#he just rolls his eyes as he sets up his bedroll in the blood murder circle that no one thought to clean up | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

haru-sen · 3 years ago

Text

IAL: Mandalorians 2

Thanks, 3-D Render Anon, with your adorable voodoo dolls. That was the serotonin I needed.

I should be working, but I’m posting this. The Mando’a phrases and cultural dishes are from Wookieepedia. I’ll post the actual translations in the fic, but I don’t have time right now.

You woke up in a tent, your entire body aching. You were tucked under some blankets, a bedroll under your head. Your sabers were still on your belt.

“Query: are you done yet?” HK-53 asked, from overhead. “Also, are you sure I can’t kill these Mandalorians?”

“I am going to track down that pacifist module and shove it right up your accessory port,” you muttered. “Just you wait-”

“Shock: Master, how could you threaten your loyal droid this way? When did Master get so cruel? I am very proud of you!”

Laughing, you held your head for a moment. “What happened?”

“Recollection: You collapsed. The blue-armored meatbag injected you with kolto, and carried you here. The black-armored meatbag kept his gun on me, and I made sure neither of them did strange things to your person while you were inconveniently indisposed. It has been a little over a standardized hour since you lost consciousness.”

You sat up slowly. The sun was still up. “Where are we?”

“The witch is alive.”

You blinked, the black-armored Mandalorian standing in front of you. He was not wearing his helmet. Tall, with dark skin and clawmark scars across his cheeks, he loomed over you. He was well-groomed, his beard neatly trimmed, his black hair was immaculately styled. How did he not have helmet hair?

Blue scrambled over, also with his helmet off, also younger than you expected. He was blonde, hair gelled and styled. What the hell? Did Mandalorians discover the secret to preventing helmet hair? He smiled at you, with eyes as blue as his armor, his cheeks flushed. “You’re recovering much faster than I expected. How are you feeling?”

“Like I drank Delta Squad under the table again…” You said, rubbing your forehead. You had overdone it back there. Between the terentatek corruption, the Ataru form, and the subsequent wounds, you had pushed yourself too hard too quickly.

“Jedi drink?” Blue raised a brow.

“No, we just absorb dew through our pores,” you scowled.

“This Jedi witch is about to get dunked in a lake if she keeps giving me that attitude,” Skull said coolly.

“Well, I am thirsty,” you said.

To your surprise, Blue offered his canteen, looked thoughtful for a moment, took a drink, and then offered it again. “It’s not poisoned.”

“Disgust: Not poisoned, but definitely contaminated,” HK-53 said.

You hesitantly accepted the canteen, drinking down some of the metallic-tasting water. “Thanks.” You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “What do I call you?”

“Reaper,” Skull said. “76.” He pointed at Blue. “You?”

“Strike,” you said, climbing to your feet. The world wobbled, but did not tilt too far on its axis. You looked around. This encampment was small, but there was a cold firepit and vehicle tracks. They had not set this up in a couple hours. They had been in this area for awhile.

“Strike,” Reaper said, expression grim. “I think we need to talk.”

“No, I need to get to Nar Shaddaa,” you said.

The men looked at each other. “So do we.”

“That’s what we need to talk about,” 76 said, crossing his arms.

You stood there for a moment, a little intuitive nudge already sending your thoughts into overdrive. This was about to get even more complicated. “Because you really like casinos? Right?” You asked, with a sigh.

“Because we need to get one of those kids back,” Reaper said.

“...Of course, you do,” you said, staring up at the sky. You were glad someone had survived to hire mercs to rescue their kid. And you didn’t really care if the child chose to avoid training on Tython. But you did not need battle-happy Mandalorians ruining your operation. “Which one?”

“Xenya Itera, human female.” Reaper held out a holo of a little girl with a tiny spherical droid floating over her outstretched hands. She was dark skinned, her hair in several long tiny braids. She was smiling. “You can rescue the others, but we are obligated to retrieve her.”

“And if she doesn’t want to go with you?” You asked, crossing your arms.

“Then she doesn’t have to,” Reaper said with a shrug, surprisingly unbothered by the question.

“Your bounty?”

“Not your problem,” Reaper said coolly. “We just need to get the kid away from the Cartels. Simple enough. Easier too if we go after them together.”

...Two sensible, non-volatile suggestions from Mandalorian mercs in one day? Was the world coming to an end? ...Or was it a trap? There was a long history of bad blood between Jedi and the Mandalorian clans.

“What clan?” You asked suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Reaper said.

“What clan are you?”

The men looked at you for a moment, like they hadn’t expected that question. “Clan Ordo.”

You nodded. You didn’t have any standing grudges with Clan Ordo. Hell, you hadn’t really ever dealt with them. But they weren’t Clan Lok, Rook, Varad, or Viszla, so you were probably good for the moment. “I can work with that.”

“You should be fine with Ordo,” Rogun said, over the comm-link. “They were one of the clans that backed the Crusader’s Schism, several years back – wanted to side with the Republic instead of the Empire. Whole thing got crushed by Mandalore the Vindicated, and Ordo was eventually welcomed back into the fold, with honor. So they likely don’t have the grudge that Lok and Viszla do. I can’t speak for the individuals though.”

“Good to know,” you said, sitting cross legged in the tent. “And Talon?”

“...I guess you’re right, Strike. There are no coincidences. He’s been spotted on Nar Shaddaa, near the slave markets with an entourage.” An entourage? Did that mean…? Rogun gave a rough laugh. “The Force moves in mysterious ways.”

“No, the Force is a mean bitch with an axe to grind, usually in my face,” you scowled.

Rogun guffawed, the lethorns on the side of his head shaking. “You’re never going to make Master with that kind of talk.”

You rolled your eyes upward, like that was the only thing keeping you from obtaining the rank of Master. Ha! “Just so you know, I got quizzed by the Council on our association.”

“I’m sure you said nice things about me,” he said, his grin mean.

“I said, your sandwiches suck.”

Rogun scowled back at you. “It was the best I could do during an active bombardment!”

You knew adult Chagrians often lost their sense of taste due to environmental factors, and maybe that was the reason the food had been awful, but it was rude to point that part out. “Yeah, well, I talked you up a little too. Made sure they knew that despite your questionable occupation, you’re a friend of the Republic.”

“Great, so when they come knocking at my door for favors or charitable handouts, I know who to blame.”

“Just give them one of those sandwiches, that’ll send them on their way.”

Rogun squinted at you. “It’s a good thing you’re useful, Strike.”

You laughed. “Thanks, Rogun. Keep me updated on Lord Talon’s movements. I’ll make you a delicious sandwich in gratitude.”

“Go kiss a sarlaac,” he scowled, and hung up.

“You certainly have a way with people,” Reaper said, hovering by the entrance.

You had not noticed his approach. How much had he heard? “That’s me, making friends wherever I go,” you said with a shrug.

Reaper gave a low chuckle. “You and that mouthy droid.”

You glanced around, realizing HK-53 had not been over your shoulder for your conversation with Rogun. You got up, a little concerned.

“Relax, he’s shooting bogstalkers with 76. They were attacking the comms equipment. I’ve already updated my people. I’m going to finish breaking down the camp, and then we can go.”

You started to disassemble the tent, watching as HK and 76 sniped at the leathery reptilians that fluttered in the sky.

“What are you flying?” Reaper asked, packing several weapons into crates.

“The usual – Rendili Defender-class light corvette. It’ll get us where we need to go.”

“And you think your credentials will be enough to get us through Olaris?” He asked, because the Republic-held city wasn’t too friendly toward Mandalorians.

“I can, but it might be easier if you leave off the helmets. I know that’s culturally insensitive, but we’ll move faster if I don’t have to pull rank on a bunch of terrified soldiers and customs agents,” You shrugged, bundling the tent tightly.

“Sensible,” was all Reaper said.

“So what’s it like, traveling with a Jedi Knight?” 76 asked, lowering his rifle.

“Declaration: That is a broad question, meatbag. Be more specific,” HK-53 said, rifle aimed at a ferrazid hound, the mutated creature already tearing apart a broke receiver.

76 laughed. “Do you get in a lot of fights?”

“Bragging: We get in so many fights. The number of people who want to kill Master is very high. And it doesn’t seem to get lower, despite how many people we do kill. If I wasn’t so busy killing her enemies, I would want to fight her one day.” HK-53 paused, its head twitching.

76 frowned. “Why does she attract such enmity? Just who are you killing?”

“Aggravation: Master has killed many things, usually enemies of the Republic, but she has also made many rules about what I am not allowed to kill. It is unnecessarily complicated. For example, Master generally prefers to let the enemy make the first move of aggression, to ensure that it is adhering to her archaic rules of “moral” combat. Sometimes she even talks people out of fighting her. Can you believe it? She knows they’re her enemies and she lets them walk away! She should just kill them ahead of time, not spare them. What is she thinking?” HK-53 gunned down the mutated hound-beast. “But Master is a Jedi, and Jedi have to follow silly rules,” the droid muttered petulantly.

“How did a...violent murder-happy droid like yourself end up with a Jedi then?” 76 asked.

HK-53 tilted its head, giving 76 a very skeptical look. “Suspicion: Such flattery. Why are you asking so many questions, meatbag?”

“I’m just curious about the people I’m traveling with,” 76 said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not every day I meet a Jedi Knight or such an...enthusiastic battle droid. It leaves an impression. There’s a story there.”

HK-53 stared at him, those eyes glowing. “Satisfaction: We are impressive. You don’t need to know more.” Turning back to the swamps, HK-53 surveyed the area. “Observation: Oh, it looks like Master and the other meatbag want us to return.”

76 just laughed awkwardly.

“Concern: Master, that meatbag was asking a lot of questions about us.” HK-53 was secured to speeder on the seat behind you. The Mandalorians were on the other. You were technically using their equipment, but you didn’t exactly trust a bunch of battle-happy maniacs in the driver’s seat. That included your droid.

You zoomed over marshlands and fields, the Mandalorians riding parallel to you.

“What kind of questions?”

To your surprise, HK-53 just replayed the recording of the conversation. Normally, he was all too happy to summarize an interaction, and intersperse his own commentary, but he let it play out without interruption.

“Query: There is subtext that I do not understand, Master. Is he probing for weakness? What angle is he coming from? What does he hope to learn?”

You sighed. “It could be socially-motivated, but I’m sure he’s also trying to gather intel. People often let a lot of things slip in friendly conversation.”

“Query: What did he let slip?”

“Not a lot,” you said, thoughtfully. “But he’s trying to be diplomatic, and he seems to have a personal interest in Jedi.”

“Query: How can you tell?”

“The enthusiasm,” you said. “He’s not just asking for intelligence purposes. He’s interested in the topic, and he wants to make a good impression on you. I’m not exactly sure why – Mandalorian mercs aren’t really known for their diplomatic skills, but I think if we talk to him more, we’ll figure it out.”

“Statement: These Mandalorians are not what I expected. Normally, we just fight them, and it’s a little difficult, but it’s done. This change in behavior is...disconcerting.”

“Yeah, I know. Nothing about this mission is what we expected,” you muttered.

“Clean, sturdy, and fast,” Reaper said, looking over your ship. “Not bad.”

“Spacious,” 76 said, with a nod.

Given the fact that it was just you and HK-53, the ship was almost too big. “You guys can make yourselves comfortable in the crew quarters,” you said, gesturing to the rooms. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m going to make some calls before we reach Nar Shaddaa.”

But first you needed to change into an intact top, and check your wounds. Your robe was ruined, and there were three parallel gashes across your low back. They nearly spanned the entire width of your back, and were each a couple inches wide, and thankfully not too deep. But they would take a while to heal. 76 was right, you would scar. Your healing skills just weren’t up good enough. Still.

The auto-navigation was engaged, cockpit locked. You wouldn’t have to take the helm till you reached Nar Shaddaa. You didn’t exactly trust the Mandalorians on your ship, but you could feel them settling down, sharing one of the two sleeping rooms - there were multiple berths on your ship, but they holed up in one together. And they were behaving. To your surprise, when you reached Olaris, the Mandalorians had tucked their helmets into their bags, and quietly followed you through the spaceport. HK-53 attracted more attention with his running commentary, but boarding had gone smoothly.

You put HK-53 outside the comm room and shut the door.

You first called Master Amari, to give her the update for the Council. Yes, you were going to Nar Shaddaa. Also, Orgo the Hutt had a terentatek and had tried to feed you to it. You did not have time to finish the beast – but you would return to take care of it, after you rescued the children. You had picked up some Mandalorians – they were also tracking one of the children and on their best behavior.

Master Amari had been interested to learn they were Clan Ordo, but seemed satisfied with your progress. You did not mention Lord Talon.

The next call was less staid.

“A terentatek, Theron,” you snarled. “How did you manage to leave out that detail?”

“I don’t keep an inventory of every crime lord’s dungeon!”

“It’s a goddamn terentatek, not a monkey lizard! How did he even get one?”

“Did you try asking him?” The spy asked snidely. He lounged on the comm unit, looking nothing like the sickly boy you’d met on Haashimut. “I was too busy trying not to die!”

“Sounds like a “you problem,” he shrugged. “And stop whining, you didn’t die.” He grinned at you.

“No, thanks to you!”

“You didn’t invite me. You could still invite me,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes bright and too eager.

“Pfft, since when did you care about a dozen potential padawans?” You asked, even though you knew the answer, just like you knew why you had not invited Theron along. It would get too complicated for a variety of reasons. “This is barely even Jedi business. It’s a criminal venture that happens to have Imperial ties – not really relevant to the SIS or your career.”

“...I heard you saw the Grandmaster,” he said, suddenly subdued.

And that was exactly why you had not invited him. Theron was a shady son of a bitch on the best of days. That said “bitch” happened to be Grandmaster Satele Shan was just another level of complicated. There were so many reasons the situation was screwed: she had given him up immediately, his father was “unknown,” and he didn’t have enough force sensitivity to blow out a candle. His solution? He’d gotten some kind of high end cybernetic implant and gone off to play spymaster for the Republic, instead of working through his feelings.

But there was always an underlying layer of bitter regrets that accompanied his dealings with the Jedi Order.

“Yes, she looks healthy,” you said, playing it off like it was not a big deal. “It was going to be a disciplinary hearing, but that changed, because I’m just a pawn in some greater philosophical argument. Or maybe because they needed me to do a job,” you scowled. “I still annoy her, don’t worry.”

“Wanna wager which one of us is the greater disappointment?” Theron asked, his smile deceptively cheerful. You knew better than to answer that question. “Just kidding, Strike. It’s obviously you.” He made finger guns. “She hasn’t given me a second thought.”

You shrugged, pretending like you didn’t hear the open wound in that statement. “I doubt it’s anything so important. I just get a lot of lectures from the Council. You can probably guess what they think about strong emotion and any activity that isn’t meditating in front of a fountain.” You paused. “Look, do you want to be there when I report back to them? Like as an SIS adjutant or something?”

Theron let out a harsh laugh. “Are you trying to get kicked out, Strike? You show up to a High Council meeting with the Grandmaster’s bastard offspring in tow? How’s that going to look?”

“...You’re the one asking to come along,” you scowled. “Make up your own mind, Theron. I don’t offer to drag you into stupid Order business, you complain. I do offer to bring you into stupid Order business, after you ask, and you decline and point out why it’s a dumb idea. This is why you don’t have friends.”

“You’re one to talk, unable to make real connections because the Order stunted you for the first half of your life. Now here you are, running around with that psychotic defective HK unit, like it will replace what you lost on Corellia, chasing after Lord Talon like he’s the one you’re mad at, instead of-”

The world narrowed to a single point. Red light flashed across your field of vision.

“You need to stop talking,” you said, your voice going cold.

Theron blinked, his eyes widening. “...Druk. Strike, I didn’t mean-”

You cut the connection, the room blurring around you for a moment. It took a couple seconds for your vision to adjust. To realize how angry you were. Sure, Theron was an asshole, but he’d only peeled back the scab on a still-festering wound. You tilted your head back.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Hold. Repeat till the darkness recedes.

Gradually, your control steadied. But you sat with that cloud of anger, not letting it go, nor letting it take ascendance. It was there, a pulsing reminder of your humanity.

You were going to kill Lord Talon and maybe his apprentice. Not because you hated him, though you did. Not because it was the right thing to do, though it was. You were going to kill him for personal reasons, and unlike the rest of the Order, you were not going to lie to yourself about it. And if that brought you down, if that decision made you fall, well, you were prepared. You had taken the appropriate precautions. There would be no Sith Lord Strike.

There was a ping as you received an incoming message. It was from Theron. It was only five words.

I’m an ass. I’m sorry.

You shook your head, not ready to respond just yet, and left the comm room.

“Is that the best you can do?” 76 laughed, and then there was whumpf, before you heard a body hit the floor.

You peeked into the bunks, to see the Mandalorians stripped down to their shorts, wrestling on the ground. Both men were muscular, with noticeable scars from blasters, vibroblades, and even some teeth and clawmarks. But the tattoos were interesting… Reaper had a full left sleeve, and 76 had some very colorful creatures etched on his back. Was that a varactyl?

“See something you like?” 76 asked, glancing over at you.

Reaper looked up at you, narrowing his eyes. “Or are we being too loud?”

“I wasn’t sure what was going on, just making sure it wasn’t a murder,” you said. “Carry on then.” You abruptly turned around, shoulders taut. You would not stare. And you certainly would not get caught staring.

“Hey, you seem kind of stressed. Do you want to spar or something?” 76 asked.

“That’s not a good idea right now,” you said, tensing.

“Why, because you’re still weak from getting your ass handed to you by a Sithspawn freak?” Reaper asked, casually. “Don’t worry, witch. I’ll go easy on you, if you ask me nicely.” His grin was savage.

You turned back to face him, feeling the anger pour off you in waves. “...Mandalorian, do you need someone to humble you that badly?” You asked, your voice low and harsh.

Reaper laughed. “You don’t scare me, witch. Choose your weapons. And if you need to hide behind your fancy light swords-”

“Practice blades will do,” you said. “Come on then.”

Reaper squinted at you.

“You don’t think I’m going to tear up this room, do you? The sparring mats are on the lower decks,” you said, already heading down.

You picked up two blades off the rack, choosing a full blade and a half-length blade. The cargo hold was equipped for exercise, as you did not normally transport a lot of goods. You stretched, ignoring the whispered conversation between the Mandalorians.

“Oh good, the medbay is across the hall-” 76 said.

“Whose side are you on?” Reaper growled.

“You’re out of armor, cyar’ika,” 76 murmured. “She’s a Jedi. The outcome is obvious.”

“Hut’uun,” Reaper spat. “Verd ori'shya beskar'gam.”

“Don’t be salty because I’m telling the truth, mir’osik.” 76 laughed.

Maybe you should have called HK down here. He could have translated the Mando’a for you. Except he’d be calling for real bloodsport instead of just sparring. And you didn’t need that temptation right now.

You took a few practice swings, reviewing your forms. Niman would be the most sensible. This was just a sparring match. It was an all-around style, and Reaper had a lot more muscle mass than you did. You did not need to go all out. You swung the longer blade, feeling the air part in front of you.

Reaper glowered at 76, then stalked over to the weapon rack.

“Don’t worry, Mandalorian,” you said, your mouth curving in a mockery of a smile. “I won’t use my witchcraft to beat you. I’ll do it with my own two hands.”

“You don’t sound much like a Jedi right now,” Reaper said as he stepped on the mat, holding a single vibrosword.

“What do I sound like then?” You asked, as you began to circle each other.

