#even be touched without freaking out over shattering the illusion or whatever

[suffercerebral]

it's okay if you have 0 rizz, you can pull a bad bitch by being autistic

[bump1nthen1ght]

Meet Cute (GN!Reader/Mothman)

Pairing: GenderNeutral!Reader/Male!Mothman

Genre: Cryptids

Warnings: Car accidents, descriptions of bruisings and pain

Word Count: 2564 words

Summary: After an incident, You find yourself in the care of a rather strange savior.

Request: Hey, long time fan, but I could never think of anything to request! I was wondering if cryptids were considered monsters here? Would you be willing to write a meet-cute with Mothman? Maybe something along the lines of them saving the reader from a disaster and sparks fly, and boy, if that's not a pun: like a moth to a flame. Mothman can be man or gender neutral, and I'd like the reader to be gender neutral! But everything is to your discretion! Have fun~! And thank you~!

He doesn’t usually do this.

As he cradles your neck, feeling the microfibers of human hair at the base of your skull and your thrumming heartbeat, it feels as if you could shatter apart in his talons. Your pupils flutter behind your eyelids, the pain of the collison definitely affecting you, even in your near-unconscious state. He sets you down on the scraps of thrown away jackets and ratty down-comforters, paying extra attention to your head and side, where splotches of purple and yellow already bloom up your ribcage. You easily fall into the warmth of the pile, snuggling into the fabric.

He sighs, anxiety decreasing as your body relaxes. Having already checked you, he thinks you should last a night before needing to go to a human hospital, just to double-check. He perches by you, tuning the ancient radio to a subtle night-time station, and waits.

Your chest flutters rhythmically, peacefully. Your features seem to shine in the firelight, catching the shadows and giving the appearance of a Baroque painting. So serene for someone just hit by a car.

He sighs.

He just hopes you won’t freak out.

-------

You wake up in a jerk, immediately filled with regret as your right side screams in pain. You clench your teeth, hand immediately checking your ribs as the memories of last night come flooding back.

You had been walking back home after a night out with your friends. You weren’t drunk, barely even tipsy, but had decided to walk the short path to your tiny house anyway. It was quick, just a 5 minute jaunt by the side of the highway and away from the bar. Just enough time for some asshole to swerve off the side of the road, send you flying, and take off without a care for the deer they assumed they just killed.

It takes a little while longer for you to process that you are definitely not in a hospital right now; Not even in your own house, or any house for that matter. A dying fire crackles nearby, the rising sun beams peaking through makeshift curtains attached to a structure of branches. You sit in a small pallet of fabric, right next to a collection of newspapers and old cctvs.

It’s ramshackle, sure, but well-loved. It doesn’t look like a permanent residence, but is lived-in nonetheless.

“Are you feeling alright?”

A calm tenor breaks the silence, causing you to shoot your eyes away from your surroundings and to focus on the person across from you.

Well, person probably isn’t the right word.

His eyes, even in the morning light, flash with red. They’re huge, set deeply into his face with very indistinguishable features. His neck is nestled into a large amount of fluff, reminiscent of winter scarf, that extends back into his large wings, which are tucked behind him. The antennas that flicker on top of his head are distinctly insect-like, but his long, muscular body and hands are more mammalian. Not human, but more similar to an animal. His hands are long and near-spindly, each finger ended with a long claw.

All these features should come together into an uncanny-valley, terror-inducing nightmare. But there’s something about his voice, the way he sits, so cautious yet concerned, that says the contrary.

“U-Uh...I think so.” You shift your body, a lightning bolt of pain shoots through your ribs and you wince. “I’ve felt better, though.” You tentatively lean down and touch your side, trying to check for a fracture without hurting yourself even more.

The creature stands up, wings still closed and kept to his back, and walks over to you.

“Would you mind if I checked your injuries? I have some experience with collisions such as yours.”

After a second, you nod. He steps closer to you, still moving at a micro-speed, and his hands slowly begin to wander up your side. You suck in a breath, but are more afraid of the potential pain than him. His slow, southern drawl reminds you of old movies and your grandpa, radiating comfort with almost every word. Plus, whatever he was, he had shown you more compassion than the human asshole who had hit you last night, so you felt a little more relaxed having him this close.

Nevertheless, he treats you gingerly, fingers just grazing your bruised side. You wince as his index finger finds a particularly dark bruise, and the creature quickly pulls back.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, it just-fuck that hurt.”

The creature nods but doesn’t move to touch you again.

“Does it hurt when you breathe deeply?”

You shake your head. You had been taking calming breaths to assuage the anxiety of waking up in what might be a monster’s den.

The monster hums, a light chittering sound, like several wind chimes all at once. He reaches over to a small, nearly-rotted, medicine bag in the corner and pulls out an ancient-looking jar of pain cream. He gingerly slides it towards you. “You may try this, it might relieve the pain for a while. Although you should probably see a human doctor to see if you’ve sustained any serious damage to your ribcage.”

You uncork the cream and tentatively dab a bit on your fingers, looking up with a  shaky smile to your savior.

“Uh, t-thank you. For everything-”

Growl

Your hand jerks to your stomach, face going flush as you accidentally brush against your swollen side. The creature perks up.

“I believe I have some human food. Would you like some?”

Sucking in a quick breath, trying to hide the tiny pain and your embarrassment, you nod.

The creature stands up, fumbling with the remains of a kitchen cabinet. From his hunched posture, you’d guess this tiny shelter isn’t big enough for his full height. With his long fingers, he reaches and flicks on the radio. The sounds of a local station’s jingle filters through the air as he grabs a can of beans from a shelf.

You slowly begin to rub in the medication to your side, occasionally looking up at your savior as he flutters around his den. Despite his extended limbs and large body, every movement is very similar to that of a human’s; He moves around the make-shift kitchen like a doting partner, a thought which brings a small blush to your face.

The illusion is shattered when he tears the top of the can clean off, cutting through the metal like a hot knife through butter. As he turns to rekindle the fire and start your breakfast, you quickly look back to your wound, trying to hide your curiosity.

The creature lazily stirs your breakfast as a song begins playing on the radio. The strumming bass is perfect for the morning haze, the low drawl of the singer rhythmic and relaxing. You notice the creature bobbing his head, humming along to the tune. His voice sounds slightly distorted, squeaking like the crackle of tv static. You find you quite like it.

The silence returns, filled only by the radio and the crackling fire. The creature's disposition is amicable, but you're still not sure how to initiate small talk.

“Um, thank you, again. For everything. You really saved my ass.”

The creature gestures with their hand as if to say “No problem.”

“I saw that man hit you with that car and take off. As you were hidden from the road, I thought it best I intervene.” The creature pulls off the now-cooked beans and grabs a spoon, handing the can to you. You take it eagerly, another rumble growling from your stomach. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were, foregoing all table manners to scarf down the breakfast.

“If I am being honest, I don’t typically interact with humans in such a….direct manner.”

“Ah, I guess that,” You eyes do another survey of his gangly, inhuman appearance, “makes sense.”

The creature nods, grabbing an apple before sitting across the fire from you. You can tell he is tense, probably waiting with baited breath for you to come to your senses and scream. There is a small part of you that wants too, desperately, but you silence it with a large mouthful of beans. The apple is tossed back and forth between the creatures hands, his eyes locked on the fire. The curiosity of how he eats things sneaks its way into your thought process. “Do you have a name?”

The creature perks, pausing it’s movements and looking at you with its large, red eyes.

“.....I’ve heard humans call me Mothman. I think it is quite accurate.”

You nod, swallowing down another bite of beans. “Do you...like that name?”

The creature doesn’t respond, eyes still piercing into your heart. His face has a small micro-expression, but you’re not sure you can read it. “Because my brother always said first impressions are the perfect time to reinvent yourself, so I could call you something else if you wanted?”

The creature's eyes flicker, in a movement you think is slight shock, before his eyes roll back to the fire. The small light of the fire flatters the dark black of his fur (You think it’s fur?) and only accentuate his large eyes, flashing and reflecting like rubies. In his relaxed position, he sort of looks….handsome.

“You may call me Mothman. Thank you for asking.”

You nod, letting the strumming banjo of a new song on the radio fill the void. The bouncy beat has you unconsciously bobbing your head as you scoop a spoonful.

“I love this song.” You mutter, lamenting how you're almost out of food to stuff your mouth with.

Mothman hums in agreement. “Me as well, this station is my favorite.”

Given your empty bean can, you take the leap into a conversation.

“Do you have a favorite kind of music genre?”

Mothman fiddles with the stem of his apple, brow (if it can even be called that) furrowing.

“I guess I never thought of what my favorite would be. I mostly listen to whatever the radio plays, enjoyable or not. Though,” Mothman points his thumb to the radio, “I love the sound this instrument makes, though I am unsure what it is called. It’s almost like….”

Mothman’s voice begins to make a squeaking trill, one extremely similar to that of plucked strings, although much sharper and shorter.

“Oh, you mean the banjo? Uh, the one that goes like-” You try your best to imitate the chords of the banjo, unconsciously moving your fingers to imitate playing. It’s not nearly as musical as Mothmans’, but his eyes widen and he nods excitedly.

“Yes! Yes, that sound is very pleasant. I’d say any music with that in it is my favorite.”

“Ah, country, that’s a really popular one around here. Have you ever heard ‘Goodbye Earl’ by The Chicks?”

Mothman shakes his head. Your face drops in surprise.

“Oh, it’s so good, it’s about-” As you lean over to give a long spiel about the song, another bolt of pain shoots up your side, forcing you to bite your cheek so as to not cry out. You keel over your legs, clutching your rib cage.

Right, car accident.

In a second, Mothman is next to you, tentatively laying a hand on your shoulder. His fingertips just barely brush your skin, yet you can still feel a slight fuzziness, the same that covers his whole body.

“You might want to see a human doctor, soon.” You suck in through your teeth, slowly adjusting yourself back upwards. “Yeah, yeah, that’s probably a smart idea.

“I can take you as far as the end of the highway, if you’d like to call a friend or a cab.”

You nod, not trusting your voice to stay steady. Mothman’s other hand slowly moves to your other hip, only applying a modicum of pressure.

“May I help you stand up?” He almost-whispers, a hot breath of air blowing across the side of your neck as he speaks. A shiver runs down your spine as his large fingers play gently against your skin, covering a good portion of your pelvis. You’re thankful you can explain away any blush with the pain. You nod once more.

The two of you stand up gingerly, Mothman almost extending to his full height and brushing the blanket-ceiling with his antennae. You take a couple of small steps, the pain in your side taking the occasional moment to sting you.

Your eyes squint as you exit the encampment, sun already fully risen and in your face.

“If at any point you feel uncomfortable or in pain, let me know.”

You turn your head towards Mothman, but before you can ask any questions he sweeps you up in a bridal carry and extends his wings in one motion. From the corner of your eyes you can see dark red patterns that swirl on them, invisible until caught by the sunlight. Your hands instinctively lace around his neck, fingers tucking into the soft fluff of his neck. Mothman gives you a quick nod and what you think is an assuring smile

Without a word, you two take off.

----------

You two fly low to the ground, Mothman expertly maneuvering through the trees and underbrush as he glides along the highway. You’re sure if you were to drive by, he’d look like a flickering shadow in the woods, nothing more.

He sets you down by the edge of town, just out of sight of the semi-busy main street. You basically collapse to your feet, heart pounding with adrenaline and mind wracked with “Holy fuck, I just flew with the goddamn Mothman.”

“This is where I must depart. Do you think you can find suitable transportation to the hospital from here?”

You nod, still trying to wrestle your vocabulary from ‘What the fuck, Holy shit, Oh my god.’

Mothman gives you another smile and comforting nod, patting you on the shoulder.

“Very good. Good luck on your travels. Oh, and try not to be hit by any cars, alright?”

With a playful glare from you, Mothman begins to unfurl his wings and ready himself to fly back into the woods, buut before he can-

“Wait! Uh….” Mothman halts, wings still wide open. Your mouth and mind stagger, not even sure what you wanted to say. “I have some old country cassettes back at my place. If I found my mom’s old WalkMan I could….show them to you? Some time, maybe? Give you a chance to be your own radio DJ?”

Mothman’s face remains relatively neutral, but the way his antennae unfurl and his wings slightly perk upwards betrays his interest. It’s extremely adorable, like a little kid who hears the word ‘ice cream.’

“Yes, I think I would love that.”

“A-Awesome.” You breath out, not realizing how long you had held it in. “Same place, maybe next Saturday? Though hopefully I won’t be thrown in there by a car this time.”

Mothman lets out a series of squeaks, which you assume is his laugh. He gives you a thumbs up. “Cool, it’s a date.”

With the last word, you walk away, still hobbling with your probably-fractured rib, a large smile on your face.

As Mothman flies away, the cold wind of a West Virginia morning blowing across his body, he can’t deny the certain warmth that radiates from his chest.

I have a date.

[rpd-rookie]

The One Who Runs Away, The One Who Runs Back (Leon S. Kennedy x Reader)

Author’s note: This is a sequel to “A PAST WITH HER, A FUTURE WITH YOU” and the end of my three-parts fan fiction "I TRUSTED YOU WITH MY HEART" I decided to write after so many of you asked for it. Sorry it took so long but I was navigating from one fandom to another. (BTW, if there are any Devil May Cry fans up here, you can read my DMC fan fictions here) PS: Even if I said it before, I have no hate whatsoever towards Ada or Aeon.

Tagged: Angst, Fluff, Romance, Post-Break up, Sexual Content 

Part 1 / Part 2

***

Do you remember? We started this story by quoting some sitcom character that was clueless about love. Well, here’s a suggestion. Why not ending it by quoting someone who knew a little more on such matter.

William Shakespeare - you know that English dude expert on tragic ‘drink this poison, stab yourself’ kind of love - apparently once said ‘Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck’. I say ‘apparently’ cause, even though I have a master in English lit, this quote is from the internet, and also … who knows what the guy truly said?

But it’s the quote that’s important. Not the author. The quote it’s important because it sums up perfectly how this story is gonna end. However, before starting, let me tell you this quote is going to be the only Shakespeare-worthy sentence in this final chapter. You’ve been warned.

Love runs away from those chasing her.          Well, this part was definitely written for someone like Ada Wong. Owner of countless gold medals and possibly a world record at this point, that woman is basically the Usain Bolt of the ‘Running from Leon S. Kennedy’ competition. Unchallenged winner since the creation of this sultry version of cat and mouse game, it’s better not to think about the number of times she successfully ran away from her favourite agent.  But this year, this formidable titleholder in a gorgeous red dress will have to face her Nemesis in the championship. You. Though the comparison to the hideous bio-organic killing machine might not be very complimentary to you but you get the idea.  This year you enter the Kennedy Olympics. And this year you run like Sonic the Hedgehog and you win the damn competition (screw you Usain Bold!). And you do this with your head high and without an ounce of regret. Ignore all the texts and flowers Leon might send on your track Mario Kart style. His gifts are not as slippery as banana peels and they can easily be dodged, I promise. Well, most of the time, when you’re not lying on your bed in the middle of the night crying and sobbing while reading his messages or playing his voice in your voicemail again and again until you’re nothing more but a giant mess with puffy red eyes drowning in a puddle of your own tears.        Screw those messages too! And screw his broken yet terribly sexy voice as well!

Being a man of word, Leon kept his promise. And for months you kept on running peacefully, marathoning away from this past relationship that had destroyed you like no other before while tranquilly fixing your broken heart on the way. That run was a good cardio.

But sometimes, cardio is not enough, and even just the small sight of an overpriced whisky bottle or the smell of Leon’s perfume on some guy’s clothes is enough to reopen your wounds.           And when it happens, you always do the same thing, you break the damn bottle - and run cause damn! it’s expensive! -  or you tell the guy his perfume smells like cheap cologne and that he should definitely change it, which is an improvement on your past destructive behaviour, since there was a time shortly after the break up when you would have simply dragged the guy to your place to let him fuck you senseless while imagining he was Leon. All that just for the illusion to feel him again and for the sake to kick him out the next morning, screaming like a hysterical psycho.

