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avinryd · 1 year ago

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Part 1: Empty - Chapter 4

TRENT FIGHT

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Caleb is afraid.

That is the only thought Essek has processed so far. There are many other things vying for his attention—voices overlapping in his ears, sour nausea of guilt still lingering on the back of his tongue, overstimulated prickles across his skin, an acrid bite to the air in his nose—and he has to choose one, so he chooses the sight of Caleb. The man’s lips are moving, saying something that’s most likely too quiet to hear, even Essek were focusing on that, but all that gets through is that Essek has never seen Caleb afraid like this. They have traversed horrors, fought monsters and false gods, but never has Essek seen Caleb so deathly white and gaunt with terror.

The overstimulated buzz in Esseks ears lifts enough for him to hear Caleb’s projected “We may have a visitor…”, but Beau is the first to react. She’d started moving before Caleb finished speaking and is now easing open a shutter. She closes it with a sharp snap and a curse, then says to the room at large,

“We’re trapped.”

Beau’s words don’t provoke any panic. If anything, the Nein seem to be prepared for the situation, like they are expecting an attack from this unknown aggressor. They unconsciously form a knot around Caleb with Yeza and the child shunted into the protective circle as well—reassuring, safe, confident. All that, until everyone registers the scent of smoke in the air.

That sparks the buzz of panic. It’s almost audible over the now definitely audible snapping of burning thatch. The Clays start to mill about frantically—“Caduceus, what’s happening?” “Bad person. Long story, keep everyone safe.”—and Essek sees Yeza stoop and scoop up the now pale and shaking halfling boy. Jester is at the open door, preparing to cast with Fjord at her shoulder waiting for line of sight, when Colton’s voice cuts above the rising hubbub.

“Where’s Clarabelle?”

The question brings the girl’s face to the fore of Essek’s brain-fog—bubbly, grinning, rainbow hair awry—and a jolt of awareness snaps through him. Fuck.

A number of eyes snap to him. He must have said that aloud, and louder than intended. He meets Colton’s eyes while twisting at a ring on his left index finger.

“She’s with Tea, they were exploring the grove—oloth lu’ streea, hold on—”

The copper wire spool inside his ring jammed at some point between outside of Aeor and the grove; it takes three wasted seconds to prestidigitate the wire free before he has it threaded between thumbs and forefingers to cast. A single triangular glyph revolves on the wire before his voice distorts the copper.

“Clarabelle, there’s danger in the grove. Hide with Tea, do not move until we call. Respond if safe, otherwise cough. No specifics. Twenty-five words.”

There’s a long, tense pause while the magic hums at the base of his skull. All of the Clays are staring at him while the sound of cracking stone comes from the doorway. Essek presses a hand to his ear to block the noise and focus on the tremulous reply that’s filtering into his mind.

“Already hiding,” comes the girls whisper, muffled like she’s talking into her hand. “Heard the earth shift. There’s a man in red floating above the yard. Tea also saw something behind the house, might have been—”

The spell cuts off and Essek lets out a breath.

“She’s safe, they’re both hidden.” He looks over to meet the expectant eyes of Caleb, Fjord, and Beau. “He’s just outside, floating above the yard. There is at least one other unknown behind the house.”

Fjord nods grimly before turning back to the front door and focusing on a point far beyond. The medallion at his shoulder glimmers with a verdant shine as glyphs fly in a six-sided spiral from his sword blade into the air. An archway blossoms from the runes and Jester darts through first, followed by the Brenattos, the Clays—Caduceus tapping a spell to Caleb’s chest on the way out—and then finally Beau.

Before she slips through the gate, Beau flashes a dull metal ring to Caleb and the share a grim look. Something catches at Essek’s memory but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it because Caleb is walking out the door, passing by Essek with a brief, “Be ready, we eliminate one problem today,” and Essek can do nothing but follow after.

The grove is not silent.

Rather than scare off any wildlife, the magical manifestation of earthen walls around the cottage has sent the local fauna into an uproar. Birds chatter loudly in the noon-time warmth and there is enough rustling in the forests beyond the grove that Essek has no concern for their friends passing through the gate. It does give a concern for those unknown possible hostiles, but the hostile figure in front of them currently has all of Essek’s attention.

Trent Ikithon floats thirty feet in the air, red robes pristine with no sense of disarray. He takes no noticeable interest in Yasha, Fjord, or Essek as they file out from the house—his eyes fall on Caleb and lock in.

“Ah, I see that you are a man interested in actually facing your fate today.”

Essek can only watch in sickened fascination as Ikithon’s words break across Caleb’s icy facade. Caleb has compressed and crystallized his earlier terror into a diamond-sharp mask and his voice is deathly calm when he replies,

“Well, we had issues larger than your ambitions. Those being taken care of, we can...finally deal with you.

“Why don’t we stop dancing around those ambitions—what is it you want, Teacher?”

Terrified as he is, Essek still has to hide a smirk. Clever, goading the man into a monolog. For all his legitimately-gained arcane respect and substantial age in human terms, Trent Ikithon is young and lacking in key principles of maturity valued in Elven culture. Focused solely on Caleb and entrenched in the frustration of his goals, Ikithon still pays no mind to Essek or the others, and Essek takes full advantage.

Trying to ignore the growing heat at his back, Essek breathes an incantation and makes the somatic gesture for Detect Magic under his mantle. He’s braced for a blinding glow from Ikithon’s person, but it doesn’t come. Only the archmage’s boots glow a faint enchantment-teal and at his throat shines a single oilslick-grey point of...dunamancy? Yes, it has to be dunamancy, but something is horribly off.

The familiar golden spirals of possibility have been broken, fractured and remade into a rigid and somehow chaotic crystalline structure. It all pulses with a greasy shine that turns Essek’s stomach. His revolution turns to actual nausea as the tainted dunamanitc item flashes and he flounders to counter as Caleb spits,

“I think I can accommodate you tod—”

—the net of Essek’s Counterspell slips off the awkward planes of Ikithon’s bastardized dunamancy and Essek, time specialist that he is, has the unique experience of watching light after light bloom around Ikithon’s form with his own breath locked in his lungs—

“—day”

Now Essek has to squint against the conflagration surrounding the archmage and suddenly he knows he has one chance to act before the chaos of all nine Hells breaks loose. Releasing the time-stopped air from his lungs, Essek pulls in a shaky breath, glances at Caleb, then calls up,

“It has been some time,” pristine, unbroken possibility swirls and compresses at his will, “It seems our dealings and allegiances have shifted.”

He brings both hands out of his mantle and lets the impossibly dense bead of matter fly. It rockets up to Ikithon—pulses once, twice, thrice, five times, seven—and blooms into a sucking black void.

Ikithon does not move. His robes hang unruffled around his body, his whole form rigidly apart from the well of pressure Essek has summoned and he doesn’t even look in Essek’s direction. It leaves Essek too shocked to even curse, and that’s when all the nine Hells break loose.

It takes less than ten seconds for Essek to drop his Detect Magic. The explosion of light from all sides sends him stumbling back and into a tree trunk. Overlapping pentacle Counterspell sigils are still burned into his irises when he hears Jester’s scream and he blinks frantically, trying to focus through the ferocious remaining daylight.

He’s still blinking when Light-blessed shadow falls across his face a moment later and Caleb is there—Caleb with his tall shadow and taller staff, casting with a sharp rap of the staff on the roots at their feet. A fountain of cerulean light blossoms from the swirling cap of the staff. It reaches up and over and Essek has just enough time to feel the illusion of safely sweep over him before a fizzing bolt crackles from behind them and strangles the invulnerability spell at its heart.

Even over the noise of pitched battle Essek hears the woman before he sees her. Something arcane and unfamiliar sparks around her, so powerful that it echoes audibly about the grove and he only catches a glimpse of her blonde hair before she’s vanished. His rapid swivel sends fire up his neck and it takes him a second too long to react when that same strange arcana crackles across his tongue with the flavor of greasy ozone—this time much, much closer.

There’s a flash of a Counterspell in his periphery, tinged with Caleb’s characteristic flair. Essek hears a clipped, “you know it’s just business,” in an unfamiliar growl, and then the terribly familiar sound of Caleb being run through with a blade. Essek whips around in horror to see Caleb flat on his back, blood on his lips, staring intently up at the much bigger man that has him skewered to the ground. Caleb’s hand is wrapped around the blade and it leaks a crimson stream down to meet the flood from his chest. More blood smears on his lips as he chokes,

“Wulf, this is your chance…”

The man doesn’t respond in words, just growls low in his chest and jerks the sword free. Essek sees the impetus in his body to move, to strike again at Caleb, but he’s interrupted by Fjord neatly inserting himself between the Volstrucker and Caleb. Their battlefield banter is lost to Essek as he watches the fray devolve into chaos. The Mighty Nein are unloading everything they have into Ikithon and he has yet to so much as blink before the onslaught. He hears Fjord deliver two solid blows to their aggressor with his sword and makes a decision.

With a sharp gesture, Essek pulls the platinum cord of a bracelet tight around his wrist and hisses an incantation through the bite of metal on his skin. The bracelet dissolves and he reaches out into the Weave to pluck two threads, twining them together with the arcane cord he’s created. For one breathless moment the connection trembles, hums, then snaps into place with a ripple that spreads across the field of possibility.

The swordsman stumbles ever so slightly with a grunt of confusion and Essek uses the moment to seize Caleb under the armpits and drag him out of harm’s way. Though luminescent green vines play about the bloodstain on his shirt, Caleb still gives a groan of pain as Essek tugs desperately backwards. Ikithon is still staring at Caleb, malicious focus unbroken even as Yasha’s rage breaks against him. The archmage’s mouth curls in a vile facsimile of a concerned mentor while his hands sketch somatics that draw crackles of static from the air around them.

