#he pulled her from the dagger. like all spirits are ought to do when coming in contact with strong emotions ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

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I Remember the Fallen, Do They Think of Me: A Rusty Quill Gaming fanfic

Also on AO3.

They’re none of them in very good shape, really. Well, except for Skraak, who seems to have managed to avoid getting a finger or tendril laid on him the whole time they were in Svalbard. He seems fine. The others might be fine physically, but that purple migraine that came out of the floorboards in the Council chamber did a number on their spirits. Cel’s the worst off, although they’re doing a bit better since their mutagen wore off, but they’re still edgy and tense and more strung up than usual. Azu just looks marginally grumpy, which isn’t a good look on her. Zolf almost wants to say something about how this party only has room for one sourpuss, but he probably won’t be able to make it sound like a joke, and it isn’t really a joke anyway, and Azu is quite capable of taking his head off, literally, if the mood strikes her. Which it well might. She looks like she’s itching to kill something and Zolf isn’t keen to be it. Hamid mostly looks tired, as well he ought with all the spells he cast. There’s a part of him that wants to compliment Hamid on his conduct back there, on strategic use of his spells to help his party members and keeping his head and not only finding the kill switch but figuring out how to use it to save them all, but it probably won’t come out right. Hamid will probably think he’s being condescending or something, or use it as an excuse to pick a fight. They’re both tired, really. And Zolf is feeling every one of the blows he took; nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure, he supposes, but at least that’s the worst of it for him.

So he doesn’t protest when Einstein teleports them back to Other London and Wilde insists they get some sleep in the back of Gragg’s old tavern rather than risk breaking the surface in the state they’re in. Skraak does, and surprisingly, so does Azu, but all Zolf has to do is point at Cel, looking miserable, and they back down.

“Got a room upstairs,” Gragg says, pointing upwards. “Lots of room for you all. I’ll be down here. Oh—Mr. Smith, right?”

“Yeah?” Zolf frowns at Gragg.

“Letter came for you. From the Poseidon lot. Their messenger said they thought I’d know where to find you.” Gragg shrugs, a little helplessly, and holds out an envelope. “I didn’t, but you’re here.”

Zolf sighs and takes the envelope with a muttered “thanks”. He’s done with the Poseidon lot, has been for close to two years now, but it seems they’re not done with him. He looks over at the others. “Go lie down, the lot of you. I’ll see what this is all about and then I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Surely it can keep until the morning, Zolf,” Wilde says. “Or whatever passes for morning right now. It’s kept this long.”

“Rather not try and sleep with this hanging over my head,” Zolf replies. “Won’t be but a minute.”

“Hmm.” Azu looks at him, then nods once and starts shooing the others up the stairs. Gragg gives him a nod, too, then disappears into the back.

Once Zolf is alone, he sinks down onto a barstool and immediately wishes he hadn’t. It’s not that it’s uncomfortable, or that it’s too tall for him, or even that now that he’s sitting he doesn’t want to get up. It’s that the last time he sat on one of these stools, it was less than twenty-four hours after meeting Hamid and Sasha (and, unfortunately, Bertie), back when he was still just a mercenary, or a Cleric pretending to be a mercenary, or a mercenary pretending to be a Cleric, or just a disillusioned and drifting person desperately looking for something to believe in. Back when Other London was a bustling city full of people trying to live their lives and Gragg wasn’t responsible for anything more than having enough food and drink to last the night. Back before Zolf doomed the world.

He allows himself precisely five seconds to wallow in the guilt of the past, then props his elbows on the bar and turns the envelope over in his hands. ZOLF SMITH, CLERIC is scrawled on the front in extremely shaky, spiky handwriting, along with a series of letters at the bottom that’s obviously in some sort of code, since it’s got far too many X’s and no vowels except a couple I’s. The back is sealed with some very old wax that looks like someone literally just dripped a candle on the envelope and pressed a seal into it. Zolf sighs as he recognizes the shape—it’s a dead match for the ring he still wears on his own finger, his last connection to his family. The Spade of the Harlequins. This letter might have been passed on by a member of the Cult of Poseidon, but it’s coming from a Harlequin.

Probably it’s Curie, writing to say she isn’t dead after all, although why she’d write to him of all people is a bit beyond him. He’s also not sure why she would feel the need to emphasize his Cleric status on the address. But...whatever. Might as well get this over with.

He slides a finger under the flap of the envelope and loosens the seal, then pulls out the folded papers within. It’s a thick sheaf and surprisingly heavy, and when he unfolds them, something slips from between the pages and lands on the bar with a thump and a clatter. Zolf looks down and sees a dagger, etched with some arcane symbols he doesn’t recognize. Great. A magic dagger. That bodes well. He huffs at it. If they want him to identify it, they’re going to be out of luck; that’s not his area of expertise. Maybe he’ll ask Wilde or Hamid in the morning.

He turns his attention back to the letter. It’s the same scrawl as the front of the envelope, scratched out in some places, odd splatters of ink in others, and there are a couple places where it looks like the ink’s run a bit. Gods, he hopes he’ll be able to read this.

Less than a line in, and his blood runs cold as the rest of the world drops away.

Zolf -

It’s gone bad. It’s all gone real bad. I don’t know when this letter’s going to get to you, except I know it’ll be sometime after you left in Prague because—well, you left. You wouldn’t have left if you knew all this before. But it all went wrong, and I need you to know what happened.

It didn’t go wrong right away. At first it was kind of okay. Hamid and I went out and tried to see how many restaurants we could go to, and that was nice. It helped us both, I think, because we both missed you already, but neither of us said anything about that. Like if we pretended it didn’t happen, it wouldn’t hurt. And it worked, at least at first. And then we found Bertie at the last one we went to, and he was causing a huge mess, you know what Bertie’s like. You were right about that. After that it just kept getting worse.

I woke up the next morning and I didn’t feel good again. Everything was bleeding again and I looked kind of bad, but I pretended I was okay and Hamid and Bertie didn’t notice. Well, Bertie never noticed anything that he didn’t want to, but Hamid, I think he was still upset. I dunno. Anyway, I went to the Temple of Artemis to get healed. The lady there wasn’t like you, she didn’t really make me feel all that...I think that’s just what the Artemis lot are like, though. Everyone I’ve met who’s from Artemis, they do what needs doing and go on to the next thing. I didn’t know that then, though. Anyway, I asked her why it kept happening, why I kept waking up hurt, and how to make it stop, and she made me tell her a bunch of stuff and then said it was because I got brought back to life wrong and I’d have to go to a Temple of Aphrodite to get healed right.

Then there were zombies. Loads of zombies, and they were attacking in the middle of the square. We went to fight them off and that’s when we met Grizzop, he’s—he was a Paladin of Artemis, and he helped us fight them. Bertie had this ring, he said it was supposed to make the undead go away, but instead it made them come closer to him. It made me come closer to him, too, and that was really not a lot of fun, Zolf, I didn’t like that at all. I fought it, though. I fought it really hard and it mostly worked. But there were loads of zombies, and even though we fought them off okay, the four of us, I was real worried about you. Part of me wanted to go find you and make sure you were okay, but I knew you didn’t want to be found, so I had to trust you would be all right. Grizzop said he was supposed to be hunting down a rogue mage that was probably making all the zombies, and we were still supposed to go up to the University and stuff, so we said we’d go with him in the morning.

Everything opened up again overnight, so I had to get healed a bit. Hamid kept asking me if I was okay, and I kept telling him I was, partly because I knew he couldn’t do anything to fix it and partly because I’m just so used to pretending I’m fine when I’m not, and partly because I didn’t want to worry him more than I had to. We went up to the University like we talked about, and it just kept getting worse and worse. Mostly by Bertie being Bertie, but also because the rogue mage, Franz Kafka, he had a book that came from Rome and it drove him crazy. He was a Harlequin, the council told us, and they were all Harlequins too, they had rings like yours and Rakefine’s, and they’d kind of lied to Grizzop because they didn’t want people to know it was one of them doing the zombie thing down in the city, but they asked us to go take care of it and we said we would. So we went back down to Prague and fought loads of stuff. We had a map with all the plague pits on them, Kafka was raising zombies out of them, so we decided to try and clear out as many as we could. Hamid had got tickets for the opera and the ley lines crossed at the opera house, so he thought Kafka would choose to try and spring his trap there, but Grizzop and I said it’d be better to take out the zombies before that. We got him to agree in the end, kind of, but we didn’t manage to get all the zombie pits cleared out before the opera was supposed to start.

It got really, really bad at the opera, Zolf. I don’t know if you were still in Prague then, I don’t know if you heard about it, but it was real bad. The basement was full of zombies and Grizzop and I tried to fight them off, but there were so many and a couple of them were really big and even though I had all these bombs I made and Grizzop had his bow and arrows and all that, we couldn’t kill them all, so we had to run up to the top. Then when we got up there, we found out that Hamid was right, that Kafka had tried to attack at the opera, and everybody was frozen and Bertie and Kafka were both flying and facing off each other, and Hamid—Hamid was gone. He was nowhere in the theater, and when I got to the stage I saw his bracelets and what was left of his clothes looking like they’d been torn apart and I knew, I knew Kafka had killed him somehow, and it was my fault because I wasn’t there to help him. And Kafka didn’t just have Bertie, he had Hamid’s sister—she was singing in the opera, it’s why Hamid wanted to go so bad—and he told Bertie that he had to pick whether he’d kill Bertie or Aziza. Don’t think it’ll surprise you which one Bertie picked.

But Kafka cheated. He killed both of them. I wasn’t fast enough, I couldn’t stop him—I tried, Zolf, I tried so hard, but even with Grizzop shooting arrows at him I couldn’t kill him fast enough to stop him from killing both of them. And, I mean, I kind of would have wanted to kill Bertie myself, or let Hamid do it, or at least let Hamid yell at him a lot, but even though Bertie wasn’t a very nice person, he didn’t deserve what happened to him. And his sister—she was just singing. She was just there and doing what she loved and Hamid was so proud of her, Zolf, and Kafka killed her just because he could. It wasn’t right. The guards finally showed up, but they were too late to help. Bertie was dead and Aziza was dead and Hamid...

Well, Hamid wasn’t dead after all. Grizzop found him on the roof of the opera house. Kafka put a spell on him and turned him into a monster, and the monster ran away. So at least he didn’t hurt anybody and not know it. He’d have hated that. I’d have hated that. Grizzop would’ve just killed him, I think, and then I’d have really been alone and I don’t know what I would have done. But he didn’t and I wasn’t, not then. They fixed us up and we had to tell Hamid about what happened. I didn’t tell him about Bertie getting to pick. He was hurt enough by what happened. And we almost got arrested or kidnapped or something like that by the Cult of Mars, but Wilde showed up and got us out of it.

As bad as Hamid wanted to go home with his sister and make sure Bertie was taken care of and all that, when they gave us a job to do, he agreed to do it before Einstein teleported us to Cairo. So then we went into Newton’s study and found his pocket dimension, and it turned out that there was somebody working there who’d been working with Kafka and Edison on Mr. Ceiling, or on something like Mr. Ceiling anyway. And it turned out that she was an old friend of Hamid’s. I think they were dating once. She really didn’t like him anymore, though, so even if she hadn’t done the work that meant Mr. Ceiling could happen, I wouldn’t have liked her, because she was really nasty to him. And he just stood there and took it. He didn’t fight her and he didn’t argue with her and he didn’t try to stand up for himself. He just kept saying she had to come with us.

You’d be proud of him, I think.

Anyway, after that Einstein sent us to Cairo. We wound up in the middle of a real bad sandstorm—Hamid thought we were probably in the middle of the desert, but then it turned out we were on the main street and not that far from the Temple of Aphrodite. That’s when we met Azu, and that was a pretty good thing, but that was the only good thing really. They told us at the Temple they’d been having lots of really bad weather, like they were having in Dover when we were there. I like the rainstorms a lot better than sandstorms, but it still wasn’t fun. And that was the easy bad thing.

This part’s not easy to talk about, and it feels really selfish when I think back on it, because I didn’t handle it in a way that you’d be proud of. I went to talk to one of the healer people about whether or not they could fix how I kept waking up hurting and that the person at the Artemis temple had said I was a little bit undead. He checked me over and said that I wasn’t just a little undead, I was really undead, and that I only had about a month left before I turned into something else. Hamid and Grizzop called it a lich—I hope I’m spelling that right, it’s not like they ever wrote it down, but that’s what it sounds like. Grizzop said they were evil, but Hamid kept saying that maybe I would be the first non-evil lich. Which, I mean, I guess that would have been okay, but...

Eren Fairhands said there were only three ways to fix me—to die all the way and go for a resurrection, to get a necromancer to follow me around and do magic on me to keep me just plain undead, or to get this artifact called the Heart of Aphrodite that the Meritocrats had all locked up because they don’t want powerful magic just floating around for anyone to use. I told Hamid and the others that I didn’t think they’d agree to let me use something that powerful, just for me; Hamid insisted they might because we’d saved the world a couple times, and also his other sister worked for the Meritocrats so maybe it would be okay. But I didn’t believe him. The world doesn’t work that way for people like me, you know? And the other two options...I might have trusted them if you were there to do them, but not someone I didn’t know, or a god I didn’t know.

Anyway, we went to Hamid’s family’s house. Hamid was really scared about seeing his family again, but, I mean, it had to go better than seeing Barret did for me, right? And it sort of worked out okay, at first anyway, but everybody was real upset, not that I blame them. They had the funeral the next day, and it went okay, but a tall figure in a hood like the one that hung out with Barret showed up. We watched it and then it disappeared, but it was after Hamid’s brother, and we didn’t want him to lose anybody else, so we were trying to protect him. And then it came back and we attacked it and we managed to kill it, but I just, I didn’t handle it well at all. I fell apart and then I just shut down. I think I gave up. I decided I was just going to die and that was all there was to it.

Like I said, I don’t think you’d be very proud of me for that. I had options, even if they didn’t seem very likely, but there was still a chance and I should have held onto that. You would have. But I didn’t and that means I did a lot of things I shouldn’t have done.

Hamid’s brother was working for Barret. Kind of. He got in debt and he owed Barret money, and Barret wanted him to rob the bank that Hamid’s family works for to pay him back, but things went wrong and someone died. That’s what Barret gave Hamid the ring for, he wanted him to give it to his brother, but Hamid wouldn’t because he’s a good person and he didn’t want to make his brother suffer. But because someone died, the bank was going to arrest him, but Hamid’s father said he would take the blame instead. Hamid tried to make him not do that, tried to make him see that his brother needed to face the consequences, but his father did it anyway. Then Hamid came back and told us what was happening, and he asked us for advice, and I said a lot of really mean things about his family. Well, all of us did, I guess, but...it’s different with Grizzop and Azu, you know? They didn’t know him. Not like I did. I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have said because I was upset and scared and hurting and I wanted to make Hamid feel that way too, and I shouldn’t have because he already was and I should have known that and it wasn’t fair. I won’t say I didn’t mean what I said, because I did, but I still shouldn’t have said it. And I didn’t mean it about Hamid, at least. He’s a good person, Zolf, he really is, even with what he did before, and he wanted us to help him and all Grizzop and Azu would say was that his brother and father deserved to be punished and I said they could get away with not being punished because they were rich and...

I wish you were there. You would have known what to say, what to do. You wouldn’t have made such a mess of it like I did.

I thought about you a lot that night, about what you would have said and done, and the next day when we went down for breakfast, I tried to do like you would have. I asked Hamid and Grizzop and Azu how their talk went after I left, and Hamid apologized to them for trying to keep his brother out of trouble and mucking it all up, and then he told us what happened to him. He got kicked out of university because someone he thought was his friend tried to get him to make a potion as a prank, but he wrote it down wrong and then the not-friend made it bigger and a bunch of people died, so he joined up with you—us—to try and make up for what he did. He was really worried that all he did was make things worse, because he said you didn’t think what we did in Paris helped, and then he didn’t think he helped at all in Prague. But he did, and he’s trying, and Grizzop said that was what was important. And I pointed out how much better he’s gotten since we met, because I meant it but also because I think you would have said it too, and he said it helped, me saying that. So we had a little bit of good, at least. And Hamid said a lot of really nice things about me when we met Apophis later that day, and Apophis agreed that we could use the Heart of Aphrodite to fix me. And it worked, Zolf, it really did. I’m good as new. Better, even, Fairhands even grew my finger back for me. For a little bit, everything was great, and the only thing that would have made it better was if you were there too.

And then it went bad again. We had to go to Damascus because there was information in the vaults when we got the Heart of Aphrodite that Edison was doing a bunch of stuff with the factories there, and that it might be involved with the Simulacrum and everything. The first factory was run by goblins and they were real proud of what they were doing, and they even gave me a dagger made of adamantine. When we went to investigate the other factory, though, they wouldn’t even let us in and it was really suspicious, so we sneaked in in the middle of the night to have a look around. They’d fired all the people who worked there and they had monsters in the warehouses to guard them, and they were building things like the Simulacrum. Loads of them. We had to fight our way out and then, well, we were going to go back to Damascus and find Wilde and tell him what was going on when someone showed up at the door with two more of those tall things like we killed at the funeral, and I think it was one of Bertie’s friends, you remember those people with the carriage from the Simulacrum unveiling? Wellington. Him. Anyway, Grizzop shot at him and he went away, but then they dropped a body in, only it wasn’t dead. It was Barret and he was tied up and beaten up.

You’d be proud of Hamid. He was all calm and serious and firm, just like you used to do when you were getting information out of bad people. I half expected him to threaten to drown Barret in a bucket. Would’ve loved to see the look on his face if he did. Anyway, Barret eventually told us he was working with the Cult of Hades. They’re the ones who suggested he get in touch with us about the Serpentines, and they’re the ones who helped him take all the kids out of Other London that got sent to Paris to be used for Mr. Ceiling. Then he told us the Cult of Hades had infiltrated the Meritocrats, and that he had too, and he gave Hamid a list of names. Grizzop and Azu wanted to just kill him. Hamid thought he should be arrested, but then they asked me what I wanted to do with him. If you’d been there, I’d have said he was a good candidate for a sacrifice, but...that didn’t seem right. Not just killing him. It’d be too easy to be just like him, and I never wanted that. So Azu and Hamid took him to Damascus to give him over to the Artemis lot to be put in prison, and they said they’d talk to Wilde and come back while Grizzop and I stayed and watched the factory and made sure nothing else bad happened. I went and checked one of the warehouses, and it was like it was raining in there—there was an aqueduct and they were piping water through, which I thought was weird because water was so expensive and hard to find in Damascus. Wilde showed up and asked us to show him the warehouses, then said we had to go because he’d arranged to have the factory destroyed. He said things were getting really bad, that there’d been the riots in London and Other London and a whole bunch of other places too, and that with the Meritocrats being compromised he didn’t trust anyone but our group, which kind of made me feel good and bad at the same time.

I like Wilde. Didn’t think I would, but I do.

Anyway, Apophis came in and turned the whole thing into glass, but there was steam coming up from a crack in it, so we slept on it and then investigated in the morning. There were pipes and tunnels and all sorts of things, and we almost got caught in a couple traps, but we came through okay, and then we found the secret part of the factory where they were making the outsides of the Simulacra (Hamid called them robots, I kind of like that better, actually). It turned out they were stealing the river, too, to make the factory work, so we started destroying it, because they were evil, or at least using evil things to do the work. It was all going so well for once. We were really doing good, even when we had to fight off an assassin that kept trying to turn us into stone.

And then...and then we got a weird magic message. I can’t really explain it in detail, maybe Hamid can tell you about it better, but the Cult of Hades sent us a message and told us that we needed to stop, or else. When we tried to argue with them, they showed us what they’d done.

They took our families.

Bi Ming, and Azu’s big brother, and one of Hamid’s little brothers, and a goblin who must’ve been important to Grizzop (I never got the chance to ask him about that). They had them tied up and trapped, and they said they were in Rome, and if we didn’t go and rescue them they’d...

Well. We weren’t going to let that happen, were we? We couldn’t. At least Hamid and I couldn’t. I think Azu was a little torn, because her brother can take care of himself and all, but Hamid and me, we couldn’t wait. We thought we’d pop back up, tell Wilde what was going on, get him to send in people to take care of it, and get on to Rome. We knew it was dangerous, but we had to. Grizzop argued with us about it, he said the mission was more important, and in the end he stayed behind and took care of everything while we went on to Rome with Einstein.

I’m sure you’ve heard about Rome and what it’s like. You’ve been loads more places than Hamid or I have, you’ve got to know the stories. I don’t think you can really know what it’s like unless you’ve been there, though. Best way I can describe it is, remember when we got across the Channel and you were telling me about that place you sailed through in a storm once, where you could see all the shipwrecks and things? Like that, but on dry land. Nobody lives there but monsters and the ghosts of memories. The air felt bad, and it did weird things to magic, too. Sometimes Hamid’s spells worked really well and sometimes they didn’t work at all and sometimes they were normal, it didn’t make any sense. Azu couldn’t do many spells at all, because her magic comes from Aphrodite and the prayers weren’t working. She said it was like Aphrodite couldn’t hear her, but I think now it’s the other way around—that Aphrodite could hear Azu just fine, but Azu couldn’t hear Aphrodite’s reply, and I think that’s worse. Because it means whatever was strangling Rome wanted people to feel like the gods abandoned them, but also wanted the gods to suffer knowing that people who believed in them and all that were desperately reaching for them and they couldn’t do anything but listen.

It wasn’t easy. It was hot and hard to move around sometimes, and things kept attacking us, all kinds of monsters. Einstein was basically useless, so it was just Azu and Hamid and me having to fight, and I was really glad I wasn’t trying to do this and also not turn into a lich, ‘cause not being able to heal would’ve been really bad. Worse for Hamid, though. He nearly blew himself up and it scared me half to death, but I was honestly too happy he was safe to really yell at him for it. We hid out in a basement overnight to sleep and heal, and the next day we found the place where our families were being kept...kind of. We had to sneak into this big building, and when we got in, we found a big purple cloud, like a hole in the universe or something. I don’t know the details of the magic, that was more Hamid’s thing, but the people we loved were inside it, and there was this Paladin of Apollo there, too, someone who apparently knew Bertie, and he went in there and got stuck. Grizzop got there with Eldarion, she’s—she was my teacher when I was in prison, kind of in prison anyway, and she wanted me to stop running around getting in trouble and go back somewhere safe, but I told her I wasn’t going to do that. Eventually she gave in. Einstein said he’d wait for us to teleport us out when we got out safely, we didn’t know how long it would be, because the magic led to another plane and time might not move the same way there.

Actually getting everybody out wasn’t so hard. It was like a puzzle. I kind of like puzzles, actually. We had to fight a couple monsters, nothing too serious, except one of them broke my favorite ice dagger and I was kind of upset about that. But Bi Ming was okay, and so was Issak, and Azu’s brother, and Grizzop’s friend, and even Ed. We got everything and we got together in a circle and Eldarion transported us back.

And that’s when it went really bad. At least for me.

I couldn’t hold on. There was just so much going on, and my hand slipped, and then I couldn’t grab Bi Ming’s hand quick enough to stop from getting ripped away from the group and getting lost. I didn’t come back with the others.

But, obviously, I’m writing this letter to you and it’s going to get to you, I know it will, so you know I’m not dead and I didn’t go to another reality or anything like that. I landed on the floor, and I recognized the floor of the place I’d been in before, just...newer. Brighter-looking.

I went back in time, Zolf. Grizzop too, his grip slipped too. He said Eldarion stepped out of the circle before we left the other dimension—there were too many of us, she couldn’t guarantee she’d get everyone back safe if she didn’t let go, I think—but she’s not here, so I don’t know where she ended up. But Grizzop and I came here. To Ancient Rome, in the days before it was destroyed. Literally days. I’m alive, I’m healthy...and I’m trapped two thousand years before I was even born, or anybody I love.

It’s still fresh, I don’t know if I can talk about it, but I’ll try. We tried to help, Grizzop and me. We went looking for the Cult of Mars, and the Cult of Hades, to try and take them down and see if we could stop Rome from being destroyed and the world from getting bad in the future.

We couldn’t.

We tried, honest we did, but the fight...it was too much, it was too bad. I think I should have died, but Grizzop took a spear that was meant for me. And then he kept getting hit, but he wouldn’t stop, he was trying to take down the captain. He did, but...but they killed him. I was right there and he went down and then they knocked me out and when I woke up I was strung up from the ceiling like I was going to be fed to something and there were all these dragons and Grizzop was still on the floor and he was dead and I wasn’t and...

I can’t, Zolf. I just...I can’t. Not now. Maybe, maybe someday I can, but not today.

The point is that we didn’t stop the cults, and we didn’t stop the dragons, and we didn’t save Rome, and we didn’t save the world. Maybe we couldn’t have. And Grizzop died and I didn’t. I checked when I got free, after the dragons got away, but I’m not a healer and I’m not magic and I’m not...there was nothing I could do. And I couldn’t even take him with me. I had to leave him there or I wouldn’t have got out.

I think I shut down again. I don’t remember a lot of the walk out of Rome. I just remember telling this man we’d met—his name is Cicero—I told him to show me the way out, and I followed him, and I made sure he didn’t die, because he was the only person I knew anymore and I was not going to lose anybody else. And along the way, there were—there were other people trying to leave, trying to get away, and I just, I grabbed them and I brought them with us, because I wasn’t going to leave them behind, because I couldn’t. Maybe I couldn’t save everybody, but I had to save the ones I could.

That’s all we ever can do, right?

We found a place. It’s...it’s a home. It’s warm, and dry, and safe. I can stand on the roof and see for miles around, but it’s close enough that I can get supplies if we need them, and bring in more people. Refugees from Rome, mostly. People who need a place to be safe. There aren’t as many as maybe you’d think, a lot of people just stop here before going on somewhere else, but some stay. Mostly kids. The ones with families, parents and kids, most of them go on after a while, but the kids who don’t have anywhere else, anyone else, they stay, and I’m trying to take care of them. Trying to teach them a bit.

It’s all been a way of marking time, really, up until now. I know, in my heart of hearts, that Hamid and Azu and the others made it back safe and sound. And I know Hamid won’t give up on me. Every day I’ve been expecting to see him, or a magical effect of some kind. Something to get me home. I’m trying to be patient, trying to tell myself that just because time’s going on for me doesn’t mean it is for you lot. It’s not going to be instant, it’s not—it’ll happen, I keep saying. I’ll get another chance. I’ve just got to wait.

But today, I—Cicero and the kids, they surprised me with a party. I’d told them I didn’t know when my birthday was exactly, which is kind of true because the months aren’t the same here, but I didn’t think about it until today. I got back from a supply run and they’d set up a celebration for me. Cicero told me that since I couldn’t remember when I was born, they’d decided that my new birthday was the day he met me, the day my new life started, I guess.

It’s been a year. A whole year.

I made it through the party, somehow, but as soon as I could I got away and came up here to my room. I was upset and scared and missing you more than ever, you and Hamid both, and I thought suddenly that maybe you didn’t know I was alive, that maybe Hamid thought I was lost and didn’t know where to find me, so I was going to write Hamid a letter at first, but...but I really wanted to write to you.

I really needed you.

I’m a little bit calmer now, though, and I’m thinking a little more clearly. Maybe writing all this out helped some. I just imagined I was talking to you, and that helped, too. I’ve never been all that great with words, but I’ll try here. There’s some important stuff I think I need to say.

Hamid and I were the same age, did you know that? We talked about a lot of stuff while we were going to the different restaurants in Prague, and one of the things we talked about was our birthdays. We thought it was kind of cool that we both had the same birthday. We were both twenty-three.

We were kids, Zolf. Just a couple of dumb kids who thought we were grown up. I’ve got a bunch of dumb kids of my own now, and I know what I’m talking about. We thought we knew everything about everything, and it’s probably one of the reasons we didn’t always get on so much. We both thought we knew how the world worked, and because the way I saw the world and the way he saw the world were so different, we both thought the other didn’t know anything about anything. I’d never been out of London—I’d barely been out of Other London—and Hamid, for all he’d been places, he hadn’t really seen the world, just the part of the world that rich people let their kids go. We had a lot to learn.

We needed you. I don’t blame you for leaving, I know you needed that too, and I meant what I said about how none of us were forced to be there and you could leave if you wanted to, and we both trusted you’d come back when you were doing better. And maybe we both thought we’d be okay on our own. But I thought the whole world worked like Other London and Hamid thought the whole world worked like Cairo and Cambridge. Azu and Grizzop both saw how they thought the world should be, but the difference was Azu didn’t realize that it wasn’t like that, I think, and Grizzop just tried to make it like that. But you knew how my world worked, and how Hamid’s world worked, and how the rest of the world worked, and when you were there, it was a lot easier to see things how they really were and not just how they would have been if we were where we were used to, you know?

But it’s not just that. I didn’t get to be a kid, not really. And now that I think about it, Hamid didn’t really either. I had to be a thief and he had to be a banker’s son, and there were rules and things we had to do and things we were expected to be, and we didn’t get to figure out who we were and who we wanted to be. But you let us be that. You made it safe for us to start figuring ourselves out, even if it upset you sometimes, but you were there to catch us if we went too far. And even when you yelled at us, I think we could tell you weren’t really mad. We both had a lot of growing up to do still, even if we didn’t think so, but we weren’t going to do it without someone to show us how. And you’re the only person either of us ever met who was willing to do that for us.

I don’t know if you can get me back. I know I can’t get back to you from here. Magic isn’t what I’m used to, or the people who can do that kind of magic...don’t. I keep thinking about something Apophis said, about how the Meritocrats took a lot of magic things away from humanity because only the rich people could get at them, and I wonder if it’s not something like that, that I’m just not rich enough to get to someone powerful enough to send me home. But I think I’m going to have to wait, and hope. I’m not giving up that hope, because I know you wouldn’t want me to, but...but maybe there’s a reason I’m supposed to be here.

These kids, they need someone too. Like I did. And right now, I’m what they’ve got. If I leave, I don’t know what’s going to happen to them. So this isn’t me saying “don’t keep trying to find me”, this is me saying that if you can’t get me back...I think I’ll be okay. I just keep asking myself, every time I run up on something that I’m not sure about, I think, “What would Zolf do?” And so far I’m not doing too bad, except for the part where I had to tell Maximus he couldn’t threaten to drown his little brothers and sisters in a bucket every time they annoy him. I’m doing my best, though. That’s all I can do. I’m trying. I’m trying to be you for them.

And it’s a little bit like I’ve got you here with me.

But Hamid doesn’t. He doesn’t have you and he doesn’t have me, and his sister and his friend died, and his father and his brother are going to prison, and someone he thought was his friend doesn’t care that she was doing work that got used for horrible things. He’s still just a kid really. And Azu’s solid, but she’s not what he needs. She sees the world in black and white. Either you’re her friend, or you’re her enemy, and if you’re her friend, you’re a good person. Hamid needs somebody who sees him for who he is, and cares about him as a person and not as what he can be or do. He needs you.

So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to finish this letter, and I’m going to take it to the Temple of Poseidon up in the town, and I’m going to ask them to find a way to get it to you. And then I’m going to come home, and I’m going to get all the kids together, and I’m going to tell them stories. I’m going to tell them about the ocean and the rain, the stars and the sand. I’m going to tell them about monsters and mechanical men and magic. I’m going to tell them about Azu and Grizzop and Wilde and even Bertie, my friends, and I’m going to tell them about Hamid, my brother, and I’m going to tell them about Zolf, the best dad I could ever have asked for.

And what I want you to do—it’s a big favor, but I’m hoping this letter won’t get to you until you’ve had a chance to get right. I want—no, I need you to go find Hamid. Maybe it hasn’t been very long, maybe you’re getting this right after we left, in which case, go to Rome and meet him when he gets back. Or maybe it’s been a bit and you’ll need to ask Wilde. He’ll know where to find him. Tell him I sent you if you have to, if he won’t listen to you, but please, please go find Hamid. He needs someone to be there for him, and I have a feeling you need someone too. Someone who believes in you, too. I’ll feel better knowing you’re together, that you’re helping each other, keeping each other safe. Tell him I’m sorry, for what I said about his family. Tell him I miss him, and I love him. I miss you, too, and I love you, too. I mean that with everything I have in me.

We’ll see each other again. I know that. In your time or mine, in this world or the next. I know I’ll be able to see you both again. And I hope that when I do, I’ll be able to look you in the eye and know that I made you proud.

Love always,

Sasha.

P.S. I want you to have my fire dagger. It’s probably not safe to have around just now, it being magic and all, and I want you to have something to remember me by.

Zolf lowers the last page of the letter slowly to the bar top. For a long time, he doesn’t move, just stares at the sheaf of papers and the dagger without really seeing either of them.

Then he takes a deep breath, slides off the stool, and trudges slowly and quietly up the stairs.

The upper floor of what used to be Gragg’s tavern consists of what can only loosely be described as “rooms” because there are two walls, each going about a third of the way across the room, dividing it into nominally two separate spaces. There are a few crates of supplies scattered about, mostly blankets from what Zolf can see in the half-open ones, but one of them has Skraak curled up inside, sound asleep. It’s not hard to find the group, in a sort of nest of blankets tucked up against one of the dividing walls. Azu lies on her back, one arm flung over her face. Cel’s hair is just visible over the edge of a ball of blanket up against Azu’s side; Zolf can’t see their face, but he guesses they still feel pretty terrible. Sumatnyerl sleeps on her side on the opposite side of Azu, back to the party and face to the dividing wall. Einstein snores lightly, cuddling Azu’s outstretched arm like a teddy bear. Even Wilde is there, half-sitting and half-slumped against Azu’s side, a blanket loosely draped over his lap and one hand resting in the space next to it, looking for all the world like he was trying to sit up and wait for Zolf but fell asleep anyway.

Hamid is nowhere to be seen.

