#fates endless inkwell

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

He's been at Steve's house a week before he manages to gather up the courage to ask.

He shuffles into the living room, Steve's old slippers on his feet, Steve's old pajamas hanging off him. He'd lost weight in the hospital. And hadn't gained much back yet, still in too much pain to really have an appetite. But this, it needed doing. He needed it done.

"Steve?" He asks, throat clicking, voice scratchy from underuse. Steve looks away from the tv immediately, hits the mute button, eyes wide and on Eddie.

"Hey. You okay?" He asks, turning his whole body on the couch, towards Eddie, giving him his full attention.

Eddie just nods. Slowly. His eyes going unfocused, staring at the floor.

"Eddie?" And Steve's in front of him now, he hadn't even heard him get up.

"Hmm?" He hums in his throat, eyes still feeling foggy.

"Did you need something?" Steve asks, Eddie's eyes focus, the concern in Steve's voice bring him back into his body. He looks at Steve, nods, says,

"I need you to cut my hair." His lip trembles, he digs his teeth in.

"You... what?" Steve's confused. Rightfully so. Eddie swallows around the fire in his throat, tries to explain it to Steve. This thing he can barley figure out himself. Has a half formed idea at best. He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, Steve steps a little closer.

"It's just- it keeps- I keep laying on it. And it... pulls. And I'm sleeping and it pulls and I wake up and I can't breathe and it's-" he inhales, sharp and shakey and then Steve is there, his hands on Eddie's shoulders.

"Okay. It's okay. I'll do it. Whatever you want Ed's." He pulls Eddie upstairs, into his bathroom. Stands with him in front of the mirror, scissors in hand.

"Where do you want it?" Steve asks, his eyes meeting Eddie's in the mirror. Eddie takes a deep breath, brings his hand up, winces at the pull on his ribs but keeps going.

"Above my shoulders. But like... I wanna still be able to tuck it behind my ears?" He's not sure why it comes out as a question, but Steve just nods, Eddie sees his lips twitch into the start of a smile before dropping again. He reach up, drags his fingers genlty through Eddie hair.

His stomach sinks, his hair is gross. He hasn't washed it in days. Too tired. Too much pain. Too much effort.

"Sorry my hair's gross." He mumbles, lips barley moving.

"It's not. It's fine." Steve assures him, his voice soft, sections out a small lock of hair, he looks at Eddie in the mirror again.

"You're sure about this?" He asks, he looks sad. Eddie hates it. But also doesn't. Because it means Steve sees him, understands him, and how important his hair is to him.

But it doesn't matter right now. That his hair is a peice of him, a peice of the Eddie he'd built to keep himself safe. A peice of his armor.

"I'm sure. Please." He isn't begging, exactly, but his hands fist in his pajama pants, and it feels like it anyway.

"I'm gonna go just above your shoulder at first okay? And then if you want more off we can do that." Steve waits for Eddie to agree and then starts cutting.

Eddie closes his eyes when the scissors sink through his hair. Keeps them closed as Steve works. He stops a few cuts in and tells Eddie to wait there. Eddie sits on the toilet seat as he waits for Steve to come back.

He brings a radio with him, clicks in one of the tapes Eddie made him, and gets back to work. Eddie's eyes stay closed. He finds himself smiling as he listens to Steve hum behind him. Scrunches his nose when Steve full on sings a few times.

Not because he's bad. He's got a really nice voice actually. Eddie loves listening to him sing. But if he didn't scrunch his face he might to do something else instead, something stupid, with Steve so close.

It only takes a couple songs before Steve's hands are on his shoulders, gentle, reassuring, an anchor.

"Okay. It's done. Or at least. Might be. I can take more off if you need me too." His voice is soft in Eddie's ear, Eddie can feel the heat of his chest on his back he's so close.

He opens his eyes and feels his heart flutter in his chest. His head swimming a little. His hair hadn't been this short since junior year. He can see Steve watching him in the mirror.

"Good?" He asks, dragging his lip into his mouth and letting it go again.

"I think so." Eddie says, feeling a bit dazzed, a bit dizzy. And then Steve fucking reaches up with both hands, tucks Eddie's hair behind his ears genlty, his fingers moving down his neck to rest back on his shoulders.

"I could take another inch. It'd still fit behind your ears." Steve's eyes are moving over his head, like he's doing some complex math equation. Eddie wants to cry. His chest tight.

"Okay. Take it." He says, Steve's eyes move to his in their reflections again.

"Yeah?" Steve asks, reaching up and smoothing his hand over Eddie's hair. Eddie nods.

"Yeah. One more inch." He breathes the words out, like he just needs them gone, out of his mouth. Steve smiles at him, untucks his hair from his ears and starts cutting again.

Eddie watches him this time. Watches the way his tongue sticks out as he concentrates, measuring Eddie's hair between his fingers before he cuts. His tongue peaking out between his lips, brow furrowed in concentration.

Eddie watches him and tries to convince himself he actually wanted it shorter. And maybe he did. But he knows too, that he didn't want Steve to stop touching him. Steve's eyes meet his in the mirror and he smiles again. Eddie looks away. His cheeks burning.

"Okay. You're done Munson." His voice is teasing, it makes Eddie's stomach flutter.

"Thanks. Harrington." He teases back. Too soft. He knows. But he can't help it. His voice is stuck in his throat. Steve snorts as Eddie turns, takes a step toward the door.

"Actually. Can I-" Steve stops, his hand curling around Eddie's bicep, stopping him there. Eddie looks at him. Waiting.

"Can I wash your hair for you?" Steve asks, his voice quiet, Eddie barely hears it over the radio.

"My...?" Is Eddie's articulate reply.

"Please? It'll make you feel better. I- I think." Steve stammers a bit, always so endearing when he does that. Eddie loves when he's flustered.

"I uh... yeah okay. If you want." Eddie shrugs, tries to act normal. Like any of this is normal. And Steve fucking beams at him, that beautiful smile on full display.

"Okay cool. Just uh... here you can sit here while I get this cleaned up and get a towel and I'll be right back." He's talking fast, his hands flailing and jumping around as he talks. Eddie just nods, smiling at him as he watches him toss Eddie's chopped hair into the trash. Watches him take a lock of it and tie it in a knot, tells Eddie he'll put it somewhere safe. So they'll know when it's fully grown out again.

Steve wipes up the counter and disappears, comes back with two towels a few seconds later. Instructs Eddie to sit on the floor. He sets a towel down for him to sit on and lays the other over the side of the tub.

Eddie lets Steve guide him. His hands gentle as he lowers Eddie's head back over the tub, asks if he's comfortable, Eddie hums an affirmation. Steve makes sure the water is warm, not too hot, because Eddie doesn't like hot water. He gets it perfect. And then starts pouring water onto Eddie's hair.

Eddie's not sure where he got the cup. Or if it was already there for some reason. He means to ask but Steve's fingers sink into his hair and his brain short circuits. The shampoo smells amazing. Minty. It tingles against his scalp in the best way as Steve's fingers move in slow circles.

Eddie's eyes fall closed. He's sure he makes some obscene noise but Steve is kind enough not to comment. His fingers working magic in Eddie's hair. He rinses with warm water, the contrast from the cool minty feeling making Eddie shiver.

He hears Steve laugh a quiet laugh as he does and smiles himself. He hears another bottle pop open and closed and then Steve's fingers are back. Working the conditioner into his hair slowly, massaging it into his scalp as well. His hands moving slowly, with a purpose, for what feels like hours. He pulls back eventually, fingers dragging slowly through Eddie's hair as he goes.

"I'm gonna let that sit for about two minutes and then we'll rinse okay? You doin okay? Not in pain are you?" Steve all but whispers in Eddie's ear. The radio is still playing in the background. But Eddie couldn't tell you a single fucking song that had played since Steve started touching him.

"I'm good. Kinda tired. But that might just be your magic fingers." He peaks one eye open, watches as Steve laughs, shakes his head. He closes his eye again and laughs too. Only it wasn't a joke. Not really. Steve's fingers were magic. Just like the rest of him.

Steve hums along to Queen's Radio Ga Ga as they wait, Eddie tapping out the beat on his thigh as Steve hums and sways. The song ends and Steve scoots closer.

"Ready?" He asks, turning the water back on.

"As I'll ever be." Eddie deadpans, scooting back a bit from where he'd slid down.

"You're not gonna try and put products in my hair and blow dry it are you?" Eddie asks as Steve starts pouring water over him, fingers moving quicker now, moving his hair around to get it clean, he snorts again.

"No. Just wanted to get you clean." He says, pouring one last cup of water over his hair and turning the tap off. He grabs at each side of the towel under Eddie's neck and lifts, pulling Eddie up and wrapping his hair in one smooth motion. Eddie's eyes land on him and he can't help it.

"So my hair was gross. I knew it." He sighs, watches Steve's nose crinkle.

"It really wasn't that bad. But you thought it was. So i figured this would help." Steve shrugged, like it was nothing. Eddie bit his lip as Steve patted and scrunched his hair in the towel, being careful not to pull.

He claps his hands down on his thighs and helps Eddie get back on his feet. Pulls him genlty to stand in front of the mirror again and smiles soflty when Eddie takes the towel off his head and drags his own fingers through his hair.

It's short, leveled at his chin, a little above when he tucks it behind his ears. And he feels... better. Lighter. He shoves his hands up into the back of it, taking a deep breathe when his fingers drag over his neck, it makes him shiver.

"Fuck. I'm gonna be cold now." He mutters, chuckling in his throat, he hadn't thought about that.

"I'll keep you warm." Steve's voice is soft, when he speaks. The tape in the deck clicks and goes quiet as they stare at each other in the mirror.

"I just wanted you to feel better. But I'll gladly keep you warm too. Whatever you need Eddie. I- I mean I'm here. For you. Not goin anywhere." He shrugs after he mumbles through his little confession, his eyes on the floor when he turns to Eddie.

"I feel better." Eddie whispers, bites his lip and decides to be brave.

He steps forward, into Steve's space, Steve lifts his head, hazel eyes darting around Eddie's face. Eddie hears his breath stutter when he leans closer, presses his lips to Steve's cheek, firm.

Wanting no doubt in Steve's mind that Eddie means this. Means to kiss him. Means to pull him into a tight hug after. Means to hum happily into Steve's neck when Steve pulls him close, arms wrapping around Eddie's skinny frame and holding him tight.

"I'm not going anywhere either." Eddie breathes into his shoulder, presses another kiss there, into his shirt, like a promise. Steve squeezes him tighter, Eddie thinks he might be crying. His chest fluttering against Eddie's as he breathes shakily.

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?" Eddie asks, lets Steve pull away a bit so he can see him. Eddie was right, there are tears in his eyes, but he's smiling as he looks at Eddie.

"Yeah. Course you can. You can sleep there every night if you want. Forever." Steve says, nuzzles into Eddie touch as he wipes tears away from his flushed cheeks.

"Forever huh?" Eddie teases, kissing acoss Steve's cheeks genlty as he laughs, it's wet, and wobbly, and Eddie is so fucking in love with him already.

"Yeah. Forever. Or however long you want me I guess." He shrugs again, dismissive, as if he really thinks Eddie would ever give him up.

"Forever sounds good to me. Not fucking letting you go now I've got you." Eddie whispers, his hands holding Steve's face, Steve's hands on his wrists, holding him too.

"You're gonna keep me forever?" Steve asks, his lip trembling as he looks at Eddie with hope in his teary eyes.

"Forever and ever, if I can." Eddie nods, and it seems to break Steve. He sighs, grabs at Eddie's pajama shirt and tugs him forward. Their lips crash together, a little rough at first, their teeth clicking until Steve seems to calm and slow down. His lips move genlty against Eddie's, soft and slow, and when he pulls back he's smiling again, his crooked little half smile that Eddie loves so much.

Steve scrunches his hair a few more times and then drags Eddie upstairs, gets them both comfy in his bed. And he holds Eddie as they fall alseep, pressing kisses into his hair and against his temple before sleep takes him.

Eddie wakes up warm. Drapped across Steve's chest as the sun hits them. He feels lips press into his hair, smiles when Steve makes exaggerated kissy noises. But he keeps his eyes closed, nuzzles deeper into Steve as he feels his fingers press into his hair.

Eddie hums as they drag through a few times, nimbly untangling rats or snags as they move. He sinks deeper into Steve, his heart fluttering as Steve's hand moves through his hair genlty, scratching at his scalp as he goes, before settling against the back of his neck, his thumb moving in slow cirles against the newly exposed skin.

Eddie whimpers into Steve's chest and snuggles closer, Steve keeping him warm, just like he promised. Eddie couldn't wait to spend forever with him.

[theink-stainedfolk]

New WIP!!!

Bound by Oath, Led by Madness

---

Lan Qiyuan is a renowned physician in the heart of a Wuxia cultivation world, known for his calm demeanor and steady hands. His life is devoted to healing and upholding his reputation —until his eccentric friend and Peak Lord, Xie Jun, approaches him for therapy. Xie Jun confesses an outlandish secret: he claims he’s a “transmigrated soul” from another world and speaks of strange terms like “webnovels,” “plot armor,” and “doomed prophecies.” He insists that to save their realm from annihilation, he must redeem a demon lord—and Qiyuan is the only one he can trust to help him.

Bound by his oath, something he didn't know existed to confidentiality, Qiyuan reluctantly agrees to listen. What begins as a simple favor for a troubled friend soon spirals into a series of increasingly absurd and dangerous schemes as Xie Jun ropes him into “missions” involving questionable talismans, suspicious rituals, and endless ramblings about “fate.” But as odd events start aligning with Xie Jun’s outlandish theories, Qiyuan can’t help but wonder if there’s a sliver of truth behind the madness—or if he’s simply losing his mind alongside his patient.

Caught between something called the "Hippocratic Oath" and his own growing doubts, Qiyuan must navigate a world that may not be as straightforward as it seems… and survive the journey with his sanity (and his friend) intact.

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable if anyone wants to be added or removed let me know.

[dark-twist-fairytales]

I KNOW WHICH ONE I AM, COLESSTAR (you're welcome by the way)

Anyways:

Musical Husband's my beloved

Charles is dark? Vicious? Scary?? Hell yeah

*cradles Amelia* If anything happens to her, I'm killing everyone in this room, and myself /brotherly fashion

So.. You DIDN'T name yourself after the character? Fate decided that? Sick my man.

DRAGONS.

Holy shit those are Some Blorbos my guy /pos

In order: @bluetorchsky @thesoulesscollection @androidcharles @splinnters @the-starry-inkwell @endless---possibility

Fuck it lets make a chain

Madeline Celeste

(The Other) Badeline Celeste

see the joke is they're probably the same person-

Catgirl who happens to like the letter a

A bunch of spiders piloting a very fucked up body

A fire hydrant

The one with the goddess

Slime girl (and my gf)

Presumably Not A Celestial Object Spanning Lightyears

Cat Boy Commits Tax Evasion

madeline celeste, but different this time

A different catgirl that likes the letter a

Actually Reads Papers

@empress-of-dark2005 @archaicfirehydrants @meltedusername @nebulaaaaaa @nellaaaaaa @carawith17as @taxfraudcatboy @alforalice @justsomespiders @xxm4 @tranny-physiccs

(if you wanna name someone already mentioned, feel free, i recommend writing the description different)

[eddysocs]

Introducing: Marianne Hardwell

Fandom: Bridgerton

Face Claim: Lottie Tolhurst

Full Name: Marianne Elaine Hardwell

Nickname/Alias/Pet Names: Mary

Age: 23

Myers Briggs Type: ISTJ

Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw

Love Interest: Anthony Bridgerton

Collections: Inkwells

Style/Clothing: Marianne doesn’t care much for fashion. She’d wear the same few dresses all the time if she were allowed. While she does favor pinks, greens and blues, she really doesn’t see the point in having endless articles of clothing.

Signature Quote: "I’ve never met a man quite as vexing and yet quite as captivating as you, Anthony Bridgerton."

Plot Summary: Marianne Hardwell is all set for life as a spinster. After her parents disastrous marriage, she doesn’t want the same fate for herself. What she doesn’t count on is falling in love with Viscount Anthony Bridgerton.

