#i just think. seeing the inside of a two millenia spirit who is fighting for hope in this world. would be very interesting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jenovahh · 4 years

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Comm 08 - Grand - NSFW

Rating: NC-17/Explicit Tags: Fem!WoL x Elidibus, Enemies to Lovers, Smut, Penis in Vagina Sex, Fingering Commission from twitter from a user who wanted to remain anonymous! ===========================================================

“It’s a bit late to be coming one’s room this late, is it not?”

Your eyes have yet to open as you hear the telltale sound of the rift yawning wide. Unbothered, you lie relaxed on your bed in the Pendants, dressed in a silk nightgown that seemed incredibly luxurious for someone as hardy as the Warrior of Light. And usually you would wear more practical sleep wear…

But he didn’t have to know that.

“Would you prefer I whisk you away before your companions in broad daylight?” The voice is masculine, the baritone of his voice rich like brandy and soothing like menthol. “If you have grown so bold…”

You hold up a hand to stop his speech, finally turning to face him on your side, not bothering to retain your modesty as the silk glides on your skin, riding up your legs. The nightgown usually reaches your calves (and it wasn’t like you didn’t have shorter ones), but even you can hear the slight hitch of your intruder’s breath.

Would that you could see the expression to go along with his gasp. Unfortunately, that insufferable, red mask is in place. Robes of white trimmed with gold shimmer in the low light of your room, clawed hands resting casually at their sides. Your eyes focus on rosy lips, watching how a pink tongue swipes over them quickly before a clawed hand reaches up to cover it as he clears his throat.

“Elidibus.” You acknowledge, choosing to not answer his question. You never liked thinking hard on what your friends would do should they find out you flirted (which, at this point was putting it lightly) with the enemy. They could never understand, you had convinced yourself in your deepest nightmares, plagued by visions of a past you could not fathom. Visions you were not sure if they were your own, or perhaps--

“I admit, I was expecting you to arrive earlier.” You sigh, moving to sit up. You can feel his eyes on you beneath that mask; feel how his gaze trails across the bared skin on your shoulders, the hair thin straps of your gown the only thing protecting your modesty. “Had you not come when you did, I would’ve closed my eyes to rest for tonight.”

“Then pray forgive my tardiness,” Elidibus breathes, extending a clawed hand. “I would make it up to you, should you still give me the chance.”

You stare at the offered hand warily, feeling an abrupt surge of hesitation roll through you. All at once does the weight of all the teasing, the sly looks and wayward glances feel like they’ve caught up with you. He could easily spirit you away, never to return, having played the long con to earn your trust and have you play right into his hands. The Warrior of Light disappearing in the middle of the night in what was supposed to be the relative safety of her room…

“Having second thoughts?”

His voice is teasing, taunting. Bait, and a knock at your pride. Your thoughts must be written on your face, your inner turmoil an open book. He knows as well as you do that he is powerful; an ancient. Magic that mortal eyes have not seen in millenia, powers that your mind could not possibly comprehend.

But he is taking the same risk, is he not?

You have struck down two of the three, unsundered Ascians, leaving only the one in white, The Emissary as the sole survivor. You've rolled it around in your mind how he could possibly bear to be here given that fact, knowing full well you have slain his brethren and could do the same to him.

"Do you think me afraid?" You huff, standing to your bare feet and closing the distance between you. Placing your hand in his, the cool metal of his claws nearly stings against your warmth. You do not flinch, giving nothing away.

"Warrior of Light? Eikon Slayer?" He scoffs, somehow knowing the adverse effect your titles have on you. "I do not offer fear. Merely...understanding."

You nod, running your fingers along his leathery gloves, tracing nonsensical patterns. You gaze at him from beneath your lashes, feeling how he tenses. "What shall we be understanding tonight then?"

Even beneath his cowl you can see his throat bob as he swallows. Being able to have him on edge in this way is far more of a power trip than dangling white auracite in his face could ever be. "You and yours seem to think us some unfeeling harbingers of doom," he starts, finally encircling your hand with his own. His claws bite into your skin just enough to be painful, but not enough to draw blood. "I thought I might follow in Emet-Selch's example, and show you what you fight against."

Before you can ask any further the void opens wide, and so do your eyes as your stare back into its inky depths. He gives you no warning and pulls you forward, your instinct making you dig your feet into the tile of your room, but his grip is too strong and you are pulled inside. Strangely, the darkness feels like a caress, its magic whispering across your skin like how the smoke of burning incense crawls along the floor. It feels like an eternity until you are pulled through to the city of Amaurot, still as pristine as Emet-Selch had left it. A chill washes over you, your body releasing a light shudder that does not escape your...companion's notice.

"Would you like a cloak, perhaps?" He offers, his hands already weaving dark fabric into existence. You stare at it warily, pouting as you do.

"Had I known where you would take me for our outing, I would've dressed more appropriately," you snark, taking the cloak from him. The material is softer than silk, so thin that it almost feels like water in your hands. With a smirk, you give him a sly look. "Would you assist me in putting it on?"

"Are you shards so incapable of the simplest of tasks?" He questions, and you swear you can hear an upraised eyebrow. Clearly you needed to be a little more...forward.

"Hardly." You snort, moving to put it on yourself but just as you move it lifts from your hand and drapes itself around you. Despite how sheer it is the warmth it provides feels akin to the pelt of a mammoth. "Thank you." You murmur shyly, pulling it closer to yourself.

Tucking his hands behind his back, Elidibus begins to walk. "This way, Warrior of Light." It is only due to your many encounters with him that you can hear the resentment which taints your title. "I doubt Emet-Selch spared the time to explain the structure of the true world."

"He did not explain much at all," You murmur softly, giving him a weak glare. Despite yourself, you follow behind him, gazing up at the tall towers that somehow reach further below past your sight.

As the two of you walk, he explains multiple functions of buildings, drawing you further into his world. Even though the recreation was of Emet-Selch's making, leaving it subject to misremembrance, it was so accurate that even Elidibus could traverse it easily. Listening unlocked a deep sorrow within you, a hole you could not quite place.

"Where did you frequent," you ask, cutting him off mid-explanation, "in your spare time?"

He pauses to look at you, studying you from behind the safety of his mask. "What makes you think I had such time available?"

"From our encounters I have gleaned you are a man devoted to duty," Almost bordering on obsession, you add mentally, "But I would be a fool to think that in a world where you were nigh immortal, that you didn't have something as mundane as a hobby."

He allows himself a brief chuckle at that, his hand raising slowly. "You are more perceptive than most," he compliments, dark magic swirling around you, transporting you once more. As it fades you find yourself in a grandiose auditorium, curtains made of the finest velvet lining its walls, seats trimmed with gold. You spin in small circles as you take in its splendor, in how elegant it looks. It is a wonder how it manages to flaunt such wealth yet does not look gaudy or tacky in any way.

"Before I had assumed the mantle of Emissary," Elidibus begins, causing you to face him. His voice carries through the space easily, his dulcet tones practically surrounding you. "I would oft hold concerts."

Your eyebrows raise in surprise. "You were a musician?"

"Am, Warrior." he tuts, waggling a finger. Just as he finishes the motion with a wave of his hand does he create a grand piano from thin air. Its glossy wood shines in the stage lighting, the black lacquer so polished you'd think you were looking in some twisted mirror. "Are you familiar with the arts?"

Biting your lip, you circle the piano, wishing to touch it but afraid of getting even one smudge on its surface. "I do not have time for such things," you admit, well aware of the irony.

He's aware of it too, an infuriating smirk gracing his pouty lips. "Then allow me this lesson," he makes a grand sweeping gesture with his arm as a piano bench weaves itself into existence, taking a seat with all the poise of a professional. "Let us see what untapped talent lies within you."

Feeling too much like you've lost the high ground, as you move to sit you take care to allow the robe to part, reminding him of what lies beneath. You cross one leg over the other, the silk riding up your thigh and you can hear a claw scrape against an ivory key. "By all means," you purr, daring to even scoot closer to him, leaving barely an ilm from his shoulder to yours.

"There seven notes, and therefore one key for each note, and they are the white ones," he explains. "They repeat themselves, from A, to G."

You lose yourself in his lesson, watching with mild fascination at his careful instruction. If he had other plans by bringing you here, he has surely lost them for he is so caught up in teaching you properly. You find yourself wishing you could see the skin of his hands beneath those gloves, and you catch your eyes drifting to the movement of his lips more often than they should. Unfortunately, it seems that your advances thus far have gone undetected, so you decide to turn on the charm.

Closing that small gap between you, you gaze at him from beneath your lashes, lips parted in a pout. "Would you play something for me?"

If your question is not enough to stop his lecture, the warmth of your body against his own is. His hood casts just enough of a shadow that you cannot see his eyes still, but you can feel the deep intake of breath. "I have nothing to play that you could possibly recall." He defends, tongue darting out to swipe at his lips.

"Does one attend a concert solely to hear things they have heard before?" you counter easily, going as far as to lay your hand atop his own that still rests on the keys. "Show me this skill you claimed to have."

However, Elidibus is not as prideful as Emet-Selch or even Lahabrea, and your barb bounces off. "I have nothing to prove to you, Warrior." His voice is firm, but non-threatening.

"Then why did you bring me here?" you question, pressing even closer to him. Your cloak has slipped from your shoulders, revealing your supple skin to glow under the stage lights. "We are enemies before we are companions. What brought you to the Warrior of Light's rooms to steal her away,"

Before you can finish the sentence he's pressed his lips to yours as best he can with his damned mask in the way. It takes you by surprise, but his sudden confidence gives way to hesitation, and you easily take control of the kiss. "Zodiark help me," he breathes, even though between the two of you, you're the only one who needs the air.

You reach to try and peel back his hood but his hands are like stone as they catch your wrists in their grip, the points of his claws pricking your skin. "That is an intimacy you've not yet earned." Despite the underlying threat in his voice, you can hear the hunger, the unabashed desire suffusing his words.

"How does one go about it then?" You rasp, pressing your chest against him. "How might I see the man beneath the mask?"

"I am no man," he rumbles, guiding your arms to link around his shoulders. "But I am not immune to...worldly pleasures. Even if it has been some time."

"It sounds like you've devoted yourself to duty too much," You comment, instead choosing to place kisses along his jawline, feeling how smooth his skin is. "Perhaps I may provide a distraction?"

"A distraction," he echoes, his hands trailing down your sides, feeling the curvature your nightgown refused to hide. "Very well."

Hands at your hips, he urges you to leave your spot on the piano bench to straddle his lap, the skirt of your gown riding even higher. His hands are gentle, but greedy, a shuddering sigh passing his lips as he gives the meat of your thighs a testing squeeze. "Has it been long for you?" you ask out of curiosity.

He huffs a bitter laugh. "Even in days of eld have I ever focused on my duty." Through with words, he brings your lips down to his own, slightly hesitant until past experience catches up with him, as if relearning how to nock a bow. He tastes divine, all dark, forbidden magic, cool under the heat of the lamps in the rafters. He wrenches control of the kiss suddenly, nipping at your lip, coaxing your tongue to twine with his as his hands push your gown up higher.

While most would fear his claws, the feel of them dragging up your skin only serves to make you quiver under his touch. Your hips roll against him, both from your own need driving your actions and to regain the upper hand. You succeed in pulling a gasp from his throat as his hands grip painfully tight, hard enough to elicit a whimper of pain that has the claws vanishing before you can speak against it.

“I liked those,” you comment, allowing him to tilt your head back to taste the skin on your neck, his tongue a mix of ice and fire as he licks a slow line along your collarbones. Unsure what to do with your hands, you give a desperate tug to his robes. “This is rather one-sided, don’t you think?” You give another roll of your hips, feeling the imprint of his length between your thighs.

“The privilege,”

“Is not yet earned, yes, I too, have ears,” you sass, grinding down harder, moaning as you feel just how rigid he is, feel how hot and hard he is beneath his robes. “I have bared my soul to you, Elidibus. There are a precious few who have known me this way.” With cautious fingers, your play with the hem of his hood. “Just for tonight.” You whisper, slowly pushing it back.

