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apprentice-maliya · 3 years ago

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the things you don’t say, i’ll make them mine

pairing: asra/mali’ya cw: none, just some pre-plague, light angst and fluff because i am self-indulgent and i missed them. also stargazing (kinda). enjoy ! word count: 2.2k song(s): lover and the archer by taylor swift

With a snap of Asra’s fingers, the candles in the shop lit up all at once. The sudden light was almost blinding in their eyes, still used to the dark shades of the storm hovering above the city that merged into the soft, pink and orange hues of sundown. Behind him, Mali’ya sealed the door with a spell so that the rain wouldn’t get in, leaving at least the shop alone and dry.

The golden mark was still glowing on the wooden surface when she turned to her friend, pleased to see that he had already put the bags in a corner where they wouldn’t bother them. In the meantime, Faust had slowly emerged from the worn-out scarf he was wearing, and was now taking a careful peek at her surroundings.

Asra laughed, shaking his head to let the raindrops fall away from his white curls. “That was close.”

“Please don’t do that,” Mali’ya said, though she was soon betrayed by her own amusement when a small smile appeared on her lips. She gladly accepted Asra’s hands holding hers, shivering when the heat coming from his warming spell dried out any trace of damp in her clothes and her hair as well. Once he was done, Mali’ya sighed in relief.

“We should clean up,” she suggested, taking off her shoes since, in the hurry of getting inside and taking refuge from the storm, she’d forgotten to. “I’m sure we left some mud when we walked in.”

Asra waved a hand as to dismiss the option. “Or we could get away with it with little to no effort,” he suggested before the stains disappeared from the blue-coloured tiles with another snap of fingers, as if they’d never been there in the first place.

He rubbed his hands one against the other, giving her a satisfied look. “Easy peasy, right?” Asra grinned. “Now, let’s set up camp for the night.”

Mali’ya stared at the floor—she still wasn’t that accustomed to using magic to solve even the smallest inconvenience, and it showed—but upon hearing that, she glanced at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Rummaging in their bags as he was probably searching for their blankets, Asra shrugged. “Seems like a waste of a lovely night to me, don’t you think?”

She could tell he was smiling while saying that, still Mali’ya hesitated. It wasn’t like she didn’t appreciate the idea; on the contrary, she was eager to see what Asra had in store for her with that change of plans. After all, aside from the couple of nights she’d slept in the wild, on the run to Vesuvia with her aunt and her girlfriend, Mali’ya had no idea what camping really implied: Asra had told her about gathering your own food, sharing stories around the fireplace and stargazing as though it was nothing out of the ordinary for him, and, in hindsight, Mali’ya now realised that wasn’t but his everyday life. The life of someone who had nothing else in the world but himself.

In comparison, the years she’d spent in Venterre were a walk in the park.

Would you like to come live with me?

Her lips parted without her thinking. Once, almost a year back from that moment―a lifetime, really―her aunt had asked her that same, exact question. For the first time someone had brought up the possibility for her to dream, provided the instruments for her to make her own choices, and there she was, months later, living her happiest days in a place she’d learnt to call home.

All of that because at some point, someone cared.

It was truly that simple.

I could ask him now.

“Besides,” Asra added, silently commanding one end of a jute string to tie itself around the knob of the backroom door, before he pointed his digits towards the entrance handle for the other end to do the same, “I wanted to show you some cool tricks.”

Mali’ya watched as he tossed a sheet over the tensed thread, thinking that they definitely needed something heavy to secure the cloth on the floor if they wanted something close to a tent-shaped, homemade fort, or even one of her bedsheets so it would be easier to make it wider and more comfortable for the two of them.

All things considered, there was enough space in her room for another bed.

Finally, she spoke. “We should ask aunt—”

A voice coming down from the stairs interrupted her mid-sentence, before the thin silhouette of her tutor, neatly wrapped up in her frilly pink housecoat, appeared on the landing. “Ask me what?” She inquired, throwing them an inquisitive though sleepy glance.

“Sorry for waking you.” Mali’ya immediately apologised, bending down the string to approach her. “We were on the way to the clearing you showed us last time when the storm hit, and then we...”

In that moment, as to prove the truth in her words, a thunder echoed above them, followed by the even more violent sloshing of rainpour against the rooftop. Heralia looked up with a sigh, not at all impressed with the tantrums of summer, then noticed the blanket hanging sideways on the jute thread. “And I get that you don’t intend to give up on your stargazing, is that right?”

“That was my idea,” Asra stepped in, kneeling down to place one of the doorstops on the hem of the blanket. “You suggested that we studied the constellations in detail since the sky is clearer and it’s meteor shower season. Shall we perhaps postpone our lesson?” he challenged her, staring at his mentor with an innocent smile and a cunning glint in the eyes.

Heralia scoffed. “Do as you please, I don’t care.” A yawn ran past her lips, so she turned around with a shrug to climb up the stairs and go back to the comfort of her bed. “Just make sure you fall asleep at a reasonable hour and put everything back in place before opening, tomorrow.”

“We will, I promise.” Mali’ya nodded, surprised at how easily her aunt had given in this time. “Thank you, and goodnight.” Heralia hummed something in return that she didn’t quite catch, but since her mentor didn’t repeat herself Mali’ya supposed it was nothing important.

Clasping her hands together, she looked down at Faust, who was slithering around freely on the floor now that her aunt was gone. “Wait,” she told Asra, “Let’s use my bedsheets for the tent.”

- - -

Half an hour later, sitting comfortably amongst soft pillows and a couple of warm blankets, Mali’ya traced carefully each word printed on the astronomy book that lied open on her lap.

“What is…” she started, squinting in the dim glow of the small ball of light floating just above Asra’s hand. “What is an ‘Equinox’?”

“That’s when day and night have more or less the same duration,” he explained, stretching his limbs by her side like a cat that just woke up after a long nap. He couldn’t help a yawn. “Equinoxes mark the start of spring and autumn, so they happen twice a year.”

At that, something in Mali’ya’s chest fluttered with triumph. “Oh! I think I got it.”

With half-lidded eyes, Asra followed the movements of the quill in her personal journal as she wrote down the definition. “You want me to spell it out for you?”

“Yes, please.” Her voice was nothing but a bashful whisper.

A hand ran up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she nodded again, jade eyes steady on every letter in fear of messing them up. He couldn't really see it, but a hint of blush painted her cheeks with something akin to shame; there was still so much she had to learn after all, and since Asra was way ahead of her in terms of magic knowledge, she always felt like she was only slowing him down.

“How do you say that in Venterrean?”

She didn’t even lift her eyes from the page. “Rivnodennya.”

Her handwriting was still unsure, he noticed from where he was lying, almost childlike and adorned with ink stains and spelling mistakes; but despite that, a pleased little smile had come to grace her lips, together with a quiet satisfaction that danced in her eyes every time she made some progress. Shyly, a pair of small dimples also appeared on her freckled cheeks, matching his own.

Pretty.

“And Solstice?”

Mali’ya still wasn’t looking at him, and a moment passed before she was done writing. Finally, she closed her handwritten dictionary with a soft thud. “Sorry, I don’t know what that means.”

Asra smiled, shaking his head with a light huff, before eventually giving up on lying on the blanket so he could sit up and borrow the astronomy book from her.

“I told you, you don’t have to apologise for every word you don’t know.” He flipped a couple of pages like he meant to find a specific chapter or image; peeking at him, Mali’ya couldn’t help but notice how the words slid under his eyes without him even noticing them. Just how much did he know on the matter? And who taught him all that, given that he was only a year and a half older than her?

Asra was such a mystery, she thought. He possessed extraordinary talent and a unique predisposition for magic, was resourceful and clever, but nobody seemed to have acknowledged that yet. In her modest opinion, his shine would only have gone to waste, had him kept busying himself with their lessons.

In the end, Mali’ya saw him settle for a star chart.

If only I wasn’t such a slow learner. Mother always said I―

To her surprise, Asra set the book aside and reached for one of their bags. “Solstice marks the first day of winter and summer, by the way.”

She was still lost in thought when she answered, “That’s sontsestoyannya.”

“Oh,” was all he managed to say as he handed her a smaller bag, the one filled with the berries they’d picked on their way to the woods just the other day. “Sounds complicated. Vesuvian is pretty different from Venterrean, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mali’ya agreed, taking out a single blueberry from the sack. It was soft and full between her digits and the rind was just the perfect nuance of indigo any ripe fruit should be. It would’ve taken a single, light squeeze to smash it.

“So is Zadithi.”

It was a statement so soft, a whisper so nostalgic, she almost didn’t catch it.

Asra had his eyes fixed before him, though he didn’t seem to be actually seeing whichever thing he was looking at. Faust, who’d been napping among the creases in the blankets, had probably sensed his discomfort since immediately, though ever so gently, she slithered up around his arm as to console him.

Arms around his knees to make himself smaller, a stare that spoke to none―he looked much older than his fifteen years of age, but also somewhat younger, the way when a self-made teen grows up too fast; an inner child whose heart, she was sure, ached for something he would hardly get back.

In the silence of the night, Mali’ya began to understand. Why she’d been drawn to him since that morning at the market. Why she always felt so at ease around him, even though she’d only known him for a few months. She had never been able to notice that before, because both of them were just dancing around the other; trying to see if they could really let their guards down.

They really weren’t that different, then.

Wait.

All of sudden, a realisation―raw hope―pushed anything else aside.

Silence?

“Asra,” she called, her tone urgent and bright all the same. Hurriedly, but as not to startle him, her hand ghosted on his forearm. “The rain. It stopped.”

Not minding the sheets rustling under her knees after her eagerness, Mali’ya crawled out of their makeshift tent but stopped half-way, turning to Asra with an outstretched hand.

“Come,” she smiled, in a way she hoped it said I see you. You don’t have to be alone. “Let’s go see the stars!”

The cold, humid air that followed storms was pleasing on her skin as she unlocked the seal, letting the breeze in while Asra handed her one end of the blanket. Still on the doorstep, Mali’ya watched as her breath formed uneven clouds of steam.

“The sky’s clearing up,” Asra whispered beside her.

The holiness of it all, of the dead of a midsummer’s night, was enough to keep their voices low. Everything was painted in delicate shades of black and blue, and as they huddled close to one another, Mali’ya and Asra waited for the stars to show up.

Little by little, on the dark, empty canvas around the moon, a faint white dot appeared. Alone at first, it was soon followed by another, and another again, while the wind gently pushed the clouds aside to offer the city, and the few bystanders still wandering around―or standing on a threshold with their hands so close they almost touched―a sky so wide and mighty.

ao3 link

#asra #asra alnazar #asra x apprentice #asra x mc #the arcana #💌 : can’t stop you putting roots in my dreamland #btw this is kinda rushed since i wrote it down in like; a whole afternoon #but i so much needed to get it out of my system asap #can you guys believe that i initially planned this to be like 700 words long and then i rly got THAT far?#me neither #i'm also kinda proud #not one of my best works but... love the vibe #you can actually pinpoint the moment mali’ya goes ‘i’m so lucky and everyone has it worse so it’s my duty to make up for that’#screaming into the void like aaaaaaaa #dani writes

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gumnut-logic · 3 years ago

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I’ve got 1500 words of the next bit of Coffee and... written, but not quite enough brain power to finish it tonight :( So a nuttyfic reblog it is...another work in progress I would love to finish, in fact. I know what happens in this, I just need to write it.

Anyone want to give me $3000 per week so I can pursue my writing and art? It is not much on the scale of billionaires, is it? Pretty please?

Anyway, have a little re-read of one of my favourites.

-o-o-o-

The footsteps on the metal decking were so obviously familiar fine footwear, Virgil didn’t need to look up to know his eldest brother had finally returned. The fact they were accompanied by wet squelches and the tap of his brother’s cane only informed him further of Scott’s mood.

Not a good one.

Virgil sighed and with a final yank on the bolt to secure it, he pushed his goggles onto his forehead, no doubt adding to the grime already in his hair.

Looking over from under Number Four and her propellers, all he could see was that fine set of shoes standing in a puddle of water. The tempered brass end of the cane, an affectation that was only partly required by his brother and was more for show than anything else, tapped again impatiently and rather loudly on the deck plates.

“You’ve returned.”

“Obviously, Virgil.” The feet shifted. “Where exactly are you?”

“Under here.” His back was on wheels and with a shove, he slid out from under his little brother’s Thunderbird.

Blue eyes as crystal clear as the ocean they were currently floating in targeted him immediately.

Virgil couldn’t help but smile upside down at his brother. Scott was far too serious most of the time and his appearance and dress clearly illustrated that at the moment. Black top hat, deep blue waistcoat, equally deep red cravat, charcoal long coat over black pants and those fine black shoes.

Virgil felt positively grimy in his dirtied shirt, old breeches and worn boots. But then his work was of a different kind to that Scott had in New York.

“What did father say?”

“He did not approve. Claimed the risk was too high and the chance too small.”

Virgil frowned. “But John’s calculations were exact. We have to investigate. If there is land there, I am sure Alan could have made it.”

Scott shifted where he stood. “Yes, well, father disagrees.”

Virgil thinned his lips. Their father wasn’t here. Their father lived in a different world despite the man creating the infrastructure and funding the efforts of International Rescue, Virgil sometimes wondered if he actually understood what his sons experienced.

A sigh and he pushed himself up off the trolley and onto his feet. Several nuts and bolts clattered to the floor, prompting a sigh from his brother.

Virgil arched an eyebrow at him before bending over to pick up the metal pieces of submarine. As his brother shifted again, he was reminded of the squelch of his entrance. “What’s leaking?” More work most likely.

“I believe Eos has been gnawing on the airlock rubbers again.”

“Again? I only repaired them last week.”

“I’ll speak to John about it.”

“He’ll love that.” The pilot of Thunderbird Five, the great docking submarine they were currently standing on tended to ignore a lot of the ‘advice’ their eldest brother offered. Since they had lost young Alan, their master navigator had taken to locking himself away for long periods of time.

Virgil made a point of barging in on him as much as possible with his medic and ‘mancy excuses. John, of course, saw through all of them to what Virgil’s interruptions were – genuine worry.

Unfortunately, Scott was much more direct and arguments often happened between the two of them. Virgil found them stressful. Fortunately or unfortunately, his brothers knew that and would stop the moment he walked in.

But still…

“Are we going anyway?” Virgil eyed his brother.

Scott’s posture was always ramrod straight, but still he managed to gain a few thirtyseconds of an inch at that comment. “We leave at dusk.”

Damn. This was going to cause a rift the size of the Grand Canyon. Their father would be furious.

But Scott had no choice, Virgil agreed, Gordon was inconsolable and John was on the verge of losing his mind. They had to do this.

Scott’s eyes narrowed on Virgil as he grabbed a rag and wiped his hands.

A sigh. “We’re looking at least ten days travel time at Five’s top speed, give or take Cape Horn.” He knew where he would prefer to shove Cape Horn. “Best guess, I’d say a fortnight to the middle of nowhere.” He eyed his brother. “Any word from the colonial offices in the South Pacific?”

Scott’s gaze dipped. “Unfortunately, no. Neither by telegraph nor IR broadcast.”

“John has more balloons in the air.” It was a faint hope. The whole concept was a faint hope. But Virgil, like his brothers, refused to accept defeat. They would find Allie. “And the closer we get, we can launch One.” And Two. There was no way Virgil was being left out of this any more than John or Gordon for that matter.

Scott raised his head again. “If we find Three, do you think you can revive her?”

Virgil’s fingertips tingled at the thought. His affinity for mechanism had helped make this all possible. Hiram built the craft under the direction of their father, but Virgil tended them, kept them alive.

Sparks flickered at the ends of his fingers. “I will.”

Or die trying.

-o-o-o-

Where there be dragons

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #steampunk au #where there be dragons au #nuttyfic reblog

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eclecticstarlightconnoisseur · 4 years ago

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Paying It Forward

Good Evening all,

Ok, I know I haven’t posted the next chapter of Edinburgh to Boston. I am sorry about that. But it has been a pretty bad, horrible, no good end of the year for me. Hubby got sick again and I had to rush him to hospital. He needed heavy duty antibiotics. He is now ok, but still very debilitated after his illness. Me? I have been taking care of him, going to work, and my characters have decided not to play nice with me. Hubs said I painted myself into a corner. Not exactly, I just haven’t figured out how to get them to do what I want them to do. And I am tired. Which is partially how this fic came about.

I decided that I would start to read MOBY for two reasons. One, it has been some time since I read it and I am hoping that Bees will be out this year and I wanted to refresh my memory of what happened previously. Two, I was hoping it would help my writer’s block. It did but in an unexpected way. After getting to a certain point in the story, I went to sleep and dreamt the story you are about to read. It played in my head over and over, like it had to some out. So I wrote it and here it is.

Now that I said MOBY: SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT! If you haven’t read MOBY and don’t want to find out what’s going to happen, PLEASE DON’T READ THIS. The story actually draws on ABOSAA, ECHO, MOBY, and a tiny bit from the TV program.

As always I am indebted to @scubalass for her most excellent work as my beta. Also she contributed to the story which made it so much better. I’ll tell you at the end. I am also grateful to @gotham-ruaidh who told me it was different and good. And that I should go with it. The other important thing you need to know is it is written like one of Claire’s voice-over monologues. I know that people hate the monologues, but that’s how it was and I kept to it.

So I give you Paying It Forward. I hope you like it.

The detritus of the woodland floor muffled the sounds of the Army advancing. Moldy leaves crackled and fragrant pine needles from fir trees helped to disguise their steps. But, it is not in the make-up of the military to travel quietly especially in the 18th century. Horses neighed and harness jingled. Goats bleated. Shot pouches and cartridge-boxes buckled to belts rattled and clinked Wagons creaked under their heavy loads. Carriages groaned pulling the weighty cannon along. And, of course, there was Rollo, half-wolf, half-dog. The mongrel barked madly harassing man and beast alike as he weaved among them. The voice of my nephew, Ian Murray, called to the animal, “ Thig an seo cù .” Yipping with glee at the sound of his master’s voice, he raced to Ian’s side. The sounds of infantry on the move certainly broke the peace of the coppice.

Our journey became hampered by the dense forest we traveled through. It was thick with trees, bushes, and bramble impeding the progress of the Continental Army as they marched toward Monmouth. Once there we were to muster with General George Washington and the other battalions.

Commanding this regiment is the newly ordained General James Fraser, my husband to whom I serve as company surgeon. I do admit it was quite a shock to first see him dressed in the full military regalia of a Continental Officer. I began to tremble becoming a quivering mess when I first took him in wearing an officer’s dark blue and buff.

“Why does it always have to be you? Haven’t you, haven’t we given enough? Isn't it time for you to put down your sword and pistol?” I shuddered as I recalled the failed attempt by Charles Stewart to regain the Scottish crown which resulted in our twenty-year separation. The skirmish at Alamance that resulted in Murtagh’s death and the hanging of our son-in-law Roger which almost cost his life. The battle of Saratoga where I amputated one of Jamie’s fingers. Now, we were being pulled into another conflict. Was it too much to want to return to our simple life on the Ridge I wondered? But Jamie, my Jamie, is a highlander born and bred. A decent man, with strong principles and morals. He is a man of honor and that is not a small thing to be. I watched him as he sat at the head of the column, sitting straight and tall in his saddle like the true highland warrior he is. The breadth of his powerful back and shoulders would leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was born to lead, to command, to this moment in history. And command he would, braving the responsibility of leading his battalion to fight against the oppression of the British king.

Jamie knew the meaning of suffering, cruelty, and loss at the hands of the English. The loss of his home, his country, his own personal freedom came at their hands. And the loss of his family. He had quite the history with the Redcoats. Arrested for obstruction, escaping, then being recaptured. He ran afoul of a sadistic dragoon captain who had him flogged most cruelly one hundred lashes upon one hundred lashes. He escaped again and lived as an outlaw on the run instead of facing the gallows for a murder he did not commit.

Then there was Culloden. Where he, or should I say we lost everything. I was pregnant with our second child; our first child, a daughter, was stillborn. On the eve of battle, Jamie forced me to return to my own time for the safety of myself and our child. Jamie believed it would be his destiny to die in battle. Instead, he lived. Again he went into hiding for seven years living in a cave in Lallybroch. The Redcoats continued to harass his family, stealing what they wanted from the estate. They arrested Ian, Jamie’s brother-in-law as the Redcoats believed he knew of Jamie’s whereabouts. And there was the Highland Clearances which destroyed homes, Scottish culture, language, and their way of life.

Jamie was not driven to this war because of a need for revenge because of his losses, but rather he felt he was honor-bound as a father to take up his sword to protect those he loved. Even if those he loved lived centuries after him.

“Ye said that this was meant tae be Brianna’s home, her country, aye? Then I must do what I can for our daughter and her bairns. ‘Tis my duty as sire and grandsire to see that they will live free, Sassenach.”

And he would do what he must for Brianna, Jem, wee Mandy, and Roger. No matter the cost to himself.

My mind completely focused on Jamie and our immediate future prevented me from noticing a tall man thin as a rail standing in the middle of the road blocking our progress. Immediately, Jamie’s second in command rode up next to his commander.

The man did not budge an inch. He was rather rough looking. Wearing a knitted cap on his head, his long greasy hair protruded out. A grizzled beard covered his face. His clothes were quite worn having been patched many times. He wore no shoes. In all, he looked quite primitive.

Suddenly, he moved with a decided determination; a man on a mission. The man strode up to Jamie assuming correctly that he was the man in charge.

A strong downward breeze announced his presence. Most likely the man had not bathed in months if not years. The odor was enough to make your eyes water.

The old man came forward eyeing Jamie like an entomologist studying a new species of bug. Relaxing he gave a tug on his cap and briefly bobbed his head.

“Ye in charge here?” the old coot demanded.

‘Aye, I am. General James Fraser at yer service sir. Might I enquire to whom I am speaking?”

“Mortimer Hepplewhite the owner of this here land yer trespassing on. And I want tae know when ye will be gone.”

“Mr. Hepplewhite, we shall be off yer land as soon as may be. We need to travel off the main road for now as there have been sightings of English troops nearby.”

“Well, all yer clanging and stomping about is disturbing the peace of me home.”

Jamie turned around to look at the property. It had not been cleared for planting nor were there any animals grazing. All that stood in the distance was a ramshackle cabin with a lopsided chimney discharging an inordinate amount of smoke.

“I dinna see any crops, or animals grazing, or people that we might be disturbing, sir.”

“Not disturbing he says! Why I’ll have ye know me Arabella is in a right fit. She doesn’t care much for strangers.”

The recluse, a long-limb man, raised a heretofore unnoticed ball of fur and thrust it under Jamie’s nose. He focused on it intently causing his eyes to almost cross. It hissed, spit, and yowled with great ferocity.

It seemed that Arabella was a cantankerous cat. And was as ill-kempt as its master with matted fur and bald in spots. One fang hung outside its mouth and on closer inspection seemed to be missing an eye.

Mortimer drew the beast close to his chest whispering sweet words of comfort while tenderly stroking its scraggly fur. The cat settled in his arms and even began to purr.

Jamie called to his Lieutenant and leaned over to whisper in his ear. He nodded and rode off to follow his orders.

