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amandacanwrite · 1 year ago

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The Violet Thread of Fate Part One:

The Reclusive Wizard and the Cheeky Upstart

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Join Taglist

POV || Third Person, dual POV Gale Dekarios and Elinna Inklynn (Tav)

Pairing || Elinna Inklynn (Half-drow tav) and Gale Dekarios

Length || 5,500 Words

Scenario || In an alternative timeline for the events of BG3 Elinna Inklynn, an orphan from the Moonshae Islands seeks out the tutelage of accomplished wizard Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep. She has a knack with the Weave, but no money or connections to actually learn how to harness it. She has heard the wizard is a gentleman and a schollar, and hopes she can appeal to him to take her on as his apprentice in exchange for her help around his tower, with his research, and in running errands in Waterdeep. Unfortunately for her, Gale Dekarios does not take on apprentices.

Warnings || Age gap (Perhaps about 10ish years), depiction of depression and heart ache, description of very, very mild body horror.

A/n || I hope you all enjoy this very indulgent little fic I'm starting. I am already having entirely too much fun with it. Please keep in mind that while this fic will have a good amount of characters and scenarios from the canon events of BG3 I am planning on taking a lot of creative liberties and may leave out certain situations/characters for the sake of flow!

If you like this, you may also like my original works! I have a writing taglist that you can sign up for simply by commenting or reblogging and letting me know you'd like to be added. OR you can fill out this form if you'd like to be specific about which works you'd like to be tagged in.

Tag list || @softvampirewhump @horizonstride @thoughts-of-bear @mymybirdie @tiedyedghoulette @drabblesandimagines @madwomansapologist @hijirikaww @tryingtowritestuff24 @laserlope @auroraesmeraldarose @puckprimrose @dont-try-pesticide

A Reclusive Wizard

“Mr. Dekarios, if you would just consider it–” Tara suggested as she fluttered alongside her charge.

“Tara, no,” Gale said. “We are not dropping the wards and we’re not taking visitors. The orb is too volatile.”

“But, Mr. Dekarios–I’ve told you this isolation of yours–”

“Tara–enough,” Gale shouted, exasperated. “You are my friend. You’re not my mother. I’m a grown man, who has done quite well for himself, might I add, and I don’t need your–your incessant fussing.”

“Mr. Dekarios!” Tara tutted, her whiskers perking forward with her disapproval. “My incessant fussing is what helped you figure out how to stabilize the orb in the first place, may I remind you. And if you so tire of my incessant fussing, allow me to divest of its burden! I may not be your mother, but your mother is a friend to me and will happily put me up.”

“Tara,” Gale said. “Wait–I didn’t mean you should leave–”

“I know that. But I am also quite aware that my willingness to fetch magical items and act as your little familiar has proven to only enable your reclusive habits,” she retorted. “Perhaps you will not listen to me, but when you run out of biscuits for your tea, perhaps you’ll see the reason in getting a little bit of fresh air…and perhaps a bath…and for the sake of the gods a shave.”

Tara flitted her way up to one of the high windows in the tower, pausing on the sill before leaving.

“Tara, don’t go,” Gale said, his eyes taking on a sort of sorry, piteous quality. “Please, just stay here.”

“Mr. Dekarios, those big glittering eyes won’t work on me any longer,” Tara said. “I’ve known you too long to be bewitched by your pouting. If you so wish me to return, you can come fetch me at your childhood home. The walk will do you well.”

And with that, she soared right out of the window, leaving Gale of Waterdeep entirely and utterly alone.

Gale scowled up at the window she’d escaped from before sighing and smearing a hand down his face. He cupped his hand over his mouth and heaved out a low grumble, lost in thought as he often was these days.

Perhaps Tara was right…maybe it was time to leave the tower. To engage in the ease of camaraderie at The Yawning Portal, reach out to the colleagues that had tried to pay him a visit in the year since his relationship with Mystra had come to an end–since this tangle of Netherese magic made a home of his chest cavity.

But it wasn’t just the volatile nature of the orb that worried him. It wasn’t as if he thought a raucous night with his friends would trigger an explosion to level the city he called home. Even with the constant peril of the orb in his chest being destabilized by a too-strong emotion, there was a deeper fear inspiring the reluctance.

Gale Dekarios was used to being an outlier. Unfortunately, it was the otherside of the coin of being a particularly gifted wizard. As a child, it had been a source of ostracization. As an adolescent it made him the subject of many an ill-begotten rivalry. As a young man he had begun to learn how to minimize the isolation by compensating for the inevitable inferiority complex he inspired in others by learning to be charming and funny–to couch his corrections in complimentary language so that he could have some measure of friendship.

It wasn’t often that he could find people that could keep up with him or converse with him on his level–at least, not where the subject of magic came into play. But he’d learned to accept that and enjoy the company of other wizards–even non-wizards–in different ways.