He lets you, lets the hood rest against his back to reveal long hair that you aren’t quite sure if it purple or silver or perhaps even both. You waste no time taking the strands between your fingers, feeling their softness, their silkyness, this move somehow igniting your passion even more as you press into him for a deep kiss. He groans deeply into your mouth, his hands in a rush to divest you of your robe. You won’t move your hands from his hair in favor of him pulling the gown off, so he simply turns it to mist, baring your nude body to his hungry eyes.

As his mouth trails lower, so do your hands, surprised to see his robes melt away with each thread you touch. Ilm by ilm, milky, unmarred skin is bared to your curious eyes, finding him lean and fit beneath his clothing. His skin is smooth, inhumanly perfect, silken to the touch as you run your hands across his torso as if you had never felt up a man in your life. Just as his mouth reaches a breast, your fingers graze across his pants, the threads evaporating and revealing his length, your hands immediately seeking out the prize you sought.

He seems to be painfully hard in your hand, a small glance between the two of you shows that the head of him is red to the point of nearly being purple, and you tut to yourself. “This won’t do,” lowering your hips, you slick him with your wetness, his arms clutching you to him as he gives a full body shudder.

“By Zodiark,” he rasps, totally breathless. You hum, pleased, glad he doesn’t notice how much your own sex quivers with how much you need him.

“Your piano playing is very well its own brand of foreplay,” you admit, gliding yourself along his length. There’s no way he wouldn’t slip on in, but still you raise yourself just enough to slip a finger inside, pausing your grinding.

“Have you always talked so much,” He growls, pressing a finger of his own inside you, making it your turn to gasp. His finger is longer, thicker, just the right amount to spread you for him in what must be his haste to get inside you.

“You don’t talk enough,” You laugh, arching your back as your walls flutter around his finger. You give him control, allowing him to slip a second finger inside. “Twelve above,”

“Silence,” he grunts, curling his fingers just so inside you. He give you little time to catch your breath as your toes curl from the sheer pleasure, leaning you back against the ivory keys, uncaring of the dissonance that rings throughout the auditorium. With hurried, yet careful movements, he lifts you high enough to sit atop them, placing himself between your thighs. There are no words as he guides himself into your wet heat, the groan torn from his throat nearly enough to send you over the edge.

“Elidibus,” you gasp, back arching off the glossy wood. Your arms clutch him by the shoulders, looping around to bring him down for a needy kiss as he slowly begins to stroke, pumping harder and harder until he loses himself in chasing his end. Your lewd sounds echo in the auditorium, your gasps and sighs making a lovely duet next to his grunts and groans. You take in everything; the way his lips are parted, how fiercely he grips your hips to bring you down on his cock.

His mask.

Reaching up, your finger tips brush his mask just barely before a hand grabs your wrist in a death grip, his lips pulled into a frown. “Don’t,” There is almost a desperation to his voice, a plea.

“Elidibus,” you whimper, reaching up with your other hand, lifting the mask ever so slowly. “Let me see you.”

He doesn’t stop you, the mask scattering into the air like petals, revealing the sharp features that most Ascians seemed to share. His eyes are similar to his hair, silvery and purple and so godsdamned beautiful that an inner part of you weeps. “Elidibus,” you choke out, pressing close to press your lips to his, moaning into his mouth at his renewed vigor. “Oh gods,”

He presses you down against the piano, eyes focused on your face as you come apart. He doesn’t stop his assault, his eyebrows furrowing as he comes near his end. He begins to lean forward, but you stop him, cradling his face in your hands so that you may watch him fall apart. Rapture overtakes him, your title a broken cry on his perfect lips, the feel of him coming deep inside paling in comparison to seeing his face as he is dragged under by the waves of ecstasy.

It is quiet in the afterglow, your hands caressing his face, allowing him to finally rest his head on your shoulder. Your fingers, light as a feather trail up and down his back, your lips press soft kisses to his skin. “Well?”

He is silent still, almost uncharacteristically so. You wait however, giving him all the time he needs. “It has...been some time.” He admits, caressing your hips just as tenderly.

“A good distraction then?” You ask, nuzzling your head into his neck.

He nods, choosing not to speak still. You do not mind it, deciding to not let words cloud this moment, especially when you know that when it is all said and done, only one of you may live.

#Elidibus #FFXIV #Final Fantasy XIV #ff14 #Final Fantasy 14 #Comms #writing commissions #commissions #ffxiv writing

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frozenfallenuniverse · 6 years

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Town on the Border

This story is based on an oc my friend and I created together. It also fits october more than november but hey, inspiration is hell.

Thousands of adventurers come but few return. Some barely ended school before deciding to teach a millenia old demon how to play dead. Each one is someone’s child unknowingly going to the guillotine. The ones that come back aren’t that much better; their minds broken and the brightness in their eyes have lost the light they once had. Most are missing some body part, others come back with the little money they were able to gather while fleeing in terror, barely enough money to cover a night at the inn, none speak about whatever happened out there. The funny thing is before each adventure all those bright eyed kids ask the smith for something amazing. A “sword that never misses its mark” or “armor that will never fail me” and that old man can never say no. After all, he allowed his son to fall under the sirens call of adventure only to return in a cart dead. It was never something he was proud of but no matter what, he visits his son’s grave each and every day. Well, at least he says he does.

No matter the task or the difficulty, the smith always completes it within a day. Perfectly fitting armor, more durable than that of the finest dwarf crafts. Blades that can easily slice through the toughest flesh, metallic staffs far more effective than anything the magic college could produce and metal only the demon army can provide. The only thing that suggests the smiths handie work is the work’s warmth it exudes.

He spins stories for each of his works like how a blade sliced the arm off the nineteenth demon lord, how that bow blinded the forty-fifth, and how this plate set withstood the blows of the third. His white hair and dehydrated skin would make no one as young as the foolish adventurers believe a word of it, let alone those of adult age. He promises them they will return safe but few ever doe. At least, none of the adventurers who used one of his works do.

The townsfolk insist that he’s a great smith and he tries to make everyone he meets happier No one can think of a time when he wasn’t there. The elders insist he was smithing even back when they were in diapers. Others say that he helped found the town. Anyone who tries to ask him gets an almost rehearsed response.

“My son made this town and as his father, It's my job to stay here.” His usual jovial attitude drops off around the end. The strange thing is no one ever remembers him having a son, let alone a wife. When you’re a town this close to the demon lands, you can usually let a little oddity like that slide, however. There have been stories of some towns near the border with strange mutations in their livestock, children born with a godlike aptitude and crops growing larger than some demonfolk. Some say its a curse. The smith says its his fault.

Some people complain about nightmares on the border. The sound of dead soldiers crawling back home. Clanging metal bracing itself against walls, swords grating against cobble, animals screaming in the night. Every fortnight, people swear they see the spirits of lost adventurers wander into town. It got to such a point where no one, even adventurers, are allowed out. Cleric magic has no effect, blades can’t cut and they ignore anyone they pass. Better to let them pass on, says the smith every morning after it happens.

The bards that come through say its the most melancholy place they’ve been to but they can never place why. Most spells that mages try to cast fizzle out for no reason. Mapmakers say they’ll make a fortune adding this village to official kingdom maps but that’s happened hundreds of times within the last month alone. No blacksmiths or armorers try to visit the town and none of them can remember anyone with the smith’s name. I believe his name is his job. Smith is both what he does and all anyone knows about him.

I used to be like those adventurers. Full of hope and willing to risk a life to fight. Now, I’m a burned out writer who hardly can get a full page of this sent to anyone without being call crazy or living in the wilds. I tried fighting against the last demon king but something strange happened. One of my friends got a suit of armor from that Smith. Nice full suit of plate. I didn’t ask for anything and I’m still sitting here. My friend. Died. A massive demon smashed him against a wall. The sound of his bones being turned into his tomb won’t leave my nightmares. I pissed myself, as I think anyone would in that situation. The rest of my party fled but I was frozen with terror. My body refused to do anything but watch. I’m both hateful and grateful to that.

My friend’s corpse started moving about inhumanly. No one cast any form of necromancy or resurrection on him. Our cleric was already ripped in half by that monster. The monster ignored it and came closer to me. I screamed till my throat tore as what used to be my friend tore away at the monster with an axe. It saved my life but that… thing wasn’t my friend anymore. It was the shell of my friend and it walked towards where the king stood. I ran in the opposite direction and had nightmares each time I passed out from that point. I convinced myself that is what happens when you die in the demon kingdom. It took two weeks for me to realize something.

Remember how I said dead soldiers came every week? I was half right. I saw that creature that used to be my friend. He shambled to that smith’s house then disappeared into the basement or something. I couldn’t move that much. Hell, who am I kidding. After that whole thing, I became terrified of armor. I have trouble wearing anything thicker than winter clothes. I asked the smith the next day and he was no help.

“I didn’t see your friend at all and I don’t remember anyone coming near here last night.” I had a feeling he was speaking more bullshit than a snake oil salesman. I made the decision to… I guess avenge my friend by figuring out what happened to him. That shell would still have his insides there right?

I snuck into that basement the next night. Well, I tried to. The smith was waiting outside of it and just said one single thing to me as I walked in.

“Your nightmares will get worse.”

There wasn’t a secret about those. I got kicked out of the inn too many times to count. A cleric that passed through, and probably passed away, said they were night terrors which honestly fits better.

The slightly damp stone steps led to a small room with a locked door. I had half a mind to run up and grab a rock but the Smith already planted the damn key in my pocket. If I had my mind in a good place, I would have questioned it but dumb devotion makes it hard to think. Lock came off and I cracked open the door. I felt hundreds of eyes staring at me as I felt my skin crawl.

The air in there tastes used and my clothes became drenched in sweat before I knew it. It looked like an armory that was sorted by a five year old. Suits of armor were crumpled in one corner, like a mass grave from a war. Another corner had swords and blades interlaced into the most uncomfortable blanket known to man. Every other weapon or tool followed the same principle: separated into their type and mashed up in those piles. The feeling of something watching me kept entering my mind.

I left without a word. Wasn’t a reason to tell the guards that a blacksmith had a ton of armor and weapons weirdly set up in his basement. I settled down in town. Kept an eye on the smith but around a month after that day, I started noticing things. That same staring feeling came whenever I saw one of those idiotic kids run out of town with one of his creations. Every night those creatures walked the town, I saw my friend’s armor waving at me. The first time, I stayed in my house for a week going crazy. Nowadays, I wave back. Might as well be a good neighbor. The other thing I noticed was that everyone else seemed to say the same things every week. Prices stayed the same, new adventurers came through but if I ever asked, people thought I was crazier than before. The Smith acted like my friend and told me he was going visit his son’s grave the next day. I choose to join him, better than going insane.

He knocked on my door near midnight holding a torch for each of us. He jogged twice as quickly as I could with my prime. He finally stopped at an empty hill above the town. There wasn’t a tombstone, makeshift or otherwise. He pointed at the town. The ground shook.

What I thought was the town could best be described as a giant with the town growing out of his body. I fell on my ass and felt tears flying down my face. I crashed into something metal on the way down. I hate that damn armor. The Smith walked up to the creature and started rubbing a finger it outstretched to him. He was saying stuff like “how are you, son” like he was talking to a loved one. I fainted after that point.

The next day, that armor was in my room, along with a sword and a bow that felt equally familiar. I felt eyes on me again along with being sick. The Smith was in the other room cooking something that barely looked like food. Those weird things I noticed grew in intensity. Some days when I woke up, that armor was making me breakfast. It was this shitty gruel that I used to eat on the road with my friends.

I honestly don’t know what’s going on in his town and I’ll definitely be dead before anyone reads this. All I can say is this:

Beware the smith who sells weapons. They’re alive with something and nothing here is what it seems.

#smith #oc #my writing

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yume-x-hanabi · 6 years

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Gaius Comparisons #3

@goldenangelwings it’s been three years, but I haven’t forgotten this little project :)

Part 1, Part 2

For each scene, I will post the localization script and highlight what is not similar to the original and add a retranslation or explanation of what the original said in [square brackets] next to the line. I will then make my own commentary about the scene under it.

Scenes analyzed in this post: The Xailen Woods Temple scenes

Gaius: You've come.

Wingul: So in the end you've chosen to trust that man. You're more naive than I thought, Maxwell.

Milla: Tell us what your purpose is for bringing us here.