I sat on my horse watching this spectacle play out. Without warning, I felt the sudden loss of my cat and worried about his well-being. Adso was part house cat and part feral cat. However, he was my cat. He loved to jump onto my lap to snuggle and drift off to sleep. Or lie on the windowsill basking in a sunbeam tail swishing like a metronome. He did wreak havoc in my surgery at times but he was mine, a gift from Jamie. Adso was just as much a part of the family as any of us. So why couldn’t Arabella be this lonely man’s family? Family is whoever you say they are.

The Lieutenant promptly returned carrying a bundle which he handed to Jamie.

Jamie slid down from his horse and approached the gentleman.

“On behalf of the Continental Army, I would like tae offer ye recompense for disturbing yer peace. Please accept this small token from myself and General Washington. And for the lovely Miss Arabella, I make a gift of this fish just caught this morning.”

Jamie removed his hat and bowed to the man.

Mortimer truly wasn’t sure of what to make of this but graciously accepted the parcel. He removed his cap revealing a head of matted hair and returned the bow. He replaced his cap, straightened his shoulders, held his head high as he strolled back to his home, a rich man. A man made richer not for what he received but for the respect given him.

Later that night as I lay in Jamie’s embrace I asked him what prompted his actions on the road.

“Do ye ken the conversation we had in the gardens in Philadelphia? The one about what happened between ye and his lordship?”

Did I remember, he wanted to know? How could I forget?

“Of course I remember, you said that you would mention it from time to time. Am I to take it that this will be one of those times?”

“Aye, ‘tis. But not what yer thinking about,” he said with a sidelong look. “I’m speaking of how John’s friendship healed us during times of great need. Mine at Ardsmuir, Hellwater, and Jamaica. Yer’s when ye thought I died.” The topic of my hasty marriage to John (for strictly political reasons) was still a sore point to him. He understood it, but didn’t and wouldn’t like it.

Jamie let out a sigh trying to collect himself before continuing, “Mortimer was naught but a poor lonely old man, Sassenach. And I did not do much for him. I gave him a wee bit of flour, lard, dried meat, apples, and some parritch.” Jamie stopped to think for a moment, “Oh, a razor, a lump of soap, and a fish for his mangy cat.”

“Are you saying that you did this because of the kindnesses John showed us?”

“Exactly so, mo ghràdh . I felt..it just felt like the right thing tae do.”

I raised my face to look at him, “There’s a term for that and it's called paying it forward .”

He looked quizzically at me trying to understand what I meant.

“What that means is when someone does something kind or helpful for you, you return that kindness to a different person instead of repaying the person who originally helped you. Did you know that the man who started this idea is alive now?”

“Och, aye? Who is he Sassenach?”

“Benjamin Franklin. I think you would like him. He was a founding Father, freemason, inventor, scientist, and a printer.”

His eyebrows lifted at the mention of Franklin being a printer and a freemason. “I should like to meet this man one day. “

Jamie grew quiet as he attempted to digest this information. “Paying it forward,” he rolled the words around in his mouth tasting them. “Aye, that’s it. Just so, I was paying it forward.”

“Jamie, I think what you did was far greater than repaying a kindness. I think you gave him something more than he ever expected. You gave him respect and a way to restore his dignity.”

He leaned over and kissed me, “Aye, Sassenach, respect is something every man or woman deserves.” Jamie stopped to think for a moment, “No man wants to go about stinking if he can help it.” I knew he was thinking of his time hiding in the cave and as a prisoner at Ardsmuir. “There were days I thought I would never get the stink off my body, dirt from under my nails, or be rid of the lice. ‘Twas a small thing but it may make a big difference to him. Maybe it will help to restore his self-regard.”

The following day we resumed our journey. Once again a man stood in the road again blocking our path. There was something vaguely familiar about him. It was Mortimer, now clean-shaven, clothes washed having removed several layers of filth, and much less fragrant. He carried a pack strapped to his back probably containing all his worldly possessions. Strangely he carried a beautiful and well-maintained musket in his hand.

He approached Jamie, removed his cap, and bowed deeply.

“Yer Excellency, I have decided tae travel with ye fer a while. If ye dinna mind.”

“Yer presence is welcome, Mr. Hepplewhite. Find yerself a place among the men. This evening please come by tae see my wife. She is the physician of our troop. She will see tae yer physicking needs should ye have any.”

“I thank ye, sir.” Mortimer replaced his cap, lowered his head, and took a position among the rank-and-file.

Jamie smiled, a pleased look playing across his face. His arm raised and he waved us forward.

As the men resumed their march, a wee black puff ball of fur stuck its head out of Mortimer’s bag evidently Arabella had a wash-up too.

********************

Thig an seo cù - Come here dog.

If anyone wants to know, Jamie’s white stallion’s name was Samson. And he sneezed violently when he sniffed Mortimer.

A little bit of history here. Benjamin Franklin lent Benjamin Webb a sum of money to start a business. He told Webb that when his business was successful and he had paid all his debts, he should likewise help someone else like Franklin helped him. In return, that gentleman would have to assist someone else like Webb helped him. Franklin hoped this would continue until some knave would stop its progress. The idea of paying it forward was born.

We can all thank @scubalass for telling me about Ben Franklin and Paying It Forward. She is truly an amazing person and a fount of information and wisdom. I think that this added so much to the story and found it quite interesting.

Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it.

It is also on AO3 where I am LadyJane518: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907349

#paying it forward #moby #jamie and claire #Mortimer Hepplewhite #revolutionary war #arabella the cat #ol fanfic #My writing #Here Goes Nothing #good to flex the writing muscles

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retvenkos · 4 years ago

Text

survivors | d.m.

Harry Potter: Golden Trio Era - Draco x Slytherin! Halfbood!Reader, angst, slightest fluff

word count: 11.2k

tw: blood, mentions death, mentions of war, pessimistic ending

A/N: this could be read as a platonic reader, if you want.

Summary: Draco couldn’t fix the Vanishing Cabinet himself, no matter how hard he wanted to. (Y/n) hadn’t wanted to help him, but they decided to, despite themself. Neither knew each other very well, but there seemed to be an understanding. Perhaps they could fix it together, and perhaps (Y/n) could fix the broken boy, too. Or maybe both of them would be shattered beyond recognition.

and i am angry at this world because i was not one of the innocent they decided to save.

ii.

During his sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy didn’t feel as alive as he once did. This castle was colder and quieter than it used to be, and as he patrolled the dungeon corridors for his prefect duties, he felt a chill in the air; the cold pricked the back of his neck - that bit of exposed skin between the ends of his hair and the stiff collar of his uniform. Despite himself, he twitched at it’s touch; the cold reminded him of darker memories that threatened to pull him under, reminding him of what happened over the summer.

If he closed his eyes, he was still there.

The harsh clicking of his father’s cane as he walked down the hall, someone else accompanying him by the sound of their footsteps. A voice that sounded like the hissing of a snake - high and cold and beckoning him forth. His mother’s frightened gaze and his father’s stiff jaw. The soft pleads of protest. But who were they to defy the Dark Lord...

Draco could still hear the sound of their approach, echoing against these aged, stone walls. The incessant sound filled his senses. His fingers twitched. His arm started to burn as the sound of footsteps came nearer. Echoing, echoing, echoing...

“You would be an idiot if you weren’t such a genius.”

A voice, not at all what he was expecting, brought Draco reeling into the present. The footsteps weren’t that of phantom memories, but the sound of someone in the castle - in this dungeon with him - traversing the corridors in the few moments before curfew.

“You could make a fortune off of your skills if you sold them the right way. What other students here can make their own spells?”

Draco stepped closer to the wall, his interest peaked. He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, waiting for the voices to speak, once again. He wouldn’t scare them off. He had never been much good at being a prefect, anyway.

“Michael, we talked about this. They’re all a work in progress - do you remember what happened last time I tried them out? I won’t make a fool of myself because they aren’t perfect.”

“That was one time, and you knew things weren’t going to go well. And I can’t remember the last time Hogwarts pumped out an actually decent spell creator! The talented only come once every lifetime - you shouldn’t pass this up.”

The voices devolved into arguing for a moment, until one of them swore lowly. “It’s curfew. You need to get up to Ravenclaw Tower.”

“Think about it, (Y/n).”

“Go.”

Footsteps filled the corridor once again. Draco took a deft step backward, further into the shadows, and a fellow Slytherin rushed past the corridor, never noticing the prefect that watched them. Draco pushed his lips into a thin line, grey eyes narrowing just a bit. The echoes faded, and when the corridor was silent, he breathed. Running a hand through his hair, Draco turned away, disappearing into darkness and shadow.

iii.

When Draco Malfoy sat down next to them in Charms class, (Y/n) supposed it was an oversight. Rumors about Draco not feeling well had been circulating the Slytherin gossip lines for the whole two months that school had been in session; Malfoy had missed classes regularly, skipped out on meals completely, and seemed to be neglecting his usual bully behavior, trading it all for a personality that seemed to be more like that Blaise Zabini than the boy he used to be. Sitting next to (Y/n) had to be a symptom of this strange illness that seemed to have captured him - maybe he was too tired to care.

Yes, that seemed to be it - he was tired. He certainly looked it, when (Y/n) spared him a glance, their eyes flicking over to him for a half moment while Flitwick was demonstrating their lesson for the day.

There were dark circles under his eyes, a sort of gaunt appearance to his well shaped face, and even though he seemed to be very keen on stopping it, with his eyes focused the way they were, his hands seemed to be shaking, just slightly.

(Y/n) turned their attention back to the worn textbook in front of them, scratching notes on a spare bit of parchment. They tried to focus on the words written on the page, but their mind still wandered to the boy beside them.

Together, the two students’ thoughts swirled like winds in a tempest - never in one place at one time, but simultaneously everywhere. This world seemed to be pulling everyone in all possible directions, spreading them ever thin, as though trying to test when they would snap.

Both Slytherins, different as they were, weren’t the type to break.

Some days, they wished they were.

(Y/n) failed to notice the careful way Draco appraised them. His eyes flitted from their old school supplies to their mended robes, and yet the newness in other belongings that perhaps didn’t need to be bought anew every school year. (Y/n) eventually caught him staring, and Draco leveled his gaze with theirs.

“I need your help,” and even his voice resounded from his throat, as though he had no energy to sustain it in his chest.

(Y/n) blinked. Once, twice, three times. “I’m sorry?”

At the front of the classroom, Professor Flitwick was giving instruction on the Reducto curse, but his voice was fading into background noise, now, as (Y/n) stared at the boy beside them. Of all the things they could have guessed Draco Malfoy to say to them, that was not one.

“You know what I asked for.”

Again, he was tired - too tired to explain his baffling request, too tired to give any kind of context as to why he had come to them, or whatever he needed help for.

“My help?” They didn’t get so much as a sigh, which was interesting, to say the least. (Y/n) wanted to scoff, but they had to keep their voice low enough for the professor to not take notice. “Why would you- What purpose—” their mind eventually caught up with them ”—Why do you think I’d give it?”

“Because I’m—”

“Draco Malfoy, yes.” The scoff escaped them, agitation setting in. (Y/n) pulled their gaze away from the boy to turn back to the front of the classroom, eyes narrowing as they pretended to read the writing on the blackboard. “What would your father think of you getting help from the likes of me?” They all but spat their words under their breath.

Draco seemed to twitch uncomfortably at the mention of his father, but he played it off with a roll of his eyes - the first real reaction (Y/n) had got out of him the entire conversation. “He’d think it shrewd of me.”

“Like keeping your enemies close?”

“Like keeping allies near. Us Slytherins are all one big brotherhood, aren’t we?”

“I think you muddied those waters when you’re obsession with blood purity extended to belittling us halfbreeds.” (Y/n) fixed Draco with a withering stare. He looked down at the desk, scrutinizing the aging wood. His demeanor shifted to something deeper than what lay on the surface, and a wiser person would have stopped there, but (Y/n) couldn’t let it go. “Suddenly you want to be family?”

Draco breathed in deeply as though by expanding his chest and allowing for more oxygen, the tension between them would dissipate. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The two lapsed into silence, and Professor Flitwick's voice floated over to the two of them, regaining precedence.

“It’s important to keep in mind this spell is very volatile. It’s unlikely you’ll get it correct on your first try…”

(Y/n) allowed themself to decompress, their shoulders dropping and their hands relaxing on the page of their textbook.

For what could Draco Malfoy possibly need their help? They weren’t even friends, but he had the gall to call them family.

“I’d settle for partners.”

The bell rang. Students around them started to pack up, hurrying to their next class. Draco didn’t move a muscle.

(Y/n) fixed him with a stare that betrayed their display of anger and showed some of the interest within. They picked up the bottle-green bag beside them. “Then I suppose that depends on how much you’ve changed over the summer,” they spat, already standing to leave.

“Quite enough, I think you’ll find.”

(Y/n) paused on their way out the door but resisted the urge to turn around, instead pushing forward through the bottlenecked door with renewed conviction.

Who did Draco Malfoy think he had become, asking for favors like they were old chums or something of the like? What did he even need help for, that he couldn’t ask his posse of loyal followers? That Blaise Zabini was smart, and Theo Nott wasn’t too bad, either. Of course, Theo was a halfblood too, so maybe Draco had managed to piss him off in his fourth year as well, when he started to sneer at halfbloods as though he were somehow greater than them. It wouldn’t be surprising, really, if Draco had somehow managed to alienate all of his “friends” in some way or another. He wasn’t known to have much of a filter with his thoughts.

Maybe that was what all of this was about. Draco had mentioned his father thinking their conversation was “shrewd” - maybe Lucius Malfoy had a little conversation with his son about not alienating the people around him. Perhaps there was a little father-son chat about revitalizing the family image with the Death Eaters and the rise of You-Know-Who being what it was. How quaint. Did they have him updating his father in person, too? Is that why he looked like he hadn’t slept since summer?

Part of (Y/n) insisted that they were being overdramatic about all of this and that they should get a hold of their emotions. No one was really at liberty of being emotional during times like these, and maybe, deep down, Draco really had become something that wasn’t beneath asking genuine help of someone without having ulterior motives.

After all, he had been tired - without real signs of deception or bigger purpose… and he was… shaking - as though genuinely nervous or afraid and.... and he had said something that made them stop in their tracks… that the summer had changed him “quite enough,” said with a sort of bitterness and resignation that was unlike any kind of Draco Malfoy (Y/n) knew…

(Y/n) slid into their Herbology seat with practiced ease, and when they went to grab their textbook, they came up with an Astronomy book, instead.

“What?”

(Y/n) didn’t have Astronomy, and this textbook was far too nice to be theirs. Maybe it belonged to their roommate? But then why was it in their bag? (Y/n) clearly had the right bag since they had pulled out their textbook in Charms, and—

(Y/n) flipped to the inside cover of the Astronomy textbook in front of them.

Property of Draco Malfoy.

Professor Sprout started the lecture just as (Y/n) swore under their breath.

Their Herbology partner turned to them questioningly, and (Y/n) asked to share their textbook for the day. Their partner complied readily enough and (Y/n) shot them a smile. The rest of the lesson, (Y/n) calculated the quickest way from the greenhouses to the Slytherin common room, where they would no doubt find Draco Malfoy skipping yet another meal and doing whatever it was that occupied his time. They had switched bags, somehow, and (Y/n) was keen on getting theirs back.

When Herbology was finally over, (Y/n) all but sprinted to the dungeons. Of all days for this to happen...

When they reached the steps that led down to the common room, they saw Draco Malfoy standing at the bottom. A book was in his hands, and as (Y/n) descended the stairs, they got a better look at it.

Their heart dropped.

Draco was flipping through the pages of a tiny, leatherbound book. It looked inconspicuous enough, a kind of journal that was old and weathered, but (Y/n) knew who it belonged to, and what was hidden inside.

It was (Y/n)’s spellbook - always stuffed to the bottom of their bag in case inspiration or genious struck All of their spells were in there - from the nearly refined to their half-baked disasters, every spell (Y/n) had ever had the idea to create was in that book, along with every failure. If Draco had looked at their disastrous attempts from third year...

“I’m not here for games, Draco.”

“Neither am I.” Draco held out the book to them and (Y/n) snatched it, also taking the school bag that was at his feet - no doubt theirs. “I only needed to check - Ravenclaws have a way of dramatizing things, and since you weren’t happy to help…”

“Check what?”

In the half-light, it was hard to tell what Draco was feeling, or at least, what he’d allow to show. But when he spoke, his voice still carried a fatigue that wore him down and made him appear as though without an agenda. “That you can help me.”

(Y/n) rolled their eyes. “Again, what makes you think that I will?”

“You need money, don’t you? I recognize signs of wear when I see them, and you were rather quick to get back your used textbooks - probably borrowed, since you don’t have any older siblings and our textbooks aren’t as old as our parents. The (L/n) family must have come into financial trouble recently,” Draco reported with a sigh, as though he found no glee in this run around of his. Was this the same boy who used to flaunt his observational prowess, making scathing remarks about the most minute details of others?

(Y/n) wanted to snap that they didn’t need his money, but they had enough common sense to not be proud. The Malfoys were one of the richest families at Hogwarts. If Draco was willing to pay... at least he would be good for the money… and he had been looking at their spellbook. If he needed a spell, it would be nice to experiment on someone else’s galleon, wouldn’t it?

(Y/n) swallowed. “What do you need?”

“A spell, and your secrecy.”

(Y/n) nodded slowly, still weighing their choices. They had nearly made up their mind, but something still ate at the back of their mind, like an itch that couldn’t be satiated. “Why did you think I’d help you?”

“I knew you would.” Draco fiddled with his sleeve. “Because you want to know my secret.”

iv.

When Draco said they were going to the Room of Hidden Things, (Y/n) hadn’t expected the room itself to be hidden. It would have been ridiculous, and yet, looking at it, everything seemed to make sense. The room only appeared when you asked for it, and it contained thousands of knick knacks, all sorted and piled on top of each other haphazardly, the facade of order.

If everything ever hidden lay within this room, (Y/n) wouldn’t be surprised. The room seemed to stretch off into infinity, the walls on either side disappearing behind stacks of lost things that reached impossibly high, never appearing to meet a back wall. Everything in the Room of Hidden Things was seemingly left to oblivion, stacked and scattered with no real rhyme or reason, things left behind and obliterated from memory. As they walked deeper in, (Y/n) found themself searching, as though there was something they needed to find.

If Draco felt the same urge, he hid it well, winding around piles of lost things like one would walk around their own home in the dark, completely aware of where everything was and able to avoid things that others tripped on. (Y/n) found themself wondering, ‘How many times had he been in here?’

Draco stopped in front of a tall, imposing cabinet with wrought iron detailing. The black wood seemed so stark against the rest of the room that (Y/n) wondered how anyone could miss it, and yet, if they turned their head as to put it in their periphery, the cabinet seemed to disappear.

Funny, how it could be there, but not.

After a moment, (Y/n) was able to place why it looked so familiar. The Vanishing Cabinet. Why was it here, of all places?

“It’s broken and no mending charms have worked on it - not even in conjunction with others.”

(Y/n) nodded, opening the door to the cabinet and taking a look inside. So that’s the kind of spell he needed.

“You probably heard about Montague getting stuck in a kind of limbo last year when the Weasley twins shoved him in.”

“So it has a twin.” It was more a statement than a question, but when (Y/n) caught Draco’s eye, they found an affirmative answer that almost looked guilty. (Y/n) turned away, rifling through their bag to find their creation book.

(Y/n)’s mind was flitting about, again, trying to call up all the information they had ever learned about passageways and vanishing cabinets, mending spells and charms. To modify a spell would probably be too simple for the complexities of a Vanishing Cabinet. They would have to start from scratch. (Y/n) flipped to the page where they wrote down the methodology of apparition spells. Maybe the answer lay within the creation of the spell rather than the outcome. Apparition spells might apply to the spontaneity of the Cabinet...

Draco handed (Y/n) a book or two that were clearly ancient, the pages themselves written in fading ink.

“I found these in that pile—” he gestured to a stack of books that reached into the heavens “—they’re the only decent information I’ve found so far.”

(Y/n) nodded and moved to sit on the floor, placing the books carefully in front of them. Draco retreated to the base of the tower of books, picking up a few that were scattered around a large chair that caught (Y/n)’s eye. It seemed out of place - pulled from the pile of furniture that was closer to the entrance and devoid of the thick layer of dust that seemed to permeate everything in this haven of the lost.

After a moment, (Y/n) realized it as a makeshift bed - a blanket that looked like it once belonged to a Hufflepuff thrown over the arm, a stack of clothes next to the chair, and Draco’s bag hanging from it.

How often was he in here?

(Y/n) turned their gaze back to the Vanishing Cabinet before them, trying not to dwell on what the Slytherin Prince had become. They had a job to do; a Vanishing Cabinet needed fixing.

But why, of all things, a Vanishing Cabinet?

“Planning on disappearing, Malfoy?” Their tone was light, playful. (Y/n) turned to face him, and he was stock still.

Draco didn’t respond, just looked at the cabinet with an intensity that seemed to bring the weight of the word onto his shoulders. He tugged at his left sleeve, and for a fleeting moment, an answer was swimming in his eyes.

‘Yes.’

It had been around two weeks since (Y/n) had been first introduced to the Vanishing Cabinet, and ever since, their evenings were spent in the Room of Hidden Things, their attention split between homework and the puzzle before them.

One part of them was intent on creating the right spell. If they were able to do it correctly, this new spell could be revolutionary, potentially changing the way mending spells were thought of for years to come. With the way that Vanishing Cabinets worked, it wasn’t just the cabinet that needed to be fixed, or the passageway in between, but the space that was warped when the door to the cabinet was closed. It was mystifying, to say the least, and the possibilities were endless.

Another, more nagging side of (Y/n) was intent on figuring out why Draco needed a Vanishing Cabinet in the first place. What purpose did he require of it? Better yet, what purpose could it serve? The possibilities for this, too, could be infinite.

“(Y/n)? Are you listening?”

Michael Corner, their friend of six years, bumped his shoulder into theirs. They were walking to Potions, and he had been chatting about how he hadn’t seen them in a while - not since they started slipping out of the Great Hall early after dinner.

“Yes - you think I’ve been trying to perfect my failed spells from third year and I’m too proud to tell you that I actually do listen to your advice.”

Michael grinned. “So… are you?”

“I am working on my spells, if that’s what you’re after.”

“And have you taken my advice on selling them?”

(Y/n) thought for a moment. After all, they were getting paid for what they were doing for Draco, so technically a ‘yes’ would be appropriate. But if Michael started to ask who bought it and for what reasons, (Y/n) wouldn’t be able to say.

“Maybe,” they said, lamely.

It seemed to be enough for Michael, though, and he talked excitedly about the possibilities as they made their way into the Potions classroom. (Y/n) approached their seat and Michael groaned. “It sucks that Slughorn assigned us partners. I’m stuck with Hermione Granger and, well, you know how she is. Potions could be so much better if we got to choose who we work with.”

(Y/n) sat down in their seat, sighing before fishing for their textbook in their bag. “You’re not the one stuck with Malfoy,” they deadpanned as usual, but the words didn’t fit as naturally in their mouth as they once did.