(In the back-end, logical corner of Essek’s brain, he knows time does not actually slow down as he watches Ikithon’s Chain Lightning gather—only his perception of the moments is slowed, dragging long seconds into minutes as blue-white energy gathers and arcs with unerring accuracy towards Caleb’s prone form.)

Essec doesn’t think; he doesn’t need to. An instinctive yank on the threads of possibility itself wrenches another outcome out of the Weave and ousts the present moment from reality completely. The lightning still arcs, but it’s Essek’s chest that takes the strike even as he shoves Caleb out of the way. Every one of Essek’s senses is flooded by the bolt of pure energy pouring into him. It doesn’t even register as pain yet—he is alight, he is incandescent, the coursing electricity filling an icy void in his core, the toll paid to the Weave for his hubris.

Equivalent exchange, he thinks dizzily as the pain finally hits, but something like triumph flares in his chest when Ikithon’s eyes finally break from Caleb’s form and lock onto Essek’s—fury, disgust, envy, every vile thought he must have been harboring since their meeting clear on his face.

Essek musters up a smirk.Two years with a beacon does not even a mortal lifetime’s study of dunamancy make.

Almost as if he heard Essek, Ikithon sniffs disdainfully and turns his attention back to Caleb, or tries to. When he moves, he is bodily blocked by Yasha’s hulking form and her sword strikes him with a ringing clang, as if striking metal. Through the spread of her resplendent wings, he tries to call down one of the blistering Crown of Stars motes on Caleb’s prone form, but it flies out of true and catches Fjord in the shoulder instead.

“It didn’t have to be this way, Bren, but you’re not the first student I’ve had to put down for knowing too much.”

Later, Essek will unpack that. For now, he watches Yasha descend upon Fjord’s opponent in avenging wrath; watches her strike true not once, but twice; feels the crackle of the Volstrucker’s pain sing through the binding of Tether Essence; watches Ikithon stare down at the fray no further worse for wear. Fuck.

Essek isn’t the only one succumbing to panic. Gasping in pained breaths, the other end of the Tether is casting a nervous glance back towards his ally—an ally who has done surprisingly little after her initial counterspell, Essek realizes. A quick look to follow shows the woman standing still, ankle deep in water and a slight sparkle of pink in her sharp eyes. Jester, then.

Secure in the threat’s neutralization, Essek turns his attention back to Ikithon just in time to see a split-second exchange end in Caleb’s Dispel catching the archmage in the chest, a shimmer rippling from the impact and leaving him with a disdainful snarl on his face.

“First trick that worked, boy.”

“Try and try again,” Caleb growls back, and for all his voice is quiet, the Nein rally behind it like a battlecry.

Another volley of spells let fly, Essek holding until he sees a wash of pink glitter break over the archmage and eat away at a second shield. The flash of an attempted teleportation goes off in his periphery, but Caleb is quick with a Counterspell as always and Essek focuses on conjuring as much lightning as he can safely manage, agitating the very building blocks of Exandria to call energy to his fingertips. The spell makes contact this time, but it’s worrying how little Ikithon stumbles in reaction.

Barely fazed, the archmage gathers what remains of Essek’s spell into his own hands, compressing and compounding. True fear starts to pool in Essek’s stomach.

“Caleb,” he hisses, backing away, “I’m scared—”

—but his voice cuts off as Beauregard rockets out from the trees in a flying tackle. A bastardized flash of dunamantic energy spins into the air, but it isn’t enough to save Ikithon as Beau collides and snaps both hands around his neck, legs locking around his waist with implacable strength. He thrashes once in her grasp, managing to free his hands and begin the somatics of a teleportation spell, green fire trailing from liver-spotted fingers. A door opens in the air around him, and is just as quickly slammed shut by a whelm of divine magic.

Below, Fjord smirks, drawling,

“Didn’t you say something about facing your fate?”

Everything moves very quickly after that.

The dregs of Essek’s lightning gather with the last of Ikithon’s Crown of Stars and all the dunamancy in the world wouldn’t give Essek the speed to pull Caleb out of its path. The star slams into Caleb’s chest and the air is punched out of him as he collapses to the ground. Essek’s own scream catches in his chest, but before it can find its way out into the world, a riot of green blooms from the scorched hole in Caleb’s padded tunic. Caleb drags in a gasping breath and curls in on his side.

Yasha rises into the air with a thunderous cry, then follows Ikithon to the ground as Caleb’s haphazard Dispel catches the Fly-charmed boots. Essek hears Fjord’s opponent collapse in the grass moments after Beau and her quarry crash, but he doesn’t have time to look as they all converge on the archmage’s prone form.

Beau is still on the old man’s chest, grasp on his throat and one fist poised to strike, but the look in his eyes is far from defeated. Calculating eyes flash from one member of the Nein to the next, taking in raised blades and readied strikes—Essek doesn’t care for it.

The somatic component for Hold Person is gentle, a difficult spell to master in a combat setting. His hand lifts, gathering magic, then floats down, laying the spell like the heaviest of blankets. Ikithon fights it, but Essek is out of patience—when the resistance becomes too much, he reaches once more into the branching paths of the future and plucks Ikithon’s failure from the tangle. A wave of deathly cold washes over him, a flash of black behind his eyes, but when it resolves Ikithon is frozen beneath Beau’s hold and those calculating eyes are now full of rage.

“Stay. Down.” Essek manages through a sudden wave of exhaustion.

He won’t be able to hold this long, but as it turns out he doesn’t have to. Caleb approaches—battered, beated, bloodied Caleb, silhouetted against the burning homestead—and kneels to turn the final lock on Ikithon’s defeat. Caleb fumbles, and Essek is about to join him, help with the lock, something, but the Volstrucker woman beats him to it. She kneels across from Caleb, their eyes locking over the archmage’s head, and her tattoos illuminate both her hands and Caleb’s as she pushes the last catch into place.

i could even learn how to love (like you)

Author: AvinRyd Fandom: Critical Role Rating: T Pairing: ShadoWidoMauk Chapters: 3/? Series: tbd

“…they begin to recall subtle knowledge from their past life’s experiences, a process called anamnesis. Through meditation with a guide, they can unlock the memories of their past lives…”-Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount – Restoring a person to memories of a past life is an art form in the Dynasty and though he is not religious, Essek Thelyss knows that one should be careful when coaxing a person back from the past. With a heart grown from the love of the Nein, Essek cannot stand by and let his friends take that opportunity away from the dearest of them all.

Read on AO3: read in full

#fics of ryd #love like you #critical role #shadowgast #widomauk #shadowidomauk #mighty nein #cr campaign two

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devinwolfi · 8 months ago

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watching fast and furious and thinking of that post where doms like some people drive stick. some drive automatic

#also ryds isekai fic. miss that

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hysteria-things · 11 months ago

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request!!

you just got back from the gym and are hot/sweaty but Matt/Chris finds it EXTREMELY attractive and it makes them hornyyy

but you’re tired/sore from your workout so they take the lead maybe like soft dom? help you ride him??

LOVE ur fics so far btw

BACKSEAT

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: soft dom!matt x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: matt has always been your ride to the gym. he loves how you look after, but this time around he wants to do something: take you to the backseat.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT, swearing, teasing, handjob, p in v, praising, semi-public

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 737

𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: y/f/i = your first initial

for @angelic-sturniolos111

thank you bae ily. enjoy reading!

nothing beats you up more than the gym. it’s your new year’s resolution, and even though it feels relieving after a workout, you fucking hated the gym making you sore all the time.

sweat drips down your body, and the towel on your shoulder is already soaked because of it. you take a sip out of your water bottle and walk out of the gym, wiping your forehead with your arm as you scan the parking lot to look for your boyfriend’s car. he’s always been your ride.

you notice him leaning against the car in one of the front spots, smiling at you when you start walking over.

you jog up to him. “hey!”

“hi.” he still smiles, leaning in for a kiss but you shy away.

“i’m too sweaty and gross for that.”

he squishes your cheeks and kisses you anyway, having you blush. he scans your body up and down, stopping at your chest for an extra second. you notice this immediately, and your eyebrows raise in amusement. “what’re you looking at, huh?”

“you’re fucking sexy.” he breathes out.

he thrusts into your thighs slightly. you can feel his erection through his jeans.

“does seeing me like this turn you on, matthew?” you ask teasingly, even though you already know the answer to that.

“maybe.” he bites his lip.

you smirk, inching your body closer to his to shield him. you reach your hand down and into his pants. he rests his forehead on yours, watching your hand’s every movement.

you grab his dick and pump slowly, causing his mouth to open but no sound comes out. he lifts his head and scans the parking lot to look if anybody can see you guys.

you don’t take your eyes off his face as your hand moves faster. “take me to the backseat?” you question in his ear.

he scurries to open the back door. he grabs the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his, leaning back to make you both fall into the car seats. you shut the door behind you, taking your sports bra off over your head.

matt’s back leans against the door and hurriedly takes his pants off, his shirt last. he quickly pulls down your shorts and panties, throwing them on the floor with your other clothes.

“you’ll always be the death of me.” he pants.

as you go to hover over his rock-hard dick, you hiss. he stares at you confused. “you okay?”

“yeah.” you sigh. “just sore from those dumbass leg workouts.”

he laughs, gripping your waist softly. “then relax, baby. i’ll take care of you.”

you rest your cheek on his shoulder and snake your arms around his neck. he lowers you onto his cock in one motion. you moan at the feeling of him inside you.

he groans. “damn. so wet, already.”

you purposely make your body limp so he has full control. his hand still rests at your waist as he moves you up and down.

the way he’s helping you ride him is rough but soft at the same time. your nipples graze his bare chest.