Forever Tag: @vivis-ghost-wife, @felicitys-smoaking, @perfectlystiles, @oreostars, @foxesandmagic, @boyiega, @itsjustgracy, @anotherunreadblog, @fiercefray, @misshiraeth98, @malice1329, @reggiemantleholdmyhand-tle, @codenamekryptonite, @bravelittleflower, @witchofinterest, @raith-way, @farrradays, @annibunnysworld

[linaxart]

Once very long ago...

The Starless Sea scrapbook 6/8

[ID: A photo of a mixed media collage. All the elements are stuck with transparent tape. It takes up two pages, top for Fate and bottom for Time. It's reversible and the elements mirror eachother. In the middle, there's a cutout of an ornate silver box, above it there's a drawing of an owl mid-flight and below it a cutout of a blue eye with a sword and a brush drawn underneath it. Circling the box is a slim black ribbon and the words "Time fell in love with Fate fell in love with" to showcase the endless cycle. Fate's page has a bee sticker, a cutout of a door, a drawing of a paintbrush over her name, a cutout of a marble statue with a crown and a small drawing of a mouse. Time's page, which mirrors Fate's, features a big cutout of a painting, a drawing of a quill and an inkwell over his name, a small real key and a small cutout of a knight.]

[flowerrose14]

“Defective Detective”

HHHHH-Forgot to post these like an idiot<:”D Also freakin thank you @rainecloud020604 for helping me design the fella <3

This be me cold icecream fella Alfred, a fella whoo trusts no one and wishes to gain back the trust of folks in this world,it’s a reason why he signed up to be a detective, to just give folks some damn hope.Hates failing cause it’s like breaking his promise and pledge to those who trusted em with such. He gets treated horrible by his boss and don’t trust aaaannyone in that station- well, most of the times anyways.

Alfred was inspired by a writing project i had to do for school,a version of em for in inkwell and then a human version<:”D

Hope you all enjoy ^^ The Writing project is below here Warning there is a tad bit of blood and bit of heavy subjects. it’s also long as hell and you don’t have to read such i swear to ya <3 apologies

Alfred’s POV: The rusted, busted joke of a clock hadn’t even struck 10am, and already my nostrils were being assaulted by the strong stench of coffee being brewed. Yep, a very average morning in this broken, little police station of ours, your everyday back breaking and mind crushing routine, oh what fun, right? You get use to all the all-nighters you got to pull and gallons of bitter coffee your knackered body is forced to swallow.

My entire body flinched hearing the erupting laughter burst from my “faithful” colleagues’ mouths. My teeth gritting in an instant with distaste for those gullible idiots. This job is far from some measly joke. It was barely even a week ago-dear lord that jewel of pure disaster. The burning hot blood dripping from my shredded hands, the repulsive smell of smoke and the dreadful ringing of that bullet-

The deafening crash from a stack of paperwork being slammed onto my desk snapped me out of my horrid thoughts, now being greeted with the piercing glare of the devil himself (Or if you prefer, my boss.)

“What are you doing?!”

His booming voice questioned, adding more agony to my aching eardrums. A low growl bubbling in my throat as hatred began to boil in the pit of my stomach. Even though my mind, so desperately wanted to lash back at this man with a snide comment of how he looked like a bin-bag full of coleslaw, wearing that uniform. I sighed silently in defeat and forced the most painful, weakest smile imaginable. Another little part of me, slowly dying this morning as I kissed-up to that filthy pig. But before my forced words could even leave my mouth, his enraged voice filled my ears once more.

“YOU’RE THIS CLOSE TO LOSING THAT BADGE OF YOURS ALFRED!! Your performance has been appalling, and so help me god- one more slip up and you can kiss this job good-bye!”

My lifeless eyes just stared at him blankly, feeling the peering stares of comrades on us now, enjoying every moment of this delightful show of me getting immaturely ridiculed for no reason whatsoever. Guess that would be another thing you get use to here.

All my burned-out mind, could possibly puppeteer my body to do was just simply nod in response, knowing full well he wasn’t even going to dare. Basically, cause this demon absolutely adored tormenting me. Wincing in response as he stormed off back into his office, giving me the succulent chance to glare at him with every step he took, the moment his back was turned.

I didn’t even bother to turn and face the smirking faces of my “loyal” team mates, my dried up eyes instead wandering around my desk and sticking on to the very first file on the stack of paperwork…With an irritated huff, my hands plucked the piece of flimsy paper off of the mountain of sheets and documents. My eyes now scanning every word, as if I was a broken-down robot, doing its destructive routine over and over again.

“Missing. On Friday, 15th of November. A 9-year-old girl, by the name of Riley Grace was reported missing. Her distressed parents reporting once they had come home from a night out together, were greeted with a smashed window, ransacked rooms and their little girl gone. Police have searched the area, unfortunately not finding any leads or whereabouts of the child, or kidnapper- “

I was already scanning the contact info below and my eyes eventually landing on a heart-wrenching picture printed onto the paper. Now I was staring into the eyes of Riley Grace, a photo took in the lush, green fields of this year’s Spring. Her hair as golden as freshly bloomed sunflowers, emerald like eyes, rosy red cheeks, adorable smile and such a precious glow beaming from her face.

My eyes now dulling as a vile taste was planted into my mouth, my heart sinking into my dread filled stomach. Sick. The very first word that came to mind, how utterly sick you’d have to be in the head to do such a horrific thing, but for folks’ misfortune, this city was infested with these disgusting rats.

What was the exact action that lead me to this? Was it the dawning of my ragged, blood-stained jacket? The first steps out of the station and into the freezing cold streets, ready to face such a horrific world and be a “Hero”? Or was it simply the photo I had taken of this twisted gang that lead to me getting caught. Lead me to where I was now…

 Both my legs and heart were burning, like someone had carelessly set them both ablaze to make me suffer more then I already was. Like their deepest and most twisted desire was for my hope of escape to slowly burn with them. At this point I couldn’t even tell if the loud bang in my ears, was my pounding heartbeat, or my bounding footsteps, desperately wanting to escape this living nightmare.

My entire body jumped suddenly feeling the freezing, cold water sink into the fabric of my ragged, ripped clothes, the heaven’s opening and pouring down a damn ocean worth of water onto this god forsaken city. Great. Just wonderful, just perfect! Yes, all I ever wanted tonight was a rage filled storm, just perfect! It fit so well with this entire hell I had gotten myself into!

And just like that my thoughts were shattered into a million pieces, as my bruised face collided and crashed onto the soaking, rough pavement. A sickening crack giving me the most politest reminder, I had broken something once more. Oh, what joy. Tonight, was just getting better by the moment!

I felt my stomach twist horribly, as warm, oozing liquid began to leak from my swollen wounds, sinking deep and deeper into my already filthy clothes. I almost felt sorry for this body of mine, it’s fail skin decorated with too many bruises to count, it’s bines burning and feeling like there were slowly being melted and it’s poor crushed heart felt like it was about to explode at any moment.

 Though everything was in an ungodly amount of pure agony, it was difficult to even register as my mind began to suffocate me in its dreadful fears and darkest worries. Question, after question, regret, after regret. The entire weight of the world on my trembling shoulders, crushing me slowly as my head spun with questions that I pleaded answers for.

Why did I do this? Why this part of town? Why this gang? Why did I even bother being such a “hero”? Regret was the most-deadliest poison of all in my opinion, flowing through my bloodstream and tainting whatever hope I had left.

I knew. This was part of this soul crushing job. Faces would come ang go, your mind just grows use to it…But once it’s your time to bite the dust… Both your heart and soul scream out, pleading and begging. For someone, anyone to save your useless life.

It’s unfortunate how I lost this little, twisted game for “Chase”. My heart rocketing into my throat hearing those horrifying footsteps, echoing through the desolate alleyways.

Closer and closer. Louder and louder. Like a vicious, ferocious predator slowly closing in on its pathetic prey, on its mouth-watering prize… The world around my exhausted eyes began to fade, my broken mind confirming this was truly it, my crimson red blood sinking into the soaking wet pavement. The endless and deafening screams to “get up!” and “run!” were now slowly dying along with my shattered body.

Just I was about to accept my dreadful fate of becoming a new punching bag for this disgusting gang, just like little Riley… The ear-splitting sounds of sirens bursting my already in pain ear drums and jolting my mind awake in an instant. Once more I was consumed by such sickening questions that I would have begged answers for, key word folks is “would”.

My pale body, which was beautifully painted with too many wounds and bruises to keep track of, was still going through with the agonizing progress of shutting down. Even if my mind screamed it to stop.

However, as I slowly was losing my slender grip on this world, my body was suddenly lifted, not by those sick murders that had gave me a terrible beating beforehand. No. Instead the soft touch of my fellow colleagues, their soft and gentle voices filling my ears as they dragged my dying body into the back of what I hoped and prayed to be an ambulance. The blinding lights and voices were all such a blur to me, my body too weak to even keep its eyes open. Giving into the hellish pain and slowly fading out of consciousness.

[kelyon]

Golden Cuffs 44: The Prison

Cover art by @paradigmparadoxical​

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

Belle adapts to her new life

Trigger warnings for depression, isolation, disordered eating and sleeping, suicidal thoughts and menstruation.

Read on AO3

By the time Belle thought to create a calendar, it was already too late. Too many days had already slipped away from her. How long had she been in the library? A week? A fortnight? She had no way to know and she almost didn’t want to.

 It seemed ghoulish to count out the days since the Dark One had shut her away in this room. At one point, Belle considered making tally marks on the stone walls, or even keeping a diary. There were stacks of parchment on the worktables, plenty of quills and inkwells for her to use. But her blood ran cold when she realized just how many marks she would have to make, how many days she would have to write about. She knew it would be worse, somehow, to see the time recorded. It would be worse to keep track of every day that she had lost in this prison.  

After all, she would be in this library for the rest of her life. When he had cast the protection spell, Rumple had remarked that it would last for a hundred years. Was she really meant to remain in complete isolation for one hundred years? Did he think she would live to see the spell lifted? Or did he mean for her to grow old and die without ever leaving this room? How many hundreds of thousands of days would Belle spend alone in the library? The enormity of it boggled her mind and clenched her heart. The idea of all that time, all that future, the rest of her life filled with… nothing…

It was better not to think about the sum of the days. Better just to take every day, or even every hour, as it came. Every hour in this prison was challenging enough.

A day here started whenever she woke up. Often, she slept through the daylight hours, waking in the late afternoon, or even as the sun was beginning to set. Every time she opened her eyes, she did it reluctantly. She wanted to linger in sleep, to rest in the blackness of oblivion.

By some good fortune, Belle didn’t have any nightmares. The troubles she’d dealt with after her time with Regina and Maleficent had faded into distant aches. Sleep was a blessing to her now, a respite from her life. She didn’t have to think while she was sleeping. She didn’t have to feel. She didn’t have to be aware of her own misery. 

She would lay in bed for hours, for as long as she could bear it. Even without sleeping, Belle stayed still, with her eyes closed and her heart dulled to the pain that waking would bring. In her mind she felt that if she didn’t move, she wouldn’t have to exist. 

She wore her shift to sleep in and only occasionally bothered to put on her blue dress. Without Rumpelstiltskin to comb her hair, it grew even more tangled and wild. Belle barely managed to keep it out of her face. She tied it back with the ribbon he had given her on the last day they had been together. 

On many days, she wouldn’t get out of bed until she could no longer ignore the ache in her belly. Hunger was a sharp, gnawing sensation and sometimes she loved it. Some days she would intentionally not eat, just to feel the pain of hunger. Some days she would eat too much, just to keep herself from feeling so empty inside. Some days she would graze, eating only a few bites before the food lost its appeal. With her magic plate, Belle could summon any meal she could think of. Oftentimes the hardest part was to decide what she wanted, to conceive of a dish that would nourish her, that would taste good enough to be worth finishing.

There were many conveniences in the library, but Belle still found it difficult to take care of herself. It was hard to act like that she was worth caring for.  

In this prison she wanted for nothing, nothing except company, and purpose. For all his cruelty, Rumpelstiltskin had been thoughtful enough to furnish her cage with books. The story that never ended was a constant favorite, but there were hundreds of others for her to devour. On good days, Belle was able to lose herself for hours in the endless pages. 

She had always liked tales of thrilling heroics, but now she turned to stories of survival. She read an account of a man shipwrecked on an island who had to find ways to build shelter and find food. There was the story of a girl in the wild north who had been turned out of her home and was compelled to seek companionship with a family of wolves. Or the one about a boy who was lost in an endless forest, armed with nothing more than a hatchet. Belle read them all, relished their adventures. She took any opportunity to forget about being herself.   

But after too many days of a silent library and a door she couldn’t open and a man who didn’t love her, tales of overcoming adversity began to lose their appeal. Every character in these stories survived their trials and eventually came back to their homes and the life they had once known. The nail in the coffin was a story about a whole family shipwrecked. On every page of that book, the moral was that even though every day was a struggle, at least the husband and the wife and their children all had their love for each other to rely on. 

In her loneliness, in her knowledge that she would never have a family or be loved, such a message was a bitter gall.

So Belle began to read darker tales, stories of imprisonment and isolation. There was one told from the perspective of a man who was injured in an unjust war. He was so badly hurt he could do nothing but lie in bed and let other people care for him. Blind and deaf, speechless and limbless, the man was aware of the people around him, but could not communicate with them. He could not know them or make himself known to them as anything other than an object of pity--his own body had become his prison.

There was a story of a young girl who was ready to marry a lord. On the day of their wedding, it was revealed that the man was already married to a madwoman he kept locked up in an attic. Belle read that part of the story over and over, but she could never tell if the first wife was locked away because she was already mad, or if being imprisoned had driven her to that terrible fate.

Another story was of a man who had displeased his king, so he was sent to an oubliette--a place where people were sent to be forgotten. That prison was a black hole in the ground, the only entrance a trap door in the ceiling. There were no guards and no other prisoners. There was no light, no sound. Rotting food was thrown down to him from above, but no one ever spoke to him. Alone in the darkness, the man wasted away for years, and the king forgot all about him. 

 Such stories horrified Belle, but the fear almost felt good. It felt good to feel something, even if the feeling was pain. Her heart raced and her body shivered and for as long as she was reading about other people’s terrors, she could ignore her own. 

The library was its own sort of oubliette. The Dark One had put her here so that he could forget about her. If only he had taken the courtesy to give her a means to forget about herself! On the worst days, Belle wondered why he hadn’t just killed her. It would be nothing for him to turn her into a snail and crush her underneath his boot. If he didn’t want her anymore, if he would never let her live another day outside this prison--why let her live at all?

Why did she let herself live?

That thought frightened Belle more than any story, more than any ogre or any other threat she had ever faced. She didn’t want to stop living. She wanted to live! But the thought intruded into her mind like a worm boring into a piece of fruit. Was it really living, if she just existed in an endless haze of sorrow? Was it really living to make it through one hour, one day, and have nothing to show for it except another day closer to a death that was already inevitable?

Early on in her sentence, Belle had found that the protection spell had limits. She had been cutting a pear into slices when her hand had slipped. The blade of her dinner knife had slid across her thumb and the cut was so smooth that she didn’t feel any pain until well after it had started bleeding. It was only an accident, but it had been a powerful lesson: The spell that protected her only kept threats out. There was no magic that would save her from dangers that already existed in the library. The Dark One could not protect her from herself.

So Belle took precautions. She took the knife and hid it behind a row of books in the far corner of the library. Sometimes she would lie in bed and stare at those books, knowing that the knife was behind them, knowing that she could use it to do something terrible. She told herself she would be safe as long as she left the books alone. She never touched them, no matter how she was tempted.

How long would she have to fight herself to be safe from herself? How long could she endure this existence? How long had it been already? Would there come a time when it got easier? 

Belle had never felt a grief like this before. When her mother had died, there had been too much else to worry about. Overnight, Belle had become the lady of her father’s castle, the heir to a war that had killed Mama and would kill everyone else if she didn’t fight for them. The ogres, starvation, even fear itself had become enemies she’d had to devote all her faculties to overcoming. She’d had to fight, to be brave, every day. There had been no time to wallow in her own sorrow. 

Now she had nothing but time, and nothing but sorrow. There were so many empty hours and Belle spent so many of them in sadness. She wept for herself, for all the futures she had lost, all the versions of herself that would never be because she would never leave the library. She wept for her past as well, for the hope that she had once kindled in her heart. She wept for the love she had once thought was real.

