#i cannot stop being vague bc as i say above. this might not last | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

many-gay-magpies · 3 years ago

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@loabivey @honeyseungz @angelhee @ofaffectionate @yixiangs @cherry-riki

so uh. heyyy <3

pt 2 (technically pt 1 because it happens before) of blood bonds is here!! tagging everyone that i tagged for blood bonds (except for kyu </3) bcs why not

i'm not 100% on this, but that's mostly because i've been staring at it for a week, and y'all haven't, so i hope that you'll enjoy it thoroughly more than i do

wc: 1.7k, tw for blood, blood-sucking, death and mentions of death, and vague descriptions of a car crash. same as the last one pretty much, let me know if there's anything i missed!

that being said, have some bloodlust.

It's a scent that stops him in the middle of the street, blaring alarms through every inch of his body—thick and sweet, intoxicating, like the richest chocolates and tenderest meats. For a second, it brings him back to his days in the castle; feasts coating tables upon tables in every decadence he could imagine. He hasn't felt that kind of indulgence in a long time.

Jungwon is immediately aware of his instincts overcoming him; he knows what the smell is, he's smelled it coming off the other boys enough times to be familiar with it. But not this strong. Never this strong.

His head swims. Stars cloud his vision, and yet everything is ten times brighter, more crisp; his senses sharpened, sensitivity heightened. Jungwon battles with himself for a moment, there, on the side of the road, watching the car with the contents of it's driver's seat smelling so delectably like food as it drives by; no, no, don't give in, don't succumb, you've made it so far already, just hold on a little bit longer—but the gut-wrenching hunger inside him is like none he's ever faced before.

It tears at him, the unbearable hunger, the emptiness; twists his insides into knots and makes him double over against the brick wall beside him. He doesn't want to give in, doesn't want to take, doesn't want to hurt—but he's so, so hungry, and it smells so, so good and he just can't take it anymore. It's a kind of longing that burns him from the inside out, and maybe... maybe it wouldn't hurt, to... to give in, just this once.

He's hungry. He needs food. Really, when he thinks about it for long enough, rationalizes it in his mind, that's all there is to it. Lions don't feel bad when they hunt gazelle, do they?

(Something is different here, though. Lions, unlike vampires, will stop. Lack of food will make their body grow cold, their energy sapped until there is nothing left; they grow tired, bodies moving slower and slower, until they breath their last breath. Vampires do not. Vampires will not stop. The hunger depletes them, eats at them, and then when it can eat no more it consumes them completely—writhing black hole taken ghastly, human shape. Death evades them, and so they become death in it's place—emptiness so great it would eat the whole world if it could.)

So, with his resolve melting as his hunger rages, Jungwon presses onward—taking advantage of the scenery's sudden clarity to slink towards the moving car at a truly frightening pace. Plus, it could be... fun, he finds himself thinking; fun, to play around a bit, see how much fear he can truly instill. In the past, Jay and Sunghoon's jokes to Sunoo to "not play with his food" when me mentioned spooking his victims the tiniest bit before feeding had left Jungwon feeling sick to his stomach—but now, the idea doesn't seem so bad.

A voice in Jungwon's head (the more logical Jungwon; the one that isn't starving, the one that's still on the edge of rational) tells him, you're being stupid, as he throws caution to the wind and teleports directly in front of the car. Someone could see you, do you even have any idea what you're doing? But the voice of hunger rises above all others, and Jungwon, smirking at the screech of tires on asphalt as the car skids to a stop in front of him, tells the voice, it's dark out, and we're in an abandoned part of the city; who, really, do you think could see us?

The voice protests, but the drone of Jungwon's hunger drowns it out. He feels cool metal on the palms of his hands, hears the metallic clang of his boots against the car's hood. The trembling of the man inside tinges his nerves with delight.

He raises his finger to his lips in a single gesture, shhh, and wonders if his eyes gleam red.

Thoughts run one by one through his mind, though they are fleeting, like mice; skittering into the darkness as soon as he catches sight of them. He should have listened to the hyungs, he should have been more careful, he shouldn't have waited this long—he knows the consequences of vampires going too long without blood from Sunghoon's stories, how could he have been so stupid?

But it all fades, irrelevant, in face of what sits before him now—food. A meal. Satiation, finally, an end to his hunger. He can feel his conscience slipping away more and more as the moments pass, the little Jungwon in his head letting go of it's logic.

It is with this quieting of the rational voice and sudden booming of the instinctual one that Jungwon teleports himself to the back seat of the man's car. It doesn't take long for him to be noticed—even the lack of his reflection in the rear view mirror cannot disguise the creak of expensive leather and the sigh he lets out.

"Jesus Christ--" the man nearly shouts, car jolting forward as he slams on the breaks. Jungwon doesn't flinch. He turns to look over his shoulder and meets an unblinking vermillion stare. "W-what the hell are you, kid?"

"Go on, guess," he says, brow raised. "I have all night."

Though even as he speaks, Jungwon knows the statement is a lie—he's the closest to the man, the closest to a human he's ever been since turning, no plexiglass or metal barrier between them—the smell of the man's racing heart and pumping blood chokes his senses like smoke, so thick he can barely breath. Jungwon doesn't know how long he'll be able to hold out—but he can feel how the seconds tick by, as if there's a pocket watch embedded in his skull. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Agonizing. Even so, Jungwon delights in the fear, the rabbit-quick pace of the man's heart. Equally as amused as he is overwhelmed, he decides that quickening it a little more won't hurt, and smirks, doing well to lick over his fangs in perfect line with the man's eyesight.

"Shit--" Eyes widen comically, and breath grows shaky with the reckless fumbling at car door handles in an effort to escape, pure, cold fear jolting through bones and bringing goosebumps to unsettled skin. It's useless, though; because all the doors lock, jammed shut, and the most he can do is huddle as close to the door as he can, as far away as possible from the boy with glowing eyes suddenly perched in his passenger seat.

"Surprised?" Jungwon asks with a grin.

The man gulps. "Th-this isn't happening," he mumbles, eyes focussed somewhere off in space, past Jungwon. "This can't be happening to me. This... this is impossible."

"Oh, it's very possible," hums Jungwon. "You'd be surprised to find out how much is." And he smirks wide again. He probably looks like a madman, but he doesn't care. He can taste the man's blood on the air.

"Please, don't kill me," he whispers. "W-whatever it is you want, I'll do it, just-- I don't wanna die. Please."

Any other day, the pleading would have gotten to him—any other day, Jungwon would have cried and screamed and torn at his own skin at the prospect of ever killing anyone, let alone drinking from them. But now, the logical him (the human him, he thinks for a moment) has been tucked into the deepest recesses of his mind, and the sound is like music to his ears.

"H-have mercy," the man stutters quietly.

Jungwon tilts his head. Mercy? a voice in his head whispers. It is a voice he hardly sees himself in, and yet it consumes him completely. There is no mercy. You are only prey.

It's funny how suddenly it hits him—how long he's waited for this, and how he can't stand to wait a second more. Faster than lightning Jungwon blinks on top of the man, pinning him down; the protests (physical as well as verbal) make no difference to him. He searches for a carotid artery with shaking fingers and, once he finds it, sinks his teeth in with a groan.

The car swerves in a panic, and the sound of it crashing into a streetlight is a distant ringing in Jungwon's mind. Everything is muffled, as if he's been thrust underwater, and he might as well have, with the way the smell and taste of blood blooms around him, inside him. He feels himself wanting more, needing more, craving more, the hunger never-ending as he sinks his teeth even further into his victim's neck.

Nothing else matters in that moment, and he knows, now, he knows what the others were talking about—how good it feels to feed when you've starved for so long.

His victim loses consciousness soon after that, but still Jungwon drinks. He can't find it in him to stop—it tastes so, so good and he's still so, so hungry, and it seems his hunger only grows the more he feeds; every bit of blood he drains, the sickness and lethargy drains away with it, leaving a hunger larger than he had known behind. Eyes closed, the world spins around him, and Jungwon can feel himself slowly revitalizing as he drinks, and drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

Jungwon loses track of time the longer he sits there.

The hunger is less ravaging, now, only a low growl in the back of his throat; and soon it peters out entirely. The body under him has grown cold—it's warmth taking new ownership. He feels the stolen blood and pulse humming under his skin.

There is plenty to worry about, he knows—plenty things he should, realistically, care more about than he does. But for the life of him he can't pick out what they are, buried beneath layers of cotton he doesn't care to reach through.

His mind is heavy with fullness, and heavy with sleep, and for the second time that day a little voice in the corner of it urges him to just give in—so he does.

#magpie writes #magpie's writing adventures #enhypen fanfiction #enhaverse fanfiction #enhaverse writing #enhaverse #enha theories #gay yearning #bloodlust

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twoidiotwriters1 · 4 years ago

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Written In The Stars CXXXVII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: Book 6 was beyond complicated to write due to some artistic choices I made lmao but again I do hope you guys like it even if I don’t feel it was perfect bc I enjoyed how most of it turned out -Danny

Words: 4,005

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Listen to: ‘The Black and White’ -by The Band CAMINO.

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Prophecy.

Harry walked back to his chair and sat down heavily.

"Five years ago you arrived at Hogwarts, Harry, safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well — not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years. I considered it almost a miracle when Emily agreed to move in next door so she could keep an eye on you..."

Even though Lord Voldemort perished that night in Godric's Hollow, his followers continue to hunt down answers for months, neither Harry nor Mel would've been safe in the wizarding world.

"You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated — to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died —and your father too, Mel— to save you. They gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother's blood, Harry. I delivered you to her sister, her only remaining relative."

"She doesn't love me. She doesn't give a damn —"

"But she took you. She may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you. Your mother's sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you. And as for you, Mel, you were just a baby, therefore Voldemort's followers couldn't tell if you were as skilled as your dad. It was only until last year when Voldemort realized you were hiding great power."

"I still don't —"

"While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, Harry, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen years."

"My mother isn't a Dumbledore," Mel frowned. "If that's what kept Harry safe, living with his aunt, then why did I only meet you after I turned eleven?"

"You were a direct descendant from my brother and not me, you weren't in danger as much as Harry. Once I found out about your outbursts I talked to him, I knew you'd need his protection... I'm afraid his guilt stopped him. I've been taking his place, having you come into my office for a weekly lesson as a way to make sure you would be both, protected, while also learning to defend yourself."

Harry came into a new realization.

"You sent that Howler. You told my aunt to remember — it was your voice —"

"I thought that she might need reminding of the pact she had sealed by taking you. I suspected the dementor attack might have awoken her to the dangers of having you as a surrogate son."

"It did. Well — my uncle more than her. He wanted to chuck me out, but after the Howler came she — she said I had to stay. But what's this got to do with..."

"Five years ago, then, you arrived at Hogwarts, neither as happy nor as well-nourished as I would have liked, perhaps, yet alive and healthy. You were not a pampered little prince, but as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well."

The memory of that small boy came to her. He didn't look much different from the Harry sitting beside her, except perhaps, for the way his gaze had darkened.

He'd always known Harry and Mel would eventually be hunted, and he'd made sure they'd be ready. Dumbledore had a plan from the moment they set a foot in the castle. She wondered exactly how much of everything happened accidentally, and how much had been planned.

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"Don't you remember asking me, as you lay in the hospital wing, why Voldemort had tried to kill you when you were a baby? Ought I to have told you then? You do not see the flaw in the plan yet? No... perhaps not. Well, as you know, I decided not to answer you. Eleven, I told myself, was much too young to know. I had never intended to tell you when you were eleven. The knowledge would be too much at such a young age, just like I refused to tell Mel about the rumours surrounding our family."

'The knowledge would be too much at such a young age'. Now, after four years, Mel felt weaker than when she was eleven. Somehow thinner, and far more fragile.

"Do you see? Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now? I had fallen into the trap I had foreseen, that I had told myself I could avoid, that I must avoid."

"I don't —"

"I cared about you too much. I cared more for your happiness than your knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. In other words, I acted exactly as Voldemort expects we fools who love to act."

Mel visibly deflated, a new wave of hurt crashing against her heart.

"So it's true, then?" She asked. "Caring only makes us weak?"

"My dear, I defy anyone who has watched you as I have —and I have watched you more closely than you can have imagined — not to want to save you more pain than you had already suffered. What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if in the here and now you were alive, and well, and happy? I never dreamed that I would have such a pair of young souls on my hands..."

Mel had held something similar whenever she would reach out to kiss Harry, and nothing else in the world mattered when they were alone together... but after the third task, they were always so alone.

"...You came out of the maze last year, having watched Cedric Diggory die, having escaped death so narrowly yourself... you, Mel, gave away part of your own life, selflessly risking your own well-being just for the frail chance to see Harry again, and I did not tell you, because to tell you after having almost lost each other in such a way would've been beyond cruel, though I knew, now Voldemort had returned, I must do it soon.

And now, tonight, I know you have long been ready for the knowledge I have kept from you for so long, because you have proved that I should have placed the burden upon you before this. My only defence is this: I have watched you struggling under more burdens than any student who has ever passed through this school, and I could not bring myself to add another — the greatest one of all."

"...I still don't understand," Harry responded, though now his voice was a bit more quiet and fearful.

Dumbledore admitted what they already knew: Voldemort tried to kill him because of the prophecy, and he'd tried to stop it before it could be fulfilled. Now, years after and once again in a proper body, Voldemort set his mind on hearing the whole thing, looking for a way to end it.

The sun was fully out now, and as he finished, Mel felt the first glimmer of hope peering through.

"Mel broke the prophecy," Harry said quietly. "She crushed it against the ground..."

She closed her injured hand tightly without caring about the sharp pain that shot up to her elbow.

"I knew we could get rid of it."

"How?" Harry frowned. "How could you know?"

"Because that orb was merely the record of the prophecy kept by the Department of Mysteries. But the prophecy was made to somebody, and that person has the means of recalling it perfectly," Dumbledore explained, looking at her with a strange glint in his eyes.

"Who heard it?" asked Harry, though he already knew the answer.

"I did. On a cold, wet night sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the Hog's Head Inn. I had gone there to see an applicant for the post of Divination teacher, though it was against my inclination to allow the subject of Divination to continue at all. The applicant, however, was the great-great-granddaughter of a very famous, very gifted Seer, and I thought it common politeness to meet her. I was disappointed. It seemed to me that she had not a trace of the gift herself. I told her, courteously I hope, that I did not think she would be suitable for the post. I turned to leave."

As Dumbledore stood up to retrieve something from a cabinet, Mel continued her story.

"That was the reason why my uncle knew what Voldemort was looking for," She swallowed harshly. "As soon as that thing broke I recognized the figure. How could I not? We've been seeing her for three years..."

Dumbledore came back holding the Pensieve, he put the tip of his wan on one temple and pulled, Mel stood up abruptly.

"Maybe I shouldn't be here to hear it."

"You've earned your place in this conversation," Dumbledore replied. "Your life is linked to Harry's, is only fair for you to hear it too... that way you'll be able to make an informed decision."

"Only if he agrees."

She was used to Harry keeping her at a proper distance from his doings, nevertheless, Harry grabbed her wrist.

"Sit down... please."

Before she could reply a figure rose from the Pensieve, there stood a small version of Sibyll Trelawney with a voice Mel had only imagined thanks to Harry's tales from two years ago:

"THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES... BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES... AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT... AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES..."

Professor Trelawney vanished slowly.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry said after a moment. "It... did that mean... What did that mean?"

"It meant... that the person who has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years ago. This boy would be born to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times."

"It means — me?"

Dumbledore eyed both teenagers carefully before speaking.

"The odd thing is, Harry, that it may not have meant you at all. Sibyll's prophecy could have applied to three babies, one of them being Mel."

"What?"

"I thought it was meant to be Matthew's baby," He sighed, "an Auror and a Dumbledore... but alas, you were born at the start of the month — and you were a girl. There were still two more babies in line. Both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom."

"But then... but then, why was it my name on the prophecy and not Neville's?"

"The official record was relabeled after Voldemort's attack on you as a child. It seemed plain to the keeper of the Hall of Prophecy that Voldemort could only have tried to kill you because he knew you to be the one to whom Sibyll was referring."

"Then — it might not be me?"

"I am afraid that there is no doubt that it is you."

"But you said — Neville was born at the end of July too — and his mum and dad —"

"You are forgetting the next part of the prophecy, the final identifying feature of the boy who could vanquish Voldemort... Voldemort himself would 'mark him as his equal.' And so he did, Harry. He chose you, not Neville. He gave you the scar that has proved both blessing and curse."

"But he might have chosen wrong! He might have marked the wrong person!"

"He chose the boy he thought most likely to be a danger to him. And notice this, Harry. He chose, not the pureblood (which, according to his creed, is the only kind of wizard worth being or knowing), but the half-blood, like himself. He saw himself in you before he had ever seen you, and in marking you with that scar, he did not kill you, as he intended, but gave you powers, and a future, which have fitted you to escape him not once, but four times so far — something that neither your parents, nor Neville's parents, ever achieved."

In her mind, an alternate life started to take form: Mel as the orphan, Harry's parents alive and well, it was her the one facing death every time...