“oh, matt.” you moan, fluttering your eyes closed. “don’t stop.”

he groans here and there, the windows fogging up and the slap of your thighs on his fill the car. he kisses your shoulder and your neck repeatedly. “you always take me so well, sweetheart.”

he continues to whisper praises into your ear and rubs his hands up and down your hips. you continue to moan as you feel his tip reach your g-spot.

“shit, matt. i’m close.”

he kisses your shoulder. “go ahead, baby. you’re so gorgeous on top of me.”

he starts to thrust up into you since he too is close to his orgasm. your eyes shoot open and you grip his biceps, your moans becoming more high-pitched. “f-fuck, matt. i’m cumming.”

your legs shake as you come undone, matt thrusts a few more times until he shoots into you. you lay on top of him as you both catch your breath.

the two of you conjoined is a sight to see, truly. both yours and his cum drip down his dick. he pulls you off gently, sitting you across from him and kissing you on the cheek before turning around and writing something on the fogged window.

you roll your eyes playfully and chuckle. “you’re so cheesy.”

“fuck yeah i am.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita

#matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo smut #✎ ⤾ haleigh’s requests!

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formula-ghost · 1 day ago

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Lovely taglist members! With RYD wrapping up soonin the next few chapters, I have a lot of other ideas for fics involving different drivers that I want to write. So with the existing tag list, should I keep it series-specific or just have a general one for all my fics?

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velvetblackness · 5 months ago

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Table of Contents :)

Upcoming drawings in no particular order:

Anon request: hurt Emily

Anon request: Cowgirl Emily from Spencers AU

Anon request Hotchniss NSFW

Updated version of this old drawing

Jemily Kiss [started]

Feel free to send requests :)

Already drawn:

Pregnant Emily inspired by @eyesontheskyline's fanfic "reckless (just enough)"

Grey haired Emily

Elize ryd of Amaranthe

Regina Mills (OUAT)

Young Emily Mugshot

Emily Prentiss inspired by @scorpsik's amazing fic "Caught In The Space Between Good And Evil"

Jemily NSFW

Emily Prentiss inspired by @scorpsik's fic "Ne Me Laisse Pas Seul / Don't Leave Me Alone"

Another Vampily drawing for @leftoverenvy

Emily in a sports bra and grey sweatpants for @dontsh0vethesun

Hotch sitting by Emily's hospital bed after doyle for @prentitss

NSFW inspired by @criminalmindsgonewrong's Luke/Emily friends/colleagues with benefits fics

Anon request: Pregnant Emily

Emily and Tara at a Rock/Metal concert

Reid in Santa hat @cmgiftexchange gift for @foxy-eva.

Hotchniss inspired by @sequinsmile-x's college AU "The Way Home"

Temily Kiss

Vampire Emily for @leftoverenvy

Blood covered bride Emily

Drawing inspired by @cloudlessly-light's fanfic "All the things we will be"

Drunk Emily, smoking inspired by @criminalmindsgonewrong

Younger Emily, maybe JTF-12 time

Emily inspired by @wilding-flowers fic "Burning Chrysalis"

Emily Portrait

Emily and Sergio

Emily's Scars

Teenage Emily, maybe highshool

Let me know if a link isn't working and I'll fix it

#sorry accidentally deleted my contents post so i had to post it again

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a-z0-9-i-n-gram-completionist · 7 months ago

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1: 0 1 2 4 5 7 a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 32/36 (26/26) (6/10)

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5: 00per 0perc 10000 100pe 50per abric accou achus actua adian afari afewa ageme aghet agxre ahooo ahoot airbu aires airfo akesp akist aland alask alber algoo ality allyo allyt almar alsaf altin alvin alzie amaha amazo anada anage andor angan annic anrio antar apple apric arbys arcit arget arlic arnes asica asket assac assis assro atema athei aturn aurus austr aveab barne basic baske berta bigba bingl bisex blico blogs brasi brazi bread bumbl bviou cally canad capri carrs ccoun cdona celes chill chipo chuse ciall cialt cialv cipal citic cjens ckduc cking clair class cofir cogni cordd cotla count crowa ctori ctual cvers ddotc defin deimo denma depot diant diffe disco docto domin donal dotcu duckd duckg duoth eable ealan ealgo ealit eally ealsa ealzi earth eblog eclas ecret edepo edocs efini ehous eimos eland elang elest eleve elian eling elyth emala emboy ement ength enmar enson ently ephor epler epper epubl eragx ercen ereig erene erent erepu erman eryda eslid espea estia every exual fabri fedex fembo feren feway ffere ffici ficia finit firef fireh firel force forev forre franc fucki funny garli gbask gemen germa ghett ghtly gimmi glecl gledo glesl gmail gnito googl guate gxrea hakes heist helin heren herep hetti hipot homed hoote horto house hreat huset ially ialti ialvi iance icall icial icofi icorn icrow ictor icver iffer igbas ightl ikipe iktok ilita imhor immic incip incog inder india inged ingle inher inite inous iousl ipali ipedi ipotl irbus irefo ireho irela irfor iscor isexu istan ister italy itary itely itica jcjen jenso joann kahoo kduck keple kespe kiped kista laire lanet langa laska lassr lbert lease lecla ledoc lengt lesli lesti leven lgoog lianc licof lides lingo litar llyof llyop llyti lmart lossi lovel lsafa ltind lvine lyoff lyope lythe lytim lzies manag massa mazon mcdon medep mhort micro milit minos minou mmick mnise molos nagem nalds ncipa ncogn ndora ngana ngths nhere nical night nisex nited nitel nmark nnica noble noffi notes notre ntarc nudit nuwui obvio octor offic ofire oglec ogled ogles ognit oloss omede omino omise omnis onald oogle ooter opera orddo orego oreve orias ornhu orrea orton oscar ossia otall otcum oters othel otify otlan otrea ously outub ovely overe owave paghe pakis palit pando panic peare pedia peppe perag perce phora picve pirit pizza plane pleas pornh posts potif potle prico princ promi publi quebe radia ragxr ralia rance ranni ranus rasil razil rcent rciti rddot realg reali reall reals realz reats reblo refox regon rehou reign relan relia rentl repub rever rforc ricor right rinci ringe rmany rnhub romis rowav rreal rtons russi ryday sachu safar safew sanri satur scord scotl seala secre sepho seren setts sexua shake shell sical sista siste slide sover spagh spain spear spiri spoti sroom ssach ssist ssroo stant stars state stial stral stray subwa tally tarci targe tates tauru telan telyt temal texas theif theis theli there threa tikto timho tinde tland toria total trali traya treal truly trust tuall tubef tyran ually uatem ubefr ublic ubway uckdu uckgo uckin udity uebec uifer umble unite unoff unuwu uothe uranu usett ussia ustra utube uwuif veabl verei verse veryd victo vious walma waste wavea wikip wilde works wuife xreal yahoo yamah yoffi yoper youtu yrann yther ytimh zeala 546/60466176 (541/11881376) (5/16796160)

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7: 00perce 0percen 100perc 50perce account achuset actuall agement aghetti agxreal airforc akespea akistan alberta algoogl allyoff allyope allytim alsafar altinde anageme annical antarci apricor arcitic asicall assachu assista assroom atemala atheist austral aveable basical bigbask bisexua blicofi bviousl caprico cdonald celesti chipotl chusett cialtin cialvin cipalit cjenson ckduckg claires classro cofirel cognito corddot cotland crowave ctorias ctually ddotcum definit denmark differe discord dominos donalds duckduc duothel ealgoog eallyti ealsafa ealzies eclassr efinite elangan elestia eliance elyther epublic eragxre erently erepubl eslides espeare everyda fferent fficial ficiall ficialt ficialv finitel firefox firehou firelan forever forreal fucking gbasket germany gimmick gleclas gledocs gleslid googlec googled googles guatema hakespe helingo herentl herepub hipotle homedep hooters hortons husetts ialtind ialvine icially icialti icialvi icofire icrowav ictoria icverse ifferen igbaske ikipedi ilitary imhorto incipal incogni inheren initely ipality irehous ireland irforce iscordd isexual itelyth jcjenso kduckgo kespear kipedia langana lassroo leclass lengths leslide lestial lgoogle licofir llyoffi llyoper llytimh lsafari ltinder lyoffic lyopera lythere lytimho managem massach mcdonal medepot mhorton microwa militar mnisexu molossi nagemen ncipali ncognit nherent nightly nisexua nitelyt noffici notreal ntarcit nuwuife obvious officia ofirela oglecla ogledoc oglesli olossia omedepo ominous omnisex ooglecl oogledo ooglesl operagx orddotc otallyo othelin otreall outubef overeig owaveab paghett pakista pandora peragxr percent picvers pornhub pricorn princip promise publico radiant ragxrea rannica rcitica rddotcu realgoo reality reallyt realsaf realzie reblogs rehouse relianc republi rincipa rowavea sachuse safeway scorddo scotlan sealand sephora shakesp sically sistant soverei spaghet spotify ssachus ssistan stralia tallyof tallyop tarciti telanga telythe theling therepu threats timhort totally treally tyranni uatemal ublicof uckduck unoffic unuwuif uotheli ustrali utubefr uwuifer vereign veryday victori viously walmart waveabl wikiped yoffici yoperag youtube yrannic ytherep ytimhor zealand 278/78364164096 (274/8031810176) (4/21767823360)

