#i assume it's supposed to be bone? but dyed red with blood? even though blood isn't gonna be that bright (especially after oxidizing)

[the-consequence-of-imagination]

Very cool how Orin snaps her own neck to change out of a disguise, hearing that sickening *snap* really helps drive home how sinister she is.

[pandorafallz]

Exile AU | Heartbeat of the Clan

tw blood

Norm watched the links and ad the scans run but he could see the vital monitors to see how weak they were. Grace’s connection was weak, and he doubted she was connected or had the mental strength to use her avatar much more than a sit-up and chat. While a glance to Jake’s monitor, while his injury was worse, he had a much better connection with his avatar.

He had his doubts Jake would come here, he hoped for Jake’s survival he’s put doing something for drama on the back burner.

“How are they?” Trudy’s voice was soft, pushing a pack of wet wipes into his hand.

“Weak.” Norm spoke, gladly pulling one out to wipe the red from his hands. God, he hated blood. It was all under his nails still. He hated that. He did wish he had taken a better medical course, but what good was CPR here? He could bandage small cuts, perhaps even a few stitches if it came down to it but this?

This was far beyond him.

He knew bullets did far more damage than it looked to be because of the science behind it; the transfer of kinetic energy would expand the flesh around it into a cavity before the flesh would naturally try to elasticate back. That wasn’t even including the damage to the bone or other body organs that were close by.

The closer it was, the worse it was.

Perhaps the distance between them and the shooter was what stopped both of them from dying so quickly. Jake must have been hit by a bullet that had rebounded off a metal side. The first impact had taken the worse of the energy before his soft squishy body was in its line of trajectory. Something perhaps similar with Grace but she was probably more directly hit.

“Grace’s external bleed is… stopped, good work by the way.” Norm complimented, “But internally, it’s an inside bleeding mess. I think sun-down was wishful thinking.” He tapped along the screen, glad for once the RDA’s paranoid about driver health that the pod contained various body scanners. Enough that he could see the damage to her body and the slowly growing mass of internal bleeding.

Trudy’s hand patted his arm lightly. “Then let’s hope the Na’vi do some magical voodoo…assuming they know their way around a human body.”

“Mo’at does.” Norm was confident that of all people, the Omatikaya Tsahìk would know…but also on the basis, he knew Neytiri was a former student of Grace’s; the human body must have been touched upon at least once.  Mo’at hopefully knew a lot more about gunshot wounds as well given the…unfortunate incidents among the RDA and the Omatikaya before the felling of Hometree.

“Still, you trust her to know how to fix that?” Trudy folded her arms over her chest, eyeing the link signal with discontent. “This was never supposed to happen. Damn, Quaritch.”

“It was Quaritch?”

Trudy nodded. “The Samson has an external camera. I was…reviewing some of the footage when I was checking over the damage to the windows.”

“I…completely forgot about that. Is it okay?” God forbid they'd get stranded here in the middle of the deadliest woods in the universe. So far.

“She’s a tough thing, designed to take a beating. I can patch her up.” Trudy nodded, with some assurance “We’ll need to paint her, so the native don’t try to shoot the out screen…or me for that matter. Do they have a ‘we’re on your side’ colour scheme by any chance?”

Norm shook his head but he liked the idea of that. It’d certainly set their Samson aside. “We could stripe it, white and purple.”

Trudy’s head cocked to the side thoughtfully. “I do like purple.”

Norm smiled. “We have some powder paint to use. Black, white and the primary colours. Mix then just add water then you’re good to go.”

“Sweet.” Trudy didn’t move, though not that he expected her to just move off and start painting at a time like this.

The vitals shifted on Grace’s monitor before he saw the familiar signs of her return. He gently tapped along to turn off the link before Trudy opened up the lid.

Grace looked worse, somehow but her expression was…better than he expected.

“Did everything go well?” Norm asked, “Are they going to help?”

Grace licked her lips tiredly. “We…extended the olive branch.” Her voice was a little raspier now. “I left them coming as a choice but…I think so?”

The answer wasn’t filling Norm was confidence but he reached for the pillows to set under her again. A wince passed her face as he got her comfortable.

“How’s Jake?”

Norm spared a glance over, “He…has a surprisingly stable link. Much stronger as well but… I can’t know where he’s wandered off to. Shame you didn’t tracker his ass the first time he escaped the ambient room. His human body is…another matter. He’s lost a lot of blood and it looks like damage through his kidney and spleen.”

“I thought you could live without your spleen,” Trudy remarked, if quietly.

“Right now, it’s a bag of blood. Never good to lose a bag of blood.” Norm sighed out.

Grace’s lips twitched though her eyes flickered around the room. “Let’s… let’s wait outside.”

Norm looked back at her in surprise. Outside? Where all the danger was. He hoped that wasn’t the blood loss talking; they weren’t equipped with dealing with a wild animal attack if the wrong visitor showed up. “Outside?”

“If…if they come for us, they can’t fit in here. Too big.” Grace licked her lips again, “Trudy, I need  drink. Juice box? Whiskey?”

“I don’t think you should.” Norm interjected, “I’m sorry Grace but… I’m not sure eating or drinking anything should be a good idea when your intestines are a little worse for wear.”

Norm though held her glare but she didn’t argue—thank god because he doubted he could withhold much more. Half-dead, she was still scary when she wanted to be.

“Blood loss can make you thirsty but… let’s get you outside.” Norm looked around, glad to see Jake’s wheelchair was about so he grabbed that up and set beside the link bed. If Grace wanted out… why not let her. Let her feel the Pandoraian air on her skin at the least. It was a beautiful morning.

Carefully, and between them both they lifted Grace into Jake’s wheelchair, pausing for Grace to adjust but it was clear to see she was in much deeper pain now before wheeling her to the airlock. Grace clutched the armrests too tightly, seemingly not noticing as Norm fixed her mask on before they left and the much harder part was the shack emergency steps down—there was no ramp. So it was a colourful affair, to which a hurried grab of Grace’s blanket and soon, Grace was lying on it like it was a picnic blanket on her back.

“Ikran!” Grace called weakly.

Norm flinched as a massive, blue-winged beast suddenly appeared through the treeline, falling back into the foliage and for a second he thought it was going to go for Grace…. But it stopped and the blue person attached to it seemed to look very startled… waved to them then promptly slipped off his saddle, his queue disconnecting in the motion and carried on as gravity intended. The ikran shifted its wing and allowed him to side harmlessly to the wild grassy floor but stood very close which Norm would know would end with his death if he tried to approach. He could feel its eyes but didn’t dare look at it’s face.

Ikrans didn’t like eye contact.

“Wow, that’s one big dinosaur,” Trudy whispered, wide-eyed at being so close that Norm felt puny. He had seen them before but it had been through his avatar. They were big then but now… he was a ready-meal for such a creature.

“Let’s get Jake out.” If he could calm that Ikran the better.

Jake was less lucid though mumbling something about wanting a Toruk as they lifted him from the link bed. Norm felt nausea to see how much red had leaked into the gel bedding; highlighting each and every flaw in its surface or natural diverts and pattern but also, he could feel his hands once again become saturated with the wet red as well which only spread upon the blanket as they set him into his front. The red was more prominent alone his skin and what had soaked into his clothes.

Norm washed his hands as Trudy stayed with them before he hopped into his own, clean link and woke up his avatar, finally giving the body some food—a crappy protein bar but found Trudy sitting on the edge of the blanket watching as two woodsprites seemed to float down. Grace watched it settle on the front of her mask, smiling softly at it as it patted around it’s smooth surface.

 -

 Tsu’tey was not pleased, but he knew the Tsahìk had such a wisdom that carried more weight than just his distaste. Despite her loss, she was willing to save those who had part of the destruction of their home. Death of their people. He respected her and she was more aware than what he lacked.

He should have had more time.

He was not ready for the mantle.

But, for his people he would. He would respect to Tsahìk’s wishes but, he would do no more than what she was asking of him to fulfil that. It was do little to ignore the Tsahìk’s words when the people needed to see his leadership and support with Mo’at. Mo’at’s ream was to the spirits and to interpret Eywa’s will. If Eywa wanted them to live, he couldn’t refuse the Great Mother.

He didn’t have to be happy about it.

That was not what was asked of him and which, he was grateful for Mo’at’s patience.

“Jakesully’s Ikran’s descended, half a mile ahead,” Ka’ani announced.

Tsu’tey nodded tightly, quashing the visible anger on his face and Pa’li moved ahead quickly through the dense forests.

Up ahead, the distinct smell of metal and…fuel was familiar, and the distant quiet of voices. Sky people's voices and the screech of the Ikran, a distant outline showed the metal box, as Graceaugustine had said.

Then a sharp sound of pain was unmistakable.

He clicked his tongue, his hand coming to his bow before they punctured through the last line of trees to see a odd sight of a Dreamwalker, Normspellman who had visited Hometree once, beside an unfamiliar female sky person, a prone form face down on a blanket but the Dreamwalker had a hold of a familiar sky person.

Graceaugustine.

The presence of Atokirina was not unmissed, hovering on the still form of another bloodied sky person, Jake’s human form, but also they floated around Grace as well which he took more notice off

He had been glad to have seen her when she had returned, he couldn’t deny it was unsettling to see her like this. Human. Sky person. He much preferred her Na’vi Dreamwalker. That was familiar.

The Dreamwalker grasped the mask and removed it, all time for Graceaugustine to wrench up into the grass with an echoing cry of pain, but most of what was rejected from her body was red with blood.

“Don’t shoot!” the sky woman called, her hands up but Tsu’tey paid her no heed, if they were to kill them; they could have easily done without them even knowing.

“It’s okay, Trudy. Grace said they might come.” Normspellman said, holding the mask back to Graceaugustine’s face, her breaths fast inside and barely conscious as she lay against his body; so small in comparison.

Tsu’tey slipped off the Pa’li with confidence and wasn’t the only one as his people came to examine the area, two warriors going to check the metal box to see if there was anything of concern about.

“Mo’at allows their care. We will take them to The Tree of Souls to her.” He spoke.

“Oh, okay but you must be gentle. Their bodies are too weak for anything less.”

“Tsu’tey?” the voice was soft through the mask was slipped on properly onto Graceaugustine’s. Blood still upon her lips underneath as her eyes fluttered open. “You came.” Her language switched to Na’vi but to hear her voice in such a tongue brought back the familiarity of lost times. He hated how much he had missed that; when she had been his teacher… how much of a mother she was.

Tsu’tey forced himself closer to the other Dreamwalker, but focused to her mostly.

“It was by Tsahìk’s wishes,” he replied, “You do not have long if your belly fills with blood.” He was no fool of what meaning it portrayed and not to mention, sky people were small and didn’t have as much blood in them. Too late for conventional healing so he trusted Mo’at had a method to salvage Graceaugustine from meeting the Great Mother so soon.

Graceaugustine nodded airily without much thought. Tsu’tey nodded his chin towards the Dreamwalker. “Take that ahead. Ka’ani, you will take the… jakesully.” The name was hard to speak with the weight of the man’s actions upon it. He would rather leave a traitor to die but…the Tsahìk was clear in her interpretation of Eywa. An ever-present reminder for himself he had to keep echoing.

With a nod, the young warrior approached the Ikran first but Tsu’tey made his move, “You will take him.” Nodding to the other limp body. “We will not touch him.”

“Of-of course.” Normspellman hesitated, not sure if to let Graceaugustine go or not but Tsu’tey was not patient for him to decide. Glad to some degree sky people were small, Graceaugustine was easy to pick up like she was simply a child.

The cry from her lips at the movement made him wince but she went limp in his arms. The rise and fall of her chest accompanied by the slight fog against the clear of her mask was the indicator she was alive but Tsy’tey was careful to clamber back onto the Pa’li and lead the way through back.

 -

 Neytiri helped her mother as she stripped Grace’s Dreamwalker of clothes in silence until the empty shell was bare and laid upon the roots, her queue intertwined ready for what her mother planned with Great Mother but she couldn’t help but feel the conflict that rose as she watched Tsu’tey return at the outskirts where the clan was seated ready with some trepidation. Her mother was quick to meet them, directing them off to strip away unnecessary clothes.  

Her eyes followed as Ka’ani came with Jake’s…Dreamwalker and she directed him to set him down. She removed the loincloth and cummerbund from his ribs and finally, his knife holster and set that aside, but she found it hard to look at him without the sense of overwhelming guilt and pain that settled beside each heartbeat.

She loved him and yet… she almost hated the sight of him. He had tricked her, despite her hope that he was not one of the Sky people wanting to hurt them or take from them… and he had wanted to learn and be part of the people. To be with her.

He had lied.

Her people had suffered for it. Many were lost and buried now. Once her sister… now her father. But she was thankful for her mother and that she had lived. She couldn’t take the mantle of Tsahìk so soon.

The guilt of loss, and she had a part to play in the encouragement; to be swept up into his play that she had willingly mated with him. A union approved by Eywa herself. She didn’t doubt the Great Mother’s approval but only her own …but would the Great Mother allow for spiritual separation if she prayed for it? A mate of a traitor was a heavy weight to bear as well but… she would choose her people. Not after what happened. They needed her.  

Her mother returned swiftly.

“Go sit by Grace. She will need your guidance.” Mo’at spoke.

Grateful, Neytiri moved though her eyes followed as Tsu’tey walked with the small, human form of Grace, a sight unfamiliar but she was glad to see he held her with reverence despite her human body.

The other Dreamwalker had returned, this time carrying a different sky form—Jake—but Neytiri couldn’t bring herself to look at him before she helped set Grace down in front of her Dreamwalker and facing inwards towards the three of the great mother.

Grace’s eyes flickered open, hardly focused though she could still see the spark of curiosity that always lay within them.

Her eyes followed her near-bare body, though she could see Grace’s wound was somewhat covered; her mother’s sticky white paste worked wonders to keep such a wound closed but it wasn’t meant for this injury. She recognised the bullet wounds like she had seen through her sister’s body, much like the healed scar along the upper side of Grace’s Dreamwalker’s hip.

There was other bruising now around it but the west in comparison, she could see the pale pink flesh of Jake’s back to see red and purple building covering most of his mid-body, thin legs that looked…odd in comparison to the rest of his body but she turned her eyes away from him to focus her attention back, kneeling beside the form, plants coming to intertwine over all four bodies laid before the Great Mother.

“It’s time,” Mo’at spoke, her eyes following the descent of Atokirina that drifted down, coming to touch upon them.

Neytiri breathed, allowing herself to connect her kuru in to aid in prayer.

 -

 Jake felt like he was out of sync as he laid upon something soft, a low…rhythmic thumping through his mind but he found himself drawn into it like a song of bass. Mo’at’s voice a distance away as well as the voices of the clan but it felt…warm.

Peaceful.

It was almost like a heartbeat. Thumping through his brain, a warm tightness of plants seemed to envelop him like a blanket would on a cold night.

Like he was being lulled to sleep but he knew if he let himself go, he would die. He wasn’t ready for that…

It wasn’t dark, but it felt like he was floating, much like how the dream hunt had started and he found himself sinking back to that experience… feeling like he was flying upon a banshee but his shadow was wrong. No… not wrong. Different. Huge wings that lay upon an ashy wasteland. Orange and black. A Toruk. He could almost feel the air against his winds… but it went beyond that as the memory faded to darkness, the shimmy of light that was all too familiar of the link to waking up that clouded out his senses until he found himself gently moving through the darkness that swiftly followed

The beat thumped soundlessly, through the darkness was a dim light that grew before he found himself standing in Hometree.

Rationally, Jake knew it wasn’t the real thing but he felt the warmth and love for it because…it had become home.

He was not alone, Jake realised as he saw Eytukan standing there by the spiral, Atan and many other fallen Omatikaya too… but he held the Olo'eyktan stare if only for a moment before there was the same glimmer of the Toruk Shadow behind him but Jake couldn’t turn in time, but Eytukan’s eyes widened and flatten back before Jake felt the sense of light change before he was pulled back into the white shimmy of light behind him.

Then darkness.

But the sounds seemed to resonate now, still a beating heart but now, it all sounded different. Louder with each beat.

“Jakesully?”

He felt his ear twitch at the closeness, and a warmth to spread to his shoulder before he realised that he was being touched. His breath came out easy and the pain he had was…gone.

Relief.

Jake found himself taking a few heavy breaths before finding the strength to open his eyes, straight into the concerned eyes of Mo’at. She seemed to relax, as he looked around, his eyes falling upon his…human body but he found himself staring as he realised Grace had not moved; neither human nor avatar.

“Grace?” He croaked, voice still rough from over a day without water. Mo’at and Neytiri also hovered beside her as the Atokirina twirled and danced away like little jellyfish. His heart sank with dread, staring at her avatar intently in some desperate hope that she could pass through.… his heart beat faster until…

Grace’s eyes snapped open.

[alberivh]

unwanted lovers

the lovers of the sinner, the thieves of the nation. Caught in despair after hiding their motives behind the ruins of aristocrats , they were now together behind the cells of execution, loving each other in no bounds of life nor death.

diluc x gn!reader

contains (proceed with caution) : major character death, gruesome death, execution. (Heavy angst, comfort/hurt, bad ending)

a/n ; I’m very sleepy these days so enjoy reading this

“diluc..are you sure we’re going to be alright?” , standing behind the cliff, both hands and leg chained up in a huge rocks; standing beyond the other side of the sinners-walls. The cliff was a sharp one, designed to be a punishment for fugitive to regret. But you in the other hand..looked like you didn’t regret anything. Seems like you gone numb and missing, probably dying out of beneficial, but for what exact reason..? Aren’t you going to die? Aren’t you?

The air was in a perfect shape, blowing through the ears of whisper into corruptors mind. It was breezing and perfect, a match for a dead end. The flowers were all a bare minimum, seems as if it was never supposed to grow; Same as how the contradictions between you and diluc relationship.

“we sure are going to be alright…haha”

a simple small affairs of thieves, relationship grew beneath titles. scrawling through the nights of the nations, searching for victims to be devour. Fortune, foods, informations and many more. Dangerous or so, we could talk about it later; after all, privileges of the poor are none to another. Dirts fill the clothes of people with nothing, looking like a lost dog from the leach of their master; it’s how you both look. generally speaking, maybe you both are really perfect from one another. Poor and worthless, messing up the people whom privileges drowns them to exploitation. beneficial for business and public figure, making the knives on both of your throat approach the second you both slaughtered another man.

diluc look so much more than perfect, he is astonishing. Fit more to be a corrupted man instead of a filth whom licks someone toes to be payed. And to live to the fullest, he repayed those who are involved with the corrupted government, by either slaughtering them or just..stealing their granted fortune. It is a job, and to be specific it is a living hell to be in love with your own partner. Loving seems so mature, yet you both found it to be quite bothersome. or maybe that’s just how nature works for someone who grew in an abandoned wilderness. Like how diluc live after his family died, like how you live after you lost everything to the ego’s of the rich.

you both were empty, like you predicted it to be. Diluc was a scum, same as his only eye which felt like a sharpened death. kissing his dry lips as you cried in his chest, embracing the figure of a red-hair thief who ones told you an eternal peace, for the poor we live and for the rich we died, that’s how our life’s work sweetheart. Even if death embarrassed your cheeks, all you wished is for you both to be alive as soon as the worlds ends to be a better place. The smoke of his cigarettes surrounded your cries, it stings the pain of abandonment, like the cries of lovers who only lives to die in the age of glory. although you wouldn’t assume the fact he was a worth of a thousand years of reincarnation, he sure is enough for puppet like you to be pleased.

