally desolate.

You threw your arms around his broad shoulders. “Then we must make the most of the time we have,” you declared. “Fill our days with so much joy that you will carry the warmth of our love for eternity.”

Sukuna wrapped you tightly in his embrace. “Yes,” he agreed, nuzzling your neck. “I will cherish every precious moment with you, little one.”

His words made your heart clench, but you understood, he would never love another as he had you. Your lives were tragically misaligned, yet the love you shared transcended such limits.

You spent the day wrapped up in Sukuna, exchanging tender caresses, murmuring sweet nothings, strolling the grounds hand-in-hand. Every shared laugh, every affectionate glance was savored, imprinting your bond ever deeper.

As the sun sets in glorious color, you lay entwined together beneath the cover of a wisteria tree. Your head rested over Sukuna’s heart as he gently stroked your hair. His steady heartbeat and the rhythmic rise of his chest were deeply comforting.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” you whispered.

“As do I, little one,” he replied, his voice tinged with melancholy. “But we cannot halt the merciless passage of time.”

You leaned up to press a soft kiss to his jaw. “No matter how short my life, I am grateful every moment of it is spent with you.”

Sukuna cradled you close, distress evident in his eyes. “When I am alone again, I will find comfort in the memories we have.”

His grip on you tightened, as if he could hold you to this world through will alone. You tilted your head back to peer up at him. “And when I am gone, will you be okay?”

“I will endure it. As I have endured all hardship in my long life.” He traced his thumb lightly down your cheek. “It will not feel the same, my little love. But do not worry about me, I will be fine.”

Your heart clenched at the raw honesty in his normally stoic demeanor. On impulse, you stretched up to press a soft kiss to his lips. Sukuna went still for a heartbeat before responding in kind, lips moving gently against yours.

“Then do not dwell on the inevitable end,” you cup his face in your hands. “Think only of how much we mean to each other now. If my love can sustain you even a little while after I am gone, that will be enough.”

Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours. “I will brace it when the time comes. But for now, my world is only you.”

You kissed him tenderly, then settled against his chest once more. Bittersweet joy swelled your heart, knowing you had brought some warmth into Sukuna’s grim existence. Though fleeting and painfully finite, your mortal love was a balm to his ancient, scarred soul.

The years passed swiftly. Sukuna remained your steadfast companion as you grew from a young woman into old age. He was always there to hold you close, whisper endearments, make you laugh with his wit.

In the blink of an eye, your hair became streaked with silver. Your smooth skin wrinkled and your energy waned. But your love never faded.

Sukuna stayed by your side as you grew frail, cradling you tenderly through restless nights, patiently spoon-feeding you broth when eating became difficult. His eyes reflected centuries of sadness knowing your time grew short.

Finally, you lay weakly upon your futon as he stayed close by your side. Your breathing turned ragged and a violent cough wracked your body. He gathered you gently into his arms.

“The end is near, my little one,” he murmured, smoothing back your thin hair.

You gave him a quivering smile. “I am ready. Just stay with me, please.”

He pressed his lips to your wrinkled forehead. “Always.”

You spent your final moments gazing up at his face, etched into your mind after so many years together. His image would be the last you saw in this life. With a contented sigh, you closed your eyes for the final time.

Sukuna let out a broken noise, pulling you tightly to his chest as your body went limp. Rocking your still form, he wept for the first time in his long existence. Anguished sobs wracked his powerful frame.

He had known this moment would come, yet nothing could have prepared him for the sheer devastation of losing you. It felt as though part of his soul had been ripped away.

Sukuna had guarded your mortal form night and day in those final years. Now you slipped away before his eyes, leaving him utterly alone. The crushing pain made him understand the human concept of a “broken heart”.

But he took comfort knowing you had passed peacefully in his embrace. The only mercy was that you were spared a drawn-out decline. He had filled your short life with as much love as one man could give. He has known you for a short time compared to how you’ve known him for most of your life.

Wiping his eyes, Sukuna pressed final kisses to your cooled skin. He would honor you with a funeral befitting royalty. Then he must decide where to wander next. This place held too many haunting memories now.

Sukuna laid you gently on the futon and stood. He cast one last anguished look at your still face.

“My beloved…” he whispered. “No other shall ever take your place.”

Then he turned and strode from the room, jaw clenched against a fresh onslaught of grief. His steps were heavy with the unbearable burden of immortality and loss.

No, he doesn’t cremate you despite having the ability to do so. He doesn’t even want to think of burning you to ashes, or he might as well lose it and burn the world with it for taking you away too soon.

He buried you beneath the cherry tree where you’d spent so many blissful hours in his arms. He marked the site with a stone monument etched with his promise:

“In this life or the next, you are mine. None will ever love you as I have, little one.”

His task complete, Sukuna wandered for many years after. Though the sharp pain dulled to a persistent ache, the emptiness inside him never abated. He fulfilled his promise and took no other lovers, knowing they could only ever be hollow substitutes.

He will wait until his time comes no matter how long it takes to see you again in the afterlife.

He will wait long enough to see you reborn and claim you one more as his.

But the thing he knows for sure, you will always belong to no one but him.

I got emotional and carried away, I’m sorry 😭😭

[i-did-not-mean-to]

April - Eönwë x Arafinwë

Here's the last one I got sent in, for the moment, and it's another one my darling reader MoonLord has sent in :D

This turned a little darker and sadder than I wanted, so please heed the tags!

Lots of love!

Pairing: Eönwë x Arafinwë (Russingon, Fëanor & Fingolfin & Finarfin)

Prompts: Friendship, Dimension Travel, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Shapeshifting

Words: 2050

Warnings: sadness, self-mutilation, canonical death, despair, loss, bad news

“You came,” Arafinwë sobbed, his whole body slumping forward as if he was tempted to throw himself against the broad chest of his mighty friend. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

Eönwë steeled himself to keep from flinching back from the bleak despair radiating in violent waves from the frail frame of the esteemed Elven king; he never knew how to deal with the unbridled, often outright shamelessly emotional outbursts of the Children, and he was afraid of distressing his friend even further by reacting inappropriately.

“How can I be of service?” the herald thus asked cautiously, extending a gentling hand which Arafinwë instantly clutched like a lifeline.

“My brothers,” he whispered, tears staining his fair face. “My heart aches fiercely, and I’m filled with dread that some dark fate has befallen them.”

This time, Eönwë did take a step back—it was forbidden to quest in thought or feeling for those who’d callously deserted the Blessed Realm, and he felt the stern gaze of his Master on the back of his neck even now.

All the non-committal words of illusionary comfort he was expected to dispense, though, died on his tongue in the face of the unembellished misery contorting his friend’s handsome face.

“I know not,” Eönwë finally said. “They’ve chosen their own destiny by removing themselves from the goodwill and protection of the Valar.”

“But you could find out,” Arafinwë wailed and surged forward to dig his fingers into Eönwë’s tunic in a gesture so shockingly disrespectful and undeniably desperate that the benevolent Maia didn’t even have the heart to chide him for his presumptuous trespass. “You are not a prisoner of these lands.”

“Neither are you,” Eönwë reminded him kindly. “Neither were they.”

At that gentle remonstrance, Arafinwë’s face fell like a heap of ashes blown astray by Manwë’s mighty winds.

“I’ve tried to leave once before,” the King of what remained of the Ñoldor breathed mournfully. “I couldn’t do it—and I dare not provoke the wrath of those who’ve welcomed me back so graciously now. I ask this as a friend—could you not travel hither and assuage the fear devouring my very soul?”

It was a terrible idea, Eönwë knew, and he should have declined. By rights and custom, he should have relegated this matter to Nienna or Estë for they would have found the right words to pacify Arafinwë.

Instead, he felt his head dip in a silent, grave nod.

Arafinwë reminded him of a failing fledgling, left behind in a deserted nest by his foolhardier siblings, and Eönwë’s heart bled for the stark loneliness that enveloped the pitiful wretch like an acrid stench; the herald, after all, was a being made to follow and obey, and—in this—his heart commanded him to break the rules to bring peace to one who’d so bravely contained all notions of strife and war within his brittle soul to spare those around him.

Surely, those who lived in and on faith all their life deserved to be granted knowledge from time to time as a reward for their blind, unwavering, oft perilous belief.

“I cannot, I shall not intervene,” Eönwë reminded the sorrowful supplicant. “As a reward for your enduring love and diligence, I will grant you this boon, though—I’ll find out what happened to your brothers and tell you posthaste.”

He did not share the price and suffering he’d take upon himself to do so—these were no concerns for a mere incarnate, and his desire was not to place the burden of guilt onto Arafinwë’s frail shoulders.

“Thank you,” the Elf cried, sinking to his knees and making to kiss the hem of Eönwë’s garment.

“Desist,” Eönwë expostulated and joined the other on the cool, damp ground, cupping his pale cheek tenderly and brushing a rough thumb across the wet skin. “You have been a good, loyal friend to me, and I love you well, son of Finwë. I shall accept your amicable gratitude, but you shan’t abase yourself before me.”

Watery eyes were slowly lifted pleadingly, and Eönwë at once bent forward to press his lips soothingly to that pallid, sorrowful brow.

“Be careful,” Arafinwë said with such genuine fervour that the other couldn’t help but yearn to subdue the tremor in those full lips by moving his own down a shapely cheek to the source of so innocent and foolish an exclamation.

“Worry not about me, dear,” Eönwë cooed. “Go home and make peace with your wife. I shall seek you out as soon as I’m back!”

“Milord!” Arafinwë mumbled into that sweet, comforting kiss before bowing sharply. “I shall await you impatiently!”

As he watched his heartened friend slowly walk back to his splendid abode, Eönwë turned his radiant face to the dark ocean and took a shivering breath—he was undaunted by the cruel steps he’d have to undertake to fulfil his promise, yet he dreaded his master’s just wrath if his base betrayal would come to light.

There was no hiding the truth from Manwë’s far-seeing eyes, so his diligent, hopelessly optimistic herald had to make haste before the mighty Vala could intervene to prevent him from leaving.

Drawing his sword—glistening like the embodiment of solace and vengeance alike—he did what had to be done unflinchingly.

Upon setting foot on the defiled soil, churning with frantic anger and hurt, Eönwë froze.

He’d known Fëanáro’s essence since the time it had slowly poisoned and snuffed out his mother’s soul, and he was reeling with fatigue and shock as he realised that he could not sense it anywhere.

“No,” he whispered. “No, he should be here.”

Slowly and cautiously, he lifted his face into the fetid breeze.

He could sense Fëanáro’s sons, sullen, agonising, diminished, but the one he’d come for was not among them.

Shrugging uncomfortably, he set out in search of Nelyafinwë who, he hoped, would be able to tell him of the fate about which he sought knowledge and reassurance.

After a long, wearying walk, Eönwë finally reached the stark, grey walls surrounding that dour fortress over which ruled the firstborn son of the famed Spirit of Fire—conjuring up dignified equanimity from the depths of his nascent despair, he did neither flinch nor protest when he heard a soldier announce that there was a beggar at the door.

Instead, he schooled his face into a pleasant smile in joyous expectation of having gotten closer to his goal.

He was left waiting in cold, draughty rooms for a shocking amount of time before a shadow so dark it made his very soul shiver fell upon him.

“Herald,” Nelyafinwë rasped in surprise. “You’re bleeding.”

“How did you recognise me?” Eönwë gasped, his mind awhirl with thoughts and observations that made his stomach drop.

The once gloriously beautiful Elven prince had grown gaunt and hollow-eyed, and his snarl was more reminiscent of a bleeding wound than of the radiant smile Eönwë remembered so well.

“I’ve lived through too many unspeakable horrors to be deceived by so weak a glamour,” the Lord of the stronghold chuckled mirthlessly. “You did not have to mutilate yourself—your light gives you away.”

Eönwë flinched—if he’d still had his wings, they would have quivered in alarm, but, in his present form, he merely winced violently.

“Your uncle sends me,” he then explained. “I’ve come from the Blessed Realm, risking much as you can imagine, to supply news about Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë to my dear friend. What can you tell me?”

Shaking his head regretfully, Nelyafinwë gave a crooked shrug that revealed the heavily bandaged stump of his hand which gave Eönwë another painful jolt—Thorondor had declined to speak about what he’d seen on his daring, sanctioned rescue mission, and it was his tight-lipped refusal to impart any wisdom pertaining to the state of things that had eventually pushed poor Arafinwë into making such foolhardy demands and heart-wrenching pleas.

“You can tell Arafinwë that he shan’t worry about my father ever again; Fëanáro won’t come to wrench his precious crown off his golden head. He’s dead and, as per Námo’s dark declaration, will never be seen again.”

“Why, that cannot be true!” Eönwë exclaimed, feeling oddly betrayed by the cold words that buffetted him like a volley of sharp blades, inexorably piercing him to the core of his being.

Surely, if that was so, Manwë would have known and so would Vairë and Námo—undoubtedly, they would not have withheld so grievous a fact from Arafinwë.

“There’s nought here to learn, herald,” Nelyafinwë muttered. “We’re dispersed like bad seeds, unable to take root, doomed to never thrive. I suppose you’ll see High King Ñolofinwë next—extend my greetings to His Highness.”

He hesitated for a near-imperceptible moment before adding, “And express my warmest regards to Prince Findekáno. Tell him that I’m still devoted to my labour of mending the rift between us.”

An incongruous, frightening sense of urgency had slipped into his hoarse, monotone voice now.

“May you find better tidings at their camp,” Nelyafinwë said, not unkindly, and swept out of the room without turning back.

Eönwë cursed himself for having discarded his wings in an act of agonising folly for his progress through the war-torn lands was slow and arduous.

When he finally reached his destination, his heart was heavy and his soul so tense that he feared that it might break under the slightest additional strain or blow.

“Hail…” he exclaimed when he saw Prince Findekáno walk towards him, but the courteous words of greeting died on his tongue as he registered the tears running down those shockingly concave cheeks he’d remembered as round and perpetually set in motion by quick smiles and witty remarks.

“Eönwë,” Findekáno sighed, visibly trying to pull himself together. “Have you come to intercede in my father’s favour?”

Remembering his vow, Eönwë shook his head slowly. “Where is Ñolofinwë? His brother much desires to have news from him, and I’ve taken it upon me to procure them.”

“Ah, the losses, the madness,” the prince sighed in profound hopelessness. “My father, the High King, has ridden out on his own to challenge Morgoth to a fight.”

At that, Eönwë frowned. Level-headed and wise, the Ñolofinwë he’d watched grow from a steadfast, jolly elfling toddling behind his unbearably haughty half-brother would never have undertaken so stupidly temerarious and futile an enterprise as to goad a Vala into single combat.

He could not have imagined hearing anything more absurd and unlikely than Fëanáro bursting into flame and abandoning his sons to carry out his otiose plans—nevertheless, now he learned that Indis’s firstborn was moribund as well.

“Maybe we can stop him,” Eönwë cried, his voice echoing through the deserted courtyard like the screeching of a huge bird of prey caught in a vicious trap. “We must prevent such a senseless sacrifice!”

“It’s too late,” Findekáno declared in the shivering voice of one trying to contain more anguish and pain than his mind could even comprehend. “I’m sorry that you shan’t convey better news to my uncle. Have you heard about Fëanáro?”

All Eönwë could do was to nod. For some reason, which was absolutely mystifying to him, he couldn’t stop moving his head to and fro as if the rhythmical motion could dislodge the cutting splinters of terrible knowledge burrowing into his mind mercilessly.

“It’s not safe here,” Findekáno whispered urgently. “You must away before anyone can see you and get the wrong idea. There shall be enough disappointment and mourning without having a spy instead of a warrior in our midst. Go back and send my loving greetings to Arafinwë.”

Sputtering, Eönwë relayed Nelyafinwë’s message—prompting the first genuine reaction of joy in the soon-to-be High King of the Ñoldor—and went on his way once more.