8: 00percen 0percent 100perce 50percen achusett actually airforce akespear algoogle allyoffi allyoper allytimh alsafari altinder anagemen antarcit apricorn arcitica asically assachus assistan australi basicall bigbaske bisexual blicofir bviously capricor cdonalds celestia chipotle chusetts cialtind cialvine cipality ckduckgo classroo cofirela corddotc crowavea definite differen discordd duckduck duotheli ealgoogl eallytim ealsafar eclassro efinitel elangana elestial elythere epublico eragxrea erepubli everyday fficiall fficialt fficialv ficially ficialti ficialvi finitely firehous fireland gleclass gleslide googlecl googledo googlesl guatemal hakespea herently herepubl homedepo ialtinde icialtin icialvin icofirel icrowave ictorias ifferent igbasket ikipedia imhorton incipali incognit inherent initelyt irehouse iscorddo itelythe jcjenson kespeare lassroom leclassr leslides lgooglec lgoogled lgoogles licofire llyoffic llyopera llytimho lyoffici lyoperag lytherep lytimhor manageme massachu mcdonald mhortons microwav military mnisexua molossia nagement ncipalit ncognito nherentl nisexual nitelyth nofficia notreall ntarciti nuwuifer obviousl official ofirelan ogleclas ogledocs ogleslid omedepot omnisexu ooglecla oogledoc ooglesli operagxr orddotcu otallyof otallyop otheling otreally outubefr overeign owaveabl paghetti pakistan peragxre picverse principa publicof ragxreal rannical rddotcum realgoog reallyti realsafa realzies reliance republic rincipal rowaveab sachuset scorddot scotland shakespe sovereig spaghett ssachuse ssistant tallyoff tallyope tarcitic telangan telyther thelingo therepub timhorto totallyo tyrannic uatemala ublicofi uckduckg unoffici unuwuife uothelin ustralia victoria waveable wikipedi yofficia yoperagx youtubef yrannica ytherepu ytimhort 198/2821109907456 (194/208827064576) (4/783641640960)

9: 00percent 100percen 50percent achusetts akespeare algooglec algoogled algoogles allyoffic allyopera allytimho anagement antarciti assachuse assistant australia basically bigbasket blicofire capricorn celestial cialtinde classroom cofirelan corddotcu crowaveab definitel different discorddo duckduckg duothelin ealgoogle eallytimh ealsafari eclassroo efinitely elytherep epublicof eragxreal erepublic fficially fficialti fficialvi ficialtin ficialvin finitelyt firehouse gleclassr gleslides googlecla googledoc googlesli guatemala hakespear herepubli homedepot ialtinder icialtind icialvine icofirela icrowavea imhortons incipalit incognito inherentl initelyth iscorddot itelyther leclassro lgooglecl lgoogledo lgooglesl licofirel llyoffici llyoperag llytimhor lyofficia lyoperagx lytherepu lytimhort managemen massachus mcdonalds microwave mnisexual ncipality nherently nitelythe nofficial notreally ntarcitic obviously officiall officialt officialv ofireland ogleclass ogleslide omnisexua oogleclas oogledocs oogleslid operagxre orddotcum otallyoff otallyope othelingo owaveable peragxrea principal publicofi realgoogl reallytim realsafar republico rincipali rowaveabl sachusett scorddotc shakespea sovereign spaghetti ssachuset tallyoffi tallyoper tarcitica telangana telythere therepubl timhorton totallyof totallyop tyrannica ublicofir uckduckgo unofficia unuwuifer uotheling victorias wikipedia yofficial youtubefr yrannical ytherepub ytimhorto 145/101559956668416 (142/5429503678976) (3/28211099074560)

10: 100percent algooglecl algoogledo algooglesl allyoffici allyoperag allytimhor antarcitic assachuset blicofirel cialtinder cofireland corddotcum crowaveabl definitely discorddot duckduckgo duotheling ealgooglec ealgoogled ealgoogles eallytimho eclassroom efinitelyt elytherepu epublicofi erepublico fficialtin fficialvin ficialtind ficialvine finitelyth gleclassro googleclas googledocs googleslid hakespeare herepublic icialtinde icofirelan icrowaveab incipality inherently initelythe iscorddotc itelythere leclassroo lgooglecla lgoogledoc lgooglesli licofirela llyofficia llyoperagx llytimhort lyofficial lytherepub lytimhorto management massachuse microwavea nitelyther nofficiall nofficialv ntarcitica officially officialti officialvi ogleclassr ogleslides omnisexual oogleclass oogleslide operagxrea otallyoffi otallyoper peragxreal principali publicofir realgoogle reallytimh realsafari republicof rincipalit rowaveable sachusetts scorddotcu shakespear ssachusett tallyoffic tallyopera telytherep therepubli timhortons totallyoff totallyope tyrannical ublicofire unofficial uothelingo ytherepubl ytimhorton 101/3656158440062976 (100/141167095653376) (1/1015599566684160)

11: algooglecla algoogledoc algooglesli allyofficia allyoperagx allytimhort antarcitica assachusett blicofirela crowaveable definitelyt discorddotc duothelingo ealgooglecl ealgoogledo ealgooglesl eallytimhor efinitelyth elytherepub epublicofir erepublicof fficialtind fficialvine ficialtinde finitelythe gleclassroo googleclass googleslide herepublico icialtinder icofireland icrowaveabl initelyther iscorddotcu itelytherep leclassroom lgoogleclas lgoogledocs lgoogleslid licofirelan llyofficial llytimhorto lytherepubl lytimhorton massachuset microwaveab nitelythere nofficially nofficialvi officialtin officialvin ogleclassro oogleclassr oogleslides operagxreal otallyoffic otallyopera principalit publicofire realgooglec realgoogled realgoogles reallytimho republicofi rincipality scorddotcum shakespeare ssachusetts tallyoffici tallyoperag telytherepu therepublic totallyoffi totallyoper ublicofirel unofficiall unofficialv ytherepubli ytimhortons 79/131621703842267136 (79/3670344486987776)

12: algoogleclas algoogledocs algoogleslid allyofficial allytimhorto assachusetts blicofirelan definitelyth discorddotcu ealgooglecla ealgoogledoc ealgooglesli eallytimhort efinitelythe elytherepubl epublicofire erepublicofi fficialtinde ficialtinder finitelyther gleclassroom googleclassr googleslides herepublicof icrowaveable initelythere iscorddotcum itelytherepu lgoogleclass lgoogleslide licofireland llytimhorton lytherepubli lytimhortons massachusett microwaveabl nitelytherep nofficialvin officialtind officialvine ogleclassroo oogleclassro otallyoffici otallyoperag principality publicofirel realgooglecl realgoogledo realgooglesl reallytimhor republicofir tallyofficia tallyoperagx telytherepub therepublico totallyoffic totallyopera ublicofirela unofficially unofficialvi ytherepublic 61/4738381338321616896 (61/95428956661682176)

13: algoogleclass algoogleslide allytimhorton blicofireland definitelythe discorddotcum ealgoogleclas ealgoogledocs ealgoogleslid eallytimhorto efinitelyther elytherepubli epublicofirel erepublicofir fficialtinder finitelythere googleclassro herepublicofi initelytherep itelytherepub lgoogleclassr lgoogleslides llytimhortons lytherepublic massachusetts microwaveable nitelytherepu nofficialvine officialtinde ogleclassroom oogleclassroo otallyofficia otallyoperagx publicofirela realgooglecla realgoogledoc realgooglesli reallytimhort republicofire tallyofficial telytherepubl therepublicof totallyoffici totallyoperag ublicofirelan unofficialvin ytherepublico 47/170581728179578208256 (47/2481152873203736576)

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29: definitelytherepublicofirelan efinitelytherepublicofireland 2/1357602166130257152481187563160405662935023616 (2/108199957741720996894562347292921981566976)

30: definitelytherepublicofireland 1/48873677980689257489322752273774603865660850176 (1/2813198901284745919258621029615971520741376)

nudity isn't inherently sexual but when the nudity is sexual BARK BARK BARK BARK you know?

#max: 30

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coolkidstable · 5 years ago

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omg every time i see your icon i'm like "is that ryan ross????"

THIS REALLY STOLE MY WIG

anyway since we all know jake likes to sing, petition for him to release a cover of mad as rabbits

#i know this isn’t my fic blog but i have a jake/charlie fic idea based on ryd*n #ANYWAY thank you for that im genuinely losing it #ask #mayorwagner

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jeffverse · 2 years ago

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Please, explain jeffverse as if you were introducing it to a complete clueless Person (i am clueless but very interested)

hiiii !!!! jeffverse is a funny story and requires some context so this post might be long lol

so i (lucia) was actually the one to introduce the entire concept to the rest of the people here. jeffverse actually existed before i met any of them. it started out as sort of an inside joke between me and two of my other friends, rea and bee, who had two different versions of jeff the killer as a character for two different fics they were writing. different versions meaning they had different personalities, appearances, and backstory alterations, so basically each one was a combination of different headcanons and rewrites. at the time i also had about two or three different versions (ryd, nine, and stat). we would talk about a bunch of scenarios involving these jeffs interacting with each other and gave them nicknames to differentiate them, which was how jeffverse was coined.

now, original jeffverse had a bit of a different focus than current jeffverse. in the original version, it dealt more with the concept of these guys being the same person from different universes. but with current jeffverse, it’s a lot different. current jeffverse deals with the concept of these guys being the same legend from different universes, not the same person. all of these “jeffs” have totally different origins, appearances, and personalities, but have all become the legend of “jeff the killer.”

but onto the actual plot itself, it’s a little hard to explain to people that haven’t been there for all the years worth of context (hence why this blog can be so vague sometimes and is used as more of an archive than an informative source).

in the most barebones way i can put it, all these “jeffs” found their way to a house in a place called nowhere (a pocket dimension), and gradually moved in as roommates. little did they know, they were all brought to this house by an omnipresent force during the time in their life they needed it most (hence why some characters are from different time periods, and little tears in reality are common). as more of them started to move in, nowhere as a city began to grow with it, new pockets of town suddenly popping up and changing. eventually, the lius start popping up in a house across the street too. so, tldr, jeffverse is an alternate universe where jeffs break off from their canon story at a time they need to most, and somehow someway find their way to a place that gives them what they need. they’re all called to nowhere because there’s nowhere they can be happy.