So imagine, for a small second, the wave of intense feelings surging out of your healing heart when, in the middle of a cafe, you hear some dude sitting behind you ordering Leon’s favourite whisky while wearing the same bloody perfume. “It’s got to be relentless persecution at that point!” You sigh, already annoyed, closing your book more violently than intended. Hope you’re ready, stranger! Because you’re not in the mood to deal with this right now.            You turn around with a fake smile that reflects perfectly your irritation, ready to give him hell, your sharpest riposte already burning your tongue. After all, he deserves it and you can’t help it.         But when you meet familiar – and freaking gorgeous - baby blue eyes you freeze and stare, suddenly confused and lost and refusing to believe that in spite of the intense running, love just jumped at your neck after all and it was sitting there, taking the shape of Leon S(tupid) Kennedy.

You should have stood up and left, run for your life, run for your heart. And yet, you didn’t.    You stayed there staring at him looking at you, allowing all your memories, the good ones and the bad ones, all your buried feelings to come back from the dead, embracing them as if you had missed them, which, let’s be honest, you probably had.            You tried to scream to yourself “Come on, Y/N! Shake a leg!” but it seemed that what you brain understood was something like “Cum on him! Open your legs!” as a couple of blurry hours later, you were on Leon’s bed, legs wide open, screaming his name and begging him not to stop his amazing thrusts.

Six months, you ran for six months … Well, looks like the run ends here and now. After a minute-long deep stare, an afternoon of amazing sex and two hours long of something blurry in between.

“I missed you.” And there you were! The moment all couples that broke up have after one of them (in this case Leon with the infamous ‘I missed you line’) starts to believe they miraculously rekindled their love. The fatal post-coital cuddling session that you don’t know how to react to, as you think of all the possibilities before you.      Possibility Number 1) You tell Leon you missed him too and cuddle, enjoying that embrace you secretly yearned for months. But that includes forgetting what he has done or pretending that nothing happened.     Possibility Number 2) You push him away, get dressed, leave again and act as if this afternoon never happened. But if Leon doesn’t remind you of it, the ache between your legs will, that’s for sure!   Possibility Number 3) You jump him again until you sore even more and hope that you’ll be able to leave afterwards.         Frankly, all possibilities suck because, in all cases, it seems like you lose. Since,       with Possibility Number 1) you lose the run forever, with Possibility Number 2) you lose him again and with Possibility Number 3) well it’s result 1 or 2 + your body aching like crazy for days. I suck at math but no need to be Einstein to know the result of this calculation looks unpleasant.    So what do you choose?

You see a triangular dice rolling in your head, showing a never-ending succession of 1, 2 and 3 that doesn’t make any sense and that confuse you even more than you already are. 1, 2, 3, 2, 1, 3, 2 ! Oh for fuck’s sake!

You grimace, angry and pissed at Leon and probably even more at yourself, and finally leaves his bed and his strong warm arms, feeling the tears furiously forming in your eyes. “I can’t” You can’t look at him in the eyes. You don’t want to see his confusion, don’t want to see his pain as he witnesses all his hopes shatter to pieces.         “ What do you mean?” You can hear the sheets crease behind you, alerting you of Leon’s agitation, so you hurry and pick up all your clothes scattered in his room. You must leave, now. 2! 2 it is!  “This! All This! This afternoon never happened.” You tell him, putting on your clothes with sudden clumsy and trembling hands, not caring if your bra is correctly hooked or if you put your shirt on back to front. Your heart. You have to think of your poor heart first.          “Hey, hey, hey.” You feel Leon’s hand softly grabbing your arms and you let go of whatever you were holding right now. His voice is sweet and trying to be comforting. Don’t look at him Y/N! Don’t look at him! “Look at me.” You do. Damn it! And you see his gorgeous blue eyes staring at you, studying your flustered face and the tears slowly drowning your (colour) look. You missed those eyes. You missed them so.damn.much ! As much as you missed his hands cupping your face and his thumbs wiping up your tears. God! How many tears those thumbs have missed recently. “It’s alright.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But there is this voice screaming in your head and very clearly this time. A voice shouting, forcing you to remember that night, that awful nightmarish night, the one when you felt your heart break and your dreams turn to ashes. All that because of him and his obsession for her.

“No, it’s not alright, Leon.” You shake your head and miraculously manage to take a small step back. You never thought you could. But you had to. You can’t stay close to him. You can’t let him touch you, feel you. Not if you want to run away. And you have to run away. Like her! Like Ada. Ada! “I told you. For as long as you have feelings for Ada, I can’t … we can’t…”     “Please don’t talk about her.” He begs and rubs his hand over his face. Is he trying to chase her away from his mind? Is she still in here? Please, let her not be in here.    “But she’s the reason we’re in this situation now. She’s the reason why we’re in this mess.” You insist only for the sake to see his reaction when you mention Ada, to see if she’s still under his skin, somewhere. “Ada is not the reason. I am!” Leon corrects you, a finger directed at his heavy chest as he is putting the full blame on himself for the first time since that night. “I am the one who went after Ada when I shouldn’t have! I am the reason why we broke up! I am the reason why we are so miserable!”         “But I was fine!” You shouted back in an attempt to show him he was wrong refusing to listen to that part of you who knew he was completely right. You were miserable without him. “I was doing fine until you came back and fucked everything up! I was healing goddamnit!”             You felt new tears rolling along your red cheeks and quickly wipe them off with the back of your hand that felt so callous and rough in comparison to Leon’s gentle touch. “You can’t just jump back into my life like this and expect me to forget!”

Leon nods, agreeing with you in a certain way. But the truth is, he doesn’t want you to forget. He doesn’t expect you to erase his mistake. He just wants you to forgive him … No, he just wants you to come back to him. Period. And that’s got to be what you want to. It has to!   “So why did you have sex with me, huh?” He finally asks even though he already knows your answer. “Tell me!” You’re not the kind of person who has meaningless sex, not the kind of person who worships one’s body with divine kisses and devoted caresses if they mean nothing. “Why did you have sex with me?” And yet the answer he wishes to hear doesn’t come out. “For fuck’s sake Y/N! Answer me! Why?” He shouts making you shiver and cry even more.    “Because I LOVE YOU!” You finally scream. And it hurts. It hurts but it feels good too. Like a weight lifted off your chest. “Because I missed you too! Because those months without you have been terrible! Because I don’t know how to handle even just the thought of you or the sound of your voice in my voicemail. Because each time I see something that makes me think of you, I’m a mess and I do things that normal me would never do! You fucked me up, Leon! You fucked me up but I love you! And I hate to love you!” You grunt in pain and relief, enraged but happy that you finally let everything out. And Leon listens in silence, frozen by your powerful honest confession. But he doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t know what to say. Part of him is overjoyed, ecstatic that you still love him but there is another part that just feels terrible, sorry for the pain your love for him caused you even in his absence.   “But you see—“ You continue “That’s the problem in our relationship, Leon! I love you in ways that are so intense, that go beyond sanity. And you love me by half.”    You see him crumple, his horrified face looking suddenly very pale as if he had just heard some dreadful news. Is that really how you feel? Is that how you see his love for you? Is that what he has made you believe?         “Goodbye Leon.”

With the full intention to leave Leon’s place for good and never come back, you grab you bag on your way out of the bedroom while carelessly shoving your underwear inside of it since you forgot to put them on in the midst of panic and precipitation. Get out of here, Y/N! Now! A reasonable voice encourages you. Listen to me!    But this not what Leon wants.

“I never loved you by half.” He declares and you abruptly stop, asking God if he’s some kind of sadist that loves seeing you in pain from the comfort of his divine sofa somewhere in heaven. “Never.” But it’s not God and his sadism that makes you turn around. It’s you, and your masochist love for that blue-eyed man before you.     “I don’t believe you” Your voice almost doesn’t leave your throat as you try not to sob.           “But it’s the truth.” He says with a calm soothing voice as he slowly approaches you. “I never imagined my future with Ada. I never wished to grow old with her or build a home with her.” You want to tell Leon to stop talking, to stay where he is but your body doesn’t seem to respond. And when you feel him grabbing your hands in his and the comforting warmth that goes with that simple touch, you know that leaving is now an almost impossible task. “Yes. I admit it. My feelings for her were real.” Even when his honesty hurts you, you don’t know how to leave anymore. “But they were nothing in comparison to what I feel for you.”     You try to let go, pulling your hands away from his loving grip but he holds you back. And you’re not strong enough. Or maybe, you just don’t want to be strong. Everything is so confusing. Everything is tearing you apart.     “But they’re still here, aren’t they?” You question, hoping his answer might give you a clue, might give you the strength to make the correct decision. Do you leave? Or do you stay? “And they’ll keep coming back each she goes back into your life. You can’t let go of her.”    “You’re maybe right.” His words hurt you more than you thought they would. They hurt like hell because you realise there are not the ones you wanted to hear. You wanted to hear him say that he would let go of Ada, for good, for you. You wanted to hear that because deep down … YOU WANTED TO FUCKING STAY! “But can you let go of your past?” He continues and you shake your head refusing to hear any other word coming out of Leon’s mouth.       “Don’t!” You beg, weary.           “No! Listen to me this time. Ada is my past, Y/N. She’s my past. And you … you’re my future. You’re my life, damn it!” He doesn’t cry but you don’t need his tears to sense how emotional and how honest he is. And suddenly, you just want to listen to him. “And I was a fool not to see it sooner. When you left me, I felt a void I had never felt in my entire life. I felt like a part of me was missing. And then, the bombing in Washington happened, and it was like I had nothing left. I needed you. I wanted you. You. Not Ada.”      “Leon” You whisper and he cups your face again, blue eyes staring deep into yours, allowing you to see everything in him, his strong love for you and all the weaknesses he hated to admit. “It was you in my mind. Only you. And it will always be you. Because I love you. Now. Today. And I will always love you.”

You cry even more, uncertain if those tears are tears of sorrow, tears of joy or a mix of both. God, how can your emotions be such a mess right now? How can you be wishing to shout at him with all the anger you’ve accumulated and, at the same time, willing to kiss him with all love you’ve got?

“If you got to believe something. Believe that. And if that’s not enough and you think you can be happy with someone else. Then go. I won’t hold you back.” You frown. He is fucking lying. You’re sure of it. “You can’t stop running after me and you know it.” He smiles and scoffs, sensing that hint of sudden defiance in your tone he enjoys a lot.  “True. I can’t sop running after you. But I’ll do my best not to catch you if that’s what you want. But you got to tell me. Is that what you truly want?” You don’t reply. Truth is, you’re not sure what to say not because you’re not sure that’s what you want but because you’re not sure you can trust him if you let him in again.                        “No.” You whisper. “No, that’s not what I want. I want you. All of you.” You can see Leon struggle to contain his growing joy as it starts to glimmer brighter and brighter in his irises. He doesn’t want to cry victory just yet. He is cautious and rightfully so. “But can I?”        “Want me?” He smiles. “ Have you completely?” You correct, searching for a promise in his eyes, one you hope, you wish he would not break this time.     “Trust me with your heart again and find out.”

This better not hurt this time…

[dhwty-writes]

Awakenings

The last part of my gift for @heyabooboo for @thewitchersecretsanta!

Did you think we're done with the angst? Sorry to disappoint, there's still one last chapter left. So, without further ado, read away! 

Summary: Geralt wakes up from his stay in Nehaleni's dreamworld. But Jaskier is still asleep, and it's not looking good for him.

Moodboard by the amazing @petrificustotaluss​

Warnings: temporary character death, I guess? For about 1 paragraph

Read on AO3

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7

Waking up is one of the strangest experiences, mortals undergo on a daily basis. It can be peaceful, like untangling yourself from a lover's embrace to go relieve yourself, only to know that you will come back to that welcoming warmth once more. It can be violent, like a bucket of cold water on a morning after a bender. It also can be very disorienting, especially if you find yourself in a place where you decidedly did not fall asleep in.

Some of them wake slowly, their mind still wrapped in the sluggish fog of my dreamworld of creation and creativity. Others fight to escape the misty tendrils of a nightmarish prison of their own design. And others still are able to wake in the span of a heartbeat, one blink submerged in the very heart of my garden and the next far beyond my reach.

Witchers, generally, belong to the latter sort of people. It is a shame; they rarely are able to indulge in the pleasures of my realm for long. Waking to a monster with steely claws looming over you or a beast ready to tear out your throat will teach you to sleep too deeply. And even if they are able to enter into my domain, their lives of hardships often make it impossible for them to even imagine anything but a waking nightmare.

So, it should be no wonder that Geralt of Rivia woke with a gasp, already half on his feet before he even knew what was happening. The witcher stumbled, his legs giving out beneath him and collapsed on the floor.

He blinked. His vision was still foggy with the sleep. He blinked again. And again, and again, and again, until he could see the room he was in clearly. 'Room?' Geralt groaned and pushed himself up to his elbows. "What the fuck?" he meant to mumble, but his throat was too dry to form words.

The door burst open. 'Shit.' He tried to scramble to his feet, panic flaring up in him. He was dressed in nothing but breeches and a shirt, different ones than what he had worn when he had gone into the ruin. His armour, his swords nowhere to be seen— Whoever had come to look for the intruder in their home would surely have having and easy job finishing off the witcher—

"Geralt!" Yennefer of Vengerberg exclaimed and fell to her knees next to him. Her hands hovered above his body as if she didn't dare to touch him. As if he were an illusion that might shatter any minute. "You're... awake?"

"Yen?" he groaned weakly, not quite believing his eyes either. What was she doing here? She should be far away in whatever estate she was currently occupying while he was supposed to be on a scouting mission in a haunted ruin. He glanced around warily. Wherever he was staying, it was definitely not a ruin. More like the mansion of some minor noble.

"Yes, it's me, you big dumb oaf," she scoffed and interrupted his wondering. She tugged at his too-heavy arm until he complied and she could pull one of them over her shoulders. "Triss!" she called as she tried to get him into a standing position. His legs stubbornly remained uncooperative. "Triss, come over here, he's awake!"

It took his brain a while to catch up with her words, his mind still much preoccupied to move even one single muscle in his body. "Triss?" he croaked. This was starting to make less and less sense. And it hadn't made a lot of sense in the first place.

"She's looking over Jaskier," she snapped as if that was an appropriate answer.

"Jaskier." He frowned as he was made to sit down on the bed he had stumbled out of earlier. Jaskier. He remembered— In the ruins, he remembered the fog. The nightmare. The blood, the guilt. And the loneliness, the desperate feeling of missing someone. He remembered yelling— "Jaskier," he gasped. He remembered the deity, remembered the deal—"Butcher, I need a priest. You need to offer a replacement at least. Come with me and I let your loved ones be. Or stay and let them pay."—the garden, robes, shackles. He remembered a door, and— "Jaskier."

He clung to Yennefer, desperately, hoping she would understand. She passed a hand over his hair. "Breathe," she ordered him and pushed a waterskin into his hands. He drank gratefully. "And drink something. Your bard is—" She hesitated with a frown, evidently weighing her next works. "He's asleep next door."

"What happened?" he grunted, once his throat didn't feel like sandpaper anymore.

"He brought you here," she explained calmly, handing him a cup with an atrocious smelling concoction. When he raised his eyebrows in question she answered: "Yeah, I don't know how he managed either— oh that? Drink that, it will give you back some of your strength—he brought you here, begging me to save you. I told him I'd do some research—"

"—and came to Aretuza, where she found me," Triss Merigold chimed in from where she stood in the doorway. "Welcome back to the world of the living, Geralt."

He frowned. Aretuza? Yennefer avoided that place like the plague. If she truly had gone there, it had to have been bad. "Triss," she chided, evidently surprised.

"Don't worry, he's stable." The words 'For the moment' hang unspoken in the air between them. "Did you know that your bard is absolutely insane?" He nodded. "He demanded that we send him after you and threatened to find a ruffian to knock him unconscious if we didn't."

Geralt grimaced. Yeah, that sounded like Jaskier. He drained the last of the revolting brew and thrust it back into Yennefer's hands. "How long?" They exchanged a silent glance. Geralt growled. "How long?" he asked again.

"Almost two months," Triss admitted finally.

Two months. The little colour he had regained drained from his face again. Two months of sleeping. Two months without moving a single muscle. Two months without food and drink except for what the sorceresses could administer with their magic. 'Too long.' That was too long, far too long for any human. Panic started rising within him as he thought of all that could happen in that time. "Where is he?"

"Geralt, lie back down," Yennefer tried to soothe him and manoeuvre him back into a lying position.

"No," he insisted weakly, and tried to push her away, a futile attempt in his weakened state. "No, no, Yen. Yennefer, where is he? Please, I need to— Please!"