Zolf tries to tamp down his instinctive panic. There’s only one way in or out up here, unless Hamid climbed out a window, and he wouldn’t do something like that. Nothing could have got up here without Zolf hearing it, he’s sure—well, okay, he was lost in the letter, it’s possible, but surely the others would have heard something. Hamid’s got to be nearby. He’s just...not sleeping with the others, for some reason. Maybe as he gets more dragon-ish, he gets more like the kobolds and prefers to sleep somewhere he can’t be found easily. Maybe he just doesn’t want to sleep on the floor and has figured out how to make himself a little bed, or found a bed somewhere.

Unless an assassin with Sasha’s level of skill but no morals sneaked in through the window. Unless there’s another thing like the thing they fought in Svalbard that burned their clothing and damaged their spirits. Unless the one Hamid sucked into the kill switch got out somehow and attacked him. Unless Hamid did do something stupid, maybe testing out a new spell he’d discovered or ability he’d developed...

Zolf moves as quickly and quietly as he can into the other half of the room. It’s been mostly picked over and cleared out, those few boxes remaining pushed to the sides of the room. One, a longer and narrower box than some of the others, is up underneath a single window at the far end of the attic space. And there, sitting atop the box, is Hamid, staring out the window even though it’s pitch dark and he can’t possibly see anything.

Inhaling sharply with relief, shoulders relaxing, Zolf crosses the space. He’s still trying not to wake the sleepers, but he’s pretty sure Hamid can hear him. He sits at the other end of the box from Hamid. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” Hamid says. He sounds the way he did in Paris after they destroyed Mr. Ceiling for real—weary and beaten-down. The thought makes Zolf hurt all the way through, partly hating himself for the person he was then and partly because Hamid’s got no reason to feel that way now and partly because it makes him think of Sasha, not that she’s far from his mind right now.

Hamid turns away from the window and looks in Zolf’s direction; he can’t possibly see him in the total lack of light, but Zolf can see him just fine. He almost looks worse than he sounds, and Zolf has a brief moment of wondering if he’s hurt worse than he’s letting on before he convinces himself he’s just being alarmist. It’s just the shadows and dim lighting making things seem worse than they are, combined with the stress of the last day.

Now that he’s here, Zolf has no idea where to start. He tries to think of the best way to begin, then gives up and decides to just say the first thing that pops into his head. The words that come out of his mouth remind him why it’s a bad idea to do that. “Did you seriously almost blow yourself up in Rome?”

Several emotions play across Hamid’s face, too fast for Zolf to read in the darkness. He expects a shrill protest, or an angry denial, or a stammering justification, but to his surprise, Hamid simply sighs and nods. “Sort of? We were fighting something invisible. It had just attacked me, so I knew it was near me, and Azu and Sasha weren’t, so...I cast a fireball centered on me. It should’ve been fine. I can stand up to fire pretty well, so I thought even if I couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, I’d be okay. But something in Rome made magic go...weird...and it was more powerful than I thought it would be. I got lucky, I guess.” He looks up at Zolf, and this time the look in his eyes is easy to read: guilt. Zolf’s not sure why. “When did Azu tell you about that?”

“She didn’t. I—” Zolf flounders for a moment. There’s got to be a better way of saying this. Finally, he just sighs and hands Hamid the letter.

Hamid makes a weary, practiced gesture, and Zolf blinks as the by-now familiar tiny dancing lights appear between them. Hamid blinks, too, then flinches. “Sorry,” he mumbles and starts to make the gesture to dismiss them.

Zolf reaches over and stops him. “It’s—fine. It’s fine,” he tells Hamid. “Nothing out there hunts by sight. Gragg says they can’t get in buildings anyway. I trust him. You’re fine.”

Hamid swallows and nods. Now that the lights are there, Zolf can see him a little better, and he reevaluates his previous assessment. Hamid does look worse than he sounds. He looks either ill or injured, with dark hollows under his eyes, which have a slightly bruised look to them, his skin ashen. There’s a smudge on his forehead of dirt or slime or blood or some combination of the three, he looks like he’s run his hands through his hair in frustration or despair, and his ever-present eyeliner is smeared down his cheeks.

It hits Zolf all at once that he’s literally never seen Hamid not perfectly groomed. Even in the catacombs under Paris, when he’d been injured and panicking, his first instinct had been a shaky prestidigitation to clean himself up. He fusses over his appearance more than anyone Zolf has ever met, with the possible exception of Wilde, and he remembers that Wilde always looked worse off than he was when he couldn’t use his own prestidigitation. It’s no wonder Hamid looks sick. Zolf resists the urge to comment on it and simply waits.

Hamid sucks in a sharp breath as he starts to read, and even more color drains from his face. His eyes fill with tears, but to Zolf’s slight surprise, they don’t fall. He smiles briefly a couple of times, barely more than a flicker, but Zolf also sees him retreat slightly into himself. And Zolf can tell when he gets to the part after they got separated coming back to Rome, because Hamid’s hands start shaking, ever so faintly.

When he reaches the end—apparently—he stares at the paper for a long moment, much like Zolf did, then takes a deep breath, folds the letter back up, and hands it back to Zolf. Zolf isn’t sure whether to be impressed or worried that Hamid hasn’t dissolved into a complete emotional mess.

“She’s right,” he says softly, and his voice is choked and shaking, but he’s not actually crying. “I was just a dumb kid. Still am, I guess.” He looks up at Zolf. “I keep—I think I’m getting better, and then I do something utterly stupid because I think I know what I’m doing, and then I argue with you when you call me out on it. And then I have the nerve to act like you’re—” He chokes off the word and looks away, taking a couple more deep breaths.

Zolf realizes, all of a sudden, what Hamid is doing. He’s trying to stop himself from crying, because he doesn’t want to be overly emotional. He’s trying to be sensible and practical and, well, grown-up about this.

Before he can say anything, Hamid looks back up at him. “I’m not—I’m not trying to justify why I’m right. I just want you to know where I...” He swallows. “When I was growing up, if I made a mistake or—o-or did something wrong, no matter what it was or how bad it was, all I had to do was admit it was wrong and apologize, and everything would be forgiven and it would go away. Like it never happened. And you—you’re kind of the opposite? At least, that’s how it looks to me sometimes. If something goes wrong, it’s in the past. Apologizing for it or—or acknowledging that it might have been a mistake doesn’t change that it was done, so there’s no reason to. Just...move on and try to do better the next time. And I know that’s the better way to handle it, but—”

“It’s not,” Zolf interrupts, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s—look, I don’t have all the answers either, you know. I act like I do, but deep down, I’m just as scared. And I don’t always know the right thing to do. When we were in Paris, I spent three days in my room wallowing, blaming myself for everything that went wrong, every mistake I’d ever made, not just the whole Mr. Ceiling thing, you remember that? The more we went on, the more I questioned everything I’d ever done, and by the time we got to Prague, I couldn’t get away from the doubts. So I walked away, from Sasha and from you, because I didn’t trust myself not to repeat my mistakes. And then Wilde tracked me down and told me you’d gone to Rome and you were gone and...” He swallows hard. “Look, you know how Sasha talks about her...shutting down and just blanking out? I did that, too, I reckon. I blamed myself, thought if I’d just stayed you’d have been okay, but...at that point, Wilde needed an ally and I needed a purpose, so I shut out the past and focused on the present. And it was easier to live like that, for a while, so I just kept doing it and it got worse.” He tries to smile. “There’s got to be something in between, right? Something between ignoring the past and dwelling on it?”

“Yeah,” Hamid says softly, looking down at his hands. They’re dirty, too, smeared with plant matter and ichor and grease, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “And there’s got to be something between acting like acknowledging a mistake makes it all go away and acting like—”

“—like not acknowledging it also makes it all go away,” Zolf completes. “And I think there’s got to be something between ‘this was the only right answer’ and ‘this was the right answer with the information we had so it’s fine,’ yeah? Like your fireball in Rome. You didn’t think that was the only solution, did you?”

“No,” Hamid whispers. “It was a calculated risk. And I didn’t think about magic going...screwy. But I wouldn’t have done it if Sasha or Azu or Einstein had been close enough that it would have hit them. I was the only one in danger, so I thought it would be okay.”

Zolf’s heart lurches, and he has to try twice before he can speak. “If you ever decide to do something like that again...just make sure I can’t see you, all right?”

Hamid looks up at Zolf and attempts to smile. “So you don’t have to yell at me?”

“So I don’t have to maybe watch you die.” Zolf keeps his voice down with an effort. “I can’t—I can’t do that, Hamid. Seeing Wilde’s body after the crash, I—that was bad. That was real bad. If I’d had to actually see it happen? I don’t know that even pushing things into the past would’ve helped. And next to Wilde, you’re the person I’d like to think I’m closest to. I don’t want to watch anyone die if I can help it, but you? Please don’t make me do that.” He swallows hard. “It’s why I took the risk of having us jump into the plant. I thought it would just...lead us straight through to wherever it was connected to, but it was that or watch you torn apart by a bunch of evil trees, and I was not going to risk that. So yeah, it was a bad idea and if I’d known what I know now I would have tried to come up with a third option, but with what we knew then, it was the best hope I had of not losing everything I cared about. Again.”

Hamid makes a tiny, pained noise that sounds like it might be a sob and goes straight to Zolf’s heart. He presses his lips tightly together for a moment, obviously forces back an emotional response, then nods. “I promise. And—and I promise not to yell like that again. I’m sorry. I am. I got scared and I took it out on you and that wasn’t fair.”

“I accept your apology, and I forgive you. And I’m not great with the whole...talking thing, but I promise I’ll try in the future.” Zolf takes a quick breath. “I do forget how young you are sometimes. And I don’t mean that as an insult, just...I forget you don’t always have the experience of the world to understand why I make the decisions I do, and then I get annoyed with you for questioning them, and that’s not fair, either. I’m sorry for that.”

“You don’t—I accept your apology, and I forgive you,” Hamid half-whispers. Zolf can tell he’s not just parroting the words, he’s sincere about them. And he appreciates that Hamid stopped himself from saying you don’t have to apologize. Because Zolf did have to apologize, and they both know it. Hamid looks down at the letter again. “She’s right about that, too. I did—I do need you. I’m...you make me a better person.”

“No,” Zolf says, putting the weight of an entire lifetime’s experience behind his words. “Nobody else can make someone a better person. You make you a better person, Hamid. I just believe you can be one.”

Hamid’s head comes up abruptly, and he stares at Zolf in genuine shock. Zolf is terrible at...people, and emotions, and all that, he doesn’t usually get them, but Hamid’s emotions are so close to the surface and so genuine that even he can read them. Nobody has ever told Hamid anything like that, ever, and Zolf is the last person he would have ever expected to hear it from.

And something inside Zolf breaks.

He reaches out and pulls Hamid into a hug, tighter and more desperate than the one he gave him right after the first quarantine all those weeks ago. Hamid hugs him back just as tightly, burying his face in Zolf’s shoulder. Zolf feels the tears begin hitting his skin, reminding him in a remote, distant way that that purple thing dissolved his shirt and coat and he’s sitting around in nothing but his breastplate, but he pushes the thought out of his mind for the moment.

“She’s right,” he says into Hamid’s hair. “I am proud of you. You stood up for yourself, and you stood up for Sasha. You didn’t give in even when it would’ve been the easiest thing in the world. And back there, in Svalbard? You did a good job. You kept your head and you didn’t argue, you figured out what that device was and how to use it. And you made sure the rest of us stayed safe. I might argue with you, I might yell, but I will never not be proud of you.”

Hamid cries harder. His emotions are usually loud and messy, but whether because he’s trying to keep quiet or for some other reason, his tears are silent. “I missed you,” he whispers, the words muffled into Zolf’s shoulder. “I missed you and I was scared something would happen to you in Prague, and then I got back from Rome and Einstein told us how long it had been and what was going on and I was scared you were dead, and then I saw you again and I was—I was so angry at you and I don’t know why—”

“It’s because I wasn’t there,” Zolf says with a rare flash of insight. “It’s because I left and suddenly everybody around you started getting hurt and dying, and then you came back and everything was different, and you didn’t know what was going on. You were confused and scared, and when you get scared these days you get angry. And I was there to be a good target. You couldn’t be angry at Azu because Azu was angry too, but me—”

“You were safe,” Hamid says softly. “I—I trusted that I could be angry at you, because I knew you’d—you’d let me be angry and we could still be friends after I was done.”

Zolf tightens his arms around Hamid, recognizing the truth in his words. “I missed you, too, you know. As soon as I walked away, I regretted it. If I could’ve taken you both with me, as stupid as that sounds, I would have, but I had to be on my own to get right. But I hadn’t been gone three days before I knew I’d be back. And then you were gone, they told me you were gone for good, and I—I wasn’t lying when I said I’d mourned for you both, but I never gave up hope. I’ve been studying the planes—I was determined, when I had a moment, I was going to go looking for you. I just, I couldn’t leave Wilde and...”

“No, I get it. I get it.” Hamid squeezes him again, then eases back and manages a weak smile up at him. “Thank you. For trying. For not giving up. Maybe...maybe that’s the only reason any of us made it back, was because you had hope.”

“Maybe.” Zolf settles back as well and manages a smile back. “I’m not giving up on her, just so you know. Even though we got that letter from her when she was older...I’m not giving up. Maybe someday...”

“Yeah. Maybe not any time soon, but someday.” Hamid wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. The gesture makes him look impossibly young. “I’m not giving up either. I can’t. She wouldn’t have given up on us.” He pauses. “Zolf—she didn’t know you weren’t with Poseidon anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s probably why the letter came through the Poseidon lot,” Zolf says. “They’ve probably been looking for me since I walked away, so to speak.”

“No, I mean she didn’t know you weren’t with Poseidon. If she lit a candle at the Temple of Artemis for Grizzop every year, and her letter to all of us came through the Cult of Aphrodite...Zolf, what if that’s why Poseidon kept trying to help you?” Hamid’s eyes are wide. “Because Sasha asked him to? Would—is that how it works?”

Ice water floods through Zolf’s veins, and he mutters a word in Dwarfish he hasn’t said since the cave-in. “It might. I don’t know. I’m not—”

“No, I’m not—I don’t think you should go back to him. I mean....clearly he wasn’t—maybe he was Sasha’s god, not yours. I just...wondered, that’s all.” Hamid rubs his face. He looks like he’s lost a fight with a fireplace, there’s so much dirt and kohl smeared over his cheeks.

“Maybe...Hamid, you sure you aren’t hurt?” Zolf gestures to his own face. “You...look a mess.”

“I...oh.” Hamid looks embarrassed. “Sorry, and I—it’s all over you, too. Here.” He snaps his fingers, producing the familiar flurry of handkerchiefs, which set to work on both Hamid and Zolf.

Zolf unbuckles his breastplate and sets it aside, wincing at the sticky sound as it peels away from his chest and the last fragments of his shirt and jacket fall away. “Thanks,” he says. “For the record, though, I wasn’t...complaining about you looking bad or whatever. I was just worried. Last time you didn’t immediately come out of a fight and tidy yourself up was...”

“Paris,” Hamid completes softly. “I know. I-it did feel...a bit like that, I guess. I just didn’t...I don’t know.” He glances over his shoulder uncertainly towards the other part of the room.

Zolf glances over, too. “They’ll be okay,” he assures Hamid, thinking he’s worrying about Cel. “Once I’ve had some rest, I can meditate and get access to a couple spells that’ll help. You and Azu, too. You said it hit you some?”

“Yeah,” Hamid says with a heavy sigh.

The handkerchiefs vanish, and Zolf sighs, too. “Right. C’mon, let’s go in the other room and get some sleep. You want to use the lights so you don’t trip?”

Hamid hesitates, for just a second, then says uncertainly, “N-no. No, I’m—I’m fine.” He snaps his fingers and the lights disappear. “Um...after you?”

Zolf stares at Hamid. He’s usually a skilled liar, almost on par with Wilde, but either because he’s tired or because of what that thing did to him, he’s not doing a very good job of it right now. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Hamid protests, even less convincingly.

“Hamid.”

It’s all he says, but it’s enough. Hamid’s shoulders slump. “I just...I don’t think I’m welcome in there right now. Azu’s mad at me. A-about the kobolds and—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Zolf interrupts. “She’s asleep right now, so she won’t be yelling at you. And she’s not....feeling well, is she? Whatever happened to you three, she’s—she’ll be fine once we get that taken care of.”

“She meant it, Zolf. She just wouldn’t have said it if she wasn’t...like this. And she wasn’t wrong.”

“She might not have been wrong, but that doesn’t mean she was right,” Zolf says firmly. He puts his hands on Hamid’s shoulders and looks him in the eye, despite knowing Hamid probably can’t see him. “Just like Sasha. Just like me. Just like you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hamid whispers. Tears fill his eyes again. “I—I really didn’t—I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that, Zolf. I’m sorry. I just—I guess I was still upset about what Aziza said and—”

“Wait, who—?” Zolf suddenly realizes that he wasn’t the only one who went through what he went through when they jumped through that plant. His shoulders slump slightly. “I’m sorry. I should’ve—we should’ve talked about this, but—”

“When have we had time?”

“Yeah, exactly. Look, I—when we jumped through that plant, before it tied us up and we fell through those planes?” Zolf sighs heavily. “I was back in the mines. With my brother. He blamed me for leaving, tried to convince me he’d still been alive when I...” He swallows. “So I was...kind of raw, too. Even though it was nothing I haven’t been saying to myself for decades. Even though I knew it wasn’t really him.”

“It wasn’t?” Hamid’s voice is small and fragile, like he was in the catacombs.

“Oh, Hamid.” Zolf hates this, hates every minute of it. “No, it wasn’t—it wasn’t them. Whoever you saw—your sister, right? The one who died in Prague?”

“Yeah. She—she said it was my fault she died. And that I hadn’t done enough to—after. That I was still making everything all about me and not—”

“Yeah, if it had really been her, she never would have said any of that, ‘cause it’s not true,” Zolf interrupts. “You were humming in the garden. I heard you. She was walking with you. That was really her. I could feel my brother with me too, I kept willing him to go away. Cel and Azu, I’m sure they were with someone they’ve lost too. What that—that thing showed us, that was a twisted version of them. Something to make us regret, make us give up. They were lies, Hamid. What happened to your sister, that’s not your fault. You did everything you could. Kafka’s the reason she died. Well, and maybe Bertie too.”

“I didn’t know that,” Hamid whispers. “About him—about Kafka giving him a choice.”

“Tell you what.” Zolf squeezes Hamid’s shoulders. “When this is all over, we’ll go find a necromancer, find where they’ve got Bertie buried, and have him turned into a zombie so we can kill him again ourselves.”

Hamid actually laughs, a bit wetly. “Only if you take the first shot.”

“Sure. We’ll use Sasha’s dagger.” Zolf pulls Hamid in for another hug. He’s not usually the touchy-feely, sort, but it’s just the two of them right now and Hamid’s one of three people he’d be willing to hug like this.

The fact that one of those people is someone he may never get the chance to hug again—or at all—makes his heart ache, but he tries not to think about it.

Hamid hugs him back, and Zolf feels him relax. After a few moments, he pulls back and manages a smile up at Zolf. “Thank you. For all of it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” Zolf smiles back, then slides off the box. “Come on. You need rest.”

This time, Hamid slides off the box too, and he matches stride with Zolf as they head back into the other room. He starts to go off to one side, but Zolf doesn’t let him. Instead, he grabs a blanket and pulls him over to join the pile that is the rest of their friends. Hamid looks reluctant, but he doesn’t argue. Zolf’s glad. He’s tired and strained and really doesn’t want to have to try to choose which of the two people he cares about most he’s going to try and protect tonight.

Wilde half-stirs when Zolf settles down next to him, but doesn’t fully wake, just shifts slightly to lean against him and shoves the blanket in his direction. Zolf tucks the blanket he grabbed around Hamid before accepting the other half of Wilde’s blanket, and he doesn’t object when he feels Hamid’s head drop onto his shoulder.

“Night, Dad,” Hamid mumbles, sounding more than half asleep.

A lump comes into Zolf’s throat. He has to try twice before he can choke out the words. “Night, Hamid.”

With one hand resting on Hamid’s head and the other gripping Wilde’s hand tightly, Zolf closes his eyes and drifts into sleep, feeling, for the first time in almost two years, like some of the grief has been lifted from his heart.

#ollie writes fanfic #rq gaming #rqg #Zolf Smith #hamid saleh haroun al tahan #angst and feels #spoilers for the entire podcast #we love our grumpy sea dad

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maleficar-writes · 4 years ago

Text

The Benefits of Banging Some Bricks

Pairing: Female Inquisitor/Skyhold

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot

Summary: Strange things happen to the Inquisitor, but nothing stranger than Skyhold wooing her. Solas tries to help, Varric just makes it worse.

On AO3: Link

The Inquisitor stared at her throne. Her boots were there, freshly polished, looking beautiful and pristine like she hadn’t worn them tromping through the Fallow Mire just the other day. She blinked. Tipped her head to one side.

“Something wrong, Inquisitor?” Cullen asked.

She pointed at her boots. “I lost those last night.”

He lifted one brow. “How did you lose them if they’re right here?”

“They weren’t in my room. I took them off and set them aside because I needed to clean them. Vivienne yelled at me about spreading mud everywhere and not taking care of my gear. So I was going to clean them. But when I got up this morning, they were gone. I had Harritt and Dagna make me a new pair.” She pointed at the boots she was wearing. “But now my old boots are here. On my throne. Mud free.” She tipped her head to the other side, baffled and a little disturbed.

Cullen chuckled. “Perhaps Cole thought to help you.”

So she went to Cole, boots in hand. “Did you do this?” she asked, thrusting the boots at him.

Cole stared at her from under his enormous hat. Vivienne was right, they really needed to take him shopping for better hats and possibly get him a haircut and maybe convince him to get some sun in the Western Approach. “The smiths do that,” he said slowly, wandering, turning away from her and her boots. “Shaping, sharpening, smoothing.”

The Inquisitor sighed. “So you didn’t clean my boots?”

“It likes you,” was all Cole said, and nothing she said got anything more from him.

Her dreams that night were fevered, filled with shadows and heated touches. Invisible hands stroked her, caressed her, made her body burn for more, and mouths lingered on her neck, her breasts, the hollow of her hips. Fingers dipped between her legs, making her arch and cry out, and she woke in the middle of the night covered in sweat and gasping, unfulfilled.

In the darkness, she clutched her sheets in her hands and sucked in labored breaths, wondering if she should go to Cullen or Bull or even Solas. Eventually, when her breathing slowed and reason returned, she curled up alone, but she pulled her blankets over her head, unable to shake the feeling someone was watching her. It wasn’t a malevolent sense, but it was discomfiting.

The sensation didn’t go away in the following weeks. The dreams grew more intense, so much so that she sometimes woke to orgasms that had her back arched and her toes curled in her sheets. When she didn’t wake coming, her fingers delved between her splayed legs, sliding into her slick heat until she brought herself over that trembling edge. And still the feeling of being watched lingered.

Three days before they were due to leave for Orlais, her dress uniform went missing. She ran through the halls of Skyhold, desperately searching for it in every nook and cranny and supply closet until Josephine grabbed her by the shoulders. “What is going on?” she demanded.

“Skyhold ate my dress uniform,” the Inquisitor replied, deadly serious, meaning every word.

Solas, standing nearby, straightened. “Skyhold is a building, Inquisitor. A very old, very powerful, very magical building, but a building nonetheless.”

The Inquisitor pressed her lips into a thin line. “It. Ate. My. Uniform.”

“You have simply misplaced it,” Josie said, tone placating. “Or perhaps Cole is trying to help?”

A scowl crossed the Inquisitor’s face. “After I accosted him about the boots—”

“What happened with your boots?” Solas asked.

She ignored him. “—he’s been staying out of my space.” Her brow furrowed. “I think I hurt his feelings. Josie, remind me to do something nice for Cole the next time I’m out doing things.”

“I will add it to my list,” Josie deadpanned. “Now about your uniform.”

The Inquisitor balked, paled, and felt dread slam into her stomach like a druffalo. Or maybe like one of those Venatori with a tower shield. She’d gotten shield bashed by one the other day and her left shoulder still wasn’t quite right. “It’s gone. Skyhold ate it.”

Josie dropped her hands with a sigh. “We will find you another one,” she said, and she hurried off with a harried expression.

As the Inquisitor stood in the hallway, nibbling her thumbnail, deep in thought, Solas slipped up to her. “I can assure you, Inquisitor, Skyhold could not have eaten your uniform,” he said.

She shot him a venomous look. “The ancient, magical, elven fortress that’s borderline sentient can’t clean my boots and eat my uniform?” She sighed, then, and shrugged. “I guess it’s not a complete loss. I really hated that uniform anyway. Of course we have to wear it, we’re going as the Inquisition, but I was hoping for a dress.”

“A dress?” he asked, surprised. “I did not take you for a woman who enjoyed such trappings.”

With a dreamy sigh, the Inquisitor smiled. “Fitted through the chest and torso,” she said, smoothing her hands over her waist, ignoring the strangled sound Solas made. “The bodice covered in intricate, delicate embroidery. Silver thread on green velvet. A scandalously low décolletage made somewhat more decent with lace. And Thedas’s fullest skirt, done with seed pearls and ribbons and even more lace. So many fripperies and fineries that all of Orlais would be jealous.” She sighed again.

And two hours later, she found that dress on her bed. She blinked at it, not sure if she ought to be horrified or not, before snatching it in her hands and running through the keep. “Solas!” she shrieked, brandishing the dress overhead like a weapon. “Solas, you son of a bitch, I’m going to string you up by your ears and peel your skin off your body!”

Varric, standing in the great hall with Blackwall and Iron Bull, called out to her. “Isn’t it a bit early to be threatening bodily harm, Inquisitor?”

She skidded to a halt in front of them, shook out the dress, and held it out for them to see. It was just as she’d described it, but somehow even more beautiful. And she knew it would fit her like a glove if she took the time to try it on. Which she hadn’t. Because Skyhold had eaten her dress uniform and vomited up a dress and she was pretty sure if she put the damn thing on she’d get possessed or something. “Look at this,” she hissed.

“Nice neckline,” Bull said, giving her a lascivious and inviting grin.

The look she gave him could have rusted iron and spoiled silverite.

“It’s very lovely, Inquisitor,” Blackwall said, far more diplomatic. “Are you wearing it to the ball in Orlais?”

She made a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

“And here I thought we were all going in matching uniforms,” Varric drawled. “Lucky you, getting something different.”

Another strangled sound escaped her.

“You were about to skin Solas alive?” Varric prompted.

Clutching the dress to her chest, she glared at them all. “I’m going to rip off his head and feed it to him.”

“Now that’s an interesting idea…” Bull said, a thoughtful expression on his face. “If completely impossible.”

“I will make it possible,” she snarled, spinning on her heel and all but smacking into Solas’s chest.

“You were threatening bodily harm, Inquisitor?” he asked, giving her that smug, know-it-all bastard look of his. That one he wore whenever he was talking about the Fade and elves. Insufferable, sexy, know it all jackass. “What can I do for you?”

She took a step back and held up the dress. “It threw up a dress. Skyhold threw up a dress.”

Solas regarded the gown for a long, silent moment with an expression of intense curiosity. Of course he would find this curious instead of downright disturbing. “It’s a lovely dress.”

The Inquisitor dragged one hand down her face wondering what she’d done over the course of her Blighted life to deserve this. “Skyhold threw it up. It was waiting for me on my bed.”

Behind her, Varric snickered. “Maybe Red just took pity on you,” he said, “and got you something nicer than what the rest of us get to wear.”

“Who am I taking pity on?”

The Inquisitor whirled on Leliana and thrust the dress at her. “Did you do this?” she demanded. “For the love of all that is good in the world, please tell me you did this.”

Leliana took the dress by the waist, spreading it out, and positively cooed. “I haven’t seen craftsmanship so fine in years,” she purred, stroking one hand over the velvet bodice. “Look how tiny and perfect these stitches are.” Her hands slipped down the skirt and she gasped with delight. “And there are even pockets for hiding daggers! Inquisitor, where did you get this?”

The Inquisitor fixed Varric with a look of death that would have given even Corypheus a moment’s pause. Bull had the good sense to shuffle slowly backwards, muttering excuses before fleeing. Blackwall followed a moment later with much less grace.

“It is a nice dress,” Varric groused.

“A dress that a Blighted keep threw up on my bed!” the Inquisitor exclaimed. She spun about, jabbing a finger into Solas’s chest. “You! We are going into the Fade to find whatever psychotic spirit is doing this and putting an end to it.”

Solas let out a long suffering sigh. “It doesn’t work quite like that, Inquisitor. Such a journey would be—”

“So help me, Solas, if you don’t do the Fade walking thing with me right now I will rip open a Fade rift the size of a high dragon right on top of your face.”

“Perhaps I can manage something,” he said quickly.

Somewhat appeased, the Inquisitor tugged the dress out of Leliana’s hands. “But I was admiring it!” Leliana protested.

“I need it back in case it’s possessed,” the Inquisitor said. “Because then I’m going to burn it.”

“That’s a bit overwrought, Inquisitor, don’t you—” Solas broke off when she leveled that iron-rusting look on him. “As you will, of course,” he said slowly, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

The Inquisitor wasn’t placated. Not by a long shot. But she was willing to work with him as he prepared them for their journey into the Fade, which included an herbal tea. “To help you relax,” he said.

“I am relaxed,” she spat, and as she said it, she felt a vicious twinge in her damaged shoulder. The repercussions of moving with too much tension. Solas looked at her without expression, and she met his gaze with a flat look of her own. “Give me the damn tea.”

He gave her the damn tea. They both drank a cup, sitting in barely comfortable chairs in the Inquisitor’s bedroom. She was fairly certain this wasn’t going to work for all Solas seemed to know everything about the Fade. As she slouched in her chair, waiting for the potion to take effect, she reflected on that. His knowing things about the Fade, that is. “You know too much,” she slurred, blinking rapidly, fighting the sudden and heavy pull of sleep.

“Are you planning to kill me, Inquisitor?” he asked, tone deceptively mild.

“Maybe,” she said, and then her eyes closed.

She found herself in the gardens, standing beside Solas. She was wearing the Blighted dress. He was wearing a harlequin costume.

“Well this is different,” she said, grabbing the dress by the neckline and trying to hoist it higher. As it was, the lacy bits barely covered her nipples. Her breasts were small, but the way the dress fit lifted and plumped them she was fairly certain if she bent over, her tits would go everywhere. Convenient for Orlais, maybe, but definitely not for the Fade.

She glanced at Solas. He was staring at her face. Fixedly. There was a faint, red flush on his cheeks. He cleared his throat and turned away.

“Are my tits too much for you?” she asked blithely.

“They’re very…” He coughed. “Present.”

“Well, thanks for not looking too much,” she muttered, trying to stuff them further into the dress and failing miserably. Not that she particularly minded his looking. She didn’t mind any of them looking, really, not when the rest of the world thought of her as the holy Herald of Andraste. It was nice for a man to stare at her tits with want in his eyes.

Kind of like how the exceptionally naked man striding toward them was staring at her.

“Uh,” she said, lifting her hand and pointing.

Solas stepped forward, a look of concern on his face. “You are Tarasyl’an Te’las,” he said, and then he started speaking a string of elvish the Inquisitor couldn’t hope to understand. It seemed like Solas was the only elf in Thedas who had mastery of their language.

And wasn’t that just bizarre. She filed it under Things To Deal With When Awake And Slightly Less Disturbed By Everything Happening In My Life.

So while Solas talked the spirit creature’s ears off, she studied it. Unabashedly male (bless him for his magnificent nudity), he was tall, lithe but defined with lines of muscle. His hair shimmered in the sunlight, some incomprehensible color, and it fell down his back in waves. The Inquisitor had the sudden desire to card her fingers through those locks, to cling to them while he pinned her to a wall, a bed, the ground, and thrust into her. She’d nibble on his delicately pointed ears, suck them into her mouth as he rode her, and—

Well, that line of thought was ridiculous. He was a spirit. She knew better than to fuck a spirit.

He glanced at her, his eyes iridescent and scintillating, and she took a step back. A feral, hungry grin flashed across his face but instead of frightening her it left her wet. Trembling. “The dress suits,” he said, speaking right over Solas. He took a step toward her, and the garden dissolved. They were, quite suddenly, standing in her bedroom. Except it wasn’t her bedroom at all.

The whole place glittered, but not in a tacky, everything-is-diamonds way. It was like starlight had been worked into the very stones. Sunlight poured through stain glass windows, painting vibrant pictures across the glimmering walls. The Inquisitor sucked in a breath as she turned, slowly, taking the whole sight in. It was mind-bogglingly beautiful, defying words – not that she was very good with words, that was all Josephine, making her sound smart and clever.

Then she realized Solas was gone. “Where’d Solas go?” she asked as she turned back to the spirit creature. That was when she realized the dress was different, too.

She glanced down at herself and went completely still. If the walls were made of starlight, she was wearing the moon. The fabric, soft and sumptuous, wrapped her body in such a way that it covered everything and yet remained entirely scandalous. In places, it was nearly translucent. Light rippled across it, warm and comforting.

The Inquisitor looked at the spirit, blinking rapidly. “Um,” she finally said, gesturing vaguely to the whole of everything around them. “Do you have a name?”

“Skyhold,” he said, striding toward her. If she was wearing the moon, he wore the sun. The fabric was rich and red and she swore arcs of fire lined the hems.

She took a step back, not because she was scared but because that’s what she did when people walked toward her. She stepped back and to the side and then they passed her by and she put a dagger in their back. So much easier than flinging around fireballs. So much more prudent, too. Everyone always saw the fireball coming. No one expected a knife in the kidney.

But when she turned, so did he, and then he was dragging her against him and all she could think was He’s hung like a battlenug.

“Um,” she said aloud, again, stupidly. So close to him, she was able to see the absolute perfection of his face in perfect clarity. “Did you make that face yourself or were you born with it?”