A game of lanceboard, the critical analysis of a book, a spirited debate on the merits of the shadow arts when applied to the correct endeavors. Now, as a man in his late 30’s with questionable knees, he felt nicely secure in his ability to play nice with others.

But this new sense of separation–this insurmountable mountain between himself and the other–had been so very devastating to the life he had carefully cultivated.

How could he listen to other people lament about their sordid love affairs, the politics at the academy–anything– with any measure of understanding or empathy? How could he confide in the people who he used to call his friends?

He was alone in the tower, but he wasn’t certain he could face the profound isolation of trying to connect with someone about his condition, only to find them staring back at him in utter befuddlement. Or worse, with soulless platitudes and what he could only describe as foolish optimism.

Who could possibly make him feel better when there was no way he could ever feel better? How could he listen to the woes of friends and earnestly care about them when he had been forsaken by the goddess of the only thing he held sacred in his life?

He couldn’t. That was a the truth of it. And that was why he didn’t want visitors. He didn’t want to subject his friends to the poor quality of his care; didn’t want to expose them to this unique brand of selfishness and bitterness.

He’d had enough of destroying things.

But he also knew he needed Tara–not just because of the artifacts, but because she was his oldest and longest standing friendship. And because the tower, in her absence, had already become unbearably quiet.

And he supposed it had been a while since he last saw his mother…

He sighed and turned away from his mess of a study, climbing up the two flights of stairs to his bedchambers. Once there, he conjured himself a bath as he undressed, leaving his house robes in a pile on the floor before stepping into the steaming water.

It smelled of bay laurel and lavender–an old combination that Mystra loved to use when they’d shared baths together. His mind drifted to the thought of his goddess cradled against his body, how small she felt even with her considerable power, the feeling of her silky hair catching on his skin as he kissed the hollow of her neck and…

“Don’t take that path in your mind, Gale. She’s the last person you should be thinking about right now,” he told himself as he gave his cheek a couple firm, bracing pats with his hand. He let his head drop back in the water and sighed.

The water filled his ears, quieting the ambient sounds in the room around him and creating an echochamber of his head. He heard the airy sound of his breaths coming and going in and out of his lungs; heard the gentle trickling sounds of his fingers creating tiny currents under the water; heard the sound of his heart still beating in his over-crowded chest.

He was still alive.

There could be hope for him yet.

Unlikely, sure, but there could be.

After washing up with some simple soap, he got out of the bath and toweled off.

He walked over to the small wardrobe where he kept his things and slapped a couple lazy splashes of a fragranced suspension he’d made onto his neck, favoring his pulse points as he used to when he’d go out for a night at The Yawning Portal. He trimmed his beard as a small concession to Tara (he would not be shaving it completely, thank you very much,) and got dressed.

He decided he would wear one of his nicer sets of robes. It’d been a while since he’d properly dressed himself in something other than simple tunics and roughspun practice robes. He started with some leather trousers and his under shirt, layering the criss-crossed front with car and fastening it with the ties at his waist to create a slender, tapered silhouette. Then he slipped the robe on, and paused as he caught a glance of himself in the mirror.

He’d not really been thinking when he selected the robe, but this was one of Mystra’s favorites on him. Various shades of violet with a wine-colored sash.

Violet, of course, was the color of the weave. Mystra’s color.

Would she want him to eliminate the color from his wardrobe altogether? Now that she’d left him to his devices? Surely a goddess couldn’t bar him from wearing a color. Hopefully not, considering more than half of his wardrobe was some shade of lilac, lavender or morning glory.

Whatever the case, he fastened the buckles and straightened the sash the wine colored sash, trying once again to put Mystra out of his mind. He did a flick of his hands to lace up the sleeves and then slid on some leather bracers for good measure.

It wasn’t as if he had any intention of doing any fighting or shooting any arrows, but he liked how they looked. And it had been so long since he’d looked in the mirror and thought to himself my, look at that handsome devil.

Finally he looked at the mop of his hair. It’d also been too long since he’d gotten a cut…now his messy curls fell past his shoulders when he usually preferred to keep it short enough to comb back with a bit of emollient or pomade. He was certain his mother would gripe about it and then he would have to deal with incessant fussing two fold between his mother and Tara. Still, it was dark outside–long past the time any salons would be open, so he gathered half of it up, bundling it as neatly as he could manage around his two forefingers and secured it with a two-pronged hairpin.

He looked at the earring on his wardrobe and hedged for a moment.

He’d been given the earring as a gift from Mystra when he’d first encountered her as a boy. He’d only stopped wearing it in the last year. Something had felt off about keeping it on–like a widower still wearing his wedding band. But it also felt wrong to leave his tower without it. It felt like a part of his identity.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said to himself in the mirror before turning from it and striding out of his bedroom.