Then poor scarred Neville, while Mel and Harry lived surrounded by their families, perhaps even together. The fact that the only reason why Harry was the chosen one was a matter of gender and dates...

"Why did he do it, then? Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill whoever it was then — or even Mel... She's a Dumbledore — She's the strongest!"

"That might, indeed, have been the more practical course, except that Voldemort's information about the prophecy was incomplete. The Hog's Head Inn, which Sibyll chose for its cheapness, has long attracted, shall we say, a more interesting clientele than the Three Broomsticks. As you and your friends found out to your cost, and I to mine that night, it is a place where it is never safe to assume you are not being overheard. Of course, I had not dreamed, when I set out to meet Sibyll Trelawney, that I would hear anything worth overhearing. My — our — one stroke of good fortune was that the eavesdropper was detected only a short way into the prophecy and thrown from the building."

"So he only heard..?"

"He heard only the first part, the part foretelling the birth of a boy in July to parents who had thrice defied Voldemort. Consequently, he could not warn his master that to attack you would be to risk transferring power to you — again marking you as his equal. So Voldemort never knew that there might be danger in attacking you, that it might be wise to wait or to learn more. And once Mel was born at the start of July as a girl, and you a boy, this only narrowed it down to his apparent advantage. He did not know that you would have 'power the Dark Lord knows not' —"

"But I don't! I haven't any powers he hasn't got, I couldn't fight the way he did tonight, I can't possess people or — or kill them —"

"There is a room in the Department of Mysteries," Dumbledore replied carefully, "that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than forces of nature. It is also, perhaps, the most mysterious of the many subjects for study that reside there. It is the power held within that room that you possess in such quantities and which Voldemort has not at all.

That power is what has aided Mel to know if you're in danger and allowed her to help, that power took you to save Sirius tonight. That power also saved you from possession by Voldemort, because he could not bear to reside in a body so full of the force he detests. In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you. So you see, Mel," He added, "caring it's never useless."

"The end of the prophecy... it was something about... 'neither can live...' "

"'... while the other survives,' " Dumbledore concluded.

"So... so does that mean that... that one of us has got to kill the other one... in the end?"

"Yes."

They stayed silent for the longest time, Mel found her voice at the same time as her courage.

"Okay," She spoke. "We just have to make sure you're the one that lives."

Dumbledore's face hinted at a smile, but it did not form fully. Harry stared at her like the thought of surviving was next to impossible.

"I feel I owe you two other explanations," said Dumbledore carefully. "You may, perhaps, have wondered why I never chose you as prefects? I must confess that I rather thought both of you had enough responsibility to be going on with..."

Mel let out a dry chuckle, Harry just sighed.

"The second and final... is about the decision you ought to take."

"What decision?"

"Your lifeline," He started, "I've been reading about it since the third task... It's called Unio Azoth — A universal cure for any kind of injury, you heal with life itself, and it's always effective. However, not many people dare use it because it demands great sacrifice from both sides of the connection. It's created through highly complex magic, or it can happen, as it was your case, after multiple shared near-death experiences," He paused. "It can also be removed."

There was a split second in which the students didn't know how to react.

"You're saying," Mel started. "We've been hurting each other for a whole year — and you hid this from us?"

"You were on bad terms after the tournament, the removal can only happen if both sides consent, and you were holding onto it tightly, Mel."

"Is it dark magic?" Harry asked abruptly. "Our connection?"

Dumbledore took another long look at him.

"I believe that what you're trying to ask is if it's damaging for any of you," He replied. "Which is something that depends on the circumstances. There have been moments your connection has improved your lives, but it's also damaged you physically to a great extent. You're asking a question only you can answer, Harry."

"This could've fixed everything between us," Mel felt her anger increasing. "And you just let us argue instead? Why?"

"It was your impulsive actions that kept me from speaking, I couldn't risk one of you trying to cut it without the other knowing, it would've resulted in tragedy."

"We would've acted differently if only we’d known! The reason why we fought was because of how guilty Harry felt about putting me through extra pain — We could've just cut the damn thing — You thought I would've just decided to abandon him?"

"Isn't that what you were attempting this year?" Dumbledore asked pointedly.

"Harry and I couldn't stop fighting, I was tired — I had to keep my distance," Mel stood up. "He spent a whole year drowning in guilt thinking we couldn't change things —"

"When I found out it could be removed," Dumbledore's voice came out just as firm as hers. "You were already far too traumatized. Losing this would've felt like losing a limb. You weren't ready to make a choice then, but I can't keep you in the dark any longer, you have the whole picture now, so you can make an informed decision, but I must ask you to think —"

"I don't need to think it over," Mel said, but Harry spoke at the same time.

"I want to keep it."

"What?" She looked at him in disbelief.

Harry stared at her.

"It's thanks to this that I knew you were having panic attacks, you've saved my life many times now, I owe you — and it doesn't have to hurt, you can control it, I just need to learn how to do it too!"

"You've been nagging me about how much of a burden this was and suddenly you cling to it as if it were a blessing?" She narrowed her eyes.

"It's just..." His jaw tensed. "It works both ways — if I give it up and Voldemort takes you... I can't leave you to deal with it alone, you'd do the same for me. You've already done it."

Mel shook her head, speechless.

"The decision is yours to make..." Dumbledore concluded. "You have until next term to tell me, and then we'll do whatever you please."

They were walking side by side without speaking. She did not wish to fight, and she felt like it would happen if they were to bring up... well, everything.

"I'm sorry," He muttered.

"I don't want to hear it. I'm to blame as much as you are. I ignored you — Dumbledore's right, knowing would've tricked us into thinking we could deal with it on our own, it would've killed us... I've been selfish enough this year to know I would've felt tempted to try and cut it on my own. I won't admit it in front of him, though..."

"You weren't —"

"I don't want to have this conversation," She stopped walking. "Everyone thinks I'm like my father or my uncle... and I'm not. When I was with you I was just Mel... whoever that's supposed to be. When we fought I got lost — you said awful things to me, but you were the only one who wasn't treating me like some overpowered freak..."

"I can't promise we won't fight in the future, but there are worse things than disagreeing and the thought of dying without telling you that I..." He came to a halt, voice breaking.

They wanted to talk about so many things, and yet Mel felt like they would never get to say anything at all.

"You know," She said softly. "We've gone through so much already... and it's hard, looking at you and having to pretend I can continue like this."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm feeling so alone, Harry," She forced the words out of her. "I miss you."

She'd almost been murdered that night, treated like a ragdoll, and traumatized until there was no safe place in her world. Still, nothing made her feel quite as vulnerable and tiny as Harry's understanding of her, the way he knew every single corner of her mind as if it were his own.

Harry gazed at her with hurt, he clenched his jaw and shook his head lightly. She was ready to watch him leave when suddenly, he hugged her.

Mel was having trouble breathing against his shoulder but her arms kept him close, one hand made its way up to the back of his head while the other went to the middle of his back. He was a few inches taller than her, but she still felt like they were a perfect fit.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled against her hair, and Mel knew he wasn't just talking about Sirius.

"Me too," She closed her eyes tightly. "We'll find a way through this... together."

Next Chapter —>

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dashielldeveron · 4 years ago

Text

Viper VIII: Inter Vivos

*author slaps bumper sticker across ass that reads I BREAK FOR QUARANTINE*

Summary: You have a thought that only Steve Urkel and black-out drunks can have: did I do that?

Warnings: swears, the law. Murder/death. Stupid internet comments.

Show (3719) Comments on “There is Nothing New Under the Sun, But You Are New in Your Conglomeration.”

skellingtonbabey: thanks for putting all of the *gestures vaguely* into historical context. no one’s ever bothered to explain this shit to me, especially in such simple and thorough language. it’s like every other resource i try to learn from is stylistically designed to make me more confused.

readyplayer69: Just because it’s from the 60s and is racist doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have intrinsic value based on the goal towards which it was working. You’re a fucking lunatic. I have a degree in political science, so I know what the fuck I’m about. Though some of the protests may have excluded the minorities you’re talking about, it doesn’t mean that they weren’t ultimately working towards good fucking policies for everyone involved. It’s not like they were doing anything important then anyway; white people had to be the mouthpiece for…Read More

volcanolesbian: bro have u seen the incels freaking out over this???? it got linked in their cursed forum and they SO BADLY wanted u 2 hate women now. like you can regress from being a feminist once you’ve woken up. they’re giving u shit bc you called out the racist terrorists who were active in their community lmao. i can post screenshots if u want. But bruv it’s like they haven’t read anything you’ve written before lol

mozARTsexandviolins: I get when you say that ingenuity spawns ideals for the greater good, but don’t you think tradition has its place? How do we know if the new can spawn the greater good? How do we judge ourselves? Who watches the watchers?

simpleplan2eatthedirt: cool cool nice nice. protesting is awesome, but be sure to get out there to fucking VOTE, people!!! Here’s a link to register to vote.

EaterJohn: Hello. It is nice to hear from you again, Epiales. Always a treat. Very insightful commentary on modern and past protests. I didn’t know about all of the revolutions in Europe 1848. I’ve send this to my co, and it’s already sparked a good conversation about who we are as a protesting people as we stand in history. Again, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering when the next article in your “Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times” series was going to be released? It’s my…Read More

horneyvulcanbasterd: @mozARTsexandviolins Is that a Star Trek reference? Bc if so the answer’s Starfleet Command lol

MrsKatsukiBakagou: epiales. you have watered my crops and harvested my fields. thank you for the food.

mightiestavengereatmyass: eat shit and die, commie scum. your just a hired propagandaist for the fucking alt-left, aren’t you? You have no right to be running your collum in a real newspaper or on this fucking website. sending u anthrax in the mail would be too cool a death for you. I hope your so-called terrorist groupsfind out where you live and fucking murder you in the middle of the night. fukcs like you are the reason the country is going to shit the police have a total constitutional right int aht jurisdiction to enter. They had a no knock…Read More

fuckyouit’sjanuary: @readyplayer69 [image attached] [image description: blonde woman with caption reading, “I can tolerate racism, but I draw the line at looting the local target]

saltnpepa!!diner707: Hi. I’m trying to cite this piece in an essay, but your publisher isn’t listed on your website. Would you suggest using the NYT as the source in my bib? If it helps, this is due new week; idk if this will run in the NYT by then. Thanks

“I’m sending someone on a grocery run this morning,” said Tom, thumbs tapping away on his phone, “Do you need anything? Want anything?”

You glanced up from your laptop, closing it as much as you could without the light dimming. “I think I’m good, unless you used the last of the shredded cheese at some point.”

“Shredded…cheese,” he said under his breath, typing, “You mentioned capri-suns the other day.”

“Yeah, but I can tolerate the nasty, new flavour. No rush. Here’s a wild idea,” you said, and you waited until he looked up from his phone, a couple of ungelled curls falling over his forehead. “What if—now, don’t dismiss me as crazy; hear me out—what if we went to the store ourselves?”

“Again, no.” Tom grasping his coffee by the round of the mug, despite there being a perfectly functional handle. “Stop pressing me for it.”

“I’m not asking to go to a damn Broadway play. I’m asking to go to the closest 7-11,” you said, jiggling your leg and then making a conscious decision to stop fidgeting, instead scooting your chair closer under the table so that the arms slid underneath.

Tom hummed, his eyes not leaving his phone screen, but when you didn’t continue, he raised an eyebrow as he scowled at you. “Broadway is shut down because of the bomb threat.”

“Fuck off; you know what I meant.”

“Viper,” said Tom, and he locked his phone to set it on his napkin. “Do you want to get assassinated?”

“The term assassination implies I’m getting murdered for political reasons instead of the copious other crimes you’ve had me commit. So, I invite it.” Put your hands on the table where he can see them; it makes you seem more trustworthy. “Does 7-11 have an open carry policy?”

“If it’s any consolation, the renovated office should be waiting for you when you return.”

“It’s not.” You lifted your mug to your lips. “Working from here only makes me feel like a damn bureaucrat. Like I have no stake in the matter. I don’t want to become detached from everything; I might make a callous decision and send people where they can’t come back.”

“Keep watching yourself. If you stay on guard,” said Tom, running his middle finger around the rim of his mug, “then you won’t stray from me.”

“I’m useless here.”

“Then maybe you should become accustomed to the idea of being useless.”

Swallowing, you stared down into your tea. “There’s only so much I can get done through answering emails. Not to mention I hate answering emails. That’s how you get more emails.”

“Harrison has been telling me that your schematics have been more thorough since you’ve been holed up in here.” Tom tipped his mug all the way back to get the last of his coffee. “You’re still being just as productive, if not more methodical.”

“Did you mean obsessive? I have—I’ve had too much time to think. I’d rather not be alone with my thoughts, if I can help it.”

***

You could only read so much before losing your mind. You could only deal with so many of the same exact problems over and over again for lower level soldiers. You could only chart so many stars. You could only read so much fanfiction (if your identity thief were tracking your phone, he’d probably be baffled as to why you kept reading fic for fandoms you weren’t even a part of due to the desire for new ideas).

You could only give Glory Pham so many excuses as to why you’re not with her in person at the Museum of Natural History.

Sucking in through your teeth, you hovered your fingers above the keyboard.

Dear Ms. Pham,

Glad to hear John Mulaney’s signed on. Next step would be to ensure de Blasio doesn’t directly interact with him, given their history. Perhaps I should proof his set beforehand?

Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that I cannot attend the briefing in person yet again. I am currently indisposed, seeing as I am currently in hiding at my hot boss’s house, due to how dead I might be should I leave it (thus the basis of its appeal). Not to mention that if you criticise my blazer choices again, I shall peel the skin off your perfectly made-up face. Get fucked; getting your eyeliner tattooed on was a hell of a decision.

You shook your head, backspaced the last few lines, and stretched towards the wicker end table to grab your glass of pink lemonade, and you stole a glance at Tom’s work as you did so. A couple of files spread across his white wicker lounger (two blue files [socials of the family], two green [recent bids], a yellow [Manhattan locations], and a brown [requests from politicians, upper East side]). The pink sticky-notes had your and his written exchanges and edits on certain papers, and his laptop was open, the screen dimmed, while he copied something into a notebook with his cell phone held between his shoulder and his ear, just listening to the computerised voice.

He had joined you on the back porch to work remotely, claiming he couldn’t go into the city today due to the absence of news on Zendaya—if any information arose, he’d said he wanted your diagnosis immediately.

You wiped your forehead with your sleeve as a sweat drop slinked behind Tom’s ear. Even Tessa wouldn’t run in the heat; she’d curled up by the porch railing, her tail slapping against her water bowl. In an experiment to see if she wanted to spend some time outside, you’d slid the glass door open for Trout, to which she turned around to retreat to the bedroom.

Not all of the clothes you’d ordered had arrived yet, so you were stuck wearing autumnal clothes with long sleeves. To exacerbate matters, you were constantly moving—jiggling your leg, tapping your fingers—you couldn’t sit still for very long anymore; you had taken to pacing the porch when you couldn’t concentrate on the stars.

(Once, Tom had come out at night to check on you, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and sitting in silence with you. He’d made you go to bed after a while, claiming you’d run yourself into the ground if you kept this restlessness up.)

When your phone beeped, the both of you jolted at the sound. Tom hung up on the robotic voice as you scrambled to your phone, and he bent your way. “Is it Zendaya?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shook your head. “No. Looks like it’s a jailbreak.”

Tom sighed, his shoulders heaving as he eased back in his seat. “Where from?”

“I don’t even care,” you said, letting your phone fall to your lap. You slumped back in your chair, shielding your eyes from the sun with your arm. But you straightened yourself again and checked. “From Central. They don’t even know who’s all escaped yet.”

“It’d be too much of a gift if New York City would fucking relax for five minutes.”

“It seems like it’s in more uproar than usual lately,” you said, sipping through the reusable straw of your pink lemonade. “Do you suppose it’s our fault?”

Tom took a moment to pluck his damp t-shirt away from his chest. “I don’t think we’re instigating. If anything, we’re simply reacting to chaos.” He stood up and stretched, raising his arms above his head—his biceps strained at the sleeves, and the hem rose above his v-lines. “Unless you’re doing something I don’t know about.”

Ah, casual suspicion. “You’ve caught me,” you said as he approached Tessa and crouched next to her, “I’ve been running a koi smuggling gig on the side.”

“Why koi?” He held out his hand for Tessa to sniff, and she readily accepted his hand for pats. “Are they hard to get?”

“I don’t know,” you said, shrugging, “but I’ve been wondering if they’d be able to survive in your grist mill pond. You look through that water straight to the bottom, nothing living in your way. Just rocks and old equipment.”

Tom sat against the porch railing with a jittery Tessa partially in his lap. “Should we get some?”

“Oh, fuck off, Tom,” you said, grinning, a sweat drop falling onto your mousepad as you shook your head, “You can’t entertain every little pipedream I have.”

“Watch me. What do you want for Christmas?”

You ducked your head, biting your lip. “Promise me something.”

“Provided it’s not my head on a stake, I will,” he said, scratching Tessa behind her ears and cringing a bit when she stretched to lick his face.

“Then we’re going in person to the pre-opening fundraising gala for the Gawain Diamond.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Viper.”

