#i just want to disappear into a warm dark and safe void for a few days where no one can bother me and nothing can go wrong | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pillage-and-lute · 4 years ago

Text

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2 (here) Part 4 Part 5 Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE

It’s back! The boys get hitched, and Geralt gets nervous.

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

Three days.

Three entire, fucking awful days until the wedding.

Geralt had paced in their quarters, he had paced in the halls, he had paced in the courtyard (after getting lost and pacing until a footman found him). He had taken Roach out for a ride and paced her.

It wasn’t just cold feet, pre wedding jitters, or the usual sort.

He was afraid for Jaskier, afraid for himself, and afraid of letting down witchers. If Jaskier became unhappy in their marriage the contract was void. Jaskier didn’t seem happy in Lettenhove but it was comfortable and he had plenty to eat and a warm place to sleep. Nice clothes. Like minded, well educated people. The list just kept getting longer.

Geralt had to keep him happy.

More than that, he’d have to keep him safe. The path was dangerous, no place for an Earl’s son who’d only known luxury. He understood Jaskier had been at Oxenfurt, so he must know something of the world, but only of the academic world. He’d studied literature and music, what good was that for a witcher’s companion?

He liked Jaskier. It would be hard not to. But would he like him on the Path, as a constant companion? Another person to look after, another mouth to feed? He liked Jaskier, but he also barely knew him. He knew he was young, thankfully unafraid of witchers, but could he fight? Would he do as he was told?

And Geralt would be around him all the time.

Geralt didn’t like being around anyone All. The. Time.

He needed space even at Kaer Morhen, sometimes disappearing into his room all day, or if the weather allowed just taking Roach into the forest for a day.

Eskel was beating the stiffness from Geralt’s muscles again, the evening of the day before the wedding, and said quietly, in between vertebrae numbing digs,

“You ever think all that worrying will be a self fulfilling prophesy?”

“Hmmm...OW Eskel the fuck!”

“Listen, first of all I didn’t even do it that hard. Geralt, you’re my brother, and I know you better than anyone. You get all trapped in your head, and you worry, ‘cause you don’t understand people. You think you’re different.”

“I am different.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Eskel said, popping Geralt’s back with well placed pressure. “You’re different, okay. I don’t know what all they did to you with that extra trial. I don’t think Vesemir knows, really, no one does. But I remember you before, alright? You were like this before. It isn’t a bad thing, some people just don’t always get other people. Jaskier does though. Allow him to understand you, don’t try and understand him all at once.”

Eskel finished the massage with a truly bone-wrenching press. “I think you could be really good for each other, just don’t...don’t go and mess it up just because you think you shouldn’t have something good.”

“Hmmm.”

Geralt woke up on his wedding day feeling hungover, except he hadn’t been drunk last night.

Eskel didn’t look well rested either, although he had a sort of stupid grin on his face. Mabel had been by a few times in the past days, and Eskel at least was having the time of his life.

Judging by the scratch marks she’d left all down his back, she’d been having the time of hers as well.

Geralt sunk into the bath, which had been tepid by the time the tub had been lugged up the stairs and servants had filled it with water. Igni took care of that, and Geralt sat and steamed behind a little standing wooden panel that the servants had also brought.

The little modesty panel room divider had been a source of some amusement for the witchers. Body shyness was bred out of witchers before it had time to form. Lambert did comment, however, that it would be nice not to have to watch Geralt sit and cook in the bath like a boiling potato.

Rosewater had been put in the bath, not much, and it wasn’t a strong scent, but to witcher senses it was heady.

Geralt scrubbed his hair. Then Vesemir scoffed and told him he was too gentle. Vesemir practically beat his scalp into submission.

Geralt had a gold doublet and he felt like a ponce. Lambert insisted that he couldn’t wear black to a wedding, and certainly not his own. Geralt wanted to protest, but he couldn’t, not really. None of the wolves were wearing black, and if the occasion had pried black from Vesemir, then it really was time for colors.

Lambert was in a mahogany brown-red, and looked almost dashing, if a little rougish. Eskel was in dark green, he looked good, too. If Maybel was serving at the wedding there would almost certainly be some appreciative remarks. Vesemir was wearing brown. If he couldn’t wear black, Geralt supposed a neutral color was the next best thing.

It was still inexplicably a party brown. There was some quilting on the sleeves of the doublet done in a coppery thread and, all in all, Vesemir looked as festive as Geralt had ever seen him.

Geralt didn’t look festive, he looked like Midas had touched him, then, when apparently that wasn’t enough, covered him in glitter and embroidery. The wedding was to take place outside, and Geralt wondered if he wouldn’t blind people. Still, looking at the School of the Wolf, he thought he at least had a rather handsome entourage.

His face was scrubbed and, short of the miraculous disappearance of a couple scars, he was as handsome as he could get. Lambert had pulled his hair back with a couple braids. Also, in Geralt’s opinion, poncy, but he’d seen a few of the other nobles in a similar style so perhaps he’d best leave it to fashion and not put up a fuss.

They were lead by a footman, more a foot boy, with a face full of freckles and unfortunate ears, to a garden. It was probably a bower but Geralt didn’t know about horticulture. Trees had been planted and then twisted by someone dreadfully patient into a sort of cathedral of arching limbs. Spring meant flowers, and they were everywhere. The trees were the flowering sort, almond trees with fragrant blossoms. Delicate petals had fallen to the ground in a sort of pale carpet. Every time a breeze blew a few more drifted to the ground like spring snowflakes. Smaller, brighter flowers abounded near the edges of the manmade clearing. Their perfume was giving Geralt a headache, but he couldn’t blame the knee-knocking terror on them.

Little stone benches had been arranged in rows, but were empty as of yet. Vesemir sat in the position traditionally meant for the father of the groom. Eskel was best man, with Lambert beside him as the other groomsman.

And they waited in silence, blossoms falling around them as Geralt’s knees turned progressively into liquid.

He felt sick.

He might throw up.

The image of stuffing his head into one of the bushes of pink and yellow roses and puking lurked threateningly in his head.

Lambert smirked at him unsympathetically.

Ladies swept in, dusting petals from benches and hanging little baskets of flowers off the back of the benches. Geralt absently wondered what for, all the while fighting his roiling stomach.

He’d been too nervous to eat this morning, and now he was worried it would growl during the service, but if he ate now he’d vomit for sure.

His flower question was answered when a broomstick-thin lass came up to him with a basket in hand and nervously proffered a little twist of flowers. He took it, baffled. One of the funny pink and yellow roses, something purple, a bit of greenery, and a couple almond blossoms. He glanced at Vesemir, questioningly, who pointedly stuck the flowers in a decorative slit in his doublet.

Next to him, another girl nudged the skinny, nervous one out of the way. He recognized Mabel. She gave him a cheerful grin.

“Switched places with Leeann for the day,” she whispered to Eskel. One of her hands slid slowly up his chest, wrapped in green silk. “And I’m so glad I did.” She stuck the boutonniere into the collar, his doublet lacking anywhere else, and sent him a wink that, in more conservative countries, got women jailed.

Past Eskel, the nervous girl was holding flowers out to Lambert. They shivered in her grip. Instead of the vicious grin Geralt expected, Lambert gave her a polite smile and an attempt at a courtly bow. She scuttled off and he tucked the flowers into a small pocket on his doublet, looking at his brothers and shrugging.

Geralt looked at the twist of flowers in his hand. They seemed very easily bruised and broken in his fingers. He didn’t have anywhere to tuck them.

Eskel came to the rescue.

“There’s a little slit here somewhere,” he said, poking at the embroidery on Geralt’s chest. He found it. “Ah, here we go, just stick those in there.” Geralt did. “You almost look presentable.” Eskel said, not totally unkindly.

Then he must have seen the raw terror in Geralt’s eyes.

“It’ll be fine, brother,” Eskel said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You look good.”

Eskel stepped back into place, sending a wink towards Mabel, lined up near the back with the other housemaids.

Guests slowly filtered in.

There were more jewels and crystals about the throats and in the hair of the ladies than Geralt had ever seen before. Geralt felt a little better about his golden doublet, because there wasn’t an outfit on the benches that didn’t glitter.

Then a couple minstrels struck up a sweet, simple tune, and two little children entered. A girl in an almond blossom crown was scattering pink petals on the already well-petaled floor. She was so sweetly serious about her duty, solemnly distributing the petals, that coos and chuckles filtered through the crowd. The little boy was holding a cushion with wedding bands.

Geralt cursed mentally and began to panic. He’d left Jaskier’s mother’s ring in their rooms. It was too late to get it. He felt even more sick. Vesemir gave him a worried look and Geralt took a deep breath. They could always swap the ring out later.

A young woman in a pale blue dress entered, holding a small bouquet of the white almond blossoms. She was followed by another young woman, in the same dress and a very similar bouquet. Bridesmaids, Geralt supposed. One of them reached down and took the hand of the little flower girl. The ring bearer, slightly older, stood without a hand, but fidgeted. Geralt could sympathize.

The music changed.

A slow processional began and a hush fell on the crowd.

The Earl stepped forward, Jaskier on his arm. The earl wore grey, like a dove, but Jaskier.

Jaskier.

Well.

Wow.

He wore pearly white, with a crown of almond blossoms and roses, and every inch of his doublet was covered in tiny, delicate seed pearls. In this beautiful bower, with delicate flowers all around, he looked like the spirit of this place. Like a dryad made of almond blossoms and sunlight.

He was beautiful. Truly breathtaking.

He wore no boutonniere, and his hands were free of bouquets. Geralt’s stomach chose this exact moment to remind him that he really, really wanted to throw up right now. His head pounded and his knees felt weak.

He vaguely registered the slow procession being brought up at the rear by a priest in white. Next to Jaskier, the white looked dull and lifeless as the priest took his place.

“Who gives this man,” the priest croaked.

“I do,” the earl said, linking Jaskier’s hand with Geralt’s and sitting in the mirror of Vesemir’s position.

Geralt looked at that hand, so delicate in his giant paw. He thought of the flowers tucked into his doublet, so easily crushed.

The priest was saying something about eternity, but Geralt’s blood was rushing in his ears. Jaskier was looking at him too, but Geralt’s gaze was locked on their hands.

Vows were said, and Geralt was lucky they were short.

“From this cup we shall drink,” Geralt repeated, taking a sip of wine from a goblet that appeared out of nowhere and handing it to Jaskier.

“And we shall share this wine as we share our lives,” Jaskier said, taking a sip.

“All the days of our lives,” the priest said, taking the goblet.

“All the days of our lives,” Geralt and Jaskier said in unison. Their eyes met for the first time, and Geralt’s stomach protested.

“Have you the rings” intoned the priest. The little ringbearer stepped up. Jaskier took a wedding band and thanked the boy with a smile. Eskel nudged Geralt and palmed a ring into his hand, Jaskier’s mother’s ring.

The ringbearer took this well in his stride and went back to his place.

Jaskier smiled up at Geralt, then carefully slipped the little golden band onto Geralt’s finger. Geralt gulped, Jaskier’s smile slipped a little, looking concerned, and Geralt wondered what he’d seen in his face.

His big fingers fumbled a little with the delicate ring, but he slid it into place on Jaskier’s finger. It fit as exactly as it had in the little study, which seemed very long ago now.

“You may kiss the groom,” said the priest.

It felt like a badger was gnawing Geralt’s intestines. He slid his hands hesitantly around Jaskier’s waist. The young man’s arms wrapped around his neck. It would have been nice if Geralt wasn’t so nauseous.

Geralt gave Jaskier a peck.

He pulled back and caught Jaskier’s disappointed look, but then they were being ushered back down the aisle and into the hall and there were congratulations. Bells were ringing, people were throwing rice, Geralt’s head was pounding like his brain was about to leak from his ears.

Out on the steps of the chateau they were handed plates, most of the wedding party were, and they smashed them on the ground, to the misery of Geralt’s poor head.

Jaskier seemed to be having a wonderful time, laughing as the porcelain smashed and shining even brighter in the bright sunlight on the steps. Geralt longed for the dimmer lighting of the glade. Jaskier kept looking over at Geralt, and the laughter in his eyes kept dimming.

It made Geralt’s ribs ache to see. He knew he must be scowling, but the thought that Jaskier’s day was being ruined by him was awful. He wasn’t an ideal husband but surely he wasn’t that bad. It definitely didn’t bode well.

The tide of people bore them into the great hall, and they were sat at the front table with the earl and Amaria. Vesemir and Geralt’s brothers were at another table and Geralt felt very alone.

“Is everything alright?” Jaskier asked, leaning in close to whisper in Geralt’s ear.

“Headache,” Geralt grunted.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s wrist. On his finger, the opal caught the light. The young man’s shoulders slumped a little. “I’m sorry too that you’ve been roped into all this,” he released Geralt’s wrist. “I know this isn’t your choice.”

It wasn’t Geralt’s choice of course. But if he was getting married, Jaskier didn’t seem like a bad husband. There was something in Jaskier’s eyes, though, a sort of wistful distance. It occurred to Geralt that Jaskier was in this arranged marriage too. This wasn’t his choice. From what he’d said before, the viscount had probably grown up believing he’d be able to marry for love, or at least someone he liked and was of suitable social status.

Geralt wondered if the young man wasn’t looking around at his own wedding, wishing love were the base of it after all. True love, a smile during the procession, giggles during the ceremony and little jokes and kisses during the reception, instead of a witcher with a headache.

