#drawing all those flowers and vines took SO LONG

[undy1ngumbrage]

Still haven't recovered from this

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

Soulmate Aus

Requested: No

Warnings: Discrimination based on tattoos and brief description of kidnapping

Ghost - His scars as tattoos

Twisted and burned flesh blooming into roses along your chest, deep cuts and gaping holes turned into pitch black stars that shone on your skin, drawing all sorts of attention that you hated to have on you. The whispers that follow after in your shadow leave you nauseous and uneasy. Marks, given to you by your soulmate. Barbed wire in a slash across your throat, stitch like markings on either side of your mouth like a permanent smile, thorny vines and skulls and knives littered throughout your body. That wasn’t even speaking to what might be on your back, too afraid to ask anyone or try and even maneuver to see it in a mirror.

Making friends was hard, making money even harder. They said you scared people, that you looked unprofessional. But you managed, you got by. Found work in the back of a butcher shop, so far removed from the customer service section that no one would ever even catch a glimpse of you. Straight to work then straight home, maybe a chat or two with one of your gruffer co-workers, those just as covered in tattoos as you were. Those who got it, who understood you in a way no one else seemed to.

It was in one of those conversations that you got invited out for drinks, something you regretted accepting as soon as the words had left your mouth. But it was too late, your friends already abuzz with excitement at you joining them. Assuring your that this joint was filled with people like yourself.

And they didn’t lie. Every glance you took of the place revealed someone who appeared to be in a similar state to yourself. A man with a black dagger going over his eye, little blood droplets making a trail like tears down to his chin. A woman with snakes peaking all around her hairline, their tails curving along her jaw and intertwining on her chin and down her neck. Most you couldn’t make out except for giant globs of black ink painting their face. It was reassuring, putting you at real ease for the first time in a long time. Relaxed enough to have a drink, then another, then another, laughing along with some corny joke the bartender was telling when a big man sat beside you, some surgical mask over the lower half of his face, the hood of his jacket over the upper half. But it revealed just enough for you to make eye contact with him when he glanced your way, feeling the world shift beneath you and crumble away.

Soap - Colorblind until you touch your soulmate

Shades of grey. White and black, sometimes you think you might be seeing colors, something just a hint different then the usual monochrome of your existence but you turn your head….and it’s nothing, just more of the same. It was fine when you were younger, when everyone your age saw things the same way. When you were, in this sense, just like everyone else. But things changed, you got older. Your classmates changed, met their people. People who became friends, family, lovers. Their closest confidants. Their soulmates.

And you were left behind, drifting further and further from the people who you, at one point, might have called your friends. Unable to escape their giggles and whispers of seeing color, the wonder in their voice when they described how vibrant everything seemed, that shift in their eyes. And then afterwards, getting to know the person that held that other half of their soul, it was almost as emotional for them all. But you, you were left without that.

For a time you could convince yourself that it could still happen, that you could find that person, that you would be able to see what your peers did. Eventually.

But time moved, it changed, and your vision stayed the same. Unable to witness the beautiful colors of the flowers that line your driveway, the shimmering scales of fish in the pet shop, the color of a soulmate’s eyes.

You gave up after a few years after secondary school. Defeated and broken down, chipped away at by your school mate’s whispers about how you still hadn’t met your soulmate, the only one in your grade that hadn’t. You convinced yourself that you didn’t have a soulmate. That you were just one soul, not intertwined with anyone.

Or maybe they were dead.

That was the thought that haunted you, no matter how much you tried to tell yourself that it was just you. That you were different. Or that maybe you just hadn’t met them yet. It would keep you up at night, nightmares of a faceless person reaching out to you, only to fall short, darkness swallowing them whole, drifting farther and farther away no matter how much you ran after it. Always just out of reach.

It was one of those nights when you decided to take a walk, shaking hands shoved into your coat pockets and neck slick with sweat, just wandering aimlessly when you bumped shoulders with some guy you hadn’t even seen til last second.

“Ey, watch where you’re-” He started, only to stop, anger leaking into worry. “Oi, you okay?”

“Piss off-” You snapped in return, whipping around to face the man, only to freeze, eyes locked onto his, both of your pupils’ widening, visions shifting. “What….what fucking color is that?” You whisper when the grey of his irises shifted to something vibrant, bordering on overwhelming.

“Been told that they’re something called blue.” He breathed.

Gaz - His name on your wrist

Gaz.

The name written on your wrist, messy chicken scratch that resembled scribbles more than actual writing. It was confused for dozens upon dozens of other names growing up, but this one. Gaz. It resounded in your skull in a way none of the other nicer or more normal sounding ones did. It rolled off your tongue, appeared in your dreams, a whisper in your ear that just wouldn’t fade away.

Gaz.

For someone with such an unusual name, he was certainly hard to find. Everywhere you went, everywhere your friends and family went, they asked if they ever heard of anybody named Gaz, only to come up with zilch. Nada. Nothing. A needle in a haystack but it seemed the needle grew legs and ran away, or maybe even just got dropped into a wormhole somewhere. It was an unhealthy and depressing thought but it was what came to mind when you became overwhelmed with it, consumed by thoughts of an elusive soulmate that you might not be finding just because you keep getting stuck on what you think his name is instead of any of the other possibilities that it could be. It was days like this that you wanted to find your soulmate just to strangle them for their shitty handwriting that would brand you for your entire life. Written on your flesh in a deep black.

Gaz.

It was during one of these times where one of your friends asked to set you up on a blind date. A cousin of theirs, good looking they’d said. Sweet guy in the military, on break for now. If nothing else, he’d make for a good shag to take your mind off of the whole soulmate ideal. It was with great reluctance that you accepted, dressed in a semi formal/semi casual outfit for a date at a place that was a few steps above a Maccy’s but nothing michelin star worthy. Not too formal, not too casual.

And the guy was nice, introducing himself as Kyle. Shook your hand and pulled out your chair for you, letting you set the pace for the date. Made you laugh, his eyes sparkling at every chuckle you couldn’t contain. He seemed too good to be true, and you agreed to a second date despite the name inked onto your wrist.

A second date led to a third led to movie nights led to slow kisses under the sheets led to moving in together led to meeting his friends, his brothers in arms. Where, for the first time, you heard them shout his callsign.

Gaz.

Hearing it from someone else was sweeter than any of the times you’d whisper it to yourself at night.

Alejandro - The first words he says to you written on your wrist

“Now what’s a beautiful thing like you doing here all alone?”

Possibly the blandest soulmate question anyone could ever have written on their arm, looping cursive that was on the edge of appearing just a little hard to leave. The question itself may be awfully common but the handwriting was not. It was something you liked about your soulmate, tracing the letter with your thumb over and over and over until you were sure you could perfectly write out every elegant letter with your eyes closed.

It was what you were doing now, scared and curled up into a ball after being kidnapped by some drug lord or other. No matter how much you tried to plead that they had the wrong person, that you didn’t even know who they were, it didn’t matter. They snatched you up all the same, tossing you in this grimy cell and leaving you on your lonesome. You were scared, terrified. You wondered if you’d die before you even had the chance to meet your soulmate, all because they nabbed the wrong person.

It felt like weeks, but surely must have only been days, before you saw another person again, hazy, on the brink of a sleep you weren’t sure you were going to wake up from. Your eyes were heavy, so much so that they almost didn’t have the power to open again when the door slammed open, the rushing of feet following, the whoosh of fabric as someone knelt beside you and pressed their fingers to your throat, checking for your pulse.

“Now what’s a beautiful thing like you doing here all alone?” A voice whispered, an arm curving under your knees and another cradling the back of your head, a warm body pressing against you, offering you the first real source of comfort you’d had since you were taken.

“I think I’m dying of thirst.” You mumble, voice a shaky slur. So out of it that you didn’t feel the man pause for a moment before gripping you tighter.

“Probably, Amor.” He says, voice more strained now. There were more sounds now, more stomping and heavy doors slamming. It was hurting your head. “But we’ll fix you right up. Get something for you to drink.” He says, his voice fading for a moment before he said “I’m Alejandro, by the way.”

You weren’t sure the babble that left your mouth before you passed out was any sort of comprehendable to him.

[cheralith]

all i wanted — gojo satoru, ft. geto suguru

content warnings: gn!neutral, no pronouns or body parts mentioned, angst

he can't believe what he's seeing.

in the park's gazebo that sits near your apartment building, there you are. settled underneath its vines and ivy and the sunset looking overhead in the sky. a bundle of colorful flowers gathered in your arms with a large heart-shaped box of chocolates nestled underneath. there's a plethora of matching shaped balloons settled around the floor of it, all red and pink and white and shiny, resembling mirrors that shine your much too happy face that doesn't face him...

but another.

there you are, hiding your shy smile behind a hand and giggling at whatever suguru is murmuring as he pushes a lock of hair away from your flustered face. satoru fists his own bouquet of flowers he gathered last minute hidden behind him, evidently frustrated as he bites his lip so hard that it draws blood. his seem so weak and desolate compared to the larger than life bouquet suguru has given you; a bouquet that shows careful arranging and organizing of each flowers, not the flimsy, clustered flowers that satoru grabbed on his rushing way to see you to declare what he had been hesitating to say for the longest time.

his knuckles turn white and pulse with a fiery ache from how hard he was grasping his now-bent flowers, doing his best to shove down the thick lump in his throat as he sees suguru wrap his arms around you and pull you closer to him as you accept his valentines proposal of "be mine?" written on a small, but intricate lunchbox cake decorated with colors that replicate the balloons. satoru doesn't miss the small bunch of boxes seated on the benches of the gazebo already unwrapped, the leaves of their wrappers nestled nicely on the ground—there's more presents than flowers in his bouquet, and satoru cannot feel anymore pathetic. his flowers can't compare to the intricate set-up suguru has created. he thinks its almost a mockery of sorts.

it's not fair, he thinks. you've been friends with satoru in the same length that you've been friends with suguru, and he's sure that both of them have harbored feelings in a time frame equivalent to each other, so why does suguru get first pick? he's the one that broke off from you, him, and shoko... he's the one that left you mysteriously in the dust those years ago... he's that ignored you on the first couple semesters of college up until a few months ago...

but satoru was there. why can't you acknowledge him in the way you acknowledge suguru? satoru was there every step of the way—his shoulder was the one you cried on. his arms were the one you ran to when you celebrated a good grade on a test. his presence was the one that comforted you in the bane of suguru's absence.

but here's the problem.

you did acknowledge him. you had actually acknowledged satoru's place in your life so much and valued it to a degree that you took the risk of perhaps making it more than just a mere long-term friendship. maybe it wasn't explicit, but it was implied enough to the point where it struck fear in satoru's heart.

and he ran away from it like the coward he was—terrified to his wits end that another suguru situation would happen again to him, in which his feelings already engrained so deep within him that if there's the slim chance that you'll leave him like suguru did, there'd be nothing but a deep and hollow pit in his heart. a relationship would just increase that chance—and he wasn't going to take any chances of that happening.

satoru thought he'd never fathom two large chunks of his heart being empty, yet here he is—facing what remains of his heart that belongs to you in the palm of the other person who owned the other half of it and tore it away all those years ago.

the ground feelings more dense, locking him in place and forcing him to watch the scene that unfolds before him.

if he was just a few mere hours faster, he knew that he could be in suguru's place is he was just stronger, if he was just willing to pay the small price for a potential forever with you. it was a severe last-minute decision, but he knew that's what he wanted, what he yearned for. what he even needed, perhaps.

yet, his hesitation has paid its dues.

your back is to him, thankfully. but suguru's eyes flicker up from your smiling face that he holds tenderly in his palms to share satoru's grief-stricken one. for a second, his face in unreadable to satoru, until a cruel smirk snakes on suguru's lips.

and, while never breaking eye contact with satoru, those same lips reach down and share a soft kiss with yours, your forever now being in suguru's hands that just barely pass his own.

the bouquet of frail flowers fall to the ground, yet no feeling returns to satoru's hand. only a cold wind of nothing grasps it back.

[marsmarbles]

If you have the time, could you maybe do a scene with bigb teaching grian how to bake his famous cookies? Or maybe something a bit more angsty, like one of them getting to the other only to find their leftover items? Or whatever you want honestly! Thx for the secret soulmates food! :p

I had an idea for this request but it would be too much to draw so I’m actually gonna try and do some writing instead. Sorry for those who don’t like reading. It’s kinda long.

Golden Light to Silver Shadows

Grian nervously stood before the Food Crew’s bakery entrance, clamping his sweaty hands on a present he had spent all day preparing for BigB. Turning the knob of the door and pushing it open activated an alarm system set up by Fwhip. A bell rang and a few note blocks could be heard. It was a charming little jingle to welcome customers. The bakery was cozy with cherry plank walls and coffee colored spruce floors. A few circle tables were sprinkled in the center of the room with booths lining the walls. Lanterns, succulents, and baskets of flowery bushes hung from the ceiling. BigB was sat behind the counter. He was examining the creases in the floorboards with his head resting on his hand. He had been daydreaming. BigB loved his bakery, but it was admittedly boring to wait for customers. The door jingle alerted him to Grian’s presence.

“Grian!” BigB lit up in excitement, his antennae wiggled with joy. The genuine excitement to see Grian was more than enough to make Grian’s face flush. “Hey, BigB. I uhhh… made something for you.”

Grian slid a bag of cookies across the counter with shaky hands. They were neatly wrapped in a shimmery clear bag, tightly fastened with a blue ribbon with gold accents. “This was my first time ever making cookies, so sorry if they’re bad. Maybe you can show me your secret recipe,” Grian laughed nervously.

BigB gleefully loosened the blue ribbon holding the bag shut, took a cookie, and ate it whole. It was crunchy and thin and….hollow(?)…they weren’t bad by any means. For Grian’s first time, BigB appreciated the love and effort he put in. He had waited all day for someone to show up to the bakery. And the fact that it was Grian made it even better. He didn’t want him to leave just yet.

“How about we make some cookies together! The cocoa beans should be ready in the greenhouse,” BigB suggested, gesturing to the entrance to the greenhouse just behind him.

“I’d love to!” Grian quickly replied. The word ‘together’ was enough.

After BigB stashed away the cookies for later in the top cabinet, he and Grian made their way to the back door to the greenhouse. Grian had to do an awkward shuffle around the counter to keep up. The greenhouse was gorgeous. Golden light shone through the semi transparent overhang and broke through the flowers and leaves. Parrots chirped and bees buzzed. Luscious plants swayed in the gentle breeze. Glow berry vines slung from the ceiling as axolotls and frogs popped out from the ponds, curious of the new visitor. Grian stared in awe. This was more of a massive nature preserve than any greenhouse he’s ever been in.

“Grian?” BigB broke Grian out of his trance. “The cocoa bean farm is over here.”

“Uh right,” Grian said, adjusting his glasses and wiping his mouth and chin with his coat sleeve (just to make sure he didn’t drool while distracted).

BigB led him to a cluster of jungle trees. They reached high, popping out the top of through the ceiling. Podzol and bamboo were dotted around in clumps. Just past the cocoa bean farm was the end of the greenhouse. Through the transparent walls could be a seen an expansive jungle forest, stretching well beyond the world borders. BigB pulled off a ready cocoa bean plant and inspected it for abnormalities. After checking that it was good, he held it out for Grian. “Why don’t you try to break this one open?”

“Uhh I dunno,” Grian held his hands up, unsure.

In that moment, Grian took a pause. Actually, the whole world felt in slow motion. Something unseen had disturbed the peace. His Watcher senses were tingling, so to speak. Something was about to happen….. Suddenly, as the world picked back up in speed, BigB’s calming smile was shot down with an excruciating pain all throughout his body; every muscle, every ligament, every organ, each and every follicle of hair. The cocoa bean plant dropped and exploded on impact with the earth. A jolt went up his spine and his legs went out on him. He tumbled to the ground. He had no process time to scream or cry out in pain. He just fell.

“BIGB!!!!” Grian shrieked, dropping to his knees to assist him just as fast as BigB fell. “B-BIGB WHAT HAPPENED ARE YOU OKAY??”

“I-I…I think I’m going…J-Jimmy…he-”BigB managed to get out with a weak shaky breath.

“BigB! BigB! Please I need you to stay with me BigB,” Grian frantically cradled BigB in his arms. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He checked chat…

…Jimmy had fallen to his death…

Oh, fucking of course, Grian thought. Grian hadn’t considered Jimmy being in control of BigB’s lives, but with that confirmation he’d might as well think of this as his final moments with his secret soulmate.

“Grian….” BigB mustered the strength to caress Grian’s cheek and wipe away a tear. “…it’s ok….i’ll be right back….it’s just one life….”

“BigB….” Grian quietly whined, taking BigB’s hand, keeping it held to his cheek. He felt it go cold and his arm become heavy. Grian saw the last of the light in BigB’s dark eyes fade as his body became limp. Grian pulled his lifeless corpse into one final hug. And as BigB dissipated into smoke and billowed away…..Grian was left alone.