“Bitch, I got John Mulaney to sign on to do the opening monologue, and he’s probably gonna roast de Blasio again. I’m not missing that.”

Your phone blared an alert again, and both of you held your breath as you unlocked it.

“Got a list of prisoners who escaped. Small group. Delores, Larson, Duncan, Mays, Selvin,” you said, “There’s more, but I don’t know them. Tell us something important, by God. Anyway, we’re going. I didn’t say I was going alone, did I? You’ll be there. I’ll be safe, and you’ll be safe.”

His jaw shifting to the side, Tom stilled his hand on Tessa’s back, and then he lifted it to flick sweat off his neck. “How many of us maximum can you get in?”

“It’s a fundraiser for idiotic rich people; if there are too many people without a name, they’ll be noticed.”

“It can’t be just us.”

“Why? Afraid you can’t protect me on your own?”

“Now, don’t start that.” Tom herded Tessa off his lap and onto her outside bed. “I’m not falling for it.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fully aware you’re capable of ripping me in half,” you said, draining your pink lemonade, the airy suction coming through your straw (almost loud enough that you couldn’t hear Tom’s sputtering over it—almost—and his phone beeping). “Want me to get that?”

“Bring it here,” he said, and you snatched it while he sat on the railing, dangling his legs off the side.

“It’s,” you said, eyebrows shooting to your hairline as you read the little notification, “It’s a tweet from Zendaya.” You tossed it to him to unlock and leant on the railing next to him, arm grazing his thigh with a heightened awareness of how close you were to his sweaty, sweaty abdomen. No! No time to thirst. Friend time.

Tom unlocked his phone and held it at your eye level, turning it horizontally as he pulled up the tweet.

ZENDAYA (@ZendayaMedias): Felt cute. Might delete later.

[video]

Tom pulled up the clip, waiting for it to load. “Why didn’t she post it to instagram, then?”

“The finer details of social media are an enigma. Do I look like I know,” you said, and his thumb hovered over the play button.

He cranked the volume up before pressing play, having to try twice due to how slippery his fingers were. “I wonder if Haz has seen this yet.”

A vertical shot of a murky, grey sky from the bow of a boat and dark ocean as far as the camera can see. It pans across the starboard side, and this boat is the only one in sight.

Only the sound of waves striking the boat.

The camera tilts down. Zendaya’s writhing on the deck, furiously straining against rope bonds that line up the entirety of her arms and up her calves; she’s yelling furiously at the person behind the camera through duct tape.

Scuffed, black boots roll Z to the starboard gunwale. She’s still fighting, still shouting.

The camera trucks to the right; before, the pair of cinderblocks attached to her feet were concealed. It returns to her face. A glove grabs part of her hair to show the weights tied into it. She bucks up to headbutt the camera; he avoids it.

Tom clenched his free hand on his thigh. “We’re running another scan for that black-stubble bell jackass from her instagram; did we have any fucking leads at all? What’s his fucking motivation? So he slept with her, allegedly; did she say no to a second time? Doesn’t fucking merit—”

The boot kicks the cinderblocks off the boat, and the camera tilts down to follow the trail of bubbles.

It’s quiet.

But then the camera pans to portside, where the guy in the picture with Zendaya is similarly tied up, but he’s openly weeping and shaking his head. He’s got something drawn on his forehead in black marker. The cameraman steps closer to focus on it: it’s a circle with an upward curve resting on top of it.

He’s still wearing the bell necklace.

Then the cameraman backs away and raises a gloved hand, in which a gun is aimed at the other’s forehead.

The bullet goes through the circle, and the bell rattles as he’s kicked off. Fewer bubbles.

Then the camera tilts up to show off the boat’s surroundings: a black and barren ocean, as far as the eye can see.

When the video started to loop, Tom switched his screen off, his phone hanging loosely in his grip. You released of his thigh once you noticed you’d grabbed onto him, and the evidence of your touch faded as the fabric relaxed.

His eyes glossed over at the blank screen, and his mouth opened before closing again, running his tongue over his lower lip. Tom brought a fist to his mouth and furrowed his brow, his hand hardly concealing the growing tremble of his jaw.

You took a step away from him, rubbing your arms as you ducked your head. “I’m going back inside,” you said, hoping Trout felt like being clutched to your chest, “I’m cold.”

***

The next morning, your mouth felt heavy and dry. You sneaked out as the sun was rising to go hide in the woods surrounding Tom’s house, but you talked yourself out of it. He would make too much of a fuss if he couldn’t find you—but you could delay the inevitable conversation even further. Both of you had separated and kept to yourselves the rest of the evening. Kept quiet.

So you rounded the outside of the house. You’re not camping out in a fucking copse. When you reached the pond, you scanned it for a dry place to hide, but nothing really held any appeal, save for the rounded platform where the mill wheel used to spin, its spoke notches overflowing with moss. You managed to get to it after scrambling alongside the stones for a few minutes, and though it didn’t look like you could get down the same way, you settled against the wall, scraping some moss out of the notches so that your feet could rest more comfortably in them.

(Dr. Prine called ten minutes after you sent her the email. “Did you send me the correct article?”

“Yeah,” you said, rubbing your face wash onto your cheeks, “Considering it’s the only one I have ready, and I can’t bring myself to write anything. I tried. I just fucking can’t.”

“I don’t think you want this published at this point in your life.”

“I don’t fucking care. Whoever’s using my pen name probably knows who the fuck I am in general. Just publish it.”

“Honey,” said Dr. Prine, her voice softening (and fumbling, like she was holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder), “You should probably rethink this. It’s going to connect Epiales you back to Viper you. Get some sleep; eat breakfast. Call me back then.”

“It’s an appropriate article for the political climate.”

“Not for your personal life.”

“I don’t fucking care,” you said between splashing water on your face, “I don’t. It’s a good fucking article, and hopefully, it can affect people for the upcoming election. Fuck self-preservation. Send it to the Times already.”

“Did I dial the wrong number?”

“Hilarious, Dr. Prine. I know it’s not the smartest thing for me to do, but I can’t—absolutely can’t—write anything. I don’t know for how long, but for now, at least.” You blotted your face dry. “I’ve got to meet standard deadlines if I’m keeping my column. It’s really only dangerous if Tom reads it and makes the connection, and his brain is offline right now.”

And so Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times, chapter twelve, “The Political Tradition as Mob Rule,” would be published on Saturday. It’s a little too in the know about the mafia, but hey, you had written it on a whim a month ago, and you were known for your extensive research, anyway. It most likely shouldn’t be too different from your other exposés, though they weren’t on topics that were deliberately misleading the public by what information was out there.

The more you thought about it, it was almost like you wanted to reveal yourself, wanted to get stabbed while you were sleeping, because there’s an overwhelming question rolling around in your brain like a mis-weighted shooter marble: is this—)

“It’s not your fault.”

With crossed arms, Tom leant against the stone wall, his leg bent back for his bare foot to rest flat against it. He glanced sideways at you, sitting on your mill wheel perch almost halfway across the pond, but closer to the far side than to him.

He’s got major bedhead, his curls just fucking flopping about out of his part, and even from where you are, his face burned red amidst wet tracks trailing down it. Still, thank God for little mercies—his biceps were fucking straining the sleeves of his white t-shirt, and those idiotic, blessed grey sweatpants were low on his hips.

You lifted your head from your knees but still clutched them to your chest. “You’re not going out, then?”

“Of course not,” Tom said, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Can’t be crying during a meeting, yeah?”

“Been boxing?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Not really.”

He ran his tongue over his lower lip and sighed, and then he slid his hands into his pockets, his eyes glossing over while he watched the moss you’d picked off float in the pond.

You’re not going to fucking cry. Tom came out here for a reason. He has a purpose. All you have to do is wait.

Eventually, he said, “You’re avoiding what I said.”

You tilted your head.

“Listen, I know you’re beating yourself up about it. It’s not your fault this happened. None of this is your fault. Hey.” Tom tapped the wall, the travelling reverberations making you look up at him. “Whoever’s doing this is doing it of their own volition and not because of you. You hold no culpability for this.”

“Bruh,” you said, “One of your best friends is dead, and you’re comforting me? I thought I was the masochist.”

Tom scowled, his brow furrowing. “Viper—”

“I can’t interact with someone without putting them in danger, at a disturbingly high rate. You want me to enumerate where I’ve stuck my nose in not my business and people have gotten killed? Senator Hernandez, Isadora,” you began, holding up two fingers, “The nine men guarding Isadora, Maccabruno, Polson—”

“Don’t you dare do that to yourself.” Tom took a step forward, his foot almost curving into the pond. “You didn’t use the knife. You didn’t pull any triggers.”

“Yeah, but I sent them there. And a good many of them went because it was their job.” You sneered and propped your chin on your knees again.

“And it’s part of your job—”

“Yeah, whatever. Your friend is dead, and I have no home. I’ve stopped contacting the few people in my circle on the chance that they get dragged into this—Grace, Adrien—he’s the lights specialist guy, in case you don’t remember—I’ve got to email Glory, but that can’t be helped. And Dr. Prine only—fuck,” you said, dragging your hands down your face. “I don’t want anything to fucking happen to Dr. Prine. Or your family, for that matter.”

“Everyone not involved in the business is currently in hiding upstate,” said Tom, eyes narrowed as he glared at you. “If you like, I can ensure the same—”

“Stop acting so damn calm, Tom.” You let your legs dangle off the platform, hands clenching the edges. “I don’t have any strings left to pull. And fucking hell, I know that it would be extremely and absurdly conceited of me to believe that this series of crimes is aimed specifically at me, because how deluded, how arrogant could I get—but goddammit, this stuff feels a little too personalised. It feels like this person knows me.”

Tom clicked his tongue. “Don’t you think it’s worth something that Glory Pham has been left alone? He knows how to get into Crosscreek, yet Glory hasn’t been touched. Is that not worthwhile?”

Your eyes watered, but you ducked your head so that he couldn’t see—but you released a dry sob (Fuck! Now is not the time for crying! Now is the time for being badass! Frown, or something!).

Tom spoke so quietly you almost didn’t catch it. “Do you want to leave?”

God, no. But it would make you feel like less of a burden. “Let me find an apartment first.”

“No, not like that. Hey, V. Look at me,” he said, and he tapped on the wall again.

You wouldn’t. Not like this. Not when your nose was running and when you didn’t have a plan.

“Please look at me, Viper.”

Glowering, you raised your head, lifting your chin higher than normal to seem confident, and oh, God—his eyes were wide and gentle; he’s leaning as far as he can over the pond, still unable to reach you.

“What I meant was if you wanted to leave the mob.”

It rang through your head like a distant cathedral bell, chiming through a deserted town—but then you were farther, out on the mountains, still listening to faint clanging.

“You’d have to kill me,” you said, shaking your head, “Don’t you remember?”

“Fuck,” Tom was saying, sucking in through his teeth, and after glancing at the water, he started jogging around the pond.

“I swore. I bled. And then even after that—then you knighted me.” You inhaled sharply when he reached the stones you’d climbed. “I’ve let you down.”

“Viper, get the fuck down from there and come here,” he said, and he withdrew, winching, when he stepped on a sharp edge.

“We shouldn’t have met,” you said, looking over your shoulder at him, and Tom froze, his hand partially gripping a hole in the stone wall. “I shouldn’t have taken the job. I should have gone to a different city. I should have—”

“Wasted your life away in the shadows? Just shut up and get down here.”

“Ah! The fuck?” You swatted his hand away when it grazed the platform, and when he climbed up another step, you pushed yourself off the platform and into the pond.

The first thing that struck you was how quiet everything was once the bubbles dissipated, and then you noticed how clear the water was, even from within it—glancing down, you could easily see your feet treading water above the broken grist mill wheels that had sunken to the bottom.

Before you could take it in to feel the emptiness in your chest, bubbles filled your vision again—and then his hands were grappling for you, grasping at your clothes, and pulling you towards the surface.

“I wasn’t fucking drowning,” you said, sliding a hand back through your hair, while Tom shook his head to flick off excess water. “I was fine without—”

“I know you weren’t.” Tom gripped your waist tightly enough to be painful, and he slid his other hand up between your shoulder blades. “I know. You wouldn’t die on me, and I’m not letting anyone else lay their hands on you. C’mon, arms around.”

He guided your arms around his waist, and once you had a good grip (hands sliding up his back), he kicked off to swim to the stone wall, backing you into it. Your toes skimmed the bottom of the pond, but Tom kept your head above the water, his thumbs circling your hipbones through your wet clothes.

Tom closed his eyes, his eyelashes heavy with water droplets. “There’s no solution to this where you die, got it?”

“Shucks.”

“I mean it. Talk to me. Tell me what you can.” Tom let out a breath slowly, and he bent to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “Please,” he said once you tensed up, his breath hot through your wet shirt, “Won’t you let me in?”

(Fuck fuck fuck fuck his chest is flush against yours; he’s so warm, so damn warm all over, and the water’s chill only makes you want to cling to him more, fuck.)

“You won’t like me,” you said, tentatively lifting a hand to curl your fingers into his hair, pulling slightly, “I’m not whom I’ve presented to you. I don’t have it under control.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Tom turned his head towards you; his lips almost grazed your neck (you relish their warmth anyway). “You wouldn’t be human, otherwise.”

“I don’t know an awful lot. Some days it seems like all I do is guesswork.” You grimaced but kept the slim distance from Tom’s mouth. If he wanted to, he would. “I’m lost completely on whoever the fake Epiales is. I keep looking for a pattern in everything, even—even so far back as to—”

You stuttered. Tom had pressed his lips to the base of your neck.

“There’s no consistency,” he said, nuzzling his nose against the spot where your neck met shoulder, “but there’s got to be a larger plan. I get it. The whole case is like a hydra, and we’re chopping blindly at the heads.”

(Oh, my God, he kissed you? He kiss the neck? He?)

“Oh! I forgot to tell you.” Tom pulled away to look you in the eye, and your mouth hung open of its own accord—come back! “I made myself watch the video again.” His jaw shifted. “To see if I missed anything, and I did. This time, I recognised the symbol on the guy’s forehead.” Tom lightly traced it onto your forehead with his middle finger. “It’s a zodiac symbol. It’s the one for Taurus.”

You nodded, still not really thinking at full capacity. “Great. Another piece of evidence that I won’t be able to make fucking sense of. Goddammit. I’m so useless. Goddammit,” you said, dropping your hand from his hair into the water with a splash. “Tom, I don’t talk to my mother much anymore. She doesn’t know where or who I am, and to be honest, I don’t know who I am, either. I don’t know where the truth is.”

You nearly slapped him when you cupped his cheek, like you were desperate, like you had to be touching him, skin on skin, that instant. It’d be nice if he would close his eyes and lean into your touch, maybe kiss your palm, but Tom simply stared at you in shock, eyes wide, brows raised, mouth pinched.

Don’t tell him, you whore. You built this fucking kingdom with its walls and bastions so that you would be safe when the outer defences crumbled. You’ve set aside parts of yourself into neat little boxes so that you can throw any of them away at any time and escaped unscathed. Don’t you fucking dare screw that up. Tom doesn’t know about Epiales so that you can expose and destroy him if you’re on his chopping block; it’s insurance for when everything falls.

Bitch, since when do you want to be honest and raw and vulnerable around anyone?

You can’t let him in.

“You’re still a woman of honour,” Tom said, and—oh, God, oh, fuck—he’s easing his hands down your body, his chest pressed against yours again, and he’s sliding them down your thighs to hook underneath your knees, and he’s hitched you up against the wall, the definition of his muscles real and palpable through the wet clothes, warm, warm, warm—

“I should apologise,” you said, turning your head to the side while he steered your legs around his waist, “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

“You can’t?” Tom shifted you upwards, and that’s it; your heat is directly against him; you can feel every pull and tensing of his tendons, and if he keeps moving the way he is, then you’ll—

“I’m so sorry for making this about me when Z was closer to you. We shouldn’t waste time on me; we need to be searching, arranging a funeral if we can’t find anything.” You scrunched your eyes shut.

“You’re deflecting.” Tom let out a shuddery sigh. “I’ve lost too many people. Don’t make me lose you when you’re right in front of me,” he said, and he pressed his lips right below your ear.

You flinched away on impulse but tried to relax into him, blinking profusely.

Tom pushed against you (not localised enough to qualify as a thrust), and he cleared his throat before pulling away from your neck. “Listen, please. Please.” He shifted your weight to one hand and gripped your chin with his freed one. His eyes flickered to your mouth before he moved to rest his hand on your cheek. “You’re invaluable. Irreplaceable. You are no burden and are not at fault.” He clenched his jaw. “But I know you’re keeping something from me, and I will make the answer fall from your lips soon.”

Your own chin was shaking, and he was too close. If you put aside separate-self-as-insurance for a moment, let’s consider Tom did find out about Epiales. Would he control you through it? Would he use you to influence those he couldn’t reach? Would he grab hold of Dr. Prine? He might squeeze your life and time through his fist, and your freedom would be gone. Epiales was your freedom, your space to create and connect.

He was too close.

“You’ve got to promise not to hate me,” you said, and when he raised an eyebrow, you made your decision to lean in.

“No,” he said, and—and your lips met his cheek.