As he threw himself into Ulmo’s arms, ready to accept whatever punishment the Valar saw fit for his devastating excursion, Eönwë couldn’t help thinking that he’d not only have to tell his dear friend that his brothers were dead, but that he’d also be the bearer of widowhood and maternal loss, quailing before the immense grief of excellent women he’d hitherto respected and liked.

He had left a hero, a bringer of hope, and he’d return as a dull, throbbing beacon of endless mourning.

-> Masterlist

@fellowshipofthefics Here's another one!

Thank you so much for being on this ride with me!

[atinytokki]

Mechanosis

Chapter 1: 구름 (cloud)

구름

cloud

The future looked different through a cracked glass pane. Only two people in the entirety of Gyeongseong Station knew there was a crack on the inside pane of the seven metre clock face that adorned the iconic tower, and Hongjoong was one of them.

He spent most nights alone with a view of the city far below, twinkling lights almost seeming magical through the blanket of haze that coated everything east of Incheon. And most nights, he knew better than to dream.

The past, too, had a strange new colour streaked across it, and the filter of glass clock face windows, like thin hanji mulberry paper, revealed things Hongjoong hadn’t seen five years ago. Things he couldn’t have known.

Accompanied by the constant whirring and clicking of gears, he watched rain trail down the glass with his single working eye, following a drop and tracing it with his finger until it slid off the clock face and out of view.

He had put his tinkering away an hour ago, but too many things were keeping him awake. The constant thoughts, plans, and anxiety. The rain. San’s coughing.

The pair of them worked sunrise to sunset in the Namsan metal factory every day, retreating for the night to their secret hideaway in the clock tower, and these late hours were the only moments he could steal for himself.

If Hongjoong turned to look out the eastern facing windows in the tower, he’d see the factory there; carved into the side of the mountain and constantly belching a steady stream of smoke into the surrounding forest.

It was good money— as good as pay could be these days— but it was also the culprit of San’s cough. Both of them knew it.

For now, it was mercifully raining. In a matter of weeks, it would be snowing. And when the snows came, their days would be difficult again. San always grew sicker when winter arrived.

Five years ago, Hongjoong would’ve looked forward to the snow, and the way it gathered on bare tree branches outside in his courtyard in perfect little snow walls that stood upright until he ran a mittened hand across their surface and knocked them down. Now, the snow should be a gift— freedom from the curse of ash that had befallen Hanseong— but all it did was signal the upcoming darkness and the increased chance of death.

He closed his eyes, the burned right one with more difficulty, and inhaled deeply before his thoughts could spiral, pulling his legs close to his chest. The bottom edges of each pant leg of his baji were fraying, so he picked at them mindlessly and waited for exhaustion to set in.

A mumble sounded from the direction of the sleeping mats, set in the middle of the uppermost terrace with the best view below to catch any intruder who should attempt to sneak up the stairs.

San’s sleep-talking no doubt.

“Come to bed.”

Hongjoong turned his head to the left to see him. So, the younger man was coherent after all.

He was sitting up with the blanket draped over him, hair ruffled from tossing and turning.

Hongjoong hesitated and it brought a childish pout to San’s face.

“Please? I want to snuggle.”

Watching him bat his eyelashes, Hongjoong would never have guessed San had spent nearly all of his nineteen years growing up on the streets, wondering where the next meal would come from and inventing creative ways to get by on his own.

Even around a complete stranger, his softness and innocence had always remained.

Hongjoong remembered the day he met him, on a rainy night at Mount Inwang when he opened his single eye to see the ceiling of a shrine room.

A shaman had appeared above him weeks before and softly explained that he was the sole survivor of the fire, that he had been brought to the temple in secret to hide from the new authorities, that his eye was bandaged but would likely not heal, and that he was free to go where he pleased or remain in Suseongdong Valley if he wished.

The news had been beyond devastating. His entire life had burned down around him and he had no desire to go on. He had lost everything.

The shaman’s kindness never wavered, even when he would not rise from his mat on the floor to thank her. Others came and went, their shadows moving across the floor, turning like the sun through each long and lonely day. Sometimes the surrounding sleeping mats filled with other patients, more and more growing sickly as the chill of winter moved through the mountain peaks.

“I’ve brought you supper,” a voice broke into his spiralling thoughts that evening at the moment when the smell of samgyetang reached him. “You have a neighbour for tonight, his name is San.” It was one of the monks informing Hongjoong, as if he would care, and though he didn’t turn his head to see, the noise of a boy being guided to the mat next to his went on for a few minutes after.

Some time went by in silence. How much time, Hongjoong didn’t know, but night had fallen at least an hour ago and after dozing, he was hungry, despite himself.

Turning his head all the way to the right so he could see through his left eye, he was met with the shocked face of his neighbour, cheeks full of Hongjoong’s food.

“O-Oh!” The boy choked out, hurriedly swallowing and placing the bowl back on the floor. “I didn’t realise you were awake. Your eye bandage…”

When Hongjoong didn’t reply, the boy— San— shamelessly picked up the food again before hesitating.

“You weren’t planning on eating this, right?”

Taken aback, Hongjoong blinked a few times before shaking his head in agreement. It didn’t matter if his stomach was grumbling now, he had lost his chance.

“It’s good!” The boy exclaimed through another bite as he spooned the last vegetables into his mouth, much louder than he should be considering the late hour and the other sleeping patients. “Even though it’s cold.”

With that, he flashed a dimpled smile, downed the last of the broth and set the bowl back on the floor before standing from his bed and heading for the exit.

“Wh—” Hoarse from disuse, Hongjoong’s voice didn’t reach the patient, so he sat up and called more loudly, head spinning from the sudden adjustment, and tried to recall the name, “San? San!”

The mountain, who he met in the valley.

Surprised, the boy turned, bright eyes landing on Hongjoong’s form, and cocked his head to the side like a cat. “That’s me. What is it?”

“You…” Hongjoong sighed and cleared his throat, and San moved closer to hear what he had to say. “You’re leaving already? Are you even sick or did just you come for the food?”

At this observation, San smirked and gave a half shrug before continuing on his way.

Hongjoong didn’t see him again until two days later.

Again, the boy was given the sleeping mat next to his, and again he waited until Hongjoong drifted to sleep to eat both his own meal and the food designated for Hongjoong as if it belonged to him.

“Come on, you should eat some of this,” San tutted at him, the sound of him clicking his tongue just barely audible over the wind that whipped through Suseongdong. It was the seventh night now that he had appeared and helped himself to the shamans’ cooking, occasionally starting conversations that rarely went anywhere, as if determined to heal Hongjoong with his words even while he took his food every evening. “Look at you, you’re wasting away. Why do you refuse to eat? Do you think it will bring back whatever it is you lost?”

Biting his lip anxiously, Hongjoong merely shook his head.

He was still in mourning. And he had no appetite.

A growling stomach gave him away and, frustrated, he couldn’t stop a tear from escaping.

San noticed and placed down the bowl, regarding him seriously with no trace of his usual teasing.

“Would you like a hug?”

Sighing through his nose and squeezing his eye shut, Hongjoong tried to say no, but San was too fast and it only took a moment for him to be encased in his arms, squeezed gently but reassuringly, and then released again so the other boy could finish his kimchi.

It felt… nice.

And it was the sign he needed that life would go on, whether he wanted it to at the moment or not.

The season continued on, with snows blowing in from the west, and the mysterious boy continued his occasional visits.

Hongjoong always let him eat the second bowl or dip into to his banchan, because he knew San’s hunger must be severe for him to take food from another. He needed it more than Hongjoong did, when he could survive off of luncheon and this single meal was likely the only one of the day— or week— for San.

And, as expected, San always cleaned the plate.

The day he didn’t, Hongjoong knew something was wrong.

“You’re sick this time, aren’t you?” He whispered.

He didn’t lay on his back anymore, facing the patterned ceiling and letting tears wind down the sides of his cheeks. Instead, he faced San’s bed, watching him closely with his left eye.

San frowned from where he sat by Hongjoong’s mat, cross-legged.

“I do get sick, but this—”

Interrupted by his own cough, the harsh fit went on for a moment before he nodded, fully laying on his mat this time, turned in Hongjoong’s direction.

“This is worse than usual. I think it’s that factory they’re building next to my hideout.”

“Wh-What?” Hongjoong was surprised to hear those words. A factory so close to the city was strange, when most large mills were located in the countryside.

Unless…

“It’s this new steam-powered factory,” San explained slowly in his rasp, as if it was obvious and Hongjoong should’ve known despite not leaving the shrine in weeks. “They’re popping up all over Hanseong, burning ore to heat water and run the steam through this… machinery. That’s what they call it.”

Hongjoong’s head was reeling. It was as if the world had changed overnight. In a matter of weeks, things he had only seen on paper by candlelight existed. And they were multiplying.

“How?”

“A Mr. Shin is responsible, Minister of Technological Advancement he calls himself,” San sniffed in derision, not appearing to like the man, or at least what he knew of him. “The very night he was appointed, he had the plans set in motion, workers conscripted, and new authorities established. It’s all his design.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The words escaped Hongjoong so quickly, even he was surprised.

But it was true.

He had been there when the concept of steam-powered machinery was dreamt up in a crowded kitchen while the smoke trailed up to the sky on a starry summer’s night years ago. He knew whose design it was first scribbled on corners of worn parchment, ink staining the clothes and hands of the one who made it.

San was staring at him like he’d grown a second head, and patiently waiting for the right moment to ask a question he must have been meaning to ask for a long time.

“What’s your name?”

“Huh?”

“Your name,” San whispered urgently. “What is it? Who are you?”

He seemed sincere, and the cavernous pit of loneliness inside made Hongjoong yearn for companionship, but his name was all he had left now.

Could he really give it up so easily?

“I—” Hongjoong’s mouth ran dry. He simply needed to know San’s intentions first.

“I’ve decided I like you,” San supplied soon enough. “You’re kindhearted, and I want to keep you.”

Hongjoong furrowed his brows. “But I haven’t done anything.”

“Exactly,” San smiled sweetly but with some sadness under those innocent dimples. “You let me take without question. Most others would’ve accused me of stealing.”

So San had interpreted his indifference as kindness.

“You don’t want me,” Hongjoong shook his head, trying his best to sound sure of himself. “I have nothing else to give you.”

He knew he was about to give up the last thing he did have, he could feel himself losing the inner battle.

“I just want your name for now,” San assured him softly. “And then let me give you something for a change.”

He said it was just a name, but the truth was that it was so much more. What he had experienced and what San was experiencing were both tied up in that identity and to give it away would not help San. In fact, it may condemn him.

Eyes watering embarrassingly, the half-blinded boy squirmed in place before giving up.

“I’m Kim Hongjoong. I’m fifteen years old. I’m here because the Ministry of Technological Advancement set a fire two months ago that killed my parents and burned my eye. I know it was them because it was my family who created those designs— the ones for the machines— and now that the Ministry murdered the creators and stole the research, they perverted it. In a way, due to my inability to stop them, I am the one responsible for your sickness, San.” He paused to let the truth sink in.

Hongjoong could scarcely believe it himself, but this was the new world he’d woken up to.

“Are you sure you still want me?”

___

San had not hesitated even a moment, and from that day on, the two were brothers.

A tower was under construction at Gyeongseong Station, and quickly adorned with a massive clock face, run on the interlocking mechanism conceptualised by Hongjoong’s own mother and based on the tiny test models Hongjoong’s father had constructed himself.

It was San’s hiding place when he didn’t trek up the mountain to receive medicine at the shrine. He had always been a poor orphan for as long as he could remember, but the cost of living was unbearable now, and so he taught himself how to escape the notice of the station guards, and then taught Hongjoong in turn.

They lived there together now, five years later, and worked at the nearby factory begrudgingly, knowing there were very few options to get by, no matter how much former education Hongjoong had. Machinery was the way of the world now, and if they didn’t offer themselves up to be cogs in the machine, they’d end up playing that role one way or another.

Hongjoong had his habits, San admitted, such as getting in trouble at the factory for working too slowly and staying up late at night to tinker with the strange metal pieces he sourced from who knows where, but he was already dear to San. San’s heart had made the decision for him.

And he was never more sure of his decision than during times like these, when he lay coughing until blood came up in crimson specks on his handkerchief, and the pain in his chest kept him from sleeping.

Hongjoong acquiesced to San’s pleas for cuddles, and pulled the younger boy close with the hopes of lulling him to sleep. Instead, both lay awake for a while longer, unable to escape from the crossroads they knew they were approaching the sicker San became.

“The factory hurts you,” Hongjoong sighed into San’s hair.

San didn’t answer. Tears pricked at his eyes, watering from the force of his cough and partially from the frustration.

“I don’t want you to work there anymore,” Hongjoong told him softly. He’d said as much many times before, but both of them knew there was no turning away from the factory. Not in these times.

Again, San remained silent, shaking his head resolutely but remaining securely tucked in between Hongjoong’s arms.

“Please, San,” Hongjoong whined. San had never heard him beg like this before. “You’re scaring me.”

“Hyung, you—” a coughing fit interrupted him, and the force of his cough jolted them both. Hongjoong clung on anyway. “You know I can’t quit. It’s good money.”

“But you can find somewhere better to work,” Hongjoong insisted immediately, voice dripping with desperation. No matter how many times he thought it through, the situation was unbearable. “And if the money’s so good, I can pick up extra shifts instead since I won’t be busy nursing you back to health every winter.”

But it ended the way it always did. Ultimately, San persevered as he always had.

“No.” It came out harsher than he intended it to. “I’m going and there’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”

Hongjoong went quiet for just long enough that San could tell he was angry.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, rubbing Hongjoong’s arm appreciatively. “Please, hyung, I really am. I love you.”

“Don’t say that.”

Hongjoong’s voice was softly admonishing.

A pout found San’s face again. “Why not?”

He used the words all the time, relishing in the opportunity to direct them at someone after all those years alone.

The silence stretched on between them and San tilted his head up to see tears in his hyung’s eye.

“You love too easily,” he finally answered, so quietly that San almost missed it.

He bristled at the accusation, regardless of how gently it had been delivered.

“But I mean it, Hongjoong,” San insisted, shifting to encourage the older boy to look at him. He spoke with as much conviction as he could despite the stabs of pain in his throat with every word he said. “I love you and I’m not leaving you. So you can’t leave me either.”

Hongjoong didn’t respond, but San knew he had heard him from the way he squeezed his eye shut. The right one was still covered in bandages. Whether he ever took them off to inspect the burned eye or not, San didn’t know.

San had seen from the beginning that Hongjoong didn’t think himself worthy of a second chance at family.

But family was the one thing San never had yet truly wanted. He needed to do everything in his power to secure a family for himself, one he truly loved regardless of their flaws.

“Did someone leave you behind?” He found himself conjecturing aloud. “Is that why…”

San’s words trailed off but his question hung in the air.

Hongjoong knew what he meant to ask.

Is that why you’re like this?

Another silence settled over them, not uncomfortable this time. San had tried and failed to wheedle the details out many times, but he understood the defences Hongjoong kept around his story.

He had the same walls around his own, no matter how talkative he could be about other things.

Finally, Hongjoong opened his mouth, closed it again, and then acquiesced and released a small key to the past.

“I had a brother.”

San stared at him for a moment, directly into his eye, before asking for clarification.

“Had?”

“He got out before the fire.”

San could feel Hongjoong’s shrug as it shifted their position on the floor mat. “I think my parents knew what was coming— there were whispers. They gave him the key to some of their designs and got him out of the country. I never saw him again. And it was all for naught, because the Ministry of Technological Advancement got hold of the plans anyway.”

Stunned, San worked through the information inside his own head for a moment.

“You think he’s alive?”