All the light and magic that the greenhouse had greeted him with was gone. The birds went silent, the bees hid back into their hives. The trees and flowers went grey and the golden light became silver shadows. Silently, Grian collected BigB’s fallen items, keeping his head down to hide his tearful look. And as he slowly closed the chest he stored BigB’s items in, he heard voices in the distance. It was a collection of people, most notably Scott, Martyn, Fwhip, and Joel, with a tomato faced Jimmy stomping ahead of them.

“Jimmy!!! We’re sorry!! We didn’t think you’d miss the water!” Scott cackled as he tried to explain himself to Jimmy.

“It was bad maths!! Bad maths!!” Martyn pleaded with a giggle.

“We didn’t think you’d die!!” Scott added, trying to breathe through his laughter.

“IM NOT HAVING ANY OF IT!!!!” Jimmy snapped back at them. “PLAYING BUNGEE JUMP WITH FISHING RODS IS THE LAST THING WE SHOULD BE THINKING ABOUT DOING IN A PLACE LIKE THIS!!! WHAT DO YOU THINK IMMA TELL BIGB, ‘THAT IT WAS JUST A PRANK’!!??”

Jimmy stormed into the bakery, and as he slammed the door, Fwhip’s voice was cut off; “but it was just a prank-“

Grian could here Jimmy stomp about in the bakery. He must’ve been looking for BigB. Jimmy ran out into the greenhouse and froze to find Grian and the aftermath of the incident. Grian stood there with a clenched fist and a chest by his feet. He gave Jimmy a stone cold glare with his dark eyes. Jimmy flinched at the sight of his expression.

“I put BigB’s stuff in this chest,” Grian said almost robotically, pointing to the box.

Jimmy desperately wanted to apologize, but Grian looked like he would accept nothing; not even a notch apple. Grian stiffly walked past him.

“I’m sorry….about BigB…” Jimmy made an attempt at an apology, hoping that Grian could find it in him somewhere to forgive him. Grian paused.

“It wasn’t your fault, Tim….” Grian said without turning back to him. “It was their’s….”

Grian continued walking, leaving Jimmy to wallow. He made his way to the bakery and took a seat at one of the circle tables. The room felt cold and desolate compared to before. Like it was a completely different place that the greenhouse had spat him back out into. He shuffled his chair forward and laid his head down, waiting for BigB’s return.

I actually had a lot of fun writing this, even though I wouldn’t consider myself a very skilled writer(and there’s most definitely a lot of mistakes I made lol). I felt like it was easier to depict a full scene compared to a comic(which would’ve probably taken me weeks). So I’ll do more writing like this in the future.

[scribblestatic]

More Forsaken, some kinda written, some summary-drabbled.

----

13 followers remaining.

Narinder sacrificed an older follower, not really because of her amount of devotion, but simply because she was nearing the end of her lifespan, and he needed those who could work to be in his cult. He didn't have much time for caring for elders on a good day. Maon was already a stretch.

She took her death in stride, without complaint, and Death returned to Darkwood.

Because of Leshy's mutated influence, the land was rife with chaos. The already darkened forest was even darker, almost pitch. He had to light a fire to see anything in front of himself, where even his night vision had trouble picking up the light.

Plants were growing within and on top of each other, layering like vines and intertwining like many strands in a tapestry. Nearly no sunlight could break through the canopy, yet the plants seemed to survive well enough. Though, if Narinder looked at them long enough, he could see completely different flowers blooming from the same stalk. They came in mix-matched shapes and sizes, bases thick but flowers at the head small, even delicate. Others seemed just large overall.

Though, Narinder really knew something was terribly messed up when he saw a flower swaying in the darkness. It was a large rose, perhaps a bit smaller than the size of his own head. It swayed in nonexistent wind, so he was curious as to what it was doing.

Wanting to see, Narinder brightened his fire...

The flower was not connected to a vine. Instead, it was attached to the body of a chaser worm, vines forced through its flesh and wrapping around its limbs. The rose was in the place its head should've been.

"...Vile creature."

It went down easily, utterly unfocused on his presence. A slash from his scythe was all it took, and the mutated monster fell into nothing. Narinder collected its bones and gazed suspiciously at the rose petals that continued to bloom beautifully.

He decided against collecting anything from it without knowing more.

Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, the strange flower creatures weren't the only ones in the pitch blackness of Darkwood. Also ill-adapted to how dark everything was, Narinder's fire was like a beacon toward everything else.

He had to dodge quickly to avoid the attack from a non-polluted chaser worm. The fire light flickered from how quickly it passed. Clicking his tongue, Narinder stabbed his torch into the ground and thrust himself into the darkness. He didn't have to be directly beside it to see, after all.

The light provided just enough for him to see dimly around himself once further away. He also had to rely on his whiskers and other senses, realizing that there were at least another three to four chaser worms in the area.

With some struggling, he managed to kill them all without injury, though he was panting a bit.

"I'm simply out of practice," he grumbled to himself, angry he let his skills falter. He'd grown too comfortable in the enclosed lands of his cult. While his spells and curses were still as strong as ever, physically, he needed work.

---

"Praise the Lamb, conduit to great power, promised liberator of the One that Waits below. I see they have completed their duty."

Narinder was able to identify Clauneck's store by the stars hanging in the passageway. The smooth metal surfaces reflected off the light from his fire, and upon entering the area, Clauneck had fire lit on his own. Narinder smelled the delicious remains of whatever meat he'd cooked from it.

How strange. It's been hundreds of years by this time, and yet Clauneck was still alive. How long-lived was this tarot card reader?

Although he wanted to scoff at his greeting, he allowed it to pass. Powerful as he was, he knew there were still many mysteries he had yet to uncover. His domain was Death, but even he didn't see past the shores of their lands.

"Card reader, I've seen your work. Draw a card, that I may gain power from it."

Clauneck cooed softly. "Oh, God of Death, I have always drawn your cards."

The owl spread three cards out in front of him, the remaining cards flowing out to the sides and spinning around them, both sides of the cards showing the backs.

"...However, Fate has different designs for you. To answer the call of a cry most despaired. To fix what you hath wrought. Thus, you must divine Fate's machinations on your own."

...Strange. When the Lamb came to Clauneck, he would draw a card for them. Perhaps it was different with a god so experienced.

Though, to fix what he hath wrought... Bah. Perhaps the Fates were against his siblings' extended suffering. No wonder his cult started having troubles the longer it went on, that he now had to traverse these lands himself to fix the problem.

"Then, allow me."

Narinder kneeled down in front of Clauneck and, after some consideration, drew the leftmost card.

Master of the Art. Strike hard, strike fast, strike true.

He felt ancient power flow into him, increasing his strength, and felt at least somewhat satisfied by the results. He wasn't sure he remembered every card or its effects, but it was good enough.

"I see. The One Who Weeps loves you still."

Narinder blinked, looking up.

"What?"

But Clauneck didn't elaborate, pulling the other two cards back as the deck collected together. The card in Narinder's hand dissipated, its power used. He then puts his hands back together, humming softly.

"Your cards have been drawn. The path lays ahead."

"No, I—what did you just say?"

But Clauneck merely sat in silence.

Narinder's hackles bristled...but he stood without complaint, bowed, and left.

---

Amdusias was rotting in a strangely serene fashion.

Narinder knew this follower from the time the Lamb first slayed their monstrous form, causing it to spit out its scarred but sane self. Amdusias had remained loyal to the Lamb, though they still held love for Leshy in their heart. The Lamb knew this and did not seek to change that.

When Amdusias passed from old age, the Lamb, soft as ever, mourned losing them, allowing them to pass on without resurrection.

Somehow, Narinder doubted that a follower would result from this duel. The beast in front of him seemed nearly soulless. Nearly. He could still sense something dwelling within it.

Though, unlike the beasts that the Lamb faced, Amdusias did not attack. Not initially.

They was still in their quarters, large head slightly shifting as they breathed. Several bodies and skulls appeared fused to their own head, some even impaled on their horns. However, the follower's eyes were closed, their mouth slightly open as they sighed with each breath. The skulls were intertwined with vines without thorns, and camellias bloomed from the eyes of the many faces that replaced Amdusias' pustules.

It appeared as though the creature was sleeping.

...If that was the case, that would make slaying it easier.

He raised his crown to form his scythe, then slashed.

A long scar formed across their face...but no blood or ichor came from it. Then the flesh began to knit itself back together, sewn through the vines that connected through the rest of their body. After mending their flesh, the vines melded into their skin, changing form to look exactly like it, as though Narinder hadn't cut into them at all.

All the while, Amdusias remained asleep.

"What foul spell has..."

Nothing should be able to reverse a wound seriously inflicted by death, and Narinder did not strike out without purpose. Even his siblings failed to heal their wounds despite being gods themselves.

Something was terribly wrong.

He cut into the creature, then cut again. This time, Amdusias' eyes twitched, though they remained closed. Just like before, a few moments after cutting into them, vines knit their flesh shut before a single drop of blood could leave them.

So, he cut their face three times.

After the third slice, a single trickle of ichor began to drip from their flesh.

Amdusias' eyes snapped open, but instead of being black with red crosses, they were fully red. The vines began knitting their face back together, and this time, when Narinder went to slice them again, the faces on their head open their mouths and let out reedy little cries, camellia petals falling from their eyes like tears.

Narinder abruptly had to dodge from a large vine that shot out of the ground toward him. Muzzle scrunching, he stabbed his torch into the vine-ridden wall behind him, then ran forward.

Contrary to Amdusias' living attacks, this seemingly undead version attacked differently. Quietly. They never let out a threatening war cry like they had before, instead slinking around in the darkness, leaving behind a strange hybrid of seed and egg that quickly sprouted to reveal the rose-like creatures from before. Unlike the ones he'd seen outside of this room, though, these ones were openly hostile.

They thrust themselves at him, many whips lashing out from their backs. The whips were covered with thorns that whistled as they swung quickly through the air. He couldn't stay too close to one for very long lest he get hit. The rose-worms went down with four hits instead of one, even if he sliced their necks.

Moreover, the longer he spent fighting the worms, the more time Amdusias had to restore their health.

The fight was growing incredibly complex, still having to manage his way around the darkness with only a single torch as his light source.

Narinder was, of course, not as physically fit as he'd prefer to be.

While dodging a rose-worm, one of the thornless vines from Amdusias' back smacked roughly into his side, throwing him off his feet.

At the same time, a vision.

Quick flashes of thought and memory.

Someone gathering piles of dirt, packing it together tightly against a wall to make their home.

Great and powerful insects, crazed by old energy, raining terror down upon the stranger's tiny house.

A green hand reaching up high to Leshy, who bends down to grin at them, saying something Narinder can only barely hear.

Reinforcing walls made of heavy stone with sediment alongside other followers—a duty they are now above, but still tend to nonetheless.

The figure, cloaked in darkness, as they gaze up at Leshy again, before turning toward someone else.

Toward the Lamb, younger, with shorter horns and smaller stature, similar to how they looked at first...

And then Narinder gasps as he hits the ground, rolling back onto his feet, scythe reforming in his outstretched hand.

What was that? Were they Amdusias' memories?

He didn't have time to ponder for too long. Instead, he jumped out of the way of another attack, then proceeded to try killing off one of the rose-worms.

He managed to not get hit again, slicing his way through his enemies until it was finally just him and the still quiet worm. With a growl under his breath, he waited until the large creature thrust their body toward him and parried their attack. He then brought his scythe up, blade facing down, and thrust it into the top of Amdusias' skull.

The creature's red eyes trembled, a mixture of blood and ichor spurting out of the wound. But Narinder knew better than to stop there. He kept going, his foot on Amdusias' face to keep them still, raising and slashing his scythe down over and over again until their skull split.

It was only after a final crack and the slight slide of the worm's skull that they finally let out a roar.

But underneath it, he could still hear the very sane and mournful cry of a follower's voice.

Narinder panted, then, using his foot to help, pulled his scythe from the deep wound he made in Amdusias' head. He backed away, waiting for the beast to waste away, replaced with a chest and the prizes he often saw come with it.

"...P...l...ease..."

His ears twitched, eyes squinting into a frown. Gazing at the beast, he watched as awareness came to those fully red eyes, a light that wasn't there before.

"Plea...ase...don...'t..."

Amdusias slumped their broken head against the ground, the worn moss and petals floating and disintegrating from their body.

"Please...I beg you...God of Death..."

Their body began to cave in, like a worn husk.

"Do not...leave...my Lord...to suffer..."

Their skull split further as the red began fading from their vision, turning paler. The faces attached to their own began fading into skulls.

"Let...this end...or...let him...dream... Please..."

The vines also began withering, and the section Narinder split cracked off completely, Amdusias' face falling apart.

"Please...please..."

The light and the redness finally faded off into a pitch black. Then, even that was gone as their eyes burst into camellia petals. All that remained were the bones within their body and the rotted wood of their horns. The petals circled around them in a soft bed of flowers.

Narinder waited for a bit, but realized no chest would appear. His nose scrunched, but whatever. He hadn't found a single follower during his travels this time, and he needed to return to check on things back at the cult.

He walked back to the wall where he'd thrust his torch and had a tad bit of trouble pulling it back out. But he did, and the vines that split when he'd done so earlier closed up without incident.

"This place is wrong. Very wrong," he murmured, then he turned to leave the room.

But a glimmer caught his eye.

Confused, he turned toward where he'd seen it, right around Amdusias' corpse. He moved the torch and saw the glimmer again.

Upon drawing closer, he saw two small items sitting inside the creature's bones.

One was a fragment of something larger, a light, glittering thing from which he felt immense power. But it was stable, something he couldn't make use of himself.

The other looked to be complete, but was terribly small. A tiny, teardrop-shaped thing. When he picked it up, he realized it was smooth and cool to the touch. Incredibly small, yet sturdy. A pale, milky pink color.

He knew not what either object was, but he had an idea of someone who would.

[thebottomfromhell]

If requests are open how would the upper moons and enmu feel about a demon s/o whose blood demon art is all about plants like she can create poisonous ivy, long vines, grow trees to shield self from attacks etc.

What if y/n accidentally spawns a blue spiderlily after a near-death experience from an fight with a hashira?

I'm very sorry for how long it took me to do this one. For starters I didn't know well how to so it. First, it was a long ask for the number of characters it included but I am glad we finally include Enmu. Also, I couldn't dicede whenever I should make reader have Poison Ivy's personality or not, but to make it more relatable in the end I decided not to.

Also at first I was making the Hantengu clones separated but I wasn't convinced about how was going, so I erased those sketches and put them together in a way thag lets to the readers' interpretation who they are in a relationship with (the main body doesn't fight, so he isn't there). Also, I really tried to add Nakime, but it was inpossible to get her S/O in a near-death situation with her around.

Uppermoons + Enmu reaction to GN Demon Reader with Poison Ivy's power s/o fighting Hashira (and basically yeeting themselves into Muzan's favorites, also no canon fights).

Warnings: Slight manga spoiler (Akaza), Mentioned cannibalism, Near death experience, Implied recreational drug use, Some uppermoons being condescending towards reader(most are mostly worried, though, but are aggresive and rude at showing it), Death of unamed Hashira, Open endings

Enmu:

Enmu really admires your Blood Demon Art, he views it as a wonder, he adores everything you can do with it, and it has saved his life several times. He is not like the Uppermoons, after all, a fight with a Hashira is not something he can just call "my next meal", but something he would fear if it was not for his... passion towards death and suffering. This time the fight is become a lot more difficult than expected, and so he appreciates how you shield him with trees and vines, also the poisonous flowers... When they arrive. "Y/N, darling? It's not that I want to tell you how to use your demon art but, and the flowers?"

His demon blood is stronger, but not as fun as yours. He adores listening the slayers choking in your poison, crushed in your plants, burriend alive in your roots. Killing then while they sleep is not as fun as watching them squirm in pain and fear, and he loves you for it. "There is a weird plant in this area, it feels asleep. I want to wake it up. I can sense it, it's important." Your passion for plants is also amusing, but this is not the moment. But it all happens in a seconds, only by a few inches Enmu manages to save his neck to be cut completely as he falls into the floor, half-faking his death, trying to regenerate as the slayer goes to yours while you are distracted.

You trust Enmu, you know he can deal with the situation, but it didn't stop you to be afraid when you are face to face with a Hashira. Out of fear both your heartbeat and power rises as you feel everything in slow motion as the katana reaches your neck and your partner raises his hand "Sleep." And the slayer does, falling over some glowing blue flowers. You kneel to move the Hashira and see what type of flower might be.... a spider lily? But those are not blue, those are- "Y/N, you did a very good job." Suddenly his voice sounds in your head before doors upen on the floor you step in, making you fall as Enmu watches confused. "You have given me exactly what I wanted."