Wingul: We will stand and fight against those invaders. If you intend to challenge them yourselves, we won't attempt to stop you. […then that’s fine]

Gaius: But first, there's something you need to tell us. I want you to tell us what you know about the schism. [”~that you’ve been hiding”]

Jude: What's that? [“The schism?”]

Milla: Two millenia ago, I cast the spirit arte schism. It created a new world and sealed it away. That world is yours. It is known as Rieze Maxia. [“Rieze Maxia was born as a sealed world from the spirit arte schism I cast.” Means basically the same thing but she’s talking directly about Rieze Maxia, none of that “hey guess what, that’s your world lol” stuff.]

Leia: Did Milla just say that she created the entire world?

Teepo: Wow! She's like a goddess or something!

Milla: It was for protecting spirits and humans.

Gaius: Rieze Maxia is sealed. That implies the existence of another world outside the schism, does it not?

Milla: Yes, and that world is called Elympios. I was gravely mistaken about the Lance of Kresnik's true purpose. Exodus convinced Nachtigal it was a weapon, but all along they were plotting to create a device that would dispel the schism.

Gaius: Dispel the schism? To what end?

Milla: I do not know. I wonder if perhaps they were looking for a means to siphon mana back to Elympios.

Alvin: No. All Exodus ever wanted was to go home. Back home to Elympios. It's all we've wanted for more than twenty years, since we became trapped in Rieze Maxia. We needed to find a way to either break through the schism or dispel it completely.

Milla: But in order to dispel the schism, they would have to find a way to eliminate its creator.

Leia: I see. So that's why Exodus kept trying to kill you.

Gaius: It doesn't add up. What is Gilland's master plan?

Elize: I'm confused. I still don't understand. [“What do you mean?” I’m confused about the localization’s choice here. Her sentence doesn’t flow with Gaius’ at all.]

Rowen: Gilland's actions are not going to get Exodus home any faster. [“Exodus’ aim and Gilland’s actions don’t match.”]

Alvin: He didn't need to bring the whole Elympion army. And unifying Rieze Maxia? That was never our original intention.

Wingul: Gilland must intend to make use of Rieze Maxia with the schism intact. But for what purpose? [He doesn’t say the last line.]

Alvin: That's it. The Otherworld Reactor Plan.

Jude: What?

Agria: Huh? The hell's that?

Alvin: Most folks know it as the Spirit-fuel Plan.

Leia: That sounds bad. [“Fuel?”]

Alvin: I remember my cousin telling me about it when I was still a kid, back on the other side. Something about capturing spirits and using them as fuel for spyrixes.

Presa: So you're saying Gilland's ultimate goal is to corral all the spirits?

Jude: But that doesn't make sense either. If all he wants is spirits, then why bother with the lies? Unless... He's planning on trapping us in Rieze Maxia for our mana lobes!

Gaius: He seeks to use the people of Rieze Maxia as a power source? The man is insane.

Alvin: Gilland most likely returned to Exodus HQ on the ocean. The Elympion army is with him, so getting there by boat won't be easy.

Wingul: Well then, perhaps we could commandeer one of the flying ships they have docked at Kanbalar.

Leia: Oh, yeah right, because that sounds easy! [“Did he just say something so enormous with no hesitation?” Same feeling.]

Rowen: It may indeed be our only option.

Gaius: Very well. We attack tomorrow.

Jude: Wait a minute, Gaius! Aren't we going to team up on this? I mean, we both want the same thing, so--

Gaius: It's not a social gathering. [“You can’t be serious.”]

Agria: Just how stupid are you, anyway? [“Don’t misunderstand!”]

Gaius: It was Maxwell who created the schism and trapped us all inside of it in the first place. Imprisonment is not so easily forgiven. It's entirely possible we may end up fighting each other again. [“I cannot remain indifferent knowing that.”]

Presa: I'm sure you can understand why we're not ready to get all buddy-buddy with you.

Wingul: Like I said, do what you want. Just make sure to stay out of our way.

Leia: Can you believe it?! The nerve of those guys! [“What the heck was that?”]

Commentary: It’s pretty faithful. Just some wordings. There’s just Elize’s line that’s pretty awkward, but the rest is fine.

Gaius dude why are you getting angry at Milla for the schism when you were the one claiming strong rulers must make decisions for the weak. That’s basically what Maxwell did. Well he doesn’t know about the circumstances that lead to it I guess... Still, that sounds a bit hypocrite XD

[Milla & Jude scene]

Milla: Justice is a complicated concept. It means different things to different people.

Gaius: And what is justice to you?

Milla: Heh. I thought this wasn't a social gathering.

Gaius: Answer me, Maxwell.

Milla: It is the power of will that resides within one's heart.

Gaius: Hmph. In this we are both in agreement. Those with this willpower bear a responsibility to this world. The strong must protect and guide the weak. [“The strong must fulfill their responsibility with that willpower. Therefore, I must protect and guide the weak.” Similar, but a bit more personal.]

Milla: Gaius, weakness isn't an affliction of the body, but of the heart. The world will always have weak-willed people, but that in itself isn't a bad thing.

Gaius: Then we must protect the weak until they can become strong. That is our duty. [“~I think.” Just stating his opinion.]

Jude: We?

Gaius: Yes. All who are strong must look after the weak. It is the only way to ensure that future generations will have sufficient strength, as well. [“It’s not just me.”]

Milla: So that's your solution to the problem I posed in Fezebel Marsh.

Gaius: As I told you then, I can chart a new future for mankind if I just have enough power. But if a man like Gilland takes the stage, a man who can only use power for his own gain, then mankind will be doomed to repeat the same mistakes.

Milla: I see. But I'm afraid it's not up to me to approve you answer. Your concept of justice is your own. It's not my place to interfere.

Gaius: Heh, as you say.

Jude: The two of you sure are alike.

Gaius: How so? [“I’m like Maxwell?”]

Jude: No matter how extreme her words are, I think there's always truth to them. I get the same sense from you.

Gaius: Do you want to be like Maxwell?

Jude: I wouldn't mind it, although I know that's impossible.

Gaius: I see.

Jude: We should probably get some rest.

Milla: Yes. The showdown’s tomorrow.

Commentary: King Gaius, expert at interrupting sweet Milla/Jude scenes XD

This is the first conversation where they both agree with each other. The music reflects that, too--it’s quite peaceful. None of that debating and arguing like their first two meetings. Here they’re having an almost friendly late night conversation.

Note how this is a continuation of the Fezebel discussion (which itself was a continuation of their first talk in the castle). They intellectually challenge each other in a way no one have so far. Despite their antagonistic relationship, there’s a lot of respect between them.

Jude at this stage is still considered one of the “weak,” but Gaius asks him if he wants to be like Milla--if he wants to become “strong.” If he achieves that, that would be a good illustration of what Gaius talks about here.

Rowen: How do you intend to hijack a ship that's docked in the sky?

Wingul: We'll use the wyverns in the castle.

Milla: You have to get there first.

Gaius: I have no intention of sneaking into my own castle. [“I don’t need a scheme to reach my own castle.” Same idea. What a badass.]

Wingul: We shall march up the main road and reclaim it.

Jude: What? You can't be serious! [“That’s too reckless!”]

Rowen: Indeed. At the very least, you should split into two groups. Create a diversion. [Without the last sentence. Actually he doesn’t really finish his sentence, because he realizes what they’re doing and starts thinking.]

Agria: Keep your tactics to yourself, you old fart.

Gaius: Jude, do you know what you have to do?

Jude: Of course. I have to help Milla win. It's that simple. [“That’s what I have to do.”]

Gaius: Then let's go.

Wingul: *long stare*

Presa: There's a path leading into the city off the side of the temple.

Teepo: Hmph! Why can't we all stick together?

Muzét: Hehehe, what shall we do?

Milla: Let’s see.

Rowen: We can take that side path from the temple into the city, then move along the roofs to the castle. From there, we can both capture the flying battleship and retake the castle and its soldiers. Meanwhile, Gaius and the others will create their diversion. [Same thing, but he words this as an explanation of Gaius’ choice.]

Leia: Sure would be nice if they let us in on their plan for once.

Milla: Anyway, lets go.

Jude: You got it. [Simply “yes”]

Commentary: My thoughts exactly, Leia. They’re totally counting on you, they’re just too proud to admit it.

Another pretty faithful scene. Just some wording here and there.

Presa & Agria

Presa: What do you want?

Jude: Um… It’s about Jiao.

Presa: He’s dead. Did you think he somehow survived that?

Jude: …

Elize: …

Agria: Know what I heard? I heard he died protecting a spoiled little brat and her stuffed dolly. A fitting end for a foolish old man. [“The brat with the doll.”]

Elize: How could you?!

Teepo: Don’t you talk that way about him!

Agria: You got a problem with me saying the truth?

Presa: That’s enough, Agria.

Agria: It’s not even close to enough! The lives of the Chimeriad belong to His Highness! But that old fool threw his away for some sniveling brat! [just “brat”]

Presa: That’s true. But his sacrifice did give His Highness a chance to escape.

Agria: Hmph. He was an idiot right until the end. Always giving me candy when he saw me, like I was some sort of little kid. He just needs to die already!

Presa: He did.

Agria: …

Presa: With Jiao gone, the offensive might of the Chimeriad has diminished sharply.

Agria: Bah! I’m all the offensive we need! That goes for you too, grandma! No one’ll miss you when you kick off. [“Don’t worry, grandma. It’s the same if you die.”]

Presa: I’m relieved to hear that. [“Really? I’m counting on you.” in a flat tone]

Agria: Just you watch! I’ll protect His Highness all by myself! Ah ha ha ha ha!

Presa: I’m getting a headache. How am I supposed to relieve this stress when there’s no one left to talk to or have a drink with?

Elize: So, that’s it? [“Then, Jiao…”]

Teepo: We’re never going to see Jiao again. [“…we’ll never see him again.”]

Commentary: Agria has a… particular way of processing grief.

She’s not as colorful in her insults in Japanese, it’s more her speech pattern that reflects her rudeness.

Rowen & Wingul

Rowen: Wingul, there's something I would like to ask you. Am I correct in my understanding that you led Auj Oule's armies at Fezebel Marsh? Using boosters to move through the marsh was a brilliant strategy.

Wingul: Are you mocking me? That strategy played right into Gilland's hands.

Rowen: You aren't the only one who failed to see through Gilland's facade. I share the same shame.

Wingul: I didn't realize someone who turned his back on his duty had any honor left to lose. Is that what you're doing here? Some sad attempt to return to the battlefield and erase your shame? [“…who fled the frontlines”]

Elize: How can you say that?! [“That’s mean!”]

Teepo: Don't you make fun of Rowen! He's a great guy for someone who's so old!

Wingul: You were a skilled tactician in your prime, I grant you that. But how much of that skill remains today? Former Chief of Staff Ilbert. Care to play a game?

Rowen: A game, you say?

Wingul: A mock battle, using a real military map. But of course, I would understand if you were reluctant to see how time has ravaged your talents.

Jude: You don't have to buy into this. [“Rowen…”]

Rowen: I accept.

Wingul: This board lets us control data from historic battles and see different ways they might play out.

Rowen: And what battle is this data from?

Wingul: Twenty years ago, on the Fezebel Outback.

Rowen: The Battle of Fezebel.

Jude: The struggle between the armies of Rashugal and the former King of Auj Oule.

Wingul: Correct. It was a tragic battle, in which both armies suffered heavy casualties from a giant tsunami. It was Ilbert the Conductor's one and only draw.

Rowen: And you wish to recreate that battle now?

Wingul: This is no recreation. If I had led Auj Oule into battle, we would have won. That is what I will prove here today. Formation: Icthys! All troops, advance! [“Agai Fish Scales”]

Jude: The core of the Rashugal army is being pushed back!

Rowen: Left and right troops, spread out to the wings! Surround the enemy's vanguard!

Milla: It's no good. The vanguard is unstoppable. What is this power?

Wingul: That's Gaius' unit, their first time in battle. You won't surround them so easily. [it’s Gaius’ first battle, not the whole unit]

Rowen: Both wings, advance! Circle to the enemy's flank!

Wingul: Planning to launch a counterattack from my flank? Such a boring and predictable response. I'll simply attack while your troops are changing course! This battle will be won before the tsunami hits!