“still wearing your brother’s eyepatch i see? What’s up with you always wearing it around? You look better without it anyways.”

“he lives in the other ground of the walls, possibly already meeting my father right now. He was beneath 6 feet under the ground anyways, would you like to mourn him?”

“you could just told me he’s dead, Diluc”

“i can’t he’s supposed to be alive after all.”

that’s how you know Diluc’s past, how’d you believe his slaughter and warm to be an abominable crime. As much as you loath those who stick with their family principles, you expect nothing more than Diluc’s ability to keep you both balance from the assumptions of the rich. He is a tool and a lover, even if you fall out of love with him, you could still rely within his power..or so you thought. Fate was cruel, they decided to lend a hand for the inability to be punished by the divine.

You found a comfort at his kisses, it was beautiful. A single line of poet to an old paper, perfection. Never have you though to be deeply in love. dancing like nobody but yourself and diluc himself. Skipping through the laces of fingertips as the mansion burns to the ground, how beautiful the sunset is at the evening; the dust of the corpses which were buried trying it’s best to find the wind, but they were corrupted and only both of you were worth to be despaired. The soul of the worthless, the soul who craves justice for the none; oh god, you both really are in love.

Embracing nothing but him, loving the movement like no one but him, only him, my beloved diluc. The flowers petals which was turned into a thousand of flames are now flying and surrounding the neighborhood. Burning the whole corrupted society was unexpectedly mesmerizing. It seems like it covered the injustice of your action. Burying people underneath their grasp, leaving terrors to the innocent, maybe fairness are really that blind.

The mansion was burned to dust, leaving nothing but bones in the investigation. The fortune you took was nothing, the burns of the screaming neighbors are your daily teases. Diluc found it pleasing that you both are in love once again. Dancing once again. But this time, both of you were chained up in a chamber. Legs full of bruises, cheekbones gone frail, and lips were all drying in horrors. you both are dying in tremors.

Dancing in each other arms, suffering in worth, it’s the last night they thought. The swaying burns of guilt, the loving kisses of embrace, it’s so addicting. Although diluc was hesitant to let go, maybe it’s time to grew on the fact by loving was a cursed from the start. For both of you and diluc. The chains in your legs were rotten, making a deep infection on your ankles. A fatal sources of death and unbalance.

“can we promise something diluc?” , your voice gone hoarse. Trembling and terrified, dying wasn’t so ruthless but seeing diluc suffer was something you wish you could unchange. It’s exhausting to live like no one, maybe diluc felt so too. You were too scared to shed another tears to his chest, anxiety was planting it’s ideology beyond the walls of your mind.

The night was peaceful, maybe the starry sky doesn’t deserve it’s view. Humans are frail, fragile, and too much of a pain to begin with. If you were a god, maybe diluc could be your lover for the rest of your eternal realm. The next life would be fine, just make diluc safe from the grudge of death.

“let us marry each other in the next life, even if it meant for one of us to die again..”

“your wishes is my command, love” , an agreement. He agrees to be in love, whenever the situation is those words would always be kept near. Marriage aren’t that simple to be idealized, but knowing this is your last wish, why not accept the terms? He asked himself.

“you don’t need to be formal like that y’know Diluc, we’re in the same bounds, a fugitive in a prison..”

“well that doesn’t change the fact you’re my lover?” , he replied again. The same silence scowl your emotions to a mess. You really wished you did more than just this, everything. Kissing his lips wasn’t enough, tearing up in his chest wasn’t enough, loving him wasn’t enough and lastly, maybe in the next life your time was too short. can i sacrifice the whole world for you then? So anything that could happened in this state, all of it was for us to met again. I’m too selfish to let go, you are the best thing that universe have fortune to be.

I accept each granted the world has gave, even if it meant for me to die again. Let go of diluc’s hand, let me be the crystalflies Diluc envied; An eternal peace for lovers to reincarnated as. If anything has happened to both of us, let share the burden towards the undeserved. Because in our next life, maybe there wouldn’t be us, just you and another person in chains of eternal love-life.

so whenever i’m lost diluc, intertwined my hands again. And you, whenever you’re lost diluc, love me all over again. Because if this time wasn’t enough, then let us die in each other embrace. Loving you was an intention i never have despises, and as those ancient story told. ‘The once fallen first are the once who fell in love harder.’ I though it was a wise poet, but maybe know i understand, Diluc.

I lost you after you fell to the cliff, i have no regret on loving you. But if time was partial enough for both of us, i rather fall for you without any requited relations with you anymore. Diluc, you’re free. As free as the ocean waves, as free as the guides of the wind, you’re free. I’m sorry for letting you fall away from the range of my life, i’m sorry..

so please Diluc, meet me again sooner or after, i love you.

the pleas for the corpse to hear, here you standing in the cliff alone, waiting for someone to push you apart; to follows Diluc’s path. oh diluc..he look so lonely down’s there..blood all over his head and torso; as he saw you fallen down to his side. Eyes opened in shock, as the knife inside of his stomache rumbles to death. Stings. It stings. He watches the world shutter in his eyes, the eyepatch he use was no longer his brother remnants, it was just a decoration for another corpse to be buried in burden of love. He seems so pathetic in this state, seeing you fallen to his side and couldn’t do nothing but smile.

diluc why am i the only one talking here?

The bloody place you both fallen through was a perfect place for continuation. Trying to slip your head to diluc’s unwary neck, the warm part of his body you couldn’t let go. You heard the whispers of the wind once again, it seems it pitied the living and the dead. Diluc heartbeat was long gone, possibly gone when he smiles at you; for the last time. Diluc was just a body now, your lover have returned to another universe. To another universe you promises him before.

‘in heaven we’ll be free..in heaven we’ll get married diluc.”

the thought of you slowly losing consciousness was better than before. the warm of Diluc’s corpse was starting to fade, same as how your instinct shatter to pieces. The only thing you could see beside the sky was the knife inside his stomach, waiting for it to be freed from the blood of the filth. But your strength was long gone, death already ruins your eyes in despised of being in love. As the ancient tales says in the end of the page, they told the audience a never-ending happy tales, a hope for the lovers to heard at the end. you both are free now..

TAGLIST : @mikachuchu , @zierx @childeluv @urujiako , @chichikoi , @noirkkat , @aphrodicts-imagination , @icecappa

proofread; @mikachuchu (thank you so much wtf mika ily for this /p)

[drowningbydegrees]

For once this month, I actually wrote what I meant to.  Written for @whumptober2020 prompt 26. If you thought the head trauma was bad (Migraine, concussion, blindness). Pretty please mind the tags. <3

Read on AO3

In retrospect, they had had better days. They’d been all but run out of town, which, they were killing a monster for these ungrateful jerks, so rude. Said ungrateful jerks had also greatly understated the monster problem so that Geralt would agree to save the town they wouldn’t even let him sleep in for less money, so extra rude. And now, the monsters are dead, but the building that had served as a nest has pretty much come down around Geralt’s and Jaskier’s ears, which probably isn’t the villagers fault, but they’re summarily awful so the bard opts to blame them anyway.

Jaskier coughs as the dust and debris settle, but it still feels like he tried to breathe in a sandstorm. Blindly, he shakes the rubble from his hair with his hand, staring out into the darkness. There’s only the weakest light shining in from off to his right promising that a world continues to exist beyond their unexpected prison.

A prison that Jaskier hopes Geralt is investigating to find them a way out of. Geralt is quiet, but he’s always quiet, so that really doesn’t mean much. When he can’t hear the witcher, Jaskier squints at the dark room, wishing his friend didn’t absolutely insist on wearing black all the time. “I don’t suppose you can do that magicky thing you do and break us out of here?”

No answer comes.

“Geralt? You’re not on the other side of all these rocks are you? I really don’t fancy being stuck here alone,” Jaskier calls a little louder. He feels his way to where the crumbled stone blocked off the exit and finds it every bit as impassable as he feared. Jaskier thinks to try and free himself, but the first rock he grabs comes loose and the whole pile rumbles, sending the bard scrambling backward, tripping over something and landing in a heap on the floor. Alright, bad idea then.

He had initially assumed the something he tripped over was more rocks, except that it makes a wretched little whimpering sound that rocks are very definitely not capable of. Fuck.

Hampered by the fact that he can’t see, Jaskier feels his way across the floor until he finds the hard leather protecting Geralt’s torso. Geralt isn’t moving and he can’t see, so Jaskier curses under his breath as he maps his way up to the witcher’s face. “C’mon Geralt. Wake up. This is really not the time.”

A hand held in front of Geralt’s face confirms that at least he’s still breathing, but that’s no real comfort when he’s still so still and quiet. It’s as much reassurance as Jaskier thinks he’s going to get though, so he continues. Maybe if he could get Geralt to sit up…

Jaskier never gets that far. Blindly, he slides a hand behind Geralt’s head and his heart nearly stops in his chest. Geralt’s hair is matted with something warm and sort of viscous, and when Jaskier rubs his fingers together, they’re wet. The touch that just got what Jaskier assumes is blood on his hands is also the thing that finally pulls a sound from Geralt. That makes it even worse because it’s an agonized moan that Jaskier is pretty sure is going to haunt him every day for the rest of his life.

“Okay, don’t panic Jask. You can fix this,” he mumbles under his breath. If he just had some light. Jaskier glares at the little hole where the sun is still shining in like the wall did this just to harm him personally. If the window is mostly blocked, there have to be a lot of stones in the way, and no telling if he could lift them.

Except maybe he doesn’t have to. Frantically, Jaskier feels around for Geralt’s sword, breathing out a sigh of relief when he finally wraps his fingers around the hilt. If luck is on his side, maybe he can get enough leverage to knock something free.

“How do you use this thing?” Jaskier grumbles once he’s got it, supporting the weight of the sword against his shoulder. It’s not that it’s all that heavy to stand there and hold, but even the idea of swinging it around is exhausting. On the upside, it seems sturdy enough to pry a few rocks loose, and if it isn’t… well, a sword is replaceable. Geralt is decidedly less so.

Every second feels too long, like he’s moving in slow motion. Jaskier shuffles across the open space as briskly as he dares, shoves the sword into the first thing that feels like a gap in the rocks and shifts his weight downward against the hilt. There’s nothing. The rock is too heavy or he is too weak, or the sword isn’t stiff enough, or…

Jaskier shakes his head, refusing to give up like that. He yanks the sword free and tries again, a little off to one side. This time, the sword slips further in with the grating sound of stone on steel. Once again, he throws all his weight into pushing the sword down like a lever. There’s a creak, an echoing sort of groan as It moves a little and then all at once. Jaskier barely has time to jump out of the way as a sizable rock skids from its resting place along with a shower of pebbles.

It’s not really a big enough gap to get out, but it does let the light in quite a bit more. The room is dim and dusty, but it brings the periphery into focus, not that Jaskier cares a whit about that. He nearly stumbles over the rocks scattered across the floor in his hurry to get back to Geralt.

“Oh, no no no.” Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat when his gaze settles on the witcher. He has seen Geralt muddle through all manner of injury, has patched up a fair few of them himself. He’s stitched up angry, uneven gashes and set fractured bones, but none of those things prepares him for the way Geralt looks now. Blood spreads around the witcher’s head like some sort of macabre halo staining Geralt’s hair a disturbing shade of crimson and soaking into the dust and rock around him.

It’s not really a relief to find Geralt’s potions weren’t lost when the building came down around them. It’s more like a handful of sandbags in the face of a hurricane. He’s not a complete stranger to them though, and a rather distraught effort at rifling through the witcher’s bag turns up one Jaskier recognizes. It’s an orangey red, almost sparkling, and he’s seen it work before on things that should have killed Geralt. He’s got it in hand when he realizes he needs to back up a step. It can’t mend the witcher if he bleeds out first.

There are no bandages, because of course there aren’t. Jaskier shrugs out of his doublet. It’s not soft at all, so the chemise goes too, and that he can work with. Carefully as he can, Jaskier winds the cloth around Geralt’s head, tying it in place and hoping to whatever deity might be listening that it’s enough.

The potion comes next, and that’s somehow much worse. Geralt doesn’t stir when Jaskier brings the bottle to his lips. The only thing Jaskier can think to do is drip it in a little at a time, so agonizingly slowly that he worries it’ll be too late before he’s even finished. Afterwards, he stares at Geralt’s unnaturally still form, waiting to make sure he doesn’t choke on the stuff somehow.

Are you supposed to leave people where they are or something else entirely? Jaskier doesn’t have the foggiest idea, but he can’t bear the idea of leaving Geralt on the hard ground. Shivering in the chilly air, Jaskier ignores the blood seeping into his trousers and sits so that he can rest Geralt’s head in his lap. He won’t panic over the stain spreading too quickly across his chemise. He won’t. “You're not dying here. You don't get to leave me behind. Not like this.”

All that’s left to do is wait.

***

Geralt can’t remember ever opening his eyes to this before, the world having slid so violently out of focus. There’s a weight, or maybe it’s him that’s heavy. Even curling his fingers a monumental effort.

“Wh-” It’s all he manages before words fail him, and suddenly there is a hand squeezing his shoulder.

“Oh thank fuck,” someone says. Jaskier? Geralt thinks it’s probably Jaskier. It usually is. “How are you feeling?” Did something happen that suddenly granted him sleeping in Jaskier’s lap privileges? He doesn’t think so. That feels important in a way he can’t imagine being ambushed by, tied to a conversation he keeps not having, but here they are, his head very definitely in Jaskier’s lap. Only Jaskier looks horribly unhappy, so… so…

Jaskier had been asking him something. “What?”

“How’s your head? There was a lot of blood and I didn’t know if the potion would be enough, and…” Jaskier’s still talking. Geralt is distantly aware of this, but the words won’t stick.

“What happened?” he says, or hopes he does. His mouth feels as disjointed as the rest of him and it’s disconcertingly difficult to tell.

“The building came down on us. Don’t you remember?”

“Obviously not,” Geralt bites out. Wait. The building came down and as that sinks in, there’s a sharp pang of fear, but not for himself. He’ll be fine. He’s always fine. But Jaskier is human and sometimes overwhelmingly fragile. Geralt's head is swimming and he's almost afraid to ask. “Are you alright?”

“Me? I’m fine.” There’s more, but the rest won’t stay put. That’s the important bit anyway. Jaskier is okay. The swell of fear dissipates like a puff of smoke as quickly as it had sprung up. The building is a problem, but he can figure that out. Somehow. It’ll come to him eventually. To Jaskier’s credit, he does seem fine, if oddly clothed. Rather not clothed, actually. “Where is your shirt?” “Ah yeah, that.” Jaskier’s knuckles brush gently across Geralt’s temple. Dizzily, Geralt leans into it before it occurs to him maybe he shouldn't. “You were bleeding a lot. It was all I had to work with.”

“Hmm.” There’s an itchy sort of feeling at the back of his mind suggesting he’s supposed to be alarmed by that, but the response itself never comes. Not the way it did for Jaskier. Which, there was a reason he was worried about Jaskier, he’s pretty sure. There might be a reason he’s lying here too, what whatever it is, it’s lost to him now. They’re somewhere dark and dusty, and they can’t stay here forever, so without much thought, Geralt rolls over, trying to get up. It’s a mistake.

That the room is spinning is the least terrible thing out of all the things that come of his attempt to get up. The shift in equilibrium feels like having nails driven into his skull from every angle, sharp and impossible to tune out. There’s a high, keening sound Geralt only belatedly realizes is him.

“Geralt. Fuck. Hang on.” There’s nothing to hang onto though, and Geralt all but collapses down to his forearms. For a second he’s very, very certain he’s going to retch, but the immediacy of the sensation passes, leaving him deeply nauseous instead.

Jaskier’s hand smooths up and down his arm in the places where hard leather doesn’t block out sensation. In another place he might call the touch affectionate, but what daydream could he be in where that’s true? “Where are we?”

“We just talked about this. We're in a building that collapsed.” Something has crept into the edges of Jaskier’s voice, fretful and shadowed. Geralt decides he doesn’t like it. He’d like to soothe it away, but does not know how.

“‘M fine,” he tries because Jaskier seems worried about him, but even in his own ears the words blur together. Geralt tries to lift his head enough to look at Jaskier and prove his point, but the awful needlepoint pressure only presses more deeply. The witcher drops his head, forehead resting against what he thinks might be Jaskier’s knee.

“You’re not fine, you dolt. I don't want to mess it up, but I don't know how to fix this one. Are you supposed to sleep it off? Should I make sure you don’t sleep?” Jaskier is saying things still, Geralt is distantly aware, but the words all drift like dandelion seeds. There’s only this thread of terror that Geralt cannot stomach hearing.

“It’s okay. We’re okay,” he mumbles, blindly reaching to lay his hand over Jaskier’s. He’s not dead and Jaskier is well enough to talk, so it can’t be that bad, can it? “Tell me what happened.”

“...Geralt?” Jaskier’s thumb is brushing against the back of Geralt’s neck. It’s sort of lovely in that it's one pleasant thing when everything else is awful. “What do you remember?”

That’s a trick question if Geralt ever heard one. His memory is fine. He can’t think of any reason it wouldn’t be. Refusing to fall for it, Geralt aims to distract instead. “That feels nice.” 

 “Well, now I know you’re unwell. The Geralt I know barely tolerates my being around for more than a few weeks at a time, and would never own up to liking something I was doing.

Does Jaskier really think that? Maybe. Geralt can’t seem to hang onto where that line of reasoning was going, but Jaskier was talking and wrong. He needs to know he's wrong. “That’s not true. I miss you when you’re gone.”

“Ooooookay. That’s very sweet, but I think you’ll remember that’s not true when you’re better." It sounds sad, but Jaskier still has a hand on him, warm and welcome.

He’s staring very closely at a floor that was probably pretty once, but it’s cracked now. It’s a weird place to be, even for him, so Geralt tries to get up. Sort of. More precisely, he lifts his head an inch or two. It’s as far as he gets before his head feels like it’s splitting and he thinks he might be sick.

”Okay, that’s enough of that. You are, in fact, the worst patient. I would like to not be stuck here, and I imagine you would like to not be stuck here, so just let me help.” Stuck? Geralt doesn’t know where they’re stuck, but he knows there’s some reason he shouldn’t ask. Nodding is probably a terrible idea, so the witcher hums an agreement and listens to Jaskier sweep the worst of the debris from the floor next to them.

There are hands on him next, guiding him somewhere else with painstaking care. Geralt lets himself be moved. He ends up on his side before it feels very abruptly like Roach is stepping on his skull. It’s all he can do to bite off a low whimper.

“Alright, hey. Just get some rest. That swallow has to work eventually, right?” Jaskier doesn’t sound certain, but there's something soft under Geralt’s cheek and there’s a gentle hand cradling the side of his neck, a thumb carefully sweeping across his temple. If they weren’t lost, Geralt would call the gesture affectionate, but nothing makes any sense here. Are they lost?