“A real soldier,” Reaper said. “Which is impossible, because everyone knows that the Jedi like to hide in their fancy temples praying for peace, while their soldiers die.”

You just smiled, the insult gliding right by your ear. You had made that argument too many times to be offended by it. Especially when it was from a Mandalorian braggart trying to get under your skin. But it said everything that this was how an outsider viewed your order.

You spun your swords, the heavier one in your dominant hand, feeling just right. The anger boiling under your skin seemed to evaporate. It was just energy now, ready to power you through another fight. Your mind slid back into its seat of balance.

Reaper charged you, lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air in a horizontal arc. You sidestepped, ninety degrees to the right, just out of his reach. And while his blade was extended, you slipped around his guard, and dragged your short sword across his back, a thin line of blood appearing seconds later.

He whirled, swinging the sword at you. You parried with your left hand, and glided forward, under his guard, so close you couldn’t swing your other blade. Instead, you grinned up at him, and rammed the hilt into his stomach.

Coughing, Reaper doubled over, glared at you, and then his leg snapped up. You slid backward, but a half-second to slow. He kicked you in the chest, and you had to catch yourself in a spin. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

He charged you again, blade raised overhead.

You instinctively raised your swords to parry, catching his blade between both of yours. You twisted, and the vibrosword flew out of his hands, and landed on the floor of the cargohold with a clatter.

“Do you yield?” You asked, spinning your swords. “Or would you like a moment to go retrieve your weapon, Mandalorian? That’s fine. I’ll wait.” You grinned. “Because I can do this all night long.”

Reaper stared at you, eyes dark, nostrils flared. He was bleeding, breathing hard, and sweat glistened on his velvety skin, but he didn’t look like he was done.

“Maybe you’d like to try both of us then?” 76 asked, his eyes narrowed. He picked up Reaper’s sword and then a stave for himself. He placed the sword in Reaper’s outstretched hand, and took up a stance beside his comrade. “Tion'ad hukaat'kama?”

You tilted your head back, moving your head from side to side. 76 held the staff like he knew how to use it. You closed your eyes, feeling the currents of the force flow through you, a picture of the field forming in your head. They stood side by side, but they would attempt to box you in. They both had excellent range, but 76 would have the advantage of reach. You could see the range and motion of their attacks before they made them, and while it would be difficult, you were good at this. “What are you waiting for? An invitation?”

76 lunged first, sweeping the staff at knee-height.

You leapt over the attack, even as Reaper slid to your right swung the vibrosword in a downward arc. Elbow bent, wrist pressed to your head, you blocked the strike.

76 struck again, thrusting the staff like a polearm.

You jumped backward out of his range, disengaging from Reaper’s sword lock. You spun around toward Reaper, blades outstretched.

76 swung the staff around, blocking the area across Reaper’s torso.

You struck the staff with a clang, and had to swing your right blade to block Reaper’s counterattack. You disengaged again, dancing to the side, putting Reaper between you and 76. He tried to swing his sword, but you parried the blow again, and whipped your other blade across his cheek with a little flourish.

The skin split and instead of countering, he stared at you, with an intensity that made you hesitate.

From behind Reaper, 76 thrust again, striking you in the side with the staff. You hissed, and kicked Reaper backward into 76. The blonde man steadied his friend, and together they stayed on their feet.

You touched your side, knowing that the area would need extra healing later. But it wasn’t enough to bring you down now. Breathing hard, you took a deep breath and whirled toward them, blades spinning in your hands.

Still leaning on 76, Reaper didn’t have a chance to take a strong defensive stance. You caught his vibrosword between yours, and scissored them, sending his weapon flying once more. You couldn’t quite kick him aside, so you circled around to 76. You got close, too close for him to use the staff properly. He could block your blows, but he didn’t have the space to maneuver. Your blades slid off the staff, but still scraped against his chest, slicing a long gash through the pink skin, the tip of the short sword catching on a gold ring.

“Haar'chak!” He yowled.

“Ke'pare!” Reaper shouted. “Wait!”

You froze, having not noticed the little gold rings on his nipples. “Disengaging,” you said, dropping your vibrosword, and very carefully freeing the short blade from the piercing. “Why the hell would you leave those in for a sparring match?” You asked, backing up.

Wincing, 76 held a hand over the right nipple ring. “I...forgot,” he mumbled.

“Showoff,” Reaper said, shaking his head.

“I’ll get the kolto,” you sighed, setting the blades back in the rack, before you went across the hall to the medbay. You grabbed the first aid kit and headed back.

76 sat in the middle of the mats, rubbing his chest sheepishly. Reaper sat next to him, shaking his head.

“Hold still,” you said, crouching down in front of him to examine the cuts on his chest. You cleaned the wounds with a sanitizing wipe and then applied a layer of kolto over the cuts. You glanced at the nipple. It was pink and a lot more swollen than the other one, but still intact. You hadn’t torn the piercing or cut anything off. It wasn't even bleeding. Squeezing a little more kolto onto your thumb, you rubbed it lightly against his nipple.

76 stiffened, inhaling sharply as you put the healing gel on him. He was breathing hard now, chest and face flushed from the exertion. He watched you with hooded eyes, teeth clenched. “Do you patch up all your conquests?”

“No, normally there isn’t enough left to fix,” you said, meeting his gaze.

He studied your face for a moment. You could feel the heat pouring off him. He leaned closer. “So I’m one of the lucky ones?”

“Very, you almost lost that piercing and more.” You said, your mouth suddenly dry.

“It’s still sore, maybe you could put some more kolto on it,” he purred, a very knowing smile on his face.

“No, I think you deserve to suffer a little for your stupidity,” you said, backing up. You glanced at Reaper. “Do you need kolto?”

“Go on then,” Reaper said coolly, sitting up straight.

You crouched back down in front of Reaper, keeping him partially between you and 76. You worked quickly, your fingers lightly tracing the scar on his face. He watched you sullenly, as you quickly applied the gel. And then he turned around, silently giving you his back. His skin was hot under your fingertips, and you tried to seal the wound quickly, very conscious of 76’s hungry gaze. You slapped a bandage on it, and he turned back around, plucking the kolto out of your hands.

“Let’s see those ribs,” Reaper told you calmly. “76 hit you pretty hard.”

“I can take care of it myself,” you said.

“No one’s going to pounce on you,” Reaper said. “And even if they did, you could handle them.” He did not look at 76. “Now don’t be stubborn and try going up that ladder with your ribs cracked. That’s just foolish.” There wasn’t any of the previous malice in his voice, just a gentle chiding that reminded you a little of Master Amari.

Sighing, you unfastened your sash, and peeled back your robes, wincing as you touched your left side.

His head tilted to the side, Reaper applied the healing gel to your bare skin, his warm hands gently massaging it into your left side. You bit your lip, placing a hand near there as you tried to convince the bones to knit back together correctly.

Between the kolto and the little bit of force healing you could manage, the pain began to subside.

“Better?” Reaper asked, his palm still pressed to your side, close to your hand.

“Yes,” you said, swallowing roughly. “I should be good.”

Reaper bowed his head. “You won, Jedi. I am...humbled by your prowess.” He nodded to you, giving you a slight smile. “But I would like to try against you again later. Perhaps barehanded next time.”

You remembered seeing them rolling around on the ground, wrestling. Your breath caught. “You’re welcome to use the sparring mats,” you said, pulling away, closing your robes and tying off your sash. “But I need to go meditate.”

“Will you join us later?” Reaper asked.

“...We’ll see,” you said, glancing at 76, who lounged on his side, one hand cupping his sore pectoral.

76 winked at you. “Feel better?”

You blinked, having already forgotten why you’d agreed to spar in the first place. “Yes, thank you, but I really need to go meditate.”

“I can think of some other things that would help you out,” 76 said, looking you up and down with a smile.

“I really should go,” you said, already halfway out the door.

“I need to go meditate?” Really? That was your best excuse? It worked, but still…

Grumbling you, shut yourself in your quarters, limping to the fresher for a shower. It was quick, and you changed into another clean robe – today had been hard on clothes – and then settled on your floor cushion, still feeling the force run through you.

You did not contemplate the temple fountains, nor the forests of Tython, nor any Jedi object. You stared out the window, into the void of space, the stars twinkling in the distance. You fully expected flashes of red light, or even that dark haze that settled over your mind when you really got to thinking about the past.

But the force continued to move through you in strong currents. It was like sitting up to your shoulders in a warm ocean. The world took on a soft gray glow, and you let yourself drift.

It was the most peaceful you had felt since Corellia.

“Knight Strike, are you occupied?” 76 asked over the intercom.

You opened one eye, focus settling back into your body. “Do you need something?”

“We took the liberty of making a meal, and thought you might be hungry,” he said.

You blinked. “Oh, I’ll be down in a minute.” The offer took you by surprise. HK-53 had said nothing about them moving around the ship. You rose, tightening your robe, and left your quarters.

A warm savory scent hit you as you opened the door. The entire deck smelled of rich spices and sauteed aromatics. It was coming from the conference room – the one you used as a makeshift dining room back when… Back when there had been more people on your ship.

The Mandalorians were inside and had set up hotplates and a kettle on the table. Reaper was back in his polished black armor, sans helmet, stirring a pot. He did not look up when you came in. He just lifted a battered spoon to his lips and tasted the stew or maybe it was a casserole? If so, it was heavily sauced.

76 stood over his own battered iron skillet, an amber colored cake within. He cautiously poured some syrup over the cake. Then he cracked open a bottle and poured an even more generous amount of dark liquor over it. “It’s almost done!”

“If you want to cook, I have a small kitchen setup in my quarters-” You paused, realizing that maybe you did not want them traipsing in and out of your bedroom.

“Oh? Really? I would like to see that,” Reaper said, looking up and smiling at you, heat in his gaze. He lifted the spoon from the pot, offering you a taste of the bright orange stew. It had chunks of mystery meat, vegetables, and what looked like beans. It smelled like fire, smoke, and peppers, clearing whatever spacedust might have been clogging your sinuses. You hesitantly took a bite. It was savory and hot. The layers of earthy and smoky spices blended well together and even though you were still chewing, you wanted another bite almost immediately.

Even if you had never tasted this dish before, there was something immediately comforting about it. The meat was smoked. The vegetables had likely been dried and reconstituted in the sauce. The “beans” were actually some kind of grains, soft and fluffy with just the right amount of chewiness. “That’s very good,” you said. “What is it?”

“Tiingilar,” Reaper said, watching your face. “It doesn’t burn too much, I hope.”

“The seasoning is excellent. I’m very fond of peppers,” you said, raising a brow. Was he hoping that it was too much for you? That seemed a possibility. You had beaten him in combat, so he was going to compete with you in other ways. Still, if it meant that he cooked a nice dinner, you wouldn’t take too much offense.

Reaper just smiled at you. “You are full of surprises. The last non-Mandalorian I fed this to accused me of poisoning her. It was...too hot for her delicate mouth.”

“She wasn’t as well-traveled as Knight Strike,” 76 said, flipping his skillet and dumping the cake onto a battered metal plate. “Uj'alayi. It’s a traditional dessert,” he told you, pulling out a combat knife and slicing it into six pieces. “It can be made in our helmets. Reaper insisted that I use a pan this time.” He winked. “But I think the helmet adds to the flavor.”

“Interesting,” you said, glancing at Reaper, who just chuckled. “Should I get-”

“No need! We have tiingilar, uj’alayi, and behot tea. Plenty of food to go around,” 76 said proudly. He paused, gesturing to the table.

“And I have a few extra bottles of kri’gee and narcolethe, if you’re interested,” Reaper said, a little too innocently. “Now I think he is trying to poison me,” you said, because you weren’t an idiot. Those liquors were very potent.

“I have some extra ne’tra gal,” 76 said, gesturing to the bottle he had. “It’s a much nicer ale.”

“It would go well with the uj’alayi,” Reaper said, setting a bowl of his spicy stew in front of you. He poured you a mug of tea. Then he began doling out portions for himself and 76.

76 put a slice of cake in front of you, along with the open bottle of ne’tra gal.

You took a sip of the sticky sweet ale. It was more potent than you were expecting, but it was Mandalorian alcohol. You then took a small bite of the dense cake. It was rich and sticky, filled with dried fruit, nuts, and some kind of sweet syrup. The syrup had carmelized a little on the outside of the cake, but the inside was almost too sweet, except for the ale that soaked in. You washed it down with more of the ale.

76 watched you eagerly. “What do you think?”

“It’s rich,” you said. “But the ne’tra gal does go well with it.”

“It was originally army rations – lots of calories for a march,” Reaper said. “We thought you might enjoy some traditional Mandalorian food.”

“That was very kind,” you said. “It’s delicious.”

“Do Jedi have tasty traditional food?” 76 asked.

You sat with that for a moment. “...It’s actually kind of bland,” you sighed. “Nutritious, but not fancy. They don’t want us to be “distracted” by such things.” Back in the day, Theron had smuggled you candies, snack foods, and even alcohol. You felt a twinge of annoyance. Back in the day, Theron hadn’t been such an asshole. “I like trying new things though. I had to sneak around in Coruscant – make it look like I was only stopping because I needed “sustenance.” Not because the food stall smelled delicious.”

“We are not encouraged to be easily distracted by food,” Reaper said with a frown. “But there is no harm in enjoying it.”

“...Jedi aren’t supposed to “enjoy” things,” you muttered. “Well, they can, just not…too much.”

“What counts as “too much?” 76 asked, taking a big bite of cake.

You shrugged. “That’s a philosopher’s debate. But we’re meant to focus on denying most temptations. Want and attachment lead to other negative emotions, which lead to hate, which leads to the Dark Side. Let me summarize it for you: everything fun leads to the Dark Side.” You rolled your eyes and took another swig of ale. “Depending on who catches you, that lecture can go on for hours.”

“Enjoying cake leads to becoming a Sith Lord?” 76 chuckled. “I want to eat more. Will that get me my own lightsaber?”

You laughed.

“Your Order has a real fear of this Dark Side,” Reaper said, sipping his tea. “It seems a little convenient, like a method of control.”

“The fear is legitimate, but the safeguards are controversial.” You took another bite of his spicy stew. “It’s complicated.”

“So what happens when a Jedi goes to the Dark Side, becomes dar’jetii? Why is this so dreaded? I have met the dar’jetii of the Empire. Some are reasonable. Many are not. But they are not Jedi, and they are not so much more fearsome.” Reaper’s brows furrowed.

“We’ve fought dar’jetii,” 76 said, chest puffed out. “And we’ve won. Didn’t get to keep the lightsaber though. Captain got it.” He gave you a rueful smile.

“I assume dar’jetii means “Sith.” And that’s part of the problem.” You took another sip of tea, staring at the wall. “There are two different understandings of the terms. The political difference is that Jedi are force-sensitives who work for the Republic. Sith work for the Empire. It is an overly-simple explanation.” You held the mug between your hands, its warmth comforting.

“That is how we understand it,” Reaper said.

“Then you have the philosophical definitions. There are two sides to the Force, Light and Dark. The choices you make in life determine your alignment. There are Imperial Sith, who are fair-minded and compassionate. Even if they may not follow the Jedi Code, they are of the Light, though it would be unwise of them to advertise that.”

“And there are Jedi who are cruel and bloodthirsty, and they are of the Dark?” Reaper asked. “Your Order allows this?”

“No, they do not. In fact, they are dismissed from the Order, and sometimes they are imprisoned. Sometimes it is...worse.” You did not look at them.

“That seems like a tactical disadvantage,” 76 said.

“...It’s more than that.” You switched back to the ne’tra gal. “Sometimes singular choices can swing a Light-side Jedi to the opposite end of the spectrum. They go from honorable, kind, and patient to violent, cruel, and despotic in seconds. Falling is a sudden kind of madness. Often they turn on their friends and allies, killing the people they swore to protect. Sometimes they recover who they were and regret what was done. Sometimes they just become monsters.”

“What causes it? I haven’t heard of Sith having such experiences often.” Reaper asked. “Do they fear an inverse effect?”

You laughed, imagining that for a moment. “No, I guess I haven’t heard of a Sith suddenly being filled with an uncontrollable sense of altruism. At least, not to the same degree. They may switch sides or work to seek redemption, but these are conscious choices.”

“So what makes Jedi so much easier to influence?” 76 asked.

“Well, the Sith Code does encourage a certain amount of violence and backstabbing, but that’s the question, isn’t it? The Jedi Order thinks if we, as individuals, keep our distance from the world, do not get attached to others, and live like ascetics, we can avoid falling. If we just follow their rules, and live in our cloisters, we will be safe.” The bitterness of your words surprised you.

“Is there no middle ground?”

You took another bite of the stew. “That’s also complicated. Allegedly, there is.” You thought of the Gray Jedi. “But it is not an explanation accepted within our Order. I have witnessed people falling. It is...horrible to see someone you have known your entire life changing into the antithesis of themselves.”

“So if...attachment makes them fall, what brings them back? Do you appeal to their honor?” 76 asked.

“Maybe,” you said, because you would give a lot to find the answer to that question. “I think...reminding them what they found to be so important can help.” You thought of Nomen Karr. “But sometimes they are just in denial. They think they are infallible, they think that excuses whatever actions they take, and that accumulation of corruption combined with their own hubris destroys them.” You sighed.

“What causes this madness? The revelation of their own hypocrisies?” Reaper pressed.

“Force users are...vessels. The Force runs through us, it is like a constant stream of energy. That energy can manifest in different ways. Light Side users have certain powers, Dark Side users have others. And then there are some abilities that are so rare, it’s hard to say where they come from. Those are the extremely talented few: I have a friend who can heal broken minds. But I have no idea how to do such things. I am just a better-than-average fighter.” You smiled wryly. “But one of my teachers has a theory. Jedi spend so long keeping out the Dark, that sometimes, if we lower our guards, if we make an emotional choice toward the Dark, suddenly we have opened ourselves up to an outpouring from it. Some of us do not know how to cope and that system shock is too much too quickly, and then we swing to the opposite side.”

“So maybe you should do a few bad things, to keep your mind safe,” Reaper said with a shrug. “Easy enough.”

You laughed. “...maybe. Or maybe that slow acceptance of corruption just makes it easier to fall. That’s a high-risk theory for me to try to prove.”

“So what is an example of how a Jedi falls?” Reaper asked.

You sat there, knowing it wasn’t any of his business, and that you were drinking too much. But it was not a secret. And he wasn’t actually asking about your past. “Say you go into battle, and you really hate the person you are fighting. You have thought long and hard about how they need to die. You know that it is against everything that your Order has taught you, and you don’t care. They might want him as a useful prisoner, but even if he surrenders, you are going to kill him. Or perhaps, you are going to disobey orders – you will pursue him off the battlefield, even if it means leaving your comrades or charges behind. There are many ways. But I think it comes down to, you will look at your choices, you will know that what you choose is wrong, and you will do it anyway.”

Reaper snorted. “That doesn’t sound evil: foolish and undisciplined maybe. But killing certain enemies is sensible.”

“But if it throws off your sense of self…” 76 rubbed his chin.

“That is a problem we do not have to deal with,” Reaper said, brow furrowed. “Perhaps the cost of sorcery is too high. Or perhaps Jedi are weak-minded. Their strictures are too rigid; the conditions they set are unreasonable.”

“This fear of attachment and strong emotion,” 76 mused. “How are they as parents?”

“...Jedi are good caretakers, but not good parents. Because Jedi are not supposed to marry or have kids, so we usually recruit externally,” you said, trying not to think of Theron.

Both men blinked. “What?!”