Jude: The enemy is turning faster than Rashugal!

Teepo: Look out! [“Rowen’s gonna lose!”]

Rowen: All troops, maintain forward movement! Your goal is the high ground behind the Auj Oule army!

Wingul: What?!

Elize: Rashugal's army is assembling on the hill. [“~and stopped moving”]

Rowen: It's over. It is impossible to defeat a defending army on high ground in so short a time. Soon the tsunami will come and engulf the plains. You will have no choice but to retreat.

Wingul: Hmph. And this is what you call a victory?

Rowen: I am satisfied simply not to lose.

Wingul: I see. Thank you for the match, Conductor. We will settle this in a different way. [“I enjoyed your melody, Conductor.”]

Teepo: Hmph! Sore loser!

Milla: You did great, Rowen.

Rowen: It’s because I failed in the past. If only I had used this strategy back then.

Elize: I think it’s great you learned from your mistake!

Teepo: You’re still growing! Even at your age!

Rowen: Indeed. And I still have a great deal more growing to do. I may even grow out of these clothes on day. [“I might even grow taller.” Same thing.]

Commentary: these two ;A;

The game was great; I wish there’d been more sidequests like that.

Wingul manages to be arrogant while speaking perfectly respectfully. I really love his Japanese speech pattern (and his voice in both languages) ♥

#tales of xillia #king gaius #the chimeriad #translation talk #gaius scenes comparisons

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cerillosvillage · 6 years

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Seventeen: Kamikaze

Let them talk/ It's not about the crown/ We could share the kingdom

"What the hell is your game, witch?" Ib snarled as he threw aside the tent flap, storming into the tent and grabbing Badb roughly by the arm.

The witch didn't even look down at his hand, just maintained perfect eye contact with him as the edges of her mouth pulled up into a coy smile. She did not look at all surprised to have him bursting into her home.

"Whatever do you mean, Ib?" She asked in a mock-innocent tone.

"Ajra!" He snapped. "You said you were taking away her love, but she was praising me and invited me down into her chambers."

Badb tilted her head back in a laugh. Ib growled, throwing her down onto a pile of cushions. His hand went to a knife at his side.

The witch stopped laughing, leveling her gaze at him, but her smile did not leave her face. Nor did her body language seem at all threatened. She lay like she was lounging, like she had made the choice to sprawl herself out on the cushions.

"Do you really think I'm scared of a little knife?" She asked. Her voice was still mirthful, but beneath the amusement lurked something darker. She lifted a hand and Ib felt a breeze against his back. He turned to look at the tent flap, to see a stiff wind blowing it open. Dust swirled in that wind, and he froze, on the alert, nervous that Nelan would appear again, that he had not really defeated the spirit.

The spirit did not appear. The wind faded and the dust settled on the rug floor of the tent.

"Shall we try that again?" Badb said from where she lay. "And this time, being civil?"

Ib cast a sidelong glance at her. She was smiling broadly. No, he didn't have to worry about Nelan.

But he might have to worry about Badb.

He sheathed his knife. Once the blade was put away, Badb patted the cushions beside herself, inviting Ib to sit down. He was now much more wary of showing her any vulnerability, but he sat anyways, crossing his legs underneath himself. It was a power move he'd developed years ago, due to his tendency towards kilts, but Badb remained unphased.

"You said Ajra wouldn't love me," he said, cutting right to the point. He was sure Badb would play games if he didn't.

"Oh, Ib," she reached out and patted one of his hands. "You of all people should know that sex doesn't equal love."

"She praised me, though. She never does that for anyone."

Badb flashed him a grin and shrugged. "I never said she wouldn't respect you."

"But…" Ib began, but stopped as he thought about what he was going to say. And what was that, exactly? He certainly felt like he had been denied, rejected, but at the same time, he couldn't say that he really had been. He'd been offered something that he would've wanted only a few days ago, before he'd even thought that Ajra might love him.

But if he'd never come to the tent, he could've had her love in addition to her respect and sex. Wouldn't he? He tried to think if things had gone differently. If he had never come to the tent, he never wouldn't received the sword, never would have fought Nelan. And thus, he never would've earned Ajra's respect. And he knew enough about her to know that she didn't like anyone she didn't respect. So he never would've gotten her love without going through the fight.

He chased his thoughts in circles for a few moments. Everything always came back to the tent -- and to what Ajra had said. She wanted to die, and she wanted to stop thinking about death. That wouldn't have changed no matter what he did. And if she was thinking only about her death, there was no way she would think of love…

"She was never going to love me in the first place, was she?" He said under his breath, staring at his hands.

Again Badb patted one of them. "No, but now you know that. Which means you can make a better decision -- leave her because she won't reciprocate your love, or stay and take what you can, being honest with yourself that you may not get exactly what you want, but that you can still be one of her closest companions."

Ib looked up. Badb's smile had vanished, and she looked at him with all seriousness. Her dark, almost black eyes displayed a deep sympathy for him, but she didn't make him feel pathetic. She felt for him, but she was not sorry for him.

And it made him realize -- he had paid a price that didn't exist. She hadn't taken anything from him, she simply made it so he would reach the realization that he won't get exactly what he wanted from Ajra a lot quicker. Which made him wonder…

"That sword you gave me -- it didn't feel like a magic object. It didn't make me feel stronger or better -- if anything, I won fairly easily. And I used one of Nelan’s own swords."

The grin returned to Badb's face. "I never said it was magic. I simply said it would enable you to win, if you chose to fight. Nelan was rusty -- a few millenia inside a crypt will do that to you."

Ib squinted at her. "Are you even a real witch?" He asked.

"I'm whatever you make of me. Whatever helps you sleep at night," she replied.

Ib sighed and got to his feet. He was tired again, having somehow managed to maintain his frustration and rage for the two days' journey to her tent. But this time he had no intention of staying. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and her as possible, as quickly as possible.

"Oh, by the way," she said as he headed for the flap, "be careful with how you use her. She needs very clear instructions, unless you want to wipe out the entire village's crops again."

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Who?"

"Nelan, of course. You are her new master, after all."

* * *

After four days of riding, Ib was sore and tired, and wanted nothing more than a bath and some sleep. But as he made his way through the village, back to his tiny and lonesome quarters, a voice called out to him.

He turned to see one of the villagers bustling towards him. She was short and broad, with brown skin and reddish hair. She held a brightly patterned blanket around her shoulders. He had seen her before, but never up close. Up close he realized she was younger than he thought she was. She carried herself like an elder woman, and her face certainly had some lines from hard living, but she wasn't any older than himself -- younger, even.

"...Magdalena, right?" He asked when she stopped in front of him.

"Yes. And you are Ib, correct?"

He nodded, not sure what else to say to her. They stood looking at each other awkwardly for a good long moment, before she took a deep breath and began to talk.

"I realize that the village has not given you the kindest of welcomes. I must admit, we were all wary of a mercenary in our midst, especially since you are close to Ajra. But you saved all of us, and for that, I -- we -- are grateful."

She bent into a deep bow. Ib felt even more awkward as he looked down at her. No one ever bowed to a mercenary.

"Uh, you're welcome," he mumbled. "It was nothing."

"It means everything to us," she said as she straightened. "My village -- our village -- is small. We've only been here for a little over a year. We aren't fighters, so we didn't plan for this -- which is my fault. I am the leader here, and my old village was destroyed because we were unprepared for an attack."

"Sorry to hear that," he mumbled again, unsure what to say to this small, unsure woman. He was used to leaders who were always ready for war, and who never took the blame for anything, even when it was their fault.

"I would like to ask you something," she said, though she didn't give him time to respond before continuing. "Our village is unprepared for an attack -- we have Cinna, but he's only one patrolman. You saved our village, and you're used to fighting… I wanted to ask, would you consider becoming the head of our guard, and training those who are willing to fight? I know you're a mercenary, and we don't have much, but we can reopen the mines and pay you in that--"

"That's unnecessary," he cut her off. He watched as her face fell, clearly interpreting that as a 'no'. And he could certainly give that as his answer. He could be done with this village for good. Just pack up and leave, since the person he'd come to serve didn't seem like she was going to let him lead her to greatness any time soon.

But he wanted to serve someone. If he left, he'd just have to find someone new.

And here was this small woman standing in front of him, trying her best to lead a village despite having no idea how.

He glanced around the village. It was in an easily defensible location. There was farmland on the canyon above, game out on the plains, plenty of room for a growing population…

He looked at Magdalena. She spoke with such uncertainty and timidness, but she held herself with a kind of grace that was rare. She took more responsibility than any ruler he had ever known, and she was trying to make her village better.

"Payment is unnecessary," he repeated, "but I want different quarters. Bigger ones, in the middle of the village."

She blinked, unsure for just a moment, before her face filled with hope and happiness.

"Yes," she said, "yes, that can be arranged. Right away. I'll see which quarters would be most suitable for you and send someone to you in the morning to help you move your belongings."

Ib nodded as she babbled more thanks, eventually shooing her away so he could get some sleep.

This could do, he told himself. It wasn't what he'd expected, but it could do. He could lead this village to greatness.

As he made his way along the back wall of the village, he passed by the mines. A lit lantern was hanging just outside of the entryway, something he had never seen done. It made the mines seem almost welcoming.

He felt that strange pull again, the force that had compelled him all the way to the bottom of the mines.

He paused, glancing towards his quarters, then back at the mine.

He pivoted where he stood, and stepped inside the cave. He followed the pull all the way to the bottom.

All the way to her.

#rockbreaker lore #long post #FINALLY DONE WITH THIS ARC!!

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freelancedreamer · 7 years

Text

The Downside of Delirium

Read it on AO3

Read it on FF.net

A particularly hot and humid stretch of days at the end of September has caused it. A nasty flare-up of his illness that had left Jūshirō bed-ridden and dangerously febrile. He’d spent three nights at the Fourth Division before being released back to Ugendō under strict instructions that should his fever exceed 39.4 Celsius he was to be brought back immediately.

Sliding the door to the bedroom with her foot, Kagomei carefully approached the bed and set down a bucket of lukewarm water and a washcloth. Bed baths weren’t an uncommon ritual when Jūshirō was at his sickest and although it had been awkward at first, she’d read that bathing could help lower fevers in addition to promoting comfort. His temperature that morning had been 38 degrees – slightly worrying but still well enough to remain at the estate. One of the many unfortunate side effects of the high temperature was that it made Jūshirō too dizzy to be up for any length of time, and a hot bath would only exacerbate that, so a sponge bath was the next best option.

It helped that he wasn’t conscious long enough to properly argue with her. Not that he would have stood a chance regardless.

“Jūshirō,” she called softly, “I’m going to give you a bath.”

She wasn’t surprised with the lack of response. What was concerning was the sweat that seemed to be pouring off him, his bangs plastered to his forehead. Reaching out, she gently brushed his hair back from his face, frowning when her finger brushed his forehead.

Too hot, she thought to herself. His temperature has gone back up again.

Grabbing the thermometer from the station of care items she’d set up near the bed she let out a quiet chuckle. A tympanic thermometer – something Ichigo Kurosaki had brought to Soul Society after being dumbfounded that the Fourth Division still used oral and axilla thermometers. Kagomei had to admit that the device was very useful as she gently inserted it into Jūshirō’s ear and waited the two or three seconds for it to beep and tell her it was done. Sitting back, she stared down at the device in disbelief.

“40.1 degrees? Dammit!”

Kagomei moved to call a Hell Butterfly when she was stopped by a hand grabbing her wrist.

“Jūshirō?”

His eyelids fluttered and Kagomei could see that he was struggling to open his eyes and to wake-up.

“Just relax,” she soothed as his grip on her wrist tightened. “You’re at Ugendō but you’ve got a high fever. You need to let me call Captain Unohana.”

“Who…are you?” Jūshirō’s voice was strained and hoarse when he finally spoke. It wasn’t the tone of his voice that concerned Kagomei, however, it was the words themselves that he’d spoken.

“Jushiro,” she said, trying to quell a rising panic within her, “let go of my arm.”

“How did you get in here?” He asked and although he was looking at her this time, Kagomei could see the fever in his eyes. His normally bright and alert gaze was now hazy and unfocused.

“I came in with you.” she answered calmly. “You spent some time in the Fourth Division because you were sick but Captain Unohana said you were well enough to leave – that was yesterday.”