“I made it for you.” He paused. “That disturbs you?”

It probably should have disturbed her. A lot. On a fundamental level. Instead, she was oddly charmed. “Why?”

“Because I like you. I was lonely, but then you came and brought life back. I want you to stay, so I want you to like me.” He gave her a broad, charming smile. “I made a face that you would like.”

She pursed her lips. “You’ve been giving me the fever dreams.”

The brightness of his face became dark, a passionate storm of desire flickering in those unfathomable, iridescent eyes. “You’re beautiful when you come,” he said, voice thick and rough. “Muscles straining, taut with pleasure, body arching and aching.” She shivered at the words, as he drew her closer, as his hands parted the folds of her dress until fabric pooled at her feet and she was left in a heavy gold necklace and nothing else. His finger hooked in the necklace, traveling along it, and he drew her flush against him. “I want to taste you.”

Shivering, she slid her hands over his chest, trying to push his clothes off the same way he’d removed hers. She couldn’t, though, couldn’t fathom the intricate magic that wreathed him in fire. Giving up, she twined her arms around his neck. “You already have,” she breathed, her voice just as husky as his. “Nightly.”

“Just in dreams. You’re here now.” He pulled her arms from around his neck and went to his knees, nuzzling the juncture of her thighs.

She should have felt vulnerable, naked as she was while he still wore all his clothes. Instead, with him kneeling at her feet, reverence in his eyes, she felt power. Power over an ancient, monolithic keep that contained untold mysteries. And the spirit that possessed it wanted her.

Fucking him was a terrible idea. Which was precisely why she took a few steps back, until her back touched a pillar, pulling him with her. She leaned against the pillar, draping her leg over his shoulder.

He met her gaze, his eyes positively smoldering with lust. And then, gaze still on hers, he leaned forward and touched his tongue between her legs.

She swore and he laughed, and then his tongue was pressing into her, laving her, licking her, lapping up every drop of arousal he coaxed out of her. If there was ever a creature devoted to her pleasure, it was this one. He left no part of her cunt untasted, and with every stroke of his tongue little sounds of delight came from him. Those noises made heat flare in her belly, made her hot and desperate.

He added a finger, sliding it deep inside her. She let out a gasp, eyes going wide as he curled it against her muscles, rubbing the pad of his finger over a spot inside her that had her seeing stars. Literal stars, not just the shimmering walls all around them.

Trembling, she threaded her fingers in his hair. The sane part of her mind (which she thought was also a rather stupid part) wanted her to pull him off her. She should run, find Solas, and get out of the Fade. The not so sane part of her mind, the part she was much more inclined to agree with, pointed out she hadn’t gotten laid in years and the spirit was doing a much better job than any of her other lovers ever had.

She was going to be damned for this. Whatever waited for her after death, it was going to be punishment for letting a spirit have its wicked way with her in the Fade. And she didn’t even care.

Gasping, she arched into his mouth, rocking her hips against his face as he lashed her clit with his tongue, brutally intense in his efforts to pleasure her. She felt him humming against her, a slight vibration that, combined with his finger inside her, pushed her, at last, over the edge. She came with a cry, her fingers clutching at that beautiful, silken hair of his.

Somehow, they ended up in the bed. Her back hit the sheets, and she had the irrational thought that the sheets felt like clouds, and then he fell over her. His skin seared her with heat, blazing like the sun but not burning, and he was inside her in a second. His cock was big enough that it was almost too much. But it didn’t hurt, it just filled, and she was gasping, coming again, drowning in the pleasure of his touch.

He fucked her for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds. The Fade was strange, its paths twisted, and she couldn’t rightly comprehend half of the things he did to her. At one point, he stroked her hair and she thought his fingers passed into her skull to probe her brain. The result was blinding pleasure so great she thought she would burst.

With his hands on her hips, clutching her with bruising strength, he filled her, slaked his need on her body, slaked her need. Every time she thought it might be nice for him to touch her, kiss her, lick her, he was there and performing that act. Half of her wondered if she hadn’t conjured him, if this wasn’t another fever dream born of loneliness and sexual desperation.

When he finally came, he filled her to overflowing with his seed. If spirits even had seed. She didn’t care, really, except that the flood of heat and the ecstasy on his face was so overwhelmingly beautiful she had to kiss him. He tasted like fire and the wind on a summer day, of solid earth and reassurance.

She woke on the floor, gasping, with Solas staring at her.

“That,” he said, “should not have happened.”

She dragged a hand down her face. Through her hair. Sucked in a sharp breath. She’d gone from naked with a spirit balls deep in her to clothed and on the hard, uncomfortable floor of her room. “The part where he kicked you out of the Fade or the part where he—” She broke off. Peered at him. “Let’s pretend this didn’t happen. Let’s pretend you don’t know this about me.”

He gave her a long, considering look. “As long as the spirit of this place doesn’t trouble you or cause us harm,” he said slowly.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t call it trouble at all.” She sank onto the floor, not bothered by the hardness of it at all. Limp, boneless, she smiled stupidly at the ceiling. “I’m just going to lay here for a while. You tell everyone we figured it out. Everything is fine.”

He hesitated before leaving her, but leave her he did.

She poured herself another generous helping of that herbal tea and passed out on her bed. Skyhold was waiting for her in her dreams.

The rest of her companions, bless them, never asked why she never lost her socks. They didn’t wonder how there was always a glass of exorbitantly expensive wine within her reach. They didn’t question the fact that she could open a door that should have lead to a closet only to find the gardens on the other side. They were good people, her companions.

She supposed, when she got letters inquiring after her many adventures from friends and family, that it would be easier to tell them she’d tripped and fallen onto either Solas or Cullen’s dick. But in the end, she preferred shagging Skyhold. The fringe benefits were mighty nice, too.

#dragon age: inquisition fic #dragon age inquisition fic #fanfiction #female inquisitor #skyhold #varric #solas #dai

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atomic-taco-muffin · 4 years ago

Text

The Lost Princess Chapter 10

Warnings: I don’t even know. I’m letting you decide

Rating: SFW

In a quiet village, Goofy, Donald, and Pluto walk through town. Something in the sky catches Goofy’s attention and he stops, gazing upward. Donald turns around as Goofy points upward. Donald follows his gaze and gasps.

“Look, a star’s goin’ out!” Goofy said. Donald looked up and saw a bright star in the night sky twinkles and blinks out of existence. Donald’s face turned serious.

“Come on. Let’s hurry,” he said. Goofy nodded and they walked through the center of the main district toward a flight of steps. The neon letters of the various shops blinked in the night air while a few townsfolk inhabit the picturesque town square.

“Where’s that key? And that dagger?” Donald asked.

“Hey, ya know, maybe we ought to go find Leon,” Goofy said. They reached the top of the steps in front of an accessory shop. Pluto sniffed around a dark alleyway, while Donald walked off to the right on his own course. Goofy noticed Pluto and stopped.

“Uh, Donald. Ya know, I betcha that...” Goofy said.

“Aw, what do you know, you big palooka?” Donald asked while he continued walking.

“What do I know? Hmm...” Goofy pondered for a second before following Donald. As they were walking, Goofy called out for Pluto but Pluto continued his search down the alley, turning a corner at a pile of wooden crates. He came across you and Sora sleeping and licked Sora’s face. Sora’s eyes blink open slowly and he peers around sleepily, seeing the dog, who happily wags his tail at the sight of him. He looked down and saw you sleeping on his lap.

“What a dream...” he said. He started nodding off again and Pluto pounced on him. He gives off a startled yell, causing you to wake up.

“This isn’t a dream!” he said.

“What isn’t?” you asked. You squinted at the dog, your eyes focusing for a moment, before standing up. You searched your surroundings. Several notices are pinned up on a wall nearby, but even in the dimness of the alleyway, what you saw is not familiar.

“Where are we?” you asked.

“I have no idea,” Sora said as he stood up. He turned toward the brighter end of the alley and saw that you two were not on Destiny Islands.

“Do you know where we are?” you asked Pluto. Pluto heard a voice calling him and ran back the way he came.

“Hey, wait!” you said. You and Sora followed the dog to the main part of town, where you two could finally see in the brightness of the streetlights.

“This is totally weird... We’re in another world!” Sora said.

“It’s so beautiful,” you said. You and Sora walked into the Accessory Shop. A blond man standing behind the counter turned to face you two.

“Hey there, how can I... Aw, it’s only kids,” he said.

“I’m not a kid! And the name’s Sora!” Sora said.

“And I’m (Y/N),” you said.

“Okay, okay, simmer down. So why the long face? You lost or somethin’?” the man said.

“No! Well, maybe. Where are we?” Sora said.

“Huh?” You explained to the man how you lost your world and ended up here.

“Traverse Town... So, gramps, is this really another world?” Sora said.

“Don’t call me gramps! The name’s Cid!” the man said as he grits his teeth, nearly breaking the piece of straw in his mouth.

“Anyway... Not sure what you’re talkin’ about, but this sure ain’t your island,” Cid said.

“Hmm... Guess we’d better start looking for Riku and Kairi,” you said.

“Well, good luck with whatever it is you’re doing. If you ever run into trouble, you come to me,” Cid said.

“Okay. Thank you,” Sora said. You and Sora left the shop and found the entrance to the Second District. As you two entered, a man stumbles out in front of him. A glowing heart bursts from his chest and floats over to an orb of darkness. They merged and form a creature similar to a Soldier, with a strange emblem on its chest. It moved awkwardly, doing a somersault in the air before disappearing. You and Sora rushed over to where the man’s body once lay and a group of Shadows surrounded you two.

“It’s those creatures from the island!” you said. Sora summoned his keyblade while you grabbed your dagger and the two of you defeated the heartless. After they were defeated, you and Sora ran inside a nearby Hotel as Donald and Goofy entered the area.

“Doesn’t look like he’s here,” Goofy said as he looked around.

“Keep looking!” Donald said. After finding no one at the Hotel, you and Sora returned to town and entered the Gizmo Shop as Donald and Goofy walked out of the Hotel.

“Hmph. Where is he?” Donald asked.

“Leeeooon!” Goofy said. You and Sora passed through the Gizmo Shop and found a large ornate door. The two of entered as Donald and Goofy leave the Gizmo Shop.

“Not here, either,” Donald said.

“This could take a while...” Goofy said. Inside the house, you and Sora found two adult Dalmatians, who looked sad. Despite the many rooms of the house, they were all empty. Unable to help them, you and Sora left, passing through an alleyway back to the Second District. Finding nothing, the two of you decided to return to the First District. As you two entered the double doors, Donald and Goofy exited the Hotel again.

“Leeeon! Mister Leon?” Goofy said.

“Where are you?” Donald asked. You and Sora were walking through town but heard a voice behind you.

“They’ll come at you out of nowhere,” the voice said.

“Who are you?” Sora asked as you two whirled around.

“And they’ll keep on coming at you, as long as you continue to wield the Keyblade. And continue to use the power of a spirit.” A tall man entered in a leather outfit, the lion necklace swinging against his chest. He raises a gloved hand and points at the Keyblade and you, his blue eyes gazing at you and Sora through his long dark hair.

“But why? Why would it choose kids like you?” he asked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked.

“Never mind. Now, let’s see that Keyblade. And those spirit powers.” He walked slowly towards you and Sora, his arm reaching out. You and Sora took a defensive stance.

“What? There’s no way you’re getting this!” Sora said.

“All right, then have it your way,” the man said.

~~~~

Donald and Goofy walked down the Alleyway in the Second District, having no luck in their search.

“Gawrsh, there’s nobody here. Sure is spooky!” Goofy said.

“Aw, phooey. I’m not scared,” Donald said. He felt a tap on his shoulder and screamed, leaping into the air and hanging onto Goofy’s back, shivering.

“Excuse me. Did the king send you?” a woman asked. At the mention of the King, Donald stopped shaking and the two of them turned to see a young woman with flowing brown hair tied in a bow. She wore a long pink dress and brown boots. She smiled at the two of them.

~~~~

“Come on, lazy bums. Wake up,” Kairi said. Sora shook his head and opens his eyes. He looked up to see Kairi peering down at him on the bed. He looked next to him and saw you starting to wake up.

“You okay?” Kairi asked.

“I guess...” you said.

“Those creatures that attacked you are after the Keyblade. But it’s your heart they really want, because you wield the Keyblade. And you’re a spirit.”

“I’m so glad that you’re okay, Kairi,” Sora said.

“Me too,” you said.

“Kairi? Who are you talking about?” You and Sora saw that it wasn’t Kairi but someone else.

“I think you might’ve overdone it, Squall,” she said. You and Sora looked towards the left and saw the tall man from before walked into the green room.

“That’s Leon,” the man said. Sora saw his keyblade and your dagger leaning against each other on the wall.

“The Keyblade...and the dagger...” Sora said.

“Yeah, we had to get them away from you to shake off those creatures. It turns out that’s how they were tracking you two,” Yuffie said.

“It was the only way to conceal your hearts from them. But it won’t work for long,” Leon said. You and Sora sat up and he looked at the floor while you looked at your dagger.

“Still hard to believe that you of all people are the chosen one. And you, have the power of a spirit. No one’s seen those in a long time,” Leon said.

“What do you mean by spirit?” you asked.

“A spirit is a being that is stronger than someone who can wield a Keyblade. Some of them have pure light inside while others don’t,” Yuffie said. Leon picked up the Keyblade and the dagger and swings them in the air. It flashes out of his hand and back into you and Sora’s.

“Well, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,” he said.

“Why don’t you start making sense?! What’s going on here?” Sora asked. Meanwhile, Aerith has led Donald and Goofy to the adjacent red room.

“Okay, you know there are many other worlds out there besides your castle and this town, right?” Aerith asked.

“Yeah,” Donald said.

“But they’re supposed to be a secret,” Goofy said.

“They’ve been secret because they’ve never been connected. Until now,” Aerith said. Her thoughts drift to nearly a decade earlier when everything went downhill.

“When the Heartless came, everything changed,” she said.

“The heartless?” Sora asked.

“The ones who attacked you, you remember?” Yuffie said.

“Those without hearts,” Leon said.

“The darkness in people’s hearts—that’s what attracts them.”

“And there is darkness within every heart.”

“Hey, have you heard of someone named Ansem?”

“Ansem?” Goofy asked as he placed a hand to his chin

“He was studying the Heartless. He recorded all of his findings in a very detailed report,” Aerith said. Donald crossed his arms and tapped his foot against the wooden floor.

“Gawrsh, uh, can we see it?” Goofy asked.

“It’s pages are scattered everywhere,” Aerith said as she shook her head.

“Scattered?” Donald asked as he stopped tapping.

“To many worlds.”

“Oh, then maybe the king went to find ‘em,” Goofy said.

“Yes, those were my thoughts exactly.”

“We’ve gotta find him quick!” Goofy said.

“Wait!” Donald said. He looked over, and pulled the screen down towards him.

“First, we need that ‘key’! And that dagger!” he said.

“That’s right. The Keyblade and the spirit,” Aerith said.

“So...this is the key?” Sora asked as he held up the Keyblade.

“Exactly!” Yuffie said as she nodded.

“And...I’m a spirit?” you asked looking at you dagger.

“Yep!” Yuffie said.

“The Heartless have great fear of the Keyblade and of spirits. But since there hasn’t been one in a long time, the heartless have developed a resistance to them. That’s why they’ll keep coming after you no matter what,” Leon said.

“Well, we didn’t ask for this,” Sora said.

“The Keyblade chooses its master. And it chose you. Also, spirits pass down their powers to their children,” Yuffie said.

“So you mean...my parents were spirits?” you asked.

“Yep!” You remembered that you were Xehanort daughter so that must’ve meant that your mother was a spirit.

“How did all this happen? I remember being in my room...” Sora said. He suddenly stood up and looked at them frantically.

“Wait a minute! What happened to our home? Our island? Riku! Kairi!” Sora said.

“You’re right! I completely forgot about them!” You said.

“You know what? I really don’t know,” Leon said. You and Sora looked down sadly.

“Hey, cheer up! I’ve heard that the Keyblade can open all sorts of locks. Give it a try the next time you find a treasure chest or door lock! And also, spirits can shapeshift into anything they want!” Yuffie said.

“Sooner or later, the Heartless will find you. You’d best prepare yourself,” Leon said.

“Prepare ourselves?” Sora asked.

“To fight for your lives. Are you ready?” You and Sora looked at each other and nodded.

“We’re ready!” you said.

“Yuffie, let’s go join Aerith. She should be there now with the other visitors,” Leon said.

“Leon!” she said as she pointed to the other end of the room. A Soldier Heartless appeared, clattering awkwardly.

“Yuffie, go!” Leon said. Yuffie ran into the Red Room, squashing Donald behind it with a squawk.

“Yuffie?” Aerith asked. She ran after Yuffie as Leon takes out his Gunblade.

“Sora, (Y/N), let’s go!” he said. Leon slammed the Heartless through the window of the room and it flew over the balcony and down to the Alleyway below. Leon ran after it, you and Sora following. The Red Room door closed and Goofy stared at Donald flattened against the wall. Down in the Alleyway, more Heartless have appeared around them.

“Don’t bother with the small fry. Find the leader! Let’s go!” Leon said. Leon ran down the Alley toward the door to the main district. You and Sora fought the Heartless as you made your way to the Third District. You and Sora ran down the stairs into the square as Goofy watches from a high balcony. Goofy turned around as Heartless appear around him and Donald.

“Gawrsh, are these the Heartless guys?” Goofy asked as he held up his shield.

“Let’s go get ‘em, Goofy!” Donald said. With a loud crash, the two of them were blasted off the balcony. You and Sora turned, hearing the commotion, and tried to run as Donald and Goofy fall on top of you two. Stars appeared around their heads before they see the Keyblade and the dagger.

“The key! And the dagger!” Goofy and Donald said. They smile as you and Sora winced. The District started to rumble and they looked around, still in a pile on the ground. Large blocks appeared from the ground and covered the exits. Heartless surrounded them as they stood up, ready to fight. After defeating the horde of Soldiers, they heard a clattering sound from above. Sora looked up to see huge pieces of armor falling from the sky. They hit the ground and bounce into the air, spinning wildly. The arms of the Guard Armor formed around the torso, which was emblazoned with a red and black symbol. Once the legs were attached, the Heartless landed on the ground loudly. It stood there for a moment before the helmet slammed down onto the torso with a bright flash. It spun its head and arms before walking toward you four. You attacked its arms, but it hardly recoils in its pursuit of you. Donald and Goofy did their best to strike the tough armor. It began spinning its arms wildly around its body. Donald was caught in the twister and was knocked out. Sora striked at one of the arms and the Guard Armor stomped the ground in anger. It jumped into the air and its pieces clattered to the ground heavily. You striked an arm off while Goofy healed Donald and they tag-teamed against its thunderous legs. With the appendages destroyed, the torso was left defenseless and it falled to the ground. You, Sora, Donald, and Goofy approached and it began spinning out of control, knocking the four of you back. Once you found your footing again, Sora gave the armor a final strike and it started to explode from the inside, shaking the area around it. Its head wobbled and falled to the ground with a mighty ring. A large glowing heart floated out of its torso into the air and the Guard Armor disappeared. The District grew silent, the fountain depicting two dogs in love at the edge of the area giving off the only sound.

“So, you were looking for us?” Sora asked.

“Uh-huh!” they said, nodding.

“They, too, have been seeking the wielder of the Keyblade and the spirit,” Leon said.

“Hey, why don’t you come with us? We can go to other worlds on our vessel,” Goofy said.

“I wonder if we could find Riku and Kairi...” you said.

“Hey, maybe you can find your parents if we go with them,” Sora said.

“Of course,” Donald said.

“Are you sure?” Goofy asked Donald.

“Who knows? But we need them to come with us to help us find the king,” Donald said.

“Sora, (Y/N), go with them. Especially if you want to find your friends,” Leon said.

“Yeah, I guess,” Sora said half-heartedly.

“But you two can’t come along looking like that. Understand?” Donald said as he waved a finger.

“No frowning. No sad face. Okay?” Donald said.

“Yeah, ya gotta look funny, like us!” Goofy said. Donald pushed him away which caused you to giggle a little.

“This boat runs on happy faces,” Donald said.

“Happy?” Sora asked. Donald and Goofy smiled. Sora bended down and revealed a huge cheesy grin. Getting no response from them, he stopped awkwardly. Donald and Goofy burst out laughing while you continued to giggle.

“That’s one funny face!“ Goofy said.

“Okay, why not? We’ll go with you guys,” you said as Sora stood up.

“Donald Duck,” Donald said as he held out his hand.

“Name’s Goofy,” Goofy said as he repeated the action.

“I’m Sora,” Sora said, repeating the action as well.

“And I’m (Y/N),” you said also repeating the action.

“All for one, one for all,” Goofy said. The four of you placed your hands together.

“This actually might be exciting. I mean, I might actually find my parents,” you said as you followed Donald and Goofy.

“I can’t wait to see the other worlds,” Sora said. You smiled and took Sora’s hand. The two of you ran after Donald and Goofy, wanting to get a head start on your adventure.

#kingdom hearts #kingdomhearts #kingdom hearts imagine #kingdom hearts x reader #kingdomhearts imagines #kingdomhearts x reader #kingdomhearts+imagines #kingdomhearts+x+reader #kingdom+hearts+x+reader #kingdom+hearts+imagines

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split-n-splice · 4 years ago

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Oop, a longer chapter. Bear with me.

[Chapter Guide | FFn | Ao3]

40. Whose Side – 3

Her foul mood was expected, but her curt greeting still stung like a viper bite.

“I-I’m sorry I’m late,” sputtered Drakken, glancing at his bitter passenger. Making up excuses was a lost cause, but the feeble explanation tumbled out of his mouth before he could think to match her callous attitude. “I slept through my alarm, a-and I got distracted, and then you didn’t answer when I called so I figured I had best come check on you, but you weren’t home—”

“Drakken,” she interrupted tersely with a voice cold and sharp as ice.

He gulped. “Yes, Shego?”

“Shut up.”

He bit his cheek to silence an objection. The van idled a moment more as he studied her dark glare fixed dead ahead, her arms folded tight across herself and the faintest hint of green glimmering from between her fingers, visibly containing how upset she was at – at him? What had he done? Besides forget to pick her up from Buckley’s again? He wracked his brains quickly, but decided figuring her out was best saved for another time.

Attempting to appease her didn’t suit the image he was going for. He’d have to work on it. Nonetheless he couldn’t stop himself from piping up. “It’s not too late to pick up some Chow.”

Shego was silent.

Drakken turned the van around and said nothing of it when she dug out a pack of smokes from her pocket to light one up. He certainly kept his eyes off her every time she brought it to her lips to take a puff. Or he tried to, anyway.

By the time he’d navigated his way back to the Cow-n-Chow, she’d relaxed enough to kick her feet up on the dash and tune the radio. That came as some relief, but he knew better than to believe the danger had passed. Drakken was ready to order her usual for her when she spoke up, requesting salad instead. Erring on the side of caution, he ordered her usual anyway, which she tucked into and finished without a word before demanding another stop for a video rental.

He anticipated being presented with a dark and ominous film, but instead she returned to the van dully announcing she could use a laugh, and flashed the cover of a detective comedy. He had mixed feelings about the whimsical man in the picture, but ultimately decided it wasn’t his movie to watch and so the only opinion he spared was a grunt.

“Anything else?” could have been asked a little more nicely, but she could have answered a little more crossly too so he counted his blessings.

“Yeah. Do you have popcorn back home or should we pick some up?”

A sound of frustration snuck out of his mouth, but at least he could nod.

She’d get her popcorn and movie, and he – he had a backlog to catch up on. If there was any urgency to complete projects though, he quickly forgot about it when Shego’s fingers curled around his arm as he made to cross the tech lab to head downstairs. Weak against her pull, he followed her lead with nary a word in defiance.

He barely stifled his protest when he was shoved down onto the couch, his shoulders feeling strangely sunburned where she’d pushed him. “Shego, I can’t—,” was all that made it out of his mouth before her cold stare shut him up. He sat stiffly in place for a minute, contemplating ways to get out of a goodie-goodie comedy he already owned a copy of. He told her where the popcorn was when asked, but otherwise kept his lips zipped tight as the buttery aroma warmed the stale air.

Shego still wore the same stony glare as she wordlessly turned down the lights, popped in the tape, and threw herself down on the far end of the couch, guarding her bowl of popcorn she didn’t seem keen on sharing.

By the light of the previews, Drakken dared to watch her from the corner of his eye – and before they were over, he’d found the gall to unzip his lips. “Do I need to build a brain tap machine to figure out what has you so…so…,” pissed off would not be a safe choice of words, he decided as Shego’s glare turned to sear through him. “Because I can and I will.” How hard could it be? Like a lie detector, but more in depth, right?

“Stay. Out. Of my brain,” she ground out. Slumping further and drawing her knees up, she added in a small grumble, “Jackass.”

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve her ire, but he knew a brain tap machine was off the table. For now.

Drakken crossed his arms and willed his gaze to stay on the television, but it strayed once more as scenes he’d seen before played out. She couldn’t be that angry at him for being so unfashionably late, could she? Puzzled, he stared until her jaded gaze darted to him, if only for a split second.

He hardened his own frown on the television, willing his arms to unfold, bracing himself to stand on the count of three – or ten – or one hundred. He made it to the count of sixty-five when he bit the bullet. His butt was lucky to have made it an inch from the cushion when a hand snapped out, nails digging into his shoulder. He could smell the trace of fabric smoldering beneath Shego’s palm, and felt the tremble before she retracted her grip and stuffed her hands in her armpits to hide the faint green glimmer emanating from her palms.

Swallowing and setting his jaw, Drakken stared down the moody young woman who did not appear to be enjoying her movie whatsoever. “I have better things to do with my time than—,” he began tersely, but of course was interrupted by his puzzling company.

“Lipsky, you are going to watch this normal movie with me, on a normal couch, on a normal television,” she said, her voice bearing a threat of consequence if he dared defy her. “And it’s going to be – I’m going to be—,” she was swallowing hard then as if to gulp down the frog in her throat, batting her lashes to blink away – oh for Pete’s sake, were her eyes misty?

This wasn’t a tearjerker movie, but he glanced to the television anyway as some silly, borderline obscene, gag played out.

“Yes?” he carefully urged, playing the odds she might shed a little light on the situation.

Shego all but blew up on him, flipping the bowl of popcorn balanced on her knees in the process. “NORMAL!” she shouted in frustration, and in the dim light, he caught a glimpse of the green embers fizzling and oozing from her palms as she clawed the air as if she wished to wring someone’s neck. “I want to feel normal! Just for a little while. So please. Forget about anything outside of this room for the next ninety minutes. Just shut up. Shut up and watch the fucking movie with me.” Given the daggers she shot at the television, it was a wonder she didn’t pelt it with plasma.

The startling outburst had Drakken pressed to the far corner of the couch, but at least she didn’t paw at any tears. She looked as though she’d rather throw punches before she let tears roll down her cheeks, though he was sure he saw the threat looming by the rapid flutter of her eyelids. He studied her as she curled into herself again.

He scoffed and gestured to his own blue skin. “Normal? Shego, normal is something people like us aren’t likely to be getting back,” he blurted out, much colder than intended. Even if true, once the words left his mouth, he braced to be struck with a punch, or maybe a glow-laced punch, or maybe hands around his throat, or—

Shego drew a shuddering breath and continued to glare at the television as though that would be enough to let out whatever pent-up frustration he was caught in the crossfire of. “It’s not just that,” he barely heard her grumble into her knees.

“Then what?” Drakken carped. She’d said shut up. He should have listened.

Thankfully a reprimand – verbal or physical – didn’t come, though he was so braced for one he was starting to cramp up. Shego was quiet for a long moment, until finally she exhaled slowly as though to calm herself. He swore he could see it, like breath on a chilly morning or a thin wisp of smoke after taking a drag. “It’s personal,” she said decisively.

In that case, whatever business she had with his television and couch tonight was none of his. Before second thoughts could weigh him down again, Drakken stood and played deaf to her displeased grunt behind him. He glanced to the door. He did have things to do. But he also had something he’d wanted to show her. He’d even tried to tell her so earlier, but she’d been determined to make him sit and keep her company.

“Do you mind if I—”

“Yes,” she snapped.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” he griped back, barely without whining, and pinched the bridge of his nose before trying again. “I think you’ll like it. I was really looking forward to showing it to you.”

It was the truth. He’d intended to show her the rare orchid sometime this evening, ever since she’d asked about it on the ride to Buckley’s Brew. And right now, she sure looked like she could use something to lift her spirits. Though there was also a risk, given the funk she was in, that she could destroy the specimen without regard to its value or the lengths he’d gone through to construct the miniature biosphere to grow the picky plant in, let alone the seeds he’d acquired in a high-stakes gamble. With a little work under the scope, the plant he’d genetically-modified himself months ago had been brought to bloom years ahead of schedule.

Shego’s misty-eyed glare burned into him for a long moment before she gave a stubborn sniff and reached for the remote to stop the movie with a loud crackle of white-noise filling the room. “Whatever,” she said coldly. “I’m going to get dressed for bed.”

It was barely six in the evening – but Drakken refrained from bringing that up as she shouldered past him. Her burnt mattress and linen had yet to be replaced. He desperately hoped that by tomorrow, his couch wouldn’t need to be replaced too. He frowned down to the marks she’d left on his coat, blue fabric singed black where shoulder pads ought to be, and discarded the victim of his volatile hot-tempered accomplice over the back of a barstool.

He slowly counted to three – only three – before leaving his living quarters and into the tech lab. Already, Shego was nowhere in sight, but as he passed down the hall toward his office, he heard the shower running. He tried not to slow or pause or lean toward the washroom door, but he didn’t make it past in time to miss a distinct sniffle inside. She couldn’t possibly be that upset he’d failed to pick her up from Buckley’s. Personal, she’d said. Then it was none of his business, he reminded himself, squaring his shoulders and stalking off for his office once more.

She wanted to be normal, she’d stressed. What was that supposed to mean? Drakken again wracked his brains. What was her idea of normal? Was she homesick? Did she regret passing up her opportunity to rejoin her brothers? Just a few nights ago, when he’d mistakenly brought his own personal woes to her, they’d sat together in front of her television and she’d drowsily reminisced about piling up on the sofa for family movie nights, failing to console him through his acceptance that he may never see his own family again – though he could barely relate to whole idea of family movie nights as an only child. Did she miss that? Not being alone? He knew she had four brothers, at least, and a father, and presumably a mother too – in other words, some aspect of her normal was a sizable family. He was only one person, and he was not crowding henchmen into his quarters to substitute for a family. Androids and henchmen had to be a sorry substitute for family anyway.

Drakken stopped at the bottom of the staircase, sighing wretchedly and rubbing at a crick in his neck.

It was quite possible he was off the mark, but if she wouldn’t tell him what was on her mind and he couldn’t devise any mind-tapping devices to get to the bottom of it himself, he was left to speculate. Unfortunately speculating was bound to give him a headache. Leaving Shego to sort herself out was possibly for the best, he decided, but he still turned for his desk to retrieve the orchid he’d left there.

He froze in his tracks when he lifted his eyes from the stone floor to see an uninvited figure sitting sidelong in his office chair, holding the glass pod containing the plant. Unplugged from what was essentially its life-support system, the delicate little biosphere was scarcely more than a glorified flowerpot, but it was still infuriating to see the intruder turning it over so carelessly.

The wave of alarm washing over him had Drakken scanning the room, frantically questioning where he’d had that blasted intruder alert button installed. That’s right – it was at the CCTV system desk across the office, in convenient reach of any henchman on security duty. Why didn’t he have a henchman stationed there anyway? He should know better than to let his guard down with a perceived threat in the area! He grit his teeth, inwardly berating himself.

“So,” cooed the young woman behind his desk before he could storm up to her. “Who’s this for?”

Frozen, Drakken couldn’t help a nervous gulp. There was no way she could know he’d brought it up from the basement for Shego. Then again, maybe she did. He thought out loud sometimes, and this stranger had the gift of invisibility to make spying a breeze. “Shego,” he growled through his teeth, though it wasn’t so much an answer as it was the irate wish for his accomplice to be beside him to explain the woman’s presence.

Miss Kimbley arched an eyebrow and smirked. “She doesn’t go for flowers,” she informed as if offering a helpful piece of information. “Oh, but try a fish dinner!” she recommended instead, smiling wider and chuckling, though Drakken failed to see what was so funny as there was certainly nothing comical about the territory she was suggesting. Even the henchcrew was strongly advised against cracking jokes of such nature.

Cheeks warming over, Drakken fixed a grimace on his face and hoped it was enough to mask his fluster. He sputtered something indignant and incoherent before he could stop himself, and he bit his tongue with a grunt and tried to form the words right before he spoke again. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” he demanded, crossing the room to yank the spherical biosphere from the intruder’s hands. She was Shego’s acquaintance, but he was certain Shego wouldn’t have willingly invited her in.

The woman shied back just a little bit at the bite in his tone, but then she rose to her feet, pushing the biosphere aside to stand toe to toe. Drakken decided to set it down for safety’s sake, though the thought occurred too late to cradle it in his arms and make a mad dash upstairs for Shego. Instead he glanced across the room toward the CCTV desk, wildly seeking the button to sound the alarm, and lurched back from the fingers spreading over his chest.

“I have an offer for you, Mr…?” said Miss Kimbley, but he recognized a honeycoated tone when he heard one.

“Drakken,” he hissed. He batted the hand away, taking a swift step back toward the staircase – and most importantly the alarm button across the room. “Dr. Drakken.” Hadn’t he clarified that earlier? Alias or not, maybe he shouldn’t be giving his name out to a potential Global Justice spy. Even so, if she had something to offer, she had something to gain, and it was practically reflex to inquire, “What do you want?”