“Yeah, but when does he even show up to class, anymore?” For emphasis, Michael slid into the Slytherin’s assigned seat.

The two devolved into their usual banter, talking about common interests and idiotic assignments. Professor Slughorn walked into the room two minutes or so before class started and when Michael swore, he fixed him with a stare. Things were as they always were, but then something changed.

Draco Malfoy walked into the classroom, and Michael was surprised, but quick to slip out of his seat. He chose to hover near (Y/n)’s end of the table, and while he was careful not to stare, his eyes flicked to Draco. He wasn’t the only one; the whole class seemed to notice Draco’s presence, but Malfoy seemed to be avoiding the production of it all - very unlike him. The pallor in his skin didn’t seem to be getting worse, but the melancholic air that seemed to follow him was palpable.

Any day, now, the rumors would get worse and the speculation would start. What was eating at Draco Malfoy?

(Y/n) had been working with him closely for two weeks, now, and even they weren’t any closer to figuring out the truth.

Harry Potter seemed to have particularly keen eyes, whispering to his friends without losing eye contact.

The whole of Hogwarts seemed to be holding its breath, unsure of what was to come, but anticipating how bad the storm was going to be. Michael tried to ignore the shift in demeanor, nudging (Y/n) with his arm.

“I’m still surprised that Harry Potter ended up getting the Felix Felicis - I was honestly expecting Padma or Hermione to get it. Since when is Harry a potion making prodigy?”

Beside (Y/n), Draco stiffened. (Y/n) let out a puff of air like a subdued scoff and Michael smiled. So the Potter-Malfoy rivalry was still going strong.

Michael scratched out a note on a spare bit of parchment and stuck it in (Y/n) textbook with a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll go see if I can snag some of Potter’s notes, yeah? Maybe he can spare a bit of genius.”

With that he was off, and (Y/n) rolled their eyes before turning to the front of the classroom. Draco was still on edge beside them, his shoulders taut and head bowed in such a way that (Y/n) couldn’t catch his eye.

It was later, when (Y/n) was flipping through their textbook to the instructions for the potion they were to make, that they found the note Michael had left behind.

‘At least you know you have something to make his blood boil.’

vi.

“We’re going to need space,” (Y/n) muttered to Draco. They had agreed to meet by the statue of Lachlan the Lanky when going to the Room of Hidden Things, and Draco was already there when (Y/n) arrived. “Testing out this spell could be dangerous in such a cluttered space - the entire room could be destroyed.”

Draco nodded deftly and (Y/n) could tell by the way his eyes narrowed that he was thinking of a way to fix their problem. It had been a little over a month since the two started to work together, and after being Potions and Alchemy partners, working beside each other during their free period, and spending their nights in front of the Vanishing Cabinet, the two knew each other better than they cared to admit. (Y/n) still held fast to the idea that they were acquaintances at most, but there were times when they saw him in the Room of Hidden Things, sitting on the chair he used for a bed, and they knew what he was thinking. Acquaintances couldn’t do that, could they?

Draco walked past a section of the corridor three times, his perpetually tired expression furrowed into concentration, and the vanishing door appeared. As soon as they could, the two Slytherins ushered themselves in. This time, they were met with a bright light.

(Y/n) blinked furiously, and when their eyes adjusted, they realized they were looking at the sky.

Bright blue and without clouds, the sky seemed to mimic that of a summer’s day. The sun that beat down was a welcome change from the cold winds of December, and (Y/n) let the warmth fill them as they took in the view. The Room of Hidden Things had somehow shifted into a vast, open field that was full of tall, yellowing grass.

The field seemed to stretch into oblivion, never quite ending as it reached a horizon point. (Y/n) felt something like calm wash over them. This place carried a mixture between knowledge and peace. A little ways out, but close enough to be identified were the only two things that upset the sprawling landscape - a willow tree with low hanging branches, far more serene than the Whomping Willow that Hogwarts students were familiar with, and the Vanishing Cabinet.

“What is this place?” (Y/n) still gaped at what lay around them, eyes eagerly taking in every color that seemed to bleed in the way a painting would.

“The Room of Requirement is whatever you need it to be.”

“And the Room of Hidden Things…?”

“Inside it.”

Draco looked worse, somehow, in the full light of the sun; his skin was more pale, like death had already touched him and all he had left to do was walk to his grave. (Y/n) couldn't look long.

The two started toward the Vanishing Cabinet. (Y/n) felt the distinct urge to put their hands out to feel the grass brush against their skin, to see just how real this beautiful illusion was. If the room could create this, what else could it fathom?

If (Y/n) could stay here forever, would this room create a reality beautiful enough to keep them?

(Y/n) sat their bag down a few paces away from the Vanishing Cabinet and rolled up their sleeves. Draco retreated to the foot of the weeping willow. (Y/n) checked it to make sure that it stood far enough away from the blast zone. It seemed alright.

(Y/n) placed a spare bit of parchment into the Cabinet and took a few steps back.

“Harmonia Nectere Deambulatio!”

(Y/n) turned their wrist precisely and grey wisps of light illuminated from the tip of their wand. The Vanishing Cabinet before them lurched forward abruptly and (Y/n) staggered a few steps backward. The Cabinet righted itself and after a few moments of hesitantly watching it to see if the cabinet would be pitching itself to and fro once more, (Y/n) quickly approached and opened it.

The paper inside was far worse than what they expected; the parchment shredded and burning, as though it did some acrobatic routine for the circus with very poor aim. (Y/n) quickly doused the flames and turned back to their book, scratching out the failed attempt.

(Y/n) sighed and started again, trying out a few variations of the spell they had already drafted up, praying that one of them would work. After an hour or so of the Vanishing Cabinet turning out botched attempts, (Y/n) decided they needed to rethink the spell itself, and not the delivery.

This wasn’t their first spell to go wrong, but it was definitely the hardest, since gauging what needed to be fixed was near impossible. (Y/n) figured that it had to be the passage between each Cabinet. The slicing of the paper was most likely a failure to use the passage - it was torn on its way to the other cabinet and when fragmented, couldn’t be supported through the warping of space, so it was spit back out and was lit on fire from the friction.

(Y/n)’s focus, then, should shift from the spontaneity of the Vanishing Cabinet and work on the passage rather than the walk through it. It was the space between that needed warping… perhaps they should look at their notes of Transfiguration spells, they were particularly good at warping space… a safe bet, too, since Transfiguration was fairly testable and not overly theoretical, compared to other spells...

(Y/n) looked at one of the books Draco had given them a week prior. From what those books taught, tangibles were off the table with Vanishing Cabinets. A safe bet might not fix anything. But anything else might be more risk than it was worth...

Maybe a principle of Alchemy could be used. Transmutation might be the key - not shifting the length of the passage, but shifting the properties of the passage, making it safer to traverse… of course, transmutation spells were highly dangerous when not perfected, and seeing as most of the creation of their spell had to be theory rather than tested reality...

Both (Y/n) and Draco would have to be very sure it was the route they wanted to take, and then they would have to be incredibly careful. Especially in a room where space itself warped… if anything went wrong, the spell could kill both of them.

(Y/n) had never been the best at Alchemy, but Draco was a prodigy when it came to the subject. It was one of the few classes he showed up for, anymore, and since (Y/n) had gotten better at reading him, they noticed that Draco actually took interest in the subject. He seemed to be fascinated by the idea that one thing could be made into something completely different with dedication and patience.

But how much could (Y/n) trust Draco? He hadn’t screwed them over, yet, but would he, eventually? Maybe it was only a matter of time…

But, then again, what did he stand to gain?

Both of them were working day and night to solve this problem. Draco may not have fully understood how spells were made, but his research was invaluable, and there was no way either could do it on their own. Fixing a Vanishing Cabinet was improving upon Ancient Magic, all of which was confusing and uncertain, to say the least. There was a reason why there were few Vanishing Cabinets in existence, and a reason as to why Dumbledore didn’t fix the Cabinet himself. It’s near impossible. There’s no way Draco could do it on his own.

He needed (Y/n), and he seemed to know it, too.

(Y/n) sighed and walked over to the willow tree where Draco sat, calling out to him, their voice faint, like it would be in a real, empty field. They parted the tall grass as they went, feeling the scratch of it on their legs and arms. The sun seemed to have dipped lower in the sky, but the suspension of time that the Room of Requirement always held still stood. (Y/n) could only guess how long they’d been here - a few hours, maybe - but it didn’t feel like it had been long enough.

“We’ll have to shift our theory - I think the basis of this spell has to be Alchemical properties or at the very least Transfiguration. It’s tricky, though, since this magic is so old…”

Draco was asleep, a book from the Room of Hidden Things opened on his stomach. He looked disheveled, pale blonde hair mussed up, his robes in disarray. His sleeves, always pulled low, were starting to ride up on his left arm and (Y/n) could see the skin beneath, pink and rubbed raw, as though he scratched and agitated the length of his forearm all day long.

(Y/n) sat down beside him, far enough away as to give him privacy, and yet close enough so that neither was alone. The field around them suddenly felt more exposed than before - (Y/n) understood why Draco chose to sit underneath the tree; the low hanging branches of the willow tree created a sense of security - like they could hide, if they had to.

Draco had nightmares. It didn’t take long to realize that - he twitched and fidgeted in his sleep, expression twisting into something torn between fear and pain. (Y/n) wanted to wake him from his spell, but when they looked at him and saw the pallor of his skin and the circles underneath his eyes, they knew it was best to keep him resting.

Sometimes you fight a war on two fronts, and there is no escaping it. Draco needed to rest. And who was (Y/n) to decide whether the terrors of sleeping or waking were worse?

At some point, they must have fallen asleep, too, because they awoke to Draco shaking their shoulder, his eyes averted and his hands cold. The painted sun had dipped over the nonexistent horizon, and the moon was out.

“We need to go. It’s after curfew.”

(Y/n) stood up and smoothed out their uniform, nodding deftly.

“I’m a prefect, so just follow my lead and no one will ask questions.”

vii.

“We’ll try out the transmutation theory.”

(Y/n) pulled their gaze away from their Charms essay to stare up at Draco incredulously. It was nearing midnight, and with most of the students being gone for the holiday, the Slytherin common room was empty. Draco had just entered and was on his way to the dormitories, but he stopped on his way and spoke to (Y/n) in a low tone.

“You know the risks, right?” Draco just stared pensively into the fire that blazed beside them. “Are you willing to die for this?”

Maybe it was the flames that threatened tears to his eyes. “I’m dead, either way.”

viii.

The bell rang, signaling the end of Transfiguration, and the classroom erupted with life, people closing their books and racing out the door. As far as last classes went, Transfiguration was okay, but at the end of the day, everyone wanted to get out as quickly as possible. Michael nudged (Y/n) when he was shoving off, reminding them to grab some dinner before they holed themselves up for the evening. (Y/n) shot back a retort and he flipped them off as he left, earning a scolding from McGonagall.

“Sorry, professor.” Michael ducked his head apologetically, but when McGonagall turned around, he caught (Y/n)’s eye and winked.

(Y/n) rolled their eyes, shoving a quill in their bag as McGonagall fixed her attention to them. “(Y/n) (L/n).”

The Slytherin snapped to attention. “Yes, professor?”

“Would you remind Mr. Malfoy that he still has my class, even if he chooses not to attend?” McGonagall took a step closer and (Y/n) held their gaze, more surprised than anything else. “It’s not imperative he show for lessons, but he does need to turn in his work if he expects to continue with this subject.”

(Y/n) was caught off guard. “O-Of course.”

“He is slated to take Transfiguration next year, and N.E.W.T.s will not be kind to those who don’t dedicate themselves.” McGonagall looked at (Y/n) over the top of her glasses, seemingly more stern than before. “I know you and Mr. Malfoy are close - perhaps you will be able to motivate him.”

(Y/n) shrugged their bag onto their shoulders, a little too eager to leave. McGonagall seemed to take note, but waited patiently for (Y/n) to speak. “Oh, um… Draco and I are just partners in class.”

McGonagall pressed her lips into a thin line. Was it… amused? Knowing? “I’ve heard, you frequently meet up by the statue of Lachlan the Lanky, as well.” Her eyes still carried that intensity. Perhaps her gaze was more of a warning.

(Y/n) looked down and swallowed, mind racing. “I’ll tell him, professor.”

“Thank you.”

(Y/n) walked out of the classroom, and it wasn’t until they were in the dungeons that they dared to breathe. McGonagall's words were inconspicuous enough, but it was the way she said it that struck (Y/n) to the core. If McGonagall knew about them meeting up at the statue, what else did she know? Maybe it wasn’t much, but she felt justified to bring it up. And in that tone…

She could know anything, maybe even more than (Y/n) - and if McGonagall knew, surely Dumbledore did, as well.

When they entered the Slytherin common room, Draco was inside, sitting with Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. They were talking in hushed tones, and the concern in their gaze was palpable. If it has been a few months ago, (Y/n) would have pretended like they hadn’t seen anything and gone avoided their stare. But now, they just pressed forth.

At the sight of (Y/n) approaching, Pansy stood and pulled Blaise with her, putting a hand on Draco's shoulder before leaving. (Y/n) locked eyes with the two retreating figures and there was something grateful in their stares.

(Y/n) averted their gaze.

“Draco,” (Y/n) sat down on a couch across from him and kept their voice low. “I think Professor McGonagall knows.”

Draco was careful not to show interest in his body language, but his eyes were sharp, wary. (Y/n) leaned in a bit, telling him all that happened, recalling the strange way that McGonagall looked at them and how she knew where they met up. The shadows of the fire played against Draco’s gaunt features, making him look almost ghostlike as he listened intently.

“The only reason I could see her keeping tabs on you is because of that rumor Harry Potter is spreading about you giving that cursed necklace to Katie Bell.” (Y/n) shook their head, blinking and they missed the way that Draco froze at the mention. “But either way, we need to be more careful.”

For a moment, the two just sat in silence, eyes intent on their hands as they tried to see a place beyond this present. Both were unaware of what the other was thinking, and yet they both wished the same - that is world would stop around them - if only for a moment.

The fire behind them raged and the voices of those surrounding them didn’t cease.

(Y/n) sighed and tipped their head back, looking at the glass ceiling above them, dark waters rippling from the movement of merfolk and the Giant Squid. What would it feel like to be suspended for your whole life, never coming up for air? Peaceful, perhaps.

“Don’t worry about the professors.” Draco spoke suddenly, and (Y/n) sat up to find him mimicking their actions, still looking up at the lake, his hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his button-up. “They know perfectly well they could stop us if they wanted to. They could know everything if they wanted. But they don’t.” There was a bitterness in his tone that seeped in slowly, then all at once. “They don’t meddle in anything I do. They don’t concern themselves with us. They don’t—”

Draco cut himself short. (Y/n) looked at him for a minute, their expression soft but broken - a little wondering. The wondered if they understood Draco a little more - maybe they recognized that anger, simmering on low, the fire just able to be sustained but burning out.

“They don’t save us, do they?” and it was a whisper, but it felt earth shattering.

Draco sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. “Not us.”

ix.

On Wednesday nights, Alchemy students were expected to go up to the 16th turret where classes were usually held to do an extra lesson. Part of their curriculum required the moonlight filtering through stained glass to complete, and Slughorn said there was no way around it. It was the only night of the week when Draco and (Y/n) didn’t go to the Room of Requirement to work on their project, the only night when they breathed just a little easier.

The sky was lighter than the usual inky night. The moon was full and brightly reflecting, and it’s solemnity in the sky was a stark contrast to Professor Slughorn’s excitement as he flitted about, giving instructions on how to complete the assignment. There were a few stars that managed to twinkle in the sky, and (Y/n) found themselves transfixed by them, wishing they were admiring the night sky for stargazing, instead of work

It was much easier, admiring something from a distance; dealing with things closer to the ground was heavier on the heart - it took more of a toll.

Draco worked beside them quietly. Things between them usually were quiet, with the occasional word or moment of recognition in the heart of the other. Questions weren’t usually welcome, but (Y/n) could sneak in a few, every once in a while. Especially during Alchemy; Draco was more relaxed up here - almost content.

Slughorn went over to Padma Patil at the front of the classroom, leaving the pair of Slytherin’s in shared solitude.

“I can’t imagine you’re sleeping well, in the Room of Hidden Things.” (Y/n) whispered so no one would hear, sure to make their tone soft, unlike anything that might set the other into a mood. Draco turned to them for a moment, impassive, but didn’t say a word. (Y/n) tried again. “I realize the Cabinet’s important, but enough to sacrifice your health? Why?”

More silence. There had been a time (Y/n) wouldn’t have minded.

“Can’t you tell me anything?”

Draco’s jaw flexed, and he was so thin it stuck out more than normal, sharp with a jagged edge. (Y/n) eyed him with a guarded expression of their own, allowing silence to lapse between them as Slughorn walked by. He checked on their progress with an impressed hum, and once the professor was out of earshot, (Y/n) interrogated Draco once more.

“I just want to know something - this is dangerous for me, too.”

Draco seemed hesitant. After a moment, he spoke, “I have to do this,” he whispered, almost more to himself than anyone else.

“I don’t understand why.”

“No, you don’t.” Draco looked at them sharply but (Y/n) wasn’t one to back down. His eyes flicked around the room, as if to see if anyone noticed his sudden movement, but no one seemed to take note. Still, Draco turned back to his work, shooting his next words out of the side of his mouth, eyes blazing with something that was white-hot, but not anger. “And you wouldn’t.”

“So I get to do your dirty work, but without an explanation? Did you forget we’re being watched?” (Y/n) shook their head, expression tight with anger.

“If I don’t do this, I’ll die. Is that a good enough explanation for you?” Draco’s jaw twitched and (Y/n) heaved a sigh, through with his dramatics. Every day it got worse and Draco didn’t seem to be opening up anytime soon. It was exhausting, and for what? A few Galleons? A feeling like they were somehow helping him?

A secret? Draco was fiddling with his left sleeve, again, and (Y/n) had the familiar feeling that they already knew the answer to any question they might ask.

The rest of the evening wore on in silence. Both Slytherins were tense with emotion, thoughts swirling around them, the tension in the air almost thick enough to taste. Occasionally, the sounds of others wafted towards them - Slughorn’s footsteps, excited whispers, low swears and were quickly reprimanded - but neither spoke a word or did so much as to spare the other a glance. Eventually, Slughorn dismissed everyone, walking out himself, and the only two left were Draco and (Y/n).

(Y/n) stood up and gathered their things, and after a moment's hesitation, faced Draco with a guarded stare. They breathed in, “I’m going to figure out what’s happening, Draco. But I’m not going to like it if I have to figure it out on my own.”

With that, (Y/n) turned to leave. But before they could walk away, Draco had caught their arm. (Y/n) turned back around with a sigh. He was standing, now, and the moonlight that filtered through the stained glass window drowned him in deep shades of red.

“Do you know my family’s allegiance in this war?”

(Y/n) felt their blood turn cold. “Well, I…” they stammered, “I figured—”

“Then you have your explanation,” he cut them off bitterly, and was quick to look away, releasing his hold on them and cleaning up his things.

(Y/n) blinked. Once, twice, three times. Tightening their grip on their bag, they walked towards the door to open it, but their hand rested on the knob. Their mind was like a tempest - never in one place at one time, but simultaneously everywhere, trying to remember everything they had ever believed in and everything they thought they knew.

“We’re meeting again tomorrow, right?” And (Y/n) hated the way their voice sounded; soft and unsure. They looked back to see Draco - really see him - but his expression was just as conflicted as ever, just as pained and stiff and grasping. It was almost as though he were drowning in his own sin, bloody and red.

After a moment, he nodded, grey eyes pausing, for once, never leaving theirs.

“Then I’ll meet you there.”

Draco passed (Y/n) the apple and they set it down in the middle of the Vanishing Cabinet, it’s lively green skin stark against the black cabinet. They shut the door carefully, and took a step back.

Yesterday, for the first time in their five months of working together, a piece of parchment Vanished properly. After three different theories on the spell, about 12 different spell variations, and many late nights, it was finally working. There was a sort of peace in that, and yet something akin to dread seemed to settle in the air - almost thicker than the dust that permeated the Room of Hidden Things.

Draco seemed to feel it, too. His weight seemed to settle heavier in his bones, his entire essence dragged downward, somewhere where he couldn’t be found. They weren’t going to be saved by anyone but themselves, but sometimes it seemed Draco didn’t have the fight in him. Not anymore.

His hands were shaking, and the boy made to fix the cuffs of his sleeves. (Y/n) reached out and grabbed his hand and he turned to them, sharply. (Y/n) didn’t say anything, just squeezed his hands once, then let go. His hands stilled.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

It was best done as a whisper, with the slightest curl of the wrist. The light was soft and melancholic. The Vanishing Cabinet didn’t make a sound nor shudder, just stood there, imposing as ever.

Draco opened the cabinet. It was empty.

Despite themselves, both smiled.

He closed the door.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

The wrought iron was cold as (Y/n) pulled the cabinet open, once more. They picked up the apple, same as before, and it was perfect. (Y/n) turned back to Draco and gave him a solemn nod. He walked over to the bird cage that stood beside his makeshift bed, pulling out the white songbird within. It sang.

Draco closed the door.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

The singing stopped, and (Y/n) didn’t need to open the door to know that it worked. But they did, and the cabinet was empty. When the cabinet was secured again, and all that was left was to say those three words, they both hesitated. The two Slytherin’s stared at each other, unwilling to breathe in fear that it might not work.

Or worse, maybe it would.

Draco lifted his wand slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was thick, but each word carefully crafted. “Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

The silence was deafening. Draco’s eyes flicked to (Y/n), and when he saw his own fears reflected in their gaze, he swallowed hard.

Inside, the bird was dead, it’s tiny, white body sitting in a sea of darkness. (Y/n) picked it up, knowing they had to determine how it died to fix what had gone wrong when it rematerialized. When the bird was cupped in their hand, it’s body was still warm.

They turned around and Draco was crying.

xi.

The Room of Hidden Things was a maze. Without windows or any real sense of the passage of time, tit could feel claustrophobic and dense. The candles and torches the endless room used for light threw long shadows and at times, there was something lonely about the place. On occasion, though, when (Y/n) and Draco spent afternoons amongst the clutter and set candles near them, the room could feel cozy - maybe even warm.

The two had been working quietly for a half hour or so when (Y/n) felt the itch to ask a question. As always, they pondered letting it pass, but their curiosity got the better of them. They set their quill down and turned to look at the boy across from them. “Tell me something about Draco Malfoy that no one else knows."

Draco, used to questions by now and in a better mood than most days, didn’t bother to look up, but responded, anyway. “Why?”

“You learned a few secrets of mine when you skimmed my spell creation book. It’s only fair that I get to use something against you.”

“You know about this place.”

(Y/n) looked at him unimpressed, but still, Draco didn’t raise his head. They sighed. “Give me something more than that. Technically, this is my secret, too.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his quill stopped scratching, and he closed the textbook before him. “Like what?”

“Like…” (Y/n) shrugged as Draco watched them, his grey eyes lighter than usual, less filled with the weight of all things. “Alright, I’m allergic to pumpkin, but I wanted to try pumpkin juice so badly in our first year that I had to go to the infirmary on the first day of school—” (Y/n) was smiling at the memory, and it was the first bit of happiness they had allowed themself to have for a while. “—it was nothing too bad, and Madam Pomfrey was quick to fix me up, but I couldn’t taste for the next week. A real shame, too, seeing as the first few feasts are always the best.”