As she spoke she tried nonchalantly to wiggle her wrist free of his grasp but his grip was like iron and even in his state of illness Kagomei wasn’t strong enough to break it without using her other hand.

“You’re lying.”

Kagomei froze as warning bells started going off at the back of her mind. Before she could think of a way to respond he’d reached up and grabbed the collar of her kosode, pulling her down until they were face-to-face. Close-up, Kagomei could feel the heat radiating off his skin and could hear the faint wheeze in his lungs.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he said lowly, “so I’m going to give you a chance to tell me the truth: who sent you and why are you here?”

“I’m not lying to you.” she said slowly, hoping that her tone conveyed calm. “You have a fever of 40.1 degrees and that might be why you’re confused but we know each other…quite well.”

For a moment they just stared at one another without speaking a word, and from her proximity, Kagomei could see his confusion as he struggled to consolidate what she was saying with his version of reality.

It broke her heart all over again to see him this way.

“Ukitake?”

Kagomei almost laughed out loud when she heard Shunsui’s voice from over her shoulder. His entrance couldn’t have been better timed if it had been planned.

Jūshirō’s brows furrowed. “Kyōraku?” he asked.

“Yare yare, what have I walked-in on this afternoon?”

Kagomei half-snorted; leave it to Shunsui to make everything an innuendo. Despite his lighthearted teasing, she could hear a tightness to his voice that wasn’t normally there and it relieved her to know that he understood that all was not well.

“She broke in,” Jūshirō said, his grip on the kosode tightening. Kagomei shook her head reflexively and opened her mouth to speak but was silenced by Shunsui’s hand on her back.

“A beautiful young woman breaks into your estate and you treat her like this? Shame on you Ukitake – let her go.”

Kagomei could see Jūshirō’s internal debate over Shunsui’s words. Millenia of trust and friendship overruled whatever the fever had caused him to believe, however, and he slowly released his grip on her clothing.

“You stay here and let me take care of this okay, Ukitake?” Without waiting for a response from the sickly captain, Kagomei felt Shunsui’s hand on her elbow, helping her to her feet and out of the room. As soon as the screen door closed behind them, Kagomei let out the breath she’d been holding since she’d walked into the room initially. Instinctively, she reached up to flatten the collar of her kosode where it had been bunched in Jūshirō’s hand.

Shunsui’s fingers against hers brought her back to the present moment and when she looked up at him she was taken aback by the intensity of his gaze. He was such a carefree man that in the rare moments he was serious, the shift in him was monumental.

“Are you all right?” He asked.

She nodded, “Yes – of course. He just startled me…”

Shunsui made a noncommittal noise, “He needs to go back to the Fourth?”

“Definitely. I’ve never seen him like this-”

Whatever else she had planned to say was cut off by the sound of soft laughter and indistinguishable mumbles coming from the other side of the screen door.

“Mmm. Well whatever he’s hallucinating about can’t be that bad.” Shunsui joked when the sound had died off.

The glare Kagomei gave him must have been more potent than she’d imagined because he summoned a Hell Butterfly so quickly it was almost comical. Kagomei watched the butterfly disappear and expected to feel relieved, but couldn’t deny that sadness that settled into her chest. Jūshirō’s illness was a normal abnormal in their lives but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with the reality of watching such a strong and dignified man become so weak and disoriented.

They stood in relative silence until the medics from the Fourth Division arrived. Kagomei briefed them about what had happened while Shunsui helped them to get Jūshirō onto the stretcher. They’d stopped hearing any noise from inside the bedroom soon after the Hell Butterfly had been sent and Kagomei wasn’t surprised to see that he’d fallen unconscious again.

“We’re going to take him now,” one of the medics said, although they didn’t wait for a response before taking their leave.

Shunsui sighed next to her, “Well…shall we?” he asked.

“I guess we shall.” Kagomei said with a sad smile.

Jūshirō’s consciousness came back to him long before he was able to open his eyes. It was always this way – his mind recovered faster than his body could. Usually, he floated in and out of sleep until he could wake up properly but from time to time he caught an interesting bit of conversation that was worth listening to. It wasn’t that he was eavesdropping, but, listening to the conversations between the nurses could be quite entertaining. They often assumed he was still unconscious and couldn’t hear them speaking, however, he’d listened to more than he would ever admit to about various relationships – some quite scandalous.

What kept him awake this time was the sound of Kyōraku’s voice. He could hear his friend’s deep baritone even though he couldn’t make out the words. It sounded as if his friend was speaking through a cloth and it would take a couple of minutes before the words made sense. In the meantime, Jūshirō was content to listen to the voices around him; they must have had him on the good painkillers because the pain in his throat and chest was nothing but a dull ache.

Which unfortunately also meant that the attack had been severe.

“Well handsome, are you going to open your eyes and give me a glimpse of those lovely brown eyes of yours…Ukitake?”

Jūshirō almost wished that he hadn’t been able to understand Kyōraku’s words, the man was prone to such cliché. All the same, the familiar banter lifted his spirits. It took a few moments to open his eyes but when he did the harsh hospital lights were blinding and he reflexively tried to bring an arm up to cover his eyes.

“Don’t move that arm you’ll pull your line out.” Kyōraku’s voice accompanied the hand on his arm. “Sorry Ukitake – I forgot about the lights.”

“It’s all right,” Jūshirō croaked – his throat was so dry – and opened his eyes again to a much darker room. It still took his eyes a moment to adjust and when they did he was disappointed to see that only Kyōraku was in the room.

“I’ve made her go get some proper sleep and a decent meal.” Kyōraku said, seemingly answering Jūshirō’s thoughts. He also brought closer the cup of ice chips sitting on the bedside table, and although it was half-empty – clearly the boredom must have gotten to Kyōraku – Jūshirō accepted them gratefully as a way to soothe his throat without upsetting his stomach.

Jūshirō nodded, “Thank you. How long have I been out?”

Kyōraku’s face grew serious, “How much do you remember?”

Jushiro quirked an eyebrow, “Remember? I remember collapsing at the office…was I awake between then and now? I vaguely remember being awake but there’s nothing concrete. Why?”

Kyōraku nodded, “You’ve only been asleep for about a day. You were well enough to go home two days ago but you got sick again after Kagomei-chan took you home.”

“Really? I don’t remember that at all!”

Kyōraku cleared his throat, “Not really that surprising. I can’t even remember the last time you were like that.”

A heavy silence settled between them as they both seemed to digest the full implications of Kyōraku’s words. It was an open – but unspoken – secret that his illness was getting progressively worse, but it was incidents like this that brought that reality to the forefront.

“How is she?” Jūshirō asked quietly.

Kyōraku shrugged, “As well as can be expected. She knew what she was getting herself into, theoretically, but nothing can compare to the reality…” as Kyōraku’s voice trailed off. Jūshirō’s curiosity was piqued – his friend was rarely at a loss for words.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Kyōraku?” As he tried to remain outwardly calm, Jūshirō felt his brain race with questions. Had something happened? Was the reality of his illness too much? That last thought was almost too much to bear and Jūshirō shook his head outright trying to clear it from his mind.

A silence stretched between them for a moment before Kyōraku relented with a long sigh, “There’s no need to look so serious. I’m sure Kagomei-chan would rather I not say anything but it’s something I would want to know.”

“What is?” Jūshirō pressed.

Kyōraku tipped his hat back, “You had a bit of a…scuffle with Kagomei-chan yesterday. I walked in towards the end and she assured me that it was nothing serious but in your delirium, you mistook her as someone who’d broken into Ugendō.”

Jūshirō balked, “What does that mean? What happened? Where is she?” the questions came out so quickly that Kyōraku looked slightly overwhelmed as he held his hands up in front of himself.

“Nothing happened,” Kyōraku said. “You grabbed her by her uniform – detained her would be a better word.”

“Is she okay?” What had he done?

“She is fine.”

With all his attention centered on Kyōraku, the voice coming from the doorway nearly made him jump out of his skin.

“Kagomei,” her name came out of his mouth like a prayer.

The smile she gave him was soft and made his chest warm. The glare she gave to Kyōraku was the exact opposite, however.

“You told him?” she demanded.

Kyōraku cleared his throat, “…I think it’s time for me to go. My Nanao-chan will no doubt have some paperwork for me to do. I’ll be back to chat later, Ukitake.”

Jūshirō chuckled softly and waved as Kyōraku snuck out of the room – artfully avoiding Kagomei’s question at the same time. There was an awkward moment that hung in the air after Kyōraku had gone and Jūshirō took the time to take a good look at the woman in front of him. From across the room she looked perfectly intact – there were no bruises on her wrists or anywhere else that he could see.

“Stop it. I’m fine.” Kagomei said as if she could read his mind.

“Come closer.” He had to be sure for himself.

Her expression softened, but nonetheless she put down the bad she’d brought in and walked across to him, taking a hold of his outstretched hand. Her other hand came up and brushed his hair away from his face, fingertips grazing down the side of his face. The difference from when she’d last seen him – feverish and delirious – was alarming but comforting.

“Nothing happened.” she asserted again in response to the worry in his expression. “You grabbed the front of my kosode and my wrist, but, like I’m sure Kyōraku explained, you were too sick to know who I was. It was a little bit of a scare, sure, but nothing serious.”

His grip on her hand tightened and he took a moment to consider her words. After a moment he slowly relaxed, which was reassuring to Kagomei.

“This has never happened before,” he began, “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

Kagomei nodded, “I understand that, and I don’t doubt that you could have hurt me, but I don’t think it would have happened. You’re not one to settle issues with your fists…and I mean it’s not like I can’t hold my own. I may not be anywhere near as strong as you, but I could have gotten away had I really needed to.”

Jūshirō laughed softly, “Fair enough. As long as you’re sure you’re okay?”

She rolled her eyes, “If you ask one more time I might not be. Besides – I should be the one asking you that, shouldn’t I?”

“I’m feeling…more coherent,” he said, “I feel like I’m actually awake for the first time in a while…but tired.”

She made a sound in agreement, he did look tired but it was sometimes hard to distinguish between what was sickness and what was fatigue.

“And the pain?” she asked.

He shrugged, “The discomfort comes and goes as it always does. They keep it pretty well under control.”

“Good,” she smiled. “Now why don’t you go back to sleep?”

Although he opened his mouth to protest, the yawn that overtook him cut off any argument he’d formed in his head.

Kagomei laughed and leaned over him to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Go to sleep,” she demanded softly, “I’ll be here when you wake up. I love you.”

“I love you too…” he murmured sleepily. The moment he closed his eyes the exhaustion washed over him like a wave. Even though all he’d done was speak since waking, his body was clearly still at its limits. Within seconds he felt himself drifting, and with the spiritual pressure of the woman he loved surrounding him, he relaxed and let sleep take him.

#Bleach #Ukitake #jushiro ukitake #ukitake jūshirō #Fanfiction #SickFic #He's just perfect for hurt/comfort fics what can I say

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paris-mystere · 8 years

Text

o fortuna: chapter twelve

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Content Warning: pretentious philosophical crap Summary: What an ominous thing to say on Thursday the 12th! Are you sure you want to press your luck on a day like today?

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

AO3 | FF.net

xii. melt like ice

"This is bad, Tikki. Really bad!"

Marinette paces across her bedroom floor, phone clutched tightly in one hand. She's gesturing wildly with her other hand, making frantic movements without aim or purpose. Tikki watches silently, lips pressed together into a thin line.

"Oh my god, Tikki," Marinette continues, still pacing. "What am I going to do? What am I going to tell my parents?!"

"Alya still does not know your identity," Tikki offers optimistically.

"She knows what school I go to!" Marinette exclaims. She extends her phone out with one hand, practically shoving it in Tikki's face. Tikki delicately backs away from the device, but Marinette hardly seems to notice. "She knows what neighborhood I live in! There aren't that many girls at Françoise Dupont—and Alya's really smart. She's going to figure it out eventually."

"Perhaps not," Tikki says sagely.

Marinette does not look comforted. But Tikki is an old, old creature. The actions of one over-ambitious teenage girl are not very concerning to the millenia-old embodiment of good luck—even if said girl's blog does have readership in the tens of thousands.