“We’re warrior monks,” you muttered. “Or supposed to be. There are exceptions, but in general, marriage and other romantic attachments are not encouraged.”

76 and Reaper exchanged meaningful glances.

You could feel the judgment. You finished your ale, suddenly wishing for more.

“So no sex?” 76 asked, his eyes wide.

“...We’re not supposed to,” you said, looking at the table, suddenly embarrassed.

There was a long moment of silence.

“But you don’t always do what you’re supposed to, do you?” Reaper asked, his voice warm and amused.

You bit your lip. “That’s really not your business.”

Reaper gave a low laugh. “I didn’t think so.” He tilted his head to the side, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. “There’s no shame in indulging or abstaining. But something tells me that you’re not the type to shrink away from a challenge.”

You crossed your arms, staring hard at him. Did he need another lesson in humility? “What are you trying to say, Reaper?”

“I’m saying, if you choose to indulge, we’re both interested,” he said plainly, and took another bite of his tiingilar. “And if you don’t, we respect that too.”

You nearly choked on air.

“But we’re a package deal,” 76 said, his expression uncharacteristically somber.

“...Wait, are you married?” You asked, because it was easier than processing what Reaper had just offered.

“Promised,” Reaper said, giving 76 an appreciative smile. “But this one has fought at my side for years, and that matters more than any words spoken.”

76’s cheeks burned pink. He gave Reaper a warm look. “Traditionally, we can just say the vows whenever: in person, over comlink, through letters, and it’s done. But our clan wants to be there to witness it and throw a big party, which isn’t exactly traditional – they usually can wait till afterward.”

“But certain clan-members are insisting that they should attend,” Reaper said.

“And if we didn’t make the allowance our sisters and the Captain would never forgive us,” 76 said with a sigh. “You don’t cross the Captain.”

“And our sisters are unreasonable and very good with their flamethrowers,” Reaper said.

“Oh,” you said, like it all made perfect sense. They were about to be married, but they wanted to invite you to their beds? How did that make any sense? You groped for words. “That’s lovely.”

“You could come too,” 76 said. “There will be plenty of food.”

“...Uh…” You blinked, not sure how to process the proposition, the wedding invitation, and the entire situation.

“76 and I take pride in performing well, be it fighting, cooking, or other recreational activities,” Reaper said smoothly. “If you’re concerned, we’d be happy to give a demonstration.” He leaned over, one arm around 76’s shoulder.

76 nodded happily. “You can think of it as exercise or stress relief.”

“Or you can just watch, if you like, we don’t mind,” Reaper purred, stroking 76’s hair. Those thick metal gauntlets tightened into a fist, pulling 76 closer. Reaper leaned over, pressing a hard kiss to 76’s neck.

The blonde man moaned.

But Reaper was watching you, those dark eyes glittering.

“...I should go meditate,” you said, abruptly standing up and retreating from the room.

#SWTOR #IAL #Crackfic #Reader-Insert #overwatch fanfiction #In Alio Loco AU #In Alio Loco

15 notes · View notes

laurelsofhighever · 4 years ago

Link

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again.

SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE ROSE

She tumbled into the light. Her stomach lurched as if in a dream of falling and then her lungs sensed air and instinct overtook her in great, sawing gulps of it, like she was breaching the surface of the ocean after being held under. The flush of panic beneath her skin paused the tally of her other senses, but slowly the scents of rain and earth rose up to meet her, the sigh of wind against her face and the cold of mud under the claw of her fingernails. After so long, the onslaught of sensation bloomed sparks of colour beneath her eyelids. When she tried to open them, the world reeled and fell behind a red haze of too-quick movement, gravity firm against her back and cool earth pressed under her cheek.

“Rest easy, child. It will take some time to adjust to the world again.”

The familiarity of the voice, wry and cracked with age, spurred her into motion. Shivering, she rolled onto her side and turned her head up into the rain. Fat drops prickled her forehead, forcing her to blink, while grass poked at the back of her neck with every heaving gasp she drew for breath. The sky was white. Not green, not dark and swirling with currents of strange energy, but the blank white of a low cloud heavy with water, of a typical miserable day in the waking world that made travellers turn up their collars and drove wildlife to huddle away in whatever shelter they could.

Distracted, she opened her arms wide and laughed until the sound turned into sobbing.

And then a tendril of emerald energy flickered through the air above her head and dread froze her where she lay. The possibility that she was mired in illusion, that this glimpse of freedom might be ripped from her grasp like a curtain pulled back on an empty theatre, churned in her stomach and brought another wave of dizziness crashing down upon her head. It could not be. Without yet knowing if she would stand to face whatever was coming for her this time, she followed the flare of magic back to the rip in the Veil that had allowed her to cross, lifting her head past the ache growing in her bones to see an old woman in the worn, patched clothing of a beggar, her arms raised and wreathed in ropes of blinding bright energy that fed into the slippery green scar of the Fade. It shrank, twisting and snapping like a wild animal trying to free its ropes, until finally with a crack, a flash, and an afterimage that glowed on the back of her eyes, it disappeared entirely.

The roar of it grew stronger by its absence. Trees shivered around the ring of the hill, the susurration of their leaves like an incoming sea. She lay next to Flemeth within a ring of stones patchy with moss, with the acrid odour of a damp fire nearby, too beaten down by the weather to offer either light or warmth.

From neck to foot, her armour clanked with her shivering, even after her saviour barked a command to the flames to leap from their sulking places under the wet logs. As she dragged herself across the sodden ground to the wash of heat over her face, her senses righted still further and nagged her about her surroundings, the familiarity in the stones. She dismissed it. Her hands warmed as she knelt and thrust them towards the fire, but that only sparked another worry; somewhere along the way she had dropped her charm, the pink-petalled rose that had guided her, guarded her, through her wanderings. A bush of the same pale flowers hunkered a little way beyond the circle, but it only held her gaze for a moment before her eye caught on a more distant shape, the solid form of a castle behind the haze of rain, with the dim shadow of a settlement beneath it.

“This is Harrowhill,” she realised, her own voice out loud grating against her ears. Her heart clenched. Two and a half leagues off, her home waited, along with the life she had left behind. She could have walked there within a day, if she pushed herself.

A blanket folded around her shoulders in the same instant that another spoken word to the fire made it leap higher still.

“How do you feel?” Flemeth asked.

Rosslyn looked up into the gleaming yellow eyes. Her body had yet to catalogue the full inventory of hurts that had been done to it, but even in the moment as she pondered the question, more made themselves known. Her throat stung like she had been drinking seawater and the cold shiver in her limbs had turned into full shakes that shot pain through the length of her muscles, while about her, the world spun on more axes than it should. Groaning, she squeezed her eyes shut and turned to face straight ahead in the hopes it would quell the nausea, but the pounding in her head only worsened, and it brought into focus the face of a man slumped across the other side of the fire, whom until that moment she had mistaken for a bedroll.

“Who is that?”

Flemeth followed the direction of her gaze. “A criminal. It matters not.”

His eyes stared glassily at nothing from unremarkable, ashen features, mouth agape above a rust-dark line that stretched across the width of his throat.

“You used blood magic.” Sickened, she tried to back away from the corpse, but the effort roiled in her stomach and dimmed her vision at the corners.

“Is that the most of your accusations?” The witch laughed. “This man would have died either way, condemned as he was, but he wished to make amends before his execution, and I needed a source of power. This way, he was of use.”

“You murdered him,” Rosslyn spat. The horizon tilted.

“And rid the world of a murderer to return a champion to it. Are you not glad to be back among the living?”

Still trying to stand, she opened her mouth to respond, but the sway in her ears turned her upside down before the words could form, and in a rush everything slid down into darkness.

When she awoke, it was to a long lance of golden light slanting across the bare beams of a shingle roof above her. Whether it came from a dawning or a westering sun she did not know, and decided did not matter. For a moment she let herself sink back and hover just above unconsciousness as she tried to reconcile the memory of the wet, blustery vision of Harrowhill with the present warm scratch of a wool blanket against her cheek. How Flemeth must have moved her was a mystery for another time; as she collected herself, the images of fevered dreams passed through her mind’s eye, hands pressing her back into a mattress, forcing potions down her throat. Her body ached as if she had been in battle, her breath laboured in her chest, and her blistered mouth screamed for even a drop of water.

Birdsong drifted in through the window. She recognised the trill of a blackbird among the general din, with the distinct purling quality of a late summer boast. Evening, then. The boards above her head were all felled from the same tree, with a collection of whorls in the wood that brought to mind the faces of a dog, and between them spiders had strung webs that now hung thick with dust. She counted them. Every detail was sifted carefully to check for truth, from the bite of her nails into her palms to the tame spit of the hearthfire and the scents of woodsmoke and cooking food.

When she was finally satisfied that the world around her had not been presented as a trick for her mind to follow, she tried to move. Flemeth’s dubious mercy could not be trusted. Someone had taken her armour, her weapons, and stripped her down to a plain shift that rasped against her skin.

Her first attempt failed when the protest in her muscles sent her falling back, panting, but with gritted teeth she changed tack and rolled onto one arm instead of straight up, and from there curled around until her feet planted into the curly strands of a sheepskin rug. Even that taxed her, driving the pulse in her neck and the saw in her breath as if she had already been three rounds in the lists, and it galled to have to settle her hand against her sternum –

Alistair’s necklace had gone. The familiar weight of the chain was not around her neck, the amulet bearing Andraste’s image no longer resting against her collarbone. Panicked, she threw herself upright, already searching the pillow and the floor for a telltale glimpse of silverite, but with barely a wobble of warning, her legs refused to take her weight. She went down hard enough that she had to throw out an arm to stop her skull cracking on the flagstone floor, though it didn’t save the skin of her knees.

“Hang it all,” she snarled, as blood welled from the cuts. Her legs trembled, the muscles atrophied into bare cords beneath the skin.

Before her horrified mind could make sense of the sight, footsteps running from outside marked her time. With another snarl she lunged for a candlestick that had been set on the bedside drawer she had narrowly missed as she went down and held it like a club, though by rights it would barely do more damage than her fists.

The figure who opened the door a moment later stopped on the threshold as she took in Rosslyn’s position crumpled on the floor, her large green eyes wide above the Dalish markings on her cheeks.

“Oh – no! you shouldn’t be out of bed!” She started forward, tucking a bobbed lock of black hair behind one pointed ear.

Rosslyn bared her teeth. “Stay away from me.”

“I’m here to help you,” the elf replied, somewhat hopefully.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I? The last thing I remember –”

“If your memory’s coming back, that’s good!” But the optimism faded in the face of Rosslyn’s continued hostility. “My name is Merrill, and you’re safe – I was asked to look after you, by Asha’bellanar herself,” she added proudly.

The name stirred something in Rosslyn’s memory, but she didn’t drop the candlestick. Seeing her hands shake, Merrill put up her hands and made her way over to the hearth in slow movements, unhooking the staff slung across her back to lean it against the wall as she crouched in front of the stewpot.

“You must be hungry, it’s been days since you’ve eaten – or years, really,” she said. “I’m not sure what the best way is to measure time in the Fade when you’re physically there. You must have seen some fascinating sights.”

“Years?” The candlestick clattered to the floor.

There was no telling how many. Their surroundings showed the typical interior of a Fereldan homestead, with a levelled stone foundation and walls made from hand-planed timber, a design that had served well for generations but offered no clues for context about where they were, or the state of the world beyond. Rosslyn could well believe Flemeth able to survive unchanged for decades, but thinking on it drew her mind to the terror that perhaps enough time had passed to wither away everything she had left behind. She had seen such things in the Fade, after all, the works of entire ages that rose and fell in in the space it took to draw a single breath. She pushed her head into her hands. Was Ferelden still the same beyond the walls of her prison as when she left it? Had the war ended? And what of Alistair, with whom she had vowed to stand against all hardship? With her body so weakened, she had a slim chance of escaping and finding her way to him. Even if she were still somewhere within the Teyrnir of Highever, the likelihood of being found by her brother’s men or the king’s was outmatched by the possibility of less savoury characters stumbling across her when she would be unable to defend herself.

She looked up through her fingers and her growing panic as Merrill approached with a rough wooden bowl filled with whatever had been in the stewpot. The elf’s anxious smile seemed genuine, and as she offered the bowl with a chunk of dense, crusty bread, Rosslyn breathed deep and decided to take it as such. After all, if any harm was meant to her, she would have woken up in chains instead of a warm, clean house – if at all. Hating how the weight of it made her hands tremble, she took the offered bowl and the bread with a cautious sniff. The rich yellow soup within was thicker than the fine broths served at high table, more like a puréed sauce, with flecks of green herbs throughout and something pale and crumbly scattered over the surface.

“Asha’bellanar… That’s what the Dalish call Flemeth, isn’t it?” she asked cautiously as she dipped the bread into the mix.

“That’s not something most humans know,” Merrill replied, the corners of her mouth ticking upwards in pleased surprise.

Rosslyn shrugged. “Two Dalish came to the palace on Flemeth’s word that we should go to Ostagar. At the time, I didn’t know whether to believe them.”

“That would have been Ethalas and Tamlen.” The elf shifted into the space next to Rosslyn on the sheepskin. “They were from my clan.”

“You sound sad.”

“I haven’t seen any of them since I agreed to follow Asha’bellanar.”

“Did your Keeper send you like she sent them?” Rosslyn asked.

Merrill shook her head and silence fell between them. Not wanting to pry, Rosslyn turned her attention back to the soup, and with it, the unsettlingly bizarre feeling of having food in her hands. The last she had eaten was a ration of hardtack as she was dressed for battle at Ostagar. Since then, she had dreamed of feasts, and rivers of wine where she could drink her fill, but the Fade contained nothing of substance, and eventually even the memory of flavour had been forgotten in her trudge across that endless, empty plain. If not for the need to regain her strength in order to find Alistair and return to her former life, she might have listened to the nausea prowling through her insides and pushed away even this simple dish. As it was, she closed her eyes and brought the mopped chunk of bread to her lips.

The taste exploded on her tongue, salt and sweet and the aroma of the herbs used to season the other ingredients. She recognised the taste of squash and sage, and a gaminess that was almost like goat’s cheese but more pungent, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut. Her stomach heaved.

“Is it that bad?” Merrill cried clapping her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Hahren Paivel always did despair of my cooking but I tried to make this exactly as Sylissa always did when the children were sick. I’d hoped –”

But Rosslyn ignored her, already devouring the rest of the bowl. The bread was too much work to chew so she set it aside, but the soup warmed her and went down in gulps to quench the wakened fire of her appetite, and though more than half of it still remained when she sat back, she could feel the life seeping into her body, fleshing her out as if before she had only been a wash on a painter’s canvas. Though she fought against the well of fatigue that came with the relief, she could already feel herself nodding.

“Thank you,” she said to Merrill, who was still hovering nervously. “I could not have asked for a finer first meal.”

“I’m rather glad I didn’t poison you,” came the answer. “I was worried humans might not be able to eat elvhen food.”

“City elves eat the same food as humans,” she pointed out.

“That’s true, I suppose – oh!” Placing one hand on Rosslyn’s arm, she reached around with the other to one of the pouches belted at her waist, and with a delicate clink of metal pulled out an engraved disc on a short silverite chain. “It’s special, isn’t it?” she asked. “I had to take it off you while you were recovering so it didn’t break.”

Rosslyn took it in wary, reverent fingers. “My husband gave it to me to keep safe.” For a moment, all she could do was look into the serene face of Andraste and swallow back her tears. The amulet might be all she had left of him. “Where are we?”

“I’m… not supposed to tell you.”

“I need to get to Denerim as soon as possible, I need to get word to the king that –”

Unless she no longer had a place at court. With the aftermath of a civil war to cause instability, she could hardly imagine the Landsmeet would sit by while their ruler left the throne unsecured, and even before Alistair was thrown into Valesh Aeducan’s path she recalled the veritable parade of young noblewomen who had tried to make an impression on him after his title was recognised. And then there was Anora. When they had marched south she had been in the tower awaiting judgement, with her crowd of supporters grumbling but appeased by the stay of punishment for her involvement with her father. What if –

No. Giving space to such thoughts could only end in self-defeat. Once more centring herself with a breath, she turned to Merrill, the amulet held tight in her fist.

“Tell me everything you know,” she commanded.

The days passed slowly as Rosslyn worked to get her strength back, the walls of her prison slowly expanding to include first the yard where the chickens pecked for grubs, and then the rim of the clearing where Flemeth had brought her, in a dell where the trees grew too tall to admit any view of the landscape beyond. The mixed stands of oak and beech that barred her path let her guess they were somewhere in the northern part of the country, but nothing more certain, and though she looked in every direction, the only column of smoke she found was the one rising from her own chimney, so she could not hope for a nearby settlement, either.

It did not hinder her determination. Once she recovered enough to walk from one side of the clearing to the other without needing to rest, she donned a cloak, strapped Talon to her belt, and pushed through the scrub into the forest, keeping the sun to her left. When she emerged into the clearing again less than an hour later, the commiserating look Merrill offered barely helped calm the flare in her temper.

She tried again, and again, until her attempts and the days blurred together. Whichever direction she chose, her path inevitably led her back to the house, and even when she tied string to the branches as she went, she could not find her way. Ostagar was eighteen months gone, with no news of the court, and as reality slowly worked its way back into Rosslyn’s bones, the pain of Alistair’s absence grew like a canker. It felt too much like defeat to stop trying, however, so she took up her sword forms instead, running through them all until her limbs shook from exhaustion and she turned feverish again.

“You were in the Fade in your physical body, you can’t expect to be springing about like a halla fawn right away,” Merrill chided that night as she checked her temperature with the back of one small hand.

She offered a wry smile. “I’m sorry to undo all of your good work.”

“Not all of it,” Merrill allowed. “The rules of this world don’t apply in the Fade, so your body was sort of… stuck, like a fly getting trapped in tree sap, but when you came back, everything you went through caught up all at once. Or at least, that’s my best guess. Nobody’s walked in the Fade like that since the days of Arlathan, and never for so long.”

“And so is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall,” Rosslyn quoted.

“What’s that?”

“It’s from the Chant of Light.” Unconvinced she might be by the Maker’s Word, but like any good noble child, Rosslyn had been thoroughly schooled in its teachings. “Tevinter magisters lifted the Veil and stormed the Maker’s city, only to be cursed with the Blight for their trouble.”

“Well… you haven’t been tainted.” Merrill smiled. “That’s a good thing. You just have to be patient.”

“I will not be kept here.”

Too many people needed her, too much might happen if she lingered.

And yet, how could she face Alistair looking as she did now? Her hollowed cheeks stared at her corpselike from her reflection in the water bucket every morning, the shadows of her ribs swelled with every breath, and the armour once made for her rattled on her frame as if she were a child dressing up in her parents’ clothes. If he were to see her, what pity would follow his touch as he traced her suffering? Guilt would plague him, and perhaps revulsion, and the thought of either was like a stab through the heart, though as she lay on her cot in the dark of night refusing the pull of sleep, those were not the only fears that kept her from rest.

Merrill helped. Her endless optimism infected even the bleakest of Rosslyn’s moods, and she had a way of guilting a person after a disagreement that reminded her of the artful silences Nan used to employ whenever Cuno got loose in the kitchen. Without any other company but each other, they spent their days swapping stories as they divvied up the chores of the house, and in doing so Rosslyn discovered she wasn’t the only one in Flemeth’s debt, though her new companion always changed the subject when it brushed too close to the nature of her deal with the witch.