Gyutaro:

Daki likes your Demon Blood Art more than he does, she always asks you to make some pretty flowers so she can use them for decorations or to make crown flowers. Gyutaro, as always, as long as his sister is happy, he doesn't care. Where he and Daki live, though, it's not a handy ability, since the intention is to keep a low profile, and a tree suddenly growing in middle of a house is not... it would draw the attention of the slayers. "Oi, ne! I have already told you, stay out of the fight! Ne!" It's not like he can't fight them off alone, but no more than 21 Hashira in more than 100 years managed to find them, and you could easily raise that number to one Hashira per year. You still try to fight when Gyutaro tries to shove you to his sister, for you to keep each other safe. "Damn it, Gyutaro! Let me help!"

Daki complains as well, but unlike you, she actually does what her brother says. "Y/N! Are you an idiot?! What can you do to help onii-chan? He can beat any Hashira alone!" You already know this, by your knowledge there has been no Hashira able to defeat an Uppermoon, only other demons wanting to take said place. Gyutaro is the youngest Uppermoon with his sister, so he doesn't need you. That annoys you, you want to prove your worth to be with one of his favorites.

But again, you must also understand where he is coming from, you can't use anything bigger than flowers here, so you try to use poisonous small plants with spores to cut their breathing and kill them when they can't, but if other people inhale it and also die... it will also draw more attention. Here a woman dying or going missing once a week is not suspicious, here everyone competes for the job, clients dying do. There is no way around it, so you always trie to get something new. You can feel the next thing, it's something you have been trying to build, you know it's a flower, that it's not poisonous, and that it's powerful. You can sense that. "Y/N MOVE!" Too late, the blade of the Hashira's sword is already pressing against your neck. You close your eyes as it digs and bring up that flower, only to feel the blade stopping moving once it's halfway in, with the slayer sounding as if he choked.

"Are you ok?" Gyutaro asks, closer than he was before, and you open your eyes to see him with one of his sickle stabbing through the neck of the slayer. You can't help but feel a bit dissapointed, specially as you look at your feet and see only spider lilies, but... these one have something weird. Spider lilies tend to be red, there are some white ones, others pink... but these are blue. And not the pink with blue stricks that is very weird, but completely blue and glowing. "Y/N." You hear his voice in your head as the biwa cord resonates, changing your setting as Gyutaro calls you, being left behind. "You have done something wonderful." He seems pleased, but... what is going on? Why do you feel intimidated by that? "You have given me the blue spider lily."

Gyokko:

Hashira are easy to deal with... for Gyokko, not for you. And while he likes your Blood Demon Art, he prefers to deal with the slayers by his own. Uppermoon Five, why would he need you to help him? Even now, it's not the case, so he is mostly amused of how you try to step into the fight and make yourself useful. "I'm not going to protect you, darling! So don't go dying on me!" He is joking... maybe. If he gets in the mood he will help you, if not, you're on your own. (And part of him wonders how a dying you would look that.) "I don't need you to protect me, Gyokko."

That was mostly out of pride, Gyokko has already faced 14 Hashira by his own, you have at most being able to interrupt their breathings styles. Still, you want to try something new today, there is a plant, a flower you have felt but haven't been able to summon. You can sense it, it's powerful, it's rare, it's something Gyokko will love. After all, even if you won't be feeding his ego by admitimg it, you are aware of the class difference between you two, and it makes you want to impress him. That is the only reason you are using trees to shield yourself of attacks to the neck, wood being cut like papers by the nichirin blade. "It's almost here..." you close your eyes to concentrate on the summoning, having already put distance and a barrier between the slayer and you.... it was a mistake. "Love, don't fall asleep! The Hashira is-"

You stop hearing Gyokko, even though you know he is still talking, everything has bacome slow as the slayer is suddenly right in front of you, katana going forward to your neck. You can basically feel the flowers blooming under your feet but you won't get to finish with them before you are decapitated. Then you feel a big hit that starts taking pieces of both yours and the Hashira's flesh. Ten Thousand Gliding Slime-Fish.... by the time you get put the attack range you are missing a forearm, bites of your legs and side of your face, the poison is painful and slows you down, but you'll live. You lament that you didn't even got to see the plants. "Didn't you say you would not protect me?" And before Gyokko can answer, a voice in your head does. "Y/N. I want you right here, right now. I think you have something I need." That... doesn't sounds good.

Hantengu Clones:

You really get the field messy, "Wow, that tree was so tall it almost hit me! So impressive, Y/N! Do it again!" Urogi and Karaku love it "C'mon Y/N! Give us something bigger! How about some drugs and poison to choke everyone here?", Sekido and Qizetsu would rather not have to deal with that when swords are pointed to their necks, even if they will survive it. "WHY AREN'T YOU TAKING CARE OF THE MAIN BODY?! AND YOU PAIR OF FREAKS STOP FOOLING AROUND!" Their opinions of your Demons Blood Art is as different as each other.

Sekido thinks it's useless, dislikes whenever you use it, whenever it's battle (it gets in his way and it's harder for him to act in a field that is constantly changing) or for fun. Karaku, on the other hand, always defends it, he likes the plants you can make and he is not going to deny abusing of certain leaves or flowers every once in a while. Urogi thinks it's fun, he loves how you can make the highests trees and the prettiest flowers, he likes to play with you using your powers (but it won't let him concentrate in battle). And Aizetsu... "How sad that we can't coordinate our abilities. But it would make me sadder if anything happened to you, so you should just do as Sekido says." .... is Aizetsu....

This is a pair of Hashira, each one with those sidekicks of them, something that surprised every demon in the battle, since they usually don't work in teams. The tsugukos have proven to take advantage of their masterd and play sneaky, managing to decapitate the clones several times while the Hashira attack by face and distract them. This has left Aizetsu and Sekido specially nervious, hence why the anger clone wants you and the main body as far away as possible. Karaku and Urogi trust that you will be fine with them around, and trust the use of your powers.... but.... "Y/N! Whatch out!" Thiscis getting out of control, they can't keep an eye on you, exposed as they try to locate their enemies between the trees. The pleasure clones decides to just destroy the damn area when he sees a tsuguko behind you, you also fly with the hit as trees beging to fall. "DAMN YOU KARAKU! HOW DARE YOU ATTACK US AS WELL?!" "Y/N! I've lost Y/N!" He sceams before a Hashira cut his wings as he was looking for you. "... Sekido... I think we have to...." Aizetsu looks as if he was about to cry and Sekido instantly knows what he means. And he agrees.

It's all too messy, you got trapped under the leftovers with the tsuguko who was about to attackt you. Because of their contusion you managed to pierce a branch in their chest as you summoned something else by the fear of having them so close in a so closed space. The ground is glowing in blue, spider lilies blossoming below you as the slayer's blood falls over them. You watch confused the plant as the rocks, soil and wood over you is retired softly by a giant dragon-shaped entity. "You should have stayed away. Safe." Oh no, you are not going to be scolded by the kid.

And you really are not going to, because a door instantly appears in front of you as Zohakuten's bloos demon art finishes the slayers and shields the main body. "Muzan-sama?" He exists thrugh there with the appereance of a child younger feom what Zohakuten looks. You barely recognized, and you are grateful the kid did before you said something suicidal. "I came to speak to you, Y/N. I think you just did something great." Should you be scared? Because... you think you are.

Akaza:

Akaza totally thinks you can protect yourself, of course some trees, vines and poison can save you from the strengh of mystical nature through breathing excercises. There is no way he is afraid the weak, the human, the slayers, will kill you and take you away from him when he promised to protect you and you promised a life with him but he will have to hold her in his arms with blood coming from her mouth, so fragile and cold when she was always so warm because of her fevers and he had to take care of her but he left and she died ..... Ok, he can't trust you to protect yourself but that is not your fault. He genuinely thinks your Blood Demon Art it's amazing, just as everything you have, but.... you know.... he is overprotective.

"I CAN HANDLE THIS ALONE, GO SOMEWHERE SAFE!" He gives another kick to the Hashira, sending the slayer to crash against a tree, the sound of the bones breaking being easy to hear even from the almost 100 feet away. "You get out of here!" He takes your shoulder and pushes you on the opposite side the slayer is, guiding you forcefully to safety, but with your resistance it's only a few steps he manages to make before the Hashira comes back fighting. When Akaza faces the human, he gets even more scared. "GO SO I CAN FINISH THIS SAFELY! THE SU-" he doesn't get to finish the sentence as his neck is cut while distracted, not enough to take his head of as he breaks the sword before, but...

The slayer jumps to grab you, not even breathing, as the sun starts to come out. The. Sun. Is. Coming. Out. Akaza is having an attack, not knowing what to do to kill the slayer without hurting you as the light starts to reflect against the soil. The sun is coming out and you can't think straight. You are going to die. You are going to die. You feel a powerful, weird new plant growing under your feet but you can't care because you are going to die. You were both going to die until the Biwa sounds, and you are safe inside the Infinity Castle. It takes Akaza, unlike you, some few deep breaths to calm down and slam his fist through the Hashira's face, killing the human. You are still in shock when you hear his voice. "Well Akaza, it seems like you did find the blue spider lily. Y/N, I think you have something I want."

Douma:

Douma thinks your Demon Blood Art is quite handy, very useful and a marvel at that. Really, who could rival you with that beautiful ability? You can create the most impressive decoration, easily destroy the place with the beauty of nature and kill some humans, what else does he need for someone to fix his home? Oh, you meant in a fight? Nah, Douma thinks it's of it as a burden whenever you try to help. But you are trying your hardest and it's quiete endearing (or maybe the word is "fun"?), so he can't bring himself to stop you. "You are losing badly, Y/N, dear. Maybe you should let me handle it for you. I am always here to help others."

"Shut up, Douma! This is my fight!" It's impossible to say if that is a tease or it just sounds like he is actively trying to annoy you, but you don't want his help. "Okeeey! Still here if you need me!" You have been working on something and now it's the time to try it out, if only you had a few seconds to concentrate without risking losing your head. The space inside the cult is too small for that, but the sun is already up outside, so it would be suicide to ruin the structure and the last thing you want is to accidently kill Douma's followers. You wrap the slayer body with some vines before closing your eyes. Concentrate! Concentra! The Hashira has already cut the vines and the katana is inches against your neck... you hurry the summon the flower sonething when you feel a sharp edge before your head rols in the floor.

Your dead! Your dead, even like this you can feel your heart beat like crazy and you can only see blue petals as your ears go numb before Douma picks up your head and "I'm sorry for killing the Hashira for you, but you stoped moving after I cut your neck so the nichirin blade wouldn't! So I dedided to finish the job!" ... fuck Douma! He scared you! You are about to complain when you hear his voice in your head "Y/N. We need to talk. You have something that I have been looking for. Also, don't bring Douma." Ok, now what? Your body falls when a door opens in the floor with the Biwa, your head still in Douma's hands.... this is akward.... "It seems Muzan-sama is calling for us, huh?" .... who should tell him that he doesn't want Douma breathing the same air as him? .... yes, you.

Kokushibou:

Kokushibou finds your Demon Blood Art peaceful, and he likes how passionate you are with it. Even as a demon he can appreciate a good looking garden, and he finds it intriguing how it can create life, that is something rare for demons. Still, compared to him... it's not that he doesn't like you around or that he doesn't appreciate that you try to help, but... he doesn't want you to fight by his side. He fights alone and is not interested in changing that, no matter how much he loves you. "Y/N, you are not needed here. Leave." He is direct, not worrying about sparing your feelings, but genuinely wanting you to do as he says.

You are not obeying, and that annoys him, so in his pettiness he stays still as you face the Hashira more willing to attack you than to attack the Uppermoon One, probably trying to delay his end that a fight with his most powerful demon would mean. You move in the open space, using vines and trees to cover up, but the slayer cuts them like paper. There is something you want to try, a flower you have been meaning to call, but for some reason it doesn't come out. It's like a leyend, it exist and is very powerful, but... but maybe a fight with a Hashira will help. Somehow, you can feel it's important, and what is more important than killing Hashira? It grows, you can feel it grows, but-

Kokushibou got bored of waiting and took out his sword and "Third Form: Loathsome Moon, Chains" he attacks the slayer, and you take part of the damage. The breathing style cuts your neck and you fall into the floor with the dead human body, coughing as you choke in your own blood as your head lands against blue petals. "Kokushibou. Y/N. Come to me as soon as you finish." He is respectful to Kokushibou, and it takes you a while to realize you are regenerating from an inch of what was left of the conection with your neck and body. "We will go once you have healed." You don't understand anything, but why can't Kokushibou be a bit softer to you? You almost died! "Sometimes I hate you."

[herald-divine-hell]

Writing prompt: “don’t you trust me”

Thank you for the prompt!

TW: Mentions and vague depictions of abuse

Time Period: Dragon Age: Origins (2008)

Setting: Lost in Dreams - The Broken Circle

Characters: Amayian Trevelyan, Lady Jacqueline Trevelyan, Warden Surana

Length: 2k+

~

He found his mother in Vasenarg's gardens, with a faint cool sea-wind crawling over the high stone walls crowned in their horned crenellations, bringing the scent of roses and violets and marigolds.

Seated high upon the stone throne with its blue-tiled dome, slender spiraled pillars topped at both ends with the rearing chest and neighing head of stallions, and vine-woven railing stretching from pillar to pillar, his mother was turned away from him, staring out to the gardens. A blissful smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and the soft echoes of laughing lines could be glimpsed with the small scrunch of her amber eyes. Long thick waves of chestnut brown hair tumbled down from a high crown of braided hair, speckled with fine gems of ruby and sapphire and amethyst. That day, she wore her birthing dress, plain and white, with only the faintest silver embroidery along the sweeping sleeves and across the bodice. The skirt spread about her like the flowering lotus, like a gown of starlight.

His feet carried him, and his thoughts swam in and out of his mind, cresting the high waves before darting into the fearful depths. The stone paved road twisting around a little bond, sprinkled with loosened petals that had been carried by the wind. Sunlight glistened across the waters, as if a thousands gems twinkled beneath. And yet, his eyes were only on his mother, and the soft song borne by the air to his ears as he drew closer. A little lullaby, the one she sang when the dreams grasped him in its hold and refused to let him go.

But on this day, no words were spoken, only hummed. But that seemed only fair. He did not deserve those words, after what he had done. After his failure.

For a brief moment, he halted, unsured if his mother would even wanted to see him. Behind, the wind scurried against him, delicate hands of unseen air pressing against his back, grasping fistfuls of cloth, as if to drag him forward. And yet, Amayian's feet seemed buried into the stone, trapped. His right thumb searched for his mother's ring, felt the cold silver touch his skin, and the tightened breath clasping his chest flowed out of him.

"My sweet son, my brave son, why are you so far?" called his mother, though she did not turn to see him. "Do you not trust me?"

Ever obedient, Amayian took long steps to his mother. No words touched his tongue. All ability to speak seemed to have fled him, just like his fears when he heard his mother's voice. A voice he had not heard for nearly fourteen years. A soft voice, warm and melodious and flowing, touched with the highborn accents of Orlais.

Small wide steps greeted him at the trefoil-arched entrance of the high stone seat, and above loomed his mother, buried in that great gown of melted starlight. Golden armbands wrought in the appearance of flowers knitted upon a delicate string wrapped around her arms, each center set with a new gem that flashed with the passing sunlight. And she was smiling, smiling that sweet smile that said he could do no wrong. Gently she patted her lap. "Come, my sweet colt. You looked so tired." The wind tugged at him, like chains bound at his wrist and neck, trying to hurl him further. "It is ok. You do not have to fear. I am not angry with you."

One step flowed into a second then a third, until he was before his mother, the Lady Jacqueline who was the Dawn of Vasenarg. His mother extended her hands; and Amayian fell to his knees, took them into his own, kissed and pressed his forehead against them, as was the way of House Trevelyan. Long fingers tightened around his, a slender palm smoothed and unworn by work, drawing him close.

Those hands released, rising and combing their fingers through Amayian's dark hair, softly scratching and smoothing the loose strands of curls, just as Lady Jacqueline always did when she came to put her children to sleep. Her palms pressed against his head, drawing him down to hide his face in her lap, her fingers never ceasing to stop their strokes. "Oh, my sweet, tired boy. Why are you so thin? Have you not eaten?"

Though his mind rushed with words, and his heart a thousand more, they could not find his lips, as if they were sewn with silver.

Even still, his mother continued. "You have not visited for so long, my son." His heart clutched with terror. Brushed upon those words were...disappointment. No, no, he thought. I cannot disappoint her. It was forbidden.

"Do you not trust your own mother so that when you fled you did not dare pay your respect her, to honor her? Did we teach you anything?"

The crack of a tongue of leather, the rush of fire along his flesh, the whisper of blood flowing along the length of his back. The kiss of leather across his face, the bursting of agony across his cheeks, over his nose, a veil of warmth that poured unto his mouth. And beneath those crackles, his uncle's voice, rolling and untroubled, conquering. "As the Maker made us to serve, magic is meant to serve, never to rule. As the Maker made us to serve, a son is a slave to his father, to his mother, to his uncle, to his aunt. Any disobedience is forbidden, be them a word, an act, a flash across the gaze."