…He returned not two seconds later and slipped the earring into his left ear. Damn it all. He couldn’t help what he was. A sentimental, heartbroken fool.

On his way out the door, he grabbed a hooded cloak and draped it over his shoulders. He lifted the hood, obscuring his face in shadow, hoping it would be enough to keep him from having to interact with anyone who wasn’t Tara of his mother. He considered, for a moment, casting an invisibility charm on himself…alas the concentration such a thing would require left him feeling exhausted at the thought of it. The cloak had worked for rogues and criminals for centuries. Suely it could work for him as well.

Finally, he left the safety and control his tower afforded him and walked out into the cold, Waterdhavian night.

A Cheeky Upstart

“Okay Elinna. Just…ring the doorbell. You’ve traveled all the way here. So just ring it,” a young woman told herself as she stood outside the wrought iron gates. “You sailed all the way from the Moonshae Islands, left every book behind, dealt with some of the worst sea sickness in all of the realms just to be here.”

Despite telling herself this, she had to shake out some of the numbness in her fingers from clenching her fists too tight. Or maybe it was just the nip in the air from the coastal evening. She couldn’t truly be sure.

As she stood there, her green eyes caught a streak of movement in the sky–some winged creature departing from a high window of the tower. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. Maybe a gargoyle? Or a mephit? An imp?

Something churned in her gut at the thought of Gale of Waterdeep cavorting with the infernal. Perhaps that was why no one had seen him in such a long time–maybe he’d made a pact with a devil and lost some of his humanity in the exchange. Maybe she ought to just turn on her shabby heels and book passage back home.

“You can’t do that, Elinna,” she told herself. “You already spent everything you have just to get here. You’re all in, now.”

But that was precisely why she couldn’t bring herself to tug on the chain to ring the doorbell. Who was she to show up at the door of one of the best wizards–a proper prodigy of composing strings of the weave; the apprentice of the famous Elminster, no less?

Well she knew the answer to that.

She was desperate. That’s what she was.

She’d been left at the Scribe’s Nest by her mother with nothing but a note and an old locket she couldn’t get open; drow craftsmanship. The note detailed her lineage as a half-drow, but begged the clerics of the temple to take her in and raise her. According to the note left in her swaddle, Elinna would be shunned and excluded by because of her impure blood.

A shame for both her mother and Elinna herself that the Scribe’s Nest had simply moved into an old Temple of Ilmater. The inhabitants inside were nothing but glorified librarians. They may have had access to all of the books in the world, but not a single one of her guardians actually knew how to use the information inside.

No. Instead, they tried to raise her to love cataloging the written word, but deny herself the joy of actually using anything she learned from the old dusty tomes in the temple. Even when she’d shown a natural knack for small magics, she had been discouraged from using them, leaving her with no choice but to practice in the wee hours of the night.

She knew she hadn’t much to use as a benchmark for her growth as a burgeoning young wizard, but she thought for all of the effort she’d put in she made a half-decent self-taught magician. All she needed was some proper tutelage to become something truly magnificent. Something worthy of the tales of great wizards that she’d read.

Which brought her here–to the first and only plan she had to seek out that higher learning. And now her future hung in the balance of whether or not her knock at the door–or rather the ring of the doorbell–would be answered.

Her heart pounded in her chest, at her temples. He leather fingerless gloves squeaked as she flexed and clenched her fists.

“Gah!” she cried, turning away from the gate, pacing across the narrow cobbled street, then pacing right back. She gasped in a few preparatory breaths and hopped from one soft-soled foot to the other. “Just do it, just DO it, Elinna. Just–”

The door of the tower opened, it’s underutilized hinges creaking as the man opening the door grunted.

“Damnable–old door–why did I make you out of iron,” grumbled the voice.

Elinna went entirely still, eyes going wide.

Perhaps it was habit from how many times she’d had to sneak tomes away from the restricted areas of the Scribe’s Nest, but she ducked behind the stone columns holding up the wrought iron gate and watched as the cloaked figure made his way to the gate and slipped outside of it with a wave of his hand.

She remained hidden as he looked down the road in her direction, his eyes looking too distantly to catch her small frame tucked away in the dark.

She’d seen sketches of the Gale Dekarios before, but she couldn’t help but feel they did him no justice. The etchings seemed to have emphasized the wizened qualities of his features; the lines around his eyes, the creases around his lips. They made him look sagely and–well–old.

But the real man, the one now standing in the flesh just a few feet from her was something different entirely.

He showed signs of age, of course. He was a middle-aged man, after all. But his lips were fuller, his beard a little more tidy, and his eyes…

His eyes were what made him look the most youthful. There was a sort of shimmer to them that she couldn’t quite describe, a sort of weight to his brow that made him look as if he was always curious, always observing.