Draco’s lips were pressed into a thin line, only the very edges curling upwards, so slightly anyone else would have missed it. A genuine smile. (Y/n) was proud of themself for having coaxed it out of him. Funny, how much they had started to care.

“Something idiotic, then?” and the lilt to his voice was almost amused.

(Y/n) rolled their eyes. “You have to have something.”

Draco thought for a moment and (Y/n) watched him as he tried to pull a memory. They noted how much younger he looked, here, in a light dim enough to be considered conspiratorial, but bright enough to be distinct from the rest of their existence. It was almost as though they belonged here, two more lost things in a sea of used belongings.

“I tried to grow out my hair like my father’s in the summer before our first year.” Draco’s voice was soft in reminiscing, but it grew louder with fondness. “A cousin told me I looked like a girl and I cut it off that same night. My mother fixed it for me in the morning, right before we went to Diagon Alley.”

(Y/n) let out the ghost of a chuckle, but when Draco joined them, their laugher grew, echoing through the endless room.

xii.

“So... tell me, is Slytherin gossip really just made up of lies, or are you actually hanging out with Draco Malfoy? Is that where you’ve been sneaking off to?”

Michael and (Y/n) walked side by side, catching up for the first time all week. They had been heading to lunch when Michael realized he left his quill and ink in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, so the two decided to take the walk back together. Somehow, their conversation landed on gossip around the school, and of course, Michael had to bring up Draco.

(Y/n), used to dodging questions by now, simply rolled their eyes. “I don’t know, did you actually join a secret army last year and not tell me about it?”

“I already told you that Harry himself didn’t want any Slytherin’s involved. How was I expected to go against the Boy Who Lived?” Michael defended himself poorly but passionately, pushing his dark hair out of his face. Suddenly, his narrowed. “But yes, I did. So does that mean you’re admitting to hanging out with the Slytherin Prince?”

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s only because we’re partners in Potions and Alchemy. Slughorn has this weird thing about classroom symmetry.”

Michael chuckled at (Y/n)’s annoyance, but continued pressing in the way that only a Ravenclaw could successfully pull off. “Then do you know what’s wrong with him? There are bets going around, and I just put down 8 Sickles on him having some rare illness that Pomfrey doesn’t know how to heal.”

“Is him being a werewolf one of the theories?”

“It was, actually,” (Y/n) snorted and Michael turned around to face them, walking backwards down the hall, “But after Padma saw him in Alchemy class during the full moon, the idea was thrown out. Seamus Finnigan lost a Galleon or two.”

“Any other ingenious ideas?”

Michael opened his mouth to speak, but was bumped into abruptly by Harry Potter, walking the other way with a bewildered and shocked expression. He reeled backward and Michael apologized, but all Harry did was nod absentmindedly before continuing down the corridor, walking quickly as though trying to create some sort of distance.

“Weird.” Michael huffed, watching Potter as he retreated. The two friends shared a confused glance before continuing down the hall, and after a few steps, (Y/n) slipped on something slick.

The floors were wet with Harry Potter’s trailing footprints. (Y/n) looked at Michael and they both had the same, strange urge.

Follow them.

The two set off down the hall, neither speaking a word as they followed the trail. No one else was in the corridor but them, and the sound of rushing water filled the corridor as they got ever nearer. The footsteps led to the boys bathroom, which must have busted a pipe or two, judging by the flooding. Inside, someone was muttering a healing incantation, their voice echoing with a concentrated sort of aggression. Michael looked at (Y/n) questioningly before stepping inside, calling out.

“Hey, is everything alright in here?”

The bathroom was a disaster, but in the middle of the floor was Draco Malfoy, still and lying in a pool of his own crimson blood. Professor Snape was crouched over him, trying in vain to stop the bleeding as it drenched his shirt and dissipated into the water around him. (Y/n) stood rooted to the spot, their breath coming in short and their heart pounding their chest. They couldn’t take their eyes off of him, life ebbing away from him, the only indication that he was still alive being his laboured gasps.

They wouldn’t sustain him for long.

“Get. Out.” Snape looked at the two with a ferocity and Michael turned to leave, tugging on (Y/n)’s arm with an expression that was seemingly everything at once - pouring forth from busted pipes, flowing down the corridors...

For a moment, (Y/n) didn’t feel in control of their own limbs. Michael called their name, an urgency lacing his tone, and (Y/n) blinked. Once, twice, three times. The world came into focus. They shook their head.

“Go,” they whispered, and it only took a precisely aimed stare to get Michael to disappear.

Snapped out of their daze, (Y/n) rushed forward, kneeling beside Draco and ignoring the professors command to leave. Their hands shook as the pulled their wand out from their newly soaked bag, but they uttered a healing spell under their breath - something they had created in their fourth year - praying to Merlin that Draco would live.

Snape stared at them for a sharp moment, with a look that seemed to be knowing and confused at the same time.

Together, the blood that they were kneeling in made its way back into Draco’s body, but the wound - a deep gash on his abdomen - still wouldn’t close. When Snape said he needed to take Draco to the Hospital Wing, (Y/n)’s clothes were drenched and their face was damp with tears they hadn’t realized they wept.

(Y/n) trailed after the professor, not caring they were missing class, their mind still hyper focused on Drac’s survival. They had never seen so much blood outside the body. And with him lying on the flooded floor... how much had escaped him? He would have bleed out, had noone arrived sooner...

Madam Pomfrey didn’t allow (Y/n) to hover while she worked, so the Slytherin sat outside the heavy doors, still dripping with water but not caring as they tried to calm their breathing. They would be waiting outside when Pomfrey finally allowed visitors, and when they Draco again, they couldn’t afford to let their fear show so plainly.

Slowly, their body returned to something fit for survival - worried but functional. Their heart rate was erratic, and their jaw no longer trembled. (Y/n) dried themselves off and waited, sliding down the wall until they sat with their back pressed against it.

They wouldn’t leave until they knew Draco was okay. They couldn’t leave him.

Not like this.

Snape was allowed to wait inside, possibly helping the Healer, and two agonizing hours later, the doors opened and the professor stepped out. His robes swished about him and despite everything, he still carried his usual composed confidence. The Slytherin Head of House turned and fixed (Y/n) with a stare that left them feeling vulnerable - as though any secret they ever had had just been told, without uttering a word. For a brief moment, (Y/n) wondered if professor Snape was a legilimens, or if they were just shaken, still.

But then another thought crossed their mind. ‘Did it matter?’

“You can go in.”

(Y/n) was inside the infirmary before Snape had time to turn away.

The Hospital Wing was silent, and their hurried steps echoed in a way that made their heart beat louder their chest. Madam Pomfrey didn’t look surprised to see them, just apologetic. “He’s unconscious for now. It should wear off in 20 minutes or so. He’ll be fine.” She pointed to a nearby chair and (Y/n) pulled it up, sitting at Draco’s side and eyeing him closely.

After seven months of spending nearly every waking moment together, (Y/n) knew Draco Malfoy better than anyone else. They knew all that he had once been and all he became.

(Y/n) knew the toll that his secrets took, and how unrelenting they were as they tore at everything Draco was. Harry must’ve known, too. He must have sensed it - maybe all those months ago, when he looked at him in Potions as though ready to duel. But to nearly kill Draco?

(Y/n) didn’t know what had happened - or just who Harry Potter was. But they couldn’t believe something like was intentional.

(Y/n) had to believe Harry didn’t know what he did.

This war made monsters of them all, but did the best of them have to succumb to its dangers? Did everyone in this world have to get twisted and suffer so? They were all innocents, and yet they slaughtered each other like enemies. Did none of them shed tears?

There were many more terrors to come, and (Y/n) had to believe that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, would be strong enough and kind enough to forgive them. Sometimes this world leaves you without a choice; sometimes it leaves children to nothing but ruins. (Y/n) was just a child, and they didn’t know who to save or even how to do so.

But they did know a few things. A simple, handful of facts that would have to be enough to get them through.

Across the room, Madam Pomfrey took her leave, wandering to the back office where she kept many of her potions.

Despite everything, Draco looked peaceful as he slept - something (Y/n) had never seen, despite the two dozing off plenty of times while working together. He was always in turmoil, no matter his conscious state. So to see him so still was unnerving; it was almost as though he had finally given up.

(Y/n) noticed the sleeves of his shirt had ridden up, and before they could reach out to fix them for him, they noticed the end of a curling tattoo on his inner, left arm. They stared at it for a moment, the curling end of a snake, sitting inside of a skull. (Y/n) considered it, expecting fear to grip their heart but feeling something like sympathy, instead.

They already knew, deep down, what was branded there. They had known for a while. It wasn’t a revelation, and part of them didn’t want to reach out and expose the rest of the tattoo. Did they need to confirm it, now? It was silly, the idea that seeing it would make it more real.

They saw it every day in the way in hands shook, or in the anger in his eyes. They didn’t need to see a tattoo to know what Draco Malfoy had been branded. Sometimes, (Y/n) believed that the ink on his skin didn’t make him different, at all.

How quickly they had grown to trust him. And yet, how quickly he revealed himself, when the two of them were the only souls still awake and bleeding.

(Y/n) pushed the rest of the sleeve down, covering the exposed skin. A cold hand grabbed their own.

Draco stared at them, grey eyes alert and panicked. For a moment, he didn’t seem to breathe. (Y/n) pulled away and his grip went slack, his expression still torn and frozen in place, the only difference being the tears that were welling in his eyes.

“It’s alright, Draco.” He was running from a catastrophe, these days. He seemed to live in the fallout of terrible revelations. A younger Draco wouldn’t recognize him, if he could see himself, now. “I already knew.” Draco tried to scoff, but it came out a sob. Did it somehow hurt worse, the admission of knowledge rather than a sudden reveal? Did it paint him, to realize he had been known all along?(Y/n) tried to offer a smile, but it didn’t quite meet their eyes. “You’re not the only one who’s observant.”

“Why are you helping me, then?” His voice was hoarse and unsure.

Why, indeed?

“You and your whole family will die.” Tears pricked at (Y/n)’s eyes, though whether they were of frustration or sadness, they did not know. Perhaps it was both.

“Others will die because of us,” Draco breathed the words, as though he didn’t want to admit it to even himself.

“They’d find a way inside Hogwarts somehow - nowhere’s safe. But… but if we do it this way… maybe more can be spared.”

“Everyone will die,” Draco shook his head, every emotion he had ever felt spilling over, seeping out of him like all of that blood collecting on the bathroom floor. He has been holding it in for months, and now he was letting go all of it go, bursting forth until he had nothing left. “You don’t know them like I do, we — we’re all dead.”

“Not yet,” (Y/n) wiped at their cheeks furiously, resolve making their voice strong. “We can still save most of us. It’s Dumbledore they want, isn’t it?”

Draco let out another choking sob.

“Why don’t we just tell him?”

“Don’t you see?” Draco was shaking with emotion, his face red and streaked with tears. His every word was punctuated, trembling with a mixture of anger and sadness and fear. No matter where he went, there was so much fear. “I’m the villain in their story.”

(Y/n) took in a shaky breath and put their hands in his. They were still crying, but it wasn’t for themself. “You’re not a villain, Draco. You’re just a boy,” they whispered, but the sound of it seemed to echo around them. “And we’re a brotherhood, right? So I’m here for you. Even if it is just us.”

And they cried together, two voices who’s echoes sounded like one.

xiii.

“Harmonia Nectere Passus.”

This time, the songbird lived. It sang through the thick wood of the cabinet, it’s lonely tune bright, as though it knew spring was upon them - as though it knew nothing of the impending frost, and the death that was sure to follow. Draco and (Y/n) didn’t need to open the door to know that it worked. But they did, and the tiny, white body ruffled its feathers before flying into the sky, chirping happily as it circled the towers of lost things, alone, the last living thing inside the room.

Draco stepped back from the Cabinet, his entire being trembling. It wasn’t until (Y/n) reached out to still him that they realized they were shaking, too.

They both knew it, but neither felt they had the courage to say it.

“This is the end.” (Y/n) forgot to clear their throat.

“Of Dumbledore.” Draco turned to them, all of his life in his hands, all of his regrets on his face. His voice was thick and his eyes were dull. “But not the war. Potter may still win. Somehow… if he survives.”

Both of them knew this world wasn’t kind to survivors.

But (Y/n) held his gaze. “Will we?”

xiv.

maybe one day they will find me under all of this rubble.

-- taglist: @musicallisto, @theletterhart, @locke-writes, @randomfandomimagine, @brokenandheadoverheels, @timeofmadness, @writerdream22, @lotsoffandomrecs, @neelia-thedaughtherof-athena // message me if you want to be added!

#harry potter #golden trio era #draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x platonic!reader #draco malfoy x slytherin #draco malfoy x you #gender neutral reader #angst #slight fluff #reader insert #one shot #imagine #long fic #fanfic #fanfiction #hp #i honestly considered waiting to publish this but i've held onto it since october and it's time to let go #feedback is appreciated

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golgafrincham · 4 years ago

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The Forest God

Late December into the beginning of January was....tense and grim to say the least. Staring out my window into my own little patch of forest and retreating into an alternate reality where anyone could date a forest god was a huge comfort. Thanks again and again to🍃🌳💚 @dateaforestgod 💚🌳🍃 for the inspiration (psst under no obligation to read this however). The only constructive distraction I could manage that whole time was writing (but not the thing I was supposed to be writing, uh-oh) so ...here is a story about the first person to date a forest god.

Ch 1 They meet Ch 2 They meet again Ch 3 First date

🌳 Once upon a time there lived a person who was neither so young as they used to be nor as old as they would become. They lived in a small village on the edge of a great forest that was not as vast as it used to be, nor as dark as it would become.

Siv, for that is what their parents called them, was the last child of the family.

As the youngest Siv had been doted on and indulged - as one should with a baby - long after they grew up. They loved their parents more than anyone and never bothered to imagine what life would be like if they had not been destined to care for Mother and Father into their old age and until the very end. The older siblings had all been married off long ago, some happily, some not.

When not chopping wood for the fire or carding wool for the spinning wheel, Siv sat at the foot of the village wise woman. Since before they could remember, Siv had been fascinated with healing and little everyday magic, though not everyone in the village still agreed that everyday magic was a good thing. When Siv’s great-grandmother was still a little girl, a new god had been carried into the village by a group of men in black robes. At first the people had driven them away, but they came back again and again, with promises of prosperity and peace if they knelt before the new god - a god who they said was humble, yet of all the gods insisted that he was the only one. By the time Siv was born no one sacrificed to the old gods on their feast days or prayed to them for luck or a good harvest - at least not in public. By the time Siv grew up, no one hardly ever mentioned the old gods by their names, instead calling them all “false gods” or, as the more modern and progressive villagers termed them, “devils.”

As the old gods were pushed to the edges of the villagers’ consciousness, so too was the wise woman pushed to the edge of village life. But they still came to her when the new god wouldn’t calm their colicky baby or return their lost goat to the flock. They came to her after sunset, or in a panic at noon. They paid her reluctantly in bags of grain, or a chicken, or a promise that they never meant to keep. But still the old woman did her best to help, and she passed along her knowledge to Siv.

Together they would often go into the edges of the forest to collect medicinal herbs. The old woman showed Siv how to talk gently to the roots before pulling them up, how to take only what was needed, and how to leave an offering for the spirits of the forest to thank them for their generosity.

One day, after all the chores were done and the orange light of the sun was falling through the remaining dry leaves that still clung to the trees, Siv went to see the old woman and give her a bit of extra food in preparation for the long dark season to come. But she was not in her hut, and the hearth was cold. Assuming she had gone into the forest, Siv started down the well-worn track. It was the first time Siv had gone into the forest alone, though they had been there together many, many times before.

Hours passed as Siv followed the track deeper into the forest. The repeated call of “Grandmother! Are you here?” faded into the trees and received no reply. They called out louder, venturing just a little off the track to head towards the clearings that would allow their voice to carry farther. Still no reply. In frustration, Siv finally decided to give up after realizing the light in the forest was growing dim.

Siv pulled the edges of the woolen cloak tighter and turned around. After what seemed like an hour, though, the track was still in front of them but the edge of the forest was nowhere in sight. A white puff of breath escaped Siv’s lips. The sun had gone down and it was getting as cold as quickly as it was getting dark. There was no tinder, no flint to make a fire, only some bread and a hunk of cheese that was for the old woman. Siv knew they had to keep going, but the track was so dark - strewn with rocks and roots - the going was slow.

The moon rose as a silver sliver in the sky, but it was too weak to cut through the dense branches and reach the ground. It must have been after midnight when Siv, shivering and exhausted, decided to give up.

I will freeze in the forest or I won’t. But I can’t go any farther. They spotted a huge oak on the edge of a rise. The massive roots of the oak had twisted and pushed the earth up forming a little hollow at it’s base. Siv did their best to push a pile of leaves into the hollow to make a kind of nest, but before they lay down remembered that they were a guest in the forest, and a guest should always bring a present for their host.

Siv felt along the ground until they had collected twelve little stones to make into a small circle. In the middle of the circle they placed a larger, flatter stone, and on this stone put a single leaf and the bread from their pocket, just as the old woman had shown them. Satisfied that they had done all they could, they fell back exhausted into the pile of leaves. Wrapping the thin cloak around tightly, they curled up and immediately fell into a leaden sleep.

The forest at night was normally quiet, but immediately after Siv fell asleep it passed into an even more profound stillness. Looking up from the ground, there were only a few places amidst the tangle of trees where one could see the tiny pricks of light that were the stars. Suddenly but silently, even those few lights were obscured. A dark shape nearly as tall as the trees moved towards the gift that had been left in the circle of stones. The shape hunched over and shrunk as it lowered itself to the ground. One long dark finger reached out and poked the bread.

Though it wasn’t much, it was the first gift He had seen in a long time. He turned towards the sleeping figure and the light of the faint stars caught the edges of His horns. He sniffed the air. He had sensed this person in the forest before. Harmless. He thought as He shifted closer. Only a small patch of Siv’s face was visible through the cocoon of fabric, already covered with a light dusting of frost. Weak trails of hot breath escaped through pale lips. Pitiful.

He stared at Siv for a few moments more, then looked back towards the gift. In the center of the dark shape, a dark heart softened. The outline of the shape began to recede and melt like a shadow disappearing into the greater darkness.

The crescent moon peered between the crowns of the trees and threw a cold shaft of light into the hollow, illuminating the edges of Siv’s clothes and the dark gray fur of the wolf that stood facing them. The wolf approached, circled three times, and settled down as close as He could. He rested His chin on His crossed paws and closed His dark green eyes.

Soon enough He could tell that Siv was warming up. The pitiable human stirred and stretched their legs just a bit. They rolled over, threw one arm onto the side of the huge wolf and buried their face in the coarse fur.

He sighed to Himself. Only a human would do such a foolish thing.

They slept.

Dawn had not yet arrived when Siv began to stir. Wrapped deep within a dream of a warm fireside and a faithful dog, the undeniable fact of the hard forest floor only gradually reached into their consciousness to pull them back to reality.

For a moment, a handful of fur told them that the faithful dog was still there, and they wondered where they were. Siv rolled over and tried to uncurl and sit up, but every joint and muscle refused to budge. With a little time and patience, feeling started returning to the ends of their fingers and toes and they managed to prop themselves up.

I’m still alive. But also still in the forest. They knew they had to get moving, but before they could even try to stand up they saw it.

Not ten paces away was an enormous dark gray wolf.

Siv froze in place, barely daring to move. The wolf was staring directly at them with piercing dark green eyes.

Wolf. Dog. Wolf. This wolf is the dog in my dream. It kept me warm.

Siv looked more closely at the wolf.

This is not an ordinary animal.

The wolf cocked its head slightly and opened its eyes wide. It got up and slowly walked to Siv, stopping only two arm’s lengths away.

It spoke, or at least, Siv heard its voice.

You are not afraid.

“I am afraid.” Siv replied quite truthfully.

You do not run.

“If you were going to kill me, I would already be dead.”

“May I ask...” they knew that the wolf, not being a wolf, was best approached with deference “if you stayed beside me in the night to keep me warm?”

I did.

Awkwardly, with limbs still stiff from the cold, Siv got their knees and made a small bow. “Thank you for saving my life.” “I have no way of repaying you.” then they remembered the piece of cheese still in their pocket. That’s a poor present. But no, that’s not all I have. Siv looked around and saw a large brown oak leaf - they grabbed it and placed the piece of cheese on it. Then, slipping a small silver ring off of a pinky finger, placed the ring next to the cheese and slid the leaf towards the wolf.

“Please accept this small gift. Its insignificance is not meant as a slight, it is all I have.”

It was. The slender silver ring was a gift to a young child from their oldest sister’s family when she married off, and was the only material thing of value Siv had ever owned.

The wolf rose and lowered its head towards the gift. It smelled it cautiously before releasing a snort of hot breath. The cheese disappeared so quickly Siv wasn’t entirely sure it had been eaten.

The wolf sat back on its haunches.

I am not fond of metal.

By this time the sun was beginning to rise and the sky was fading into the blue white of morning. The outline of the wolf, however, was falling deeper into shadow. The shape of the wolf darkened until it became only a shadow, with two bright green eyes remaining.

Siv’s blood ran cold. Fool, fool, you have insulted a ....wolf...god. You’re going to….you deserve to die.

However, the voice continued I will accept your gift.

The shadow grew until its piercing green eyes were towering over the kneeling human. Within its darkness though, there were myriad things growing, myriad decaying, plants rustling in the wind, animals digging, running, flying. Siv was frightened and entranced.

Only when the morning sun had peeked between the trees, and the shadow had coalesced into a new, more solid form, was Siv able move their head just enough to look up and truly see what was before them.

The sun’s rays outlined a figure twice as tall as the tallest man Siv knew. It was crowned with dull golden antlers that cradled the rising sun.

The green eyes of the wolf looked out of a human, though somewhat long and sharp, face. The wolf was no longer there, but the figure wore a gray wolf pelt around its middle, tied with bands of ivy. Below the pelt the humanness ended, for it stood on the hind legs of a stag.

The being bent down and hooked one sharp pinky nail into the tiny silver ring before lifting it up to His face.

“Though I am not sure what to do with it.” This time when He spoke it wasn’t directly into Siv’s inner ear. Instead He spoke with a voice that was deep and rich as forest loam while gentle as a breeze passing through a copse of ferns.

Siv was transfixed.

He lazily twirled the ring around the end of his pinky nail for a few moments before seeming to remember the human in front of him.

“Why did you come into the forest so late at night with no fire or metal so necessary to your kind?” There may have been a hint of bitterness in His question.

Siv’s mouth opened, but there was nothing to say.

“Why? Come? Here?” He tried again, clearly and slowly enunciating. Perhaps I used too many words on this simple human He thought to himself.

Why...? For a few moments, Siv truly had no recollection of yesterday, or any moment before they had seen….Him. Think!