"Uggghhh," Marinette says. She flops back dramatically onto her chaise, arms crossed over her chest. "I should've known that this would happen! That map—she' s had it for months now! And all those videos she's got of Ladybug flying out of the school courtyard—and oh no, do you think she's going to figure out Chat Noir, too?"

Tikki doesn't address any of those concerns. She floats over to Marinette, hovering near her head, and says gently, "We just need to convince Alya that she's mistaken. I'm sure we can figure something out if we work together."

Marinette is still white-faced and panicky. But she nods sharply. "Yeah, okay. A plan."

"Ladybug is great at plans," Tikki reminds her.

"Yeah," Marinette agrees. Almost instantly, her mood switches from dismay to determination. The change is so swift that it might've surprised Tikki thirty or forty thousand years ago. As it is, Tikki finds Marinette's reaction wholly expected.

"Okay," Marinette is saying. "Yeah, I'm great at plans. We can totally do this! Let's get some, like, notebook paper or something. We're gonna get this worked out."

Tikki smiles benevolently. "That's the spirit," she says sweetly.

The apartment above Master Fu's Enchanted Artifacts and Appraisal, quite unlike the store itself, is clean, minimalistic, and sparsely decorated.

The curtains—plain and white—have been drawn on all the windows, but inside it's still brightly lit. Adrien sits at Fu's kitchen table, holding a steadily cooling mug of tea in his hands. Fu sits across from him, sipping slowly at his own tea, with his kwami perched on the table near him.

Fu's kwami did not look much like Plagg. For one thing, its shape was... fuzzier. The longer Adrien looked at it, the less certain he was of what he was seeing.

Those cold eyes though. Those were clear enough, and they sent a shiver down Adrien's spine.

Plagg, for his part, has decided that this would be a wonderful time to display all the affection he usually withholds. He climbs all over Adrien, crawling from one shoulder to the other, nuzzling up almost possessively against Adrien's neck, hissing slightly all the while.

"C'mon, Plagg," Adrien whispers to the kwami. He reaches up with one hand to stroke behind Plagg's ears nervously.

"You'll have to forgive our kwami," Fu says calmly. He offers the boy a small smile. "They are... opposing forces, so to speak. It is not in their nature to get along."

"Can it, old man," Plagg hisses. He leaps down from Adrien's shoulder to stalk along the table, and Fu's kwami watches with critical eyes. "Gwayy has been interfering in my affairs for the last two hundred years—"

"Oh, honestly, Plagg," Fu's kwami interrupts. "I haven't gone by that name in a thousand years. And they're not your affairs."

Plagg bares his teeth. "You have brought us nothing but trouble, Wayzz. This is my home, and you are not welcome here."

"We are kwami, Plagg," Wayzz says sternly. "We don't have homes."

Plagg makes a dark, rumbling sound that could almost be called a laugh. Adrien looks up nervously at Fu, but the old man only sips calmly at his tea.

"I was born here," Plagg growls, "carved out of the hopes and fears of humans first crossing these seas. Fifty thousand years I have lived here, the ghost of those cold, cruel ocean waves. I was old before humankind had even the vaguest notion of you. This place has been my home for longer than you have existed."

"You can't lay claim to the entire Mediterranean, Plagg," Wayzz says calmly.

"Watch me!" Plagg spits. "You should go back to Serica, where you belong."

"I go where I am needed," Wayzz says.

"Where you are needed?" Plagg hisses. "Where you are NEEDED?"

The lights in the room flicker. For a moment, Plagg seems to transform before Adrien's eyes—no longer a cat-like creature, but instead a hideous multi-dimensional monstrosity, echoes and shadows of his form rippling across the space that he occupies. His appearance is indescribable—black and ragged and sharp—and almost painful to behold. Plagg looks like the very personification of darkness, of destruction.

"Did Félix NEED to get killed by your stupid, worthless harpy of a peacock—"

"Plagg," Fu interrupts softly.

In an instant, Plagg returns to his normal form. Realizing what he's said, he shrinks in on himself and whirls around to face Adrien, horror writ clear across his expression.

"It's okay," Adrien says gently. He holds out one hand towards Plagg, and the kwami tentatively flies to it, pressing his head gently against Adrien's fingers. "I kind of already suspected."

"Did you indeed?" Fu asks. He sets down his tea, watching Adrien with unreadable eyes.

"The Miraculouses came from somewhere, didn't they?" Adrien smiles wryly. "Something had to have happened to the wielders that came before us."

"And your mother?"

Adrien keeps his expression carefully neutral. "Father always said that she was a troublemaker."

"Hmm," Fu says. "And what makes you think I would know anything about that?"

Adrien's eyes slide over to Plagg.

"Just a hunch," he says lightly. Fu takes another slow sip from his tea.

"You were there," Adrien guesses. "The Trocadéro Disaster."

Fu says nothing, but his silence is answer enough for Adrien. There's a certain tenseness in his jaw, a hardness in his eyes, that belies the truth. For the first time in seven years, he feels a faint glimmer of hope.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Adrien asks. "I just—I want to understand."

Fu inhales slowly, closing his eyes. He traces his fingers in a slow spiral on the tabletop, contemplative, and for a moment Adrien is half-afraid that he won't answer. But, after a pause, he begins speaking softly.

"Many years ago," he says, "my companions and I found ourselves in possession of an unclaimed Miraculous. We each agreed that it would be too dangerous to allow any one of us to wield two at once, and so we decided that we should seek out a new wielder. As the oldest of our group, that responsibility fell to me."

Adrien nods along to the story, hardly surprised. "After much consideration," Fu continues, "I selected your mother to wield the peacock Miraculous. Your mother was an incredible young woman. Kind, principled, strong. She had all the makings of an excellent wielder. Someone who would use her power for good, and defend against those who used their powers for evil. But..."

Fu pauses a moment. Adrien says dully, "You made a mistake."

Another pause. "I did," Fu admits. "She was a poor match for her kwami. Your mother might have made a wonderful hero in other circumstances, but Duusu had a way of bringing out the worst in her."

"Plagg... explained some of that to me," Adrien admits.

"Power changes people," Fu says. He takes a long, slow sip from his tea. "Your mother was a very good person. She only ever wanted to help people. But somewhere along the way she lost sight of that. Her desire to protect people became a desire to control them..."

Fu falls silent, so Adrien continues on for him. "So she became a supervillain instead," he says dryly. Plagg nuzzles gently against his neck.

"Supervillain may not be the correct word," Fu says slowly.

"One hundred and twenty-seven people died," Adrien says flatly. "What else would you call that?"

Fu pauses a moment, staring blankly at the cup of tea in his hands.

"No one wanted that," he finally says. "The Trocadéro incident was..."

Fu trails off again. His kwami looks up at him, concern clear in his eyes, but it's Plagg who eventually speaks.

"A three-way battle between thirteen Miraculous wielders," he says. "Ground zero for an ideological conflict that had been brewing for decades. The humans were just collateral damage."

Adrien glances down at Plagg warily. His kwami offers no further explanation.

"What were you even fighting over?" Adrien finally asks.

"What do humans ever fight over?" Fu asks cryptically.

"That's not an answer."

Fu shakes his head slightly. "It's not," he admits. "But I'm afraid you're not going to get anything much better than that."

He pauses again, taking another long drink from his tea. "Papillon's corruption is obvious," Fu says slowly. "Unquestionable. There is no doubt that he is using his Miraculous for evil purposes. But humans are complicated creatures. Not every battle is so clear-cut."

Adrien's eyebrows draw together, low over his eyes. "I see," he says, even though he doesn't.

"It's alright if you don't understand," Fu says, smiling reassuringly at the boy. "Your mother sincerely believed that what she was doing was for the best. My allies and I believed the same. We did not realize our mistakes until it was too late."

Adrien is silent for a moment, mouth moving wordlessly as he searches for the right thing to say.

"You're the one who gave me the ring," he eventually settles on.

Fu nods once. "I did indeed," he confirms.

"Why?" Adrien asks, the question slipping out before he's quite thought it through. On his shoulder, Plagg grows still. "I mean, after what happened with my mother, out of all the people in Paris... why take a risk on me?"

"You were perfect for her," Fu says simply.

Adrien hesitates a moment, confused. "Her?"

"Ladybug. You can feel it, can't you?"

Yes. Even leaving romantic feelings aside, Adrien has never felt closer to anyone before in his entire life. There are some people that get along so well that you might say they were made for each other. But Adrien and Ladybug weren't even like that. She was his other half, in a way that he wasn't sure was even entirely metaphorical. One could not exist without the other. They were push and pull, yin and yang, creation and destruction...

Good luck and bad luck.

"Why her, then?" Adrien asks quietly.

At that, Fu pauses a moment. "Every Miraculous is different," he begins, "and every Miraculous is dangerous. I spent a long time selecting a new wielder for Tikki. After several years of observation, I had a handful of candidates who all would have been equally suitable. In the end, I suppose there was an element of chance."

Because of course there was.

"Why pick new wielders at all?" Adrien presses on. "Why not just guard them all yourself?"

Fu smiles. "You have a good heart, Adrien," he says, pouring himself another cup of tea. "But no man can be trusted with that much power. Not even me."

Plagg curls up closer to Adrien's neck, and Fu's eyes are drawn to the kwami. "It's easy to forget that they are ancient, godlike beings," Fu says pleasantly. "They adopt such charming forms, don't they?"

Adrien snorts. "I don't know if I'd call Plagg charming, exactly," he says and, unusually, Plagg lets the insult go without comment.

Fu lets out a soft chuckle at the jab, but has no response. Adrien lets the lull in the conversation sit for a moment before he dares to ask the question that he really wanted to know the answer to.

"Is my mother still alive?"

Fu glances away, looking solemn. "I don't know."

"Could you... would it be possible for you to find her?"

Fu half-smiles at that. "If I could track any Miraculous on a whim, I would have dealt with Papillon long ago," he says. Adrien grimaces slightly, but the answer isn't really unexpected. "If she still has her Miraculous, and if I were to happen to get close enough, I might be able to narrow down her location to a city. Perhaps even a neighborhood. But our paths have not crossed since that day."

Adrien breathes out slowly and takes a long drink from his tea. When he finally sets the cup back down, Fu is watching him silently, a faint concern clear in his eyes.

"I should have known," he says dryly. He offers Fu a half-hearted smile. "That's just my luck, huh?"

André Bourgeois had never been loved, but he'd never been hated either. Paris had... tolerated him. He was the consummate politician—all flattering words and thinly veiled threats beneath a veneer of gentility—and while it had never earned him anyone's admiration, it had all been... routine. Expected. Maybe nobody really liked him, but nobody disliked him enough to complain about it.

But now, of course, with formal corruption charges pending against him and a local superheroine only tooglad to hurl insults at Paris's four-time mayor... well. Now everybody loathed Mayor Bourgeois, even—or perhaps, especially—the people who had held their noses and voted for him in the past election.

Chloé had grown accustomed to getting extra attention. To being recognized wherever she went.

She was not accustomed to the cold, accusatory glares that followed her every step.

Chloé leans back heavily in her chair, pretending to read the menu in front of her, but she never gets past the first few lines. It feels like every pair of eyes in the café is on her, and she swears she can hear her own name being whispered in the hushed conversations at nearby tables.

In the seat next to her, Sabrina is oblivious as per usual. She's already decided on her order (salad à la carte, sans dressing) and is blabbering on endlessly, tapping her toes against the floor as she talks. "And I finished your math homework too!" she says. "It was really hard, but after a while I figured it—"

"Do I look like I care?" Chloé cuts in harshly.

Sabrina's smile falls abruptly. Deflating, she mumbles, "I—uh—no, sorry." She adjusts her glasses, awkwardly turning her gaze downward, and falls into silence.

Chloé watches Sabrina for a moment. She feels a pang of... well, something, seeing Sabrina look so downtrodden. It tugs at heartstrings that she didn't know she had. This feeling is suspiciously close to remorse or perhaps even guilt, and if there's one thing that Chloé can't stand, it's being reminded that she's not completely heartless after all.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," Chloé snaps, with the vague hope that she can drown her conscience with still more cruelties. Sabrina sinks down even lower her seat, looking almost as if she's trying to make herself invisible. "Remember that you'd be nothing without me. Nobody else would want to be friends with someone like you."