Geralt thinks about the worried quiver in Jaskier’s voice. He'd fix it if he just knew how. It's quiet here, and Jaskier doesn't belong by himself in the quiet. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“You’re not.” There’s a change in pressure around his skull, something falling away, but it doesn’t hurt, and it comes with Jaskier’s fingers sliding through his hair. “Your head is looking better.”

That’s good, he thinks. Maybe it means the awful needling feeling will go away. Maybe it means this other ache, the one sprawling out behind his ribcage, will go away too. It means something, Geralt knows, but he can’t quite piece it together and his mouth runs away without the rest of him. “I don’t think I want to be alone.” 

 “You’re not. I’m right here.” Jaskier’s short nails scritch tenderly at the base of Geralt’s skull, a welcome counterpoint to everything else. “You’re not alone.”

***

I don’t think I want to be alone. It’s a revelation if it means anything. Jaskier knows, of course, that the rambling of a witcher who couldn’t even remember how they got there for more than thirty seconds at a time might not mean anything at all. But if there’s nothing to it, at least Jaskier can know that there for a moment in time, he could be exactly what Geralt needed. For now, Geralt’s face is pressed into Jaskier’s thigh, his breathing the only sound in this dim place.

An hour in, Jaskier starts to wonder if it wasn’t the other way around. Maybe he was supposed to keep Geralt from sleeping. Two hours in, he worries that Geralt might wake up in just as bad of shape as before, that he’ll have failed them both. Three hours in, sitting so still has gotten to be agonizing as much as he’d like to stay.

He’s just about to try and see how carefully he can move out from under Geralt when the witcher stirs. There’s a low groan and one eerie golden eye slowly blinking open.

“Careful.” Jaskier carefully brushes his thumb along Geralt’s temple, trying to coax the witcher into staying put, even if it means his own continued discomfort.

“Fuck. That hurts,” Geralt grumbles, holding his hand over the upper half of his face, and some of Jaskier’s unease settles. The words are perfectly clear this time.

“Shockingly, Falling rocks will do that.” He should let go, Jaskier thinks, but he carefully threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair and the witcher stays like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. It's probably just that Geralt needs a little time to reorient himself, but for a moment, Jaskier lets himself believe it’s true.

Bit by bit, Geralt seems to recover. When he finally pushes himself to sit up, there’s a pained wince, but the witcher’s eyes remain focused. That’s… good. That’s probably good. Except if it’s not. “Should you be doing that?” 

 “I’m fine,” Geralt replies gruffly instead of bothering to answer the question. It’s considerably more normal than their last conversation, so that’s something.

 “Actually fine or ‘I can’t wrap my head around the fact that someone might care what happens to me’ fine?” Geralt ignores the question entirely, his gaze flicking over their surroundings before settling on Jaskier. “You were afraid.”

It's not a question, and Geralt is looking at him like a puzzle to solve. It would just figure, the one time the man is actually listening to him. It seems weird that Geralt couldn't keep ahold of where they even were, but that Jaskier being afraid for him would stick even now. Then again, Jaskier doesn't know anything about head injuries. Maybe that's just how it goes.

“Damn right I was. I thought you were dying and I was going to be trapped down here with your… your corpse or something. Then you woke up making no sense, and I don’t know what to do with a head injury, which it turns out is an awfully stressful thing to guess about. I wasn't even sure I'd done enough to fix it until, what, five minutes ago?” It's a lot, even for him, the words tripping over each other in their need to escape. Jaskier leans on theatrics because it’s all the armor he has. Anything else might give away how his heart broke with every attempt Geralt made to speak the last time around.

“Hmm.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose and says nothing more. Typical.

Jaskier wants to be angry, but the feeling floats away as soon as he really looks at Geralt. There are dark, angry smudges under his eyes, and Geralt is so pale, more than usual even. He appears every bit the part of someone who was recently on death’s door and Jaskier just can’t hang onto any real bitterness. “How’re you feeling?”

Geralt gives him a sour look, the kind he gets when he thinks Jaskier is asking a dumb question. Much to Jaskier’s surprise, he does answer eventually. “Terrible… but not dying.”

“Sooooo, any thoughts on how we get out of here?” It’s abrupt, but Jaskier really can’t stomach thinking the state Geralt was in, and escape is the next most pressing thing. The sooner they steer away from what happened, the less likely he is to say something foolish.

There’s that look a second time, and this time Geralt doesn’t deign to answer. Which is okay really. They’ve been stuck here this long. A little longer probably won’t hurt anything.

“I was. Dying, I mean,” Geralt says quietly, startling Jaskier from his thoughts. The bard follows Geralt’s gaze to where there is still quite a lot of blood splattered across the floor. It's dry, but it stains the alabaster flooring and pale, crumbled stone.

“Oh, that. Well, see I-” Jaskier stumbles because he doesn't know what Geralt wants, and having nearly lost the witcher in this remnant of a room has left him raw and tender in places. It's almost a relief when Geralt’s hand slaps unceremoniously over Jaskier’s mouth, stifling any further reply, but not hard enough to hurt. When Jaskier looks at him in surprise, he’d swear there was something like affection in Geralt’s exasperated expression. It's probably just a trick of the light.

“Stop. Talking. You did well. I'm still here, aren't I?” With a grimace, Geralt pulls his hand from Jaskier’s mouth and wobbles to his feet. It’s an unsteady motion, and Jaskier isn’t sure it’s really wise this soon after nearly having his brains bashed in. Geralt seems to manage though, and holds out a hand to Jaskier like he’s the one who needs support.

“In this life, some days not dead is the best you can hope for." Jaskier can’t help but take Geralt’s hand, letting the witcher yank him to his feet. Jaskier thinks he catches a smile, but Geralt turns away too quickly to be sure. What he is sure of is that he's on his feet and Geralt's hand is still holding onto his. "Not dead... and not alone.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

A TRIFECTA FOR THE WHUMP ONE FOR YOU choose whichever one appeals to you most ;D - (1) “Is that fear I see?” with Vesemir/Rennes; (2) ‘Fine’? I heard you scream!” with Lambert/Coën (or Lambert/Coën/Aiden); (3) “Nobody’s coming to save you.” for Rorveth (I WILL SEE MYSELF OUT NOW I'M SORRY)

Happy murderfest to you as well my dear.

I chose to go with Vesemir/Rennes #1 "is that fear I see?" Because I love dying and being dead and I know you do too. And a lovely time was had by all (not really, I'm crying as we speak).

CW/TW for the sacking of Kaer Morhen, gore, injury, death of children, and major character death.

Vesemir comes to to the sound of screaming and a horrible weight on his chest. He can’t see for a moment, can’t get his eyes to focus, his lashes caked with blood that has run down into his eyes. He's stuck beneath a massive piece of masonry, pinned by his leg and entire left side as though he'd tried to throw a quen and the shield had shattered. He can't remember where he is or how he got there for a long moment; head feeling hollow with the lack of memory.

One of the walls came down, he remembers finally, blown apart by chaos. He'd been shielding a group of yearlings, his yearlings. A cohort of boys only Grassed three weeks ago blinking against the glare of the burning north tower, muscles shaking as they tried to hold up swords, bodies too week to fight. There were men and mages and orders to kill...

He remembers now.

Through the rubble surrounding him, he can barely make out the twisted mass of blackened bodies. An abyss of pulverized gore with white icebergs of bone visible in places, too obliterated to make out who they'd been. The boys, his boys, smashed to nothing.

Some cry of animal grief builds itself in the dust-choked cavern of his throat. He holds it there, chokes on it, doesn't let it pass his lips.

"Please" a voice says from far away, a boy's voice "please no"

Vesemir gathers all his strength and tries to lift himself, the primal instinct to protect overtaking him. He feels the thready rip of muscle tearing and falls back with a gasp, sparks swimming in front of his eyes. He can't feel it, not really which means his leg is breaking down, that the muscle is dying. He grits his teeth against the fear.

"Please"

He is powerless but to listen as the terrified plea of the boy, his boy, trails off into the bloody rasp of a cut throat. He feels it though, feels it like a knife to the heart.

The silence settles, horrible and reeking of spilled blood and smoke.

It's quiet for a moment, a long moment that seems to stretch into oblivion. He's going to die here he realizes, bleeding out against the stones of the courtyard of the place that has become as familiar and dear to him as the back of his own hands, the sight of his own face in the mirror. A place they were supposed to be safe.

There’s a poetic irony to it and he almost laughs, only to find his lungs too crushed to expand enough to produce the sound.

There’s a movement across the courtyard, barely visible through the smoke and debris. Vesemir, pinned as he is, unable to turn his head, is aware of movement but can’t see it for a long moment. He braces himself for pain, for a surprise attack but it doesn’t come.

A group of soldiers and mages strides into view, a prone and growling figure in a black fur cloak slung between them. They throw their captive to the ground. Vesemir hears the crack of kneecaps against the cobblestones. He’d know that shape anywhere; the haughty cut of those broad shoulders, those strong thighs, and his breath catches in his throat at the sight.

It’s Rennes, face mottled and swollen with bruises, bleeding from several stab wounds. The shaft of an arrow sticks out of his thigh, fletching stained with blood. Something in Vesemir breaks at the sight even as a deeper part of him wails in gratitude, in relief. Everything he’d lost come back to him.

When the alarm had been raised Rennes chose to meet the intruders alone. He had donned his black wolf-fur cloak and stepped out onto the trail - a Master to the very last. Vesemir had tried to go with him but had been ordered to stay, held back by Rennes’ hand. The first time the grandmaster had touched him in years.

“Stay” Rennes had ordered, hand heavy against his shoulder, calloused and scarred fingers curling against the side of his neck as though seeking to pull strength from his pulse. Vesemir hadn't let it break him.

But he had stayed, had done as he was told. A loyal dog to the last.

He had assumed Rennes had died there on the trail, hadn't seen him in the ensuing fray. Although he hadn't been in much of a place to look.

Now, watching them drag him, demiterium-cuffed and rope-bound he realizes Rennes's fate had been worse than death. He'd been made to watch.

He's still wearing his cloak, black fur blending with the silver-streaked thundercloud of his hair. Regality is written in every line of his posture even as one of the men hits him across the face with the hilt of his sword, even as he spits blood and fragments of teeth onto the cobblestones.

"So here he is, the last wolf," the one who hit him says, laughing "the alpha bitch. What did you think beastie? Did it turn you on when we killed them all?"

"They’re only children," Rennes says, quietly.

It's a spit-back of Vesemir’s own words and it chills him to the bone. How often had they had this argument? Are they children or witchers? Men or monsters? “Only the strong survive” Rennes would growl at him, slamming down his cup of whatever it was they’d been drinking hard enough to dent the table “That’s the way it has to be. Boys are like bones, break them and they’ll grow stronger. They'll grow stronger or die”

They’d spent lifetimes breaking children in the name of strength and for what? What good had that strength been in the end? What had it all been for?

“They’re only boys,” Rennes says again, coming to the realization too late for it to do anyone any good.

"Not anymore," the men say "no more monsters, no more monstrous children. No more witchers"

"The lone wolf dies," Rennes says, all glacial calm despite the blood bubbling up from between his lips "but the pack survives"

The men laugh, the leader taking Rennes' bruised chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing him to look around him; at the ruined Keep, at the bloody cobblestones, at the piles of bodies - child-small corpses - cut down where they'd stood hands shaking around swords too big for their frames

"Don't you see, beastie? Look around you. There's no pack left"

He knows that Rennes sees him from the way that the other man smiles, just a twitch of blood-burned lips, an old familiar gesture meaning what can you do? Meaning thank the gods you're here. Meaning I'm sorry.

"Is that fear I see?" The one with the sword says mockingly "did I finally make the soulless mutant feel something after all?"

“No,” Rennes says, eyes hard as chips of stone when he lifts them “not fear”

“Too bad,” the man says and lifts his sword.

There’s a horrible meaty crunch and Vesemir screams. Or maybe he just imagines he does, the shock too great for sound.

Rennes' headless torso falls to the ground with a resounding thud, blood pooling from the stump of neck, that strong regal neck. His head bounces once, rolls, comes to rest on one cheek facing Vesemir’s own.

His eyes are open, wide and bright, and full of defiance. Even facing down the executioner's blade his iron core of bravery hadn't failed him. Vesemir loves him, purely and completely for the first time in a generation even as the animal anguish of loss claws its way inside his chest.

He feels tears welling at the corners of his eyes - a feeling he hasn't felt in over sixty years, a feeling he didn't think he could feel anymore. They fall, lava hot against his freezing cheeks, mixing with the blood and ash to fall red against the stones beneath him. He gasps, sobs with it, his smashed ribcage protesting the expansion of the lungs beneath them.

Pinned as he is he can't turn his head, can't look away from the face of the man he’s spent his life loving, loathing; that strong nose, those snarl-bowed lips the curvature of which he knows better than the sound of his own heartbeat. He can't look away. He doesn't know that he would if he'd been able to.

How many nights has Vesemir spent in this same position; cheek on pillow gazing into those ice-chip eyes? They used to lie like this as trainees, whispering stories of heroism and chivalry to each other in the darkness of the shared dormitory. Later they lay like this as lovers, passing promises of forever back and forth like talismans between kiss-bitten lips. It's fitting that it would end like this, unable to do anything but gaze into Rennes' death pale face like a lover might - a position he hadn't held for decades but had longed for throughout it all, despite it all, despite loathing himself for the longing.

The sun sinks below the horizon, a bloody gash, choked with smoke. The darkness encroaches with the horrible silence of a mass grave, and Vesemir watches Rennes' amber eyes cloud over with death, milky as the moon.

He remembers when they were blue.

[bitchapalooza]

More hetalia highschool AU, 🌟magic team🌟 edition :)

Under the cut bc it is long ❤️

Vladimir is that one kid obsessed with Twilight but only for the vampires; it was his first ever exposure to vampires thanks to his dad thinking Twilight was an appropriate book for a 11 year old. Team Edward going strong for five years, he'd proudly declare like it actually mattered. He tries his best to dress goth at school even though his uniform gets in the way. Fake ear piercings(his parents won't let him pierce them yet), over the top makeup, he's dyed the top half of his shoes black because his parents were concerned about his obsession with black and wouldn't buy him the black tennies he wanted— "mom look, these are marked down for back to school! Can I pleeeease get them???" "....may I know why the black ones specifically?" "They match the ever nothingness of my soul." "Yep! The white ones it is then!" "Mooooooooooom!"— Vladimir has been dubbed the cringy vampire kid of course.

Lukas is into pretty much anything concerning cryptids and magical creatures because they can't be proven to be fake or real, which intrigues him. He carries a book about mushrooms at all times and info dumps on pretty much anyone about identifying poisonous mushrooms and which mushrooms are safe to eat. His backpack is covered in buttons and pins to show off his interests. He keeps an amethyst in the front pocket of his backpack, reason unknown other than to just randomly pull it out and let Mikkel look at it. He's that kid that always wears his hoodie no matter the season, he never takes it off. Under his hoodie is always a crude worded t-shirt that the school would not approve of, much less his parents. He's relatively quiet and because he's quiet he's considered a weird kid.

Arthur can't decide if punk is his style or if goth is. Either way, his way of self expression at school in addition to the uniform is horrible. Checkered black/red shoes his grandma got him with his older brother's hand me down worn out greying socks—"can I PLEASE just have my own clothes???" "we have perfectly good clothes for you in the garage! I can fix them up to fit you better and everything!" "but I want cool NEW clothes!" "those are cool clothes and as far as the other kids know, they're also new. Now get your transformer backpack and get to the car. I put a new patch on it last night so that should hold it for the rest of the year."— Old Pierce the veil shirt, with holes chewed into the collar from his older brother Dillan, peeking out from under his white polo. A black and red choker to match his black and red slowly tearing apart too big flannel on top of a black pull over. A deep blue beanie, the hoodie of his pull over almost constantly on top when outside the school. He dyes a part of his hair a different color every month. He spikes his hair using too much gel and is convinced he looks good. He talks too much about bands and always gets Vlad and Lukas going on and on about fictional creatures he does not FULLY believe in himself. He does, however, believe in magic and loves Harry Potter, more specifically the Weaselys, to bits.

Natalya is a sophomore, a year behind the boys, and she just kinda pushed her way into the friend group until they eventually accepted her into it. They were the only three she knew who liked occult related topics. She's on the baseball team because she wanted an excuse to hit things with another thing and NOT get detention because of it. She wears the khaki uniform skirt and takes full advantage over being able to wear any kind of tights underneath; skull pattern, plain black, blood splatter pattern, fire pattern. Anything that makes her feel like a badass. She's always talking about antiques and forging weapons, more specifically knives. She has a whole collection of fidget toys but her favorite is this pea pod keychain her father gave her. She's always talking about how she'd like to be a medical examiner and to just prove that she's serious, she'll bring up a picture of a human model and point out the difference between a self inflicted fatal wound and a homicide. She puts up a charade of being able to see and talk to ghosts to freak out Alfred, her extended friend first met through Tolys.

They collectively believe they're cool and that other people know this. They're genuinely blind to the obvious snickers sent their way, being called losers and nerds. They're really knowm for like really pathetic things like; Natalya is Ivan's, tallest and most intimidating member of the wrestling team, weird younger sister by a year. Lukas is just the weird quiet kid that reads by the courtyard garden during lunch. Vladimir is not only the vampire goth kid but the kid who's parents believe the teachers are giving his son low grades on purpose and will yell at them for it. And Arthur is just. He's another Kirkland, immediately assumed to be a massive trouble maker because of his now graduated brother Alistair and one grade above him brother Dillan. Everyone loved his eldest brother Darick and sometimes compare him to Darick.

Compared to what others THINK they do, such as witch craft for some odd reason, the four of them do pretty typical teen activities. Like hang out at the mall. Do their honework together. Play video games and D&D when they have the chance. The boys do have sleepovers still as they have since meeting each other in middle school, Nat not really being a fan of sleeping where she doesn't live but comfortable enough to go to their houses and just chill for the day. They have become friends because of their related interests but thats not what they're ALL ABOUT.

Fun facts/stories about these losers I thought about while bored as fuck:

• Lukas, in his freshman year, went on a nature hike field trip with his lit class after reading Into The Wild. And he brought his mushroom book of course. They walked around, looking at the sights, talked about the book. Lukas just stops at one point, falling behind the class. He picks up a mushroom, goes to the teacher and is like "You see this? Its not poisonous." And straight up fucking eats it without warning. The teacher called an ambulance even though Lukas kept telling him he was fine and that that mushroom was 100% okay to eat raw, but for sure better off cooked. Lukas calmly shows the paramedics his book and they're like "yeah that actually was safe to eat, we don't need the book to confirm that, but um. Please don't ever pick something off the ground and eat it again. Just. Please don't do that, son." .....he did it again before leaving to go back to school but this time he didn't tell anyone.