Geralt realised that he didn’t know if Jaskier liked men at all. Perhaps he was looking around wishing some pretty noble lady was wearing white instead of he.

Clanging started up as first one, then many people tapped spoons to glasses.

“They want us to kiss,” Geralt said numbly.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, turning towards Geralt and leaning in. At least he didn’t seem to horribly mind kissing men. Geralt rested a hand, the one towards the audience, on Jaskier’s face, hiding the view of their lips. Then he leaned in and kissed the air less than a centimeter from Jaskier’s mouth.

It satisfied the crowd, but Jaskier looked unhappy as he pulled back. Had he minded the play acting? Did he just want Geralt to let them ring the glasses indefinitely? Had Geralt crossed a line, even pretending to kiss him? Jaskier stared at his lap.

Geralt stared at his own.

They both picked at dinner. Sounds swirled in Geralt’s ears.

“Geralt.”

He wouldn’t have heard it but for his enhanced hearing. To anyone else it was just another murmur of conversation, the susurrus of the ballroom. Geralt looked up, to meet eyes with Eskel.

“Geralt,” Eskel said. “Don’t mess it up, you deserve nice things.”

Geralt nodded, and Eskel broke their locked gazes.

Some of the headache had subsided by now, and it was too late to be nervous. He took a big swig of the wine.

Jaskier may not have wanted to marry him, may be dreaming of a different wedding day, but Geralt could still make it memorable. He took another swig of the wine and wished it were stronger.

Dancing hadn’t been planned, but there was music and a clear space between tables. Geralt stood and took Jaskier’s hand, giving him an only slightly wan smile.

Jaskier looked baffled, but followed Geralt to the impromptu dancefloor. The minstrels picked up on what was going on, and a rather cheerful waltz was struck up.

Geralt wasn’t much of a dancer, but he’d been taught the basics long ago, and Jaskier was an excellent partner. His skill made up for Geralt’s more clumsy footwork. Geralt slid his hands to Jaskier’s hips, keeping his grip firmly appropriate, then lifted Jaskier into a twirl he’d seen once before at a ball he’d been forced to attend.

In that case, the lady’s skirt had swirled and swished most attractively. Here, Jaskier’s slightly wilted flower crown came off, but Jaskier was laughing, head back, the sound like sunshine. The crowed oohed appreciatively at the display and Geralt guided his new husband down to the ground again.

Jaskier’s fancy footwork saved them from stumbling into one another but Geralt wasn’t paying attention. He’d saved Jaskier’s wedding day, or at least he hoped, this portion of it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw motion, Lambert flinging the recovered flower crown to Geralt. He snatched it from the air and placed it firmly back on Jaskier’s head, to applause.

More couples joined the dancefloor, and soon it was pretty crowded. Jaskier led them back to the head table, giggling a little.

The earl wasn’t dancing, and Amaria looked wistful, or perhaps just distant, it was so hard to tell with her.

“Look,” Jaskier whispered, pointing surreptitiously at a couple. It was Eskel. Geralt half expected him to be dancing with Mabel, but she was busily serving tables.

Besides, Geralt reflected. Theirs wasn’t a romance, per say, more simple physical appreciation.

No, Eskel had the little flower girl standing on his boots, and was happily spinning them about the dancefloor. He took great, hopping steps that bounced her about, holding her hands gently to keep her grounded. Geralt listened carefully and, in the din of the hall, picked out her delighted, pealing laughter.

Lambert liked dancing, and Geralt carefully pointed him out to Jaskier, as he showed the shy, thin housemaid how to do one of the fancier spins.

Jaskier seemed to delight in the people watching, and they chuckled together at a couple, a very large, glamorously dressed woman with her small, slim beau. She whirled him about, sometimes holding him entirely off the ground.

“He doesn’t seem to mind,” Jaskier said.

Geralt looked at the man’s expression as he was crushed against a frankly enormous bosom. It looked blissful. “No, he certainly doesn’t.”

Vesemir approached their table.

“My congratulations,” he said to Jaskier. He gave a handshake and then pulled the lad into a warm hug. “Welcome to the family,” he whispered.

“A fine party,” he then said, to the earl and Lady Amaria. “If you do not care for dancing,” this was adressed to the earl. “Would the lady perhaps wish to join me for a dance?”

“By all means,” said the earl, waving Vesemir away. Lady Amaria smiled absently and limply took Vesemir’s hand.

Geralt knew trading dances was usual, but he was curious to see his mentor dancing. As he watched the couple, he saw Vesemir conversing with her ladyship, whispering into her ear. Even Geralt’s advanced hearing couldn’t catch the words.

After the dance Vesemir returned Amaria to her seat. Perhaps it was a fluke, but she looked more alert. Then the earl tapped his knife to his crystal goblet.

It had the same effect as a drop of ink falling into clear water.

Silence spread through the hall, twisting between couples and curling around tables until everything was still.

The earl stood.

Like his son he was a fairly tall man, and in the grey, with his steely eyes and sharp demenour he didn’t just command attention, he demanded it. He got it, too, as men rich enough to have dungeons in their basements tend to.

“I wish to make a toast to my son,” he gave a smile like a stiletto. “And his new husband.

“Before, witchers have been seen as wicked mutants, monsters,” a tiny pause, like the glint of a crossbow bolt. “Butchers.”

Unease was in the hall, and there was something in the earl’s voice, he was a truly charismatic speaker. And a dick.

“Long has it been known how they viciously kill, dismember, and pillage.”

“No,” Jaskier whispered under his breath. The words had really set the cat among the pigeons. A few short sentences reminded the crowd of their distrust. The flower girl, still standing next to Eskel, was ushered away from him. Lamberts dance partner was edging away.

“Of course, not anymore,” the earl continued, snakelike. “And it behooves us to make a contract, that so long as they act appropriately, they are to be treated as other migrant workers.”

Damn, Geralt thought. Migrant workers weren’t treated that well, and after this speech...well.

“It brings me great joy to marry off my only son,” the earl gripped Jaskier’s collar and hauled him to a standing position. “Although many of you know, he is more of a daughter,” here the earl gave an unpleasant chuckle. “And a troublesome one at that, not much of a warrior, too headstrong for knighthood...but today he sacrifices for his people.”

The earl’s voice swelled, an impressive, ringing oration, like a good preacher ringing home the moral point. “He sacrifices much, and it is sad, I am, that I may never see my son again, to submit him to the ravages of a witcher,” a vicious breath, “’s lifestyle.”

Lambert looked murderous, Eskel betrayed. Vesemir’s face was entirely impassive. Granite. Unreadable.

“But we each make sacrifices for the greater good, and I place my faith in our people, as I have always done. My, admittedly troublesome, shameless son has become part of a new...family.” Family was said like it poisoned the tongue. “And my people become my children. I work for your benefit, my beloved subjects, and today, so does my son, Julian. Three cheers for the new couple!”

Three very hesitant cheers were given, then Geralt and Jaskier were very nearly pushed into a room.

“What the fuck?”

“Evil, stupid, bastard,” Jaskier cursed at the same time.

Jaskier looked furious, but there were tears in his eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, crossing to the young man and guiding him to sit on the huge, lavish bed. Their marriage bed, Geralt supposed. “Jaskier I don’t understand, what was all that.”

“He couldn’t resist humiliating me, his last chance, I suppose,” Jaskier said, pulling off his boots. “But it’s worse what he did to you lot.”

A tap at the door. Geralt opened it hesitantly, but it was the wolves, and there was fire in Vesemir’s eyes.

“I didn’t know,” Jaskier said, looking up at Vesemir pleadingly. “I swear I didn’t know what he would do.”

“I understand lad,” Vesemir said, but the fire in his eyes didn’t bank. At least it wasn’t directed at Jaskier, who looked positively wilted.

“I don’t,” Geralt said. “He said, some awful stuff, he referenced Blaviken, I get that, but what does it mean.”

“The common people don’t know the specifics of out contract,” Jaskier said. “Most of them can’t read, and they’ll never see the document in any case. He implied that you’re going to...well, that ravaging bit, he implied that there is a consumation requirement, and the rumors about witchers...”

“Ah,” Geralt said. The rumors about witchers were never kind, what they said about their sexual interests he didn’t know, nor cared to find out, but they wouldn’t be kind.

“I’m rather well liked by our people,” Jaskier continued, tearfully. “Father’s convinced most of them that I’m simple, but I make a point to be kind and a kind reputation goes around. They’ll hate and fear witchers even more.” He began to cry in earnest, not loudly, but hot, angry tears rolled steadily down flushed cheeks.

“Worse, now,” he said, looking up at the witchers. “He’s some sort of martyr, sacrificing his son to keep the horrible witchers at bay.”

“That’s not even what he said!” Lambert exploded. He’d been fuming this whole time, but his temper was short and he was done.

‘No,” Eskel said. “But that’s what rumor will make of it. He’s going to be seen as some sort of a self-sacrificing hero.”

“He’ll probably use it to raise taxes,” Jaskier said, damply. “And I doubt witcher treatment will get better either.”

“But then, is the contract void?” Geralt asked.

“Not officially,” Vesemir grumbled. “Improved conditions hold de jure, but not de facto.”

Jaskier shivered. “If the contract is voided everything will only get worse.” The witchers looked at him. “Whatever reason the contract becomes void, Father will say I was mistreated. That’d be enough to convince most of the country to go to war with witchers, all witchers.”

“It wouldn’t take much,” Vesemir mused.

“And I’d be a ruined woman, except that I’m a man.”

“What?” said the witchers.

“I’d have been married,” Jaskier explained, fiddling with the ring. “And no matter the situation, in Lettenhove the woman is almost always blamed for the failure of the marriage. There is no woman in our marriage, but I take on that role, If I’m mistreated, I should have better pleased my husband.”

“That’s idiotic,” Lambert said.

“I’d never be married off again either,” Jaskier continued. “Not only was I ruined, I was ruined by a witcher.”

A deep, heady pause.

“I could probably even be put to death, for failing the contract and shaming my father.”

‘But your people like you,” Geralt said.

“They won’t if I’m the reason we go to war with the witchers,” Jaskier said. Then, a little more brightly, “At least whatever happens, I wont be an earl. My father may be a rat bastard and a small minded pig and a...” he paused searching for more insults.

“A cunt?” offered Lambert.

“Yes, thank you, a cunt. But he’s right about one thing, I’d be a very poor earl. No head for politics, I can understand it, I just can’t do it.” He looked up at the witchers apologetically.

“And now because of me,” he said, “You’ve all been dropped right in it.”

“No worries, lad,” Vesmir said, clapping him on the shoulder in a gesture that made Jaskier’s spine visibly buckle. “We’ve been dropped in it before. As it happens, I may have caused some political trouble for your father all by myself, and it might even be better if we leave a little earlier than planned.”

All the boys looked baffled, but Vesemir looked satisfied.

“Can we leave tomorrow?” Jaskier asked hopefully. “I don’t have much stuff and I want to get out of here.”

The witchers agreed, and then Jaskier and Geralt were left alone with just one bed.

Geralt coughed awkwardly.

“I thought there wasn’t a consummation requirement,” he said.

“There isn’t,” Jaskier said, taking off his flower crown, now quite battered. “There isn’t explicitly, I mean, but there is a hidden fidelity agreement.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. He meant a panicky, ‘what!’, but couldn’t say it.

“We both need to be happy in our marriage, if word get’s back to father that either of us is sleeping with someone else, well...”

Shit. Geralt thought. Shit shit shit.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said aloud.

There were no extra clothes in the chamber, meaning no sleep clothes, so they both undressed to undershirts and smallclothes, then Jaskier snuffed out the candle.

On either side of the large bed, there was plenty of room between them.

Geralt heard a sniffle.

“Are you okay?” he asked, feeling awkward.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier said. “It’s silly anyway.”

“Can’t be silly if you’re crying over it.”

“It’s just, this isn’t exactly...” Jaskier trailed off, but Geralt thought he had it.

“Isn’t how you pictured your wedding day?” he asked.

“Exactly,” Jaskier sniffled.

Geralt didn’t know what to do, but he stretched an arm out, above the soft covers, and covered Jaskier with an arm. The young man turned over, so they were facing one another, and inched a little closer.

It wasn’t an embrace, not nearly, but it had a whisper of the same emotion.

Geralt listened to his new husband silently cry himself to sleep on their wedding night, and wished there was some way he could help.

A part of him, long suppressed, was crying too, for the bright and cheerful young man in his arms.

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

Wow 5000 words that I basically had to thumbscrew from my brain.

Taglist! Tags were being weird, let me know if I didn’t add you, forgot to add you, added the wrong person, etc.

@llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata @ailorian @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstilliam @sociowithatardisachevyandawand @faery-god @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @1stbonesfan @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest @innocentbi-stander @aqueenrisesintheeast @toothhurtyam @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna @limevodka @rocknrollphanda @seralyra @permanently-exhausted-witcher @aj-itated @watchthewolvesfall @00qtee @the-blondey @birds-of-forgiveness @west-moor @abstractartwithoutpaint @darkonesdagger7437 @onwardsandfourwords @underwaterattribute @whenrainbowsend @goldbvtton @in-love-with-writing002 @flustratedcas @fontegagrilledcheese @little-piece-of-tamlin @somanyfandoms @werevampiwolf

#geraskier #the witcher #arranged marriage au #kinda sad ending to this chapter #vesemir #geralt #eskel #lambert #jaskier #+bonus clothing descriptions

479 notes · View notes

stylistiquements · 4 years ago

Text

The Sorcerer pt. 2

Corpse Husband x gn!reader

Reincarnation AU | Summary :

The same candle lights up on Corpse’s desk every time you are reborn and turn 23. He has been looking for you during centuries but this time you might be closer than anticipated. {Playlist}

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝟮 : 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚

Being a friend is never an easy task, especially when the other person is no normal human being. When the realization reaches you it's accompanied by its own conclusions.

☾ Words : 4830.

☾ Warnings : angst, the tiniest bit of swearing (for once)

Masterlist | Previous | Next

The agitation of your eyes has fallen flat by now; Corpse had plenty of time to think -be obsessed- about it as days and night coagulated into nothing but an ultimate and meaningless node. Sleepless were the nights when he thought about you, considered what he could do to get back to you. The lack of sleep combined with the desperation and Corpse is pretty sure he wandered to every possibility he could think of before concluding that this new element wasn’t much progress. Less than 1% of global population have heterochromia, Corpse did the math. Somehow, it still isn’t enough to know where to look for.

He is just helpless. The wish is strong, unshakable and there’s always a point in those circumstances where the yearning turns into a new obsession.

When Corpse covers his face with a black mask, it’s an act of impulse disguised in a need to spare his own sanity. It doesn’t matter if it only makes sense to him, it’s too late to detach the thought of his brain. So, in one motion, the dark cloak waves in the air until it's secured on his shoulders. He slides the hood on his forehead. There’s really no need for Corpse to make it so ceremonial if not the responsibility he bears to carry on his body a tradition that has been lasting for centuries.

The light coming out of the sky is subdued to the right extent. The rain is delicately trickling on Corpse, turning the part of his fluffy hair that isn’t protected by the hood into damped and defined locks of curls that let droplets run on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t mind, that’s the weather he deems to be the loveliest. It allows him to gather and sort his thoughts out. It’s his bond with the rain; as if it fueled him with enough electricity to keep going.

Corpse makes his way through the meadow. It’s not as bright as in his dreams, dipped into a light morning mist, but the place smells like fresh and humid grass. It’s intoxicating and comforting like an old memory trying to reemerge. His shoes are getting coated in mud, making every step a little tedious but he only realizes it when he comes face to face with his home and his feet are almost stuck to the ground.

By “home”, I mean what’s left of it. In that Corpse is barely able to guess the structure of it.

Fuck. How long has it been since those ruins stopped looking like his home? There’s really nothing left if not a few brick walls covered by nature that struggle to rise from the ground. Corpse wanders around, trying to remember where each room once stood in the remains. He can’t get much except for the two parts he sees when he sleeps; the kitchen made out of wooden walls and the living room he only saw once. There’s still so much left uncovered and the mystery will now keep on forever. His humble house probably witnessed a few wars in its lifetime. Corpse feels bitter just thinking about it; a home built by love and destroyed by hate.

Corpse should’ve known, he should’ve known better that what he saw in his sleep was nothing but the oniric personification of his expectations. Nothing more, maybe less. He was a fool for letting his delusions feel like reality. But there’s the intention to deny the facts when his hand brushes the air and let appear the chimera of what, to him, should’ve still been standing in front of him; the picture of his true home. A pale copy deprived of any warmth, yet still visual enough to bring some sense of easing.

Corpse’s phone vibrates in his pocket and by the time his hand reaches the device, the house is back to its miserable state.

“What do you think you’re doing right now?” Sykkuno asks and Corpse huffs, bitter smirk carved on his lips.

Sykkuno knows. In fact, he figured out that Corpse would be here when he told him about his previous dream. Sykkuno knew that Corpse would feel the need to lock himself inside the memories he couldn't even remember. It hurts, but maybe the pain would be fruitful and he would finally recollect what’s missing, one last attempt to make you seem realer. This is just how his brain works and Sykkuno is a little too aware of that.

Corpse isn’t sure of what he’s doing either anymore. He thought that it would help somehow, he could’ve almost convinced himself completely, but here he is standing in the middle of an overgrown mess he once called home. There’s nothing left in here. He understands it now by the expectation versus reality that stands in front of him.

“The answers you’re looking for aren’t here, stop torturing yourself,” Sykkuno says with a tone that is so sweet and compassionate it fills Corpse’s mouth with a melancholic taste.

But he’s wrong on one point; Corpse isn’t looking for answers, he’s looking for what questions to ask. There’s so many of them and he’s simply not sure what is important and what isn’t anymore.

“I know,” Corpse mutters.

“Go back to your place Corpse,” he murmurs softly. “This isn’t home anymore.”

So what is? Corpse spent a lifetime running away and another one trying to remember what home feels like. Maybe, if you really think about it, it’s no longer about you. Maybe Corpse just doesn’t know how to be anymore. If only it could have been written somewhere; what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to feel … but there’s no guideline for that type of situation. There’s no guideline and there should be.

There’s a minute of pure robotic silence and heavy breathing. The rain is streaming down Corpse’s cloak, the cold getting closer and closer to his core.

“Alright,” he whispers numbly.

Maybe seeing this place one last time is similar enough to what closure is. Or at least that’s what Corpse hopes when he takes one last deep breath before leaving without ever looking back. What’s the point anyway?

“We’re all waiting for you, you know, so just go back to your place," Sykkuno says.

There’s really no reason for why you decided to narrate horror stories on youtube, nor to make of your appearance one of those many mysteries people love to speculate about. You wish there were something more, something meaningful, but it just stops at the fact that you’ve always felt drawn to horror and mysteries. A peculiar passion of some sort. Maybe, it shouldn’t have come as that much of a surprise when you became the secret bearer you are now. Could this be your official title? You wish it could. “Y/n the secret bearer” sounds pretty badass.

It was 5:55 when your eyes opened today, just like every day. The first merciless rays of the sun in a beautiful golden and pink hued sky rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. The morning air was raspy, landing on your skin to spread shivers on your bare arms. You could have buried your face in the pillow all you wanted, with a mind wandering wherever it felt like it, there was absolutely no way you’d fall back asleep.

Corpse Husband.

Now, your filled tub spreads steam on the tiles of the bathroom. Your hands scoop the water and pour the liquid on your shoulders to warm you up. It’s a little too warm, making your heart palpitate, but it’s embracing, light and easing your body until you’re completely comfortable. The smell of coffee hits your dozing nostrils with its strong scent. You enjoy the light music that waves through your ears and clear the morning fog out of your mind. The cup meets your lips and the liquid runs on your tongue. Spicy.

Your phone, flashing white light between your palms, is displaying none of the interesting information you’re looking for. Dream hasn’t shown any sign of life in a couple of days now. In fact, he hasn’t since he entrusted you with yet another secret he kept safe inside his pocket. Who knows how many others could be hidden in there. Probably too much for you to trust humankind ever again.

Corpse Husband.

You set the device aside and, on instinct, you close your eyes before immersing your head under water, letting it swallow you whole. You attempt to regulate the flow of thoughts that congests in your head. There’s this trick Dream taught you some time ago, a trick you could use to talk to him when he was gone and you needed him. He said it should remain for emergency purposes but maybe, if the number 5 case wasn’t enough for this audience to be necessary, checking on your missing friend would be. It should be.

The vibrations from reality get filtered, blurry, and you can feel your hair floating around your head. It’s light and heavy, your heart starts beating with more vigor. Your mind recognizes the place but your body can never get used to it; it’s the void, the nothingness, the dark. A mental place that belongs to you.

There’s nothing graphic about it and when you master it with enough precision, there’s no feeling attached to it either. That's why, for someone who is so used to experiencing material life, it took time to adjust. It’s more of a concept than it is a thing.

Dream’s name echoes a few time. Usually that’s when he appears, him and his white smiley mask. Yet, this time, you’re forced to open your eyes again and catch your breath before running out of oxygen.

Where could Dream be? That’s the inquiry that ping pongs inside your brain every once in a while when he disappears as he does, leaving additional questions to live rent-free in a place that is getting more and more cramped.

You bring your knees to your chest. Being friends with someone who isn’t even human, how are you supposed to do that? You sigh; there’s no guideline and there should be. How are you supposed to handle the idea that there’s always a profuse chance that Dream might never come back? A chance, or an important possibility.

The concept of Dream’s existence seems so easy to dismantle, so fragile for someone who’s supposed to live forever. The idea leaves you powerless, a little helpless.

He never dares to explain what happens when he ventures on foreign lands -to which the purpose remains a secret- and never considered answering any of the questions that used to burn your tongue so ardently.

At first, he had that serious tone in his voice, the bad kind of serious when he’d repeat “that’s not something a human should know”. Now he just laughs it off, probably thinking that joking would make the rejection easier. It’s not unusual that you even forget to ask or find yourself afraid Dream might start filling the gaps with answers. If you truly let it, the thought would penetrate inside your body and run through your veins to get you high on fear and worries.

Corpse Husband.

Maybe that’s why being friends with Corpse, knowing who he really is, doesn’t seem like that much of a good idea anymore. Could you really dread another loss? No, obviously, you can't.

At the request of a nervous Sykkuno, the amigops were reunited to play a round of self-indulgent uno before an upcoming livestream. It was like a secret reunion but, honestly, it's more of an excuse to clear some time off of their schedule and spend time together, just the 4 of them.

Corpse really doesn’t get why he accepted to play in the first place, believing that he would neither be a good partner nor of a good company in terms of conversation. But he felt like his friends needed him and how could he ever say no? He was rather wrong when he underestimated the assets of normal human interactions. But it’s good; it means he’s still able to think, it means he survived.

“Did Dream text you back?” Sykkuno wonders, high tone that lets Corpse know he hesitated before asking. When Corpse chooses to remain silent and play a card instead, Sykkuno senses the answer is nothing positive.

“Is this something we should be aware of?” Toast questions while drawing 2 cards.

“Not sure,” Corpse mutters, eyebrows frowning and eyes squinting on Sykkuno’s deck, trying to elaborate a strategy. Him and his teammate are so close to winning Corpse knows for sure they won’t. “Let’s say someone knows something they shouldn’t and it’s bothering me.”

“Can we stop playing riddle for a second?” Rae asks. “This is a little too cryptic for me.”

“Someone knows that Corpse is a sorcerer because Dream snitched,” Sykkuno informs as he readjusts his position on his seat and clears his throat.

Corpse lets a satisfied hum escape his lips, Sykkuno followed the plan accordingly when he played the card he wanted him to. Corpse has visibly no intention to focus on that conversation.

The truth is Corpse felt safe for a moment, knowing that you were aware of whom he truly is but, after processing the information you let him on, he concluded that he didn’t like that idea one bit. The fact that a human has more or less the concept of his existence between their fingers leaves him with a nasty taste of anticipation.

You could absolutely fuck things up for him and, knowing you, Corpse is aware he doesn’t have much time left before you start taunting him with his own nature. Trust is a long journey, especially for someone who has been betrayed for longer than a lifetime.

Maybe he should talk about it, express his fears and let you know how damaging, devastating it could be to his life. He wishes he could, he really does but there’s this sense of sorcerer pride that barely hangs above his head like a sword of Damocles and it feels like exposing his untamed emotions would be the final cut before that sword slices his ego to dust.

“Why would Dream snitch in the first place?” Rae’s voice gets more robust; considering Corpse as one of her protegees has never been an easy task and it shows. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Corpse mumbles. “I thought I knew but I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Maybe you should invite them to play with us sometimes. It’s better to keep an eye on them, right?” Toast intervenes.

“Uno!” Rae cheers without a warning, Sykkuno and Corpse exhale in unison. They both knew it would end up this way but it doesn’t revoke the slight frustration of only having 2 cards left in Corpse’s virtual hand.

“You’re talking about them as if they were an enemy but I think they’re rather a friend,” Sykkuno notes as he throws a +4 on the pile.

Funny what an odd timing can do. Corpse’s phone lights up near the candle. It’s showing a curious notification he could’ve never been able to anticipate, especially coming from you; [I’m still thinking about you] and Corpse’s heart hurts just a little while his breath gets caught up in his throat. His eyes flicker for a moment before he realizes what you really mean by that. He clears his throat.

“Acquaintance,” Corpse corrects. He knows his teammate is silently rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disapprobation. He should’ve probably kept his mouth shut, he realizes it now. Here we go again.

“Everyone is acquaintance to you, Corpse” Rae grumbles, getting ahead of Sykkuno’s thoughts with a tone that lets transpire the lightest glimpse of irritation.

“Not true,” he fights back. “You guys are my friends.”

Sykkuno makes this aww noise, heart getting a little softened by the confession he only half believes in.

[What are you gonna do about that?] He types.

“Nice catch, buddy,” Toast smirks. Corpse doesn’t know if he is referring to him slightly changing the subject or to him throwing a +2 on another +2 but there’s a beginning of a smile on his lips when he realizes he succeeded with setting a diversion for both of the issues he found himself dipped in.

[I don’t know, thought you were supposed to take care of it,] you reply.

[Don’t you like thinking about me all day long?] He adds with a sly smile.

[I’m not answering that question.]

[Yeah I wouldn’t like it either.]