She tried to keep her thoughts away from Rumpelstiltskin. It was impossible to forget him, but she tried not to let her mind dwell on him. She didn’t want to think about why he had sent her here, tried not to wonder why he had found her wanting. She tried not to pound her fists on the door, tried not to call his name, tried not to speak out loud to him. Even if he could hear her, he had made it clear that he would not answer. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t care.

The more she thought of him, the more she wept. It astounded her, how many tears she had, how much time she could spend crying over the rejection of one man. Every day, she found something new to miss about him. Every day, she found a new way to blame herself for what he had done to her. Surely at some point it would stop hurting. Surely there had to be a part of her that could recover from this. Surely she could grow back into a whole person someday. 

It was hardest when she tried to sleep. Her body had been trained to expect at least one orgasm every night before she went to bed. But the cuffs still pulled her hands away from her secret places, even if she brushed against them on accident. 

The cuffs could move her hands but they couldn’t stop her thoughts. Sometimes she wished they could. Face pressed into her pillow, Belle tried to keep herself from imagining Rumpelstiltskin. She didn’t want to think about his hands on her body--firm and possessive as he touched her, held her. She didn’t want to think about his mouth when he smiled, when he kissed her, when he sucked her fingers between his lips. Belle didn’t want to think about Rumpelstiltskin’s body, the weight of him on top of her, the warmth of him pressed up against her back. 

She certainly didn’t want to think about his cock--the way it tasted as she licked him, the way it filled her empty places. The breathy way he moaned when she stroked him or held his balls in her hand. For so long, his cock had been all she had known of his body. His desire for her had been all she had known of his heart. 

She saw him so clearly, on those cold and empty nights in the library. Belle kept herself company by imagining his face when he was with her. When his eyes were closed and his jaw relaxed, when he looked at her softly, tenderly. When his lips quirked into half a smile at her, equal parts amusement and amazement. 

In those moments, Belle knew she wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t a fool to think Rumple had loved her. Loving him didn’t make her a silly girl. It had been real.

But it hadn’t been enough. 

That thought always curdled her pleasure into pain. It was as though their love had moldered--a fruit that had rotted even before it had fully ripened. It pierced her heart to hold both facts in her mind at the same time: They had loved each other once. But it had all gone wrong.

Strangely, the pain of that thought calmed her down. It helped her fall into the exhausted sleep that she needed. The horror stories helped as well, gave her a strange, paradoxical peace. After a while of thinking the worst thoughts she could, she felt the same sort of completion that she did after an orgasm. 

When she had first made a habit of touching herself, back when she was still a maiden, she had been preparing herself for her wedding night, an occasion she had dreaded. It had frightened her, to think of some man pawing at her, to think of her husband’s coarse hair and strange body. She had touched herself between her legs and thought of the man she would marry, how he would force her to do her wifely duty whether she enjoyed it or not. In secret, late at night, she had explored herself. She had touched her wetness, not knowing it was a sign of arousal. She had orgasmed, without ever knowing what that word was, or that anybody else ever did such a thing. She had been afraid, but she had turned her fear into something that she could endure and even enjoy.

Now it was the opposite. Instead of pain bringing her pleasure, now pleasure brought her pain. She sought oblivion, and she sought rest. She would accept either true peace or numb acceptance. Whether from abstinence or indulgence, whether from pleasure or from pain, Belle would take whatever solace she could find.

****

On the second floor of the library, tall, arching windows flooded the room with light from both the east and west. There was a cushioned seat below the western window, where Belle liked to sit. She would read there, or sit and watch the sun set on yet another day alone. The library was high enough in the castle that there was nothing to look at except the stony mountains and the endless sky. Sometimes she would wait for the stars to come out. She found a book on astronomy, on the shapes the stars made and the stories that could be told from those shapes. 

One star on the edge of the horizon glowed blue, brighter than anything else in the sky. It entered Belle’s head to wish on it, but she never did. There was no wishing in the Dark One’s home. 

And even if she did, what would she wish for? She could wish for her freedom, but even outside the library, a part of her would always belong to Rumpelstiltskin. She could wish for his love, but a love brought by magic would be more a curse than a blessing. If Belle dared wish for anything, she would wish to understand. If she just knew why Rumple had done this to her, perhaps her fate would be easier to bear. 

Many nights, she would stay awake with her cheek pressed against the glass, her eyes fixed on the stars while her mind reeled with questions and woes. It would never end, would it? Being trapped like this. This was her fate. Rumpelstiltskin had decided it. 

If only she were a stronger person. If only she had the spirit to fight back, to say that no one decided her fate but her. But her love for Rumpelstiltskin had made her weak. It had made her sick, pathetic. Loving him, especially now, was like walking around with a boulder on her back. If only she could lay her burden down. If only she could bring herself to hate him. 

Such thoughts made tears run down her cheeks. They were slow and quiet, but there seemed to be no end to them. Every day, every hour, Belle found a new reason to cry. Surely there would be an end to it soon. Surely, someday, her heart would be hardened enough that she wouldn’t cry over Rumpelstiltskin.

He certainly wasn’t crying over her. 

There was a lever that opened the western window if Belle pulled on it. One pane swung open like a door, just wide enough for her to fit through. The first time Belle had opened the window, her only thought had been to escape. She had planned to tie her bedsheets together into a rope long enough to reach the ground. But when she had stuck her head out to gauge what that distance might be, the cuffs had pulled her back into the library. 

So the window offered no escape, but it did allow fresh air to come in. She could smell spring in the wind, even if she couldn’t see any plants or animals. The days were getting longer, rain and thunderstorms filled the sky. Belle knew, she felt it in her bones, that outside the library things were changing. Somewhere out there, flowers were blooming and birds were singing. People were casting off their heavy winter clothes and beginning to feel light again.

It would be her birthday soon.

Belle had been born in the middle of spring, when the grass was green and the leaves on the trees were tender and new. She was not born in the time of flowers, but in the growing lettuces and herbs, just before the farmers brought the firstfruits of their labor to the market.  Every year, her mother told her that Belle’s birthday brought the world back to life.

This would be her first birthday since the ogres had killed Mama. This would be her first birthday away from her father, away from her cousins, or any of the people she’d used to spend her life with. This would have been her first birthday with Rumple. 

Now it would be her first birthday alone. 

Hugging her arms around her body, Belle turned her gaze to the cloudy sky and tried to keep herself from crying. In one year, her life had changed and changed and changed, but it would never change again. She was alone, and she would be for the rest of her days. How many more birthdays would she spend like this?

****

With no means to measure her hours and no motivation to count her days, Belle had no way to know how long she had been in the library. Not until the afternoon when she woke up with a new ache between her legs, a pain that was simultaneously strange and deeply familiar. Her body felt tight and loose at the same time--as though every part of her was about to float away in a stream and leave behind nothing but the hot, red, ball of misery that clawed below her navel.  

She remembered this pain, though she hadn’t felt it in months. It was her bleeding, a malady she hadn’t suffered since she had become the Dark One’s whore. This was her body trying to make a baby. He used to give her potions every month to prevent it, but obviously he didn’t care about that anymore. 

Belle rolled over onto her stomach. The pressure of her body against the mattress eased the pain in her womb but could do nothing to help the ache in her heart. So it had been a month. At least a month. It may have taken longer for his potion to fully wear off, for her body’s cycle to begin again once it was free of any magical influence.

But at least a month. Belle felt a tightness in her chest, but she did not cry. She lay on her bed and allowed the hollow feeling to fill her up. A month, and the door stayed shut. A month, and the Dark One didn’t miss her. A month since she had spoken to him, or seen anything besides the contents of the library. 

One month down. How many left to go?

“It doesn’t matter,” Belle croaked. Her voice sounded deep and dead. How long had it been since she’d spoken? “It doesn’t matter,” she told herself again. “This is your life. If it hasn’t changed by now, it never will.”

One of the drawers under her bed was constantly stocked with clean linens. Towels and handkerchiefs and sheets were at her disposal whenever she needed them. And whenever a cloth was dirty, she could place it inside the drawer and it would come out clean. Had the Dark One planned for this when he had fitted the library to be her prison? He must have known that she would bleed when his potion wore off. For all his faults, he did pay attention to details. 

 Still in the bed, Belle reached down and pulled open the drawer. She grabbed a wad of linen and stuck it between her legs. Then she curled up into a ball on her side and held her stomach, greeting the pain like an old friend. 

She stayed like that--still, but not exactly sleeping--until the sun set golden through the western window. She hadn’t eaten since the day before and she was ravenous. Shuffling over to the table that held her magic dishware, Belle put her hands on the rim of the plate and thought of beef--tender and fatty and cooked so rare it was still red inside. Her knife was still hidden away, so Belle stabbed at the meat with her fork and tore away chunks with her teeth. 

There was something exillherating about that, something that made her feel wild and free, even in her cage. There was a power in letting go, in feeling nothing but rage and pain. Perhaps that was why the Dark One was the way he was. Perhaps he was cruel just because it felt good. If he could choose to be a beast, why couldn’t Belle?

She ate, summoning a honey cake when the beef lost its appeal. She washed that down with cool wine and then a loaf of bread and butter. The fullness in her stomach mingled strangely with the cramping in her womb, but she didn’t mind. In its own way, utter misery felt almost pleasant. 

Her hands and face were sticky, so Belle opened a drawer and pulled out her wash rag. She covered her face with the steaming heat and breathed in the wetness, the darkness. Oh, that felt good. She moved the cloth down to her neck, lifting up the tangled mass of her hair so she could scrub away the dirt and grime. 

How long had it been since she’d done this? It was so easy not to bother bathing, not to take care of herself. Suddenly, Belle was aware of the filth all over her body. This wouldn’t do at all. Pulling her shift over her head, she opened the drawer of clean linens. She took out all the towels and handkerchiefs and put in her shift and the bloody rags. 

Belle took the clean towels and piled most of them in the center of the stone floor. Then she went to her magic cup. Holding her hands over the letters, Belle thought of hot water. She paid particular attention to just how hot she wanted the water to be, steaming but not boiling. After testing the temperature with her finger, Belle took the cup and stood on top of the towels. She tilted her head back and poured the hot water over her naked body.

It streamed  over her, running down her legs to pool on the towels at her feet.

Oh, it felt good! How long had it been since something had felt good? The water ran down her torso, in between her breasts and over her aching belly. 

Belle closed her eyes and sighed. This was how she had taken her first bath in this castle. The magic cup had only poured out cold water then, she hadn’t known it could do anything else. Rumple had had to tell her how to use the tools he’d given her.

The thought of him made Belle wince, but she didn’t cry. He had given her the wash rag too. Even that early on, he had given her things that had made it easier to live without him. Maybe she could be grateful for that. She ran the cloth over her body, scrubbing at her skin until it was pink and soft. She felt clean now, a new creation. 

She didn’t attempt to wash her hair--there was no way to comb it afterwards and getting it wet would only make it tangle more. But Belle did pour water over the curls between her legs and scrubbed with the soapy rag. The hot water eased her discomfort, and the dried blood rinsed away. 

Still wet from her bath, Belle gathered up the sopping wet cloths and took them over to the drawer. Her shift and the handkerchiefs were already cleaned and neatly folded. She dried herself off with a towel before she dressed.

“Well,” she said briskly. “That was more than enough activity for one day. Back to bed, I think.”

The only irksome part of staying awake throughout the night was how she never knew just how late it was. The candles around the library seemed to have given up on setting a schedule and always burned brightly until dawn. So when Belle put herself to bed, she had no idea how long the night would last. It didn’t matter anyway. She slept through day as well as night, napping whenever she was bored and then avoiding sleep so she could keep reading. 

Perhaps, Belle thought now, that wasn’t actually the best way to live. Perhaps it would be better if she made herself keep to a routine. It would probably help her mood to sleep at night and be awake during the day, to have a set time for meals and for reading. Perhaps she could even consider taking exercise. She could try running up and down the stairs instead of listlessly wandering or constantly sitting. 

Tucked into her little bed, Belle reached for a book. She didn’t pick a horror story tonight. She didn’t want to frighten herself, didn’t need to feel the vicarious thrill of peril. Instead, her hand felt for the book covered in copper-colored silk, the story that never ended. The first book that Rumple had ever given her. No matter what else had happened between them, at least she would always have this story. 

She read of the warrior and his horse. On his quest to find the boy who would save the world, the warrior had to travel through a treacherous swamp. The mists of the swamp clouded the vision of the warrior and the horse. It was impossible for them to know how long they had been in the swamp or whether their footsteps would lead them to dry land or plunge them into the murky water. Gradually, the horse began to lose hope. He sank ever deeper into the swamp. The warrior begged and wept for the horse to hold on, to not despair--for it was only when you believed you were sinking that you sank. But with every step, the horse grew sadder and sank deeper, until there was nothing for him to do but beg the warrior to go on without him. And so the warrior trudged on, alone through the gray gloom and the endless bog. The warrior did not sink, because he knew that his quest was too important to abandon. He was the only one who could complete this part of the journey. He could not give up hope.

Belle didn’t have a quest, but she did have a life. Right now her life was small, and limited, but it was hers. She needed to make it better than she had been. It would be hard, to live without other people. It would be hard for her to never speak to Rumple again. But that was no reason to give up on herself. She had spent a month moping over the dismal turn her life had taken. Now it was time to start living again, as best as she could manage under the circumstances. 

Determined to get a fresh start in the morning, Belle blew out the last candle and tried to sleep. But her newfound motivation had created a surplus of energy. There was a buzzing in her veins that she hadn’t felt in ages. Belle brought her hands to her face and found herself flushing. Her fingers felt delightfully cool against her skin.

She moved her hand down to her neck and felt her pulse racing with excitement. How strange it was that she could feel something this close to happiness. Even in this prison, even separated from Rumple, even with her body aching and bleeding--Belle could be happy. She took a deep breath, and her chest felt light. She put a hand underneath her collarbone and took another breath. She closed her eyes and relished this moment--this time, however brief it might be, when she was alive and she was happy to be alive.

Under her fingers, she felt the swell of her bosom and she cupped herself over her shift. Her breasts were soft and warm and she liked touching them as much as they liked being touched. How long had it been since she’d liked something? Belle sighed. There were joys to be had in this life. How pitiful she had been to forget that. 

One hand stayed at her breast, delighting in the slow rise of her nipple as she played with it. The other hand stroked a path downward, over her belly--still round from all that she’d eaten earlier--and onto her thighs. Lying on her back, Belle hitched her legs up so she could reach them too. She touched the smooth skin of her calves, ran her fingers over the light hairs, enjoyed the feeling of her own flesh. No wonder men desired her.

Belle had always taken her beauty for granted. Sometimes she had even resented it if it meant people were less likely to take her intellect seriously. But now she took the time to appreciate her body--her short but slender limbs, her delicate fingers and toes, the curves of her waist, and her soft, pale skin. Even her secret places, aching as they were right now, were a source of pleasure to her. She took a quiet satisfaction in that fact: She could use her body to make herself feel good. She could bring herself just as much pleasure as anyone else had ever brought her or that she had ever brought to them.

That was, Belle decided, a pleasant thought to have. 

With a wad of linen separating her hand from her secret places, she pushed down between her legs. The metal at her wrist pressed into her thigh uncomfortably, so Belle pulled the cuff further up her arm. Both cuffs seemed looser now than they ever had before.

She turned her thoughts back to her body, to how good she felt and how much she enjoyed what she was doing now. Even the pain in her womb had a dark pleasure to it. There was no shame in being aroused by pain--surely it was a more sensible reaction than being hurt by pleasure, as she had been lately. Belle had appetites and she wasn’t interested in denying the reality of them. Strange and monstrous as her desires might be, she knew what they were and she accepted them. She loved them, because they were a part of herself.     

Throwing her head back, Belle let out a little moan.

She rubbed herself again through the linen, her hips rocking gently and her back arching. Her other hand kneaded at her breast. Her pace quickened and she felt her pleasure rise.

“Oh,” she whimpered out loud into the silent library. “Oh!”

Suddenly, her orgasm overtook her, washing over her body like a wave that knocked her down into the ocean. Belle gasped at the power of her own pleasure, felt her body throbbing from the inside out. She clenched against her hand so hard she thought she might break her own bones.

Exhausted and satisfied and happy, Belle turned over onto her stomach to sleep. She let one arm dangle off the edge of the bed, her cuff hanging loosely on her wrist. Belle’s sleep was deep and restful, and she was only vaguely aware of the order she had just disobeyed.