She watched as he pulled his cloak a little tighter around him and turned the opposite direction, walking down the narrow street.

Wait, she thought. What am I doing?!

She hesitated for only one more moment before quickly hurrying after him. She searched her mind for all of the speeches she’d practiced for this introduction, but she was left wanting. She should have written it down so that she wouldn’t forget–or would it have been even more strange for read her introduction off the pages of a notebook?

It was all strange, of course; a girl crossing the ocean to show up on the doorstep of a stranger several years her senior. Asking for an apprenticeship when she hadn’t so much as sent him a letter of introduction or even had anything to offer in exchange except for chores, errands and meal preparations. Seeking tutelage from one of the most accomplished young wizards when she was still struggling with even the most basic of incantations…

But what else could she do?

The life of a Scribe Nest Archiver was not a luxurious one. She’d had to sneak out of the old Nest to sing songs at the local tavern to scrape what little money she could together to book passage to even get here.

Blackstaff wasn’t exactly inexpensive–and even if it was, she couldn’t hope to get in. Not with how poorly she handled the weave.

But Gale–she had read transcripts of his lectures, heard tales of how magnanimous and warm he could be. She even once met one of his friends at the tavern who was visiting the islands for this or that purpose–she couldn’t remember. She only remembered the tales of his kindness and generosity. Of his gentleman’s nature.

He seemed like her only real chance at ever mastering this art that sang to her like a harpy at roost in the bay.

God’s he was walking fast though. Perhaps it was just because she was so short in comparison to him, but she was almost having to run to catch up to him.

“E-excuse me,” she finally said when she was within earshot.

She saw the briefest glance back at her, the quickest flash of a startled expression, before he focused forward and quickened his pace.

“No, thank you,” Dekarios replied. “I’ve already a subscription to the Waterdhavian times.”

“Uhm, no–that’s not–” she stammered. “Wait, could you please stop walking so fast!”

“I’m in a dreadful hurry, good night to you,” he said dismissively, walking even faster as he pulled his cloak further to guard his face.

“Mr. Dekarios! I’ve come here to talk to you!” She shouted, a little crack of desperation coming out with it. “Mr. Dekarios I–”

He whirled on her, suddenly encroaching into her space. He was so quick that she almost stumbled backward and fell. Before she could, though, he seized her arm with one strong hand, stablizing her quickly before clasping his other hand over her mouth.

She stared up at him with wide eyes, bright irises flicking around his face as if she were prey caught in his snare.

“Shhhh,” he hissed before looking around, as if to see if anyone heard her. “Mystra’s Elbow, you’d think my reputation as a newly initiated recluse would have gotten around by now.”

Elinna swallowed dryly, critically aware of the feeling of his calloused fingertips on the soft swells of her freckled cheeks. She blinked up at him, unsure what to do. His hand felt warm through the roughspun, puffed sleeves of her Scribe’s Nest garments. Her feet were sort of turned in awkwardly after he’s caught her mid fall.

She wondered if it would have looked like she was being accosted by a thief to a wandering bystander. She supposed it didn’t matter because no one else was here. She knew she should have been afraid. That she was a young woman alone with an older man; that he’d rendered her silent and could easily do much worse. But she also knew that was likely the experiences at the tavern thinking for her.

Gale was supposed to be a gentleman. That’s what she’d always heard. And…

And his hands smelled like…like tea and old parchment and sage. There was a somewhat sharp quality to the fragrance–perhaps a suspension alchemized in alcohol of some sort. He must have made it himself.

“Now. This behavior of mine, admittedly, is abhorrent for a gentleman with a young lady. I will have to ask you to forgive my bad manners and to give me the grace of your understanding because I simply did not want to be greeted by anyone aside from my mother and my cat. Now. I am going to take my hand away from your mouth; apologies again for the rough handling. But I’m going to then need you to let me walk away. And perhaps most importantly, I need you to leave me alone,” Gale said quietly. “Do we have an accord?”

Elinna’s pale ginger brow furrowed and he tutted quietly.

“No, no. No crinkles of the brow, no narrowing of the eyes, miss,” he scolded. “It is by mere coincidence you’ve even caught me out of my tower. By all accounts this is an anomaly of the highest order and therefore…uhm…does not count. You should just forget this ever happened. In fact, I could help you do so if you like!”

Doesn’t count? What kind of logic–that was school-boy logic! And what did he mean help her forget?! She jerked her arm away from him and, perhaps in a moment of panic he tightened his grip.

“Alright, alright! I’m going to let you go–just– remember our deal, please,” he said, releasing her arm.

He winced slightly as he hesitated to remove his other hand from her mouth. She thought he had the same expression one might have if they were about to remove a cork from a vial of smelling salts.

He released his other hand, drawing it away from her mouth.