He debates for a second. An idea bloomed in his mind a few days ago but he isn’t sure if he should let it out just yet. Why not? Corpse doesn’t know himself. Maybe that’s what he is trying to find out but he eventually has to give up. He has to because you won’t.

[There’s this spell you can use. It’s very easy and human friendly, you should try it.]

[You could’ve started with that a week ago,] you answer.

Corpse doesn’t respond, just huffs. He’s waiting, eyes fixed on the bright screen until his vision turns blurry, witnessing the three dots indicating that you’re typing appear and fade away a few times. Say it. He’s waiting and-

“Well, I wanna meet someone whom I’m gonna hear a lot about,” Rae says while drawing the 4 cards without even noticing.

“No one said you’re gonna hear more than that, ‘Raerae’,” Corpse scoffs, chuckling to mask the slight annoyance this conversation provides. “There’s nothing more to say.”

His eyes are back on the phone now. The dots disappeared for good this time. Somehow, Corpse is still waiting, feet wiggling under his chair as his fingers wrap with more confidence on the device in the palm of his hand. Just say it.

“You’re such a bad liar,” Sykkuno sighs.

“You know what? You should invite them to play uno on the next stream. I’ll leave my spot just to watch that.” Toast deviously adds to which Rae silently agrees.

No you wouldn’t. There’s a curious silence when Corpse chooses to let the words fade in his mouth and the conversation dries down. Toast’s pixelated hand gets filled with more and more cards which forces him to sigh heavily in frustration.

“This conversation is getting annoying,” Corpse mumbles under his breath.

[Fine, just tell me what to do,] you finally type and, somehow, it feels like you were knocked out of your own game.

When Dream finally finds his way back home, he lets his body sink into a chair in front of the fireplace, eyes closed and exhausted limbs that can barely move. The moon is taking its reign in a sky that looks like mixed feelings; half still awake, half already asleep.

The silence rings into his empty mind as he exhales. Being home after traveling for so long always brings a special sense of solace, a sense of belonging. He raises a finger and fire starts consuming the logs of wood in the fireplace. The heat, slowly easing the tension in his muscles.

Silence, it’s probably what causes the faint creak of his wooden floor to be so distinct. Dream’s first instinct is panic, they found him, his alerted eyes scan the empty room. There’s nothing but himself, the faint reflection of his shadows and the stone that the walls are made of. He likes the stone, it carries so much energy with it, but right now it sends awful shivers down his spine. Dream debates whether he should get up to investigate or not but fear already forbids it.

He finally meets an habitual energy and his breath cools down his burning lungs.

“What are you doing here, George?” He exhales deeply.

George reveals himself with an unabashed look on his face which, in itself, surprises Dream more than the fact that he’s standing here, in his home, unannounced. Dream pictured a clear sense of guilt on the way George would’ve appeared, eyes that would try to run away. However, George leans tall against the door frame, arm crossed against his chest. He looks almost as worn out as Dream is but there’s something on his face that unveils another type of fatigue. He doesn’t like that one bit. Not for himself, even less for George.

“I’m tired of you leaving for days, weeks, without informing me,” George says and it’s as cold as the expression that freezes the emotions out of his eyes.

Dream tries not to open his mouth before being sure of what the appropriate answer is. The silence is heavy and unsolicited, charged with the things that can’t be put into words. He tries his hardest to keep the confidence he always wears as a protection but it’s so hard when George comes into the equation, especially when the situation is accompanied by regrets.

“So that’s why you came all the way to Florida?” Dream scoffs. Right now, sarcasm is the only thing he can afford. He thought George would be the one trying to run away from the confrontation, but he’s the only one trying to cut down the conversation. He wishes he didn’t have to take that path, it’s nothing George deserves.

“Don’t make it sound like it’s not enough of a reason.” George sighs.

Dream avoids the eye contact by locking his gaze on the flames that are dancing in front of him. The stone is cold, too cold for the fire to provide enough warmth to counter it. The truth is far hidden in a complexity that can never be untangled.

“So where were you this time?” George continues, getting closer to his friend until he seats next to him. It feels like he shouldn’t, Dream wishes he didn’t.

“In Italy.” He tries not to wince by pinching his lips together when he realizes lying would have been a far better tactic to spare his companion.

George's hand reaches his head. It’s almost a desperate attempt to find a reasoning. Dream watches from the corner of his eyes the tortured mind that tries to make everything make sense in a puzzle that’s missing a few pieces.

“In Italy.” George repeats, raising a brow that makes his eyes more rounded. The fire intensifies in the chimney. It lurches dangerously. George’s tone gets more ardent. It’s still calm, as you would expect from George, but it’s loaded with resentments. “So you preferred traveling to my continent instead of asking me?”

George is waiting for an answer, eyes that won’t quiver away from the sorcerer. I just want to protect you are the words stuck on Dream’s tongue. Instead of letting them die in the air, he watches the flames that keep getting stronger and stronger. He wonders if the whole place is about to catch on fire. It would almost be fine, the words are more violent than the flames; too brutally accurate, too much of a revelation.

“I actually can't believe you right now,” George adds while shaking his head. There’s really nothing Dream can do about it. He lets the silence carry the message.

When George speaks again, his voice is back to its normal calmness.

“You’re making me one very useless familiar Clay, are you aware of that?”

He knows how to use Dream’s name as a weapon and it chimes in his brain so loudly it’s close to unbearable. But Dreams is oh too fucking aware of it. His cheeks are flushing with a glimpse of shame. Nothing bad must ever happen to George. That's why George role as a familiar is so complex. How is he even supposed to express that? Words are too far from reality, never precise enough. There’s no guideline for how to act when you want to protect someone so badly. There should be.

“I know,” he simply mutters because there’s nothing more to say. “I’m sorry.”

The fire is back to a more steady state. It crackles, pops lightly and George opens his hands to suck the warmth in his palm before rubbing them together. He doesn’t look that angry under the dull light. His dark hair are sweetly ruffled and his eyes are as soft as they’ve always been.

“Y/n has been looking for you too,” George says. “They’re worried too.”

“I know. It’s for them that I’ve been gone,” Dream explains.

“Yeah?” George hums and Dream follows the song. It seems like it was enough of an explanation for George to put his attention back on him.

“I’ve been looking for this book I talked to you about and it happened to be in Italy.” Dream says, pointing at the book that is laying on the kitchen table.

“Why would it be in Italy,” George asks as his brows furrow and he leans his head on the side.

“I don’t really know but it’s so old it probably visited a lot of places before,” Dream exhales.

“What were the chances for you to actually find it?” George questions.

“Very few, I guess I’ve been very lucky,” Dream answers while detailing the book from afar.

George gets up, his steps aren't as sure as they were a couple of minutes ago, creaking on his way. His fingers wrap carefully around the book and he describes it. It looks practically untouched considering how old it is. Its previous owners must have kept it with great care. The emerald colored cover isn’t displaying any title and when George finally opens it, the golden pages are adorned with rounds and organic letters; it was handwritten.

“You’re never lucky, Dream. It’s never luck with you,” George says as he lightly shakes his head.

“Well, believe me on that one; it was pure luck.”

It’s not something you would have expected to do in your life, yet you take this spell in an almost solemn way. The room is dark, only illuminated by candles you placed in corners of the room. The obscurity is almost reassuring that you’re doing this with enough respect for the sorcerer.

You drew a circle of sea salt and lit up some incent. The smell is strong, not far from heady. You placed two candles inside the circle; a black one in which you carved Corpse’s name and a white one in which you carved your own. Now, all you had to do was tie the two candles together with a string that would represent your bond and light the two candles until the tie would come undone, until this connection would come undone. Consumed by the fire.

That’s what Corpse said. It feels a little bitter for some reason but since nothing seems to be making any sort of sense, maybe it’s time to just let it go.

So, as the string curls around you and Corpse, you set your intention; I wish for my mind to know peace again. I wish for my mind to be spared of Corpse’s name. I wish for our sense deprived bind to stop being. You light up the two candle and patiently wait for the string to burn away.

The flames are captivating your attention. They are strong, almost unnaturally tall but mesmerizing as they melt down the wax and shrink the candle in size.

"Goodbye, Mr Sorcerer," you whisper.

The moment lasts so long you have no idea how long just passed. Yet your gaze misses none of the spectacle. A glimpse of confusion crosses your face when the two flames are close enough to set the string on fire but can’t seem to actually do it. You brush it off until the flames are about to go out and the string is still spared. It won’t burn down. The curiosity gets validated when the remaining wax no longer provides any source of light. It’s done, or at least it should have been. So why is the bond still intact?

☾ A/N : So last chapter I said the next ones wouldn't be angsty but??? guess I kinda lied?? This wasn't the chapter I planned on writing at all (realized that 3k deep into what I was writing lol) but I thought we needed a bit of magic before moving on. Also I feel like I should mention that the spell is a real one and that you shouldn't do it until you understand the consequences of it. 💘DNF💘 now that we got this out of the way,, don't you feel like familiar Gogy and familiar Sykkuno are giving off the same energy?? idk I'm just too invested now but I'm excited to know what you thought of it anyway! Until next time (ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)

☾ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 *OPEN* : dm me or ask me to get tagged :

@open-minded-chip-101 ; @lochness-butmakeitsexy ; @bizarrebibitch ; @bellomi-clarke ; @ladybismuth ; @katyasrussianaccent ; @satanhauntedourcats ; @owl-llie ; @teenloves ; @notannis ; @mcntsee ; @rottenroyalebooks ; @peachdoppi ; @mirahg ; @foxxtrot-116 ; @koi-soi ; @lupinpetersclearwaterodairparker ; @butterfly-skinnylegend ; @fanworrior ; @stickystrawberrysyrup ; @imsuchtrashhelp ; @clubfairy ; @boiled-onionrings ; @thatlonelyalto ; @thatsouthernblondewiththeass ; @tiaamberxx ; @thesecretwriterblog ; @takoyakiuchiha ; @danielle143 ;

#Corpse Husband #Corpse Husband x reader #corpse husband x y/n #corpse husband x you #corpse x reader #corpse x y/n #corpse x you #Corpse Husband fic #Corpse Husband imagine #corpse husband scenario #corpse husband AU #the sorcerer

152 notes · View notes

batsandbugs · 4 years ago

Text

Help (I Need Somebody) Help

AN: Hey everyone! So I’ve got a new fic, this is inspired from an ask from @glitchon. They wanted a “Wrong Number Daminette AU”, they gave me a couple of things they wanted to see, and so I went to town. I hope y’all enjoy! Tag list is open, and as always the pictures for the moodboard aren’t mine.

Chapter 1

The patter of rain outside Marinette’s window wasn’t keeping her awake, no, the creeping numbness consuming every inch of her body – a craving for oblivion and stimulation all at once – did that on its own.

But the rain certainly wasn’t helping.

On nights like these, where everything was too little and too much, she would find herself escaping to her rooftop balcony and gaze at the stars. Tikki would lie beside her whispering tales of elegance and power; the stories of miraculous holders of long ago fighting against those who would cause the world harm. Her constant companion – a voice of reason when her own brain shouted too loud – was the only reason she was doing as well as she was.

And Marinette knew herself; she wasn’t doing well.

But when the skies covered with clouds, drenching the streets, and blocking the stars it forced her to remain indoors. The hum of electricity, faint but noticeable – a noise she had been unable to ignore ever since donning her miraculous - an irritating background hum. The powers she received when untransformed existed as a blessing and a curse. It without a doubt saved her from one too many klutzy moments, but there were days she missed the ignorance about the nuances of the world around her.

Another moment of strained silence passed before she had enough. She crawled out from under her warmed covers, the cold November night chilling her. Being careful not to disturb the sleeping Kwami, Marinette stuffed her feet into a pair of slippers and descended from her loft bed, and wandered over to her chaise. Crawling under a large knitted blanket – a project from a few years ago - she glanced out her window watching the illuminated rain run down the pane.

The change in location did nothing to help the static in her brain as it wrapped its meticulous tendrils around every train of thought that tried to usher her towards coherence.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to smile.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to care.

She wanted to feel something, anything, other than the gaping emptiness slowly consuming her.

And yet as the moments ticked by, and the rain continued to patter, nothing came.

Marinette was scared nothing ever would.

A small light flickered in the corner of her eye. She slipped off her chaise and walked over to her desk – her phone alight with a notification.

Well, at least there was the internet to help her escape from the directionless dread snapping at her heels.

Grabbing her phone, she retreated back under her knitted blanket, content to mindlessly scroll until the need for sleep won against her brain. It was a Friday night and with a weekend planned for ignoring online harassment from her classmates and completing piles of homework – and the potential ever-looming presence of an Akuma attack – Marinette felt secure in ignoring sleep.

She unlocked her phone.

And a slight shiver ran down her spine.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a normal shiver. Over the past four years, she had developed a particularly good sense at detecting between a normal physiological reaction, and a magic-induced one. This? This chill was magic.

Her fingers tapped on her messaging app with little input from her. Opening a new message, she typed in a number, seemingly random, but she knew by now each movement was laced with luck. Once finished the push driving her to such measures faded, leaving Marinette with a choice.