[halfusek]

Hello, question concerning your Amazon Abomination comic Verse: What do you would have happened, if Henry stayed? I don't think it would've changes mich in the whole creating live thing and Joeys growing Obsession with it, but what would've happened to Henry?

Lemme clear something up - Abomination is nothing else but an interpretation of what in my opinion has happened in the studio. In the beginning, I wanted to make it a thing focusing on Joey and Bendy only but then I started getting more and more ideas which made me figure out a way to tell the whole story (in the way I see it at least).

At first I wanted to shortly answer “there would be no Abomination lol” but then I gave it some thinking and… get ready for an essay:

What would happen if Henry didn’t leave the studio?

I believe we have an answer for this concerning just Henry himself in the game.And it’s not a pleasant one.

“Local Artist Pushed Himself Too Hard, Found Dead At Desk”. I mean that’s basically what staying would mean for Henry - pushing harder.

I don’t think this newspaper is telling us what happened to Henry Stein, I got that impression the moment I saw the headline, but after a while, I realised it doesn’t really… make sense.

The whole point of Joey and Henry choosing two different roads is that Joey held onto working and creating while Henry chose family over work. (Even though Henry showed some signs of workaholism, I think Linda could be the one helping him choose what’s right and better for him - I mean why even mention and focus on her at any moment if she wasn’t important in any way?)Does that make sense? Make this whole “Henry chose the right path and didn’t push himself too hard” just to say that he pushed himself too hard in the end? Yeah, no, I’m not buying that. I mean it could be true but not really satisfying to me.

So I think it’s just a “what if”. What if he stayed.He would overwork himself.And since he would choose work over family then maybe he would lose Linda in the process, maybe not but either way their relationship wouldn’t be doing well.

Now let’s do a small comparison.

To me, Henry seems like a sorta passive person, especially with his “just keep drawing”. Don’t question anything, just keep doing what you do.On the other hand, we have Joey who is like “just do whatever it is you do and trust me as your leader”.

This is… a really bad mix.Even worse when you take into consideration that they are friends. And you are willing to push yourself harder for someone like that. For a friend.

Since we already are going kind of against Henry’s character by assuming he wouldn’t leave, we might as well assume he wouldn’t really change the way he’s working. He would keep pushing, just as Joey wants him to and as an old man thinks would magically fix everything but… no, I honestly doubt that.

I don’t think studio’s successes/failures depended on Henry either, he was one amazing animator, we can surely give him that (it took a few people to replace him), but Joey still managed to (temporarily) succeed without him.

I honestly doubt the debt the studio was later in could be easily fixed by one person. Maybe Joey would listen to Henry more than other people (like Grant, his goddamn accountant), but the thing is that at some point they were successful and well things often rely on luck, economy and stuff like that, so many ideas could have seemed fine until things weren’t really fine. I mean Great Depression made some people really rich and some really poor, it was really tricky to make financial decisions.Plus - Henry is passive. He just keeps drawing.Joey believes Henry would push him to do the right thing, maybe he would try but then again - Henry ends up overworking himself, so in the end, it’s almost as if he just left.Can’t really push if you’re dead.

So we actually end up with a similar set up to what we have in the original story.

The only exception is that we could have a 6th labelled coffin. With Henry’s name on it. So it could somehow go even more unpleasant from now. How? Oh, it’s pretty simple:

…kind of. As Henry would die from overworking himself and wouldn’t be actually… killed. But still, there is something which I think is worth noting.

It seems to me as if the inkwell is associated with Henry. I mean if any of the items was associated with him, it would be this one and no one from the workers doesn’t really fit (except for Joey, but “The Illusion of Living” fits him waaay better for obvious reasons). Also, let’s assume here that the items are connected to actual workers because they could just represent something else, but in this interpretation, I take them this way. I think I should elaborate a bit on how I see it works, which I actually did include in Abomination:

I did some math. And I don’t like it.

We have 14 characters: Joey, Henry, Wally. Thomas, Sammy, Norman, Jack, Johnny, Susie, Allison, Shawn, Grant, Lacie, Bertrum.(I’m going to aggressively count Johnny even if it’s not his name because the organ moans in pain and there has got to be someone in it and I like things making sense in the game, even if it’s just a reference to something else.)

6.

12 (next to Norman’s and Grant’s there is an unlabeled coffin).

Another unlabeled one in that hallway after you exit Allison’s and Tom’s safehouse. So 13…

14.

Now, I’m not counting this one:

As it’s not a physical coffin, only a drawn one. It’s another symbol of death and death is connected to Henry a lot.

(The last one could be just referring to the ink as in the Ink Machine or to the inkwell, or maybe even to both, who knows.)

But the best/worst is:

The actual offering has a skull and crossed bones on it.Ink = death.Scythe being a “reward” for not dying a single time and killing everyone on your way. And activating all the flashbacks which help Henry realise he’s in a cartoonish loop. By entering the death tunnel on purpose. When Henry is most lucid.“You bring death”.And, heck, even him playing “The End” and setting everyone free (by playing “The End” and in some ways killing everyone in the studio) is something death-connected.

Whatever the symbolism is, let’s go with the inkwell being an offering connected to Henry’s soul.

Also, let’s go back to the number 14.

Workers with coffins: Norman, Grant, Bertrum, Lacie, Susie.

Workers with offerings: Henry (inkwell), Joey (book), Shawn (doll), Sammy (record), Thomas (gear), Wally (wrench).

Workers without labelled coffins nor offerings: Allison, Jack, Johnny.

Unlabeled coffins: 3.

What made me start thinking deeper about this is the fact that none of the workers has both a coffin and an offering.Also an interesting thing with how… corpses in the game act:

workers with coffins: Norman/The Projectionist, Susie/Alice - corpses don’t disappear (hard to tell what’s with Grant and Lacie as we can’t be sure of their fates and Bertrum is an octopus ride but his head doesn’t seem to go anywhere)

workers with offerings: Joey/The Ink Demon, Sammy/The Prophet, Wally/Boris - corpses sort of disintegrate/vanish? (except for Sammy in the searcher form but yeah he is a searcher which work differently, again we don’t know Shawn’s fate and Thomas/Tom didn’t die in-game)

the rest: Allison doesn’t die in-game, neither does Johnny (lmao imagine killing the organ) but Jack is crushed by a box and we can’t really tell what happens to his body but… his hat stays

other deaths: Searchers - they go back to the puddles, same with the Swollen Ones and the Lost Ones buuuuuuuuuuut!

the Butcher Gang - corpses don’t vanish but sort of? collapse? which is confusing (in a way Grant, Shawn and Lacie’s fates are so they aren’t necessarily crossed out of being at least some of the Butcher Gang members)

So the thing I think is that while not everyone was sacrificed, Joey still has some control over their souls. Or, if you please

owns.

And let me tell ya seeing as older, slightly more rationally thinking Joey still was playing with Henry’s soul making him go in an endless loop, leaves me with zero doubt that he would play with it 30 years earlier.I mean the inkwell has always been included in the packet. ;)And definitely Henry’s death would impact Joey, but I’m afraid…

…nothing good would come out of it.

[sockablock]

happy Winter’s Crest, y’all! And an especially happy winter’s crest to @devilessyeet, my @winterscrestgiftexchange partner! I hope you enjoy this piece, and have a great holiday!!

• • • • • • • •

It was midnight in Zadash, long hours past sundown. Mist hung low off the cobbled roads, and the only source of light came from a handful of guarded torches winding through distant alleys and streets. A few clouds drifted slow across the moon and somewhere in the night, a single raven alighted on a rooftop and gently shook its feathers.

In the candlelit interior of his own inn room, Caleb Widogast briefly set down his notebook. His hair was unkempt as always and his coat sat folded next to him, neatly on the bed. He had a rumpled quill between his fingers, and sported a thin smudge of ink at the corner of his mouth from where he would chew at the nib in frustration.

His gaze was glued to a peculiar cannonball-sized object resting on the covers before him. Its twelve-sided form glowed softly in the darkness, and every once in a while, he would see a tiny grey spark break from its surface, then vanish from reality. It undulated faintly with a strange and unknowable energy, and despite his best efforts, he still had barely any idea what it meant.

He glanced back down at his sparse notes. Over the course of the last few hours, he had only managed to rewrite what he already knew: this beacon was connected somehow to the Krynn, had presumably originated in Xhorhas, held some sort of sway over fate and all chance. Caleb himself had felt its power course through his veins a number of times now, and while its influence was immeasurable and its possibilities endless, there was something off-putting about accepting the gifts of an artifact so alien and strange.

He scratched his chin, and tapped the pages once more. Then he looked back up to run a few more tests, and saw.

He instantly lunged out, snatched the beacon into his arms, threw himself up off the bed and set both hands aflame.

And then he hesitated, because the intruder hadn’t even moved.

Sitting on the mattress of his simple low bed, leaning back and posture calm, was a strange young man in dark leather armor. His skin was so pale as to almost glow, and he had a thick cloak of midnight feathers draped across his shoulders. His long black hair was tied up behind his head, and upon further inspection, Caleb could see that the man’s ears were slightly pointed—the tell-tale sign of elven heritage.

He was also tossing a dagger into the air, watching it spiral a moment before catching it lazily. Even more worrying, was the broad smirk across his face. The way his eyes glinted with mischief in the moonlight.

Caleb made his fire burn brighter. To his disappointment, the man’s grin only widened.

“Easy there, friend,” he chuckled. “I’m not here for a fight.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. His flames crackled on. “You broke into my room,” he said slowly. “You are armed.”

“What, this?”

The young man flipped the dagger up one more time, winked grandly, and then suddenly, in mid-air, the weapon vanished into a thin wisp of shadow.

“Is that better?” he asked.

Caleb stared. He took a small step back.

“Somehow that is even worse.”

The young man sighed. “Look,” he said, and raised his palms in a calming gesture, “look, I really am not here to fight you. If I wanted to, y’know, fuck your shit up, I would’ve done it while you were busy with your pretty little ball. I mean, I got in here without you noticing, yes?”

Very guardedly, very gradually, Caleb nodded his head.

“Exactly,” the man said. “So, please, won’t you sit down? I just wanted to talk. You can even hold onto the beacon, if you’d like, though I imagine you’d rather put it back into its box, so no one can find it during our little conversation.”

A thousand more questions swam through Caleb’s mind. He gingerly retrieved the lead safe from under the bed and dropped the beacon inside. He leaned over, and put his book and inkwell onto the nightstand.

Then he sat down.

“There we go,” the stranger beamed. “Isn’t that better?”

“I am not so certain, yet,” he muttered. “That depends on who you are, and what you wish to speak of.”

The half-elf threw his hands into the air. “Right, right!” he said. “Of course you’d want an introduction. You can, er, you can call me ‘Vax.’”

“Er…ja, okay, I am Caleb Widogast. Though I somehow feel you may know that already.”

Vax grinned. “Too true, Mister Widogast. I know quite a bit about you. And one of those things, if my hunch is correct, is that you and your gang of friends have been messing with something you aren’t supposed to.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “Such as…?”

“Come on, come on,” Vax sighed. “I need you to work with me here. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Ja, well, if I am being honest, we have messed with many things over the years, and I am fairy certain a large majority of them were supposed to be off-limits.”

Vax chuckled at that. “Okay, fair.” He pointed at the ground. “I’m talking specifically about that fancy little dodecahedron. The Beacon. And what it represents.”

“What it represents?” Caleb echoed. “You mean Xhorhas?”

Vax sighed again. “No, Mister Widogast. What I represent. Or, should I say, who I represent: Fate, and the goddess of.”

Caleb stared at him. He opened his mouth. He closed it. He opened it again.

“You are a follower of the Raven Queen?”

The corners of Vax’s lips quirked upwards. “Sure,” he nodded. “Let’s go with that. She’s, er, she’s sent me on a bit of an errand, different than my usual duties, to poke into you lot. The long version’s a bit more complicated than that, but mostly I’m just here to ask questions.”

“And…if you do not like the answers?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your goddess is also the patron of death,” Caleb murmured. “Will you kill me?”

Vax blinked. For a long, long silence, Caleb got the impression that he was trying not to laugh.

Eventually, the half-elf shook his head and offered up a wry smile. “Death doesn’t kill people,” he said gently. “She doesn’t need to.”

“You know, you really make me anxious when you answer my questions that way.”

Vax’s grin widened. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a while since I’ve held a proper conversation.”

Before Caleb could comment on that, the man waved a hand around and gestured towards the lead box. “So what exactly are your intentions with that, anyways? Feel free to lie at first, if it makes you feel better, but I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Caleb remembered a shadow where there hadn’t been one before. He remembered a dagger that had turned into smoke. He could feel, though he wasn’t entirely sure how, a tremendous amount of barely-contained power swirling throughout his bedroom.

He swallowed. He shrugged.

“If I am being entirely honest, Herr Vax, the truth is that we have no intentions. We stumbled across this object mostly by accident, and we have been carrying it around in a sparkly pink haversack ever since.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You had it in lead, though,” Vax said, slightly reproachfully. “You knew people were going to be looking for it. Took me bloody months to get a proper pin on you lot.”

“Verzeihung.”

“I get the feeling that you aren’t really sorry.”

Caleb couldn’t help but grin at that. “No, not really,” he said. “Can you blame me?”

Vax chuckled. “No, I can’t. But why keep it?” he asked. “If you say you didn’t want it in the first place, why hang on to something so dangerous?”

Caleb considered this, and then sighed. “We did not want it falling into the wrong hands. And I am not saying we are the right hands, but…we know where this object came from. And it…it was a point of heavy contention between our Empire and the…the neighboring one.”

“Your empire,” Vax noted. “But you didn’t give it to them?”

“Oh, not at all,” Caleb said. “They are not trustworthy. Who knows what they could do with something this powerful?”

“And what do you want to do, with something this powerful?”

Caleb glanced at the box on the bedsheets before him.

“We are going to keep it safe.”

Vax shook his head, leaned in. “You misunderstand me. What do you want to do with it?”

Caleb’s eyebrows went up. “Me?” he asked. “Me?”

“Yes, you, like I’ve said, I’ve done my homework. I know a fair bit about who you are, and who you used to be.” Vax sat back and crossed his arms. “Tell me, Caleb Widogast, why are you keeping the Beacon?”

Caleb restrained himself from answering immediately. He sighed inwardly and shrugged.

“I want to change the past,” he said. “I want to shift reality back into a direction that it never took.”

“Why?”

Caleb glanced up. He met a pair of calm, steady eyes.

“Have you never felt regret, o Follower of the Raven Queen?”

Vax’s expression glimmered in the candlelight. “More times than you can count,” he chuckled softly. “But I will say this: I never once thought about going back on fate.”

Caleb shrugged. “Then you are thinking too small.”

“Perhaps. But what makes you think you can do it?” Vax asked, narrowing his eyes. “What makes you think that you’ll succeed, where nobody else has? What makes you think you’ve got even the slightest possibility of getting what you want?”

There was a second of silence, punctuated by the distant plodding footsteps of a night watchman far below.

“Will you kill me, tonight?” Caleb asked.

Vax shook his head.

“Then I still have a chance.”

The half-elf’s stare cracked, and a smile crept forward. “You’ve got balls, I’ll tell you that.”

“Thank you for reminding me.”

Vax rolled his eyes, and thrust a finger under Caleb’s nose. “I’m not going to kill you, that’s for certain,” he said. “And as far as we know, which is pretty damn much, you haven’t broken any laws regarding life and death. Your meddling with destiny hasn’t led you anywhere too dangerous yet, and it certainly isn’t worth staining my daggers. For now.”

He waved his finger around a little too sarcastically to be menacing. “I am here to give you a warning, though. It’s easy to get sucked into regret. If you aren’t careful, you’ll find your life slipping through your fingers faster than you can bring it back. We all die eventually, Mister Widogast, and we’ve got to use every second that we have.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Herr Vax?”

“Yes?”

“What comes after this? After life, what is next?”

The half-elf gave him a very faint smile.

“I told you already,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you, tonight. In fact,” he added, standing up and stretching his arms, “I should probably head out now. I’ve got things to see and people to do, you know how it is.”

“I do not think that is how the saying goes.”

Vax grinned. “I like to improvise. I imagine you and your friends understand that, pretty well.”

“We think on our feet,” Caleb admitted with a shrug.