from there, the plotline is pretty complex and goes every which way with little mini au’s and storylines mixed in, which is why we can have sooo much content made from it.

for the record we know this all sounds a little goofy with our subject matter being literally jeff the killer lol, but i think it’s really surprising how much effort we all managed to put into it as a story and as an alternate universe. i could elaborate more but this is a very unspecific question so this is literally just the basic idea 💀

- mod lucia

#ask #jeffverse #personally i think if people can do this stuff with mlp then this isn’t that bad LMAO #mod lucia

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changethecircumstances · 2 years ago

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the dance of the king and an assassin [x] - a playlist for the fic of the same name

Alan Menken - Main Title: Prologue // Tommee Profitt, FJØRA - Vagabond // Vitamin String Quartet - Dance Monkey // Of Monsters and Men - Thousand Eyes // Nightwish - Arabesque // Freya Catherine, Jack Victor - Fear Not This Night // Snow Patrol - The Lightning Strike (What If This Storm Ends) // Digital Daggers - Surrender // Sasha Siem - Flower Flower // Malumi - Snow // Snow Ghosts - Ribcage // Garmarna - Timmarna // Auri - I Hope Your World Is Kind // The Civil Wars - Dance Me to the End of Love // Lawless, Dream Harlowe - In the Name of Nothing // The Rescues - Hell or High Water // The Spiritual Machines - Don't Fear the Reaper // Kamelot, Elize Ryd, Alissa White-Gluz - Sacrimony (Angel of Afterlife) // PHILDEL - Storm Song // Tuomas Holopainen - A Lifetime of Adventure

#ouizzy #izzy x frenchie #our flag means death #izzy hands #frenchie ofmd #frenchizzy #you would not believe how long it took me to make this #soooooo many hours #but it really wanted to make a cover for this one at least #hope you enjoy

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themodethecitythesoul · 8 months ago

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The 'Captive Prince>the rest of the queer romance genre' pipeline is real, my friend. I started getting Capri withdrawals and Tales hit my radar in a rec post from @ace-artemis-fanartist I believe? (also go look at their art it's great)

And thank you! I'm kind of up to my eyeballs in critrole and Hades II currently, but I'll circle around back to the Harken bois eventually, because I have Stuff planned.

*edit: oh god autocorrect my beloathed. My fic tag is #fics of ryd not Facts jesus

WOULD SOMEONE PLEASE COME TALK TO ME ABOUT MEGAN DERR’S “TALES OF THE HIGH COURT” BOOKS?????? THIS FANDOM IS NONEXISTANT AND IT’S KILLING ME

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avinryd · 1 year ago

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Cat's Cradle

Author: AvinRyd Fandom: Critical Role Rating: T Pairing: Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast Word Count: ~1,650 Series: Shards and Spells

"...first time I've been glad Molly wasn't there."

- @caitmayart

Saw Cait's fanart (x) and it broke me into little pieces. I put those back together into this.

Read on AO3

On any other night, the soft riffle of worn parchment shuffling would be comforting, meditative work in Mollymauk’s hands. On any other night, there would be a blood-deep satisfaction in the near-inaudible sound of cards placed on threadbare fabric. On any other night, the glow of moonlight would light his spread and sing in his veins and there would be the humming feeling of not only Sehanine’s gentle presence, but a hint of mischievous spark from Jester’s Traveler and, underneath his incense and the floral warmth of the Wildmother, the sharp scent of ozone. Yasha’s Stormlord.

On any other night. But not tonight. Because Yasha is...Yasha is—

Footsteps on the stairs of the Ready Room—ascending, growing louder, stopping on the landing.

“If we’re not discussing how to get her back, I’m not coming downstairs.” Molly says flatly, not looking up from his cards.

“I am not here to fetch you back, Mollymauk.”

Caleb. Soft-spoken, level-headed, absolutely fucking calm Caleb. How can he sound so gods-damned calm? How can all of them be so cold to just walk away and let that door close and—

His mental tirade is interrupted by movement in his periphery. Just off the edge of his tarot cloth, one of Caduces’s wooden bowls slides into view. It’s full of a creamy stew of some sort, dinged iron spoon leaning against the edge, being held by a bandaged hand. It’s followed shortly by a chipped ceramic mug of steaming liquid, borne by a matching other hand. Molly looks up to see Caleb crouched across from him, fancy new coat pooled on the gritty wood floor and not meeting his eyes.

“You need to eat. You’re no good to her wasted away to nothing.”

Molly scoffs. “I’m no good to her stuck here either! Miles and a mountain and a half away, sitting in a fucking military storehouse when I should still be in there, still—”

“Still what, Mollymauk? You wouldn’t still be anything. You would be stabbed through by another gods-verdammt oversized blade and by the time your neat little trick got around to bringing you back, there would be more time wasted than we are using right now.”

Caleb isn’t so soft-spoken, isn’t so calm now. His voice is low, but it’s tense and rough and he’s meeting Molly’s gaze now—deep purple bruising under his eyes and brows furrowed in consternation as he pins Molly with a hard look and it stops his mind short. This Caleb is familiar, for all Molly never actually got to meet him. This is the Caleb that rode up the Glory Run Road, dragging broken friends and compatriots away from a fresh grave to rescue the ones yet living.

Molly swallows the spitting retort that’s fast dying on his devil’s tongue and carefully returns the cards to his deck, inverse of how they’d been placed and rolls up the cloth, sets them both aside and reaches for the bowl.

He eats in silence. Caleb shifts, sits against the bunk that hides Molly’s corner from the rest of the large room and pulls out a loop of silver thread to fiddle with. Moonlight catches in the threads and Molly recognizes the geometric patterns.

“No Molly, if you do it that way—see? You’ve got it tangled now.”

Molly made a face at the snarls of string binding up his wrists and fingers. Yasha only laughed softly and reached to pick apart the knots.

“Where did you even learn this? Practice for building snares in the Xorhassian wastes?”

“Jester taught me while we were at sea. It was a long journey and you run out of things to do on a ship, eventually.”

There was a waft of sea-salt tang rising from the string, nearly masked by the scent of dry parchment and flowers that clung to everything stored in Yasha’s belt-pouch. He wiggled his fingers gleefully once Yasha freed them, then looped the string around once more.

“Alright. Show me again.”

Molly sets the empty bowl aside—when had he finished it? Must have been hungrier than he thought—and scoots over across from Caleb. The wizard has reached a point in the pattern where he can’t move further. Wordless, Molly reaches in and deftly moves the strings, pulls them off Caleb’s hands and into the next pattern, then holds it out.

Their eyes meet in a quick glance, all that Caleb allows, then burn-scarred fingers reach across to pluck at the web spanned between Molly’s hands; gingerly pinching strings together, then looping them around and pulling back. Another familiar pattern. Molly follows along, and so they go, the silence stretching on and growing more comfortable as it does. Comfortable, but it’s not enough to soothe the agitation still simmering in Molly’s blood.

The emotions still boil up in him, horror and fear and anguish that steam out as anger at the situation, anger at his friends, their hesitance, their—

Caleb nudges Molly’s elbow with his own. Their hands are suddenly knotted together—Molly’s hands having spasmed and yanked the careful magic out of true, tangling the thread. Shit. Fuck. Gods damn it all, can't even get a simple children’s game right, let alone anything more useful. He doesn’t move as Caleb slips his own fingers free and starts untangling the thread. Still quiet, movements slow and purposeful and fucking hells below.

“How are you all so calm about this?” He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t.

There is a long moment of silence, Caleb slipping the last knots from the thread and winding it carefully before replying, “Everyone is in shock, Mollymauk. Do not mistake it for apathy.”

“Bullshit. If any of you gave a—” Caleb doesn’t let him finish, talks over him.

“Beauregard hasn’t said a single word since your shouting match three hours and twenty-seven minutes ago. Jester started crying halfway through that argument and hasn’t stopped. Caduceus burned the stew and oversteeped three separate pots of tea. Nott has done nothing but drink since we got back and Fjord has let his accent slip at least four times in that span.”

“And you?” Molly is still stuck on their firebrand wizard and his icy calm all through the ride back to Bazzoxan—stuck and enraged, if he’s honest with himself.

Caleb laughs, dry as dust. “Well.”

He holds out his right hand for inspection and Molly takes in what he hadn’t noticed earlier. The bandages on the outer blade of his hand are scorched brown, black at the edges, and there are red smears in the palm mirrored by the rusty brown caked under burned short nails. Unthinking, he reaches out to cradle it in his own two as Caleb continues,

“Nott told me to find something to do with myself before the proprietor noticed I was burning a hole in their table. So I brought you food.”

The hand in Molly’s grasp is shaking, as if only just being held back from clenching into a fist once more. Molly has to take a moment, has to sit with what Caleb’s just told him. He wants to stay angry, wants it more than anything, because if he’s angry then nothing else can get to him—if he’s angry, the rest of the awful, awful things...

Ah, too late.

Their game of Cat’s Cradle had brought him and Caleb knee-to-knee, so it’s not far to go when Molly slumps forward to knock his head into Caleb’s shoulder. Months and months ago, back when they’d all first met, the Caleb Molly had known would have jerked back on instinct. The Caleb Molly had known wouldn’t have let his hand be held so tenderly either, or played a silly string game with him in grief-stricken silence. This Caleb has done all those things, and more—twisting his hand just enough to clasp around Molly’s forearm in a firm hold.

“I hate this.” Molly says to their laps, forehead pressed into the shoulder seam of Caleb’s fancy new coat. “Is this what it felt like? When I… When I was gone?”

“Nein,” Caleb replies, harsh and certain. Molly jerks upright at the tone.

“How?”