“Mr. Dekarios, I’ve come to ask you to take me on as an apprentice,” Elinna blurted out. “I know you have never met me, and that you have no notion of my ability or skill. And that showing up outside of a strangers house and asking them for a place to live–”

“I’m sorry, a place to live?” He interjected with an incredulous tone

“--and a comprehensive education in the arcane arts–” she continued.

“I assure you I do not have the time, and it certainly wouldn’t be proper for an older man to bring a young woman into his home to–” he interjected again.

“ But I have nowhere else to turn and…And I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer.”

His brows shot up as she finally stopped speaking. She didn’t know what to make of that expression, nor the silence that followed. Elinna could feel her face beginning to warm and she knew from that her face was already starting to color with her own nerves. It felt the same way it did when a tavern patron made a bawdy joke at her expense–or about her body.

The silence was the most unbearable part, though. So she started to fill it, her face getting warmer by the moment.

“You’re silent,” she said. “Uh–right. Names. I’m Elinna Inklyn. I hail from the Moonshae Islands. I grew up under the care of the Scribe’s Nest Archivists and–”

“Elinna. Elinna,” he said, his tone almost pitying. “I’m going to stop you right there.”

She felt her heart sink as he pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back, looking toward the sky. “Look, Miss Inklyn. I’m sorry that you came all this way, but. I am afraid you must take no as an answer. I cannot take on an apprentice, even if I wanted to.” He winced and almost half shrugged. “And frankly, I really do not want to. Even if I could do it, I wouldn’t want to do it.”

“But–if you’d let me explain–” she protested.

“No–no buts. Again, I am dreadfully sorry for the trouble you went through to get here. But…considering that you sought me out and addressed me by name, you must know who I am.” he said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“So, then you know that I am particularly gifted with manipulating the weave,” he said. “That’s why you’ve sought me out.”

“Yes,” she said yet again. “Well part of the reason but also because–”

“So, then I’m sure you could understand why I find the inadequacies of unskilled wizards irksome, correct? That if I were to take on an apprentice, it would be someone with a certain level of innate talent?”

Her brow furrowed again and she inhaled to speak, but before another word could fall out of her mouth a huge boom of sound tore out from the sky above them. She clapped her gloved hands over her ears and yelped.

“What was that?” she shouted.

The two looked up at the source of the sound only to see the sky split open like it’d been torn by a dull blade. Out of the opening flew a giant aircraft with writhing tentacles slicing through the air as if it were a squid traversing deep sea waters. The two wizards–one novice and one adept–balked at the appearance of the spelljammer, the size of it practically the size of Gale’s tower if you laid it on its side.

“A nautiloid?” They both said at the same time.

They met eyes briefly before Gale gritted his teeth and grasped onto her arm, almost flinging her away from him

“Get out of here, Elinna. And whatever you do don’t let the tentacles touch you,” he shouted.

She stumbled, almost falling on her face, looking back at him.

“What about you?!” she cried.

“I’m a wizard,” he said before turning and casting a bolts of ice at two of the tentacles that swatted out toward them.

“It’s a spelljammer!”

“I’m a very, very good wizard!” he said.

Elinna’s sense of self preservation won out over her worry for the man she’d come here to meet. If he thought he could take on a nautiloid, who was she to deny that? She turned and sprinted down the narrow street before dodging down an alleyway in hopes of getting cover from the massive tentacles that now swept down toward the ground like great, giant whips.

She chanced a single look back to see Gale running just behind her, and the spelljammer that was traveling far too quickly and far too low to the ground for comfort. He followed her down the alleyway, calling ahead. “Not that way! To the east–”

“I don’t know which way east is!” she shouted back.

“Are you kiddi–Eugh–LEFT,” he said. “LEFT, LEFT! Go LEFT!”

“Alright, I heard you!” she said. “No need to shout!”

“I will shout if I want to, now–Elinna, look out!”

She looked ahead just in time to see a brick wall and slipped on her worn soles as she tried to come to a screeching halt.

She slammed into the wall, but thankfully not with enough force to knock her out. She managed to clumsily tumble toward the left, dropping onto her fingertips just a moment before lurching back upright. Gale caught up to her and cast some spell–gust, she assumed– because a strong wind caught in the fabric of her clothes like a breeze in the sails of a galeon and made her feel like she was running on air.

He fought off another tentacle and she screamed as one almost tagged her, but smashed an old fish barrel to bits instead.

“Keep going. We’ll lose it on the main road,” Gale yelled.

They spilled out onto a wider street and she immediately regretted listening to the Waterdhavian native. It’d seemed a sound plan at first. But only if the goal of the ship was to find them specifically. When they made it to the street, Elinna realized that was not the drive of the nautiloid at all.