Vax nodded his head enthusiastically. “Good!” he declared. “That’s the right way to be. And this part isn’t really a message from my Lady, or anything like that, but…do me a favor, alright? Don’t worry about changing what’s already happened. Focus on keeping what you have now.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your friends,” Vax said. “Hold them close. They’re the best kind of family you can have.”

Caleb’s gaze fell to the ground, and Vax chuckled softly. “Just think on it,” he said. “For me.”

“No promises.”

“None required.”

And then, as Vax crossed the room, as he walked over to the window and reached a hand outside and pressed his foot to the sill and prepared to leap through the night, he paused.

He looked back.

“This is going to sound a little odd,” he said slowly, tone much less serious than it had been so far, “but…there is something very familiar about you.”

Caleb shrugged. “I am no stranger to death.”

Vax threw his head back and laughed. “Good answer, slick. Nobody is.”

And then he nodded one last time to the wizard framed in moonlight, turned back around and slid his shoulders past the frame, kicked up off the hardwood floors, and was gone.

A rush of feathers blew through the room and vanished just as quickly as they’d come. Caleb couldn’t help but rise from the bed, hurry over to the window, stick his face into the cool night air and scan the starry horizon for any sign of where his visitor had gone.

Nothing. Not even a shadow over the moon.

Eventually, he sank back into his mattress. He stared at the lead box. He brushed his fingers to the lid, considered opening it again and taking one last look.

He didn’t.

And from somewhere in the night, somewhere high above the city, over moon-swept rooftops and the distant, shimmering sky, a raven called out to the breeze.

And flew home.

[kingsheadharborrp]

Alessandro Di Natale

Name: Alessandro Di Natale

Date of birth: February 29, 1992

Age: 29

Gender/Pronouns: He/Him

Occupation: Tattoo Artist (Owner of The Inkwell)/Freelance Photographer

Hometown: Catania, Sicily Italy

Length of time in King’s Head Harbor: 15 years

Neighborhood: Downtown

Faceclaim: Luke Pasqualino

BIOGRAPHY (Trigger Warning: Depression, Death Mention, Drowning, Thalassophobia)

Free-spirited, adventurous, derived from family values and the Sicilian sun, Alessandro’s journey began in the small coastal town of Catania in Sicily. His heritage, his connection to his Italian roots and more importantly bodies of water whether oceanic or lakes was a huge part of his upbringing. His mother would always joke that he must have wanted to be part mermaid with how much he loved the water, and he had often dreamt of what it would be like if that were to be true. Life seemed simpler in the Sicilian sun and the coastal and crystal clear blue waters had always given Aless a peace of mind, which is why it pains him to think about how it now strikes a fear in the core of his heart. His carefree and fearless nature from his younger years slowly slipped away from him and as much as he wished he could shake it off the nightmares plague him time and time again. His memories are shrouded with the good and the bad.

The good for Aless was having a family tree that seemed so endless he swore if it had been physically manifested it would have dove right up into the atmosphere. Family has and always will mean the world to him, which is why he tries his best not to burden them with the darkness that consumes his mind from time to time.

The bad is something that Aless has recognized time and time again. It took him some time but he understands now the severity of what he’d been through, something that irrevocably changed him.  The matter in question was an accident he witnessed on the Catania coast by the docks. A group of his friends along with Aless had been hanging out skimming rocks and trying to find an available boat to take into the waters. One was found and seemed to be able to hold the group as a whole, however they did not realize until it was too late that the weight limit had been reached. They were none the wiser to the feeling of water by their feet until Aless and another friend realized it was now slowly building up to their shins. A domino effect then occurred with the group feverishly trying to paddle the boat back to the dock, a strong wind unfortunately took hold and just as the dock was within view, the boat capsized. Aless and a handful of the group were able to swim the rest of the way back to the dock, however one friend who did not know how to swim was in turmoil. He considered for a moment jumping back in himself, but the other friends who had made it back to ground with him held him back, much to his protest. The gurgles and the screams for help flooded his ears, the frantic waving to get anyone by the dock to come and attempt to help rescue the friend was almost all for naught until a nearby fisherman jumped in. The rest was a blur, he didn’t know when the crowd had appeared, he could only hear a vast ringing in his ears along with feeling the lump forming in his throat. He’d never feared drowning until he had witnessed it taking his friend, who ultimately perished that day.Guilt, depression, the helpless feeling of cowardice consumed Alessandro for years, and his love for bodies of water seemed to close up after that ill-fated day. Though his family loved taking lake and beach days, he found himself sitting back and slowly feeling himself withering away to his fears. There were times where he felt guilty for feeling as down as he was, especially as he had one day caught his mother and Nonna tearfully discussing when he would be back to his usual self before the awful accident. It was this image that made him start the journey of compartmentalizing his feelings. The pained look on his mother and Nonna’s face haunted him worse than anything he’d ever felt so he taught him how to hone it back and bury it deep, showcasing nothing but positive emotions to those around him, it’s only when he’s truly alone does he dive deep into his own disparities of how and why things hadn’t gone differently.

When it appeared Alessandro had gotten his footing back, his family was delighted and things felt like they were slowly mending back to normal. More meals, more rambunctious laughter, more hugs, and all the while Aless swore he could still hear the swishing of the waves in his ears, so close that it almost made him ill to think about. As he grew older, Aless would find himself experiencing a change of scenery. His father was an intelligent investor as well as a savvy businessman, though he never officially knew what the Di Natale Patriarch took part in, he along with his immediate family found themselves taking residency between the UK and the US. He wasn’t a stranger to switching schools but his mother ended up wanting more stability for the Di Natale siblings, so they had made the decision to make their home base for the time being King’s Head Harbor, Rhode Island. Being the new international student had given him advances in social means. He’d immersed himself in an array of sports, clubs, been the object of affection for many doting eyes, and he loved the attention, more so for the fact that it made him forget just for a moment what he was trying to run from. Aless found he was thriving in the new setting, never saying no to new experiences, so much so that his family had agreed they would keep citizenship in America as well as Italy.

 Excelling in school and taking to a talent that he had loved on an especially low time of his life, Aless found himself immersing himself in art, a vague but powerful way to express his emotions even if it was just to himself. At first he started with self portraits, then he found him would paint whatever sparked inspiration and in his life up to college, he had plenty to go around. After graduating from art school, Aless decided he wanted to take some time to travel the world, going to wherever he saw fit though always finding himself enamoured with Europe. It was on this trip that he fell into Dilan Ulusoy, the architect with the dimples and charm that entranced him. They fell into each other over champagne and the skylines that oozed romance, and it was the first time Aless had found himself so wound up in someone else that he had forgotten himself and just found that he was melded into a person who was meant to protect and serve Dilan however she needed it. If it was naivety, he certainly served it by the droves as eventually the whirlwind of their romance would come to a climax where her parents ended up decided that Alessandro wouldn’t be a good suitor for their daughter. How could he offer her a nice life when he appeared to live penniless and on the dream of an artist? Artists were too rogue, too distrustful, too flighty, and as much as Aless wanted to prove them wrong, Dilan never gave him that chance as she in turn agreed with them, giving him his first taste of heartbreak. What could he offer to her? It appeared it would be nothing, so he accepted and carried on with the fact that perhaps he was a burden too big for her to carry.

Europe was now tainted to him and though he longed for Italy, he couldn’t bear to bring himself there when he could feel himself slipping back into darkness. So, he made his way back to King’s Head Harbor, not sure if it was a punishment, but it was the first time he’d found himself in some type of self isolation. Through the cracks of it though, he settled back into art being his therapy, trying his best to make peace with what he’d gone through while desperately trying to carve a new routine for himself. Eventually, he had built a business, his art had been well-received, and soon enough there was a form of stability.

Whether it was the stability of believing his own facade or genuinely feeling it for the first time in forever, Aless had successfully faked it till he made it through plenty of scenarios, and due to this he’s left a pile of hearts crumbled to the ground along the way. Now he’s something close to a casanova, always offering a smile and willing to lend a hand if it’s needed. He always ends up with knowing far more about a person than they would ever know about him, and he still cannot figure out why he’s so closed off and has an inability to open up in an authentic way. There is nothing concrete to his life presently except for the surety that along with Sicily, the wondrous happenings of King’s Head Harbor has always felt like a home to him.

 PERSONALITY

+ Adventurous, Exuberant, Meticulous

- Finicky, Impulsive, Self Destructive

WRITTEN BY Admin Jenny

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

{ Thank you for the idea @imsodonewiththissite !! It almost got angsty but i controlled myself!!! }

"What in God's name is that?" Dustin’s voice goes almost shrill as he walks behind Steve, looks down at his pumpkin. Eddie's head shoots up from where he's carving his own pumpkin, his legs shot out in front of him, his feet hitting Steve's across from him. Steve flushes, tells Dustin to shut up, and shoves at his legs to get him to move on.

"Alright alright jeez! It's just... I've never seen a pumpkin like that. Did you even try?" Dustin huffs as he settles back into his own carving area between Lucas and Will.

"Yes. I did try. Thank you very much. Henderson." Steve huffs, wipes at his pumpkin, then wipes his hand in the grass to get the bits of guts off. Eddie sits up taller, making a show of trying to see Steve's carving, but not really trying to see, they'd agreed to show each other at the same time.

Steve hadn't really had any idea what to do, so he'd just done something silly. But he could see Will and Dustin’s and theirs were detailed, and spooky. And his just looked... stupid, now. Steve sighed and put the top back on his, waiting for Eddie to finish.

He was staring, he knew he was. He couldn't help it. He loved when Eddie was in full concentration mode, his tongue poking out between his lips, his brows crinkled. Steve would never tell him that. But he could look. No harm in that.

Eddie looked up and met his eyes, smiled brightly, and dusted of his own pumpkin before popping the top back on. He tilted his head, this way and that, a few times and then looked at Steve again.

"Okay. You ready?" He asked, drumming his fingers on the gourd resting under his hands. Steve scrunched his nose.

"I'm having second thoughts." He said quietly, the kids were all yelling, in their own little world, but he still didn't want them to hear.

"Aww. But I'm excited to see it! Especially with the way Dusty Buns reacted." Eddie drooped, his eyes going wide and sad, the way Steve was weak agaisnt. He sighed, his own body drooping.

"Ugh. Fine. On three?" He tilted his head. Eddie nodded.

"On three."

"One."

"Twosie." Eddie wiggled his fingers, Steve rolled his eyes fondly.

"Three!" They both said it together and turned their pumpkins toward each other.

Steve's eyes shot open, Eddie's was... good. Like really good. Everything a spooky jack-o-lantern should be. Creepy eyes, sharp teeth, what looked like a skull nose.

"Holy shit Eds. That's... holy shit. Mine is so shit compared to- why are you making that face? What's happening?" Steve changed directions mid sentence because Eddie's mouth had dropped open as he stared at Steve hideous excuse for a carving.

"Oh my god you hate it." Steve grabbed at his pumpkin, about to turn it back toward him and hide it forever but he froze when a sound started coming out of Eddie's open mouth.

It took a moment to really form, but once it got going, Steve could hear it. Manical giggles were bubbling up out of Eddie's mouth. He slapped his hands over his face to stop them but they just kept coming.

Steve wasn't sure if he should be offended or not. He frowned though, his brows dropping on his head and Eddie immediately shook his head.

"Oh my god he's ADORABLE!" Eddie cackled the words, shoved his own pumpkin genlty aside and crawled toward Steve's, his hands outstreched and grabbing.

"I know it's- wait what?" Steve was so confused.

"Steve I love him. Look at his stupid little face." He'd devolved into baby talk and was scratching at the pumkin like you would a babies chin. Steve felt himself smiling.

"Wait you actually like it?" Dustin guffawed from behind him. Eddie spun around fast, guarding Steve's pumpkin from sight.

"Excuse me?! 'It'? Don't you ever speak like that about my son- our son!" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Steve. Dustin rolled his eyes.

"It's not even scary! It's just a big mouth!" Dustin’s hands flailed. Eddie screamed at him dramatically, clutching his chest.

"He has a tooth! And two adorable teeny tiny eyes!" Eddie moved, pointed at the face Steve had made. El and Will both aw-d, Max and Lucas smiled, Mike just rolled his eyes.

"He's not- it's just-" Dustin stammered a bit.

"What? Dustin. He's what?!" Eddie asked, his hands still clutching at his chest.

"He's ugly! Okay? It's an ugly pumpkin!" Dustin yelled, Steve didn't even have time to feel hurt, because Eddie shrieked again, his voice going impossibly high.

"Dustin Henderson! I can't believe you just called your brother ugly. You heathen!" Eddie practically hissed the last word before he hopped to his feet and bundled Steve's pumpkin into his arms.

"Unbelievable. We don't need them Steve. Let's go." He popped his nose into the air and looked to Steve. He knew he had to look like a deer in headlights, not sure exactly where they were meant to be going.

"Kitchen." Eddie whispered, giving Steve a wink.

"Oh right. Okay yeah." Steve stumbled toward the door, opening it for Eddie as he stomped after him.

"Oh what you're going inside? Just leaving us out here?" Dustin called, Will and El booing him as he kept taunting Steve and Eddie. Eddie spun, looked at Dustin, propped the pumpkin on his hip like a toddler and pointed his finger accusingly.

"Yes. And we are leaving... in a huff!" Eddie's accent sounded slightly French at the end as he spun around again and stomped into the house.

"Slam the door Steven. Show them we mean it." Eddie said with an air finality. Steve grinned, fighting back laughter, and slammed the door. He tugged the blind closed too, for good measure. He turned to find Eddie wiping at the pumpkin with a wet washrag, getting all the little shavings off.

"You didn't have to do that." Steve said, moving to stand next to him. But not too close.

"Do what?" Eddie asked, grabbing the dish towel off the little hook and drying the pumpkin now. Steve sighed, leaned his butt against the counter and looked at the floor.

"Play it up liked you love the pumpkin. To make me feel better about my complete lack of skill." Steve laughed a little, shrugged, and looked up to find Eddie staring at him. He tossed the towel down and took a step forward.

"Oh no. Unfortunately for you, Steven. That was a genuine reaction. I fucking love this thing." He patted at the side of the pumpkin and grinned at Steve. Steve frowned.

"Really? It's not... I mean it's nothing special. Did you see Will's, I swear there was a castle on it." Steve shook his head. Dismissive.

"Oh I saw it. Still like yours more." Eddie said, matter of fact.

"Why?" Steve was still frowning. Eddie sighed, walked over and stood next to Steve, his arm pressed agaisnt him, warm.

"Me and my mom used to buy four pumpkins. Every Halloween. Always four. Two for her. And two for me." Eddie's voice was soft, the way it always was when he talked about his mother. Steve found himself trying not to breathe to loudly, he wanted to hear everything Eddie had to say.

"We'd each do a classic, spooky guy. But the other one. The other one we used to make just... the most ridiculous faces. Or the dumbest ones. Anything cute and silly." He looked at Steve for a moment, a soft smile on his lips at the memory.

"It very quickly became a contest of who could make who laugh the most. Just by carving some silly face." Eddie shook his head and laughed gently.

"I haven't made a funny one since she died. And you turned that pumpkin around and it took me back. To all those stupid pumpkins and how we used to laugh. And I mean really laugh." Eddie's voice was getting tight as he spoke, a little wobbly, and Steve wanted to hug him, wasn't sure if he could.

"She had the best laugh Steve. She'd have loved this." He moved his hand over the pumpkin again, gently stroked down it's side.

"And you."

It was almost too quiet. Steve almost didn't hear it. Wasn't sure he had until he looked up and saw the way Eddie was looking at him. Steve is so sure that it's the same way he'd been looking at Eddie for months now.

"It's the perfect pumpkin Steve. The best one I've seen in years." He's so serious, when he says it. Steve feels like he might cry. Feels a bit reckless, with Eddie looking at him like that. So he leans toward Eddie, his heart fluttering as Eddie smiles, just a barely thing, and leans toward him too.

The kiss is soft, Eddie makes a little sound in the back of his throat when Steve's hand moves to his neck and pulls him closer. They kiss until they're both smiling so much it's just their teeth clicking together and Eddie dissolves into manic giggles again and buries his face in Steve's neck as he holds him close.

"You have a good laugh too Ed's. " Steve sighs, pulling Eddie closer as he hums and nuzzles into his neck, his fingers pressing into Steve's back as he cuddles closer. Steve breathes deeply, his nose buried in Eddie's hair, and feels Eddie smile against the soft skin of his neck.