"You need to rest, is what you do."

"You lost a lot of strength in that time while you were asleep," Triss agreed, but he barely listened to them.

His mind was aflutter with all the memories of his stay in the deity's realm coming back to him; the lonely eras of him kneeling at their feet with nothing to do, nothing to talk about, Jaskier appearing, the Game of Fools, the poems, the shackles closing around Jaskier instead. Their last song, their kiss, their goodbye. The storm raging with Jaskier at the centre, hidden from view but clear to see, energy swirling around him, within him, dying out. Their freedom. A kiss. "I'll be with you in just a moment."

"Stable?" he echoed.

"Yes," Triss agreed. "He has been so for a few days."

"I need to see him," he blurted.

"Geralt," Yen said very softly, but he was having none of that.

"No, I need to see him." He grabbed her by the shoulders and stared at her intently. "I need to see him," he insisted again. "Please. Please, Yen, help me."

"Geralt," she said again, more worried this time. He looked at her, pleading, desperate. "Alright," she whispered and hoisted his arm over her shoulder again.

"Yenna," Triss chided, but she was shut up with an angry violet stare.

"Come over here and be useful. He wants to see him? Fine. He'll see him."

With combined forces they managed to haul him over to the room next door. They almost didn't make it over to the chair next to the bed, for Geralt's legs gave out beneath him from relief when he saw Jaskier lying there. The bard was thinner than he remembered, his cheeks sunken in, and his skin a sickly grey he almost didn't notice with the glowing sphere of light surrounding him.

He looked peaceful, almost, he mused, once he collapsed at his bedside, waiting. Peaceful and stable. But the longer he waited, the more worried glances the two sorceresses exchanged, the more time passed without his... friend? Lover? Bard. The more time passed without his bard stirring, the less he looked asleep. The more he looked like a corpse.

"What— Why— Why is he not waking up?" he stammered after what felt like an eternity.

"It's the spell we put him under, so he could go after you," Triss explained as Yennefer put a hand on his shoulder and asked: "What happened Geralt?"

"He won. They said that we could go, he won, he wrote a song to melt a heart of stone!" He looked up at both of them, uncontrolled, unbridled fear clouding his mind. "He should wake up, he won- Why is he not waking up? Triss! Yennefer!"

Again, the anxious glances. "Lift it," Yennefer said quietly.

"Yenna—"

"No, Triss, you have to try again. You have to lift it."

"Again?" Geralt asked with a wavering voice as Triss got to work, chanting quietly in Elder. "What do you mean, again? Yennefer, answer me!"

"Calm down, Geralt," she ordered him sharply and he snapped his mouth shut. He could do that. "It's— Fuck," she cursed and looked away. "I need you to not freak out. Alright? Do not freak out, Geralt."

He probably couldn't do that. Still, he nodded.

"We had agreed with him," she started slowly, "to leave him in the netherworld for one month. For safety reasons. So, after that had passed, we tried to guide him back. And— we couldn't. It was like he was fighting back. And then, he slipped further under. With each day, more of his soul got sucked further and further into the netherworld."

"What?" he whispered quietly. "But he found me. He won. He should be waking up now."

"We're not sure if he can. We can lift the spell, but... there is so little of him left in this world, he might not be able to find his way back here."

"But he won," he said again, stupidly. "We were free to go. He— He said he'd be with me in just a minute." Despite his better knowledge he reached out, to grasp his hand at least. He hissed when the sphere burned his fingers.

Uncharacteristically, Yennefer didn't even chide him for it, her attention diverted by Triss' disturbingly calm: "Yenna." Geralt was left to stare helplessly at his bard's lifeless body as the two sorceresses argued quietly.

After just the blink of an eye, Yennefer turned back to him and said: "Geralt."

Suddenly, he knew with terrifying clarity what she was about to say next. "He's not finding his way back," he said with a surprisingly steady voice. "He's dying."

"He's dying, Geralt," she agreed meekly.

He nodded. He could already feel the tears rising again in his eyes, just like they had done in the netherworld. Only this time there was no soft song of Jaskier to call them forth. Instead, the room was as silent as a grave. "Drop the sphere," he ordered.

"Geralt—" Triss tried, but he shook his head.

"If he's dying anyways, I can at least hold him while he does," he decreed. "Please. Drop the sphere. And leave us alone. I'll— I'll shout, once it's over."

He didn't even register them dropping the spell and leaving. He just blinked and found himself alone with a barely breathing Jaskier in the room. In any other situation it might have worried him. It should have worried him. But not now.

Not now, because Jaskier was dying, and there was nothing he could do.

Geralt swallowed his tears and, with an incredible feat of strength he crawled onto the bed. Wheezing, he leaned against the headboard to regain his breath. Then, he heaved Jaskier into his lap, to cradle him gently.

For a while, he just sat like that. Holding the fragile body of his bard, rocking softly back and forth while he listened intently to his breathing. Jaskier breathed in. And out. In. And out. 'I should say something,' he knew. But what did one say to a dying person who couldn't even hear you?

"I— I'm sorry," he stammered after a while, the first thing that came to his mind. Jaskier breathed out. And in. "I'm sorry it has to end like this. I'm sorry for going into that ruin, I'm sorry for being so stubborn, I'm sorry for never telling you how I feel."

Jaskier breathed in. And out. It was like those words broke a damn, for suddenly Geralt couldn't stop speaking anymore: "It was stupid, I know. But I was scared. Scared of losing you. Somehow, I thought losing you when you didn't know would be easier."

Jaskier breathed out. And in. "Hm." He carded his fingers through Jaskier's soft hair. "Stupid. Hurts just as fucking much."

Jaskier breathed in. And out. "I'm really fucking angry with you right now, y'know, Jaskier? I wanted to hear that song. I wanted to kiss you. For real. Just once."

Jaskier breathed out. And in. "Y'know— hm." This was somehow even harder than he'd thought. "Y'know, you were the last thing I thought about before I fell asleep. And the first thing I worried about when I woke up in the garden. When they offered me their terms, I— it's stupid, but at first, I didn't even think that they might ask for Yennefer's soul instead. Or Ciri's. All I thought was that I can't let 'em have you. 'S why I stayed."

Jaskier breathed in. And out. "I love you," he whispered and took his hand gently. "I know you probably can't hear me, but if you can, please— Please, Jaskier, come back to me. I'm waiting for you. I'll always wait for you."

Jaskier breathed out. Geralt waited. And waited. And waited. He didn't breathe in again.

"Fuck," Geralt whimpered, curling himself around his bard's lifeless—dead—body. He might have been ashamed of the violent sobs that shook his body, of tears that flowed freely. But all of that mattered so little. Not when he— Not when— When—

"Oh," a croaky voice said and Geralt froze, "tha's nice."

"Jaskier," he whispered against his bard's shoulder, not daring to look up. What if he had misheard? What if Jaskier was not actually awake? What if it was a ghost, what if Geralt had to fight him—

"'S my name, love," Jaskier slurred and sighed. "Always thought it'd be nice t'die in your arms."

He couldn't help it. He had to pull back and look. He had to confront the horrors that inevitably waited for him when he looked into his bard's face, he had to see— Blue eyes. Very tired blue eyes. Very tired, alive blue eyes. "You're not dead."

"No? Oh." He blinked sluggishly. "Dyin'?"

"Yen!" Geralt shouted, because he didn't know what else to do. "Triss, Yen, he's awake!"

The two sorceresses barrelled into the room immediately, betraying that they had been eavesdropping. Geralt was hauled off the bed by Yennefer, as Triss rushed over to Jaskier, weaving spells and fishing for potions in her bag. "Wha's happenin'?" Jaskier managed before he was shut up by some vile concoction being poured down his throat.

"You nearly died, you idiot, that's what's happening," Triss hissed as she supported his head while he struggled to swallow the brew. "Reduced your witcher to a useless, blubbering mess."

She wasn't wrong. Geralt still couldn't stop rambling: "He just woke up, Yen, I don't know— I don't understand— He was dead, and suddenly he was talking. Will he be alright? Please, will he be alright now?"

"Shut up," both women snapped at him and Jaskier.

"Yen, I need to—" he tried again and was promptly shoved back into the chair.

"If you don't sit down and shut your mouth, I swear to the gods, Geralt of Rivia, I'll kick you out of this room, whether you can walk or not," Yennefer spat and joined Triss in the check-ups she was running.

It was probably the hardest thing he had ever done in his entire life. Normally, he had no issue with keeping his mouth shut, but this time it felt like torture. His fingers itched, his whole body thrummed with the insistent need to do something, anything. Was this how Jaskier felt all the time? Geralt felt like he was losing his mind.

Yennefer held Jaskier upright as Triss stripped him of his shirt to check for... something. Geralt's stomach churned with each strip of sickly grey skin revealed, stretched far too thin over Jaskier's rips. 'Maybe I should wait outside,' he thought. But he couldn't. Not watching, not knowing seemed somehow even worse.

His thoughts were interrupted by Jaskier's hand searching blindly on the soft sheets. "Please," he croaked, "take my hand, love."

And how could he deny such a request? Geralt leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the bed to clasp his hand tightly with both of his. The angle was a bit awkward, maybe, but that didn't deter him. He was glad to be able to do anything at all. And if he helped Jaskier with that, even better.

He couldn't say how much time passed before Yennefer and Triss backed up, grim masks hiding their relief. Not very well, of course, but still. "You'll be alright," Triss decreed. "A few days of rest and proper food, and taking it slowly for the next few months and you should be as good as new."

Jaskier nodded and smiled. "Thank you."

"Still, you're an idiot. I tried to wake you up, twice. And you didn't come back either of those times. You fought me, you bastard."

"I'm sorry. I needed my strength there." The smile on his face grew sheepish. "But I'm back now, aren't I? We both are."

She scoffed and crossed her arms. "You owe me, bard."

"I know. And I'll gladly repay you at any time."

"No," she pointed a finger at him, "not at any time. First, you rest. Come, Yenna." They were already out the door when Triss poked her head back in. "Before I forget it: there's a strict no-sex-policy while you're resting."

Jaskier scoffed and Geralt made a vague gesture at both of them, exhausted from the little they'd done in the past hour. "I doubt that's even an option."

"For now," Jaskier added and Triss wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah, it's the 'for now' I'm worried about. No sex!" she ordered again before she was pulled out of the room by Yennefer and the door shut behind them.

With them gone, the room was plunged into silence. Geralt knew that he should say something, but there was nothing he could think of. As so often. Instead, he just sat there, still holding on tight to Jaskier's hand as if he might vanish if he stopped touching him. And staring. How could he not? Whatever magic the two sorceresses had worked, had regained Jaskier some semblance of strength at least, his skin not quite as sickly pale as before. But it was his eyes that kept attracting Geralt’s gaze. There was something… weird about them. An unearthly glow, interrupted by little bursts of lightning flashing through the clear blue. He couldn’t bear to look. He couldn’t bear to look away. 

Luckily, with Jaskier silence never lasted long. "Hey there," he whispered and stroked Geralt's knuckles with his thumb. He still looked very tired, but the smile at least was reassuring. "You look like shit."

Geralt snorted. "You've seen better days yourself, bard."

"Rude," the bard decided and pouted, closing his eyes again.

"You started it."

He chuckled and squeezed his hand weakly. "Shouldn't you be nicer to me? Y'know after all of—" He waved his hand around vaguely.

"What? 'Cause you're my lover?" He groaned quietly as he got to his feet again. "Can I?"

Jaskier's eyes snapped open again and nodded. "Is... that what I am?" he asked hesitantly, shuffling to the side to make room for Geralt on the bed. "Your lover?"

"Hm," he answered and flopped down, exhausted. "You're my bard,” he said finally, once he was settled. “And you're an idiot."

"Yeah?" Jaskier scoffed. "Well, whose idea was it to investigate a spooky ruin? Certainly not mine, I tell you that mu—mphh!" Geralt shut him up with a kiss.

"You're an idiot," he said again once they separated. "And I love you."

Jaskier's expression softened and cuddled close, arranging Geralt's limbs to hold him. "I love you, too, you fool."

"Good," he sighed with relief. Immediately, his expression hardened again: "So, stop being an idiot!" He pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I can't lose you now. Fuck." He draped his arm over his eyes. "Fuck, Jaskier, I thought I was losing my mind. You stopped breathing in my arms."

"Romantic, isn't it?" the bard grinned up at him. Geralt growled and Jaskier winced. "Too soon? Yeah, I get that."

"Yennefer told me you found me and brought me here. I— I can't even imagine how you... How could you bear that?"

He chuckled. "I don't remember, if I'm quite honest. One moment I found you lying there, the next I was knocking on Yennefer's door. And then suddenly I woke up in the netherworld."

"Hm. Was it—" He hesitated, remembering what it had been like for him. The fog, the corpses, the guilt. "Was it bad?"

"Bad?" Jaskier grimaced. "It was a fucking pain in the arse, that's what it was. So many riddles. So weird."

"Weird?" Geralt looked down at him suspiciously. He supposed that was one way to put it.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Pink grass, purple trees, green snow. A whole bunch of talking flowers and birds. Just weird."

"Hm." That didn't sound anything like what he had seen.

Jaskier huddled closer. "The nightmares were worse," he confessed. But before Geralt had a chance to ask about them: "But let's not talk about that now. The important thing is that we are together." He yawned. "And that we'll stay together."

"Hmm." He pressed his nose into Jaskier's hair and inhaled deeply as his bard's breathing evened out. There were still so many questions he had. Like why Jaskier had stayed longer. What had happened during the storm. What the name of the deity was. But they could wait until they had slept. "Sweet dreams," he mumbled. "I'll be there when you wake up."

Jaskier's lips quirked upwards. "I'll be there when you fall asleep."

Geralt hummed, not quite understanding what he meant. But it didn’t really matter either, he decided and let his eyes droop closed again.

It was a serene and starry night when the witcher fell asleep with his bards in his arms. As it should be, by any rights; a night as beautiful as you can imagine for a picturesque pair of young lovers. They dreamt as well; a dream of pink grass and green snow, a garden with an old friend and a sky that was eternally stuck in sunset no more. It was a peaceful dream. A dream of freedom, found fortune, and love.

[stars-in-my-damn-eyes]

Ophelia is Just a State of Mind

Summary: Rhian’s life in itself hadn’t been too hard. She’d been born into an unimportant family at a GA base in Wales, to loving parents. However, the GA itself, as was customary, seemed more than happy to break through the illusion that everything was alright.

Rhian Vaughn’s father was a man with tired eyes who always smiled gently at her and patted her head softly whenever she went up to him. Her mother didn’t like to touch Rhian - or anyone - but she’d always sing to her, and assure Rhian that she loved her.

When Rhian’s mother didn’t come home one day, her father changed. Whenever he thought Rhian or little Trystan weren’t looking, an anger would settle within him, as if he was mad at the world.

Her mother had died when Rhian was five, but Rhian was six when she asked her father what had happened to her.

“She’s dead, lamb,” he’d said, and the tiny part of Rhian that had been hoping that she’d just transferred bases and was going to come back any day felt something shatter.

“Oh,” she said. “But Mum wasn’t old.”

“She wasn’t,” her father said. “But someone in her office had let an important file get corrupted, and the blame fell on her head.”

“Did the corruption kill her?” Rhian asked, voice small.

Her father chuckled. “Something like that.”

They didn’t talk about Rhian’s mum again - it simply wasn’t done in the organisation to dwell in the dead when life was moving on, after all - until they recieved news that they were to be transferring from their base in Wales to one in England, when Rhian was eight, almost nine. It was the main base of the GA, her father had said, and a very prestigious location. That’s where Mark Grey, the head of the GA himself, lived, and where their mother had come from.

“We’re going to Central?” Rhian had yelped, stars in her eyes, Trystan standing beside here with an expression of quiet awe. “How come? Will mum’s friends be there? Do we have any aunts or uncles there?”

“Naw,” her father had chuckled mirthlessly. “I don’t know where your aunts and uncles have been stationed. We’re going to Central because of you, Rhian.”

“Me? How come?”

“Someone in the Academy was very impressed with your scores, lamb, and they want you in Central.”

Rhian would regret the glee that overtook her heart for a very long time afterwards.

At Central, she’d been put in a smaller class of ten other kids by the Academy adminitrators.