The main road was chaos. There were carts toppled over and people lying trampled on the ground. People ran and screamed, some of them were swatted by the terrifying power of the tentacles only to vanish into dust before they could make impact with the wall of a building or the floor below them.

Elinna froze in terror, realizing finally that her plight had gone from one of trying to secure a teacher of her own to one of simply trying to survive her first night on the mainland. It suddenly dawned on her that she might actually die here. She might die within moments.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.

It was a mistake to stop, but she realized it too late. A horse cried out desperately and tore away from the frightening vessel. It tore straight toward her, its eyes wild, his nose gusting tufts of steam into the air like a machine. It pulled a market cart along with it, full of heavy barrels of meat and wine. She braced herself, squeezing her eyes shut and thinking about the magic she’d read about. Misty step–misty step, what was the incantation for misty step?

“I-Inveniam Viam!!” she shouted, the words sailing on waves of the weave and almost…echoing. There was the sweet taste of something on her tongue–the after effect of using the weave if her reading was any indication. She’d only tasted that once or twice before, but chasing that sweet, comforting experience was what brought her here. It’s what made her so desperately want to learn how to wield this magic.

When she opened her eyes, the horse was gone.

Unfortunately for her, so was the ground beneath her feet.

She’d somehow teleported into midair and, as if the weave was just as shocked as she was, she’d wound up suspended there for just the briefest moment, cradled by the strands of the weave she’d managed to manipulate. Seconds felt like minutes as he copper hair floate away from her face as she experienced true weightlessness for just moments. Then she felt the sickening churn in her stomach as she started to fall.

The floor just far enough to be lethal but not far enough to give her adequate time to figure out another spell. Her mind went blank with terror. In a moment of desperation, she found Gale in the crowd, a stationary man in a sea of fleeing people.

He looked at her in abject horror as she dropped like a dagger out of the sky. He looked utterly, woefully helpless.

She screamed, wrapping her arms around her as if she could brace her own fall, as if holding herself would hold her together.

Then, just as she was about to splat on the cobblestones into a puddle of bone and blood, a searing heat bloomed from the center of her back. She screamed again as she felt herself dissolve from the inside out, her innards liquifying into a primordial soup.

Her body went miserably hot, and then impossibly cold. No. Not cold–she realized–absent. She was vanishing from the center of her body. She watched in uncomprehending horror as her middle vanished, watched as her body evaporated like steam off a teacup.

Her guttural scream sounded from her and died in the air.

The last thing she saw before her vision went black was Gale still staring at her as he too succumbed to the nautiloid’s attack.

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lets-try-to-be-normal-otakus · 1 month ago

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At a minute or two til two (Pt. 2)

[1], 2

Hi everyone! I'm back with the second installment of my To Die Today series! >:3c I already have an idea for part 3, so I'll do my best to update you. Comments and tags really help me know you enjoyed it and want more!! So let me know if you love it like I do; much love!

Trigger warnings: same as part 1, but with some throw-up, a panic attack, and a touch of deadly ideation. No beta, we die like Steve.

He doesn’t remember much, but he still thinks about that place he visited. He always yearns to go back to the absolute peace when things get too loud.

Sometimes, he just wishes he could fade into black. He can still hear the waves every now and then calling, and his soul yearns.

From the incident on, Steve had a faint scar; it rested on the back of his neck and wrapped around slightly to the side. It refused to fade.

He hid it with concealer.

He hid it with his hair.

He was still doubtful on whether or not he had died. Or, what it meant to him.

It had to’ve been a fluke…

… Right?

Maybe it just took him a little longer to… bite the dust?

The next time he died, he was 10.

His parents were away for the week as they did more and more often these days, and it was the start of summer.

The crisp bite of cold water reduced the sting of the sun, and there was really no other place to be. He spent his days poolside, enjoying ice pops and canned soda from his parent’s cooler. He’d run and jump and splash and play until his skin shriveled from water or split from the sun. Whichever came last.

This was the summer he learned a vital lesson.

See, there are rules when you go to the pool or pond or really anywhere to do with water. But Steve was just a kid; rules were put in place by adults because they didn’t like to have fun.

So he ignored them.

It was Thursday, midday, and he’d just gotten off the phone with his parents. His mom was checking in and making sure he was safe and being smart, and he reassured her he was. And he was, for someone who had yet to learn certain hard truths.

He ran to jump back into the pool, but there was just one millisecond where the traction failed under his feet, and his heart leapt in it.

And that was enough.

A puddle on concrete.

One second, he was pool-bound, and the next, everything went black. Color shot into his world again as his vision came back, yet left his eyes unfocused. Vague and unseeing. He experienced the sound and distant vibrations at the same time he heard an earth-shattering crack and bone-shaking rumble. His eyes opened again to see bloody concrete roll away, and he distantly felt like an egg being cracked open.