“I don’t know,” Hongjoong whispered. “I hope so… but he’s never returned for me. Perhaps he thinks I died in the fire, too.”

Suddenly it all made sense to San and he needed to gulp back tears at the memory it sparked inside him. He understood the fear of abandonment. He knew abandonment all too well.

“Leaving me before I leave you won’t make things any better,” San reminded him fiercely. They both knew that whether he said so or not, Hongjoong had grown attached.

That was what San was counting on.

“And besides, I’m not leaving you anyway.”

___

The wind that rustled bamboo leaves was colder than it had been last week.

Seonghwa could see the stalks swaying in the breeze from his table, and hurried to close the window and warm himself with some soybean jochi stew.

Most days, he got what he came to Ahopsan forest for; peace, quiet, and stillness.

But today the wind blew his wooden shutters open again and again, until he fetched his dopo and went outside to reinforce the latch.

The shadows on the surrounding forest floor came and went with the flickering light as it filtered through the canopy. Two layers of clouds blew quickly overhead, large puffy cumulus clouds with dark grey undersides, indicating a growing storm, and the wispy remnants of smog from Busan’s factories encroaching on his territory.

Its shape was always changing, morphing with every twist and turn as it was pushed onwards, pushed like the rest of Joseon when progress drove people away from their lives.

People like Seonghwa.

He had run as far as he was able, and still the smoke of the city chased him and interrupted his peace.

It wouldn’t be long before he needed to flee yet again.

Washing the dishes with a close watch on the sky, Seonghwa almost didn’t notice the footsteps leading up to his door.

Jolted from his reverie, he instinctively grabbed the crossbow by the entryway before bracing himself against the door, peeking through a gap in the paper cover to see who was calling in such a remote place at an hour like this.

“Hyung, it’s me,” Yeosang’s voice resonated deeply but with a light tone to it, and Seonghwa released his weapon and opened the door, shoulders still tense.

The two need not exchange words, and together they ventured into the main room and settled on the floor. Seonghwa poured his guest some tea and merely stared at his own, too anxious about the report he was waiting for to actually drink any.

“Will he get us out?”

Finally he couldn’t keep his anticipation inside anymore.

Yeosang snorted into his tea before composing himself and lowering the cup. “Seonghwa, I haven’t even spoken to him yet.”

“Right, right,” Seonghwa trailed off, wiping sweaty hands on his baji. “But you observed him these past few days?”

Yeosang rooted around in his bag for a moment before procuring a paper. “I drew this sketch when he visited the apothecary shop earlier in the week.”

Seonghwa took it promptly with both hands and gave the drawing a careful once over.

Jeong Yunho.

His cheekbones and nose were wide and striking, his mouth naturally rested in a smile, and his eyes were kind even if his face seemed tense. The clothes Yeosang had drawn him in were undoubtedly that of the yangban.

He was the son of Joseon’s foremost steam engine railway entrepreneur, and just so happened to do detective work.

Ever since he and Seonghwa had left their posts with the government, it was Yeosang’s job while he worked undercover in Hanseong to connect powerful people like Yunho to causes that weren’t exactly supported by the Ministry of Technological Advancement.

Seonghwa’s escape from Joseon was one of them.

The Jeong family were known supporters of the Ministry’s new order, but Yeosang was confident this Yunho would willingly help them if approached anyway.

“And there’s something else important,” Yeosang pulled his attention away from the illustration and related his latest report. “He came in again yesterday and brought another man with him. I recognised him from the festivals I’ve been tailing Yunho at. He’s one of the Jeong family servants— or, he was. He walks with Yunho-ssi now… as an equal.”

Seonghwa sat back slowly, deep in thought.

This was unprecedented.

That a rich nobleman would allow his servant the dress and status of a fellow noble wasn’t only unheard of, it was laughable. It was fantasy.

But if this Yunho diverged so sharply from his family’s views on servitude, there was a high chance he diverged from their views on the Ministry as well.

And that was the kind of person Seonghwa needed.

“How soon can you approach him?”

Yeosang went for another sip of tea while he thought things through.

“It wouldn’t be wise to arrange a meeting. He’s watched very closely by his father and the Ministry. Those moments in the apothecary shop are the only ones I have.”

“You must speak with him, Yeosang. If the smog has reached the forest, the machines won’t be far behind. We have to get out before they hunt us down.”

He knew he sounded desperate, but Seonghwa couldn’t help himself. If he relaxed, even for a moment, he could find himself trapped under the Ministry’s again, run over by the very steam-powered train engines he had planned and met with manufacturers for.

Biting his lip and avoiding Seonghwa’s eyes, Yeosang carefully voiced his reservations.

“Hyung, I don’t know.”

Seonghwa couldn’t help but frown. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

This was a matter of life and death, after all.

“I don’t think I should come with you,” Yeosang sighed, tension in his forehead and worry in his eyes. “There’s still work to be done here, others to help escape.”

The regret in his voice tugged at Seonghwa’s heartstrings.

He wasn’t attached, he told himself. No, he wasn’t bound to Yeosang despite fleeing the Ministry together and he wasn’t lonely in his tiny cabin while he waited for a boat ride away from this country.

But no matter how much he repeated it to himself, he knew in his heart that he couldn’t leave if Yeosang was staying.

“Oh.”

Suddenly his mouth was dry.

“Well, what do you think you’ll do here?”

An easy smile grew on Yeosang’s face, and Seonghwa found himself releasing his breath at the sight of it.

“I already see what’s happening throughout Hanseong from the apothecary shop,” he pointed out, chattering away like he only did when it was a subject he cared about immensely. “And it would be an excellent outpost to hide and then transport others who may be hunted by the new authorities for labor violations or association with the underground.”

“You’re saying… you want to become part of the underground yourself?” Seonghwa followed the logic to its natural conclusion.

Ever since the Ministry of Technological Advancement had absorbed the other main offices at the palace and instituted strict rules and insufferable working conditions, an underground network of rebellious citizens had quietly begun to form.

Seonghwa had heard whispers of them once or twice, but as far as he knew had never been involved with them.

They were a shadowy group with eyes everywhere, so it was difficult to know whether he’d encountered their members or not.

“Well,” Yeosang scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I don’t intend to join a revolution, but times are hard. So many people are barred from escaping. If I can make a difference in saving lives and making one less machine operate, I’ll gladly do so.”

Seonghwa found his eyes to be welling up and glanced away.

It wasn’t that he was sad to be sent away alone. It wasn’t even that he might be separating from a colleague he’d known since their university days. It was his pride in Yeosang, that he’d found a perfect way to serve a cause that was important to him, honestly to them both.

“Are you alright, hyung?” Yeosang sounded surprised, so Seonghwa wiped his eyes quickly and shot him a reassuring smile.

“Just happy for you,” the older admitted, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “You should consider joining me one day when it’s your turn to escape the Ministry. Any suspicious activity will put a sure target on your back, and you don’t want to end up in a factory.”

Seonghwa didn’t mean it lightly.

For years he had studied obliviously, thrilled to be a part of the technology team helping to bring Joseon to the future with better, more efficient steam-powered devices.

Until one day when he had witnessed the horror of the factories himself, had seen what his creations, untethered, could do to people.

Seonghwa bit back the memory and tasted blood on his tongue.

During his reminiscing, his colleague had packed his things and fetched his shoes.

“Yeosang, won’t you stay?” Seonghwa got to his feet suddenly, chiding himself mentally for being a bad host. “A storm is rolling in, I can bring your sleeping mats out—”

But the younger man simply shook his head with a smile and stepped outside, breathing in the slightly citrusy aroma of bamboo in late fall. It was as fresh as it had been the day he found this little hideaway and ushered Seonghwa into it.

“I hope one of these days you consider putting your skills to use,” Yeosang teased on the way out, his tone light but his words serious. “The people could use a Mechanist.”

___

A/N: Welcome to Mechanosis!! It was born from a prompt in 2022's platonic fic fest on ao3 and I'm planning on expanding and finishing it, so if you like the late Joseon period/steampunk pirate vibes or are intrigued by the story thus far, please do stick around and let me know what you think :) I may be slow to update considering my many other works and crazy schedule but hearing from readers always helps with motivation so don't forget to leave some in the comments/reblogs! 

Summary | Masterlist | Next →

[whumpitisthen]

The Prelude

Lightning crackles blue across the dark sky, rapidly frolicking between black clouds. The rain beats the ground, determined to flood the world and drown everything under holy water. Burnt charcoal trees struggle to stay upright in the wind bending them to be parallel against the ground and tearing them in half as the singed bark on them breaks apart. People, animals, even plants cry out in terror.

A brutal storm has formed on this scorched Earth. There hasn't been one like this in decades, apparent as every living thing — mortal or not — scrambles to seek shelter under anything that bears the weather. The ground shakes constantly with thunder; one would think an earthquake is taking place at once.

Out in the middle of noman's land, in the epicentre of the tempest, a clearing surrounded by trees of a forest waves its grey blades of grass under an opening in the clouds; — no, an opening in the sky itself. The space rips open like molten glass, casting a golden light onto the land, which instantly evaporates the rain befallen on it. A loud tremble rings in the air, coming from the tear as the storm reaches its peak, and out the opening comes one spear of lightning hitting the earth with such power the grass disintegrates to ashes and flows away with the wind.

Under the light — a huddled figure. He claws at the dirt in pain, his screaming drowned out by the fury of the heavens. He shakes on his knees and hides his head behind his arms as he cries into the now burnt patch of grass in sorrow and terror, overwhelmed by his surroundings to such an extreme that he cannot bear to think a single thought loud enough to overcome the raging squall. His pain is immense, and not merely physical.

An angel. He was cast out of his Heaven, and now, with blackened wings glowing at the edges of its feathers with fiery embers, he suffers the consequences of the sin he had committed that had landed him here. Namely, he has to bear the agony of Falling. The burning of his most precious wings that will never heal, that he will never fly with again. The suddenness of hunger and cold and fatigue; the loss of his life as an immortal being, and the process of becoming accustomed to what will be his new life from now on: the life of a mortal. Barely anything more than a simple human. Defenceless. Weak. Vulnerable. Prey.

In this world, thunder elicits horror inside the souls of Angel and Demon alike; only bringing destruction and fury to everyone who dares brave it. It is a byproduct of the divine fury of the most powerful beings the Heavens house, their anger traversing worlds to manifest itself in horrendous storms that tear apart the earth itself, uncaring of who or what lives on it. Intimidating as they are, disasters like this do not happen often, and when they do, rarely does a Fallen find themself on the ground with their powers ripped away, their wings burnt to a crisp, scars of lightning leaving markings that will never disappear, forever reminding them of their terrible fate and their mortality. This fate is irreversible without the eternally holy and gracious Archangels themselves changing their mind, — something that a lowly little angel like Auden could never achieve.

One choice remains to be made.

Will he accept his fate, this punishment that his Heaven deemed fit for him with dignity, clamouring for survival for as long as he can on this cursed, awful, hellish Earth?

Or will he give up the last of his grace, bending to the most unbecoming, damned creatures and becoming one of them, a demon himself, to avoid an untimely, horrific death?

<3

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long

[punishdsin]

Welcome to Silent Hill, @damagecompilation. We've been expecting you.

In the gloomy expanse of Silent Hill, Sunderland's weary footsteps echo through the desolate streets, each footfall a solemn reminder of the oppressive atmosphere that surrounds him. Thick, swirling fog envelops the landscape, obscuring the horizon and distorting the familiar shapes of buildings into menacing silhouettes.

As James's gaze sweeps over the abandoned storefronts and dilapidated structures that line the streets, he can't help but feel a chill creep down his spine. The air is heavy with a sense of foreboding, the ever-present fog serving as a shroud that conceals both the horrors that lurk within and the faint glimmers of hope that flicker in the darkness.

In the distance, the faint sound of footsteps echoes through the mist, a haunting melody that sends a shiver down James's spine. He knows that in this twisted realm, nothing is as it seems. What appears ordinary may be a harbinger of danger, and what seems benign may hide a sinister truth.

Amidst the oppressive silence, ashes drift lazily through the air, casting a ghostly pallor over the landscape and serving as a grim reminder of the destruction that has befallen this cursed town.

Despite the bleakness of his surroundings, James presses on, his determination unwavering as he navigates the treacherous terrain. With each step, he remains vigilant, knowing that at any moment, the fragile semblance of normalcy could crumble, revealing the true horrors that lie beneath the surface.

Somewhere in the mist-shrouded streets, his path intersects with that of a weary traveler, his gaze drawn to the figure amidst the eerie silence of the town. Though their encounter is unexpected, James's innate sense of empathy compels him to approach the stranger with cautious curiosity.

" Hey there, " James offers, his voice a blend of warmth and uncertainty as he steps closer to the other man. " Are you lost? "

[rainywerewolfmoon]

Fairyland Reborn

Ao3 Link here Fairyland Reborn - Chapter 3 - Princessmh9 - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]

Chapter 3: The Search for Hope

{As the guests looked about worried as they heard the screams Oberon, Titania, Willow, Aurora, Lindir and Albina tried to keep the guests calm.}

{Oberon} Ladies and Gentlefolk, please remain calm. We are aware of the situation, and we are doing everything in our power to resolve it. Your safety is our utmost priority.

{Albina and Titania noticed Genevieve and Ash walking out of the maze as the royals rush over worry sketched onto their faces.}

{Titania} Genevieve is Elara...

{Genevieve lowers her head as tears fill her eyes as Ash holds her close. They lower their heads in respect to Elara as Lindir looks back at the party.}

{Lindir} Me and Willow will send the guest home. Genevieve you and Nion get to the library and start looking again for anything that can save Elara from this curse.

{Ash} Of course father. Come on love. We can't give up. For Elara’s sake.

{With a shared determination to save Elara, Lindir and Willow took charge of sending the worried guests home, while Genevieve and Ash made their way to the library. Genevieve wiped away her tears, her resolve strengthened by their love for their daughter. In the library, surrounded by the wisdom of countless books, Genevieve and Ash began their search once more, hoping to uncover any information or magic that could break the curse that had befallen Elara. Their hearts were heavy, but they knew they couldn't give up. For Elara's sake, they would delve into the depths of knowledge and magic to find a way to bring their beloved daughter back from the darkness that had consumed her.}

...................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

{Nixon smiles as he stands in front of the shadow castle as a figure walks out of the mist.}

{Nixon} Your highness. Its good to have you back after all these stars.

{Starlessia steps out of the mist smiling wickdly.

{Starlessia, her voice dripping with darkness} Nixon, my loyal servant, the time has come for my ultimate plan to unfold. Elara's curse is just the beginning. With her powers under my control, I will bring the entire realm to its knees.

{Nixon bows deeply} As you command, your highness. Everything is in place, and the Court of Shadows is at your service.

{Starlessia's eyes gleam with malevolence} Excellent. Now, let us begin. Our reign of darkness will know no bounds.

{Nixon} Your parents are waiting for you in the throne room.

{Starlessia} Lead the way Nixon

{Nixon nods and leads Starlessia through the shadowy corridors of the castle, eventually arriving at the grand throne room. King Sablethorn and Queen Nocturnia are seated on their ominous thrones.}

{Sablethorn} Our dear daughter, you have returned at last.

{Nocturnia} And just in time for the culmination of our plans.

{Starlessia, with a wicked grin} Indeed, Mother, Father. The realm will soon tremble in fear before our power.

{Sablethorn} You have done well, Nixon. Leave us now.

{Nixon bows and quietly exits the throne room, leaving the royal family to their dark intentions. Nocturnia smiles at Starlessia.}

{Nocturnia} You didn’t get to sit on your throne during your coronation my dear daughter. Come the time has arrived for you to take your rightful place as the Princess of Shadows.

{Starlessia steps forward, her eyes filled with anticipation and ambition.}

{Sablethorn} Come sit on your throne Starlessia.