“If we’re to be tools for whatever grand scheme she’s plotting, surely we would be more use not left to rust out here in the back end of nowhere,” she groused one evening as they shared their meal. “I could have gotten word – said something – but instead I’m trapped here doing nothing.” Summer was fading from the trees, the days growing shorter as the verdancy of their surroundings turned to shifting hues of bronze and gold. “Are you sure you can’t try to lift the enchantment she’s put on the clearing?”

With a sympathetic look and considerable patience, Merrill shook her head. “The enchantments she added when we were brought here are older magics than I was ever taught. If I try to unravel the spells without knowing where they start, it might make things worse.”

“I need to go home.”

“You’re lucky to have one,” the elf replied. “My clan won’t take me back. This is all I have.”

Rosslyn glanced to her sharply, but she refused to say more, and they spent the rest of the night in bitter silence.

A jingle of harness through the morning mist a few weeks later gave them the first sign of Flemeth’s arrival. A pair of mismatched cobs plodded into the clearing ahead of a closed wagon that should have been too big to make it through the dense underbrush, and at the reins an old woman sat wrapped in a cloak, completely innocuous except for the golden gleam of her eyes. When she halted the wagon in front of the house, she pulled the scarf from around her face to reveal the cold twist of that ever-present smirk.

“I see your convalescence has not doused your fire,” she said to Rosslyn, who had emerged from the house with Talon resting on her hip.

“I do not care to be kept a prisoner,” she growled in return. “You had no right to keep me here.”

“Didn’t I?” One fine eyebrow arched. “You entered a bargain when I came to you in the Fade. You said you wanted to live, and I told you there would be a price. You might have thanked me for it before you started berating me, or do Couslands no longer keep their word?”

She lifted her chin. “If you want my debt paid then let me pay it and have done. I have people waiting for me.”

“And people whose lives you fear go on without you,” Flemeth retorted. She climbed down from the driver’s seat, unhurried, joints cracking. “I told you once of the wars and deaths that would happen without your leave, but it takes living through death to see the truth of it, wouldn’t you say? You need not worry. I have come to take you for what’s needed.”

“I want to see Alistair.”

The amusement in the old witch’s face turned to ice. “You are in no position to make demands of me, girl. What would you do, go to him only to say that you must leave again?”

Before she could answer with more than a scowl, Merrill joined them, dressed in travelling clothes and with the bag where she kept her few belongings slung over her shoulder.

“Andaran atish’an, Asha’bellanar,” she murmured, bowing low.

“There now,” Flemeth crowed. “Someone with manners. You should ready to leave, we have a long journey ahead of us.”

Shutting up the house took less than an hour. They doused the fire and caught the chickens to take with them, loaded Rosslyn’s armour into the back of the wagon with supplies for the road, and when everything was settled, Flemeth climbed back into the driver’s perch without so much as a backward glance.

“Aren’t you going to tie me up, or put me under a Sleep?” Rosslyn asked, suspicious.

“I have no need,” came the airy reply. “Because I will tell you what you are to do, and after that, you will stay of your own volition.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

Flemeth chuckled. “I am an old, old woman, and I have seen your like before. Honour and duty will serve to bind you just as well as magic, as it did your ancestors.”

Still reluctant, Rosslyn climbed up next to Merrill, who beamed and offered her a pocket of warm bread filled with honey and chopped nuts.

“Well, you didn’t want to be left behind, did you?” she asked. “I’m sure this’ll be exciting.”

For the first few days, the journey took them through disorienting countryside along barely visible trackways, but eventually the ground rose and the forest opened ahead of the cart into the sparse pine slopes of the Frostbacks. With such a landmark, Rosslyn could have cut her way across-country to a settlement and from there on to Denerim, even with the dangerous weather closing in with the end of the year, but as the witch had predicted, she did not. She had learned what was needed of her, the consequences if she deserted, and she had not forced the Nightmare back into the Fade only for the world to shatter around her mere months after she fell into it again.

So she stayed. She watched the scenery from the back of the cart as it mellowed from frowning, snow-capped peaks to the gently undulating plains of southern Orlais, and she made no complaint when she and Merrill were once more shut away, this time in townhouse in the noble quarter of Halamshiral. A few weeks, Flemeth promised, and then she could reclaim her life and its petty entrapments.

The witch herself faded into the background of the house, the puppeteer behind the curtain as preparations were made to infiltrate the palace with the opening of the winter season. Dresses were made, and introductions, and if the servants were hollow-eyed and their hostess too vacant to hold a conversation, Rosslyn chose not to concern herself with it. Blood magic was an evil against which she could not win alone, one that so far hadn’t been turned on her only because Flemeth needed her mind intact. Alistair would not have approved of her silence, her compromise, but she shoved that knowledge to the back of her mind along with all the other choices she would rather forget. Compared to the dead at South Reach, the sacrifices at Lothering, the fate of one overwrought Orlesian noblewoman mattered little.

With Merrill’s help, by the time the First Night Ball arrived she had charmed, bribed, and enchanted her way into one of the guest rooms of the palace itself. From there, she joined the nameless throng into the entrance hall in the plain mask of someone too humble too be noticed, and waited for Morrigan to appear.

It was then she caught the first whispers.

“Have you seen him yet?”

“He has not made his entrance.”

“They say he still mourns.”

“I saw him in Kirkwall last year, a man so handsome should have company to match, even if he is a dog lord.”

“You, cherie? He’s the empress’ prize – why else do you think she would bring him here as her personal guest? She means to have Ferelden.”

“His advisors mean him to have someone, no matter who. Any of us might catch his eye.”

The words made her heart bound behind her ribs. Who else could they be talking about, but Alistair? Flemeth’s smile as she left for the palace made more sense now, the repeated order to keep herself unknown. She lost the rest of what was said by her neighbours through the rushing in her ears. He was supposed to be in Denerim, far away. But not waiting for her; she had seen to that herself.

She was grateful for the mask when he appeared a few moments later at the top of the stairs to the royal wing with her brother in tow. Fergus hunched slightly, his once-wide shoulders gaunt and his strong resemblance to their father only increased with the time and distance they had been apart, but it was Alistair who held her eye. His hair had grown long, half to his shoulders, still the same tawny bronze as ever where it curled slightly around his ears, the strong line of his jaw accented by the trim of a beard. He had been unable to grow one when they had been together, the hairs on his chin had been sparse and patchy and he had pouted every time she teased him about it. As he breathed deep, she wondered if the same were true for the hair on his chest.

Her own breath sawed in her throat as he descended into the crowd, the cold marble of the balustrade beneath her palm holding her upright during the interminable moment when he passed within fifteen feet of where she stood, completely unaware of her existence. Of course she followed him. She watched him make smiles at the nobles, yearned towards him like a weed towards the sun, reading the tense line of his shoulders and the way his mirth didn’t quite meet his eyes, the whole time aching with the tear between what she had done and what she still had left to do.

And then he looked at her. The glance was brief, a flash like the sun on a shard of glass as it searched the room, but it stopped her breath nonetheless. Only when he turned away again and moved into the ballroom did the tingle fade from her limbs, and by then her purpose had reasserted itself.

Draw attention to yourself and they will know you for a cuckoo, Flemeth had told her. They will not show mercy, and I will not help you.

Alistair’s presence raised the stakes. Before, she might have been able to stick to her borrowed identity if she were caught, but with the threat of recognition came the knowledge that Ferelden would share in whatever punishment Celene thought up for her if she did not succeed.

She could not allow it.

At least growing up as a reluctant court flower had taught her how to be invisible in a room full of nobles. When the castellan announced her name she crossed the floor in the perfect attitude of courtly grace, unable to entirely quell the hope that he would see her, though the hesitation as she glanced to the dais cost her a stern glance from Celene. Others more worthy remained to be greeted, after all. Alistair did not spare her even that much.

If I had to choose between you and Ferelden… I don’t know if I could make that choice. The words, spoken a lifetime ago as if they were yesterday, reared in her mind as the night wore on, hours passing with Morrigan still absent, with Alistair at the centre of the room twisting like a flame on a dark night on the arm of so many eager women that bile rose in the back of her throat. The touch of his eyes burned her with every accidental glance, but she was just another face in the crowd, as alone as when she had awoken at Ostagar and found the other side of her bed empty. The thought had yet to pass when someone knocked into her.

“Oh! Do excuse me.” The familiarity of the voice shook Rosslyn from the bitter line of her thoughts, but not quickly enough to note the flash of red hair as the stranger rose and caught her by the wrist.

“Consider it forgotten,” she muttered quickly, already turning away.

“No please, I insist. I must –” Leliana’s gasp cut off the rest of the words, the mask in her hand rising in a graceful arc to cover the slip.

Against her better judgement, Rosslyn turned. Sharp blue eyes peered up at her, still wide with shock.

“It is you.”

She reached for Leliana’s arm. “You have mistaken me, my lady,” she said, deliberately. “Please, forget the offence, my mind was distracted and I failed to see where I was going.”

“He has seen you,” the other woman pressed.

Hope – wild hope like the thundering of horses – roared in her ears, but only for an instant. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“I would not wish to accuse an old friend of lying, nor indeed a new acquaintance,” Leliana retorted, threatening with a steady look, while around them people with their eyes on the nearby dancers no doubt listened with interest.

“It would be an unfortunate thing to do in the middle of a crowd,” Rosslyn agreed.

They wove through the press of bodies to a darker corner where the heat and sweat of the dancing didn’t reach so strongly, with pleasant smiles on their faces to deflect the attention of anyone looking for court intrigue. Rosslyn took a glass of wine from the tray of a passing server, needing the fortification of the alcohol as much as the cover it provided.

“Now, what shall I tell him?” Leliana asked when they were finally out of earshot.

“Nothing,” she replied, after a casual sip. “He can’t know I’m here.”

“If you knew…”

“Promise me you won’t tell him,” she interrupted.

But Leliana stood her ground, a fierce light of loyalty in her eyes that nevertheless remained hidden from those around them. “Will you?”

“You used to have faith in me,” Rosslyn muttered eventually, after a moment of scrutiny. She received a calculating look before the gaze skittered away to the warmer light in the middle of the room.

“Very well, I promise I will not tell him who you are.”

They parted. The relief that swelled, the sense of betrayal that came with it, followed Rosslyn back into the crowd like a dog at her heels. Any glamour she had seen in the spectacle around her had tarnished, and now only the need to not let the night go wasted kept her from stalking out of the ball entirely. She needed Morrigan to be here, distracted, and then perhaps when she had done what was needed she might seek out Leliana again, and then –

The music died away. The castellan’s staff rapped sharply against the polished floor. She stiffened, breath held as a dark-haired woman glided through the double doors at the far end of the room, and as those around her crowded forward to get a better look at the empress’ favourite curiosity, she edged in the other direction, her eyes darting to the palace guard dotted in alcoves around the walls. But it wasn’t an Orlesian who stepped out in front of her to bar her path.

“My lady, your presence has been requested,” Morrence said.

And now, her plans shattered into ruin at her feet, she stood in the cold night air with Alistair’s hand on her cheek, his breath warm against her skin, and her heart all but thrashing loose of her ribcage to be closer still. Moonlight washed the colour from his eyes but she recognised their intensity, bold as the sun as he drank her in. She should have known better than to think she could have ever hidden from him.

“Rosslyn…” He breathed it, strangled and desperate.

She could not say anything at all, only squeeze her eyes shut and lean into the palm resting against her face, and hold back tears when he brought his forehead down to hers. He smelled of leather and sweat and smoke.

“Rosslyn. I – this isn’t real.” He swallowed. “I’m dreaming.”

“No,” she managed, trembling. “I’m real. It’s me.”

“What –” A helpless, hysterical giggle breached his lips. “How?”

She sighed, shook her head, pressed her hand against the back of his so he wouldn’t stop touching her. “It’s a long story.”

At that, he pulled back to search her face, a line drawn between his brows as he brushed a thumb over the corner of her mouth. Her heart fluttered, but instead of leaning in his gaze drifted back towards the ballroom, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips

“You can tell me all about it,” he promised, plucking up her hand to place a kiss against her knuckles. “We’ll have all the time in the world.”

“Alistair, what are you –?”

He stepped backwards, still with their fingers linked as if she would follow after him. “You’re alive,” he said, still with that note of disbelief in his voice. “Celene might not be happy about it but that’s no reason not to tell everyone, right?”

The night-time chill sank around her again as she dropped her gaze, pulled her hand away.

“I can’t.”

Tension crept into his shoulders, and through the silence that reached between them was brief, it left a bitter taste on Rosslyn’s tongue.

“Why not?” he asked, too quiet.

“I told you. I was sent here to pay a debt, and until I do nobody can know who I am.”

“But…” And then he stopped, glanced back to the ballroom again, and licked his lips as cconfusion hardened into something worse. “Was that supposed to include me? Would you have told me at all if I hadn’t brought you out here?”

Unable to bear the hurt in his expression and unable to lie, she turned back to the balustrade and laid her hands flat against the frosty stone. “I didn’t know you would be here. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“That’s your excuse?” he demanded.

“Alistair –”

“You’ve been alive all this time and you didn’t think I would want to know? Do you even know why I’m here, why they’re all gathering around me like blightwolves?”

“Of course I do,” she snapped. “But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just walk up to you and unmask myself in front of everyone!”

“Why not? It’s been two years, Rosslyn.” His voice cracked. “I mourned you. Andraste help me, there was a funeral – your brother sobbed like an infant because the last person he had left in the world died and I couldn’t comfort him because it was my fault for not keeping you safe.” As if of their own accord, his feet took a halting half-step towards her, broken off when he realised what he was doing. “I’ve had to go on and try to rule Ferelden by myself when we promised we’d do it together, and all this time you’ve been – what, swanning about playing hide and seek in Orlais? Has it been fun? Have you enjoyed watching me suffer from across the border?”

She stared at him, refusing to flinch. When they had first met, she might have risen to his anger, snarled back and bitten deep just to have the final word, but facing him now with all the hope for what their reunion might have been crumbling under her feet like a cliff into the sea, she found exhaustion quenching the fire of her battle-blood.

“I was in the Fade,” she told him without inflection. “When I fought the Nightmare the rift closed behind me and I couldn’t get back.” The featureless plain, the shadows of demons hounding her steps, greedy for the life in her veins – she pushed the memories to the back of her mind.

“But you’re here. Now. Which means you must have gotten out somehow – how long ago was that?”

“Three months,” she admitted. “Maybe four.”

“Four months.”

“Don’t you think I would have sent word if I could?” She had passed waystations, merchant caravans, outposts of militia who had all refused to believe her identity or even give her the charity of pen and paper.

“Clearly I don’t – you’ve only told me now because I forced it out of you!”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “I could have let you just walk away and forget about me but I didn’t. Maybe I should have.”

Alistair rocked backwards at the acidity in her tone, his expression tightening in a way that let her know the blow had struck, that it couldn’t be taken back.

“You aren’t who I thought you were,” he muttered at last. “The Rosslyn Cousland I knew wouldn’t skulk around some foreign ballroom like a Crow, and she wouldn’t have tried to hide from me. I would have liked to know the woman I loved was standing twenty feet from me while I was getting pawed at and drooled over like a butcher’s bone, but I guess that wasn’t her.”

Pride would not let him see her fall. She breathed, steady with one hand on the balustrade, the moonlight on her back and the faint cadence of the orchestra surging in to fill the gap left by the silence. Loved. Past tense. It would not have mattered anyway. Perhaps this had been part of Flemeth’s plan all along, an added spur of cruelty to keep the mind of her pawn on the task at hand and not running loose with the proverbial bit between her teeth.

“You have no right to stand in judgement of me,” she told him. “Believe what you want. It does not change my purpose here.”

Spine straight in the manner of the queen she had once so briefly been, she set the court mask back in place over her eyes and tied the knots so it would not slip again, and then kept beyond the reach of Alistair’s arms as she headed back towards the light of the ballroom, so he could not reach for her. Whatever fairytale she had expected for their reunion, her heart splintered at the reality, a sapling under the blow of an axe. She still had a duty, and she would do it, as she had been taught since childhood as a Cousland born. Beyond that lay a crevasse she could not have imagined would have yawned so far. Alistair had loved her. And then she had died.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair theirin #king alistair #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #king alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #f!cousland #cousland #the falcon and the rose

19 notes · View notes

jaskiersvalley · 4 years ago

Note

I JUST READ SALT IN OUR WOUNDS. Chair feeling alone on a battlefield, surrounded by brothers in arms, but not at all his brothers. Feeling ostracised because he doesn't want to see the murder of innocent people. Coming across Eskel as he escapes Nilfgaard, and the two bonding from there. Eskel making his own family in Cahir! Eskel defending Cahir from the other witchers when they're cold to him! I love your writing, it always makes me feel so many things 🧡🧡

Have I ever told you that I love you? Because I do. This is exactly the kind of follow-up I had been thinking about. And I adore the fact that you all but reached into my heart and pulled this out as a prompt. Thank you.

CW: The whole of Kaer Morhen’s residents are selfish idiots.

Not once in his long life had Eskel thought he would rather be on the Path than back at Kaer Morhen. But there he was, relieved to be out of the old keep and grateful that his loneliness was the regular kind that he had grown used to. The isolation of winters with his family had been a new kind of hell that he didn’t really cherish. At least out on the Path, his alienation from the rest of society was the usual, he expected that. But not in his own home.

Over winter a lot had happened. Nilfgaard spread more and Eskel’s usual area for work was now the front line of the war. He discovered it the hard way, could hear the fighting and smell death but curiosity still got the better of him. He crested the small hill and watched as the battle wound down. Nilfgaard was victorious once again and the army cheered wildly as surrender was conceded.

The apparent leader of the Nilfgaardian army approached the enemy who was on his knees. The soldiers pressed close, bayed for blood. While every instinct in Eskel screamed to intervene, to protect the defenseless, he didn’t. Witchers didn’t get involved in human affairs. In the end, his meddling would have been superfluous as the Nilfgaardian general lowered his sword and gestured to the battle field. The enemy would be allowed to collect their injured and dead.

Any breath of relief Eskel may have had was snatched away as the Nilfgaardians started rebelling against their general. Not outright assault but there were murmurs, a few comments of “spineless bastard” and “wet blanket” which carried over the fields to Eskel.

Out of curiosity, Eskel stayed and watched. The armies cleared away the bodies and worked methodically. However, he only had eyes on the general. Nobody seemed to talk to him, once or twice when he tried to initiate something he was scoffed at or outright ignored. By the evening, when the army settled in their camp, Eskel saw an all too familiar story. The soldiers were all huddled up in groups, sharing food, joking and laughing. Meanwhile, their general was sat on the peripheral, a lone figure huddled over a bowl of food. Eskel almost smiled at the way his head dropped forward once or twice as he nodded off.

Eskel himself settled down for the night, telling himself he was there to make sure no nasties came about as a result of the battle. A handful of wraiths would be quite unfortunate after all. He woke up to shouting and jeering. The fires were still burning bright in the camp and Eskel could see a group half carrying, half pushing a reluctant figure. They locked their general in an iron maiden and laughed merrily as they set it closer to a fire.

Witchers didn’t get involved in human affairs. Eskel decided there was still enough human left in him that he could ignore that rule. Without a second thought, he took off towards the camp.

Soldiers backed away from him, probably finding him too monstrous to dare challenge. For the first time, Eskel’s looks and demeanour worked in his favour. He barged into the camp and marched up to the iron maiden, ripping it open.