-

-

-

( below is an approximation of their pumpkin faces. I fucked up the eddie one's mouth dont looookk at meeeee )

[randomnessunicorn-imagine]

✦ DRABBLE’S CHALLENGE #11

{ I’ve had this request in AO3 and I took the opportunity to use one of those prompts so… I truly tried to do something fluff but the angst captured me in its web once again--- And I fucked up the number of words, but sometime it’s ok to write scrolls and I put a lot of effort in it, I hope someone will like this fict--   }

Prompt: 18/30- Angst + Do what you want Pairing: King Dice x Cuphead Rating: Green Number of words: / / /

The ballroom teemed with guests coming from every part of Inkwell to eulogize and compliment the hero who saved the country by the diabolic menace of the Devil. None could have never believed a little cup like him could handle a quest like this. What was supposed to be a nightmare has become the most wonderful dream of his existence and he hoped he would have never woken up. What Cuphead truly desired, it came to life and he could not ask for something better. He had fame, fortune, persons who loved him and youth. All the things he conquered with blood and fatigue, without losing his hopes and determination even a moment. Seeing those smiles on the faces of the persons he helped made his soul filled with contentment. His new friends were applauding him, screaming his name as if he was a hero but he did not feel like this. He turned into a hero by mistake, because he was tricked by some infamous entities and his greed that was still present in his soul. Despite Cuphead possessed everything he could desire and all his dreams were fulfilled, that dissatisfaction did not abandon him because he did not obtain anything at all. When you owned a lot, you wanted so much more and it was never enough. It was his sin, his greed. His life was not golden and maybe he did not truly deserve all of this. No applause, smiles and compliments. Cuphead was egoist; he paid for his reckless actions, when he lost his mind and heart at the beginning of his adventure, playing those ingrates games of lust and madness. Victory after victory he thought he could have it all but luck came and went and sometimes even the greediest person had to learn when it was the right time to say stop. Learning how to be wiser even if he was just a child and he did not feel so wise neither now. He did not heal from his sins but maybe they were only mere preoccupations and he had to realize this situation yet. Everyone loved him but, actually, not everyone because in every war there were winners and losers, devastation and conquests. “He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight”, said the famous Sun Tzu and maybe Cuphead would have thought twice before deciding to start this war and a life lived in peace, with his brother and his Elder Kettle, would have been better but nobody could know because the folds of fate were limitless. Something was missed in his life and he could not understand which thing it was. The thrill of the adventure that ran under his ceramic skin, that made him feel alive. Just like the moment before you jumped from an airplane, a jump in the deep end, and you could die into the oblivion, or fly like a free bird in the infinite blue. The euphoria of risking his own life, it was the sensation he adored the most and he missed but he did not realize it at first. This was the original feeling that made all happened: if he would have not played those hazards, he would have never been a hero or started any adventure, and he would have never met him. For a moment, his ceramic became paler and his stomach was grumbling, he felt sick all of a sudden. An unexpected nausea took him by surprise; it was not a real sickness. The name of this strange feeling was melancholia. The absence of something precious, that was unsure but he had to find an answer to this enigma. Cuphead needed to leave this place as soon as possible because he understood that there were other demons to fight and he could not feel total satisfied if he hadn’t been seeing that person again. He felt a little worried and guilty for his actions, there was no reason to feel this way, and Cuphead did not confide this secret to his brother because it was something illogical. He was not supposed to have this sentiment, a masochist curiosity, it could be an undisclosed desire. Maybe it was just another sin. Life was an endless circle, just like the waves of the ocean that came back to the shore despite it was their last destination, he had to see that person for the last time and be sure about this feeling that was tormenting him. The place where it all began, The Devil’s Casino, was his destination and he wondered if it still existed after The Devil’s disappearance. Cuphead did not visit that place from his last battle and some weeks have passed from that occasion. He had no idea what happened to his owner and all the persons who worked there. Leaving this party was difficult but he found the way inventing some stupid excuse, since he felt sick so he said he needed a rest from all this chaos. Since he was a hero, nobody complained and all could understand he felt nervous during a big event like this. The night was cold and mysterious, and at nights, things appeared so different from their morning versions. Shadows and darkness gave to objects a strange personality, made of mystery and fear but it was also very romantic and lonely. Cuphed felt the same way; his thoughts were like this night, deep and eerie. The fresh air that caressed his face was washing away all those worries, but just for a minute, before the massive and suggestive edifice of the Casino appeared in front of his incredulous eyes. With his soft and undecided steps, he reached the great entrance, until the sound of a crowd towered over his thoughts, and all seemed just a dream. A dream made of sins and mistakes. A familiar place he thought he would have never reached again, it was still here as if nothing changed. These lost souls had no other places where they could go and maybe it could be considered their own home. It could be his own home as well if things wouldn’t have gone well. The moment he came inside, when he gained all the courage he needed, evil and bright eyes stared at him and he was not welcome here, not anymore. It seemed like they wanted to kill the little cup with their looks. Cuphead tried to ignore them because his destination was clear and his intentions were not hostile like the last time he was here. He searched for a person. For him, King Dice. Just like a thought, this last materialized himself, as if he heard Cuphead’s call. Did he read his mind? Dice did not seem so enthusiast of this visit even if by his expression nobody would say he was mad or annoyed, and that sinister smile has never left his face but Cuphead was not so stupid not to understand that his presence was not desired here.   «Look who’s here~», said Dice, and the little cup felt a shiver of fear caressing his spine. Suddenly, all the voices and the buzz of the demons who were laughing at Cuphead disappeared and none dared to speak in King’s presence. «I’d never bet ya’d come here. », and the last bet for the poor Dice did not go so well, and his honour was still bleeding but he was curious to hear what this little cup had to say. In the meantime, the said cup just nodded and Dice’s eyes intimidated him, it was as if the evil man was scanning his soul and maybe it was the truth. After some while of reflexion, Cuphead found the bravery to speak, « I’m here for the game, nothing else.», confessed Cuphead, trying to appear more secure than he could but the crowd of demons just laughed at him except Dice who kept staring at him with his green pupils. «Ya hadn’t learnt anythin’ by our last meet…», he just shook his shoulders, and the idea of taking possession of his soul was delicious and tempting. Something he could not deny and he could respect the courage of the little cup who decided to come here despite all the resentment everyone felt for him. «Ya’re lucky, I feel particularly generous today, no hard feelings between ya and me~», proclaimed the King, winking at Cuphead with malice and the cup boy was sure Dice had something in mind since he pretended to be friendly. The two of them shacked their hands and in that moment, when their hands touched, Cuphead felt like a shock and he lost himself observing the other’s eyes like if he was hypnotized and he was incapable to think rationally. In that moment he started regretting his decision to come here. «Anyway be glad, little cup. Ya’re speakin’ with the new boss here. I’m the one who manages the whole kit and caboodle. », by the pride in his voice, nobody could say he missed the Devil so much. At this revelation, Cuphead’s eyes opened because of his disbelief. «Oh, congratulations…», said Cuphead even if Dice took his wish like a joke, he chuckled, and then he nodded to follow him. Cuphead, without any hesitation, followed him like a loyal dog until the two of them disappeared into the darkness reaching another place of mysteries and depravities. «So… What’s the deal here? », the cordial smile Dice showed until then vanished just like Cuphead’s hope to get out of here safe and sound. «Oh, nothing… I was curious to see how you guys were doing…I guess…», explained Cuphead and his voice was so insecure and maybe it was not the truth he wanted to say, or the lie Dice wanted to hear. «Ya’re not a good liar, spill the beans, boy! », at his question, Cuphed’s head was filled with confusion and he realized his heart was beating so fast and he was sweating. It was not right, because it was sick but he had to say sometime before his mind exploded. «I’m here to play… I’ve already told you, I want to do a bet…», he nodded appearing sure and determinate and Dice looked at him with a suspicious amusement because this cup was too hilarious and it was impossible to be mad at him for real maybe it was the reason why he has not kicked him out yet. «Oh, and whatcha want to bet?», his eyes turned green again and all the environment was changing showing all the tables and poker games and everything seemed less disturbing than before. Cuphead did not know how to explain this sensation he felt but he realized something, he wanted to stay here. The Casino was his true home, here he found his true sense of living because he was a sinner, he knew it, and he was addicted to this game but, most of all, he was infatuated by this man. He was still content for his friends, they were happy now but he had to find his happiness, too. «If I win, I stay here…», this sentence took Dice by surprise and he could have never imagined Cuphead would have ever said something like this. He was unsure of what to think about it. Was it a joke? The usual mischievous grin appeared on his face and even if he hated losing bets maybe this time… «Ouch! That’s weird but I’m into it even if… Losing all those bets it’s not good for my reputation, don’t ya know?», having his soul was a very tempting offer and it seemed he would have won something and, at least, he could gain some money anyway. It was like the time stopped and they were so concentrate to the game that it seemed there were no other persons in this edifice. Cuphead was sure that Dice would have never let him win but this bet was different from the others because Cuphead was betting his own life this time and there was nothing more precious than that. The awaited moment was going to begin and Cuphead held in his hands the same little dice that brought him in that weird situation but it was the reason he was here and he hope his blind luck did not leave him. He concentrated all his positive thoughts to this launch and then the number that would come out would have been his salvation or his condemnation. Fate could be so paradoxical sometimes. At then, he launched his dice hoping to win… And lose his soul that would have been possessed by King. His heart was rolling too until… The time kept running and a smile showed up on his face and, strangely, even King Dice was not so mad for having lost this bet because the thing he obtained was priceless and, showing one of his alluring grin, he proclaimed, «Welcome Cup to your new home». King Dice started laughing in the maddest way while Cuphead’s view became blacker and blacker until the darkness covered his mind like a veil but he knew everything would have been fine when he woke.  

[rhotdornn]

[In Your Shadow]: Seasons in Reverse

“You are returned.”

“...”

“Hail, friend, and well met.”

Autumn.

The hollow kisses of sandals clapping against, what, at usual, composed the jagged puzzle of jutting cobblestone paths, grew painfully distant to the wanderlust-struck Rainlander. Kugane had come to be at his fingertips for nearly an entire Moon now--yet neither vibrancy o’ dazzling hues, nor the playful colors bleeding from the tails of a great host of waving scrolls could abate his despondency. In truth, why had he set anchor here? His own designs had been long since sated. What was it that kept his feet to the dulled paths which mortals roamed? Zwelfaren may have been an elusive target to pin down--partly at his own fault for permitting himself the luxury of being held captive--yet, underneath nocturne’s lid and riding a fool’s errand had Rhotdornn unshackled the luck-stripped kinsman. Yet, could they have shared a bond surpassing all stoic stone and indomitable bark? To be interwoven by the same fate, with their compasses finally tilting towards the same goal?

Could Zwelfaren truly fill the boots of his long-separated sibling? The days lining up would certainly both show and tell... However, as time ticked away, he had been retrieved, healthy and hale, adopted into his rescuer’s own care, once reunited in Kugane anew. Indeed, his quest seemed all but accomplished to the fullest--and thus, his reason to linger ought to naturally dissipate, to fade to the four spiraling winds. 

He was not here on merely his own accord. He did not linger on the sole want to mete out his own brand of justice.

The floor-leveled bed provided little succor to a homesickness-addled soul. Neither dream nor slumber could instill his weary bones with ease, lightness. The night could’ve blotched the waters of Kugane in an inky grease and equally could it rob the skies of their precious few, twinkling diamonds, but never could it quell the ardent blaze of his woken soul. Each day onward sunk deeper into the season of his birth--and in such passage of time did the Sea Wolf’s senses elevate, his spirit stoked with an inexplicable cinder, hoisted into a mighty roar of bellowing flame with but the faintest of a stray wind’s tickle.

The sliding partition--ordinarily slipping one past the terrace’s threshold--announced its seal broken with a blunt, clattering rattle. 

Willing his head upwards, the man bore a countenance of befuddlement and suspicion. His dense, riled brows knitted together, wrinkles bridging and parting them upon his heated forehead. His hazy, dilated crimson hues abruptly forced into focus the raucous drawing door. One foot after the other collected itself before him, bidding him stand--albeit hunched onward--in the face of whatever adversity may make itself known beyond the tremor that took hold of the partition. His courage never wilted nor dimmed--and for its persistence would the cadence of the wind announce its prize--as he took approach, one steady foot advancing after its twin, his palm probed the edges of the door. No fallacy of his consciousness, no--this was no dream. His visage steeled its expression, resolve in hearty stock and determination paraded upon it.

The partition soon surrendered to his toppling grip.

His thoughts then stole away with his peace.

The thin veil of swollen clouds cried in a tapestry of light, sprinkling rain--shedding tears hardly noticed by one in quick passing, unsupervised by an umbrella or roof extension. Upon the railing of his own fence, however, one particular denizen took no heed of the drooling skies.

A raven.

Neither darkest night’s hour nor the inkwell’s direst depth could mimic the ebony plumage armoring its mighty wings, nor could the heavenly caress of velvet and silk contend with their alluring, luxuriant texture. Two profound, emerald eyes sat perched atop the sides of its head, darting onward--ever onward--across the vast expanse of Kugane collapsing beneath the inn’s vantage point. 

Dornn swept his forearm across his sweat-drenched forehead, his cheeks inflated with a mighty breath--shortly dispensed thereafter in a dismissive sigh.

“To send a missive this far out... The measure of your reach lacks not in ambition.” The Roegadyn shallowly whispered, each word elevating his decibels ever so gingerly. His smooth, fluent voice--ailed by his birthright accent--had grown a smudge rusty from the drowsiness of attempted slumber. “I never took you for one to abandon your last homely house. I now see the mistake in my ways--but to venture even as far as Kugane?” Many would’ve mistaken him for a man loose o’ mind, and long lost in his cups, with the fervor of curiosity embedded in his speech with a mere cloudkin. 

“Find the lady of the Light still lost to the Night... For Day is now broken. Winter has turned, Summer has churned, By Autumn’s hand will you find her woken.”

A signature hum preceded each ghastly verse ushered by the brittle echo of a voice. It carried softly, akin to a lulling boat on calm, forgiving waters. Like the very wind it drifted from perching atop one ear, then the other--and rightly so it seemed, for with each word came a new, restoring breeze--a rejuvenating breath, acting as an elixir to his fatigued composure. Not a single breath, however, caught or clipped the raven’s wings--not yet, at the very least. 

Rhotdornn paid a keen ear to the musings that strolled about him, his crimson beard dipping in stern affirmation.

“Aye, I see. Jogging my memory did wonders for your cause, I would imagine. Your heart can rest at ease--the letter is now in her very own, very short, safeguarding. Doubtlessly has it not eluded you, given your... Flock of spies about.”

The raven finally spared him a sideways glance, a neutral expression ever dormant atop its visage. The Sea Wolf’s own lit up in due pensiveness, his fingers battering against his beard; cupping his chin as he started further upwards.

“...Though, by the tone of your riddle, whatever you meant to accomplish ended up not ever-so-swimmingly. Very well, I’ll pay her another visit--though, pray remember--she boasts proper company now. In her eyes, we may very well have grown obsolete.”

Another hymn of the ephemeral whisper came, a miracle broken down into but one fleeting, frail voice, ushering into his spirits a bolstering essence, previously unbeknownst to him.

“The Seasons are reversing... Our sins are rehearsing, On first meeting, far ‘pon a meadow, We still linger in your shadow.”

This had purchased him neither comfort nor solace when broken down to its essential meaning. Ignorance could easily spell bliss--and account for irreparable catastrophe in the very same tandem. 

Yet, some semblance of warmth did sink into the crackling hearth of his gut. The very presence of a familiar spirit--if only in voice--served well to ignite some modicum of a blaze within his spirit.

“And here I thought I’d be let off the hook for once...” Donating the muscle mass of his rippling ribs and shoulder alike to the stoic pillar by his flank, the male offered naught to show save for a glad, albeit worn smile.

“And just when I was settling in, too. Just the other day had I ventured out to rekindle my lust for spearfishing... And upon what a mighty flock o’ fish I stumbled! ‘Twas like an endless ring, warping in and around itself... Endless ranks of fish swam in such unison and harmony that the eyes could easily think themselves fooled...” His fervent speech could recite with such colorful enthusiasm, for the bounty of the Sea ever laid close to his own heart--and his true colors would start to bleed through the insomniac demeanor.