Despite another step back, the intruder was invading his space once again. “Better question,” she chimed, giving the bottom of his tie a tug. He snatched her hand this time, and tried not to consider how cold her fingers felt compared to Shego’s, which he could so often feel warming him even through his gloves. She didn’t let up, clearly not taking the hint nor offence to his scowl and raised lip. “What do you want, Doctor?”

Impulse urged him to snap at her that he wanted her out of his lair. The woman was trespassing, therefore posed a threat, and he was inclined to trust Shego’s judgment that he ought to keep his distance. Which was hard to do with his back against the wall. His mouth was dry. Where was that button? Better yet, where was Shego?

“Whatever she’s offering, I can do better,” said the confident pretty little thing before him in a voice that made his stomach give a sickened flip-flop. An odd shimmer like a mirage glazed over the woman and she was gone – to the naked eye, anyway. He knew better than to believe she had left, not when he still felt the invisible touch running down his stomach and—

If he hadn’t had a reason to panic before, he certainly did at the first tug of his belt.

“Hands off, missy!” snarled Drakken, leaping to the side and stumbling over his own feet. He reached for his waist – everything was in place – and just to be sure everything was in order, he tucked his shirt in a little neater.

The ghost of Shego’s past was visible again, down on her knees, a chafed look on her face for a split second before one of deep consideration settled in its place. Her gaze strayed from him as he regained his composure, her hazel eyes darting to his filing cabinet. One of the drawers had been pulled open. Had she been rifling through his files? Without a doubt, if she was here to spy.

“You need a thief, right?” she said, taking a stab at finding his sweet spot from another angle. “Assassin? Watchdog? I’m your gal.” She stood, gesturing to herself.

She most certainly was not his gal. He didn’t have a gal. And even if he did, even if Shego – Drakken stopped that thought in its tracks and gnashed his teeth, hoping his glare was as menacing as the ones he practiced in the mirror. But by the slow bat of the intruder’s fake eyelashes, it was not.

“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he ground out, gesturing to the stairwell to signal it was time she took her leave. If she couldn’t take the hint, then he didn’t need someone on his crew who needed it spelled out for them.

Priscilla Kimbley glanced from the stairs to him, the calculating look still set in her furrowed brow. “Look, man, I need a change of pace,” she said pointedly, taking a step closer once again, but he squared his shoulders and balled his fists and she paused. Hopefully intimidated. Hopefully thinking twice about trying underhanded persuasion a second time. “Looks to me like Shego struck gold here. I saw some of your shit in the basement. Pretty wicked stuff.” Her wry smile was back. She couldn’t still be pushing for what he thought she was, could she? She didn’t look like the henchwoman type. She wouldn’t last a week in villainy.

Drakken glanced across the room to the button again. He could press it now, and Priscilla could be gone by the time the henchmen assembled, and if Shego was still in the shower – well, whatever the case, the intruder would be long gone before anyone could hope to catch her.

“Shego is more than I can handle, thank you,” he said stiffly, stepping toward the stairwell and nodding up it. He needed this woman out of his lair, before Shego could see her and he risked having another catfight on his hands. “Goodbye, please leave.” If only it was that easy. She understood the hint. No one was that stupid.

She still took her time sauntering over to him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said flippantly. “She’s not even giving you one-hundred percent.”

True, he wasn’t taking advantage of his accomplice’s full potential, but she did what he asked of her and that was enough. He still couldn’t stop his brow from scrunching as the intruder passed him and took the first step up. He nearly reached out to snatch her by an arm. “What do you mean?” he all but demanded.

The young woman paused to glance back. “She’s on drugs,” she answered simply, as though it were obvious.

And maybe it was obvious to anyone who knew the troubled superhuman. He’d like to think he knew her well enough. He’d smelled evidence on her before, and she’d made a friendly offer the other night and had the paraphernalia and everything. “I am aware she smokes—”

Priscilla Kimbley laughed, the single bark echoing up the stairwell, and she clamped her mouth shut as if only realizing now how well sound traveled in the lair’s stony corridors. “Nah, not that kind,” she said, toning it down to little more than a giggle. She set her hands on her hips, beaming down at Drakken, and he hated having to tilt his head to look up at the woman standing several steps above him now as she explained. “This shit puts her out cold. And I do mean cold. Total chill pills. Those megalomaniacs pulling the strings of that little superhero team of hers use it to keep her under control. I can get you some, if you wanna mess with it.” She gave a nonchalant shrug, as if offering to give him some miracle drug to control someone as dangerous and unpredictable as Shego was no big deal.

“I-I know about that too,” he bluffed. But did he really? He’d had a suspicion she’d been taking something, but it could have been anything. Truthfully he hadn’t given it much thought, but he wracked his brains quickly now.

When she’d first arrived, she’d skulked through his lair half-asleep occasionally, sometimes grumbling about withdrawals late at night amidst her unique issues – issues which were just now proving to be not as benign as he’d thought, if her crispy mattress had anything to say about it. If such a drug did exist, why in the world would she be back on it? Was she relapsing? She couldn’t be. She’d been so excited to use her full power when he’d made her the enhancing gloves – why would she self-sabotage herself to turn down the heat? Where would she have even gotten such a drug?

Drakken’s mind didn’t finish reeling through the possibilities before he blurted, “She doesn’t take them anymore—”

The intruder scoffed and reached into a pocket, producing a little orange bottle. She rattled the contents. “And you believed her?” she jeered down at him.

Drakken made a reflexive grab for the bottle but the woman held it out of reach with a wicked snicker before surrendering it without further difficulty. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It had to be just a bottle of aspirin, but the label – bearing a bar code and dosage with the instructions Take with food before bed, prescribed to simply Shego – looked legitimate enough, even if it didn’t clarify what the drug was. He trusted his accomplice leagues more than this shifty intruder, and he trusted her not to weaken herself – not to mention, if she was taking it, then she would have to be in contact with the supplier, Global Justice, and there was no way—

“I’ll let you sleep on it,” said Priscilla, interrupting his doubtful train of thought. She smiled again as she backed away up the staircase. “Roofie her if you don’t believe me. Only way you’ll get to have a little fun with her.”

He had plenty of fun with Shego – Vegas and the stolen station wagon were still fairly fresh in his mind – but as the words sank in, he concluded that spray painting graffiti and pushing cars off cliffs wasn’t the kind of fun this woman was suggesting. He opened his mouth to object, to defend himself or Shego or them both, but the intruder had vanished in the blink of an eye.

Maybe Shego hadn’t been over-exaggerating when she’d said the woman was not a friend. Maybe she’d had every reason to attack her when she’d arrived on her doorstep.

Stupefied for a second too long, he was late in diving up the stairwell, reaching out to grasp at open air, hoping to catch the invisible lady in his lair, but his hand met only empty air. “I am not drugging my partner in crime,” he hissed out, knowing she must still be near enough to hear him, and strained to listen for the slightest breath or shuffle of retreating feet.

He heard nothing.

Still clutching the pill bottle in one hand, daring not stow it in a pocket lest the intruder merely steal it back – invisiblity had to grant an innate talent for pick-pocketing – Drakken climbed the staircase a few steps more, his free hand outstretched and feeling uselessly for the invisible intruder. When he decided it was a lost cause, he let his hand fall and he snorted his frustration. An invisible woman who didn’t want to be caught would be a challenge to catch without a full sweep of the lair with infrared goggles, and he simply didn’t have enough for every henchman, nor did he have his own handy.

“I am not drugging Shego,” he repeated to himself, though as he returned to his office, pills in hand, he had to wonder how often she drugged herself. He tried to guess how many pills were in the bottle – the label specified 30 – and wanted to believe that most, if not all, were still accounted for. Where had Shego even gotten the pills? Had she brought them from Go City? She couldn’t possibly still be in contact with that rotten Global Justice – that would make her a spy, wouldn’t it? He trusted her not to be a spy. He knew it in his gut! Her brothers, on the other hand…

He shook his head but it didn’t clear up the plague of second thoughts he had now about his partner.

Drakken dropped himself down in his desk chair and pushed up his glasses to rub his weary eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids. Friday night, Shego had behaved especially strangely. He didn’t want to consider the possibility it wasn’t just the alcohol to blame – but he’d been sober enough at the time she’d stolen his cheese to make out her cursing to herself about needing to eat with something she damned with enough profanity to make a sailor blush. Looking at the bottle of pills now, the instructions take with food served as a jigsaw piece he didn’t want. The puzzle was coming together and he didn’t like the picture it formed.

How had Priscilla Kimbley gotten hold of Shego’s medication anyway? Were they working together, conspiring against him? No, of course not. Shego clearly had a beef with the woman, and she reminded him at every opportunity.

He’d very much like to believe Miss Kimbley was pulling his leg, but evidence pointed to Shego’s use of the mysterious medication. He shook the bottle around again and counted carefully – recounting at least two more times for good measure. There were a few missing. So what? That was proof of nothing. That Kimbley woman could have easily stolen a few. And if Kimbley had stolen them from Shego, then she would be missing them.

As Drakken was battling to convince himself that his companion wasn’t taking some strange chill pill provided by Global Justice, soft footsteps descending the staircase made him jump.

It was only Shego, in her googly-eyed owl pajamas and soft green slippers – not the sight one would expect in a lair of all places, but regrettably a sight for sore eyes nonetheless. Her hair was still damp, and her voice was a little on the hoarse side when she croaked, “Hey,” in greeting.

Drakken didn’t realize how fast he could move until he’d stuffed the bottle in his pocket and come to stand beside her. “Are you ready for that movie now?” he blurted, though he wasn’t eager to watch it himself, if he was being honest. Somehow it felt like an appropriate change of subject.

She sniffed, nose stuffy, and gave a weak smile. “I’unno,” she said with an effort at dry wit, “are you ready to be cute and cuddly?”

His legs felt weak and his heart thrummed meekly against his ribs. He wasn’t cuddle material nor did he strive to be cute, yet the prospect she might think so gave him an itch to try it out anyway. “I-I’m—let’s not get ahead of yourselves,” he stammered with a nervous smile.

She reached out for his arm, fingers curling delicately into his sleeve. She didn’t inadvertently burn him when she touched him this time, though by the look of concentration skewing her face, she was trying hard not to. “You wanted to show me something?”

In that moment, he tried to forget just how nice she smelled fresh out of the shower, and tried to think of how lovely the orchid did instead. And then he sharply reprimanded himself – because giving the orchid a whiff when his nerves were high would only heighten them, and he didn’t need any mood enhancers, for good or for bad, at a time like this. Neither did Shego, for that matter, but he turned back for his desk and the biosphere anyway.

“Now, it’s not for keeps,” he warned, gesturing to his desk and the flower on it. “But it looks nice, no? Y-you probably shouldn’t sniff it. It has strong effects on the brain. Amplifies – uhm – maybe when you’re in a better mood.” The blossom was largely unstudied, but by what he had gathered, the potent flower could act as ecstasy or it could plunge a person into depression, and cause any number of wild mood swings depending on the circumstances.

He went on to explain the exotic pink blossom to her, the lengths he’d gone to cultivate it, and its potential – but she looked bored the entire time his mouth was moving. Maybe that Priscilla woman was right, he considered, disheartened as he set the biosphere aside. Shego really didn’t seem all that impressed by flowers, even flowers as difficult to grow as genetically-modified orchids in climate-controlled biospheres. He made a mental note to find some she did like – and corrected himself that it was only to prove Shego’s indifference wasn’t withstanding among all flowers. No one hated flowers that much, except maybe the odd villain or two who utterly despised healthy ecosystems.

Shego pulled at his sleeve. “Okay,” she said, sounding bored to death. “You like gardening. Great. Can we go back upstairs and play pretend now?” She seemed more stable now, at least.

Drakken couldn’t help a sigh. “Do I have to pretend to be cute and cuddly?” The idea still had him uncertain. Especially the idea of cuddling – a possibility seeming realer by the moment, and with her no less – well, it made his insides do a nervous jig. There were more productive ways to spend his time, and yet he was compelled to bend to her will.

She flashed an impish smile. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“Good.”

“Because you already are, flower boy.” She turned away then with a small laugh at his grunt of indignation.

Despite what should have been an offence to his villainous ego, he followed her back up the stairs. His smile on her back faded though, and he reached almost involuntarily for his pocket and the pills in it. Pills prescribed by Global Justice.

Keeping his eyes up, he studied the back of her head, eyes inadvertently drawn to something that stood out against the sheet of black. Maybe he just hadn’t walked close enough behind her to see them before. There wasn’t much to see there on the back of her head – except, of course, a grey hair or two he hadn’t noticed until now with her hair damp and sticking flat around her shoulders.

Following Shego back to his quarters, Drakken tried not to stare too hard. She seemed too young for grey hair, but he was mindful enough to keep the thought to himself. She wasn’t older than she said she was, was she? No, of course not. He’d first met her as an awkward teenager – well, technically she still was a teenager – but it was only four years ago or so that he’d first encountered her. She’d been in rough shape, but thinking back, she’d still been very much a kid then. He hadn’t been in the best shape himself either, and he’d been in even worse shape when he’d ditched her at that lonely rest stop in the middle of nowhere.

Something about that fateful day echoed at the far reaches of his mind, just out of his grasp. Something about Subject B.

Drakken mulled it over as he made a fresh batch of popcorn while Shego sheepishly swept up the mess she’d made earlier.

It wasn’t until she was sitting on his couch, awaiting his return with the bowl, did it finally resound clearly in his head and out of his mouth. “Subject B is liable to break down in a matter of years,” he muttered incredulously to himself, staring down at the grey strands standing boldly against her unnaturally iridescent raven locks.

The thought of cellular damage crossed his mind. If her body hadn’t adapted to her alien power, the plasmic fire would have destroyed her years ago as surely as it would have anyone else’s who came in contact. Thankfully the first round of researchers had clearly been wrong about her – try as she might, Subject B hadn’t destroyed herself during the metamorphosis – but that didn’t mean they were entirely wrong, either. Without a so-called chill pill to suppress the flame, was she still at risk of hurting herself? Had Global Justice been doing her a favor by regulating her alien glow in some way?

Shego glanced back at him innocently, tearing her eyes off her movie. “What was that?” he barely heard her ask.

“Nothing,” he answered quickly, sitting down awkwardly on the far end of the couch, the bowl of popcorn set on the one cushion between them.

He tried to face the movie and eat popcorn one puff at a time from the palm of his hand while his companion snacked by the handful. He didn’t make it long before his eyes slid across to her, the thoughts still wreaking havoc in his head.

She caught him staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” he blurted, gaze snapping away briefly. “Um. Actually.” He was sitting on the pill bottle in his back pocket. He shifted, but it didn’t make his rear feel any better. Unabashedly studying the woman in her pajamas now, the question “Are you on any special medication?” escaped his trap.

Shego quirked her brow at him, suspicion fleeting on her face, but she laughed awkwardly. She took a guess, “Like…what? Birth control?”

He had to dismiss that one the best he could, awkwardly scratching at his neck. “Ah, no. That probably couldn’t hurt, but no, I mean – what I’m asking is – I’m just wondering if you’re taking anything. That’s all.” He swallowed and waited.

She dropped the wry playful act, her glare hardening on him. “No,” she denied, though he could hear the lie laced in her tone alone. “What makes you think that?” She needed to work on her deception skills.

“Nothing. Nothing, just…” Drakken blurted, realizing he was just as bad. His own pulse thundered in his ears. If Shego had put Priscilla up to giving him the pills, she’d be expecting him to come clean, wouldn’t she? And if she hadn’t, she’d have to expect him to return the stolen item. And if they were stolen, and if she was on medication, then maybe she needed them. “Well, actually, you said something the other night. And I just thought, if they help…maybe you’d want these back. I believe these are yours.” Swallowing doubt and anxiety and anything else, Drakken fished out the bottle from his back pocket and held his hand outstretched, bottle in his palm for her to take.

Shego’s eyes locked on the bottle. She reached for it but withdrew her hand just as quickly, wringing her fingers. “No, thanks. I don’t need that shit,” she spat – only to change her mind in the next instant. Before he could argue it or retract the offer to return the medication, she snatched up the bottle and jumped to her feet.

“It might be for your own good, Shego,” he called, leaping up to follow her to the kitchen. Her hands were emitting green cinders as she fought with the child-proof lid. He smelled melting plastic. She was heaving for breath. She was angry. What was she so angry about? It was a damn good thing he hadn’t let her sniff the flower.

“Fuck off!” she shouted vehemently, chucking the bottle with full force in the general vicinity of his sink. The half-melted bottle shattered, little white pills scattering. Before the pills had even stopped bouncing, she scrambled forward to collect him, cursing to herself. “Whose side are you on anyway?” she snapped back at him, voice cracking, as he approached the kitchen island.

“Yours!” Drakken blurted in reflex. “I mean – I thought – I thought you were on mine, is what I mean. And if they help you, maybe you should—”

“No,” she spat. She was trembling, throwing every pill she found into the sink under the running tap. She slammed cabinet doors to find the switch for the garbage disposal. “No, no, no,” she repeated to herself, to every pill she disposed of. He heard her counting them under her breath.

Once the distraught superhuman was sure that every tiny pill had been thoroughly destroyed and washed down the drain, she hovered over his sink, shaking her head as she ran her glowing hands beneath the steaming stream of water while the garbage disposal snarled tirelessly.

Drakken was quiet for a long moment, standing cautiously on the other side of the kitchen island though he knew he wasn’t out of the danger zone. Once her tremors had subsided somewhat and the steam had stopped billowing, he crept forward, daring to stand beside her and shut off the faucet. When he reached for her shoulder, he was just about zapped by the energy radiating unseen from her body.

Despite the shimmer of unchecked green glow glistening over her skin, Shego turned sharply toward him, her face thudding into his chest and arms constricting around him, squeezing the breath out of him in a bear hug comparable to his mother’s. The only difference was Shego was not his mother, and her body burned like a furnace against him, namely her hands digging into his back. He winced. The plasma burns eating holes in his shirt would need lotion later.

Bearing it, Drakken squeezed his eyes shut, choosing not to look so closely at her grey hairs, evidence she might very well be breaking down in some way. She was certainly breaking down on an emotional level, anyway. Cute and cuddly, he reminded himself as he gingerly held her by the shoulders, desperately hoping to channel whatever cute and cuddly part of him she’d been hoping for tonight even if it wasn’t his normal.

He knew the third degree was coming when his companion went rigid and roughly shoved him back, an accusatory glare written across her face. Drakken didn’t wait for her to demand answers before opening his big mouth to spill the beans.

#Kim Possible #Drakgo #Drakken #Shego #Dr. Drakken #The Company You Keep fic

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bloodnsnowflakes · 5 years ago

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In Dreams She Lies

Ice blue eyes surveyed a haunted land, winter-white knuckles locked hard around frozen steel. Auresta had gone from the crypt in her full death-plate, to a land that had showed her many things, and whispered many more.

Close to her she kept a crystalline teardrop, hardened forever in shining perfection, dropped from the eyes of a despairing Drust and found ages later by the Bloody Snowflake. It was a sweet friend, this shiny treasure she kept. She felt that she ought to do what seemed only right, find whatever was left of whoever had made the Drust weeper cry... and make them cry and cry, and cry.

~*~*~*~

Two men and a woman in armor surrounded another woman on her knees in a dress. The moist earth made her dress messy. Her situation made her black hair even messier. They had her limbs wrapped in chains of silver, barking questions at her. Not a terribly curious or strange scene for living humans, but the way that the Snowflake’s crystal teardrop reacted to it made her stop and watch.

With every strike that landed on the bound woman from her interrogators, the teardrop’s inner light pulsed in protest. Finally one drew a sword, its edges gleaming with silver, and the crystal wailed in Auresta’s mind. She had seen enough.

A swift yank of her outstretched hand brought the one with the sword flying through the air to roughly land right in front of her. Her icy, wild-eyed grin bewildered him for only a moment, before one of her swords went through his gut and the other displaced his head. As the carcass slid from her blades and slumped to the ground, she drew a fist and threw a punch in the direction of the other two armored humans, standing in front of the woman on the ground. An icy wind howled through the trees to blast them in the faces with the motion. They were not long in succumbing to the bite of her frost and and her steel.

The silver-bound woman lay panting on the ground. Auresta’s crystal teardrop pulsed a light that... matched her breathing? What? The Bloody Snowflake brought forth her treasure, lifting it in the palm of her hand towards the woman’s face, and then away again. Twice. Three times. Sure enough, every time it came closer to the dark-haired human on the ground, the teardrop grew brighter, felt happier, as if it had found home.

Auresta stared for a long while, ice-blue eyes regarding her silent human companion, processing... Until her face split into a grin, and she hugged the woman close as she squealed, “I found you!”

~*~*~*~

It had been about three weeks that Auresta had stayed with Dyan. She only knew this because living humans had a need to measure passing time, apparently. The delightful witch was a good friend to her, full of bitterness towards her enemies and even to her own family, and it was Auresta’s great pleasure to wreak havoc on them all in her name. She often brought back their corpses to Dyan, and they would carve up the flesh and bones together.

The Snowflake had smiled as she watched the witch bind some of their souls into woven wicker servants, with stag-skull faces which Auresta had brought her. (Actually, she’d brought her the whole stags, as Dyan had the tedious need to eat for sustenance and not just pleasure, poor thing). The Kul Tiran had noticed the smile. “What? You like them?”

Auresta’s fond smile widened a little, “They remind me of the dolls he makes.” She didn’t explain who he was, just that he was gone for now and had promised to come back for her. That he was changed, but it didn’t change that he loved her. She couldn’t wait for him to come home so he could meet her delightful new witch!

~*~*~*~

“Do you know what you were before?” Dyan asks.

“Before what?” Auresta replies, confused.

“Before you became what you are now.”

Auresta frowns. “I was me,” she answers. “I’ve always been me.”

“I mean before you were you,” tries Dyan.

This was getting frustrating. “That makes no sense!”

Dyan chuckles warmly, patiently. “Here, let me try something,” she murmurs. Trustingly, Auresta inches closer to comply.

Ancient words flow from the Drust-descended’s lips, calling on the earth and shadows, weaving their energies to reach gently in to her undead elf friend’s being. Two work-weathered fingertips touch the center of her snow-white forehead, and the magic peels away at the fog of darkness...

Until Auresta screams.

Broken images, feelings, and voices froth in the elf’s head. Names and faces she doesn’t know, but does. She sees herself, but not herself - a sun-touched Thalassian beauty, with honey-gold hair and eyes like the ocean.

It’s not me... It’s not me! ... What am I?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!

The pain in her head threatens to burst out her eyes and ears. Stabbing shards of things she knows but doesn’t recognize, too unbearable in their jaggedness to even begin to piece together.

Kill me! End it! I don’t want this!

Her fingers scrabble blindly for something, anything to make it all stop...

KILL ME!

... and then oblivion takes her.

~*~*~*~

Dyan Witherstead stood on the glacial ground, her face solemn, stony, but her heart full of sadness and regrets. On a sled, she pulled the body of the unliving elf who had rescued her, made her life less bleak, her ritual dagger sticking out of the poor thing’s heart.

It was the only thing that halted the magic Dyan had called upon to try to help heal the undead elf’s memories... not knowing that the damage done from the decay to her mind after her first mortal death made such a task insurmountable. Not knowing the confusion of trying to repair them would bring agony rather than clarity.

The witch came to a stop in the center of Gol Koval, ancient capital of her Drust ancestors, and one of the few ruins still left standing in peace. She incanted a greeting and a summoning to the spirits residing here, asking for their counsel. Some came as figures of twisted Nature, others as wispy wraiths. They listened.

“What can be done for her?” Dyan pleaded. “She has saved and served your daughter, faithfully, unconditionally. What can I do?”

The Drust spirits regarded their descendant and the lifeless, winter-white elf. “Oblivion would be kindest,” spoke one. “Let her sleep,” said another. “Take her to the glacier, in the mountains above,” rumbled the nearest. “There, she will be undisturbed.”

“What of her soul?” Dyan had to ask.

“What soul?” Was the answer the spirits gave. “Her soul has been in the Shadowlands since her first death, her soul is not here.”

“Where?” Dyan felt a rising panic. “Where in the Shadowlands is it?” She had to know. She could not let her friend be lost.

The spirits sighed between themselves, but ultimately decided to indulge their daughter. “You may come to fetch it, if you wander the woods of Thros. She will sleep well if you keep her in one of the charms we bless and curse for you.” Dyan nodded, and began her trudge up into the mountains, pulling Auresta’s form behind her.

~*~*~*~

Dyan sat, weaving thread, wicker, feathers and crystals into what looked like a dream catcher to the night elves.

It was a soul catcher to the people of Drustvar.

She glanced up every so often to look at her friend, Auresta, in repose, the witch’s ritual dagger still embedded in her heart, letting her physical form sleep. The elf was encased in purest ice now, summoned by Dyan’s petition to the spirits of the mountain, preventing her from being disturbed, or the chance that the lich magic which animated her the first time would seep and drain away over time. Couldn’t allow that, to have her fade away, decay further. She looked glorious, like in a story.

Dyan briefly clutched the crystal teardrop that hung from her neck. She had divined through her dark arts that it was a tear that had been shed by herself in a former life, when the ancient Gilnean settlers had made landfall in Kul Tiras at Drustvar, and assimilated the Drust into their people after conquering them. Her past Drust self had wept and wailed in despair as her home was desecrated... and somehow destiny twisted and turned to place the manifestation of that agony and sorrow in the hands of this exquisite risen elf, to find her again.

I found you!

Dyan took in a long, cold breath and sighed, laying her cheek on the ice block over Auresta’s face. “I go now to Thros to find you, and when I return, you will rest well forever,” she promised in a whisper. She truned her head and placed a soft kiss upon the ice. “Sleep well, Snowflake.”

~*~*~*~

@lokkiir @drustvarhardrock

#story #canon #character death #Wyrmrest Accord #Warcraft

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fairyofthefriz · 6 years ago

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SanSan Secret Santa 2019

@l60014, hello and Merry Christmas! The prompt was “How’s that going to fit?!” I hope this is ok!

“How’s that going to fit?!” The breathy gasp is the sort of thing one might expect to hear in a brothel, winesink or behind the stables. It is not what one expects to hear from the room of the eldest Princess in the North.

Any Northman worth his salt would have interrupted for the sake of Crown Princess Eddara’s honour. Any guard who heard those words would have hammered at the door till the old weirwood rattled. Sandor Clegane, the Wolf’s Hound and sworn shield of her grace Queen Sansa, banged the door open and stepped into the thirteen-year-old’s rooms with bared steel and raging bloodlust.

Twin screams reached his ears, and two little princesses dived over the side of Eddara’s feather bed.

“Athair!” Two heads, one brunette and the other auburn, peeked back up over the edge of the bed.

“Where’s the boy?” Sandor growled, eyes flicking about the room. There were clothes scattered across the bed, sheets rumpled, and Sandor was going to shove his dagger so far up this cunt’s arse –!

“There isn’t a boy!” Aenor snapped.

“… You aren’t Lannisters,” Sandor snapped back, still looking. “What were you doing with each other?”

“What? Athair, we were trying on dresses!” Sandor had watched over the girls since the moment their mother brought them into this world, had trained both girls in weapon-craft since they were three years old, and had done the same again to their three little sisters. Of Sansa Stark’s five Little Wolves, not a one had taken after their mother’s love of pretty dresses – the closest they ever got was the knee-length, half-slit style favoured by the southernmost of the Free Folk women. It was said that Sansa’s Little Wolves were wilder than any of old Maege Mormont’s Little Bears.

“Really.”

“Promise!” They exclaimed together, Eddara throwing her proof at him and pulling a discarded tunic back towards herself across the bed and tugging it on.

Sansa had made the grey gown he now held for her heir to wear to a Harvest Festival when the twins were nine, and it had been worn all of five minutes before Eddara had shirked it for a formal tunic and breaches that she had made. It hadn’t been touched in the four years since.

“Mother was really upset today,” Aenor offered, scuffing her feet, “So we thought to cheer her up by being proper ladies. We were going to take her lemon cakes and tea, too.”

“Catelyn, Robbin, and Branda can all fit in to some of our old things, but we’re having trouble with stuff for us.” Eddara finished, morose. “Catey’s helping the little girls into their things whilst we deal with this.”

Sandor snorted, sheathed his steel, and ruffled both heads.

“You had me worried. I thought some up-jumped cunt had snuck in here.”

Two sets of eyes – one grey, the other blue – blink up at him, and then he is met with identical looks of pure disgust.

“As if,” Eddara spat. “I’m going to be like Mother – I don’t need a husband to be Queen!”

“And Mother says we’re not to let boys sweet-talk us until we know for sure that it’s not because they want the honour of a Stark Princess.” Aenor paused for a moment, then said, “Though, I suppose it’d be alright if that Ander Arryn tried to woo me. Queen of the East wouldn’t be a terrible title, and Uncle Robert would make him let me visit whenever I want.”

Sandor shook his head at them again, pride growing thick and hot in his chest. The Little Bird had grown into a fierce Red Wolf, and had taught all her babes the lessons she had once learnt through blood and tears.

“Should I check on the littler Wolves, then?”

“There won’t be any boys in there, Athair, Catey locked the door.”

“You want any help here?” Both girls giggle up at him, and it is one of the sweetest sounds he has ever heard in all his life.

“No, Athair, we’ll be alright! Thank you.”

“Want to try and alter one of your Aunt Arya’s old dresses? Or one of your mother’s?” Aenor chews at her lip – a habit she picked up from her aunt that her mother despairs over – and Eddara shakes her head slowly.

“What if Mother sees you and asks you what you’re doing? You never lie to Mother, so, leave it be until we’re ready. Although, can you bring Mother into our solar in two hours, please?”

“Are you sure you’ll be ready by then, pups?”

“Aye! Even if we don’t have dresses that look proper, we can still put on airs and graces and try and make Mother laugh!”

With a bark of laughter, Sandor ruffled their hair again, and continued on his round of the royal family. As the twins had said, he found the three youngest princesses in Catey’s room on the bed in a chain – Catelyn brushed out Robb’s auburn curls whilst the seven-year-old brushed out Branda’s thick, straight locks, the five-year-old humming and playing with her Dame Dolly.

“Athair!” Branda squealed. “Sit in front, let me make your hair pretty for Mama too!”

“If my hair is pretty, then no one will fear me,” Sandor said, closing the door behind himself. “The twins said you had locked the door, Catey.”

The nine-year-old had inherited her aunt’s impossible brunette hair, and had concentrated so on her baby sisters that she had let it fluff out about her face like a tangle of briars. It was so wild that Sandor was hard-pressed to spot her blue eyes or bladed nose through it all.

“Oops. Sorry, Athair, I was going to, but Branda kept running in and out for everything, and we just forgot to after the last time.”

“It’s not my fault!” Branda cried, trying to twist around.

Robb growled at her, and tugged her back to face forward once again.

“Here, pup,” Sandor grumbled, sitting on the floor against the bed, with his back to the littlest princess. “You can brush it out for me, but no more. I’m going to go and check on your mother soon – why is she upset?”

“She was in meetings all day without us or Aunt Brienne,” Catey whispered, trying to order Robb’s curls into a braided bun like Sansa favoured. “People want to offer marriage contracts for us, but since Mother has no husband and only the Free Folk know who made us with her, people are still trying to offer contracts to Mother or give a contract for us on the condition they know who fathered us. And Aunt Arya sent a raven that made her mad this morning, and Uncle Rickon hasn’t sent anything from Skagos in weeks, and Uncle Jon won’t come down from the Wall even though he says he found Direwolf pups for us, and Uncle Bran sent a letter that made her even madder.”

“That sounds very serious, then. Maybe I should go and check on her, after all?”

“Only after I’ve finished your hair, Athair! Mother loves your hair!” Branda demands, tugging insistently.

Luckily for Sandor, she doesn’t take too much longer, and so he can continue on to the Queen’s chambers. Brienne of Tarth stands guard outside, and Sandor has known the wench long enough now to see just how uncomfortable she is.

“Clegane. You’re early; your shift won’t start for another few hours, yet.”

“The Little Wolves told me to come. Go over there a bit; I’ll see what I can do.” Brienne nods, still formal even sixteen years later, and shifts enough that he can knock and enter comfortably.

“Little Bird?” The Queen was sitting by her window, unpicking stitches with a deliberate determination, face a cold mask. The wolfgirls had told him true: their mother was not in high spirits.

“Sandor – surely I haven’t missed the changing of the guard!”

“No, no, I’m early. The pups sent me.”

Sansa gave a tight smile, rubbing her hands down her face.

“Is something wrong?”

“They’re worried for you; you’ve been ill-tempered all day.”

“… I suppose so. I’ll go to them in a moment and apologise.”

“No, let them be. I’ve been sent to keep you busy for another little while, anyway.”

She quirks a tired brow at him, holding a hand out. “Have you?”

He takes her hand and squeezes gently. “Aye, if my Queen can spare an hour or two for an old dog.”

“For you, my love, I would give you all the time in the world.”

“Would you give me the answer to what has you so ill-tempered?” That emotionless mask slips back over her features, but Sandor won’t have any of that. He kisses the back of her hand, brushes his lips over each knuckles and plants a kiss over the pulse in her wrist.

“I’m not –”

“You are, Bird, what’s wrong?”

“Nobles calling the girls Snow instead of Stark; Arya being a brat; Rickon not talking to me; Bran talking to me too much; Jon being stupid – take your pick.”

“That sounds like a regular day for the Queen in the North. Tell me true, Bird, why is today different?”

Something that might be another smile passes over her lips, but instead of answering him she says, “Jon found Direwolf pups for the children. There’s a mother, for me, and six pups; five girls and a boy.”

She twists her hand under his, taking his hand and bringing it to her belly. “I was thinking of Donnor, for this one.”

He crouches, takes a moment to breath in slowly, a smile blooming across his wasted face and both hands resting against the little life growing inside of her.