“The Grey Alliance Academy has recognised your proficiency in the STEM disciplines, Vaughn, and we have chosen to assist you in achieving your highest potential,” someone had told her, and Rhian had been informed that she was going to be specialising in that discipline from now on.

She was slightly disappointed that she didn’t get to choose her classes, but she pushed that aside rather quickly. She was in Central, after all - that more than made up for it.

In her class, she worked diligently.

She was approached by a classmate a few weeks later.

“Hi. Vaughn, right? I’m Alice Kingsley. Congrats on being first,” she said, her sallow face betraying no emotion.

“What am I first in?”

Kingsley’s surprise showed both on her face and in her voice. “In our class! And you’re ninth overall for Division Four trainees. Don’t you check the rankings?”

“Oh. Not really,” Rhian said. “I don’t really care about that stuff.”

Kingsley almost choked. “You don’t care about the rankings? The single most important thing that determines your future in the GA?”

“I don’t really mind what I end up as.”

“Not even if you end up in Division One as field operative? They have the highest mortality rate, you know, and that’s where you go if you don’t score high enough!”

“My dad was in Division One for twenty-five years, and he’s still alive. My mum worked in Division Two in data analysis, I think, and she died when I was five.”

“Yeah, but that’s probably an isolated incident. Field ops are-”

“My dad says incompetence gets you regardless of division,” Rhian cut her off. “So I don’t care where I end up. Just so long as I can do whatever it is I’m doing well enough.”

“Oh. Okay.” Kingsley lapsed into a momentary silence. “Anyways, I was going to ask, do you want to study with me? I could really use the help of the smartest student in class.”

“Okay.”

True to her word, Kingsley showed up that night to study with her.

And the night after that.

In fact, Kingsley showed up at the Vaughn flat to study with Rhian most nights.

Over the next few months, Rhian got to know Kingsley - Alice - rather well. She found out that she was from an important family - the Kingsleys were part of the Grey clan, and Alice’s father sat on the Grey Alliance Council. Rhian had had a minor freak-out over this revelation - the GAC, after all, was a gathering of all of the most important members of the whole Alliance - and Alice had laughed at her face. More importantly, she had found out that Alice’s favourite food was strawberry milkshakes, and immediately had an intense debate with her friend over whether or not milkshakes could actually be classified as a food. She found out that Alice had a tattoo of an ornate key on her lower back (“You should get a lock done, Rhian, then we could match!”), and that Alice knew almost all of the secret passageways within the GA Central building.

“We have to explore them,” Rhian had said suddenly, a picture of seriousness, when she was twelve.

“You’ve been saying that since we were nine,” Alice laughed.

“I’m serious.”

“You chicken out ever single time.”

“I won’t this time.”

“You’ll eat your words the next time we encounter a patrol,” Alice snorted.

“Do you want to bet on that?” Rhian challenged, eyes glowing with determination.

“Absolutely,” her friend smirked.

They dodged the patrols with practiced ease - or rather, Alice did, with Rhian stumbling along behind her, barely managing to keep silent. The first passage was behind the statue of Praetorian - the founder of the GA and a man apparently uncreative enough to steal a name from the Romans - in the corridor leading from the reception area. It was, according to Alice, the main passage, and the most expedient way to access the prohibited areas of Central. The second passageway was revealed to be behind a large tapestry of Elizabeth Hawthorne in the centre of the one wall of the GAC meeting hall that was free of balconies. Rhian had had a vague idea of who Elizabeth Hawthorne was at one point, but since she was terrible at history, she had long since forgotten what Elizabeth had actually done. It was apparently significant enough that the GA had at once been called the Hawthorne Alliance, but not so much that Rhian would actually remember what.

After that day, Rhian and Alice spent most of their free time exploring the Central building’s passageway and discovering new ones, to the point where Rhian, as well as Alice, knew them all as she did the back of her hand.

They were entirely unprepared for the one day, when the two of then were fifteen - and yes, Alice, if one’s fifteenth birthday was withing three weeks, that did indeed count them as a fifteen-year-old - for the encounter that awaited them as they stumbled out from behind the coat of arms belonging the now extinct Harrow family.

“Ordinarily,” mused a deep voice, one that was oh-so-familiar from so many speeches and broadcasts, “I’d consider the usage of restriced passages to enter areas that are out of bounds a criminal act, but I’ll make an exception for a pair of future Council members.”

Mark Grey himself stared down the two terrified girls.

“S-sir?” Alice choked, Rhian standing behind her, red-faced and sweating.

“I’ve made my selection,” Grey said. “As you know, the heads of division are usually members of the Grey clan, with the first-ranked trainee of that division becoming their second-in-command. Ordinarily, we’d wait until you were seventeen, or at least sixteen, but with the… unfortunate circumstances surrounding Markowitz and his deputy, we’re appointing you two early.”

“W- we’re just kids, sir,” Alice stammered. “We don’t want to d- disappoint you. Sir.”

For a second, Rhian wondered, fear seizing her heart, if Grey was going to reprimand Alice for questioning him, but the leader of the GA merely chuckled.

“Don’t worry, Kingsley, I’ve accounted for that. I’ve appointed an advisor to assist you in the running of Division Four until you turn old enough to do so independantly. Congratulations on your promotions to Head of Division Four, Kingsley, and you to Second, Vaughn.”

Rhian’s dad had cried at the news, and Trys had been indescribably jealous. Rhian had had to move out of her family’s flat, into a luxurious two-storey flat in the same corridor as Alice’s slightly larger one. As Rhian stood in the flat, she marvelled at the engineering prowess of whoever it was that had managed to build the quasi-city of Central into a hill that contained a buried castle and over seventy underground storeys of GA architecture, whilst still managing to conceal the entire thing’s existence from the general public.

For a while, life was perfect, as Rhian and Alice adjusted to running the Technology, Engineering and Research Division of the GA.

Then, of course, the whole idyllic illusion shattered.

Rhian and Alice had found a new passageway, which seemed to lead to Floor 74.

Nothing ever led to Floor 74.

Rhian went first, elbows pushed against the sides of the cramped passage, preventing her from slipping on her stomach down the steep downwards slope that the passage lay on.

The end of this passage seemed to be an observation window, looking into a dim room with stone walls, housing a single, solitary metal chair.

Alice shot her friend a look of confusion, to which Rhian replied with a minimal shrug of her shoulders, as much as she could without losing her support.

They were about to retreat up the passageway when a young woman - barely a woman, even, mostly a girl - entered, dragging with her a bedraggled and bloody man in cuffs, who she threw at the chair with a strength unsuited to her slight build as harsh interrogation lights snapped on. They knew who she was - Allana Julian, the 18-year-old prodigy who had recently recieved a promotion from second-in-command of Division Zero to its Head after her boss’ unfortunate demise, becoming the first non-Grey in over a century to command one of the Divisions.

Division Zero dealt mainly with external affairs and threats, but also with internal ones when the opportunity arose. Julian, renowned for her cold and calculated efficiency and efficacy, seemed like the perfect fit for the job.

With a start, Rhian realised that she recognised the man. His name was Wolfgang something, she knew - a coworker of his father’s after his transfer to Division Two after coming to Central.

Division Two specialised in data management and IT. As Wolfgang tried his best to right himself on the chair, Rhian remembered a conversation she’d had with her father one night, back in Wales.

“But someone in her office had let an important file get corrupted, and the blame fell on her head.”

Was this what had happened to her mother?

“Schliemann,” Julian’s voice said, the authority it carried not even slightly mitigated by its raspiness. “We know that someone in your office botched the report regarding that damn Underworld pub in Leeds. We know this, because a full success was reported, and yet our very own operatives took three of the damn renegade psychopaths into GA custody yesterday. So, how is it that the report claims that all the patrons, who we have spent months building profiles on, were confirmed dead?”

Wolfgang spat blood as Julian’s fist collided with his face and he collapsed to the floor.

“It wasn’t me! Vaughn filed the report!”

As Julian’s cold, calculating eyes studied the man, Rhian’s blood ran cold. She barely felt Alice’s hand on her shoulder.

“Vaughn will be punished accordingly for filing incorrect information, rest assured. Congratulations on signing your friend’s death warrant, Schliemann, but it won’t save you. We have all the information. I just want to know your reason for writing it as you did.”

The desparation in Wolfgang’s eyes was swiftly replaced by terror.

“Please…”

“Hm?”

“Please don’t kill me.”

In an instant, Julian’s calm and collected persona vanished, and was replaced by something else.

Something angry, and terrifying.

“Answer,” she screamed, delivering a forceful kick to Wolfgang’s ribs, prompting more blood to escape from between the man’s lips, “the god-damn question, you pathetic maggot!”

“I-” Wolfgang wheezed. “I felt sorry- If Hernandez reported another failure, they were gonna- get axed.”

“Hernandez,” Julian said, and the calmness returned as abruptly as it had vanished. “Of course.”

She reached out an arm to help Wolfgang up, and he took it.

Julian pulled the man up, and spun him around, so that he was facing away from her, legs splayed, being supported completely by Julian.

“Thank you, Schilemann,” she whispered into his ear, so quietly that Rhian had to read her lips.

She snapped Wolfgang’s neck like it was nothing.

The lights dimmed as Julian walked out, with guards entering to clear Wolfgang’s body away.

“Jesus,” Rhian gasped, sobs choking her, and Alice looped an arm around her chest, hugging her as best she could without losing purchase. “Liss, she’s coming for my dad. She’s gonna kill my dad for- for something that wasn’t his fault!”

“I-” Alice lapsed into slience.

“I’m gonna get him out,” Rhian said.

“No,” Alice whispered. “They’ll kill you, too, if you betray them.”

“It wasn’t even his fault! Is this what happens to everyone who messes up?”

“I don’t know,” Alice whispered. “I don’t know, Rhian.”

“I’m gonna help my dad escape,” Rhian said. “The GA aren’t gonna kill him for something he didn’t do!”

“Rhian,” Alice said, softly, barely speaking. “I’ll do it with you.”

There was obviously going to be CCTV operational in all areas of the Central building, with no exceptions made for privacy reasons, save perhaps in the cases of the highest-ranking members of the GA.

They would surely be caught.

No.

There was no CCTV in the passages.

This was a hypothesis they’d confirmed a while ago, simply out of idle curiosity. The structure of the passges simply didn’t allow hidden CCTV to be installed, and, given that they had seemingly been constructed for GA business that was not to go on record, it made sense that they weren’t being surveilled.

The GA also did not record audio, presumably for the reason that it was stupidly inconvenient to go through, and as such the expenditure wasn’t justified.

And there were indeed gaps between each floor for pipes, wiring, and the occasional unofficial GA search of each floor.

In an instant, the two girls had set off to enact their plan.

“Don’t react, Dad!”

“Rhian?” Her father clearly had not expected his daughter’s voice to echo from the ceiling.

“Did you react?”

“Not visibly,” he said, and the wryness in his voice was so, so unbefitting of the sitiation.

“You need to leave. Grab Trys and leave the GA, forever.”

In an instant, her father’s voice grew more guarded. “What’s going on?”

“Wolfgang had you file an false report,” she said, barely able to contain her hysteric sobs. “Julian’s gonna kill you, dad.”

Her father swore loudly, and called into the kitchen. “Trys, leave your phone, grab your jacket, and get ready to fucking run.”

“Dad- what?” Rhian’s younger brother’s voice was high and confused, and she curled her sweaty, shakint palms into fists.

“Rhi, get out of there now and create an alibi. Give them no reason to suspect you.”

“Yes, dad,” Rhian choked. “Take Exit 7B, that’s got rookie guards stationed.”

“Your friends.”

“Please try not to hurt them.”

“Go, Rhian!”

Alice and Rhian stumbled out of the Praetorian statue kissing passionately.

The tunnels they’d spent so much time exploring made for such a sentimental date venue, after all.

A natural talent that Rhian posessed, perhaps fortunately, perhaps not, was the ability to lie like it was second nature to her. Perhaps it was her simple, straightforward demeanour, perhaps her unassuming appearance that pushed people to trust her, but regardless, Rhian could say that she was secretly the Queen and still sound just as sincere as normal. One might even have half a mind to believe her.

Rhian herself, though, strove to be an honest person.

She practiced no honesty when Julian pulled her into her office for an interrogation.

Rhian looked the would-be killer of her father in the eye and pretended like the betrayal of her father had stung her and that his disloyalty weighed on her heart.

Rhian may have been a good liar, a fantastic one, but she was fairly certain she had just been very luck that Allana Julian had chosen to believe her.

“I feel like I’m going mad,” Rhian whispered into Alice’s shoulder at night. “I’m going madder than Ophelia.”

“You’re not mad, Rhian,” Alice mumbles into her hair. “You’re just too decent a person for this place. That’s all.”

“No. I’m desperate, I think. I want to forget the truth. That’s what’s driving me mad.”

“You’re fifteen, Rhi. It’s gonna be okay when you get older.”

When Rhian was sixteen, she stood before the GAC and publically renounced her family and their actions, in a Southern English accent that wasn’t her own, hiding another connection to her Welsh family. It wasn’t Rhian Vaughn who left that room - the Vaughns were traitors now, after all. She’d chosen a new name, a name befitting of an upstanding member of the GAC. Division Zero agents had been assigned to get them, and there had been posters and a broadcast made.

Slowly, the girl who’d given up the right, she knew, to call herself Rhian Vaughn, got used to the sick feeling that haunted her.

The next time she entered the passages, it was for her real first date with Alice.

Life continued on, and the two of them managed Division Four with the expected efficiency, working on their own projects beside their management roles as the GA expected of such high-ranking individuals.

The plain, dark-brown hair characteristic of the Vaughn family was dyed a navy blue colour for no other reason that she liked the colour.

At nineteen, Mark Grey approached her with an assignment. Kite Jansen, a problematic case with deserters for parents and no regard for who she hurt other than her sister, was being transferred to central, as she was proving too much of a handful for the American branch to handle.

“Their incompetence will not go unaddressed,” Mark said, waving a hand, “but we need a solution on the interim. I’ve assigned her and her sister to a team, and I want you to lead it, and keep her in check.”

“Me? But I’m-”

“Your duties in Division Four - where you’ve performed admirably, mind - will be reduced, and you will be offered protection in the field. However, since you and Jansen come from similar sitiations, I thought you would be tbe ideal candidate to keep an eye on her and mitigate her rebellious actions. Understand, though, thar I’m entrusting you with this task because I trust you, not because I’m dissatisfied. I consider you one of my most competent subordinates, despite your circumstances.”

“I’m honoured, sir.”

Mark Grey gave her a smile, and she immediately shoved down the instinct that she was doing something wrong, instead pushing open the door to meet her new team.

Inside the room sat three women - or rather, two women and a girl. The girl - Kite Jansen’s sister, she assumed, looked nervous, blue eyes focused on the floor, and her hair falling over her face. One of the women was Luca Horváth, a transfer from Hungary, who had been brought to Central after the GA had recognised her skills as a fighter and an instructor. She looked none too happy at her new assignment.

Finally, Kite Jansen sat confidently at the table legs crossed and arms behind her head. She was one of those people who stood out just by existing, and the gaze that looked over the somewhat awkward figure in the doorway was critical and somewhat unimpressed.

“Who’re you?” she drawled, with a thick Brooklyn accent.

“I’m your new team leader,” the former Rhian Vaughn offered with a wan smile. “My name is Ophelia Harrow.”

[chase-the-windandtouch-the-sky]

⭐star⭐

Oh my goodness, thank you love!

The section I chose was from The Price of Peace, which was the scene that started it all! The reunion scene where Clarke is being harvested and the line about Mount Weather.

Putting everything under the cut in case this gets long!

Bellamy thinks someone may say something, but not one moves. They’re all frozen in this moment, pulled by gravity and circumstance, forced to drift in the universe.

Without realizing he’s even doing it, Bellamy moves toward the figure, kneeling down in front of them. He sets his weapon aside, certain he wouldn’t be able to shoot anything with it at this moment anyway, his hands ghosting the cuffs that are keeping the person’s left arm above their head, hand dangling there black and blue. In their side is a tube, currently clamped and filled with nothing but the tint of black, cut off from whatever lies on the other side of the wall. The skin is angry, infected, and horrible to see.

I really like playing with the way time moves and the way I see it in my life. And I’m a firm believer that there are moments where time is broken, that everything fades away and you in this moment becomes infinite. That’s the feeling I was trying to achieve here with Bellamy seeing Clarke for the first time after thinking she was dead.