Caleb’s frown deepens. “You were dead, Mollymauk. You were dead and you were gone and we mourned you.” His hand tightens on Molly’s arm. “Yasha is not. She is alive, and we may not be strong enough yet, but we will get her back. I don’t— I’m not sure how we can, but we will, Molly. I swear it.”

Caleb’s free hand has lifted to rub at his face and Molly sees a smear of crimson when it comes away—a cut on his jaw that should have been healed many cleric spells ago. There’s dried blood crusted under the nails of that hand as well. Had he picked open that shaving nick over the course of the night?

There’s a hard lump in Molly’s throat that he tries to swallow past, but can’t. It blocks all his words except the few syllables he needs to send up to the Moonweaver as he reaches out to touch Caleb’s jaw. The silver crescent charm on his horn chimes softly as it spins and hits keratin, and a sparkle of divine blue light dances in the blue of Caleb’s eyes as Molly draws on the absolute last of his strength to seal up the tiny cut. He doesn’t move his hand after—keeps it there to feel the subtle movement of Caleb adjusting his jaw, relaxing clenched teeth.

It’s not far to go when their foreheads press together, made shorter by Caleb leaning in to meet him halfway. Molly lets his hand drop to fall atop Caleb’s wrapped ones in their laps, closes his eyes and tries to just breathe—he feels like he hasn’t properly since that door closed.

It hurts. It’s going to hurt for a good long while yet, he reckons. But it’ll hurt a damn sight less once they’ve got Yasha back.

#critical role #critical role c2 #widomauk #critical role fanfiction #mollymauk tealeaf #caleb widogast #molly lives!AU #avinryd #fics of ryd #series: Shards and Spells

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avinrydarchive · 5 years ago

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three doors, three souls

Author: AvinRyd Fandom: The Bartimaeus Trilogy Rating: Gen Pairing: N/A (deep, all encompassing friendship between Nat&Kitty&Ptolemy&Bart, but no romance) Word Count: ~5,300 Series: N/A “B-” He clears his throat. “Bartimaeus?”

(He's not sure where that name came from.)

The boy blinks, then shakes his head. “No, my name is Ptolemy.” He looks expectant, as if waiting for a response.

And what to respond? Does he have a name? After a moment of thought he decides, yes, he does have a name: Nathaniel. He says as much and Ptolemy smiles.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” and it sounds so right and familiar in his voice that Nathaniel aches.

Read on AO3: link

White.

Blinding white is all there is; there had been shards of it in his vision, slashes of it in his body, an aching starburst of it in his soul. Now it is all he knows. He flies through it at speed, movement with no form to move; burning on skin that is not there.

Then suddenly, everything stops.

He looks around to see the white has dulled from snow-in-blazing-sunlight to something with depth, dimension. The dimension seems to go on forever, stretching away, and in that distance there is a speck of...well, it’s hard to tell. Certainly not white, which he finds comforting.

Sensing something at his back, he turns. Swinging shut behind him in calm silence is a massive door. Its glass panes gleam in the omnipresent light, iron latticework shining dully between. There is nothing behind the glass.

Movement at his back, once again. Once again, he turns. The not-white speck has drawn very close indeed, close enough to take the form of a boy; dark of skin, dark of hair, with eyes that feel older than the years his face betrays. The child can’t be more than fourteen.

“B-” He clears his throat. “Bartimaeus?”

(He's not sure where that name came from.)

The boy blinks, then shakes his head. “No, my name is Ptolemy.” He looks expectant, as if waiting for a response.

And what to respond? Does he have a name? After a moment of thought he decides, yes, he does have a name: Nathaniel. He says as much and Ptolemy smiles.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” and it sounds so right and familiar in his voice that Nathaniel aches.

“Where are we?” Nathaniel asks, looking around once more, but Ptolemy doesn’t answer. Instead—still with that smile, warm as the sun and twice as bright—he reaches out to take Nathaniel’s hand and lead him forward.

Hand. Nathaniel then remembers to wonder about his own form. Does he look like anything in particular? He starts with the hand in Ptolemy’s: pasty pale in comparison, but around the same size. From the wrist there’s a spindly arm in the sleeve of a grey jumper. This leads to a torso occupying the rest of the jumper. Down over dark pants to smart shoes, and Nathaniel compares these to Ptolemy’s ivory kilt and bare brown feet. Looking up, he’s at eye-level with the back of Ptolemy’s head and there’s a dark fringe of hair falling into his vision that surely wasn’t there before. He’s just reaching up to fuss with it when Ptolemy draws to a stop.

“What do you see?”

Nathaniel snaps back to attention and lets out a small sound of surprise. “Um. I see three doors,” he says with some confusion, “The door on the left is dark wood with a tarnished silver handle. The middle one is dark and has a red pentacle drawn on it, but the outer binding is broken. The door on the right is plain. Just a white door. ”

Ptolemy nods and points with his free hand at the first door. “That leads back to the world you know. Step through and you can start anew with no memory of this or your life before.”

He points to the second. “That door leads to the Other Place. If you enter, you will be absorbed into the energies of that world and become a part of the spirits. One day, you might be named and summoned. Or you might not.

"The third-” he pauses and gives the plain door a hard look, “The third door leads...on. I don’t know where, for I’ve never seen what’s beyond.”

There’s a long pause, then Ptolemy turns to face Nathaniel and says with heartbreaking gentleness, “As you’ve probably worked out, you’re dead.”

Their empty pocket of space is quiet as Nathaniel considers this, then he gestures around them. His voice seems small and fragile in the excess of open space. “And where is this?”

“Purgatory. Mictlan. Hades. There are many names. I call it The In-Between.” Ptolemy shrugs and seems like he would continue, but something draws his attention back the way they’d come.

The glass-and-iron door has opened once more and something falls through. To Nathaniel it has no shape, only a lump of substance imposed on the world, but somehow his entire being shrinks from it in terror. Ptolemy goes to meet it, but Nathaniel shies away and removes himself from the doors. From this vantage he can’t hear Ptolemy’s words, but he sees the other boy reach out and the essence take form under his touch.

A horrifying apparition is soon standing more than twice as tall as Ptolemy, tentacles and horns and sickly shapes of too many limbs and a roar of abject misery. Ptolemy shows absolutely no fear, no disgust; his movements are gentle and sure, meeting the confused and desolate creature with a compassion Nathaniel knows he could not muster in himself.

They approach the doors and Nathaniel can hear Ptolemy now. His quiet question is the same but the thing’s voice, with its echoes of horror and undercurrent of shrieking cries, is too vague to make out. As soon as Ptolemy has explained the third door, the being moves towards it in a desperate lurch. The door is open now and Nathaniel leans forward, trying to see beyond and the thing turns; their eyes meet and both recoil in base terror. The thing falls backwards through the door. Nathaniel falls on his backside. The door clicks shut.

For the first time in this place of empty white, Nathaniel feels pain. A tension has wound itself in his chest and is tightening viciously; in his ears, there are echoes of mind-rending noise—crashing glass and roaring fire, the screaming and exultation of many beings too large for the world. His breath comes too fast and harsh, though a moment ago he hadn’t needed to breathe at all.

For a time he cannot measure, Nathaniel is curled up on himself in a ball, rocking back and forth, wanting desperately to forget even as he reaches to understand this horror in his mind. The understanding does not come; the oblivion, neither. When his vision comes back into focus, Ptolemy is kneeling before him, unsurprised concern in the curve of his back and lines on his brow.

“Your passing was violent,” he says, “and though it may have involved that spirit you just saw, you cannot recall a thing. Am I right?”

Nathaniel nods, tries to arrange his limbs into a more comfortable sitting position. Ptolemy continues.

“It is often that way with those who die in battle or fear. So many pass through with no memory of themselves. And some, like me, stay until they recall.”

Something about Ptolemy’s hand on Nathaniel’s processed wool jumper seems incongruous.

“You can too, if you like.”

“I think I had another name.” Nathaniel says into the quiet. Ptolemy has just returned from guiding a wandering woman from the glass door. He flops down to lie on the ground alongside Nathaniel; their heads level, Nathaniel’s feet stick out a bit past Ptolemy’s. “It was John.”

Ptolemy’s hum from his left is musical in its thoughtful way. A hand comes up, darkly contrasted with their white surroundings, and traces invisible circles in the air. “Sounds like you were a magician.”

Nathaniel doesn’t like the sounds of that. He’s seen the magicians who pass through the In-Between. He knew first by Ptolemy’s pointing them out; now he knows them by their greedy, grabby hands and sharply paranoid eyes. In a sudden fit of concern, he sits up and examines himself, wishes for a mirror that does not appear. Is he one of those unpleasant souls too?

It’s just as he’s reassured himself that no, he has not suddenly morphed into a grasping, sucking vortex of greed and narcissism, that Nathaniel hears Ptolemy laugh from beside him. Laugh. Indignant, Nathaniel turns to find Ptolemy attempting to sit up, but unable to for the giggles that shake his frame.

“What? What’s so funny?”

Ptolemy is still snickering, but has managed to right himself at last. “Nothing! It’s just that, I’m sure I reacted the exact same way when I realized I was a magician. Horror-struck gasp and everything!”

In a huff, Nathaniel turns deliberately away to face the glass door. It’s not until his pique abates that he thinks about what Ptolemy said.

There is another person with them in the In-Between, for a time. Confused and disoriented, she stares with wide, overwhelmed eyes at the doors until Ptolemy places a gentle hand on her elbow. He softly repeats the same words he’d offered Nathaniel and, like Nathaniel, she accepts.

Unlike Nathaniel, she ages from the teenager she’d arrived as to an old woman in the span of three new arrivals. Lines and circles—pentacles and runes—have tattooed themselves dark and sharp, then faded into parchment-frail skin by the time the fog lifts from her gaze. Eyes clear and sad and wise, she bids him and Ptolemy farewell before the second door. The ink on her palm matches the broken pentacle sketched on dark wood.