{Starlessia approaches the shadowy throne and takes her seat, a wicked grin on her face. As she sits down there was a flash of power and light as it shocked the castle and all of Fairyland as the curse that was upon the Court of Shadows was finaly broken.}

{Nocturina} After century's of waiting in the shadows the curse that my cosuin put upon us is finaly broken. At long last we can come out of the shadows and take what is rightfully ours.

{Sablethorn} Indeed, Nocturnia. With Starlessia on the throne, our power will know no bounds. The curse may be broken, but the darkness it brought will linger and grow stronger.

{Starlessia} The world above will tremble in fear, and they will soon realize that the shadows are far more powerful than the light.

{Nocturnia} Let the reign of darkness begin, and may Fairyland and all who inhabit it bow before us. For tonight is the final night of Fairyland. From now on the Shadows rule and the Kings and Queens shall bow to us at long last.

{Sablethorn} Our time has come, and our vengeance shall be sweet. Fairyland will fall, and the world above will be plunged into eternal darkness.

{Starlessia} And the Fae, the Royals, and all those who dared to defy us will learn that there is no escape from the shadows.

{Nocturnia} We shall make them pay for the centuries we spent in darkness, plotting and waiting. Our revenge will be legendary, and our rule will be unchallenged.

{The Court of Shadows revels in their newfound power, their laughter echoing through the shadowy throne room as they prepare to unleash their darkness upon Fairyland.}

...................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

{As Genevieve and Ash search the library the ground started to shake as the windows rattle and break.}

{Genevieve, alarmed} Ash, what's happening? This can't be a coincidence. Something is terribly wrong.

{Albina and the other royals walk into the room.}

{Albina} Its Starlessia. She finally broke the curse that Queen Mab put on the Court of Shadows.

{Ash with worry} Oh no. That means the Court of Shadows is on the lose.

{Titania} And the only way to stop them is to stop the King and Queen.

{Genevieve} There has to be something in here to help us stop them.

{Kendra walks into the room and puts Excalibur on the table.}

{Genevieve confused} Kendra what are you doing?

{Kendra} Remember when we went to the ruins of the Unseelie Castle to find something about the Shadow Court?

{Genevieve nodding} Yes, I remember.

{Kendra} You and Ash have searched every single library in the Fairyland. And have you found anything about the curse yet?

{Genevieve} No we haven't.

{Kendra} There is only one place left to check.

{Genevieve in realization} The library of the Unseelie.

{Kendra nods at this as Genevieve turns to look at Ash.}

{Ash, reluctantly} I understand, Genevieve. Protecting the Enchanted Forest is crucial. Just promise me you'll be safe and do everything you can to find a way to save Elara.

{Genevieve} I promise, Ash. We won't rest until we bring our daughter back. Stay strong, my love. You wait here and help protect Enchanted Forest Ash. Me and Kendra will go to the library.

{Genevieve and Ash share a heartfelt kiss, drawing strength from each other before parting for their respective missions. With determination and love in their hearts, they set off on their separate paths, ready to face the trials that await them.}

...................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

{Steel Kendra’s grey Andalusian Stallion and Shadow Genevieve’s black half Kelpie rode with weary as they walked through the black of the night with only the lateens that Kendra and Genevieve held. The forest around them seemed to come alive in the dim light of the lanterns, casting eerie and elongated shadows that danced between the ancient trees. The atmosphere was heavy with magic, as if the very air they breathed was charged with the secrets of the Unseelie. Steel and Shadow, the loyal steeds, trod carefully, their hooves making soft, rhythmic sounds on the forest floor. Kendra and Genevieve rode in silence, their lanterns illuminating their path and revealing glimpses of the twisted and gnarled roots that seemed to reach out like skeletal fingers from the earth. The further they ventured into the forest, the more unsettling the surroundings became, as if the very woods were conspiring to keep their secrets hidden.}

{Genevieve} No matter what time of the star it is this place gives me the creeps.

{Kendra nodded in agreement, her eyes darting around as they rode deeper into the forest.}

{Kendra} It's not a place many would willingly come to, especially at this hour. But sometimes, the most forbidden places hide the answers we seek.

{As they continued the journey their lanterns showed a clearing where the crumbling remains of the once splendid castle of the Unseelie and Wild Hunt once stood.}

{Kendra slowing Steel to a halt} Looks like it's in more ruins than last time.

{Genevieve dismounting Shadow} Well it's been sixteen stars since we last came here.

{Together, they approached the entrance of the ruined castle, its imposing stone walls looming over them. The moonlight cast eerie shadows across the crumbling architecture, and the silence was heavy with the weight of forgotten history.}

{Genevieve} Sixteen stars... a lot has changed since then. Let's hope the library is still intact, or at least, that we can find something useful in the remnants of this place.

{Kendra moved some ivy away from were the main doors used to stand which were nothing more then rotting wood on the ground.

{Kendra} It's a long shot, but it's our only shot.

{Genevieve} Agreed.

{Together, they stepped over the rotting wood that once formed the castle's grand entrance. Inside, the ruins revealed remnants of a once majestic palace. Broken columns, shattered stained glass windows, and tattered tapestries whispered of a forgotten era.}

{Genevieve, scanning the area} The library was in the east wing, if I remember correctly. Let's head that way.

{Kendra} Lead the way, Genevieve.

{With their lanterns in hand, they ventured deeper into the ruins, determined to uncover the secrets that might save Elara and Fairyland itself.}

{As they pressed forward through the decaying castle, the air grew colder and more oppressive. Dust and cobwebs clung to every surface, and the echoes of their footsteps bounced off the crumbling walls. The remnants of grand chandeliers hung precariously from the ceiling, their crystals long gone, leaving only rusted chains.}

{Genevieve, shivering} It's as if this place still holds the memories of its dark past.

{Kendra} Let's hope those memories include the knowledge we seek.

{They finally reached the east wing, where the library had once stood. The once-majestic double doors leading to it had rotted away, leaving a dark void beyond. Cautiously, they stepped inside. The room, though dilapidated, still retained some semblance of its former grandeur. Dusty shelves lined the walls, and tattered, half-destroyed books lay scattered on the floor.}

{Genevieve, searching the shelves} We need to find something about the Court of Shadows and how to break their curse.

{Kendra, examining a damaged book} These books have seen better days. We'll have to be careful not to damage them further.

{Genevieve putting her lantern onto a table and picks up some candlesticks.}

{Genevieve, arranging the candlesticks on the table} Maybe some light will help us see the titles of these books more clearly.

{As the candles flickered to life, the room was bathed in a dim, eerie glow. Dust motes danced in the candlelight as Kendra and Genevieve continued their search.}

{Kendra, carefully examining a partially intact book} It looks like these books are mostly about the history of the Unseelie Court and the Wild Hunt. I don't see anything specifically related to the curse.

{Genevieve, her expression determined} Keep looking. There has to be something here.

{Hours passed as they combed through the ruins of the library, their fingers growing dusty and tired. The moon's soft light filtered through cracks in the walls, creating eerie patterns on the floor.}

{Kendra, with a sigh of frustration} It's like searching for a needle in a haystack. There's so much here, but nothing about the Court of Shadows.

{Genevieve, her voice filled with weariness} We can't give up, Kendra. Elara's life depends on this. We have to find a way to break the curse.

{Just as they were about to lose hope, Genevieve's eyes fell upon a dusty, leather-bound tome hidden beneath a pile of fallen debris. She carefully retrieved it and blew away the dust, revealing an ornate cover.}

{Genevieve, excitement in her voice} Kendra, look at this! It's an old spell book, and it might contain the answers we need.

{Kendra, hopeful} Let's open it and see what secrets it holds.}

{Genevieve places the book on the table and blows the dust off it before opening it up. Kendra lifts up a lantern for Genevieve to see better. Genevieve carefully opened the ancient spell book, revealing pages filled with faded ink and intricate illustrations. She and Kendra leaned in, their eyes scanning the pages in search of any information about the Court of Shadows and the curse.}

{Kendra, her voice hushed} Do you see anything related to the Court of Shadows?

{Genevieve, squinting at the text} It's hard to make out, but... yes, there's a section here about a powerful curse placed upon the Court of Shadows by Queen Mab herself.

{As Genevieve began to read aloud, the words on the pages seemed to come to life, recounting the history of the curse.}

{Genevieve, reading} "The curse placed upon the Court of Shadows by Queen Mab was a punishment for their treacherous acts and lust for power. It bound them to the shadows, preventing them from seizing control of the Fairyland. But the curse also held a condition— "

{Kendra, leaning in closer} A condition? What is it?

{Genevieve, reading on} "The curse could only be broken if the rightful heir of the Court of Shadows, the true Princess of Shadows, willingly accepted her destiny and took her place upon the shadowy throne."

{Kendra, realization dawning} Elara... She's the true Princess of Shadows. That's why Starlessia needed her.

{Genevieve, determined} We have to find a way to break the curse and save Elara. The book must have a solution.

{They continue to read the book hopeful for anything onto how to break the curse. Hours passed as Genevieve and Kendra diligently searched through the ancient spell book, their eyes growing weary from reading by the dim light of their lanterns. They found many references to the curse, but breaking it seemed more elusive with every page they turned.}

{Genevieve, sighing in frustration} It's like the book is toying with us. It tells us about the curse but doesn't provide a way to break it.

{Kendra, determined} We can't give up now, Genevieve. There must be something here, some clue, a hidden spell or ritual that can undo the curse.

{Genevieve, rubbing her temples} You're right. We have to keep looking. Elara's life depends on it.

{They continued to pore over the ancient tome, their hopes rising and falling with each page. The room remained eerily quiet, save for the rustling of pages and the faint creaking of the decaying castle around them.}

{Kendra, suddenly pointing at a passage} Genevieve, look! This passage mentions a ritual, a way to break the curse.

{Genevieve, leaning in eagerly} What does it say?

{Kendra, reading aloud} "To break the curse of shadows and set the true Princess free, one must gather the tears of moonlight, the heart's purest desire, and the breath of a living star. With these three elements, the curse can be undone."

{Genevieve her heart racing} Tears of moonlight, the hearts purest desire and the breath of a living star? How am I going to find those things?

{Kendra, placing a reassuring hand on Genevieve's shoulder} We'll find a way, Genevieve. We always do. We can start by searching for information on the tears of moonlight, the heart's purest desire, and the living star. There might be clues or legends that can lead us in the right direction.

{Genevieve, nodding} You're right. Let's begin by searching this library for any references to these elements. And if we can't find anything here, we'll seek out the wisdom of those who know the secrets of Fairyland.

{Hours passed as Genevieve and Kendra combed through the old texts and scrolls. The candles burned low, casting flickering shadows on the dusty pages.}

{Kendra, with a sigh} I can't believe we haven't found anything about the tears of moonlight, the heart's purest desire, or the living star. It's as if these elements are nothing more than myths.

{Genevieve, her frustration growing} We can't give up, Kendra. Elara's life is at stake. There must be something we're missing, some hidden clue or overlooked passage.

{Just then, as Genevieve turned a particularly old and fragile page, she noticed a faint illustration of a celestial object.}

{Genevieve, excitement in her voice} Kendra, look at this! It's a drawing of a star, but it's unlike any star I've ever seen. It's surrounded by a halo of light. Could this be the living star we're looking for?

{Kendra, studying the illustration} It's possible. And look here, there's a reference to a "Moonlit Well" in the margin. That could be related to the tears of moonlight.

{Genevieve, feeling a spark of hope} Moonlit Well and a living star... We might be onto something.

{As they delved deeper into the text, they discovered more references to the Moonlit Well and the living star. The writings spoke of ancient rituals and prophecies, hinting at the significance of these elements.}

{Genevieve, her voice filled with determination} Kendra, I need to find the Moonlit Well first. It might hold the key to the tears of moonlight. Do you have any idea where it could be?

{Kendra, deep in thought} There's a legend I once heard from an old storyteller back in my old village Lavender Hills. It spoke of a hidden well deep within the Enchanted Forest. They called it the "Moonlit Well," and it was said to be a place of great magic, hidden from the eyes of all but those who truly believed in its existence.

{Genevieve, a glimmer of hope in her eyes} That's it! If it's hidden within the Enchanted Forest, we might have a chance. We know those woods well. But how do we find it?

{Kendra, determined} The legend also mentioned that the well reveals itself only to those in dire need. If you and Ash believe and search with all your hearts, it might guide us.

{Genevieve, a small smile forming} Then that's where we'll start. We'll return to the Enchanted Forest and search for the Moonlit Well. And once we find it, we'll gather the tears of moonlight. As for the living star...

{Kendra} Lets keep looking. If we found info about the Moonlit Well, then, we must be able to find something about the living star and heart's purest desire around here somewhere.

{Genevieve nodded in agreement, and the two of them continued to scour the library's decaying shelves for any additional information about the living star and the heart's purest desire. Hours passed as they meticulously searched through the ancient tomes and scrolls, occasionally finding cryptic references to the living star and the heart's purest desire. It was as if the castle's crumbling library still held onto fragments of the knowledge they sought.}

{Genevieve, growing tired but resolute} Kendra, we can't give up. We must find more clues, no matter how obscure they may be. We owe it to Elara to exhaust every possibility.

{Kendra, equally determined} You're right, Genevieve. We won't stop until we have all the answers we need.

{They continued their search into the night, their lanterns casting flickering shadows on the decaying walls, their hope burning brighter than ever as they delved deeper into the mysteries of the Unseelie Castle's forgotten knowledge. As the night wore on, Kendra and Genevieve finally stumbled upon a hidden compartment within one of the library's ancient bookshelves. Inside, they discovered a leather-bound tome that appeared to be untouched by the passage of time.}

{Genevieve, carefully retrieving the book} Kendra, look at this. It's as if this book has been preserved for a special purpose.

{Kendra, intrigued} Let's open it and see what secrets it holds.

{Genevieve gently opened the book, revealing beautifully illustrated pages filled with text written in a script they could barely decipher. It appeared to be a diary or journal of some sort, chronicling the experiences of someone who had once resided in the Unseelie Castle.}

{Genevieve, reading aloud} "In the darkest hour, when shadows consume the land, seek the living star where moonlight weeps. Within its ethereal glow, the heart's purest desire shall be revealed."

{Kendra, eyes wide with realization} Genevieve, this is it! It's a clue about the living star and the heart's purest desire!

{Genevieve, a mix of excitement and determination} Yes, and it mentions the moonlight as well. We must decipher this further.

{The two women meticulously studied the diary, piecing together its cryptic passages. It became clear that the living star and the heart's purest desire were intertwined with the moonlight and shadows, but the specifics remained elusive.}

{Kendra, pondering} We know about the Moonlit Well, but how do we find the living star and the heart's purest desire?

{Genevieve, her voice filled with determination} We'll need to gather more information and consult with Ash. Together, we'll embark on this quest to save Elara. And we won't rest until we have all the answers.

{As they left the decaying library of the Unseelie Castle, Kendra and Genevieve carried with them the newfound knowledge from the diary. The moonlit night shrouded their path as they returned to the Enchanted Forest.}

{Kendra, determined} Genevieve, you and Ash will have to find the Moonlit Well as your first step. It seems to be the key to unraveling this mystery.

{Genevieve} Wont you be coming with me and Ash?

{Kendra} No I have to stay with the Oberon and Titania and protect the kingdom. Now the Court of Shadows are on the lose, I must do everything in my powers as leader and head guard to protect the Kingdom.

{Genevieve} I understand Kendra. We head back to the castle and tell Ash what we find and look for more info about the living star and the hearts purest desire.

{Kendra} That's a wise plan, Genevieve. Return to the castle, inform Ash of what we've discovered, and continue your search for information about the living star and the heart's purest desire. I'll stay here and ensure the safety of the kingdom.