“Where men go as one there is life...” 

The humming reciprocated, yet before the latter verse would be cast did the bird raise both of its mighty wings aloft; truly the array of feathers at one point appeared nigh-endless, strewn in a perfect pattern, lining one across the other, over the cloudkin’s form. A valiant thrust against the railing saw it bolt off into the harness of night, cutting like a razor through the wafting trails of ashen-pallored smoke and dribbling droplets of rain scattering across the fresh, midnight breeze.

Despite this hasty departure, the Roegadyn stood at unlikely calm. A petite frown birthed a subtle smile, thenceforth excusing  him back to his own, vacant sheets. He knew full well the nature of the wind that soared behind the raven’s ebony cloak--winds of change, eternally speeding in its wake, unrelenting and tenacious.

Despite the offered prophecies, his own spirit would not bend knee to the pressure and the ordeals that were barred before him.

Despite the odds stacked against their favor, he still harbored a hope most brilliant for their quest.

Despite such stakes...

...He’d slumber easy tonight, after all.

Leafturn.

[Involved]: @ladyrivienne | @diregate | @werfollow

[jishnc]

Assassin Arjuna ( truth is the ghastly monster hiding in your ribcage )

Background

A concept that normally wouldn’t be possible given Arjuna’s background as a noble hero, this particular manifestation is based on all of Arjuna’s negative qualities that are witnessed in his second interlude and the arguments/controversies regarding his actions in the Mahabharata. This Arjuna is vindictive, manipulative, and someone who rejects the “heroic” qualities that were thrust upon him throughout his lifetime. He does not trust others, least of all his Master, and is not above lying or backstabbing others in order to get what he wants. That being said, Arjuna will almost never act out on his true personality and will continue to behave as he might as an Archer because it would be too obvious were he to display more of his chaotic nature. As a person, Arjuna is incredibly composed and conscious of his actions, treating everything he does as a move in chess and carefully planning his course with an unsettling amount of deliberation in his choices.

The truth of the matter is that this is the part of Arjuna that he tried to hide desperately for so many years, afraid of recognizing that the reflection in the mirror—the shadow he has been calling Krishna after all this time—was merely another part of himself, part of the hero that was “Arjuna.” But because Arjuna still cannot accept that, this alternate version of the Awarded Hero exists to represent all of the cruelty that somehow spilled out like a tipped inkwell, drenching whatever heroic qualities the great Jishnu was known for with the cowardly stain of a wicked killer, a man who would permit himself to stoop to low levels if it means attaining victory.

In battle, Arjuna adopts an extreme backline position as a sniper who can shoot from extreme distances without ever revealing his position. He is an extremely difficult Servant to handle and in most situations he will perform on his own accord with little consideration for the safety and well-being of his Master ( there’s a very high chance that Arjuna will immediately kill his Master upon being summoned ). His biggest drawback, however, is that he cannot handle extended battles and the more worn out he is, the more his true personality will unfold, thus revealing the truth of his existence as everything the true Arjuna ( Archer ) rejects.

Stats

Strength: B Endurance: C Agility: A Mana: B Luck: A++ Noble Phantasm: A+

Class Skills

Independent Action: A It is possible to take action even without a Master. However, to use Noble Phantasms of great magical energy consumption, backup from the Master is necessary. At Rank A, it is possible for a Servant to stay in the world for about a week without a Master. Upon manifestation, Arjuna immediately places a block on the mental connection between Master and Servant so as to keep any indication of his true identity a secret.

Presence Concealment: B Hides one's presence as a Servant. Suitable for spying. It is possible to disappear and become extremely difficult to be detected. The rank of presence concealment drops considerably when preparing to attack. For Arjuna, his Presence Concealment drops to D when he attacks.

Magic Resistance: C Cancel spells with a chant below two verses. Cannot defend against magecraft on the level of High-Thaumaturgy and Greater Rituals.

Divinity: B The measure of whether one has Divine Spirit aptitude or not. At high levels, one is treated as a mixed race of a Divine Spirit, and the level declines when the Heroic Spirit's own rank as a Monster or Demonic Beast raises. Arjuna is the son of the Thunder God Indra.

Personal Skills

Double Summon: A It permits a Servant to simultaneously possess Class Skills from two distinct classes. In Arjuna’s case, he possesses the skills of both the Assassin and Archer classes while appearing as an Assassin.

The Awarded Hero ( Fake ): EX A Skill representing the great hero Arjuna, where he was always loved the moment he was born. Anyone would occasionally give Arjuna the thing he needed at the moment. He will not lack in anything, as long as he doesn't have an active cause, like a curse—this is the original effect of the ability. Now stained with the falsehoods of his negative aspects, this ability applies to the world that Arjuna’s body inhabits as it shifts and alters in order to benefit him as long as he continues to hold fast to the hate burning deep inside his heart. Oceans will rise and earth will tear itself into shreds all because of Arjuna’s fierce desire to be loved by everyone and everything around him, even if it causes destruction along the way.

Mana Burst ( Flames ): A A Skill that came attached to his Noble Phantasm Agni Gandiva that he received from the God of Flames Agni. Jet-like burst of mana is released, not from his body, but as propulsion for his arrows, allowing them to pierce Arjuna's enemies faster than a rifle.

Noble Phantasms

Agni Gandiva: Flame God’s Yell ( Anti-Unit, Rank: A )     A Bow of Flames that essentially cannot be handled by humans (mortals), awarded to Arjuna by the Flame God, Agni. Normally just a regular bow, by activating its true name, its arrow becomes a missile engulfed in flames. It is not a homing missile, but since Arjuna is an archery genius, its precision is of that of a homing missile anyways.

Anjalika Astra: Arrow to the Neck ( Anti-Unit, Rank: A )      The skill that defines Arjuna’s placement in the Assassin class. A surefire technique that will always aim for the enemy’s neck, the arrow launched by Arjuna’s utterance of one of his many names referenced in the Mahabharata will constantly follow his enemy until they die. No matter how far the target goes, how many obstacles stand in the arrow’s way, it will always strike true no matter what. It is the culmination of Arjuna’s obsession for Karna as well as the part of the legend where he decapitated his eldest brother while he was unarmed and struggling to pull his chariot from the mud. If such a skill was used against Karna, the original target of this fateful arrow, it will surely end with tragedy ( in a way, you can consider it an Anti-Karna Noble Phantasm in the same vein as Mordred’s Clarent Blood Arthur ).

Additional Details

Alter’s design will tentatively be this until I refine the design further.

This is the ironclad rule when it comes to Alter: he will always act and behave like Archer!Arjuna and will almost never give any hints to his actual class/identity. The differences are extremely—extremely—subtle and only an extremely rare few with the perception to pinpoint it should be able to see Alter for what he truly is.

He doesn’t smile often because, admittedly, that’s one of the few things he cannot do that he cannot do that his Archer version can ( when he does smile it’s infinitely disturbing, like staring into the face of death itself ).

Chances are that he will reveal to himself as Archer to his Master and will never reveal any information regarding his Double Summon skill simply because his Independent Action skill is ranked high enough to where he can bypass that even with the attempted use of a Command Spell.

While he doesn’t have Pashupata in this class, he still has minor access to his other astras including the Brahmastra ( in the form of a powerful arrow ) which is his typical go-to weapon when not against tougher opponents.

Despite preferring to attack from a distance, Arjuna also carries along a knife with him that, while normally used to carve arrowheads and used more for utility, he is able to use it with extreme proficiency and often employs it as a sneak attack when the enemy least expects it.

He has an odd habit of referring to himself in the third person when mentioning his Archer version. This is because Arjuna himself always refers to Alter as either “Krishna” or “Black,” thus causing a disjointedness to his sense of self.

When it comes to a war with Karna, Arjuna will immediately hone in on him, caring nothing for anything else but to fight Karna. This obsession of his makes it rather difficult to establish an understanding because it’s so ingrained into Arjuna that not even he can explain why he continues searching for his brother only to kill him in the end.

His wish for the Grail is still eternal solitude in a sense. What he wants from the Grail is to be in an existence where it’s just him and Karna where he is able to fight and kill his brother to his heart’s content. The result of this wish will cause an endless cycle of reincarnation and death for the two—an endless game of cat and mouse. While the Heroic Spirits will remain recorded in the Throne of Heroes, copies of their souls will be reborn over and over, with Arjuna’s on an endless search to kill his brother until he is satiated.

Fundamentally, Alter is just as insecure and fearful of his own self as Arjuna because he is the culmination of everything that Arjuna dislikes about himself but also the ideals that the world around them shoved onto a youth from the day he was born. The things he does, on an subconscious level, are all to protect Arjuna from the shame and embarrassment of Alter’s existence, which is why he actively plays the fool and attempts to act as closely to Arjuna as he can without going overboard. This overprotectiveness, of course, is extremely limiting and unhealthy regarding Arjuna’s development as a person and it’s him coming to terms with his Alter self that will culminate in him finally stepping forward to becoming a better person.

Keeping in line with Karna Alter’s appearance, Arjuna also possesses dark sclerae and his eyes and hair take on even more of a dark blue appearance. Commonly in combat he dons his hood as well as a half-mask which conceals his eyes and also serves as a pair of binoculars which react to his mana, allowing him to shift modes of vision ( heat, x-ray, night, etc. ) if his own near-perfect eyesight cannot do the job themselves.

The symbol on his cape is a modified version of Indra’s vajra—his father’s signature symbol/weapon as well as a weapon that was bestowed unto him during the Mahabharata—while also bearing eight appendages in order to look like a spider. This symbol is unique to Arjuna Alter only and is perchance one of the vaguest hints he can possibly give to his true nature as an Assassin and an Alter.

[dzmoot]

Smoke was everywhere. Shellhard tried to distinguish the figures through the haze and was nervous to the point of anemia. 

Did it work? 

The smoke began to fade and the five figures walked towards him. He thought for sure they would still be mingled, maybe this time more than ever before. And this time, the Tuuns would do him in. All that would be left of Shellhard would be half his shell. He quickly tucked himself in his shell as they got closer. As he curled up inside and put his head under his hands, he felt gentle tapping on his shell. It was Igginsworth.

Come on out Shellhard. Turtle soup isn’t on the menu today! 

As Shellhard popped his head out ever so slowly, he saw that Igginsworth looked surprisingly normal. He then popped out fully to see all the Tuuns were back to normal albeit a few wardrobe changes. However, Kruonch was ever glad to get rid of his monocle but didn’t say it out loud because he didn’t want to piss off Hampire who was now stuck with it. Siobhan ran up to Shellhard and kissed him on his scaly head. 

I love you Mr. Terrapin! We’re all fixed! 

Then everybody hugged Shellhard at once. They squeezed him so hard, he thought he would go flying out of his shell and soaring through the cosmos like a comet. Just then, Rella, Opilio and Keet emerged from the underground base. Rella formed a great grin on his face made of cheese, not only because the Tuuns were back to normal but because he had something in his possession that would aid them in defeating the empire. 

We have a breakthrough! 

Everybody made their way inside to an area which was dubbed the Meeting Room. There, Opilio pulled out a small disc and gave it to Rella, who placed it inside a slot on the floor. After pressing a few buttons, he activated a view screen and a holographic diagram of Maaze’s castle surfaced on the screen. Zappy thought the day couldn’t get any better.

Where the hell did you get a layout of the Confectoon palace?

Opilio had one of his laughing sprees as he explained. 

Keet and I snuck into the palace, stole a blueprint from the archive. 

Siobhan was puzzled.

How did you sneak into the castle? 

Opilio nudged Keet to talk and when he didn’t, Opilio continued.

Keet disguised himself as a fried turkey. I was a king crab. I took a bath in a tub of butter to get the full effect! 

Rella then stepped forward, extending one of his many arms to the screen.

There’s an underground tunnel beneath the structure. If we make our way through the dungeon and up to the atrium, we could potentially take out Maaze in his throne room.

Zappy laughed in an annoyed way.

What? Does that bag of kernels think he’s a god or something?

Then Igginsworth stepped into the room. He knew that Maaze was the string puller of the entire operation and if they took him out, the empire would crumble shortly therefore. 

We can stop him, Zappy! And I know exactly how to free those Ethereals. I’m going back into cryosleep. 

All the Tuuns gasped at the same time. After a brief bit of silence, Kruonch approached Igginsworth and put his hand on his shoulder.

Igginsworth my boy, having a moon full of cartoon ghosts can’t be so bad. We’re going to get you back to that snow globe world you miss so much. 

Igginsworth tapped Kruonch’s hand with one of his claws. 

No Kruonch! The Tuuns will go extinct. I’m the one who can prevent all that. I must go back to sleep. It’s my destin....

And Fry Spy, who had been spying on the entire conversation bursted through the doorway, several other Confectoons following in wake. With his greasy, garbled deep fried breathing, the spy went for Igginsworth but before he could get him, Rella stepped forward and hurled a plethora of spells upon the starchy menace. 

Go back to the grease pan from whence you came! 

Fry Spy laid a slab of acidic ketchup down on Rella, but his long green arms prevented it from burning him. With the help of his fateful Wads (creatures created from wads of Siobhan’s gum), Rella was able to seal Fry Spy to the floor as he delivered a crippling spell to his chest, rendering him unconscious.

He looked more like mashed potatoes when Rella was through with him. As Rella looked around, he saw the other Tuuns fighting off Confectoons of their own. 

Hampire used everything Rella taught him to defend everyone from Taco Wacko’s hypnotic stare but his eyes slowly succumbed to the endless whirls and twirls of the taco’s eyes and his new monocle broke into shards. Hampire made his way over to Rella, who was assisting the others and as he turned to face his prized pupil, he felt a blast of energy penetrate his torso. Hampire drove the energy further and further into Rella’s body until his pizza head melted slowly and slimily from his torso. Rella’s lifeless body collapsed to the floor as the hypnotized Hampire gazed on the remaining Tuuns, ready to deliver a similar fate to each of them. As Hampire prepared to kill Zappy, Igginsworth changed the trajectory of Swig’s optic blast and it zapped Taco Wacko into a pile of nacho crumbs. Hampire was freed from his trance, but came to realize what had happened and broke down on the floor beside his fallen master. As he was joined by the other Inlaws, the other Tuuns finished off the remaining Confectoons and the Wads trapped them on the floor. They then joined the others in mourning Rella and comforted Hampire, assuring him it wasn't him who killed his master, he didn’t know what he was doing. Still, a grieving Hampire transformed into a bat and flew away. They didn’t know where he was headed but Kruonch assured them that he needed some time.

Give him a while. I think we all need a while. 

And he too began to break down as Siobhan hugged her father ever so tightly. Before they could scoop up Rella’s corpse and give it a proper burial, they turned around to see yet another Confectoon standing in the entryway. His devilish eyes closed in on all of them and as they ran to attack, he hurled his kernels at them, the kernels bursting and sending them flying to all corners of the room. Maaze, the Popcorn Menace had arrived. 

He just kept charging forward and swatting them all away like flies, freeing his comrades from the Wads’ sticky grasp. When he came to Rella’s corpse, he turned to face all of them as they got to their knees. He laughed to add salt to the wound. 

I’ve tried to get him to join me for years. 

He then kicked Rella’s remains to the side. 

Oh well! I’ve got plenty of companions. I didn’t want it to come to this point but what else was I left to do. 

Zappy walked forward. Now his anger was at it’s peak. 

You’re a dirty rotten bastard, Maaze! Why do you take pride in making others suffer!

Maaze walked towards Zappy ever so slowly. 

Because they made us suffer. Those Gobblers eating my kind! I want all Tuuns to be at the same level, eat the same food, live in harmony as much as the next Tuun. But when they eat my people, it’s cannibalism and we’ve dealt with it for too long! 

Siobhan stood beside Zappy.

So you enslaved them! 

Maaze sighed as he sat down upon a large rock. 

To teach them a lesson. When they realize that Tuuns were destined to eat moon rocks and not each other, they’re free to go. But some still need that hard hand. 

Kruonch then stood beside his friends. 

Then why are you rounding up the regular Tuuns. Why is there hardly any regular Tuuns in Inkwell Village anymore? 

Maaze continued as he plucked kernels off his hand and threw them into his top. 

Better safe than sorry. I believe when the empire reaches it’s full glory, the Confectoons will be more prominent on this moon than any other Tuuns. I believe it’s the only true way to maintain the harmony we all desire. 