He’d turned his head.

After all that, he’s going to turn his head?

“No,” he said again, taking your chin again and leading you away, back to leaning against the stone wall, “I don’t want our first kiss connected to the memory of mourning. I can wait a bit longer.”

Tom released your legs, letting them sink. “You once told me that if you let yourself be vulnerable, you didn’t want an audience. I think,” he said, frowning, “I think you still see me as an outsider. As a member of that audience. And again, you said that you didn’t want it if it weren’t real.” He stepped away from you entirely, and he started wading towards the edge of the pond. “I’m going to hold you to the same standard. I’ll wait until you’re ready to be real with me.”

Tom slinked out of the pond, flicking away what excess water he could, and he squinted into the sun on the horizon. He shook his head, water flying, and he glanced back at you and scoffed. “Easy, sweetheart. No need to wear your heart on your sleeve now.”

His voice trailed off as he rounded the corner towards the door.

The sun is rising, and you feel rather cold.

***

inter vivos: between the living

***

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unpeumacabre · 4 years ago

Text

my kingdom for a horse: chapter 1

the year is 1601, a messenger has been sent to dongnae, and he has not returned. lord cho-hak-ju advises the joseon king to send crown prince lee chang to dongnae to investigate, but the plot he unravels there threatens the safety of the entire kingdom, and the stability of the dynasty.

a rewriting of kingdom, and lee chang finds love.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Lee Chang/Yeong-shin

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr might mess up the formatting)

Count: 7k

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A/N: ummmmm so basically i wanted to rewrite kingdom... with a yeong-shin/lee chang twist... and it turned out as a massive lee chang character study lol. the plot borrows elements from the drama but is quite different - i wanted to bring out certain aspects of the characters and tone down on some of them a little more. the story is mostly complete, i'm just in the midst of editing, so updates will be weekly. enjoy~

Survive.

Lee Chang gathers the reins of his horse in his hands, and looks out towards the horizon. The sun is waning, and Mu-yeong is complaining about the flies, and Lee Chang still feels the heat of anger and injustice scorching his skin.

He had been there when the King had sent the messenger to Dongnae – a routine check it had been, nothing more. Apparently, Cho Hak-ju and his spies had heard murmurs of a rebellion in the South, and he had whispered his foul poison into the King’s ear, convincing him to send a messenger to Dongnae to put the magistrate on his guard.

Lee Chang had also been there when the messenger’s horse had returned, bereft of its rider, and bereft of its message.

“Why not send the Prince to investigate?” had been Cho Hak-ju’s answer. “We must send someone reliable this time, someone who will not shirk his mission. And the Prince must have been so bored of late. There is little to occupy his scholarly mind in recent days, what with everyone being occupied preparing for the new prince’s birth.”

“Why not send Beom-il? Surely your son is more experienced than I am at these matters,” Lee Chang had answered, and he had felt the strain of his smile stretch tight against his cheekbones.

“Of course, but Beom-il is indisposed at the moment. He has been sent to oversee the setting up of the new regiment at Haeju, and will not return for a few days more.”

He was an odious snake, he was, Lee Chang thought bitterly, but still the King had acquiesced.

His only modicum of hope lay in the words the King had said to him that night, as they took their private dinner together – a rarity, now that most of his time was occupied with the queen and her increasingly-rounded belly.

“It pains me to say this, but…” the King had picked at his food. “There is something brewing in the south, although I do not believe it to be the rebellion that Lord Cho is suggesting.”

Lee Chang personally thought there was nothing in it, but then again, he didn’t have the extensive network of spies the King and Cho Hak-ju seemed to have. He could not – and probably never will – understand how one can trust men who live in the shadows and trade secrets – and lives – for their livelihood. Perhaps it would not make him a good king, but Lee Chang wanted to believe that it would make him a better one instead.

“I want you to investigate what the Haewon Cho clan is up to in the south,” the King had then said, and Lee Chang had almost fallen from his seat.

“Father, why?” he had asked, a perfectly reasonable question. He well remembered the times in his youth when Cho Hak-ju had said something insulting to him or done something to side-line him, something so serious that he had felt the need to go to the King for recompense. Every single time, he could recall being brushed off and told “Lord Cho thinks only of the good of the nation” and “you would do well to heed his teachings”. Never had the King shown even a hint of resentment or suspicion of the Haewon Cho clan’s leader, and Lee Chang had always thought his trust in Cho Hak-ju unshakeable.

Not so unshakeable, it seemed. A shadow had crossed the King's face then, and he had turned away as if to hide his face.

“I did not believe it when first the Head of the Royal Commandery brought it to my attention,” the King had said then, “but Cho Beom-il has been implicated in several – well, shall we say, unsavoury deals, and Lord Min’s investigations point to Lord Cho at their head. But he has been very careful to cover his tracks, and the evidence is, while convincing, mostly circumstantial.”

Lee Chang had taken a sip of his wine, his throat suddenly dry. “And of my role in all this?” he had managed. “Why send me? Surely by doing so we are playing precisely into Lord Cho’s hands.”

“I do not yet know what he plans,” the King had replied, shaking his head. “All I have are ominous tidings from my spies in Sangju and Dongnae that there is something nefarious being planned, but Lord Cho – if it is indeed he behind it – is an intelligent man. He has not yet let anything slip. If we must play into his hands, at least for now, just know that you go as my envoy, my emissary, and not the messenger boy of the Haewon Cho clan. I trust only my son to carry this through for me.”

“I wish to see my son, and I miss my wife,” Mu-yeong complains, and it snaps Lee Chang back to reality. He huffs out an exasperated laugh at the familiar refrain.

“At least she will be well-taken care of while you are gone,” he says, letting the amusement thread through his voice. “Where did you say she was staying while you are with me?”

“With her aunt, in Naesonjae. Her brother has found work in the queen’s palace, so they have enough money to put her up at least until I return,” Mu-yeong answers, and punctuates his answer with an enormous, put-upon sigh.

“That is good,” Lee Chang says absently. “At least you need not steal desserts from my table any longer to feed her.”

“Your Highness – you said you wouldn’t - ” splutters Mu-yeong, his face turning beet red, as he spins around in his horse to check on the entourage of three guards following them. Thankfully for him, they are bickering among themselves about something inconsequential, and Lee Chang dismisses them as not having heard anything.

“We must find somewhere to make camp soon,” he decides, looking back towards the horizon, and the sun’s fading rays colouring it red.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong replies, and he slows his horse to tell the guards.

Very quickly, they find a clearing in which to make camp, and Lee Chang grooms his horse while the guards and Mu-yeong start the fire. When the fire is sufficiently large, he sits by it and unwraps the jangguk mandu prepared for him that morning by his chefs. The smell of pork and kimchi wafts like sweet perfume from the wrappings, and he catches the guards looking at him enviously from the corner of their eyes, as they dig into their mieum. The gruel splatters over the grass as they eat.

One of the guards’ voices drifts over to him on the wind. “Royals are lucky,” he says, a thread of envy in his voice. “Jangguk mandu and tteokguk for dinner. What I would do for some meat.”

“Hush,” Mu-yeong says, glancing over at Lee Chang, but he pretends not to hear their conversation, and Mu-yeong returns his attention to the guards, reassured. “You know meat is a luxury us peasants cannot afford, especially in these trying times.”

“Yeah? You’d think the royals and the lords don’t know of the ongoing famine. The other day, I was on guard for Lord Park, and he left a whole dish of goldongban untouched. Untouched!” There is a collective groan from the group.

“What I wouldn’t do for some beef and eggs,” agrees one of the others, fervently.

“My mother died of illness last month. She wasted away,” comes the quiet voice of the last guard. “And when you think of all the food that’s left on the royals’ tables…” He shakes his head, and fumbles in his pockets. “I only have my daughter and my dear wife left, and the little girl’s so much like her grandmother. Worries about me all the time. She made me this talisman to keep me safe.” He displays the charm, and Lee Chang can vaguely see the childish drawings on the blue fabric, accompanied by words he is too far away to read.

He looks down at his mandu. Suddenly, the dumplings no longer seem as inviting.

Lee Chang thinks of offering them his food, then. Thinks of unwrapping the rest of the packages tethered to his horse, and sharing the food among the guards, because, if he’s honest, there was far too much food packed for him alone.

But something holds him back. Pride, perhaps, or irrational fear, that they will hate him even more for what they might construe as his pity.

And now it is too late. Before he could come to a a decision, the guards had finished their food, and now they are standing up, stretching, and sorting out the watch schedule. Mu-yeong comes over to him and notices his untouched meal.

“You must eat, Your Highness,” he urges, his tone teasing.

But when Lee Chang turns his face up to face him, Mu-yeong must see something in his face, for he squats down, his eyes turning liquid and understanding.

“Your Highness is different from the rest of the nobles,” he murmurs, under his breath so the other guards do not hear. “You did not execute my family when you caught me stealing from your table to provide for my wife. You did not execute the maid when she ruined your second-best coat with her shoddy washing skills. You did not execute the chef when he cooked you kongguksu for dinner, forgetting soy beans give you sleepless nights. That mercy is far above what any other noble is capable of – ah, now, don’t blush, Your Highness – you know it to be true! Don’t be embarrassed.”

Lee Chang scoffs and turns away. “Be quiet, or I shall execute your whole family,” he mutters under his breath.

“Isn’t it about time you stopped joking about that?” Mu-yeong cries, aghast. “Such a threat from the Crown Prince holds more weight than you think!”

Lee Chang glares at him out of the corner of his eye, then sighs, and turns his attention away. He begins unpacking the linens with which he is to make his bed, and tries not to smile; but he is sure the way his lips twitch, gives him away.

Satisfied that he has restored his prince’s spirits, Mu-yeong returns to the rest of the guards, who have been watching their exchange with some curiosity. Lee Chang strains to hear their conversation as they welcome his guard back to their side with a comradely clap to the back, but it is late, and the hard riding of the morning has driven all the energy from his bones.

The ground is hard against his back, and it is with the unhappy feeling of rocks digging pinpricks of pain into his skin, that he finally drifts into a restless slumber.

***

He is in the King’s study, staring at the irworobongdo behind the King’s desk and thinking to himself, “I will never be king.”

The King’s great-grandfather, his great-great-grandfather, had had the folding screens installed behind his desk in his room in Gyeongbokgung Palace during his reign, to emulate the irworobongdo behind the royal throne where he held court. Lee Chang had been told by his nurse as a boy that the former King, his great-great-grandfather, had used the paintings to intimidate whoever was unlucky enough to be called to his study for an audience. After the Second War of Jeong-yu, three years ago, Gyeongbokgung had been razed to ashes, they had moved here into Changdeokgung as the main palace, and the current King had decided to adopt the same practice as his great-grandfather.

It makes a majestic sight for sure, the five peaks rising above the head of the King, flanked by the two moons, conifers, and streams running down from the mountains. Lee Chang had often been called here in his youth, and one of his earliest – and most vivid – memories is of standing before the King, only nine years old, on his knees and crying. He remembers having been summoned for some small prank he had played on one of the guards. He remembers the King’s back, tall and stately, looming above him, his arms crossed behind him, and his voice: “You are the Crown Prince, Lee Chang. Such childish frivolities are beneath you. You must always act with the maturity and dignity required of your station.”

Yet he cannot remember the King’s face.

So now, he fixes his gaze blankly on the third and middle peak of the irworobongdo, as the King strides leisurely across the room, watching him.

“Did you hear me, Chang?” he says, and his voice is quiet.

“Yes,” Lee Chang manages. “That is wonderful news. You have informed the ministers, then? That Her Highness is with child?”

“Yes, yes,” the King replies, waving his hand airily. “They have given their best wishes, of course. I am sure he will be a beautiful baby boy.”

Or a girl, Lee Chang’s mind whispers, but somehow he knows in his bones that it will be a boy. Cho Hak-ju is not known for his errors.

The King is still watching him. Lee Chang does not know what he is expecting to see.

Then he turns his head away, sighs, and gestures imperiously towards Lee Chang, beckoning him forward. Lee Chang steps forward and kneels at the King's feet. He feels like that nine-year-old child all over again; but the difference is that, in the years between then and now, he has learned not to cry.

“Chang,” the King says, and Lee Chang feels a hand in his hair, a gentle touch which catches him by surprise. “You have survived, as I commanded you to. And you are all that a father can ever ask for. All that a nation can ask for in its prince. When this child comes, you will no longer be destined to be king. But you will still be a prince, and that is all that matters.”

“Is it?” Lee Chang whispers. “I have been brought up to be a king, with the expectation that one day, it was to be I who would sit on the Phoenix Throne and command the kingdom of Joseon. And now I realise that all that will have been for nothing.”

The King sighs again. “Not for nothing,” he amends. “Your brother will need you as he grows. You are experienced both in scholarship and military command. Do not dismiss yourself so easily.” The hand in his hair disappears, and Lee Chang finds himself strangely bereft.

When next he looks up again, the King is sitting at his desk, reading. The third peak glimmers in the light of his lamp, directly above his head. Lee Chang takes it as a dismissal.

“Chang,” the King says, as Lee Chang turns to leave. He turns back to face him, and the King’s eyes are molten gold.

“Remember,” he says. “Survive.” And he opens his mouth, and emits a piercing scream.

Lee Chang is jolted from his slumber and scrambles for the handle of his sword. He whips around and the blade points directly at Mu-yeong’s throat.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong gasps, his hand still on Lee Chang’s shoulder, where he has clearly been trying to rouse Lee Chang from his sleep. “We are under attack!”

Lee Chang’s mind immediately flies to Cho Hak-ju’s miserable face, but he quickly dismisses the notion. There is hardly any legitimate reason Cho can find to hunt him down, after all – Lee Chang’s plans had not been ready to set in motion before he had left the capital.

“By who?” he roars, instead. “Who dares attack – “ He is cut off by another piercing yell, this time of pain, and he turns in time to see one of the guards fall to the ground, a man covered in bloody rags clinging to his throat.

Immediately he leaps forward and buries his blade in the back of the attacker. The blow is harsh, and carves a deep line to the bone. The man jerks and convulses, falling off the guard and rolling onto the ground. Lee Chang is repulsed to see that his face is covered in blood, and that his teeth had been buried in the guard’s throat.

Quickly he bends down and shakes the guard. “Are you alright?” he asks roughly, scanning the wound. It is a bad bite, it is, and the attacker had torn out a good chunk of flesh when he had fallen off the body. It needs bandaging, and so Lee Chang rips off a piece of cloth from the hem of his coat. He pulls the fabric around the guard’s neck, making sure not to pull it too tight and obstruct his breathing, then he ties it off with a quick bow.

It is only Mu-yeong’s reflexes which save him from certain death, in those next few moments.

The man who had been lying on the ground – who had clearly been dead, no one could survive such a blow and live – had sprung up from his supine position and leapt for Lee Chang’s throat. He is too slow to react, and when he turns, the man’s breath is hot on his neck, in the instant before Mu-yeong’s blade whistles past him and separates the attacker’s head from his body.

Lee Chang falls back in disbelief, his bottom hitting the ground, and stares unseeingly at the head on the ground, its teeth bared in a foul approximation of a smile.

“How?” he asks, blankly. “He was dead. I buried my blade in his back myself. I severed his spinal cord. He should be dead.”

Another scream of pain attracts his attention, and he looks away in time to see the other two guards fall, and descended upon by more raggedy attackers. Lee Chang feels his stomach roil as he realises one of the smaller figures among the pack, is that of a child. His hand flies to the handle of his sword, and he is about to rise to his feet and run to the rescue, when he feels the body under his other hand begin to tremble.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong says warningly, but Lee Chang hardly needs his words to recognise the mottled colour spreading across the downed guard’s face, and the milky film descending over his eyes. He recognises that face, for he has seen it just moments before – on the head that is now sitting, eyes unseeing, among the blood-stained blades of grass.

Purely on instinct, his body leaps back from the guard, and he watches in horror as the guard begins to writhe and shake, as if caught in a fit. His neck arches backwards, beyond what is humanely possible, and his mouth falls open, froth drooling from his jowls. It is the most terrible thing Lee Chang has ever seen.

“Are you alright?” he calls, urgently. No answer, as the man continues to fit.

Then, suddenly, eerily, he stops moving.

“We must get medical help for him,” Lee Chang says urgently, glancing up at Mu-yeong. “He is on the brink of death!”

But Mu-yeong is not looking at him. Lee Chang follows his gaze, and although his body is screaming at him to run, he finds he cannot move. The sight before him is so horrific, it is beyond anything in his worst nightmares.

The other two guards, with their throats torn out and blood gushing from numerous wounds all over their body, are also convulsing on the ground. One of them – the one who had been, only just last night, bemoaning his lack of meat and the royals’ frivolity – has had his eye torn out. The eyeball dangles, almost comically, from the empty cavity of his eye socket, except that there is nothing laughable about this situation at all. Lee Chang turns his head to the side and retches.

As he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, he hears Mu-yeong suck in a sharp breath. “Your Highness,” he says, and his voice is small. “Your Highness!” he repeats, this time louder, and with more urgency. Lee Chang lifts his head, and the group of attackers is looking straight at them.