{Genevieve} Thank you, Kendra. We'll return as soon as we can.

{With a parting nod and a shared determination, Genevieve and Kendra went their separate ways, each with their own important tasks to fulfill in order to save Elara and protect the kingdom from the growing threat of the Court of Shadows.}

[gobboguy]

Chapter 26: Shadows of Desperation

In the narrow confines of the alleyway, Twig pressed himself against the cold stone wall, his young heart pounding in his chest. He listened to the words of some passing Orcs' conversation, their guttural voices carrying the triumph of victory. Their heavy footsteps eventually dissolved into the distant sounds of chaos, leaving Twig alone in the shadows.

Amidst the charred remains of Farfield, the Orcs gathered, their triumphant voices ringing through the desolate streets. Their tusks gleamed in the fading light, and their eyes glinted with the satisfaction of victory.

"Gelbeg's dream is reality now," rumbled one burly Orc, his voice a deep bass, resonating with pride. "Look at this city! A treasure trove ripe for the taking!"

"Aye," grunted another, his eyes scanning the ravaged buildings. "The humans hoarded their riches, but now it's ours. Today is a great day for the Orcs. We've proven our might!"

"Imagine what the chieftains back home will say when they hear of this conquest," a scarred Orc exclaimed, his voice brimming with anticipation. "They'll sing praises to Gelbeg and Ionia. The Orcish race rises!"

A seasoned Orc warrior, his armor stained with blood, raised his fist in the air. "The day Gelbeg envisioned has dawned upon us! We'll build our homeland here, atop the ashes of Farfield. Orcs will thrive in this city, just as Gelbeg foresaw."

The Orcs exchanged nods and grins, their spirits high with the fulfillment of Gelbeg's prophecy. The once-hushed whispers of a homeland had transformed into a thunderous reality, a conquest etched in the annals of Orcish history.

"This city will be a testament to our strength," declared an Orc shaman, his eyes glinting with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism. "Gelbeg's spirit watches over us. We are destined for greatness!"

With resolute determination, the Orcs continued their conversation as they moved away, each word cementing their triumph. Farfield had fallen, but in its ruins, the Orcs saw the foundation of their new homeland, a testament to their power and Gelbeg's vision.

His stomach rumbled, a cruel reminder of his hunger amidst the destruction. With each passing moment, his hope waned, and he wished for a scrap of food to soothe the ache. Whispers of despair crept into his thoughts as he imagined his family, scattered and lost in the midst of the Orcish onslaught. He closed his eyes for a moment, silently praying to the Divine Justice Miranda for strength.

Around him, the city of Farfield lay in ruins. The once-proud buildings now stood as charred skeletons, their windows shattered, and their walls stained with soot. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, a reminder of the devastation that had befallen the city.

Twig dared to peek out from his hiding spot, his eyes wide with fear. The streets were empty, save for the occasional patrol of Orcish warriors. He knew he had to find shelter, but the question of where remained unanswered.

Gathering his courage, Twig ventured forth, his steps cautious and deliberate. His ears strained to catch any sound, his eyes darting from side to side. Every alley seemed to hold a potential threat, every corner hiding the unknown.

As he moved deeper into the city, Twig's thoughts drifted to his family. He clung to the hope that they were safe, even as the world around him crumbled. With each step, he whispered their names like a mantra, a desperate plea to the fates to reunite them once more.

The sky above, once a canvas of blue, was now a tapestry of smoke and ash, shrouding the remnants of Farfield in a veil of despair. Twig trudged on, driven by a flicker of determination amidst the overwhelming darkness.

In the distance, he spotted a faint glimmer of light flickering through a cracked door. With a surge of hope, he quickened his pace and cautiously pushed it open. Inside, he found a small, abandoned pantry, its shelves stripped bare, save for a few crumbs scattered on the floor.

Twig stepped cautiously into the abandoned house, his heart heavy with trepidation. The air inside was thick with the scent of blood and death, a grim testament to the violence that had befallen its former occupants. As he ventured further, he stumbled upon the gruesome aftermath - the slaughtered remains of the inhabitants lay strewn across the floor, their lifeless eyes frozen in a final expression of terror and despair.

His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he felt a wave of despair wash over him, threatening to engulf him in sorrow. His eyes welled up with tears, but he clenched his fists and fought to hold back the grief. Anger surged within him, replacing the overwhelming sadness. In that moment of heart-wrenching discovery, Twig made a solemn vow.

"I swear," he whispered through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with determination, "I will avenge you all. I won't let your deaths be in vain. Farfield will be free again, and I will make sure of it."

His resolve hardened, Twig wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, steeling himself for the challenges ahead. He knew he had to channel his grief into strength, into the unyielding determination to fight back against the darkness that had consumed his home. With newfound purpose, he stepped further into the house, his fists clenched, ready to face the horrors outside and fulfill his oath to protect his people.

Twig's hunger gnawed at him, but there was no time for self-pity. From the pantry, he gathered the few meager crumbs he could find, his fingers trembling with fatigue and fear. As he nibbled on the dry remnants of bread, he knew that this momentary respite was a fleeting one.

The city outside echoed with the cries of the conquered, a symphony of sorrow and loss. Twig clung to the warmth of the pantry, his heart heavy with grief and uncertainty. In the midst of the ruins, he vowed to endure, to survive, and to find his family once more, no matter the trials that lay ahead.

In the dim light of the house, Twig's eyes widened as he heard a noise, his senses on high alert. A rustle of movement drew his attention, and he turned swiftly, his hand instinctively reaching for his makeshift dagger. To his bewilderment, a head poked out from a nearby door, and then through the doorway stepped something utterly baffling: another Twig, an identical version of himself, stared back at him, wide-eyed and shocked.

"By the Divine Justice," stuttered Twig, hardly believing his eyes. "Who… What… are you?"

His twin, with an equally astonished expression, held up a half-eaten loaf of bread. "I… I came here to find some food," the doppelganger replied, mirroring Twig's confusion. "But… you're me, aren't you?"

Twig let out a nervous chuckle, attempting to lighten the surreal situation. "Well, if I do say so myself, we're quite the handsome pair, aren't we?"

Before he could process the strangeness any further, the twin suddenly vanished in a shimmering flash, leaving Twig utterly dumbfounded. In his hands now was the loaf of bread, as if the magical duplicate had left behind its snack.

A newfound determination coursed through Twig's veins. Clutching the bread tightly, he realized the extent of his magical gift. With growing courage, he vowed to use this newfound power to save Farfield, to protect his people from the Orcs and Naga, and to honor the memory of his fallen family and city.

[galaxicide]

❛ there’s no black or white, only gray. ❜ ( from rey )

@fals3nd REY.

It was still odd to see her in the light. During their time spent as mortal enemies, he'd thought that if he were to look at her bare, her light might blind him. But, sitting feet apart in the sands of Jakku, he saw that she was just a girl, even with the sun shining right over them. She was scarcely a few years older than he'd been when Snoke sucked him into his dark world, and he found himself glad the same thing hadn't befallen her. Strange, considering that only a year or so ago, he would have driven his saber through her skull without much question. What Snoke wanted, Snoke got through whatever means.

The two of them didn't talk much, and he was fine with that. Their job was to raze a remaining First Order base buried within Jakku, which they'd completed without little effort. He felt little while watching his past burn and turn into ashes. What did that mean? Had it all meant nothing to him? Everything he helped Snoke build was for nothing, or had he only done it because that's what Snoke wanted? Every day offered him more questions with no answers, which was the most maddening thing. Not the nightmares. Not the fear that Snoke was still whispering to him in the night. And not the visions of Kylo Ren he sometimes saw looming over him upon the horizon. Those things he could handle--to a degree. But knowing all his thirty-two years of life thus far hadn't meant a thing. He was still the same lost boy, just in a man's body. He was still sceptically questioning everything and everyone around him, wondering where he fit in and if he ever did or could. What a kriffing tragedy.

It seemed unfortunate that he wasn't alone in the sphere of confusion. At times, it came off of Rey in great, big, invisible waves. He wanted to tell her that was a curse for the children of the force, ones like them, at least. The kids who couldn't find their paths. But he didn't until she suddenly spoke out as if she knew what he was thinking. He hated that. Silence followed her declaration, save for the hot winds of Jakku. And he did consider not saying anything, yet the stubborn blood in his veins won like it always did with an exaggerated sight. "You know that's not true. We are both former students of the dark and light. Just because the light isn't what you want doesn't mean you can deny its existence, anymore than I ever could the dark." It will always be a part of me... "If you'd like to take the grey path, just say so. Luke will get over it." Attempting to end the conversation before Rey's own obstinate nature could begin talking back. He stood, holstering his blaster, and began returning to the ship, silently praying the miniature menace might follow quietly.

[slightlyspooky]

Hunger

A curse has befallen our village

Adventures of great resolve are required

A crude map leading to the village was drawn below

Purpose had found me. I packed my things in preparation. The trip would be several days by foot.

The final night of my journey was restless. I dreamt of a starving woman, who's face I couldn't see. "Feed me" she pleaded, and I gave her my supper. I woke hungry.

The village was surrounded by fields and a wooden wall. A small forest stood nearby. I spoke with a person tending crops and they lead me through the gate. Inside the village were enough longhouses for a few hundred people. Once I introduced myself to their leader the situation was explained to me.

There was a cave nearby that beckoned to the living as The Wood did to the dead. So far the cave had three victims.

The first was an old man who had helped to build this village. As a child the man's village was in the same place as this one. But wood rots, ground becomes infertile, and so the people of these villages move about building again where they go. It's not uncommon for a person to grow old on the same land on which they were born. Many years ago he had begun mumbling about the cave, which was brushed off as part of his eccentric personality. Over time his focus on the cave became more intense until fall two years ago when he went inside and was lost.

The second was a little girl wracked by nightmares. She had survived a bad case of flu, but the fever dreams never left her. She told fantastical stories about the cave; the ramblings of a child. After she went missing in the night last winter her tracks were followed to the cave. During the search inside for her the rescue party was forced to leave by sudden flooding. After this tragedy the cave was closed off.

The third victim was lost just last month. He was a young man. Talented, kind, athletic, and full of potential. He escorted his mother to The Wood after she'd died of flu, but sadness remained in his heart. One day he announced he would go to the cave and despite much begging none could stop him. When he reached the entrance to the cave he tore off the seals with the strength of the hindered dead.

Two more people were beckoned to by the cave. They didn't know how long they could resist, but I knew I had to help. The sorcerer of the village gave me a bitter tea and painted protective sigils across my body. We blessed my father's axe which I carried. It gave me an amulet that glowed faintly like a candle, and bundles of rope. In the morning I would rise with the sun and seek the cave.

That night I dreamt again of the starving woman, who's face I couldn't see. "Feed me" she pleaded. As I began to hand her my bowl I noticed three more at her feet. I saw her belly, distended and bulging. "Feed me" she pleaded. Then I woke up.

The village leader offered to guide me to the cave, but I realized I already knew the way. The entrance had at one point been barricaded off as described to me. Shattered masonry and bent wrought iron bars lay scattered. Sigils carved into the rock had been roughly gouged into perversions of their purpose. I used the back of my axe to break the lines of the sigils until they were powerless and mundane. One of the iron bars was used to tie off my rope as I began my descent.

I traversed twisting corridors, tight squeezes and sumps. At each fork I let her hungry voice guide me, while my faithful rope marked my path. As I continued down her voice became clearer and I fought with myself to remember my purpose.

Eventually I found myself in a large chamber. Crystals studded the walls, a shallow pool covered the floor and a small tree stood in the center. The tree was a hemlock like the trees in The Wood of the Dead, but his one was twisted like an antler with limbs of bone and needles of ash. Two skeletons and a bloated corpse lay at the tree's roots.

The starving woman, who's face I couldn't see stepped out of the darkness. "Feed me" She pleaded. I grabbed Her by the neck and I swung my axe. My axe sunk through flesh into bone. I found myself reeling in pain prostrate before the tree. The stench of death was in the air and there was no starving woman. My arm was a bloody mess and I quickly worked to staunch the bleeding.

The pain brought clarity, but I could still feel the starving woman trying to worm Her way into my mind. I swung my axe at the tree. Once again my axe sunk into bone, but his time not my own. I swung my axe again and again and again. Until the tree fell. Until I could no longer hear the starving woman. Until I was satisfied that my quest was complete. Exhausted and drained of adrenaline, I slipped into unconsciousness.

I dreamt again of the starving woman, who's face I couldn't see. This time She lay dead. I looked down at myself. One hand gripped my father's axe, the other hung limp. My bowl sat empty at my own feet before it was picked up by someone familiar. The village sorcerer took a ladle of stew from a pot and filled my bowl. "You can put the axe down now" the sorcerer said before offering me back my bowl. I woke up in a longhouse with the smell of good stew and celebration in the air.

[rw-repurposed]

Some short comics regarding Chasing Wind's ancients :)

I love them all and I wanna do more about them.

All the ancients from the bottom panels from top to left to right:

Four Rising Suns, One Setting Moon. One Direct Goal, Infinite Curved Paths. Stains of Shadow Over A Realm's Sorrow. Nine Howling Vessels, Silent Night. Darkness Befallen, Ashes Remains.

[spell-cleaver]

Vader down au where luke's x-wing lands directly beside Vader's tie-fighterand vader has to fend off the rebels while tending to a heavily concussed luke (doesn't help that he constantly has to "protect" his son from rescue attempts )

Warning for some graphic descriptions of injuries, implied possible character death, and general Vader stuff. Violence and pain. This is far, far darker than I originally intended it to be.

*

The crash billowed fire around him and for a moment Vader could not remember where he was, which battle was being fought. So many starfighters crashed over the years, so many of them with a bright, beloved Force signature by his side—but this was not Obi-Wan, or Ahsoka, or any other Jedi. This was a half-Jedi. This was his son.

He erupted from the cockpit of the starfighter just before it exploded. Molten shards of metal embedded themselves in his cape and cooled in the ice of the dark side around him to spines, jutting from his back. He drew himself up to his full height and shrugged most of them off, strips tearing through his cape until it glowed from smouldering embers, flashing metal, and flapping threads of armourweave. The fire still flickering around the remains of his starfighter misted in the eye plates of his mask, deep crimson.

Another explosion. This one on the other side of the starfighter, balls of fire erupting from the fuel tanks, in the direction of—

Luke.

Vader stormed forwards, through the smoke and flame, until he emerged with the metal shards still perched on his shoulders, bright orange, his cape and suit shimmering yellow, the fire parting for him like kin. The boy’s starfighter was in no better shape than Vader’s, burning and belching thick, dark smoke into the unblemished blue sky, with one key difference: this pilot had not abandoned his craft.

This pilot was slumped over the controls, the transparisteel of the cockpit shattered and embedded in his face, arms, and neck, unmoving.

Another burst of flame. Vader glanced where it was—on Luke’s ship, near where he thought the fuel cells might be. He thrust out his hand and wrenched them from the mess of twisted metal, casting them into the sky just as flames consumed them.

The explosion lit up the ground bright enough that Vader’s lenses struggled to adjust for a moment, but when they did, more poor luck had befallen him: Luke was awake. Awake, and blinking dimly into nowhere.

At least, Vader thought, he was alive.

He stormed forwards, like a wraith of fire and death, and seized the metal struts still encasing the cockpit even with the transparisteel shattered between them. He tore them clean off and threw them aside, grabbing Luke by the collar of his flight suit. Luke let out a cry of pain.

Vader didn’t register it until he’d lowered him to the ground and was able to fully understand the extent of the damage.

Minor and major burns littered Luke’s hands, licked up his leg where the flight suit was nothing but ash, splashed over his face. The shattered transparisteel and metal had shredded much of what was left of his exposed skin, and the flight suit where it was still intact—two or three pieces were still embedded in his neck. His helmet was dented at the front from the force of the impact, and Vader did not know what damage could have been done to the head underneath. And Luke was still staring around wildly, unable to locate where his rescuer stood.