Then it was Igginsworth’s turn to talk to Maaze, for the very first time in fact. There were many things he wished to say but just a few words sprung to mind. 

It’s true then. You want only the Confectoons to thrive, don't you?

Maaze stood up again and walked towards Igginsworth. For some odd reason, he seemed the most fixated on the Zarrian. It’s almost like he knew he wasn’t actually a Tuun, but the one responsible for their creation. After a brief pause, Maaze stared down on Igginsworth. 

Who’s the new guy? 

He waited for an answer from the others, but he didn’t get it. 

Oh well, it doesn’t matter. You’re all going to suffer the same fate anyway. 

And Maaze had his companions seal the Tuuns to the ground just as they were sealed. As Igginsworth, Zappy, Kruonch, Siobhan, Shellhard, Keet, and Opilio rustled to get free from the Wads who trapped them in what seemed like a roll of cement, Maaze launched a large kernel from his top and placed it alongside of them. They then made their way towards the exit as Maaze left one final remark. 

There’s a couple of minutes until that thing explodes. We think we’ll gather some of the Tuuns your precious Master Rella helped escape my factory. After that, I’ll absorb all those ghosts into myself and become a Tuun Titan. I think once the moon is in my grasp, maybe I’ll see what it’s like to conquer that blue planet too. It might be fun for the Confectoons to overcome those humans. Anyway, enjoy the afterlife kids!

And as Maaze and the others gathered up the escapees, they all returned to the surface, but could feel the tremor of the explosion beneath their toes. The Tuuns didn’t even try to escape. They all just stood there, trying to hold hands through the gum and excepted what was to come. When it came, they all closed their eyes.....

[dunadaneth]

Five times our characters met!

Five times our characters met | accepting! | @fundinson

         The FIRST she had seen the dwarf, he had been covered in black blood, swinging wildly and with such a ferocity she was glad that she was not at the end of his axes. He seemed hardly injured on the battlefield, evading sword and spear alike, agile for what seemed like an older dwarf. She had never truly met dwarves before. Impressed would be the word she would use to describe their first meeting, though she felt the word was not strong enough.

        Though she had been clad head to toe with chainmail and armor, he seemed to have little need for either, though he donned some. He had shouted at her, the next she knew an axe was embedded in the Orc directly behind her that she had not seen, for her blood began to blind her from a cut above her brow. He had saved her, and she would be damned if she wouldn’t return the favor; instead, he turned her away.

        This was his fight, his people, and she was better off keeping orcs away from the hill down below.

        He then turned his back and disappeared into the mist, axes gleaming and a trail of screams following.

        The second time she sees him is hovering over her cot, though her vision is bleary and her everything aches. Her middle is bandaged, bloodied, slices and wounds plastered with poultices, but she was alive. And so was he, it seemed.

         They were in the main hall, and countless of other tents and cots were set up, many weeping for lost friends and loved ones, healers working frantically in the aftermath. He must have spotted her when passing through, for she was not far from the main pathway that wound through the beds. It was freezing, with the gates of Erebor open and the middle of winter, but it seemed like no cold phased him.

        “Did we win?” she had asked, eyes finally focusing on him. Her words were hardly perceptible, her lips cracked and dry, and he merely had his arms crossed, a blank look on his face.

         Silence settled between them. She could not read him- he was similar to the stone walls of Erebor, thick and impenetrable. But after what seemed a lifetime he answered, just as quiet as she.

        “Barely.”

         The third time she is still recovering, her middle paining her and a mauled leg making it difficult to return to the long strides she was used to. But she was stubborn, and she be damned if she would let recovery get in the way of being helpful, no matter the words of the healers and their exasperated looks. With dwarves pouring in from the Iron Hills, the process of recovery began, and there was much to do. Nearly two centuries of dragon occupancy left a lot of work to be done.

         Not only did the dwarves help with Erebor, but Dale, as well, once springtime began to thaw. But for now those who were able aided inside the halls, for few were prepared for the onslaught of winter outside, and were grateful towards the hospitality of the dwarves. For the most part, anyways. But she knew most put aside their feelings for survival and a unified community it would be imperative to do so for an alliance in the near future.

         And so she sat upon the piles of rubble surrounding her, a hand over her side as she winced at the torn stitches. Surely she was stubborn, and that she would admit to. But perhaps it wasn’t the best idea for her to move that heavy of a stone by her lonesome into the wheelbarrow.

         She sighed, brows knit as she simmered, absolutely frustrated at her state. She wanted to help, not sit around, weak and shivering, relying on others.

         Footsteps behind her broke her out of her trance, and she turned slowly, and to her surprise Dwalin was there (which she had learned his name, and of his importance, not too long before). Neither spoke as they stared, and her look dared him to tell her to go rest.

       'Stupid’ he had called her. ’Thickheaded.’ But never once did he turn her away from her task.

        Instead he shook his head, muttering under his breath as he shooed her from her seat of rubble. Before she could protest that she didn’t need help, he simply grabbed hold of the largest pieces of rubble before sending it hurtling towards the ground, shattering into much smaller, more manageable pieces.

        He then dusted his hands and walked away, leaving a small smile on Crea’s face as she began to toss the new pieces into the wheelbarrow.

        It had been many years now, and occasionally Crea would wonder just how long dwarves could live, for even the grizzled Dwalin could not seem to be stopped in his age. Still he served diligently to his people, as rowdy and ornery as ever she had know him, and the two grew to know each other better simply because of their roles. They share a similar job, (though his is certainly more elevated than hers) as guards to their respective kingdoms, but also with her frequent visits in the meetings with King Bard and King Dain, a friendship she had not seen coming, that would extend down to Bard’s son Bain, and his son and Dain’s son.

        He was also still as thick and gruff as ever towards her, but she liked to think that was just his front. He was kind, though loathe to admit any softness (though she had seen it, when he thought he was not being observed) and if anything, she was quite thankful to know such dwarf as he. There was not a lot in common the two had together, but it did not stop them from being friends.

        He would claim to just tolerate her, really. He would be chastised if he killed an ambassador for chatting his ear off, like a gnat that buzzed constantly in his ear. And then she would swear to see an inkling of a smile on his face, hidden beneath that proud beard of his, though he would deny it and wipe it from his face, his thick brows furrowing, returning to the ever so guarded posture that she knew was threatening to anyone, regardless of height. But she knew him better than that, and simply shook her head.

         Even as the years grew darker, a dread beginning to settle upon them, a color drained from the land, they spoke more than ever- though mostly in hushed whispers, in the dark of night, with naught but a candle beside the table they occupied. Maps and letters, inkwells and hasty scribbles, reports of movement to the East, a rarely visited land beyond those who inhabited it. Scouts reporting dark figures, and they feared the darkness had returned, filth crawling from the woodwork though they had dashed them like water upon the rocks at sea, though few would believe the portents to be true. They remained vigilant, despite the denials.

        How terrible it was that their fears became true.

        The last she saw him was a dark day, a red dawn.

        They had been overwhelmed.

        The kingdom was too big to secure, and the eastern side had fallen to the banner of Mordor. They had been prepared, training for months on end, fortifying, building defenses, shelters and the like, for the kingdom of Dale was the the first line of defense, and they would be damned before they would let the city fall.

        Three days they had been besieged, for despite their efforts they could not hold, and too many had died defending it upon the seemingly endless onslaught of Easternlings. Their backs had been pressed against the sealed gates of Erebor, the civilians sealed tightly away so that no harm would come of them. Erebor would not fall. Could not fall. For if the Dark Lord claimed this seat it was a perfect tactical position for a war in the North, a near impenetrable fortress that could be used against them.

        And so they fought desperately, cutting through rank after rank, red blood spilled upon the snow and corpses piled as far as one could see. Exhaustion settled heavily in her bones, her limbs aching from every swing and cut she made, every body that fell to her blade. There were simply too many, and the hope that had been kindled began to lessen, for only more forces had arrived on the horizon.

         There would be no reinforcements for them.

          The Iron Hills would have been besieged by the enemy forces, for that was the direction they came from, and no bird could begin flight away from Erebor before being shot down, a fell beast encircling the darkened skies above them. But despite that the dwarves never stopped, clad in bright armor, eyes agleam with red, and an absolute terror across the battlefield- NOTHING would stop them from defending the homeland that they not long ago had reclaimed, and it would not become another Moria, inhabited by foul creatures to defile their halls. This was their home, their people, and they would fight until the end.

        And the end did come, on that third and final day.

         They fought long and hard, a final stand that would decide the fate of many, though all knew it would be unlikely that they would live to see the end of it.

        But despite the countless bodies that fell, a red light had surged from the South, and a terrible noise made all in the war stop, their eyes turned towards the sky. For it was then that the One Ring had been DESTROYED, cast into the very flames of Mt. Doom, and the absolute destruction of the Dark Lord. The fell beast had dropped from the skies, crashing into the side of the mountain, and a deathly silence had fallen over the field of battle. A horn sounded, retreat, and the Easterlings began to flee through the mountainside, chased by man and dwarf alike, screams of terror and cheers erupting from all sides as they charged, charged the enemies back into their homeland, never to return, and never to rise again.

        But that third day had been too late.

        She lie on her back, struggling to move with tears streaming down her face, gasping for breath amidst the bodies that lie around her, unmoving, and a panic sets in her. How she wanted to fight still, to stand and shrug this off, for the Easternlings would need to be driven back even in their retreat! But the pain in her side is excruciating, and the blood pooling beneath her body, unable to be staunched, tells her that this would be her last stand.

        She was going to die alone, in the shadow of the Mountain she had come to love.

        Hot, wet tears mingled with the snowflakes that fell, her eyes turned upwards, feeling them rest on her face, and she reached her arm up to catch them, her hand shaking as she tries to grab them in her gloved fists, and its cold, so very cold. It hurts to sob. It hurts her chest, rips through her side. It hurts to breathe now.

        And it is how he finds her, amongst the bodies in the snow.

        He stands there for a moment, frozen to the ground. He had seen too many people die, dwarves and men alike, both in war and out. Men could only live so long. But he had not expected to see her there, body broken, blood pooling beneath her from a wound in her side- a spear, long and black- a slow and painful death, from the look on her face.

       He barks orders for a healer, now. The other dwarves left him, off to help find one, before he knelt beside her in the snow, a pained expression on his face as he sets his axes down next to her head.

        It startled him when she slowly opened her eyes, usually so grey and full of life, now glassy and hardly focused. He called her name, and finally her gaze focused on his face.

        “Of course…you’d be fine.” He would think it to be a laugh that left her if there hadn’t been so much blood that poured from her mouth. It comes out as a more choked noise instead, her breathing rattled and laboured, but he can see the ghost of a smile.

        He carefully digs his hands beneath the her back, his fingers coated with her blood that has seeped into it, for she has lost too much blood. The spear in her side had skewered a sizable hole into her flesh, puncturing through the plate armor, not far from the spot she had been hit by in the war that seemed so long ago. He had lost his king then, and his princes.

         It seemed now he would lose a friend, too.

        He rests her gently on his knees, elevated so that she would not choke on her own blood, and she whimpers in pain, breathing faltering as he does so. One of his hands takes her helmet off, hitting the snow with a dull thud, and brushes the loose strands of her hair from her sweat slicked brow.

        Dwalin apologizes to her, and she can hardly think of what he was apologizing for before a shooting pain lances through her side, but hardly more than a pained cry leaves her as he pulls the offending object from her, dripping dark blood, and throws it off in the distance. He should have waited until a healer came to do so- but she knew that even if one had been here, it would have made no difference what he did. Dwalin had arrived too late. She was fading quickly, especially if she did not react nearly as badly as one would have to a wound like that.

        He cradles her as she gasps for breath, one hand pressed against her side despite the futile gesture they knows it to be, the other keeping her close to his chest, shielding her from the snow that falls. She can feel the heat radiating from him, and she tries to shift closer- his warmth anchors her when there is so little left to feel of anything now.

        “Did…we win?” she asks, through pained coughs and gasps. She had asked this before, in another time, and another war- she was younger then, hardly into her twenties, and he an older dwarf. There would be no cot this time, no healer than could bandage the hole in her side, or replace the blood that made her shake so much.  

        But he too remembers, for he answers: “Barely.”  

        Then that smile that he had seen grace her features so many times before spread across her face, choking as she laughed before being cut short, and he could not help a small chortle himself.

        “I saw…the light.” She says after, but the words are soft, and she is fighting to keep her eyes open. He tilted his head, unsure of what she was speaking of, until her arm lifts, shaking and weak, as she points towards the south. “We…did it.”

        He nodded in response, and he can see tears begin to stream down her face, shoulders shaking as they turned to sobs. There is no facade, not so close to death, and she is scared- but he is there, warm and comforting, and the one arm around her shoulders squeezes her tightly as she tries to hold on. The hand that she held up lowers, struggling to remove her glove, which he does for her. She laces her fingers with his, sticky with cooled blood, and he thinks he sees a small smile, despite the tears that still flow freely and her choked breathing. There was no shame crying.

        She never thought she would die peacefully of old age, despite the prolonging of her life through her blood, and no husband or children would be by her side in those moments. But she was not alone, and it was all that one could ask for, facing such a harrowing notion such as death. She could do it with Dwalin, the fiercest and scariest dwarf known to Middle-earth, beside her. He would fight death off with his axes if he could, she knew. She hates that he must suffer again in war, knowing that this would be the last they would ever see each other. She hates that this is how their last goodbye has to be.

        But she squeezed his hand as tightly as she could, which was not much as her strength left her. Her hands were frozen against his warm, strong ones. But she is always cold, she reminds herself, and only holds his hand tighter, and he draws her closer despite the blood that seeps into his clothes. But they know that it is not from the snow, or her usual coldness.

        It is the biting cold of DEATH, and the thought only makes them cling all the more tighter .

        Her face is pale against the dark red blood; nearly matching the color the snow beneath them. It hardly seems a victory, when so many had been lost- he had not told her that both of their Kings had fallen, for she would know soon enough. She would join the ranks of those nameless, faceless soldiers, and it seemed she survived one war just to fall in another. She had a good life, longer than most, and she had carved a place out of the ruins of Dale and made it her own, serving dutifully to her kingdom and its people. She had done what she could.

        “Dwalin”, her voice is so much quieter, broken, and he tilts her head so that she can spit the blood pooling in the back of her throat. Her other hand not held in his grasp rises, her fingers tangled in his beard for a moment, his brows raising, and she huffed a weak laugh. “Always… wanted to do…that.” She knows it is forbidden, touching a dwarf’s beard-but surely he could accept this one time.

        Even in the final moments she has to throw in one last moment of levity, and he cannot help but shake his head at her words. They raised again to cup his cheek, attempting to wipe away the blood that had been caked there, and it was so  hard to keep her hand there with how much it shook, and how much she fought to keep her eyes from closing.

        Her sobs had died down, the silence filled with only her weak gasps, and the darkness began to close in.

         "Thank you.“ The words were but a whisper now, and if he were not so close he might not have caught them. But he did, and he gave her a smile, one that she had seen so rarely that she could not help but return it despite the tears and what they knew would happen. She was thankful for his presence by her side, both in her life and now in death. They had only spoken briefly on the topic of where they would be once they passed on. But both knew they would not see the other again.

        It was enough to have known him in this lifetime.

        He knows when it happens when he feels the last of her strength leave her, that shuddering of her breath as it left her one last time, head resting heavily in the crook of his arm, and was still. He knows when he sees the light gone her eyes, so usually full of life, now dull and glassy, staring blankly at the sky, and the way the tears had stopped flowing, the trails mingling with the blood that was was beginning to cool.  

        He was familiar with death. It had taken everything from him in his lifetime, and for as tough as she was, it was the most honorable way to leave this world, defending ones homeland.

        Dwalin knows the cost of war. Been in too many, seen too much. Lost too much.

        He holds her, despite knowing she had passed on, unmoving in his arms. His body hurts, battered and bruised, but he does not let go. Instead, he slides his hand free from hers, the blood upon it now dried, bringing his fingers up to delicately brush away the strands of hair that shifted with the wind, before resting his hand and closing her eyes.

         Sauron was defeated, their enemies driven away, and Erebor protected. Middle-earth would no longer know the threat of evil, and a peace would settle across all the lands.

        They had won.

          But the cost of war was too great, on that third and final day.