“By the Law of Surprise I claim him,” he declared, pulling a sweat soaked and weak body from the chamber. It wasn’t how Law of Surprise worked but it didn’t matter. Eskel couldn’t stand by and watch someone be humiliated and tortured for being a decent human.

In the end, Eskel had to carry his human rescue out of the camp because he was too weak to move. Obviously the battle then being stuck in a metal torture contraption near a fire had taken their toll. Back at his own camp, Eskel laid the man on his bedroll and offered a few sips of water every once in a while. When the shivering finally started up, Eskel was there, tugging an old horse blanket over him.

“Thank you,” the man managed to force out of his throat before falling asleep.

The next morning Eskel watched the Nilfgaardian army pack up and move out. He didn’t notice until too late that his rescue was lying on his side and watching silently with him.

“I don’t think they’ll bother you again.” Eskel said by way of greeting. “But you can stick around with me for a few days to be safe.”

A few days turned into a week. Then two. Cahir seemed perfectly at ease, keeping the company of a witcher. When pressed, he simply shrugged. “You’ve treated me with more humanity than anyone before.”

The unspoken “I like you” was still heard all the same. Months went by and still Cahir was by Eskel’s side, choosing the hardship of the Path day after day, even when there had been ample opportunity for better futures for him. A man of his skills and talent would find no problems getting a job in a court.

Seasons changed, the heat of summer gave way to the cool of autumn. All too soon, Eskel was going to have to head towards familiar mountains for winter. He was surprised to find he was dragging his feet.

“What happens if you don’t go?” Cahir asked. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go all winter either. So Eskel did the right thing.

“Come with me. Spend the winter in the place I used to call home?”

The past tense wasn’t lost on Cahir but he didn’t mention it. Instead, he graciously accepted the invitation.

Come winter, they ascended the mountain together. It wasn’t easy for a witcher so it was downright impossible for a human but Cahir doggedly followed. Their reception at Kaer Morhen was as frosty as the weather. Ciri had screamed and Geralt scowled. If those two were unfriendly with Cahir, logic followed that Jaskier and Yennefer wouldn’t be enamoured either.

Training was difficult, especially because the others seemed to not want to train with Cahir. They had each other where they could unleash their full might and if they wanted to go easy, Ciri was still needing education. It left Eskel to clash swords with Cahir though, more often than not, they ended up hiding in the battlements and looking over the others.

Any hope of Lambert or Aiden proving to be a bit more open were dashed on the second night when Aiden made a passing comment about Nilfgaardians needing to be put down like sick pigs.

“Just as well I’m of Vicovaro,” Cahir had said softly. Not that it made a difference.

Eskel’s last hope was Vesemir and Guxart. Except they cornered him before he could ask.

“I’m glad you’ve found a companion, it was about time you stopped being alone,” Vesemir started.

Guxart finished though. “But did you really have to settle for a human?”

“Jaskier’s human,” Eskel bit back.

“Jaskier’s also ingratiated himself with a powerful sorceress and Ciri adores him. Between them and Geralt, they’re bound to find a solution.”

“I still think that boy has Fae blood,” Guxart grumbled. “Our point is, even Lambert managed to find someone suitable.”

Eskel’s eyes burned even though witchers couldn’t cry. Even worse was the fact that they were in the kitchen and within full hearing of everyone in the dining hall.

“I think you’ll find that Cahir is suitable enough for me.” He’d finally had enough. “He chose me. He wants me. And you know what? I want him too. Being able to love him is enough for me.”

Vesemir stared at Eskel, unused to having resistance from his golden witcher. The obedient one who always nodded. He looked to say something but Eskel was on a roll.

“You’ve all found yourselves a slice of happiness, a family. And I was so happy for you even when you forgot about my existence in favour of those you loved more.” Taking a deep breath, Eskel’s voice dropped to a hiss. “So don’t tell me what my happiness looks like. And don’t you dare try to take it from me.”

Pulling his back straight, Eskel’s nose scrunched up in disdain and he turned, head held high as he marched out of the kitchen. Nobody dared look at him except for Cahir who quietly rose from the table and followed him out.

Not twenty minutes later they appeared downstairs again, bags packed. Going down the mountain wasn’t going to be easy but they would risk it. Eskel didn’t want to spend another minute in the keep amongst those who begrudged him his choices. At least they had a destination in mind, Cahir had described his home in Vicovaro, they would try and make it there.

“Where are you going?” Yennefer asked from the doorway. The others were obviously eavesdropping behind her.

“Anywhere but here,” Eskel bit out, unwilling to share information with her.

“I’ll open you a portal, name your location.”

Cahir was the one to ask for Vicovaro. They were allowed to grab their horses and Yennefer, bundled up in a coat, followed them out. She opened up a portal and offered them a nod.

“I hope you have a good rest of winter.” As aloof as she had been, Eskel knew she wasn’t the real issue. “And I hope to see you both again next winter. I might have something by then to help your predicament.”

It was a nice enough sentiment but it was too little too late. Eskel stepped through the portal with Scorpion behind him, followed by Cahir and his steed. Somehow, he didn’t think he would be back.

#eskhir #geraskier #laiden #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #eskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla fiona elen riannon #lambert #aiden #vesemir #guxart #long post #tldr: eskel makes his own happiness

109 notes · View notes

kin-kendry · 5 years ago

Text

Solace

CW: Violence/Murder

AO3

----------

“He’s safe now,” Aneela spoke as they took off through the woods again, leaving the cube behind them.

“Are you sure?” While Kendry trusted the other woman with her life, she didn’t want to underestimate the Lady.

“Well, the cube kept me safe when the Green was destroyed. There are only three people in the entire universe who can access them.”

“And what makes you think that Khlyen wouldn’t find out and lead her directly to him?”

“Papa wouldn’t do that… Not after everything. He kept Yala safe, after all,” Aneela didn’t sound so convinced herself, but she had to hold out hope.

They walked side by side through the trees in silence for hours. The crunch of fallen leaves and twigs, and the gentle breeze rustling the trees became white noise.

Delle Seyah felt like she could finally breathe again. Jaq was safe, and Aneela was back with her. She wasn't dead. While she didn't show it in front of Jaq, Kendry had been heartbroken when she found out that the Killjoys returned without Aneela.

Queens don't cry, remember? Jaq had parroted her words.

This one does, now. She’s a teeny bit broken.

She had cried, several times in fact, while Jaq had slept. Seyah Kendry crying after losing the one woman she loved, the only one she trusted in the universe? Illenore would be laughing in her grave…

"Kendry?" Aneela's gentle voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

Delle Seyah had stopped walking without realising, and a lone tear track marked her left cheek. She swallowed the lump in her throat and her eyes focused on the woman in front of her.

"I'm sorry, I… I just thought… Gods, I thought I lost you for good," Delle Seyah sighed, suddenly feeling physically and emotionally exhausted.

"I'm here, Kendry. You don't have to worry anymore. I won't ever leave you again, and I will protect you," Aneela said, holding her partner's hands in her own. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

Kendry collapsed into Aneela's arms. There was an intense need to be held by her, to be as close as possible. It wasn't something she would have ever thought herself capable of feeling or craving. But here she was, eyes glassy and slumped in her beloved's arms.

"Oh, Kendry. Let's set up camp. You need to rest."

Aneela sat Delle Seyah down on a fallen tree while she began clearing leaves and other forest debris. Not long after, a camp fire was crackling as the sun set and a bedroll was laid out.

"I missed you so much, you know?" Aneela finally spoke once she set herself down next to Kendry, sitting so that they were pressed against each other.

Delle Seyah was feeling uncharacteristically clingy, so she rested her head against Aneela's shoulder. It made her feel a little better knowing that Aneela was thinking of her even during such a stressful, life threatening time.

"All I could think about once the Green started crumbling was you and Jaq. For a while I didn't think I'd make it. But you both found me. Jaq, he… He looks so much like me when I was younger. I see Yala in him too. But his personality… He has the same conviction. The same hunger for answers, and a brilliant mind just like his mother."

"Unfortunately he's picked up a lot of the Jaqobis traits," Kendry let out a derisive laugh.

"I'm sure we can fix that when all of this is over," Aneela smirked.

"When all of this is over I'd like to take you to my home on Qresh. Show you where I grew up. We could rule together, if you're okay with settling with control over the Quad rather than the entire universe."

"Hmm, that sounds like a very tempting offer. I'm not really interested in dominating the universe anymore. I've got more important things in my life now," Aneela tilted Kendry's chin up before pressing their lips together in a tender kiss. “It’ll be good to see my old home planet.”

The two women relaxed against each other, the tension and exhaustion of the past few days melting away. Aneela could help but laugh as she pulled away.

"I still find it so odd that you're human again."

"I can tell you now that it is the worst," Delle Seyah grumbled.

"I'll have to do some tests first, but if you like I could try to convert you again."

"Oh, please. Feeling things, being so vulnerable… It's humiliating."

"And yet, you've proven to be strong and capable even without Hullen blood."

"Yes, well, I suppose survival is what humans are best at, despite everything," Kendry sighed.

Their conversation came to a natural end, and they just sat in silence, watching the sun set until the only sources of light were the moon and their camp fire. They settled down on their bedroll, wrapped in each others arms. Delle Seyah felt safe for the first time since Aneela freed her from that contraption Gander kept her in. Their faces were only centimetres apart. Kendry smiled and cupped Aneela's jaw.

"I love you, Aneela."

"And I love you, Kendry. Now sleep. I know you're tired."

Delle Seyah couldn't have protested if she tried. Her eyes wouldn't stay open and her body was already preparing for sleep. She felt fingers card through her hair, and Aneela's nails massaging her scalp. It was so soothing.

"Good night, little bird," Aneela's voice sounded far away as sleep enveloped Kendry in darkness.

----------

Aneela couldn’t sleep. They were exposed where they set up camp, and she already had time to rest while in hiding. Feeling Kendry’s body rise and fall with her even breaths brought comfort to her. It was a cool, cloudy night and the wind had picked up a little. Their campfire was reduced to a low smolder, so the only source of light was the moonbeams peeking through the clouds. It was calm, and calm didn’t settle well with Aneela.

Had she been less vigilant, Aneela would have missed the almost imperceptible rustle of leaves on the forest floor. The footsteps came closer until they were looming over the two prone bodies. A hand reached out slowly, ready to peel the blanket off the two women. Aneela opened her eyes and gripped the outstretched wrist, snapping it back until she heard bones crack. The potential assailant howled in pain and stumbled back, cradling their hand. Aneela jumped up, jostling Kendry as she did so. Delle Seyah gasped as she sat up, her eyes trying to track whatever was going on. But it was so dark and she could barely make out the five silhouettes.

Aneela heard the sound of a bullet flitting past her and whirled around to face the next threat. She charged towards assailant, taking one shot to her side before gripping the handgun and crumpling it in her hand. The clouds above shifted and moonlight shone down in streaks upon the camp. Aneela could see that the bandits were covered in pelts and bones, with human skulls worn as helmets. She grinned as the current woman she was focused on cowered at the display of inhuman power. One of the others took a shot at Aneela, blasting clean through her shoulder. The wound healed instantly.

Aneela grabbed the woman by the throat and whipped her around to use as a meat shield. Another shot was fired, piercing through the bandit’s stomach. She shoved the limp body towards the third bandit before turning on the first one she injured.

“Wh-What are you?” The man asked, backing himself up against a tree.

“I’m your worst nightmare. You and your friends thought you found an easy target. Well, you’ve made a very big mistake,” Aneela hissed, her eyes wide and wild.

Aneela ripped one of the pointed bones from the man’s clothing and stabbed him several times in the neck, relishing in the gurgling as he choked on his own blood. The two remaining bandits were already on the run. Aneela grabbed Kendry’s bow and two arrows. She fired both off quickly, each hitting their targets and incapacitating them. The bandits cowered as Aneela approached, their arms and legs too weak to carry them very far. She stomped on their calves and drew a knife from her belt, the polished metal glinting in the moonlight.

“P-Please… We won’t cause anymore trouble. Let us go,” One of them begged.

“I can’t let you do that,” Aneela’s voice was quiet. “I’ve had a trying few days, and I need to let off some steam.”

“Oh god, no! Please no!” The other bandit attempted to escape again, but Aneela was quick.

She kicked the bandit in the face and crushed his neck with her boot, watching as he struggled. The hands clawing at the leather of her boot grew weaker and weaker as the human suffocated, eyes rolling into the back of his head. The other bandit had curled up on the forest floor, weeping and clutching his calf.

“Only one left. Whatever shall I do with you?” Aneela mused aloud as she played with the knife in her hands. “I could spare you, but then you’d run off and tell the rest of your group what happened. I already killed your friends, so I may as well just finish off the job.”

“Aneela, enough,” Delle Seyah’s voice echoed out through the trees as she approached her love.

“Kendry! Have you finally come to join me?” Aneela’s face lit up as she turned to the other woman.

“No, you need to stop this right now,” Delle Seyah wasn’t playing around.

She stopped directly in front of Aneela, looking her up and down. Her pristine white clothes were splattered with blood, and there were a few drops across her face from when she stabbed one of the bandits. Kendry sighed and shook her head, taking the knife from her beloved’s hands.

“I don’t understand,” Aneela frowned. “They tried to attack us. I was protecting you.”

“I know, but being cooped up in a cube for days doesn’t mean you get to massacre everyone in sight,” Kendry said before walking over to the remaining bandit and offering her hand to the poor soul. “Get up. This is the only chance you’re getting.”

The bandit was beyond terrified but took the kind offer, letting Delle Seyah haul him up on to his good leg. As he opened his mouth to express his gratitude, Kendry gripped his head and bared his throat. She made quick work of the man, slitting his neck and dumping him back on the ground. Aneela’s expression morphed from annoyed to confused, and finally settled on a mix of delight and lust.

“But- Why?”

“I wasn’t going to let you have all the fun now, was I?” Kendry smirked as she leaned down to wipe the blood off the knife on the bandit’s pelt. “You didn’t seriously think I’d changed, did you?”

“Oh, Kendry…” Aneela laughed in relief while Kendry tucked the knife back into her belt.

“I enjoyed watching you take down those pathetic ants. You know I love it when you get mad,” Kendry’s voice lowered into a sultry whisper, closing the gap between them.

“I couldn’t help myself. I’ve been itching to hurt something,” Aneela’s hands clenched and unclenched as she took a couple of slow, calming breaths.

“I think I know of a better way to release some of that pent up energy, Aneela.”

Kendry lips grazed Aneela’s and her hands moved to her hips. The kiss was passionate and demanding, both women running on adrenaline from their recent activities. A heady concoction of murder and lust was something Aneela and Delle Seyah found themselves experiencing every now and again, and it made for fucking phenomenal sex. They drew back from the kiss, both breathing heavily and gazing into each others darkened eyes. Aneela caressed Delle Seyah’s jaw, her touch soft and light.

“Gods, I’ve missed you, Kendry.”

#killjoys #killjoys syfy #green queens #aneela kin rit #delle seyah kendry #aneela x kendry #aneela x delle seyah #fanfic #killjoys fanfic

19 notes · View notes

salty-dracon · 7 years ago

Text

ace hang plays secret heroes the d&d campaign part 3

(they’re level 8??? i think???)

DM: The path through the woods is dark. You can only see the path in front of you and the various trees around. Someone roll me a perception check.

Lily: *rolls* 1.

DM: .... Okay? Uh... it’s dark.

Val: Okay, so we’ve gotten ambushed by a swarm of rats, a bear, half a dozen hellhounds, two night hags, and ten ogre zombies... uh... now what?

Arthur: I’m almost out of rage for the day.

DM: You suddenly hear the sound of hoofbeats. Suddenly, from out of the darkness, emerges a figure. It is wearing dark-colored armor and is riding a black horse. It carries a longsword in its hand. You can see its face- brown hair, luminous red eyes and pale skin. “To think that you overcame all that I put in your way... I should not have underestimated you.”

Brid: Can I see any of his skin?

DM: You can see his face.

Brid: “Hey, handsome.”

DM: “Is that your way of throwing me off guard? Pitiful. And you call yourself a paladin.” He begins to circle around you on his horse, tracing a circle with his sword in the dirt.

Brid: What can I tell about him?

DM: He’s wearing black armor and is riding a horse with a weird aura.

Brid: Mkay.

Lily: “So you’re the one who set all those things after us?”

DM: “But of course. These woods are dangerous enough. Yet you braved the creatures I sent after you. I am the last thing standing in the way between you and the sanctum. Of course, if you go there, you’ll find everyone already dead.”

Morgan: “So you killed the agents we were sent to meet?”

DM: “There is a festival tonight, is there not? The feast of the moon. There were many at the church... men, women, children... ” He holds his sword out. It is stained red with blood. “What do you think I was compelled to do when they watched me murder two of them?”

Arthur: Dear god. Um... “You killed every last one of them?“

DM: “Correct. But I found you had not reached me yet. What I seek lies somewhere upon your bodies... and I will have it as soon as I kill the last of you.”

Arthur: Um, DM?

DM: Yeah?

Arthur: What if we die?

DM: .... I kind of didn’t expect you’d be this level by now, actually, so... you might not.

------

DM: Its hoofsteps catch up to you. You are hiding in the trees. “I know you’re there... ” It trots in a circle, awaiting your next move. Okay, everyone roll for initiative-

Val: FIREBOLT THAT BITCH

Lily: Crossbow his horse.

Brid: Not wasting my javelins.

Arthur: *shrug*

DM: So... same as always. *rolls* Okay, Lily, followed by the Blackguard, then Val, then Brid, then Arthur. Anyway, it doesn’t matter for this round because y’all get the jump on him. *rolls dice* His steed takes 6 damage, and he takes... 11. Okay, Morgan shot the firebolt that hit his body, so he turns towards Morgan and Grustat and raises his sword. He charges into the forest.

Val: Shit.

DM: He *rolls* hits for *rolls* 1 damage.

Val: Thank god. I dodge.

DM: Okay. Brid?

Brid: I stay put.

Arthur: Greataxe that bitch and activate rage.

DM: .... 4 damage.

Lily: I run to the other side of the pass and climb a tree.

DM: Okay. Acrobatics check.

Lily: 10, plus modifier.

DM: Okay, you’re good. You climb the tree. The Blackguard notices you, however, and casts, uh.... chill touch. You watch a ghostly white hand crawl up the tree and grab you, dealing *rolls* 7 damage. Okay, Val-

Val: FIREBOLT

DM: .... Okay, that’s... 18 damage. The blackguard’s steed disappears.

Val: Okay so he’d be knocked prone, then?

Lily: *smiles*

Brid: Nice.

Arthur: GREATAXE AT ADVANTAGE

Brid: Uh.... uh.... Thunderous smite! Can I cast that at second level?

DM: *sigh* No.

Brid: Dammit.

-----

(One would-be-hard-except-they-literally-all-got-the-jump-on-him battle later)

DM: The Blackguard grasps his chest and backs away from you guys. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have underestimated you... even against myself. You especially, girl... you’ve grown.” He points at Verity.

Brid: Do I know him? ... “Do you know me?”

DM: “Ha. How could I forget?” He casts Find Steed again. Another black horse appears next to him, which he quickly mounts and rides past you. You watch him disappear into the darkness.

(Everyone is quiet)

Lily: Oooooh, plot development.

Brid: Where the fuck would I know him? Hold on, where’s all that shit I wrote about my backstory- is he my dad or something? Did my dad just try to kill me?

Lily: Would it be the first time?

Val: Nope.

-----

DM: You enter the sanctum. True to the Blackguard’s word, you find the walls stained with blood, and the bleeding, cold bodies of men, women, and children all over the ground. They have all been slashed in various places- most likely by the Blackguard’s sword. Not a living soul remains in the sanctum, except for you four.