Sabrina won't look at her, but Chloé can tell that she's upset. Possibly even on the verge of crying. This time, instead of guilt, Chloé feels an empty sort of satisfaction. Her heartstrings sufficiently stranged, Chloé returns her attention to her menu.

By the time Adrien finally strolls into the café, fifteen minutes late and damp from the rain, Chloé has actually managed to make it halfway through the menu. The only son of Gabriel Agreste attracts a fair bit of attention himself, and Chloé hears his name repeated several times in nearby conversations, but he scarcely seems to notice the stares. He smiles at Chloé from the front of the room, waving a little at her, and makes his way over, weaving through the crowded room with surprising ease.

"Hey, Chlo," Adrien says, sliding into the chair on her left. "Nice to see you too, Sabrina. Sorry I'm late."

Chloé lifts her drink up, eyeing Adrien curiously, and takes a long, loud sip from it. "You look like shit," she says flatly.

Adrien seems taken aback. Even Sabrina looks a little surprised.

"Green and red?" Chloé continues, gesturing at his outfit. "You look like a Christmas tree."

Adrien glances down at his shirt. "I, uh," he says awkwardly, scratching at the back of his head. "I guess I didn't notice."

Chloé pauses for a moment, grinding her teeth together. Adrien has about as much fashion sense as a Russian coal miner, so she can't really say that she's surprised he tried to pair a red argyle polo with a forest green undershirt, but something about his reaction feels off to her. There are bags under his eyes and there is something strangely distant about his voice.

She doesn't like it.

"What's wrong?" she asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously at Adrien.

Adrien looks confused. "I don't—"

"Don't lie to me," Chloé interrupts. "Is it your father again? The election?"

Adrien's expression wavers. "It's complicated," he says, looking away.

There used to be a time, Chloé thinks, when Adrien wouldn't have tried to hide it from her.

"Are you okay?" Sabrina asks gently, worry furrowing her brow.

"I'm fine—" Adrien starts to say.

"Shut up, Sabrina, no one asked you!" Chloé snaps viciously.

Sabrina jumps slightly in her seat and redirects her gaze downward. Adrien gives Chloé a pointed look, but says nothing.

Chloé is still trying to decide whether she's going to drag the truth out of Adrien or let him sulk on his own when a stroke of bad luck renders the question pointless. A waiter approaching their table, cursed by some combination of clumsiness and misfortune, stumbles slightly as he walks past. A few inches to the left and it wouldn't have mattered—well, not to Chloé, anyway—but as it was, the waiter was not a few inches to the left. Chloé, cursed by some combination of karma and misfortune, ends up with two glasses worth of cherry cola soaking through her yellow silk blouse.

Furious, she rises up to her feet and whirls on the waiter. The waiter shrinks back slightly, apologies on the tip of his tongue.

"You!" she snarls, advancing on him.

The Ladyblog names this one the Chevalier Blanc.

Adrien understands why she would, of course. The akumatized man wears bright, shining armor and has a really lovely longsword and an awful lot to say about the death of chivalry (and civilization in general), and how could Alya possibly resist captioning her exclusive video coverage as Blanc vs. Noir?

The name feels ominous to him, though.

It starts as a fairly standard fight: Adrien dives over tables and pushes past terrified civilians to find a safe spot to transform. Chloé, despite being the cause of the day's akumatization, manages to wriggle her way out of the restaurant with surprising ease, leaving behind the akumatized waiter with nothing to take his anger out on except a crowd of innocent bystanders.

It's good luck, perhaps, that the Chevalier Blanc is more interested in ranting than actually putting that sword to use. He postures, and he raves, but ultimatelyhe is one of Papillon's less threatening villains.

Well, for the most part, at least...

Ladybug swings into the fray about six minutes post-akumatization, wearing a scowl and exactly one pigtail. The other half of her hair is woven into an elaborate braid.

Chat can't help but smile at the sight, which just prompts Ladybug's scowl to deepen.

"Don't—" she begins curtly.

"You look beautiful as always, my Lady," Chat Noir says.

Ladybug rolls her eyes slightly, but she's more amused than annoyed. "Let's take care of this one quickly," she says, all business. "I promised my best friend that I'd be back soon, and I don't think she's going to appreciate it if I'm gone for hours. Plus I saw the Chevalier Noir on my way over here, and I'd prefer to get this taken care of before he murders somebody."

"No problem," Chat says. "The akuma's in his shield."

Ladybug nods sharply. "Can you keep him busy?"

Chat smirks slightly. "I thought you'd never ask."

Ladybug hurls her yoyo into the sky and swings off, leaving Chat Noir to one-on-one the Chevalier Blanc.

"Over here, garçon!" Chat Noir calls out, as obnoxiously as he can manage. "I think there's a butterfly in my soup!"

The Chevalier Blanc curls one lip. "You don't even have soup!" he bellows, as if this fact alone is grievously offensive to him.

Chat Noir's staff is not, strictly speaking, intended for use as a sword. But Adrien's training is mostly in fencing, and when fighting against a sword-wielding enemy, it works well enough. The balance is a little awkward, and the weapon is much heavier than a sabre, but he thinks that he does pretty well for himself.

And so, naturally, the worst possible thing happens while he's fighting the Chevalier Blanc. Chat Noir miscalculates.

He supposes it's not that unexpected. He is only human, after all. He realizes too late that he's fallen for a feint, and that the Chevalier Blanc's very real sword is just seconds away from—no, currently grazing across his unprotected abdomen, slicing easily through both his suit and his skin, and Chat Noir backs away quickly, one hand pressed to the cut.

It's just a surface wound, but it hurts. They never covered this in fencing lessons...

Chat is on the defensive now, losing ground steadily, as the Chevalier Blanc presses his advantage. A few parries later, and his staff is knocked out of his hand, skittering down along the sidewalk.

It's absolutely the wrong reaction to have, but Chat Noir freezes. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for impact and holding out a vain hope that Ladybug will swing in to save him at the last minute...

Well, somebody saves him, all right. A moment passes and Chat dares to crack one eye open. The akumatized villain, miraculously, had decided against finishing him off due to the abrupt appearance of Paris's favorite black knight vigilante—or rather, more to the point, the abrupt apperance a stray crossbow bolt that just barely missed impaling him through the skull.

Chat stands in place for a moment, watching blankly as the Chevalier Noir swaps out his crossbow for a sword and launches himself at his white knight counterpart, running at a full sprint—or, at least, as close to a sprint as one can get while wearing a full suit of armor. After another second, Chat Noir rouses himself from his stupor—he can't just let this guy murder some poor unlucky waiter, after all.

Not that there was any need, as it turned out. By the time Chat Noir finally moves to action, Ladybug has already knocked the akumatized shield out of Blanc's grip and cracked it in two with her bare hands. With a flick of her fingers, the butterfly turns from black to white, Chat Noir's wound is healed, and the waiter is left on the ground, blinking rapidly and suddenly very confused.

The Chevalier Noir lowers his sword. Without another word, he turns as if to leave the scene without another word, and Ladybug watches him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. She's not happy, Chat can tell, but she also can't deny that he was an unexpectedly useful distraction in this fight.

"Wait!" Chat finds himself saying, half-reaching out towards the Chevalier.

Two pairs of eyes slide over to him—Ladybug's, narrowed and worried, and the Chevalier's, impossible to read beneath the grated mask of his helm.

"Thanks," he says, a little awkwardly. He reaches up to scratch at the back of his head. "For, you know..."

The Chevalier Noir hesitates another moment, considering him carefully.

"You should keep your footwork smaller," he suggests, speaking every word slowly and carefully. "It will help you control the distance. You let him get too close."

Adrien's heart skips a beat.

That lecture is too familiar to be a coincidence.

"Thank you," he manages to say, his mouth dry and his pulse fluttery.

The Chevalier stares at him for another long, long moment.

"Until next time," he says politely. He bows his head slightly, and then walks out of the square, clanking faintly with every footstep.

Ladybug waits until the Chevalier is out of earshot before speaking. She spares a glance at the freshly de-akumatized waiter, still kneeling on the ground and looking increasingly like he's on the verge of a panic attack, then slides her gaze back over to Chat.

"What was that about?" she asks quietly, motioning with her head towards the distant figure of the Chevalier.

Chat Noir only shakes his head.

Ladybug doesn't push the matter at first. Everyone deserves to have some secrets, after all. She knows that better than most people.

But Chat Noir's mood doesn't improve—if anything, he grows gloomier—and by the time Thursday patrol rolls around, she has to admit that she's beginning to get a little worried.

(Not to mention the tiny issue that she's made absolutely no progress with Alya, who is getting ever-closer to figuring out her civilian identity despite Marinette's frantic attempts to dissuade her...)

"You know," Ladybug says, landing beside him at the Notre Dame, "tomorrow will be our nine month anniversary. What do you think of that?"

Chat Noir shakes his head slowly. He's staring out blankly at the Seine, lost in thought. Instead of making some light-hearted pun or trying to flirt with her, he admits softly, "I don't know."

Ladybug purses her lips. "You know," she admits, "I kind of thought that we would have defeated Papillon by now."

Chat nods once, to show that he heard, but says nothing.

The evening is quiet. Too quiet, really. Much as Ladybug is loathe to admit it, some of those things that her detractors have been saying are a little bit true. Paris in mid-June should have been overflowing with tourists, filled with people from every corner of the globe and conversations in dozens of languages. Instead, the streets are empty and silent. Even the locals mostly keep to themselves, going out only when necessary. Ladybug could see only a handful of brave souls walking down sidewalks that should have been swarmed with crowds.

"I think," Chat Noir says slowly, "that someone may have figured out my identity."

Ladybug stiffens. "Who?"

Chat hesitates a moment, muscles twitching on his jaw. Ladybug is already imagining dozens of worst-case scenarios when he finally answers. "The Chevalier Noir."

"The—the Chevalier?!" Ladybug splutters. "How!?"

Chat Noir shakes his head slightly. "I can't explain without telling you who I am," he says cautiously. He glances over at her tentatively, green eyes glittering in the evening light. "Do you still want to know?"

For a brief second, Ladybug feels a flicker of panic, like someone reached into her chest and squeezed.

A part of her—the part of her that's currently quaking in terror—wants to know everything. The Chevalier is no friend of theirs, and she can only imagine what kind of trouble that he'll bring if he really does know Chat's civilian identity. What kind of havoc could he wreak with that information?

Another part of her—the part of her that's a superhero first and a scared teenage girl later—assesses the situation with a cold critical eye and says, voice level, "No. Are you sure that he knows?"

Chat Noir bites down on the inside of his cheek, contemplative. "He hasn't done anything yet."

"But will he?"

Chat shakes his head slightly. "I don't know," he answers honestly.

Ladybug exhales slowly.

A part of her wants to confide in him about Alya, and the Ladyblog, and about how very close her best friend is coming to outing her own identity as well. But she can't risk letting Chat know that Alya's on the right track.

So she forces a tight smile, and says, "Well, if he knows, then he hasn't outed you yet. All we can do now is hope that our luck holds."

Chat Noir hardly looks comforted. But he shrugs a little and mumbles, "I suppose you're right."

Ladybug really hopes that she is.

He knows.

On Friday, D'Argencourt cancels their fencing lesson again. Nathalie feeds him some story about a family emergency that Adrien smiles and nods along to, but his stomach feels like lead.

The words swirl around in his head, stark and cold and terrifying. He knows.

Plagg, unhelpfully, has no real advice to offer him.

"Someone usually figures it out eventually," his kwami says, sounding unbothered. "Either it'll all end in disaster... or it won't! No sense in agonizing over it. Slow down a little bit. Enjoy some cheese. This Pont l'Évêque is excellent..."

Adrien glowers a little bit at Plagg. "It smells like a sewer," he says.

"Suit yourself," Plagg says, devouring another wedge.

Adrien spends about thirty seconds watching his kwami eat the sewer-cheese, before deciding that he's going to need more of a distraction to get through the day.

He eventually settles on a trip to the library and ends up piling all his schoolbooks into his backpack. Plagg looks skeptical, but Adrien shepherds him and his cheese into the backpack as well, and after a quick check-in with Nathalie he's on his way.