Tikki did her best to explain the phenomena several years ago when it first appeared. As Ladybug she tapped into the Strings of the universe, where her powers of creation and luck came from. When dealing with luck she subtly manipulated the flow of events around her. At first, only when transformed, and only able to rise to the surface when calling for her Lucky Charm. Eventually, the manipulation became unconscious but continuously present, unable to be directed, but still there, helping in subtle ways. And on occasion, when she wished hard enough – a little push there and a little shove there – and who knew how many blows it took to break a lamppost, and maybe she had hit it a little harder than normal?

But the older she grew, and the longer she wielded the Miraculous of Luck and Creation, the more powerful she grew outside of her transformations. And, on occasion, unconsciously tapped into the probabilities of the universe. The little nudges caused her to make and take decisions and actions she never would. But every time it did a minor problem would be solved, or an opportunity would arise, or a good thing happened that would make a normal person smile at the universe and comment on how luck favored them today.

Marinette knew better.

It was a side effect of her existence mingling with the powers of the universe. Tikki told her, within time, she would feel for the Strings herself and be able not only to manipulate her own but others’ too.

It was not the first time Marinette experienced a panic attack over her powers, and it certainly would not be the last.

Which brought her to her choice; and suddenly, sitting in her darkened room at two in the morning staring at her phone with a random number on the screen, resembled being perched on top of the Eiffel Tower, feet dangling over the edge, the l’appel du vide – the call of the void – twisted around her, caressing her like a friend and urging her to just… fall.

A random number, a string of electricity running into the darkness, unknown and unknowable. Like shouting into the wind at the beach, the water stretching far as the eye could see, the words would take to the sky and disappear.

Only, a text would go… somewhere.

To… someone.

And they might, just maybe, respond.

A shiver, this time her own, rolled through her.

Marinette glanced up at her loft bed, a small red glow, barely perceptible to the human eye, lingering in the air.

Tikki wouldn’t be pleased.

The tiny Kwami always urged Marinette to caution when it came to taking risks like these. Even the goddess herself had a tough time figuring out where actions prompted from the Strings would lead. And this… this had the potential to go very, very, wrong.

But…

Every time Marinette followed the urgings of the universe, she had never been disappointed. True, its effects could be small, barely noticeable at times, but not always. The effect could be much larger. Marinette was always pleased whatever the outcome.

Even if the responsibility of the rest of the power laid heavier on her shoulders with each passing day.

Everywhere Marinette turned she stood alone. Cut off from her parents by necessity; the overwhelming urge to keep them safe, to keep them out of danger forced her to remain silent and ready lie at the drop of a hat. Cut off from her friends and classmates by manipulation; Lila succeeded in twisting them to her whims – the girl had no mercy to stay her vicious tongue, no morals to limit the stories her mind twisted into being. Cut off from mentorship by a quirk of magic; Master Fu deserved to live the rest of his life without guilt, but for his guiding influence to be taken away meant floundering on what to do next. Cut off even from her own partner; Chat flipped between hot and cold, flirtatious and disinterested, reliable and fickle. The days where they could talk about everything and nothing during evening patrols had faded away into uncomfortable silences.

That left Luka… sweet, sweet Luka.

Marinette sighed.

Holding herself together on a good day was hard enough. What good would she be as a girlfriend? Flighty and closed off, unable to open up, constantly in fear of when Hawkmoth would strike next.

No. She had made the right choice, telling the budding musician they were better off as friends.

Glancing down at her phone, the screen locked once more – a group photo of her, Adrian, Kagami, and Luka lit up behind cracked glass – she smiled, tinged with bittersweetness though it was. At least Adrian, who stuck by her side through it all, found happiness. And Kagami had proven to be a stalwart friend. Marinette still wished now and again for different circumstances, but she would never begrudge two of her closest friends for finding comfort together.

And Tikki, while a constant presence, and a needed voice of reason was still a goddess, a creature unfathomably old. Still sweet, caring, and understanding, but detached from the constant stress and pressures of human existence. She was unable to truly be an outlet for Marinette to confide in.

With everything laid out before her culminating together in a bleak understanding of her isolation, it appeared obvious her actions, driven by the luck of the universe, seemed like sanctioned permission.

She unlocked her phone once more.

Taking a quick breath, the wind whipping smugly beneath her dangling feet, she began to type.

#damianette #damimari #maribat #maridami #damian x marinette #marinette dupain Cheng x Damian wayne #damientte #mlb crossover #ml x dc #marinette dupain-cheng x damian wayne

500 notes · View notes

kitkat1003 · 3 years ago

Text

In Shadow

Spoilers for Shadow Play. Idea came from This Post I made about the ep.

Enjoy!

When MK is supposed to explain, Tang is ready to listen.

Of course, he has to wait for MK to get food, has to wait as MK rocks back and forth on his feet and taps his fingers on the counter and orders a mountain of different items. Has to wait when MK stalls, again and again. They have to get to the shop first, he says. They have to finish the food first, he says.

Tang doesn’t know when MK got so good at evasion, when he learned how to get them to forget what they wanted to ask, but it makes his stomach turn.

He didn’t hear what MK said, to the monkey Tang feels he should know the name of. He couldn’t. He didn’t have ears. Shadows don’t have ears.

By the time the snacks are gone, Mei and Pigsy are half asleep on the couch upstairs in the other apartment above the shop. MK laughs when he notices, sounding far too relieved for this not to be orchestrated on purpose.

“Oh, guess you guys are too tired!” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry Mr. Tang, I wouldn’t want to tell the story without everyone, y’know, awake.”

Mei starts to snore. Pigsy is drooling onto his chef’s coat.

Tang says nothing.

“I’ll take Mei home.” MK picks her up, throws her over his shoulder. “You got Pigsy, right Mr. Tang?”

Tang, who had been sitting between Mei and Pigsy, hands clenched into fists in his lap, nods. He wants so badly to argue, but he can’t find it in himself to speak.

He nods, and MK leaves, and Tang can’t breathe.

It was so dark, and then it was pulling, grasping like strings around his wrists and neck. Then it tugged, he fell forward into a void that was somehow darker and colder than before. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t do—

Tang shudders. He stands, and slowly relaxes his fists, letting his fingers settle. They tremble, but they’re steady enough to lead Pigsy off to bed. He tucks Pigsy in automatically, like he would to MK, like he would to anyone he cares about—

Limbs moving like silk through air, tied to the floor, to the light. His foot smashes into the enemy—MK, his boy, why is he—the enemy’s head, hard, and he disappears when the light does. Flitting in and out of silhouette, where does he go when he coalesces into the collective? Which limbs are his, holding the enemy down? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know his name. Who is he, now? Who is—

He stumbles back and presses against the wall. The lamplight shines from across the room, in the corner. It’s a warm color. Yellow.

He can feel his shadow pressing against his back. Can he sink into it again?

He blinks a few times. The shine in his glasses burns into his retinas and he focuses on its brightness, despite the pain. It’s a yellow light. Bright. Not purple. Not a soft one. It’s safe.

He moves around the bed to the other side. He moves closer to the light.

The closer you are, the longer your shadow grows.

Tang turns, his back to the lamp—it’s so bright, and yet so calming, nothing like the sun. The moon, you thought, as everything dimmed—and watches his shadow with suspicion. He waits for it to move. He trembles, waiting for something to do anything.

He blinks.

The only light is your eyes, but not really. You don’t get eyes, your glasses serve just fine. Perfectly circular, peer through them—NO, MK, WHAT'S GOING ON WHAT IS THIS—and there’s nothing to see.

He stumbles back, and it’s so hard to breathe. The lamp was so small, so small and empty and he doesn’t want to remember no one else does so why does he, why does he know why did he—

His back hits the lampshade, and the lamp falls off of its table.

The room goes dark.

You had a moment of lucidity, then. Bright and shining, you had clawed your way out of the mist, the fog, the gag over your mouth and nose and eyes, long enough to see Pigsy’s shadow grappling MK in a way he never would, long enough to see what you’d done, the bruise left on MK’s skull from where your foot left its mark. You’d seen it all, right before the tendrils had gripped your face and pulled you down, violent and cloying. It stuck to you like tar and you were sinking, choking, grasping for air and for light until you needn’t either. You couldn’t see. Shadows don’t have eyes. You couldn’t breathe. Shadows don’t have lungs. You couldn’t scream.

Shadows don’t have mouths.

Tang doesn’t realize he’s screaming until Pigsy is gripping his arms and shaking him, calling his name. The light is back. It hangs overhead and Tang stares at it, rather than at Pigsy’s worried face.

“Don’t turn it off,” he breathes, desperate.

“Tang, look at me,” Pigsy shakes him again.

Tang looks at Pigsy. He can see the shadows on his face. The light is against Pigsy’s back. That has to be why. It has to be.

“Breathe,” Pigsy says, and Tang does.

Carefully, like Tang might break if Pigsy tugs too hard, Pigsy directs Tang to the bed, sitting him there.

“Don’t turn off the light,” Tang whispers, fervent.

He looks up at it, until Pigsy directs his gaze toward him instead.

“I won’t, but can you tell me what’s going on?” Pigsy is so, so gentle. He brushes a stray hair from in front of Tang’s eyes.

Tang shudders and lays down, so his eyes are facing the ceiling light. It’s yellow. Warm.

Pigsy sighs.

“I’ll make you some tea,” he mutters.

“Don’t turn off the light,” Tang replies, empty.

Pigsy turns to stare at him, to really look at him, but there’s nothing to see. Nothing that Pigsy can glean from the way Tang looks to the ceiling light like it’s his providence.

He turns away.

Tang looks up at the light and tries to feel warm.

He can feel his shadow pressed against his back.

It feels like if he pushes, it’ll give.

#monkie kid #lego monkie kid #monkie kid tang #kitkat1003 #monkie kid mei #moneki kid pigsy #monkie kid spoilers #qi xiaotian #monkie kid MK

116 notes · View notes

saphirered · 3 years ago

Note

I just want to say your writing is absolutely amazing! It's what I read to destress after college courses and I hope your having a good day and taking care of yourself!

If your still open for requests though how about Yasha with an S/O who comes to her in the middle of the night because they had a nightmare?

Thank you so much! double shifts have popped up again but I've been dealing and have managed to do some writing in between. Take care and I hope you enjoy this one! 😘

You don’t know exactly what’s the cause of this recent raise in night terrors you’re experiencing. Endless falling into the void, drowning deep beneath the waves unable to swim, being on the run trying to escape a falling city, those you can deal with. Sure they don’t provide the most comfortable night’s rest but you can deal. The ones that truly haunt you, have you stunned and off your game are the ones involving your friends and family. The hopelessness of being unable to save them from a demises, or worse; them being killed by your hand, watching all your fears crash down upon you. You can’t keep doing this. Not even Caduceus’ special tea can keep the nightmares at bay. You’ll find yourself waking up in the middle of the night breathing heavy more often than not trying to calm yourself before attempting to go back to sleep.

This night is no different. You’d fallen asleep within the warm comforts of the dome provided by Caleb but not long after the nightmares showed up again.

You’re standing in the darkness; an eternal void like the blackness of the depths of the ocean but you’re not swimming. You’re floating. You see a flash of red come by and disappear as quick as it came. You hear the movement of shackles. Heavy shackles. You hear maddening laughter, the unsheathing of a blade and then a piercing pain between your ribs. You fall to your knees clutching the source of your pain as your breathing shallows. Your hands feel wet, sticky and warm. Glancing down you see it’s blood. You’re bleeding, heavily. You begin to panic, trying what you can to stop the bleeding but you feel weaker, a vignette clouding your vision as you desperately look around.

You hear the breaking of a chain, a battlecry, one of rage and heartbreak, the sound of metal clashing against metal. The maddening laughter comes to a stop. A flash of red comes by you again but still you cannot make out the details. Something touches you and you feel cold, so cold. Your limbs grow weaker and you’re having a hard time staying on your knees, the void is spinning around you. You fall to your side. It’s becoming harder and harder to breathe and as your hand lays within your view you can see it stained red. You move your fingertips barely a feeling left in them but the cold and you plead that whatever gods are watching will be merciful, will be at the side of your friends when the time comes.

The pain is unbearable but you can’t resign yourself to this fate. You’re not done yet. You have to stay. You have to… A hand touches your bloody one and you see black boots step into your vision. For a moment you think the final blow is coming but it doesn’t.

“No.” The word sounds like a silent sob. The voice is familiar to you but sounds so distant. The figure kneels down besides you and you can barely muster the strength to look up at them. There you see your white and black haired angel. She’s divine and for a moment you consider you’re to be carried to the afterlife. It’s the desperate scream ending in a stifled cry that makes you think otherwise. Yasha’s face is ridden with guilt and pain and anger but you know not who the latter is directed at. You can’t bring yourself to smile or comfort her, tell her it’s all going to be okay. You feel sad, the pain of the heartbreak, a thousand time worse than the cold numbness washing over you as the void grows darker and more consuming, to where not even your radiant angel can keep it at bay.

And then you wake, not shooting up in a sweat or a scream or shout. You wake up in silence, trails of moisture running down your face as your eyes open and you feel cold despite the warmth of the dome. Stretching and curling your fingers you can still feel the phantom stickiness of blood, your blood staining them but your hands are clean and clear. You wipe the tears from your cheeks as you sit up burying your head in your hands with a deep breath trying to calm yourself. You do in the sense you do not suffer a panic attack or a mental breakdown but you cannot scratch that feeling from your dream. There’s something harrowing about it, something true and you can’t shake it.