Bellamy’s hands hover over the hair. The hair matted by dirt and sweat, covering their face. He moves to brush it aside, afraid of what he’ll see. Afraid of what will happen when he moves the hair aside.

He does anyway.

When he does, he almost lets out a strangled cry when a set of deadened, blue eyes stare back to them. They appear to not be seeing, but they’re there, observing all the same. “Clarke,” he breathes, pushing her hair all the way back. He’s afraid to do anything else – he’s afraid to touch her, move her, jostle her in any way.

The moment he breathes her name, there’s another figure at his side. Abby runs her hands up the tubing currently in her side and arm, her breathing ragged. Bellamy knows he should move out of the way, but it feels as if everything’s stopped.

With this, it was really important to me that it was Bellamy who discovers her, sees her, and all the pieces fall into place. But also, he’s so afraid for so many reasons: how fragile she looks, how broken she is, how they forgot her, but most importantly: that maybe this isn’t real. Bellamy spent the better part of the year after her death trying to forget her, then here she is, flesh and blood. A horrible reminder of what’s going on. (skipping ahead a few paragraphs)

Abby runs her hands down the cuffs, her fingers sliding across the metal. “Raven, did you bring your tools?”

“O-Of course.”

Raven doesn’t sound like Raven either. Perhaps none of them are themselves at the moment. It feels like they’re in an alternate reality. Raven brings clamps up to where the cuff is locked, her own hands slipping. “I-I—” she says, her eyes red. She tries again, but the clamp slip from her fingers and clatter to the floor. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Let me.” Shaw states, coming up behind her and gently placing a hand on her back. He bends down and picks up the clamp, letting his hand slide off her back in order to get the tool in position. With a swift motion, there’s a snap and the cuff swings open.

I skipped a few paragraphs, because I know how long this is getting, but this moment with Raven was so important to me. In hindsight, it’s super interesting given the current season, but I was really upset at how Raven was in the anti-Clarke camp from the rumors at the time (although, nothing would’ve prepared me for S6 Raven, honestly). And I wanted a moment where Raven really saw Clarke as a person - a human being trying her best with horrible situations.

I mean, I kinda want that now in the actual canon. But to have Clarke at her most vulnerable, the epitome of humanity, was to shatter the illusion of the Great Wanheda - the person who survived so many things. After all, she is one woman who has survived a great deal, and it hurt that they all forgot that.

Her arm doesn’t fall.

It stays there, as if her bones had built themselves a fortress to remain intact. Abby surveys it and says, “I don’t know how conscious she is. If she is, this will be painful. Her arm is out of its socket, so we’ll need to lower it and pop it back in. Someone will have to hold her just in case.”

“I’ll do it,” Bellamy says, his voice low. “I’ll hold her down.”

“Be careful not to press too hard. We don’t know how much pressure she can take right now.”

Bellamy shifts to directly face her, saying, “I promise, Abby.”

Honestly, this is one of the more graphic things I’ve ever written - without blood or gore. It was a horrible thought I had, but just to show the sense of time that had passed and how Clarke had sort of been stuck in her position. 

But, needless to say, it was tough to write.

“One,” Abby counts. “Two—”

“Wait.” Echo breathes behind them.

“Why in the world would we wait?” Abby exclaims, losing it ever so slightly.

“She tracked you, Bellamy.” Echo states, pointing at her face. “When you moved to the front, her eyes followed.”

Sure enough, when he faces her again, her eyes are directly on him. They’re no longer absent and glassy, like they were when he pushed her hair out of her face. There’s something behind them – something present and alive. “Clarke,” he says softly, dropping his hands from her shoulders to brush against her cheek. “Clarke, can you hear me?”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

When she speaks, someone gasps. It may be him. Honestly, he’s not sure.

It’s interesting, because there are 2 Echos for me: the Echo I would’ve written and the Echo that is currently in canon. Here was when I was desperately clinging to some semblance of a plot that made sense, because I’m in the firm camp that the show did her character a serious disservice by throwing her offhandedly as Bellamy’s love interest.

As for when Clarke speaks, in my mind, it was loud and soft at the same time. Foreign, even. Like a whisper of who Clarke was, to the point where they were all staring at her.

Not even Clarke sounds like herself. Her words are ragged and scratched, as if dragged across glass. A part of him questions whether he even heard something, but due to everyone’s reactions, he knows she had to have said something.

“We’re here, Clarke.” Bellamy says, his turn to lose it a little. He brushes his thumb against her cheek, her skin dry and rough. “We’re here for you.”

“I wish you would leave.” She states, tears welling in her eyes.

Bellamy drops his hand. He tries to not show the shock and hurt, but very clearly fails. “Clarke, what are you talking about—”

“I can’t have you here anymore, Bellamy.” She states, a tear falling down her cheek. It pools at her chin and stays there, shaking along with her. “I can’t handle you leaving anymore. You promised you wouldn’t be back.”

This part came from a headcanon I had about Clarke hallucinating Bellamy after Praimfaya. Thinking that he came back for her. And there’s a part of her that always knew he’d come, but it manifested in a really painful way for her in this scenario.

Because this Clarke has no hope. After all the hallucinations and the blood / marrow draws, she has nothing left to give. And Bellamy is more painful that he has ever been.

The realization hits him like a tidal wave and he places both hands on the sides of her face. “Clarke, this is real.” He states, unable to stop his own tears. It’s everything he can do to not freaking out over the fact that she’s alive, conscious, and apparently used to seeing him. “Listen to me, this is real. I’m not leaving. None of us is leaving.”

“No one ever means to leave,” she says, closing her eyes. “It just happens.”

Her words are hollow. Empty. Like something scraped out of a jar, empty and futile. He hates the sound of it. It doesn’t sound like her, it doesn’t look like her, it isn’t her.

Except it is.

“P-Please go away.” Clarke says, her eyes shining. “Please.”

This was really tough to write, but it was from my thought that Clarke believes everyone she loves dies. Her dad, Wells, Finn, Lexa... she’s just used to people leaving at this point, and in this scenario, she’s built a wall out of necessity. She needs to, to survive. She’s barely a person, void of hope.

“Clarke,” Bellamy states, putting every ounce of assurance he can in his voice. “Do you trust me?”

All he receives is a shake of the head, the motion muted and painful, her jaw clenching as she does so. “Go away.”

“Clarke, do you trust me when I tell you this is real and we’re here, and you’re getting out?”

Her eyes open and she looks at them. They’re glassy and distance, no longer filled with the fire from moments before. “Do you think this is purgatory for Mount Weather?” She asks, her voice hushed and raw.

No one moves.

No one breathes.

This. The sentence that started it all! I laughed looking back because this is chapter six - it took me SIX CHAPTERS to get to the ONE LINE that inspired this fic. If that isn’t a metaphor for my writing, I don’t know what is. 

It’s interesting with the new season being ‘Mt Weather 2.0′ since that was sort of the premise here. For me, this fic had multiple goals - people accepting Clarke, them trying to do better for Monty, and also Clarke feeling like she deserves / needs to repent for her past. And so throughout this, there was a small voice that told her she deserved it all. And it manifests in this line.

That was so fun! I hope I haven’t bored anyone who made it this far. As you can see, I tend to overthink literally everything I write... :P

[thorndale-industries]

A little drabble inspired by the first snow we had here at the beginning of the month (as you can see I am a very fast writer). Some domestic fluff, some serious Illuminati business and discussions for you. 

Set at the end of 2028.

Word count:  3284

Ao3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13194387

Gentle tugging on the warm, and thick blanket rocked the slumbering man out of his sleep, bit by bit. Groaning, frowning, followed by a desperate attempt to hide his face under the cover, but the tenacious beast wouldn’t give in - not until she reached her goal. With one strong pull it won the fight she had perceived as a playful competition, and her owner’s bare feet where exposed - immediately seeking warm refuge again. Finally, the man’s eyes started to open, still squinted to thin lines as only the passive red-glowing shined through. His breath became heavier with each passing second that turned his feet into blocks of ice and a deep growl emerged from his dry throat. 

With his face lifted, his mind ambled into reality and leaving the realms of dreams behind as he rubbed away the sleep from his eyes. Disoriented, the first thing he saw was the back of the head of the woman laying next to him, her hair white and ruffled. The urge to fall back into the soft sheets, wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her exposed neck was tempting, as it were the gate to the paradise he had been forcefully threw out of, but the moment he tried to move into her direction, another pull on his blanket reminded him that they were not alone. Smacking his lips and longing for a glass of water for his parched mouth, Page turned his head to source of a muffled, amused growl. The black Malinios happily wagged her tail the moment their eyes met, hitting the grey parquet floor in an irregular rhythm that only got faster when her master noticed her. The blanket between her fangs, Pan tilted her head in hope to get what she desires.

“Hmpf, what do you want, Pan?”, the drowsy man grumbled into his shoulder, his eyes closed again. But instead of an answer, the dog quickly jumped to the other side to fully uncover him. 

“Fiiiiiiine”, he snarled, an unpleasant goose bump covering his pale skin. “I get up, whatever. Happy now?” And she finally let go of the blanket, poking his right foot with her wet snub nose, causing the man to shiver and jerk his leg, disgusted by the sudden touch. Now, he has been marked, was finally defeated and denied any chance to return to his imaginary kingdom.

He crawled to the edge of the mattress, ran his fingers over his warm face and clapped it gently to beat out the remaining signs of slumber, although he wished to return to it’s illusions and peace.  The floor didn’t cave in an inch when he got up and stretched his sleeping limbs - an extended yawn accompanying his movements. One last look at the resting woman still in bed to make sure her fragile sleep wasn’t shattered by the unexpected noises - her breath was regular, her lean chest moving up and down. She was deep in another world and with a smile, he hoped she took good care of what he had to leave for today. His steps were clumsy as he walked towards the plain wooden closet to grab the red cashmere robe that huddled against him immediately, stroking his soft skin as he tied it together to keep him somewhat warm. The excited dog gave him a gentle head-bump against his knee before trotting down the stairs to the open living space and with rolling his eyes, he followed his faithful companion.

“Why me? You would never do this to the Misses, right?” Robert complained walking down the stairs, his nose pinched. “Of course you wouldn’t, you like her way more than me, I always knew it! All he expensive food, the bribes, for nothing!” But Pan didn’t pay any attention to the grumpy ginger, hugging himself. “I still don’t know what you even want from me. Walkies? Oh and don’t you think I will give you the good treats after this stunt here. You got some making up to do, spoiled princess.”

The moment Page arrived at the lower floor, Pan revealed a content bark and jumped into the living room, and as soon as his eyes followed her, he immediately understood what everything was about. Charmed, his previously tensed expression turned into a delighted smile.

In front of him, the vast windows that occupied the whole side of the loft Gillian called her home offered the stunning view to another world. The Japanese Garden that was usually behind that glass had turned into a white landscape as far as his eyes could reach. Some plants remained steadfast and proudly presented their green among the covering white that robbed all other colours, but soon, their battle would be lost as well. Soft and big snowflakes danced down from the sky, swung from left to right before making their final land and added themselves to the beautiful picture nature is creating - knocking on the windows to herald winter’s arrival. For a moment, Robert thought he would watch a masterpiece being made instead of the garden he was so familiar with. He was always fascinated by this freak of nature - overnight, the world as he had it known had changed entirely without any leading sign.

The sensation of a wet snout slowly poking his knee brought him back to reality, broke the hypnotic spell that he was under, and with a little nod, he granted the dog’s wish - although the thought that this wonderful picture would be disturbed in a few seconds displeased him for a second. Quickly he opened the large glass door to allow Pan to conquer the white wastelands at their home, and without any hesitation she stormed off into the snow- jumping, diving her nose into it and chasing snowflakes in desperate attempts to catch them with her mouth. Her black tail wouldn’t stop moving out of joy, making one thing she could fly away anytime - happily barking and becoming one with her new friends. 

His elbow rested on the door frame as he scratched the auburn stubble on his chin - another uninvited guest from the night. The sight of his pet having the time of her life with something that simple filled him with joy, reminding himself how he felt when experiencing his first real winter and everything one would associate it with - but she was way more elegant than he was. His attention shifted away for a second, as it was drawn to the idle and passive glowing of menacing red reflected in one of the windows - his own reflection. Robert leaned in and tilted his head to take a closer look and the red, artificial ring that would now accompany him until his very last day - burned into his body. A content, confident smirk as he narrowed his eyes, a glance at the new face he still wasn’t used to, before it became a diffuse ghost as he focussed on the garden again. 

If it wouldn’t be for the unpleasant cold, Robert could easily call this season his favourite, but in the end he would remain the sun pampered man he always had been. And as if he has summoned it, he started to feel the prickly grab of the incoming breeze clinging to his bare feet, penetrating his skin like an army of invisible needles, making him take a deep breath, jump back and shiver. Yes, this was enough, time to close the door again and retreat into the comforting warmth, since Pancake wouldn’t come back that easily. Trying to shake the chill away, he shook his food before pressing it onto the ground to let the heating give him a genial massage.

“At least one here knows how to appreciate the weather.”  a drowsy voice echoed from the open kitchen isle.

Robert turned his head to spot his wife preparing the kettle, wearing the same morning robe as him - however, the silk around her lean body shined in aquamarine blue, while his was dark as the wine they had enjoyed the night before. Her hair was fluffy and tousled, barely implying how they were supposed to be, and her cheeks slightly rosy. 

“Did we wake you up?” he inquired as he stepped into the isle, leaning against the wooden frame that separated it from the living room - he always loved the bizarre mix of appropriate modernism, nearly futuristic, combined with the rustic tones of open bricks, stones and old fashioned elements. A coalition of opposites he always associates with the woman who just started to make some tea and coffee.

“No,” she shook her head, rubbing her right eye with the back of her hand. “I was snoozing for a while already and I was just looking for excuses to stay in bed. It’s beautiful outside, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Would be much more enjoyable if I didn’t have to leave today.” He pulled his robe closer together.

Gillian perked a brow, red-eyed - obviously more asleep than wake - and glanced at him for a few seconds before turning herself away to the expensive coffee machine and scratching her left calf with her right foot.

“For your yoga lesson, I assume.” 

Silence was the response Page gave to her as he chewed on his lower lip and moving his shoulders up and down as his hands quickly wandered into his soft pockets. The woman in blue only peeked over her shoulders and snuffled unimpressed, releasing a deep sigh.

“So that means you are going to GARM after all.”

“Only an inspection.”

“Are you still planning to acquire it?”

“Technically, my dear,” the ginger stepped in and leaned on the stone plate in the middle of the room with his head tilted, “It always has been our property. One way or another. It doesn’t matter whose name is on the official papers, since we always commanded what was going to happen there.”

“Not before Dowd and his friends made sure the EU had to sell it to us, Robert.” Gillian objected with an amused chuckle. 

The humming of the machine peaked for a moment, as hot steam left its insides to fill the charcoal mug beneath it with the brown liquid Page’s addicted body secretly longed for - and as if they had an arrangement, the kettle with boiling water calmed down in the exact same moment. The spacious place got filled with the charismatic aroma of Robert’s favourite kind of coffee, tickling his nose and igniting the desire to taste the delicious drink. And it was only an arm-length away after Gillian placed the mug in front of him with a tired, yet cocky smile.

“And exactly those people would be very ‘not amused’ when you would miss yet another lesson. I won’t be the one explaining the why this time, even Morgan is getting annoyed as you certainly know.”

She gently nudged the tip of his nose with her right pointer finger, a wide smile exposing her white teeth before she placed a deep kiss on his lips.  “And good morning, by the way.”

A warming shiver went down his body as their lips separated again, and with his eyes half closed, he paused for a moment to look at her and returned the smile. Then, his hands finally reached out for the mug.

“Well, the lesson was about 2 hours ago.” There was no regret in his tone -  on the contrary. He sounded like someone who took pride in not doing something his superiors expected him to do and his lips bent to a satisfied smirk.

Gillian drooped her head at his words and sighed even louder than before.  

“Uh, yes, if this is the case, I know won’t bail you out this time for sure. I want to see how you will attempt to smooth-talk your way out.” With a nod and wink she pointed at the living room. “Take a seat, I just want to finish that tea here. Under those circumstances, talking about GARM looks like the way more pleasant alternative.”