“No,” he chokes. “Rickon will pitch a fit if he is the only one that you do not honour. Call the babe Rickard, for him and for your grandfather.”

“I ought to have known, without Jon’s message,” Sansa grumbles half-heartedly. “My humours are never steady when I’m with child.” She licks her lips and looks up at him through her lashes. “Just in case, though, perhaps we should make sure that the seed took.”

“In the daytime, your grace?” He grins. “With the wench only just down the hall?”

Sansa laughs, cups his face and kissed him. “I think after five children Dame Brienne is fully aware of what we do behind closed doors, my love.”

There was a cough from the door. “Your Grace, the Princesses request an audience.”

“Fucking really?” He demanded, easing himself from his crouch. “I thought we had two hours?!”

Sansa laughs behind him, and from the other side of the door he can hear five little giggles. He can picture all of them so clearly, every hair and every freckle. He knows all his ladies, their faces long or heart-shaped, tall or taller still. He thinks of the wolves that Jon is sending – thinks of the son that will soon be with them, pictures a child that matches Sansa, like Aenor, or himself, like Eddara, who takes the hair colour of one parent and the eyes of another, like Catey and Robb, or mixes everything together like Branda. He doesn’t know what this new babe will look like: but he cannot wait to find out.

He opens the door and growls out, “Come here, pups. Your mother has something to tell you.”

#SanSan Secret Santa #l60014 #used gaelic for a Free Folk word for Father namely because why not #this is something like the fifth rewrite because none of the other ideas I had would cooperate

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medicinenew · 7 years ago

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A dreadful night, it had surfaced during this faithful hour. once more a reminder rung itself again. For years a hunter of vague desires had taken to walking the very Earth in search of a monster, one so murderous and vile, that it had brought death to the hunter’s very own family. They had taken to their crusade without even a longing for assistance. Perhaps believing their weapons, their abilities that took years to hone, to be enough. One such weapon was a mockery, one meant to mimic a grander tool belonging to another bloodline. It was not blessed, it was not holy, and it was not only means for the beasts that dwell in the dark. It is a cursed weapon of blood-thirst, a chain of sharp edges that sunk into arms of flesh, it was as though it longed to drain it’s host dry of what kept them living, and only could it be kept at bay by blood of beasts and mortal from killing the one that controlled it.

Some may even say it was the true hunter, and the person it was attached to was the tool by which it killed. Now then, enough talk of such a weapon, this was the hunter’s tale, and they were on the verge of finding the monster’s location. A monster searching for a monster... at least that is what the hunter believed, approaching the castle on foot with neither steed or nor carriage. A foolhardy quest to say the least, but the hunter had learned of local townsfolk going missing, and a man of simple attire luring them away into the night. Where they went? No one knew, but a guess could be surmised, as the bodies would be found not too far off but the man... descriptions always varied. A monster of changing shape, draining those of untainted blood dry. No one dared approached the long-abandoned castle, either in fear or doubt. But the hunter lacked fear, and only ought vengeance as they traveled down the dirt path, and trekked along the stone path near the castle till they came across a gate ajar.

It was something to take note of, entering through the gateway, and into the overgrown courtyard, the hunter made a mental note, and proceeded to open main entrance into the castle’s interior, the door leaving a loud creak in it’s wake. “I hope he heard me, loud and clear...” muttered the hunter, an odd shift of their voice as they proceeded onward. The inner walls were nothing but history of the ones that once resided there, everything was in shambles, from the floor to the ceiling, seems the monster couldn’t be bothered to bring the place up to keep... stone walls were loose, almost ready to collapse inwards, but seemingly they were still in well enough condition to keep together to a point. Thus far, the only things lighting the path forward was candlelight, perhaps the monster suspected someone to come. It seemed only natural by how many he had taken away to drain, someone would grow suspicious eventually...

Snarling caught their ears as they continued to keep movement steady, trying not to stop in hopes of picking up the pace of the searching. But the sound grew louder and closer, till a beast was what blocked their path, a wolf of enlarged proportions, snarling at the hunter with teeth as large as a two-handed claymore. The glow of the monster’s eyes shone through the dark before it charged forward, and the hunter ever prepared slid along the floor with whip out at the ready. The chain was gripped with ferocity as the hunter stood up, and took to charging at the wolf this time, monster doing the same once more, but with the slide the chain was flung, and darted right into the beast’s hide, sinking into the flesh and becoming trapped with it. The wolf let out a howl of pain and tried to shake it out, or at the very least pull on it, but, making the weapon budge was nigh impossible, once in, the difficulty of getting it out was too much. For now.. .the hunter just had to survive, keeping away from the beast’s ferocious jaw and from becoming trapped under it’s body.

They say, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, and fall it did, ensnared in a tangle of the whip’s chain, it’s legs tightly wrapped as blades sunk inwards to feast. All it could do was whimper as they hunter strolled on over, humility was lacking in the hunter’s soul, but even they could not allow such suffering to continue, so they pulled on the chain, and it’s grip hung onto the beast before being pulled out. Seems it went in deeper than they thought, assaulting the organs to satisfy a terrible taste. As the whimpers softened, the hunter moved forward, crimson trickling down the chain, as well as it’s wielder’s wrist. The monster’s of the castle were few, but that was to be expected from the hidden ruler of this abode, they weren’t some grand monster, let alone a being that struck fear into the hearts of man and woman alike... no, he was much less than that.

Approaching the castle’s throne room, the hunter had just dealt with the few guardians that remained, primarily that of gargoyles surprisingly, no wonder the place seemed so unguarded, with monsters that only appeared to be statues. With one boot in the room, the place lit up, fire crackling as it shone on the castle’s current inhabitant. Commoner clothes, pale skin, a gangly physique, seemingly easy to approach, but... the darkness is what kept people from truly seeing how unnatural he was, sitting on that throne like some sort of regal ruler. “Ah, and who has come to bother me at this hour? A pesky villager sent to see the ongoings of this castle? Or perhaps a hunter of my kind?” he asked with a tired tone, lips wet with blood from his recent victim. “Either way, I know why you come, now, how about I tell you just whom your dealing with?” As though the hunter didn’t know, “Enough! I did not come for idle talk, I came for your death, to pay you back for what you did so long ago!” The hunter was almost on the verge of screaming through tightly clenched teeth, and he could only look at them, not with amusement, or curiosity, but a strange sense of understanding. “Ah... is it you then? I believed the curse to have taken your mind, did you come for me because of what I did? Or because of what you have done? I must admit that you were very trusting to allow me into your home and into your life... so I wonder... did you seek me out for the death of your sister, cousin?”

The hunter went silent for a moment, and the monster looked with sorrow to the relative of blood. But that silence did not last for as long as it was broken by a sound echoing throughout the walls of the room, the chain, as it’s blade went through the chest and into his heart. Mild annoyance was the expression that spread on his face as her rose, gripping the chain with two hands. “Do you think to kill me with this alone? This will not be how I die tonight, my foolish relative.” And he pulled with an inhuman strength, powerful enough to wretch the weapon from his undead heart. It dropped to the ground, shirt stained with deep crimson from the hole left. a terrible wound but survivable. “No, I do not.” Came the few words spoken from quiet breath, and out from the hunter’s coat came daggers, tossed with surprising accuracy to pierce flesh, but all of them seemed to go straight through him like that of a spirit, or a ghost. “I hope you know, I am not one to be caught off-guard twice, the first time was only because I felt pity for you, but now... I do not feel such sorrow.” and just outside the castle’s window storm clouds began circle from above, lightning crackled and struck the ground just below in the courtyard, and the rain became to trickle, but such small drops grew heavy, and the rain almost seemed to suffocate with how hard it was falling.

“Now then, prepare to perish, just as the rest of your family has, Hunter!” it almost felt like the divide between them grew stronger, now no longer was one considering the other as family, it was simply monster versus monster. They tried to catch him by surprise once more, daggers out to mask the true weapon, and he went through them again, only to be met by chain... the chain he was quick enough to catch, wrapping it around his arm he felt it dig, and then used it, pulling the hunter closer, and then flinging them into the nearby wall of stone. Pain rushed through the mind of the monster’s would-be killer, but they strove to keep alert and awake. Another tug was enough to send them tumbling to the floor, and the man pulling them closer. “Look at you, seems you weren’t prepared to murder me like you thought, unfortunate, is it not?” then he lifted them by shirt and expected to be met with typical weapon, “Go ahead, I know just what you plan to do, and I can tell you... it will not be enough.” but instead of sword meeting body, it was water meeting his eyes, an unexpected bottle was smashed against his face, burning, seething pain that felt almost like fire as he dropped through hunter. “You... had holy water on you?!” The monster was giving pained breaths as he made effort to recover from the attack. “Yes, and it gave me just the opportunity I needed.” and then the chain was gripped tightly, blood flowing straight out from the other glove, and then whip sought to sink even deeper. “Ahhh... AHHHHH!!” Pain from two angles infuriated him, blinding his rational with rage, “Enough of this!” his size began to change, the monster expanding closer to the ceiling as he grew large enough to not be so easily felled, but the ceiling gave way, and rain began to pour in. “You will die now, and you will not live through this night!” he tore the weapon right off, along with bits of flesh falling to the wet floor.

Perhaps he hoped to crush the hunter in a single grip, or tear them limb from limb, but that was not to be like it seemed. As then lightning struck down from the out of control storm, combustion was caused upon impact as it struck him, flesh burning as patience thinned even further. He could not take it anymore, attempting to put it out, and then trying to ignore it when stuck about. He last sought to attack the hunter, but size was cumbersome, and the hunter found a way to get the chain around him, to an extent. Problems only sought to arose further, the worst of all being the castle’s structure... apparently in his anger he had not realized that the support was becoming loose, and buckling under his weight, for rather soon the floor was giving out, and he was the one descending to the bottom below, flesh burning all the way down, and dragging the hunter with him. Though they both fell, the hunter was one to rise back up, bruised and battered, with some broken bones atop his undead corpse. Why had fate sought to ruin his quiet life after so long. “And here... I thought... only I would be surviving, just like before...” his form began to revert back to the size it once had as he lied there amongst stone and rubble, staring up at the covered face of the hunter. “But... it seems fate was not in my favor...” then the piercing power of her whip went straight into his body once more. “It was in yours... cousin... you were the one to best me... the fearsome Draugar... I’m sorry for what pain I put you through... but I suppose I felt jealousy for the life I could not have... now, may I see the face of the one to best me?..” a last request, and the hunter obliged, such cold, rotting hands touched the soft face belonging to the hunter, and the Draugar couldn’t believe his eyes. “Ah... I see now... my assumption was misplaced... well... at least you acquired what you sought... vengeance...” the hunter nodded, watching as her former relative closed his eyes for the final time, and the hunter felt satisfaction, peace, and yet... something still had to be done, so he would not return once more to torment the living.

“You did not have a grave, I realize now, it was no wonder you could not be stopped...” spoke the hunter, digging up the nearby ground in the courtyard, even if there was loathing in their mind, a proper burial still had to be given. With no coffin in hand, he had to be laid into the ground without one, and covered in freshly dug dirt. The hunter even took one of the nearby tombstones, blank, and unused and put it right above his grave, scratching his name into it with a blade. “Here lies Christoph... may he rest in piece...” a sigh escaped those lips and the hunter stood up, now desiring to keep going on, but maybe this was a good time for a nap, as the cloud cleared, and moonlight shone upon the castle, off the hunter went, to sleep and recuperate for another hunt...

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scurvgirl · 7 years ago

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Once There Was A Dragon

Calling this the Fairy Tale AU because I’ve been referring to it as a Snow White meets Beauty and the Beast and 100% more dragons.

Every Friday, Adannar sets out to collect necessary alchemical components and food. The food part usually doesn’t take so long, he isn’t particularly picky, but the alchemical components can be very tricky. For instance, he needs a type of moss that seems to only grow on this one hill on the outskirts of his territory. The hill has an altered state of being due to the life and death of a spirit of Renewal. Every now and then, Adannar will see another Renewal lingering around the knoll, which means the hill is in radiant bloom. He saw the spirit yesterday, so if he hurries, he thinks he can make it in time to harvest the moss.

The moss is infused with wisps of Renewal’s energy and aid in the creation of his little creatures as well as general maintenance. But today he is looking to augment building.

To gather the moss, Adannar must shift his large, draconic body into a form more suited for the task. He shifts into an elf and walks the rest of the way to the hill. This way, he also avoids alarming the spirit. The creature has been known to take to fright overly much, accidentally shattering itself. Such a delicate thing.

After a moment of walking, he realizes he has neglected this form. His hair has grown long and reaches his ankles, and he is thinner than previously. He is not gaunt, but the robe he has attached to this form is looser, giving it a much billowier look than intended. No matter, he is simply here to gather the moss.

He walks up the hill to where the moss grows in thicker patches on stones, shaded by the tall tree Renewal likes to spend its time. Adannar sets his basket down next to a large rock and takes out the small pairing knife. He gently works the knife along the rock to remove the moss, placing it in the basket as he goes. He needs a good bit of it, so he makes his way to several other rocks before feeling satisfied with the amount he has collected. He won’t return to the hill for some time to gather more. Renewal will need time to cultivate more.

With his basket packed and the day’s main task accomplished, Adannar shifts back into his true form. He picks up the basket with a particularly dexterous claw then launches himself into the sky to fly back to his roost.

The forest is in the foothills of a great mountain range that acts as a natural border between two kingdoms. He…doesn’t know the names of the kingdoms, but he does know that the one he is flying from is smaller and the kingdoms don’t always get along. His nest is in a lone, small mountain that he has dug and carved out for himself through the centuries. It was his primary objective for many years until he was satisfied with the outcome. It is not as gigantic as some dragons’ lairs, but he likes it – it’s homey and allows him to work.

He’s created all of the decorations in his lair, from crystal chandeliers to beams that support some of the ceilings to burnished floors. It is the only home he has ever known, and while on the modest size for dragons, it can feel large and lonely to him. His seclusion is not by his choice, but rather by the choice of others to create spurious rumors about dragons.

Every so often knights fancying themselves as dragon slayers find his home. They demand he relinquish a prince or princess he has not stolen then attempt to kill him. The ones that live because they wisely run have spread tales of him and his little automatons. They know him as the Mad Dragon in the Forest. But to his kind, he is simply Adannar the Lonesome.

His home is just as he left it, in a disarray that he has felt unobligated to fix due to his lack of visitors. His friends have taken to solitude as well, and he is unsure of how to broach the subject on breaking it. He longs for the days when his kind could just be, visiting not only other dragons, but people – elves, humans, dwarves, even the horned people to the north. But the dragon slayers have risen in prominence, dragons have been killed for being too…prominent. So they lay low, even if it means seclusion and depression.

Adannar does his best to remedy his loneliness by creating. As a result, he has created many, many little creatures – wisps woven into mechanical bodies that resemble woodland creatures. They populate his home and the forest, not harming anything, just…being. He has struggled to give them language to converse, however, despite figuring out how to give them full personalities and lives. He loves each and every creation, and each is given a name, but he longs for more.

He has moss to create and repair but a heavy melancholy overwhelms him when he returns home, the piles of stuff only reminding him of everything he should do. But he lacks any of the ability to actually do any of it.

Instead of doing of the work he ought to be doing, Adannar collapses into the pile of pillows and blankets that make up his bed. He falls asleep and drifts into the Dreaming much more easily than he has in the past, his soul drifting and floating through familiar pathways.

He is not seeking anything in particular but feels strangely drawn to a small cottage in the forest between his home and the kingdom to the west. He lets his curiosity pull him to the long-abandoned home. Or supposed to be abandoned. Through the bright colors of the Dreaming and the familiar spirits drifting through the space, Adannar sees a horse tied to a tree, nibbling on a bush.

Curious, Adannar floats down into the cottage, his body wispy and delightfully formless. It is strange to be this way, like he was before he was a dragon, but not entirely unwelcome. He admits, there are days where he longs for the simpler days of a bodiless existence. And it comes in handy for exploring his territory when the weight of his body is too much.

Inside the cottage, a small fire burns. It has the look and size of a fire recently made, or made by someone not accustomed to building fires. Curled by said fire is an elven woman with her legs pulled up in front of her body and her forehead leaning against her knees. Hair black as ink spills down in front of her face and down her back. Pastel pink and blue robes are torn from her ankles to her knees, stained by mud and dust. But her hands are soft looking, her nails delicately manicured. Not accustomed to building fires, then. A noblewoman, but a noblewoman far from where she is supposed to be.

Her shoulders shake, from cold or crying, Adannar can’t tell. But he can tell that she has very few items on her person, and there is no food in the cottage, he knows. The poor thing! She must be so scared and lonely.

Adannar drifts out of the cottage and back to his body, forcing himself to wake. A burst of energy fills him and spurs him to gather a few foods that are palatable to elves – bread, fruits, and cheeses. He even packs a wine that’s been sitting in his kitchen for some time.

With all haste, Adannar takes to the skies and heads for the cottage. He lands and shifts into his elven form before reaching the home, however, careful to not scare his guest away. Several of his mechanical creatures follow his path as he strides to the cottage. Once, twice, he knocks before opening the door.

“Hello?” He calls before entering. The woman gasps and shifts back, scrambling to her feet and fishing out a dagger in her robes, pointing it at him.

“Who are you?” She demands.

He blinks, “I could ask you the same, seeing as this is my cottage.” Alright, not really his cottage, but it’s in his territory and it’s been abandoned for some time, so it could be said it is in his possession at least.

She hesitates before speaking, voice laden with suspicion, “I did not think anyone was living here.”

Adannar shrugs, and smiles, “Well, I now live deeper in the woods, more room you see. Old wards alerted me to your presence.”

Her eyes narrow for a moment, her lips pressed into a harsh line, “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know she didn’t send you?”

Adannar blinks, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. No one sent me, just…myself I suppose.” He lifts the basket, continuing to smile pleasantly, “I brought food.”

“How do I know it’s not poisoned? She…she would do something exactly like that,” she says, taking a step back, hand still firmly gripping the dagger.

“I really do not know who you speak of, but it is a fair worry, there are some very concerning sorts in the world.” He opens the basket and samples each food item, careful to show her each one before he nibbles on it. He even tries the wine. A delicious rose that matches her eyes.

By the end of the demonstration, he can see the hunger on her face, lips parted and eyes devouring the bits still visible. He places the basket on the floor and steps back.

“You are welcome to as much as you like, I am not an impolite host.”

She eyes him for a moment longer before settling down next to the basket. First up are the strawberries. Then she nibbles on some cheese and bread. She pours a glass of rose with a shaky hand and seems to have to resist from downing the entire glass.

She must be starving to eat so quickly. But even as she devours the food, he notices her posture is straight, her fingers delicate and poised as they hold her food. A noblewoman retains her manners everywhere it seems.

“My name is Adannar, by the way,” he says. She pauses and looks up from her meal, bashful and without a napkin to properly dab away the fruit juice at the corners of her mouth.

“How remiss of me, I am simply so used to everyone knowing who I am. I am Serahlin El – just Serahlin. A pleasure to meet you, thank you for the food, it’s delicious.” Her smile lights her entire face up in a brilliant display and he feels his heart stutter for a moment.

It has been far too long since he has had company to feel this way about simply conversing with a woman. A woman who had just threatened him, no less.

“A pleasure to meet you as well. And if you have need of the cottage, you are welcome to stay, though I must insist on letting me actually fill it with things to make it habitable.”

“Oh that is,” she pauses, biting her lip, blushing, “that is too kind of you. This is your home and I would hate to impose.”

He waves her off, “You would not be imposing in the slightest. As I said, I live deeper in the woods. I would be a terrible host if I did not ensure your comfort, correct?”

Serahlin pauses, then nods slowly.

“Great!” He claps his hands and walks outside where many of his little creations have gathered, curious to see the mystery woman. The mystery woman who follows him outside and gasps at the sight of the creatures.

“Wh-what are they?!”

“They are my creations, do not worry, they will not harm you. Here,” he holds out his hand to her while a deer-construct named Huirin sniffing at Adannar’s other hand, “let me show you.”

Serahlin stares at the…mechanical deer and wonders briefly if she has fallen into one of the stories her maid used to read to her as a girl. The man, Adannar, holds his hand out to her, clearly gesturing for her to follow his lead and perhaps touch the creature. It is…overwhelming, to say the least.

It must be the lack of sleep over the last few days because she takes his hand, rough from building these…creatures. But he is gentle as he guides her hand to its muzzle. The metal is warm and smooth and the deer responds like a real deer, blinking and sniffing, curious. A curious air surrounds it as it steps closer to her.

“Oh, that is…”

“Alright, Huirin, give the lady space. I apologize, he is a glutton for treats and rubs.” A soft whirr emanates from the deer in what she can only assume be a noise of communication.

Serahlin swallows and retracts her hand.

Adannar, the man, is very…earnest in his kindness. When she had found the cottage it had been a blessing after the three days on the road, trying to get as far away from the palace as possible. Even if getting far away meant braving the Dragon’s Forest and even the dragon itself. There was no food or furniture, but it was something, which was more than she had.

The food Adannar brought was blessedly not poisoned and the more he acts, the more she is convinced he is not sent by her mother, but just a strange man who lives the dangerous woods…making mechanical woodland creatures.

It is too much to fully process at the moment lest she risk completely melting down in a sobbing mess. First her mother tries to kill her and now she is in a strange wood with a strange man and stranger creatures. Too much. Better to ignore it and let it happen than to think about it.

Adannar gives the creatures instructions, requesting they bring back everything necessary to make the cottage livable. But really, Serahlin doesn’t need it, she just…alright, perhaps she does need it. She hasn’t even been able to find food on her own, and only luck granted her finding that small brook to drink from.

“In a few hours, the home will be ready. Would…would you like a change of clothes? I have some robes that can fit anyone easily.”

She must look horrid for him to ask her such a thing, but she supposes it is part of the deal after spending three days on the road running from her tyrannical queen of a mother. She nods.

“That is too kind.”

“Nonsense, the world can always use more kindness.” He turns back to a creature, a large bird this time, telling it to bring back robes. She pulls her clothes closer to her body, stupidly worried over her appearance. He doesn’t know who she is or her status or anything. She is just Serahlin.

It makes his kindness nigh unbearable.

Don’t think about it don’t think about it.

Her hands return to her front, clasped together to keep them from shaking. Her distress must be obvious for Adannar to turn to her, brows drawn together in concern.

“When was the last time you slept?”

She swallows and considers lying, but what use would that be?

“Sufficiently? Three days ago. I have attempted to sleep more but the forest…I’ve never been without a bed.”

His expression turns soft, “And fear keeps you awake nonetheless.”

She startles, “I said nothing about fear.”

“You pulled a dagger on me when I first entered the cottage, your robes are torn, you have no supplies – you’re running from something. Do not worry, I don’t even know who to report you to if I even was the sort to do such a thing. And I’m not! I promise. Lots of people run from things! Often from monsters.”

Not for the first time she thinks of how strange he is. His way of speaking is foreign, as is his accent, robes…truly everything about him is odd. He is not from the neighboring kingdom, his mannerisms are entirely wrong, too open and honest. But he is not of her kingdom either, he is too earnest and bombastic. Besides, he is…in quite the disarray aesthetically, though it looks entirely more purposeful than Serahlin’s own current state of ruined robes. His hair has been allowed to grow significantly past fashionable length and what are his robes even supposed to be? They hang loosely on his frame, too big, and yet they are exquisite.

“Monsters?” She asks carefully.

“Yes, I’ve met many people fleeing monsters. Gurguts are common enough to run from, nasty buggers, they smell terrible. Bogfishers, though they’re less aggressive as long as you give them room. I once saw an entire village flee a giant that had decided to take over the village for some strange reason. And of course, there are more sinister monsters, abusers who make fleeing almost impossible. You don’t need to tell me what monster you’re fleeing from. Just know that you are welcome here as long as you need.” The mechanical creatures disappear into the wood, theoretically fetching the items Adannar has requested.

His words are reassuring in the least. She had not dreamed of finding safety in the Dragon’s Forest of all places, running from her mother of all people. And speaking of monsters…

“Isn’t there a dragon living in the forest?”

Adannar blinks and shrugs, “I’ve never been bothered by the dragon. Keeps mostly to itself from what I can understand.”

“That is a relief,” she sighs, leaning against the cottage wall. The knights had all said the same thing about the dragon in the forest being terrible and cruel and mad. She ran here because she knew that it would give anyone pause chasing her. Leave Serahlin to the forest, she’ll die soon enough with that dragon in there.

And perhaps she would have if she had not met Adannar.

Don’t think about don’t think about it.

“You are exhausted, please, sit, allow us to fix the place.” He guides her to a stump to sit on and she turns away from him.

“I am not an invalid, good sir, I am fully capable of helping.”

“I am not saying you are incapable, I apologize for insinuating such. Rather, I am striving to be a good host. Though I am failing if I am insulting you – what would you like to do?”

What a question. What would she like to do? What she wants is to sleep for week and to be taken seriously and not just as a silly princess. Not that she wants to tell Adannar that. He doesn’t need to know that she is more than what she seems to be, and that the monster she’s running from looks more like herself than a gurgut or bogfisher or whatever else he was on about.

Sitting is nice though, and she appreciates his candor. She is unaccustomed to such openly kind and honest behavior. He is bound by manners, clearly, but not in an effort to one-up her, but to genuinely be good to her. It is as foreign to her as his garb.

“I am quite fatigued from my journeys,” she says, “but if there is a task you need assistance with, please ask.”

He nods and continues to smile, “That I will. Rest is important, it is how the body naturally heals itself.” Several of the creatures return from their venture, carrying various objects in their talons or mouths or on their backs. Adannar waves his hands and conducts the items into the house by floating them in. There are thuds and scrapes but the entire spectacle is quite…amazing. He must be exceptionally gifted to be able to move all of this, and there is quite a bit, on his own.

“Do you require assistance? Telekinesis is not my forte but I can certainly reduce any strain.”

“What? Oh no, this is not very difficult me, don’t worry,” he affirms before returning to the task at hand. Posts and lamps and rugs and even dishes are floated in, arranging themselves into proper formations. But no, it’s Adannar doing all of this.

Exactly how powerful is this man? He says he made these mechanical creatures and now this blatant display of power is…it’s a bit concerning. Is she his guest or his prisoner?

“You are quite gifted with magic,” she says.

“I suppose.”

“It makes sense then for you to live out here, many would seek to use you or your power for their own gain.”

He hesitates but nods, “That is very true.”

“But it’s not why you live out here?” She presses.

The flow of items reaches its end and he lowers his arms. When he turns to her, she expects a harsh face, a turn in his demeanor to show that she is more prisoner than guest. But he only looks…sad, even with his smile and kind, yellow eyes.

“Not entirely. Many do not understand and what people do not understand, they seek to hurt or tame. I have no interest in either.” He turns from her, gold hair flowing away from him as he strides to his creatures.

“Food will be brought to you. If you are interested, I can teach you, or one of the spirits of the forest can teach you to hunt and gather and cook. I imagine noblewomen aren’t taught such things.”

Feeling suddenly defensive, Serahlin narrows her eyes and straightens her back, “I am not a frivolous dependent. I went out on hunting trips regularly with the hunts master.” Not that she learned that much from those trips, but still, his tone leaves much to be desired.

“I do not wish you to starve, Serahlin. I apologize for poor manners, the exertions of the day have left me fatigued,” he turns toward her, serious and solemn, “a caution about the forest - do not pass the waterfall to the east, many who do, do not return.”

What a cryptic thing to say. Before she can question him by what he means, he slips into the forest, seeming to disappear within the shadows. Strange, but it the Dragon’s Forest, strangeness is probably the norm as backwards as that sounds.

When he leaves, the creatures go with him, taking the low whirring that had filled the air with them. It leaves her with a sudden heavy silence and a full cottage for her to explore anew. Serahlin rises from the stump and heads into the cottage, now alight with warm candles and a much more sufficient fire. There is a sofa with cushions covered in a vibrant floral pattern that makes her smile. Behind the sofa against the wall is an oil lamp; and next to a bookshelf that even has a few books on it – old and weathered tomes on flora and fauna of this part of the world and even a few fictional stories.

She wanders up the stairs into the bedroom to find the fireplace in there lit as well, and a small oil lamp sitting on a side table. The bed is smaller than what she is used to, less extravagant, but it is beautiful all the same. It appears to be hand carved from a light wood, swirls and symbols etched into the small posts at the head and foot of the bed. The bedspread is floral as well, though different from the cushions on the sofa it’s still a beautiful print.

She wanders to the wardrobe on the other side of the bed and opens it to find it filled with robes. They are unlike any of the fashionable robes she had in the palace, but they are radiant in their own way. Best of all, they are clean and untorn.

Opting for comfort for the day that is winding to a close, she chooses the night gown, wrapping the soft simple robe to her body. She spends many minutes simply brushing out her hair, getting all of the knots and tangles that have formed over the past few days of running. It is not easy and by the end, the brush is covered in hair.

But her hair is brushed, and her clothes are clean, and she is exhausted. This place is strange, and she is alone. Before a few days ago she had never really been alone. There had always been people around her – servants, her mother, her sister, knights, nobles…. It is not a terrible thing, she doesn’t think, but it is not good either. She is alone because her mother wants to kill her, because another kingdom demands it due to their supposed honor. It’s ridiculous and sad and terrifying.

She lies back in the bed and looks up to the ceiling. As strange and scary this entire thing has been, she thinks she’s at least temporarily safe. Safer here at least than at the palace. Adannar seems kind, if odd and exceptionally powerful. He seems to be bound to a code of hospitality that obligates him to see to her needs, but she is unfamiliar with this code. Hospitality is expected back home but so is a certain amount of distance and an “accomplish what you can on you own” attitude.

Or maybe he’s mad and being quirky to get her to like him so she won’t question it when he starts performing magical experiments on her. If that’s the case, she has the knife and the horse to run. Though for now she is safe and in a very warm, soft bed. She waves her hand, switching the oil lamp off as her body drifts into the best sleep she has ever had.

#my writing #i wrote it! yaaay!#late night posting but whatevs #i'm pretty proud of this actually #i'm proud of the amount of description i managed #fairy tale au #adannar #serahlin #serannar #i do plan for other characters to be involved!#folks are welcome to guess who are dragons and who are not #hint - not what you're probably thinking!#anyways i hope y'all like this

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plutojones · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter Five: Welcome to the Family

When Andie opens the door into the Ratway, she immediately lowers herself towards the ground, trying to get her movements minimal and steps silent. She gently closes the door behind her and begins sneaking down the stairs. Immediately, however, she is met with a surprise: two bodies lying face down in the ground, bleeding out from various stab wounds. She sneaks up to the first one, the one who seemed in charge, and takes a few things off him that aren’t blood-stained before sneaking off further down back to the door that leads to the Ragged Flagon. Once there, she straightens herself up, dusts herself off, and walks inside.

Keeping an eye on the firelight in the distance, she walks along the circular walkway to the tavern. As she gives a nod to the guard at the entrance, she overhears a familiar voice speaking to two unfamiliar ones.

“Give it up Brynjolf… those days are over.”

“I’m telling you, this one is different…” She steps a bit closer, and in the dim light spies Brynjolf talking to the bartender and another figure sitting at the bar.

“We’ve all heard that one before, Bryn! Quit kidding yourself.”

“It’s time to face the truth, old friend. You, Vex, Mercer… you’re all part of a dying breed. Things are changing!” The bartender waves a bottle in front of Brynjolf’s face.

As Brynjolf is about to speak, Andie coughs, catching his attention. He looks over at her and then back to the two with a smile. “Dying breed, eh? Well what do you call that then! Hello there lass!” He turns back and walks over to her, holding an arm out to pull her into a side hug. “I take it you didn’t have any trouble finding your way back this time?”

“N-no, actually. Those thugs, they’re… well they’re dead.”

“Are they now? Well, lady luck must be on your side then.” He gives her a wink before stepping back towards the bar. “So, how goes the job?”

“Good, I think… I have all the payments.” She pulls three pouches from out of her pockets, all clinking with the sound of septims. “Though I have to say, I’m not a big fan of extorting people. I thought this was a Thieves’ Guild.”

Brynjolf takes the pouches and then gives her a stern look. “We are. But beggars can’t be choosers. You’d be smart to remember that, lass, and to avoid complaining about it if you wish to keep working around here. Speaking of-” He tosses her one of the smaller pouches. “Your cut.”

She catches the pouch and gives him a nod of thanks. “What’s next?”

“Judging from how well you handled those shopkeepers, I'd say you've done more than simply prove yourself. We need people like you in our outfit.”

“Well, long as there’s more gold, I’m in.”

“That's the spirit! Larceny's in your blood... the telltale sign of a practiced thief. I think you'll do more than just fit in around here.” He smiles and walks back towards her, motioning for her to follow him into a tunnel behind the tavern. “Follow me.”

Once they turn a corner, he walks over to a wardrobe, opens it, and pushes a false backing, revealing yet another tunnel. As they enter, Andie stops and grabs his sleeve. “Wait.”

“Something wrong, lass?” He turns to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Before we go, I have to ask… word is the guild isn’t doing that well. Is that true?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “We've run into a rough patch lately, but it's nothing to be concerned about. Tell you what. You keep making us coin and I'll worry about everything else. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.” It takes her a moment to realize she’s still holding his sleeve. Letting go she coughs and looks away.

“Right now. Let me show you what we’re all about.”

He finishes leading her to another door, opening it for her to go through first before stepping through himself. Entering in, she recognizes it as the cistern she was in before. Brynjolf walks past her, going towards the bridge that cuts above the small pool of water. Beckoning her to follow, he eventually stops in the center of the four way bridge, in the middle of the cistern. Once there, he motions for her to wait and then waves at the figure standing over the desk she had seen before. Looking up, he gives a nod to Brynjolf before finishing whatever he was looking at and walking over to the pair.

“Mercer? This is the one I was talking about… our new recruit.”