• In elementary school, Natalya brought in a model of the human brain she asked her dad to borrow. He had to say yes because she was his only child genuinely interested, not bored of, his medical profession and he found it very cute and honoring. So she's at show and tell, its her turn right, and she silently goes up to the front of the class and pulls out the model brain. Teacher tries to step in because, hey, these are 6 year olds—AND WHY DOES THIS 6 YEAR OLD HAVE A PLASTIC BRAIN??? But Nat just shooshes her. In surprised shock, the teacher is just quiet as Nat begins to explain parts of the brain and their function— which was all wrong actually. She knew the words and everything but she didn't get the locations right. She sounded confident and smart and she was telling this to a bunch of 6 year olds so they believed her of course. End of the school day, her dad is having a hilarious conference with his youngest's teacher about the brain incident.

• Vladimir loves reading. He's loved it since he began to learn how, even if his dyslexia gives him grief along the way. So since he loves to read he'll always get excited and read ahead in class or in the public library reading club. One summer, the reading club was reading The Giver and it was getting really good. Vlad was loving the story, so much so that Vlad began to read ahead in his own time when he really wasn't supposed to be, the club was reading it together out loud and discussing it. Now he's read enough and worked hard enough to figure out how to help himself focus better and understand each word and sentence without having to reread it all multiple times over or get stuck. But sometimes the meaning and context to what he's reading doesn't ALWAYS process with the words as he's too focused on reading the words right and it passes right over his head. So Vlad is reading ahead and he's getting to the part where The Giver has given Jonas the memory of the sled again. And Vlad just sits there after reading that paragraph. He rereads it. And rereads it again. And then he leaves his book on his bed, goes to the the hall closet and takes out the ironing board. He grabs a plastic container to use as an ill attempt of a helmet and he just. Rockets down the staircase and hits the wall. He screams and cries and his parents rush in from the livingroom. When asked what happened he just says "I wanted to understand the sled scene better! Now I do and I feel really bad for Jonas!" He just couldn't quite grasp WHY the sled accident hurt, never had a broken bone nor sled afterall, and needed to find out. And that's how Vlad got his first broken arm at the age of 12.

• When Alfred and Matthew moved in with Arthur's family, Arthur didn't like it. He was a moody young teen but he was also just tired of the full house. His cousins were loud and nosey. He had to share a room with his four older brothers already and now with Matthew while Kathleen and Alfred got a room to themselves. Arthur thought this was so unfair. So his solution was to run away. He was 13, he needed a place to have some peace and quiet for once. So he texts Francis and Lukas, the only two of his friends living in his neighnorhood. Francis is not on board with helping him run away at first but then Lukas brings literally all his camping gear for Arthur's use and then Francis is on board because he had the feeling Arthur was going to get himself killed somehow. So as the elder one of the group he accompanied Arthur and Lukas out to the short stretch of woods behind the last street of their neighborhood, intending to go to the big clearing before hitting the roads leading to the airport and whatever else buildings. They're out there setting everything up together and they're done by like 4 pm. They sit down and talk, munch on oreos and other snacks Arthur deemed as essential survival foods. Then Francis looks at his cell and remarks "wow its already 6! Ah, Lukas, we should get home. Afterall, neither of us ran away so we still have supper to eat. Come on Lukas, let's go before our parents come looking for us." They exchange goodbyes, Francis trying his best to hide his cocky smirk. So Lukas and Francis start walking off, Arthur crawls into the tent and eats half a cookie before frowning and feeling too alone. He didn't expect to feel alone because all he wanted was to BE ALONE. Before he knows it, he's running out of the tent yelling after his friends to stop and wait up. "Oh whats wrong, Arthur? I thought you wanted to run away." "I— I forgot I hadn't fed my rabbit is all! I'll run away tomorrow! I'm not... Feeling lonely if.. If that's what you think...." Arthur did not run away the next day. Buuuuuut the three plus Vlad made a tree house together in the Kirkland backyard that they still use today!

[four-rabbit]

Game Night

I don’t really know what this is, I’m just glad I was finally able to finish a sanders sides’ fanfic for the first time. 

This fanfic was born from the last video, obviously, and the realization that the creativity twins canonically feel physical pain when their ideas are desregard or their function is “offended” let’s say, which I had to exagerate and turn int angst, of course, so enjoy!

Summary: Remus get sick so frequently that those nights have became his idea of a sleepover. 

Ship: platonic dukeceit. Or romantic. You can interpret it however you want

Characters: Remus Sanders, Virgil Sanders and Janus Sanders 

Warnings: swearing, kinda grapphic descriptions of pain and sickness, mentions to vomit. Also maybe some umsympathetic Virgil? I don’t see it like that, but I guess it depends on how you interpret it. 

Word Count: 1729

Sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language

-----------------------------------------------------------------

If Remus was real, he would be dead. 

And if snakes could demonstrate worry, they would make exactly the same expression that Janus had after looking at the thermometer. 

"How do you manage to get so bad so quickly?" 

"What can I say, being bad is the only thing I'm good at" Remus joked, the words scratching his throat as an unwanted cough came with them. Janus rolled his eyes, trying to seem calm. And falling. 

"Any idea what was the cause this time?" Remus' focus went down to the old and familiar sheet, which he fiddled with, avoiding the question. 

"How hot am I?" He vaguely pointed to the thermometer. 

"You have a 113°F fever" 

"Well, fuck. That's a new record" he touched his own forehead, smiling almost maniacally right after "Shit. How long do you think it takes until my brain melts? 

"Bold of you to assume it hadn't already" Virgil was the one to answer, entering the room with a bowl of hot soup in his hands. 

"Wow Virgil, that was fast " Janus lied, raising an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"I was trying to actually cook something real for once"

"Please don't tell me your burned the kitchen" the half-snake child replied, with some amount of actual fear behind the dramatic hand to his chest and horrified expression. 

"Ha ha" pause "...not on purpose" Virgil replied, looking away. 

 "Yeah, that's my job!"

"Remus, eat your soup, the grownups are talking" the embodiment of Fear interrupted jokingly, even though any of them was older then twelve. Then he turned to Janus again, already guessing what he was going to say "but... it's fine now. I took care of it" Janus made a mental note to go take a look at the damage as fast as possible. They could all be kids, but Janus knew very well he was the only responsible there. 

"I don't like it...!" Creativity replied, sounding like a child who doesn't want to eat salad. Janus sighed as his thoughts were interrupted, conjuring a bottle of perfume and poured it in the meal. 

"Now eat" and so he did. Virgil raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling, trying not to be so worried. Or at least not demonstrate it. After so many times, he should be used to it, but... well, he was Fear. It was his job to keep track of the worst case scenarios.

"Did he get better?"

"On the contrary. The fever is higher than ever"

"And I also feel like someone ripped my bones out of my skin and then put them back, but like... in the wrong way" Remus added, spilling hot soup all over the sheet and his clothes by trying to communicate with his mouth full. 

"So it's one of those nights" Virgil mumbled.

"I'm afraid so" 

Remus finished his soup smiling like there was no tomorrow, opening his arms despite how much that simple gesture hurted "Game night while I'm dying!" Janus smiled, with more sadness in his eyes than anything else. 

"I'll get the monopoly"

•••

"I won"

"No, you did fucking not" Remus immediately answered, not even looking away from his cards.

"You can see for yourself" Janus showed his game, which clearly meant a victory, indeed. Remus tossed his cards on the sheet like it was their fault. He was so fucking close!

"You cheated" Virgil said sharply, as if it was an undeniable fact. 

"Do you have any proof? Janus challenged, not losing a beat or his mischievous smile.

"Yeah. It's the only thing you know how to do" the teenager replied, his tone as cold as a lake in the winter. Janus looked down before he could help himself. Couldn't he keep it down for at least one night? The night Remus needed both of them?

The cards caught fire. It was an accident, but Remus decided to go with that, jumping out of the sheets, trying to ignore the terrible twist that movement gave to his stomach. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he threw up. At least that way these two would stop fucking fighting. 

"What the hell?!" Virgil exclaimed, tossing his game away like it was burning. Which was the case, indeed.

"Let's watch a horror movie!" Well, he got their attention. 

"Did you need to burn things before saying that?!" Virgil screamed. He was standing and seemed even more distressed.This was a mistake, Janus realized. It was foolish to think they could ignore their differences for the sake of Remus. 

"It's more fun this way! What can it be? One of the classics? Some shitty obscure one?" He kept trying, getting out of bed and walking toward Virgil, who walked away from him. Janus immediately got up too, already anticipating the disaster that situation could turn to. A worst one. Because it was already a disaster. 

"Please, control yourselves"

"I'm controlled! I'm not the one burning things" Virgil replied, the trace of the tempestuous tongue in his voice proving that he was anything but in control. 

"Remus, please. Apologize for burning the cards"

"It's just some stupid paper!

"Now"

"It was a fucking accident"

"We all know it wasn't" Janus almost, almost told Virgil to shut up after that. But he didn't need to make things worse than they already were.

"It was a fucking accident" his voice started getting threatened, his eyes started shining with a red danger "But you know what wouldn't be a fucking accident? if I..." his vision went black, a headache that felt like someone had opened his skull being everything that existed and then not even that. 

Anxiety got out of the room immediately after his friend fainted, keeping his gaze to the ground, knowing that he wouldn't be able to stand any amount of time alone with Deceit. 

•••

   Remus wished he was real, so he would be dead. 

   He felt like someone had catched his body on fire, then hit his head with an axe, then exchanged his blood for poison and his bones with knives. 

   "I knew you were stupid, but not stupid enough to try and suggest an idea for Thomas. On your own. After terrorizing him the whole night. Literally hours after recovering from your last..." Janus looked down at his friend, in one of the only moments he didn't try to hide his emotions. Fear. Somebody had to fill the vacancy now that Virgil is gone, I suppose. 

   "It was..." He coughed blood. "A good idea"

   "Oh yeah, I'm sure he thought the same" Janus rolled his eyes. Remus tried to say that he would be fine, but his throat still hurt from the acid of his stomach and the scratching of his coughs. 

   "I told you to not do anything too dangerous. We are..." he looked down to his gloves which, as he knew, covered up for the scales that apparently had decided that half of his face was not punishment enough. "In a delicate situation, now that..."

   "The emo is gone. I know" Remus completed, his voice not much more than a whisper. 

   "Oh please, no. We are better off without him haunting us all day. If he prefers to deal with them, the only thing I feel is pity" anyone else would have believed that. Remus knew it was bullshit the second those words left his mouth. But he didn't say that. Mostly because he was feeling nauseous again and he learned that, apparently, people don't like if you throw up while trying to talk to them. 

   Janus stayed in silence for a couple more seconds, then something changed in his eyes and he got up.

   "Well, if you need me, I'll be reading" said, but before he could go too far, Remus grabbed the bottom of his coat, deciding to make use of his positions of creativity, as with a snap of his fingers green words appeared in the air:

   "It's game night, not a fucking book club"

   "I don't think you're able to play games right now"

   "I've never been better in my entire fucking life"

   The words glitched as his consciousness stumbled. 

   "Remus"

   "You've been reading, studying, planning, whatever every fucking time we were together" he finally was able to find his voice again "Is it me, Virgil, or just you being a dick? 

   "You need to rest"

   "I'm gonna vomit on your shoes"

   Janus sighed, sitting again on the bed. 

   "What do you propose?"

   "Truth or dare" Janus never plays truth or dare. The two of them, Virgil and Remus, would play it at any given opportunity, on the other hand. 

   "Don't test me"

   Floating words again: "I'm gonna take it easy"

   "You never take it easy."

   Remus frowned. 

   "Ok" the half-snake man sighed "let's find a compromise: I can play Never Have I Ever" 

   Remus smiled diabolically. So they had a deal. 

•••

   "Finally! It's been so long since our last sleepover!"

   "This is anything but a sleepover" Janus replied, not looking away from his book.

   "Yes it is! We're sleeping together not in a sexual way and wearing pajamas.

   "I'm not-" Remus snapped his fingers and suddenly Janus had a yellow onesie on. "...I'm not having a sleepover with you. And you're not even that bad"

   "But I'll be. And in the meantime... Please play truth or dare with me just this time please please" he said in one breath. 

   "You already know my opinion about this game"

   "I know that you like it! You would always laugh and even participate when me and Virgin played!" Janus flinched.

   "That was a long time ago"

   "Just two rounds!" 

   "I..."

   "C'mon! You're not gonna lose an arm if you play just one time. And even if you did, you would still have five perfectly good ones left"

  Janus hesitated. He knew Remus would get worse. It was obvious by the tiredness in his voice, even when he was so excited. And how pale he was. How deep his eyeshadow appeared, making him seem like a dead body. 

   He sighed. Remus smiled from ear to ear. Literally.

   "Truth or dare?!" Asked as if he was a child whose birthday had come earlier.

   "Dare, obviously" Janus said, unable to stop himself from smiling at his friend's happiness, even though they both knew it wouldn't last long. 

   But that was okay. Because they would have one another. And that was enough. It had to be.

[brain-jarred]

Chapter one.  Marriage problems

In the dank bowels of New York, it was a normal day of extracting brains from dubiously consenting test subjects, and Dr. Hal was bored. Bored with his life, he knew he was smart, he knew he had a brilliant mind. In theory this job was in fact nurturing his mind, and putting it to good use in bettering mankind, and-

Yeah yeah whatever. He knew that this was for a good cause, as he carefully cut open the patient's skull, revealing the squishy and oozing brain. He sighed, and his colleague finally took notice of his dour mood. “Dr. Hal? What's wrong? You don't seem very enthusiastic about this.” Dr. Param asked, looking up from their clipboard which they were doodling in the margins of. Dr. Param was very much like Dr. Hal, in the sense that both of them had similar backgrounds. Though despite this similarity, the two were as different as could be. “Come on, Hal! Put some pep into that neuro-needle!” They said cheerfully, pumping their metal arm in the air, much like a cheerleader. In response, Dr. Hal just rolled his eyes and took the neuro-needle out of the tray, and did what you do with a needle.

Once he was done with it, he returned it to the tray, and the doctor began the process of removing the brain from the skull. He sighed again, and turned to Dr. Param. “Hey Dr. Param? Do you ever feel like… I don't know, that we could be doing literally anything else with our lives?” He questioned as he lifted the brain with one hand, and cut the spinal cord with the other. “Like, I know that this is to improve mankind and everything, but… this is just so…” He plopped the brain into a jar, staring at it for a bit. “Boring.” He said flatly. Dr. Param looked shocked. “What?! No way!” They retorted, limping their metal wrist joint in at Dr. Hal. They put down their clipboard and slid a pan containing a brain across the counter. Then, they sat their elbow where it had been. “Listen Hal, Dr. Hal. All jobs have their… their dips!” “Dips?” “Like low points on a graph!” Dr. Param said while walking around. Their six metal legs made clicking sounds as they moved on the metal floors. They had their arms behind their back. They circled around the now brainless body that was laying on the surgical table. They patted one of the legs to accentuate their point. “You just-” Another slap to the cadaver’s legs.”-Just gotta keep going!”

“Dr. Param, I appreciate the enthusiasm, as well as the attempts at motivation, but you should stop slapping the body.” “You aren't listening to me!” Dr. Param slapped the body. “No. I’m not.” The scientist sighed and walked over to the sink, removing his thick plastic gloves, placing them in the cleaning solution. His hands were… not human. Because neither Dr. Hal, nor Doctor Param, were human beings. Doctor Param was a centipede-esque cyborg, maybe even centaur-like in their design. They had one almost normal looking hand, if not for the sharp claws on the tips, and one needle like appendage on the other arm. The other legs, six of them, were simple, like a bug’s legs. They had huge red eyes that stared annoyed into the back of Dr. Hal’s head. Or rather, they were staring at Dr. Hal’s brain, that was visible through the translucent psychic aura that made up his body. He looked very much like a person, but without bones, skin, muscle, or even nerves. He looked like a person composed entirely of blue jelly. The only solid parts of him were his brain and his eyes. The two doctors both had human brains, greatly enhanced, yet still human, brains.

“I’m just saying-” “I know what you're saying.” Dr. Hal interjected. “You're saying I should just accept the life I've been given, and I shouldn't wish for anything more.” “Wow. Rude.” The cyborg huffed. ”That's your problem! You are rude. When people try to cheer you up, you just-” they waved their arms around. “You push them away! You push me away.” He huffed. “Why have you been so- what am I doing wrong!? You have been so on edge lately.” “I don't want to talk about this anymore.” Dr. Hal looked away and began to pad out of the room. “Don't walk away from me!” They said, raising their voice. “Please! Let's just talk!” They said, throwing their arms up in the air.They had been working with each other for sixteen years, and though Dr. Hal was walking away, and acting standoffish, he did care about his colleague. The two of them had been working together for sixteen years. The pair acted like a married couple when they argued. But really, they were both married to their jobs, not each other. Recently though, Dr. Hal’s marriage with work was failing. Like a marriage in which both of the participants were no longer in love with each other.

Dr. Param followed Dr. Hal for a bit, before sighing and going to sit down in one of the chairs outside the operating theatre. It was a bit awkward to sit in, considering they had a 5 foot long body. In reality, the bug-like cyborg laid on the chair rather than sat in it. They watched as Dr. Hal put his hands in his lab coat and power-walked away to his quarters. They hated when he got like this. Lately they had been noticing that his colleague's heart just wasn't in his work like it used to be. Dr. Param missed it, back when things were simple. Executing tests on subjects, researching, and all the other marvelous things- they weren't fun anymore. Maybe it wasn't supposed to be fun, maybe this work was supposed to be hard and laborious. But… Ugh. Dr. Param just sat there, trying to think of ways to reignite that fire that had been reduced to cinders within Dr. Hal. Meanwhile, Dr. Hal was in his quarters. The off-white walls surrounded him, it was a small room, only about 9 feet wide and long. The ceiling was low, and if he jumped, he would probably hit his head on the ceiling. Not that he was the type to just randomly jump. That was more of Dr. Param’s thing. Being all excited and enthusiastic about their job… Dr. Hal wondered how they did it. How they managed to be as passionate about their work as they were the day they both first woke up and did their first assignments. Part of him admired it, maybe even envied it. These walls. These floors. The lights, the blood, the smell of this lab. It was all the both of them knew. Their old lives were gone. Dr. Hal wasn't supposed to miss it. He had consented to this after all. He consented to having his body removed from his brain, and having his brain utterly transformed into something inhuman. Dr. Param consented to it too. So then why did he feel like something was missing? 

Why would he miss being a terminally ill cancer patient? This was a far more noble life than wasting away in a hospital bed with no family to be there as he died. Of course he did not remember being a terminally ill cancer patient, but that was what his bosses told him. They even showed him pictures of who he used to be. Birth records, I.D., photographs. All meaningless to him now. 