Brid: I collapse to the ground and cry.

Arthur: I do the same.

(Val and Lily stare at each other)

Brid: At least be fucking sad, you edgelords!

Val: Listen, Morgan is a stone-faced mage, he is not going to cry over dead bodies.

Brid: What is he, that guy from Noragami with the fucking katana?!

Lily: I’ll just step out for a bit, then. See if there’s someplace to sleep without the bloodbath.

Brid: Is that in character for you?

Lily: Yeah, Kory’d try to be useful without being too sentimental. Anyway, what can I see and where can I move?

DM: There’s a door behind the altar. Trying not to slip on the pools of blood or step on the bodies of the dead, you reach the door. You attempt to open it, but you only hear a clatter. It’s locked.

Lily: I search the door.

DM: Perception check.

Lily: *rolls* 4.

DM: There’s a keyhole for a key.

Lily: ... really?

DM: What?

Lily: I pick the lock with my thieves’ tools.

DM: Great idea. Dexterity check.

Lily: Uh... 3.

DM: ...

Lily: I try again.

DM: ... Why?

Lily: We have nowhere else to go!

DM: ... You can just search the room, y’know.

Val: Anyone of note?

DM: A man in black robes is lying behind the altar.

Val: I search him.

DM: Roll me a Perception check.

Val: ... 1.

DM: Oh, for the love of- *sigh*

Lily: There’s something on his person, isn’t there?

DM: Lily, why don’t you check?

Lily: *rolls* 2.

DM: ... I’m technically not allowed to do this but... there’s a key on his belt.

Lily: I unlock the door with it.

DM: Good job, you two.

Lily: I exit the door.

DM: The area behind the altar is bloodless, though a bit dusty. It’s filled with supplies for the church. There’s some bedrolls and food back there. Perception check.

Lily: *rolls* 1.

DM: ... are you fucking kidding me oh my god what the fuck

------

DM: Okay, good morning, guys, what’s good? I guess you’re preparing to leave for Steelfield.

Lily: I steal some bread from the stores.

DM: Dexterity check-

Brid: “Put that back, we’ve got enough shit and I’m not stealing from a church!”

Lily: I slowly put the bread back.

Brid: “Good girl.”

Morgan: I steal some bread while Verity isn’t looking.

Brid: You son of a bitch.

Morgan: Hey, it’s gonna go to waste if we don’t eat it, right?

DM: Dexterity check-

Val: *rolls* 9.

DM: .... Nope.

Arthur: We’re only a day from town, aren’t we? Besides, I can forage if we can’t get food until then.

DM: Okay, so now what?

Lily: I guess it’s time we leave.... Brid, can you like, lay them to rest or something with your paladin powers?

Brid: ... I try?

Lily: Okay, you do that, I’m gonna run outside and see what the road’s like.

DM: Good choice.

Val: We’re about to get ambushed, aren’t we?

Lily: Okay, I look outside. What’s the road like?

DM: Perception check.

Lily: *rolls* 20.

DM: .... god, why couldn’t you have pulled this last night... anyway, you see a fork in the road leading to some large plains. The other road, the road to Steelfield, looks pretty clear, except for what looks like a number of guards around Steelfield’s walls. They look strange, though... almost like zombies. Also, you notice someone watching you not far down the road. It’s the blackguard from last night.

Lily: I’m not picking a fight.

DM: It’s unarmed. It looks like it’s packing up camp. In no state to fight you.

Lily: ... I approach him?

DM: *happy sigh* Yeah! Exposition time! Are you stealthy or open?

Lily: Stealthy.

DM: So you just sneak up on the guy. Okay. He’s about forty feet away. So, as you sneak up behind him, he says “Come on out. I don’t want to fight you.”

Lily: I walk out.

DM: The blackguard’s camp looks like a small campfire. Its glowing steed is tied to a tree, carrying a couple of packs of stuff. The blackguard speaks again. “How long have you been traveling with the girl?”

Lily: “You mean Verity?”

DM: “Yes.”

Lily: “About three months. Why, do you know her?”

DM: Roll me a charisma check.

Lily: *rolls* 10.

Brid: Awwwww.

DM: “I was her caretaker when she was a babe. I taught her everything she knows.”

Lily: “So are you her father, or-” Wait, how much of Brid’s backstory do I know?

Brid: Uhhh... Let’s just say you know I was raised by my church.

DM: “She does not carry my blood, but she is nonetheless my daughter. Rest assured that I do not wish to harm her.”

Lily: “Are you an enemy of CROWN?”

DM: “No.” As he boards his horse, he smiles at you. “The amulet you’re carrying- see that you bear it safely to the queen. I also recommend you visit one Sage of Serpents in the forest just out of Steelfield. She may provide some insight that will prove useful in the future.” With a friendly wave, he rides off into the distance, toward the righthand path, leading into the open plains.

Brid: ... I do have a dad... and I called him sexy...

DM: It’s a mistake anyone would make, believe me.

Val: I’m sorry WHAT

-------

#ace hang

1 note · View note

piratetrafalguy · 7 years ago

Text

20 Years at Sea, Day 13 - AU

Title: Two and a Half Pirates

Rating: T

Summary: Garp thought he was quite brilliant when, in an effort to discourage Ace and Sabo’s ambitions of piracy, he gives them custody of his new baby grandson. After all, the two might have been teenage delinquents, but even they wouldn’t actually go out to sea with a baby in their care, right?

Hint: he is very, very wrong.(

An AU where Luffy is born 16 years after Ace instead of 3, and Sabo remains with Ace on Mt. Corvo instead of trying to set sail on his own.)

A/N: Wah, I ended up posting this late, and then forgot to even put it on tumblr. >_<

(Read it on Ao3 here)

Garp thought it was a brilliant plan, even if everyone else - Sengoku, Tsuru, Bogard, and even Makino and Woop Slap from down in the village - thought otherwise.

“What the hell is that?” Ace hissed, eyes narrowed in both suspicion and contempt at the little bundle in Garp’s arms.

Ordinarily Garp would have rewarded the sixteen-year-old’s tone with a righteous Fist of Love, but he was in a good mood, so instead he let out his usual booming laugh. Then, grinning, he bent down and moved the little bundle of blankets so both Ace and Sabo - who’d been shifting nervously at Ace’s side - could get a better look.

Ace wrinkled his nose, looking confused, while Sabo blinked in bemusement. Then Sabo’s eyes went wide. “Garp-san -” Garp’s grin faltered; hadn’t he told the boy to call him Gramps? “- is that… is that a baby ?”

Garp beamed. “Sure is!” he exclaimed, before promptly dumping said baby into Ace’s arms. Ace yelped and jerked away, almost dropping him, but Sabo lunged and caught him just in time - then ruined the act of heroism by immediately trying to shove the baby back into Ace’s arms, expression panicked. “Meet Monkey D. Luffy - your new baby brother!”

Dadan, who’d been warily watching the exchange from the doorway of her shack, started choking.

“Oh, no, not another one!” she cried, shaking her hand back in forth in front of her face. “No, no, it was bad enough with these two demons -” She pointed to Ace and Sabo, who were now playing an awkward game baby hot potato, identical looks of alarm on their faces. “- and I’m not taking care of another one! I won’t! I refuse, you ask too much -”

“You won’t have to,” Garp interrupted, a pinky stuck casually up his nose. “Ace and Sabo will take care of him.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, in which Sabo lost the game of baby shuffle, and everyone stared, slack-jawed, at Garp. Then -

“WHAT ?”

“You can’t be serious!” Ace sputtered, pointing at Garp angrily.

“They’ll kill him,” Dadan blurted, looking almost more alarmed than she had when she’d thought she was going to have to take care of the kid.

“We don’t know the first thing about babies,” Sabo protested, his panic rising even more when little Luffy - roused from his nap by all the commotion - started fussing in his arms.

Ace whipped his head around to stare at the baby, his horror apparently mounting at the realization that it also made noise.

Garp let out another loud laugh, then bent down to give his baby grandson’s tummy a poke. “You be good for your big brothers, now, Luffy,” he crooned, which, for some reason, made Ace and Sabo start freaking out even more.

“You’re insane!” Ace shrieked, eyes darting between Luffy and Garp, and looking even more disturbed when Garp’s cooing actually worked and settled the boy. Garp ignored him, choosing instead to watch in amusement as Sabo did an excellent impression of a cornered animal and stared down at Luffy, who blinked back up at him in sleepy curiosity.

“Wait, Garp - did you say Monkey D. Luffy?” Dadan asked in a strangled tone, catching everyone’s attention and cutting off the rest of Ace’s rant. “As in… as in your biological grandson? Dra- I mean, that man’s child…?”

“Eh? Oh, yeah, of course. He’s my son Dragon’s boy,” Garp said, picking his nose again. “Don’t worry, that doesn’t mean I love him any more than you,” he added as an aside, nodding to Ace and Sabo. Wouldn’t want them thinking he was picking favorites or anything.

Dadan went white as a sheet, while Ace turned a lovely shade of puce. “THAT’S NOT THE-”

“Where are his parents?” Sabo interjected, before Ace could get any louder. “I mean… if he’s your son’s son, then why isn’t he…?”

Garp grunted. “They didn’t want him,” he said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. Up until presenting Garp with the news that he was now a grandpa to his first grandson by blood, Dragon had always claimed he didn’t want children. “And besides, his father is the most wanted man in the world - do you really think he’d be safe with him? If anyone found out whose son he was, they’d take it out on him.”

Sabo glanced sharply at Ace, whose mouth had snapped shut. Dadan made a pitiful noise behind them, no doubt at the prospect of being caught harboring not one, but two famous criminals’ sons.

Ace gritted his teeth and glared at the ground for second, then went back to scowling at Garp. “I’m still not taking care of him,” he growled, fists clenched.

Annoyed, Garp scowled back, and was reconsidering his temporary ban on Fists of Love when Sabo made a soft sound that caught both his and Ace’s attention.

Hoping Sabo hadn’t actually dropped Luffy, Garp turned, and was greeted with a sight that forced him to hold back a bark of laughter: Sabo looking down at Luffy with an expression of absolute wonder while the baby happily sucked on one of Sabo’s fingers.

Well, that was one down.

“See? He likes you,” Garp said, grinning, while Ace gave Sabo a look of utter betrayal.

“Sabo, get your hand out of his mouth, that’s disgusting -”

“Uh-huh,” Sabo said absently, completely ignoring Ace. Then, without ever taking his eyes off of Luffy, he asked, “What did you say his name was, again?”

Garp beamed. “Luffy,” he said, reaching out and patting him on the head. “His name is Luffy.”

~*~ (mobile users, there’s a cut here) ~*~

Dadan’s instincts to protect defenseless babies apparently overran her dislike of Garp’s devil spawn, because she made Ace and Sabo stay with her and the bandits instead of returning to their treehouse that night.

“Until I’m sure you can take care of him without killing him,” she said, while Ace sulked angrily against the wall.

“Why do you care?” Ace snapped, watching in disgust as Magra, off all people, walked Sabo through changing the little drool-monster’s diaper.

“Because I’ll be the one Garp takes it out on if he comes back and finds out you idiots let him get eaten by a bear,” she snapped back, a vein throbbing in her forehead.

Ace scowled and crossed his arms. “What do you guys even know about taking care of babies, anyway?” he challenged.

Dadan stilled for a second, an odd look on her face. “We managed with you, didn’t we?”

Ace blinked back at her. Oh. Yeah.

For some reason, the realization made him uncomfortable, which was why he was actually glad when Dadan ruined any maternal images he could have mustered of her by scoffing and adding, “At least this one’s cute. You were a pretty ugly baby.”

“You were. We have pictures,” Dogra supplied helpfully, while Sabo laughed and both Ace and Dadan sputtered.

Thankfully, the arrival of another bandit with a baby bottle spared Ace from analyzing the implications of the group keeping his baby pictures.

Once Dadan had showed Sabo how to hold the baby while he fed him, they all sat back and watched as the baby sucked down the bottle’s contents at an alarming speed.

“Is that normal?” Ace asked, in spite of himself. Nobody answered him, but Dadan looked pained again.

Once the bottle was empty, the brat’s eyes started to close, which only furthered Ace’s annoyance with him. If this kid was just going to eat, sleep, and poop, what was he good for?

Apparently this sentiment wasn’t shared by Sabo, who got weird, sappy look on his face, and settled the brat more firmly against his chest.

“How could anyone just… not want him?” he said softly, running his hand up and down the baby’s back.

“I don’t want him,” Ace pointed out, but, continuing with the theme of the day, everyone ignored him.

~*~

Four weeks later, and Ace still didn’t get why Sabo was so attached to the brat - or Luffy, as Sabo kept insisting they call him.

Ace remained stalwart in his refusal to take care of the kid, and Sabo had mostly stopped bugging him about it - especially after the third time he’d tried to get Ace to hold him, and Ace had dropped him. (Ace still didn’t see what the big deal was; the kid was fine, and hadn’t even cried all that much. Certainly not enough to warrant the violent clubbing Ace had gotten from Sabo’s pipe.)

Still, Sabo couldn’t be with the br- Luffy - every second of every day, and Ace knew it was only a matter of time before Sabo tried to force Ace to help anyway.

That being said, Ace didn’t think that time would come in the form of a screaming baby in the wee hours of the morning.

“Sabo, shut that kid up,” Ace groaned, rolling over and covering his ears with his pillow. When he received no response and the crying became louder, Ace picked up the pillow and tossed it in Sabo’s direction. “Hey, come on - Sabo, your baby is crying!”

Sabo didn’t move, though, or say anything, so after another minute had passed and the din became unbearable, Ace kicked off his blanket and sat up, feeling murderous. “Oi, Sabo!”

Intent on giving the blond a good kick, he shuffled over to Sabo’s bedroll - only to come up short when he found it empty. “Sabo?"

He frowned down at the bedroll, then gave the treehouse a once-over before finally settling his gaze on the door. Sabo’s pipe wasn’t leaning against the wall, like it usually was, and his hat was gone as well, which meant….

“No,” Ace muttered, feeling a sudden wash of horror. “No no no, you did not leave me alone with...”

A particularly ear-piercing wail split the air before he could finish his sentence, making Ace swear and turn towards the source of all the noise. He was going to strangle Sabo when he came back.

Knowing it was the only way he was going to get any peace and quiet, Ace started towards the baby’s bed, then stopped and swore again, his nerve failing. What the hell was he even going to do? He definitely wasn’t changing the kid’s diaper, if that was his problem (not that he knew how, anyway), and he had no idea where Sabo kept his bottles if he was hungry. He’d heard Sabo singing softly to the kid a few times when he just needed soothing, but Ace would be damned if he did anything of that sort.

He could just leave. Hunt Sabo down and make him come back and deal with this, which would have the added benefit of getting away from the noise, but...

But Sabo would probably kill him, and besides, as much as he claimed otherwise, even Ace wasn’t heartless enough to leave a crying baby all alone (which, come to think of it, was probably what Sabo had been counting on, the bastard).

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” Ace fumed, and stomped over to the shrieking menace. As if sensing his presence, the baby’s cries got quieter as Ace approached him, though not nearly enough for Ace’s abused ears, in his opinion. To Ace’s dismay, however, he started right back up again once Ace was beside him - this time with big, heartbreaking sobs that shook his whole tiny body, and made Ace feel rotten despite his dislike of the kid.

“Hey, don’t… don’t do that,” Ace grumbled, staring into the little basket Sabo had fashioned into the baby’s bed. Ace was surprised when the kid - Luffy - actually listened, even it was just to downgrade to sniffling pitifully. Anything was better than the screaming.

Relieved but unnerved, Ace stuck his hand on the side of the basket and gave it a little rock, something he’d seen Sabo do a few times. “Uh, hey, yeah… see? Your… Sabo, will be back soon -” Or at least he’d better be. “- and then you can, uh… do whatever it is you do, and… why are you staring at me like that?” Ace asked, bemused, as he reached down to move the blankets away from the boy’s face.

Luffy gave another pitiful sniffle, his small, tear-stained face red from exertion. Then, before Ace could move away, he wrapped his whole, tiny hand around Ace’s finger.

Ace blinked down at him stupidly, mouth falling open as wide, innocent, impossibly liquid eyes blinked back at him.

“Oh,” he breathed, a strange, warm feeling exploding in his chest.

There was a chuckle from the doorway.

“Yeah,” Sabo said quietly when Ace turned his head, a dopey grin on his face. “He does that to you.”

~*~

Maybe, Ace decided later as he fed Luffy his bottle, Luffy’s hand still wrapped firmly around one of Ace’s fingers. Maybe a baby brother isn’t so bad after all .

~*~

“Ah, ah, ah!” Luffy cried, whole body wiggling as his arms reached for Ace - much to the chagrin of Sabo, who was holding him.

Ace smirked. “You hear that? He’s trying to say my name,” he declared smugly, picking Luffy up out of Sabo’s lap and swinging him into the air. “Ace, Ace, Ace - can you say Ace, Luffy?” Ace cooed, making silly faces and swinging Luffy higher with every chant of his name.

The Ace of six months ago probably would have spontaneously combusted if he’d seen himself doing something so stupid, but present-Ace didn’t care; that Ace hadn’t had a sweet, adorable baby brother who had a smile like sunshine and worshiped the ground he walked on.

Sabo rolled his eyes. “It’s just baby babble, it doesn’t mean anything,” he insisted sullenly, his arms crossed.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Luffy cried out, mimicking Ace and shouting every time Ace swung him into the air.

Ace lowered Luffy and grinned triumphantly at Sabo, who glared murderously back.

“It’s one fucking syllable, of course he’s going to have an easier time-”

“AH!” Luffy shrieked, and smacked Ace in the face with a flailing hand. Sabo burst into laughter, which in turn made Luffy giggle and make grabby hands towards Sabo.

“Hey, hey, I thought I was your favorite, Luffy. You can’t go abandoning your big brother so easily!” Ace protested, while Sabo shot him a smug look and moved to take Luffy back.

Luffy squealed in delight, wiggling even more and whacking both brothers with more flailing limbs. “Bah!” he cried, beaming up at Sabo’s face once Sabo finally wrestled him free of Ace. “Bah, bah, bah!”

Both Sabo and Ace froze. Then a slow, elated smile spread over Sabo’s face. “Bah,” he said, with much more reverence than such a syllable probably warranted. “I’m ‘Bah’!”

Ace snorted out a laugh. “Bah - what’s that short for, ‘bastard’? I think it suits-” He stopped and blinked, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Are… are you crying?!”

“N-no…”

“You are!”

“Sh-shut up, asshole.”

“Ah!”

~*~

“He’s got you both wrapped around his little finger,” Dadan snickered one evening, after Ace and Sabo had decided to grace her with their presence (and three boars) for dinner.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ace grunted around the hunk of meat in his mouth, while Luffy banged a spoon on the floor and drooled happily in Ace’s lap.

“Really?” Dadan snorted, eyes darting over to Sabo, who was alternating between making silly faces at Luffy and glaring moodily at Ace.

There’d been a bit of an argument over who got to hold him, but Ace had won after pointing out that Sabo had been hogging him all morning, and that Ace was better at keeping him from putting strange things in his mouth while they were eating.

“Can I hold him, then?” Dadan asked, one eyebrow raised.

The grip Ace had on Luffy tightened. “No.”

“How about me?” Magra - who’d been fawning over Luffy since they’d gotten there - asked hopefully.