“Oh, so you want to join me today?” His voice surprised, with a hint of hope.

“Maybe. And here I hoped I could have at least one free and lazy day with the first snow of the year. But perhaps a place in the middle of nowhere is exactly what you and I need right now.”

With a little bow with his mug raised, for once he was obedient and walked back into the living room illuminated in soft blue and white hues, underlining the frosty and winterly atmosphere - and he know exactly what was missing, even in this early hour. The mug placed on the coffee table, Robert walked across the room to the fireplace and filled it with fresh wood billet after blowing away some of the ashes from last night. Soft crackling noises tuned in to fill the peaceful place with some life and background noise, and the red in his eyes found its equal in front of them. The warmth started to tickle and embrace his relaxed face.

“Good thinking” the woman’s voice interrupted the barely existing period of silence. She took a seat on the cosy corner of one of the couches, covered in countless pillows, and held her mug in her lap with her legs crossed and calves exposed under the robe. “So, please, fill me in about your plans, Robs.”

“How much do you know about the facility?” he inquired, sitting down next to her.

“Not much besides it’s location, honestly. It never crossed my desk as it never seemed to be something I should take care of regarding Belltower, unlike RBS and out other active research places.”

“True, it never was. Officially, it was always meant to geological data as it was built at one Europe’s last glacier. Drilling holes, catalogued, analysed, you know the drill. They tried to find more about nature and possible new resources to be used for humanity.”

“So, why did Belltower acquire it in our name and not one of our scientific fronts? It doesn’t seem quite militaristic to me. I can’t remember you ever mentioning this to me or making that decision.” Gillian scratched the back of her head as she pondered his words.

“Because I didn’t, Morgan was the one in 2025 when we were busy getting our OCM projects started. He may have mentioned it once or twice to me back then, but I didn’t pay any attention as it was irrelevant. Belltower used it as a secret operative base, as its location was simply perfect: In the middle of Europe in a remote place, no one would suspect any suspicious activity there and it was an ideal place to reach any important city in a few hours. Just like our blacksites it was hidden under an official name in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah and we saw how well that turned out. Slapping names and logos on everything might now be very wise.”

“Yet Belltower took the shot for RBS, not Versalife. Not you, not me. We came out with our hands clean.”

His wife narrowed her eyes at his last words, her expression drifting from neutral interest into a strange portrait of moroseness. “You were not the one who saw it all.” she murmured into her mug as she took another sip to cut off any questions her loud thoughts could cause. 

“So I assume you want to do exactly the same, just under more control? I can see why doing it yourself could be more safe in that case, as making Tarvos the ones officially owning it could be indeed a little bit suspicious. You know some things are not as easy as they used to before, there are shards on the ground now.”

Page’s face lit up as he tilted his head with a smile. “Exactly. And who knows, perhaps we might find other, resourceful opportunities that emerge with that acquisition. This is why I want to inspect it in great detail before making the final decision. And what is better than seeing it with your own eyes?” He moved closer to poke her waist with this elbow. “If we are lucky, we can kill two or even more birds with one stone!” 

“Oh, right.” Gillian frowned and rubbed her forehead while leaning back to rest her heavy, sleep-deprive head on the soft edge of the couch that hugged and pampered her sore muscles. To her surprise, her mind and body were still in the tight grip of rest and sleep, and her perception was clouded through a wall of cotton - everything sounded muted and not from this world. But she wasn’t annoyed but instead highly relieved, the long, haunting episodes of non-existent sleep has found its temporary end. “Lucius wanted you do create a new Spec Ops team focussing on the aug issue, right?”

“That and some sleeper cells that will be placed in all those slums and ghettos that are created while we speak. Especially the mood in the Czech Republic is changing rapidly. The once shining diamond, a perfected jewel of what an augmented society can achieve turning into the merciless sledgehammer that will crush it into pieces. A shameful display, isn’t it?” To give his words more weight, the ginger raised his fist before letting it fall into his other hand. “I thought the old man approached you about this as well.”

“He did,” the woman in blue responded, her odd eyes resting on the latest alterations on her husband’s body - once again a change in his face she would have to get used to, and she couldn’t help herself as she couldn’t take her sight off of those two blue dots every time they discussed the political climate and the associated social tensions. A shiver went down her spine, and it wasn’t from the cold that sneaked into their place. “We briefly discussed how we will manage the surveillance of those places and on which parties we should focus on next.”

“And?”

“Well, him and I agreed that the Santeau Group, especially their CEO Nathaniel Brown, should be a faction we should put on our priority list. With the upcoming constructional needs you have mentioned and their ridiculous pet project in the Omani desert, it’s very likely they will raise up and grow. How big is hard to tell, but there is always a line that shouldn’t be crossed. And of course there will be some political groups like the Augmented Rights Coalition we are already taking care of since they were founded in this year’s July.”

A deep sigh came from her, as she continued to rub her pulsating temples. “Hey Robs, can we discuss such things when I haven’t left the bed like 5 minutes ago without even finishing my morning tea?” Gillian groaned with a raspy voice. “I feel like my thoughts are just spinning and mixing up things. I hate this.”

“Oh course we can, My Love.” His warm hand slowly stroked her exposed thigh in an affectionate manner, his smile sympathetic and understanding. “So what do you say? Breakfast in Geneva? Perhaps we can call the Old Man and ask him for some recommendations?” A wink as he couldn’t suppress his chuckle.

“The first part sounds absolutely wonderful and something I could really use right now, the second absolutely dreadful and horrible and something no one can ever make me do.” Gillian’s pale face warming up, returning his infectious snicker and filling the room with their amused laughs.

“Splendid. I will call Armin to prepare the jet. We will be back this evening to enjoy this year’s snow in peace, I promise.”

“I know.”

They both leaned in for a kiss.

[pathofcomet]

bride of ice (4)

{dragon age: inquisition | g. | female trevelyan/iron bull | 8.9k}

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533642/chapters/59122414

The first time she allows herself to move further from the camp on an actual Inquisition-related business is to find Mother Giselle. Besides the new-born Inquisition, all other organizations, religious, political or otherwise, have blown up alongside the Temple of Ashes. Usually, when one constant of the world collapses, all the other start at least being questioned, if not following in its steps.

She takes Cassandra, because she’s already used to her fighting style, and Varric because his aim never fails. Solas, because the blanket of his magic is so familiar to her brain already. Scout Harding is already hard at work, a presence so chatty and positive that for a second, the Herald forgets that she’s supposed to get her supplies and head into battle. The minutes are passing by, and each one counts – so Cassandra pulls at her elbow, and hurries her along unmapped paths.

She hasn’t trained for long, but she trained often with the best fighters in the Inquisition – and the difference is already telling. Her skin is rough on her palms and at her heels, and the armour is now more comfortable, her weapons more familiar. She ducks out of Cassandra’s way, to let her bash an enemy to the ground with her shield, and throws one of her daggers between the eyes of another, right as they were getting too close to Solas. She can feel a burst of flame at her back, and she hurries to pick her dagger, refusing to look back at the damage the magic has done.

When she’s in a battle, like this, her life on the line and everything too real, her body’s movements too acute, the sounds too loud, she feels detached. It’s almost mechanic, the way in which she stabs and jumps and drinks her potions. Up until this point, everything in her life has been simulated, and her brain takes a while to catch up with the fact that whatever is happening around her, it is in real time, all stakes raised. So the five seconds after the last of their enemy falls to the ground, the silence that follows feels like her head is underwater, a static noise at the back of her thoughts, a brief pause before she gets moving towards the refugees and Mother Giselle, Varric searching up the corpses for valuables.  

The path opens up before her, people hurriedly making way. She doesn’t know if it’s because of the glow in her palm, or the blood splattering her shirt. If there is one thing that the Herald of Andraste does not doubt is the ferocity of people’s feelings. Though she is never sure if they hate her or if they love her, and when.

Mother Giselle, however, is one of the most levelled headed people from the Chantry that she met, and she had enough money and fame hungry individuals search for her attention during her life. The older woman takes a look at this wide-eyed, straight-backed girl and already makes her mind up about humanity’s hero. Around her, people are suspiciously eyeing the both of them, but a smile from her immediately calms them.

She raises a hand, pats the Herald’s head, watches as the younger woman almost breaks down under the kind gesture. Trevelyan feels suddenly so comforted, in a way that all her attempts never managed to. There’s something about a sister of the Chantry, moved simply by her want to do good, that picks her undone. The somewhat reminder that this could have been her life, or her place of belonging.

But then Mother Giselle speaks, and the illusion is shattered, even if her touch never leaves the Herald. Of course, there are people she has to convince of the authenticity of her Mark, and the purpose of the Inquisition – even when she herself doubts them.

“They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe. You don’t need to convince them all, you just need some to doubt.”

Well, that can’t be too hard, can it? After all, she works with spies and seasoned authorities. After all, they need only one look in her direction to realize that the Fade has a claim on her. After all, she’s been a noble, and nobility is notoriously good at bargaining and lying.

The soldiers are busy setting up camp, and the Inquisitor sits next to Mother Giselle, listens to her calm voice as she recites the prayer of the story of how the world came to be; probably a subtle reminder that this is what they’re all fighting for.

The Hinterlands are a calmer area than Haven, the Trevelyan thinks, the weather just a tad bit warmer during the day, though there’s need for blankets and for food – and in the midst of it all, the war between the mages and the Templars rages on. She remembers, how the Templars are supposed to want to protect the common folk, nothing quite like those going on rampant, killing off anyone even accidentally crossing their path. There are enough people hurt in the camp, even more separated from their families and friends, even more just too tired, too traumatized to care.

She wants to focus on finding supplies and food for them first. Slowly, the wounded ones will recover, and they’ll accompany their trek back to Haven, alongside Mother Giselle. All these people called her Your Worship as she passed by, reverently touching the ends of her leather armour; look up to the organization, to her for help. Disappointing them, in this case, means their death. And she knows it’s just the first of such heavy failure burden.

She thought she’s fought her worst when that huge monster popped out of the breach. Turns out, one of the most terrifying sights she’s seen is that of a bear charging at her. For a second, she freezes on the spot: she’s seen a bear in real life only on a visit to Orlais, where one of the eccentric nobles kept one as a pet, chained by heavy iron and scared with magic into submission. Like this, the animal is freaking terrifying. Of course, they bring it down eventually, and Varric carefully puts the fur away. Yet, the tremble in her bones doesn’t succumb for a while. Just another reminder that there’s nothing even similar to her usual normality to be found in the midst of the Inquisition – and sometimes it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s a bad thing. Whichever it might be, she has to adjust, shake off the fear, ignore the pain, and move on.

She’s already tired.

She realizes quick into their Hinterlands exploration how narrow her life has actually been so far. Not only is her entire body aching and sweating by noon, the terrain difficult at times, way too many groups to fight on the way. By the third day, she loses count of people she’s killed, she stops feeling like throwing up when she washes away the blood and grim of the day by the end of it. Sometimes she gets lost into the action, scrubs so hard that the tip of her fingers bleed. There’s rumours of a cult – and her hand slips when sharpening her daggers. Then there’s an organized presence entirely too bothered by the Inquisition’s troops – and she slips on her way down a hill, directly into the cold waters of a lake. Even with all the pain, a pain that is vibrantly real, all the other things don’t feel like it. Sometimes, when she tells Cassandra something, she stops mid-sentence, questions if her story and information is actually a thing that truly happened, or she made it up in a dream and never realized the difference.

Eventually, it is her companions that snap her out of it, slowly and patiently. Varric can recognize a girl haunted by terrors from a mile away at this point, and he gives her his tastiest part of the hunt, starts telling one of his favourite stories. Cassandra is, without failing, always at her back as they charge side by side into battle, and it’s a more comforting act than she probably knows. Solas explains to her about the Fade without being asked before, if only to diffuse her own anxiety over the green glowing mark that is anchoring her to all of this, that is anchoring part of another world to theirs, through her.

However, for her, the Fade is still a foreign, scary realm. There’s nothing that she wants to do with it, and the reverence with which Solas speaks about it, the soft edge in his voice when he talks about the spirits that he encountered, makes her skin crawl with fear and discomfort.

They close rifts, one after another. They set up camps, conquer territories in the name of what they believe in, what they promote as their truth. Trevelyan’s hand itches with the magic it used, and after a week and a bit, they return to Haven for an afternoon, making sure the people under their protection have enough resources, asking Mother Giselle what else she might need in her care for the refugees, setting them up inside the town’s chantry and along the camp.

It’s truly fascinating how, despite the Mark, people still come up to her, ask her if she is the supposedly holy figure at the backbone of the organization. It’s like they can’t quite believe the plain looking woman could stir up so many rumours, could have survived so much in such a short span of time. When she looks down in her water basin, or when she checks her image in the window at night, Trevelyan has the same problem. Still, whenever stopped, whenever asked, she denies any relation with Andraste. Time and time again, she crushes hopes or she strengthens beliefs with her words. It’s a heavy weight to add to her speech.

But, she starts recognizing, as she meets more and more allies, people believe in way more than religion. They believe in other people, in made promises, in their own two eyes, in their ideas about the world, in the force of their weapons way before they trust other’s words. The Templar, Lysette, choosing to be part of the Inquisition, rather than join her people in a self-destroying war of righteousness, makes this very obvious to her.

“I did not join the order to adjust my faith so easily, but I appreciate what the Inqusition’s trying to do, and your role in it. One person trying to do something can make a difference. You should keep that in mind, Herald.”

Trevelyan wonders if this is about herself, and she just uses the Herald as a mirror. Or if this is about the young noblewoman in front of her, pushed and shoved in every direction by the circumstances around her – and her words are just an attempt at comfort. But another thing that she starts recognizing is that one can understand whatever they please out of the words they hear. So the Herald chooses to straighten her back, and received some strength from this – a reason to keep going, when she was almost done with wanting to move at all.

She leaves her findings to Maeve, greets Josephine in-between the messengers making their rounds in her office. She does not expect the direct question about her family, and whether they will be willing to give official support to the Inquisition. She stops, stares at Josephine, heir to her own house, out here doing a job out of her own want – and doesn’t know how exactly to answer.

Of course, her entire house is scrambling for status like they’ve been born and raised in Orlais. Depending on what kinds of words about the Inquisition reached them, her father might be interested to associate his name with their still new organization. Considering one of their sons, a Templar no more, died at the Temple of the Sacred Ashes, they might feel responsible to support the one institution who actively tries to find a culprit for that genocide, and who is devoted to stopping anything like that happening again by closing the Breach. The Chantry is probably equally in shambles back home as well, so there is not much organized action taking place otherwise, and there might be merit in getting involved with the situation early on. And then there’s this – the Mark, her new title, and the honour that comes with having the Herald of Andraste being a Trevelyan, if it’s proven that it is true, that there’s Maker’s touch in her new power, that she can actually seal the rifts and fight the demons.

And then there’s the absence of letters actually intended to her, and she wants to scream in frustration or howl in pain. Instead, she gives the ok to Josephine to reach out to her family. Something must come out of it, in the end.

Her first question to Mother Giselle is about the people; those right here under their symbol, and those far-away who feel equally as lost and pained at the loss of their Divine. If she cannot properly mourn her losses, then at least she wants to allow this luxury to others. And if she is to find comfort in a new purpose, then at least someone (like Mother Giselle with her kind words, or like Leliana with her eye for potential, or like Cullen with brightly burning determination) maybe will be able to offer the same thing to these people as well.

“A task such as closing the breach is a heavy burden. I hope you do not carry it alone. We remember Andraste, but Andraste did not carry the Chant of Light alone. She had generals, advisors… even her husband, for a time. Do everything within your power… but remember those who would help you.”

The Herald thinks of the many people she has met during this time, each with their own individual worries and tasks, fears and motivations – and how she cannot possibly dare to add to their own hunched backs, to their already full schedule. Everyone in the Inquisition has been running around the clock, catching naps in uncomfortable places and at odd times, taking away the piece of bread at their mouth to share with whoever passes their door. Anyone willing to help, is already helping the tens and hundreds asking the Inquisition for protection and guidance. Their last worry should be the religious figure they’re trying to build – when she is just a mere human on top of that. The young Trevelyan shivers in her coat, stares at a statue of Andraste, thinking of Mother Giselle’s words.

“You keep talking as though I’m the equal of Andraste. Do you know how unnerving that is?”