The ‘splash’ came second to the cool sensation crashing around him. Enveloping him. Eating him alive. What little oxygen he had bubbled to the top of his lungs, most slipping out in a silent but all-consuming exhale.

His eyes burned as chlorine forced its way in; sparks ripped their way around his eye socket and popped inside his skull.

His lungs were on fire - conflicted and stretched to the max to save what little oxygen they could. He wanted to scream. All he did was choke.

The heavy swish and weight of water in his nose and throat unsettled him, and he heaved. Body flexing and struggling as dark blues began to bloom with a soft black. He coughed. All he got was a lung full of water and the endless feeling of throwing up.

Something sharp catches on his throat and covers his flooded windpipe for a moment - something flimsy that bent with the water. Some brown debris coughs its way out of his system and triggers his gag reflex again. His tears are like lava.

His last thoughts are just how heavy and muted everything feels: the sound of water in his ear, the cold darkness that envelops him, and how his body screams.

He doesn’t know how long he chokes and burns.

Is this what dying feels like?

He just wants to go back. Why couldn’t it be like last time? With the beach and the waves? Instead of feeling hot water forced out his nose and back into his lungs?

–

There was no peace. No comfort like last time. Instead, he wakes up and feels his weak body burn, trying to suck in air while purging the water. After an eternity of choking, a warm static embraces him, granting sweet numbness as he drifts again. A few hours feel like minutes before he’s dragged into the cycle again.

–

Three days pass before his body floats to the surface. Three days of a small, infinite torture before he feels dry heat on his back. When he comes to, his body kicks fruitlessly again, and his arms swing around, desperately trying to find the surface. He chokes and vomits water back into himself. Something feels different. He doesn’t have time to investigate as he’s purely in fight or flight mode, his body out of control and flailing.

Things go black again.

–

Eventually, he finds himself floating over to the shallow end. He hits a wall, and when he scrambles back to consciousness, his feet hit the pool’s ground as he gags and expels water from his nose and mouth and lungs, flailing wildly. His hands find a ledge and pull.

When the sun sets, he comes to with snot, water, and blood running down his face and pooling on the concrete beneath him.

–

It took two days for the rot and swelling to go down. During that time, as his body worked to mend itself, half in the pool and half out, his mind drifted to that pleasant space. No more was this pain and fire. Instead, there was finally fuzzy peace.

His mind relaxed, and his soul just… floated. It was dark, the ocean. Rain clouded the sky in dark grays, rolling and tumbling onto each other like the very waves they kissed. It was cold.

The churning of the waves put him at peace. It could never be horrifying, despite looking into the mouth of some cosmic horror. Instead, it felt… outside himself. It was all simply a part of the universe as death and creation rolled onto itself, creating the peacefully roiling and vicious clouds. It did him no harm, and he knew it wouldn’t, so he existed and felt.

Everything ached. His head throbbed with dehydration, as it felt like every drop of water was wrenched out of him. Railroad spikes of pain hammered into the side of his skull, practically nailing him to the ground as he writhed. He felt nauseous and on fire. His mouth was dry, his skin burned, everything inside him ached, and the sun and water felt like needles on his arms and legs.

Water. He needed water. Water and shade. His body screamed as he used what little strength he had left to pull his torso up and roll himself out of the pool. His skin burned where it met the abrasive concrete, and Steve barely processed the blood stains beneath him. He could feel his tight skin stretch with the movement, almost as if it would tear at any second.

Minisculely, he crawled over to the patio door. When he reached up for the handle, that tight feeling in his skin came back in a warning, so he instead clawed the door open from the floor. Getting over the door track was like shuffling through barbed wire, but the cold of the tile instantly replaced the burning.

Catching his breath on the floor, Steve looked around while panting. The sink was his first thought, but he couldn’t reach it like this. He couldn’t stand, and he definitely couldn’t reach it, so the refrigerator it was.

Scooting himself along, he reached into the blissfully cold fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Sitting up as best he could, he twisted the cap, winced at the burn of his wrist, and downed the bottle. A blast of frosty spikes took over his mouth before moving to his throat and stomach. It hurt as much as it helped.

Gasping between swallows, he held the cold plastic to his face and breathed at the relief it brought. The second bottle he took slower to prevent the frigid pain, uncaring about any that escaped his lips. It was like a balm across his too-hot skin anyway.

His stomach cramped and heaved at the freezing intrusion while he fought down the urge to vomit.

Keep it down, force it down, you’re not going to throw up, you’re not- vomit surged up before he could repress it and left him shaking, freezing, overheating, and crying. The stench bloomed through the kitchen and stung his nose. Clutching his water bottle, he scooted across the floor, snot running down his face as he took hiccuping sips. His arms hurt as his shoulders moved with each cry.