Then there you see Yasha, on guard for her shift of the night’s watch keeping her gaze trained on the wastes of Xhorhas. Not much longer before you make it to Bazzoxan. Not much longer before you all get some more answers about this Angel of Irons. There’s something in your mind that tells you to go to her, like Yasha is a beacon in the middle of a storm, keeping safe those trapped within it but it’s also laced with an unknown sense of loss and sadness. You decide to listen to it. Getting up, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders you approach the barbarian.

“Mind if I join you?” You ask. Yasha nods for you to sit down next to her and the two of you sit in silence. The lingering cold in your body is vanquished simply by her presence and you’re thankful you listened to that gut feeling instead of being stubborn and sucking it up dealing with it on your own.

“Did you not get your tea from Caduceus?” Yasha asks breaking the silence. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She knows you’ve been suffering from night terrors. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept herself and she feels sorry for you. Gods know what she’s tried to do to get rid of hers, but to no ends. Maybe she should be thankful for losing parts of her past because at least she cannot remember the nightmares she’d undoubtedly suffered within that same time.

“Yes. But it’s not working anymore. I don’t know what it is lately. Maybe it’s just the Barbed Fields getting to me in some way but every dream seems more… true… than the one before. It scares me.” You admit looking over the wastes with a deep sigh. Yasha awkwardly pats your shoulder. She’s not sure how to bring you any comfort in this. You send her an appreciative smile no less, thanking her for the effort.

The two of you watch the Barbed Fields, a storm rumbling in the distance and both of you let out a sigh, one of relief, as if the storm brings you some sense of comfort and warmth despite it’s nature. Maybe the Storm Lord smiles upon you, answering to your prayers by offering distraction. Or maybe more likely, sending you a warning of what’s to come but you dare not assume. You dare not interpret just as you dare not interpret your dreams anymore, scared of the answers you will find.

Yasha opens up her harms and allows you to lean into her side. Whatever phantom memories, pain and cool remained within you fade as you watch lightning strike in the distance, the ground rumbling beneath you. Neither of you jump or make move. There’s a serenity and safety in that light illuminating the skies for a brief second. You feel yourself humming to a melody as Yasha rubs circles into your shoulder. The melody falters and loses pace as your exhaustion returns.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.” Yasha encourages as you try to fight the sleep. She gently guides you down until you have your head resting on her thigh using it as a pillow. Yasha strokes a few strands of hair from your face as you take in a deep breath and nod best you can. The promise made by the woman feels like the truest thing you’ve ever heard and you can’t do anything but obey. You take one last glance up at Yasha’s face trained on the storm. She looks like a champion from the tales long past and you couldn’t think of anyone better to guard you while you sleep and keep the nightmares at bay.

Yasha does keep the nightmares at bay. You don’t know why or how nor do you care to understand. It is simply a fact; when you’re near Yasha the terrors fade and your sleep is restful so she’ll keep you company until morning and you’re back on the road again until your nightmares have truly gone and long beyond. She’ll be your the light in the darkness of your dreams no matter what. She’ll be there for you.

#critical role x reader #critrole x reader #mighty nein x reader #yasha x reader #critical role #mighty nein

29 notes · View notes

dovakhiindrabbles · 4 years ago

Note

For the prompt 43 with Brynjolf please?

Of course! I’d be more than happy to write the prompt for you! I only hope you have an amazing day and enjoy! <3

43. “Come with me.”

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

Nocturnal was a god among mortals -- a daedric prince who oversaw the murky shadows and all who hid among them. Whispers heard throughout the world told of how she could even be found lingering in those shadows, an inky blackness clinging to her as if the very sun itself couldn’t reveal her.

She was above the follies of mortals and yet couldn’t help herself from meddling. Especially those of her most loyal followers -- the Nightingales.

She’d noticed from her times looming within the darkness how you and Brynjolf interacted. How hands briefly brushed and fingers just barely interlocked. How passing glances held just a second too long to be unimportant. How no matter where you went, you went together.

Your feelings for one another were so painfully obvious an infant could see it -- so apparently the two of you had even less awareness.

It was an opportunity Nocturnal couldn’t pass up.

Between the two of you, she first sought out Brynjolf. The man fancied himself as clever, often to such a degree that a snippy remark had slipped out in some of their conversations.

It was during the night when she caught him, just outside the Blue Palace where he’d managed to escape from. Guards spilled out and yells could be heard from each and every corner -- even those caught in shadow. Brynjolf had slipped between two manors where the moonlight missed just so. An ornate, extravagant jewelry box clamped between his grip with more gemstones and gold decorating it than most would see in their entire life.

From there, Nocturnal revealed herself in the darkest crevice space could offer. The darkness extended her outwards and still clung to her despite her physical form. She was a void, and the shape she created only split itself apart in the pure absence of light -- not even the brightest lantern would be able to paint her figure.

“My Nightingale.”

Brynjolf nearly jumped into the open road in shock, smacking his back up against the wall in frustration upon realizing. “Fucking fuck are you-”

He looked up at Nocturnal’s imposing figure and thought better of himself. He spoke softly, his gaze alternating between her and the streets cluttering further and further of curious onlookers and furious guards. “My lady, what can I do for you?”

She made a motion with her hand that brought strings of the void trailing after her fingertips. “On the contrary, I am here to offer you my assistance.”

Brynjolf gave a cheeky grin. “Could you get me out of this mess?”

“You are one of my most trusted followers with an agent of my own creation. There should be no situation beyond your skills.”

“I know.” Brynjolf groaned. “Worth a shot. Meet me outside the gates, my lady?”

She vanished without a word and Brynjolf proceeded to lift himself up onto the rim of one of the manor’s roof. He hoisted himself up and pressed his body close to the tiles, only lifting himself up to leap from home to home. In that time he truly was a shadow, beyond any light and any eyes that would make the foolish attempt to seek him out.

Minutes later he was beyond Solitude’s walls and any outrage that still remained was drowned out by the falling and crashing of the waves below. Still hidden away safely in his coat was the jewelry box -- not so much as a scuff on it. Brynjolf impressed himself every time.

As he began walking along the carved out path, Nocturnal reemerged. Her form freer beyond Solitude’s constant desire for warmth. She carried herself freely, and she took on a shape almost human, but not quite. There was always an unknowable aspect to Nocturnal that could never be described. Many daedra carried themselves in such a way, so that they could nearly blend in, but never be forgotten by anything lesser than a fool.

“That was commendable.” Nocturnal hummed. Both a lightness and a deepness coexisted in her voice.

Brynjolf interlocked his fingers and stretched them out; a popping could be heard. He sighed dramatically. “All in a day’s work.”

“I hope you are able to hide that treasure as well as you hide your feelings.”

Brynjolf knew Daedric princes were meant to be incapable of understanding; downright incomprehensible sometimes. But this? It bewildered him.

“I’m sorry?”

“You and the other Nightingale?”

Brynjolf cracked a grin. “Karliah?” He tested Nocturnal’s kindness.

“The other one.” She swatted a bit of darkness at him and like a tight band flung outward, it stung him.

“Ah, that one.” Brynjolf rubbed at his little red mark where Nocturnal smacked him like a petulant child. “What of them?”

Nocturnal stepped in front of him, a swirling blackness keeping her from ever truly touching the ground. “You both have feelings for one another?”

Brynjolf did what he knew best, and dodged the question. “What like hate? Friendliness? Perhaps a bit of irritation?”

“Do not attempt to evade me, Nightingale.” Nocturnal raised her voice and the night became that much more invasive. She settled herself quickly. “You are my servant, there is nothing I do not know. The darkest, most secretive parts of yourself are the ones I know best. Fortunately for you, I only wish to help.”

Brynjolf wrinkled his nose and cracked beneath the pressure. It was a touchy subject, apparently. “Oh yeah? And how’s that?”

“I need only open your eyes,” Nocturnal answered. “I think you’ll find it’s clear the feelings are mutual.”

“I don’t want to be disrespectful my lady but-”

Nocturnal cut him off. “Then don’t be.”

Brynjolf scoffed. “But I don’t see how that’s possible.”

She tipped her head to the side curiously. “How is that?”

“Because there are a million other better people knocking on their door!” Brynjolf exclaimed it like it were obvious. “I mean why would someone like that choose someone like me?”

“Someone like you? Their equal?”

Brynjolf scowled and huffed. “Like a thief could ever be on par with the Dragonborn.”

Nocturnal simpered. “The Dragonborn themself also is a thief. Last I recall you two work closely together.”

“Even still-”

“The only one creating rifts in this relationship is you, my Nightingale. What are you afraid of?”

He hesitated and in an instant Nocturnal knew.

“Rejection.”

Brynjolf’s hands tightened into tight, uneasy fists at the revelation. Nocturnal raised those hands and unfurled them, tracing lines of shadow along his palm. In the most peculiar way, it was soothing, and Brynjolf supposed it was her own... unique way of comforting him.

“If I believed there was a chance the Dragonborn wouldn’t share those feelings I would not be here, speaking to you. I only want what is best for my followers.”

“Besides,” Nocturnal mused. “if it goes poorly, you can simply submerge yourself within the shadows for eternity.”

Brynjolf chuckled. “I might take you up on that offer.”

“You won’t.” Nocturnal looked up at him with an emptiness one could consider her eyes. Her ‘windows to the soul’ only unveiled further darkness, but only in the way one shrouds themself beneath the shade of a blanket to escape what frightens them -- it was a relief, protection. “Because you won’t have to.”

A moment later, Nocturnal disappeared within the void beneath her. She sank into the night that had soaked into the very deepest layers of the earth, leaving Brynjolf to himself and her words.

By the time he’d made it to the Nightingale Hall, he’d made up his mind.

You were sitting in the living quarters with Karliah, seated across one another and leaned both in the old, weary chairs. You’d been laughing, and Brynjolf could tell by the edges of your lips lifted up. The moment you saw him, you lit up.

“Bryn! There you are! Karliah was starting to think you got lost along the way!”

He snorted. “I could’ve. What a bitch of a walk.”

Karliah furrowed her brow, amused. “You could’ve stolen a horse like a sane person.”

“Maybe I like the quiet. You can hardly get any of it here.”

She rolled her eyes at the very idea. “You wouldn’t know what to do without us.”

Brynjolf laughed. “Absolutely lass.”

He turned to you and his heart began to thump heavy and hard against his chest. Of all the things to bring him nerves in life, it was you bringing knots and tangles in his stomach. He took a deep breath and grasped your shoulder, gesturing. “Come with me.”

Your eyes widened like saucers, but you stood up. To say the least, your curiosity was piqued. “Alright... what is it?”

“I just wanted to talk to you, in private.”

You ducked your head away to hide the red that burst onto your face. You folded your lips to hide a growing smile, but you were still clearly nervous, shuffling your feet and fidgeting with your hands. “Okay.”

He led you outside where the evening had overtaken the sky overhead in a mix of blues, pinks, and the slightest tinge of purple. It was a beautiful sight, and one of the rare gifts that came with living in Skyrim.

Brynjolf leaned against the stone cavern of the hall and ran his fingers through his hair. This felt so much easier in his head. “I ah -- I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an idiot.”

“Bryn-”

“No! I just -- I want to say this, but be patient with me, please. I’m not good with... emotions.” Brynjolf laughed. “You don’t get to be a man like me by being open.”

You nodded and stayed, you were far too patient than he deserved.

“I-” Brynjolf swallowed hard and took a few steps forward. A part of him wanted to reach for your hand but that’d be too much, too soon. If he -- if Nocturnal was wrong he didn’t want to dig his grave any further than necessary.

“I love you.”

There was a period of silence where Brynjolf considered Nocturnal’s offer to hide in the shadows forever. It was a horrible few seconds where Brynjolf’s vision was stagnant and the entire world was frozen in time.

He only came back to reality when you took his hand. You enveloped it in your own and squeezed his palm fondly. You were warm, and your grip was steadfast.

“I love you too.”

Brynjolf rarely smiled from ear to ear, but he did then. He took you in his arms and spun you like one only saw in fairy tales. It was something he only just now realized he’d wanted to do for the longest time. There were so many things he wanted to do -- with you -- and now, he could.

He would have to thank Nocturnal the next time they crossed paths.

#Brynjolf #Skyrim #tes #Skyrim tes #brynjolf skyrim #Brynjolf x Reader #Brynjolf x You #You x Brynjolf #Skyrim Fanfic #Skyrim Fanfiction #x Reader #brynjolf fanfiction #Brynjolf Fanfic #Forgot how much I LOVE nocturnal #also thieves guild might be my favorite questline

221 notes · View notes

imagine-darksiders · 4 years ago

Text

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 15 - The Storm’s Prelude.

Words: 15,264.

You can read the rest of the story on AO3 here :)

Summary: Three heart stones are required to wake the Guardian. Your group manages to find the first two without a lot of difficulty, save for a moment of bleak realisation that rattles your perception of yourself and brings out a side to Death you haven’t yet seen. The Horseman realises a few things about Karn’s perception of you. And then, you find the final stone....

---

The passage of time, if overlooked, can often prove to be a ubiquitous inhibition. Walls can crumble and fall in your path, great swathes of the earth can be torn apart by shifting, tectonic plates. Rivers and streams carve through even the toughest rock, eroding it away over millions of years to form the steep walls of a gorge that impedes your progress when you stumble upon it – a gorge much like the one you find yourself at the edge of now.