“I can only imagine. But we are all given to our purpose under the Maker. A sword does not ask to be forged. And frankly, if such a comparison gives you pause, I do not see that as a bad thing.”

She thinks if this is truly her supposed path; if the Maker plucked her out of her past life, taken from her what she treasured the most in this life, and put her in this role of sainthood, testing her and the world at the same time. But it seems like such a cruel method, and she doesn’t want to believe that a god would be so happily throwing away its own people. She doesn’t want to believe there’s any higher purpose to her being here – she wants to believe that just wanting to help is enough to justify her presence, or others’ acceptance of her.

She looks at Mother Giselle glistening eyes, as she speaks of her faith, and she knows it’s just wishful thinking, for sure. So she picks up her daggers, gathers her usual teamp, and goes once more on her quests for more power and more influence, more and more.

 ***

She is tired, hungry and dirty. Ever since they put together their first camp in the Hinterlands, neither her hair nor her clothes had felt the sweet relief of warm water and soap, and it’s been a couple of weeks already. Not only is the area humongous, place after place added to a map that spreads more and more over the table that her captains bend over, but the mages and Templars war is only one of the many threats plaguing it. Bandits and religious cults and organized criminal trade, all blended in with some good old elven magic, berserk lyrium and sacred artefacts and you’ve got the recipe for a very beaten-down Herald.

No wonder people do not believe in her and their institution, when they’re scrambling so hard just to survive. An arrow passes by her head, gets stuck in the neck of the man she was fighting against, who falls to the ground with a strangled noise.

“I doubt that’s the last of them,” Varric says, putting his weapon away, as she searches the pockets of the fallen bandit.

“Thanks, Varric. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He grins back at her, and Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, wiping the sweat off her brow, leaving behind a dirty streak. The last of Solas’ healing magic pulses at their muscles, and she gets ready for the waves of pain, to feel her actual pain unmuted by magic. Maker, she’s so tired.

They meet Mihris near the entrance to the cave, fighting against a shade. Trevelyan is just happy that there’s only one, the Fade thin, but not shredded enough to create a rift. She’s searching for the elven artefact that Solas mentioned, so it makes sense that they should look for it together. It certainly sounds worth investigating.

She’s mourning that, in-between her good teachings, no one ever thought that Elven would come in handy during her life, because she’s sure Solas will never translate his conversation for the rest of them. and neither Mihris will mention exactly what their companions told her. The velfire is just as creepy as anything else stuck in the fade: a memory of a flame that burns in this world only where the veil is thin. She hopes that when it’s her time to go, she won’t have any part of her stuck in the Fade. She’s had her fill of it already.

And yet, she trusts Solas, and his immense knowledge. It’s impossible for one person in the Inquisition to know everything about everything, and so his presence is as essential as that of Cullen training their army, as Leliana gathering spies and secrets, as Josephine speaking beautifully. She has no qualms about asking him to intervene in getting the artefact, exactly because she knows he is the better trained person to figure out its purpose.

Rather than being scared or disgusted at the power that he yields through magic, she is just fascinated. The possibilities of it are endless, and there is much threat in that, but equal opportunities. And if even Cassandra can see that, when one evening in the camp she seriously says your position is a honourable one, and well earned, then there’s much quality in having someone like Solas to call their companion.

Only after they set up all the six big camps for the Inquisition’s forces to get a foothold all across the Hinterlands, do they return back to Haven properly. There’s so much grim under her armour, that Trevelyan almost plunges into the snow for a made-up bath. Instead she grabs at a messenger’s arm, asks for any news or letter, receives his shake of the head instead. Cassandra wants to call her name, but she passes by, furious at her parents for making her wait, furious at herself for still waiting.

“See you at the council room in an hour,” she throws over her shoulder, and moves towards her room, prepares a pot of snow to melt over the fire, for a bath. She asks Harrit to tweak one of the armours she picked in the Hinterlands, because she is not sure the last one can keep up with their battles anymore, or have its stains ever removed. She stops by the tavern just enough to grab half a loaf of bread. She spends maybe a bit too much time on washing and brushing her hair, her semblance of normality and calm in the one braid that she knots together at her back.

She feels more human when she enters the Chantry again, though more rattled by the small conflicts appearing here and there, between the Templars and mages in their own ranks, fuelled by the hate in the Chancellor’s words, in his presence at all. She’d like to throw him out, nothing but a random cleric that’s all bark and no bite, a rat using up their own resourced to be kept fed, only to have the power to complain about their mere existence. She is starting to understand her father’s tantrums at nearby nobility, or how their new task is supposed to be filled with such people.

The rest of the advisors are already waiting for them, and she is glad to see that she’s not the only one who took some time for hygiene, Cassandra’s shirt a new one, her short hair still wet. She drops over one of the chairs, head spinning just a bit with the sudden movement, with how in need of a good sleep, good meal or good coffee she is. She blinks once, hard, focuses on the candlelight – as Cullen moves figurines across the table, updating it according to Leliana’s reports.

Josephine clears up her throat. “Mother Giselle is right; the people should see the Herald for more than just the rumours. Having her address the clerics is not such a terrible idea.”

Everyone in the room erupts at the same time, agreeing and disagreeing at the same time.

“I will go with her,” Cassandra steps in, and now the only one daring to say something back is Leliana, though Cassandra looks at the map on the table, at the calculations scrambled over several pieces of paper, and they all understand what this is actually about before she even continues her idea.

“What choice do we have, Leliana? Right now we cannot approach anyone for help with the breach. Use what influence we have to call the clerics together, once they are ready, we will see this through. We must convince the Chantry to permit us entry into the city so we can show them the Herald of Andraste is not the monster they believe.”

Easier said than done. But after all, what choice do they have? As long as the Chantry publicly works and speaks against the Inquisition, there will be no possible alliances, and most noble houses will avoid any connection with the organization. They’re already struggling as it is, to give enough supplies to their soldiers, to feed all the people in their ranks, to provide for all the refugees seeking their help. If they can make all of it just a tiny bit easier, then they must hone their words and swords and travel to the capital city of Val Royeaux.

 ***

“Did I tell you I hate this city?” she murmurs next to Varric, at the entrance to the city, as she feels the stares of the people around her at the back of her neck.

He snickers next to her, but it’s broken by a woman’s scream, as everyone else scrambles away in a panic once it dawns on them exactly who the colourful group is. One person trips, brushes past her shoulders, and for a brief second, she makes eye-contact with them, the horror so profound despite the mask they’re wearing, and she feels her skin crawling.

“Just a guess, Seeker,” he calls out to Cassandra, walking a few feet ahead of them. “but I think they all know who we are.”

“Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric,” she sighs.

The only one welcoming them is one of Leliana’s spy, updating them on the situation in the city. There shouldn’t be anything surprising in the Chantry being together with the Templars, if the latter weren’t stuck in a war already, supposedly to have other priorities.

“People seem to think the Templars will protect them from… from the Inquistion.”

But Trevelyan isn’t blind; she caught the way the spy looked her over for a brief second, and knew its meaning.

“From me, you mean.”

She’s glad she decided to wear the leather gloves today, Mark hidden underneath it. More of a mere human, and less of a religious herald. Whatever these people understood from the events that spread throughout the entire Thedas, Trevelyan is not so certain she will be able to change their minds. She knows from her own experience that the strongest believers are the most resilient to change. Her showing up, wearing their saint’s name like only she owns it, will do nothing to make them have more faith in her.

It doesn’t help that the city is still mourning, bells going off at all hours of the day or the night; those suffering are most eager to find someone to point their finger at. She’d like a bit of respite, maybe just half an hour – disappear for a bit inside the Chantry, pray for her dead brother properly, light a candle in his memory. But that’s a luxury that she cannot have, especially, especially not after becoming the Herald.

There’s already a small audience gathered in front of the Mother, though if it’s curiosity or belief, she cannot tell, especially here in Orlais. As soon as she steps in the market, a finger points at her.

“Behold the so called Herald of Andraste. Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed.”

More words put into her mouth, and now she cannot chew them down, swallow them whole, and her throat constricts with the indignation at such lies being presented as irrefutable truth. She tries though, to say the right words, in the right way, wills her voice not to weaver in front of anyone, puts a bit of her noble voice in it.

“I am simply trying to close the Breach. It threatens us all!”

Cassandra pushes forward, comes to stand next to her.

“It’s true! The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late.”

Relief washes over her: here is someone with so much blinding faith in the purpose of their organization, that they might actually have a chance.

“It is already too late.”

No, Trevelyan thinks, her hand pulsing and itching with the remains of unclosed rifts, her head hurting with the absence of a memory, a phantom pain of something she doesn’t remember owning in the first place. It’s only the beginning. She wants to scream, frustrated. How come no one else sees something that is so obviously true? Whatever the Conclave was, it was only the start – and whatever is to come, must for certain be bigger and worse than that, for it was only a failed attempt.

For a brief moment, as the Templars come up, she thinks this is it. The Templars will just fight them, win by numerical power, and their organization shut down, the war fought to its very end, the breach swallowing up the entire world in the end. Instead, the Lord Seeker simply strikes down the revered Mother, announces his own plans to gather power, and refuses to hear out anyone else. Trevelyan feels like she is a patron at one of Orlais’ absurd theatre, for all she knew about real life up to this point has been once again turned upside down.

Cassandra still tries, because she is Cassandra so of course she does.

“Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s sent. You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition… less than nothing. You should be ashamed of yourself. If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

A young Templar at his side intervenes, eyes going from his superior to the members of the Inquisition in a panicked dance.

“But what if she is really chosen by the Maker? What if – “

“You are called to a higher purpose. Do not question.”

And so, they leave. But it’s that last sentence that sounds so familiar to the young lady. She’s been spoon-fed the same idea ever since she was young, reproached with it at each question that had no immediate explanation. If the Lord Seeker is trying to keep the people in his ranks together with that type of mantra, then he will most likely have many non-believers in his midst, or at least enough to question if there are better things to be found somewhere else. If Lucius won’t be reasoned with, then there are surely others in the Order who don’t feel as he does.

And yet, something about the descriptions about him – and his actions now, doesn’t really sit well with the Herald. If he was truly a power-hungry man, then for sure he would have raised to this rank earlier in his life, or at least shown signs of ambition earlier in his ruling.

“Do you think red lyrium might be involved?” she asks, mainly Varric, though she is sure everyone else is also familiar with the Kirkwall story. She remembers those days turned to weeks turned to months, when the Order was in such hectic panic, that her brother couldn’t visit home at all until things calmed over. How scared she was, next to her mother, that her own brother’s addiction might have fallen down the same path.

“Couldn’t really tell, but it’s definitely a theory worth taking into consideration.”

She nods at the answer, turns around so that she can help the revered Mother up. Even if she knows the older woman probably won’t accept it, she stills picks one of her potions and holds it out to her. The woman is bitter and judging, but more than anything else, defeated. Not only have the Templars she was supposed to rely on made a show of abandoning the Chantry and the city, but now the only mercy and understanding she gets is from the underdog organization that she was trying to destroy just a few moments before.

Trevelyan smiles down at her.

“Just tell me one thing,” the Mother says, now helped by other clerics back to her feet. “If you do not believe you are the Maker’s chosen, then what are you?”

“Someone who can help close the breach and end this madness.”

It’s the only still standing truth of her life.

“That is… more comforting than you might imagine.”

“You’re obviously sceptical. What do you believe I am?” She cannot hide her bitterness.

“Our Divine, her Holiness, is dead. I have seen evidence for everything except what would comfort me. For you to be true, a great many things must be false. If you are false, a great many things must have failed.”

The strongest believers are the most resilient to change, of course. But just because the world has been the same during one’s entire life, that does not mean it cannot change. And how easily so many things have blown out like a candle, when the Temple of Sacred Ashes blew up. There is a lot of chaos ahead, for all of humanity – and everyone’s fate is sadly just in the hand of the Maker now. But before the terror comes to all, if there is something that can be done to stop it, then it must be done.

It’s such an obvious, but rare thinking, that when the merchant Belle offers her help, the Herald almost refuses because she is suspicious. So far, almost all the people she interacted with have been more concerned with other matters, than the obvious, glaring gap in the sky. She turns towards Cassandra, asks for her input. I believe she asks you, not me.

Yes, because she is the Herald. But the Inquisition is running on the everyday decisions of way more people than just the Herald of Andraste, and she would have been dead long ago by stress alone if it would have been any different. And yet, there’s something about the bitter, vicious way in which Cassandra said those words, that Trevelyan wonders, if maybe, the Seeker wouldn’t prefer her title instead.

“We need good people,” she tells Belle, and writes a short message for her to show to Cullen when she arrives there, for easier access and a good place to set down.

“I don’t know if I am that, but it will be nice to see.”

An honest Orlesian, well if that ain’t a surprise, she thinks, and just as she is about to leave – an arrow passes by her, missing her cheek by millimetres only. She reads over the note, and turns around to her companions, holding it in-between her fingers. She grins at Varric, a tired thing.

“See? This is why I don’t like Val Royeaux.”

Somehow, from the second you stepped into the city, someone knows your name, your travel purpose, your past, your alliances and where to find you at all times of the day and the night. Some proceed like this mysterious arrow shooter, secret notices in dubiously empty places of the streets. Others prefer flair and style, and send official invitations, much like Madame Vivienne.

Since they are here anyway, they might as well chase down the red handkerchiefs, and attend a dinner party and escape mercenaries sent to kill her before she becomes an even bigger thorn in someone’s side. Trevelyan looks down at her attire, and knows she is about to become the laughing stock of the city for the next month, at least. Orlais is not forgiving even to most religious of the holy figures. And having people wanting to kill her is not a nice feeling, not at all. The fights in the Hinterlands were less about who she was, and the political machinations that come with that, and more about the muscle-memory want and need to remain alive in a battle. She cannot believe she is already missing that place.

Sera is a storm of a woman; not only an incredibly skilled shooter, but absolutely rampant in her speech and actions as well. She is entirely unlike any other young woman Trevelyan has ever met in her life, but it’s the freshness of her that eventually makes her smile at all that speech about breeches.

The blonde lowers her bow, scrunches her nose.

“You’re kind of plain, really. All that talk, and then you’re just…. a person. At least you do the whole glowing thing, right?”

The Herald sheathes her daggers, removes one of her gloves, to prove to this rogue, in the simplest way possible, that she is indeed the woman that the rumours keep talking about. But in fact, she does it out of gratefulness. In the midst of all the people that already know her as this holy figure, she’s had no time to consider herself normal again. And yet here Sera is, first time looking at her, and calling her plain. It’s what she has been all her life, really no noticeable feature on her face, a kind of washed-up beauty fitted more for dark portraits than real life attraction, and yet so many people threw away the commonness of her appearance in favour of the blessings the Maker supposedly bestowed upon her, something that she indignantly fought against at each turn.

If someone as scared of the Breach can judge the Herald so clearly, then she is clearly needed in their ranks. Trevelyan feels the acute need to have someone who can look at her, and see beyond the allegations of the faithful – and Sera is the closest thing she has to that, now, even if her eyes glint in a particular way each time she stares at her hand. Then, her arguments are also irrefutable. Even in their own ranks, it’s impossible to know all the people that pass through their camp, and it takes only one low level desperate servant to take apart a month’s worth of work.

Solas shifts at her back, not entirely pleased at the erratic speech or all over the place fighting style of this elf in front of them. But as Cassandra said, they don’t have any real choice – and anyone who is willing to help, is more than welcome. So Sera leaves for Haven, just as the rest of the gang waits for the party to start.

Trevelyan immediately grabs at a drink, no other way to get through an Orlesian party than at least a little bit tipsy – especially as her companions had to stay behind at an inn, invitation extended only to her. Cassandra almost tied her to a chair in an attempt to keep her from going, but Varric helped her see the potential in this partnership, if it was truly extended in true. What’s a bit of life risking, when they could gather the resources of a well-standing mage tied with the Orlesian nobility and one of the last standing Circles, invaluable to their battles and influences?

Still, an Orlesian party is the worst of social gathering, what with their masks hiding their facial expressions, the airy accent in their voices, the way their insults are never spoken like such, so there’s no way you can act offended. Her second brother is somewhere in the city, playing the Game, and she cannot understand what in the Maker’s name he finds interesting at a bunch of political and personal issues being passed around in gossips and love-making.