Giving up, he laid down as far from the vomit as he could and rested his body against the cold tiles, sighing at the minor relief. Catching his breath, he quickly sank into a rough sleep, his mind replaying the sensation of falling and being unable to breathe.

He woke with a pounding headache, temples squeezing him and tile warm beneath. Spotting the forgotten bottle, he ripped it open and chugged the remains. The room-temperature water set right in his body and, thankfully, didn’t cause any cramping this time. Shakely, he got up on all fours, crawled to the fridge, and stretched over his vomit - ew - to pull another few bottles.

He eventually managed to stand up after what felt like hours of trying. By then, he’d already drunk his room-temperature water and was feeling somewhat better. Not entirely, but at least his headache had dulled.

Cold showers helped, and when he tried to put on a shirt, his body screamed in pain at the stretch and sensation of fabric. So he went shirtless and passed out face-down in his bed.

His parents came home the following morning. They bustled in with luggage and bags, his mom chatting happily to Steve from the other room.

“Oh, darling, you look dead on your feet!”

Steve didn’t have the energy or strength in him to find it funny.

His dad made a displeased noise. “Where’s your shirt? Did we raise an ignorant heathen? Put a damn shirt on - you’re not a kid anymore,” he rumbled.

His mom came around the counter and reached for his face, stopping short, and a worried look locked on her face. “Darling, your shoulders, what happened? They look so red. Did you get sunburned? Oh, I know I taught you to wear sunscreen.” The ends of her eyes scrunched up in an attempted smile.

“Did I stutter? Put a damn shirt on!” His father growled from the kitchen. Steve held in a sigh and resigned himself to the pain. He’d just have to get over it, as his father would say.

He turned around, and before he could get a step further, his mother gasped and dropped her bags.

“Steven! Your back!” She sounded horrified, and Steve tried to turn around and see what she was talking about, but his neck protested and burned too much. He could feel her body heat when she came up behind him.

His father’s footfalls even came closer. “What on Earth…”

“I’ve never seen it this bad before - ever…” His mother trailed off, voice a bit wobbly.

Dr. Goodmund, his pediatrician, took one look at Steve’s back and muttered, “Well, that can’t be good.”

They ended up going to the hospital.

On the way into the ICU, Steve was lectured by his parents and the staff on the importance of sunscreen.

It wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t just say that without his father seeing it as an excuse. He was already mad about how “it’s always something” with Steve or that “he must’ve been truly dumb to let it get this bad and not notice.” “It’s a visual thing, Steve.” He’d say. “How could you not see it? Or feel it, for that matter?” He gripped Steve’s upper arm tight - sunburn screaming as the swollen and blistered skin was squeezed, “When we get home…”

Richard didn’t have to finish that for him to know what was coming.

Steve wanted to go back to the rolling storm over the gray sea.

The nurses, already a step ahead, began bustling about getting things ready and set up. The doctor started talking with them and wrote some things down on the clipboard.

The doctors say he'll need a skin graft.

But if he can't feel it, is it really that bad? He says as much, and the doctor stays impassive. "That is a common misconception." They explained. "See, the damage here goes all the way to or through the hypodermis - the bottommost layer of skin, which is right above the muscle. Which means that with severe burns, it travels through all the layers of protection our body makes and damages the nerve receptors. When these are shot, we typically can't feel anything.

"Now, what we're going to do is administer a painkiller – looks like you've got some second-degree burns too, which I'm sure you can feel – and start you on an antibiotic. Looks like some of these lesions are already becoming infected, and we want to solve that. We'll also start you on an IV so that we can replace some of your fluids."

Steve liked them. He felt much more seen than with Dr. Goodmund.

When the doctors walked away, his mom approached his bed. His dad had opted to go home. Her voice was a whisper," It happened again, didn't it?" Steve was quiet, head hanging low. Mom reaches for him, something broken and defeated in her eyes. She stops right before touching him. "It happened again, and I wasn't there to help. What happened?"

Steve was instantly brought back to the sensations of drowning, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. All he could feel was water in his throat and nose and lungs. He coughed violently, trying to clear his throat from the sensation and failing.

A nurse was called.

It didn't help.

–

Using two mirrors, he eventually saw what everyone was talking about. The apex of his shoulders had black and deep red dimples that dug into his skin, all varying in size — some as small as a fingernail and others as large as a baseball. Ragged, torn, and infected flesh patched itself around the lesions in a red-and-black fashion. Yellowish but transparent welts the size of his palm and the girth of his fist littered his back and legs.

Instead of the red color he was used to when he got sunburned, he was met with waxy, white, and cracked skin.

The flesh was swollen.

The flesh was tender.

The flesh was going to scar.

–

The sight of it made his mother cry.

His father said it's what he deserves.

They eventually stopped looking.

–

The blood never did fade from the concrete, no matter how much Steve tried.

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