“This better not be another waste of the Guild's resources, Brynjolf.” He turns to look at Andie, the faintest of scowls painted on his face. “Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussion... you do what we say, when we say.”

Andie gives a nod. “Understood.”

“Very well. First thing I want you to do is start finishing something we’ve started. An infiltration job, get in, get out, as cleanly as possible.”

Brynjolf looks over at Mercer with wide eyes. “Wait a moment, you're not talking about Goldenglow, are you? Even our little Vex couldn't get in.”

“You claim this recruit possesses an aptitude for our line of work. If so, let her prove it. Goldenglow Estate is critically important to one of our largest clients. However, the owner has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson. Brynjolf will provide you with the details” He turns to leave, headed back to the desk. “Mercer, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Hmm?” He turns back. “Oh yes. Since Brynjolf assures me you'll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you're in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild.”

As he finishes walking away, Brynjolf turns back to Andie. “Well then, welcome to the family, lass. I’m expecting you to make us a lot of coin, so don’t disappoint me.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He reaches out to pull her into a side hug again before shifting his arm to a more leading position as he takes her off the bridge and back towards the bed she was sitting in earlier that day. “This is officially your spot in our guild. Feel free to stay here whenever you like.” He lowers his arm to his side and then steps towards the wall next to the bed, leaning against it and looking at her with crossed arms.

“So uh, how do I get my cut from here on out?” She sits down on the edge of the bed and looks up at him, hands folded in her lap.

“Simple. Do as you're told and keep your blade clean. We can't turn a profit by killing. You should talk with Delvin Mallory and Vex. They know their way around this place and they'll be able to kick some extra jobs your way. Oh, and talk to Tonilia in the Flagon... she'll set you up with your new armor.”

“Delvin and Vex… got it.”

“Now, I know Mercer gave you a pretty big job here, and we’d like it done quickly, but I also don’t want you going in unprepared. I’d recommend doing some of these jobs for Delvin and Vex before thinking about going anywhere near Goldenglow.” His expression is somewhat neutral, but looking between the lines Andie is able to sense some amount of concern coming from his tone. “Once you’re ready for it, you can come to me and ask me details about it.”

She gives a brief nod before taking another deep breath, shoulders rising and falling. “I’m really in over my head here, aren’t I?”

There’s a long pause before Brynjolf speaks again, voice low so only she can hear. “Look, I meant what I said before, lass. I think you have the makings of a master thief in you. You just need to practice them. Start with Delvin, he’ll give you some easier jobs to start with.”

There’s another brief nod before she stands up. “Right… I ought to get to work then.”

“That’s the spirit!” He gives her a smile before looking away towards an approaching figure. “Back again Mercer? You forget something?”

“Brynjolf. Have you had a chance to speak to our contact in Whiterun?”

Seeing this was not a conversation she should be a part of, Andie turns to head down the tunnel back to the Ragged Flagon. As she passes Brynjolf, she reaches up to place a hand on his shoulder. “See you around.”

He gives her a quick flash of a smile and a wink before turning back to Mercer.

“Sorry, yes. Unfortunately, they no longer wish to be involved in our operation.”

“I trust you’ve applied the appropriate pressure in order to change their mind?”

“I have. I think we may have to turn this one over to the Dark Brotherhood.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. Such a shame..”

Entering back into the Ragged Flagon, Andie makes her way over to the bartender. After getting Delvin, Vex, and Tonilia pointed out to her, she walks over to the table the trio are sitting at.

“Excuse me, uh, I was told by Brynjolf to speak to you all.”

The redguard woman looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. “So you’re the new recruit, eh? Well, looks like you and I are going to have to get very well acquainted.”

“Why’s that?”

“I'm the fence down here. You come by anything you don't exactly own and I'll pay you some coin for it. Minus a little slice for the Guild, of course. I can also provide a few supplies useful to our trade now and again, for a small fee.” She motions to Andie’s lack of weaponry. “For example, I happen to have a bow and daggers available for the taking once you have some more coins in your pocket..”

“Is there anything you don’t charge for?”

“Sure, how about I get Dirge to knock you over your head and dump you into the cistern? Look, I've been in this business a long time and I've seen all types. You can play it tough, you can play it smart... whatever. At the end of the day you'll find all we care about down here is how much gold you can make us.”

Andie is quiet for a moment before silently nodding. “Understood.”

“Good. Then there isn't much more to say. Here's your armor, just make sure you put it to good use.” She leans over to the empty seat at the table and pulls out a bundle of clothes and hands it to Andie. After a moment she sighs and also sets an iron dagger on top of it.

“Thanks. Uh-” She turns to the bald man at the table. “Delvin, right?”

“That’s right. Lemme guess. Brynjolf plucked you off the street and dropped you into the thick of things without tellin' you which way is up. Am I right?”

“Uh, well…” She nods a little. “I could use some help.”

He nods. “See, that kind of attitude comes from someone who wants to get rich and stay alive long enough to enjoy it. We're goin' to get along nicely. So, if you've got the nerve, I've got plenty of extra jobs to help get the Guild back on its feet, and give you the experience you need.”

She looks around at the Ragged Flagon and then back at Delvin. “Was it not like this before?”

“Ha, no. A few decades ago, this place was as busy as the Imperial City. Now, you’re lucky if you don’t trip over a skeever instead.” He sighs and then looks her up and down. “So, you got time for a job then? I heard Mercer gave you the Goldenglow job but, well…”

“Yeah, no I uh, well-” She stops and takes a deep breath. “Yes, a job please.”

“I handle the fishin', numbers and bedlam jobs... the ones with the more personal touch. If break-ins are more your thing, you talk to Vex here.” He motions to the white haired woman sitting in the seat between himself and Tonilia. Andie gives a brief wave to her. At that Vex rolls her eyes and crosses her arms.

“Before we begin, I want to make two things perfectly clear. One, I'm the best infiltrator this rathole of a Guild's got, so if you think you're here to replace me, you're dead wrong. And two, you follow my lead and do exactly as I say... no questions, no excuses.”

Andie blinks and just gives a slow nod. “Then we understand each other... good. Now, it's time to get your feet wet and I don't want to waste a lot of time talking about anything but business.”

Looking back at Devlin, Andie clears her throat. “Uh, tell me about the numbers job?”

“Most of the establishments in Skyrim keep their transactions recorded within business ledgers. Your job would be to change the numbers in those books so the shortfalls from our other jobs look legit. Feel like doing a bit of writin'?”

“Hmm...I can give it a shot.”

“Good. Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut and you'll do fine. Let me give you the details.” He pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to her. “Has everythin’ you need to know.”

“Sounds good...uh...wait, Whiterun?”

“That a problem?”

“N-no, uh, I’ll get right on it.” She takes a deep breath, staring at the note. After a moment she looks up at the trio, gives them a nod, and then turns to head out of the Flagon.

“Wait.”

Andie freezes as she hears Vex get up and walk over to her. “I know the job Delvin is talking about. I need a heist done in the same place, if you feel up to the challenge.” She pulls out a sheet of paper and holds it out to her. “Think you can handle it?”

“Two birds one stone.” She takes the paper and gives a nod before finally leaving the Flagon.

In her new armor, with a dagger on one hip, a bow she picked up off the body of the thug in the tunnel on her back, Andie stands outside Riften looking at the road before her. With a deep breath, she begins making the trek to Whiterun. Down roads, over hills, mountains, across rivers. At night she finds a large tree to lay against, or an abandoned camp to hide in, or even a hole to crawl into. During the day she runs from bandits, wolves, and even spiders. Occasionally she pulls out her dagger, trying to fend off the monsters who she can’t escape from. Messily skinning them and taking their pelts, or attempting to get their poison, she gathers what supplies she can get for the trouble. Weary and exhausted after days of travel, she eventually sees the windmills in the distance, and the large walled off city.

Making her way up the stone path that leads to the gates, she overhears various conversations: the increasing number of bandits on the roads, a strange jester with a coffin up north, rumors that Ulfric may attack Whiterun soon. She pulls out the piece of paper Delvin gave her and writes what she hears on the back of it before shoving it back into her pocket and pushing through the gates into the city proper. She makes her way down the road, past the blacksmith, towards what seems to be a marketplace. Looking around at the various people, she stops when she sees Belethor’s General Goods. Entering in, she spots a Breton standing behind the counter who greets her with a smile.

“Welcome. How can I help you? Anything you want, we have.”

“Oh uh, can I sell stuff to you?” She pulls out part of a pelt she had gathered. “Sure. Let me see what you got?”

They spend the next few minutes going over the various things she had gathered on her way here. As he looks over their quality, Andie takes a moment to take in the building, noting the various doors. Once he’s done, he hands her a bag of coins and with a nod she exits the building. Heading to the tavern across the street she gets a room for the night and heads to bed.

Come midnight she wakes up and sneaks down the stairs and out the door in the kitchen. Everyone was busy with drinks and music in the tavern it seemed, including Belethor. Making her way to the General Store, she finds the back door and slinks down into the cold shadows and pulls out a lockpick. A moment later there’s a click and a second later she’s disappeared through the doors. As it wasn’t a very large place it didn’t take long for her to find the logbook and make the changes noted by Delvin. Next, she snuck upstairs and found the strongbox by his bed. Another quick pick and the lid lifted with ease as she grabbed the amethyst inside. As she snuck back down to the back door, she heard the front door creak. Perfect timing, it seemed, as she snuck out right as he returned. Returning to the tavern and entering through the kitchen door, she sneaks her way back up to the loft to finish her rest for the night…

In the morning, Andie gathers her things and makes her way back out of the tavern. Choosing not to stay for breakfast, she quickly makes her way out the city gates and down the path to the outer fields and stables. As she passes the stables, she notices a man reading a book next to a carriage. Curious, she pauses with a raised eyebrow.

“Is this carriage yours?”

The man looks up from his book and gives her a nod. “It is. You need a lift?”

“Depends. Where can you go?”

“Oh just about anywhere. Windhelm, Riften, Markarth, Solitude. Wherever you need.”

She blinks a few times. “You go anywhere?”

“Yes indeed, and it’s much faster and safer than walking, I can tell you that.”

There’s a slow, almost tired sigh as she looks to the carriage. “Riften, please.”

“Alrighty. Climb on in back and we’ll head off.”

Entering into the Ragged Flagon is a tired, worn, but determined pale, petite girl with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. She makes her way over to the bar, only to spot Brynjolf and Delvin already there.

“Delvin, please tell me you have good news.”

“If I told you that, I'd be lying. We haven't had a bit in weeks. our clients are starting to get angry.” He grabs his drink off the counter and takes a large swig of it.

Brynjolf slams his hand down on the bar. “You tell this sorry bunch of thieves that they need to put down their flagons and get to work if they want to keep their status!”

There’s a long, heavy sigh from Delvin as he sets his drink back down. “I will, I will…”

His gaze wanders and finds Andie, upon which the gloom seems to fade and turn to a smile. “Well now I take it back. There might be good news after all.”

Brynjolf spins around to see Andie standing behind him, and a large grin breaks out on his face. “Welcome back, lass! We thought you had died out there, been gone so long.”

“Yeah I uh, huh I uh, walked. To Whiterun.”

“You… walked.”

“I didn’t know about the-”

“-the carriage?”

“Yeah... ”

“And you’re alright, lass?”

“Oh yeah. Few spiders, few wolves, a couple of bears. Easy.”

He stares at her for a second and then laughs. “Well that would explain that. Vekel, get our new recruit here something to drink. I’m sure she’s thirsty from her travels.”

There’s a nod from the bartender as Andie makes her way over to Delvin. “I got the job done.”

“Nicely done. Here-” He pulls out a small pouch of coins. “Spend it wisely.”

“Vex around here?”

Delvin gives a nod and points out where the white haired woman is sitting.

“Thanks.”

Andie turns and walks over to her and pulls out the gem. “One amethyst from the strong box of Belelthor’s General Goods.”

“Well done. Keep this up and we’ll make a thief out of you yet. Here’s your share.” She pulls out a pouch and tosses it to Andie. “Come back when you want some more.”

Andie nods and turns back to the bar, walking over to sit next to Brynjolf and Delvin.

“So, heard things are still going pretty rough.”

“You’ve no idea.” Brynjolf sighs as he takes a long sip from his drink.

“Look,” Delvin looks over at Andie. “I know the others think I'm a bit daft for sayin' stuff like this, but I'm gonna give it to you straight. Somethin' out there is piss-drunk mad at us. I don't know who or what it is, but it's beyond just you and me. We've been cursed.”

“This again.”

Andie looks between Brynjolf and Delvin and then down at the drink Vekel sets in front of her.

“I mean, anything is possible, right? That’s what my grandfather used to say when it came to things that couldn’t be explained.”

“Grandfather?” Brynjolf looks at her out of the corner of her eye.

Andie doesn’t notice, however, as her attention becomes intently focused on the liquid in the mug.

“Yeah… He raised me after my parents couldn’t. He's the only family I had.”

Delvin shares a glance with Brynjolf and then looks down at Andie. “Sorry for the loss.”

“Is that why you’re in Riften now?”

“Yes. No. Sort of.” She places her right elbow on the bar, resting her hand in her right hand as the left holds onto the drink. “When he died, he left me the deed to Honeyside.”

“I see.” Brynjolf takes another sip of his drink before setting it down on the bar. “So, you from nearby then?”

She shakes her head. “No. Gods no. I’m not even from Skyrim. It took a week's travel or so to get here if my memory is correct. It was a rather long week… I left right after the funeral rites.”

“He didn’t leave you the house you were in?”

“No. Only the deed and some septims.”

“Well,” Brynjolf looks to Delvin who gives him a shrug and a shake of his head. “Whatever his reasons, I can tell you that we’re glad to have you. We haven’t had something go right in ages, and then you walk in with two successful, flawless jobs under your belt.”

“Thanks.” She looks back up at Brynjolf with a big smile. It’s forced, with much melancholy behind it, but the sentiment is genuine.

After a moment he forces a smile back, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve the makings of a great thief. All eyes are on you, lass. But I believe in you.”

She gives him a nod as her smile fades and turns back to the drink. “Well,” She lifts the drink up in the air like a toast. “Let’s get hammered. We have reason to celebrate, don’t we?”

The rest of evening is jovial, not just for the three at the bar, but for everyone in the Ragged Flagon. Tales of her journey through the hills and mountains are told in bardic splendor, and of course, of the thievery itself. Seeing a lute in one corner late into the night, while still barely sober, she grabs it and plays a tune that fills the air with dancing. At one point she even stands atop one of the tables as she performs. She doesn’t remember much after that, but she remembers it as the first good night since her grandfather passed away…

Over the course of the next few weeks, a sort of pattern developed. Delvin and Vex would each give Andie a job, she would get what training she could from her fellow members before packing her bags, leave, come back some time later in a successful triumphant, and a short celebration would be had that night. The Ragged Flagon would be filled with music and laughter, and everyone would get bat shit drunk. On more than one occasion Brynjolf had to be the responsible, sober member of the group to make sure everyone got to their beds safely. Every morning after that, Andie would wake up with a horrible headache, but with pockets filled with coins, lockpicks, gems, and other random baubles people decided to tip her performances with. As soon as the headaches passed, Andie would head out of the Ratway and out on another set of jobs for the guild. Every time she returned, the guild would look better and better. At one point she found her bed not only had better blankets, but even a large screen for privacy. As they regained the respect of various towns, they even got merchants setting up in the same space as the Ragged Flagon, providing even more services and discreet dealing than Tonilia could provide on her own. The atmosphere was rising, as were their riches, and from every corner it was agreed that it was Andie who was making things better and inspiring everyone to work harder. The only person who never participated in these festivities or compliments was Mercer, who forever remained cold and distant...

During this period, she also completed the favor she had agreed to do when she first arrived: speaking to Sibbi Black-Briar about the horse Frost. The conversation with the man left Andie feeling disgusted: he cheated on his fiance, and when her brother found out and attacked him, he murdered him. Fair enough, Andie thought. But then he went on about how ungrateful she was, and how he wanted her head on a platter. It made her sick to her stomach that people like these got away with whatever they wanted. Even his prison cell was still lavish and luxurious. Turns out the deed to the horse was in his family’s estate outside of Riften, and she would need to break into the house to get it. Easy enough. There were a few mercenaries to deal with, but Andie had gotten pretty good with a bow during her travels: sniping a few men who would have attacked her on site anyway would be easy. She did her best to not think of it as murder. Besides, they served the Black-Briars. They probably weren’t exactly good people. If she revealed herself they would attack her anyway, so it was, in a way, self-defense. It was easier to try to think of it like that. The strategy worked, and she managed to get the deed to the horse. But when she met with the man outside the stables of Riften, she realized he must have been cursed because every time she tried to give him Frost and the deed, they would be attacked: first Spriggans, then bears, then bandits. In a fit of frustration she told him that if she killed him then he wouldn’t need Frost, would he? Frightened, he told her to just keep the horse, it was fine, and then ran off. She regretted that, and when she went back to the Ragged Flagon that night, she drank herself into a deep stupor that even Brynjolf couldn’t jolt her out of. She told him she had killed for the first time. People, specifically. She told him about the horse. Everything. In the shadows of the tavern, while everyone else was passed out or asleep, he pulled her into a hug that completely enveloped her figure. She cried in the silence and eventually fell asleep herself. When she awoke in her own bed come the morning, there was a small ring and a note lying on her nightstand.

“It’s never easy the first time, lass. I hope it never does become easy for you. But I’d also like to make sure you make it back home after those long trips of yours, so please take this ring and use it well. - Bryn”

It was a ring that was enchanted to make her aim more precise, more deadly. Hesitantly, she slipped it onto one of her fingers, feeling the power course through her. From then on she used her bow more often than her daggers, and would ride Frost to and from her jobs.

#company in shadows #skyrim fanfic #fanfiction #brynjolf #delvin #vex #Andie Blackthorn #this story is so long why did I write all of this

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dunmerofskyrim · 7 years ago

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“We looked for you,” said Tammunei.

“No need,” said Simra. “I came back.”

Noor kissed her teeth. “From running some gauntlet? Throwing yourself down some gorge?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s what it looks like,” she said. “You look broken.”

“You’ve made that abundantly fucking clear, thank you.”

Simra traipsed the last brief distance between them, across the soft black sand and into their camp. A stone lined fire-pit. The yurt with its canopy furled out from the entrance like some long-muzzled mouth mid-yawn. Both Tammunei and Noor knelt beneath it, shielded from the fine cold mist of rain.

They’d been talking as he approached. Working, crushing roots and seedpods with the flats of their use-knives, paring slivers of things off into bowls and pouches of paper. Alchemy. Some imp-small caprice in Simra half-hoped they’d been talking about him. How long had they searched? How long until they’d have given up if he hadn’t returned? But the rest of him dreaded it. Wanted to sink to nothing into the silt of the beach. Even the way they looked at him was more than he wanted to bear.

His lip was fat, stiff with dried blood. It split open again if he grimaced or tried to smile; made him taste blood if he spoke in anything but a monotone. His one open eye was bloodshot – clots and streaks of black like spider’s legs trapped in amber – lined round the lids and tired and dark. The other side of his face was bruised wine-dark, split open and scabbed at the brow and swollen halfway down his cheek. The bruises continued on under his scarf, under his clothes. Hidden, but they showed in the way he walked. All the worse in the way he sat down, wincing, a hiss in the back of his throat. Not crouching onto his haunches; no care for the sand or dirt as he’d already spent the night wallowing in worse. Just a slump. Like he couldn’t get back up now if he tried.

“Any water?” he grunted.

Noor rose and ducked inside the yurt to rummage. That left Tammunei, knelt in the coat he’d given them. On a day like today it was more sea-coloured than the sea. They angled their head on one side and gave Simra the fullness of their stare. Red-pink owlet eyes, like blood stirred into milk.

“Did one of them butt you?” they asked. “The guar. Kick you?”

Simra coughed up a dry laugh and looked at the ground between his knees. “Not them, no.”

“I could help. Your eye doesn’t look good. You’ve lost it under all that bruise. Is it even still there?”

That was them trying at a joke. Striking bright sparks to feed a dying fire; breathing life over its embers. And that was worse than pity or anger. They said they’d searched. Not ‘where were you?’ Not ‘you had us frightened.’ Just that he’d made them search. And that was worse somehow. When Tammunei Ereshkigal asked around, who and where did they ask? Braving the alleys of Davon’s Watch or searching inside themself, calling in favours from spirits and ghosts to say: Have you seen Simra? He’s gone again.

“Hope so,” said Simra. “I’m done losing bits of myself for shit reasons.”

What if he just hadn’t come back? In the highlands, when Simra came back perfumed huss-heavy with the reek of smoke from setting a piece of horizon ablaze to purge his mood, Tammunei had asked him: Is this why you do it? So that when you come back they’ll be so thankful you’re not gone for good that you won’t ever have to say you’re sorry?

Noor came back from inside the yurt and creaked into a kneel once more. She held out a half-empty skin of water. And when Simra drank it was leather-stale and warm, but sweet for how bad he’d needed it.

“The guar are gone,” she said. “Did you at least get a good price?”

Simra shook his head. The sway and bother of his hair sickened him as it touched his neck, his cheeks. He wasn’t clean. “No.” He drank again, deep, til his mouth felt washed and his voice came easier. “Twenty-eight in glass. A farmer. He took them for draft.”

He jutted a thumb over his shoulder and towards the saltrice paddies that lined the shoreline. Tammunei twitched their gaze about to follow where Simra pointed.

Bulkheads and wavebreaks of piled stones barred off the fields from the sea. Staves of wood, warped with years of wind and salt, struck up from the barriers at intervals, carved with names to say who owned what field. Sometimes a pennant streamed from one: a farmer’s prayer written on scrapcloth. The harvest was long finished, and the fields were nothing but mud, shallow black water, the brackish scent of salt.

A long silence, all three of them waiting for someone else to break it. Tammunei was still, staring out at nothing. Noor worked on, scraping, slicing, mashing with her use-knife. She placed a scrap of shell in her mouth. A moment later, the crack and grind as her backteeth crushed it to paste, and she spat it out into a bowl, pale pink and smelling of colours, pigments, the husked-out old shops and vats of Dyer’s End.

“I fucked up,” Simra said at last. “Lost our money. Not all of it, but most. Twenty-eight drams for the guar and I come back to you with ten…”

“You spent it?” said Tammunei.

“Sort of. No, not really.” The idea made him wince. What would you even buy with all that glass? He hardly knew for how seldom he’d even considered buying something that dear. He remembered Shora on the crane above the water in Riften, spitting when he’d tried to buy her forgiveness with thirty-two pieces of silver. That was the first time he’d spent even close to this much, and in all his life he’d spent more only once. “I fucked up…”

“What happened?” Noor’s voice. Hard to tell if it was gentleness or a simple lack of scorn when he deserved it, but it broke in on him. Too tender. His words stuck thick in the back of his throat and then fell like an avalanche out.

“In town. Sold the guar, so I was feeling alright about that, and when I stopped at a cornerclub for a drink I asked the date, right? My Signing Day, so I stayed for another… And then I was out and I was coming back, going through town to get to the beach, to here, and there was this—… I picked a fight. Not cos I was drunk. I was, but I’d’ve picked it sober too, and done a better job of breaking that fucker’s stones…”

“Why?” said Noor. She had stopped working now.

Simra shook his head. Couldn’t make himself say it. “The townlaw broke it up. Locked me away. Confiscated my…my fucking affects...” He stared into his lap. Closed his eyes a long moment and rubbed at his wrists, firm with his fingers, still raw from the walls of the cell, still scraped from the cuffs he’d worn. Only the copper snake bracelet was coiled round his forearm now. Beads and bangles, all gone. “Gouged me for everything I wanted to get back. Two drams just for my satchel and bookbag. Another five yera for my fucking swordbelt. But I couldn’t get it all. Didn’t wanna come back with nothing for us, so I…yeah…I had to leave some things.”

“You sacrificed the sword but kept the swordbelt?” said Noor.

“Yeah,” Simra murmured.

Swords seldom stuck around. There’d been some he’d sooner have kept, but in the end they all broke or he’d find a better. They weren’t his like the belt was his. Bought with his own coin, made for him, he’d had it longer than it had held any one blade. Swordbelt, spearhead knife, wand, mantle, scarf, he’d kept what he couldn’t stand to lose. Fisherman’s knife and heavy-bladed dagger; boots and jacket, one crude pewter ring; an arrowhead pendant, and necklace of beads and glass. The rings in his left ear they’d shown some small mercy in not pulling out. The gathersack he’d left with the yurt, thanks be. Spear gone, though; sword too. It sounded different when he moved. An empty quiet of cloth and leather.

“They took eight drams maybe on top of that. Not a fine, that. Just theft. Went into my bags fishing for purses…”

Tammunei was frowning, looking over at Noor. “Will we still have enough? For a boat?”

“If we can sell what we’ve made,” she said. “How much more can it cost to cross saltwater than fresh?”

“It’s a long way. I remember that from my mother. Longer than you think, and on bad waters,” said Tammunei. “The Inner Sea has a bad temper. Maybe that will make it cost more…”

“Ghosts and bones!” Simra said, louder and harder than he’d meant to. “You still want to do this. Fuck…”

Tammunei’s face lined deeper, like they were ageing before him. Looking more their age. “Why would we turn back now?”

“Why wouldn’t we? Things’ve gone to shit. That’s what happens when I take the lead. Dunno why I expected any different but I thought maybe just this once…”

“I tried this journey once,” Tammunei said. “Leading people to Vvardenfell. Leading you. That didn’t work out any better, I think. It’s not a journey that’s easy on anyone, but it helps to have the right reasons.”

“And you didn’t? You were a new fucking Veloth after Bodram. A saint leading pilgrims to a new land of fucking promise. Me? I’m just scared of dying. If the right reason didn’t help you, I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

“Don’t play with words you don’t understand,” said Noor. “Your thoughts are stuck in the West. The gods here, and the ghosts that make the land holy — they know that only the Empire say ‘right’ and ‘good’ and mean the same thing, as if there’s no better reason to act than to act for others. But the gods and the ghosts look laughing at that. It’s a dream that makes farmers farm and soldiers fight and die. The good reason is what ought to make you act. The right reason is what will. This is the truth. That the good belongs to the many; the right, to the self.”

“At first I was trying to go home,” said Tammunei. “Like you are now. But even then, I was answering a call. What the dead wanted; what the people following me wanted — I lost myself in that. Being what they needed me to be. Who was I if not for that? But…Noor and I have been talking. She’s…trying to help me find out.”

“Then why help me? Either of you? Clear as anything you’ve got better things to do. Talks to have. Wise thoughts to think.”

“I am someone who helps.” Tammunei shrugged like it was simple. “I can’t stop that. That’s how I know it’s the right choice. And I help you because I want to.”

“But why me? I’m shit company half the time, and what am I the whole rest? I don’t better anything. I don’t help anyone, least of all myself, though fuck knows it’s not for lack of trying… Fuck is it makes you think I’m worth helping?”

“I owe you. And Tammunei won’t leave.” Noor put down her use-knife, hard, on the board across her knees. Her eyes flashed. “Listen. In deep Winter it is easy to forget that Spring will come, but Spring doesn’t need your belief. It’ll come, like it or not, ready or not. Be thankful when it does, and don’t ask why.”

Simra felt like she’d struck him. He breathed out and tried to gather himself to himself. The taste of blood where his lip had split. The heat and flush of not being able to cry. Fucking sophistry, he thought. But instead he buckled, voice broken, sick of fighting them, and sick of fighting himself to win nothing but leave to hate and wallow. He was tired.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m the way I am.”

He drank again from the waterskin, washing the inside of his mouth. Cool water over the frayed inside of his cheek, where it had scored against his teeth. He spat a stream of pink out onto the beach.

“Boats, then,” said Noor.

“Right…” Simra felt round the inside of his mouth with his tongue a moment. Gather, Mend what you can. Then talk. “Right. Chance we could charter something if it comes down to it, rather than wait for passage. Might be we’ll have to. Still got the money, spite of my best efforts.”

Tammunei’s eyebrows twitched a question.

“I made some enemies. A boatload of them, could be. And unless they’re already gone on the first good tide out of Davon’s Watch, might be more than our lives are worth to hang around waiting for a better price…”

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon #Tammunei Ereshkigal #Noor Jedhredzuk

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jesatria · 6 years ago

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The Other Princeps, Chap 37

Title: The Other Princeps Fandom: Codex Alera Characters: Aquitainus Attis, Amara, Antillus Raucus, Ensemble Pairings: past!Attis/Invidia, slight past!Attis/Septimus, Attis/OCs Word Count: 3,621 Rating: R Summary: In which Attis’s confrontation with Invidia during the Battle of Riva goes better for him. AU. WIP. Warnings: Massive spoilers for First Lord’s Fury. Disclaimer: I do not own the Codex Alera. This is only for fun & no profit is being made from it. Previous Chapters

Chapter 37: Aurelius

We remained in Rhodes for nearly two months in all. Much of that time was spent clearing Vord and croach out of the surrounding lands. After the first couple of weeks I split my time between the Legions and the city. Repairs were already well underway to the sections which had been damaged. I even spent some time assisting with the planting. Rhodes would be able to get one harvest in at least before winter. The rest of the province was another story—it was simply impossible to clear out every single path of croach before winter. We did what we could. Those whose lands were still covered in croach could eat the stuff to get through the winter. From what I heard it was absolutely disgusting, but it would do when nothing else was available.

Rhodes Tadius was duly sworn in as High Lord Rhodes, with me serving as an official witness. Witnessing a High Lord’s swearing in was interesting—I’d never been to one aside from my own. It was something of a relief to have a neighbor who wasn’t someone I despised. A few days after the ceremony, we left for Aquitaine. Winter was nearly upon us, meaning it wasn’t an ideal time for marching. Nonetheless the Legions were in high spirits, glad to be going home. The return journey was quicker than the trip to Rhodes had been, since we didn’t have to spend so much time clearing out Vord and croach. Along the way, the Second and Third left the main column to return to their usual winter quarters. The auxiliary Legions would be quartered in the city along with the First.

Crowds were present in the city to greet us, despite the chill in the air. I was so eager to get back to the palace that I hardly noticed them. Thyra, on the other hand, was enjoying the attention. I suppose it felt good after years of essentially being hidden away. I’d hardly set foot in the palace courtyard before we were greeted by Camilla, Phaidros, and Melitta. I barely had time to register how heavily pregnant she was before she pulled me into an embrace. “I’m so pleased you’ve returned safely, my love,” she breathed.

“I’m glad to be home,” I murmured, stroking her hair. “I told you I would be back in time for the birth.”

“The healers have told me our child is due any day now, so it seems you’re just in time.”

“Indeed. How have you been feeling, Camilla? I hope you are not in too much discomfort.”

“Well, I can’t say that I feel comfortable exactly, but it’s bearable. I am quite ready for it to be over,” she admitted. I detected a bit of excitement from her, which was to be expected. I felt the same way about the impending birth. Our child… what would it be like? To my surprise, I found myself not having a preference when it came to gender. The vast majority of Aleran lords would’ve wanted a son so they might have an heir. I myself needed a legitimate heir, but in truth daughters can legally inherit if there are no sons, so it really matters very little. Camilla, curiously, didn’t feel the same way and told me she very much hoped to give me a son and heir. The prospect of fatherhood wasn’t so intimidating now that I’d been a father for the last several months. I was ready now.

Once I was settled in, I sent for Ismene and Clio. They reacted much as Samarra had when I freed them. It wasn’t surprising—I knew both of them had been sold into slavery as young children and thus had no inclination to return to their families. Both made the same decision as Samarra and chose to remain with me as free concubines. I was quite pleased to hear it, as I would’ve been very disappointed to lose either of them.

My freeing of the dancing girls turned out to be just in time, for I’d scarcely been home a week before a courier came with a summons from the First Lord. He desired my presence in Riva, to address the Senate on the subject of the abolition of slavery. I immediately regretted offering to address the Senate if he asked it of me as I read the summons. How could I leave Aquitaine again, with Camilla due any day now? Given my regrets about not finding my bastards sooner, I was determined not to miss the birth. Camilla could hardly travel in her condition. But a summons from the First Lord could hardly be ignored.

Camilla was not pleased when I shared the news with her. “I will return as soon as this is done,” I assured her. “I cannot refuse an official summons of the First Lord.”

“If you must go, then you had better return swiftly,” she retorted, fixing me with a stern glare.

As I packed, it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to bring Samarra along. Who better to speak of the evils of slavery than a former slave? Odiana might’ve been a better example with a more tragic story, but she was not exactly of sound enough mind to address the Senate on her experiences. Having Samarra join me for my address, maybe even speak of her own experiences in Kalare, would surely add something of a personal touch to my speech. To see someone who’d been a slave and had worn a discipline collar might help move some of them to support abolition. They didn’t need to know that she’d been my slave as well until recently. When I mentioned the idea to her, she was quick to agree to it.

A short while later, Samarra and I boarded the windcoach together. I brought with me a sheaf of paper along with a quill and ink—there was no time like the present to begin writing my speech. Writing would be a pleasant distraction from my worry over Camilla, at least. It did not take long for the words to come. I’d always done quite well in Rhetoric class at the Academy and had addressed the Senate many times before. “My lo—Attis.” Samarra’s voice pulled me away from my writing. “What precisely do you want me to say?”

“Speak about your experiences,” I answered. “I won’t ask you to share the most painful parts, only enough for them to understand what it was like to be a Kalaran bed slave and wear a discipline collar.”

Samarra nodded. “I can do that. There’s not so much that’s too painful to speak of.”

It was not long before we arrived in Riva. Octavian was soon there to greet us. If he was surprised to see Samarra with me, he gave no sign. “How has the debate proceeded so far?” I inquired. Knowing what arguments had already been made would allow me to refine my speech.

“We are still at the beginning stages, but my mother has already addressed the Senate on her brief experience being enslaved.”