“I….had come…to the forest...with no disrespect.” Their mind shoveled through piles of frozen dusty thoughts until finally -

“the wise woman! I went to see her but she was gone. Her hearth was cold. I thought she had gone into the forest, so I went to find her and...I lost my way.”

“She is not in the forest.”

“Oh.”

“Thank you.”

“How...do you…?” Siv ventured.

“I know everything that comes and goes in this forest.”

“She is not in it.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you again for saving my life. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“No.”

The intervening silence was long enough for Siv to realize that the forest was no longer silent. Birds high in the trees called to each other, bushes rustled - the forest was awake.

Siv looked around - the giant oak, the piles of leaves, all looked more friendly and comfortable in the daytime than they had last night. Unfortunately, the daylight didn’t help the fact that nothing looked the least bit familiar. They were still hopelessly lost.

In the time they’d spent looking around, the forest god - for surely that is what He must be - had silently moved towards the deepest part of the forest.

“Wait! Please! Wait!” Siv shouted as they struggled to get to their feet.

The god didn’t seem to hear, continuing on in a stately pace.

Siv ran, jumping over roots and brambles, trying desperately to catch up.

“Please” they could barely get a word out, breathing hard as they ran “I don’t know how to get home!”

The god stopped, but didn’t turn. Instead He raised his hand towards a golden branch of a nearby larch. A tiny sparrow hopped onto his outstretched finger and they appeared to be conversing silently.

This gave Siv almost enough time to catch up. “Please” they fell to their knees, though whether out of exhaustion or as a gesture of respect it was difficult to tell, “I am lost.”

The forest god gently placed the little bird back into the tree and at last turned towards the panting human at his feet.

So frail and easily confused, these humans, yet, so troublesome at times. “And?” He asked, His voice was so low it almost slipped into a growl.

“Please...can….you….point me towards the eastern edge of the forest. The...village?

The god didn’t answer.

Oh no, I am asking for a favor...and I have nothing to offer in return. Fool. Fool. He saved your life, and you are asking Him for another favor. But...if He doesn’t help me I could die here.

“Lord” Siv began again, but this time as respectfully as they could “I don’t deserve your aid - You have already saved my life once - but I must return home. It is my duty to care for my aging parents. They will worry about me and if….if I don’t return there will be no one to chop their wood or go to the market for them.”

“...”

“If I don’t return...the wise woman has no one else to pass down her knowledge of the old ways.” Ah, wait, that’s it. Siv dared to look up at the shining face of the forest god. His face was an impassive mask, at once both beautiful and terrifying. Siv avoided His emerald eyes and looked up - only then did they notice the faded chain of flowers draped between His antlers.

“If you help me to return, I promise to find the forest shrine and make it like new. I promise I will return at the full moon with gifts, and light the little fires to mark the changing of the seasons.”

“...”

“Why should I believe you, human?” He demanded, though His tone was more weary than angry.

Siv was tired, and still cold, and by this time very very hungry. There was nothing more they had to give. There was no way they could prove that their promise would be kept.

“I...there is no security I can give you but my word.” But what good is the word of a mere mortal like me? Worthless. Their shoulders slumped.

“Thank you for saving me. I will leave.”

Dejectedly, Siv turned around and tried to make their way towards the direction of the still rising sun, hoping it would take them to the edge of the forest eventually.

They made their way under fallen logs and over roots and brambles. The forest had woken up fully by now, and Siv could swear that the birds - there were more of them than seemed normal for this time of year - were mocking the lost and hungry traveler with their echoing songs.

After what seemed like hours of frustratingly slow progress, Siv sat down heavily on a fallen tree. How could I have been so stupid as to get lost? If I die here...and never see my parents again....what a foolish way to die. Like an ignorant child. Their eyes began to fill with tears.

“You are going in circles.”

Siv looked up. The forest god was directly facing them, where moments ago there had been nothing. The dappled light that filtered through the trees played across His warm bronze face and shoulders.

“The birds have been trying to tell you for hours. Can’t you hear them?”

Siv’s head shook and they quickly tried to wipe the corner of their eyes. Instead of a proper answer, Siv’s stomach gurgled.

The sunlight that fell on the god seemed to sparkle and the edges of his form became less distinct. He took one step forward and was no longer quite so tall, quite so imposing. He leaned down towards the dejected human.

“Hungry?”

Siv nodded. Everything about the forest god seemed to have softened - His antlers weren’t so large and sharp, His lips were full and curved into a gentle smile.

“Here, I saved half of the gift you gave me earlier. Do you want it?” He extended one long sinewy arm, and in his hand was a half of the piece of bread Siv had left as an offering the night before.

Siv stared at it. The sound of their stomach grew louder.

“No, thank you.” the hungry mortal shook their head, resigned. “I can’t. It is a gift, given in thanks for hospitality. It is Yours alone.”

The forest god took back His proffered hand and stood up. “Good. It was only a rock. I ate the bread last night.” He tossed the brown rock over his shoulder where it hit the ground with a thunk.

He shook his head. Pitiful.

“I am tired of hearing the birds constantly yelling at you.” He straightened up to His full height, and extended one large hand towards the human.

Siv stared at the god, awestruck once again.

“...” He dropped His hand.

“Are you coming?” He said somewhat impatiently.

Siv immediately got up.

“Take my hand.”

Even reaching straight up, they could only just touch the ends of His fingers. In response, the god subtly shifted as if moving away from Siv - though He never actually moved. He was now only a couple feet taller than the confused human whose hand He grasped.

The moment the god took Siv’s hand, their heart began to race and stars filled the edges of their field of vision. Their whole body felt light and heavy all at once like they were going to faint. But instead of fainting, they were pulled forward.

The trees seemed to part before them. Siv would look to one side, then look again only to see a completely different scene. It was like the forest was running past them in the opposite direction while they were walking calmly. Within moments they were on the well-trod path, within sight of the edge of the forest.

The god stopped and let go of Siv’s hand. To Siv, it felt like suddenly being ripped from a warm bed in winter and shoved outside. It took every piece of willpower Siv had not to reach out and grab that hand again.

“I go no farther than this. I trust you can find your way from here?” He gestured out towards the open land beyond the trees.

Siv’s eyes followed the god’s motion and saw familiar landmarks. They turned to answer, but instead of the forest god they only saw the retreating form of a giant stag passing silently back into the woods.

💚Chapter 2

#3600 ish words #long post #tbh i don't like reading long form on tumblr #but idk where else to put this #now it's free #part of my motivation is that it's the only thing i've accomplished all month and setting it free makes it 'done'#my crap #writing #forest god #it was also an interesting foray into they/them pronouns since my other fic is all 陛下this and 臣that #will i finish ch 3? who knows?#other yet to be written chapters include They go to the village fair! He meets the parents! and Birds sure are gossipy.

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deliciouspeachpirate · 4 years ago

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A/N First off, I am so sorry that this took so long. This is a combination of two prompts form @prettyinlimegreenboots; “I got *blank* for Secret Santa and I have no idea how to pick a gift” and “Will you help me go Christmas shopping.” This isn’t my best work, and I’m so sorry that its so late, but I hope you guys still like it!

It was late enough that they had finally put most of the littles to sleep, even with their protests about wanted to play cards with the older boys longer. Jack ended up winning them over with the promise of playing in the snow after selling the next day, but reminding them that they would be too tired to play if they didn't sleep. Crutchie was sitting on one end on the worn out couch watching Albert, Finch, and Jojo play poker on the floor. Race was sitting with his legs across the part of the couch Crutchie wasn’t occupying and halfheartedly fiddling with his cigar. While Crutchie was enjoying laughing at the trash talk happening between the three on the ground as the game got more competitive, he was also keeping a close eye on Race.

Race looked a little down and had been pretty quiet all day, which wasn’t like him at all. Crutchie was pretty sure it had started this morning, maybe even before they left for the circulation gate. He knew that sometimes it was just so hard for Race to sleep that he ended up staying up all night, or the nightmares got too bad, or he was thinking about his parents or the future or any number of things he shouldn’t have to worry about. Seeing as how he couldn’t think of anything that could have set him off, poor sleep for whatever reason was probably the most likely reason for Race’s sullenness. Whatever was going on though, Crutchie was bound and determined to do something about it.

When Race stood up and said he was going to go take a smoke out on the steps (Jack would kill him if he did it inside) Crutchie saw it as his opportunity to either confront him or just quietly support him, he wasn’t quite sure yet what the situation would call for. He waited until the boys were once again focused on another round before quietly leaving his place to go outside. Opening the front door and slipping out, Crutchie wasn’t surprised to see that Race wasn’t actually smoking. What he did see worried him even more though.

Race was sitting on the steps, resting his arms on his knees and his head was hanging down. He was still holding his cigar between his fingers, but even the fact that he wasn’t messing with it in some way was worrying on its own. He didn’t seem to have noticed Crutchie yet even as he slid down and maneuvered his leg so that he could sit by him. Crutchie let out a sigh which he could see in the frosty air and pulled his vest around him a bit tighter. He hadn’t thought that with it being nighttime in the middle of December in New York he probably should have brought out a coat for both of them. Who knows how long they would end up being out here in the cold. The two newsies sat in silence for a few moments before Crutchie spoke up.

“Hey, Racer, I know that ya don’t really like talking when you’se upset ‘bout somethin’ so ya don’t hafta, but ya know I’m here if ya need me. We can talk bout whatever's botherin’ ya or I can try and distract ya if you’d rather.”

Race didn’t say anything, but Crutchie wasn’t worried about it yet. He knew Race well enough to know that he would say something when he was ready and not before. So he sat next to him on the front steps, scooting closer and shivering slightly when a harsh gust of wind threatened to ruin what little warmth they had. After a few minutes without any acknowledgment, Race sighed and leaned his head against Crutchie’s shoulder.

“I kinda just don’t wanna talk about it.” His voice was small and it twisted Crutchie’s heart to hear his normally cocky and upbeat brother sound so defeated.

“Okay that’s fine. So ya know that Secret Santa thing Katherine suggested?”

Race only grunted a bit in response.

“Well I got Elmer for it and I have no idea how to pick a gift. I mean, yeah the kid’ll be happy with whatever but I still wanna get him something special, ya know?”

Crutchie put his arm around Race and pulled him closer to try and warm him up and knowing that it would comfort him at least a little. He started talking about all the things he could think of to get Elmer, hoping that he could get Race to say something without pressuring him. Race nestled himself closer to Crutchie’s side and Crutchie rubbed up and down his arm.

“I think he likes poetry.” Race’s voice was nothing more than a broken whisper. “Go to the library, copy something down? Maybe draw a picture to go with it?”

Crutchie smiled down at him, “That’s a good plan Racer. We can check with Davey tomorrow and see if he knows anything pretty Elmer might like. Kath might know something too.”

Thinking for a moment, Crutchie realized something that might help cheer Race up.

“Ay, will ya help me go Christmas shopping tomorrow then? We can meet up after sellin’ or something.”

“Can you really call it Christmas ‘shopping’ if you aren’t actually buying anything?” Race tilted his head up to look Crutchie in the eye as he spoke. Crutchie knew the eye contact and the little joke was major progress.

“Hey, you can call it whatever ya want just as long as we find something good.”

Race huffed slightly and Crutchie knew that he felt far better than before. The two of them fell into comfortable silence after that and Race closed his eyes with a tiny smile on his face. A while later when Crutchie looked down at him, he realized that Race had fallen asleep. How he had managed to do that it the cold, he had no idea.

Not wanting to wake Race up, afraid that if he did he might not get back to sleep again, Crutchie maneuvered his crutch behind him so that he could knock it against the door. It swung open almost immediately and Jack stepped out, bending down to take Race into his arms without a word. Crutchie knew that he had probably been standing just inside worrying about Race and waiting to see if they needed him. Crutchie smiled at the thought and walked inside, closing the door on the cold air and flurries that were falling outside and followed Jack up the stairs to the bunk rooms.

Crutchie pulled back the blankets on Race’s bunk so that Jack could put down his sleeping form. He decided to leave Jack to tuck him in, instead starting over to their shared bunk in the corner. He caught sight of Jack smoothing back Race’s hair and kissing his forehead gently as he brought the too thin blankets up around him.

Jack was going to want to know if Crutchie had learned anything about what was bothering Race, he’d been getting increasingly worried about Race not getting enough sleep, but that was going to have to wait for the morning. While they didn’t know exactly what the problem was yet or how to fix it, there was no way Crutchie was going to let Race deal with it on his own. After all, a family looks out for each other.

#newsies #newsies fanfiction #racetrack higgins #race #crutchie morris #crutchie #platonic #these two are bros #crutchie is a good friend #sorry this isn't my best work #writing has been a bit difficult lately but I'm hoping to start turning stuff out faster #jack kelly #he wasn't originally going to be in this #but it kinda happened #i hope you guys liked it!

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evakuality · 4 years ago

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Druck s5, episode 7 - belated thoughts

So we’re going straight into more ‘not good’ for Nora, huh? I guess it serves to show what things are like for her but it’s pretty heavy to watch. She’s just really disconnecting herself from everyone, huh? How consciously she’s doing it is a bit hard to tell, but the upshot is that someone who naturally seeks company and connection is withdrawing quite significantly. And her expertise in lying is shielding those around her from noticing it. Zoe doesn’t seem concerned at all when Nora tells her she’s totally awesome, and the breezy ‘sorry fell asleep’ business too - this is ingrained in her even though she’s clearly worried about herself considering she’s doing all that googling. It’s also really sad that she still feels enough of a connection to reach out to her mother and how awful that right now she’s just not in a position to be the mother. There are people around Nora, but she feels alone because of the loss of this one person.

And here we go with Constantin again. He really needs to get over this whole ‘betrayed sad boy’ thing he has going on. It’s been WEEKS and they didn’t seem to be together for that long, so really he’s just annoying at this point. It’s like Sara’s histrionics over Matteo. Ridiculously overblown reactions to these break ups. Poor Josh is having a really hard time trying to work out what’s going on here, which is reasonable tbh - she’s acting very odd considering that they just got together and how excited she seemed at the start. It doesn’t help that she’s still pumping out the lies. I get that she’s trying to protect herself and keep her life together but this is painful to watch because it’s so clearly having the opposite effect to the one she wanted. He can tell something’s wrong and he’s trying to be there for her, but the tight grip she has on keeping herself closed rn is taking its toll.

It’s really understandable why Nora’s lying, but it’s totally falling apart around her. Telling the girls the increasingly thin lies about the copy shop is plain stupid, but she can’t see it. No wonder they’re getting annoyed with her. She’s distant when she’s with them (not her fault of course, but they don’t know that because she keeps lying), she appears to be focused on Josh rather than them and I’m sure it appears that she’s just as bad as her sister and her friends - not taking the thing seriously. We know none of this is what’s going on, but she’s in such denial (ironic considering she’s worried and keeps trying to figure out what’s up with her) that she can’t be honest with them. Telling lies and protecting her image/face is so normalised to her that she can’t see what’s going on. It’s pretty obvious that she wants to help and be connected with the girls but also that she really has no idea how she can.

It’s fascinating how much darker everything is now in terms of settings and camera work etc. Even the brighter, lit up spaces are often more muted. There was something similar with Hanna and Jonas when things were tumbling around them and while it’s fairly simple in terms of filmmaking techniques it has a strong effect. And the fact that there are so many close ups on Nora, really tight in, makes it all a lot more claustrophobic and unsettling. And the thing with Zoe is all sorts of painful. You can see where Zoe is coming from, obviously - she’s always been embarrassed by her mother and so it’s natural that she wants to be able to spend time in her space with her friends now that she feels she can. But also the things she’s saying to Nora are really hurtful. I can’t remember if Zoe was around when Constantin said his little tirade about her mental health, but I’m sure it wasn't the only time he mouthed off about it even if she wasn't there; he hasn’t exactly been shy of being a dick to and about her in Zoe’s presence. So Zoe must know what these words are doing, or could do, to Nora. It’s all very realistic in terms of siblings and how they act to each other, but yikes.

And it seems that after a week or so of no Constantin and co being annoying they’re back with a vengeance. I know we’re supposed to be annoyed with them because we’re in Nora’s PoV, but honestly I’m just sick of how childish they are. Bullies who take some sort of delight in laughing at everyone else’s misfortune are just not my favourite type of people. And we have more of these really tight close ups on Nora, and even more than before they’re coupled with backgrounds which are out of focus or otherwise fuzzy and it’s all putting us in a spot where Nora is so trapped inside herself with so little sense of the world outside her that it’s a wonder she can even function at all. This merch reveal is uncomfortable anyway, what with Constantin and Ismail sitting there being really ... bleh. But the way Nora is shown, particularly in contrast to the other girls, is so uncomfortable.

I’m really pleased I didn’t watch this live tbh. It’s all a lot to deal with and while it’s potentially more concentrated when seen all in one go like this, I think I prefer it to watching this slow spiral of Nora’s over the days and weeks. She looks worn down and defeated and totally checked out even when she’s with people she cares about. Josh tries, but she’s not in a place where she can give him anything let alone the answers he deserves about what’s going on. His support is almost oppressive for her, and when we think back to how she was at the start of the season that’s a really big change. Also, I have major issues with heights so this scene is troubling for me in a lot of ways. Yes Nora, I am scared. So just step away from the edge pls. ‘I hope you’re making just as great progress as I am’ is so messed up, though I guess it’s good that she broke from the litany of cheesy lies into this far more truthful moment even if she was trying to hide it behind a bright and bubbly exterior.

#druck

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werevulvi · 4 years ago

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I'm starting to slowly understand that this de-transition I'm doing will probably always be pretty rough on me. I'm re-watching "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" for the millionth time. I guess, for being about a hyper-feminine, conventionally attractive girl, it's pretty empowering. And Giles is definitely my favourite, British dork. Buffy is empowering because she really doesn't need anyone to help her out, except when she wants help. She's the furthest thing from a helpless damsel in distress, but she's also vulnerable and in many ways, like any other teenage girl.

I guess I can relate to that, on the level of depths I rarely swim in. Except in reverse. Like I look really masculine, male, and very different from other women, but on the inside I'm still vulnerable, and understanding the world from having been socialised female, like I guess most women are, to various degrees. And I guess I'm holding onto that. Sometimes too much. Sometimes... even to my detriment.

But when your womanhood is almost literally hanging by a thread, and you treasure it... it's easy to clutch too damn hard at it, as if your life somehow depended on that grip. And I guess that's how Buffy got me thinking, really a lot. Thoughts that have been passing through my mind for a while now, finally stuck around long enough for me to grasp.

It feels like there's just no ideal solution for me. I'm still generally at a pretty good place with my gender and presentation now. There's nothing I really wanna change, except from going back on testosterone. But how satisfied am I really? That's the difficult question. I get these moments here and there, when I get... you know, sad. I guess I get jealous of women who still look like women. Like Buffy, and all those other female characters that I relate to (all three of them, lol.) Their ability to blend into society as one of the females. That which I once used to take for granted, and barely even was aware of, and did not even like.

As a teen and throughout most of my 20's, I didn't like the idea of "blending in" or looking "normal" as I saw that as equal to disappearing and becoming insignificant. I liked standing out, to look like a someone, instead of a no one. But for the past couple of years? Not so much. I don't have that same mindset anymore. Now I understand that when people don't pay attention to what I look like... they finally notice my personality. And I really like that. I feel no need to have an alternative style for the sake of expressing myself anymore, although I'm still drawn to tattoos and piercings. If anything, it rather hinders people from truly listening to me, because they're too busy judging my appearance!

Whether I stand out now or not, well... I do have kind of a choice over. Just not so much in my favour. Or well, it is, but at the same time not. I can blend in among men as a "normal" looking guy, which takes no effort and has become my go-to, but I can never do that as a woman. I mean, I'm not just recognised as a woman who is ugly or looks weird, or "too" masculine. I'm not recognised as a woman at all.

And yeah, sure, I'm fine with that. Not a big deal.

But sometimes I still mourn the loss of my ability to be seen as a woman, and not look like trash while doing it. Sometimes... I can't help but struggling to look at myself. It just gets so raw sometimes, and I feel ugly. Society's beauty standards still has a certain choke hold on me. I can't break free from that over night. Especially since I was a makeup addict for a really long time and only just recently stopped wearing makeup altogether. Especially since I struggled with an eating disorder, which I only just recovered from a few years ago. Especially since I previously used sex with men as a way to seek value and worth, but found the opposite, yet still crave that harmful lifestyle. I'm barely a stone's throw away from being the slave of femininity I once was. Perhaps transitioning was my unconscious way of attempting to break free from it. Yes, I think there could be some truth to that. I revel in my masculinity now, but the wounds femininity caused in me, still hurt. It took me about this long to even understand their existence.

My mind still makes these connections, that by "woman standards" I look... absolutely hideous. Bearded, balding, scars for tits, hair all over my body. Yeah, great. I feel disfigured. Like some kind of abomination. I'm just gonna have to live with that knowledge, and what it does to me.

Because sometimes I get lost in what I think other people must think I look like, as soon as I tell them I'm actually a woman. I've gotten looks of disgust from that, and I guess I just haven't quite figured out how to handle that sorta thing yet.

I know that every time I've tried to "present as female" again, I've regretted it and felt absolutely horrible. On one hand it's tragic, because societal beauty standards still make me break down over my appearance sometimes, in desperate attempts to make myself look beautiful again... and that's when I feel the claws of femininity scratching me up from within, all over again. That endless chase for unobtainable, so called "beauty" and the failure that's bound to follow. And I guess it's a little bit sad, that I think I look a lot hotter as a man, than I ever even could as a girl or woman, and that could be part of why I hold onto my male-like appearance as a comfort in my newfound masculinity.

But is that so bad?

This harsh weather of self-discovery demands a comfort blanket. But on the other hand, most days I actually feel great about the way I look, and I can even manage to still feel good about the way I look when I see myself as a woman. That is great progress!

I'm actually starting to be able to connect my womanhood with my masculinity, and when I do, I feel great. That's my "good days" and I have a lot more of them than those "bad days" when I feel disfigured. Because that feeling is relative, not objective. It's relative, not only to social gender norms for men and women respectively, but also to my own inner norms of my own gender, which are highly influenced by the norms of the society I live and grew up in. And I've noticed I actually have the power to adjust that broken compass within me that struggles to connect my appearance with my mind.

I think my dysphoria broke quite badly, when I started poking around in it. I mean, not only do I get envious of other women (who have not transitioned) but as soon as I present as female, I instead get jealous of men again, and feel even worse about the way I look! It's a catch 22!

I do not know what my tired, dysphoric heart craves, or if any physical change would really help me feel better. I still regret my top surgery, but no kinds of reconstructed boobs would be able to fill that empty void. Because it's not nearly as much physical as it is psychological. It's missing and grieving something very specific, which cannot ever return. And that too... I just have to live with.

However, I'm again trying out wearing fake boobs. Small sock tits in sports bras. As often as my deformed ribs can handle. It quickly gets very painful in the dents I caused by binding pre-op. I ordered some oversized sports bras and gel insertions, that I'm impatiently waiting for to arrive! In the mean time I try to make do with what I have, which is too small and too tight, but for an hour here and there, is alright. I feel good with the illusion of small boobs, something like barely a B-cup at most. It feels more like my body when it's not board flat, and it makes me feel better about being curvy as well. Otherwise I still wear the same men's clothes I'd usually wear. Flannels, jeans, hoodies, suits, etc. That's perfect. It feels a lot like me.