“If I don’t get to hold him, the rest of you don’t, either!” Sabo snapped, a vein throbbing in his temple.

“What happened to not wanting him?” Ace added, scowling at Dadan.

Dadan waved her hand dismissively. “I didn’t want him when I thought I was the one who was going to have to raise him. I’m fine with him so long as he’s still your problem at the end of the day.” She leaned over and wiggled a few fingers in Luffy’s face, which elicited a happy exclamation of “Da!” from the boy. “Like I said - he’s kinda cute.”

“Of course he’s cute, he’s the cutest baby in the whole world,” Sabo interjected, as though they had been disputing it. “I mean, look at him! Those big eyes, that cute face…”

They all stopped to admire Luffy’s cuteness. Luffy, as if sensing the scrutiny, gave the room a big, gummy grin.

Sabo actually covered his face, as though shielding himself from the adorableness. Ace didn’t know what his own expression looked like, but from the way Dadan was staring at him, he figured it was probably just as stupid.

~*~

The days seemed to pass quicker than they had before Luffy came into their lives. Ace’s seventeenth birthday came and went, but the significance of it didn’t hit Ace until afterward, when Sabo’s started creeping up as well.

Because Ace remembered their big plans, the ones they’d been making since they were just kids. How they had both decided to ship out for a life of piracy and adventure as soon as they turned seventeen. Ace still wanted those things, and didn’t want to give up his dream, but at the same time…

“Hey, Sabo?” Ace asked one night in early March, just a few weeks shy of Sabo’s birthday. “What’s going to happen to Luffy when we leave?”

He heard Sabo suck in a sharp breath, then let it out slowly. “You’ve been thinking about it too, huh?” he said quietly, rolling over so Ace could see his face. Ever since Luffy had learned to crawl, they’d taken to sleeping with their bedrolls together so they could keep Luffy in between them (and wake up if he tried crawling off and over them).

Ace grunted an affirmative and tightened his grip on Luffy, who was tucked into the crook of Ace’s arm, sound asleep.

Sabo looked down at him, the corners of his mouth tipping up in what had become an unconscious reflex when it came to looking at Luffy, though the smile dropped just as quickly.

“I don’t know,” he said, and Ace could tell by his tone that this had been weighing on him just as much as it had Ace. “I… I still want to go out to sea, but at the same time…”

“We can’t just leave him here,” Ace finished softly, just the thought leaving a phantom ache in his chest. Maybe if Luffy were older, or could fend for himself…

Sabo’s brow furrowed, his eyes taking on that determined, calculating glint they sometimes got when he was planning something.

“Maybe,” he said finally, face spreading into a wide, sly smile. “Maybe we wouldn’t have to.”

“We couldn’t possibly take him with us,” Ace started to protest, only for his words to die in his throat at the look Sabo was giving him. “...could we?”

Sabo’s smile widened further. Then he told Ace what he was thinking.

“Gramps would kill us,” Ace said once Sabo had finished, sitting up now with Luffy pressed against his shoulder. Still, the thought couldn’t squelch the smile threatening his lips, or the growing hope in his chest.

“He’d have to catch us first,” Sabo pointed out wryly Then his face turned serious again. “We’d have to do it together, though, instead of leaving separately like we’d originally planned.”

Ace smirked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said, and didn’t miss the way Sabo’s shoulders slumped in relief.

Luffy chose that moment to snuffle awake, his head popping off Ace’s shoulder long enough for him to blink sleepily. Then he settled back down, head turned and face tucked against Ace’s neck.

Ace chuckled and dropped a kiss to his crown. “What do you think, Luffy?” he whispered, his breath ruffling the boy’s hair. “Wanna be a pirate?”

~*~

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THEY’RE GONE?!” Garp bellowed six weeks later, nearly foaming at the mouth in rage.

“It’s not like I could have stopped them!” Dadan shouted back in a rare moment of bravery, nursing the lump Garp had already left on her head.

“YOU COULD HAVE TRIED!” Garp howled back, his anger the only thing keeping his panic at bay.

Ace and Sabo could handle themselves - Garp’s hellacious training regiment had helped see to that - but Luffy was only a baby! He could barely walk, let alone fight, or even swim - what if he crawled off the boat and fell into the sea? What if the boat sank and Sabo and Ace couldn’t get to him in time? What if he got eaten by a Neptunian?!

“And they said they were heading for the Grand Line?” Garp demanded, while horrifying visions of his baby grandson getting eaten by a sea monster danced in his head.

“Th-that’s what the letter we found said,” Dadan replied warily, backing up well out of Garp’s reach.

Garp ran a hand over his face and turned his back on her, swearing to himself. It wasn’t really the old bandit’s fault, he knew; Ace and Sabo had always been obstinate - Ace alone had stubbornness down to an art - and if they’d really been determined to leave, there wouldn’t have been any stopping them. Not unless Garp himself had stood in their way.

(Why hadn’t he come just two weeks earlier? Why ?)

Damn it, he’d have to tell Dragon, too, when he called for an update on Luffy. His son was never going to let him live this down.

~*~

“Garp-san was awfully angry,” Makino noted, setting down the three drinks her customers had ordered.

“As he should be,” Mayor Woop Slap grumbled. “Who takes a baby out to sea with them, and into a life of piracy, no less?”

“Oh, shut up, you old goat,” Ace snapped, grabbing his and Sabo’s drinks since Sabo’s hands were full with Luffy. “We were only gone for two lousy weeks, and we didn’t even go that far. Gramps probably sailed right by the island we were docked at.”

Woop Slap scowled, which seemed to amuse Luffy, if his giggle was anything to go by. “Whether or not you actually have yet, you’re still planning on it!”

“Yes, but not until Luffy’s old enough,” Sabo pointed out, accepting his drink from Ace and giving it a sip. “For now, we’ll settle for sailing around the East Blue to get a feel for things, and staying off Garp's radar. At least until Luffy gets his sea legs.”

“Or legs at all?” Woop Slap grumbled, tapping his glass against the countertop in agitation.

Makino laughed as though Woop Slap had been joking, then walked around the counter to hand Sabo the bottle of milk he’d requested. “I think it all sounds very exciting,” she said, giving Ace and Sabo a sunny smile that could rival Luffy’s.

“You say that because Garp didn’t threaten to murder you,” Dadan grumbled from her seat in the corner, still nursing her many lumps. Ace made a mental note to buy her a bottle of Makino’s best booze.

Sabo cleared his throat. “In any case, I think it goes without saying that none of you breathe a word of this to Garp,” he said, his serious face belied by the babbling baby reaching for his hat.

“Or we really will take off for the Grand Line, baby or no baby,” Ace added as emotional blackmail.

There was a slight grumble from the assembled conspirators - mostly Woop Slap - but Luffy’s triumphant laughter at finally reaching Sabo’s hat drowned most of it out.

#20yearsatsea #20 years at sea #one piece #one piece fanfiction #day 13: AU #asl brothers #asl #fanfiction #my fanfiction #monkey d. luffy #portgas d. ace #sabo #monkey d. garp #curly dadan #dadan family #alternate universe #Two and a Half Pirates

43 notes · View notes

reinmeka · 8 years ago

Text

the little solomon/tyler/knight/prince AU i was thinking about earlier.

part (1/2)

He doesn’t know how he’s landed himself in this situation.

Surely it was easy to take on the job—go and rescue the prince in return for some gold. The mentioning of thieves and monsters didn’t sway him in the wrong direction to reconsider—already donned on his armor, ready to go.

Defeating the dragon upon arriving was no easy feat. Murdering the kidnappers hadn’t been either, nor was scaling the tall tower to get to the prince and achieve his goal.

If his stained armor hadn’t been evidence enough, then perhaps the various scars and caked blood on his face through the slit of his helmet.

Solomon didn’t know what to expect meeting him—had been told that he could be a bit rude, though that much was expected of stereotypical royalty, wasn’t it? If he was being paid to babysit, then being paid to babysit it shall be. He believes he’s mature to handle that.

Now that he’s there, in the room, the prince staring off wistfully out the window as if he didn’t hear or notice him clamor in, maybe it wasn’t all too worth the trouble in the end.

“Uh, Prince Tyler?” Solomon forces out after coughing out a lung full of ash and otherwise. Walks up a bit closer but stops in his tracks as the other man turns around—shows off just how effortless it is for him to be so gorgeous. Neat, shiny hair tied in a loose bun, pouty lips, and amazing sharp profile …

That’s beside every point, however.

“I’ve been hired by the king to come rescue you and escort you back to the castle.” He tries to explain as he takes off his helmet and tucks it under his arm. “I was a warden of a distant kingdom when I was asked to—“

“Just like all the others if not worse, aren’t you? Have you no decency?” It comes out all pretentious and haughty—not only catches Solomon off-guard but also … irritates him? It must be his imagination— he can’t imagine twisting words up to sound this rude.

“I don’t understand what you mean.” Excuse him for sounding a bit dumbfounded at this revelation, though it should have been obvious, that the prince he had been asked to rescue could spoiled, pampered, and just downright insufferable.

“Wouldn’t kill the king to send someone who isn’t horrendous … in looks or in manners, for that matter.” He sneers, practically looks like he’d rather throw himself out the window instead of being fucking rescued.

And it makes Solomon sputter, brows furrowing in further confusion, “A-are you calling me ugly? You’re seriously doin’ that, to me, the person who just saved your ass?” It’s unbelievable is what it is; he’s slain the dragon yet finds himself in company of another type of beast, one probably far more sinister and more difficult to deal with than anything he’s ever killed in this lifetime.

“My point still stands.” Tyler says as he turns back toward the window, arms crossed in indignation—looking like he refuses to move at all. Solomon had already decided in finishing his mission, intends to do so by force and by any other means necessary. He stomps over, metal clanking as he does, pulling Tyler roughly by the arm and hoisting up and over his shoulder. What he receives is an incredulous gasp followed by flailing limbs.

“Let me down! I won’t have the likes of you touching me!” He almost goes so far as to scratch at Solomon’s face, granting him a rougher handling than what he had before.

He ignores Tyler after that, readjusts his grip every so often as they make their way down the stairs and towards the exit of the old dungeon. It’s of no real concern to Solomon why anyone would want to kidnap such a brat, so he steels himself as best as he can as they continue back to the kingdom.

Eventually Solomon has the mind to let Tyler walk on his own—more for his own sake than his—arm and shoulder growing sore. Midday turns to evening and they stop by a river to rest and make camp for the night. Solomon hoists his bag and drops it near the large oak tree—sets up a bedroll and gestures for Tyler to use it much to his chagrin.

“Are you daft? I’m not sleeping in that. It probably smells like you.”

He can vaguely remember the King telling him to take Tyler’s words with a grain of salt, but it proves difficult—settles for grinding his teeth in silence as he starts stripping off his plates of armor. Solomon leans over the bank to the river then, takes the time to wash up and perhaps it is his imagination—can feel a pair of eyes staring daggers into him but when he turns around, Tyler is laying on the bedroll and facing the other way.

“You know,” Solomon tries, starts setting up a fire with some tinder and dry branches. Once he’s finished, he moves to lean and rest against the oak tree not too far away from where he set up the roll, “I had wondered why it took so long for you to get rescued, but now I know it’s because you’ve probably insulted everyone else to death.”

Tyler snorts, still not turned his way, “Hasn’t worked for you, despite my best efforts.”

“Do you not want to get back home? Would you have rather stayed stuck in that tower?”

“It’s not that at all. But you should know how these things go. Some knight saves me from the tower, comes home to be hailed as a hero, and gets offered my hand without me having any say. If I had wanted to get married, I would for love, with someone as beautiful and interesting as me—not to be some prize to be won by some … random uggo for hire. It’s at that point people give up and leave. Can hardly be my fault if they can’t handle the truth once it’s been given to them.”

Solomon gapes, “You’re ridiculous. Doubtful anyone would want to marry you anyway with that attitude. Even if that was the ‘prize’ offered to me, I would take the initial gold I was offered and leave. I’ve no interest in you, so no worries.” And maybe he sounds a bit bitter as he explains, but he has to establish that at least, that he agrees, that he knows that he has no place at Tyler’s side in that way or any other. Tyler seems satisfied with his retort at least, aside from going on about how many suitors he has lined up back home anyway.

Their conversation drifts off and ends there— Solomon a bit thankful for that. He thinks he should stay awake a while longer, but he figures they’re far off the path to be considered safe. Allows himself that asylum for the time being.

There’s no way of telling how much time had passed; he is startled awake when he hears Tyler’s voice shouting for him. Armor forgotten but sword in hand, Solomon jumps up and catches the sight of the prince climbing up another nearby tree, a pack of wolves snarling from the base.

“Tyler!” He rushes over to cut down the group, manages to slash at one and cause the lot of them to turn tail and run off another direction. The encounter resulted in no deaths, but Tyler still seems shaken up by it.

“If you jump down, I’ll catch you,” Solomon says as nicely as he can— places his sword down and barely noticing how high up the other man is, “C’mon.”

“There’s no way I’m risking jumping! It’s … It’s too high up.” He looks to cling to the tree tighter, face twisting into something more fearful.

“I swear on my life pretty boy, that I will catch you.” Raises his arms out as he says and Tyler shakes his head. “You can stay in that tree if you’d like, but it’ll be uncomfortable, and you know you have to find a way down tomorrow morning anyway.” Tries to reason and look as genial as possible with his arms still stretched out.

“Fine! But if you don’t catch me like you said, I’ll have you executed.” He moves to adjust his position, slides off the branch just as Solomon retorts,

“Can’t execute me if you’re dead because I didn’t catch you—“ Tyler yelping as he comes down but Solomon keeps his word, catches Tyler with little effort and even goes as far as carrying him back to their little camp, bridal style in his arms.

“How dare you joke around like that!” Tyler exclaims and Solomon only chuckles, continues down the path with the other man still slung around his neck.

“Hush up, know you like me carryin’ you around anyway.”

“P-put me down, that’s enough—“ Tyler says immediately, pushes at him, eager to get back on his own two feet. He brushes himself off and pouts, avoiding Solomon’s face when he resettles back onto the bedroll like a petulant child.

“What’s that, did I embarrass you, your highness?” Teases, but he gets no response to that, Tyler ignoring him for the rest of the night—can only shrug as he returns to his spot against the tree and gets back to sleep for himself.

The next morning, Solomon rouses from his slumber—blinks wearily at the figure close to him—recognizes it as Tyler as he wills the exhaustion away. The bedroll is a lot closer than he remembers from the night before, doesn’t know if it’s his imagination or if Tyler had willingly gone and done that—probably in fear of another attack, which is understandable if that is the case.

Solomon takes the time to look over Tyler’s face as he sleeps, thinks he’s even more beautiful compared to the first time they’ve met while a little imperfect, his hair out of place and calm as ever, and it makes his heart beat a bit faster as he continues to stare. Has to shake his head—not good to get any ideas while he has a primary focus: getting him back to the castle and collecting his reward. It’s in his best interest to make this as impersonal as possible to save himself the trouble and possible heartbreak—knows it would result in as much after what he’s seen of Tyler.

Something deep inside him wills him to act on his feelings, mostly by means of non-‘serious’ flirting and such. At least he can be somewhat half-truthful, complementing the prince while knowing he has no chance of ever being with him—confirmed by every insult Tyler throws back at him to put him back into place.

It’s a little masochistic the more he thinks about it, but Solomon’s always enjoyed the thrill of those type of things, simply put.

While Tyler still rests, Solomon moves to start tugging on his various pieces of armor, still stained with blood and singed in most places from the fight with the dragon. If anything is to be gained from this experience, he can brag about slaying at least one fire-breathing beast.

He gets the campfire going again, perhaps catches some fish for them to eat before they’re able to continue on with their journey back.

Eventually the morning bleeds into the early afternoon and Tyler is still fast asleep. Solomon trudges over, kneels down to push at his shoulder and rouse him. “Prince Tyler, we have to get moving. You’ve been asleep for too long.”

“Mmh … y’re so brave … saved me again… ” He mumbles though it’s doubtful it is in response to his wake up call. Solomon screws up his face, tries harder this time around to wake him.

“Tyler!” The man finally jolting and jumping awake—takes a moment to stare at Solomon mouth agape and face turning an extreme shade of red. He turns away, can’t exactly meet the other man’s eyes as he asks, “Sweet dreams?” Solomon smirks and Tyler stutters, immediately moves to wash his face in the river and fix himself, hair and drool and whatever else out of place.

“Was dreaming about a knight far more handsome and far braver than you!” Shouts back as he tries to defend his sleep-induced rambling even if it hadn’t really been questioned for specifics, Solomon only chuckling and gesturing toward the food he had prepared. He managed to cut and clean the fish as one would back home—going so far as to de-scale and behead it as well, and Tyler raises a brow.

“I have a mess kit in my bag. It’s handy to have a blade that you don’t use for killing monsters and bandits.”

“Oh. Well … it looks good, at least.” Seems like he doesn’t want to give him any benefit of a doubt, but he takes a bite and it’s nowhere as bad as he had assumed. It’s devoured as soon as the first bite—hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Solomon ends up laughing again— brings him back down to earth. Tyler tries to compose himself and keep an air of superiority, “It’s one thing you do well, I’ll give you that.”

“I’ll take the compliment.” Snorts as he starts moving away from the camp, Tyler quickly scrambling to get up to avoid being left behind.

The rest of their travel goes on without real incident. They don’t encounter wolves or thieves or monsters or anything of the sort—the bulk of their time spent walking in silence unless Tyler pipes up to complain out of his boredom, Solomon only humoring him with a response out of courtesy.

“So you say you hailed from a distant kingdom? What was that like, is it any similar to mine?”

“In its structures. I’d say yours is a lot bigger, however. Far more people.”

“Will you be returning there once we get back?”

“Can’t say for sure. There’s a reason I left in the first place, and it wasn’t just because I was asked to save you.”

“What was it?”

“I could get nothing from my position as a warden back home. I felt happier becoming a mercenary, traveling place to place, meeting new people, fighting more than I could ever hope for … it’s exhilarating.”

“I suppose that does sound interesting. The only time I’ve ever been away from home was when I was … well, kidnapped. I’d been in that tower for close to a year by my captors. They’d been decent to feed me at the expense of me being used as a bartering tool for my father, but … of course, he didn’t deal with them and then you came along.”

“Maybe rate of succession has correlation with ugliness. You said I’d been the worst, perhaps it was my face that killed them all and made the rescue a rousing success.” Gives a grin as he says it and to his disbelief, Tyler does the same—even laughs even if it had originated from his mean-spirited comments.

“I … I don’t know why I say those things,” tries to explain, “I mean of course there’s no real excuse and I don’t see myself stopping any time soon. Growing up around people like … me, perhaps made me vain to the point where that’s my default.” Tyler stops moving and Solomon does in turn—the forest they’re traveling in quiet with only the sounds of birds in the trees and the rushing of a river in the distance. In his silence, he looks off to the side and spots a bush of flowers. They’re breathtakingly beautiful and he reaches out for one, but Solomon dives to stop him—fingers clamped around his wrist to pull him away.

“Ow!”

“S-sorry! But these are poisonous,” Takes out his sword to poke at the plant, some buds bursting open and letting out a fume. Tyler immediately takes a step back, pulling his hand away in the process. “You need to be more careful about what you touch.” Solomon looks around, walking up to another bush and plucking a bushel from there, walking back up to Tyler and handing the bouquet to him.