“What can you see?” Vader boomed.

Luke shouted and scrambled back on lacerated hands. The orange dust that coated Vrogas Vas had already settled around his injuries, turning red with blood. “Vader!?”

“You can see nothing?”

“You— you blinded me—”

“I must assume it is temporary. You were looking at the fuel cells when they exploded.”

“When you blew them up!”

“I saved your life, young one.” His voice turned biting, the temperature plunging with the force of his fury. “After you so recklessly tossed it away!”

“It would be worth it to take care of you!”

“A thousand of my lives would not be worth yours!” Vader snarled. That Rebel mindset would be the death of his son. He marched forwards and seized Luke’s collar again, yanking him to his feet—gently. As gently as Vader’s brutal hands knew how to be, at least. “Can you stand?”

Luke’s need for Vader to catch him on the way down answered that.

The boy stared blankly in the direction of his right foot. Now that Vader looked at it, the boot it was in was crushed, with flesh that looked concerningly pulpy seeping out of the tears.

“I…” Luke said as Vader laid him back on the ground. “I… what happened…”

Vader ripped the leather of Luke’s boot apart and peeled it off his foot. Despite everything he had seen in his violent life, he would have vomited, had his digestive system still been that competent. Luke screamed.

“You are lucky to be alive.” The vocoder disguised the fierce trembling in Vader’s natural voice.

“I don’t feel lucky!” Luke reached up and found Vader’s armoured shoulder, pushing at it feebly. “Everything hurts, and I’m stuck here with you!”

“Lucky,” Vader hissed, and then heard another rumbling. He glanced at the X-wing, the flames consuming it, and before he could think to warn Luke, seized the boy in his arms and sprinted away from it.

This explosion was smaller, shards peppering the dusty orange desert with metal and holes. But it would still not have done Luke any favours, despite the curses he was flinging at him. The gases emitting from the burning metal and fuel were toxic as well, Vader’s life support systems were informing him. He started moving again, farther and farther away from the wreckage, towards the top of the nearest slope he could see.

Luke squirmed in his grip, and Vader tightened his hold unconsciously as he looked down the hill at the land around him. Glass crunched in his hands, Luke shouted, and more blood seeped over Vader’s long-stained gloves.

It wasn’t until then that it really hit Vader, looking at the son in his arms, the burns and the blood and the blinking eyes, all coated in a sickening orange dust, exactly how injured his son was. All the emergency medkits had exploded with their ships. And a medkit would likely not cut this, anyway.

Vader had come to Vrogas Vas alone, seeking Luke based on Aphra’s information. There were no Imperial ships in close proximity—only the Rebels.

“Darth Vader!” an electrically augmented voice boomed out. Vader snapped his gaze up and swung it around. Rebels from the base had gathered here, loaded with grenades, blasters, and a reckless hope for the impossible. They formed a ring around this hill and were all advancing forwards. All with their blasters trained on him.

All with their blasters trained on Luke.

“Drop your weapons and surrender!” the leader called out again, his megaphone making Luke wince from the noise. He bucked again in Vader’s grip, groaning when Vader tightened it again, and screamed when something gave. “Release Skywalker and come quietly!”

Vader made no move.

“You will let me through,” he said instead. “You will lead me to your base.” He needed to get Luke to a medbay. He needed to save his son’s life. If he admitted that to them, would they yield?

No, he thought. No.

Rebels were brutal.

Rebels were terrorists.

Rebels would see his son dead before they released him to his hands, and that ideology had corrupted Luke until he had almost destroyed himself for the mere hope of destroying Vader.

Scoffs all around.

“You will let me through,” he repeated. Luke was still struggling, and he was still bleeding profusely. Any moment an infection could set in. He did not know how much time Luke had left, but marching across a barren desert for miles, battling ridiculous Rebels, as Luke grew sick and died in his arms, was not how he would allow this to end.

But he would never admit that he needed the Rebels to cooperate.

The leader rallied his confidence. “Release Skywalker and drop your weapons! You are surrounded!”

And for a moment, he considered it.

He could not get to the Rebel base in time. He would not. Luke might well die if he did not cooperate and surrender him.

He looked down at his son, the rictus of pain in his face, the blank stare. He opened his mouth.

And that was when the first few warning shots fired.

They skittered off his cloak, his helmet. But a few embedded in Luke’s limbs, and the sound of his son’s screams changed his heart.

No Rebels would ever take his child from him again. Not in life, and not in death.

He lowered Luke to the ground. He lit his lightsaber.

“All I am surrounded by,” he growled, “are fools and dead men.”

He left Luke bleeding into the sand, stock still and staring at the sky, as he began his slaughter.

[hysterialevi]

Day 7 - Battlefield 

(fanfic below if you’re interested)

THE KNIGHT - An AC Valhalla oneshot

SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND

Wicked was the man who reaped the souls of the innocent, a priest once told Eivor. He who spilt the blood of God’s children would one day know His wrath and be barred from the gates of Heaven, for he had fallen prey to the Devil’s song.

And yet, amongst this tattered field where naught but the dead roamed, Eivor found himself surrounded by the souls of his fallen brethren, slain by a so-called child of God. Fly-ridden piles of corpses decorated the haggard landscape like mountains made of flesh, and in the sky, he could see ravens circling above the carnage, scavenging any human remains.

It was unlike anything the viking had ever seen. Although this kingdom was no stranger to war, even he had to admit that this was an uncommon sight. Birds and insects alike feasted on the new bodies now littering the blood-soaked mud, and the pungent stench of death had burrowed itself so deep in Eivor’s throat that he felt as if he would suffocate.

This had to be the place. The one place in England where even the Northmen didn’t dare traverse.

It was the source of many frightful tales that Eivor had heard from the people in his clan, and very often, cryptic rumors of a lone knight would accompany their words. 

He knew not the identity of this knight, nor what they desired. All he had gathered was that they carried a raw hatred for anyone of his ilk, and would not hesitate to strike him down should they lay eyes upon him.

He would have to be on his guard here, no matter how barren this battlefield seemed. It was a death sentence for anyone bold enough to travel through these lands, but that was exactly why Eivor had to come. To put an end to this massacre.

Venturing further into the heart of the slaughter, Eivor wandered underneath a canopy of naked trees and trudged through the slick mud, searching for the knight as his horse whinnied nervously behind him. He felt as if he were being swallowed by the darkness that shrouded this forsaken arena, and with every passing minute, he could see the world outside dwindling away with the gathering fog.

An unsettling chill had befallen the mass tomb upon Eivor’s arrival, and up ahead, he spotted the faint silhouette of a kneeling man.

From where he stood, the viking couldn’t tell if the man was still alive. His body appeared to reflect the lifelessness of the environment around him, and his head hung low between his shoulders. A weathered sword stood proudly from the chest of a corpse lying before him, and at the hilt, the man’s hand rested motionlessly around the grip.

What really caught Eivor’s attention however, was the torn cape dangling from his back. By now, the blue fabric had been matted with the dirt and ash of a hundred other battles, but even then, he could still make out the ghost of a once prominent sigil. It was clearly of Saxon origin just as he suspected, and seemed to resemble the banners he often saw draping from Mercian walls.

This must have been the knight that everyone spoke of. Eivor had finally found him.

“...You there!” He called out, keeping a hand on his axe. “Can you hear me?”

At first, the man offered no response. 

“Hey!” Eivor persisted, carefully approaching him. “Saxon! Are you alive?”

Stirring with a twitch, the knight perked his head up upon hearing the viking’s voice and steadily broke free from his entranced state, turning to see who had visited him in this putrid wasteland. He still had yet to reply to Eivor’s calls using any words, but acknowledged him with a mere glance.

Watching the knight’s every move, Eivor stared in fascination as his opponent threw a gaze over their shoulder, revealing a face that was more akin to a skeleton than a warrior.

The Saxon’s once youthful and handsome visage had been replaced with the mask of death itself, leaving nothing unscathed except for the eyes. They sat in his sockets like a pair of empty glass orbs, and mirrored the desolation of the landscape he beheld. 

He appeared extremely frail in terms of physical strength, but carried a stern ferocity that was more than enough to hold Eivor in place. He glowered at the viking through strands of dark, tangled hair, and locked eyes with the man as if he were marking him as his next target.

It suddenly made sense to Eivor where all those tales came from. The Northmen often spoke of this particular knight in a way that painted him as a beast, and now, he couldn’t stifle the new pang of fear that was beginning to sprout in his chest.

Eivor took a few steps closer, careful not to provoke him.

“Can you understand me, Saxon? I’m looking for a Mercian warrior who is rumored to be killing Danes and Norse alike. Are you him? Is this all your doing?”

The knight squinted his eyes in a perplexed manner, undeniably surprised to see a viking in his company.

“...A Northman?” He whispered, his voice delicate yet haunting. “In this part of England? It’s been a long time since I’ve encountered any of your kind, pagan. Most of your people make an effort to avoid me.”

The knight pressed his foot against the ground and slowly rose from the mud, using his sword for support. Contrary to what Eivor expected, the Saxon proved to bear an incredibly tall stature unlike most of his people, and towered over the battlefield like a hallowed guardian.

“Begone, Northman,” the knight warned. “Return from whence you came. I have no desire to fight you.”

Eivor didn’t budge. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Even if you spare me, you’ve been slaughtering every other Northerner who dared set foot on these lands. It must come to an end.”

His words earned nothing but a somber look from the other man.

“...The Danes ravaged everything I held dear, and robbed me of my soul when there was nothing left to take. If you truly wish to put an end to this needless war, then perhaps you should confront those whom you call ‘brother.”

The Wolf-Kissed held his tongue for the moment, not wishing to cross swords just yet.

“I’m not blind to the cruelty some of my people have displayed,” Eivor conceded, “but you inflict pain on those who had no part in your suffering. It isn’t right.”

The knight simply sighed and took hold of his sword, yanking it out of the body lying at his feet.

“Your judgement is immaterial to me, pagan. If I am to be condemned for my sins, then that will be an affair between me and God. But until that day comes, I shall remain here, and await death’s impending advent.”

Eivor gazed at the other man in pity, admittedly reluctant to kill him. Even though he was aware of his crimes, there was still something stopping him from attacking the soldier outright.

“Have you no life outside of this, Saxon?” He asked. “Why not leave this place, and put this crusade to rest? Surely, you tire of this pointless battle.”

The knight peered upwards at the murky grey sky, staring into the heavens as if he could see God himself. 

“...Where would I go?” He questioned, his tone gentle and forlorn. “I have no home to return to. No family left alive. The Northmen took all I had.”

“So, you’re doing this for revenge. Is that it?”

The Saxon shook his head. “No. My lust for vengeance was sated long ago. Those who wronged me have already met their fates. Now, I do this because it’s the only thing I can do.”

Eivor slid his axe out of its sheathe, steeling himself for battle. “...Well, whatever your reasons, I can’t allow you to continue.”

The knight glanced at the viking’s weapon, finally understanding why he had come. He showed no disappointment upon realizing Eivor’s intentions, but rather, a unique sense of sorrow. 

“...You wish to duel me, then.”

“You speak as if I do this for sport. I’m doing this to protect my people.”

The other man chuckled weakly, though not out of amusement.

“There truly is no greater threat to man than the delusion of one’s own heroics. Your people trespass on a lion’s den, and then complain when they are bitten. Such is the nature of the Northmen, I suppose, building their homes on top of the ashes of those they have scathed. I shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”

“Does that mean you view yourself as a hero, then?” Eivor wondered. “For slaying all these people?”

“No. I am well aware of the blood on my hands. Though, your slate is not exactly clean either, is it? I can see the remorse in your eyes. It’s etched into your face. Tell me, how many monasteries have suffered your wrath since you arrived in England? How many villages have you had to destroy so you could construct your own? How many men like me now reside in a similar hell because of your actions?”

The knight paused for a moment, looking down at his blade in thought. “...Ah, no matter. If this is the way it must end, then so be it. Whether it was God or Satan who led you here today, I do not know. But you are here for a reason nonetheless. And there is room yet for another corpse in this graveyard.”

Growing weary of this endless quarrel, the Saxon decided to grant Eivor with the bloodshed he sought and approached the center of the field, prowling towards him as his cape fluttered in the wind. The marred plates of his armor clanked quietly with every move he made, and soon enough, he was right there -- standing directly across from his opponent. 

For a moment, he was completely still. Not a single word was uttered from his lips, and only the hollow breeze was able to fill the profound silence that ensued.

After a while of contemplation however, the Saxon suddenly thew his blade to the ground and knelt beside it, presenting his head to the enemy before him. He showed no signs of putting up any kind of resistance, and to Eivor’s surprise, it seemed like he was actually asking for defeat.

“Wait,” Eivor blurted out, confused by the gesture, “you’re not even going to fight?”

“What would be the purpose?” The knight asked with a shrug. “I have been starved of all the strength I once possessed, and my sword-arm has withered in the face of this perpetual conflict. I know I would be no match for you.”

“Still, won’t you pick up your blade? Out of honor, I cannot cut a defenseless man down.”

The man’s voice softened with reassurance. “Discard your fears, Northman. Unlike your god, mine does not demand sacrifice in death. Only faith. The path I walk once I depart from this world will depend on that alone. You dishonor no one by smiting me.”

Eivor crouched in front of the knight, speaking to him at eye-level. He felt strange offering the man any empathy considering all the things he had done, but somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to hate him. 

To the Wolf-Kissed, the knight was no monster or beast as the other Northerners had claimed. In truth, he was merely a man who had been ruined by the horrors of human cruelty, and left behind by those who promised to protect him. His heart had become rotten with decay thanks to the loss of his loved ones, and his soul had already fled for Heaven’s gates.

The only thing left for him to do... was to join it.

“What is your name, knight?” Eivor inquired.

The soldier’s striking blue eyes flicked upward at the question. “Does it matter? Soon, I will be dead, and my memories will be buried with me.”

“Indeed, which is why I ask. Our memories are a treasure, Saxon. They preserve everything we’ve experienced. If we are lucky, they will even outlive us. Do not let yours die out so willingly.”

“That is easy to say when you’ve led a good life. My memories deliver nothing but nightmares. They paint images that would make the Devil himself tremble. Had I the choice, I would give anything to forget the things I’ve seen.”

Eivor fell quiet for a second. “...Even who you are?”

The knight took his advice to heart, slouching in defeat. Even though his most recent memories were far from pleasant, it was clear that he still feared losing them entirely. He did not understand why he harbored this fear to begin with -- after all, he should’ve been glad to dispose of such horrors -- but he could not deny its presence nonetheless. 

Maybe it was because he had spent so long struggling in this war. Or maybe, it was because his identity was tied to it. Regardless of whatever the case was, a small part of him secretly hoped that Eivor would remember him once he was gone, and that he wouldn’t simply become another faceless corpse to add to the pile.

It was a peculiar way to preserve his legacy, leaving it in the hands of the enemy -- but the fact that his hardships would live on in the viking’s mind offered him a strange hint of solace that he would’ve never expected from a heathen.

“...Erian.” The knight finally answered. “My name was Erian.”

Eivor placed a hand on his shoulder, preparing to grant him his final wish.

“Then go to your god, Erian, and pray that he accepts you in the next life, wherever it may take you.”

“Wait...!” Erian gripped the Wolf-Kissed’s arm, halting him for the time being. 

“What is it?”

The Saxon glanced down at the ground, unsure of how to word his thoughts.

“...Why are you doing this? I’ve slain many of your warriors, and would have even killed you if I had the ability to do so. You have no reason to grant me mercy.”

“I... I don’t know, to be honest.” Eivor said sincerely. “Perhaps it’s because I’ve witnessed firsthand madness that can ensue when a man allows his hatred to run amok. Or perhaps it’s simply because I grow tired of all this suffering.”