He had been thinking more about it lately. He hadn't told anyone though. He always got the feeling that the bosses didn't like it. It was an unspoken taboo to mention the past when the goal of the organization was to further the path into the future. He closed his eyes. Well, he didn't really have eyelids. He just shaped the ectoplasm that comprised his body to slide over his eyeballs.  And then there was a knock at his door, before he could tell them to come in, someone he didn't expect to see today walked into his room stiffly. The person that entered his room was a pale man, with wispy and wild white hair, and a ratty scarf worn over his lab coat. His face was round, it would have been almost friendly looking if not for the deep scowl that he wore on his face at all times. Dr. Hal sat up, and then got off his bed to stand respectfully towards the head scientist “Dr. Brian.” He remarked. “It's good to see you.” “You did good work on the last subject, but we have another assignment for you.” Doctor brian said, ignoring pleasantries and going straight for what was needed of Dr. Hal. “We have a subject coming in that is extremely high profile. Not only that, but it's going to be a vivisection. Further details will be given later.” He said in a monotone. “Oh. I see. But why are you telling me this in person? I feel like this could have been communicated in a memo.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Because you haven't been confirming your memos.” He huffed. “You have been acting highly unprofessional lately. Now tell me why that is.” He asked pointedly, glaring up at Dr. Hal. “I apologize.” He began, taking in a breath. “I have just been feeling unwell lately. I was actually going to request a week’s vacation for-” “Denied.” The head scientist interrupted. “The high profile vivisection is tomorrow.” “Oh.” Dr. Hal folded his arms. “I assume my...talents will be needed?” he asked. “Both you and Dr. Param will be needed, yes.” “Alright.” he looked away. “Tell you what-” Dr Brian began. “You can have your week's vacation after the vivisection tomorrow. It's estimated to take six hours to complete.” Dr. Hal’s eyes widened. Wow. That was more than double the length of the longest vivisections he had done. This must be someone special that they were vivisecting. “Will it be a terminal one?” He asked. “Yes.” Damn it. Dr. Hal hated the terminal ones. Usually they were performed only on death row prisoners or terminally ill patients. So he didn't feel shame about most of them, despite technically being a murderer. Well, he wasn't really a murderer. They were going to die anyway, so who cares? He certainly didn't. But it was still unpleasant to be in the mind of a dying person. It was sometimes borderline nightmarish. Of course, he wouldn't voice these opinions out loud. But Dr. Brian’s scowl still deepened. “Do what you will for the rest of today.” He huffed, and exited the room. End of chapter one

[izzyfandoms]

Roceit - Ash and Bones

(@themelodeeartz requested this! It’s a part of my Clouds and Moss AU!)

GENERAL TAGLIST: @quillfics42 @ajdraws0430 @phlying-squirrel @phantomofthesanderssides @creativity-killed-thekitten @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game @because-were-fam-ily @imtryingthisout @a-creepycookie @emo-disaster @littlestr @spooky-scary-virgil @fuyel @mimsidoodles @soupgromlin

WARNINGS: Sympathetic Deceit, dead people, descriptions of corpses, burning, murder 

Masterpost

Clouds and Moss AU Masterpost

Janus had met the god of fire before. 

Of course, he had, they had existed for millennia, how could their paths not have crossed? And humans died by fire all the time, so he felt Roman’s heat like warm breath on his skin almost constantly. 

Humans were endlessly dying of many different things, though, so it wasn’t like Roman was special. 

But, in all his many years of knowing – though never really knowing – Roman, he hadn’t expected the other god to seem so… human. 

Janus swept through the bustling town, his cloak fluttering in the wind behind him. He had a job to do, and he would get it done as swiftly and efficiently as possible, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. This town was much too alive for his tastes: full of music and dancing and laughter. It was just his luck that his visit coincided with the festival celebrating the fire god, Roman.

The humans that moved through the shadows couldn’t see Janus – he stuck to the shadows and blended in like that was where he belonged – but they all instinctively dodged him nonetheless. His boots made no noise as they thumped against the ground. It was like he wasn’t even there, more a ghost than a god.

Janus didn’t really mind that, honestly.

He soon reached his destination, the town square. There were men with instruments at one end, and at least half of the people present were dancing, but none drew nearly as much attention as one man who danced in the centre.

His eyes were closed, and he was smiling, serene, but he never once tripped as he expertly weaved through the crowd. He moved like a flame that danced in the wind: gorgeous, mesmerising, hypnotic. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Janus could see right through his glamour – revealing too-perfect skin that glowed in the moonlight, and bright eyes identical to burning coals – he would have mistaken him for just another particularly talented human.

Janus watched Roman dance for an unknown period of time, his eyes following as Roman’s feet left glowing imprints on the ground behind him, that only they could see. Many tried to reach out and touch the god, to pluck him from the square and pull him right into their arms, but his skin burned their hands: the extent depending on their intentions.

The music sped up, and Roman twirled and twirled around and around across the square, so light on his feet that he almost looked to be floating, until he suddenly stopped, right in front of Janus , opening his eyes and looking up in surprise at the taller god.

“Oh, Janus, I didn’t see you there,” Roman said, bowing his head for a moment, respectful. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a soul to collect,” Janus responded simply.

Most human souls made their way to the underworld almost immediately after death, as if yanked from their bodies by an invisible string, but a rare few were a lot more… difficult, whether intentionally or not, and Janus had to come collect those by hand.

Roman’s face fell for a moment, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The longer he stood with the death god, the more the surrounding humans’ eyes seemed to slide over him, like he wasn’t even there. Something appeared to be bothering him, which Janus thought to be a little peculiar – most gods felt only joy on their festival days – though he didn’t comment on it. Then, after a second or two, Roman’s expression smoothed over, and he straightened up.

“A young woman named Elizabeth disappeared yesterday,” He said. “I’m- I’m assuming she’s the one you’re looking for.”

Janus raised an eyebrow. “You must spend a lot of time here.”

Roman gave an awkward laugh, running his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, well… I like this place.”

The festivities continued around them: humans chattering and chuckling, ignorant to the solemn conversation happening right in front of their noses. Janus’s eyes scanned the crowd; nothing stood out to him.

“They worship you.”

Humans worshipped all the gods – of course, they did, it was just common sense – but they worshipped Janus out of fear and obligation (and, at best, respect), not out of gratitude and love.

Roman made a face. “That’s not why I like it here,” He said. “They think I’m human, just a wandering traveller. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Janus nodded as if he understood. “Of course,” He answered, and that was that.

The fire god gave Janus a small, grateful smile, before turning on his heel and melting back into the crowd. To the humans, he blended in, like a predator camouflaged in a forest – he wasn’t a threat to them, not really, but he could be, if he wanted to, and they’d never see him coming. To Janus, he couldn’t possibly stand out more; even when he retreated down the street, turning a corner and disappearing from sight, the death god could still feel his presence, like his skin was on fire, like there was magma in his veins.

Janus hesitated for a moment, before pulling his hood back, running his ice-cold fingers through his dark hair. In the blink of an eye, he was suddenly visible, and the movement around him screeched to a halt. The surrounding humans spotted him instantly, inhaling sharply in fear – as loudly as they dared – and freezing in place. The life had drained out of them, and they stared at him like he’d come to reap their souls, which was rather ridiculous. If he started killing the living, Patton would start complaining, and Janus just didn’t have the time for that.

He took a step forward, and the crowd parted in front of him. There were some benefits to being feared, he supposed.

The humans watched him fearfully. The longer their eyes remained on his face, the more his appearance shifted and changed, distorting under the weight of their stares. If they looked close enough, the skin on the left side of his face almost seemed to peel back, revealing a broken skull that wasn’t his. He was a god, he didn’t have bones, he was made up of something much older and scarier, something mortals couldn’t possibly comprehend. They saw only what they could understand, and, no matter how horrified they felt, they just couldn’t look away.

Just before he reached the centre of the square, a figure appeared in front of him, flickering in and out of existence like a broken illusion. It was a young woman dressed in rags, her skin as white as bone and splattered with shiny red blood. She looked lost and in pain, and when she turned to stare at Janus with dead, frozen eyes, there was no fear in her gaze, only quiet relief.

He held out his hand. “Come with me,” He spoke softly.

Elizabeth paused, glancing around at the numerous people surrounding them, all fearfully holding their breath, people she’d likely known all her life: friends, maybe even family. Her killer may have even been there, too. Janus didn’t know the specifics. It wasn’t his job to know.

She took his hand.

He closed his eyes. There was a second of stillness and silence, and then the ghost disappeared from sight, oozing through his skin and settling in his chest. The tension in his shoulders melted away, and he straightened up, opening his eyes.

Janus scanned the crowd; there was no trace of Roman remaining. It was cold.  

He waited from a moment, and then stomped his foot. The ground opened up and swallowed him whole, closing behind him, and dragging him back to where he belonged. He would have choked on the earth if he was human, it would have stuffed his lungs and stolen his life – humans died so easily, like the fallen twigs in a forest that snapped underfoot – but he was a god, so, instead, he felt only comfort.

***

The next time he saw Roman was less than half a year later, in the exact same town, which he internally remarked as an odd coincidence, but nothing too unusual.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Roman spoke plainly, his hands in his pockets as he drew shapes in the mud with the tip of his boot. “I thought most souls travelled to the underworld on their own.”

“They do,” Janus responded.

Roman’s hair shone in the midday sun – red and orange, amber and gold – practically glowing, and Janus had a difficult time tearing his eyes away. Fortunately, though, he succeeded, and when the fire god looked up at him, he had already turned to stare down the winding dirt path that led into town.

“Would you like to accompany me?” Janus asked eventually.

“Sure.”

Their walk through town was quiet. Roman’s glamour extended to Janus just enough that he appeared almost human, and Janus’ glamour extended to Roman just enough that the townspeople paid little attention to them. It was relaxing, really – birds chirped joyously overhead, children ran and played around them – and if Janus hadn’t been so focused on watching every little movement Roman made, he might have felt at peace. 

“John Wicker died last night,” Roman finally spoke. “I doubt the townsfolk have even noticed yet.”

Janus gave a quiet acknowledging hum. Humans were remarkably ignorant creatures; they tended to take a while to notice things.

They stopped in front of a small, cosy-looking cottage. If Janus had had an appreciation for architecture or horticulture, he might have admired the pretty little house, and the various plants that sprawled across the garden surrounding it. But he didn’t, so, instead, he found himself observing one fiery-coloured flower in particular, internally remarking it as similar in hue to Roman’s hair.  

To his surprise, after a moment or two, Roman knelt down and plucked that very same flower from the ground, before standing up and twirling around to face the death god. He then reached out and tucked it behind Janus’s ear. 

“There,” Roman smiled. “Your attire was looking rather drab. Why not add a splash of colour?”

Janus blinked back at him, perplexed, reaching up to brush the petals with his gloved fingertips. His touch was light as a feather to avoid damaging it.

“I’m already wearing colour,” He stated, gesturing vaguely at the yellow that outlined his shirt collar, barely visible under the hood of his cloak.

Roman wrinkled his nose, tilting his head to one side as he looked over Janus. “That’s not quite enough,” He decided eventually, waving his hand. Janus’s gloves turned from the dreary black to a much brighter yellow. “Much better,” Roman concluded.

He looked back up at Janus , his eyes shining triumphantly.

“Okay,” Janus responded, as he had no idea what else to say, looking over his new gloves in confusion. They matched his collar, and Roman seemed pleased, so he decided not to complain.

There was a beat, and then Roman inclined his head towards the front door of the cottage,

“Are we going inside?”

“Oh, yes.”

Janus turned and walked up the path, carefully avoiding stepping on any stray flowers, before pushing the door open as easily as if it was unlocked. He stopped before he stepped through the doorway, however, and when Roman peered around him to see what was going on, his face fell as his eyes landed on the body sprawled across the floor.

The corpse was laying on his back, limbs at uncomfortable angles, a large knife protruding from the centre of his chest. There was blood splattered across his clothes, the floorboards, and even the walls and ceiling; it had all already dried, but it still wasn’t pleasant.

The fire god looked a little sick at the sight, which did confuse Janus, though he didn’t comment on it.

“Would you like to leave?” He asked instead.

After a moment of consideration, Roman shook his head.

Janus turned back to the body, and it only took one more step forward for the ghost to appear, standing over his body and staring down at himself in abject horror. He was almost identical to his corpse, though greyscale apart from the blood, and lacking the knife. His shirt was torn, practically falling to pieces, but his skin was in far worse shape.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” He asked eventually, after an unknown period of time, his voice distorted and crackling.

“Yes.”

It was best not to say too much unless prompted, Janus found. The dead weren’t usually too talkative, and they tended to find the death god more… creepy, than comforting.

There were a few beats of silence.

“It didn’t hurt as much as I’d expected it to,” John continued. “The stabbing hurt, obviously, but then the pain just… stopped. It was like falling asleep, and then I woke up again.” He looked down at his hands, trying to clasp them together, but they just phased through each other. It can’t have been a very pleasant feeling.

After another second or two, he looked up at the two gods. “What’s the underworld like?” He asked.

Janus took a moment to mull it over, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes scanned the numerous plants that decorated the room, and he thought back to all the bushes and flowers in the front lawn.  

“It’s… like a garden – an infinite garden with no end in sight,” He answered finally. “You’ll stay there as long as you wish, and then, one day, when you’re ready, you’ll fade.”

John seemed surprised at that answer, but satisfied, humming thoughtfully under his breath. The sound was twisted and broken – like eerie music played from a broken instrument – but Janus found it soothing. He held out his hand, and John took it without hesitation, seeping through his gloves and his skin and then settling in where the death god’s ribcage would have been, if he’d had one.

“I’ve never been to the underworld,” Roman said once it was over, breaking the silence and reminding Janus of his presence. “Is it really like that?”

“Patton’s the only one who visits regularly,” Janus responded simply. “He likes to come see his children. And it’s whatever they want it to be, a dream they can dwell in for as long as they wish. Just a beautiful lie – nothing more, nothing less.”

Roman’s expression was unreadable.

“I’d still like to visit, someday,” He said eventually, and then he disappeared, leaving a charred mark on the floorboards where he’d once stood, and a waft of smoke that wouldn’t truly dissipate for a while, the smell permanently etched into Janus’s brain.

***

The third time it happened, only one month after the second, Janus realised it was no coincidence.

It was midnight. The townsfolk were all fast asleep; the streets were empty and silent. The moon shone brightly above them: the glowing crescent reminiscent of Remy’s smile, like the night god, himself, was grinning down at them. Perhaps he was, if he had nothing better to do, but it was much likelier that he was busy courting his human lover, ignoring his duties as much as possible.

Roman was sat on a small patch of grass outside town, staring up at the stars with an unreadable expression. His skin was glowing slightly, his bare chest giving off a faint fiery light. It was barely visible – humans would never even notice, but Janus did, and it was hard not to stare.

He shook his head, trying to get back on track.

“It’s you,” Janus said simply, pausing for a moment, before sitting down beside Roman in one swift motion. “You spend so much time here. You’re the reason their souls are strong enough to stick around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Roman apologised. His voice was quiet, bordering on emotionless, but sincere.

“It’s fine.”

And it was fine, really. Janus didn’t mind spending so much time with Roman.

There was a beat of silence.

Roman glanced at Janus, opening his mouth to say something, but shutting it again with a snap when he spotted the death god’s gloves. They were bright yellow, impossible to ignore, and identical to how they’d been when their paths had last crossed. He raised his eyebrows, tilting his head to one side.

“You kept the gloves?” Roman asked softly.

Janus stared down at his hands, looking almost startled, like he hadn’t noticed the colour.

“Yes, I did,” He said. “I like them.”

Roman smiled, and Janus’s heart did a funny little tremor in his chest, which he didn’t understand, but chose to ignore. His face warmed – likely from being in close proximity to the fire god – and he quickly cleared his throat in an attempt to regain composure.

“Do you know who died this time?”

The smile slipped from Roman’s face, and Janus instantly regretted the question.

“Yes,” Roman said, standing up and brushing the non-existent dirt off his trousers, before holding his hand out to Janus, helping him stand. “Follow me.”

The touch lasted moments at most, but burned with an intensity that would never fade, and the death god found himself wanting to keep holding that hand and never let go. However, Roman did let go, turning away quickly, his expression unreadable, and stepping off the grass.

Without another word, Janus followed Roman into town. The silence between them wasn’t quite cold, exactly – it could never be cold, not with Roman – but it certainly wasn’t comparable to the moment of warmth that had preceded it. The wind nipped at any patch of exposed skin, like ice-cold teeth that refused to be ignored. Janus wondered if Roman felt them, too, or if his burning skin shielded him from such things.

He didn’t know how long they’d been walking – it could’ve been seconds, minutes, maybe even hours, though probably not – but he knew when they’d reached their destination, as Roman stopped in his tracks, his hands stuffed in his pockets, right in the middle of the street. Janus was almost distracted enough (by his hair, his warmth, his skin) to bump into him. Almost.

The body was fresh, about an hour old, at most, probably even less. It was propped up against a front door, slumped over and covered in stab wounds, and Janus had half a mind to move it, to save the family that slumbered in the quaint, little house from having to deal with such a terrible start to their day. But blood had already slipped through the crack under the door – wet and still glistening in the moonlight – so their morning would likely be ruined either way.

“The killer’s still awake,” Roman said, barely above a whisper. “I can hear him cleaning up, just a few houses down.”

Janus listened: footsteps, breathing, an erratic heartbeat, the sounds of water sloshing and spilling over. Laughter – quiet and breathy, yet smug and self-satisfied.

The death god scowled, his nose wrinkling. Those were the worst kinds of humans.

“Where’s the ghost?” Roman asked eventually, glancing around. “I can’t see them.”

“Hiding.”

Janus looked up and down the empty street – once, twice, thrice. There was no sign of the spirit, only a general feeling that they were somewhere nearby, but as far away as possible: watching, listening, waiting. He sighed, pulling off his right glove, folding it carefully, and sliding it into his pocket, before kneeling down beside the corpse and pressing his thumb into the centre of its forehead, just above the nose. Roman watched him silently, peering over his shoulder, his previous disgust almost overtaken by a warm curiosity.

After a moment or two, Janus’s connection with the ghost strengthened, like there was an invisible string connecting them. It only took a few tugs, and then they were yanked from their hiding spot, reappearing beside their body with a gasp.

He stood up, taking a step back and pausing for a second to put his glove back on, before turning back to the ghost,

They were just as blood-stained as their corpse – wide-eyed and terrified – standing as far away from Janus as they could. Their hands were in fists as they clutched at their clothes, and they kept glancing at Roman with confused recognition.

That made sense – Roman spent a lot of time here, after all.

“You’re… not human, are you?” The ghost asked softly, not accusatory, just questioning, their voice crackling.

Roman smiled slightly, a little embarrassed. “Not, I’m not,” He admitted, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m… also the reason why your soul stuck around longer than usual. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” They reassured him gently. “And your name isn’t Philip, is it?”

Roman shook his head.

“May I ask what it is?”

There was a beat, and then, instead of simply answering, the fire god let his glamour disappear, like a layer of wax melting away. His skin glowed – literally glowed – like a burning ember plucked straight from a fireplace. His hair seemed to move and sway in the wind, a living flame. It was impossible to take your eyes off of him; everything about him drew people in – both humans and gods alike – he was mesmerizingly gorgeous, like molten bronze and gold, and even Janus froze in place watching him.

The human’s eyes had widened, the whites more visible than anything else.

“Oh,” They whispered.

Roman smiled, still a little sheepish, but as bright as the sun. He bowed his head for a moment, before straightening up, glancing at Janus out of the corner of his eye.

Janus coughed, clearing his throat. He held out his hand to the ghost.

“Come with me.”