“They see us,” hisses Mu-yeong frantically. “Your Highness, we must run!”

Lee Chang springs to his feet, but something catches his ankle in a vice-like grip, and he almost falls. He turns, and the body of the third guard – who he had thought stone-cold dead, after his fits! – has roused itself. He is leering up at him, teeth bared grotesquely, and its claws digging into the skin of his ankle.

He is no longer human, some primal instinct of his tells him, and so he does not hesitate.

Again, his blade strikes honest and true, and cuts deep into the body’s abdomen – a blow that would fell any normal man. But the body does not falter, and rears upwards, sword still buried in his stomach, intestines spewing out, his jaws gnashing and aiming straight towards Lee Chang’s face.

Lee Chang yanks the blade from its stomach with a motion that jars his shoulder, for how deep it is buried in the other man’s abdomen. The movement hoists the creature up towards him, and Lee Chang feels its fetid breath against his nose for one terrifying moment – makes contact with its sightless eyes for barely a second – before he swings and takes the body’s head off.

He can’t hear the thud of the head as it hits the ground, and belatedly he realises that the ground is shaking.

“Your Highness, we must flee! Now!” Mu-yeong yells, and grabs his shoulder. Lee Chang springs up and grabs his pack from the ground, where it is lying next to him.

And so they fly, the pursuers hot on their heels. Lee Chang has never run so fast in his life. He feels his heart beating a thousand miles an hour, thrumming through his ears, counting out the beat of his steps as they sprint over the dry grass and across the plain.

They are running too fast to stop, however, when they reach the cliff. There is barely a split second as they see the water loom before them, Mu-yeong looks at him, and his mouth forms an ‘o’ – Lee Chang would laugh, at the surrealism of the entire situation, if he weren’t working so hard to keep from breaking down. He says some words his wet nurse would have shook him upside down for.

And then they hit the water. The impact is like hitting a wall, and it drives all the air out of his lungs. He feels himself begin to sink, his heavy silk clothes quickly absorbing the water and lending him the weight of a stone, and the water bites cold frost into his skin.

Desperately, he kicks towards the surface, feeling his head throb with the pain of his lack of air. The moonlight is bright above the water’s surface, so near yet so far, as if the moon itself is taunting him. His limbs are a leaden weight, and he barely feels himself move. He cannot breathe.

Then suddenly he breaks the surface of the water with a gasp, and air – blessed air – rushes into his lungs. The cold air stings his reddened cheeks, and he already feels the ache of bruises beginning to form, from his intimate contact with the hard surface of the water.

“Mu-yeong!” he yells hoarsely, when he does not see the guard’s head. Moments later, the man breaks the surface, gasping and flailing, his sodden hair and clothes clinging miserably to his skin. Lee Chang knows he looks no better.

“They are too afraid to jump!” Mu-yeong calls to him, his voice bright with relief, pointing at the cliff’s edge. Indeed, the attackers are gathered above them, staring sombrely down at the two of them paddling in the water. There is one unlucky man who evidently was unable to slow his run, and is now clinging to the cliff face.

As they watch, he slips and plunges into the water. He does not come back up.

“It is a miracle,” Lee Chang says in disbelief. “They are afraid of the water.”

“Probably afraid of freezing to – well, death, if that’s even an appropriate word for them,” Mu-yeong says grimly. “And so will we, if we stay here much longer. The sun is rising, and I can see lights over there – there must be a village, or a camp of some sort. We must make for it before we freeze to death.”

With a nod of assent on Lee Chang’s part, they paddle dolefully to the opposite shore and haul themselves up. The wind is cruel and relentless, and Lee Chang feels his teeth begin to chatter. They lie prone on the ground, chests heaving in tune, arms spread akimbo, and staring unseeingly up at the beautiful night sky.

“C-c-c-curse this autumn wind,” cries Mu-yeong. “I am only thankful that it is not winter. We w-w-would be dead by now, if t-that were the case.”

Lee Chang laughs. But halfway through, it devolves into a sob, and he somehow finds the energy to sit up.

He barely makes it up before he feels his stomach revolt, and he throws up all over the ground. The remnants of meat in his vomit remind him of the chunks of flesh the creatures had torn off the guards’ bodies, and the memory makes him heave again. This time nothing comes up.

He turns, and Mu-yeong is shaking with quiet sobs, his jaw clenched and his eyes blinking furiously as he tries to hold back tears. It is the first time Lee Chang has ever seen Mu-yeong cry.

“Mu-yeong.” Lee Chang calls his name, and the gentleness of his voice surprises even him. The guard turns to him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, and his fist stuffed in his mouth to block his sobs. Lee Chang tries to find the right things to say.

“They were good, honest men,” he says, at last. “I did not know them very long, but I could tell that they were good men. We will honour their memories and their bravery in the face of unholy evil.”

Mu-yeong chokes out a laugh, and it is an ugly sound. “They were bloody awful at times,” he says, casting his eyes away. “We always quarrelled. They begrudged me my role as your guard, and always teased me for only passing the exam in my forties, when they had done so in their youth.” He pauses to wipe at the sides of his eyes, and when he continues, his voice is quiet.

“But they were good men,” he says, and his voice is full of affection. “You are right, Your Highness. They were honest, and hardworking, and brave. They did not deserve the death they received.”

The sun is rising, and the heat of its rays takes the edge off the cold. Lee Chang tries to ignore the sour stench of his own vomit, and stares off into the horizon. Their attackers are no longer gathered at the cliff’s edge, from what he can make out.

“They were ungodly abominations,” he says lowly, recalling the dark patterns that had been spread across their faces and exposed skin, and the rotting flesh that had been falling off their bodies. “I do not know how it is that they were able to sustain blows that would kill any normal man, nor why they were feeding on human flesh. But they are still on the other side of the river, and I fear for the villages we passed on our way.”

“What will we do, Your Highness?” asks Mu-yeong, and some semblance of normality has been restored to his voice. “Do we still ride – well, walk to Dongnae?”

“Yes,” Lee Chang says decisively. “We must go to Dongnae, and light the signal fires to warn the other cities in the region. We do not know how many of these people are out there, nor what they want. It will be good to prepare everyone for an attack.

“And Mu-yeong?” he says, almost as an afterthought, but as quite an important one. He manages a small smile when the guard turns to face him.

“We will return for your friends’ bodies,” he murmurs softly. “Their bodies will not be left to rot, alone and with only the crows for company. We will return them to Hanyang, for an honourable burial, and for the peace of mind of their family.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong says quietly, and he is about to say something else, when they are interrupted by a loud cacophony of clattering.

“Who are you, and what have you come for?” comes a voice from their right, and when Lee Chang turns, he comes face to face with the barrel of a musket.

It is a rough-looking man, smaller in stature but no less fierce for it. His hair is carelessly tossed into a bun, and sweaty strands of it stick to his tan skin. The bags under his eyes speak of countless sleepless nights, but still the hand that is holding the gun is steady and true. A pile of bamboo poles lies by him, the origin of the clattering sound.

“Put down your weapon!” Mu-yeong cries, and hefts his sword. The man spares him a glance out of the corner of his eyes. “Do you know who you dare lift your weapon against? This is the Crown Prince of the Joseon kingdom!”

The stranger’s brows shoot up, but apart from that, he does not move an inch, and the barrel of the musket is still pointed straight at Lee Chang’s face. Lee Chang feels himself begin to sweat.

“You did not answer the question,” he says quietly. “Why have the Crown Prince and his guard emerged from the banks of the Nakdong River, soaking wet and covered in gore?”

“We were attacked,” Lee Chang finds his voice. “By men who ate human flesh and did not balk at our blades in their back. Three of my other guards were felled by the attackers, and we had to flee into the river, which they dared not enter.”

There is a moment of silence, as the man stares at them, his eyes wide, and Lee Chang thinks he does not believe him. Honestly, were he the opposing party, he does not think he would believe his story either, outlandish as it seems – but every word of it is, unfortunately, the cold, hard truth.

“Then they did survive,” the man says abruptly, and his arm drops back to his side. Mu-yeong’s stance relaxes minutely, his blade still drawn, but the man pays him no mind and turns to the river.

“We must return to the other side,” he says urgently. “You must show me where the monsters descended on you.”

“Monsters?” splutters Mu-yeong. “What the hell – beg pardon, Your Highness – what do you mean by that?”

“Those men were dead,” the stranger says ruthlessly. “They frothed at the mouth and fitted to death, but at night they rise again and crave human flesh. They cannot be killed by normal means – only by fire, deep water, or beheading. And if we do not dispose of their bodies by tonight, they will return to kill once more.” He turns to them again, his eyes ablaze. “You must show me where they found you. They will be hiding from the sun, somewhere nearby, as they fear the daylight. We must burn their bodies as soon as possible.”

“We were on our way to Dongnae – “ starts Mu-yeong mulishly, but then he stops as Lee Chang holds up a hand to stop him. If, indeed, these men will rise again tonight to attack more unsuspecting folk… Lee Chang thinks, again, of the villages they had passed on the way, and the playful cries of children that had arisen from those settlements. He cannot let the innocent people in those villages die, not when he can prevent it.

“We will show you the way. Dongnae can wait.”

“Your Highness – “ Mu-yeong says sharply. “What reason do we have to trust this – this stranger? He could be lying. The story he tells – of the dead rising and killing for human flesh? It is a tale that is nigh on impossible.”

“You saw what we saw last night, Mu-yeong,” Lee Chang says quietly. “I do not believe those men were human. Besides,” he says, with a weak smile, “I did promise you we would return to retrieve your friends’ bodies – although I did not expect that we would do it as soon as we are choosing to now. Dongnae can wait. If we find these bodies and destroy them, it will greatly thin the number of monsters out there.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong accedes. Although it is not without a final glare towards the back of the man, who is standing by the riverside a little ways away, glancing restlessly back at them as they make their decision.

He brings them to a bridge further down the road, where they cross to the other side of the river, and they retrace their steps in silence till they reach the remains of the campsite.

The ashes of the fire Mu-yeong had lit are still smoking, and the bodies – even those of the guards – are nowhere to be found.

“They must have carried their bodies off,” Mu-yeong mutters, in disgust. Lee Chang watches as the man squats down and examines the ground.

“Do you see any tracks?” he calls, as the man picks up a piece of dirt off the ground and sniffs at it. He spares Lee Chang a glance, then stands up and brushes his hands off on his trousers.

“They went northward,” he says shortly. “Into the forest. There must be some abandoned homes or buildings among the trees in which they can hide from the sun.”

Lee Chang nods, and gestures forward. “Lead the way then.”

They walk into the woods. The trees have shed their leaves and are bare and stark against the crisp autumn sunlight. Frost crunches under their feet as they walk, and the air is eerily still, undisturbed by the sounds of any animals. Lee Chang gathers his coat tighter around him, and subconsciously tightens his grip on the handle of his sword.

“There,” the man says, stopping suddenly, and he points at a ruined shack that lies a distance from them. They make their way over to it, and Mu-yeong tentatively opens the door. It creaks as it opens, and releases a cloud of dust that makes all of them cough.

Lee Chang steps in first, squinting into the darkness. He draws his sword, and the blade gleams dully. The floorboards groan under his feet as he walks, craning his neck to see further than one chok in front of his face.

There – there is a glimmer of something in the corner of the room, he thinks, and readies his sword for battle – then there is an almighty crash as the complaining floorboards finally give way, and he sinks downwards with a shout of surprise.

The landing is unexpectedly soft, and there is a sinking feeling in his stomach as he turns his head downwards to gaze at what has broken his fall.

Faces upon faces upon faces, bodies upon bodies upon bodies, curled up in grotesque positions under the boards. Their eyes are shut in a gross parody of sleep, but their chests do not move with breath. They are dead.

Mu-yeong hoists him from the ground, and utters a hoarse cry as he sees what Lee Chang has happened upon. The stranger is unfazed, however, and begins pulling up the floorboards.

“We must get all of them out, and make sure their heads are cut off before we bury them, so they do not rise again,” he orders. Lee Chang has a very brief argument with a voice in his head – one that sounds very much like the King’s voice - about the merits of following the orders of someone of a lesser station than himself, before he sternly tells himself off and squats down to help.

They manage to pull out all twenty-one bodies of their attackers, and Lee Chang is horrified to find out that he had been right – one of them had been a child, no older than ten years of age, with the same mottled pattern on his skin, and mouth painted with gore. He almost throws up again, then, but his stomach is protesting the lack of food, and thankfully he manages to push down the urge.

Mu-yeong finds the bodies of the guards, one headless and two others still intact. He drags the bodies and the head out and lays them sombrely in front of the porch, aside from the other bodies.

“I apologise, my friends,” he says, under his breath, so softly that Lee Chang knows the words are not meant for others to hear. “I would give you now a burial worthy of the most honourable of men, but alas, I cannot do so. I promise, I will retrieve your bodies and bring them back to your honourable families, so they can pay their respects to you as you deserve.”

The man comes up to him and stands by his side, looking at the bodies of the guards. Then, in a stern but kind voice, completely at odds with his manner so far, he says, “We must cut off their heads as well. Any man the monsters bite will turn into one of their kind.”

Mu-yeong looks torn, and splutters. “That is absurd. Whoever heard of such a thing? Your Highness,” he turns to Lee Chang, and while his voice is accusatory, his eyes are soft with anguish. “You do not believe him, do you?”

Lee Chang sighs, and inadvertently locks eyes with the man. His eyes are fierce, and hooded, but Lee Chang thinks they hold no lies – at least, with regards to his matter. He shakes his head in answer to Mu-yeong.

“We saw it for ourselves last night, Mu-yeong,” he says patiently. “One of them returned to life and attacked me, and the only way of ensuring he did not rise again, was by taking off his head. Think of this,” and he manages what he hopes is a comforting smile, “it would be the kindest thing to do, to stop them casting a blemish on their honourable record by killing more innocent people. They would have wanted you to do it.”

In answer, Mu-yeong bows his head, and nods. And later, when they are done beheading the rest of the monsters, he takes the heads off the guards himself.

“We must dig a pit to bury the bodies in,” the man says, coming out of the shack with tools in hand. He passes one shovel to Mu-yeong, then he looks at Lee Chang out of the corner of his eye, a question written clearly in his face. Mu-yeong’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to interject; but Lee Chang silences him with a look, and takes the shovel from the man.

About an hour passes as they dig into the frozen ground to create a large shallow pit – shallow because they can go no deeper with the rudimentary tools they have, and the hardness of the soil. It is backbreaking work, and even in the cold biting air, Lee Chang feels sweat beading on his brow. The numbness in his fingers and the weariness in his bones does not help.

When they are finished, they haul most of the bodies over to the pit and try, as carefully as possible, to arrange them inside. They were once human, after all, and every human, no matter how small in stature or station, deserved an honourable burial.

When it comes to the three guards, however, the stranger squats down by the bodies and rifles through their clothing. In a swift movement, Lee Chang strides over and has his blade at the man’s throat.

The man pauses in his movements, and looks up at Lee Chang. A swallow bobs his throat, but his eyes hold no fear, and the twist of his mouth belies his impatience.

“How dare you attempt to desecrate these men by looting from them,” Lee Chang whispers. “Is it not enough that their bodies have been so profanely defiled? Do you intend to rob them as well?”

“Your Highness,” the man replies, very calmly – too calmly, for all that he had a blade at his throat – “while you have been sitting in your golden palace, eating the food of the gods, we have been starving.” Very slowly, his hand comes up and grips the pommel of the sword, right next to Lee Chang’s hand. His eyes are dark, and full of resolve.

“The sick at Jiyulheon need food, or they will die by morning,” he says quietly. “Our stocks had already been depleted before the monsters appeared, and now, more than ever, we need food. Will you let the sick and injured at Jiyulheon starve to death, for your honour and morality? This is reality, Your Highness – the reality of us peasants’ lives. This is not the first time I have stolen from a dead body to live, and it will not be the last.”

Mu-yeong is oddly silent, Lee Chang thinks, dazedly. He is able to hold the man’s gaze for a moment – just a moment more - then he can bear it no longer, and has to avert his eyes.

The man coolly levers the sword away from his throat, and returns to searching quickly through the guards’ clothes. He finds a few packets of dried meat and other trail foods, and these he packs them away in his bag.

When he is done, he makes to drag the bodies into the pit, and a small blue square of fabric falls from one of the guards’ pockets. As Mu-yeong and the stranger lug the bodies away, Lee Chang bends over and retrieves the item.

The guard’s daughter has written on it, in shaky writing; Papa, it reads, pleas keep your self safe and pleas bring back some mandu for mommy. We love you! There is a doodle of a girl sitting on what appears to be some vaguely-four-legged animal, brandishing a sword, with her father seated behind her. Lee Chang finds he suddenly has to steady himself against the walls of the shack, as a lump finds its way to his throat.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong calls, and Lee Chang looks up with a start to realise that the other two have already hurried some way up the slight incline that had led to the shed, and are now looking back at him – Mu-yeong with puzzlement, the stranger with badly-concealed impatience.

“The sun is setting,” says the man. “I must return to Jiyulheon – they will need help with defence against whatever monsters are left from this pack.”