“And what has the response been?”

“Well, the people are in favor—the Vord War fostered a sense of solidarity that still remains. I can’t exactly say the same of the Senate. A number of Senators have already spoken out against it and I suspect a number of others are opposed as well,” Octavian explained.

“I wish I could say. I’m surprised, but I’m not. Aleran solidarity wouldn’t last long among a bunch of Senators who had money in the slave trade. We will have to do our best to win enough votes to our cause. I have brought someone to help convince them.” I gestured for Samarra to step forward. “This is my concubine Samarra, formerly a Kalaran bed slave. I thought she might share her experiences with the Senate.”

Octavian raised an eyebrow and for a moment I thought he would object before he said, “A good idea. Would you be ready to address the Senate tomorrow?”

“Yes. I already began writing my speech on the way here.”

It was immediately apparent that Riva was not the same city I’d left months ago. Repairs had been made to the areas most damaged in the battle, though it was still a long way from what it had been before the war. High Lord Riva and his architects would have no shortage of work, that was certain. It was not nearly as crowded as the last time I’d seen it either, with some of the refugees having left the city and the High Lords gone to liberate theirs.

Most of my time before the speech was spent revising my remarks, though I did take some time to inform the Aquitainian Senators that I supported abolition and I expected them to vote in favor of it. I wanted my speech to be the best it could be for a cause of such importance. When it was finally done to my satisfaction, I set it aside to wait until the time came. Normally I would’ve memorized it, but there wasn’t the time. It was no matter—I could deliver a speech just as well reading it as I could reciting it. I always scored well in Rhetoric.

When the day came, Samarra and I headed to the Senate chamber as soon as the session began. Both of us put in considerable effort to look our best—appearances were important for an occasion such as this. We wore red and black to represent Aquitaine, as it was traditional to wear your city’s colors when formally addressing the Senate. I accented it with my High Lord armbands and signet dagger, which hung in its sheath at my waist. We waited in my box until it was our turn to speak.

“Nervous?” I asked Samarra as we watched the Speaker of the Senate open the session.

“I’ve never attended anything like this before,” Samarra replied. “I would be lying it if I said I wasn’t nervous.”

I laid a hand over hers. “It’s all right. It’s not hard to ignore the crowd once you’re at the podium. They begin to blur together into one mass. One thing that helps is to choose a spot in the back of the room and keep your eyes on it. Don’t look at the crowd at all.”

“I will try my best to do so.”

“Very good. I’ll give you some calming to help settle your nerves in the meantime.” I reached out with my earthcrafting and soothed her nerves. When it was done, I felt her hand relax beneath mine.

We did not have to wait long before the Speaker called me to the podium. I descended from the box, Samarra following closely behind me. When I reached the podium, the Speaker stepped aside so I could take his place. Samarra stood several paces behind me. I laid my speech on the podium and began.

“Honored Senators, I come before you to speak on an institution which has been a plague on this land for many years: slavery.” My wind furies carried my voice to every corner of the chamber. “We need only to look to the recent wars to see the proof of this. Our own cruelties were turned against us by our enemies. When an evil in our society can be so easily be exploited, there is no sense in allowing such an evil to continue.”

I will not record my entire speech here—it is in the official senatorial record for those who wish to read it. Suffice it to say I continued in that vein for a while, detailing the many ways that slavery was a plague on Alera as well as incredibly cruel. When I finished describing the horrors inflicted by Kalarus on his slaves, I beckoned Samarra forward. “My own concubine Samarra, once a Kalaran bed slave, will share her experiences with you.” I stepped back from the podium and patted her on the shoulder for encouragement.

“Honored Senators,” she began, “my name is Samarra and until recently I was a bed slave belonging to a Kalaran nobleman. High Lord Aquitaine has asked me to share my experiences with you. I was sold into slavery as a very young child, to a slaver who specialized in training bed slaves. There were several other girls in the household as well, some of them collared. They didn’t collar every slave, only those who were disobedient.

“I was thirteen when I was first sold as a bed slave. My new master put discipline collars on all of his slaves as a matter of course. I was collared right after I arrived in his household.” She paused to take a deep breath before continuing. I reached out with a tendril of earthcrafting to calm her. “When a discipline collar is put on you, you feel nothing. But when you obey your master’s orders, the pleasure you feel is like no other pleasure in this world. I was fortunate in that I was not collared for very long. My master thought I was sufficiently docile and obedient and therefore I didn’t need to be collared for an extended period of time. The others, though, they were collared for long enough that they became totally addicted to the feeling. Their eyes all went vacant after a while. All of the other bed slaves had that same look. I was my master’s favorite for a while, but sometimes he wanted two of us. The dead look remained in the other bed slaves’ eyes, even when he bedded them. There simply… wasn’t anything there. They felt the pleasure from obeying his orders, but nothing else. The collars had made them into mindless shells.

“That is my experience with what discipline collars do. My master’s collars paled beside those made by the late High Lord Kalarus. You need only look to his Immortals to see what he was capable of doing with discipline collars. It is time these abuses were ended.” With that, Samarra stepped back from the podium. For someone with no formal rhetorical training, she had done well.

“There you have it. Slavery is a weakness our enemies were able to exploit to great effect, but more importantly it is a moral outrage. Countless brutalities and cruelties have been exhibited upon Aleran slaves, much like what our nation has suffered from the Vord. Are we not one people?” My eyes flicked up to the First Lord’s box, where Octavian sat with Isana by his side. “And if we are one people, how can we allow our fellow Alerans to be treated so cruelly? The First Lord intends to build a new Alera. Let us leave slavery where it belongs—in the old Alera.”

Applause broke out in the chamber as I stepped away from the podium. Relaxing my shields a little so I might sense the mood of the audience, I noticed my words and Samarra’s story had moved them somewhat. “Well done,” said Octavian once the session had concluded. “The plan is to have the Senate vote on this within the week. If we’re lucky, playing on their consciences just enough might overcome their financial interests.”

“Let’s hope their feelings of Aleran solidarity haven’t entirely faded,” I replied. “Would you have me remain here for the final vote? I have already instructed the Aquitainian Senators to vote in favor of abolition.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I understand there are… other matters occupying your mind at the moment,” said Octavian.

“Much appreciated, sire.”

That evening, I dined with Octavian and First Lady Kitai. I was momentarily taken aback by how heavily pregnant she was. So much had happened since I liberated Aquitaine that I’d nearly forgotten about her pregnancy. I didn’t know if these matters differed at all for Marat, but she was likely near her time. With a start I realized Octavian’s child would be very close in age to my own. Our conversation over the meal was quite informative, as Octavian took it upon himself to fill me in on what had been going on in the rest of the Realm. The process of liberation continued, though it would slow down considerably once winter set in. Food was a major concern now, though the liberated areas had been hard at work producing as much as they could. The meal was nearly over when we were interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of my own household Knights Aeris. His face was red and it took him a moment to catch his breath before he spoke. He saluted, then turned to Octavian. “Apologies for interrupting, sire. I have an urgent message for Lord Aquitaine.”

“What is it?” I inquired, my heart beating faster. I had a good idea what the urgent message was.

“It’s the Lady Camilla, my lord. She has gone into labor.”

I all but leapt out of my chair at the news. “When?”

“It began this afternoon. She sent me here to tell you the news as soon as it began.”

I glanced over at Octavian, who smiled. “Go to her, Lord Aquitaine.”

After he dismissed me, I wasted no time donning my flying leathers. “I must return to Aquitaine immediately,” I informed Samarra. “Take the windcoach back.”

“Give my regards to Camilla,” she said as I took my leave of her.

The stars were shining brightly in the night sky when I arrived home. Thyra and Eolus were waiting at the doors for me.

“What’s happening? Has she given birth?”

“Last I knew, she was still in labor,” said Thyra. “We came out here to wait for you.”

“The wait’s over; I’m here. Lead me to her.” Thyra nodded and I followed her and Eolus inside.

“How was it proceeding last you knew?”

“From what the healers and midwife said, things were proceeding as normal,” Thyra assured me.

“It will be fine, Attis. Camilla has the best midwife and healers in the city attending her,” Eolus added, sensing my anxiety. I hadn’t bothered hiding it behind my shields.

I waved a hand. “Of course. It’s only that this is the first time I’ve gone through this, so you’ll have to forgive me for being a bit anxious.”

When we arrived at Camilla’s chambers, a small crowd of family members had already gathered in her solar. I paused only to greet Phaidros and Melitta before making for the door to her bedchamber. The doors opened and Sabina gave a surprised gasp when she saw me there. “Attis, you’re just in time! The child has been born!”

Waves of relief and elation washed over me. “And Camilla?”

“Perfectly fine, though exhausted from giving birth. Come in and see.”

I followed Sabina inside and made straight for the bed. Camilla lay propped up on the pillows, our child resting in her arms. “Attis,” she breathed, “you’ve returned.”

The midwife and healers who were clustered around her bed moved aside and I seated myself on the mattress. Camilla’s face was pale and weary, yet her eyes were bright. “We have a son.”

My mouth broke into a wide grin and I let out a cry of joy. I had a son, one who would be legitimate once Camilla and I wed. She held him out to me and I gingerly took him into my arms. He was a red, wrinkled thing, gazing at me with clever, curious eyes. I’d never bothered to sense the emotions of an infant before, but a wave of simple contentment hit me from him. “Hello,” I said softly, “I’m your father. I’ve been greatly looking forward to meeting you.”

The three of us remained like that for several minutes before the doors burst open and the crowd who’d been waiting in Camilla’s solar rushed in. Thyra, Phaidros, and Melitta were the first through the doors and made straight for the bed.

“Children,” I began, “this is your new brother.”

They gathered around me, gaping at the child in my arms. “He’s so small!” Melitta exclaimed.

“You were surely so small, once,” said Camilla.

“I was hoping for another boy!” Phaidros remarked, grinning. “What’s his name?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” I replied. “You’ve got another younger sibling to look after. That’s an important responsibility.” I did not think there would be any animosity between my illegitimate children and my legitimate child, but I still wanted to emphasize that we were all one family.

“Of course!” said Phaidros. “It’ll be just like being a big brother to Melitta. I can’t wait to teach him some crafting!”

Thyra leaned forward to look at her new brother, studying him intently. “He has your eyes, Father.”

“Yes, he does.”

The rest of my and Camilla’s families had by now gathered around the bed, all eager for a look at the baby. They each took their turn and offered us their congratulations. After a while the baby began to fuss and I could sense Camilla’s growing weariness. Slowly they trickled out until Camilla and I were left alone.

“You are sorely in need of rest, my dear,” I said, pushing a lock of hair away from her face.

“Yes.” Our son was now sleeping in her arms. “But our son needs a name.”

We’d hardly discussed names at all previously, only whether we wanted a son or a daughter. “Well, we could go the more traditional route and name him Marius after my father, but… I rather like the name Aurelius. Aquitainus Aurelius flows nicely, don’t you think?”

“Aurelius,” she said as if she were tasting the name. “A good name. Aquitainus Aurelius.”

#the other princeps #codex alera #aquitainus attis #au #jesatriafic

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tenesen-khuu · 8 years ago

Text

The departure.

At the top of a hill, from the crest of which the camp's edge can be only just be seen, stands a boy who should not exist.

Many, many generations past, the children of the Creators lived upon the steppe, beneath the Eternal Blue Sky. Their lives were not always peaceful and never easy; at times, they quarreled with each other, or the rain would not come, and young and old died by hunger, dagger, or disease. But they lived. The sun shone upon the grass, and the beasts of the steppe grazed upon it, and the people reaped their milk and meat in the way the Creators had taught them. Thus were they nourished by the land for countless turns, summer after winter, generation after generation, in harmony and obeisance to the Earth.

Then one day, the scouts brought word of wonders they had seen in the south, beyond the steppe and the range of the children of the Creators. Whispers swiftly spread among all tribes of this far-off, fertile land, where strangers, the Southern People, lived fat and indolent lives on the easy bounty. The children of the Creators, who had never known such luxuries as the Southern People enjoyed even existed, were filled with astonishment, then resentment, then greed. They looked at themselves, their bodies tough and strong from their years on the steppe, at the Southern People, weak and puny, and wondered: why should they obey the dictates of Creators and accept such hard and meager lives when they, with their swift horses and keen archers, could take what these undeserving Southern People had? The whispers continued, and the tribes' blood was inflamed with wrath and desire, and soon the horde descended on the south, slaughtering the weaklings and taking their riches for their own.

The children of the Creators had never before enjoyed such overabundance. They not only gorged themselves on food and wine but rolled in perfumes and wrapped themselves up in silks. They even covered themselves in jade and shiny silver, useless ornaments that they had never wanted on the steppe. They were happy -- and yet their greed, far from being sated, only grew. What else, they wondered, could they plunder from the south? What new delights and pleasures could await? They raided more and more, making the Southern People their slaves, burning their homes and killing their families. And their wealth and greed grew and grew in step together; soon nothing was more important to them than increase of their plunder, and they forgot compassion and hospitality, respect for the spirits, harmony with the Earth.

Soon they even forgot thrift, and endurance, and self-denial, all the things that had once made them leaner and stronger than the Southern People. And the Southern People grew angrier and angrier each year. The persecution of the raiders had calloused their soft flesh; their shared sufferings made their bonds of brotherhood grow strong. And then, one summer, when the sun was at its zenith, at last they had enough. While the children of the Creators revelled and feasted drunkenly, the Southern People surrounded them, then set upon them. The slaughter once visited on the children and elderly of the Southern People was returned. The ground ran with blood, and barely one of each family was able to escape, and fewer survived their wounds to struggle back to the steppes.

Those who returned soon realized that they had forgotten the teachings of the Creators, and, naked and starving, many more died. But, slowly and painfully, the few survivors remembered what they could and learned anew what they could not. They remembered how to hunt and how to herd, how to shelter from summer heat and feed the flock through winter cold. They lived -- not with the luxury of the fertile south, but they lived.

They remembered, and their children remembered, with some difficulty. But their grandchildren began to forget, and by the time their great-grandchildren had grown into women and men, again the whispers began to spread across the tribes. The south, once ravaged, had blossomed again, and was said to burst with even greater riches. The young people talked not only of jade and silver but of diamonds and gold, and of how the Southern People had grown soft again, while the children of the Creators were strong. Greed and bloodlust burned in their hearts, and the joyous chorus went up, crying for a new and wonderful war.

Only one tent was quiet; in it, a mother and father mourned. The other tribes cheered at the thought of the prosperity to come -- but the mother and father knew that theirs would be no true prosperity, but an evil medicine that would bring only suffering, again and again and again. And so as the warriors swung into their saddles and turned their horses south, the mother and father rolled up their tent, gathered their herd, and turned away, into the deepest part of the steppe. There, they and their children hunted and herded, suffered the storms and the snows, starved and lost, and lived, as the Creators had long-ago taught, in harmony with the Earth. And when the other tribes returned from the south, bloodied and battered and begging for succor, they would no more speak with them, and turned away.

That is why we live the way we do, away from the other tribes. We keep the old ways, carrying only what we need. Our bodies are thick and strong, but our arrows are for the hunt, and our horses are for herding. We defend ourselves, but we do not murder and plunder, for greed is a hunger that deepens when fed. We honor our ancestors, the spirits, and the Creators, and we live and die between the Earth and the Sky. So it is for all who are truly one of us.

That is what they said.

Many, many winters past, under a black sky that thundered without rain, the Dark Stranger came. Some thought they should have killed her, this infiltrator from the Outside; more thought she should at least have been expelled and left behind, in obedience to the laws of ancient custom. But she appealed to them -- threatened them -- offered handfuls of iron rings, strong colored thread, hunting knives made of what she called steel -- put a hand to her belly and begged. It was the shaman's decision that allowed her to remain, and the rest obeyed, although they were uneasy.

For three moons' nights she slept outside the tents, in the saddle of her black horse. In the day she stood apart or disappeared into the hills to hunt, bringing back a marmot or a gazelle. When one of the men remarked that no woman he'd ever known could shoot a bird out of the air, she went with the hunters the next day to do exactly that; they murmured about the ease with which she pulled back her giant bow and the distance from which she could loose a deadly arrow, not all in complimentary tones. When the day shortened and her body swelled, she sat with the women spinning wool around the fire, and they stared at her jet-dark arms and their covering of scars. From then she slept inside, and they shared with her their food and drink, and they answered her questions, when she spoke -- but would not question or touch her.

She gave birth on a sunless noon, the sky once more black and roaring. No one would come within; she tied the infant's cord herself and wrapped it in her shirt. She nursed it a few moons, sitting astride her horse, eyes on the distant horizon. Then, at the frost, she left. The child was left behind.

None of the women wanted it; it was the shaman who picked him up, carrying him tucked inside his jacket as he drove his own small herd. On mare's milk the child grew withered and limp, and he ought surely to have died once, twice, on many nights. He lived, small and sickly, and cried only softly, when he had breath. From a weak and tiny baby came a weak and tiny youth, dull-eyed and sedate, who when outside would never run and play but sit, silent, on a mound of earth, staring at the grass and the clouds or looking into the distance.

For boys to learn to shoot and wrestle they had to be bold, strong, and bright, full of the blood and vigor of life. He could not run without making himself sick, and airag made him sicker. He was left behind with the women and sheep. His hands were small and nimble enough to cook and to sew -- but more often he burned or mangled what he tended, for his mind and eyes were elsewhere. They'd fix his mistakes with a sigh, remembering that he was good for nothing, this child whom they never should have allowed, a child who shouldn't exist.

"You're different," the shaman would tell him, "and special. You come from hardship, through hardship. And beyond hardship is great destiny. My ancestor made me aware of it, bade me protect and guide you until you are ready. On the reverse of weakness is power, power you must ready yourself to receive."

He shivered instead through a dozen illnesses, receiving nothing but a great dollop of blood on the dawn of his eleventh spring.

That summer when the Dhoro met, the shaman took the boy with him when he traveled between tents, speaking to the families of the ill and afflicted. He helped his mentor into his regalia, then sat quietly to the side, tearing off sprigs of dried thyme to add to the fire. He observed as the shaman pounded his drum and spun, whirled till the glinting mirrors on his robes flashed like lightning or a fall of meteors, and thrummed and screamed in combat with the malignant spirits. He watched the frightened family cry and cling to each other, then gasp in amazement as their ailing mother sat upright. Then he stood and aided the man who, on return from his flight, felt unsteady, and observed the thanks of the family, not only spoken in words but counted out in goods. Then on to the next tent to make diagnoses and dispense advice, to speak blessings or shamanize when appropriate.

At the end of one treatment, when the two had left the tent, the shaman turned to him and asked, "Could you feel it, when the soaring-demon surrendered and took flight and the oppression lifted? Your sensitivity to the spiritual is very strong. Tell me, did you notice the turning point and feel it go?"

He felt nothing.

Their relationship continued, winter after summer after winter after summer. Among their families at their camp, at the greeting of one camp by another, and at the great meets, he followed along and assisted, observing. He smelled a great deal of smoke, burning herbs, and juniper, and he heard many songs, chants, and wails, and the myriad intrigues and tragedies of their clients' families. And the listened hard for spirits and demons, the murmurings of ancestors below and beings above -- but he heard nothing.

His sensitivity was strong -- to the wind, the sky, and the grass. He knew, before the shaman told him, when they passed over an underground river, from the tingling in his feet and the plants he saw growing around them. He watched a family of foxes the rest of the camp never knew denned beside them and knew, from the fluttering of the birds, the very day they had moved on. He knew the iron zud was upon them before it was explained to him what one was, and he knew which animals would first die. Sometimes, in certain places, when he was very quiet and still, he thought he could feel the earth breathing, sometimes deeply, sometimes shallowly, sometimes as if in a peaceful or restless sleep.

He knew the myriad insects and animals, flowers and clouds, rocks and winds, more than his language had named. But whenever his mentor listed for him the types of demons and devils, the names of the heavenly beings, the attributes of the White Old Man or the Very Old Grandmother, he didn't understand.

"It is lore I learned from my master and from the ancestors who have visited me," the shaman said. "When you become a shamaness, your ancestor will teach you the names of the demons and spirits and how to conquer them."

But he knew that would never happen because a boy could not become a shamaness.

In his fifteenth summer, he felt it, long before they stepped into the client's tent. The presence hung like a heavy cloud over the residence, an oppressive miasma, as if the air had been twisted into a thousand invisible threads and knotted into a thick, obstructive blanket.

The shaman did his work, threatened the demon with his staff and dagger, spun to a stop and prayed with the family. The ill girl raised her head and smiled at him, full of hope -- and it was true that the air in the tent had become lighter.

The boy alone kept his eyes on the shadows in the tent, shoulders tense, frowning.

"You should give libation to the cairn at the river-crossing this summer to ensure it does not take offense once again," his mentor advised them.

That won't be enough, the boy thought.

And she did die before summer arrived.

"Sometimes the opposing spirit is more powerful than those I can muster," his mentor said, when he dared to ask.

But how do you know it is that? How can you be content with such an answer and move on? How much -- how little -- do you really understand?

He needed to understand.

He began to watch the shamanizing with doubled attention. He visited the cairns himself, standing with his bare feet on the earth and staring at them, searching. He left the tent one night to climb up the slope to a burial site, a place the shaman had warned him to never set foot, lest the ancestors take offense. He lay among the rocks and bones; he kicked one off the mountainside. There was no evil there, no twisted air and shuddering earth -- not like the plains they sometimes crossed that smelled like ancient, dried-up blood.

The shaman named demons and spirits and ancestors confidently; the boy lay on his back and looked up at the stars and tried to count how many of them had no names.

A plague swept through; he should have been stricken, but he wasn't. Instead, the camp's newest-born daughter went limp in his arms, drowned, as he tried to revive her.

"The old ways are hard to live by."

He cursed the old ways.

Many, many nights later, the boy who stands at the top of the hill looks down at the sheath in his hands. He pulls the knife from it, twists it in his hands -- sees in it his blurry reflection.

Steel.

He looks up at the sky full of stars; he looks back at the distant shape of the camp.

He looks forward -- towards the south.

On his back is the staff of the shaman, one that he was told could only be his when he at last became a shamaness. He has held it before, taken it out into the darkness for years, and practiced the dance of fire; with no ancestor, no possession, no initiation, he bent it to his will nevertheless. Another law of ancient custom he defied, to be added to the list of dozens, hundreds.

But the ancient customs are not his, just as the ancestors are not his, just as the Dhoro are not his. The old ways are not good enough for him. The ancient understanding, the wisdom of ages, the teachings of the Creators -- none of them are good enough for him.

This tiny corner of the steppe, where they hide from the vastness of the world, fearful of the unknown, is not enough.

He is impossible here; he should not exist.

Yet he exists, so he must be possible.

And by staying here, he cannot understand how.

#ffxiv rp #xaela #dhoro #kharadai dhoro #stories #subject to much retconning when we actually get lore #orz

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egistential · 8 years ago

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A Possibility of Perspectives: Aelin and Celaena

In other words, the concept post that no one asked for but I stopped caring over 2.5 billion years ago so we’re doing it anyway.

A while ago I posted something of an opinion piece on my experience reading Throne of Glass. It’s here if you’re interested, but in it I mentioned the idea of having Aelin and Celaena not as the same person, but separate characters with different backstories and motivations. I didn’t explain it very well there, but I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I think I’ve figured out how I’d try to make it work.

This mainly covers potential backstory up to the beginning of Empire of Storms. Also, this isn’t saying what Sarah should have done: this is just what could have been done, or what I might have done if I were to write the same story.

Prior to the start of the series, at around the same time in Terrasen, maybe a few months to a year apart, two baby girls are born. First is Aelin Galathynius, heir to the throne, future chosen one, etc. Second is Celaena Sardothien, a common born daughter, only child to a pair of palace servants. She grows up close enough to the castle that people notice her, some guards even mistake her for the young princess, but one look at her non-Ashryver eyes is enough to confirm that it’s just another kid.

Eventually Adarlan starts flexing its Imperial Muscles and Terrasen gets nervous. The king is taking the children of prominent foreign nobles into his court and keeping them as leverage, and while Terrasen may have the military force to withstand an invasion, they really don’t want to test it. The court knows Aelin will be a target, and with her magic so unstable she’s at even bigger risk. But with foreign powers prodding at their borders? It’s risky to send her away from home, and while Wendlyn would be a nice option, Evalin reminds them that Aelin in any proximity to Maeve is Bad News.

One of the advisers throws out a suggestion: a body double. Aelin already has guards but what about on those especially risky occasions? Take her out of the equation entirely, replace her as a variable with a decoy. No one is really a fan of this suggestion because whoever they got would have to be very young and would suddenly find themselves in pretty intense danger. But with Aelin as the only apparent heir the court has they realize it’s time to accept that they’re out of options.

They’re careful with the selection: no one that could give anything away, no one that could be bought off or secretly a spy. They can’t use any noble children, as they can’t risk alienating their parents or their own forces. Elide Lochan comes up as an option but she’s too young and looks too little like Aelin to be a suitable candidate. So, scouts take to the streets. They comb the capital and the nearby town-steads for blonde haired, blue eyed girls in the six to eight year age range and take a list of all potential candidates.

Roe and Orlan pore over the list for days: this one comes from too large a family so too many potential leaks, this one is foreign born so no confirmation of loyalties, this one’s parent’s are in substantial poverty and could be susceptible to bribes. None of them seem to work and, honestly? They don’t want to find one that does work. It’s tearing a child away from her family and isn’t that what they’re trying to avoid themselves? They take a breather for an hour and while Orlan is wandering the palace he stumbles across her.

Celaena doesn’t spend much time in the castle, despite her parents working there. But today is different: today the neighbors can’t watch her and her school is closed for the day. So, her mother and father had no other option than taking their seven year old bundle of energy with them to work. She wanders the halls, close enough to her mother to hear her call but far enough that she can still get into trouble on her own. She’s sprinting around a corner when she barrels face first into a pair of very finely tailored pants. Occupied pants, to be precise.

Orlan actually mistakes her for Aelin at first: they have the same hair, the same infectious laughter, the same carefree spirit. Orlan is ready to run back to his study to find Roe when one of the maids comes around the corner, gasps, and begins shuffling the child behind her– all while offering profuse apologies. Orlan finally manages to calm her down before her comes back to his office later than planned, greeting his brother with the words: I found her.

They begin the process of integrating the girl into her new role. They convince her parents, who argue but eventually acquiesce after the insistence of state security and that having their daughter serve as a double for the princess will help the country overall. Celaena agrees, but only because she’s a child and sees the whole offer as some grand adventure. After that they begin the process of scrubbing Celaena Sardothien from the state records: she’s unenrolled from school, her immediate family is relocated closer to the palace. She’s measured, dressed, and groomed until the only thing really separating her appearance from Aelin is the eyes. They tutor her privately at the castle and soon they have a near perfect decoy for the princess.

Aelin and Celaena start off on rocky footing. Aelin wonders who this other girl is, why they must have their hair the same way and why she’s wearing all of her dresses and jewelry, why she gets to go to parties and banquets while the real princess is stuck in her chambers. Celaena wonders the same things: the princess looks healthy so why is she confined? She isn’t very social or personable, and she’s something of a brat, but other than that she seems perfectly normal.

It isn’t until a few months into the ruse that Celaena finds out part of why they brought her in. Aelin throws a tantrum one night: It’s her birthday ball, and she ought to be there in person. Unbeknownst to her, the King of Adarlan arrived the night before with an invitation that had only been offered as a token. She throws a fit, setting the curtains on fire while Celaena is still in the room, revealing exactly why they need the double.

The girls bond after that some, not enough that they can really call each other friends, but they can at least start to sympathize with one another. They start to see one another’s captivity. Aelin understands after a while that Celaena has had to live her entire life as a secret in order to protect her. Celaena notices that she sort of is stealing the princess’ life. They’re still kids and they still bicker but they’re finally able to see somewhat eye to eye.

Then Adarlan attacks. It’s one of the nights where Aelin is stable enough to come to the table herself. Dinner goes as it does in the books with Aelin eventually going semi-supernova and being shipped off to the family’s vacation home. Celaena is, as always, sent with her. Celaena stays with the servants and is there when the assassins attack. Marion finds them both and switches the Amulet of Terrasen from Aelin to Celaena, just in case they get caught it can serve to throw their attackers off. She sacrifices herself to protect the girls but they still end up separated during their escape.

A well meaning and surviving servant finds the young heiress and, having some knowledge of the Ashryver lineage, decides that Wendlyn is the best option for the princess. Aelin, still young and suitably shell-shocked, forgets that this is, in fact, A Bad Idea. They arrive, the servant is thrown to the wolves (literally or figuratively, you decide), and Maeve starts grooming her new weapon of mass incineration for her future Schemes.

Aelin takes to life in Doranelle, and as Maeve no longer has to worry about her long-winded Empire of Storms plan, she can move on the girl a bit faster. She’s finally trained in her Fae powers, and is introduced to the Cadre. She rises to prominence in Doranelle and ends up relatively loyal to Maeve, always wondering why her mother was so opposed to meeting her aunt.

Arobynn finds Celaena washed up on the riverbank. Maybe he’d seen her during a speech or at a party but was never able to get close enough to notice her eyes. Still, the girl looks similar enough and somehow manages to have Brannon’s amulet around her neck. Even if she isn’t the princess and is actually the body double he’s heard whispers of he’ll have enough leverage to pull the story off. He expects a random washed up orphan to do what he says, to pick up on the training because she’s still young enough to be conditioned, but he doesn’t expect how well she takes to it.

Celaena loves being an assassin, thrives in the profession. Her entire life has been cloak and dagger at this point, secrecy may very well be her middle name. She’s petty, she’s angry, and she’s good at her job. She’s a skilled reader of people, knows her way around the court, and seems a ghost with the way she’s able to slip in and out of locations so quickly. She falls in love with Sam and still ends up shipped off to Endovier but this time around she sees the slaves from Terrasen and Eyllwe in a different light. These aren’t her subjects, these are her people. If she hadn’t been the body double she’d either be dead or here already, most likely.

Throne of Glass starts the same way, most of the story happening at the same pace as the original, as not much of the Terrasen/Aelin plot line had been introduced by then. There’s a bit more time spent with Nehemia, the girls bond over being captives, the rebels start to be hinted a little earlier, but otherwise the assassin competition goes off with the prescribed number of hitches.

Crown of Midnight is when Celaena first hears that Aelin might be alive, and she doesn’t want to believe it but the name brings back bad memories and old hurts. Nehemia is the one to tell her and she trusts Nehemia. Nehemia is her best friend, Nehemia is fighting for the exact same things as her– why shouldn’t she believe her? This time around Nehemia survives because Celaena, not trying to avoid responsibility as Aelin, is more comfortable taking up the role of a rebel. What spurs her to Wendlyn then, what drives her across the ocean and into the arms of the fae? Proof. Living, breathing, tangible evidence that Aelin is alive and hiding out, playing court with Maeve. Some liason from Wendlyn is working with the rebels and lets it slip that one of their scouts spotted a girl that looks shockingly similar to Celaena running around the forest near Doranelle. So, in this scenario, Nehemia has no reason to sacrifice herself and stays behind to avert suspicion away from Celaena while she goes princess hunting across the sea.

In Heir of Fire Celaena is still shipped off to Wendlyn, but this time she’s got a new vendetta: find Aelin and drag her back home. She stumbles her way through the forest rather than getting drunk on a roof because this is a Girl On A Mission. One of the cadre eventually drags her to Maeve because, once again, she looks uncannily like Aelin. Celaena had heard of Maeve, she’d heard bad things about Maeve. She listened a kid, she heard when Evalin spoke in hushed tones about the fae woman– Celaena knows she’s Bad News. So, she avoids telling her too much. She drops hints that she’s trying to find Aelin, maybe implies a connection the the resistance, just enough to entice but not to endanger. Maeve sends her off shortly thereafter, intent on watching what’s about to play out. Celaena doesn’t spend much time in Mistward, instead sticking to the streets of the cities making connections, all while trying to find a way into the Ashryver palace to tell them exactly what the king of Adarlan is planning. She makes friends there, but Maeve is smart enough to keep one of the Cadre watching her, always reporting on her movements back to the Fae queen. Aelin hears about Celaena for the first time in years through this spy work, and she starts to wonder if this girl is that Celaena from her childhood and she begins planning an eventual meeting.

When the girls meet again for the first time Sparks Fly. Like, literal sparks. Like Aelin-setting-things-on-fire-and-Celaena’s-daggers-scratching-on-metal-and-stone-so-fast-they-cause-a-Smoky-the-Bear-fire-safety-commercial sparks. Aelin doesn’t have anything against Celaena, but here she comes demanding that the princess come back and help her people? Maeve’s been the one taking care of her and when did Terrasen send anyone to find her? She’s in Doranelle, she’s with her mate– she wants nothing to do with Erilea or Adarlan. Celaena just sees a scared little girl running away from her responsibilities and she is not having it. There’s more at risk than Aelin’s comfort and come hell or high water she is going to make this girl see it. And hey, after the prerequisite kicking and screaming, she manages to drag her onto a boat destined for Rifthold.

Sorscha even survives this time, because while Dorian and Chaol’s relationship is Complicated, Dorian’s relationship with Nehemia substantially less so. Dorian believes Nehemia because Celaena believes Nehemia, so when Dorian starts to notice things going bad with his father he convinces Nehemia to sneak Sorscha out to a safe house. This also gives Nehemia substantial warning to prepare some defenses for herself and establish a getaway plan in case she needs it. She still wants to stick around because Celaena still needs the intel she can filter to her through the rest of the rebels.

Queen of Shadows has the girls in a split PoV. Celaena does all the familiar things: running around with the rebels, eating candy in bed with Nehemia, stabbing dudes. You know– the usual. She kills Arobynn but this time around she maintains the foresight to keep the position as Queen of the Assassins. Celaena isn’t Aelin here, she doesn’t have that reputation to maintain and she’s been stabbing and secrecy most of her life so to finally have a place at the peak of that pyramid? She takes it and doesn’t let go.