I really should have left my chest be. But I didn't. And that's okay. I'll manage.

I reach out to testosterone again for comfort. Familiar comfort that always made me feel better, and badass. I know it won't take my pain away. But honestly, that's okay. I actually want to keep my pain, anyway. Because it helps me heal and feel stronger again. I don't like being in pain, but I feel like it's rebuilding me, strengthening me from within, and forces me to re-think what's not working. Pain is my guide to comfort. That fire in my ass that keeps me moving.

So yeah, I'll live.

I'll keep breaking down sometimes, and feel like I made myself into the ugliest woman on Earth, but even that, I can draw some kinda power from. Being proudly ugly is definitely something I can do! And then I feel untouchable. When I remind myself that my "ugliness" is not only entirely subjective, but also... entirely deliberate. That I choose to not try to salvage my thinning head hair, because I do not need it. That I choose to let my beard grow out, because it brings me comfort. That I choose to keep my chest flat, despite all my difficult feelings I have about it, because it allows me to go topless and braless. And so on.

My deliberate ugliness, worn with pride and survival... I'd say is quite beautiful. That's what keeps me going. Dated: January 7th, 2021.

#detransition #femininity #gnc female #transition regrets #ugliness and beauty #female masculinity #gender dysphoria #deep thoughts #reflecting on my gender struggles #ok to rb #i try to add the date to all my posts now #because how else will anyone know in the future when it was posted

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bxllafanficc · 4 years ago

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My dear apprentice - Anakin!Skywalker x fem!reader - chapter 4

(Y/n)'s pov

"Cut low!"

...

"Your grip is too loose."

"See what you did there? You left me an open area."

"Too slow!"

...

"You're not maintaining distance!"

"It's block, thrust, then avoid. Not the other way around!"

"Get up on your feet again! Your enemy wouldn't wait for you to recover!"

———————

"Let's call it quits. We're not going to make any further progress when you're in this state anyway."

Breathe. I can't breathe.

Pain. I can't feel my leg.

I feel nauseous.

He's absolutely crazy. A sadist, that's what he is!

"I'm aware it is your first time, but even as a beginner, you should be able to at least find ONE mistake in my moves and take advantage of that. I gave you several to spot out."

I hate you. You're a danger to all students and to society. You should be locked in a cave for everyone's safety if you call this training.

"Though, I am much impressed by your patience and strength. Not every student I've sparred with is able to take an ass-whooping for three hours straight."

So there's more of you're victims, huh? Where are they now these days? In the freezer or dumped in a bush behind an old building?

"You're insane!" I spit out with a muffled growl, forcing my arms to bear my body into what would feel like an upright sitting position, though all I feel right now is pain. With blurry vision, I rub my eyes hazily and glare forwards the tall shape of my tormentor from my spot on the floor.

And how did I end up on the floor? I don't even remember. I must have fallen or fainted and then gained back consciousness right after. All I feel is the numbness of my legs, my arms crying out in terror and the bruises aching and pounding on my outer things, hips, shoulders and back.

He did not hold back like he promised he would. He just went straight onto beating me and commanding me on how to defend myself. He whammed my back like it was nothing and hit me in my sides like he actually tried to cut through. A few hits to the back of my head made me lose my focus and at that point, I was unable to gain anything from his commands.

Now, I am a beginner. But I know damn well that you don't need to thrust that hard because of the extreme heat radiating from the lightsaber. So why is he trying to break my bones with a plain stick when he could do much worse with any other weapon available in this room?

"No, you're not listening to what I'm saying. I need to slap enough information into your thick skull for you to be able survive an ambush at our temple or while out on the streets. That's why you learn the basics at the very start of your training. Now I have teach you from the very beginning within an unknown time limit that could go on forever or end out of nowhere. As my padawan, you're a great target for anyone out to hurt me or you."

He keeps on lecturing me like this each hour but my ears has stopped listening for some reason. My brain just doesn't process what he says. Though I'm not saying no to a little peace and quiet.

"I am able to defend myself, just not against you. Yet. Besides, You're not one of the best swordsmen to walk this path only to be killed off out of nowhere. Aren't you supposed to defend me until I am able to wield a lightsaber, anyway? I don't think we're in that much of a danger."

I exclaim, closing my eyes in order to block out the blurry shapes around me. Excessive problems is the last I need.

All I need right now is a shower, some food and sleep.

I'm so tired...

"You think that's the case? What would you say if someone came barging in and struck me down right in front of you, right this moment?" He asks and I can feel him crouching down to my level, making his way to my side and leaning his face close to mine.

The slight movements in the air and the smell of pine trees and freshly shed rain wash over me like a waterfall gives it away. He's close, but his voice is irritated and short.

"Thank you." I mumble, my voice fading away as the aching in my head reminds me of the recent three hours of torture.

Anakin scoffs and immediately moves away from me, getting up on his feet and turning to the door as I open my eyes again.

"Very funny. I'm gonna take a shower and head to the dining room after. Meet me there in an hour." He snarls and picks his staff back up, reaching out a hand for the door and opening it quickly.

"Anakin?" I ask and bite my lip, folding out the wrinkles on my tunic as gaze towards the boy with the golden locks.

"What?"

Simple and short. He doesn't want to talk to me. Or be near me at all, for the moment. I guess it has something to do with hunger since he seems eager to have dinner.

"... Where are the women's showering rooms?"

He sighs and lets the door slide open a bit wider. A silent invitation.

"Get up and I'll show you."

*Time skip after shower*

I'm so hungry. My stomach is growling at me like it had gone days since the last meal.

With a sigh and a few cuss words I position myself in front of the full size mirror hung on the wall beside the end of my bed. Light fingertips carefully travel along with the series of bruises on my skin, revealing more and more of them the further up the oversized shirt I put on.

Turns out, the so called friends of mine forgot or simply ignored packing any kind of warm clothing with thick fabric. So now I'm left with only uncomfortable ridiculous lingerie and thin, armless tops to wear.

I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm cold and about to punch the first person to walk closer than three meters near me. I'm tired of my master, angry that he doesn't seem to take my needs into consideration in his training methods, upset that he find it so easy to blow a clean hit with his staff without holding back, seemingly without feeling any kind of guilt for causing me pain. I'm sad that he has these unreasonable high expectations about me that I couldn't possibly reach up to at my first day of training, mad that I'm stuck with limited, embarrassing clothing that I have absolutely no use for as a Jedi anyway.

But most of all right now, I am frustrated about the temperature of the nights in Coruscant this season. The ridiculously cold nights leaves every bedroom, every hallway and every household feeling like it's mid-season winter. The chilly air has spread to my very core and I have nothing warm to put on.

The only option left is to...

Screw it.

I don't have the consciousness to care at this point. He will just have to suck it up and accept it.

*Time skip to dinner time*

With a large plate of food and another growl from my stomach, I position myself at a round table where my master and Obi wan are eating their dinner already. Of course they didn't wait for me, what did I expect?

Both the men look up to greet me but freezes in their action with their mouth slightly widened in surprise. Obi wan turns his head slightly to Anakin with a raised eyebrow, to which Anakin responds with an aggressive shoulder shrug, hands up in defense.

Do they really have to make such a deal out of it? I'm just cold...

I sit down unto the remaining chair with a bounce.

Ouch. Shouldn't have done that.

A list of cuss words enter my lips until I've emptied out my entire vocabulary as a sharp pain shoot up from my behind and through the rest of my body. That damn training session.

And why are they so surprised. Well of course I stole the only available warm piece of clothing at my reach; a worn out white tunic with long sleeves and a collar. From Anakin's drawer.

"Why... that's mine-"

"Shut up! Don't you think I know that?" I hiss, teeth blared and a wild look displaying in my eyes.

That successfully makes Anakin stop mid-sentence and pull his hands down under the table, tilting his head with a confronting glare.

"Then why are you-" Obi wan attempts to ask but just like Anakin, gets cut off with a snarl and a hush.

"If you would just let me talk, please. So, some bimbos called my friends from back home asked me last week if they could be the ones packing my stuff and ship it to the temple as an act of kindness to relieve the stress I've been feeling lately. Of course they took the opportunity to mess with me and only send thin, shoulder less tops for me to wear. And on top of that, a bunch of yucky lingerie that look like it belongs to a prostitute. Therefore I'm stuck with uncomfortable underwear and fabric as thin as paper for me to wear. And long story short, I'm cold. And I have non fucks to give."

Putting his tea cup to his lips, Obi wan lets out a chuckle before taking a sip.

"Man, I hate when that happens. I would be furious at my friends."

Anakin grins all of a sudden and speaks up to his former master.

"Don't be silly, master. You don't have any friends."

I sigh dramatically at the two of them and dive into the mountain of food in front of me. As they're almost done with their own plates I feel like I should hurry. I don't want to keep them waiting impatiently anyway. I can't take more of Anakin's shit.

"Then what are you?" Obi wan replies as he cuts up a strange looking fruit and inspects it with confusion written all over his face.

"I'm your daughter, of course. We've been through this several times already."

"Oh, right. I keep forgetting."

An entire conversation I couldn't possibly recap later on or even understand right now takes on as I eat, very word more meaningless than the previous ones.

... What?

Are they...

I can't find anything fitting to say. I don't know how to respond mentally either. I can only stare in silence.

What are they talking about? Is this their way of joking?

As if like the whole thing was scripted, already planned out before I got here, the two men look up at me with a causal expression and speaks up in unison.

"What?"

I shake my head and finish the last piece of food on my plate.

"Nevermind... Come to our dorm when you're done eating, Master Skywalker. I'm going to call it a day."

I wave Obi wan a silent good night and get up off the table. Tired and numb legs cause me to not put my feet where I wish them to be and the chair hooks onto my ankle.

Please, not now. I can't stand anymore!

I stumble out of the room clumsily and quickly leave with a deep frown as the loud laughter of one Anakin Skywalker, echoes out through the corridors and into the silent night.

// another chapter done and I just feel like every sentence made the story worse and worse throughout the entire chapter. I'm always exhausted towards the end since I write at night and I can only do no more than laugh at my struggles🤘 Idk Next chapter might arrive a lot later since I had such trouble writing this one. <3

Tag list: @tomisbaeholland

#anakin skywalker #inspiration #movies #anakin x y/n #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin fanfiction #oh anakin #poor anakin #anakin imagine #star wars anakin #fanfiction

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first-son-of-finwe · 4 years ago

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So this is my “leaving the fold” essay, which I mentioned some time ago. I wrote this mostly for myself because writing things down always helps me make sense of them, but quite a few people expressed interest in it, so here it is.

I was raised as quite a strict Orthodox Christian, and the religion is a huge part of my mum’s life. This is mostly my experience of its ideas and processes, and how and why I ultimately decided to leave. It’s a bit rambling, all over the place and very long, but I kinda wanted to post it somewhere, so 🤷

TW for mentions of abortion, alcoholism and general conflict.

When I was twelve or thirteen, my parents and I set off on one of our regular trips to Russia. We used to do this every year before time and money became restricted, and one of our compulsory stops was always a large, sprawling monastery on the outskirts of the city of Nizhny Novgorod.

It’s a place of smiling nuns but very strict rules, where God forms a part of every sentence and church is mandatory for both mornings and evenings. It’s a place of communal meals, harvesting vegetables and milking cows, ringing bells, and lots and lots of praying. For me, it was a taste of pure rural life. I loved running through the fields, swimming in the pond and helping out with the manual tasks of running a communal settlement. I gasped in delight when I saw the lone horse in the field. Deep down I was never meant to be a city kid, and being at the monastery fuelled my dream of living the simple life.

But the fact that we were there purely for religious reasons? That was only an afterthought. An obligatory thing I had to go along with, because the adults expected it. Perhaps I tried to feel the same spirituality they seemed to experience, but I never quite got there.

I put on the headscarf, held the candle, wrote the names of my loved ones on prayer notes for the living. I bowed to the icons, made the sign of the cross when everyone else did. But I never truly connected.

One year on the day of a particularly significant celebration, a huge icon was carried over a horde of kneeling worshippers, and my mum told me to kneel down and pray for my dad to recover from his alcoholism. And so I did.

This is something I’d been praying for for a long time. It’s something I was told to pray for at every holy site, and before every relic. And no, he’s never quit drinking.

But I already knew that he wouldn’t, even as I knelt, closed my eyes and begged whichever saint was on that icon to help my dad quit drinking. I simply knew that it didn’t work that way.

I knew it the same way I knew that Santa wasn’t real. Every child seems to have experienced a shock-horror moment upon learning that they’d been deceived, but I recognised him for what he was right from the start - a story. For someone who’s always thrown themselves wholeheartedly into stories and fantasy, I’ve always had a very clear distinction between fact and fiction - though I’ve also not been so close-minded as to think that there isn’t a grey area in between.

No matter how hard I tried to convince myself, I don’t think I ever truly believed in their version of what was supposed to be happening.

But I think my moving away from Orthodoxy truly began the day I heard my mum on the phone to her friend, who was at the beginning of a difficult pregnancy and was considering an abortion. She and her husband were on different pages with regards to this, though I don’t quite remember who wanted what. My mother’s advice was this: “Well you should really listen to your husband, because you know that a husband’s word is God’s word.”

Even being the believer that I was then, my immediate reaction was complete shock, followed by a thought process that went something like “Are you joking?? SERIOUSLY?”

And of course, it was hard not to think of my own father in his worst moments of drunkenness. So it seems “God’s word” is actually a whole lot of slurred, barely comprehensible nonsense occasionally sprinkled with some insults. That’s really the logic we’re going with here? And beyond that, how can you hand such a deeply personal decision to someone else??

When I went away to university for three years and spent considerable chunks of time away from my mother’s influence, my skepticism only deepened with every day. I couldn’t reconcile the science-driven environment I saw around me with the ideas being propounded in church. Sincerely believing in the Adam and Eve story, in this day and age? It didn’t compute.

Having said that, I would certainly not call myself an atheist even now. I think it is just as presumptuous to assume your absolute knowledge of the infinite universe and declare it contains nothing, as it is to declare that your religion is the only correct one. I find many things about the Christian God to be extremely convenient (just so happens to be an old white bearded man, oh fancy that), but I am certainly not convinced that there are no intelligent forces in the world, whatever shape they take. We are simply not in a position to know these things, and I’m okay with that.

In turn, I treat anyone who claims to know them with intense suspicion.

Ultimately, leaving Orthodox Christianity was a long and painful process (I say ‘was’ in the past tense, but the truth is that it is still ongoing) filled with guilt, second-guessing, deliberate habit breaking and an extremely distressed and persistent mother. But my reasons for it boil down to four key things.

Their ideas did not match my ideas. I will never believe that women are obliged to be submissive to men. I will never believe that being gay (or in any way not straight) is a sin. I will never believe that Eastern Orthodoxy is the one true faith among all the other hundreds and thousands of faiths that exist on this planet. Living with your partner without being married is not a sin. Eating some chicken on a lent day is not a sin. A woman on her period is not “unclean.” Their ideas of good and bad, right and wrong seemed so incredibly outdated and arbitrary that it became hard to take anything they said seriously. And I felt so uncomfortable standing there, surrounded by people who I knew believed in all of this wholeheartedly.

Despite the religion branding itself as ‘Christian’, I don’t think I’ve ever heard any of the priests or worshippers talk about helping others. It is not on the agenda. People walk into church and think that because they’ve said their prayers, abstained from meat and dairy and then said their prayers some more, they’re now good people. But what have they done to make anyone’s life better? Who have they helped? Who have they listened to, cared for, understood? It’s not about that. It’s about making yourself feel good because you recited the Lord’s Prayer before eating your lunch.

The process of participating is extremely rigid, and trying to remember all those rules and traditions is honestly just stressful. Which hand do I kiss? How many times do I have to make the sign of the cross before approaching that super special icon? Do I have to touch the floor, or is that optional? Oh, everyone is kneeling...I guess I should kneel too. Once, I accidentally addressed the Archbishop as ‘Father’ and got a slew of disapproving looks from everyone around me. I think perhaps people find a certain kind of comfort and stability in routine, but having one imposed on you when you’re constantly unsure of the rules is not a pleasant experience.

Sometimes there is a very thin line between a religion and a cult, and Orthodoxy is toeing it a little too closely for comfort. I’ve seen it overpower people’s rational thinking and tap into their most powerful emotions in a way that’s honestly quite frightening.

The first step to leaving was progressively going to church less and less. I’d only ever really gone because my mum demanded it, but now, I put up a bit more resistance. I got screamed and yelled and cried at, and at first, of course I gave in. But little by little, I began to get the message across that I was simply not interested anymore.

Then, I deliberately made the choice to break certain habits. We always faced a row of icons on the wall and made a sign of the cross before leaving the house, and coming back in. It was such an ingrained habit that I did it automatically, and for the first few months, I had to physically catch myself in order to stop. That came with its own sense of guilt and hesitancy, and with the feeling that hey, now God is mad at you - hope a brick doesn’t fall on your head when you’re out there without his blessing.

The next step was removing the cross I’d worn around my neck ever since I’d been christened as a baby. Even now I can’t not wear something around my neck, so I have a little key necklace there in its place. Having a bare neck just looks too weird to me.

That cross came off and went back on at least three times. Each time I’d be persuaded, guilted, given the simple but effective phrase of “just do it for me.” I’ve removed it for what I hope will be the last time, and “just do it for me” won’t cut it anymore. If I converted to Islam tomorrow, would it be okay for me to ask someone to wear a hijab “for me”, even though they don’t share my faith? No, it wouldn’t. Religion and expression of religion is a personal choice, and not something you can strong-arm your adult children into.

Now, I’m in a fairly comfortable place where I’ve shed most of that initial guilt and am happy with my choices. I’ve even been back into church a couple of times just to meet a family member, only catching the end of the service - and even then, I’ve been reminded of exactly why I left. My mindset is simply too far removed to find any spiritual value in Orthodoxy.

Does my mother still try to get me into church? Yes. Are the attempts extremely mild and infrequent, compared to what they used to be? Yes. On one hand, I’d like to have a deep conversation with her and explain all the reasons why I have no interest in the religion anymore, but on the other hand, I know it’ll likely make her extremely upset.

Perhaps it’s better to just let it be.

#out of silmarils #religion #personal

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mimiplaysgames · 5 years ago

Text

A Powerful Enough Dream (Ch. 8)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua Rating: T Word Count: 4,177

Summary: Aqua traces Terra’s steps to what only seems like a nightmare, wedged into a dream for the future.

Read on AO3

A/N: I will be taking another break from this fic in order to work on my other WIPs, which are each incredibly time consuming, so I apologize! I hope everyone has been staying safe.

~*~*~*~*~

Stones, pt. 2

Seventh Heaven is a mosh pit of uneven stone, its renovated extensions made steady of wood, draped with drabby awnings of well-worn linen. It’s hard to tell if it always stood here and was damaged when Radiant Garden fell, or if it was built after the fact. Either way, it could tip over from one gust of wind.

The front door whines as Aqua steps inside. Wooden chairs are flipped on top of wooden tables, and the booths are empty except for salt shakers. It’s part-restaurant, part-bar, with a space free of clutter for dancing.

“Is anyone here?” Aqua calls out.

Footsteps hurry from the back, and a pretty woman in dark, long hair appears behind the bar.

“We’re not open quite yet,” she says. “Come back in a couple of hours.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Aqua holds her hand to her chest. “I’m not a customer.”

The woman cocks her head. Her smile is pleasant, but her red eyes narrow. “Then, can I help you?”

Aqua clears her throat. “I heard Terra stayed here with someone named Tifa.”

“I am Tifa.” She steps out from behind the bar, her stride confident and gracefully brisk. Her biceps are toned, and her fingers flex with the familiarity of someone who knows how to fight. “And who’s asking?”

Aqua braces herself - she’s not sure if she’s preparing for a punch to the face but it wouldn’t hurt to foresee it. Such protectiveness over Terra from someone he should barely know and yet is close to (and someone this curvy), sends a spike to her chest.

“Aqua,” she says with a tremble to her voice. “I’m Aqua.”

Tifa gasps, her stride slamming into thin air. “He found you,” she whispers. Closing the gap between them, she takes Aqua into a firm embrace - not tight, not suffocating, but motherly: a gentle reassurance that everything in the world will be okay. Aqua can’t help but to be moved to tears. Hugs are something people do. She just forgot.

“Where are these things supposed to go, Teef?” a man’s voice calls out from the back. In his hands is a box of metal spouts with curved ridges meant for pouring liquor. His spiked hair is jet-black, and he has the most familiar bright blue eyes; he’s just taller now, more imposing, less scrawny, but he wears that same goofy smile.

“Zack?”

He looks up and drops the box, steel clamoring and popping in sharp echoes. “Aqua?”

At first, silence thrums between them.

“You haven’t aged a day, either,” he says, mostly to himself. “Something weird’s going on.” He scratches his head, arguing something over in his mind before shrugging it off and coming at her with that indestructible grin. “Whatever. It’s hugging time.”

He yanks her in. Aqua grunts; his hug is like being shoved into a brick wall. It’s his shoulder plates, his muscles, his childish fever of gripping his favorite toy that crushes her ribcage. Terra is just as hard and strong, if not moreso, but he never feels like this. He’s warm, too careful of what he’s holding. Terra is the unseizable fort that promises a quiet night away from the danger. Zack is the tank that rolls over the threat, whooping all the way.

Aqua laughs. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Zack pokes her forehead. “Why did I have to wait twelve years before things got interesting again? I deserve good stories and better drinks.” He looks behind her, toward the entrance. “Where is the ol’ champ?”

Tifa nods. “A celebration is in order. I’ll make him the best steak he’s ever had.”

They’re so expectant, so ready to shower Terra with congrats, that Aqua can’t bring herself to give them the white lie of, He’ll be here soon.

“He’s…” she starts, not looking into their eyes, but in the spaces in between.

The way her voice wavers is truth enough. Zack’s immortal smile dies, and Tifa stares at a lopsided picture on her wall.

Aqua tells them what she can without confusing them: that he’s succumbed to shadow in rescuing her, in a parallel world where only the dark exists. So far, he’s still there.

She tells them that the only reason why she was in that lonely world to begin with was because she lost a terrible fight that warped the fabric of existence. She leaves out any mention of Xehanort or Unversed. In a world of Heartless, these people don’t need to be scared of anything more.

When they ask how quickly they can free him, Aqua says that it’s only a matter of time - it’s just difficult and very dangerous. But if he can do it, so can she.

Zack has helped himself to a booth, leaning back on the tabletop. Tifa stays standing, her eyes hard as gems and her arms tightly crossed like she’s using them as a crutch.

Tifa scoffs when Aqua finishes. “How many child soldiers have to sacrifice themselves before the worlds set themselves straight?” She heads back to the bar.

“Tifa,” Zack calls.

“Terra is too young to suffer that much,” Tifa shoots back. “So is Aqua. So are all of them - you see how young these Keyblade wielders start. Would the same happen to Sora or Riku?” She picks up the box he dropped earlier, twisting spouts onto glass bottles and slamming them back in their place with a loud clunk.