“We will come with you,” calls Lee Chang, on some impulse, as the man turns to leave. Lee Chang’s words makes him spin round, his faint brows riding high in surprise.

“Why?” he says, and the twist of his mouth reads of his suspicion. “I thought you were on your way to Dongnae?”

“Staying in Jiyulheon cannot be your permanent solution against an attack,” Lee Chang argues, walking quickly up to them; and from the way the man’s eyes darken, Lee Chang knows he has hit his mark. He steps closer to the man, and they lock gazes.

“We can help with your defence through the night, and when morning comes, we will find a way to bring the people of Jiyulheon to safety. I swear this upon my crown,” he says, solemnly, for the look in those burning eyes holds him to nothing but the truth.

“Can a prince run as fast as is needed?” says the man at last, tossing his head scornfully. A sudden flock of crows ascends above their heads, bringing with them a cacophony of cawing, and their shadow runs long. The sun is setting, and night is drawing near.

Lee Chang feels his resolve set. He tucks the talisman into his pocket, and gives the man a firm nod.

#changshin #kingdom #kingdom netflix #lee chang #yeong shin #upm works #upm #kingdom fanfiction #changshin fanfiction #cho hak ju

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charanteleclerc · 5 years ago

Note

"I wish you would write a fic where..." Lando falls completely in love with Carlos (bc of those mclaren videos and such) and one night just can't hold it in anymore (Also that lando/george fic was amazing😍)

you lit up the sky, you etched yourself onto my heart

He couldn’t really believe that the season was coming to an end. He wanted to grasp it with both of his hands, hold onto it until the very last moment. This was what he’d been dreaming of his entire life, and if he wanted to be a little selfish and childish about it, he would be. His first full season, with the promise of at least a second. It was everything he’d wanted and more, he just didn’t want it to end.

“Cabrón? You okay?” Carlos appeared at his shoulder, looking concerned. “You looked like you were thinking.”

“Fuck off, I can think.” Lando laughed, nudging Carlos with his shoulder. Carlos snickered, holding up his hands.

“Okay, okay.” Carlos laughed. “I am sorry, that was bad. You can think, sometimes.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but the grin didn’t fade from his face. “Cheers mate. I feel so much better.”

“It is okay.” Carlos shrugged. “So what were you thinking of?”

“Stupid stuff. Just don’t want this all to finish, you know?” Lando could feel his ears starting to burn. He was admitting to his team-mate that he was scared of what came next, that he was being sentimental. “Did you feel this way, after your first season?”

“Of course. We work so hard to get here, it is natural we want to make the most of it. But you should not worry, you will have lots of seasons to enjoy. The break is as important as the season.”

“Look at you, all wise.” Lando teased. “Who are you and what have you done with Carlos?”

“You shall never know.” Carlos said seriously, before winking, walking away. “See you later, cabrón.”

Lando watched him go, his heart turning over in his chest.. It had taken him a while to realise how he felt about his team-mate, and he would be lying if it was part of the reason that he didn’t want the season to end. He didn’t know how much he’d see Carlos over the winter break, realistically he might not see him at all. He didn’t want to go from seeing Carlos almost every weekend to nothing. He’d live obviously, no-one ever died from pining, but just watching him on instagram or snapchat, it just wasn’t enough for him. He wanted as much as he could grasp, without letting Carlos in on his secret. The late night gaming sessions, or just spending any time with him away from the track, that would all disappear in front of his eyes, just like smoke.

He wanted something real.

~*~

The fireworks were erupting over the track, lighting up the night sky, sharply and searing into his mind. Brilliant reds and blues, crisp gold and white etching their way across the stars. He watched them for just a few seconds, sitting in his car and making no attempt to move. The season was over, and all he could focus on was his heartbeat, thudding in time to the fireworks above his head. He could vaguely hear the cheers from the stands, the smoke in the corner of his eye from whoever was spinning donuts. Lewis, no doubt. He exhaled, finally pulling himself out of his car, ready to face his team. He could feel the tears lurking, the pang of disappointment from knowing that he wouldn’t be stepping in this car again. His car. He patted it, giving it a small rub, and let out a shaky exhale, before taking off his helmet. He could be strong, he had to be.

“Lando!” Carlos was in front of him, beaming like the world had finally realised his worth. “Sixth place!”

“In the championship?” Lando asked, dumbstruck. “No way!”

“Yes way!” Carlos looked like he’d been set alight, burning bright. “I cannot believe it. I really cannot.”

“You deserve it.” Lando said honestly, dragging him in for a tight hug. Close your eyes, commit this to memory. “You deserve it so much.”

“Our time will come.” Carlos sounded choked, and Lando could feel hands tightening on his overalls, just for a split-second, before Carlos was pulling back. “We’ll be on top of the world, do not worry.”

Lando watched as Carlos was pulled into a swarm of team-members, everyone cheering around him. “I think you’re already there.” He said softly to himself, watching Carlos lap up the praise. “You won’t wait.”

~*~

His head was fuzzy, and he could almost feel the world moving slowly around him. He should’ve been more careful, he knew how severe the laws could be if caught drunk, but there was a voice inside him telling him to keep drinking. He was one of the fastest men in the world, he was untouchable. No-one would dare pick a fight with a team, there was too much face, too much prestige at stake.

He saw Carlos over on a balcony, laughing at another man’s joke. He slumped further down into his seat, barely taking any notice of the rest of the room. Carlos was the only one in focus, the only one worth his attention. He wanted to be standing out there, Carlos laughing at him, a hand reaching up to brush away hair from his face, leaning in…

Fuck, he’d definitely drunk too much.

Carlos turned to look in the room, raising a hand when he saw him staring. Lando tried to smile, pushing himself off his seat, walking through the room to the exit. He didn’t see Carlos’s face fall, he didn’t see Carlos making his excuses, darting his way through the sea of people to catch up with him.

Lando didn’t hear Carlos behind him, not until he was right there, a hand on his back and startling him, making him stumble. He blinked, and Carlos had apparently caught him as he fell, and if there was anything remotely funny about the situation he’d been in hysterics. He was a literal damsel in distress, he was even swooning.

Carlos righted him, hands on his shoulders, and he looked upset. Why did he look upset? Carlos had been laughing as he left the party, he was sure of that. “No… why are you upset?”

Carlos frowned. “I’m not. I think you are though, Lando. You look sad.”

Lando shrugged. “Maybe. You should go back. You were having fun, with that guy. He looks nice, you should go have fun with him.”

“What man?” Carlos asked, confused. Lando groaned.

“The pretty man on the balcony. I get it, I really do. You’d have very pretty babies.”

Carlos gaped, and Lando screwed his eyes shut, covering his face with his hands. He was such an idiot. Stupid drunk mouth, stupid him, why did he have to say that, such a fucking idiot…

“I am going to take you back to your room.” Carlos said finally, spinning Lando on the spot. “I think you do not know what you’re saying.”

There was no need for a response, none needed to be said. He’d screwed up, Carlos must know how he felt now. This friendship was as good as dead, turning into ash the minute he’d opened his mouth.

Carlos left him at his door, and left without a word. Lando watched him disappear down the corridor, and he was left alone again. He just wasn’t sure if it was forever this time.

~*~

He woke to an insistent knocking at his door, making him wince with every thump. “I’m coming!” He groaned, pushing himself upright, walking slowly across the floor. Memories of last night were already flooding back, hazy and almost not quite real, as if he was watching himself on a cinema screen, a private showing for one.

He kept the lights off, squinting as he pulled the door open. All he could see was a silhouette against the bright lights. “Morning?”

“Close cabrón, but it is the afternoon.” Carlos smirked, pushing past into the room. “You look awful.”

“Cheers.” Lando sighed, looking around for a shirt he could throw on. “You always say such nice things.”

“No problem.” Carlos shrugged. “Lando, about last night -”

“I’m sorry.” Lando cut him off, tugging a shirt on. He took a shaky breath, looking up at Carlos. “I had way too much to drink, and I was feeling lonely…”

“Were you jealous?” Carlos asked the question quietly, but to Lando he might have well screamed it. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. What could he even say? He could lie and say no, he’d been putting on this act for long enough, so why did that make him want to cry?

“Lando, please.” Carlos pleaded, and it was enough. Lando nodded, biting down on his lip to stop the tears, dragging in a shaky breath.

“Yes. Yes, I was jealous. I wanted to be that guy, I wanted to make you laugh.”

“You always make me laugh.”

“No, I wanted to be the only one to make you laugh. I want to be the one you turn to, I want to be one that you talk to first.” Lando wrapped his arms around himself, looking anywhere but Carlos. “I’m sorry, I get that you’re gonna want to stay away from me, just… don’t make this any harder.”

“Lando…”

“Carlos.” Lando grit out. “Please.”

“Lando.” Carlos said, sounding closer. Lando opened his eyes, and Carlos was standing right in front of him, looking so sincere it made him ache. “I think you do not see yourself clearly.”

“What?”

“Lando, you are the first person I speak to in the morning, you are the person I think of last at night. You are all those things to me already, I think you never realised it.” Carlos raised a hand, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Lando’s face. “I have been waiting for you.”

Carlos leant in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, lingering just a second. “Do you still want me to leave, cabrón?”

Lando shook his head. “No.” He replied hoarsely. “No, please don’t.”

“Can I kiss you?” Carlos asked, waiting for Lando to nod before leaning in again, kissing him softly, a hand bracing around the back of his neck. Lando wanted to dissolve into this, but Carlos was here. This was finally something he could hold onto, that something real he’d so desperately wanted. Carlos pulled back, smiling. “You okay, cabrón?”

Lando nodded, a slow, warm smile crawling across his face. “Yes. Yes, I think I am.”

~*~

It wasn’t until much later, when they’re both wrapped up warm in Jerez, breath showing in the icy air, that Carlos ever asks him why he had liked him in the first place. The whirrs of the engines fill the air, the scream of a car racing it’s way down the pit straight, and it helps him think.

“It was those videos. Those McLaren ones, especially that food one. It was almost like you were teasing me.”

“I was teasing you.”

“Knew it.” Lando grinned, turning to look up at Carlos. “I think I’d known before that, but I can’t remember accepting it before then.”

“And it still took you the rest of the season to say something.” Carlos teased gently, resting his hand close to Lando’s, gloved fingers touching. “But it does not matter, we got there.”

Lando smiled, a warm feeling settling in his chest despite the cold. Carlos still looked like he carried the sun, a firework display just starting. But he’d been wrong, that last race. Carlos wasn’t leaving him, they’d make it together. That thought kept him anchored, and as he turned to look back at the track, a scarlet car flashing past them, he realised he had a little bit of that sunshine too.

So so sorry it's taken so long! Did not mean to postpone these all by a few months, but hopefully with this one done I should be getting back into the swing of it! It's taken about 6 attempts to get this one down in words, but it is finally done.

As usual, crossposted to my AO3 (Charante_Leclerc), and prompts are always open! (I promise I do get round to them eventually!) Enjoy ❤️

#carlos sainz jr #lando norris #f1 fanfic #slight depression #but happy ending #Anonymous

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imnotcameraready · 5 years ago

Text

chivalry is dead (18)

A/N: im unsure of what to say for this one, in all honesty! im just so excited for the ball im Vibrating about it — and writing the damsel is. always an experience. :^)

WARNINGS: Remus mention, suggested murder, disassociation (?), self-deprication, self-hatred, suicidal thoughts (small mentions!), being held captive/kidnapping, wound mention — i think that's all, but let me know if there're any others!!!

Words: 3290

AO3 link!

MASTERPOST! <– look here!! for the longterm warnings!! including sympathetic Deceit and cursing/swearing!

*taglist was moved down purely bc i aesthetically dont like it up here lmao (also i wish it WORK ED— *

enjoy !!! <3 <3 <3

If this Roman was anything, he was too quiet.

“Damsel, I wanna get us all out,” Virgil hissed, arm slung around the bars to his and the Child’s cell as he tried again to coax a reaction out of the terrified figment, “But I need your help with that.”

The Child was pacing quietly, his feet shuffling around the background noise to Virgil’s voice. The Damsel hadn’t spoken again since he introduced himself and, judging by how Virgil could see his single wide, petrified eye watching him, he wasn’t planning on speaking any more. His hand was grasping his mouth so tight that Virgil could almost believe it was Deceit’s doing, if he wasn’t certain Deceit weren’t here.

Plus, it’d been, like, hours. He was getting tired, his side stung, and he really just wanted to go home. His gut was telling him that the others were going to get him out, but that voice was getting more quiet as time passed.

Virgil was mostly anxious about what the hell was taking so long! They knew where the castle was. Maybe they got caught by some guards?

The Thief was in bad shape last he saw. He might even be dead.

A part of Roman coulda been dead, and Virgil wouldn’t even know, because he was locked in a cell far apart from the others and he had no way to get out and no way to contact them and see if they were okay. And he was locked in here with bits and pieces of Roman that seemed discarded. His own anxieties and insecurities.

He knew Roman wasn’t confident about some things, but damn.

….Maybe he should take a nap or something. He was exhausted.

Fat chance he’d be able to rest in this kinda atmosphere. Virgil really needed a back massage and a hot bath after this quest. It was grinding on the last of his brain cells like…..like….like a grindstone?

Wow, even his internal monologue couldn’t come up with anything. He was useless.

“Hey, hey,” two small hands rested on his head, gently hugging his head, “No, you aren’t. You’re Virgil and you’re great.”

He must have said that aloud, then. Virgil sighed, closing his eyes and reaching around to pat the Child’s leg. “I’m sorry,” he tried to wave it off, downplay what he’d been thinking, but the Child wasn’t letting go.

So Virgil did. He went back to having an arm slung out the slits between the bars, watching the Damsel as he shifted his sitting position, hugging his knees. He began to hum quietly, to the tune of a song that Virgil could recognize was Disney but didn’t quite know the name of. And then he started singing.

“Come on, you poor unfortunate soul~” the Damsel’s voice was barely above a whisper, soft and missable as it had been earlier, “Go ahead, make your choice. I’m a very busy Side and I haven’t got all day~”

A sudden thought struck him, and he sat upright. The Damsel had reacted to the Child wanting water. Maybe…. “Child, hey,” Virgil said, “Have you ever met the Damsel?”

“Yeppers!” the Child said, a smile in his voice, “We hung out at the beginning of all this!”

“So you’re friends?” Virgil asked.

“It won’t cost much~”

The Child shrugged. “I dunno. I hope we are! We’re friends, right, Damsel?”

He sunk down behind Virgil, wrapping around his back like a koala and resting his face in such a way that he could watch the Damsel as well. No response, though.

That WAS still his name, right?

“Just your voice!”

“You wanna go by Damsel, right?” the Child asked, brow furrowed.

His singing stopped.

“Yes,” the Damsel said, voice soft and croaky, “Please.”

“Why’d you pick that name?” the Child asked.

They could see him make a small gesture, as though to say ‘isn’t it obvious?’, but the Child shook his head. The Damsel wasn’t always like this.

He giggled to himself quietly. “It’s a fitting name. I’m no prince, no thief, artist, playwright, I’m not anything. Just in distress. Useless,” he rested his head against the side wall, “Damsel.”

Virgil frowned. “Roman’s not useless. He’s….” c’mon, think, but nothing TOO sappy, “We need him.”

Yeah, that was good.

They could vaguely see the Damsel shake his head. “Fine, helpless. I’m locked in a cage. I’ve BEEN locked in a cage for days.”

He looked up again, at the sky.

“Thanks, Virgil,” his eye flicked over, “But….too bad your big-big admission is dwarfed by your gargantuan failures.”

Virgil’s nose scrunched up, recoiling.

A pit of dread opened in his stomach as he realized Roman was still holding onto that, Virgil had said it a long while ago. Sure, a part of him was exasperated, shouted STILL? But it made sense, didn’t it, for the ego to internalize those sorts of critiques.

He felt the Child let go of him, and Virgil leaned forward against the bars.

“Roman, I didn’t—”

“Sorry,” the Damsel cut him off, voice growing more clear, more stern, “I cannot contr-contribute an ounce of constructive input.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You’re the one who says to not encourage me,” the Damsel leaned forward, growling, “All of you think it. Roman, the dramatic one. The insecure one. The stupid one. We WON’T be stupid after this!”

Virgil leaned back. This was illuminating. And a situation he was not equip to handle in the slightest.

He looked to the side briefly, where the Child sat. His legs were crossed and he was watching the other cell with a focused...worry. He was worried about the Damsel.

Virgil turned back at the sound of scraping. The Damsel had stood up. He shuffled to his bed and fell face first onto it, groaning quietly. Painfully. He was pitiful, sure, and he was part of Roman. Virgil couldn’t just ignore that.

He had to work with him, not against him. He didn’t know how or why the Damsel was still holding onto Virgil’s past words, but he did know that whatever was feeding the insecurities (and he shuddered to think it was himself or any of the others, even Remus) was wrong. And that, like it or not, the Damsel was a part of Roman. A sad part but a part nonetheless. He just had to convince him that they l-word-ed Roman.

He shifted again, sitting cross legged now. “You’re not stupid,” he said, “You can be dumb, but so can all of us. And you’re valued.”

The Damsel scoffed and rolled onto his side, into the fetal position.