“If that’s true, then you are already better than most. I only hope you will preach the same sentiment the next time your heart thirsts for plunder.”

Eivor nodded firmly. “I will. And I have.”

Erian loosened his grip on the other man’s wrist and shut his eyes, ready to depart at last. “Then I can go in peace, for I know my legacy remains with a compassionate soul. Goodbye, Northman, and thank you for blessing me with this final kindness.”

The viking positioned his axe above the knight’s collar, gently holding his head in place as he said one last thing.

“...Farewell, Erian.”

Yanking the blade away with a sharp tug, Eivor promptly opened the Saxon’s throat in one swift motion and cut his life short, cradling him in his arms until his body fell limp. The knight’s gaunt face was instantly wiped of all color, and soon, his expression dimmed with an ethereal fog that the Northman had seen far too many times before.

Yet, despite the morbidity of Erian’s death, the man radiated with a sense of tranquility that seemed to split the overwhelming darkness in this land. He appeared as if he were only sleeping, and resembled a child who had just been put to bed. 

Normally, the sight would’ve warmed Eivor’s heart to see someone basking in such contentment, but in this case, it provided only despair.

Had the war in England truly gotten so bad that its people found more comfort in the embrace of death itself? Was this the Northmen’s doing? 

Even though Eivor never intentionally caused needless tragedy to those he opposed, he couldn’t help but question if this invasion was really worth it anymore. He had already killed countless people for the sake of keeping Ravensthorpe on its feet, but with every victory he earned, he found it more and more difficult to convince himself that he was doing this for the greater good.

Though, Eivor supposed it was meaningless to doubt his motives now. The Raven Clan had achieved too much at this point to simply give up, and he knew Sigurd would never return to Fornburg after being stripped of his birthright. 

The best thing he could do now was try to keep his jarl from teetering over the edge, and remember people like Erian when hatred threatened to consume him. The fallen knight may not have been able to affect the world directly any longer, but his memory would serve as a reminder to never lose one’s humanity.

It may have been dangerous to offer his foes such a high level of empathy in times of war, but to Eivor, it was still better than having none at all. No seat in Valhalla would ever be worth the mindless slaughter he had witnessed during his time in Midgard, and the last thing he wanted was to become an empty husk filled with nothing but regrets.

It was a cost that only the cruel could afford, and a dream that only the naive chased. 

A dream of eternal glory.

[bumblebeezandhoney]

The King’s Feast (2)

Yandere Hoseok/Reader, Jungkook/Reader

Summary: Sir Hoseok, Guardian and Knight of the King, was the most feared and respected knight in the kingdom. He had the eyes of a viper. And I…I was a fool for realizing too late I was the apple of his eye.

Recap from Chapter I

“But would you have the audacity to fuck a concubine?” asked Sir Hoseok ever so softly as he petted his horse.

Jungkook flinched before falling at Sir Hoseok’s feet.

“Never! Never!” cried Jungkook.

Sir Hoseok rummaged through his saddlebags until he found what he was looking for. He dropped the object in front of Jungkook.

My shoes rolled in front of Jungkook’s trembling hands.

Chapter II

I didn’t know what was louder – my heart thundering in my chest or Jungkook’s labored breathing.

Sir Hoseok scoffed at Jungkook’s kneeling body.

"Where is the concubine?" asked Sir Hoseok.

A tryst had never looked like such a horrible idea until now. Regret filled my mouth like ash. I bit my lip to stop myself from crying out.

"I asked you a question," said the knight, anger in his voice.  

Sir Hoseok crouched down until his nose was nearly at Jungkook’s temple. He sniffed Jungkook as if he was a dog.  

“Enough with this farce. You smell like sex, boy,” said Sir Hoseok, spitting the last word.

With great hesitation, Jungkook raised his head, the lantern illuminating the stricken look of fear on his face.

“Tell her to come out. It is rude to leave a woman without shoes,” Sir Hoseok mused sardonically, the corner of his mouth curving up ever so slightly. He picked up my shoes and waved them in front of Jungkook’s sweaty petrified face.

“I do not know who those belong to, Sire,” said Jungkook, his voice coming out in a broken whisper. I held my breath and counted to ten.

This was a bad idea, this was a bad idea, this was a bad idea. Please leave, please leave, I recited in my head like a desperate prayer.

Sir Hoseok casually hit Jungkook with my shoe. Jungkook winced but stayed still.

“You do not know who these shoes belong to?” Sir Hoseok asked incredulously.

Jungkook shook his head, looking pitiful and lost.

“I supposed they appeared out of thin air,” sneered Sir the knight, ridicule dripping in his voice. He grabbed the other shoe and turned it to examine the sole. I shivered as his thumb went over the sole.

Then without warning, quick as lightning, Sir Hoseok grabbed Jungkook’s jaw. He had the reflex of a damn viper. My heart sank as Jungkook flinched in surprise. Sir Hoseok was merciless, grasping Jungkook’s jaw with such roughness. He forced Jungkook to look up into his eyes.  

"At the sole of every concubine's shoe is a mark designated to show she is the property of the King. You are aware, correct?" said Sir Hoseok calmly, as if talking to a child.  

"Yes, my Lord," Jungkook managed to choke out. He grimaced as Sir Hoseok’s gloved hand bit into his skin.  

"Enough foolery. You are hiding the King’s concubine in a stable filled with horse shit and piss. I will not leave until she comes with me,” promised Sir Hoseok darkly.

My cheeks reddened with shame. I did not know what to do. If I exposed myself, Jungkook and I would be severely punished. I could possibly face exile. But if I remained hidden and if by some miracle this man could not find me and left, all would be well. Surely his priorities lay with the King.

I strained my ears, but I could not hear the drumming announcing the King’s Feast. How long would the King’s right-hand knight stay in a stable, squabbling with a stable boy over a concubine he could not find? A part of me knew I was feeding myself delusional hope, but I could not stop. My heart was pounding in my chest. I forced myself to breathe through my nose. 

If only I made it to the concubines’ quarters in time. That was a fool’s dream now. Who was to blame in this? I did not have the heart to blame Jungkook. He acted in the heat of the moment, thinking the stables was the safest place until the commotion died down. No one was expecting the King’s Feast to be announced tonight. It was pointless to blame anyone. I closed my eyes and lay my head against the hay as if to will the man away with my mind. I cursed Sir Hoseok’s name under my breath, my hands fisting the hay in anger.  

“Tell your lover to reveal herself before I burn the stables down," commanded the knight.

I let out a gasp of shock. Was this man mad? I slowly peered down, the lantern casting large, intimidating shadows around Sir Hoseok and Jungkook.

Irate at Jungkook’s silence, Sir Hoseok pushed him to the ground face first. The knight grabbed the lantern, opened it and fed it some hay. His face was unreadable as he watched the hay catch fire.  He raised the burning handful of hay above Jungkook’s head.

“Sire, I beg of you to reconsider,” pleaded Jungkook, raising his hands in supplication.

Sir Hoseok ignored him. His dark eyes roamed the quarters, searching for any sign of life. Searching for me.

I hated this man. Why must he be so cruel?

Sir Hoseok dropped his arm an inch and Jungkook winced as pieces of burning hay landed on his face and clothes. I knew Jungkook to be foolish and stubborn but seeing him kneeling and shivering with fear pained me to no end.

“Come out, little flower. You must feel so ashamed. No need, come out,” cooed Sir Hoseok.

For the first time that night his voice was soft and delicate, urging me to come out as a mother would coo for her child to come out from under the bed.  

Could he – no it was impossible. I crushed the thought immediately. How on earth would he know it was me?

It was folly to stay hidden. I could no longer watch Jungkook beg and plead until every nook and cranny was searched.  

With great trepidation I cleared my throat and slowly exposed my hiding place. Two pair of eyes were on me as I brushed off the hay from my hair and dress. I crawled to the ladder, my arms trembling. My feet ached as I climbed down the ladder with deliberate slowness. The sensations of pins and needles shot up my legs and made me wince. My descent was met with heavy silence.

I stood before the two men, my bare feet planted firmly on the ground. I clasped my hands in front of me to stop myself from shaking. My eyes were trained to the ground. I was the perfect picture of submission. Could I somehow fool the Knight of the King?

I refused to look at anyone, most importantly Jungkook. I knew I would burst into tears. I felt the weight of Sir Hoseok’s burning gaze. Shivers ran down my spine. Did he recognize me? I did not want to meet his eyes. This was a cold man. I knew begging and pleading would do nothing to sway him. I felt anger rise to my throat. Who did he think he was?

With a palace as big as this and with the King as old as he was, it was not uncommon for concubines to have trysts – with knights, priests, stable boys. The unspoken rule was no one knew if you were discreet.    

What kind of ill luck had befallen me that it was not Sir Chanyeol or Sir Mark that had discovered us? The night would have ended on a lighter note. I could imagine Sir Chanyeol drunk with one concubine on each arm, loudly berating me for my lack of stealthiness. Or Sir Mark teasing Jungkook about his manners and performance while erupting in his famous boisterous, infectious laugh.  

Out of all the knights, it had to be Sir Hoseok who discovered us. The man did not fornicate, get drunk or gamble. I doubt he even slept.

The sound of clapping broke the deafening silence and my musings. My shoulders stiffened in shock. Was he mocking me?

I glared openly at the knight’s muddied boots, humiliation burning in my veins. My plan of feigning humility long forgotten. I have been humiliated and embarrassed in this cursed palace more times than I can say. I had had enough.

“Shall I applaud you for your excellent service to the King?” I bit out before I could help myself.

The clapping stopped.

“Do explain,” said Sir Hoseok, his tone deceptively light.

My eyes trailed up to his knees, covered in silver armor that shined in the weak lantern light.

“Surely the King’s best knight has other important things to do than interrogating a stable boy and concubine on a night such as this,” I inquired, my tone neutral. I could hear Jungkook sigh to my left.

Within moments Sir Hoseok was standing mere inches before me. Heat emanated from his body; he was like a burning furnace. A gloved hand lifted my stubborn chin and our eyes met. All expression was gone from Sir Hoseok’s face. He was so cold, it was as if he was made of stone. I saw no light in his pupils.

The rage and humiliation I felt moments before that burned my body sniffed out like a candle. Reality settled deep in my bones, and an overwhelming sense of sadness overcame me. This was how everything was going to end.

I lowered my gaze, and my eyes began to water as I glared at his armored chest. The engraved insignia on his breast plate blurred in front of me, mocking my predicament and my status. This was a slap to the face. Here stood a man of power, a man who had everything – riches, loyal men, the ear of the king. And here stood I – a foolish concubine young enough to want more but old enough to know better, with nothing more than an angry tongue and a lustful stable boy. The odds could not be less in my favor.

But I refused to cower. I looked up to see him staring down at me from the tip of his aquinine nose. How many men and women had he stared down before slaughtering them? Would he be crazy enough to slaughter me tonight?

From my periphery I saw his hand raise to the side of my face. For the briefest moment I wondered if he meant to strike my face. His hand froze in midair before removing a stray piece of hay tucked in my hair.

“Why don’t you tell the King yourself, sweet one,” offered Sir Hoseok in a low voice, lost in thought as he rubbed the hay between his fingers.

My stomach dropped. This was not the first time I heard that nickname.

“We are both tied to the King one way or another. He will be the one to judge your loyalty,” he nodded to Jungkook who was hovering in the background. “And mine.” He added as an afterthought.

Before I could react, he grabbed my forearm with a vice-like grip and dragged me to his waiting horse. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jungkook follow with slow, tentative steps.

“Stay where you are, boy. I will find you tomorrow morning,” promised Sir Hoseok.

Jungkook blanched at the order.

Sir Hoseok grabbed me by the waist. I was hoisted on his saddle before I could even contemplate his strength. I stared in amazement at his strength. His horse was still as if he understood the severity of the situation. Sir Hoseok hoisted himself behind me and held me unabashedly close as he took the reins and nudged his horse. I could feel his cold armor through my sweat dampened dress.

In a blink of an eye, we were outside under the stars. I refrained from looking back. It would do no good for me now.

I squirmed in his hold, the midnight air cold and unforgiving.

“Do not call me ‘sweet one’,” I said between clenched teeth.

“When you meet the King, you may judge who is the most fearsome, him or I,” reminded Sir Hoseok into my ear, ignoring me. I shivered and held my tongue.

The silence was so burdensome. I could only think of poor Jungkook, standing alone in the stables.

AN: I hope this wasn’t boring *crying emoji*. Thank you to everyone who read this story so far. We’ll get a lot more interaction between YN and Sir Hoseok in the next chapters. I didn’t want her to like him rightaway lol. And I haven’t forgotten about poor Jungkook. I’m really happy and overwhelmed by the love I’ve gotten. Have a happy and safe 2021!

Please like, comment and/or reblog <3

[kirboner]

The Curse of the Blood God

TW: Gore/blood descriptions, attempted suicide mentioned, major character death, swearing (not much).

WORD COUNT: 2,738

This is a mainly c!Technoblade centric along with c!Philza, other DSMP characters are also mentioned :] (if there are any tags I missed please tell me!)

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Growing up, Technoblade was always surrounded by violence. With violence came death, so the concept of it was never unfamiliar to him. Never jarring, never shocking. It happens to those who are too weak to keep fighting, who make stupid decisions or let their guard down. It happens to those who lose, and Technoblade never loses. 

Technoblade never dies.

So, when the tip of his blade pierces through an enemy’s throat, or when their blood spurts against the snow, and they collapse in a heap against the frost- Techno feels nothing. Partially because he doesn’t know them, but mostly because they made a stupid decision and they lost. They challenged The Blade. The Blood God. To Techno, losing a life is like losing a game, a challenge, a bet. 

The L’Manburgians that suffered once he spawned the Wither let their guards’ down. The Butcher Army by challenging him had made a stupid decision, and those he challenged and triumphed against were weak. So, they lost a life, or a few.

Maybe that’s why betrayal hurts him so deeply, why the feeling aches in his very core. Someone has to be close to him to betray him, he has to put his trust in them, he has to care about them. For someone to then betray him, to betray The Blade, is a stupid decision on their behalf. However, that’s not the half of why it hurts so much, why the feeling stings and burns and engulfs him. It’s because he made the stupid decision to put his trust in someone traitorous. Yet, regardless of his stupid decisions,

Technoblade never dies.

Techno has few constants in his life, so he tends to gravitate to those he can control. Roasted potatoes and gapples, a royal gown he stole a long time ago that he wears as under-armor, a golden crown. Small things, items he carries with him as he flees location. However, one other thing remains a constant in his life, something he can’t pack in a suitcase or strap to his back- and that’s Phil. 

His memories of his life growing up in the Nether are a mix of vivid snippets and utter vagueness that he’s had to piece together through whisper and rumour. He remembers fighting with other Piglin half-breeds in The Pit, uncomfortable nights spent unslept on hard nether rack, fractures and purple bruises left blotched across his torso. Gashes that reopened, scabs that refused to heal. The jeering and hissing crowd that surrounded him, as he was forced to rip apart his opponents; orphans just like himself. Losing their parents was the worst thing that ever happened to them, Technoblade being a close second. He could recall the *clink* of golden nuggets pooling at his feet, quickly soaked in the ever-growing pool of his opponent’s blood- this time a larger Piglin boy who laid face down, iron pickaxe lodged firmly in his spine. The crowd cheering his victories and spurring him on. Shrieking for more.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD--

How he left- or rather escaped- the Nether falls into the latter category of utter vagueness. Phil had told him he came across The Pit when trading rare spider eyes on the black market, as he heard the value was higher in the Nether due to the specific spiders only existing in the Overworld. However, upon discovering The Pit he had, in his words, “gotten into a bit of a domestic over it with the ringleader,” which Techno suspected to be an understatement. Phil, apparently, had “completely non-violently, and totally consensually” taken himself and the other half-breeds to the Overworld. Techno, again, believed this to be a massive understatement, as Phil and himself to this day could not enter the Nether without a fight of some kind. 