Aelin spends most of the book trying to reorient herself to Adarlan. It’s foreign and unfamiliar and she’s utterly alone save for her former servant turned body double turned assassin who very clearly cannot deal with her right now. That solitude forces her to finally come to terms with the continent she abandoned as she meets rebels and royals and everything in between, all fighting to restore her throne with more vigor than she’s ever managed to muster towards the effort.

Empire of Storms hits and Celaena still isn’t super into Terrasen for a few reasons. They stole her identity for one thing, and then their iconic princess up and disappears, leaving everyone to die for her afterwards? Not a fan. But she’s a commoner, a lowborn servant girl who just so happened to look enough like a princess to serve as a possible meat shield. Any other blonde haired, blue eyed girl could be in her position, and since Celaena understands the concept of empathy she wants to help. Nehemia wants her to help. Aelin wants to avoid the issue and since Celaena doesn’t want to do what Aelin wants, that means they’re going. They’re going to meet the nobles and rebels and all the people that have been fighting for Terrasen while Aelin has been off with Maeve. Then they meet Darrow.

Celaena loves Darrow. She really does. She remembers this polite man who pulled her to the side when she got overwhelmed at court functions, who always seemed to have a never ending supply of candy with him whenever he saw her. Darrow was like a light in the darkness during her tormented youth and so when Aelin starts acting High And Mighty Celaena wants nothing to do with it. Aelin goes off to do her symbolism things and garner some semblance of support while Celaena helps in Terrasen, all while managing her own connections. Their quests continue together after this, with Aelin tagging along to make use of Celaena’s resources in the eventual war effort.

I’m not sure where I’d go with the concept after this point, and even now this post isn’t as comprehensive as I’d like it to be (You’ll notice the stunning lack of most characters, as I had enough to deal with trying to separate Aelin and Celaena into new and unique roles). Once again, this isn’t what I think Maas should have done. This is what I, as another writer of fantasy, would have likely gravitated towards if given the same general outline and characters as Throne of Glass.

#tog #anti tog #it's tog but another concept that i think is more interesting so maybe???#it's typed it's staying #alphinah #there were other tags but they broke things so they gone now

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dontenchantme · 5 years ago

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garden of eden - part three

Rated E, Satan x MC.

[no rad au] he was the serpent who had lured her out of paradise. she ought to hate him, but she didn’t.

fics masterlist

It was dark outside. She glanced at the time and exhaled, reaching up to knead her shoulder. Just a few more minutes and she should be able to head home.

God, when did she become this stiff? She should look for a good massage parlour this week. A reward for finally getting rid of that leech, maybe. Oh, and she ought to put up an ad for a new flatmate too. The rent was due soon, and some extra cash would come in handy.

Taking one last look at the report, she was satisfied there was nothing more she could add so she saved the file, finally able to switch off her laptop. It was already past eight, and she was one of the few people still in the office. She rose from her chair, her bones aching, and looked down the hallway. The lights were dim, and it threw the whole passage into shadow.

It wasn’t the first time she had stayed this late, but she never liked how the office looked after-hours. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, not exactly, but the silhouettes of the desks and printers and empty chairs just seemed so much more…eerie when there was no one around.

Deciding to pack her things, she paused when she opened the cabinet and saw the dagger gleaming back at her, the jewels twinkling under the office lights. Just looking at it made her chest tighten. She still didn’t know what to do with the weapon, and simply staring at it wouldn’t help her make up her mind. She had to talk to Satan.

Talk to Satan. She snorted. As though it would be that easy to even contact him. She still had no idea why he showed up in the washroom this morning, but he seemed like the type to do things as and when he wanted, and it wasn’t like she knew how to summon him either.

Well, he did tell her to get angry if she wanted to see him. But rage was a complex emotion – it wasn’t like hunger or boredom or exhaustion. She couldn’t get mad without a trigger, and she didn’t intend to search for one either. Upsetting herself would be nothing but counterproductive.

She grabbed the dagger, hiding it within her coat, and picked up her bag. It was time to go.

The trip home was fairly uneventful, at least until she got off the bus.

She was pretty sure there was someone following her, and she quickened her pace, hoping that she was just being paranoid. The back of her neck prickled, and she tightened her grip on her bag. She knew some basic self-defence, so if it came down to that…

Her apartment wasn’t too far away. Once she went into the building, she should be safe. The streetlights were still on, but the illumination they provided was of scarce comfort when she could sense her stalker following her still, likely waiting for the best opportunity to strike.

What did they want? If it was money, she didn’t have much. But if it was something else they wanted…a shiver ran down her back, and she swallowed, her throat dry. All of a sudden, the darkness seemed so much more foreboding. Her nails were stabbing her palm and it stung, but the pain grounded her; without it, she might end up having a panic attack.

She thought she could hear the sound of footsteps approaching, and she resisted the urge to peek over her shoulder, trying to convince herself that she was imagining things. She was fine. She would be fine. There was nothing to worry about.

Why did this week have to be so crappy? Work was terrible, her good-for-nothing ex cheated on her, and now this. Maybe it was time for her to go back to church or something.

As she hurried down the street, trying not to look behind her – she was curious, but she didn’t want to frighten herself – she walked past an alley. Without warning, a hand snaked forth and grabbed her, dragging her into the darkness. An instinctive scream rose within her throat, but before she could make a sound, she felt another hand cover her mouth, muffling her.

“Shh.” She inhaled – it was a familiar voice, smooth and seductive, a lover’s caress against her skin. “He’s searching for you now, and if you scream you’ll just give yourself away.”

She nodded, and he released her, his fingers lingering on her cheek – she glanced back and saw Satan smiling at her, green eyes almost glowing in the darkness. “Why did you save me?” she whispered, puzzled by his sudden magnanimity.

“I thought it might be interesting to see how you’d react.” His smile widened. “You sensed it, didn’t you? That someone was following you. But there’s no need to be afraid.” He gestured towards her coat, and her hand instinctively reached up, resting over her hidden dagger.

“You want me to use this on him?” she asked, her voice trembling. He shrugged, looking her square in the eyes, his gaze unflinching.

“I don’t intend to help you, you know. If you know another way back to your apartment from here, then I’m all ears.” She heard a hint of challenge in his voice, but she lifted her chin and stared back at him, unwilling to back down. If he thought she was going to beg him to save her, then he didn’t know her in the slightest. She wasn’t one to admit defeat so easily.

Maybe there was another way back to her apartment from here. Deciding to follow the passageway, she went deeper into the darkness, Satan trailing casually behind her. It was a winding path, and the further she walked the less she could see – part of her mind began to wonder if this place even existed before today. She didn’t remember seeing this alley before.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” Satan’s voice floated out from behind her, and he sounded amused. She gritted her teeth, tempted to retort, but she held her tongue – it was probably better to focus on finding her way out. The alley was just barely illuminated by the faint light of the moon, and she walked slowly, carefully, hoping she wouldn’t trip.

Perhaps going out of the alley to confront her stalker would have been a better idea.

Doubt strangled her heart, her breaths coming out quick, nervous. Was this a trap? Did Satan trick her into doing what he wanted? Maybe something worse than a random mugger waited for her at the end of this path. Maybe he wanted to force her hand, make her use the dagger so that her soul was his for the taking. She wouldn’t put it past him to try such a thing.

“You think too loud,” Satan said, his tone conversational. She jumped, startled out of her thoughts, and whipped around to glare at him, her heart thudding in her chest.

She could barely make out his face, his features shrouded in shadow – though his green eyes continued to gleam, bright and feline. “Can you read my mind or something?”

“I can’t. I’m a demon, not a fortune-teller.” She couldn’t be sure if he was mocking her or not – his tone remained light, almost gentle. “But I can sense fear, and it radiates off you in waves. You’re scared, aren’t you?” His voice was a murmur. “Scared of what awaits you in the dark.”

“I don’t like what I can’t see,” she answered. He laughed, and she flinched when something brushed against her cheek. Then she realised it was his hand, cupping her face, his thumb stroking slow circles over her skin, and she exhaled, his proximity calming her somewhat.

Funny, how she’d run from a stranger but fall gladly into the arms of one of the seven princes of Hell. “Such a straightforward response. I’d find it charming if you weren’t so vulnerable.”

She frowned. “Vulnerable?”

“Mm. Like a lamb to the slaughter.” His hand on her cheek dropped to her shoulder, and she let out a cry when his nails dug into her skin, on the verge of drawing blood. “People believe that we demons only devour souls. That we never eat anything else. But that’s not quite true.” His breath fluttered against her jaw. “Once in a while, we do enjoy the taste of human flesh.”

Her heart seemed to stop in her chest. She could almost see the smile on his face. Before he could say anything else, she swung her bag forward and felt it knock against him – his grip on her loosened and she took off down the passage, determined to get away. Her shoulder still felt sore, her flesh throbbing as she fled, but she refused to be distracted by the pain.

She’d tend to her wounds later when she got out of here. If she managed to get out.

Her hands were outstretched, reaching before her so that she wouldn’t crash into anything while escaping. There were no footsteps behind her, and she wondered if he’d really let her go just like that or if he had something else up his sleeve. Did he seriously intend to eat her?

Something rough hit her palm. The brick wall. She flailed about, trying to figure out where to turn next, and felt a sudden breeze picking up towards her left. Relieved, she spun and went down the passage, hoping she’d find the exit soon.

Time passed. She wasn’t sure how long, and she didn’t want to pause and look at her phone either, but her pace had slowed now that she was confident Satan wasn’t following her. It was almost…comfortable, walking through this place. Here, her mind was free to wander, and she didn’t have to think about things like her career or her finances or her broken relationship.

Eventually, she saw a pinprick of light at the end of the path and her spirits lifted, the promise of freedom beckoning to her. She hurried towards the light and finally burst out of the alley, into the open night air – then she blinked when she realised she was back where she started.

She looked up and down the street. Yes, this was exactly where Satan had pulled her in at the beginning, though right now there was no one else around. Her mysterious stalker must have given up on looking for her. Reaching for her phone, she glanced at the screen and her eyes widened when she noticed that the time had barely changed since she got off the bus.

How could this be? She felt like she had been stumbling around in that alley for ages. Yet her phone’s clock beamed up at her, showing that barely even five minutes had passed since she first noticed someone following her down the street.

Confused, she slipped her phone back into her pocket and glanced over her shoulder. The wall faced her, weathered and worn. The alley she had just left was nowhere to be found.

She lay in bed, the dagger under her pillow, just waiting. She wasn’t sure why, but she had a distinct feeling that Satan might visit her room tonight, and she wanted to be prepared.

Something creaked outside, but she couldn’t tell if it came from the street or the hallway. Her hand, tucked beneath the pillow, tightened around the dagger’s hilt. The air felt thick, almost viscous – her heart was pounding in her chest, her body trembling with anticipation.

The worst part was how she couldn’t tell if she was nervous or excited. Frightened or eager. It shouldn’t be a question – she ought to be terrified. Satan had outright said that he wanted to eat her. Yet here she was, so much tension in her body that she was practically vibrating.

Her gaze flicked towards her clock. The luminous numbers glowed back at her. Almost three. Some little corner of her mind remembered that three in the morning was witching hour; the time when witches, demons and ghosts were supposed to be at their most powerful.

Another creak. She stiffened, her head turning – that was a lot closer than the first time she heard it. The sound was followed by the slow drag of a bedroom door yawning open, the whisper of footsteps against the carpet. She stared in the direction of the entrance, trying her best to remain still.

“Did you miss me?” His voice came from the other side of her bed, and she whipped around, her heart almost leaping out of her chest. There he was, grinning at her, and her first thought was that if she was killed tonight, no one would know – no one cared enough to look for her, now that she was alone. “It was fun watching you run around in that maze.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Enjoyed teasing the human, didn’t you?”

“Kind of. It’s been a while since I last met someone as fearless as you.” He paused. “Though I can’t be sure if you’re truly brave or if you’re just an idiot. It’s hard to differentiate sometimes.”

“You know, for the Avatar of Wrath, you’re pretty cocky. You sure you’re not Pride?”

For a moment, she thought his eyes flashed red. “Don’t compare me to Lucifer.” His words were calm and measured, but she felt the overpowering rage that suddenly swept through the room, hiding behind that empty smile, and she shuddered, her chest tightening.

But just as quickly, the moment passed and he was back to his usual self once more, polite and genteel. “You know, I wasn’t joking when I talked about wanting to eat you.”

“Why don’t you, then?” she challenged, forcing herself to smile at him, forcing herself to stay in bed even if every instinct screamed at her to run. “Why didn’t you do that from the start?”

He cocked his head, seeming to consider. “Well, I always thought that human flesh tastes so much sweeter when it’s tinged with fear.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Unlike my brother, Beelzebub, I have a little more respect for the food I consume.”

“You could show me even more respect by not eating me,” she countered.

Satan leant in, reaching for her face. She allowed him to touch her, his slender fingers cool against her skin. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “You can always change my mind, you know. I’m not so ravenous that I can’t appreciate a good discussion.”

“I wouldn’t taste good at all. I eat so much junk. Potato chips and ice cream and everything.” Why were they talking so normally? As though he hadn’t just threatened to eat her. “And I wouldn’t have a good meat-to-bone ratio. You probably want someone a little fleshier.”

Satan’s laugh was like warm, sweet honey. “You put up a fair argument. But bones are pretty good for stew, you know. And I find myself craving some delicious meat stew tonight.”

It was unfair how seductive his voice was. God, what she wouldn’t give to just sink into him – but she reminded herself that if she didn’t play her cards right, she could quite literally end up a part of him. “You could consider going vegan. It’s good for your health.”

“Us demons don’t need to think so much about our health,” he answered, his fingers stilling on her chin. “There’s not much that can kill us. You, on the other hand…”

She sensed the shift in mood, saw his face come closer and instinctively, she swung the blade hidden beneath her pillow, encountering resistance as it bit into flesh and bone. Black blood, hot and sticky, splattered against her face, running in rivulets down his arm. She could hear a faint hiss as the blood dripped onto the carpet, and slowly she turned back to face him.

Satan looked surprised. He didn’t seem to be in any pain, but he stared down at the wound with something akin to wonder in his eyes. She tugged on the dagger, trying to work it free, but the blade was stuck firmly in his arm, and it refused to budge. “How interesting,” he said, and he didn’t sound anything like how she’d expect a grievously injured man to sound. “So this dagger can hurt me. I didn’t know that. Well, we’re always learning, aren’t we?”

“How are you not in pain?” she asked, wriggling the dagger. The blade scraped against what seemed to be bone and she winced, but Satan still seemed entirely unbothered.

“As if I’d be hurt by something of my creation,” he said, sounding more entertained than she thought he would be. “You have some spunk, don’t you? Maybe it was right to pick you to come to, out of all the mortals constantly calling my name. You’re rather lively.”

Lively was not the word she’d use to describe someone who just tried to kill her. “You’re sick in the head, Satan.” She pulled again, and the blade finally came free, more blood spurting out of the gash. It made her feel a little ill. “You’re bleeding. Look at you.”

“Why are you worried about someone who wants to eat you?” he asked. As he spoke, he passed a hand over the wound, and she saw faint green light emanating from his fingertips – before her very eyes, the wound knitted itself up, leaving behind no trace of a scar. She stared, taken aback by what she just saw. Proof of magic? Or his demonic powers, perhaps?

“I…I don’t know,” she admitted. “But the more I think about it, the more I feel like you were just – that you weren’t serious.” She met his gaze, and he cocked his head, studying her. “If you wanted to eat me, you could have done so already. There must be something else.”

“Clever girl.” He chuckled, sitting on the bed beside her. She scrambled back to give him space, unable to look away from the dark splatters she could see on his shirt. “It was a test, and nothing more. I said I’d give you what you wanted if you impressed me, remember?”

Her mind went back to the conversation they had in the morning, at the office washroom. “Wait. What?” She didn’t know what else to say. Frightening her, threatening her, getting injured by her – so all this was nothing but a test?

She didn’t know whether she ought to get angry or not. “Why do you sound so surprised?” Satan asked, his smile dimming. “There’s no fun without a little fear, don’t you think? And I wasn’t about to force you to use the dagger. That’d defeat the purpose of temptation.”

“I still used it though. On you, I mean.” She swallowed, looking down at the sharp blade in her hand. It felt cooler now, no longer as warm to the touch as it once was. The jewels decorating the hilt seemed less beautiful as well. Almost cheap, like costume jewellery.

“Doesn’t count.” He shrugged. “No weapon will hurt its maker. At least not in the way it was intended to.” He reached for the hilt and she let go, her chest feeling almost hollow as it was taken from her. “Why, do you miss it already? It’s quite pretty. Even if I do say so myself.”

“Why did you come to me?” She shook her head, running a hand through her bangs. They fell in front of her eyes, hiding her line of sight so that she didn’t have to look at him. “Now that I’ve met you, now that I’ve used that weapon – I don’t know how to feel, Satan.”

“Why?” She felt his fingers slide underneath her chin, tugging her face up. His touch was strangely gentle, almost loving. But what demon could love? “I was bored, I suppose. And I must say that this is the first time I’ve seen someone so capable of restraining their anger.” His other hand reached up, brushing her hair away from her forehead. His face was impassive. “I just wanted to see how far I could push you. There’s no other reason, I’m afraid.”

How far he could push her? Like she was some sort of toy. She felt a flicker of rage bloom in her belly, a malicious heat that reached to her toes. “I’m not a game to be played, Satan,” she breathed before she reached out and curled her fingers in his shirt, yanking him down. Their lips met, and she swore that she found home in his arms.

He countered her, fierce and powerful, two souls playing a twisted game of dominance, and when he bit her bottom lip she gasped, hot blood welling up to meet him. He feasted on the salt of her pain, and her fingers ripped at his buttons, seeking out more – more than what he was offering, more than what was good for her. Satan withdrew, an unspoken question in his eyes, and she nodded, impatiently scrabbling beneath his shirt, nails raking down his back.

“You’re going to regret this,” he murmured, though it was hard to believe him when he was holding her this way, his teeth at her throat, at her pulse, leaving purple-blue marks that would be impossible to hide once the sun rose.

“Convince me,” she rasped, and he laughed, the vibrations sending tingles across her skin.

“If that’s what you want, human. If that’s what you want.” And part of her wondered what she had gotten herself into – the rest of her just wanted him, and she wanted him now.

Maybe she would regret this when she woke up. If she woke up. But for now, she couldn’t care less.

#satan x mc #satan obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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Tyrion

They had taken shelter beneath a copse of aspens just off the high road. Tyrion was gathering deadwood while their horses took water from a mountain stream. He stooped to pick up a splintered branch and examined it critically. "Will this do? I am not practiced at starting fires. Morrec did that for me." "A fire?" Bronn said, spitting. "Are you so hungry to die, dwarf? Or have you taken leave of your senses? A fire will bring the clansmen down on us from miles around. I mean to survive this journey, Lannister." "And how do you hope to do that?" Tyrion asked. He tucked the branch under his arm and poked around through the sparse undergrowth, looking for more. His back ached from the effort of bending; they had been riding since daybreak, when a stone-faced Ser Lyn Corbray had ushered them through the Bloody Gate and commanded them never to return. "We have no chance of fighting our way back," Bronn said, "but two can cover more ground than ten, and attract less notice. The fewer days we spend in these mountains, the more like we are to reach the riverlands. Ride hard and fast, I say. Travel by night and hole up by day, avoid the road where we can, make no noise and light no fires." Tyrion Lannister sighed. "A splendid plan, Bronn. Try it, as you like . . . and forgive me if I do not linger to bury you." "You think to outlive me, dwarf?" The sellsword grinned. He had a dark gap in his smile where the edge of Ser Vardis Egen's shield had cracked a tooth in half. Tyrion shrugged. "Riding hard and fast by night is a sure way to tumble down a mountain and crack your skull. I prefer to make my crossing slow and easy. I know you love the taste of horse, Bronn, but if our mounts die under us this time, we'll be trying to saddle shadowcats . . . and if truth be told, I think the clans will find us no matter what we do. Their eyes are all around us." He swept a gloved hand over the high, wind-carved crags that surrounded them. Bronn grimaced. "Then we're dead men, Lannister." "If so, I prefer to die comfortable," Tyrion replied. "We need a fire. The nights are cold up here, and hot food will warm our bellies and lift our spirits. Do you suppose there's any game to be had? Lady Lysa has kindly provided us with a veritable feast of salt beef, hard cheese, and stale bread, but I would hate to break a tooth so far from the nearest maester." "I can find meat." Beneath a fall of black hair, Bronn's dark eyes regarded Tyrion suspiciously. "I should leave you here with your fool's fire. If I took your horse, I'd have twice the chance to make it through. What would you do then, dwarf?" "Die, most like." Tyrion stooped to get another stick. "You don't think I'd do it?" "You'd do it in an instant, if it meant your life. You were quick enough to silence your friend Chiggen when he caught that arrow in his belly." Bronn had yanked back the man's head by the hair and driven the point of his dirk in under the ear, and afterward told Catelyn Stark that the other sellsword had died of his wound. "He was good as dead," Bronn said, "and his moaning was bringing them down on us. Chiggen would have done the same for me . . . and he was no friend, only a man I rode with. Make no mistake, dwarf. I fought for you, but I do not love you." "It was your blade I needed," Tyrion said, "not your love." He dumped his armful of wood on the ground. Bronn grinned. "You're bold as any sellsword, I'll give you that. How did you know I'd take your part?" "Know?" Tyrion squatted awkwardly on his stunted legs to build the fire. "I tossed the dice. Back at the inn, you and Chiggen helped take me captive. Why? The others saw it as their duty, for the honor of the lords they served, but not you two. You had no lord, no duty, and precious little honor, so why trouble to involve yourselves?" He took out his knife and whittled some thin strips of bark off one of the sticks he'd gathered, to serve as kindling. "Well, why do sellswords do anything? For gold. You were thinking Lady Catelyn would reward you for your help, perhaps even take you into her service. Here, that should do, I hope. Do you have a flint?" Bronn slid two fingers into the pouch at his belt and tossed down a flint. Tyrion caught it in the air. "My thanks," he said. "The thing is, you did not know the Starks. Lord Eddard is a proud, honorable, and honest man, and his lady wife is worse. Oh, no doubt she would have found a coin or two for you when this was all over, and pressed it in your hand with a polite word and a look of distaste, but that's the most you could have hoped for. The Starks look for courage and loyalty and honor in the men they choose to serve them, and if truth be told, you and Chiggen were lowborn scum." Tyrion struck the flint against his dagger, trying for a spark. Nothing. Bronn snorted. "You have a bold tongue, little man. One day someone is like to cut it out and make you eat it." "Everyone tells me that." Tyrion glanced up at the sellsword. "Did I offend you? My pardons . . . but you are scum, Bronn, make no mistake. Duty, honor, friendship, what's that to you? No, don't trouble yourself, we both know the answer. Still, you're not stupid. Once we reached the Vale, Lady Stark had no more need of you . . . but I did, and the one thing the Lannisters have never lacked for is gold. When the moment came to toss the dice, I was counting on your being smart enough to know where your best interest lay. Happily for me, you did." He slammed stone and steel together again, fruitlessly. "Here," said Bronn, squatting, "I'll do it." He took the knife and flint from Tyrion's hands and struck sparks on his first try. A curl of bark began to smolder. "Well done," Tyrion said. "Scum you may be, but you're undeniably useful, and with a sword in your hand you're almost as good as my brother Jaime. What do you want, Bronn? Gold? Land? Women? Keep me alive, and you'll have it." Bronn blew gently on the fire, and the flames leapt up higher. "And if you die?" "Why then, I'll have one mourner whose grief is sincere," Tyrion said, grinning. "The gold ends when I do." The fire was blazing up nicely. Bronn stood, tucked the flint back into his pouch, and tossed Tyrion his dagger. "Fair enough," he said. "My sword's yours, then . . . but don't go looking for me to bend the knee and m'lord you every time you take a shit. I'm no man's toady." "Nor any man's friend," Tyrion said. "I've no doubt you'd betray me as quick as you did Lady Stark, if you saw a profit in it. If the day ever comes when you're tempted to sell me out, remember this, Bronn—I'll match their price, whatever it is. I like living. And now, do you think you could do something about finding us some supper?" "Take care of the horses," Bronn said, unsheathing the long dirk he wore at his hip. He strode into the trees. An hour later the horses had been rubbed down and fed, the fire was crackling away merrily, and a haunch of a young goat was turning above the flames, spitting and hissing. "All we lack now is some good wine to wash down our kid," Tyrion said. "That, a woman, and another dozen swords," Bronn said. He sat cross-legged beside the fire, honing the edge of his longsword with an oilstone. There was something strangely reassuring about the rasping sound it made when he drew it down the steel. "It will be full dark soon," the sellsword pointed out. "I'll take first watch . . . for all the good it will do us. It might be kinder to let them kill us in our sleep." "Oh, I imagine they'll be here long before it comes to sleep." The smell of the roasting meat made Tyrion's mouth water. Bronn watched him across the fire. "You have a plan," he said flatly, with a scrape of steel on stone. "A hope, call it," Tyrion said. "Another toss of the dice." "With our lives as the stake?" Tyrion shrugged. "What choice do we have?" He leaned over the fire and sawed a thin slice of meat from the kid. "Ahhhh," he sighed happily as he chewed. Grease ran down his chin. "A bit tougher than I'd like, and in want of spicing, but I'll not complain too loudly. If I were back at the Eyrie, I'd be dancing on a precipice in hopes of a boiled bean." "And yet you gave the turnkey a purse of gold," Bronn said. "A Lannister always pays his debts." Even Mord had scarcely believed it when Tyrion tossed him the leather purse. The gaoler's eyes had gone big as boiled eggs as he yanked open the drawstring and beheld the glint of gold. "I kept the silver," Tyrion had told him with a crooked smile, "but you were promised the gold, and there it is." It was more than a man like Mord could hope to earn in a lifetime of abusing prisoners. "And remember what I said, this is only a taste. If you ever grow tired of Lady Arryn's service, present yourself at Casterly Rock, and I'll pay you the rest of what I owe you." With golden dragons spilling out of both hands, Mord had fallen to his knees and promised that he would do just that. Bronn yanked out his dirk and pulled the meat from the fire. He began to carve thick chunks of charred meat off the bone as Tyrion hollowed out two heels of stale bread to serve as trenchers. "If we do reach the river, what will you do then?" the sellsword asked as he cut. "Oh, a whore and a featherbed and a flagon of wine, for a start." Tyrion held out his trencher, and Bronn filled it with meat. "And then to Casterly Rock or King's Landing, I think. I have some questions that want answering, concerning a certain dagger." The sellsword chewed and swallowed. "So you were telling it true? It was not your knife?" Tyrion smiled thinly. "Do I look a liar to you?" By the time their bellies were full, the stars had come out and a halfmoon was rising over the mountains. Tyrion spread his shadowskin cloak on the ground and stretched out with his saddle for a pillow. "Our friends are taking their sweet time." "If I were them, I'd fear a trap," Bronn said. "Why else would we be so open, if not to lure them in?" Tyrion chuckled. "Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror." He began to whistle a tune. "You're mad, dwarf," Bronn said as he cleaned the grease out from under his nails with his dirk. "Where's your love of music, Bronn?" "If it was music you wanted, you should have gotten the singer to champion you." Tyrion grinned. "That would have been amusing. I can just see him fending off Ser Vardis with his woodharp." He resumed his whistling. "Do you know this song?" he asked. "You hear it here and there, in inns and whorehouses." "Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.' Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I've never been able to put it out of my head." Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. "I met her on a night like this," he heard himself saying. "Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats. My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed . . . yet lovely. They'd torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I'd gotten a name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter's child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to . . . well, nowhere, really. "Jaime was all in a lather to hunt down the men. It was not often outlaws dared prey on travelers so near to Casterly Rock, and he took it as an insult. The girl was too frightened to send off by herself, though, so I offered to take her to the closest inn and feed her while my brother rode back to the Rock for help. "She was hungrier than I would have believed. We finished two whole chickens and part of a third, and drank a flagon of wine, talking. I was only thirteen, and the wine went to my head, I fear. The next thing I knew, I was sharing her bed. If she was shy, I was shyer. I'll never know where I found the courage. When I broke her maidenhead, she wept, but afterward she kissed me and sang her little song, and by morning I was in love." "You?" Bronn's voice was amused. "Absurd, isn't it?" Tyrion began to whistle the song again. "I married her," he finally admitted. "A Lannister of Casterly Rock wed to a crofter's daughter," Bronn said. "How did you manage that?" "Oh, you'd be astonished at what a boy can make of a few lies, fifty pieces of silver, and a drunken septon. I dared not bring my bride home to Casterly Rock, so I set her up in a cottage of her own, and for a fortnight we played at being man and wife. And then the septon sobered and confessed all to my lord father." Tyrion was surprised at how desolate it made him feel to say it, even after all these years. Perhaps he was just tired. "That was the end of my marriage." He sat up and stared at the dying fire, blinking at the light. "He sent the girl away?" "He did better than that," Tyrion said. "First he made my brother tell me the truth. The girl was a whore, you see. Jaime arranged the whole affair, the road, the outlaws, all of it. He thought it was time I had a woman. He paid double for a maiden, knowing it would be my first time. "After Jaime had made his confession, to drive home the lesson, Lord Tywin brought my wife in and gave her to his guards. They paid her fair enough. A silver for each man, how many whores command that high a price? He sat me down in the corner of the barracks and bade me watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor, she . . . " The smoke was stinging his eyes. Tyrion cleared his throat and turned away from the fire, to gaze out into darkness. "Lord Tywin had me go last," he said in a quiet voice. "And he gave me a gold coin to pay her, because I was a Lannister, and worth more." After a time he heard the noise again, the rasp of steel on stone as Bronn sharpened his sword. "Thirteen or thirty or three, I would have killed the man who did that to me." Tyrion swung around to face him. "You may get that chance one day. Remember what I told you. A Lannister always pays his debts." He yawned. "I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we're about to die." He rolled himself up in the shadowskin and shut his eyes. The ground was stony and cold, but after a time Tyrion Lannister did sleep. He dreamt of the sky cell. This time he was the gaoler, not the prisoner, big, with a strap in his hand, and he was hitting his father, driving him back, toward the abyss . . . "Tyrion." Bronn's warning was low and urgent. Tyrion was awake in the blink of an eye. The fire had burned down to embers, and the shadows were creeping in all around them. Bronn had raised himself to one knee, his sword in one hand and his dirk in the other. Tyrion held up a hand: stay still, it said. "Come share our fire, the night is cold," he called out to the creeping shadows. "I fear we've no wine to offer you, but you're welcome to some of our goat." All movement stopped. Tyrion saw the glint of moonlight on metal. "Our mountain," a voice called out from the trees, deep and hard and unfriendly. "Our goat." "Your goat," Tyrion agreed. "Who are you?" "When you meet your gods," a different voice replied, "say it was Gunthor son of Gurn of the Stone Crows who sent you to them." A branch cracked underfoot as he stepped into the light; a thin man in a horned helmet, armed with a long knife. "And Shagga son of Dolf." That was the first voice, deep and deadly. A boulder shifted to their left, and stood, and became a man. Massive and slow and strong he seemed, dressed all in skins, with a club in his right hand and an axe in his left. He smashed them together as he lumbered closer. Other voices called other names, Conn and Torrek and Jaggot and more that Tyrion forgot the instant he heard them; ten at least. A few had swords and knives; others brandished pitchforks and scythes and wooden spears. He waited until they were done shouting out their names before he gave them answer. "I am Tyrion son of Tywin, of the Clan Lannister, the Lions of the Rock. We will gladly pay you for the goat we ate." "What do you have to give us, Tyrion son of Tywin?" asked the one who named himself Gunthor, who seemed to be their chief. "There is silver in my purse," Tyrion told them. "This hauberk I wear is large for me, but it should fit Conn nicely, and the battle-axe I carry would suit Shagga's mighty hand far better than that wood-axe he holds." "The halfman would pay us with our own coin," said Conn. "Conn speaks truly," Gunthor said. "Your silver is ours. Your horses are ours. Your hauberk and your battle-axe and the knife at your belt, those are ours too. You have nothing to give us but your lives. How would you like to die, Tyrion son of Tywin?" "In my own bed, with a belly full of wine and a maiden's mouth around my cock, at the age of eighty," he replied. The huge one, Shagga, laughed first and loudest. The others seemed less amused. "Conn, take their horses," Gunthor commanded. "Kill the other and seize the halfinan. He can milk the goats and make the mothers laugh." Bronn sprang to his feet. "Who dies first?" "No!" Tyrion said sharply. "Gunthor son of Gurn, hear me. My House is rich and powerful. If the Stone Crows will see us safely through these mountains, my lord father will shower you with gold." "The gold of a lowland lord is as worthless as a halfman's promises," Gunthor said. "Half a man I may be," Tyrion said, "yet I have the courage to face my enemies. What do the Stone Crows do, but hide behind rocks and shiver with fear as the knights of the Vale ride by?" Shagga gave a roar of anger and clashed club against axe. Jaggot poked at Tyrion's face with the fire-hardened point of a long wooden spear. He did his best not to flinch. "Are these the best weapons you could steal?" he said. "Good enough for killing sheep, perhaps . . . if the sheep do not fight back. My father's smiths shit better steel." "Little boyman," Shagga roared, "will you mock my axe after I chop off your manhood and feed it to the goats?" But Gunthor raised a hand. "No. I would hear his words. The mothers go hungry, and steel fills more mouths than gold. What would you give us for your lives, Tyrion son of Tywin? Swords? Lances? Mail?" "All that, and more, Gunthor son of Gurn," Tyrion Lannister replied, smiling. "I will give you the Vale of Arryn."

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