The spirit froze, their eyes darting between the two gods, half-terrified and half-questioning. Roman nodded, supportive, and they sighed.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” They asked weakly, half-joking and trying to smile, but looking like they wanted to cry.

Janus didn’t respond, he just waited.

After another moment or two of hesitation, they took his hand, quietly disappearing from sight and settling in Janus’s chest. For almost a minute afterwards, it was still, quiet, the silence only punctuated by the fire-like crackling that burst from the fire-god’s skin. 

And then the calm was broken by Roman reaching out and resting his hand on Janus’s shoulder, sending a spark of warmth through his shirt and across his whole body, like he was setting his skin ablaze, melting his heart. Janus turned immediately, and they made eye contact. Roman looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. 

No words were exchanged, they just… felt.

Felt what? They weren’t sure (or, at least, Janus wasn’t sure). But it was good, nice, and unlike any other experience Janus had ever had with any other god.

The moment was then suddenly interrupted by another front door swinging open with a deafening creak, and a human – a young woman in her early twenties – stepped out. Somehow, the first thing she spotted was the mangled corpse, and she inhaled sharply, not quite screaming (but only just), her bag slipping from her shoulder and landing on the ground with a thump. Then, her eyes landed on the two frozen gods, her attention immediately drawn to Roman, who winced almost imperceptibly.

“Oh,” She squeaked, before falling to her knees in a deep bow, rapidly apologising for interruption and begging for their forgiveness.  

It was awkward, to say the least.

Roman reacted more visibly to this, his face scrunching up uncomfortably, looking unsure of what to say, his hand falling from Janus’s shoulder. Janus was also at a loss for words, and gave the fire god a sympathetic look. He wanted to say something – to either Roman or the girl – but this wasn’t exactly his speciality. 

Then, the earth began to creep up his shoes, tugging at the hems of his trouser legs, reminding him of his duty to bring the hundreds of souls swimming in his chest back to the underworld (today had been a busy day, he was full). And he sighed, turning apologetically to Roman, who shot him a small, understanding smile, before sinking out and becoming one with the dirt, his vision going black.

***

Two weeks had passed since their last interaction, and when Janus realised that another soul had passed, awaiting him, and that he would be returning to that very same town, he’d felt not quite excited, exactly, but it was definitely positive, and definitely attributed to the fact that he’d get to see Roman again. He’d never admit that to himself, though, and certainly not to anyone else.

But when he’d appeared just outside town, he was immediately overwhelmed by a feeling of pure misery that didn’t belong to him – thick and suffocating, like the air was packed with pudding – and the sounds of sobs that rippled through the clearing, all centred around one figure who knelt in the middle, in front of the ashen remains of a bonfire.

As Janus approached Roman, he could tell that the fire god had noticed him, but he didn’t look up, staring straight ahead, smoke-coloured tear tracks running down his face, his hands in fists at his sides.

Janus sat down beside him, crossing his legs, not saying anything, waiting for Roman to speak up.

After a few minutes, he did.

“They slit his throat,” He said, barely above a murmur. “And then threw him into the bonfire. The burns finished him off. I fini-”

“No,” Janus interrupted him firmly. “You didn’t do anything.”

Roman was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t save him; I could have saved him. If only I’d noticed,” He sniffled, wiping the tears off his cheek and rubbing his eyes. “He was my friend, you know. One of the few people I really got along with in this town.”

“I’m sorry,” Janus apologised, sincere.

“You didn’t do anything. You’re just here to… collect him.”

That was true, but, right now, comforting Roman was more important to him. The ghost could wait another few minutes, at least.

“They thought he was the one killing everybody,” Roman continued, shaking his head and letting out a short, bitter laugh. “They were wrong, accusing him without evidence. The killer’s still out there, and he’ll kill again. They’re no better than he is.”

He glanced up at the death god, and, for a moment, looking at Roman’s tear-stained face and red eyes, Janus felt like there was a hand clamped around his heart, squeezing tight. For a moment, he considered killing – destroying – all those at fault for this, but he knew it wouldn’t help.

“They… the woman we saw last time, she told everyone about us,” Roman said, looking down at his lap, his hair flopping in front of his eyes. “They know that I’ve been visiting, and they thought… they thought that I’d want this. They… they think I’m going to reward them for sacrificing him in my name.”

His expression was still miserable, but, right now, he looked more… tired, than anything else.

“Are you?” Janus asked.

Roman gave him an incredulous look.

“Of course, not!” He exclaimed. “Why would I? I don’t- I didn’t want them to do this! They’re… they’re just as bad as the murderer, taking pleasure in such horrifying things.” He paused for a moment. “Why- why would they do this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are the humans like this?” Roman continued, and Janus didn’t have the answer to that question, either. “They can be so good – so sweet, so selfless, so loving – but… but they can be so bad, too: so horrible and full of hate.”

“They aren’t like us,” Janus said, in an attempt to comfort him.

Roman looked back up at him, head tilted slightly to one side, his brow pinched together.

“Aren’t they?” He said softly, placing his hand on Janus’s knee and distracting the death god so much that he almost didn’t hear the next words. “They’re just like us, but powerless against the world around them, and so they take it out on one another. I don’t understand them, I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand them. I can’t… we can’t.”

Janus didn’t know what to say to that.

There was silence between them for some time afterwards – it could have spanned seconds, minutes, or even hours, neither could tell – and, while Roman’s sadness still hadn’t dissipated, there was something warm (almost comfortable) about it.

“May I take him, now?” Janus asked gently.

Roman gave him a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Of course.”

Janus carefully removed his bright yellow gloves, folding them and placing them on the ground between them. He then leant forward, burying his hands in the ashen remains, coating them, feeling the bones beneath his fingertips. A second passed, maybe even two, and then the ghost appeared – a young man, his skin the colour of glistening silver, his hair as black as the night sky behind him. He looked confused, at first, and then a fleeting moment of terror crossed his face, before he noticed the gods beside him – in particular, Roman – and his expression melted into one of sympathy.

“Oh, Phil- Roman. Roman,” The ghost correct himself, kneeling down in front of them. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Roman asked incredulously. “You’re the one who just- who just-”

“I know,” The young man said softly. “But, are you okay?”

Roman hesitated.

He sighed. “Not really.”

The spirit gave a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry,” He apologised.

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but I’m still sorry.”

There was a beat.

“You’re too kind to me, Jacob, you know that, right? One of the sweetest humans I’ve ever met. It’s more than I deserve; I’ve been deceiving you about my identity since our first encounter.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” Jacob reassured him. He looked like he wanted to place his hand on Roman’s shoulder, to comfort him, but he couldn’t. “And, surely, that cannot be true. You’ve met many humans throughout your lifetime, numerous great heroes and saviours.”

“And few stood out as much as you.”

Jacob smiled. “Thank you.” He said, before turning to Janus, looking nervous, but not quite as fearful as most felt around the death god. “And I suppose you’re here to collect me?”

Janus nodded.

“Any final words?” He asked, surprising himself in the process. He didn’t usually ask that, but, right now, it felt right.

Jacob turned to Roman. “Thank you,” He repeated. “For being my friend.”

And then he took Janus’s hand.

His soul lingered for another moment or two, frozen in place, before it fell forward, colliding with Janus, slipping through his skin, and settling in his chest.

There was silence, and then Roman took a deep, shaky breath. Janus turned to him, instinctively opening his arms. Roman fell into them immediately, wrapping his arms around the death god’s neck and burying his face in his chest. There was a moment of hesitation, and then Janus place one hand on Roman’s wait, using the other to reassuringly rub circles on his back, feeling the fire god shake and sob against him.

It was impossible to tell how much time they spent like that – Janus would keep holding Roman forever, if he could, though the fact that he was crying wasn’t ideal – but, eventually, Roman pulled back.

He stared up at Janus, still oh-so close to him, their legs pressed together, his hands on Janus’s shoulders, Janus’s hands on Roman’s waist.

“Thank you,” He whispered.

And then, he leant forward, pressing a soft kiss to Janus’s cheek. It was warm, hot, scalding, and if Janus’s hadn’t known better, he’d have thought that Roman was burning a mark into his skin. It didn’t hurt, though, it couldn’t hurt – if he was human, perhaps it would have, but he was a god, and Roman would never hurt him. 

Then, Roman pulled back, staring into Janus’s eyes for another moment or two, before disappearing into thin air, leaving Janus feeling empty, yet significantly warmer than before, and wondering what, exactly, the kiss had meant.

[mostfacinorous]

Stoki Whumptober Day 31: Today’s Special- Torture [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18][19][20][21][22][23][24][25][26][27][28][29][30]

Loki came to atop a table, feeling cold and incredibly weak. He wasn’t tied down, which suggested that Hydra wasn’t worried about him escaping. And he could only imagine why that was.

In a panic, he reached for his seidhr, and was relieved to find it still within him, still responsive. 

They hadn’t used their drugs on him this time-- he assumed because he’d lost enough blood to be deemed a lost cause. 

The joke, however, was on them; his seidhr would work to preserve him, heal him… and he felt weak, but fairly whole. He pressed his seidhr to fill in the gaps in his strength, and sat up, waiting for the dizziness to clear before standing. He took stock: his armor had been stripped away, but he still wore his bottom cloth layers. They’d taken his boots as well, which was less than ideal, and his shirt was stuck to his side with dried blood. He was a little sore, a little light headed, and still a little weak, but the seidhr would help until the adrenaline fully kicked in.

There was no one around, and the room seemed to be kept cold for the other occupants’ sake. There were, he saw, three other bodies on tables, one showing some signs of already having been carved into, but all dead. 

He shuddered at having apparently been counted among them, and immediately began checking the room for a weapon. 

There were a variety of knives, all tiny, and bone saws, which would be mostly useless in battle. 

So he reached within himself and pulled out his dual fighting knives, then used illusory magic to create a false costume over what was left on him of his clothes.

Disguised as a Hydra operative, Loki made his way out of the room, bare feet quiet on the polished floors of this base. 

He had no idea where they were or how far from the Avengers they might be, but that would be a matter of later concern. The first thing he needed to do was find Steve. 

He heard something-- it sounded like someone swearing-- and found the three soldiers crowded around Steve, whose arms were chained together and hanging from an overhead hook. 

From the way one of the soldiers was holding his face, and the way the hook was swaying, Loki guessed that Steve’s immobile arms hadn’t stopped him from breaking the other man’s nose with a well aimed kick. 

Good. 

Less good, on the other hand, was the sheen of sweat that covered Steve, the way his eyes looked red, the blood trickling from the side of his head. 

He was swaying, even without the hook, and Loki wasn’t sure how long he had been out, leaving Steve, once again, to Hydra’s torture.

He wouldn’t be too late this time, though. 

He pushed open the door silently, and Steve’s eye tracked him, but he was careful not to turn his head. 

That was a good sign; he was aware enough to keep his wits about him. 

“You’re nothing now.” Steve said, his voice rough. Loki winced at the sound of it. “You have to keep getting injected-- you can’t keep your serum from dying off. And you were running low even before we crushed your stores. So what, you think you’re gonna just keep harvesting it from me? How long can you keep that up, do you think?” 

Loki’s eyes widened-- Steve was telling him that these men were probably no more than that, now-- just men. 

“Well, we figure we can probably get some magic blood out of your dead friend, get a little bit of a boost from your serum blood… maybe the two combined will do the trick.” 

One of them drawled. 

“You know, somehow I doubt that.” Loki said, dropping his illusion and stepping forward, knives ready. 

He sent a bolt of seidhr over to unchain Steve, and gave the soldiers a nasty looking smile. 

“Two very strong men, one with magic and knives, against three very weak ones, one with a broken nose. You’ve been torturing my boyfriend. And I’m between you and the door. How do you suppose this is going to end?” 

One of the soldiers charged at Loki, and all hell broke loose. 

--

Afterwards, when Loki had vanished his knives and they were searching through the base for his armor and Steve’s shield, Steve cleared his throat. 

“So uh, I’m your boyfriend now, huh?” He was clearly exhausted, but the slyness in his voice was reassuring. They hadn’t broken him this time; only beaten him a little. 

“Is that not the appropriate word? On Asgard I would call you my intended, but I understood that might be too… fast, here.” Loki was watching where he stepped very intently, to avoid hurting his bare feet, of course. 

“No, boyfriend’s fine. It sounds odd coming from you is all. Like the word doesn’t fit right.” 

Loki bit his lip, wondering what that meant. 

“Should I call you something else?” 

Steve shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what you call me. Long as I can call you mine.” 

Loki looked up and saw that same dopey, cheesy grin on his face that Steve sometimes wore when they were alone. 

“You besotted twit.” Loki said, stopping them so that he could kiss him. 

The kiss was interrupted by the sound of an emergency call coming in on one of their communicators in the next room. 

They traded a glance and hurried in to contact their friends, arrange a pick up, and make their way back home, and to whatever came next. 

As they waited outside, scanning the horizon for their ride, they linked their hands together and spoke of all the things the world had to offer them now-- art museums and nice restaurants, strolls in the park, adventures wherever the calls for help would take them. 

And when the plane landed and Thor rushed out to pull Loki into his arms, relieved that his brother was alive, despite the videos they’d found of him being injured and losing blood, Loki felt hope. Hope untinged by dread, or sense of failure, hope that he might build something anew. Hope that, for the first time in a long time, he wouldn’t be alone. 

From over Thor’s shoulder, he shot Steve a hopeful smile, and received one in return. 

It was going to be alright. 

Loki was going home.

[thewritingstar]

Prompt list 5: some greens for the soft tender kissing please? 🥺 maybe they just finished fighting an awful monster or just got out of a rough sparring session and needed some affection to help ground each other again. Pretty please and thank you!! You’re the best!!

This is cute! Hope you enjoy :)

Pairing: Greens (Butch x Buttercup)

----

No matter how old she was fighting monsters never got easier. Maybe the planning and how to fight them did. Blossoms leadership had grown over time and everyone’s skill had too. What didn’t change was the feeling of pain that rapidly spread through her body everyone she got hit or smacked down.

The feeling of her head rushing with to much blood and white noise playing had never ceased to get easier. You can prepare and say it will be a bloody battle, but the bone crushing blows and the scraping of the knees always caught her off guard.

The chemical X that jolted through her system and sent a rush through her was also unprepared. The sensation of a cool liquid almost exploding in her veins and organs felt weird as if she was feeling death being sucked out of her. Yeah, it never got easier.

The only thing that helped over time was the turning of age RowdyRuff Boys. During their middle school years, the boys, mostly Brick, had enough of dear old dads. Being bossed around and left for the aftermath of the puff fights had gotten old, especially when they began to realize that none of what they stole for their fathers ever showed up for keeping.

They rebelled in an odd way. Coming to the good side and practically fighting against their creators. It was weird when Brick had approached Blossom during the beginning of high school and nearly demanded that she allow them to join the team cause he was fed up with monkey brains. Princess cried saying she was never allowed to join and Blossom only rolled her eyes and agreed for the safety of the city and not because they were secretly making out behind closed doors and Brick wanted to impress his “flower”.

So they joined forces in high school, big deal. They grew as a team and possibly closer. It wasn’t long before the notorious leaders of both groups had hooked up and apparently Bubbles and Boomer had secretly been together since middle school, but for the green duo, it was another story. 

They were both alike, naturally as counterparts. Always picking fights and holding stupid grudges against each other. Even with two years of high school down and their teamwork with the city, they still never moved past the frenemies tier. 

And maybe it was because they were both afraid. Sure they teased each other and everyone was dying to see them get together but those strange warm feelings that kept them both up at night were shut down as the sun rose in the sky. It was easier to be friends, maybe they had become best friends at the start of junior year, sue them. 

And maybe, just maybe after a brutal fight on the battle field where they had flown to hid from the monster, Butch had wiped the dirt off her face. And maybe that sent a jolt of electricity to powerful to contain through them both as they began to lean forward. And maybe, maybe, they had kissed. 

And maybe that kiss broke through that barrier of fear she was holding onto. The tears she shed as she faced death one too many times had slipped away as his lips fell to hers. They should be focused on the wounds they had received from the wonderful monster fight but her mind was only on him. She never thought that he could be so delicate and tender as he careful cupped her cheek. The way his body pressed against hers felt so right and she swore that this explosion of fireworks was due to her hitting her head hard, not the breathtaking kiss she was currently involved in. No, the monster was at fault, but god his lips were so soft. 

By the end of winter break junior year, the green duo had completed the dating between the puffs and ruffs. 

So no, monster fights didn’t get easier, but the people you fought along side made it better.

--

And now here she was at age twenty two. In the middle of her college studies looking towards a degree in sports medicine and a teaching credential, she didn’t know either, don’t ask. But instead of her studying for her exam on Friday, she was up in the sky blasting laser beams and sending punches that could easily kill a person towards a giant ass monster. 

It was all yellow and fuzzy and Bubbles thought it looked like a baby duck, yeah know, before it spit poisonous acid out of its mouth and melted half a skyscraper. Gross. 

She kept hitting harder and harder, letting her muscles tense to the extreme as she fought alongside the others. She had lost sight of her boyfriend a while go, Brick had yelled at him to create a barrier of some sort and she was only focused on beating the living shit outta this thing. 

Its roar was loud as the sound rumbled the town but Bubbles sonic scream nearly caused an earthquake from the high pitch shatter of her vocal cords, p.s. you will never win a fight with her, she learned that the hard way when she was seven. She can still feel her eardrums ringing. 

As her fist collided again and again, she felt the dripping and burning sensation on her forearm as the acid fell from its mouth, Blossom sending the monster tumbling towards the ground. It stung like hell as the thick goop made her skin bubble and her eyes welded into tears because it was literal fucking acid. 

There was nothing she could do as it rushed through her skin. The chemical X fighting back as quickly but the pain was harsh. 

The whimper of her voice caught the attention of her leader and soon a nice layer of ice had coated the burns but left her skin bubbly and puffy as Blossom worked quickly. 

“Not suppose to put ice on burns.” Buttercup muttered but it was better than letting the acid reach her bones and take her whole arm off. Her sister smiled lightly and just patted her head. 

All she wanted to do was fly back to her dorm and study. 

“Wicked burn babe.” Butch flew up next to her and her eyes widened as she saw that half of his shirt had melted off and his chest showed the same sickly bubbling that her arm did. 

She just stared at the scars and even though the chemical x would cover it, it somehow made her feel worried. She had seen him in a worse state. Broken ribs, hips, arms, you name it and hes broken it. But in a matter of days, hes brand new. Still sucked. 

“Hey, hey.” He brought her into a hug. “Come on babe.” His voice was low and soothing. Buttercup only hugged him tight as she buried her face into his chest, avoiding the burned area. 

Her body felt heavy and her eyes even heavier and she assumed he had talked to their red leaders because the next time she opened her eyes they were in his own apartment. She was being carried bridal style. Usually she would complain about being treated like this but she had a massive headache and snuggled closer to her carrier. 

“Damn Butters I haven’t seen you like this since we got totally shitfaced during freshman spring break.” She felt the vibration of the laugh against her head and soon 

She picked her head up and looked at him through her lashes. “I want kisses.” She muttered and she felt his hold tighten on her as he brought her into his room.