‘So, what ever happened to the other orphans?’ He asked, throwing a match on their fireplace. Living in a Tundra, while isolated and peaceful, required near constant temperature adjustment.

‘I spent a while rehousing them all across the Overworld, it took around two months to actually find homes for all of ‘em,’ Phil shifted more firewood closer to the hearth. A spruce log, dark and dense. Techno shifted in place, ‘Uh, what about me?’ He wanted to elaborate more on the question, rather than sound like a small child, but didn’t. Phil chuckled, ‘You were different, Techno,’ to this Techno quirked an eyebrow, ‘Different?’ He probed.

‘Well, let’s see... I did try a couple times to find you a family, y’know?’ Techno frowned, ‘Not because I didn’t like you, but because I was worried about you. I have a pretty dangerous line of work, and I thought you deserved a bit of a more stable life,’ Phil sighed. A beat of silence followed ‘So how well did that plan turn out?’ Techno asked sarcastically, earning a chuckle from Phil. His confidence rebuilt slightly. ‘I wanted you to have a constant in your life, but I also didn’t want you to be unsafe,’ Phil looked at the hearth, crackling quietly. ‘The more time I spent with you, I realized you already had a constant, Techno,’ He looked at the kindling, long charred and crumbling to ash. ‘Violence,’ Phil breathed, barely above a whisper. ‘You needed more than just violence in your life Techno- and trust me, I know I’m not always the best example- but I wanted to be that constant’ Phil continued, ‘And I’m glad I made that decision,’ he smiled.

A silence stretched for a moment, a tight feeling developing in Techno’s chest. He got this feeling whenever Phil said something particularly sappy, though the tightness was never painful. It was a pleasant feeling. It was kind. ‘Even if it means you can’t trade spider eyes on the black market anymore?’ Techno deadpanned, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Oh trust me, the market value for spider eyes has plummeted since the ‘90s, I was just trying to cut my losses,’ Phil smirked, leaning back on his hands. Techno rolled his eyes, ‘Christ you’re old, man,’ he said fondly.

A constant. Phil was a constant. He had been there to mend his tattered gown, tend to his wounds (now shallower, and fewer and further between). He had fought alongside him, brothers in arms, working together in the fight against tyranny. Phil was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, rightfully earning the title as The Angel of Death. 

‘Who first started givin’ you that name, anyway?’ Techno asked, swinging his axe down and splitting a spruce log down the middle, watching it splinter and fall in two smaller heaps. The chill of dawn was warmed little by the sun peaking over the horizon, a reminder of the Autumn season soon to come. ‘What name?’ Phil looked at him, confused before shoveling another mound of snow to make room for their new vegetable patch installment. ‘I know you well, mate, but I’m not a mind reader,’ he chuckled. ‘The Angel of Death- who first started callin’ you that?’ Techno elaborated. Phil heaved another shovel-full, ‘God, it’s been a while since someone’s called me that. I reckon it started way back, before the Antarctic Empire,’ he paused for a moment, his shoulders tense. ‘I remember when I was little, I had a pet bird and I used to let it sleep in my bed,’ Eyes downcast, the air seemed to grow chillier. ‘It was the night before my 6th birthday, and I had a dream that I was standing in a cave, the walls covered in this weird writing I couldn’t read and... I could hear a voice whispering to me, but there was no one there,’ Techno heard him suck in a breath before continuing, ‘It said: you are the angel of the men befallen to you, you are the choice you will wish to unchoose. An unvindicated angel, an angel of death.’ 

Techno’s axe was frozen in place, feeling significantly heavier than before. ‘The bird was dead when I woke up,’ Phil swallowed thickly, before plunging his shovel back into the slush. ‘That’s, uh... heavy stuff, Phil,’ Techno shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, it was a long time ago now, I don’t really think about it much. It is a bit weird how people started calling me that a while afterwards, though,’ Phil chuckled dryly. Techno blinked, deciding to continue chopping firewood rather than probe the topic. It’s not like he had much of a need to fight now anyways, Techno was perfectly capable and willing to take on the world for Phil. 

From then on, time passed by quietly.

The Syndicate was formed, consisting of his fellow anarchists. Small battles were fought, but nothing extreme. Well, at least the ones Phil participated in. Techno’s bloodshed, however, did not slow. He was never one to insert himself into battles he had no stake in, but he found the “stakes” he held in the battles he fought became less about what he gained, and more so existed for the sake of fighting. Time passed, yet Techno never felt the effects of it.

The same could not be said for Phil, nor his peers. As the years passed, Phil seemed significantly older. The timeless winged angel he knew growing up seemed... ancient. As isolated as they originally were in the Tundra, the people he once knew became even further and further away.

The Winter winds of Snowchester became harsher than what Tubbo’s infrastructure could withstand. The damage to the buildings became too severe, Tubbo and Jack resigning to move to a warmer climate. Tommy went with them, unsurprisingly. Ranboo and Niki left the Syndicate to join them.

Eventually the Egg and its cultists seemed to disappear below the surface. The dead bloodvines oozed a mix of light blue and red when cut, any residual whispers too quiet to make out. Sam wasn’t seen outside the prison anymore now, and new visitors were always refused. George and Sapnap allegedly left Eastward towards a mycelium biome, the looming walls of Pandora’s box an apparently unpleasant reminder for them.

More people disappeared; their reasons unknown to Techno. Some set sail across the ocean in search for something new, something untainted. Some died in smaller territorial battles, or over Casino winnings. Others went to the Nether and never came back. Phil could only fly for short periods of time now, and it took a great toll on his body.

‘So, see anything new out there birdman?’ Techno inquired, brewing a potion of Swiftness II. ‘I saw a gravestone I never saw before, near L’Canyon,’ Phil coughed, slowly adjusting himself in his chair. ‘L’Canyon... I don’t remember anyone being buried there. Who’s was it?’ Techno asked, mildly interested. ‘The hedge stone was too eroded, it could’ve been written in Endlish for all I know,’ Phil paused for a moment, ‘You might be able to read it, you have better eyesight than me, mate.’ Techno looked at Phil, surprised. ‘That’ll be a pretty long journey by horse, we’ll have to load up on supplies,’ Techno muttered, adding another cup of Redstone powder into his brewing stand. ‘I’ll fly us,’ Phil smiled as Techno looked dumbfounded at the fragile man before him. He was pale, the feathers on his wings greyed, his face lined and tired. Techno swallowed, ‘Phil, I don’t think--’ ‘C’mon, mate. Just like old times. If we leave now, we’ll have plenty of daylight,’ Phil interrupted, placing a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. No matter his age, Phil was just as stubborn as always, so despite his better judgement Techno agreed on the trip. 

‘I’m still bringing a map, compass and overnight supplies in case we don’t make it before nightfall,’ Techno announced. ‘Of course, mate. I’m stubborn, not crazy-’ Phil was cut off by another fit of coughing. Techno eyed him nervously, ‘You’re sure you can hold my bodyweight, plus supplies?’ He inquired, dubiously. ‘Course, mate. Don’t stress about it,’ Phil reassured.

As anxious as Techno was, he trusted Phil’s judgement in his abilities. Plus, he couldn’t deny the rush he got from being in the sky. The wind flowing through his hair, the air fresh and crisp. He felt like a child again, riding on Phil’s back across the SMP. Soaring to the heavens at unimaginable speeds. He looked down at the pure whiteness that was their home, fading into dense spruce forestry, slowly becoming pure green Plains. Eventually, the green was abrupted by a deep, grey crater. 

They landed clunkily, more of a barely controlled fall than a proper landing. ‘You okay, Phil?’ Techno called out, standing up quickly, and wiping grass stains off his gleaming Netherite. Phil was further North of him, lying in a crowd of thistles. His body was contorted at a strange angle, ‘I’m ‘right,’ he called, his face wincing. Panic surged through Techno as he got closer, ‘Phil your bleeding, what the hell happened?’ He yelled, grabbing the medical kit out of his backpack. ‘It’s okay, mate. It was gonna happen soon, anyway,’ another labored breath, ‘Just wanted you to see the sky, one last time,’ He coughed, blood spurting across his chestplate. Techno hastily grabbed disinfecting wipes, Phil winced as his chestplate was removed.

A deep gash spread across Phil’s torso, below his ribs. His upper half impaled on a sharp tree stump shrouded within the thistles, his breath growing more ragged. ‘Phil- fuck. We’ve gotta get you off this thing,’ Techno swallowed, beads of sweat forming at his brow. ‘It’s too deep. The branch’s lodged in my intestines,’ he cringed, ‘at this angle, it’ll rip through my lung if you move me,’ Phil whispered, smiling weakly. He was right, the wood was splintered and lodged firmly in his core. Dark crimson blood leaked out from the gash like treacle, almost black and intense in volume. ‘I can- I’ll get healing potions from the house,’ Techno hyperventilated, wiping the disinfected cloth around the jagged and bloody stump. ‘If that doesn’t work, I’ll find a totem of undying-’ ‘Techno,’ Phil cut him off, placing a hand on his face. He hadn’t realized he had been crying until now. ‘It’s at least a 3 day walk back to the house on foot,’ Phil chuckled weakly, interrupted by a another fit of coughing. ‘Then what can- tell me what to do,’ Techno pleaded, wiping the cloth across the gash again and again as the crimson continued to leak out. 

‘Isn’t it painful, watching bleeding only to see more blood?’ Phil sighed, his breathing shallower, ‘It hurts but its undeniable, Techno...’

‘What is?’ Techno rasped, hands shaking.

‘...How good you are at wounding,’ Phil smiled, clasping his hand tightly. 

‘Phil, please’ Techno felt sick, his shoulders shaking. ‘It’s okay, Techno. I wanted this. I wanted to see the sky one more time,’ Phil swallowed, ‘-with you,’ His squeeze on Techno’s hand growing feebler. ‘Bury me at the gravestone I told you about,’ Phil’s eyes fluttered slightly. ‘But- I thought that was...’ Techno trailed off. 

It wasn’t fair. Phil had never betrayed him. He wasn’t stupid- his decision were always calculated. He was careful, he set traps around their base- he didn’t let his guard down. He wasn’t weak, he was an enemy’s worst nightmare on the battlefield. And yet, despite this, he died. Bleeding out, impaled and contorted near the shattered remains of his late son’s country. Phil died, just like everyone else.

Techno was alone. Phil, his constant, was gone. The other Syndicate members had disappeared, Wilbur died with L’Manburg and Tommy had long considered him an enemy. He was desolate and barren, the air felt cold as he sobbed loudly. His hands beat against the ground as he screamed until his throat grew hoarse. For the first time in his life, Techno ached. 

It had been weeks since Phil had passed, Techno felt too sick to eat or drink anything. The freezing nights did little to numb him, blistering days did little to warm him. His muscles did not deteriorate, nor did his legs give out beneath him. Physically, his body was fine. 

Back in the Tundra, his poison potions made him feel nauseous, potions of damage stung at his skin. No matter the mob, or the damage he sustained, he would respawn in his bed. The ache in his chest did not subside with time, the loneliness of the base encroaching upon him constantly. Yet, despite his stupid decisions, or letting his guard down around any mob he faced. Despite his weakness...

Technoblade never dies.

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Hi so that was an AU i wrote that got way too long lol. Hope you enjoyed! Likes/RBs appreciated :] <3.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - March 4th

Hopefully a shorter post today, as it’s a bit of an in-between day.

I have to say, I’m amused by how cryptic Gandalf is, and I have to think he does it partially for his own entertainment. Before he rode off the previous day, even if he couldn’t explain Huorns and Ents and be believed, he could have said, “I’m going to find the remaining so,diers from the Fords and send them to join you at Helm’s Deep,” rather than riding off without explanation. And now he could say that Ents have destroyed Isengard, but he doesn’t. I think he likes the effect that surprises have on people.

The Rohirrim, with Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, rest for most of the day, recovering from the Battle of Helm’s Deep. Near sunset they ride off for Isengard, going through the Hurorn forest, and Legolas and Gimli agree to visit Aglarond and Fangorn together after the war is over. They ride at an easy pace to the Fords, into the night; but on arriving there they find the river is gone. On the eyot (small island) in the middle of the Fords, the Rohirrim that fell at the Battles of the Fords are buried. The previous night, Gandalf sent some of Grimbold’s scattered men to make the burial; when they were done, they rode to Edoras to join Elfhelm. The Rohirrim ride a ways further north after the Fords, then stop for the night, and see smoke and vapour rising from Isengard.

Seriously, see what I mean about Gandalf?

[At the Fords]: “This is become a dreary place,” said Éomer. “What sickness has befallen the river? Many fair things Saruman has destroyed; has he devoured the springs of Isen too?”

“So it would seem,” said Gandalf.

[Later, when they have camped for the night]: “There is ever a fume above that valley in these days,” said Éomer. “But I have never seen aught like this before. These are steams rather than smokes. Saruman is brewing some devilry to greet us. Maybe he is boiling all the waters of Isen, and that is why the ruver runs dry.”

“Maybe he is,” said Gandalf. “Tomorrow we shall learn what he is doing.”

In the night, the Huorns that were at Helm’s Deep go back north to Fangorn, passing by the camped Rohirrim. The river also begins flowing again in the night.

On the same day, Merry and Pippin watch the flooding of Isengard. In the night, the Ents stop sending more of the Isen into Isengard and send the river back into its original course; the water level in Isengard begins to fall from that time on, likely leaving through some underground passages.

Frodo and Sam reach the desolation on the outskirts of Mordor. (It’s somewhat reminiscent of the des ription of the Anfauglith in the Lay of Leithian.)

Frodo looked round in horror. Dreadful as the Dead Marshes had been, and the arid moors of the Noman-lands, more loathsome far was the country that the crawling day now unveiled to his shrinking eyes. Even to the Mere of Dead Faces some haggard phantom of green spring would come; but here neither spring nor summer would ever come again. Here nothing lived, not even the leprous growths that feed on rottenness. The gasping pools were choked with ash and crawling muds, sickly white and grey, as if the mountains has vomited the filth of their entrails upon the lands about. High mounds of crushed and powdered rock, great cones of earth fire-blasted and poison-stained, stood like an obscene graveyard in endless rows, slowly revealed in the reluctant light.

They had come to the desolation that lay before Mordor: the lasting monument to the dark labour of its slaves that should endure when all their purposes were made void; a land defiled, diseased beyond all healing - unless the Great Sea should enter and wash it with oblivion. “I feel sick,” said Sam. Frodo did not speak.

...They came to a wide almost circular pit, high-banked upon the west. It was cold and dead, and a foul sump of oily many-coloured ooze lay at its bottom. In this evil hole they cowered, hoping it its shadow to escape the attention of the Eye. The day passed slowly.

It’s worth remembering that this is the land that, during Aragorn’s later march on the Black Gate, some of the men of Rohan and Gondor can’t even bring themselves to enter. Yes, they’ve never seen any place so horrible before, but neither have Frodo and Sam. So the hobbits deserve a lot of credit for even being able to keep going.

In the evening Gollum has a major internal conflict, and decides to take the hobbits to Shelob in order to get the Ring. Sam overhears, and for the first time understands that the real danger is Gollum’s hunger for the Ring, not regular hunger and the risk that Gollum will want to eat the hobbits.

During the night, the hobbits walk the rest of the way to the Black Gate; twice, Nazgûl pass overhead. (It seems a little strange that Sauron is using his most dangerous and terrifying servants mainly as scouts and messengers.) Gollum is particularly terrified, and certain that Sauron has found them, and only keeps walking under duress.