I am dutiful, Mother. You know this. I only ever meant to serve, just as Uncle Esmarian ordained. Yes, that was his purpose. Over and over again, his uncle had made that clear. By his father's pardon and his mother's compassion, he was given life, permitted to live even after the magic stirred within his limbs. How could he be so ignorant, to refuse to honor his mother, when he failed her so? "The blood shall be shed, shall be hardened, and the wounds may heal into scars," his Uncle said, pitying. "But the lessons shall be engraved, in the mind, in the heart. Take the Maker's forgiveness, and be honored we shed it to you."

"You failed me once, yes," said his mother, in the tones of fall's mourning when the first snows came. Her fingers were still untangling the locks of his hair, still stroking his head. But her nails dug deeper, scrapping along his head, over and over again. "Yes, you failed me. I had put my trust in you, my speechless son. And how did you repay me? By forsaking your duty? For fleeing the orders of your father?"

Yes, my duty was at the Circle. Even when the blade of his cousins' drew across his chest, for his insolence in seeking to flee, the lesson was learned, the reminder to kin installed. My duty to serve my father was there, and I forbad him. I fled. But you called, Mother. No one ever told Amayian what could he do when Father's and Mother's will opposed. His mother called, and he was ordained to listen.

Something warm crawled down his neck, wet and thick, trailing down from his head. Deeper and deeper his mother's fingers dug, slowing as they curled and pressed into his skin, untangling his hair, untangling his lies, untangling his failures. The wind touched his ears, cracking as the tongue of leather in the dark room.

"But it can be pardoned, all of it. If you put your trust in me, my sweet little boy who is empty without purpose. Did you think that coming to the land of the dogs would be freeing? Ever the dogs are leashed, obedient to their masters. Ever is the grey griffons leashed to their duty. Ever is the ministerial and the sister leashed to their songs, to their Maker. Duty, my son, is the crown of mankind. Do your duty now, and stay."

These words, so very strange they were. She never spoke in such a manner. Such a thought wriggled through his mind, though not in his voice. A woman's, quiet, almost too small that it was nearly lost in the hissing winds. His heart tightening, Amayian pressed his face deeper into his mother's skirts. Too much choices. Mother knows of my failure. Who am I to deny her? His dark curls were swept up by his mother's hair, and the wind laid kisses upon the revealed skin there. Still, the slow-moving wetness dragged down his skin, burning.

"Yes." The word came dragging, drawn out. "Yes, my son. Good. You are learning. And of the lessons, the heart shall remember, even when the mind grows forgetful, arrogant. Here you shall rest, by my side. You always wanted that, no? To serve your father, your uncle, your aunt, your sister, and your brother? That was what you were made for. To serve your House. To only serve, for magic was made to serve and never to rule. Never to rule the heart or the mind. Stay, and put your trust in me. You trust me, no? You think I died, but how can I leave my son guideless, he who needed most of all, whose heart could not feel except what we ordained? Oh, my son. I do live. Can you not tell?"

Yes. He was a fool, to trust in his heart. How wrong he was...how foolish...how...disobedient. His mother was alive, and she will still live, if he obeyed, if he stayed.

A footfall, echoing across the garden, piercing through the air like an arrow whistling and taking flight. "Amayian?" A familiar voice. A man's voice, and beneath that a woman's. The woman's seemed so far away, and yet so close, kissing his ears, lifting out from his heart.

His mother's hands strangled in his hair, pushing deeper into those white skirts that swallowed all sight, almost all hearing. "Begone, intruder. This is my house, and he is my son."

The voice, the man's voice, ignored her, and something hot tore at his chest, quickly sparking before dying. "Amayian, this world is an illusion."

No, it is not. Duty is not an illusion. She is here. My mother lives. I have my duty to her, to all of them. I just need to put my trust in her, to obey. It is so very simply. There is no illusion in that.

"Yes, my son. There is no illusion, no cloud to obscure your vision. If you serve, if you stay." Her words were steel as she spoke to this intruder, this deceiver that did not exist. The only thing that existed was him, his mother, his family, here in Ostwick. "Begone, interpolar. He knows his duty, knows where his place belong."

And still, the voice ignored her. "Amayian, you know she is dead. You saw her, didn't you? I don't know what happened that day. But she is dead, Amayian. Just like my parents are. Nothing I can do can bring them back. I know. I tried. Whatever happened that day, your mother does not blame you."

Yes, she does blame me. I let her die. If I had only been stronger. If I had not let the iron chain to wrap around my heart, she would still be alive.

The woman's voice, the one closer than his own heart. She begged you to stop, said this woman's voice, the voice he heard in those suffocating dreams. The fire was burning her, in and out, the ashes pouring out of her in crimson. No matter what we could have done, she would have died. She knew that. Your father knew that.

No, no. Too much. This was all too much. Why could everything not be simple, like when he was a child? When he only had to obey his father, his mother, his uncle. He wanted to stay. Her voice, it was still there. He could still smell her perfume, soft and scented like hyacinith and jasmine. I don't want to forget. I don't want to go searching. I'm home.

The woman's voice whispered around him, hoarse and harsh and mournful. We have no home.

The man's voice urged, so far and yet pressing. "You do have a home. With us. With Sten and Raila, with Alistair and Zevran, with Leliana and I. Even Morrigan, though don't tell her I said that." And he laughed, tilted with nervousness. But it was a laugh all the same. A similar laugh that erupted from Athlaros when Amayian had answered Zevran's deviant jest with truth, and when he had to explain how the joke went to Amayian. It still made no sense, even with Leliana interrupting to get the idea in his head.

Zevran, Morrigan, Ralia, Sten, Alistair, Athlaros, Leliana. He lifted his head a little, confusion casting assurance in his mind into the depths. But his mother's fingers dug deeper, flesh and bones seemingly crushing into his skin. Fire burned through him, in and out, over and within. "No, he is mine. Mine. Mine."

The wind screamed, the petals struck at his face in rapid slashes and cuts. And in those winds, he heard Lady Jacqueline Trevelyan's screams as the blood pour out from her, and Amayian's magic did nothing. Did nothing to save her. I tried and failed.

There was a whorl and a terrible screech that broke at Amayian's world. Dark soot and wisps of fire kissed his skin as his mother's hands seemed to flung off his head, and the demon withered and screamed, carried away by the winds of the Fade. The screams were still there, even after the white skirts was gone, and Amayian was upon his knees, seeing but not seeing.

"Amayian?" asked Athlaros. And Amayian turned, seeing a long-faced man with brown hair - not chestnut brown, but the brown of soil and earth. And behind, a woman. A woman shrouded in darkness and gowned in ash and snow, with long red-golden hair cascading down the length of her right shoulder, while melted bone and flesh, flecked in angry embers smoldered from blackened, withered skin, twisted and gorged. But her eyes remained, eyes of pale blue crystal, seeing and not seeing, keen and misty, all at once.

But then they were fading, and Amayian wondered...

What was this wetness on his cheeks?

[iamvegorott]

Meeting A Magical Man Pt. 1

This is a little thing inspired by @d-structive's drawing of Marvin; Link

Next Part: Link ----------

Chase stood in front of the door. A soft brown door with painted vines and lavender plants. He could see the individual brushstrokes…which meant he had been staring at this door long enough that he was focusing on the littlest details.

“It’s going to be fine,” Chase spoke to himself. “Just do what Henrik said.” He took in a deep breath and knocked on the door. 

It had been months since Chase got proper sleep, and medicine was no longer doing anything to help. It was suggested that he talk to an old friend of Henrik’s to try a different way of getting some rest. There wasn’t a lot of information shared, just an address, a note, and a name. 

Marvin. 

“Come in~!” A voice sang from behind the door. 

“Oh…okay,” Chase said mostly to himself. He hesitated before swallowing and opening the door, stepping into the home, and getting instantly hit with some amazing smells. It was like a combination of a bakery and a flower shop, and it looked the part. Flowers and herbs hung all around and with little plates of pastries and other similar treats. There were also paintings on the walls, and getting a closer look at some made Chase widen his eyes and look away out of embarrassment. 

“What can I do for you?” The voice from earlier spoke, and Chase turned to it, finding himself going still at the sight of the man sitting across the room. He didn’t know why his brain stopped working, but he couldn’t stop staring.

The man, who he assumed was Marvin, had long, full, bright green hair half tied up and half framing his face. He could only see the sharp angles of his jaw since the rest was covered by a white cat-shaped mask with some stunning blue eyes looking through them. Marvin lounged casually in a chair with an arm draped across the back. He also wore slacks, a button-up, a vest, gloves, and a cape. Each article of clothing was a shade of purple and had intricate lines of detail that seemed to make the eye notice every little curve of Marvin’s body.  Chase now felt underdressed with his jeans, gray shirt, and hat. 

“Hello?” Marvin’s grin grew when he noticed Chase’s shocked paralyzation. 

“I-uh-I sorry.” Chase cleared his throat. “I was told you could help me?” 

“Are you aware of my prices?”

“Prices?” 

“Of course. My help comes at a cost.” Marvin got more comfortable in his chair, legs going further apart. Chase’s eyes went down to the moving legs, mainly on the thighs. “Nothing is for free, baby~” Marvin tapped at his thigh to get Chase’s attention on it before moving his hand and then curling his finger in a beckoning motion. “My eyes are up here.” 

“Sorry.” Chase blurted out, his hold tightening on his note and reminding him he had it. “Henrik said to give this to you.” 

“Henrik?” Marvin tilted his head and stood up, walking over to Chase and taking the note from him. He turned so Chase was now looking at his back. He flipped open the folded paper, read it, and softly groaned with a roll of his eyes. “Henrik.” 

“Is everything okay?” Chase asked. 

“It is just swimming, darling.” Marvin tucked the note into his vest before turning back to Chase. “Now, that little note of yours told me what you need, and we can discuss your payment.” 

“I don’t have a lot of money, but I can try to get what you need.” Chase offered. 

“Cash is rarely what I take since funds are easy for me to obtain.” Marvin wasn’t going to include how…legal those funds were. He made a point to look up and down Chase’s body. “What are you doing tonight, Chase? Or should I call you Mr. Brody~?” He asked the last part with almost a purr to his voice.  

“Just Chase is fine and…uh…nothing? I mean, I might play some games. A friend of mine got me a new game as a birthday gift, and I’ve been having a lot of fun with it.” Chase smiled brightly and softly chuckled. Marvin’s eyes widened a little. That big, goofy smile confirmed he wanted what he would be asking for. 

“Come back here around six and dress nicely. We’re getting dinner.” Marvin poked Chase’s nose before walking off to a little collection of different plants. 

“Dinner? You mean like a date?” Chase touched his own nose. 

“You can call it that. Henrik’s note said you need help with sleep, and I’ll need to learn about you to see which method would work. Everyone’s different, and magic can be picky.” Marvin gently held one of the hanging flower heads and sniffed it. “Plus, you’re cute, and it’s always fun to have a cutie on my arm for a night.” He glanced over his shoulder and winked at Chase, giggling when he saw Chase’s cheeks almost instantly turn red. “I’ll see you, then?” 

“Y-Yeah…I’ll be-I’ll be here at-uh-at six.” Chase fumbled over his words and then his own feet as he tried to head out. 

“Bye, sweetie~” Marvin sang, giggling once more as Chase finally managed to leave the house. “Henrik, you silly, silly man.” He pulled the note back out and re-read it, the last line getting him to chuckle.

P.S. He is single

[dancing-coyote]

👀 for hunter & jeannie

🍬 for thrust/az/jetstorm

👀 - "look at me." / "let me look at you."

"Jeannie."

Her heart hammered deafeningly in her ears, so loud that she almost couldn't hear Hunter's voice. Her hands shook as she tangled her fingers in her hair and sat half doubled-over, struggling to calm her ragged breathing and racing heartbeat.

She could still feel the icy fingers of the faceless dead dragging her under.

"Jeannie," Hunter's voice was soft, but insistent, as he cupped her cheek in one hand and turned her face towards him; "baby, look at me."

She blinked slowly, forcing her eyes to focus on him.

"It was just a bad dream, it's okay. You're okay." His arms slipped around her, drawing her close; she let out a breathless sob, burying her face against his neck. He just held her tight. "And I'm right here..."

🍬 - something sweet.

"So, where are we going?"

"If I told you it'd ruin the surprise."

"And you'd better not go peeking, either, kitten."

Azrael scoffed softly, but still smiled as she rested against Thrust's chassis, obligingly keeping her optics closed. The rumble of his engine vibrated through her and, somewhere overhead, she could hear the high, thin whine of Jetstorm's afterburners. For what felt like a long time, those two sounds encompassed her whole world.

Eventually, though, Thrust's forward momentum slowed and she felt him turn down a gentle incline; lifting her head slightly, she tested the air, but nothing smelled different...

And finally, he rolled to a halt, his engine idling down to a purr. "This' where you get off, li'l lady."

"Technically, that comes later," Jetstorm quipped, transforming nearby; "though I guess if you really wanted to..."

"You are insufferable," she laughed as she hopped down, allowing Thrust to transform beside her. "Can I open my optics now?"

"Not just yet."

With a dramatic sigh, Azrael stretched and transformed, as well, reaching out to rest a hand on Thrust's arm; it took her a moment to realize that she couldn't hear Jetstorm's antigravs. "Do I want to know where flyboy went?"

"He's just gettin' somethin' real quick."

"I'm afraid to ask..."

Thrust just laughed softly, the sound like smoke curling up from a bed of embers, and she smiled.

Then came the distant sound of power conduits coming online, the hum of electricity and the buzz of neon, followed by the clicking of sprinklers and the soft pattering of water on pavement. Even from behind her optic shields, she could see the darkness transform.

"All right, kitten," Jetstorm called down from somewhere overhead, "take a look and let us know what you think!"

"..." Azrael opened her optics to a neon forest of towering titanium trees with colorful branches, festooned with luminous vines and brilliant color-shifting lights shaped like electric flowers. A sprinkler system sent down a light drizzle of water droplets and, somewhere, hidden speakers played the sounds of wildlife and birdsong, timpani and marimbas. "...Oh. The Electric Garden - but... is this what you've been up to for the past week?"

"It wasn't a big deal t' get it up n' running again," Thrust half-shrugged, "mostly just involved clearin' off the solar panels."

"Roller boy here did most of the heavy lifting, I just made sure all the pretty lights were in working order," Jetstorm added as he descended, "and anyway, it's not like we had anything better to do, so why not, right?"

Stepping away from Thrust, Azrael lifted her hands to her face, blinking back tears that stung the corners of her optics. It wasn't quite the same without the crowds or the real plants, but...

"Soooooo... do you like it?" Jetstorm leaned over her shoulder, as Thrust peered around the taller Vehicon; she hid her smile behind her hands for just a moment, before a laugh bubbled up from her chest.

"Of course I like it - I love it, even! It's beautiful," she tugged Jetstorm down a bit to press a kiss to his jaw, then stepped around him to do the same for Thrust. "You didn't have to do all this for me..."

"Well, you said you liked the place, so..."

"Consider it a going-away present before your big trip to Protihex. You know, something big and shiny to look forward to coming back to."

"I already have something big and shiny to look forward to coming back to, you dork."

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

Once upon a time, a Cleo met an Etho, and he ran away. 

It was rude, but it was also really funny. And there was the whole semi-freeing her thing, so, you know, she doesn’t hold much of a grudge about it. 

At the time of meeting she had been sitting in yet another puddle. It wasn’t her puddle- no, her puddle had dried up a long time ago, leaving the remnants of a stain that had been red, then brown, then a wretched sort of black. It was probably gone, decayed and carried away by the little bugs that sometimes crawled across her face. She liked to call them decomposers. Friends. Wretched company.

Whatever. This puddle wasn’t hers. It was a puddle of water, or maybe more like a mini pond, pooled around her where she sat and tabled halfway up her thigh. Sometimes the wind, rare as it was this deep in the fort, rustled its way through all the vines and leaves to make little waves in the water. Cleo remembers that it tickled. 

Etho had been… fishing, maybe? Searching for something in the water; digging through the mud. Cleo watched him, hidden beneath the leaves and flowers and vines that had grown over her. She got a pretty good view, actually, which was more than she ever got of her normal visitors. She wasn’t able to move her head much, those days, and was afforded only the sight of whatever wandered into the pond. She didn’t know how long it had been since she had her last visitor– too long, though. It had been a deer and its little baby fawn. Absolutely adorable. She still can’t remember when she’d had her last human visitor. 

It was a rare event, worthy of that rare sludge back into consciousness. Her brain slugged along, lazily tracking Etho’s movement while the connections struggled to slip into place in her brain.

Finally, a little lightning bolt of realization- she didn’t get many human visitors. This was rare. This was an opportunity. 