You, Death and Karn stand silently on the precipice of the escarpment, peering across it to the far side of a great, long hall. The western wall has completely collapsed in on itself after having suffered through centuries of faulting and erosion, and the stone blocks that once stood so strong have fallen into the wide gorge sitting between you and progress.

Death's eyes are fixed ahead, occasionally flitting back and forth in search of a way to cross, all the while aware that he's being watched expectantly by a human and a maker. He knows precisely what the pair of you are waiting for, and the longer he fails to come up with an alternative route, the more irritable he becomes, because it means that he'll have to once again reduce himself to a horseman-shaped projectile.

Still, he does appreciate that you've both stayed quiet whilst he stews. It takes him a few more moments of bitter contemplation before he finally concedes and accepts that if he wants to get across, he'll need the youngling's help. “....Fine,” he growls.

Teeth grit, the Horseman turns his frightful glare onto Karn, who at least has enough sense to keep his lips firmly sealed as he moves to the edge of the escarpment and wordlessly lowers his hand.

“You know,” Death grumbles, clambering into the maker's waiting palm, “I'm beginning to suspect that you two enjoy this far more than I do.”

Karn doesn't reply, merely peels his lips back and flashes you a grin.

“Hey, I'm just glad it's you and not me,” you say, holding up your hands appeasingly, “I don't have your knack for sticking a landing.”

If he wasn't so certain you'd accuse him of hypocrisy, he'd call you a coward. After all, he'd made it abundantly clear that he doesn't even want you to be thrown by the maker.

Biting his tongue, Death merely expels a weary sigh. “Let's just get this over with, Pup.”

Bracing himself against Karn's thumb, he twists his head around to catch your gaze and holds it firmly, waiting until he's sure you're paying attention. “Stay close to the maker,” he tells you, then as an afterthought, he adds darkly, “And if either of you go wandering off, you'd better pray that the Corruption finds you before I do.”

Then, with that thinly-veiled threat still ringing in your ears, Karn tips his arm back and launches the Horseman into the air like a boulder fired from a trebuchet.

Admittedly, your heart skips several beats at the sight of Death sailing gracefully over a plummetless gorge, but just as before, Karn demonstrates that he has impeccable aim and judgement, for the Nephilim lands on the far side with practiced ease and little more than a low grunt of exertion.

Only then do you release the breath you'd been holding.

Standing up, the Horseman dusts himself off and throws a quick, backwards glance across the gorge, eyeing his two protégés for a moment longer before he turns on his heel and strides onwards, disappearing through a set of dilapidated, wooden doors.

With Death gone again for the time being and little else to do but wait, you venture back towards the edge of the escarpment and peer down over it, at once noticing the pull of gravity as it tries to tempt you into that dark, fathomless chasm. A stone that had been resting on the very lip is nudged loose by your boot and you anxiously watch it tumble down the side of the cliff, feeling decidedly nauseous that you can hear it bouncing off rocks and debris long after it has disappeared into the darkness below.

“Heck of a long drop,” Karn chuckles nervously, shuffling a little closer to you.

“Yeah. It is...” Seemingly lost in a world of your own, you're quiet for a minute longer, and the youngling opens his mouth to make another observation, only to find himself cut off when you suddenly ask, “Hey, Karn? Do makers ever feel l'appel du vide?”

“La.. apple doo... Eh?”

“It's the call of the void,” you explain with a faraway smile, “A lot of humans get it, I just wondered if the feeling was universal.”

His ears prick forward with interest and he admits, “Never heard of it, what's it do?”

“Well, mostly it's this phenomenon where you get the urge to jump from high places-”

You nearly choke on your own spit when gloved fingers suddenly curl around you and you're hurriedly ushered back to what Karn deems is a safe distance – right behind his boot. “Don't say stuff like that!” he all but howls, agitation turning his breaths shallow.

Amused, you raise a brow at the ruffled maker and say, “...If you'd have let me finish, I was going to say it's the urge to jump from high places, but knowing that you never actually would.”

All at once, Karn blinks hard, and some of the colour rushes back into his cheeks. “O-Oh, right. I knew that,” he tries to save face, sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck.

“You didn't really think I was going to jump in, did you?”

“No, no! O'course not!”

'Liar,' a voice whispers at the corner of his mind. Fumbling for an excuse, he glances around rapidly before his gaze falls on some loose pebbles gathered on the cliff's precipice and he gestures to it, eager for a distraction. “But the, err... The.. the ground's weathered away right near the edge. Don't want you fallin' in by accident, ey?”

Poking your head out from around his leg, you cast a wary eye over the drop off and hum, “No, I suppose not.” Then, in a more jocular tone, you flash him a grin and add, “I don't think I'll be able to save you from Thane a second time if anything happens to me.”

Karn's face instantly pulls into a grimace. “Ach, don't remind me of that. Thought he'd never stop yellin'.”

The youngling hesitates for a few beats and you watch curiously whilst he rolls his tongue around in his mouth, a thoughtful expression drawing his brows together and puckering his forehead. After another few seconds, he angles himself so that he's turned away from you slightly, his stare pointed towards one of the holes in the ceiling. “Actually, I've been meanin' to thank you for that.”

“Thank me?” you echo, “For what?”

Rain trickles down from above in sporadic patches all across the chamber, allowed in through the gaps where the ceiling has eroded away. Karn just watches it fall for a while before his shoulders raise into a shrug and he lets them drop heavily again, sucking in a breath that seems to glue his throat shut. Still, he manages to admit, “For stickin' up for me - against the Horseman, and against Thane.” Pausing to scratch at his chin, he stammers, “I – uh... I've never really.. had a – a friend who'd do that for me before...”

He still won't look at you, but you can't hold that against him. So, rather than try to catch his gaze, you instead follow it up to the ceiling whilst one of your hands lifts surreptitiously and gives the side of his leg a few, companionable pats. “Well, you've got one now,” you tell him, “Just... please don't go riling anyone else up for a while, yeah?”

“Ha! You're one to talk! Maybe I’ll tell ol’ Eideard about you standin’ so close to cliff edges, eh?” he retorts with a smirk, at last dragging his gaze down to look at you, finding that you're already peering back, the corners of your eyes forming pretty crinkles that seem to hold a boundless supply of sincerity.

“You would not,” you challenge.

Without really knowing he's doing it, Karn's face slowly tries to mimic your expression in the hopes that it might convey to you the immensity of the gratitude he wishes he could say out loud.

All too soon though, movement on the other side of the hall draws your attention and you break eye contact with the maker to squint across the gorge, your face brightening at the sight of Death as he emerges from the far doorway. “Hey!” you wave, raising your hand high into the air before the stretch sends a twinge of pain down to your side and you wince, trying to casually lower your arm again.

From his relatively safe distance, the Horseman allows some of the tension to seep from his shoulders when he notices that you and the youngling are still standing where he left you, and in one piece, to boot.

“Didj'ya find a way around!?” Karn hollers.

“No luck, in that regard!” Death replies, “We'll have to turn back and try a different path! The heart stones must be elsewhere!”

His response elicits aggravated groans from the pair of younglings and he finds himself letting out a chuckle that comes dangerously close to the realm of fondness. Snapping his jaw shut, he's quick to catch it and stuff it back down before he clears his throat, continuing, “Just stay where you are – I'm coming back across!”

He sees you share another confused glance with Karn, then you turn back towards him and shout, “Um – How're you going to get back over here?! It took a maker just to get you to that side!”

Death doesn't seem nearly as perturbed as you think he should be. “Let's just say... this wasn't an entirely wasted journey!” Beneath his mask is a self-assured smirk and it remains plastered on as he takes several, calculating steps backwards, away from the precipice he stands upon.

“Wait!-” he hears you call, “ - You're not going to?! -”

Before you can even finish your sentence, the Horseman is on the move, darting forwards into a reckless sprint and garnering a yelp of alarm from the other side of the gorge.

“Death! What are you doing!?” you can't help but shriek, throwing your hands up to bury them in your hair, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

The Horseman leaps clear from the edge, sailing out over the gaping maw that lays in wait below him.

Then, he begins to drop.

Blinded by panic, you dash around Karn following some, misguided thought that you could stop Death's fall. Even the maker jerks his arm up, stretching it towards the descending Nephilim, although he at least has the presence of mind to throw his other hand out in front of you to keep you away from the edge.

Whilst you watch, your stomach drops alongside the Horseman, plunging into your shoes and you wonder if this is the kind of panic that Karn had felt when you mentioned the Call of the void.

All of a sudden, to your astonishment, a brilliant flash of purple light erupts from Death's outstretched hand.

You'd almost think you were seeing things if you weren't already standing in a different plane of existence next to a giant.

What looks to be a large, ethereal hand explodes out of a gauntlet strapped to Death's wrist and stretches up towards the roof, riding on threads of coiling, purple smoke. Translucent fingers wrap around one of the ceiling beams and the room fills with the sound of creaking wood as Death launches himself across the vast gap, thrusting his body forwards at the apex of his swing and you gasp when the purple hand abruptly lets go of the beam.

The Horseman's momentum carries him the rest of the way and you stare agape as he lands lightly on the plateau in front of you, straightening up without a care in the world.

For several, quiet moments, both you and Karn blink owlishly at him, whilst he merely peers back until at last, his brows dip into a frown and he snaps, “What?”

With the spell of shock broken, you shake your head rapidly from side to side and adopt a scowl of your own. “What do you mean, 'what!?'” you bark, gesturing to his arm, “Why didn't you tell us you could do that? Karn and I nearly had a heart attack!”

At that, the maker clears his throat, picks his jaw off the ground and breezily attests, “Ah, I knew he had somethin' up his sleeve the whole time.”

“Quite literally, in this case,” Death muses and holds up his arm, showing off the new accessory adorning his wrist – a gauntlet carved into the shape of a screaming, silver skull.

Unnerved by the blank-eyed face staring back at you, you drag your eyes away and turn them to Death, softly admitting, “I thought you were going to get seriously hurt.”

“Yes, well...” He pauses to shove aside an ensuing burst of warmth and folds his arms tightly, partially obscuring his gauntlet from view, “I hardly think you're in any position to be casting judgement after some of the stunts you've pulled.”

Your mouth opens despite having nothing of any real substance to say in your own defence, and the flat look he's giving you is enough to extinguish the fire in your belly. Biting your lip, you glance away from his pointed stare and mutter, “Touché.”

With a smirk, the Horseman claps you on the shoulder, steering you around and giving you a guiding nudge back in the direction you'd come in from. “Now then, if you've finished sulking, I'd like to get a move on,” he says firmly, “We need to hurry if we want to get these heart stones before nightfall.” He strides ahead of you to once again lead the way, leaving you sandwiched between himself and the maker at your rear.

“I reckon we'll manage,” the latter pipes up, “Should be easier now that you've gone and found yerself a new toy.” Struck by a sudden thought, the maker trails off, frowning down at his boots for a few steps before he murmurs, “S'pose that puts me out of a job, eh?”

Craning your head over a shoulder, you shoot him a quizzical look and ask, “What d'you mean?”

“Well-” He gestures to Death “- He's got that fancy new trick now. He can get about on his own just fine. Won't be needin' me anymore, will you.”

“Of course we'll still need you, Karn,” you assure him, smiling when you see his ears perk up at your words, “You're the group muscle, after all.”

Death can practically hear Karn's chest swell up with pride and he stifles a scoff at the notion that a youngling could be stronger than the eldest of the Four.

“Huh. Reckon you might be right there,” the maker agrees, hooking his thumbs into the straps of his pack, his ego adequately stroked, “We adventurin’ types tend to carry muscle more than most, y’know.”

The Horseman's low, grumbled comment is lost underneath your ensuing chatter.

“That must make me the brains of this outfit....”

Fortunately, neither you nor the maker seem to hear him and he lets out a sigh, shaking his head as he continues to lead you through the Foundry, back in the direction of the Guardian.

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

Your journey through the enormous structure's depths soon brings you to another, dead-end chamber. This one however, unlike the first, at least contains one of your sought after quarries.

Stretched out before you lies a long, marrow catwalk that stands mere meters above a roaring moat of lava, and at the far end, suspended high above the ground by a vast, metal clamp, is the first heart stone.

Unfortunately, much to the Horseman's chagrin, it doesn't look to be quite as accessible as he'd assumed it would be...

Upon stepping through the doors of the chamber, the heat encompasses you like a heavy blanket and you let out an audible gasp, instantly raising your hand to fan yourself. “Ugh, god, it's like hell's sauna in here!” you complain, earning a chuckle from the maker behind you.

After taking just a few steps into the room, you stop in your tracks and begin to fight with the hem of your jumper and Karn's amusement swiftly turns to a grunt as he's forced to come to a dead-halt as well, lest he trip over you. Curious, he tips his head to the side and blinks down at you, watching you tug the fluffy garment up and over your head...

….And then, he promptly swallows his tongue when your tank top is pulled up as well, giving him an uninterrupted view of your midriff. For a few, glorious seconds, the sounds of the chamber, nay, the whole world seem to dip to a graceful hum.

Perhaps it's because this is a part of you he's never been privy to before. Perhaps it's because the flash of skin he catches sight of feels so... intimate, as though this is something he shouldn't be allowed to see, and now that he has, his heart has set to pounding like a war drum on the brink of a fearsome battle.