It’s only after she’s fully gone, the door shut silently behind her, that Nathaniel turns to Ptolemy with a serious look. The other boy seems very small, very young, all of a sudden.

He doesn’t have to say anything; Ptolemy just returns the look with a placid, “Yes. I was fourteen. It took a long time before I remembered even those years, though.”

They are quiet for a span. Then, “Why are you still here?”

“I'm waiting for someone.” Another pause. “Why are you?”

“I—” Nathaniel has to think about it. “At first, I stayed because making such a big decision on so little knowledge seemed like a bad idea, but now… I think I’m waiting for someone too.”

“Do you remember their name?”

Frustrated, Nathaniel shakes his head. Ptolemy gives a gentle smile.

“I’m not surprised; Rekyt’s name was the last thing I remembered.”

“Why, do you think?”

“Probably because it was the most important.”

“What do you see?”

Nathaniel asks this to shake Ptolemy out of one of his sullen, contemplative moods. He gets like this sometimes, in long spans between arrivals. The doors invoke a frustrated silence and so he sits, cross-legged, and stares.

He breaks the stare at Nathaniel’s question.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else is there?”

Nathaniel plops down next to his friend, pushing the irritatingly long hair from his face to better watch Ptolemy’s expression. Brows drawn down over dark eyes relax out of their frown, slowly. He points to the leftmost door.

“That one looks like the city gates. Alexandria’s gates, I mean. I never got to see the world through them.”

The finger shifts right.

“That one is as I once saw it, the four elemental gates between our world and the Other Place. It tempts me, I must admit.” He stops for a moment, sighs. “Rekyt might be through there. But then, I would not be myself enough to remember him. I couldn’t bear that.”

Ptolemy is quiet for a long time. Question after question pushes at Nathaniel’s tight-closed lips while the other boy practically glares at the third door.

“That one,” he finally says, “looks like the doors in Alexandria’s library. So much knowledge behind a door I cannot yet unlock. It galls me, Nathaniel. I want to know what’s beyond—I need to know.”

They sit and look together for a while. Then Nathaniel asks, tentatively,

“Do you think he’ll want to go with you? When he does get here?”

Ptolemy’s shrug is almost desolate.

“I don’t know. But I’m not sure I could go without him. We were meant to explore the worlds together you know, before I had to go and ruin it all by dying.”

This is more grim than either boy usually allows the conversation to turn. Seeming to sense this, Ptolemy shifts his ever-burning curiosity from its current, frustrated subject to Nathaniel.

“What about you? Have your doors changed? Some people’s do, you know.”

Nathaniel shakes his head and rises to examine the doors more closely. His fingers brush the silver handle of the left door.

“No, they’re the same. But I think more familiar, now. This door was one I went through often. Maybe for work? This one—”

The center door pulls him up short.

“I’m afraid of it. When I was very young, I think it was something horrible. But the pentacle is wrong for that memory.”

Ptolemy nods, pensive.

“What you described sounds like something I worked on, in life. A broken pentacle to let your spirit flow to the Other Place.” Then he brightens considerably. “Maybe you read my book! I left all the appropriate notes; maybe someone—maybe Rekyt—finished it!”

“It’s possible. I certainly recognize you. Maybe there was a picture of you in it. Always in my mind, I see your shadow and… And…”

Nathaniel feels his existence flicker and suddenly his eyes are nearly of a height with the pentacle on the center door. The long hair is gone, now cropped short against his head.

“Kitty!”

Her sheer presence in his mind bowls him over, knocks him flat—just as that punch had, when they were so young. Her memory alone takes his breath away, is light incarnate, but there’s a certain quality about light:

The brighter the glow, the more the shadows stand out

Nathaniel is the one taken to brooding by the doors, now. Maybe talking about his fears had eased Ptolemy’s frustration, for he is calmer in the silence. Nathaniel, though, stares at the doors and fights with his mind.

Dimly, he finds this sensation familiar. In life, he thinks, I often fought with myself like this. Forcing my mind to do my bidding. If only it worked now.

Shadowy thoughts and feelings swirl around two points. Kitty’s bright aura lights some of them with its shining glow, but the black hole with Ptolemy’s silhouette darkens all that come near. Why can’t he remember?

One thing he can remember whirls ‘round and ‘round his head whenever he looks at the center door:

Demons are wicked and will hurt you if they can. Demons are wicked and will hurt you if they can. Demons are wicked and will hurt you if th—

Incessantly it repeats until Nathaniel has to flee.

Last time, he’d turned from the doors and from Ptolemy and stalked off into the empty vastness. This had gone about as well as could be expected. The blank expanse of white stretched forever, but the doors never got any further away, no matter how far he walked.

This time, he deliberately paces from the three doors to the distant single one. It is the same as ever, all shining glass and dull iron.

(For all the glass shines, it never shows what’s behind.)

He’s still there, forcing his breathing to calm—he only ever needs to breathe when the fear gets like this—when the glass door swings and he’s bathed in brilliant light.

At Ptolemy's suggestion, Nathaniel has accompanied the other boy in his guidance of many new passers through the In-Between. The ritual is always the same. No one has ever tried to call Ptolemy by any name, even the wrong one like Nathaniel did, so Ptolemy gives it freely. The arrival gives theirs in return, then manifests from an amorphous collection of matter into their truest form under his touch.

This is nothing like that. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.

The soul before him is an awesome collection of light, the likes of which Nathaniel has never seen in his time here. He actually stumbles backwards, so fierce is the glow. Before Ptolemy has even approached, Nathaniel finds himself addressed by the new arrival.

“Nathaniel?”

And the shining presence is so familiar. He reaches out, almost afraid, and finds his fingertips pressed to those of an old woman. Her blistering aura collapses itself into a body much shorter than his own, much older, with an expression on her face so blindingly nostalgic he forgets to step back before she launches at him.

“Nathaniel, you absolute prat!”

He raises his arms to fend her off with a yelp of, “Kitty, wait! I don’t—”

But the protest dies in his throat when he realizes she’s dragged him into a tight hug.

The contact is novel; as a rule, he and Ptolemy don’t touch. It seems like an odd thing to even want in this place, where bodies are obviously a construct of their own minds. Nathaniel doesn’t remember having any affectionate physicality in his life on earth, either—having or wanting— but this shakes something loose in him.

His lifted arms come up to return the embrace, and for a moment he’s holding not an old woman, but a girl barely his senior—silver tresses interspersed liberally with glossy black where her head tucks under his chin. The moment ends, but the strength of her hold does not, and they don’t part until a polite cough sounds from behind them.

A deep-seated, gentlemanly instinct sparks in Nathaniel and he turns, hand at Kitty’s back, to face Ptolemy.

“Kitty, this is—”

“Ptolemy!”

The boys’ reactions are simultaneous—Nathaniel’s a put-out frown, Ptolemy’s a confused tilt of the head—when Kitty steps forward to place marveling hands on Ptolemy’s thin shoulders.

“I always knew he was a stickler for accuracy, but to see you in person... After everything Bartimaeus told me, it’s so wonderful to meet you!”

Before she can continue, Ptolemy holds up a hand.

“Wait. Before we talk properly, and we most certainly need to, I need to tell you a few things about this place.” He glances quickly at Nathaniel, then back to Kitty. “Come with me, this won’t take long.”

Holding her hand, Ptolemy leads Kitty towards the three doors and Nathaniel doesn’t follow. This is a personal revelation, deeply intimate and best only shared with one other person—definitely not to be shared with a boy who only mostly-remembers you.

Nathaniel stays behind and the name Kitty mentioned eats at him in the quiet. He’d said it too, when he first arrived: Bartimaeus.

Other names have no business in front of this first door—the dispassionate portal of glass and iron seeks only the name of the arrival and that of the guide. So who is this Bartimaeus, to be so important to not one, but two people’s afterlives?

Rather more to the point, why is one so important such a black hole in Nathaniel’s memory?

Ptolemy and Kitty haven’t come up for air once since Kitty arrived—Nathaniel leaves them to it. He is obviously missing a key piece of the puzzle the three of them make up and Ptolemy has gone so long without a confidant like Kitty. Nathaniel can’t begrudge him that.

He picks up Ptolemy’s duties fully. On first arriving, he’d been convinced this was a job he could never do; that Ptolemy’s ability to look past the strange and horrifying manifestations was fully unique. He was wrong. With the strict discipline he’s remembering was a hallmark of his life, Nathaniel firmly sets aside the gut-deep twist in his soul whenever a spirit manifests under his offered hand, and he guides them all on.

It gets easier. As different as each soul is, one from the next, Nathaniel finds it interesting to wonder what about each individual creates their form. A name is a catalyst; for some it seems to bind and chafe, for others it brings form and purpose. With all of them, though, it is not the name itself that seems to determine their form, and he marvels.

He is not Ptolemy; his manner is not the golden, shining, unconditional glow of the other boy’s. The best Nathaniel can give, the best he hopes to bring, is the truth of his empathy.

None of his arrivals choose to stay, and Nathaniel can’t decide if he’s grateful or envious. Grateful, because whatever he and Kitty and Ptolemy have, he doesn’t want to try and figure it out with a stranger hanging about. Envious, because what he wouldn’t give for that kind of conviction in choice.

The idea of choice consumes his thoughts. The hours before his death are still lost to him, but Nathaniel can feel a weight looming over them—a choice a lifetime in the making, bearing down on the end of that life. He knows himself, now. He knows the Nathaniel-before-death would never have made a choice like that unless— unless…?

Unless someone had shown him how.

Except, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how deep he delves, the only teacher he’s known in that regard is Ptolemy—but not just Ptolemy here, in the In-Between.

Strange, intrusive memories now plague him constantly. London is burning, demons are exulting, and the spices of Alexandria’s markets burn in his nose?