He let out a low laugh before setting her on the bed and patting her head. “Easy Babe. Let me just wipe the dirt off and you can have me.” She mentally pouted as he went into the bathroom and she heard the faucet turn on.

She kicked off her shoes and peeled off her shirt that had become ruined but thankfully her tank top didn’t take as much damage.

He came back with a clean face and a wet rag before sitting on his knees and gently wiping it around her face to reveal the fair skin that was caked under dirt and dust.

Her head pressed into his palm and he swiped the rag around her mouth, purposefully making some of it go into her mouth which she scowled out.

“Maybe I don’t want those kisses any more.” She began to say but he only laughed before scooping her up so that he could lay on his bed with her against his chest.

“Fine.” Butch smirked but she rolled her eyes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

His hands traveled to the back of her thighs as he began to rub her skin that was most likely sore. She made a small noise against his lips as she rocked her hips and took his face in her hands, her thumb gliding gently along his jaw. 

“You should shave.” She kisses his lips again.

“I know.” He mumbled as one of his hands came to rest on her behind. “Kinda annoying right?” He laughed lightly and he loved the feeling of her kissing his cheek.

“Mmmm” she hummed with another peak to his face. “You just look better with a clean face. And maybe a few cuts and bruises.” She kissed the dark circle that was forming under his eye from when he got hit today.

Some people might think it’s weird but she really liked watching the skin expand and turn to deep shades of blue and purple before it quickly fades from chemical x taking care of it.

He leaned up causing her to lightly gasp before holding her against his chest and kissing her neck.

“But for me babe. I prefer to see you crystal clean. Don’t get me wrong you look hot as fuck with scratches and burns but I like to see you in prestige condition.” Butch bit her neck gently drawing out another noise from her lips.

“But you know what I like best?” He asked. And she shook her head as he kissed the bite mark. “I like the feeling of you after a battle. Scars or no scars. This soft feeling of your lips on mine and the way that you act so shy, really gets me going love.” She silenced him with another tender kiss.

She longed for these soft and quiet moments. The world would crumble around them and her focus would be on him as they laid peacefully. 

“I love you.” She said to him and she loved the way his expression soften and the ends of his lips turned up into a smile. 

“I love you too.” He kissed her temple before she felt her eyes flutter close and they fell asleep in a calm bliss. 

--

just something cute. Hope you enjoyed :) 

[derireo]

unlucky 4 ↦ sakuya & izumi

sakuya can't help but feel that the number four circled on his makeshift calendar meant something.

a young woman shows up in front of his home and shows him just what that number indicates.

「 read on ao3 」 「 1.9k words 」

* sunny is an alias for izumi. first person from sakuya’s pov.

I blink my eyes open at the sound of a wooden cart strolling past my window. There were jars being carried away; I could tell by the clinking and clacking. They jostled at the same rhythm of the horse’s hooves kicking the dust, and if I was able to assume the correct time of day, this cart was supposed to be heading towards the apothecary just down the street.

There were always odd things being sent to that place, but I couldn't question the person who took care of the village here.

I sit up from my bed and wipe away the morning crystals that scratched at the skin around my eyes, body creaking as if I hadn’t moved in days. The small, handcrafted calendar I made for this month sat lonely on the pillow beside me, and I picked it up to check what the date was.

The weak parchment was frail in my fingers as it fluttered, forcing me to be gentle with it. Oddly enough, the paper looked worn-out for something that I had only made just a few days ago.

My pink irises lazily trailed over the first row of crossed out numbers until it reached the fourth. The number four was circled over in red ink multiple times, signalling to me that something important was going to happen. What I found interesting was that I couldn’t seem to remember what the occasion was.

What could be so important on the fourth of April that required me to waste so much ink on some flimsy piece of parchment?

There was no point dwelling on it now. I shake my head to clear the thought and slip the paper into my pocket after gently crossing the circle out. I needed to get ready before anything else if something really was going to happen today.

I trudge outside of my small one room home to step into the busy streets of the village, dust already covering my leather shoes as I shuffle towards the large basin that I left outside the night prior.

It should have collected enough rainwater, but the sun wasn’t kind today and evaporated more than what I had anticipated.

I click my tongue in disappointment and crouch beside the wooden basin, dipping my trembling hands into the bone chilling water to wash my face and freshen my mouth from its sleep odour.

My skin grows numb with each splash of water I give it and the body shivering sensation makes me fail to notice the bouncing figure heading my way.

I blow away the water droplets that threaten to spill in my mouth as I stare into the basin with wide doe eyes, and when I notice someone else staring into the water with me, I startle and stumble back.

A young woman stands before me with large almond shaped eyes, her pupils looking as if they were in the shape of hearts. The golden specks in her irises complimented the soft brown of her eyes and it makes me hold my breath when she moves to crouch beside me, perfectly straight teeth making an appearance once she smiles.

“You don’t have to act so surprised, Sakuya.” Her laughter is soft—soft and warm like those expensive blankets you buy at the artisan markets. It makes my face heat up.

I can’t help but notice the dress she has on, one worn for comfort and had a wide neckline to expose her collarbones and the white smock she wore underneath. The red dress had gold trimming and a belt curled snug around her waist to maintain her figure.

Her voice caught my attention again, but not enough to keep my eyes from admiring how her long brown hair cascaded down her shoulders. She was quite pretty, but it was hard to believe that I was her friend.

I watch as she grabs one of my brown cloaks from the clothing line in front of my home and dons it with ease, as if she had done this many times before. A feeling of familiarity runs through me, but I don’t heed it.

“Sunny.” This unfamiliar name rolls off my tongue like I’ve known her for quite some time already and I bite my tongue to silence myself.

Unfortunately, my mouth opens again. “Did anybody see you—” She threw another cloak at my face to make sure I didn’t utter another word.

“No. Now let’s go to that new tavern we were talking about last week.” Sunny changes the topic and helps me to my feet, pulling the cloak over my own head so that we can head off. I stumble around a little for my legs to regain their feeling, but I’m suddenly dragged away from the front of my home by the aristocrat before I can do anything else.

The travel to the tavern was a blur, Sunny dragging me through shortcuts I’ve never seen before and pushing us into cramped hiding spots when someone she found suspicious would pass us by made it difficult to remember the path we took.

I didn’t understand why she was making it so hard for us to reach our destination and when I asked, she chose to ignore me. She still sent a glare my way though, so I could only guess that her answer was ‘stop talking’.

Her bright disposition was gone, the smile she wore when we stood in front of my home now replaced with a cautious frown.

Not knowing what’s going on makes my body run cold and I want to ask questions, but I know there is no point. There’s no point when it feels like the clock is ticking and the sound of our feet pounding against the ground makes my heart race as if we were being chased by something.

The taste of the dust we kick up is bitter and dry in my mouth as someone calls for us, and just like earlier, Sunny drags me through an endless maze that I can’t seem to recognize.

We weaved through brown mud huts and town homes to lose whoever was tailing us, my calloused hand gripping onto her soft one to make sure we didn’t end up parting ways.

“Don’t let them get to me, Sakuya.” She breathes into the wind as we round a corner, and just as I part my lips to promise her I won’t, a startled scream bursts out of Sunny when a pair of rugged, grimy faced men met us halfway.

Before I can even blink, her hand is already ripped from mine as they take hold of her and snatch her away from me with ease, Sunny thrashing in their bulky hands as another pair of men come up from behind me and restrain me from chasing after them.

“I am INNOCENT.” She wails into the dirty air and kicks her feet for one last fight as they walk further and further away from me.

“Where are you taking her?!” I shout from the top of my lungs as their rough housing with Sunny tears at her cloak and I writhe in the grip of the men who grunted and pulled at me. Someone grabs my hair to keep me from struggling too much and I gasp, watching with panic flowing through my veins as the men disappear with Sunny.

“A young duchess by the name of Izumi Tachibana escaped her manor today.” A voice utters darkly by my ear and it causes me to still. “The calendar marks that her hanging is scheduled on the fourth of April.”

I shake my head. “But her name is Sunny—”

“Her name is Izumi Tachibana.” They cut me off. “And her hanging is today.”

My breathing grows heavy at this revelation and it makes me grow lightheaded. Fortunately, I lose consciousness before the men behind me could make it happen with their fists, and I am dropped to the ground.

I blink my eyes open at the sound of a wooden cart strolling past my window. My mind is hazy as I fumble around for my calendar and get up with a groan, my head pulsing as if I had hit it while I was sleeping.

I squint at the flimsy parchment while heading outside to wash my face at the basin, frowning at the way the number four was urgently circled with red ink.

I was just about to make a comment to myself about this when a woman approached me with a smile, her practiced hands yanking a cloak from my clothesline and donning it before I can identify her.

There’s joy in her eyes from what I can tell when she faces me again, but that happy expression falls when she sees the mini calendar in my hand, the four circled.

Her smile is gone, and she crouches down beside me. This feeling of familiarity running through my body is impossible to ignore as she stares with a hopeless look in her eyes and she reaches out to affectionately pet my mop of red hair.

“You remember this time?” Her eyes go back to the calendar in my fingers and she lets her hand fall to trace patterns into the dust below us.

And really, after yesterday, or well, today...whatever you wanted to call it; I don’t think I’d be able to forget any time soon. I nod at her question and take the other cloak that she held out for me, slipping it on with haste as she went back to stand.

I follow her when she takes a different route this time, continuing to be kept in the dark of what our plans were going to be this time around. I can still hear the echo of her shrill voice ringing in my ears, and I take a deep breath to calm my shaking heart.

Her face is full of determination this time around as we head towards the village dock where many wooden boats line the shore, the fearful expression I remember from yesterday now gone.

It was like she was telling me that she was tired of dying over and over again with no way out, and to be frank, I was getting tired of fainting.

“You always forget every other day.” She muses, pulling me along the shoreline with a pouch full of gold coins rustling in her palm. “I won’t let that happen this time.”

It sounded like a promise was being made to herself and I send her a curious side-eye. She notices and laughs; acting as if we weren’t actively trying to run away right now. We walk down the shoreline a little while longer until she finds a boat she likes and kindly waves one of the boatmen over.

She pays him in silence, overcompensating him with a few more gold coins than needed.

“I’m going to do my darndest to stay alive until we find a way to change my fate.” Izumi is calm unlike yesterday and it eases the anxious tremble in my blood, but not by much.

I bite my lips anxiously and think back to how we were chased around the village yesterday, but Izumi’s voice brushes my worries away and replaces it with something akin to resolve.

After all, her death is caused by the disappearance of somebody else.  

“So, we better find my cowardly father who started this all.”

[herrings]

WHOSE BIRTHDAY ARE IT?!

it’s nothing out of the ordinary –– a distant shout born from the heartened depths of a soft-edged heart, the separation of skin and bones from gravity as a hundred pounds of electric blue and zeal dive towards phlegmatic viridescence. sure, nothing out of the ordinary, when the sharpest teeth in caspar’s arsenal are bared as he shrieks, “happy birthday, linhardt!” but, you see, where brute force thrives, minuscule accuracy dies; caught in the heat of a burning excitement, once a shy ember tumbling about the vessels and veins in broad lungs, caspar’s lips aimed for the younger heir’s right cheek–– to say his angles were skewed would be a misnomer, truly, but the bergliez do not rot in failure! rather, the incident of a chaste crash of soft, plush lips against his own (though it creates an electrical malfunction in the root of his brain) causes caspar to hold his friend tighter, boot soles pressed firm against the ground. his cheeks burn brighter than the light of a thousand suns, the very round of his ears dyed a scarlet more rancid than blood. yes, yes, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. “it’s your birthday! hap–– happy birthday! seventeen!” absolutely, totally normal. nailed it. @tabarzin 

A SLEEPY BOY’S BIRTHDAY BASH!

hours shrink into minutes as the final night of his sixteenth year inches towards conclusion. two figures remain perched upon a rug dyed golden medallion, items scattered ‘round them consisting of the following: a half-empty bottle of premium cider swiped from the dining hall’s storage, a mass of cavity-inducing confections paid by their allowances, and a now forgotten game of basilisk’s fang strewn between the two of them. birthday tradition becomes one of many timeless facets of their bond, initiated by a spontaneous wish once brazenly proclaimed by an eight year-old hevring: “i want to spend all my birthdays with you!”

perhaps in one of the greatest shows of caspar’s fidelity, the bergliez boy commits.

without fail, for as long as their physical circumstances allow, caspar is there besides him. times have shifted since linhardt’s younger self had made his wish, reality having settled upon the hevring heir’s shoulders. as fragments of childhood innocence die and lay forgotten, linhardt’s opinion of his birthday sours. as he reluctantly begins to fill the shoes of a seasoned adult, it dawns upon the poor heir: past the age of twelve, birthdays were a deceptive countdown towards the end of his individualistic liberties. still, as jaded as linhardt has become towards occasion and as outdated as the enthused request of his eight year old’s self had become, caspar commits. stubborn wisps of cerulean hair fill his vision, followed by a booming laughter, and linhardt finds time to time again: it’s the presence of his best friend alone that serves as a ray of light when thoughts fall grim.

so, he smiles.

it’s a coy little grin, hidden behind strands of viridian that come to obscure his features as he looks down at his pocket watch. a minute until the seventh of the red wolf moon bestows upon them, though caspar had begun to shout his greetings about ten or so minutes prior. heart thunders in the hevring boy’s ribcage, though he passes it off as a wave of secondhand enthrallment from his best friend’s animated elation. for every premature greeting that caspar initiates, linhardt’s made it his customary response to force out a sigh and remind him that the birthday greetings are supposed to come after the final night concludes. still, his upright facade never lasts for long. despite his best attempts to suppress it, his smile grows for every early greeting that his beloved friend gives. his cheeks ache by the time they’re at the final seconds until midnight, and the hevring boy comes to raise his head to cue caspar in. warm is his vision, hand with the pocket watch lowering as he begins to speak.

but, as always, caspar has different plans.

his best friend’s timing has always been faster and the bergliez boy greets him in a thunderous call. typical. what throws linhardt off-skelter is not the standard volume of his beloved friend, but how caspar lunges forward. always spontaneous, the bergliez second son is. however, for all the surprises that the smaller of the two had given him throughout the duration of their decade-strong bond, nothing could prepare linhardt for the sensation of lips against his own. caspar’s lips, precisely.

time becomes fragile glass as deep azure lock onto the opposite cerulean, eyes blown wide as even the universe seems to come to a haphazardous halt. successfully stupefied, linhardt finds that all he can do is stare as he’s held closer. carmine fills porcelain cheeks as his (caspar’s--? their’s?) heartbeat grows louder, louder, and louder.

if this were an accident, caspar would have backed off and apologized immediately. but he doesn’t.

he stays there. they stay there.

nemesis may work fast, but linhardt’s love for conspiracies works faster. did caspar mean to do that? it had to be a solid three seconds until their lips departed and caspar’s hand didn’t move away. there’s no dread reflected in his best friend’s features, only reckless confidence. linhardt stares, he stares and assumes until he hears caspar speak and--

“...eh?” linhardt responds, eloquently. he blinks, then realization strikes him. redden cheeks only deepen as the hevring heir gives a rare fumble, “oh, i mean... thank you. thank you for the--” he chokes, “the birthday greeting, caspar.” azure eyes dart away, pale fingers interlacing with one another as crimson shows little signs of leaving. silence fills between the two of them as curiosity desperately gnaws at linhardt and his cursed, insatiable need for knowledge. without realizing, he inquires: “.... was that my gift by any chance?” he continues in a smaller voice, “the kiss.” 

[beatrice-blaze]

lay by your side

PREVIOUSLY: mori

LOCATION: Deep in the Woods 

TIME: 7:27 pm 

PARTIES: Beatrice Vural 

"sisterly love is, of all sentiments, the most abstract. nature does not grant it any functions." ~ugo betti

TW: Death, Sibling Death

Even after a year of distancing herself from the coven, Bea still had connections. People liked her, wanted to stay friends with her, and so they made sure to keep her up to date with all the gossip. Usually, she would get a call from Clementine that described how obnoxious someone was during a meeting, how the elders were being jerks again, or who was hooking up with who. Bea had answered the phone cheerfully, placing her friend on speaker so she could continue to work on dinner as they spoke.

Clementine sounded different, her voice shook as she asked if Bea was alone. The hair on Bea’s arms raised. Her friend rarely sounded so scared. She reminded Bea of her sisters that way, headstrong and brave. Bea’s work paused as she went back over to her phone, dinner forgotten.

“August… August Thompson, you remember him right?” The coven witch asked hurriedly. “He’s always hated Nell, you know, and he’s been acting so strange lately, but I didn’t think I had to worry,” She choked on the word and Bea could imagine the hand that was covering her friend’s mouth to muffle a sob. “He was bragging to one of the guys about what he was going to do to her. How… How he hired a hunter to finally take care of her.”

Bea’s blood ran cold, she hadn’t seen her sister in over a day. If what Clementine said was true, then Nell could have already been found by this hunter. “When he did say all this?” She asked, voice hushed as the crushing reality of the situation hit.

“It was today, I called as soon as I heard, I promise,” Clementine cried into the phone.

“Tell no one else,” Bea warned. Whatever was happening between her sister and August could not reach her mother. “August can’t find out that you know. I’m going to find Nell.”

As calm as she had been on the phone, the moment silence surrounded her a wave of nausea hit. She had to suck in deep breathes as terror clawed at her throat. She had to tell Luce to stay safe. She would have called her, asked her to come find Nell with her, but they didn’t have time. Stay at work as late as you can today. Stay with people you trust at all times. She hoped her text would keep Luce at bay. She couldn’t have two sisters in danger today.

Her hands trembled as she gathered the supplies for a tracking spell. To use it twice in a month? Bea had rarely touched it before… It took several attempts for her hand to stop shaking enough for the pendulum to begin circling a spot in the woods. It was deep and would take time to get to. She had to pray that Nell would be safe until Bea found her… Before that hunter found her.

The small red beetle Bea drove was not meant for speed, but Bea pushed it as hard as it could go. Every second she spent speeding around corners was another that Nell was alone and vulnerable. It took immense effort not to hyperventilate in the car as she drove. Skidding to a stop on the side of the road, Bea took off into the woods, forgetting to even close the car door behind her. Her feet screamed and she realized she had been so panicked she had forgotten shoes.

A terrified noise left her throat as she heard her sister screaming at someone. Bea could only assume the hunter had found Nell already. She ran faster, face whipped by branches, feet raw from undergrowth and rocks slicing into them. None of it mattered, not when Nell could be facing off with death right now.

Finally, Bea broke through the thicket to find them, the hunter stood over her sister’s crumpled body. “No!” The worded ripped from her throat like an animalistic warcry as she slid between them. Her hand gripped her sister’s shoulder, magic spilling from Bea as she used everything to cast a protection spell

She hadn’t been able to protect Nell from their mother’s disappointment or her school bullies or the people who twisted her for their own enjoyment, but she could protect her from this. The love for her sisters, the hate she had for this hunter and August Thompson, her determination to keep Nell alive all poured into the protection spell.