Zack sighs, rubbing his neck.

Aqua has never considered herself a soldier. A knight, certainly, someone gallant and faithful to a calling - not an ant that follows orders. But if she frames her calling as something akin to a general, or a king, then she could see what Tifa is getting at.

“Terra would have done the same whether he was a soldier, a Keyblade wielder, or an ice cream server,” Zack says softly, tossing a weak smile to Aqua.

Aqua sits across from him. She only nods in response.

Zack leans over, elbows on his knees. “I told Terra he looked like a hero. At the time, I couldn’t articulate why. He just seemed like the type.

“After hearing about this, I can say that’s the reason why. It’s not his seriousness or his determination… he just has balls. Even when he’s afraid - and I’m sure he must have been, saving you - he goes for it. No second thoughts. Staring the demon in the face even when he’s getting dragged all the way down.”

It’s not the most eloquent explanation, but Aqua smirks.

“I wanted to be like him one day.” Zack stands up, squats once, and stretches his arms, heading on his way to join Tifa. “I’m going to have to up my game.”

Aqua follows. “You’re a hero now?”

Zack snaps on a huge grin from ear to ear, fists triumphantly on his hips. “Finished work in progress, I’m kicking Heartless to the curb and helping the Radiant Garden cause.” He sits at the bar, not minding how Tifa has ducked under the counter to connect a tube to a spout. “That reminds me.” He brings his hand to his chin, measuring Aqua with his eyes.

Oh. She had hoped he forgot.

“How old are you?” he asks.

Thirty? Aqua sits alongside him. “Eighteen.”

“Then it’s fine.” He waves an arm dismissively. “Now that I’m bona fide… You remember our deal, yeah?”

Aqua tries her hardest not to laugh or blush. She’s relying on using Ven as an excuse this time. “Maybe?”

“One date for hero-hood.” He holds a finger up.

Tifa slams two glasses on the surface of the bar, studying Zack incredulously. “I’m not sure You-Know-Who, and,” she glances at Aqua, “You-Know-Who-Else would like that very much.”

Thank goodness, she’s saved.

“Aerith would love to join us.” Zack shrugs. “I’m not sure on the Who-Else, though.”

Tifa smirks and rolls her eyes. “There’s still packages to be brought here, Hot Stuff.” She gives him keys. “You can try strutting your swag when she’s actually interested.”

“Heroes doing chores,” he protests, dangling the keys in his hand.

“You should have asked Cloud for more munny before he left,” Tifa reminds him.

Zack groans, rolling his shoulders. Before leaving, he places a hand on Aqua’s shoulder. “I meant what I said. About Terra.” He’s serious, and it’s reassuring. “He’ll get through it. He’s made of the best stuff.”

Aqua dams the tears. Coming from someone they’ve all known from a previous lifetime, it matters. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Tifa offers Aqua a warm smile when they’re alone. “That was a close one. You’re too prim for most people I know.”

“E-excuse me?”

“You carry yourself a certain way.” She chuckles, nodding over to the way Aqua fumbles with her hands, properly layered over the other. “You know, Terra had dropped off something here.”

Aqua’s heart skips a beat. “My Keyblade?”

“Mmm, no.” Tifa eyes her curiously. “For you and Ventus. Some fruit from another world. I have it frozen in the back.”

“Oh.” She takes a moment to let the disappointment roll off, and focuses on the thoughtful gesture. “I’ll wait to have it - at least until Ven is with me.”

“Fair enough.” But as Tifa grabs a rag to start cleaning, she doesn’t follow through. Instead, she hangs her head and sniffs. “I only finished it yesterday.”

“Come again?”

“I had Terra on a rare potion to help him sleep. It kept him sane and in control.” She brings her head back up, wiping her eyes with her glove. “I didn’t have a second batch finished the last time he was here, so I told him to ration what he had left. I only finished it yesterday…”

“Did you know what was going on with him?”

“No,” Tifa says exasperatedly. “But I didn’t need an explanation. I saw it in his eyes. He was haunted by something very powerful.” She rests her head on the counter. “And I know someone who goes through the same. I wanted to help.”

Aqua traces at the grooves on the wood with her finger. “You kept him going. You helped him find me.” She doesn’t know if it’s true, but it’s a beautiful story for a person needing a prayer answered.

Tifa inhales like she’s meditating, her tears silent and sparse. She wills a smile on her face, and Aqua has to admire that tenacity - she can’t do the same so smoothly. Leaning her elbows, Tifa studies Aqua, from the crown of her head to her chin. She’s looking for something beyond just her face, and while Aqua normally doesn’t feel discomfort in staring anyone down, she finds the emptiness of the bar stealing her glances.

“I still have it,” Tifa says, “if you think it might be helpful.”

Does ‘Crazy Insomniac’ read well on the face? Aqua thinks grimly. “That won’t be necessary, but thank you.”

Tifa nods, but she’s not approving. “Well, I’ll keep it safe just in case.” She settles her attention to a bar that needs to be wiped. “Terra stayed upstairs. It’s not the fanciest, but I try to make it comfortable. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to.”

She points to the back, beyond the kitchen, where a rickety staircase bends over the corner, just as narrow as it is steep. The railing wiggles as she leans on them, and the steps moan with every climb. The top is a dense wooden hallway only populated by two doors. The one closest to her to the right is a washroom, its tub cracked and tiny.

The door farther from her is the bedroom, where every floorboard creaks. A small window twice the size of her head opens outward, looking over rooftops and watching dusk blend into night. The only table shelves three books, all with the titles worn out of their covers. Skimming through them, Aqua learns they’re romance novels. She lights the lantern by their side, burning it bright enough to ward away the shadows.

The bed is short, even for Aqua - Terra’s legs would have dangled off of them, but knowing him, he wouldn’t have complained or even noticed.

He had slept here. She only missed him by several days.

Aqua breathes in the pillow, looking for him. It’s freshly cleaned and air-dried.

“You’re not here,” she says out loud. She knows better than to expect different, but the words burn through her eyelids.

She pulls both blue and orange Wayfinders out.

Rolling Terra’s Wayfinder in her fingers, she layers it with hers, perfectly shaped and identical, except for the colors. Making them was supposed to tie a tether between them, a psychic link that lets him stay close. She focuses on that magic, praying for the sensation that he’s watching her, or a whiff of his scent, sandalwood and yeast, entering the room.

“Terra,” she calls. No one answers. She really failed with it.

Having bonds is supposed to brim a Keybearer’s heart with power. What if Xehanort’s beliefs are right? Aqua still has that bond to Terra, and all it’s doing right now is pinching her heart until it swells with an infection, crumbling it so that she has to scatter to keep it together.

If bonds really do make the heart weaker rather than stronger, then Aqua doesn’t have a proper defense for her Master’s teachings.

So Aqua stares at these Wayfinders until the busy noise of a crowd fills the room. Music plays downstairs. Some conversations are giddy and drunk, others are aggressive and drunk, but they blend into a chorus that performs without ever knowing she’s sitting a floor above them, thinking about all the existential magic that doesn’t make a difference in their lives.

So Aqua watches the stars twinkle through the window, a gentle breeze coming in but not threatening enough to blow the lantern out. People dance - it reverberates on the walls. She considers going downstairs and joining the fun. She decides against it. With all the ruckus, Aqua can’t really say she’s alone.

And Aqua rejects Tifa when she knocks, offering a hot plate of food. Tifa leaves her with a small bowl of strawberries just in case, letting her know that Sora is looking for her.

“I need rest,” Aqua says. “He’ll understand.”

Two hours after that, the night starts to quiet, its inhabitants straggling off for adventures.

But there’s always a few left, chattering. Everyone needs someone to talk to.

“Terra,” she calls again. No answer.

Maybe if she plays his music box, he’ll find a way to her.

On his bed, she stares at the ceiling, the music box playing the song of the missing and the missed, the chatter downstairs peaceful, the lantern burning strong.

Dozing off is like blinking, the hours nonexistent and the rest groggy and unfulfilled.

It’s silent. The candle in the lantern is halfway through its life, the music box needs rewinding, and there’s not a voice or movement downstairs. Tifa doesn’t stay overnight, so Aqua is truly alone this time.

She rolls over, and contemplates reaching over for the music box. Both Wayfinders sit idly on the table, side by side.

Aqua inhales. She smells smoke.

The flame on the candle flickers black, suffocating all the light in the room. Aqua whimpers.

Something grabs her from under, pulling her into the mattress as though a hole beneath her body is feeding.

“No!”

But there’s no one to hear her ripping the bedsheets or scratching the surface of the table as she fails to grip it. Eventually, her defiant cries are muffled by pillows and fabric, until she sinks, much like she’s done for years.

Aqua knows that to swim back up to the bed is futile. The Realm of Darkness must have waited for the right opportunity to bring her back to where she truly belongs... Or it was clever this entire time and really got her where it hurt the most. Being in the Realm of Light was too good to be true; it had to have been a dream, right? A Keyblade Master should have known better, should have anticipated the enemy’s movements.

She lands on nothingness. Her only choice is to choose a direction, but in a sea of black, it never matters.

No, something is different this time.

She whirls. Behind her is that girl in white, her blonde hair wrapped around her shoulder, smiling. Nothing smiles in the Realm of Darkness.

“Hello,” Aqua says.

The girl nods in return, her glow intensifying. Then she disintegrates into a cluster of white, holy butterflies, fluttering away.

“Wait!”

Through the nothing, Aqua chases the butterflies, and for a moment they’re too fast for her - if she loses sight of them, she’ll be stuck here forever again. She urges her legs to pick up speed no matter how it feels like she’s slogging through molasses; she’ll thank them for their service later with a real bath, as soon as she sees the Realm of Light again.

In the distance, the butterflies settle, illuminating a silhouette of a figure on the ground, one arm draped over one knee.

Terra. He’s admiring the tiny wings across his arms and shoulders. There’s one nestled in his hair, but he doesn’t notice. Aqua’s footsteps don’t make noise, yet he looks up when she approaches.

His eyes are blue: A gorgeous, deep blue that Aqua used to say was like the river before she saw the ocean for the first time. She’s told him to try wearing the color. It would bring his eyes out more, but he’d scoff at her.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. He stays still, not disturbing the butterflies. “Please tell me you’ve escaped.”

“Depends on where I am,” she says, sitting on her knees and giving him a smile. It widens without her permission, with every glance at his jawline, his brows, his nose, as though the darkness around them can’t hurt her anymore.

“This is…” He shrugs with his head. “My existence.”

This was his prison for twelve years? The Realm of Darkness at least gave her something to do. “There’s nothing here.”

“I suppose it suits me.”

She doesn’t like how defeated he sounds. “I did escape, Terra. Don’t worry.”

He smiles in the way a person does when they find their bed after a long, hard day. He doesn’t have breath: this vision of him is compensating with a sigh in the only way it could. “I’m glad,” he says, as though the relief is heavy on his shoulders.

“And you? Are you safe?”

“As long as I sit here and do as I’m told, then sure. For the most part.” He has the gall to smirk. “He’s knocked out right now, actually.”

Aqua gapes. She never considered that Xehanort could sleep, or would even want to.

She should ask more pressing questions: something about Keyblade business, about the fate of the world, about Xehanort and Mickey, about Ven… But it’s the simple moments that she misses, that she wants to take back for a few seconds, to indulge in this dream before she has to play the Master. And it’s Terra, who always undoes her to a layer that no one else can see. He’s the only one who can.

“Does he snore?” she whispers, the words slipping out naturally.

Terra lifts a brow. “The man who will destroy everything and everyone in the next Keyblade War does, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a usual night, when they’ve snuck together into a dark library past curfew. “That’s because it’s your body. You’re the one who snores.”

“Just a little.”

“Just enough.”

He smiles. The look of it punches Aqua in the gut, dragging her beating heart down along with it. It’s meant for her. It’s meant for his best friend, and dare she wish that it could mean something stronger and closer and more. She steals one precious, little moment to study the way it never stretches to his ears. Most who don’t know him would assume it’s because he’s shy, or too polite. But Terra’s just the type that prefers his smile to ignite his eyes. She’s daydreamed about it for many nights, but this is a tiny detail she’s forgotten, and the sight of it sends another crashing bolt.

He’s really here.

“Terra,” she croaks, “I’m so sorry.”

He falters. “What for?”

What for? She’s replayed all the words she threw at him in her mind, especially the last ones. Of course he’d take them to heart and never direct the blame back at her. Sweet Terra.

“For not believing you when you said you were going after the darkness. For accusing you of doing terrible things in other worlds.”

“Aqua.” He shakes his head, and the butterfly that dug itself into his hair flounces before it measures if it’s safe enough to land in the same spot. “I know what it’s like to be forced to choose between your best friend and your Master.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have told you - I shouldn’t have even insinuated that you would keep going astray and keep doing stupid things. It was cruel of me. It was senseless. Please forgive me.”

He shakes his head again, and the butterfly opts to hover next to his ear this time. “I bet you counted on lecturing me all the way back home before we could go on as normal,” he says, brushing off any sign of hurt. “And I did do some stupid things. We couldn’t have known it would end that way, Aqua. There’s nothing to forgive. Everyone that’s important to me is now safe. I’ve made my peace.”

What is that supposed to mean? There’s no solace to be had if he’s not part of it.

In a flash, Aqua reaches for him. He reciprocates with the same desperate attempt, all the butterflies now in an uproar, enveloping them. Their hands pass through each other, through air.

Aqua gasps. The only thing she’s grabbed is one solitary butterfly, fluttering its wings.

Terra stares at his hand in disbelief, a wave of self-willed reassurance passing over his face. “It’s okay.”

It’s not.

She’s about to say so when he whips his head to the left as though he’s hearing movement. She looks over: there’s nothing but empty, inky space.

“He’s waking up.” Terra scowls, his voice laced with the disgust of someone robbed, and the disappointment of someone faithless. “He’s very paranoid. He doesn’t like it if I talk or move too much.”

“Terra-”

“I don’t have much time.”

There’s a finality in his statement that Aqua chooses to ignore. “But Ven-”

He catches her gaze, his eyes urgent and commanding. “Ven is with Sora.”

Aqua snaps her eyes wide open at the wooden ceiling above her. The morning sun beams through the window. The lantern has been entirely spent.

He never was here.

She jolts up, searching each corner for signs of him (though she knows better. She always knows better, and still she denies it). “No, Terra, please. I need my Keyblade.”

Silence. Tifa hasn’t arrived to start the day. Aqua’s Wayfinder sits alone at the table; Terra’s is on the floor. She must have knocked it over while she slept.

Throwing herself on her knees, Aqua holds his Wayfinder to her chest. She tries using it to feel for him, but even her heart won’t answer. “Come on, Terra, I still need to get to Ven.”

She won’t give in to despair. She won’t think about how she’ll never see him again; it’s just a reaction to the circumstances. She will continue to hold her chin high, continue to teach herself not to cry, continue to look forward. She knows better. Only when she’s sure she won’t fall apart does she relax, letting her head hang.

Something shines from the sunlight through the floorboards she’s sitting on. Aqua peers closer - it shines blue.

It’s desecration but she doesn’t care. Aqua nudges her fingers through the cracks, and it shifts. These floorboards aren’t well bolted, so it takes little effort to pull one out with a giant shriek. Then another. Then a third. Good thing she’s alone for now.

“Stormfall,” she gasps. Along with her armor, all kept together.

Her Keyblade is as familiar as an old friend who has waited for a visit for years, yet as alienating as clothes that no one believes used to fit. It’s much lighter than the Master’s Defender, much sleeker that it feels almost delicate, even though Aqua knows better. It’s sturdy, but groggy, as though it’s waking up from a decade-long slumber. It burns at the touch of her hand, slowly but surely recognizing who is holding it this time. It answers back; it’s home, and glad she’s returned.

She runs her hands down the blade, and traces the shapes of the key ridges at its end. At last, she hugs her Keyblade, and her heart remembers how beautifully the water glistens in the sunshine.

Within the hour, after she’s taken enough time for herself, Aqua will take one step forward onto solid ground.

#terraqua #aqua #tifa lockhart #zack fair #terra #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kh fanfic #i planned on releasing this last week #but held it because of what was happening #my fic

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blackmarketmummy · 5 years ago

Text

The Mandalorian and His Foundlings

Characters: Din Djarin, Baby Yoda, and a nameless little girl

Theme: family, purpose, and acceptance (family fluff time)

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

Title Crawl: The Mandalorian, Din Djarin, found himself in a precarious situation that none of his training or swearing of the Creed could have prepared him for: finding the foundlings. What was supposed to be a routine bounty hunt that promised a handsome reward, turned into an unexpected change of the heart and journey that leads him to have his beliefs turned upside down. He will learn what it means to care for beings that are unable to help themselves and to teach another of belonging and acceptance, something he never believed he would ever do. There will be many overwhelming feelings, awkward questions, angst, and a discovery that family is the only thing that truly matters.

He had already been thrown into unknown territory when he obtained the small 50-year-old green asset from Arvala-7, so he was even more befuddled when he found a stowaway on his ship during his journey back to Nevarro.

CHAPTER 1

What the hell. Din was always a man of few words, but this was a new level of speechlessness.

After making sure the tiny sleeping asset was secure in its pod in the cockpit, he had made his way down the ladder to do a routine check up on supplies and inventory. He knew he was pushing it by not refueling before making it back to Nevarro to exchange the asset for his reward, but he was low on credits and his calculations told him he had just enough fuel to make it before the Razor Crest would be drifting dead in space.

He had heard a brief shuffle below deck while in the cockpit but assumed some of the cargo was adjusting to the transition into hyperspace per usual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He was sifting through his inventory of medical supplies, but his mind was distracted by thoughts of the asset in the cockpit, wondering the probability of having a concussion while battling the mudhorn when the asset had used… sorcery… to give him the upper hand on obtaining the hairy egg for the Jawas. He had to have been seeing ridiculous things when that happened, there was no other explanation. Concussions were to be expected among Mandalorians unfortunately, but the helmets were supposed to prevent it. His new acquaintance, Kuill, had advised him to make sure he rested sufficiently if a concussion had happened, but he had yet to see unnatural things in the past when he recovered from injuries… but what he saw the green asset do could not be explained.

No questions, he reminded himself. So what if he was seeing things? He just needed to rest and recover from the last few eventful days he had, and that’s what led him to collapsing on his uncomfortable cot, and as a result, hearing a strange squeak that scared the shit out of him.

Immediately, he stood to lift the cot up and found… a child. He stared at the youngling for a few moments in a state of bewilderment. He was almost surprised it wasn’t another strange green creature, much like the asset upstairs. She was definitely human. How did she sneak in without me noticing? How long has she been in here?

Too late, he noticed the small girl was shaking and crying quietly, attempting to make herself into a smaller ball of thin limbs. Obviously, she was terrified of him, Mandalorians were designed to look intimidating and led people to assume they were being hunted when one was seen in public. He blinked a few times to see if the youngling was still actually there and thanked the Maker he was wearing his helmet… except he wasn’t wearing it at all.

It had become routine for him to take it off when he laid down on the cot to rest, but routine can be unexpectedly ruined.

His heart beat wildly from panic as he slowly crouched down to pick up his helmet, all while staring at the crying young girl to make sure she didn’t run or attack him while attempting to cover his face again. Once it was secured on his head, he remained on the girl’s level, trying to figure out how she managed to end up under his uncomfortable bed, and attempted to compartmentalize the fact that he had his kriffing helmet off in front of a living being because he did not have the current head space to tackle all these issues at once in his cluttered, exhausted mind. After stealing another moment of reading the child’s face and determining she feared him and she was not a threat to him, uncertain, he figured he should say or do something to end the tense stare off.

Wordlessly, he slowly reached his hand out to her, resulting in her cowering away, beginning to shake even more than before. Instinctively, he understood she felt unsafe and probably hadn’t felt safe for most of her life. With that knowledge, he retracted his hand, slowly stood straight, and backed away to avoid frightening her further.

He walked toward his makeshift kitchen corner and retrieved two cups and straws to fill with water. He heard the tiny girl whimpering now and slowly walked back over to kneel with more space apart than before from the youngling. He reached over to set the cup full of water and the straw between them on the floor – a sort of peace offering. I know all about waiting, he thought as he patiently observed her. After a moment Din moved his straw and cup near his helmet, bending the straw under his helm, and drank from it. The girl observed Din curiously while he drank his water, and thankfully she wasn’t whimpering or shaking as much as she had previously. Her eyebrows were arched in confusion at first, but eventually Din saw she understood what he was doing. He then gestured to the cup, expressing that it’s hers to take. She eyed the water cup warily, distrusting the tall man, but thirst got the best of her and quickly picked up the cup and straw to drink from it.

How long had she gone without water… or food? He pondered as he watched her gulp the water before he could even finish his cupful.

After she finished, she sat the cup back down on the floor again, relieved to quench her thirst but still looking warily at the quiet man. Din wasn’t sure how old she was or if she could speak basic, so he settled on a relieved sigh once he finished his cup, satisfied he could make progress with this unexpected turn of events.

The Mandalorian began to make an internal list of facts while setting the cups and straws back in the kitchen area. This he was sure of presently: first, his back was sore; second, he wasn’t seeing things; third, there’s a magical green child passed out in the cockpit; fourth, there’s a dehydrated, teary-eyed youngling sitting in front of him; and fifth, the galaxy was punishing him for taking off his helmet, when all he wanted was a few kriffing minutes of uninterrupted rest.

While he was back sitting on the floor near his dismantled bunk, Din realized he was thinking for far too long on his five pressing issues, only because he suddenly heard a light snore coming from the young girl. He supposed she became bored with his quiet stare and ended up in an exhausted slumber.

Stealthily, he stood without waking her to go find a blanket, figuring it may be a long sleep for her. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in quite some time, considering the dark circles under her weepy eyes when he observed her previously. As he was searching through supplies for a blanket, he had to pause and ask himself, why am helping this stowaway? He couldn’t determine the appropriate reason, or maybe he didn’t want to admit his pure motivations, or else he would have to realize he felt pity for this youngling. Shaking his head of these unwarranted thoughts, he blamed it on the Creed and didn’t question it, determined to compartmentalize this issue and think about it later when he could finally shut his eyes for a moment of peace.

Unfortunately, the flustered Mandalorian couldn’t find a sheet or blanket anywhere on the Razor Crest, therefore, without thinking, he unattached his worn cape that had seen better days and headed quietly toward the sleeping girl. He lightly covered the youngling with his dirty cape, all the while avoiding the questions his mind conjured on why he was even doing all of this for a desert rat. Later, he reminded himself.

Remembering the tiny green asset sleeping in the cockpit, he made his way up to check on the ship’s functions and see if it had awakened. As he entered through the doorway, he pressed the button on the asset’s pod to open it and found the creature opening its eyes, at first confused, but interestingly perked up once recognizing Din.

As the tall exhausted man collapsed in the pilot’s chair, he allowed himself to devise a plan: first, drop off the asset to the client, and then ask the Armorer about where he can leave the young girl. It was the least he could do, and he couldn’t have a youngling staying on his ship. This was no life for a child, he knew that well.