Of course, usually people in Val Royeaux are never so fast in helping her out. And while the Marquis’ words are indeed offending, he hasn’t done much worse than anyone else she has meet this entire day – so she is ready to brush it off, just as the man is frozen in place by Enchantress Vivienne. The woman is elegance and poise and beauty all in one, and the Herald finds herself taken aback by her presence. She’s also obviously incredibly powerful, both in magic and politics, to have made such a scene, even at her own party, and have none of her guests panic in any way.

She allows the Marquis his life, because really, it’s not like his words were harsher than others’, and follows Vivienne to a more secluded place, to talk. She moves her hands at her side, feels the hilts of her daggers, takes comfort in that, even if she knows she would have been dead already, if Vivienne wanted it.

It’s impossible for the other woman not to know that she talks with a daughter of a Trevelyan, and yet she remains true and proud in her being a mage, and in the places she has reached thanks to that.

“Not all mages have forgotten the commandment, that magic exists to serve man.”

And indeed, what better time to serve, than when the Breach is threatening mankind as a whole? But Trevelyan looks at this gorgeous and deadly woman, who probably has whatever she wants at the tip of her finger, and cannot imagine her in Haven, in the midst of all that chaos and dirt.

“What’s in it for you?”

Vivienne’s expression darkens. “The chance to meet my enemy, to decide my fate. I won’t wait quietly for destruction.”

Isn’t this what all of them are doing, one way or another? And yet, how much courage and pride to actually acknowledge it, deep to the rawest part of it.

“We’ll see each other in Haven then,” the Herald says, curtsying before turning around and leaving the estate, to relay the news to her people.

 ***

When they arrive, they move directly into a council. Leliana’s spies sent word ahead of their actions in Val Royeaux, but even if they were already aware of the situation, it seems like the advisors have not reached a common ground in the Templar-mages war. Each side is equally powerful and desperate now, and with the Chantry on the brink of falling apart, the Inquisition is the only faction that can still intervene in-between the two of them. The balance is weighing, uncertain in the air, and there’s no side heavier than the other, just yet.

And what’s more troublesome is that all Grey Wardens vanished – and Leliana asking for her help in the matter is a certain sign of things going wrong. If the people working with their spy network, one spread all across Thedas, cannot find a hint as to what is going on with that order, then the issue must be very suspicious indeed.

“Ordinarily, I couldn’t even consider the idea they’re involved in all this, but the timing is… curious.”

Trevelyan shivers under Leliana’s hand, where she stopped and held her close to whisper of her suspicions, and after all who is not involved in all of this, now?

Growing up in a noble household, and one that also prides itself on its religious beliefs, the want to help is somewhat rooted in her upbringing. When Cremisius Aclassi hovers at the entrance to the Chantry, she stops to ask him what his purpose in being here is in the first place. The Inquisition isn’t seeing people in such fine armour every day. Though, true to her noble status, she is also annoyed at the fact that after days of the poor guy trying to reach someone in the organization to listen to him, he somehow ended up to her as well. And yet, the Chargers don’t sound quite that bad. There’s no shame in paying for your help, especially if it’s as good as Cremisius makes it up to be.

“We are loyal, we’re tough, and we don’t break contracts. Iron Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. He thinks you’re doing good work.”

Trevelyan looks around her, at the constant bustling of Haven, at all of her people going about their duties, and realizes that maybe this praise is actually well-deserved.

“What about this Iron Bull?”

She gets the impression that this man in front of her loves to talk, and is honest in his words – especially if he can go on and on about people he’s known for year, who fought by his side and who saved his life more times than he can remember. The cheer and admiration in his voice is so noticeable, that she burns with curiosity by the end of it. The guy surely knows how to sell his job.

“Best of all, he’s professional. We accept contracts with whoever makes the first real offer. You’re the first time he’s gone out of his way to pick a side.”

Well, that’s surprising. Lately, it’s been her having to chase down allies.

“I look forward to meeting this Iron Bull.”

She moves away before he has time to say anything else. She’s pressed by time; she’d like a change of undershirt before she reads over the records from the Storm Coast and visits the place herself.

 ***

The sea back at home is calm, and the sun is gentle on most days, the smell of sand and spices filling the air near the open market. The sea on the Storm Coast is an angry, bellowing monster – and the Herald takes no comfort in being present here. The rain falls in such a heavy curtain that it almost hurts where it hits her bare skin, at the nape of her neck and over her hands, and she is immediately miserable and cold. She feels like one of the kittens her brothers loved so much to torment by dunking them in rain buckets. Harding attempts to smile at her, and she’s such a pretty sight.

“Enjoy the sea air. I heard it’s good for the soul.”

Again, Trevelyan wants to say, it’s the sea back at home that always calmed her heart, not this tempest raging on and on, unmerciful. She is glad she decided to go with her lightest armour, because anything heavier would have had her toppling over once wet. And yet, despite being entirely uncomfortable, and despite having her discomfort so obvious to her companions, her interest is stronger, as she considers exactly what the Chargers are capable of.

Bull ducks from an incoming attack, lips pulling into a smirk as he hears the battle growing in numbers, his guests finally making their appearance. When he rises, axe held up ready for a blow, his enemy falls to his feet, and in the blink of the eye, where before there was nothing but air, the Herald of Andraste appears, dressed in blood and looking up at him with the widest eyes he’s ever seen. She looks determinedly torn. Her instincts always at war with her reason, and it seems like she is walking, talking, breathing on eggshells, trying to maintain the balance of her inner self, even as she slashes at the guy’s throat, keeps an eye on her people all the while as they take down another smuggler.

For a moment, as she straightens herself back up, the Herald of Andraste looks like she’s on the brink of collapsing. Then she sheathes her daggers, carefully wiping off the blood on her pants, pushes away the hair falling into her face, braid coming undone in the midst of fighting, and there’s an easier air about her.

“Nice one, Chuckles!” he can hear one of her companions addressing her, and he’s storing that nickname for a later time, but since both of them are busy assessing the other, none turns.

She’s not scared, he realizes. Her pupils are blown open, but it’s just the excitement from the battle still bursting in her veins. She stares at him, but she does not shy away from meeting his eyes, and there’s no second where her gaze strays anywhere else but his face or his weapon.

Smart girl, Bull thinks.

He can notice there’s already a strain forming in her neck, from looking up at him, and he grins. She barely reaches his chest, just a tiny frail human – exhausted from fighting, probably not as well-fed as she should be.

“So you’re with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it. Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

“You are the Iron Bull.”

There’s something in her voice that he doesn’t know where to place exactly, so he pushes it to the side. She’s really quite plain, as far as women go. There are many mingled stories in her body language, but whatever she’s managed to rewire, her manners are not one of those things – as she takes a seat as far away as possible from him on the tree trunk, head nodding politely in Krem’s direction when he comes up to proclaim his job already finished.

Yet, the Bull wants more time with this holy figure of the Inquisition’s. “I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense, Krem.”

“None taken, least a bastard knows who his mother was. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?”

Bulls laughs, warmly, and the Herald wonders how much history exactly do these two share to be so comfortable passing around offences like the kindest of words. She is reminded of her brother’s favourite sayings; one he would always mention whenever he’d refer to the other Templers as his other siblings: Constant companionship is the strongest sign of affection. These two, with nothing in common and all the possible reasons to hate each other, instead choose, each day, to fight by each other’s side, to listen to one another and honour their bond above anything else.

She burns with yearning.

“So, you’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it… and I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

“How much?”

“It wouldn’t cost you anything personally, unless you wanna buy drinks later. Your ambassador – what’s her name – Josephine? We’d go through her and get the payment set up. The gold will take care of itself. Don’t worry about that. All that matters is we’re worth it.”

Trevelyan thinks of the Inquisition’s coffers, not much over the sum the Iron Bull asks in there. But as much as they’d be lacking, she’s sure with such a mercenary company in their ranks, they’ll replace the coin in no time – and she can’t even imagine how easier they’ll go through missions and demands with fighters just that good.

“The Chargers seem like an excellent company.”

Cassandra, from a distance away, looks like she’s about to have a seizure, no doubt having made the same calculation as the Herald to what Krem told her, but coming to a way different conclusion. Varric laughs in the background.

“They are. But you’re not getting the boys. You’re getting me. You need a frontline bodyguard, I’m your man. Whatever it is – demons, dragons? The bigger the better.”

It’s been weeks since she’s felt at ease on a battlefield, but just one shout from the Iron Bull, his lance high in the air, put most of her worries at ease. He is a man who obviously knows what he is doing when he fights, and this is exactly the type of people she desperately needs during her missions. She’d stand behind him in front of anything, and although it should scare her how willing she is to entrust her life over to someone she has just met, she is just so tired of coming close to dying in each of her battles, of struggling so hard to bring down men bigger than her, or fear for her life even as she walks on an evening stroll. Iron Bull, acting as her bodyguard in all Inquisition matters, sounds like the best thing that has even happened to her since coming alive out of that damned blast.

Her shoulders sag in relief, there’s a breath of air that comes easier. He is everything she is not. She finds that the most incredible, best thing about him.

“There’s one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off. Ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?”

Trevelyan thinks back to her studies; when Qunari showed up in the Free Marches, on Kirkwall’s shores, her afternoon studies were almost immediately including Qunari culture and history as well, though at that moment she didn’t know she’ll ever need it, directly, like this.

“They’re a Qunari organization, right? The equivalent of their guards and city watch?”

An almost perfect quotation of her teacher, that she is painfully aware, now, was neither Qunari, neither travelled to Par Vollen.

“I’d go closer to spies, but yeah, that’s them. Oh, well, us.”

She appreciates that at least Iron Bull is obviously trying not to piss her off when choosing his words, his tone perfectly neutral, no stray expression on his face. It’s like she is listening to a report, and she cannot quite understand why a Qunari spy just admitted, outright, on their first meeting, to being a Qunari spy tasked to do exactly what he is doing right now. She thinks of his offer, of how good it sounded –

“Whatever happened at that Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I am on your side.”

Is she okay with that whatever being a spy? Is that promise, of him standing by her side and protecting her, enough to erase the fact that he is a trained spy? Is she okay with knowingly having reports sent about her actions and her choices and herself, about the Inquisition and its people – all of them that she just tentatively learnt to know? And does it make it better that she knows it from the start? That he’s been honourable enough to tell her from the beginning, just like that? And is their information valuable enough to get something equally as valuable from the other Qunari spies across Thedas?

The scale tips in her mind, from one side to the other, yes and no, getting heavier and heavier with each passing second, getting lighter and lighter with each of Bull’s arguments.

“Very well. You’re in.”

Bull smiles at this uncertain, poor woman in front of him, torn apart already by the expectations that her people put on her – and he is trying to calculate for how long is the Inquisition supposed to last like this. Whatever the humans call her, she is nothing but a terrified and overworked noble, who blushes prettily at the simple mentions of his preferences in redheads, who stares after the Chargers with something like jealousy on her face. Then the moment passes, and she starts moving, and there’s nothing of her past burden visible on her while she’s on the go, as she takes the trek back to the Inquisition’s camp, falling in row with the dwarf, nodding her head at Dalish.

She’s a figure who learnt of his secrets and chose to forgive him in advance and to trust him with no basis for it. Peculiar and desperate at the same time, lessons that he thinks she learnt only recently – no real noble would have agreed so easily, with so little coating.

He recalculates the odds of success, now that he is part of the Inquisition too.

[hotcocosharing]

Done With You Part 4

Me as OC Hana hobo4lyfe11 as Eisuke

Hana’s POV 

I am worn out.

Barely managing to get my heavy eyelids to lift, a tall, vague figure above me.

“E….Ei…Eisuke.”

Good, I seem to be able to speak again.

“Oh, princess.”

Of course, that scent of sweet cologne could only be Baba. The word thankyou stuck in my dry throat and I lick my lips, trying to draw some moisture into my mouth. To tell the thief just how much I appreciate his presence, how eager I am to give him the biggest embrace and kiss on his cheek but before my lips part, I fall asleep again.

Sleep, that’s what I need.

I wake up, finally. There’s no clock or phone to indicate how long I’ve slept but I just know, it’s been a while. My eyes open to be greeted by an unfamiliar white ceiling and antiseptic smell, hmm hospital.

I chock out over a moan as my slightest movement sends a jab of pain through my body, taking in a deep breath; I look to the sides and stare at the dark bruises covering my arms and wrists. The biggest scar lies where it cannot be seen, my shaking hand moves to my aching chest.

The sound of sliding door opening and soon comes the voices of two men, “Test result came back yet?” Just the stern tone of his voice is enough to send me on the verge of tears.

“Yes, we performed a rape kit, it came back negative.”

My heart almost stop at his sigh of relief, I couldn’t tell what’s worse.

“Apart from all the bruises, there are no major injuries.”

Right, I should be thankful, shouldn’t I? These are just bruises that will fade, nothing major. No one mention the memories and wounds that could not be erased. Medically speaking, I am in perfectly good health. He asks the doctor few more questions but all I could focus on is his silhouette visible through the thin curtain. By the time his hand reaches the curtain, I shut my eyes in time to avoid unprepared contact of any kind.

His scent lingers in the air and the familiar light touch on my cheek send chills to my spine. I probably fail to put on a poker face even with my eyes close but I am used to it, he is only inches away and yet he seems so far. The love I’ve always so carefully cherished and protected is on the edge of crumbling with my heart shatter into pieces.

The same routine happens every day, he would come visit me around the same hour and I’d always be “asleep”. Deep down, we both know the illusion I’ve put up but this wall between us seems a far better option than facing the fatal truth- whatever that might be.

I manage without interacting with Eisuke at all till the day of my release, Baba comes to drive me “home”- I always find it odd that a hotel suite has become my home but who am I to complain, especially in front of the man who owns the hotel and buys me for twenty million without a blink of an eye.

The small chat with Baba along the ride doesn’t help with the awkwardness so I ask him directly about what happened.

I was found in an abandoned office building with only few men guarding, the man in the navy suit was the son of Mr. Ozaki, the man behind all the disasters. After orchestrating the bomb explosion, framing Eisuke for tax evasion, he thought it’d be more effective to threaten him by kidnapping me. Obviously the owner of Burj Khalifa should have done his homework before crossing a man he could never out smart. His plan of assassination also back fired and the man was never found after his arrest on the news. My guess would be somewhere deep down a desert in Dubai, as for his son, Eisuke spared his life for saving me and the rest, Baba said none of them could ever lay their hands on anything and we decided to leave the conversation at that.

I wait, wait and wait aimlessly in an empty guest room for hours which turns into days. Baba, Ota, Mamoru and Soryu have all treated me like a broken doll but Eisuke is nowhere to be seen. It’s a business meeting here one day follow by a long conference call the other, the reason of not being able to see me begin to run out. And before my already meaningless waste of time turns into senseless weeks, I march into his office to end both our misery.

“Don’t I even deserve a second of your time? Not even a freaking apology?” Fighting the anger boiling in my veins as I drown into eternal despair, I hiss through clench teeth. “Oh, so you can’t even look me in the eyes after WHAT YOU’VE PUT ME THROUGH?” I yell in surprise, shock and pain at how pathetic I have been for the past few days, waiting for someone who would never own up to his mistakes and more furious at being kept in a hotel room that constantly reminds me of his empty promise- “all the happiness in the world”- What a load of crap!?

None of this would have happened if he would just back down before his rival turn hostile; I would have never walked out on him in the first place if he could just for ONCE listen, to hear my day, venting about Erika’s nonsense. Our path would have never crossed if I’d be just less clumsy, how would I have guessed that breaking a Venus statue would get myself into human trafficking and slavery. And I most certainly do not foresee myself to fall in love with the self-centered, demanding and manipulative man who started the whole black market auction. Yet, I love Eisuke Ichinomiya deeply and so blindly. I see through his flaws and imperfections, trust and love him for who he is. NONE of it matters, NONE of those counts.

“Go to hell, Eisuke!” My voice come out sharp and harsh, I am tired, I am so tired. “I … You….. it was all because of you and I…..” Barely managing to whimper out in a weak and just audible voice, not how I want myself to sound but I have never successfully lied to his face or anyone’s face for that matter. Putting on a brave face is rather pointless and I have no intention to stop my tears, they will dry out one day for my heart is now truly broken, my soul darken and my love towards this very man who stands in front of me is no longer the same, it never will. Neither he nor I will ever be the same again.

Part 1 / 2 / 3 / 5