As her nose bled, Bea knew that she had nothing left to give. She turned her head to look at this man, pure hatred in her eyes. She was going to kill him. She swore on it. She would tear him limb from limb. And she was going to tell him as much... But the thing about moments like these is that they might seem like they’re in slow motion, yet it’s only been a few seconds.

And so, the blow meant to kill Penelope Vural hit a different target. The hunter’s blade sliced through the flesh, cartilage, and bone of Beatrice’s neck, lopping her head off in one solid graceful motion. She hadn’t even had the time to understand that she was about to die before this. Yet, her eyes stared at the sky, glazed over, as her headless body fell to a lump next to her little sister.

It wasn’t the way Bea had expected to go, though, for a necromancer, she had rarely thought of her own death. She had hoped she would have been surrounded by her family, gray of hair, with her grandchildren remembering her fondly. She hadn’t thought she would be protecting her younger sister from a mad man intent on murder. Though, if she could still suppose things, she would have supposed that dying for her sisters was a beautiful way to go.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Dragon Dancer IV: Show Down

Aoi Gen turned Spider Fang in her hand, the fire light glinting off the long silver blade. Her blue eyes didn’t leave her opponents face. 

Her opponent, Chisei Gen, seemed to be unarmed and unprepared for a sudden fight, but he stood to face her, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. 

They stood between two lines of open flame. The hems of their yukatas turned black and curled away from the heat of the ground, but their bare feet were unaffected.

Taiga’s powerful arm had wrapped around my neck, his pistol pointed at my head, forcing me to watch while I clutched Ru’Yi to myself. This was supposed to be a peaceful meeting, but I had warned Crow that this could go bad if they continued to ignore her.

I had already noticed the snipers on the roofs of the temple complex, but now as the tension rose, I saw more weapons being revealed as they reached for their waists. Daggers slid from their sleeves, blades from their backs.

Like a sea of hovering fire flies, dozens of eyes glowed yellow in the dark. I glanced up at Taiga whose menacing golden pupils shifted at those around him.

“Everyone here is a hybrid.” I said.

“Of course,” Taiga murmured.

Aoi Gen lifted her chin. “Now that I have your attention... Chisei...”

They stood in the middle of the large arena. The air, heated up by the bonfire made them sweat, but the cool mountain breeze cut through their clothes and chilled them so quickly that on the one hand they were hot and on the other hand they shivered.

The looming buildings of the temple rose into the dark sky with gargoyles and gods snarling down from the eves on the scene below.

“My mother was Hana Minamoto. She left the Hydras at 23 to move closer to her husband, a business man in America. She was already pregnant with me at the time and she wanted a dual citizenship for me.”

Chisei did not respond, nor did he signal to the snipers on the roof to end the discussion. With a glance or a tilt of his head, he could order her to be turned into a bullet riddled corpse. But he didn’t.

"I returned to Japan when I was sixteen. Not to Tokyo but to a small town in the middle of nowhere. Why would a woman of such a prestigious background move her daughter from a wealthy place in the States to a backwater mountain village without so much as a cellphone signal?”

Chisei kept his silence but I had drawn my own conclusion: Aoi’s mother was hiding. I gathered my child to myself against the chilling breeze.

“You were told we were massacred in a gang war. In truth, we were killed off by the Hydras themselves! To make room for Tachibana... and for you.”

Neither of them moved an inch. The scene seemed to be frozen in time, save for the licking of the flames on either side of them. “My grandfather did not agree with the plan to ascend to be pureblood dragons. So we were labeled as Devils.”

At that, Chisei’s eyes narrowed slightly. She knew the family secret!

“Tell me Chisei... what was your mother’s name? What did she look like?” Her eyes flashed yellow. “Do you have any recollection at all?”

The temperature of the air had dropped so much I could suddenly see my breath. This wasn’t the mountain climate. This was Dragon Speech!

I only knew one Soul Skill that could drop temperature called ‘Winter’ but it was relatively weak, concentrated to a small spot around the caster. Now, frost was appearing on the ground at my feet, growing on the eaves of the buildings, on the pointed corners of the roofs. 

I had seen a cold Soul Speech like this once before, when I was fighting Herzog, soaring above the sea of Tokyo Bay. Mingfei had uttered a single word and frozen the waves into jagged pieces of ice.

For her to be able to wield such a powerful word meant that her dragon blood purity must be very high! A-rank level!

Shaking, I struggled. “Let me go!”

Taiga tightened his arm around me.

Chisei answered her question. “No. I was told she died giving birth to me...” 

“You were told a lot of things but you went along with them, without much investigation. You never mourned her or searched for her grave to clean it and pay your respects. Chisei, you really despise your mother that much?”

“What do you want?”

With the golden eyes around, the sea of weapons surrounding them and the menacing soul speech turning the ground hard like concrete, I had expected this to break into a scene of extremely dangerous violence. 

Aoi had made her ruthlessness and violent nature clear from the very beginning. She had expected the same from the former leader of the Hydras, the organization that killed her family.

She knew he had a powerful army and brought her own, dispersing her men throughout the crowd quickly so that they wouldn’t be wiped out in an instant. They were armed to the teeth, fierce fighters. And Taiga held their final card. 

Ru’Yi and I were their hostages.

But Chisei had stood and listened, and then conceded, in an instant throwing all these preparations into disarray. Did she believe Yakuza gangster always stuck to their guns, fought to the end, defended their family’s honor? They didn’t just concede, tossing the fight to the side like a lazy cat that didn’t want to move from its sunbeam!

When she didn’t answer, he continued. “Do you want to join the Hydras? Do you want to be Patriarch? I have no control over either of these things.”

She didn’t know Chisei like I did. He had prided himself on being a friend of justice. He was unbending to the point of cruelty to those who did not fit his vision of righteousness. He’d even pursued me, a young girl of sixteen because he believed I was a dangerous Devil. He’d attempted to kill my first child, the one named Huoli, now memorialized behind Norton Hall, for his Devil blood and Soul Skill.

She remembered that Chisei. 

She didn’t see the one who had been forced to face the fact that the people who cared for him also lied to him easily. Tachibana tricked him into believing I was a Devil, tricked him into believing that the Devil Clan were only animals fit for slaughter, and tricked him into cooperating in his scheme to use them as human sacrifices for the development of Erii’s therapy.

She didn’t see the Chisei that had finally given into the Devil’s need for power and drunk the dragonblood, becoming a Devil himself. 

This was a Chisei who no longer saw the world as so black and white.

“I want them to admit the truth!” Aoi snarled. “If they will not, then... “ She leveled Spider Fang at him. Her stance was perfect, reflecting years of training. “Then I will end the farce myself!”

A thick layer of ice crawled from the ground where she stood, extinguishing the flames, allowing the darkness to descend on them. The cold wind lifted and pulled at her hair. 

Chisei backed away and was flanked by five guards. He held out his arm to stop them.

“All the old clan chiefs are already dead!” He growled. “Hydra has paid for what they did to you and what they did to the Devils.” 

“You still live!” She turned to a blur in front of Chisei, Spider Fang flashing like a mirror from top to bottom. The work of sword masters, it was a blade so sharp it was said to cut through a body as if it had no bones.

Chisei grabbed it in the air as if it were made of wood. A thin river of blood made its way down his wrist and he looked at her with golden eyes.

As the emperor hybrid, he had a special property called Dragonbone that toughened his body like steel. He’d used it to shield me from the falling helicopter at the Red Well. Not even Spider Fang could penetrate him in this state. His hand closed around the blade and he pulled it from her grasp. 

She leaped away, drawing the next one. 

Tongzi.

Chisei lowered his hand. The drip of blood had already begun to slow as his body healed itself.

Though it was the shorter sword, when it came to Hybrids, it was death. Fashioned by Alchemy, it was strong enough to split Spider Fang like wire and more dangerous to him in his Dragonbone state, as it was especially made to kill Dragons and Hybrids.

At the sight of it, all the Hydra members revealed themselves by openly drawing their weapons. 

Chisei was no longer High Patriarch but he was deeply beloved and respected. The threat from this sword raised their desire to defend him no matter what his status. The game had turned even more dangerous.

By drawing Tongzi, Aoi Gen had signed her own death warrant.

She stood still, her long hair fluttering. She hadn’t stopped her Soul Skill. Ice six inches thick had spread throughout the entire square and was still inching outward in a spiral pattern. 

“Where is your mother now?” Chisei asked.

“Dead. Tachibana found us. Came for us. Three years ago.”

“How did you survive?”

“She kept a body double at the house. An actress paid to pretend to be me while I attended university under an assumed name.” She answered coldly, factually.

“Why come back to Japan at all?” Chisei raised an eyebrow.

“You’re here aren’t you? There are certain things only your hometown can offer.”

For a moment, they were chatting like they were getting acquainted over tea. I looked between them, a little dazed at the change of atmosphere.

“Once you kill me, what then? You’ll just be hunted again.” He said.

She leveled the blade at him. “Are you planning on dying?”

He corrected her. “I’m through killing. I’m no longer Patriarch. I just sell sunscreen on the beach.” 

He turned as though to walk away, but I suddenly shuddered violently against Taiga. Something was happening. Chisei’s tone had fluctuated.

Majesty!

The ice block on the ground suddenly cracked and split open as though struck with a hammer. He kept walking but everyone, Hydra and Aoi Gen’s followers alike were brought low.

I was not effected but Taiga’s weight brought me down as he fell.  I pulled his arm off me and staggered away, tripping and slipping over the ice towards Aoi. I reached down and took Tongzi from her while she lay gasping and struggling to breathe.

As soon as the sword was in my grasp, Chisei released his Soul Skill but few people moved.

The increase in gravity caused the blood to pool at the feet. Like a pilot experiencing G-force on a plane, only the strong exertion of muscle could keep someone conscious. 

The fact that Aoi Gen hadn’t passed out was a testament to both her physical strength and her dragonblood, but that didn’t mean she could stand.

Others were not so lucky. Most of the people around were still unconscious or too dazed to to do anything but moan on the ground.

Chisei turned the hilt of Spider Fang out to me. “I understand what you mean now.”

I accepted it back.

“For a long time, I believed a lot of things that were told me that weren’t true. Much of my life was a lie. A fantasy. Once I learned the truth, I had to accept it. And move on.”

“I don’t know Chu Zihang.” He continued. “But I’ve known you as a clear eyed person. Word did get back to me about your sudden mental illness. And it struck me as strange. Now you’re labeled a traitor?” He shook his head slightly. “I cannot believe it. Something is going on here. I will pray you live long enough to find out the truth.”

I lowered my head, overwhelmed by even this small simple acknowledgement. “Thank you, Chisei.”

“Get out of here.” His whisper was barely audible. “Before they recover.”

I closed my eyes tightly and vanished.

[trained-trainwreck]

game over!!

Smoke. That was all he could see for malms out to the horizon as it billowed up in thick plumes from the valley floor below. When combined with the eerie orange glow of the flames lashing out at the sky from below, it was as though the spectre of death spread its inky tendrils to every corner of Gyr Abania. So choked with ash and soot was the air that every gasping breath scorched his throat and lungs as his body desperately fought to keep him standing. He’d been fighting for so long now that he’d lost track of time. How long had it been? Thirty minutes? A bell? Maybe more- without the sun it was impossible to know. All he knew for certain is that his limbs were so heavy there may as well have been lead weights hanging from his wrists and cermet in his boots. At long last his legs gave out and he collapsed into a sitting position in the dirt.

     Everyone in Eorzea knew it was only a matter of time before the Empire retaliated after Ala Mhigo’s largely successful uprising, but no one expected it to come this swiftly...certainly not this aggressively. The relative peace that had settled over the Ghimlyt Dark was little more than a prelude to the symphony of destruction that was to come. Somehow, despite everything, the Empire had managed to not only recover from the series of blows delivered to them by the Alliance but counterattack with such overwhelming force that they shattered the Alliance’s fortifications in the Dark and swept back into Ala Mhigo to wreak their terrible vengeance upon the people of Gyr Abania. Though only barely reformed, the Fists of Rhalgr had tried in vain to put up some kind of resistance across the steppes and they too were swatted away like gnats.

     There had been twenty of them when he first joined the mob hastily assembled to defend some of the outlying villages while the people evacuated, but those numbers dwindled rapidly. Too few. Too little training.

Too goddamn weak.     Only a few had stayed with him when the others decided to save the few wounded they could as they fled back toward the west. She had wanted to stay as well- the blonde one with fire in her eyes and lightning in her fists- and it took no small amount of shouting and arguing to convince her otherwise. The weak would have need of the strength she possessed to see them through to the border. Eventually she relented and grumbled something near enough to ‘good luck’ before rallying her people to depart. A pleasant enough notion, perhaps, but a pointless one: both of them knew exactly how today was going to end.

A storm of blood.

     The time since had been a blur, a smear of fists and steel that all ran together into one big muddy blob of unrelenting carnage that had only just ceased. This reprieve, he knew, would not last. His head thumped against the sturdy pole behind him and his gaze drifted skyward, toward the great purple and white banner flying above him. Tattered and scorched though it was, that banner was the most visible act of defiance his group had been able to display and they were certain it would draw the Garleans’ ire. Scores of broken Imperials in varying states of dead and dying around him and his now long-dead comrades were proof enough of that theory. All he could do now was sit and wait for the next wave.

He didn’t have to wait long.

     Again the enemy presented himself, but not the way he’d expected. Instead of the thundering footfalls of a horde of men and machines, he heard only a single man approaching. His footfalls were even, measured, unhurried; it was as if he had all the time in the world to take a leisurely stroll across the killing fields. He drew in another deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes as the footfalls drew nearer and nearer before coming to a stop only a few short yalms away.

“Disappointing.” That voice made his skin crawl. He opened his eyes and turned toward the source. The man who stood before him was towering, even by Ala Mhigan standards, and adorned in Garlean armor that may as well have been painted with blood. It wasn’t the armor or the almost porcelain paleness of his skin or the shoulder length blonde hair billowing in the wind that he found the most striking about this man, though. It was his eyes. Blue, piercing, and...completely devoid of the spark of life. “I had hoped to find my friend amidst this carnage, yet all I am met with is a half-dead animal.” The Garlean heaved a weary sigh and turned to leave.

“And surrounded by your all-dead pals, asshole.” He grunted, braced himself against the pole, and slowly pushed himself to his feet despite his body’s many protests. “I don’t know what they feed you limp-dicked whoresons in Garlemald, but it makes smashin’ your fuckin’ skulls in real satisfying.”

     This apparently gave the Garlean pause. When the man’s attention fell upon him again, he noticed something of a spark flickering in the darkness of those eyes. For several long moments did his foe stand rooted to the spot and he could feel himself being judged as something less an enemy and more livestock at an auction. It was in this moment that the realization of who this person was struck him like a levinbolt from Rhalgr’s own hand. This was no imperial noble or princeling playing at being a warrior. No, the man he found himself standing in opposition to was none other than the butcher of Ala Mhigo- Zenos yae Galvus. He should have felt the creeping stranglehold of dread slithering up from the pit of his stomach- any normal man would- but instead he felt fire stoked anew course in his blood.

“This country bores me. These people bore me.” Zenos took a few short steps to his left and now stood directly in front of him. One hand lowered toward the contraption hanging from his hip, which rotated with a whirr and came to rest with a dull thunk when Zenos’ wrist came to rest casually atop it. He could only assume this man had decided which implement of death would be the end of one more sick animal. “Hardly sporting, but I suppose you’ll do.”

     Every fiber of his being was burning from a combination of exhaustion and what must’ve been a dozen injuries, minor or otherwise, but he wouldn’t let himself show it. There was no room for weakness. Not here. Not now. “And you call me a rabid dog?” He scoffed, pushed through the pain, and forced himself into his stance. “Sick bastard.” Zenos remained motionless, a statue with his eyes squarely fixated on the man he had decided would be prey. Both of them remained in this state as the world fell away around them, consumed by the all-devouring jaws of complete focus. He forced himself to draw in a long slow breath through his nose and exhale through his mouth, to feel the world around him as he and the ebb and flow of the battlefield became one. Memories flashed in his mind’s eye as he breathed in again, reliving the briefest of moments from battles past and catching glimpses of the warriors who took part in them. Tiny pools of aether scattered around him came together to form rivers that wound their way to the swirling tempest of power at the very core of his being.

     Rhalgr. You and I have rarely spoken- I’ve never known or needed the words. The rivers built in intensity, crashing against the shore of his soul. But I need them now. Grant me this one request, Destroyer: grant me the strength to crush the invader before me. Rivers became torrents became floods that overflowed and warped the air around him in a shimmering haze of his aether. And if you do not listen? He drew in one final breath. Everything he had left, every onze of energy he could muster, was going into this one fight. There was no other option.

Then to hell with you. 

     Stone splintered beneath his feet as he lunged forward fueled by the very aether of the battlefield itself. He could almost feel the spirits of his ancestors driving him onward, filling his body with an unnatural strength the likes of which he’d never known. In an instant he was upon his foe, feet planted, hips rotating, driving through his shoulders to pour everything the man he was into his fist as he focused entirely on driving it straight through the Garlean who had yet even begun to move. Earth trembled and a mighty clap of thunder filled the air around them as he drove his strike home, certain that it had landed clean. Then came pain, white hot and racing up his arm from his fist as the dust began to clear and he cursed under his breath. Not only was Zenos not crumpled on the ground at his feet, he’d simply absorbed the blow with one hand.

     He created separation, exhausted beyond belief but unwilling to give up the fight, and surged forward again. A hailstorm of blows followed, snapping kicks, tight hooks, and punishing straight punches from every angle that he could create. Not a single one of them got through the red armored Garlean’s effortless guard and his body began to break down. Zenos slipped under one hook and he saw what he thought was an opportunity. He shifted his feet wide apart, dropped his rear shoulder, and snapped his hips to drive all of his weight into a savage right uppercut...straight into his opponent’s armored elbow. His wrist buckled, then shattered. The followup left hand was caught in a mailed fist and crushed with next to no effort. Zenos’ expression never wavered throughout. In agony, without the use of both hands, and on his last legs he knew the end was near. Surrendering was out of the question. Not here. Not to him.

     With a bellowing roar, he closed the distance between them again, planted his right leg and lifted his left- a desperate feint at this point- then dropped his left leg back and threw everything he had into his right leg aimed squarely for Zenos’ ribs. He connected cleanly, but not hard enough- Zenos trapped his leg against his side with his right, then delivered a devastating chopping blow to the knee that shattered bone and crumpled him immediately. He lay there in the dust, groaning in agony, as the victor took stock of his prey.“Valiant,” spoke the Garlean in that flat tone, “but pointless.”He glared up from his prone position, unable to even lift himself from the ground.“I’ve seen that look before. In my friend’s eyes.” Slowly, Zenos retrieved one of the blades from its scabbard. “Curiosity gets the better of me.” He canted his head ever so slightly to the side. “What is your name?”

“Ehren,” he spat with all the venom he could muster. “Ehren Ahyfend.”

“I shall remember you then, Ehren Ahyfend, as one who entertained my hunt if but for a moment.”Zenos raised his blade. Ehren, determined to remain defiant, held his head high. There was a flash of silver.

Darkness.( @spiral-seeker thank you for the ask! I got a little carried away. Also @hellocatemonster for the mention )