He is alone; he is one with another. He is carrying someone; he is being carried, a passenger borne along by a presence inside of himself.

One moment, Pestilential tears burn into his vision—the next he’s squinting through a lion’s mane, tangled around his face and needing to be spit from his mouth.

Against Ptolemy’s advice, Kitty eventually approaches. She’s got that blazing look in her eyes, the one that captivated and terrified him so in life—the one that means she’s about to fix the world or die trying. He waves her off.

“But Nathaniel—”

“No, Kitty. I’ve seen what happens when someone is forced through this. It’s not a sight I wish on you.”

Nor anyone.

They are stubbornly locked like that for long minutes. Meeting her glare-for-glare feels so achingly familiar, and yet so foreign because that’s the wrong soul behind the right eyes. Frustrated beyond measure, Nathaniel tears himself away and scrubs a hand through his military-short hair.

How dare this Bartimaeus? How dare they take the best of his life and the peace of his afterlife—take them and twine them up in confusing, inaccessible memory?

The glass and iron door creaks. Nathaniel generally makes an effort to project calm when he approaches the arrivals, and he makes the effort now. Only, it’s not working. A scowl still draws his brows in as the great door swings open, and it only starts to fade at the sight of the ragged, bedraggled essence that tumbles through.

Nathaniel has seen spirits like this before, stretched thin and weary. Many spirits he’s guided have immediately chosen the second door. This kind, though? These are the least threatening, and they always choose the third door.

(he always imagines their trailing rags of essence twining into braid-y patterns, like cables on a cardigan)

Even with his ire simmering so close beneath the surface, Nathaniel crouches just a bit to reach out a hand to this newcomer. He doesn’t know what he expects—never knows exactly what to expect—but suddenly images flash in his mind before the spirit takes form.

(frail and gasping, a frog pooling iridescent fluid over marble tile)

(the weakest whirl of sulfurous smoke, dim yellowed eyes peering out)

(a slime-composed pyramid, edges barely defined and smelling distinctly of fish chowder)

He reaches out.

They do not touch, exactly. They are apart, and then, all of a sudden, they are not.

Nathaniel has not had a body in an immeasurable amount of time, but suddenly he remembers the feel of it—remembers the wonder of another experiencing it as a structure of delicate construction—remembers the rush of exhilaration even as that rush fills him anew.

It rushes out of him just as quickly, a sandstorm of iridescent intent stealing out of him on a breath he hadn’t remembered holding. No longer connected, he and the spirit face one another as it takes form at last under his hand.

(His hand has blisters now, never allowed to scar over.)

Both a whirling vortex of night-sky-stars and a glowing conflagration, the spirit materializes—the melancholy of the mutilated Other Place, ripped off and alone, melded with a blinding love of the human soul. It is a humanoid silhouette, Nathaniel’s height and build, with a familiar outline of curly, Macedonian hair, and an aura around darkness that’s bright as noonday splendour.

“And to think, I thought you would be the last thing I saw before dying. Beats me how you managed to be the first thing after the fact.”

(It doesn’t echo in his head-heart-soul like before, but the voice rocks Nathaniel to his core anyway.)

Nathaniel laughs—right and sure and fully himself at last, he laughs. He laughs, and then he replies,

“As if I’d ever let you have the last word, Bartimaeus.”

Kitty appears beside Nathaniel, an amused grin quirking her lined face as she eyes Bartimaeus.

“You’ve changed. I’m surprised we all actually made it here, since you seem to absorb all of our best traits into yourself as soon as we die.”

If any features were readily available, Bartimaeus would be rolling his eyes. As it is, he steps forward to ruffle Kitty’s silver hair in a familiar manner. In that moment they are three—a solid, stable shape—bound together by a love that none of them could have reached on their own; a love that originated not of them, but outside of them.

That love thrums, an invisibly golden light pulsing with a tension multiple eternities old. Kitty and Nathaniel glance at each other, nod, then step out and away as one.

In the opening they make stands Ptolemy—small, somehow shy and looking suddenly different. All his ageless wisdom has fallen away and brown hands grip the white linen of his kilt. His scholar’s pallor has deepened to a wan, sickly thing and he’s shaking on unsteady legs. His swallow before he speaks is both visible and audible; he has to struggle past it before croaking,

“Hello, Rekyt.”

Bartimaeus says nothing. He doesn’t say a thing, but steps forward with purpose, two long strides carrying him forward—carrying him close enough to kneel before the boy and pull him by the shoulders into a tight embrace. Then he says something, murmurs it into the dark curls above Ptolemy’s ear, but it’s too soft for Nathaniel and Kitty to catch. As is right—it wasn’t theirs to hear.

For his part, Ptolemy is definitely crying. His face is buried in Bartimaeus’s shoulder and he’s shaking like a leaf—full-body shudders wracking his frame as his arms tighten their grip. The usually warm-but-slightly-guarded Ptolemy has never been so vulnerable in front of Nathaniel, not even that time in front of the doors, and the older—younger?—boy blushes.

Awkwardly, Nathaniel touches Kitty’s hand and makes to turn them both away, but a voice calls him back. Bartimaeus.

“A couple thousand years in Purgatory hasn’t cured you of your emotional constipation, Nat? Get over here, both of you.”

He still doesn’t move, and Kitty has to physically drag him, pull him down to join their friends—friends, he has friends—in a puddle on the ground. Like time, and physicality and everything else, temperature doesn’t really exist in the In-Between, but Nathaniel is warmer than he can ever remember being in life. It burns like a supernova in his chest.

They are all four in front of the doors—Nathaniel next to Kitty next to Ptolemy next to Bartimaeus.

“What do you see, Rekyt?”

A very long pause then, a bit bemused,

“Well, you. All three of you, all in a line just like we are now, but without me. So, a mirror that’s somehow got busted?”

Nathaniel and Kitty look just as confused as Bartimaeus sounds, but Ptolemy starts to laugh.

“What?”

Ptolemy only laughs harder, managing to get out,

“Rekyt, you are such a sap!”

“Am not!”

“You are so!”

“Oh yeah?” Bartimaeus crosses his arms, looking supremely offended, “How’s that?”

Ptolemy is still snickering, but has gotten the actual gales of laughter under control. With a valiant attempt at his usual serenity, he points to the left-most door.

“That—”

“Nathaniel,” Bartimaeus supplies promptly.

“—is the door back to the world of humans, of earth and sky and boundaries.” Ptolemy’s finger shifts, “That one—Kitty, right?—leads to the Other Place, and this last one…”

As if the implication has only just caught up to him, Ptolemy pauses, an unreadable expression on his face as his directing finger starts to lower. Nathaniel smoothly picks up the thread.

“The last one leads on. No one knows what’s behind it—an adventure into the unknown, you might say. Ptolemy’s right, you are a sap.”

No one speaks for a long, long while; each lost in their own thoughts. Then, Bartimaeus sighs,

“Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’ve about had it with bouncing between the first two.” A gentle hand on Ptolemy’s shoulder. “What do you say? Should we bring these kids along on our long-postponed adventure?”

It’s as if a weight has been lifted off of the boy. He reaches up, tugs the hand off his shoulder and laces their fingers together. Eyes on the door, he reaches back unseeingly for Kitty’s hand. He finds it offered freely.

In her turn, Kitty reaches for Nathaniel as they step towards the plain, white door, but Nathaniel doesn’t take it. Kitty—dear, stubborn Kitty—digs her heels in and they all look back.

“Nathaniel,” she says, voice brooking no nonsense, “What are you doing?”

Nathaniel glances at the iron-and-glass door, then to the three, then back to his friends. A weight seems to be lifted off of his shoulders as well—a choice finally made.

“I’ll be along.” His smile is serene, scabbed and blistered hands clasped behind his back. “You three go on, it’s not like I don’t know where to find you.”

Kitty does not drop Ptolemy’s hand, but drags the other two back with her as she steps directly in front of Nathaniel, glaring up into his face. Before she can speak, though, Nathaniel continues,

“I know I didn’t exactly keep my last promise—”

“Too right, you didn’t!”

“—but I will, this time. I swear it.”

Tears are bright in Kitty’s eyes, choking up her voice and making her hands shake. Ptolemy squeezes her hand as he steps up beside her.

“He’ll catch us up, Kitty. After all,” the boy shoots Nathaniel a sly grin, “he knows we’ll come looking for him if he doesn’t. If we walk enough worlds, we’ll eventually make it back here to drag him along, if need be.”

His voice has the bite of a threat, but Nathaniel knows Ptolemy now—knows that under his friend’s teasing is approval. There should always be a guide.

Bartimaeus taps Kitty on the shoulder.

“Budge over, you two.”

They do. Bartimaeus steps forward, places hands on Nathaniel’s shoulders, and leans down to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“Don’t be too long.”

Kitty and Ptolemy are suddenly there too, arms wrapped around him in tight hugs. Nathaniel nods, suddenly choked up himself. He remembers this feeling—the last thing he felt before the end. To be loved so much by even one, let alone three... It nearly breaks him.

“I will, I promise.”

The three draw back. They look at him, long and steady, then Kitty turns first to face the white door. Ptolemy is next, excitement clear in his bearing. Last to turn away is Bartimaeus, lingering to look back at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel’s expression is soft, not quite a smile.

“Go on. I’ll see you all soon.”

And they do.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Movement at his back, and he turns. The door of glass and iron swings silently open on invisible hinges. Nathaniel walks to meet it—through the flat, quiet whiteness of this dimension. A fall of essence imposes itself upon the space, tumbling through the door.

With a soft smile, a starburst of white burning in his soul, he says,

“Hello. My name is Nathaniel.”

fin

#The Bartimaeus Trilogy #the bartimaeus sequence #bartimaeus #Nathaniel #Ptolemy #bartimaeus trilogy #AvinRyd #fics of ryd

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