Unfortunately, it seems half of Paris has also decided that they would love to spend the day at the library. He supposes that it makes sense, with the brevet just two weeks away, but the sheer number of people in the library makes it awfully difficult for him to find a quiet little corner where he can sulk in peace.

He's still looking for an empty table or study carrel when a familiar voice startles him.

"I'm not saying that you're wrong," Marinette was saying, "but maybe you're jumping to conclusions too fast. There are a lot of reasons... um... a lot of reasons why..."

She trails off. Adrien steps around the corner, and is surprised to see that she's sitting alone.

Marinette taps her pencil against the table, and after another pause, goes to scratch down something on a sheet of notebook paper.

"A... lot... of... reasons," she says slowly, writing the words down one at a time, "the... akumas... might... be..."

Adrien finds himself smiling.

"Helping Alya with her blog?" he asks.

Marinette jumps up in her seat, visibly startled. She whirls around to look at him, and all at once her face turns bright red.

"Oh, Adrien!" she squeaks. "Yes, it's about the Alyablog—I mean, Alya's blog—I was just—um—you know, going over s-s-some..."

She trails off, looking mortified. Adrien feels a stab of guilt.

"Sorry," he apologizes quickly. "I shouldn't have interrupted."

"No!" Marinette blurts out loudly, gathering the attention of a few nearby students. Marinette's face grows redder and she whispers, more quietly, "No, no, you're fine—I mean, it's fine—I mean—"

Adrien furrows his brow slightly. He's half-afraid that he's overstepping a boundary, but...

"Mind if I sit with you?" Adrien asks casually. He flashes her a nervous smile.

Marinette's eyes go wide.

"Y-yes," she says, nodding her head a few times. "I mean—no! I mean—I wouldn't mind at all, um, please have a seat."

Marinette gestures awkwardly with her hands at the open seats around the table. Adrien presses one hand to his lips, trying and mostly failing to suppress a laugh, and slides into the chair across from her.

"Alya's pretty intense about that Ladybug stuff, huh?" Adrien asks.

Marinette groans softly and buries her face in her arms.

"I wish she wasn't," she mutters bitterly. Her stutter has mysteriously vanished.

"Oh?" Adrien asks.

"She's so... reckless," Marinette says, propping her head up on one hand. "I feel like she doesn't understand how dangerous the things that she's getting involved with are! And now she's trying to out Ladybug's civilian identity—ughh!"

Adrien hesitates a moment. "It's natural that she would be curious," he says carefully.

"Curious, sure," Marinette says, gesturing with her free hand. "But doesn't she realize how dangerous it would be if Ladybug's civilian identity got out? Not just for Ladybug—for her friends, her family, everyone around her."

Adrien nods along, knowing that she's right, even if he doesn't particularly like hearing it.

"But Alya doesn't care about that," Marinette continues, one hand curling into a fist. "She doesn't think about consequences! She's just so—"

Marinette cuts off, making a gurgling sound of frustration. She throws both her hands up into the air, to demonstrate just how much it bothers her, and Adrien can't help but laugh a little.

Marinette freezes in place. "Was that—was that weird?" she asks, suddenly nervous again.

Adrien shakes his head. "No!" he says quickly. "I've just... never seen you get so animated like that before." He looks away, flushing slightly. "It's... kind of cute."

Marinette makes a high-pitched, shrill sound. "C-cute?"

"I mean—no, not cute!" Adrien says quickly, suddenly afraid that he's offended her. "Nope, not cute at all."

All at once, the blood seems to drain out of Marinette's face. "It's... not?" she asks, voice small.

"I mean—yes. Yes, you're very cute." Adrien gestures helplessly with his hands, practically flailing. He thinks he might hear a faint snicker from the direction of his schoolbag. "But not like children or kittens are cute! You're cute in way that's—that's not patronizing.

Some of the color returns to Marinette's cheeks. "I..." she says awkwardly. "Um."

Adrien buries his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he says, only he's talking through his fingers, so it comes out more like mmm owwee. "I'm not—I was homeschooled until this year, you know. I'm not... good at this."

Marinette laughs a little, which gives him enough courage to lift his head. "Not good at what?"

"This," Adrien says, holding his hands out in front of him. "Talking to people without offending them."

She laughs again. "I'm not offended," she says, looking away nervously. "You could never..."

Adrien's heart feels strangely light in his chest. "Really?"

"Really," Marinette says. Her flush grows deeper, and she forces out an awkward laugh. "I mean, um..."

"I just," Adrien says, also looking away, "I've always kind of thought that you..."

Marinette watches him with a strange expression. "That I?" she prompts, almost nervously.

"That you were still mad," Adrien admits. He finds himself looking away again. "About, you know... when we first met."

Marinette's still got a strange expression. She shakes her head wordlessly.

They fall into an awkward silence, neither one of them quite able to meet the other's eye.

It's probably a bad idea, but the words come tumbling out of Adrien's mouth before he can quite stop them.

"Do you want to hang out some time?" Adrien asks, unprompted. Marinette glances over at him, eyes gone wide. "I mean—you don't have to. Well, of course you don't have to! It's just—this whole friendship thing. It's still kind of new for me, and..."

Adrien trails off. Marinette is watching him with a strange, soft expression that he doesn't know how to name. It's making his heart flutter in strange ways and he doesn't understand why.

"Yes," Marinette says softly, all traces of her previous awkwardness vanished into nothing. "I would love to."

Adrien thinks that he should probably answer her, or at least say something, but instead he finds himself drawn into her eyes. He's staring right into them, and she's staring back, and he wonders if it would be inappropriate to reach out and brush her hair our of her eyes...

Marinette's phone beeps, abruptly ruining the moment.

Marinette fumbles nervously for her cell phone, and swipes on the screen to unlock it. "Oh no—it' s Alya," she says. She stands up and starts shoveling her belongings into her schoolbag. "I've got to go—um—sorry to cut things short—"

"No, don't worry about it, it's not a problem at all," Adrien says quickly. "I'll, uh, see you later?"

"Yeah!" Marinette says quickly, bobbing her head up and down. "Totally. Um, yeah."

And with that, Marinette sweeps out of the room with all the grace of a flightless bird, tripping slightly on her own feet as she makes her way out.

A part of Marinette wants to say, Okay, Alya, this better be good because I was just having a really great time with love-of-my-life Adrien Agreste!

But Marinette doesn't say that, of course. She's spent the better part of a week trying to dissuade Alya from pursuing Ladybug's civilian identity, and sometimes a girl just has to admit that there are more important things in her life than finally managing to get through a coherent conversation with the boy that she likes.

"Sooo, Alya," Marinette begins tentatively. "I've been thinking some more about Ladybug's civilian identity, and I think that you might be on the wrong track..."

"No time for that!" Alya says, snapping her head up. Marinette thinks for a moment that Alya might be mad at her, but Alya waves one hand dismissively at her. "That's great, but I'm working on something way bigger right now, so tell me about it later!"

Marinette freezes in place, furrowing her brow. "Bigger than Ladybug's civilian identity?"

Alya shrugs one shoulder. "Okay, maybe not," Alya admits. She flips through a few pages of her notes, searching for a particular page. "I mean, definitely not. But whatever! I'm finally making some progress on this historical Ladybug stuff, and it is the coolest thing ever and I need you to listen to me freak out for a while."

Marinette hesitates a second. She's not sure whether she should count her blessings or be more worried about what kind of wild theories Alya has cooked up this time.

"You remember that Egyptian magic goddess, Isis?" Alya asks, after a beat.

No, Marinette thinks.

"Yeah?" Marinette says, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve.

"I've been doing some more research on her," Alya says, flipping through some of her notes. She eventually finds what she's looking for, and passes a stack of papers over to Marinette. "I think Adrien really was on the right track. Look at this!"

Marinette looks, brow furrowed.

"Saint-Germain-des-Prés was the site of an ancient Lutetian temple to the Egyptian goddess Isis," she reads aloud. She blinks a few times. "Uhh... are you sure that's real? This kind of sounds like one of those Mayan apocalypse conspiracy theories..."

"No, no," Alya says quickly. "Well, yes, but—never mind." She leans over Marinette's shoulder, pointing lower on the page. "Down here, look at the picture!"

Marinette looks.

"I don't get it," she admits.

"That's a two-thousand year old statuette from Ptolemaic Egypt!" Alya explains breathlessly.

"Uh-huh," Marinette says, nodding along as if she actually understands what "Ptolemaic" is supposed to mean.

"That's it, Marinette!" Alya continues on. "The missing link! I mean, sort of. I mean—well, it's the hybrid goddess Isis-Tyche, anyway."

Marinette pauses, tilting her head slightly to one side. "Who...?" she asks, voice tight.

"Isis-Tyche," Alya repeats. Seeing Marinette's confusion, she flips through her notes again. "Tyche was the Greek goddess of luck," she explains. "But she was also called—and this is where it gets weird—the 'Protectress of Cities.' Sound like anybody else you know?"

Yes, Marinette thinks. Tyche and Tikki sound awfully similar, don't they?

"It gets better," Alya continues, blind to Marinette's chagrin. "Tyche was worshipped basically everywhere in the Mediterranean, but in every city she was a little bit different. In Rome, she was merged with their luck goddess into Tyche-Fortuna. In Turkey, she was merged with Cybele. In Alexandria she was Amazonian, and in Beirut she was Phoenician! In some places, she was even a dude."

Marinette stares blankly at the page before her.

She knew that Tikki—Tyche—whatever, was old. She knew that there were other Ladybugs that came before her. That some of them, probably, had worked their way into history books.

She had never quite imagined that Alya's goddess theory would turn out to be right after all. Especially not after Tikki had specifically denied that there was any truth in it.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," Alya continues, holding up her hands. "You might say that it's normal that were would be some regional variations in religion. Except I have this account from a Greek historian, who says that a girl named Calliope was sacrificed to purify the city of Antioch, and later their Tyche statue was built in her likeness, so I'm thinking—"

"Wait—sacrified?" Marinette interrupts.

Alya pauses briefly, looking taken aback. "Well, yeah," she mumbles. "That Miraculous stuff is really dangerous, you know. I don't think she was literally sacrificed—it's like... a metaphor. You know?"

Become a superhero, die for your city, get a statue of yourself built.

Yeah, Marinette thinks. That sounds believable.

Alya's still talking, but Marinette is scarcely listening anymore.

Your friend Alya certainly has a talent for jumping to conclusions, Tikki had told her. And then Tikki had smiled and reassured her gently and been lying through her teeth the entire time.

Tyche. Tikki.

She wonders what else Tikki has lied to her about.

"—inette? Marinette? Oh, c'mon girl, are you even listening to me anymore?"

Marinette blinks a few times, jerked back into the moment.

"Sorry, Alya," she apologizes quickly. "I guess I'm just... tired."

Marinette offers her a half-hearted smile that Alya regards with silent suspicion. But after a few beats, Alya nods slightly.

"Yeah, I understand," she says. "We can hang out more over summer vacation, yeah?"

"Yeah," Marinette says.

"And try to actually get some sleep this weekend!" Alya continues. "Don't let your parents overwork you in the bakery! And—"

"Thanks, Alya," Marinette says, genuinely grateful. "You too."

As Marinette leaves, there's a storm of emotions churning uncomfortably in her gut.

She doesn't say anything at first. She walks back home, silently climbs the steps up to her family's apartment and then up to her bedroom.

She cracks open her purse, and Tikki floats out, stern-faced and quiet.

"So, Tikki," Marinette says. "You want to tell me why you share a name with an Ancient Greek goddess?"

A/N: Everything Alya says about Isis-Tyche-Fortuna in this chapter is at least sort of true.

Some of the things she mentions are either apocryphal or unverifiable, but Tyche (pronounced TY-kee by most English speakers, roughly TEE-hee in Modern Greek, and confession time this scene does not really make sense in French) really was a very popular pick as the patron goddess of ancient and medieval Mediterranean cities such as Antioch and Constantinople. For that reason, Tyche is also known as the “Protectress of Cities,” and is often depicted symbolically wearing the city's walls as a crown.

#AND NOW BACK TO YOUR USUALLY SCHEDULED BLOOD GUTS AND BODY HORROR #if you followed me for 'même pas' I feel obligated to warn you that this is... not like that #anyway #miraculous ladybug #ml fic

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