She tried to stand, but realized too late that the vines had grown in too close, were holding her down. She tried to move her arms to pull the vines away, but found the same problem. A wiggle of her head revealed a little bit of mobility, but she also stabbed herself in the cheek with a bit of bark, which wasn’t any fun at all. She was becoming aware, in a way she’d long forgotten, of the weight that sat on her body. What was that across her leg? A tree branch? And her arm, cradling a whole pile of decomposed leaves– so, dirt? Dirt. She was being buried beneath the remains of rot and one day she would be buried completely and then she would just– be gone. 

There was, maybe, some energetic wiggling after that realization. She would say it was struggling, but she’d been pinned down too thoroughly for that to be anything other than a lie, and Cleo hates liars. 

“Hello?” 

Cleo was startled into stillness. “Hi,” she said, but what came out of her mouth was… not that. It was sort of a cough and also sort of a groan, which was just. So attracitve. 

Etho stared in her direction. She could see his eyes wandering past her, through the undergrowth, so she knew he didn’t actually spot her. She wiggled again. 

He backed away. 

“Hey, no, come back!” she tried to protest, but only garbled sound came out. It was pretty gross, actually, and a little bit impressive. She hadn’t thought that people could even make sounds like that. 

Etho didn’t come back, though. He turned and quickly left and Cleo was alone again. 

–

He came back. She didn’t know how long she’d been alone for, but he came back. He was armed with– some sort of big knife. Cleo had never been inclined to learn all the names for all the blades throughout the kingdoms- not when something so elegant like “big knife” worked just as well. 

She saw him looking towards her again, to her little corner of the pond. His gaze was too far above her, so she gave another little wiggle to draw his attention downwards. It took him a minute. Which was fine. It wasn’t like he was the first person Cleo had seen in years or anything. He got it eventually– the ripples in the pond reached his knees and finally, finally grabbed his attention. After that, he just had to follow the ripples to their source. 

She didn’t know what he thought he would find. She still doesn’t know. What was he thinking while he tore through those bushes? What hope or horror sat in his chest and drove him to dig through the vines that hid Cleo within? Cleo knows what she’d been thinking, of course– she’d been thinking Ow, get off, moron. You’re on my foot. 

She knows what he thought when he found her. It was clear in his eyes and spilling from his mouth. Later, she heard people speak legends of Etho Slab’s eternal stoicism, and it had taken all she had not to laugh. He peeled back the bushel of flowers obscuring her face, met her eyes, and flailed back in terror. 

“Zombie-!”

And then he’d fled. 

Which was rude, but also really funny, so maybe she does forgive him for it. Not for the stab wound through her chest, though- she doesn’t know how that got there, if he used his big knife to push himself back and flail off more effectively or if he stabbed her out of some instinctive drive.  Whatever the cause, the big knife had gotten stuck between two of her ribs, and it was a bitch to get out. 

Not for her, though. And besides, that came later- she had to meet Bdubs first.  

– 

Once upon a time, a Cleo met a Bdubs, and she heard him long before she ever saw him. 

He was shouting about– something. She still doesn’t really know what it was about. Knights and protection and colour palettes for some reason? Nowadays, Cleo knows all about Bdubs and colour palettes. Bdubs and the concept of colour palettes are quite comfortably entwined in her mind, to the point where one could hardly be considered without the other. 

But she didn’t know that yet. What she knew was that he was loud, and shouty, and was another human person. She doesn’t know how long it was between seeing Bdubs and seeing Etho for the first time, but it couldn’t have been that long. The pond hadn’t frosted over even once, and the big knife hadn’t collected any moss. 

He came clomping through the trees, dressed to the nines in his royal getup. She didn’t know what it was all called, and she still doesn’t know, and she doesn’t really care. It’s different than what the royals used to wear, but it was and still is very obviously fancy.

Also really stupid. 

Etho, at least, had been dressed for the occasion. He’d been glammed up in warm clothes, a mask and some kind of overcoat to keep him mostly-dry. 

Bdubs’ shoes kept sinking into the mud. 

Yuck. 

Cleo decided not to draw his attention. 

Maybe it was throwing away an opportunity she couldn’t afford to lose, but she was still pretty peeved about her latest stabbing experience. No, better to let this one yell himself out and then leave, all without bothering her and letting her continue to wallow in peace. 

She can’t remember what drew his attention to her. He’d tell her if she asks, but in all likelihood he’s forgotten, too. She thinks he’d forget the moment that came after, though. She knows she never will. 

“Oh my god,” Bdubs babbled, scrabbling with frantic energy towards her. There was something nostalgic about seeing someone move like that— it had been a long time since Cleo had seen anyone in a crisis. “Oh my god, that’s a body.” He splashed into the pond towards her. 

“A crime!” he continued with a wail. “Who would- out here? Who’s there to kill anythin’ out here?! Who’s here to kill?” 

She didn’t learn until later, over one late night and some apples they’d left to sit for maybe a bit too long, that Bdubs’ foot had slipped. He had tumbled forwards into a deeper part of the pond that was more mud and algae than pond; overall, he’d been greeted with far more slime than he’d been prepared for. But from Cleo’s perspective, it looked like he just– sort of disappeared? In a vaguely downwards way. And then a sludgey pond monster appeared in his place, wailing in horror at its own algaeic existence. 

She couldn’t help but laugh. 

But laughter wasn’t what emerged from her chest– instead the sound was replaced by a wretched, grumbly gargle that was better suited to the nightmares of demons. 

Bdubs has claimed, in his own retellings, that she sounded like someone drowning in their own blood. Cleo has asked him if he’s ever heard anyone drown in their own blood before. In return, Bdubs has refused to answer questions and instead made grand statements on the nature of death. Cleo has pointed out that who better to know the nature of death than a zombie, and is he really qualified to explain such to her? Bdubs has realized his error and offered an apology, which Cleo has magnanimously accepted. She still hasn’t pointed out that her question went unanswered, which is an apology of its own. 

“Alive?” gasped the pond monster, whirling to face her. “Yes? No- yes? Oh my god, that’s a living person.” 

Cleo, the person who was definitely not living, debated the merits of trying to correct him. Nothing but a despondent hiss came out of her throat though, which then twitched and spasmed unpleasantly, so maybe the decision had been made for her. 

Was it a secret, then? Cleo had never much liked liars, but secrets… secrets are a little sneaky, a little fun. 

Secrets also tend to be secret, though. Like, hiding things that are not immediately obvious to anyone with eyes. Surely, surely, in just a moment, he would flutter over and realize his mistake. 

Bdubs fluttered over and did not realize his mistake. He was frantic, hands waving as he tried to figure out what to do.  A piece of algae flew from his hand and landed on the handle of the big knife as he stepped forwards. Cleo grunted. 

“Oh- Uh oh! Oh no! Sorry!” Bdubs grabbed the algae off of the knife and flicked it away. The end of it smacked into the handle again. 

“Urhg,” Cleo said. Bdubs seemed to assume that this, roughly translated, meant ow. “Urhg” did not mean ow, it meant get off, moron, you’re standing on my foot.

“I’m sorry,” Bdubs said. “I don’t- I don’t know how to help you? I think- PRESSURE! Yes, pressure, that was a thing, I ‘member pressure, that’s good.” He placed his hands on her abdomen around the big knife and pressed down. The blade only cut further through her skin, spurned by his medical ineptitude. 

He made a face when his hands splunged wretchedly against her long-rotting chest and associated plant matter, so she gracefully failed to point out that there wasn’t even any blood.  

“You’ll be- woof, is it okay to lie to dying people? I don’t know if that’s- how that ethics,” he huffed, eyes wide. “I’m gonna- I’m gonna do it anyway. You’re gonna be okay.” 

Which was… sort of sweet, in a weird way, so she appreciated it.  

He seemed to think she didn’t believe him. 

“No- you’re right, you’re right! This is bad!” he lied loudly, but he didn’t know he was lying, so she forgave him. “I’ll just- I’ll help! That’s what I’ll do, I’ll help. I’ll stay here, and I’ll talk to you, and then you won’t have to be alone, okay? I bet you thought you were going to be alone, but now you won’t be, and it’s all thanks to your good pal Bdubs and his good, good voice!”

He paused, then added, “We’re friends now,” then launched on a great tirade. 

Cleo… didn’t know what to think. Good things, mostly, if a little baffled. She was willing to roll with it. He was loud, but he was sticking around, and talking a lot. It was a little too bad that he wasn’t going to pull the weeds away so she could move, but moving was for chumps, anyway. 

…It was nice just to have some company for a little while. 

She can’t really remember what he talked about– not in its entirety, anyway, not in any good, specific details. There was a lot. He talked about colours, about contrast and hues and shadows. He talked about the beauty of a pastel pink against the gentle tones of a purple-late sunset, and how it took him ages to figure out how to stop ruining his brushes. He talked about time, and his fascination (obsession) with it. He showed her an old timepiece he kept– a clock, golden and small and kept safe in his pocket. There was a crack across the glass of its surface. He told her that he’d been afraid it was broken when he first woke up so he sat there and watched to make sure it kept time with the sunrise. It broke his heart when he found out he was right. He talked about his fear of the dark, and pretty dyes, and strangling vines. 

He didn’t talk for long about the vines. 

And it was… nice. It settled something that had once been human in Cleo’s soul. She felt the weight of consciousness dragging down on her slowly, becoming as obvious as the plants that kept her hostage. It was nice to borrow some sentience again, but the day was getting long. She shut her eyes as she listened to Bdubs’ voice and was distantly aware of the way his tone was softening. She lost coherency to the gentle blur of the darkness behind her eyes, and Cleo fell asleep. 

–

When Cleo woke up, everything was dark. She waited patiently for her eyes to adjust, but they didn’t. Usually, the moonlight reflecting from the pond was enough light for her to at least see the closest leaves, or she could hear the downpour of rain if it was a dark and stormy night, but there wasn’t anything of the sort. In fact, everything was… quieter. 

Was she dead? 

Yes- yes, obviously, she was dead, but was she more dead? Deader than she’d been? 

No, she wasn’t. Her body felt the same, so she still had that, but there was something… different about the weight. And her arms were different- crossed over her chest rather than trapped down by her side. 

Immediately she stretched out, and the darkness abruptly retreated and something fell onto her face. 

Bdubs, she later discovered, was a lovable fool. He had pulled the big knife from her chest, then used it to dig her arms out of the vines just enough to cross over her chest. Then, rather than taking it with him, he’d laid the big knife over her chest like she was some great sleeping warrior and left his coat behind too. 

It still makes her mad to think about it. 

At the time, though, she’d just been baffled. And a little heartwarmed, for all that her heart probably sat freezing and still in her chest. It was a sweet move, even if it was so mind bogglingly stupid to leave a weapon and a coat with a corpse who didn’t need them. Cleo wasn’t even as unanimated of a corpse as he’d presumed and she still didn’t need any of the things he’d left behind. 

Well– no, that’s a lie. She didn’t need his coat. But the big knife was, actually, pretty useful. She used it and her newly freed arms to saw most of her free from the rest of the plants. 

She may or may not have gained a few, uh, structural issues during the proceedings, but it’s not like she could feel pain, so that didn’t matter too much. Not yet. 

And then she was free. 

Wobbling, she stood up. Almost fell, but didn’t. She sludged her way out of the puddle, dragging the knife and the now-wet coat behind her. The mud beneath her feet was cold enough to feel, and clung despondently to the sides of her rotting shoes. The trees creaked overhead, laden heavy with vines and alien in their new perspective. 

It felt like she had stepped into another world. 

…

Bdubs’ footprints were easy enough to find in the mud. The ground dried out again a little ways ahead, but she had a general direction to follow, so she followed it. 

– 

The second time Cleo met Etho, she was falling apart. 

Her right arm, it turned out, was not very happy about dragging big knives through the undergrowth. It had started to detach halfway up her bicep, so she had pulled Bdubs’ jacket over her shoulders and started to drag the knife with her left arm instead. But now three of her left fingers were threatening to go and take the knife with it. To top it all off, her knee was bent weird and she kept almost tripping because it just wouldn't support her weight normally, like a knee was supposed to do. 

It was frustrating, and felt a little bit like a betrayal. Sure, she knew she’d been decomposing. Of course there was a little bit of rot. It was just… happening faster than she’d expected. Snarling, she threw down the knife. And what a time for this to happen! An idiot had to be saved, and here was her body falling apart around her. Two idiots to be saved- apparently she had to add herself to that list. 

God. She’d just woken up, and she was already so tired. 

Nothing to it- she had to figure out a solution, and then keep hunting for Bdubs. He’d done her a kindness, and she was stubborn about doing some for him. 

So she had… a grimy, fancy jacket; a big knife; and a body that was forgetting how to body. Clothes, too, but those weren’t in the best shape either. Rocks. Mud. Bark. Vines. 

Vines– those were basically rope, weren’t they? Bdubs had a bit of an aversion to them, but if he dug her out of her vines then he probably wasn’t allergic. Mind made up, Cleo grabbed the knife again and dragged it over. The task of cutting up appropriately-sized lengths of vine wasn’t too bad; there was something really fun about wildly swinging a big knife at some hapless foliage. 

It was a lot less fun trying to tie the knife around her waist without a) cutting the vines further or b) cutting herself instead. At some point she managed it, but the weight was uncomfortable, and the knife kept banging into her leg as she moved. She thought about using Bdubs’ jacket for cover, but she didn’t want to ruin it. 

And it worked, at least for a little while. Cleo was able to walk without her arms falling off. Her knee still gave her trouble, but-- that's sort of what knees did, anyway. She could do this. She just had to keep going. 

Etho found her collapsed in the dirt, knee bent at an awkward angle and a large knife plunged awkwardly in her side. She couldn't say how long he stood and watched her struggle with her predicament, but it was probably long enough to make it awkward. Or Etho was just feeling awkward in general. She's noticed he does that a lot-- feel awkward, that is. Not a big talker, their Etho, but he still emerged from the bushes like a knight in a slightly grungy mask. 

She stared at him; he stared at her. It was a lovely stare-off all around, except for the fact that Cleo had a big knife and no way to use it and Etho didn't have a big knife and probably knew how to use it well. But she still had the advantage-- she'd had some time to think, while she trudged through the forest. She'd thought about Bdubs' little monologue, and the weird and sticky ways that her attempted words had fit in her mouth, and come to the conclusion that she was just a little out of practice. She can't even remember what her last words were... Nor how long ago specifically they had been. 

So she'd practiced. 

Now, Cleo looked at Etho. She laid her hand on her faulty leg and said, forcefully, "Hh-elp."

Etho stared at her. He was good at that, the staring thing. She was quiet while he thought, but didn't look away. "You can talk?" he finally said. 

Cleo licked her lips and considered the easiest way to answer that question. It had a bit of a complicated answer. "'it," she said, then grew cross with the failed attempt. "'il... y-es bb-UH no." Pleased with herself, she patted her leg again. 

Etho stared at her again. She was about to be cross with him in a moment if he didn't stop that. "Are you going to eat me?" Her face did a thing. He laughed, a little breathless. "Okay, okay-- no need to make that face at me, miss zombie lady." Her face stopped doing the thing. She patted her knee again emphatically. 

Cautiously, he approached her. "Mind if I, uh-" He gestured broadly to the knife in her side. She used his own weapon against him and just stared. He winced. "Guess not." He knelt next to her. 

Cleo is all for gore, personally. She doesn't mind the gore that comes with having a corpse for a body, and she doesn't mind the gore that comes with the corpses of other peoples' bodies, either. But Bdubs gets really squicked out by it, so she normally skips over the part of the story where Etho helped her. But by the time he was done with her knee, Cleo had obtained his whole flask of water and started to experiment with speech. 

They talked while he worked. The water helped a lot, and so did Etho's patience while Cleo re-remembered how to enunciate her words. Her tongue, meanwhile, was remembering taste, and she was not thankful-- her whole mouth tasted like mud. 

"So," Etho finally started, clumsily pouncing onto a topic he'd been swiping at since their conversation had started. "You didn't have that when I last saw you." 

"Have what," Cleo asked, the t clattering out of her mouth like a sharp piece of metal. 

"...The jacket." His eyes briefly flicked up to her face, then refocused on his task. One of his eyes were red- she remembers that this was the first moment that she really noticed that. 

"No, I didn't," she answered, pleased when the t came out just right. Part of her didn't want to explain any more, but- there was another part of her that saw how gently he held her arm. He was careful with her broken bits, despite the three times she'd promised him she couldn't feel any pain. He'd made her sit back against the base of a tree and propped her arm up against his knee so it was supported. He also hadn't stood on her foot again, nor tried to stab her at all. Overall, she was feeling pretty great about this new acquaintance, so she elaborated, "He... gave it to me? Left it on my face. Bit rude, if you ask me." 

"Left it on your face?" 

"He thought I was dead." 