“Roman, look at me,” the Damsel full on flinched, curling tighter.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not good enough to be.”

Virgil bit his lip. These identity crises sure were confusing. “But you’re Roman, too. You’re important enough to be a whole part.”

“I know I am, but-but that’s what’s wrong,” the Damsel looked aside. “I shouldn’t be...here. Alive.”

The Child scooted up to sit beside Virgil. “No! I was telling you that earlier!” he stage whispered at the Damsel, full of naive optimism, “You’re important! You’re an important part of Roman!”

“Stop,” the Damsel croaked.

They were finally breaking through, Virgil thought.

Footsteps in the distance shattered that hopeful thought. Virgil waved his hand, indicating for silence, and the two Romans immediately fell quiet. The Damsel sat upright on his bed, then hugged his pillow tight to his chest.

Oh.

The footsteps got louder, heels clacking on the stone floor. The Child tugged on Virgil’s cloak and mouthed ‘Dragon.’

They could hear him talking to no one in particular. Probably the guards, but the guards weren’t sentient, so probably himself. That was pretty Roman of him, right?

He wasn’t Roman, though. The Child knew. He smiled at the Damsel, who ignored him, and looked out between the bars again, head just barely fitting. Yep, there was the Dragon, walking towards them.

“Helloooooooo!” the Dragon’s voice echoed along the hall, “Are my favorite three stooges awake?”

The Damsel rolled his single visible eye so vehemently that Virgil almost laughed. Good to see that the Dragon’s theatrics were looked down upon by all of them.

He sauntered into view, standing between the two cells with his hands behind his back. The Dragon huffed out his nose, smoke expelling from the movement as he winked at Virgil, then barred his teeth at the Child. Neither flinched.

He raised an eyebrow and turned to the Damsel, who flinched upon eye contact. Gotcha. The Dragon stepped closer to the bars, leaning against them as he focused on the Damsel.

“Awh, why the long face, Captain Incapacitated,” the Dragon dragged his fingers along the crossbar, grinning wider when the Damsel flinched.

“Leave him alone,” Virgil hissed.

The Dragon turned back to him, still leaning on the other wall’s bars, and stuck his tongue out at Virgil. It had a pointed tip, much more like a dragon’s than a human’s. He withdrew, looking at Virgil and the Child sitting on the ground, and leaned his head against a bar. His emo nightmare was certainly a dream.

“I wish I could let you out for the ball tonight,” the Dragon sighed, a small smile on his face, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to dance?”

Virgil scowled. Dancing with the Dragon was the last thing he wanted to do, thanks. But another word caught his attention. “Ball?”

“Oh, yes!” the Dragon clapped happily as he spoke, “Why else would we need the Child here?”

The Child frowned and mouthed the word ‘we’ to himself as the Damsel met Virgil’s eyes for a second. ‘We.’

“He’s bait,” the Damsel mumbled, looking down at the Dragon’s cape.

“Genius, isn’t it! I mean, look at that worthless, pudgy, snot-nosed face! Any of the others would die protecting him,” the Dragon laughed.

The Damsel turned away.

“We,” the Child squeaked out.

“We indeed,” the Dragon looped his arm through the bars and hugged the Damsel around the neck, ignoring how he flinched and shook, “The Damned-sel here has been so lovely, helping me plan everything.”

No. No way. Virgil and the Child watched the Damsel, who ducked his head and focused intently on the Dragon’s cape, swaying as he spoke. He was explaining his elaborate evil plan.

But, honestly, the Child was furious. He’d trusted the Damsel. Maybe he was right. Maybe he WAS just the Damsel now. He was a no-good sad distressed Damsel who should stay in this little cage and rot and then turn into fertilizer for some flowers!

“Oh, it’s going to be fantastic! Every inhabitant of the Imagination was invited! It’s our annual Creativity ball, you know the one,” the Dragon waved his hand dismissively at the Child, who frowned, “The other Sides were all invited too! Oh, they’re going to look so dashing — the Playwright and the Artist will probably end up dressing them, and they’re going to look magnificent, delectable!”

He clapped in happiness. “And then I’ll get to dance with them! And kiss them! And then, since the others will be here, too, I’ll get them all in once place….to slaughter!”

The Dragon laughed, a high pitched cackle with his hands over his chest.

Everyone else just watched.

Virgil was actually growing angry. The Damsel was working with this clown? And he thought the other Sides would like HIM? Maybe he was wrong, Roman was an idiot.

“....You’re such a stereotype, Maleficent,” the Damsel said, stepping away from the bars again, only for the Dragon to grab his arm.

He wagged his finger at the Damsel and pulled him a little closer, gesturing to the other cell. His mouth was half open when the Child cut him off.

“How’re you going to get everyone?” he asked, loud.

“I, uh, what?” the Dragon turned to the Child, blinking in confusion, “I don’t know, I haven’t thought that far.”

He looked at the Damsel, who seemed equally as confused, but who managed to regain his composure faster.

The Damsel turned away from all of them, head bobbing back and forth slightly as he considered.

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “They are going to come. They will probably try to search for us.”

Was….was he scheming? Just right in front of them. Virgil could feel his anger festering, subsiding into resentment. Of course. The Dragon couldn’t have concocted thorough plans on his own. Of course.

To be honest, though, he’d thought his partner was Remus. Not….

“They won’t know their way around the castle, but it’s not hard to assume they’ve gotta go down. They’ll find us,” the Damsel glanced at Virgil and the Child, who were both watching him with equally betrayed glares, “You-You could...I dunno. Something. Then.”

The Dragon grinned. “Wonderful! I’ll start setting something up in the dungeons — we can talk more about the specifics when you’re getting your dress fitted.”

They all now turned to the Dragon with confusion. The Damsel spluttered a little, pointing to himself with his shaky right hand, and asked “MY dress?”

“Of COURSE your dress, you’re coming to the ball tonight!” the Dragon kissed his cheek, ignoring how the Damsel jerked away, “We can’t have a ball without a prince, and you’re close enough!”

The Damsel was paling so much, one would have thought his wounds had reopened. He looked at Virgil and the Child with a confused frown, then back at the Dragon. “Why? That’s...That wasn’t in the plan.”

“Oh, I know, but I thought the plan could use a little editing. Remus suggested—”

Ah, there it was. Speak of the devil.

The Damsel cast the Dragon a look of despair and disappointment. At least the dislike of Remus ran pretty thoroughly through him.

“You’re still listening Remus?” the Damsel’s voice grew, “We’re still taking pointers from the Duke of Trashville? From Oscar the gross? You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, hey, you did agree that THIS,” the Dragon pointed to himself, then to the Damsel, then to the Child, before continuing, “Was a decent idea. Besides, I prefer his creations. He’s so much better at it than us.”

Record scratch? Virgil shot the Dragon a glare infused with as much confusion as it could be, because what the heck? “Uh, no, of course he’s not? What’re you even thinking?”

“Well,” Virgil whipped around to the Damsel, who had deflated faster than a mutilated balloon, “He-he’s still….he’s good at making ideas.”

“So are YOU!” Virgil wrung his hands, then grabbed the bars to his cell, gripping them tight enough to whiten his own knuckles.

When they’d first entered the Imagination, Virgil forgot that it was, to some extent, also inhabited by the Duke. Where even was that wild card?

“Where is he?” he asked, “You’ve gotta have him close if he’s got input on this.”

The Dragon waved his hand flippantly, then inspected his nails. His hands were gloved, sure, but if Deceit could do it then so could he. “Oh, he’s just upstairs! I don’t let him out much, having his energy just roaming around would be too much of a wild card for our little game.”

The Damsel raised a hand, eye flicking back to the Dragon every so often. “Locked up. Chained, right? Or at least trying to?”

Trying to? Virgil and the Child shared a confused look before turning back to the other pair. “Trying to?” the Child asked.

“Well,” the Dragon shrugged, “He keeps eating the chains.”

Virgil was confused, but the Child just nodded with a soft “ah,” as though that were to be expected. Which, granted, now that Virgil thought about the Duke, a train of thought he actively avoided boarding, the more he realized that yeah that’s some shit Remus would pull.

“I just visit him every so often, and that keeps him put,” the Dragon shrugged, then clapped, “He does like an audience, as do we! And now we need an audience with you, Kingdom Heart-ache. The show’s about to start!”

The Damsel raised a hand, terror streaking across his face in a moment.

It was hard to not feel bad for the guy. Sure, he might be working with the Dragon, just to an extent, but it seemed out of necessity. Out of some kinda backwards self-validation of deep insecurities.

Virgil was super not equip to deal with that, but he also knew he couldn’t just leave the Damsel alone.

“I’m not going,” the Damsel said, hands balling at his sides, “I….”

His eyes widened. Slowly, he became more….transparent? Virgil squinted. The Dragon too glowed a little, the both of them turning see-through and glowing red and gold.

He turned to the Child and saw him frozen as well, small hands holding the bars to their cell, body glowing.

What the hell was this? Why did all the Romans keep freezing up like this, was something happening in the Imagination? His throat clenched in fear.

Oh my God, was Remus hurting them? Virgil swore quietly. Was THOMAS hurting them? Was he trying to summon Roman too forcefully? What was going on?

They didn’t look in pain, but Virgil didn’t know what happened when a Side disappeared, maybe THAT’S what happened! And he didn’t know what happened when Roman split up like this — maybe THAT happened?

They all solidified again, and the Damsel shot back into his cell, hoarsely screaming incoherently loud enough for Virgil to jump.

The Dragon laughed, a light glowing in his eyes, and the Child sank against the ground, giggling into his hands, happy as a clam.

The Damsel curled up in the corner and hugged himself, body trembling.

Quite the reactions. Virgil stepped closer to the bars again, hands holding the cross bar. “What just happened?” he asked.

The Dragon turned to him, glowing embers in his eyes alight with joy.

He didn’t answer. Rather, he turned to the Damsel’s cell and snapped off the lock, striding in with one large step. He bent down and grabbed the Damsel’s wrist, then arm, then threw him over his shoulder like a sack. The Damsel stiffened, trembling still, and Virgil had no idea what had excited the Child and the Dragon but left the Damsel a petrified mess. He didn’t even argue as the Dragon trotted out of his cell still holding him. He didn’t look up when Virgil called his name.

The two left down the hall, the Dragon whistling a tune as his cape swept along his back.

What the hell. Virgil sank down to his knees, watching the empty end of the hall. “What was that?” he asked, turning slowly to the Child.

Who was still beaming. He sat next to Virgil and leaned closer, hugging him tight. “Patton kissed, uh, um, Bard!” he said, “Patton said he loves us!”

Oh. Virgil hugged the Child. Patton...was in love with Roman. Okay. So that was why he was a little out of it while they were in here, that’s fine. He didn’t even feel the theoretical pain that should be coming from the wound in his side. He was a little….numb.

Patton and Roman. That was fine!

It was fine.

Virgil ignored the yearning that yanked at his heart, didn’t dwell on the tears that pricked the edges of his eyes. That was fine.

“We’re gonna be Roman again,” the Child said against Virgil’s arm, “I know it.”

For the first time in this entire escapade, Virgil found that a part of him didn’t want that. A small, miniscule part, wanted one of the different figments of Roman to trapeze into the cell and sweep him off his feet. Wanted to be able to love Roman.

He wished he weren’t so afraid of it.

TAGS!

chivalry au: @starlightvirgil @forrestwyrm @daflangstlairde @marshmallow-the-panda @askthesnake (i think you asked me to tag @devil-towne too?? im gonna fight tumblr’s tagging system) @k9cat @patromlogil @theobsessor1 @ninja-wizard101 @fandomsofrandom

general: @jemthebookworm @okay-finne

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aj-artjunkyard · 5 years ago

Text

Trials Of Apollo Oneshot Series CHAPTER THREE

It had been a hectic few weeks, so naturally, I figured I’d earned some alone time. I lay facing the twinkling stars on the roof of our borrowed (see: stolen) Ford Transit van, in the middle of nowhere, plucking at the strings of my combat ukulele. I closed my eyes and played a tune I had written for my mother many millennia ago…

572 BC

“Phoebus Apollon!” My mother laughed as she slapped my arm playfully. “You cannot insult the Queen of the gods like that!”

“Ah, but you know she deserves it.” I said, bumping my shoulder into hers. We sat on the highest cliff on Delos, watching the sunset. The golden light made mother’s bronze skin glow, and her silky, caramel hair whipped around her face, sometimes obscuring her kind eyes. I gazed at her in awe, having no doubt why my father had fallen in love with her. Or why queen cow-face was so jealous. I myself appeared as a twenty-one year old, with my usual shoulder length blonde hair and golden toga. My head sat just a few inches above my mother’s.

“How is your new job?” Leto stirred my out of my reverie.

“Hmm?”

She smiled again, showing her dazzling white teeth. “The sun chariot, yiós.”

“Oh. It’s good. The sun horses moulded their personalities to suit mine after the first day. Most of the palace did actually. I named the horses too. And I don’t use the whip like Helios did. I think they’re grateful for that. The whip, I mean, or lack thereof. Though I do hope they like the names I gave them. They’re all sun related; Blaze, Flame, Dawn and Fire, though I may change that last one as it seems quite unoriginal-” I glanced over at my mother, only to see her smile had melted. She looked out at the sea, her head slightly bowed. Tears threatened to fall from her soft blue eyes.

Realising my mistake, I quickly took her hands in my own. “I’m sorry. I should have been more sensitive. I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut sometimes, huh?” I tried for a smile, and manage to coax a sad one from my mother.

Leto could have rivalled even Hestia’s serenity and kindness. Of course she had taken the disappearance of her two cousins, Helios and Selene, to heart. They had both been such good souls, neither deserving of extinction. But such is the life of an immortal. Someday we would all fade from human memory. I fear that day.

Leto wiped a tear from her cheek. “I am glad you are not using the whip, child. I expect nothing less from such a kind-hearted young man.” She knew of my hatred of slavery. She knew everything about me, more than any mortal lover could ever comprehend. I did not have to pretend to be unrelentingly optimistic when I was around her.

“And what of the names?” I asked. Leto giggled, her dimples deepening.

“Very catchy.” she said, resting her head on my shoulder. “What about your other domains? Have you written any new songs lately?” In response, I willed my lyre to materialise in my hands. Leto cuddled closer to me as I strummed my latest tune, and closed her eyes when I sang softly along to the calming melody.

Leaning my head down on my mother’s, we watched the last traces of the sun melt beyond the horizon. It was a glorious sunset, if I do say so myself. Of course, it was all for the best mother in the world.

Present

As the final note dissipated, a jarring clang rang out from my right. Startled, I sat bolt upright and huffed at the source of the noise.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep, Meg?”

“You’re not sleeping either, dummy.” My demigod master clumsily climbed the rest of the way onto the roof of the van, and plonked herself down beside me. We sat in silence for a while. That was alright with me. I figured this was as close to ‘alone time’ as I would ever get as a mortal. “The song you played,” Meg said suddenly, “who was it for?” I said nothing. I looked up at the stars again. They hadn’t changed. Maybe a few new ones, but mostly, they were the same. I tried to say something, just to make meg’s painful question go away. I opened my mouth and felt a sob swell up in my throat. I closed it again. After a while, Meg’s stare became too much.

“My mother,” I conceded. Meg nodded, as if this answer was worth an hour’s explanation. A few more minutes silence followed.

“Were you close?” I thought it strange that my master of few words and more kicks would be asking two questions in a row. Was she trying to comfort me in her own Meggy way, perhaps? I studied her expression. As always, she was hard to read. The tilt in her eyebrows gave a concerned look, though the rest of her face was unchanged from her usual closed-off/blank character. Part of me wanted her to back off. My past was my business. But I reminded myself that she had only had a proper parental figure for a few years. Then he was gone. I was lucky. One of my parents had always loved me and stuck by me, and I took her for granted. I feared I may never see her again. It was my duty to spread the warmth she had given me to a young girl who had never had the comfort of a parent for long.

“Yes. Though I doubt I was as attentive a son as she was a mother. I was always ‘too busy’. But when I did see her, she was always forgiving of my stupid excuses.” I gestured vaguely at the dark sky in front of us. “We did things like this. Sit up in the highest, quietest place we could find, and watch the sun set. Sometimes, she would ask me to sing for her. I’d teach her my best songs, and we’d sing them together. I wrote a lot of songs that were only for my mother and I on those peaceful evenings. We’d dance too. Her waltz is only rivalled by my friend Terpsichore, the muse of dance. Even she has complemented my mother’s gracefulness.” I sighed. Meg stared at a star, squinting her eyes in and out of focus.

“We did that too,” she said.

“What,” I said. “Dance?”

“No, dummy.” Meg punched me in the arm. I bit back a retort, knowing she may be about to share something sensitive. Unless she decided I was too stupid to understand and said nothing more. I waited for her to elaborate, but I admit I wasn’t expecting anything. To my surprise, she continued.

“We watched the sun set. Then we stayed for the stars. My dad used to name all the constellations.” She picked at a callus on her hand, a seemingly frequent habit of hers. “He was smart like that.”