“Here. They’re not as pretty as those there, but these won’t hurt you.” He doesn’t realize exactly what he’s done until Tyler takes them, their fingers brushing against each other for a moment as Tyler raises the flowers to smell them—and possibly also hide his slight flush at the gesture. Solomon sure does, arm raised in defense of his actions.

“You know a lot about flowers?”

“As much as I can know about the forests and wildlife. When you travel, you have to know things in order to survive.”

“That’s impressive.”

“I—well—“ Solomon seems to be the one getting more flustered now, murmuring a thanks as they continue forward.

The further they go on ahead, the closer they get to the river they had heard in the distance earlier. There seems to have been a bridge, but it lays dismantled in broken pieces of wood wedging in between the rocks below it.

“Looks like the only way we can cross is to go through the water.”

“I am not trudging through the river. We should find another way.” Tyler responds immediately, foot stamping down with finality.

“We’ll set our trip back further if we waste time doing that. Here—“ He shrugs his backpack off and takes the sheath and sword away from his side, handing both to Tyler. “You hold on to these and get on my shoulders. If you’re that concerned about getting wet, we should be fine this way.”

“That doesn’t sound—“

“I’m not asking you, I am telling you. I’m not looking for a way around the river.” Says as he’s already taking a step into the water, wading to get in deeper. He motions for Tyler to climb onto his shoulders and he does so with ease, though remains wary and apprehensive.

“Just—be careful.” Could mean to keep him from getting wet, but perhaps more so to keep Solomon from slipping and getting hurt. He wades in a little further, the water up to Solomon’s chest but no further by the time they get to the other side. It had been an arduous process, can only assume with how difficult it must be while wearing armor, and Tyler makes a note to praise Solomon when they get to dry land— only notices how wobbly he seems when they get there.

“Are you alright?” Tyler asks and Solomon opens his mouth to speak— falls forward to Tyler’s shock, who immediately drops everything to catch him.

The sun is just starting to set by the time Tyler supports and near-drags Solomon’s body toward a tree. Tyler props him up against the thing as he works to get the armor off, recoils as he notices a few black, pulsating blobs that he can only make out to be leeches. Thinking fast, he digs through the backpack to find the tinder—starts a spark to set a spare torch on fire and burn off the little creatures—tossing them back into the river with a disgusted expression.

Once he’s sure he’s rid Solomon of all of them, he sets up the bedroll and get started on an actual fire. It’s nowhere near big enough as the one from the night before, but inexperience has him settling for less at this point. Tyler sits down, adjusts the two of them so Solomon’s head is resting in his lap. His face is pale but he looks to be breathing at least—will have to get some food and water in him soon.

“Hey … wake up,” Taps the side of his face a bit until his eyes flutter open. Tyler might think this is the most vulnerable he’s ever seen him—thinks he’s a bit handsome with the way he gives him a soft smile while he looks up.

“Hey you.”

It makes Tyler swallow a bit nervously.

“You passed out you know. Leeches from the river. You should drink some water.” Moves to grab the water skin from the bag and hold it out for Solomon to take. He does, downs a few gulps— returns to resting his head after and Tyler doesn’t have it in him to push away—doesn’t know why he wouldn’t or why Solomon isn’t complaining either.

They sit in silence like that for a while, Solomon finally speaking moments later, pointing up at the night sky and Tyler looking up to follow.

“Lots of constellations in the sky tonight.” Points out a few and even goes so far as to tell its stories, Tyler listening attentively and in fascination, “And that’s the North Star. Can always find your way home from there.”

“It’s practically right above us.” It comes out as a whisper, like something secretive or something he’s telling himself more than anything while he looks back down at Solomon—who’s only looking back with the fondest expression Tyler could imagine.

“We must be getting close to the kingdom then, huh?” And Tyler is inclined to agree, but he feels like he’s there already—home— as confusing as that is.

Morning comes without complication, the two of them waking up at the same time. Tyler is surprised to find himself alone on the bedroll, Solomon propped up against the tree again when he’d remembered the two of them dozing off together. It’s nothing he should question, getting cleaned up again while minding the leeches; after that, they’re up and off.

“At this rate we shall be back by the afternoon. Won’t have to deal with me anymore,” Solomon says good-naturedly though Tyler doesn’t quite react as such, taking it more seriously than he should.

“I should really thank you. For saving me and putting up with my behavior. I should probably apologize for that as well.”

“It’s … no problem Prince Tyler. C’mon. Should get you back now.” He continues on, Tyler left behind momentarily in more ways than one—can’t help his heart from clenching at the simplicity of that exchange. He doesn’t know why he had expected more, why it hurts when it didn’t end that way either.

His homecoming has the usual fanfare, his parents welcoming him with open arms and not much honest concern, just like he thought. There’s a celebration already in the works, the world buzzing around him and Solomon as if they had come back together and not as a kidnapped prince and his savior. Prior to getting swept up, Tyler gets Solomon aside in private and presses a kiss to his cheek to the latter’s shock.

“A proper thank you for saving me.”

“I—uh—y-you’re welcome,” Stutters out and it only makes Tyler smile, something genuine he hadn’t seen clearly before—makes his heart race faster.

It’s not long until they get pulled away.

In the midst of everything, the king offers Solomon what Tyler had described days ago—welcoming him into a family he knows he has no real right to be in. He’s staring ahead, not noticing the way Tyler is holding his breath in anticipation, like he had perhaps wanted it despite his previous words.

Solomon is quick to decline, inquires about the money he was promised instead.

When he looks to Tyler in curiosity, he looks.

Devastated.

Which is odd, considering he told him from the beginning that this was what he meant to do.

It hurts to see, but he couldn’t really expect anything else, could he?

It’s not a life he can imagine himself in, especially with the likes of Tyler who they both know is too good for him. His heart still feels like it could jump right out of his chest, but Solomon takes his money and leaves without another word, without another glance in his direction, Tyler standing there staring at him as he marches off.

The crowd parts for him as he heads towards the gates, the celebration dying off into confused, hushed whispers. The king inquiring about Solomon’s indecency and Tyler leaning over the balcony seeing him off—helplessly hoping that maybe he would turn back around and change his mind, come back and decide to stay and be with him, but.

He doesn’t.

#hey you

7 notes · View notes

shannaraisles · 7 years ago

Text

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 13 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M (for language) Warnings: Bereavement, canon-typical injury and violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Disappointments

The price of inaction is far greater than the cost of making a mistake. - Meister Eckhart

The ringing of the Chantry bell roused Rory from a peaceful sleep.

For the first time since arriving in Thedas, she felt properly warm, not lurching to wakefulness in an utterly uncalled-for fit of shivers that normally sent her flailing from her blankets in search of as many layers of clothing as she could find. And the reason for this became clear as soon as she tried to move.

She was trapped - not unpleasantly so - in the strangest position she had ever woken up in; arched only a little uncomfortably on her back, thanks to the arms encircling her waist, and pinned in place by the golden head resting on her breast. Cullen had somehow curled up tighter as they slept, tucking his thighs beneath both her own and snuggling his cheek into the pillow of her bosom, which was probably more comfortable than the horsehair pillow her head rested upon. If they'd been upright, she would have been sitting in his lap. As it was, her feet were flat on the crumpled blanket they'd thrown off in the night, her knees were hooked over his thigh, and his hand was possessively palming her hip as he sighed in his sleep. And ... oooh. Now that's definitely not a dagger.

As the sound of others stirring awake began to filter in through the thin canvas wall separating outside from in, Rory attempted to inch away from the insistent bulge prodding at her backside. Cullen groaned softly in his sleep, tightening his arms around her in defiance of her escape, pulling her more firmly against that very real evidence that he was most certainly a man. Which would have been fine, she told her blushing self, absolutely fine, if that added pressure hadn't also included the strong wrap of his hand squarely over the last tender part of her almost-healed ribs. She didn't make much of a noise, but the combination of her abrupt tension and the staggered intake of her breath was sharp enough to wake him with a jolt.

His head snapped up, knocking his forehead painfully against her chin. "Oh! ... oh, Rory, I ... are you all right?"

To her everlasting shame, she whimpered, raising a hand to her mouth. "I thing I bith ma thongue."

"Let me see." Apparently unaware of his morning glory, he straightened himself out against her side, raising himself onto one elbow as he dragged his arm out from underneath her. Gentle fingers urged her mouth open to let him look inside. "No blood, I ... why aren't you breathing?"

Tilting her head away, Rory covered her mouth lightly with one hand. "Morning breath," she mumbled through her fingers, rolling her eyes as he laughed sleepily. "Did you sleep well?"

He ran a hand through his hair, loosening the tousled curls. "Actually ... I did," he admitted a little incredulously. "It must have been the company."

Her smile was bright in response. "Well, don't tell everyone, or they'll all want a healer to hug at night."

"That would leave you seriously understaffed," he agreed lazily. "I should get up."

"So should I," she mused in a soft voice.

Yet neither one of them moved, staying comfortably warm together as, outside the tent, the camp roused to the tune of sergeants bellowing their soldiers out of bedrolls and into the cold light of dawn. Rory gazed into Cullen's eyes, captivated by the sleepy wonder of this strong, slightly broken man who didn't seem to be able to pull himself away from her. Is this what it would be like to wake up beside him every day? This lazy warm feeling that makes it almost criminal to give in to the need to get out of bed? Why isn't he saying anything?

"I, um ..." She swallowed, clearing her throat. "I-I should probably ..."

He nodded above her, still unmoving from where he lay at her side. "So should I."

You hang up. No, you hang up. Even as this random thought passed through her mind, Cullen moved. With purpose. She gasped as his knee nudged between her own, as he loomed higher over her, leaning down until his breath brushed her lips, his eyes promising that this was his intention. Her own head tilted up, morning breath forgotten, offering her lips to his without a second thought ... and a very familiar voice pointedly cleared its throat outside the tent.

"It's safe to bring her out now, commander," Rylen informed them. "The lads're out on their run."

Rory's head fell back against the hard pillow with an audible thud, silently cursing her friend's terrible timing. Cullen groaned in the back of his throat, raising his head to reply.

"Thank you, captain."

"Aye, ser," the Starkhaven captain replied. "You also wanted to be reminded that the small council is meeting with the Herald today. Looks like the chancellor's invited himself along."

"Of course he has." Cullen sighed, dropping his brow to Rory's shoulder for a brief moment. "All right, captain, I'll be with them in a few minutes."

He rolled out of her grasp, moving to pull on boots and begin assembling his armor for the day. Rory raised herself onto an elbow, wiping the sleep from her eyes. And just like that, the bubble bursts. Shame, I was enjoying that bubble. She pushed herself to sit up, reaching for her own boots.

"I should get going, anyway," she told him with a wry smile. "We've both got a lot to do today."

Golden-brown eyes were grateful as he met her gaze. "Another time, perhaps?" he asked, the query real and almost timid as he made it.

"Perhaps." Her smile broadened as she stood, collecting her belt, cloak, and gloves from where they had rested all night. Perhaps?! Are you completely insane? Yes, say yes, and sneak in here naked tonight! Ignoring the ranting fangirl inside her mind, she looped her belt back into place. "You know where I am if you need me."

"I'll see you later, Rory," he promised, reaching out to catch her hand before she escaped. "And Rory? ... Thank you."

She bit her smiling lip, glad for once that she had a tendency to wake up rosy. "Anytime."

A last regretful squeeze of her hand, and Cullen released her, letting her step out into the almost deserted bank of tents as he turned his attention to buckling his armor into place. Wiping flyaway hairs from her eyes, she ducked out into the dawn, immediately confronted with Rylen's teasing grin.

"Good night, was it?"

Rory rolled her eyes, restraining the urge to give her friend a thick ear. "You know, there are times when I could cheerfully strangle you, Ry."

"Och, so I interrupted something," he guessed, chuckling as he fell into step with her. "Good for you, girl. You need a good roll."

"I'm not listening," she told him with a laugh, grateful for how normal he was being with her. He could have taken their friendship to a very strange place now he knew for certain she'd spent the night with his commanding officer and friend. "Why are you following me?"

"Have to get this arm looked at," he reminded her. "Healer's orders."

"And you actually listened?" she teased fondly, glancing at his splinted arm briefly. "I'm astonished."

"Well, my healer's got this very pretty wee assistant," Rylen confided in her as they walked. "If she loved me, she'd make sure wee Evy was in charge of my recovery."

"Isn't that fascinating?" Rory answere, pausing just inside the field hospital tent to remove her gloves and switch her cloak for a clean apron. She flashed her friend a warm grin. "I'd say you're very lucky I love you, then."

And watching Evy check the dressing on Rylen's broken arm brought a truly genuine smile to Rory's face as she checked on her own patients. The girl was not immune to the captain's charm, it seemed, her blushing smiles the perfect counterpoint to his warm flirtation. It was good to see; heartening, to know that they had formed a connection in the chaos of the past days and both seemed eager to explore it. And that means she won't be interested in Cullen! Win-win for the nug-woman!

But even with the Breach stabilized and the nearby rifts sealed, there was no time to ruminate on potential love affairs or missed opportunities. There were bones to reset, dressings to change, potions to give out; people to introduce herself to, patients to reassure, beds and blankets to change, bandages to wash. There was stock to be inventoried, lists to make, alchemists and quarter-masters to charm. And in the middle of all this, a request came from on high for a report on the injured - how many, who, and how long before they would be back in action. An exceeding nuisance of a request ... but since filling it meant a trip into the village and a chance to see the leaders of the Inquisition at work in the new war room, Rory volunteered.

It took most of the afternoon to complete - there had been no time to keep notes since the explosion - but at least it was still daylight by the time she made her way to the Chantry. What she found going on there was deeply unsettling, to say the least. The door to the war room stood open - the moment Rory stepped into the building, she could hear everything being said. And Chancellor Roderick was in full flow.

"... this beast, who knows nothing of the Maker, the Herald of Andraste? It is nothing more than a horned thug, a murderer! It can't even raise a voice to object!"

You sanctimonious arsehole. As she moved closer, Rory could see Cullen through the door, standing on the far side of the map table, his jaw set tight as he glared at the chancellor. Gold to his left and purple to his right betrayed the presence of Josephine and Leliana; as she came level with the door, Rory could see Cassandra standing a little further inside the room, and Kaaras Adaar himself standing beside the door, his head bowed.

The Qunari looked defeated, hurt by the words being spewed about him. Any minute now, Kaaras, someone will put him in his place, Rory promised him in her mind. But no one did. Cullen's expression grew tighter, but he didn't say a word. Leliana was impassive; Josephine, mute. Even Cassandra, mouth open to object, never quite managed to say anything. The chancellor's poisonous, xenophobic rant continued, unchecked by those who should have spoken up.

"Look at it," he said, gesturing to Kaaras with one wild flail of his arm. "These creatures attacked Kirkwall without provocation - they insinuate their Qun into the hearts of the faithful and corrupt them! That mark proves nothing - the beast should be tried and punished for it's crimes!"

Seething, Rory found herself staring into the room, silently begging any one of the four witnesses to this awful tirade to say something, to be the good people she knew they were. But she also knew they likely wouldn't. It was likely that each of them harbored some fear of Kaaras, simply for being what he was; that none of them had quite realized that he was just a person, like them. They saw the horns, they remembered the fierce way he swung his sword, they looked at the mark on his hand, and they thought his skin must be as tough as old boots. After all, he must have had a lifetime of this kind of behavior. It wasn't an excuse, but it made sense. Disappointing sense.

"These Qunari are little more than beasts of burden, no more thought in their heads than a cow in the field, products of bandits and whores -"

Kaaras suddenly snarled, his limit reached with an insult to his parents, slamming a clenched fist against the stone wall at his side.

"You don't need me here for this," he said, each word a growl that covered the hurt Rory had seen in his eyes. He straightened, leaving a bloody mark on the wall, and strode from the room, barely noticing the healer who watched in seething silence.

"You see?" Roderick declared triumphantly. "Your vaunted Herald is nothing but a mindless, violent -"

"That's enough, chancellor." Rory couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer, marching into the war room to glare at the cleric. If no one else in here was going to shut him up, then she would. "What a fine example of the Chantry you are. What a beautiful display of bigoted cruelty. You must be so proud of yourself."

Roderick spluttered, but he had clearly not expected anyone but those present to hear his relentless attack. To be called on his bad behavior to his face by a mere peasant must have pricked his pride. But the hint of shame in his eyes told her he knew he'd gone too far, keeping him quiet as she turned her glare onto the others.

"And you ..." Her eyes swept the council of the Inquisition. "Was no one going to defend Kaaras? All quite happy to stand by and listen to him being attacked and humiliated, just for being different? The only real problem the chancellor has is that Kaaras is not human. And by not defending him against such awful words, you are going to make yourselves his enemies."

"The chancellor represents the Chantry, Lady Healer," Josephine offered, though she didn't sound convinced. "Diplomacy suggests -"

"How many diplomats will stand by and watch as the figurehead of their organization is insulted to their face, Lady Montilyet?" Rory interrupted pointedly.

"None, Lady Healer. Wars have started over less." Josephine lowered her eyes, ashamed of her inaction and grateful when Rory's sharp glare turned to include the others.

"You all asked Kaaras to join the Inquisition," she reminded them, not leaving anyone out of her reminder. "You offered him protection, and when he needs it, you do nothing. You're throwing him to the wolves by placing him at the forefront of the Inquisition with no intention of protecting him at all."

"Rory -" Cullen began, but swallowed whatever he was going to say when her attention snapped to him.

"Just because he's a warrior, doesn't mean he doesn't have a heart," she told them all harshly. "Just because he's lived his life with discrimination and cruel words does not mean he is used to them, or that he deserves them. Kaaras is a person - just like you, chancellor, just like everyone. Horns and gray skin do not make him an animal; being different does not strip him of the ability to understand every insult and take them to heart. Words do more damage than any amount of swords, and he'll have to face a lot of words in the days and weeks to come. I had thought that everyone in this room was capable of understanding that he needs you to have his back, so that he can fix the sky for you without feeling unwanted or used, without resenting you for seeing him as nothing more than a painted stereotype."

She paused, letting her disappointed gaze touch each and every one of them - Roderick, who flushed angrily and looked away; Josephine, who couldn't meet her eyes; Cullen, who looked more saddened than anything; Leliana, who couldn't quite hide a flicker of something in her impassive eyes; and Cassandra, who looked thoroughly ashamed of herself.

"You should be setting an example to the men and women who will choose to follow, and you're failing. You should all be ashamed of yourselves."

Shaking her head, Rory dropped her report on the map table, turning to march out of the war room as smoothly as she could. Oh, my gods, I just scolded the four most powerful people in the Inquisition! How am I not sporting a dagger in the back right now? She thought of the bloody mark Kaaras had left behind him, the only sign of his hurt and anger he had left in that room. She could do something about that, at least.

Behind her was shocked, shamed silence as she approached the main door. Then she heard Cassandra speak.

"The healer is right," the Seeker said in a solemn tone. "He cannot change who he is. We can change how we -"

The main door swung shut at Rory's back, preventing her from staying to eavesdrop on the outcome of her little parental discipline routine. She stood in the middle of the path, breathing hard, trying to calm herself in the wake of what she had done. Well, you've burned those bridges now, Ror. Here's hoping you're not tossed out on your arse for it.

So much for morning kisses with a sleepy Commander.

#set in darkness #multi-chapter fic #cullen rutherford/original female character #cullen rutherford/rory allen #rory allen #cullen rutherford #rylen #cassandra pentaghast #leliana #chancellor roderick #josephine montilyet #war room #tent #sleepy wake up #almost a kiss #fluff #bigotry #prejudice #disapointment

0 notes