"A corpse shroud," Etho said, nodding wisely. He tapped her arm. "Other side, please." 

She turned her arm. "What do you know about him?" 

Etho's expression went shifty. He hadn't looked at her face much at all while he sewed her, but he wasn't looking extra hard now. "Who says I know anything?" he asked, voice a little lighter. "About- who? No, I don't know anything about- about that guy." 

"Right."

"Right." 

"You know his jacket." 

"It's a knowable jacket!" 

She squinted at him. "Do you know where he is?" 

"I don't know why you think I should tell you," Etho said, a little primly. 

They fell into silence. 

"I want to meet him," she finally said. "He talked to me. I didn't get to talk to him." 

Cleo would like to admit something here- she hasn't been honest about the dialogue translations. It's hard to replicate the grumbling growl of a voice locked inside someone's rotting chest for however-many years, and she likes it when people are able to understand her stories. If she put in the effort now to echo her past grumbles then only Etho would be able to make any sense of her. He'd be the only one to understand, which-

It's a little weird, the way he does that. 

Etho isn't really a people person-- but, sometimes, he seems to just... understand people. He looks past the words to see the action, and beyond that to see the meaning. People became machines built out of parts and each part could be taken individually to then understand the whole.  Cleo doesn't know how he does it-- nor does she know how he managed to understand her so quickly when it mattered, when he'd been so recently afraid of her, but... she's glad of it. Still grateful for it. 

Etho heard her words and then went quiet, into a silence that she now understands was contemplative. He started work on her fingers before he spoke again. 

"His name is Bdubs. Prince DoubleO, he'll tell you, but don't listen to that. He's.... he's been asleep for a very long time, but I knew him before then." He cast a glance towards her face, the red of his eye glinting briefly at her from beneath the shadow of his eyelashes. "I should have known he'd find someone to talk to as soon as he woke up. What a blabbermouth, that guy." That last remark was filled with familiar fondness. 

"He said he's afraid of the dark." She squinted at the sky past the trees. "It's getting dark." 

"I know," Etho said. "It's okay." 

"You're looking for him too, aren't you? We should go before it's too dark to see," Cleo urged. She tried to pull her hand away, but Etho grabbed it with a little warning hiss. 

"Careful- careful- you almost, uh, did some damage there." He laughed nervously, replacing her hand on his knee. "No, I'm not looking for him." 

Cleo blinked at him, surprised. "Aren't you?" 

"No," he said. The mask covered his mouth, but she could see the glee in his eyes when he answered, "He'll come to us." 

---

Etho started a fire. 

Cleo decided to help. 

She helped a lot. Then Etho helped her help him. Then--

...There may or may not have been more fire than was originally intended. This may or may not have been on purpose. The both of them were, perhaps, arsonists, and only encouragers of the other's bad decisions. 

But neither of them caught on fire, so it was okay. 

---

Bdubs caught on fire. 

Etho had been correct. Bdubs, afraid of the dark, was drawn to the light like a moth to a flame. And, just like a moth, he was highly flammable. 

Etho had also been wrong, though. His original plan had been to light a fire and then wait while Bdubs followed it to them. But, apparently, when you set a bunch of things on fire a wailing Bdubs can't pinpoint which fire is your fire, and which fire is just a general forest fire. They did wait for him, for a little while, but had to go looking for him when they heard his shrieking in the distance. 

So off they went- following his shouting to discover their lost prince slightly burned and covered in soot. Cleo gave him back his jacket, Etho laughed at him, and- well, you know the rest. 

--

 "How do you know?" 

"How do I know what?" 

"That we know the rest of the story," Etho clarifies, tone mild and yet still lilting with mischief. 

Cleo narrows her eyes at him. "Don't pull that." 

"No, no, Cleo, I think he has a point," Bdubs says. "What if we don't 'member?" 

Cleo narrows her eyes at Etho, who has ducked his head and returned to his tinkering. She can see the delight in the shape of his shoulders. "What if you do, though?"  

"I dunno, Cleo. With all the bumps and bruises we've gotten?" Etho glances up again from his work to grin at her. She can't see his face either, what with the mask and all, but he has some very expressive eyes. Second only to Bdubs. Smug bastard. 

Speaking of- Bdubs twists a plait of hair wrong, catching one of her flowers and tugging at it wrong. Cleo yelps in surprise, the brief pain just as startling as the first time he'd done it. 

"SORRY!" Bdubs presses his hand over the flower's stem as if he could stop the move it's already made. "Sorry, sorry-- you're all good, now, we're all done. W'can stop now." 

Cleo puts down her sewing kit and tilts her head back to look up at him. He raises his hands quickly away from her head. His own head is covered in a multitude of little braids and spring flowers she'd woven in for him. She can't stop herself from smiling at him, even with all the exasperation. "Is it really all done?"  

He stares back down at her, big eyes blown comically and oh-so innocently wide. "Yesh. Absolutely done. Pretty braid, Cleo- wonder who did that for ya?" 

"I wonder," Etho mutters. Cleo considers teasing him for how fond he sounds, but decides against it. 

"I bet it looks fabulous," she says. "Not that I can tell. Not without a mirror- Are you almost done yet, Etho? It's getting dark soon." 

"Yeah, yeah... almost there," he answers. "Where did you say you got this glass again?" 

"From a body," Cleo says primly. "But it was from one of the tower bodies. I didn't see a single plant in there, and I'll have you know I wiped it off very well." 

"Did you?" 

"I could just take it back?" 

"No!" Bdubs protests. He nudges at Cleo, and she graciously moves just enough to let him stand up. He flails out a hand, but Etho snatches up his project and holds it up and out of reach. "Give me that!" 

"It's not done!" Etho protests. "Give me- okay, seriously, just another minute."

"...Promise?"

"Pinky promise." 

Grumbling, Bdubs sits down again. Cleo leans back against him, picking up her sewing as she does. She's just fiddling with it for now, making neat little lines on an old piece of cloth, but there's a part of her that thinks she can do something really fun-- make something creepy and laugh at all the faces Bdubs would make. 

They sit in silence for a few moments, comfortable in their individual tasks, but Bdubs quickly gets bored now that he can't braid Cleo's hair any more. "Where are we sleeping tonight?" 

"With your mom," Etho says. 

"There used to be a passage between the kitchens and the servants quarters," Cleo butts in over Bdubs' loud sputtering. "I don't think we'll have to do much cleanup. And it's near the tallest tower." She gives Bdubs a meaningful look. 

"I don' know why you're giving me that look," he grumbles. 

"It's not her fault you have a thing about being short," Etho says mildly. 

"Short tower!" Bdubs protests so loudly that it almost hurts Cleo's ears. "Short tower-- They made me sleep in the shortest tower! Me! The indignity." 

"The other towers weren't built before you went to sleep, Bdubs," Cleo reminds him fondly. "The biggest one only finished construction maybe... five years after I got here?" 

"The indignity," Bdubs says again. 

"I don't know... I think it's kind of fitting," Etho says peacefully. He doesn't even look up from his work to acknowledge the instant rage that flashes across Bdubs' face, which Cleo knows he's doing on purpose to be a pest. 

"WHAT! What are you saying? You better not be saying what I think you're saying!" 

"I don't know what you think I'm saying. How could I say anything you're thinking without me saying it?"

"Hm. Well. Okay," Bdubs says with utmost suspicion. 

"Besides," Etho continues. "Short towers are for short princes. I thought everyone knew th-"

He's cut off abruptly by Bdubs trying to lunge at him. He's only stopped by Cleo, who he's tripped over, being in a place to be tripped over. He lands in a heap on the ground and all three of them break into laughter. 

"Careful, Bdubs!" Etho admonishes cheerfully. "You almost broke it again!" 

"Again?" Bdubs sits up quickly. "Is it done? Does that mean it's done? Are ya done?" 

In response, Etho holds out Bdubs' once-broken clock. Its surface is no longer cracked- the glass and needle have been replaced, sparkling new(ish). Cleo hears a quiet clicking from it as the background changes slowly, warning them peacefully of the encroaching night. Etho had even removed some of the nastier grunge and shined up its carapace.

"Yes!" Bdubs exclaims eagerly. He bolts upright again, almost knocking Cleo over, and gleefully accepts his precious trinket. He wanders away from them a little, already engrossed in checking its accuracy against the sky. 

"Ow," Cleo says blandly. "Help me up?" 

Etho obliges, offering a hand. She takes it, then pulls herself up to her feet. They both watch Bdubs for a little while. 

"Do you think we should go?" Cleo asks suddenly. 

"...Why do you ask?" 

Cleo chews thoughtfully on her lip. "Why should we stay?" she asks. "I mean, we have a place to live, sure, but- it's an old castle full of mud and gunk and plants. Maybe- maybe it was home, once, for all of us." She casts a side glance to him. He's still watching Bdubs. "But I don't know if it should be anymore. Memories, you know?" 

"I don't mind memories," Etho defends. "...Where would we even go?" 

"I don't know. Out. Away. You had friends who lived down south, didn't you? Do you think they're still around?" 

"I don't know if I'd call Scar a friend." 

"But you think he's still around?" 

"...Maybe." He huffs out a sigh at her imploring look. "It's Scar. He's always around."  They're quiet for another moment. "I don't know, Cleo. Not... not yet, I think. I'm still getting used to just having you two around." 

"No, that's fair," Cleo agrees. "I just... you know Bdubs. He's a people person." 

"Yeah." 

More silence. 

"Eventually," Etho says. "When he gets bored. That should be long enough for us to spruce things up around here." 

"More than enough, probably," Cleo agrees, more lightly. "I think he's got his heart set on making at least the tower look nice." 

If Etho was going to say something, it's drowned out by Bdubs' hollering. "Come on!" he shouts to them, waving his arms towards the castle. "It's getting dark!" 

Cleo laughs and grabs her sewing from the ground. Etho grabs his tools from the little stone workbench. They both follow Bdubs back towards the castle. 

And, for a little while, they all live happily ever after.

---

also on ao3

For @cledubs for the life series gift exchange! This fic got away from me a lil, haha, and I maybe ran out of time and couldnt include a scene where Bdubs builds Cleo a little shelter from the rain while she's still stuck at the tower, but i want you to know that he terraforms the shit out of the landscape so there aren't any sad little puddles at the bottom of any towers anymore.

There was an alternate ending where, instead of vaguely leaving to go see Scar, Cleo and Etho were discussing going to some weird strange land called "3rd life" and how Etho would probably split up from them to go be a loner for a little bit. This ending fit the vibes better, so this is the one that stuck, but "down south" there might just be a certain desert....

[1nksta1neddesk]

A Court of Readers and Dreamers

Chapter 3: Rule #1, Magic

Word count: 2420

The next day I sat waiting in the house, twirling the pommel of a hunting knife in my fingers as my leg jumped up and down under the table. I had sent the pelt with Nesta into town, knowing she would catch a fair price even with the cheap skates that frequented the market. Elain had gone with her, intent on browsing the wares.

So that left me, sitting next to my father who stared at me with a pinched expression. I had found a piece of scrap cloth, drawing out a map of snares I had set up early in the morning with a piece of charcoal from the hearth. I knew Tamlin took care of the Archeron’s with copious amounts of riches, but I did not know how long those riches would take to be delivered and until then my family still needed to be fed.

But the map had been done hours ago and I was forced to stare at the chipped paintings of flowers and vines I had painted one summer when Elain had gotten me those 3 tins of paint, claiming she remembered how I used to love painting as a child and how the summer was so prosperous I should take time for the arts again. I had smiled, thin and pressed as I tried to restrain the tears that Elain took to be glee.

I had gone into the woods that night and slept in a tree, needing time to settle my soul that was writhing in pain as my mind raced with the full and complete realization that I had taken the place of that little girl Elain was trying to comfort, that there was no one who could truly know me in in the entirety of this world.

That had been years ago though and now I had my brows knit in concentration as I contemplated how I would get back to my own world. I still had not come up with an answer for that as my father spoke to me.

“Why didn’t you go to the market with your sisters?” he asked, hand coming up to massage the creases forming between his brows. I jolted, startled by the words before answering.

“They needed a day out of the house without me breathing down their necks,” I said, sighing before letting my back slouch against the chair, “ and I did not want to go to the market, I already have a headache”. It was true, my head had started to pound the moment I was left with my thoughts. He grunted and accepted the half-truth, eyes focusing on a small piece of wood I had brought in for him that morning to carve.

My leg went back to jittering for a while before my father turned to me again and suggested I take the energy outside, it was disturbing his focus. I saw myself out, deciding to chop more wood as the stack had dwindled to twigs after a long night. The movement of the ax did ease the anxiety tightening in my gut, worried the curse hadn’t sought its claim on me as the hate in my heart had not been targeted towards that male.

My skin itched as sweat accumulated underneath the jacket, hair prickled at the back of my neck as a cold wind caked snow into my hair. The sisters came back to the house a few hours later, the sunlight turning golden as I brought in the pieces of wood, settling them in a stack by the hearth and rekindling the fire that had fallen to smoking embers. I let Elain rest while I cooked dinner for the night, needing to move as the time drew nearer and nearer.

The family ate, Elain and Nesta chattering about some girl they had run into, and how she thought someone’s son was going to ask for her hand soon. I thought to the original story, how Tomas Mandray was to ask to marry Nesta, how I had dissuaded the possibility of that marriage through the years. I had brought up time and time again the fights I heard coming from the house while hunting, the bruises we could all see blooming on the poor woman’s cheek the next week at market.

I let my mind wander, sitting back in the chair as I chewed on a piece of gristle that had ended up in meat. The night grew darker, the gold sky turning blush pink and violet before dark indigo took over. I was half asleep in the chair, facing the door, knife held loosely in my hand as I waited. Someone, most likely Elain, had taken my plate. My father and the sisters moved toward the fire, warming themselves as much as possible before they had to sleep through another cold night. My feet already ached with the cold as I still sat in my chair, waiting and waiting and waiting for that-

A roar shook the house as Nesta and Elain screamed, scrambling towards the far wall of the house as the door came crashing in. Puffs of white snow flooded in around the beast, gold fur already laden with ice as he growled.

I was standing now- somehow having placed myself between the High lord and the cowering girls behind me, their father slowly dragging himself in front of them as well. The three of them hid behind me, as my grip on the knife tightened. Now that I saw the fae lord I knew the blade would be no more than a thorn in his side if I ever sunk it there, but the blade wasn’t to defend myself or my family. It was an act - a scared mortal woman trying to fight off a beast after killing his kind.

He reared, creme underbelly being revealed as his claws sliced through the air, muzzle dripping with frothy white saliva as he yelled, “MURDERERS”. I heard my father go to move, to beg the fae beast for my life, but I put out my hand to stop him, barring him from moving forward before the maw opened again to roar the accusation again.

The girls still begged, even as my father crouched next to me, peering up at me with eyes that seemed conscious for the first time since that creditor had appeared. “We didn’t kill anyone!” Nesta wailed as she shifted Elain farther behind her.

I looked the beast in his eyes, clenching my fist yet again as my palms had grown damp with sweat as I tried to calm my heart.

“WHO KILLED HIM?” he yelled again, spittle landing on my arm as I raised my hand.

“I did”, it was a statement, no denying the life I had taken as Nesta and Elain yelled out at me, asking when I had killed a fae. I waved my hand at them, shushing them for a small time as Tamlin snarled at me again.

“You lie to spare them”, his growl served to cover his shock and I could almost hear the hope undercutting it all.

“You can look at them and think they can take down a Faerie? Combined, they can barely take down a tree” I spoke, stepping further forward, closer to those dripping jaws.

“I killed it, left the body in the woods because it would have been too heavy.” I let him mull over the words, hoping he would only see the truths that smoothed over my real reasoning.

“Did it attack you? Were you provoked?” He asked, nails digging deep gouges in the wooden floorboards.

“No, he attacked a deer that I had been about to kill- we were about to starve.” Another half-truth as his eyes darted to the dirty dishes that still held remnants of the venison, though he could surely smell it still lingering in the air. He looked back at me, green eyes locking with stormy blue ones as he growled.

“The treaty between our lands demands repayment, a life for a life. Any unprovoked attacks on faerie-kind by humans are to be paid only by a human life in exchange.” The lie would have worked if I was Feyre, it did work on her, but I would not cower in the face of a man who I knew put the weight of his court’s lives on my shoulders.

“Then let Prythian claim my life.” I said, words measured as I tried to block out the sobs coming from behind me, small whispers of ‘Feyre, no’ making my heart ache as I still stood ramrod straight in front of the beast. Those green eyes darted around my face, trying to see further into me than I was willing to bear.

“Willing to accept your fate so easily, mortal? To die at the hands of a fae?”He huffed, still peering at me. The white puff of moist air warmed my face as I peered up at him.

“I did not say I was willing to die, I said Prythian may claim me, not you” My chest was drawing tight, making the words come out strained as I tried to keep steady breaths and failed. Another hot huff of air from his muzzle heated my face a degree, and I could almost sense a hint of pride at a mortal twisting his words.