I nodded. “Where you had a father, I had a mother. At least that’s one thing we have in common. Though I feel you and Demeter would get along like a… well, you’d agree on most things.” I looked away and blew out my cheeks. I had almost said they’d ‘get along like a house on fire’. I am doubtless our little session would be abruptly cut off if I reminded my young master of the house-fire that drove her and Phillip McCaffrey out of Aeithales.

“Would we agree on how dumb you are?”

I shot her a glare, but for some reason the sheer bluntness of her question amused me more than usual. “I suppose you would,” I snickered.

Meg leaned back on her palms. Her rhinestones glittered in the starlight, illuminating her moss green eyes. “She missed out.”

“What do you mean?”

Meg shrugged. “Aeithales. Dad. She missed out.”

I wanted to explain that even if Demeter wanted to visit, she couldn’t have. Zeus’s laws forbade it, as we would get distracted from our godly duties. But as I looked up at my sister’s peaceful chariot, I thought about the sun, and how it would continue to soar across the sky even if there were no one driving it. It would take the form of a barque or a star. It made me wonder if Zeus’s excuse was even close to an acceptable one. Definitely not something I would be able to stomach telling my children to excuse my absence anymore, anyways.

“You tried to kill your dad once,” Meg noted.

“Not exactly, but I know when you’re referring to,” I said, confused. I failed to connect what an unsuccessful revolution thousands of years ago had to do with our present talk about good and bad parents.

“It didn’t work.”

I sighed. “I am aware.”

Meg looked me right in the eyes, giving me the unsettling feeling that overtook me when she issued me an order, but somehow without uttering a word. She appeared to study me like a patient on an operating table - proof that she was a far more complex being than she seemed. I fidgeted a bit. Her gaze became heavy, and I found my eyes were flicking around for a safe place to land. I forced myself to stop and look her in the eyes, though it took some convincing. I wasn’t sure if I’d overstepped my mark and made her angry, and believe me, an angry Meg is not someone you want to sit next to in the middle of the night with no witnesses around to call her out. Not that Meg cared that much about witnesses, mind you. Thankfully, instead of kicking me, Meg began to speak.

“If it had worked,” she said quietly, “Would it have been worth it?”

I admit, I was more taken aback by that question than I should have been. Of course she would compare my daddy issues with her own. Although I would never admit it out loud, I had privately compared Zeus to Nero on multiple occasions. Sometimes I would try to put myself in her shoes to predict what her reaction might be before I said anything. The other times I would forget, and end up with an elbow in my ribs.

I sighed. “I will never know, Meg. But I do know that Nero needs to be stopped, and we’re the only ones who can do it. We don’t exactly have the choice to flee.” Meg’s shoulders slumped. That was not the answer she’d been looking for.

“I wasn’t taking about Nero,” she muttered.

“Of course not. But if it makes you feel any better-”

“It won’t.”

“-I don’t along with my father either.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Duh,” she mocked, lifting my shirt and gesturing at my pathetic mortal flab. I promptly snatched my shirt back from her grip and glared daggers at her. She only snickered, which I found quite annoying.

“I meant that I never got along with him. One time he forgot my name and called me Aspirin.”

Meg smirked. “I bet you’re still bitter.”

“I am!” I cried, throwing my hands up for dramatic effect. “It's not even close!”

“Kinda is.”

“And to make matters even worse, we were at lunch! All the Olympians were there,” I huffed. “Hermes wouldn’t shut up about it for years.”

Meg snorted. “There’s gotta be one time you agreed on something.”

1335 CE

“Apollo!” A low voice thundered around the white walls of my palace in Delphi. I jumped, dropping the tub of oil paint I was using to decorate the whitewash. It showed my newest prophetic vision: an era of renaissance was ahead. I shook my hands (which then became clean), tucked the loose strands of my long, blond hair back into it’s man bun, and turned to see my father, Zeus, standing menacingly behind me. His were fists locked at his sides, and his electric blue eyes sparked. I tried my best not to shake. My father did not mess around when he was angry. I gave him a nervous smile.

“Father,” I greeted. “Is something amiss?” His scowl only deepened.

“One of my sons just visited your oracle,” he growled. “She told him his death would be by your hand.”

I gulped. “W-well, I believe her exact words were ‘you shall be slain by the arrow of ill health’. That could mean many things, I am sure. Perhaps it is a metaphor, and he simply dies from sickness. Perhaps he gets bitten by a venomous serpent. I also have reason to believe he will enlist in a war in around fifteen years, perhaps he will be struck by a poisonous-” my anxious ramblings were cut short when a lightning bolt flashed into existence in Zeus’s right hand. I looked up at Zeus’s face, hoping, believing I would see some kind of reassurance. There was none there.

“Father, you cannot truly think I can change the prophecy, do you?” Zeus starting striding towards me. Like the brave god I was, I backed up. Cowardly, I know. But I had no intentions to fight my father. I did not want to be vaporised.

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot think, boy.” He scowled. His bolt began to spark more furiously, as if reflecting its master’s rage. I held my hands up in an ‘I surrender’ gesture, locked eyes with him and hummed a slow tune, hoping it would calm either my father or myself down. Zeus simply tensed his shoulders and muscled his way through the magic.

With blinding speed, the lord of the sky reached out and roughly grabbed my upper arm, yanking me into his bolt. It erupted from my side and the pain overtook me. It seared every part of my body with a fire that could not even compare to Hephaestus’s hottest forges. I screamed a very ungodly scream.

After an eternity, it ended. I hung limply in my father’s grip. My feet tried to support me, but my knees buckled like I was holding a herd of elephants on my back. My head hung as if my neck had been severed from my shoulders. My hair, now free of it’s man bun, dangled by my face, sticking to the sweat on my forehead and cheeks.

A crackle sounded from beneath my chin. The bolt, as full of energy as ever, flickered madly, ready to give another shock at any moment. It was raised, forcing my head up to look at my father. His face showed no sign of regret.

“Let us try that again,” Zeus snarled. “You will erase my son’s memories, take him to your oracle, and she will give him a different prophecy. Understand?”

I swallowed the taste of ichor in my mouth. “I can give him a different prophecy,” I wheezed. “But I cannot erase what my Pythia has already spoken.”

That gained another bolt to my godly chest. Its razors tore though my lungs, my stomach, my heart, until I retched ichor and yesterday’s ambrosia. My eyes were overtaken by blinding light. I felt like I was floating, everything hurt so much that I couldn’t differentiate between the pain and the pressure of my feet on the floor or Zeus’s fist around my arm.

When the light died down, I was lying on the floor, Zeus’s sandals an inch from my face. The pungent smell of smoke filled my nostrils. My skin was sizzling softly. I knew my form would begin to fix itself shortly, and I technically could take another hit, as I could not die, but to put it simply: I did not want to see or feel that bolt for at least another million years. A rough hand dragged up by the back of my robes, and held nose to nose with Zeus.

“Would you like to test my offer again?”

I shook my head, already thinking about how great it would feel when I finally did slay that demigod. I would enchant that arrow with such awful diseases, such terrible sicknesses that would overcome his corpse and spread to anyone with mile of the body. I wanted that boy to suffer the way I suffered. Father was wrong. I could not change the prophecy. But I would let the oracle tell him of his greatest days - his victories, his legacies. I would paint him a picture so great that he would never see his death coming. I would wait. I would wait until his best day - that would be the day I would cut him down. I hated that boy. I hated that accursed lighting bolt.

I did just that. In the end, it was me that killed the boy. Zeus knew who did it - deep down, he knew prophecies could not be changed. I would still be the one to kill his son. I was not sorry. I almost welcomed the excruciating torment of the bolt.

Present

“No. I don’t think we ever agreed on much.”

Meg blew a raspberry. “You're so petty.”

I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. I remembered killing many innocent people for the singular reason that I was too scared to be angry at my father. I had never before looked back. But now, it was no wonder that demigods had short lifespans. I was not alone in being too afraid to challenge the lord of the sky. My sister, Artemis, was guilty. So was Ares, Hephaestus, Hera and everyone else. Poseidon would always be the only one to challenge him. But he was not innocent either.

“We should get some sleep. If I remember correctly, we found some blankets in he trunk.”

Meg jumped off the roof of the van, and called back, “Dibs on the big green one!”

Ugh. Typical.

#writing #toa #oneshot #toa oneshot #apollo #leto #zeus #meg mccaffrey #trials of apollo #fanfic #fanfiction

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enygmass · 7 years ago

Note

As the former collections manager of an Edgar Allan Poe museum, I can't resist. "Berenice," with dealer's choice of characters.

Me @ myself: damn

[Um ok this got a bit long, like 1941 words long, but it’s Scriddler and I hope you’re ok w that bc I gotta get back to writing my boys. Well. I guess you can say mentions of Scriddler, but nothing solid. Also a bit dark on the relationship part.]

Berenice: loss, fixation, memory.

[ But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. ]

Often when one enters a career that binds them to work until the early hours of the morning, when the sun is tentatively peering its head up from the horizon and the city lights are fading away as an indicator to the people to wake up, they know better than to get expectations. When this career further includes activities that many would deem dangerous, or immoral, these expectations are further to be limited. The only expectation a criminal can have is the expectation that they will be inevitably caught. They cannot even anticipate success; if you do, you gain a large ego, and this is how you collapse.

Jonathan knew of a man who had begun to anticipate his success. Yes, he knew of this man quite intimately; he had spoken through bars to him and had been forced to share showers. Often when you share showers with someone that’s about the time you stop trying to be shy around each-other. There is nothing sacred when you’re both inmates at the exact same institution. Even when you try to hold your tongue from others, the walls whispered for you.

His first memory of this man was their initial encounter, not in Arkham, but crossing paths at a bookstore long before they became what they were now. He had been vibrant but irritable, turning the corners without looking and practically causing Jonathan to lose the stack of important novels that he intended to take home and hunch over for the evening. He had offered no apology and nor had Jonathan. They had exchanged a mutual blank stare as Jonathan readjusted the stack and pushed his glasses up, before they moved past each other and to their intended locations. He had failed to see him coming, but what he had not failed was to note the novel the man held in his hand as he passed; ‘The Fall of the Human Intellect’ by A. Parthasarathy. Both controversial and conceptual. A unique taste.

The second memory of the man was quite a time later, long after Jonathan had grown settled into the routine of chemicals and testing versus educating and grading. Late evening hours had become his equivalent of day time, and he had found himself frequenting renown locations of Underworld dwellers to generate some sort of interest in funding what he desired to create. He had a name by then; The Scarecrow was no longer associated with the figure in the cornfield. By now, people were thinking of gaseous substances and their rooted terror when the name was uttered. This was how he had found himself located at the Iceberg Lounge. If there was one man who liked things that could benefit him, it was Oswald Cobblepot.

Oswald Cobblepot, however, was preoccupied with another client and Jonathan had been subsequently forced to sit outside on some excuse of a chair to wait. He had discarded his now typical attire for something more casual, but a briefcase was gripped in his hand. Some things never change when you move from Professor to Rogue. The sound of the door opening, followed by the chatter of two men of which one he knew, had broken away the train of thought in return for attentiveness. There had been no anticipation, however, of seeing who he saw with Cobblepot that night. In fact, the last time Jonathan had recalled seeing him, they had nearly collided with one another at a dingy bookstore on the corner of Cherry Street. The man had recognized him as well, given the sly smile that had broken upon his face mere seconds after exiting the room.

The approach had been long and tedious, and when he had finally stopped in front of Jonathan, he had extended a hand as if it were a right.

“I don’t think we ever formally said hello. I’m Edward Nygma, but you might know me as The Riddler.”

Jonathan had stared at the hand for a moment before taking it. Edward had spoken with a self-confidence that was admirable, but perhaps a bit too obvious. If anything to Jonathan – a trained psychologist – it had felt superficial.

“Jonathan Crane, but you might know me as The Scarecrow.”

That had been the instigator of what was to become one of the tensest affairs Jonathan had ever had to formally deal with. He and Edward clashed personality-wise. Edward was extroverted, excitable, egotistical, and exhausting. Jonathan felt more inclined as an introverted, impassive, indecipherable individual. They had shared similar traits, however. Both were passionate about their work, both knew intellect served above all else, both were masterful at complex plans, and both hated the bat enough that they could tolerate working with one another for more than one evening. Perhaps that was where a majority of their toxicity began to form.

Jonathan had become fixated on the way Edward Nygma’s mind worked, and he had acknowledged this to himself. He had become fixated on his thought process, on what drove him, on what set Edward Nygma off to become The Riddler. Jonathan had known for a fact he was always fated to become The Scarecorw; childhood neglect and rejection from peers created a perfect recipe for a psychotic break. Edward Nygma, on the other hand, seemed far too composed for him to become The Riddler. This had made him something of a fascination; like a regular citizen listening to a convicted killer recount in grotesque detail their crimes, Jonathan had felt himself becoming more and more interested each time Edward opening his mouth to speak. When they had worked together in close confinement, within the cells of Arkham, Edward had opened his mouth a lot.

“Jeremiah can’t properly grasp the concept of what I’m telling him. I, personally, prefer Leland; at least she made an active effort to solve my riddles rather than telling me over and over how ‘this is unhealthy behavior’.”

They had been eating lunch, in their usual spot located away from most of the inmates. Often, they were joined by a few stragglers; Hatter, on occasion Harley although she spent the most time in her cell, and once in a while Harvey when he had nowhere else to be. This time they had been alone, however.

“It is unhealthy. It’s compulsive, and most of the time it’s the reason you end up here.” Jonathan had only been half minding the conversation, deterring the rest of his attention to the two guards who had been staring them down from the entrance. Each time they had leaned close to whisper to one another, Jonathan had been sure to look directly at them.

“I’m aware of that, Jonathan, and if I could control it I would. Jeremiah Arkham will last one more session with me before he ships me off to Young, or Thompkins, and I know this.” Jonathan had drawn one slender finger across the corner of his mouth, all while staring down the two guards still.

“How do you know so confidently?” He had still only half been listening at that point.

“Because I always know. I always know the outcome of these things. These Doctors, they’re like clockwork – they like their set systems, and when you twist one bolt just out of place, they send you over to the next Doctor instead. They don’t like to feel like they’re out of control.” Now he had looked to Edward, only to be met with a stern expression and a self-assured gaze. Edward had been hunched over his plate at that point, and Jonathan had known that Edward Nygma was exactly the mind he wanted to pry at.

Those moments had felt like eons ago.

Time changed, as did life along with it, and many years had passed since Jonathan had looked at those two guards in Arkham. They hadn’t done what he thought they would that evening, something he was relieved about. Men in positions of power could be ruthless; there were experiments to prove such things.

Time had also changed his standpoint with Edward. Although he had continued to study the man, falsifying their friendship to gain insight into his workings like some lab rat under scrutiny, becoming too involved with a subject often led to things getting far too personal. Yes, he had come to know this man quite intimately, surpassing the boundaries of physical contact to something even he was uncomfortable with. Perhaps this had been what had created the rift between them, the toxicity that had begun to form those years before. The toxicity that had eventually overflowed and created burns that would likely not heal for a long time now.

Edward had left two years ago, likely to catch bigger fish than what was lurking in Gotham City.

Too many people in this city now, all stealing or creating their own gimmicks. It isn’t as it should be.

His logic was sound, his thought process clear, but Jonathan had offered no insight. He had sat quietly with his back facing Edward as he spoke, only half listening as he had in Arkham, and using the rest of his attention to focus at the task at hand. Their conversations no longer held the interest they once did.

Metropolis is pointless, and I don’t feel like getting massacred by some Demi-God. Maybe there’s some other town nearby.

Edward had always talked, even when Jonathan had wanted him not to. The Iceberg Lounge, on heists, at dinner, in the bedroom, always talking, always saying what was on his mind.

What I’m trying to say here, Jonathan, is that we should go. Everyone else is moving on and we’re practically the last ones left. Are you even listening to me?

Jonathan had offered a sound of half-acknowledgment. Recollection of what had occurred next was vague, but he recalled a few other phrases being thrown about, before the sound of Edwards boots moving up the basement steps echoed out and faded to obscurity. Then there was sound no more. Sound no more, except for what was made by the beakers and the chemicals bubbling away.

After that, he had not seen Edward. Fall faded to winter – a peaceful one without the disruption - and winter to spring, which also passed with no disruption. Spring faded to summer, and to fall once more until a full year had passed since that discussion in the basement. Still no Edward. No letters, no messages, an absolute dead-air.

Jonathan had not minded. He had been accustomed to this for many years and had decided it was for the better. Research could be accomplished more successfully without the interruption of hands on your back, or lips on your neck, or fierce yelling in your ear about the stupidity of some vigilante. Although he did find himself reminiscing perhaps a bit too longingly on his relationship with Edward, memories he promptly pulled himself out of, the one thing that couldn’t be argued was that he could finally complete his work.

The only expectation a criminal can have is the expectation that they will be inevitably caught. A criminal should not expect to be able to maintain successful relationships especially if they are in the same career as you. They should not expect joy or a feeling of completion to be gained from such relationships. They should not expect success, they should not expect fame, and above all, they should not expect for happiness to be derived from the immoral path they elected to follow.

They cannot even anticipate success. But Jonathan had known a man who had anticipated his success – and wondered if he had achieved it yet.

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