Should he tell the Armorer about the girl seeing him briefly without his helmet? After contemplation, Din determined it was wise to do so. He prided himself in being an honest man no matter the cost, and he trusted the Armorer to advise him well and point him in the right direction… even if that meant he had to give up his life over a small mistake. While others might keep it a secret and lie, he would be an honorable man and do the right thing for the Way. Maybe the Maker will be merciful.

Eventually, Din fell into a brief, deep sleep but abruptly woke hearing a light giggling coming from the asset. He quickly turned his head to look at it and found not only the green creature but the young girl as well. Startled, the girl looked at the Mandalorian, quickly backed away, and began running out of the cockpit.

“Wait,” Din commanded, making the girl stop in the doorway. He didn’t stand, worried he would frighten her even more from sudden movements. He slowly lifted his gloved palm out to her, an invitation to stay and listen to what he had to say. The youngling stared at his outstretched hand and rooted herself, indicating she would not go anywhere else.

Satisfied, the patient man then gestured to the seat behind his, silently offering it to her. Appearing unsure of what to do, the girl stood in the same spot, so the Mandalorian lightly stated, hoping to sound not as frightening as before, “you can sit there.”

Quietly taking his suggestion, the youngling sat in the passenger’s seat, which Din bemusedly noticed was quite large compared to her small stature. He turned back to the controls and made sure everything checked out before glancing at the curious green asset, who had its ears perked up at the Mandalorian’s attention.

Turning back to the controls and appearing busy, he asked the girl offhandedly, “why did you sneak onto my ship?” Again, his question made him wonder if she even knew basic, or what her mother tongue even was. When she didn’t verbally respond, he turned to glance at her only to receive a shrug as an answer. Maker, she was giving him a run for his credits by forcing him to be the social one between the two of them.

“Surely your family is worried,” he said, fully turned toward her, waiting for some nonverbal tell on the status of why she snuck onto a stranger’s ship. Mostly she kept her face blank, but Din couldn’t miss the tears that began to gather in her eyes. There’s his answer.

“I understand,” he sighs, which makes the girl widen her eyes in surprise. Turning back to the controls, he wasn’t sure what else to say except, “you want the impossible… for them to come back. All you have for now is yourself. You want it – need it – to be enough.” With that, he hoped she could comprehend what he was expressing. I know all about waiting, he reminded himself.

The Mandalorian only heard sniffles in response to his words and allowed her to have a moment to think on what he said.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian au #baby yoda #fluffy time #fluff #family time #tragic past #star wars #pedro pascal #with this beskar i thee wed #dad!din #first fanfic

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aliceslantern · 4 years ago

Text

Give/Take, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 5

Ienzo has been too busy since the war to be overwhelmed by the past. But with little progress to be made in his work with Kairi, old nightmares start to invade.

Riku is a glorified housesitter. Lonely and faced with no choice but to wait for a way to find his friends, he eagerly accepts when Ienzo asks him to help do repairs around the castle. Before long, the two strike up an unlikely friendship, united by their dark pasts and their attempts to be better people.

But just as they begin to consider something more... Kairi wakes up.

Ienzoku (Ienzo/Riku), post-Melody of Memory, slow burn. Updates Thursdays until it's done.

Chapter summary: Ienzo and Riku's friendship begins to deepen, raising questions about what they might feel about what another. Time passes.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Ienzo was exhausted.

The walk back from town felt longer than it ever had. Cid had tried his best to offer advice, but as it were, he couldn’t do much. Ienzo’s limbs felt heavy, the soles of his shoes worn thin from so many hours on his feet. I really should get new boots, he thought.

At least he was able to identify this feeling now, unlike the first time it had happened. He needed to try and sleep, if so for an hour or two. He didn’t want to collapse again. It was not a very flattering look. The first time it had happened, Aeleus had panicked and contacted Even, and the lecture Ienzo had received afterwards was not pleasant.

He knew better now. Rest first; at least a little. He forced himself to lay down and was so burnt out he slept dreamlessly, almost breathlessly, waking up just after dawn with an unpleasant crick in his neck. The notion of waking up for once not in a nightmare-induced panic was a bit disorienting; he blinked.

Ahead of Ienzo was another long day of no progress being made. He knew in his bones that was what would happen, but couldn’t justify doing much else. He took a shower, put on some clean clothes, and went to the communal kitchen to go get a cup of coffee, hoping that someone had filled the pot already.

Someone had, but not the someone he’d thought.

“Oh… sorry,” Riku said. “I figured I’d just… make some for all of us.”

Ienzo shook his head a little. “So you got in.”

“Yesterday. I helped Aeleus with some painting.” There was something jittery, almost nervous in Riku’s expression. Ienzo thought back to their last encounter and bit his lip.

“Oh. That’s good. Oatmeal? I was going to make some for myself.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

It was still a bit uncomfortable, admittedly, to have his back towards him. Ienzo’s face was burning, and his heart was beating hard again, but not quite with the same panic as before. “I know Aeleus isn’t exactly the chattiest if one doesn’t know him well.”

“...Actually… he and I kinda had a good conversation. About…”

“Castle Oblivion.”

“What else?” he chuckled.

Ienzo dumped in the oats and turned to look at him.

“It’s just hard for me to pretend that never happened. Not since I’m here.”

“And since you quite literally live there now,” Ienzo added.

He shrugged. “Well. Staying there, anyway.”

He stirred their breakfast. “Is it very strange?”

“It’s eerie,” Riku admitted. “I’m the only one there.”

“...No wonder you’re looking for any reason not to be there.”

After a moment, Riku added, “it wouldn’t be so bad if I actually had things to do.”

Ienzo added some honey and sugar. “You don’t like being bored, do you?”

“I already think too much,” Riku said. “With nothing to work towards… I feel useless.”

“I know that feeling well.” He smiled a little despite himself. At least these were instant oats, so there wasn’t much awkward faffing around while he waited and waited for it to cook. He spooned some out for each of them and sat.

It felt a little odd, sharing a meal. Something too mundane and too human. “Thanks for cooking,” Riku said.

“Thank you for the coffee,” Ienzo said back. “Really. You don’t need to be so stiff or so polite around me.”

“Sometimes I’m not sure what else to say.”

“You don’t always have to say anything.”

“What if I want to sound smart like you guys?”

He laughed. “We’re not smart. We’re educated. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t know about that. Hearing you guys talk about--data, and principles, and heartlines, and all this other stuff… sometimes it just sounds like gibberish to me.” He chuckled. His grin was a bit lopsided, Ienzo noted. He liked the character it brought to Riku’s face, different than the obvious mask he’d been wearing. And I’m probably doing the same.

“Sometimes it is gibberish,” Ienzo said. “I swear Even likes hearing himself talk.”

“...I think you do too.”

His eyebrows shot up; it took a moment to realize he was teasing him, and even longer to come up with a response. “...Perhaps theatricality is part of my nature,” he said lamely. He wished he could stop blushing. “What of it?”

“But yet I also so don’t get you.”

He blinked. “How so?”

Riku cocked his head. “I dunno. There’s just something… I can’t put my finger on. Some people are just such open books. Like Sora. But you… I thought I understood Zexion. And when we met, I thought I got Ienzo . But now I’m not so sure.”

“May have something to do with the fact that I don’t get myself ,” Ienzo said dryly. Then, “Do you like that sort of intrigue?”

It was a rather bold statement, and it slipped out mostly by accident. He wasn’t sure why he said it, just that it felt natural in the moment. He realized this was less bantering, more… something else.

“Jury’s still out on that one, I’m afraid,” Riku replied equally.

“Then maybe I should try harder.” It was like a game, different than their earlier enmity. He almost wanted to know how far he could go, how hard he could push it. If Riku would snap at him for his impertinence. Or maybe Riku was so bored he wanted that impertinence.

Maybe Ienzo did too.

Riku flicked his eyebrows once. “Maybe you should,” he said. He stood to put his dishes in the sink. “As much fun as I’m having… I should do what I’m actually here for. Apparently I’m helping Dilan today.”

“Good luck to you.”

“Though--” He looked back. “Do you happen to have… any bobby pins I could borrow?”

---

It was odd, and confounding, to have him around more often. Running into him during or after meals. Seeing him around Dilan or Aeleus or even working on his own, his brows furrowed in concentration. Dilan reported--with something like confusion--that he was very good with his hands after all.

“I think it’s nice he’s being so helpful,” Ienzo said. “I was hoping I’d get to stop hearing you complain about having to do this work.”

“There’s so much to make habitable that it’s going to take far more than adding one to a staff of two,” Dilan said. “Perhaps if you got off your butt and did some work too.”

Ienzo rolled his eyes. “I am working. Quite hard.” On a mostly fruitless project, true. Every morning he walked into that lab and Kairi was still asleep, he felt a stab of guilt. They were wasting days of her life. But everything was coming out so-- ordinarily. Ansem insisted they had to trust that she was working with the process. But it had been nearly four months. And seeing Riku’s concern and disappointment whenever he found out no major strides had been made didn’t help.

Ienzo felt… useless. He found himself thinking more often of his days as a Nobody, when he felt like he was doing something, getting somewhere. Making discoveries.

Committing atrocities. Causing worlds to fall. Et cetera.

But this didn’t feel much like atonement either. He pulled his eyes away from the computer and looked at his hands, which to this day still looked rather naked without those black gloves. All I’ve done and I’m still here. Is there a reason for that? Or is this another of the universe’s jokes? Much like Xehanort had ascended rather than simply dying. Maybe he wanted karma, he wanted consequence, and vilification--

He looked back at the sleeping girl. He wanted to do good so badly . But he didn’t seem very “good” at that. “Excuse me,” he said to Ansem. “I need to walk for a minute. Clear my head.”

“By all means,” Ansem said, with a smile.

Ansem’s kindness made him feel guilty, too. Maybe Ienzo hadn’t been the one to usurp him, but after all, he had been the one to persuade Ansem into building that lab. Everything that happened after that was his fault. Staying busy… helped him keep on top of the memory. If he didn’t try to make up for what he did, why even have this life at all? It didn’t make sense.

But he couldn’t try to work like this.

Ienzo started walking. His eyes were hurting from all the time spent in front of screens. There had to be something he could do, something major all of them were missing--maybe he should go to the library, pull a few texts, something older than their research, a bit more mythic--

His head was starting to ache. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You--ah--okay?”

Riku startled him; he felt that jolt of accompanying panic and had to take a breath to settle himself. “Riku. I thought you were away.”

“...I just came back a few minutes ago. It turns out a self-cleaning castle doesn’t need a whole lot of babysitting.”

“I-I’m glad you’re motivated.”

“Idle hands make the devil’s work,” he said, with a trace of sarcasm. “Really, you okay?”

“I’m a bit frustrated,” he admitted. “When it comes to our work.”

“With Kairi,” he said, his face falling.

“Yes. It’s been… months, and we have… very little to show.”

“Ansem said this would be a long shot,” Riku reminded him.

“But I’d hoped for more than quite literally nothing. It makes me feel…” Why was he telling him all this?

“Let me guess. Useless?” he offered.

“Wholly and completely. I left to try and clear my head. If you’d like to talk to Even--”

“That’s alright.”

Ienzo smiled a little. “I think I just need to get out of here for a few minutes. Get coffee… or something. That is, if the weather isn’t awful.”

“It kinda always is lately, isn’t it?” Riku said, with a sigh.

“You must miss the warmth.”

He seemed to go far away for a moment. “I guess so.”

“Do you want to come with me?”

He jerked. “What?”

“On my walk? For coffee? Or…” Checking his watch. “I should probably eat…” He scowled.

Riku chuckled. “What’s that mean?”

“Right… you wouldn’t know, would you?” He shook his head. “Nobodies don’t have to eat. Or sleep, for that matter. That is to say… I’m not quite used to it. Which I’m sure sounds very strange.”

“Huh,” he said. “You know, I think I sort of get it. When I was… possessed by the seeker of darkness, I kinda felt the same.”

“Isn’t it bizarre?” Ienzo asked. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to talk about this.

“...I guess darkness is hungry in other ways,” he said. “Though… I never fully lost my heart the way you did.”

He hummed. “Well. I’ll get my coat and boots, and then we’ll go?”

“Alright.”

---

True to form, it was snowing, fat white flakes falling from the sky. At least it wasn't so painfully cold, and Ienzo's wool coat kept him warm enough. "I guess there aren't seasons on Destiny Islands," he began, feeling the need to chat.

"I thought you'd been," Riku began cautiously.

"...No," Ienzo said.

"But your… illusion of it was so spot-on."

His heart was beating hard and fast. "That's partially due to your and Sora's memories, and partially due to the nature of Castle Oblivion," he said. "Usually I can't-- couldn't, " he corrected, "make something so intense without experience. I think that's the only reason Xemnas let me onto the field, in the end." He cleared his throat. "No, I've never been. How do noodles sound?"

"Um, fine."

They got some from a stand and sat at a table under a covered courtyard. Despite outdoor space heaters, it was still rather cold. They ate in silence for a moment.

"It does have seasons," Riku said, in a low voice. "Not like here, not the four. But… yeah. The dry season, the wet rainy season, hot, and… slightly less hot."

Ienzo chuckled. "Do you miss it?"

Riku didn't speak for a moment, and he wondered if he'd hit a nerve. "More than I thought I would," he said. "I guess… part of it is the simplicity of life, that I had. I hated it, though. The thought that I would spend my whole life confined to a handful of islands."

"...It must've felt suffocating."

"It did," he admitted. "Though now I want to go back to the way things were. ...At least until I get sick of it again."

"You have options now," Ienzo said.

"I guess so."

He picked at his food with his chopsticks. "Did you have a happy childhood there?" He asked

Riku smirked. "Why do you ask? I thought we didn't always have to say anything."

Ienzo's heart stuttered again. This game was getting deliberate, he realized. "How dare I seek to get to know you better."

"I'm just honestly surprised you're asking me that. "

"Why? Considering I spend my waking days examining old memory… I think I deserve a conversation about it."

He leaned back in his chair. His jacket pulled a bit tighter across his chest, revealing a bit of definition Ienzo definitely noticed, and he found his mouth dry and his head a bit empty. It took a moment to recover. He realized, coldly, he was ogling him with interest , and his breathing picked up a bit.

Oh no.

Riky raised an eyebrow. "Ienzo? You okay?"

He'd never felt this way. Was this supposed to be how it felt? He didn't deserve this sort of thing, he wasn't even sure he deserved friends--

He leaned back over the table. "You're breathing kind of hard. Why are you anxious?"

Ienzo felt so beautifully and so awfully seen. He wasn't used to feeling and he wasn't used to anyone recognizing what he was feeling--how could he ever be good enough--

"Ienzo. Look at me. It's okay."

He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the table.

"Was it a memory? Did you remember something?"

He shook his head again.

"Look at me," he repeated. "Look up. You're alright. It's only anxiety."

"Only," he spat. His chest was tight and he was nauseous.

"I know. Believe me, I know. It sucks. It's the worst. But it's not forever."

"This is humiliating."

"Why? It's just me. No one else is around. The weather is too shitty." He offered a smile.

"I don't want to--I'm not used to--" He couldn't think clearly.

"Breathe. Nice and deep."

He tried; it hurt. His eyes were watering. "You… you feel like this?"

"...A lot, actually."

"So many things I don't understand." He'd studied mental illness for years and he couldn't even recognize an anxiety attack that wasn't triggered by memory.

"It's okay. It doesn't usually make sense." He felt pressure and realized Riku had taken his hand and, moreover, he was squeezing it hard. Ienzo jerked his own back.

"What were you thinking about? Can you tell me?" He asked.

Ienzo swallowed. "Do you ever feel…" He shouldn't say this, he should say it was too personal, and Riku wouldn't pry. "Undeserving?"

"Of?"

"Everything, the people around you, your friends, just--having a body--"

Unflinchingly, he said, "yes. Always. But you know… I'm starting to learn that just because I did bad stuff in the past doesn't mean I have to make myself pay for it forever."

"How?"

"How what?"

"How do you realize that?" He needed the answer.

"Look, you want to be better, right? And you're working hard on that? Why punish yourself? I…" He exhaled. "That's hard for me to grasp most of the time too. But for whatever reason we're here. That has to mean something. We were given second chances. Chances to make choices."

"What kind of choice?"

"Who we'll be."

It felt like a weight was leaving him, though how or why he wasn't sure.

"No Organization. No… Ansem, or Xemnas. Just us."

"I guess so," he said wearily. “How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Just… forgive yourself. Move on.”

Riku laughed a little. “Well I’m not done, exactly. Not even close. I just… I don’t know. At some point suffering gets… pointless. It doesn’t help anyone. It just… wastes time.”

Ienzo blinked back the tears. “That actually makes sense.”

“I’m not going to pretend to understand everything that happened with you. But I think…” He exhaled. “Dunno. If you ever feel like you need to talk about it, you can start with me. Cause I know how much it sucks to try and do this all alone.”

Ienzo looked him in the eye at long last. He seemed to mean it, really and genuinely. “Right,” he said softly. “Right. Okay.”

“Why don’t we walk for a little while? That might help.”

“Alright.” Ienzo cleared his throat. They went to give back their empty bowls. Finally he made himself say it. “Thank you, Riku.’

He shook his head. “It’s the least I can do.”

---

Riku found himself looking forward to his time in Radiant Garden, even though the winters there were wet, cold, and generally miserable. The castle didn’t have adequate heating; this was part of his repair job, actually. They’d been using mostly fireplaces and space heaters, but it would be more effective--especially seeing the literal ice rain down from the sky--to have the central heating up and running.

Riku was used to working with Aeleus now, his quiet calm demeanor. They didn’t talk much, but this suited Riku. Sometimes, depending on how hands-on the work was, his left wrist would ache for hours. Dilan wasn’t as pleasant of a partner. And sometimes, Riku worked totally alone.

But at least if he were working here he was close to Kairi, and it was something constructive to do . It made him feel just the slightest bit less lonely, even though the ache of missing them never went away.

He dreamt of Sora often, usually nightmares of Sora lost, injured, or worse. At least with Kairi here he knew she was physically okay. (Though there were, admittedly, dreams of her turning up braindead from being asleep so long.) Sora must feel so alone, wherever he was. He was so dependent on his friends. Riku just wanted him back home, safe and sound.

Though at least he had someone to talk to, now.

Over the days and weeks that followed, through the worst of winter, he and Ienzo actually spent a good amount of time together, even if they just sat down for a cup of coffee or went for a walk. Riku guessed they were both lonely, but as their conversations evolved, he realized… he and Ienzo were actually a lot alike. Their relationships to darkness and their pasts. Their general reservedness. The dark humor.

Riku… liked spending time with Ienzo.

Every now and again he saw the other boy staring at him, his head slightly cocked, his eyes running so lightly against Riku’s arms, or his jaw. He’d first noticed the day Ienzo had that anxiety attack. And on some level, Riku knew he himself was attractive, if the behavior of the girls and some of the guys at his high school had meant anything. Even if that “attractiveness” came from unusually colored hair and symmetrical features and simply taking care of himself. At first, the notion that Ienzo might find him attractive too was terrifying.

But ever since he’d felt that first jump in his pulse, he… started to feel it, too. Ienzo’s delicate face, the gracefulness of his hands. The glint in his eye. Would it be so harmful to flirt with him? They already had several times.

Yes, said the voice in his head that sounded like Kairi. For one, it’s a huge conflict of interest. You need him to do his best work to help me , right? Which he can’t do if he’s distracted by you.

Riku felt a stab of guilt. But they weren’t getting much done anyway, he thought. Ienzo had explained the process to him a few times (it had sort of become white noise every time, even though he had tried to listen and understand, instead watching the way his lips moved and trying to keep his expression neutral), and the data they were receiving wasn’t conclusive. She might still be digging through her deeper memory. Considering she had sixteen years’ of it, this might take… a long time.

And the three of them worked more or less around the clock, too. There had been a few times when Riku went down in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, hoping to sit with Kairi for a little while, alone. Someone was usually down there--usually, in fact, it was Ienzo, or a bit more rarely Even. He saw the bags under their eyes, their pale skin, the yawns and the endless cups of coffee. It wasn’t for lack of trying.

Winter coasted to an end, and spring seemed to pass quickly, too. His hair was finally long enough to pull back without the use of pins, and he was grateful because they always fell out or slid around. As the tepid heat that passed for Radiant Garden’s summer began to bleed in, Riku realized it had been nearly nine months since Kairi was asleep.

And it hurt. Here he was, awake, alive , alone , and almost a full year had passed. Sora’s birthday in March had been agony to get through, almost like he was dead and not missing. Now he was faced with the prospect of Kairi’s.

“...Are you alright?” Ienzo asked him during their customary walk. Even though it was summer, he still wore a button-up, done all the way up to the top. At least this one had short sleeves, the muscles in his arms more pronounced than Riku might’ve thought. Books were heavy, he decided.

“I…” He trailed off.

Ienzo smiled. “Riku, we’ve talked about this,” he said in a slightly scolding tone (Riku tried to ignore the way his heart beat faster). “Lying and saying we’re fine gets us nowhere.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” he said instantly. “Look, I’m just thinking… it’s August, right? It’s… almost Kairi’s birthday.”

“Oh,” Ienzo said softly. “I didn’t know.”

“It just… makes me realize how much time has passed.” He looked away from Ienzo, back out at the cobble roads in front of them. “And I know you guys are working as hard as you can--”

“It’s been endlessly frustrating and disheartening for me to have to tell you time and again there’s no progress.”

“I know. I know. I just…” He swallowed the unexpected lump in his throat.

“You miss them.”

“They’re my best friends. And working around here helps , but I’m just so… I don’t know how much more waiting around I can do.”

Ienzo frowned. “I think of it this way, and this may help you,” he said. “Naminé was able to restore Sora’s memories in a year. He was only fifteen, and she was only one person. But there are the three of us, and Kairi, working hard on this memory dive to see if we can find any connection to Sora. I think… I just have a feeling that something might happen around that year mark. Try not to lose hope just yet.” He gave Riku’s hand one small squeeze, enough to make him nearly stumble over his words.

“I’m trying. It’s just… not easy. It feels like… it’s been so long since I was able to just be friends with them, like there hasn’t ever not been a time we were all separated looking for each other. Sometimes I wonder if it’s ever going to end.”

“I’m sure it must feel that way,” he said, a bit more gently. “But… knowing what I know about the three of you, the bonds are too strong for that separation to be final.”

“You really believe that,” Riku said dryly.

“I really do.” He lifted his chin a bit defiantly. “And seeing as I’m your source for all things scientific… you have no choice but to believe me.”

Riku chuckled.

“...Besides, if enough time passes, we can attempt to release her from her sleep,” Ienzo said. “Actually talk to her. That might be helpful.”

They’d brought this up before, briefly. “But it’s her heart that’s asleep, right? We can’t just wake it up until it’s ready.”

“A good friend of mine has a power that has something to do with that,” Ienzo said, raising an eyebrow.

He pressed a hand to his forehead.

“Did you forget?” Ienzo asked.

“I didn’t… forget . I just didn’t think it would work.”

“Well, to be fair I’m not completely sure it will,” he said. “But it’s worth trying, I think.”

Riku nodded. “Some expert you are,” he said, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Ienzo rolled his eyes.

#give/take #ienzo #riku #ienzo/riku #ienzoku

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