“For having the gall to twist the call of the treaty, you may stay on my lands. Live there for the rest of your mortal days and forsake the human realm”

My father spoke again, not heeding my glance and hand as he croaked out.“Please, good sir—Feyre is my youngest. I beseech you to spare her. I- She’s all we-” I shushed my father before he could continue, turning to him and grabbing his shoulders as I spoke, “I either die here or I can go- I set traps and I have a map-”. Tamlin cut me off with another roar, impatient prick.

I turned back to him as I set my shoulders, “ When do we leave?”

“Now” he snarled out as he turned and left into the snow. As soon as his hind legs left the door, Nesta was grabbing me by my shoulders, shaking me as she shouted into my face.

“You stupid girl! You just gave your life to that Thing”, her words were nearly as guttural as Tamlin’s snarls as she continued, “-without you we- and you will die over there in who knows what gnarly manner-tortured and strung up to be made a spectacle.” My neck hurt from being shaken so violently as Elain wrapped herself around me, sobbing into my shoulder as she pleaded.

“I made a map of snares, you will not starve, and would you rather have had me gutted here? I can survive over the wall.” I tried to soothe their worries as my words were truth, as much as I could give them. My father had managed to use his cane to stand next to us, Nesta pulling Elain away from me, dragging both of them into the room as he moved toward us.

I rubbed the back of my neck awkwardly as I knew Nesta was trying to protect me, and as I turned to leave toward the door my father caught my arm and looked into my eyes.

“Live, on the other side of the wall. If anyone can, it would be you Feyre. You’ve-” A snarl from outside cut him off as I drew him into a hug, the first hug I had ever shared with the man.

“Goodbye, the map is in my drawer in the bedroom, talk to old Jacob up the road, he will show you how to reset them” I left for the door, grabbing the patchworked jacket before -

“You were always too good for here, Feyre. Too good for us, too good for everyone.” He called out again, leaning against the wall that connected to the room the sisters were cowering in. “If you ever escape, ever convince them that you’ve paid the debt, don’t return.” I smiled meekly as I stepped into the snow, patting the door frame as I left.

Tamlin stood outside, looking toward the woods before snapping his head toward me when the first bit of snow crunched under my raggedy boots. He started towards those woods I had used to stay alive and train for this day. I rushed to follow as his long legs made his leisurely pace a small jog for me. White puffs of air left my nose every time I exhaled.

I nearly tripped over a few sticks as we went further and further into those dark woods. Several minutes passed where my feet grew numb before the shining white coat of a mare appeared beside a tree.

She lowered her neck, long and corded with muscle as he motioned for me to get into the saddle. I had never ridden a horse, though I had seen many people in town using them to pull carriages or to travel back to their homes. I grabbed the saddle and tried to haul myself up, foot catching on the stirrup as I struggled. It was a long minute that left me flushed with embarrassment before I was able to throw over my other leg, panting as I finally sat in the saddle.

The mare set into a steady trot, following Tamlin through the dark forest. Her body radiated heat that warmed my legs, and I savored it as I leaned down to brush her side. The night grew deeper as I kept the position, soaking in the heat as snow collected on my hair and back. Every few minutes I would check to make sure I could still see those spiraling antlers and gold pelt, just to make sure I was not dreaming as I pinched my leg every time I saw the huffs of breaths as we went further and further into the woods, toward the wall.

“What’s your name?” I called out to him, it would be complicated to explain if I said his name without him ever telling it to me. A low growl shook some light snow from its place upon the branches.

“What does it matter to you, girl?” He didn’t even look back over his shoulder as he let out another growl, conversation clearly over. I went to ask another question, but the ringing taste of metal filled my mouth and I couldn’t resist the pull towards a dark sleep.

[krabkrab-wontshutup]

@whats-this-madness POST ABOUT YOUR SANSES

Since i am always cringe I have redrawn some old sans ocs me and WTM made. Heres what i can fucking remember about their stories

WARNING: REALLY LONG POST UNDER CUT

MAD(written by WTM)- Mad lives in a universe where Gaster was never pushed into the core. He lives a long, somewhat happy life, with his son. He has two, but the first (Papyrus) dies early in life due to an illness. Sans nearly dies from this same sickness when he’s young but this time Gaster saves his son. Although it left him with only 1 hp, it was worth it. When Gaster dies, Sans takes his place as the royal scientist. He studies, and quickly becomes reveared as Asgores best scientist yet. So, Asgore assigns him a mission, create a wepon capable of killing a human in one hit. This, was not easy. It took him years to get even close. Somewhere along the way he creates something strange… a small skull like creature that can fire a powerful blast from its mouth. Not capable of killing somebody in one blast, but fascinating. It’s behavior and appearance are similar to those of a puppy’s. Sans also seemed to communicate with the creature, not in a palpable way… but he understood it. And it understood him. It was very emotionally intelligent. The scientist was popular in town, being friends with most of the royal guard, some people in town… he and the owner of that bar in town were pretty close. But all good things must come to an end. One day, Error gets a hold of his universe and destroys it. In the chaos, he gets saved. When he awakens, he finds himself in a white void, his Blaster hovers over him. I wonder how he got there?

MAGNUS- a somewhat warped version of Mad. for one, WD Gaster DID fall into the core. instead of error destroying his universe, magnus fucked around and found out, magic edition. He was the royal scientist after gaster, and experimented on himself causing his universe to collapse and him to be trapped in the antivoid. from there, He just has a lot of fun! stealing from AUs, messing with people, avoiding his new neighbor who has a penchant to murder. The works! Til one day he’s invited to a mysterious christmas party (AND FOR THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND, LET IT BE KNOWN THAT IM LAUGHING MY ASS OFF ABOUT THIS STORYLINE). At this party he befriends Fresh sans, and OO BOY.

PINK- idfk man he’s pink. thats it. not everything is a banger. Lust sans exists.

RAINBOW(written by WTM)- So the story behind Rainbow is that he lives in a completely inky black void, if you float to far down, it’ll get you. He lives alone, and he mostly doesn’t mind it. He picks up art and magic. Painting really cheers him up when he’s down and it’s convenient to bring stuff to yourself from across the room. He practices other things to, teleportation, and control of these cool vine things. There’s this one plant he keeps in his art room, a void flower his mother picked for him. He cares for it a lot. It’s practically his only company. He speaks to it, sings it songs, gives it snacks. [they disappear when he looks away.] One day he finds a spell that can give a plant sentience. He immediately try’s this on his plant and it works. He now has a happy, if not very confused flower. He names her Furby and they become besties. One day Furby makes him and Sans lockets, dark purple in color with crappy drawings inside, and San’s loves them. When *they* get higher in the void, San’s slaves over his books to stop *them* before they get to the house. Furby tries to convince him to rest, hang out, play some games, spend time with her. He ignores her. Eventually *they* get to close for comfort. He needed to get them out of there as soon as possible. He had been studying a way to travel between universes and there couldn’t be a better time to test it out. So he prepared the spell and he and Furby hopped dimensions in the nick of time as *they* engulfed the house. When he wakes up, he’s in a completely white void. And Furby is nowhere to be seen. He continues to hop universes to search for his one and only friend. One day he finds Madness san’s universe, through a very panicked Blaster. It’s on the verge of falling apart, so he saves Madness and gets the fuck outta there. Madness follows him around through the void and different au’s, and they become friends. There’s a little bit of drama when Mad learns Rainbow coulda saved his Au’s Grilby but chose not to and his best buddy Blaster told him not to. But it all gets worked out.

my sibling is fucking insane and im sorry this post is so long😭😭😭

[cherryblossempearl]

Finally made a backstory for that drawing I did long ago:

It was hard at first. My father executed. Being kicked out of the tribe by her own mother. Having to sleep in the woods alone cold and hungry. Always being underestimated by others because I didn't use magic, it hurt.

 

Still, I always was positive though no matter what. I still loved my mother even after everything, and tried my best to think everything is completely normal, that I was completely normal. I guess I should of known it wasn't good enough for dear old mother, as she was resentful ever since my mire birth.

 

Nothing was ever enough for her, as long I was the child of my father, a user of the dark arts. It wasn't his fault though, he did it for my mother out of the love that burned deep within him, but what my mother saw was different. My mother was power hungry, and what she saw wasn't love but a block in the road.

All my father wanted to do was bring back our grandpa, and her father, but what did my lovely mother do; a bloody execution is what. I still shiver with fear when I even dream of it, I could even feel the event sepping in my mind, playing over and over. Not much later than that of course I was kicked out, and at the tender age of nine.

 

I wish I could of stopped this, if only I "COULD" of stopped this i thought and thought over and over again. I couldn't remember too much what happened after, but a thing I do remember is a nice elve who lived at the outskirts of the evergreen jungle taking me in. I didn't even get to see them live for long, as ruined of old age, but they were more mother than my own have been for my entire life.

 

They took care of me, told me stories about the past. Including the gods that used to guard the grassy place which was of Elora, including the goddess of spring. They said she was the one who created Elora, and was beloved by all creature small and great, and desented from a place simlar to the great mount Olympus from the old Greek storys I read from the few books we had in our tiny little village. This place was where all the gods in our universe came to be, both bad and good.

One I could recall was named Magiena, and was the goddess of total destruction. It felt like we were both the same, in background of course, we were both judged on things we can't even control. In blood, in power, we were both helpless with own fate, as if it was laughing right in our face. Well, more like in her face more than mine, at least mine was a little less tragic than the cruel one she had.

 At least in my story, I found true happiness, with the people I met along the way. All of them meant so much to me; my dad, the mother who took me in, my magic teacher miss ana, and my friends: Barbara and Soli.

 Its still a little blurry of what happened since my mind has been focused elsewhere these days, but I do remember coming to a nameless kingdom looking to see a magic master, and found Barbara sneaking out of the castle. I can assume she was going to see them; her parents.

Barbara was an orphan taking in by the royal family, ever since her parents left her for the war. She told me that they still visit, in secret, oh course when she trusted me enough to tell me the tale of hers. Although, she never ever told me anything more that, she hasn't even told soli either. We found more about it later, but still, it would of been better if it came from her, but thats her business; not ours.

I met soli when arriving to the kingdom. She was having some tea with some talkative nobles, so we didn't really talk to much. Soli never really liked nobles, but it's better than being lonely she told me in one suble conversation we had while riding horses. She would rather grow plants of different kinds, all diverse in their own way, and that's how we actually met. Me and Barbara were taking a walk within the woods when we got tangled by some flowering vines made by soli herself, and those were fun to get out of. Never less, I were surprised by her magic ability, as I never saw power like that in my tribe.

Sometimes I even feel insure, that both my friends can use magic and I can't. It ate me up alive, it has ever since I was four. This was the whole reason I when to the kingdom, to learn to use magic, in which I still can't today. It has crossed my mind to use the dark arts to help me use magic, but the blood stained on the fabric would just be tragic, and I'm not that type of person.

At least I dont think so anymore.

I'm glad where my life is right now, that I'm granted peace of mind temporarily. Sure, I do know it can't last forever, somethings gonna happen eventually, its obvious, but I still wouldn't change a thing. Even if I dont use magic I learn about it, thats something, and I have actually friends, its mostly a win-win for me. I'm happy, even if life didn't give me what I wanted in life; it gave me what I need; and thats enough for me.

This was "The story of Elora: short tales", a story I made on wattpad. It is the second part, mostly because I didn't work on the first part, so I'll gonna have to work on it.

[longview-preservation-society]

The Flower

Legends have told of a peculiar flower.

A flower with petals white as marble, and radiated such a warmth that anyone who came in contact was cured of any ailment. A flower with vines that hugged flesh, like a gentle embrace between lovers.

One day a man went in search of the mythical flower, and he found it. He found the flower in a small alcove deep in the mountains, sheltered from any outside disturbance. It was the most beautiful thing the man had ever seen. One look at the flower and he felt his entire life become complete. And when he took hold of the flower, its vines curled around his hand, and he felt an immense sense of comfort take form in his body.

He took the flower back to his home. From then on he declared he would take care of this flower till his dying breath. The flower didn't need water, as it had no roots to take hold in soil. It's vines, however, would occasionally prick him and draw blood. Soaking his essence into itself. And the flower never left his hand, it accompanied the man wherever he went.

For years, the man and the flower were inseparable. It came to a point where you could not imagine one being without the other.

But one day, the vines which wrapped his hand started to move further up his arm. It left the confines of his wrist, twisted its way up past the biceps, and wrapped itself around his shoulders. Then on wherever he went, the thorns would prick him more and more. Drawing a larger quantity of blood from his flesh than it needed such a short time ago.

His days became agony. The comfort from the flowers embraced now became a pain he couldn't endure. The warmth it radiated no longer brought relief, but instead brought him into fits of melancholy. The bright future he envisioned when he first laid eyes onto the flower all those years ago vanished. All the man could imagine from here on out was pain.

As the vines grew farther along his body, it seemed as if the flower was suffering as well. Its petals were no longer a pure white, but had gained a yellowish hue. It had even began to wilt. Every morning the man would wake to more petals laying around him.

And as both beings suffered, the man came up with a final solution. He decided the only way to end the pain for each other, he would kill himself where he first found the flower. As he ventured back into the mountains and found the same alcove, he crawled in and remembered all the splendor the flower had brought him so long ago. And as he pulled out his knife and put it to his throat, the vines loosened. They even let go of his body completely, leaving only him holding onto the flower.

With immense relief, but also a feeling of complete loneliness, he let go of the flower and laid it back on its original resting spot. He left the alcove and went back home, never to return.

Legends have told of a peculiar flower, and a peculiar man who sought companionship with the blossom.

[vanya-imyarek]

Death by Ivy

Ancient Greeks considered ivy a plant sacred to Dionysus. On jars and gables, the god and his followers were depicted draped in it as they drank, danced, played in a triumph of unbridled life; or as they tore apart their enemies in a violent, bloody frenzy of death.

Looking at the trees covered in ivy, I can't absolutely figure out how the Greeks thought this plant could be exciting in any way.

-

"The trees are dying because of the ivy" said my father.

"Is that so?"

"This vine is suffucating them, stealing all the ground's nutrients. See how there aren't any leaves on them? These trees are all dead. Up to a little while ago, it was farmers who took care of eradicating it ... but now, almost nobody actually passes by there, and no one cares for the plants"

-

Up to the old stone bridge, the path is beautiful, especially now in the early spring. From the lush green of the grass, pops out the blue and purple of wild flowers; the trees are still bare, but their branches are heavy with gems ready to burst into new leaves. Walking, you might disturb some water fowl, or be forced to a stop by a wild rabbit's mad dash up to the bank of the canal.

Up to the old stone bridge, the path really is beautiful.

-

The shift isn't immediate once you pass the stone bridge. The path, down to its basic, look the same: a small road of clay, carved more by thousands of human feet that from actual work, next to a canal. Grass and trees all around. A lovely country picture.

But the flowers have stopped growing. Now, in spring, it's the first sign of change. The grass is unperturbed, of a just a little duller shade than before.

But after a few steps it becomes clear: it's the ivy. You can't even talk about trees anymore: the ivy has entirely covered their trunks, leaving out only the highest branches of some.

You could look at it poetically, and say that the trees look like they are wearing soft, woolen green coats. But there are no gems on those trees. The branches are bare. The trunks, what little of them can be seen, are grey or white. The only color that can be seen here is the uniform dark green of the ivy.

-

I have found a fallen tree today. Nothing surprising, the wind has blown unusually strong the past few days. Its roots were enveloped in ivy, but not the trunk. It was one of the few trees relatively untouched, and now it's gone.

Really, the path doesn't like outliers.

-

Last time, I had stopped my walk and turned back when I had found the fallen tree.

It is still there, but these walks are preparing me to a pilgrimage that will be even longer and harder, especially with a body like mine. Today, I have stepped over the tree and continued on the path.

There are trees on both sides of it, now, growing on the canal bank. Or at least, they used to grow.

The second fallen tree I find has actually fallen because of the ivy.

It was entirely covered by it, the wood under rotted, and then it was unable to substain itself. It was a rather big tree once. The ivy still prospers in its dull green, feeding on the decomposition.

I draw a deep breath and look around. The air is still. The canal has suffered from more than a year of drought, the water doesn't even have the strenght to run, stagnating in a dull, pale brown. No fish ever breaks the surface.

Every tree around me is covered in ivy, the trunks barely visible under the dull green coats. I can see what is left of them only by looking up: skeletrical branches, who haven't seen a gem in who knows how long. No bird ever perches on them.

These trees once had gems, once had deep vibrant green leaves and brighter, fresher ones; perhaps flowers, perhaps even fruits. Birds elected them for their nests, they raised their new generations among their branches.

And in the meantime, the ivy had started growing. It started hugging their roots, just a little, delicately as if not to disturb. And every year its hug was a little higher up the trunk, the weave of vines a little tighter. Nobody cared about it, about that hug becoming a chokehold. The trees suffucated slowly, losing more and more of their leaves and flowers every year; the birds, smart creatures as they are, deserted them long before they turned into the miserable husks I see now.

It is a terrible thing, death by ivy.

I can't help but think my presence is very befitting of this place. I turn around and slowly walk away.

-

Today I step over the tree cast down by ivy. It is bigger than the former, but still not too difficult to overstep, even with a body that always seem to malfunction somehow. My family keeps telling me that I should see more doctors, but I manage. I have managed insofar.

The scenery doesn't change. The still desolation of air, water and earth stays the same.

Eventually, I come across a third fallen tree. It is white, devoid of ivy. It is quite big and looks sturdy; I can't figure out what made it fell.

It had thick, long branches; getting past it will be more difficult than the other two. Fitting: I know that if I walk past it, I will have to continue on my pilgrimage, and I will not be able to go back, one way or the other.

I feel tired. I don't think my body can carry me for much more on the path.

I step forward, and walk over the third fallen tree.

-

The ivy starts creeping over me the moment I reach the other side. It crawls from the fallen trees, from the dry ground; it envelopes around my shoes.

I weakly shake it away. The ivy keeps coming.

It clings around my feet, starts climbing to my legs. I can no longer walk. Well, this is expected. I lose sensation to my lower body. Most would say I have to pull harder, I have to run; but my legs have been hurting for so long, it's good not to feel it anymore.

The ivy keeps climbing, around my waist, around my chest. As it should: it was the part that has been hurting for the longest time. The vines have begun poking at my flesh, growing new branches inside of it. Riight, it is too soft, to fragile. It has always been so, even if others have denied it; finally a confirmation.

The ivy envelopes my arms; I don't think it changes much, I never used them for anything worthwhile before. They can go. I hope that the ivy is quick to reach my head.

Must have heard my thoughts, damned plant! It takes the longest time even touching my neck. The pressure around my chest is really beginning to be painful, and this thing won't even let me choke properly!

It creeps, little by little; it covers my throat, but does not exercise too much pressure, again; I still feel suffucating, but I'm not, I'm left hanging to life. Move on, damnit! Take this disgusting breath away from me! I have never wanted anything more!

It creeps, little by little; it covers my cheeks, my eyes; now I can see nothing but the dull, dark green of theh ivy. My breath is haggard, every time more difficult, but it seems like it can't ever get difficult enough, it seems like I'll never know the peace. Little by little. The ivy has covered me entirely. I must be completely indistinguishble from any other tree trunks. Who know how many of them were people who failed the pilgrimage. Who knows how many others will pass by me.

I'm too tired to care. This thing I called my body is already rotting, feeding the parasitic plant. I have known it was rotting for a long time. And I keep being fully aware, and I will keep being for who knows how long, submerged by the monotonous, lifeless foliage.

It is a terrible thing, death by ivy.

[foxleycrow]

Thranduil & Túrin playing together in Doriath, for @tolkiengenweek —when I realized they could have been kids in Doriath at the same time, I had to draw them together.

This one also comes with a short accompanying fic about their meeting:

To Wear an Elven Crown

Thranduil had longed to meet the Adan since he had heard the first tales of his arrival in Doriath. His wish had displaced most other longings in his heart. If he could speak to an Adan, he could practice his Mannish and ask him about so many things, like the life of his people and the world outside the Fence. Beleg Cúthalion had found the Adan lost in the woods, and then King Thingol had adopted him! Thranduil had never heard of anyone adopting an Adan, let alone the king himself. If he were now Thingol's son, did that mean he was an Elf, as well as a Man? 

Thranduil had asked his father several times whether he could visit the Adan, but each time he was told the newcomer was too unwell. He had been sick and weak when he was discovered, and he was not yet strong enough to entertain company. This news sank him into a deep state of worry. The Edain could contract illnesses, and were mortal. What if this one became very sick, or even died! Of course, the healers of Doriath were the greatest in Middle-earth, but the Adan had come from dangerous lands far from the protection of Doriath, where anything might have befallen him. Thranduil had heard stories of strange fevers and chills that Edain could suffer from; what if the Elven healers did not know how to treat them?

"If he were to speak with someone his own age, Ada, he might feel better." The Adan was young, like himself. Not precisely the same age, since Edain aged so differently, but near enough in essence. He wondered what kind of games the Edain played. Maybe they had invented some no Elves had dreamed of…

"Do you believe so?" asked Oropher, raising an eyebrow. "An interesting perspective. I did not know you had become such an expert on the matter."

"I would feel better, if it were me." In defiance of his father's eyebrow, he added, "I asked Beleg to tell me everything he knows about the Edain."

"Oh, so you are an expert. My mistake." Oropher's hand settled on his head. Thranduil felt the warmth of his father's skin on his brow and blinked. "He has been through much, little Tuil," said Oropher. "We will not tax him any more than we need to."

After offering a gentle pat, Oropher withdrew his hand. Thranduil lay back, resting his head among the grasses. Thranduil did not expect his father to understand, for Oropher was very old. There were no children in King Thingol's house, and if they would not allow Thranduil to visit and talk to the Adan, then they would not have let any other children in to speak to him; that was obvious.

"I am an expert," Thranduil murmured, closing his eyes. Beleg had told him that the Edain could grow lonely and sad, like Elves, and that they too loved to dance and sing and tell tales. The Adan was named Túrin, and his father had been an Elf-friend. That meant he was an Elf-friend, too. If he was a friend, then he should be treated as one and given a warm welcome by everyone in Menegroth. Surely that would make him feel better than being kept away from others.

"Are you falling asleep?" Oropher asked. "I'll take you back home."

He shook his head stubbornly, the blades of grass making themselves felt on his cheeks and chin. Narrow, but not quite sharp. They did not hurt, but he sensed each one keenly. "No, I want to nap out here in the sun." They were well behind the Fence and close to Menegroth, so these woods were safe and guarded. He could play or explore or rest among the trees whenever he liked, because Queen Melian kept them all from harm.

He heard Oropher's soft laughter and felt his father's hand settle on his head again briefly. Then he was only aware of the warm sun heating his skin and the faintly prickly touch of the grass carpeting the clearing. Soon, he was not aware of the clearing either, lost in a dream, wandering far from the waking world. He dreamed he was journeying through a dark, withered wood, bristling with dead branches. The sky was veiled with dense, gray clouds. There was an unnatural air to them, as if storm clouds had been thickened with smoke.

There was a cold wind at his back, and he was all alone. The dead trees were so tall, they made him feel smaller. He heard something moving behind him, breaking branches and rustling through shriveled leaves. An animal? Or something worse? He did not know, and he did not want to turn to look, so he ran. He ran until he felt he had been always running, yet no matter how quick his steps, the noises behind him persisted, never any closer, but never farther away.

Thranduil woke with a gasp. He sat up and scanned the clearing. It was as green and tranquil as it had been when he fell asleep. He heard the low buzz of insect song and the faint voices of the trees. Father was gone. He saw no sign of anyone nearby, although that was not unusual. The sun's light was starting to fade from the sky. It was that between-time when patches of sunlight were still scattered across the forest floor, while the first stars appeared in the purpling twilight above. Thranduil rose to his feet. He was a little hungry, but he was well-rested, and he wasn't ready to return home. He would rather play, until Father came to fetch him. He left the clearing, slipping into the undergrowth as soundlessly as possible.

One of his favorite games was Marchwarden. It was more fun to play with someone else, but it was a game he could also play alone, simply by moving as quickly and quietly as possible, so that no enemies could see or hear him—exactly like a Marchwarden. He was tracking. Not hunting, but searching for any sign of danger, to keep Doriath safe. He studied whatever tracks he came across, or other signs of passage, such as broken twigs or bent grasses, trying to judge who or what had come the same way, and how long ago. He could wander like this for hours, happily, alone.

He was not entirely happy. He was more uneasy as he searched for signs in the grass, because of his dream. Within the dead wood, he had felt like he would never be allowed to rest, racing with an enemy eternally at his back. Dreams always meant something, but not always what you thought they meant. It took a wise Elf to read dreams. He could have asked his father about it, and maybe he would later. Now, he stalked through the dense growth, crouching low so his pale hair couldn't be seen.

When he heard low and distant voices, Thranduil was still lost in his game, so he crouched lower, listening intently as he crept closer. He slowed his breathing, his heartbeat, hiding as he'd been taught.

"—where he could have gone—?"

"We will find him, and soon. There's only so far...."

"I hadn't thought he was strong enough. I would never have guessed he'd be so quick."

"You shouldn't underestimate—"

The speakers moved away, out of the range of his hearing. Those were two of Thingol's guards. Could they have been talking about the Adan? It was possible, and not only because Thranduil thought of the Adan so often. Who else would they have thought wasn't strong enough? If the Adan was lost, he might grow sicker. Imagine how upset King Thingol would be. If Thranduil was a Marchwarden, then he had a duty to do whatever he could to protect everyone in Doriath: including any Edain. He moved on again, more quickly and with greater purpose.

He studied the forest, down to the least leaf, and he listened to the birds singing, the faint breeze moving through the branches. He listened for telltale noises, or telltale silences. He wondered whether the Adan had had a nightmare, like he had. Maybe that was why he had run off. It must have been hard for him to leave his home behind, especially because of the war: that distant, dark shadow hanging over everything, even the forests of Doriath.

Where would an Adan go? Possibly into the undergrowth, where he was. A place where someone small would hide. Thranduil knew of many secret spaces ideal for concealing himself, but few of them were nearby, close to where the guards were hunting. A slight Adan would leave faint footprints. Like Thranduil, he would have been trained in how to hide, if he were in danger. Thranduil was sure that the great trackers of Doriath could find anyone, but maybe Túrin would be difficult to find, more difficult than they expected.

Thranduil headed toward the Dome—it was a vast, curving structure of twisted woody shrubs, crowned with flowering vines. It was bright enough to draw the eye of a stranger to these woods, and dense enough to provide ample cover and shelter. Thranduil often crawled in there to play, because it was like a fortress. He could pretend he ruled there, lord of the branches and leaves and blossoms.

Thranduil found a faint indentation that might have been left by someone running this way. Shortly after that, he spied a tiny tuft of thread, caught on a hooked thorn. It was bright blue in color, so it stood out more than it might have otherwise. Could he have been correct in thinking the Adan might have been come this way? He had been guessing, but maybe he really was a Marchwarden. He would have to tell Beleg, if he succeeded in his hunt.

Emboldened by the thought that he might be better at tracking than Thingol's own guard, Thranduil sank to his knees and crawled into one of the narrow passageways that led into the Dome. With twisting branches on either side of him, and a ceiling of ivy above, no one outside would be able to see him, once he had travelled the length of a few paces. There were no wider  ways in, the growth here was so dense. Anyone who was much larger than Thranduil would have had to cut their way through. Among the branches, Thranduil caught sight of another slight scrap of blue thread. The branches here loved to tug on clothing.

Encouraged, Thranduil moved faster, until he arrived at a fall of dense vines, pushed through them, and found himself confronted by a pair of dark, shining eyes, staring at him. The Adan gave a start, but did not run. It was hard to travel quickly within the Dome, especially if one didn't know it as well as Thranduil did. Thranduil had half-suspected he was imagining his grand success in tracking, so he sat, blinked and stared back at his quarry, startled and bewildered and pleased.

The Adan was seated with his knees drawn up toward his chest. He was very thin, the thinnest child Thranduil had ever seen. His narrow face made his eyes look bigger. Here, he was walled off from the world—or most of it. He looked a great deal like an Elf, although Thranduil could tell he was different as well. It was hard to say exactly why; he simply felt different, like the night air felt different from the air of day, or the atmosphere before a storm as opposed to in the dry season: different in so many various slight ways, some of which were easier to describe than others.

Although Thranduil had longed for their meeting with joy, he felt unexpectedly solemn, now that it was taking place. "Hello," he ventured, in Sindarin. "I'm Thranduil, Son of Oropher."

The Adan blinked, and for a moment, Thranduil wasn't sure if he would—or could—reply, but at last he answered softly, "I'm Túrin, Son of Húrin."

"Why are you out here?" Thranduil asked. He didn't wish to sound accusatory, so he added, "Did you want to play?"

Túrin looked away, into the shadows between the leaves. "I wanted to be by myself."

Thranduil nodded, as this was perfectly understandable. "I like to be by myself, too."

Túrin's gaze shifted back to Thranduil. He seemed relieved to hear this, exhaling.

"Can I stay, though?" Thranduil asked. "Now that I'm here."

"You can stay," Túrin said.

Thranduil knew that Thingol and all his guards and attendants and everyone must be nervous, but he didn't think a little while longer would do any harm, especially not when Túrin must have run here for a reason. Being surrounded by everyone at court could be overwhelming. Thranduil had never been far away from home and everyone he knew before, but it must be hard. It would be better not to rush him. He would let Túrin rest for a little while, and then he would take him to Thingol—just as Beleg had, before.

"I can show you something," he offered.

After another hesitation, Túrin nodded.

"Follow me," said Thranduil. He crawled ahead, between the branches, into the gloom. The last of the day's slight, slipping in through the leaves and vines above, made soft, pale shifting shapes on their hands and on the ground beneath. After a long way, the structure of the dome opened up onto a green glade, surrounded by dense undergrowth on all sides. No one would walk here casually, and if he and Túrin didn't stand up, no one would be able to see them from outside the enclosure. The glade was also hidden, but there was more room to stretch out, and even lie down. It was a fine place for a nap, with soft earth and open sky above. Clusters of flowers grew in profusion, along with tufts of dense grass. Thranduil and Túrin admired their new hiding place in silence, while birds sang in the trees overhead. It was not yet true night, only early twilight. The birds would keep singing a little longer.

"I come here sometimes when I want to be alone," Thranduil said. In the past days and weeks, he had formulated an ever-growing list of questions he would like to ask the Adan, but he did not ask a single one of them now.

Túrin nodded again, lowering his gaze. He reached down and ran his fingers through the grass. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and he did not smile.

"Everyone's looking for you," said Thranduil. "They must be worried."

"I didn't mean to make anyone worry. They shouldn't worry. I don't know why I—" He broke off, closing his eyes.

"It's all right. No one will be angry with you," Thranduil reassured him quickly, moved by Túrin's pained expression. "I'm not angry. I've been waiting to meet you. I've never met an Adan before."

Túrin's eyes reopened, slowly. "Never?"

Thranduil inclined his head in confirmation. "Never."

"I hadn't really met Elves before," said Túrin.

"But now you have. You've met Beleg, and King Thingol, and me. Everyone's happy you're here, that's why they're worried. But we don't have to go back right away. We can wait until you feel better." He cast about the glade, looking for something else he could show the Adan, to cheer him. Along with the two of them, the glade was bursting with life, all the usual green and growing things, rising from the earth and insisting on themselves… "Here—I'll make you something."

"Make me what—?"

"Look." Thranduil's gaze went to a stand of nearby pale purple flowers. These particular blossoms were edible and often harvested. It would do no harm to take a few, especially at this time of year. Quickly, he plucked a few of them, leaving a length of green stem on each. Once he had gathered enough, he wove them together. Flowers and grasses were easy to weave, especially into a circle. When they were joined, he tapped them with his fingers. He could feel the energy moving through the blooms and stems. He closed his eyes briefly, concentrating on that living force, pressing the separate strands of it into one: forging it into a single, singing ring and willing the flowers—live, preserve. They were no longer separate blooms; they had become a single entity. Their petals, which had been in the first stage of wilting, straightened with pride, made fresh and new. It was such a simple thing to do, yet Túrin was wide-eyed and rapt, staring at his hands as if he had performed a wonder. "A crown for you, Prince Túrin." Thranduil reached out and settled the circlet of blooms on Túrin's head.

Finally, Túrin smiled at him. Thranduil smiled back.

They did not stay long, alone in that green glade together, hidden by a conspiracy of leaves and vines and branches. They were never meant to stay long. The world outside was waiting for them to emerge. While the sun receded and the stars began to show themselves—one by one at first, then all at once, like a rain of jewels scattering across the sky—they played and laughed for a few moments.

As Thranduil predicted, when they returned to Menegroth, Túrin did not receive a single scolding. Thingol wrapped him in a fierce embrace. Beleg was as impressed by Thranduil's skills as Thranduil had hoped. He praised Thranduil for his skill in tracking, and said he could visit Túrin whenever he wanted. Eventually, he was able to ask Túrin every question on his extensive list.

Many long years later, tragedy faded into myth for so many, but not for those who were there. Thranduil rarely listened to the sad songs that touched on the subject of Túrin Turambar, but when a certain mood was on him, he would ask the harpers to play one of the few he approved of. Thranduil had grown very old. Seated on his throne, wearing his own heavy crown, he would lean back and remember the smile of a young boy with his dark hair full of flowers.