Then all too soon, your head pops out of your jumper and you breath a sigh of relief, and Karn is given no time to regain his composure.

If he thought your midriff was entrancing, he's wholly unprepared to see the rest of you.

In the rich, golden and orange light cast by the churning lava, your skin glows like it's on fire, every pore seemingly beset by thousands of tiny jewels that sparkle when you move and the sweat beading on your collar bones appears more like a cloak of shimmering stars to the young, awestruck maker.

All the magic in the realm couldn't have held his attention the way you do when you twist your head back to smile up at him and he catches the delicate bob of your throat, his ears twitching forwards in anticipation to hear the sound of your voice.

“Hey, would you mind hanging onto this? It's way too hot to wear it, even if I tie it around my waist.”

Seconds tick by and all you receive as a response from the maker is a long, dazed blink.

“Karn? You... don't have to if you don't want to...”

“PUP!”

The two of you jump at Death's abrupt, authoritative bark and you whip your head over a shoulder to find him glaring up at the maker with a look that's cold enough to send icy fingers dancing up your spine, despite the heat surrounding you.

“I believe she asked you a question,” the Horseman drawls, his casual tone a million miles away from matching the rigidity of his stance.

Raising a brow at the unexpected hostility rolling off him in waves, you turn back to Karn and see that he's giving his head a hard shake, blinking back into focus. Fumbling over his words, he reaches out and takes your proffered jumper between two, colossal fingers, gingerly lifting it out of your grasp. “A-aye, sorry.”

At his stumbled apology, you put on a heartfelt smile and say, “Thanks, Karn.”

The youngling only manages to gulp, “Yup,” in response.

You try to catch his gaze again, but the effort is futile and your confusion only grows when his lips tug into a troubled frown that he punctuates with a sigh, flipping open a pouch on his belt and carefully tucking your jumper inside as though it were made of glass. Giving a mental shrug, you turn back towards the heart stone and you can't help but notice that Death keeps his glare trained on Karn until you pass him, and only then does he tear his eyes away from the youngling to watch you instead.

“So,” you declare loudly, eager to ease the unplaceable atmosphere that has descended over the room, “How in the world are we going to get that stone down from there?”

At your side, Death regards the heart stone with equal perplexity. From the corner of his eye, he notices that Karn has sidled up next to you as well, the youngling's face now a rather satisfying beet-red and his eyes fixed on the ground at his feet. It's almost laughable that the look of quandary plastered on his face has nothing to do with the heart stone's inaccessibility. Death only hopes he doesn't hurt himself by thinking too hard on it.

The Horseman is no fool, and unlike you, he can see all too clearly that the young maker is struggling to get to grips with his fondness for you. Actually, after having witnessed the conspicuous glances that Karn has been shooting you every five minutes ever since he first laid eyes on you outside the Cauldron, Death is inclined to believe that this may have surpassed the realms of fondness.

No... unsettlingly, the territory being trodden upon here has begun to border the realm of something far stronger, something the Horseman can no longer ignore.

Karn is immutably, unflinchingly besotted with you...

The very idea causes Death's lips to curl in distaste. After all, the foolish notion has only come about because you've been overwhelmingly kind to the youngling, and now, what he thinks he's feeling is nothing more than an intense need for companionship, garnered after such a long time spent being lonely.

However... Now is not the time for Death to let himself be distracted by such matters, he reminds himself sternly, not that he should ever have been distracted by them in the first place. What does a Horseman care of the tender friendship being cultivated right before his very eyes?

Brushing the thoughts aside, he focuses on the heart stone dangling high overhead and narrows his eyes, musing, “I could knock it loose, if I could get up there.”

“What about using your new gauntlet?” you ask, but the Horseman only shakes his head.

“It's reach is impressive, but I don't think it'll carry me that far....” Trailing off, he swivels his eyes around to contemplate the maker, humming deep in his throat as his mind begins to form an idea. Seconds later, he barks, “Pup, don't move.” “Eh, what-?” The youngling goes rigid when Death begins stalking deliberately towards him, his concern mounting with each step that brings him closer. Still, he remains obediently still, only just suppressing a shiver as the Nephilim suddenly scurries up his back and onto the bewildered youngling's shoulder where he straightens up and smirks at the look on your face.

“You know, if you wanted a boost, Horseman, you only needed to ask,” the maker huffs, though he finds his complaint largely ignored by Death, who simply lifts an arm over his head.

From his gauntlet, spectral, purple limb bursts forth and flies up towards the ceiling. Ethereal fingers snag around one of the clamp arms that hold the heart stone in place and then, Death kicks off from the maker's shoulder and zooms into the air, dragged up by his unconventional grappling hook. Just before he crashes face-first into the stone, he throws out his real hand and catches the flat top of it in a vice-like grip.

Fascinated by his feats of acrobatics, you watch raptly as he braces his boots against its side and dangles there, one hand keeping him suspended far above your head whilst the other pulls his scythe off his back, and he flips the weapon upside down to use its blunt edge like a hammer, slamming it violently down on top of the heart stone. Each strike produces a resonant chime that rings in your ears.

At first, you don't think Death's strength alone will be enough to dislodge something so well-secured to the ceiling, but after a few more hits, the whole thing suddenly comes loose and falls at an alarming rate to the ground far below. With a deafening 'WHUMP', it lands, and not a second later, Death follows, though his impact is carried out with far more grace and poise, thankfully.

“I've got it,” Karn declares, stepping around you and sauntering up to the heart stone. He crouches down beside it and wraps both hands around each side, his teeth grit together tightly as he lifts the gigantic load up, throwing it up and onto his sturdy shoulder, one hand keeping it steady whilst the other is free to use his hammer, should he come to need it.

Death rolls his eyes at the maker's obvious peacocking, but you at least seem entertained, clapping your hands appreciatively when Karn checks to see if you witnessed his impressive display of strength.

“All right, enough showboating, the pair of you,” Death grumbles, placing his scythe back on his hip and striding past you along the catwalk, “We need to get this stone back to the Guardian.” Pausing mid-step, he casts the youngling a sly, appraising glance, “Or... we could head straight for the second stone... if Karn thinks he can carry two of them at once?”

The youngling seems to visibly wither under Death's cool observation, but he still sputters, “O'course I could!” all too aware that your gaze is also trained on him.

To his relief however, he's let off the hook after you rather kindly suggest, “One stone at a time, Death. Karn needs a hand free to fight constructs, right?”

Putting on a dramatic sigh, the Horseman replies, “Ah, but of course. Sensible as ever, aren’t we.” Sarcasm drips poignantly from his lips and he half expects you to offer a retort, so it's somewhat disappointing when you don't, at least to his knowledge. With his back to you, he misses the obnoxious face you pull, though he does have to wonder why Karn suddenly begins to snicker.

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

You can't ignore the strange feeling that the Guardian has been awaiting your return as you all stroll across the courtyard and between its legs before coming to a stop in front of it once again.

No lights bloom in the construct's carved-out eyes sockets, but in contrast, the heart stone begins to pulse with a dazzling, blue light, as if it knows its purpose is just moments from being served and its host is finally, finally within reach after centuries spent apart.

There's also a sense of anticipation in the air whilst you wait for Karn to raise the stone from his shoulders.

“So... what happens now?” you ask, wondering how you're ever going to scale the Guardian to fit the first heart stone in place.

All you get in response is a secretive smirk from Karn and a whisper of, “Watch.” He doesn't tarry any longer though.

Lifting the stone into two hands and heaving it over his head, the maker offers it up to the Guardian, and while at first you regard his antics bemusedly, your jaw promptly drops open when the stone is simply lifted out of his hands by an unseen force.

It floats gracefully through the air and eventually slows near the construct’s left shoulder where it snaps into a carved hollow and seals itself in place with a flash of dazzling light.

“Magnets?” you blurt out, so busy trying to rationalise what you're seeing that you momentarily forget the magical occurrences you've already witnessed. “Sadly, no,” Death sighs, “Only magic, Plain and simple.”

It's a strange reality you've found yourself in where magic is considered run-of-the-mill.

At the look of of perplexity on your face, the Horseman snorts and jerks his head towards one of the remaining doors you haven’t tried to enter yet.

“Shall we?”

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

“Okay. Let's try again. Ready, Karn?”

Death's thumb and forefinger reach into the sockets of his mask and he indulges himself in a moment of massaging his twitching eyelids. As much as he's privately grateful that Karn had set you upon his broad shoulder after you started falling behind, he wishes you hadn't taken it as an opportunity to entertain the youngling by teaching him one of your juvenile 'earth games.'

Keeping to the head of your bizarre group, the Horseman tries to focus on the twisting cavern path that stretches out ahead, eyeing the corruption that grows from its walls in the form of pustule-yellow crystals, each one oozing rivers of glistening, black liquid. He picks his way carefully around a puddle of the vile substance and tosses his head over a shoulder to check that Karn is keeping his eyes peeled as well.

A scowl darkens his glare when he notices that the youngling barely gives the puddle a fleeting glance and just steps lazily over it in one, gigantic stride before returning immediately to the human on his shoulder.

You have an arm stretched out before you, fingers curled into a loose fist and after regarding your appendage closely, Karn lifts his hand and does the same. Giving him an approving smile that turns his ears beet red, you begin yet another round of the strange game, exclaiming, “Rock, paper, scissors, GO!”

On the word go, your fist bursts apart and you thrust it in the maker's face, your fingers pressed together and held flat like the 'paper' you're trying to emulate. At the same time, Karn lifts his bulky arm and holds his own fist up for you to see, earning himself an exasperated sigh.

“Okay, now I think you're just letting me win.”

Perplexed, the maker lowers his hand and frowns down at it. “How come I lost that time?” he asks.

“Because!” you laugh, “That's the fifth time you've chosen rock!”

“Aye, 'cause rock's the strongest,” he retorts matter-of-factly, crossing his arms and tipping his chin back.

“That's not – I mean, that isn't really how the game works.” Pausing to chuckle at the absurdity of explaining the logic of such a simple game to someone who'd never even heard of scissors five minutes ago, you continue, “Okay, so the rules are, scissors cut paper, paper covers rock, and rock breaks scissors.

“Aha!” The maker's exclamation is so abrupt, you can't help but flinch as his head whirls sideways to look you in the eye. “There, you see? Rock breaks scissors! Rock's stronger!”

“Yes, but I didn't choose scissors, I chose paper,” you explain, patiently.

“....But... rock could just tear through paper!” The pitch in Karn's voice raises a little alongside his mounting confusion, prompting Death to finally interject.

“Perhaps, Y/n, it would be sensible to stop this game before the amount of brainpower it requires to play literally kills the Pup.”

Sticking out his lower lip, Karn glowers at the ground, but the quick pat you give his neck is enough to put the maker's smile back in place. “Don't worry,” you assure him, “There are plenty of other earth games I can teach you.”

“All of which will have to wait, I'm afraid,” Death quickly interjects, shuddering at the prospect of another minute spent listening to Karn fail to grasp even the most basic of concepts, “Whilst I understand that you two are having... ugh, fun, we can't afford to lose focus in this place.”

Like a switch has been flipped, whatever good mood had taken hold of you is promptly snuffed out.

'...Fun?...'

Something uncomfortable accompanies that word. It hits you more jarringly than it logically should, and your laughter tapers off to an uncertain chuckle, which in turn becomes a smile that fades slowly until an invisible weight settles itself over your heart and wipes any semblance of enjoyment clear off your face.

'I'm having fun...'

It doesn't seem... correct, somehow. Fun implies an instance of happiness. ...And happiness... Well. The term sits like a bad taste in your mouth and you can hardly believe it took the Horseman’s throwaway comment to draw your attention to it. You can't be happy, can you? How can you be happy after...

A ball of anxiousness starts to form in your stomach. 'Y/n,' your horrified mind seems to whisper, accusing and cold, 'Are you getting over them so quickly?'

“Oi?”

Your leg is given a gentle shove and you flinch, startled to see Karn's finger slowly pulling away. He has his sights set on you, his jaw hanging open in a way that radiates concern and when you flick your eyes ahead for a second, you notice that Death's head is twisted to the side, just enough to give you a glimpse of white bone behind his ebony hair.

“You okay? We lost you there for a moment,” the maker urges, quietly adding, “...again.”

It comes far too easy, the knee-jerk reaction to throw yourself into an overenthusiastic response. Kicking your heels against his shoulder, you huff out a quick laugh that grates at your ears. “I'm still here, buddy. Just thinking about how you and the others are going to react to Monopoly.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Seriously, Karn,” you chirp, the grin stretching at your lips uncomfortable and awkward, “I'm fine.”

God, isn't that just becoming easy now? Far easier than it ever used to be. 'I'm fine' rolls off your tongue like a lie that you're desperate to convince yourself is in fact, a truth. Still, it at least seems to have placated your gigantic companion, whose smile has returned within moments of seeing your own, so ready to accept that his friend really is okay.

Or perhaps, he's just desperate to believe it, like you are. You wish Eideard was just as difficult to lie to, thinking back on the conversation you'd had with the Old One in Tri Stone yesterday.

Stalking ahead, Death is once again turned away from you, but you aren't sure if he's ever been an easy man to fool.

The network of vast corridors finally come to an end as you turn another corner to see dull, grey daylight pouring in up ahead.

With you still sitting astride his shoulder, Karn follows the Horseman through an arched entryway and out into a spacious, grandiose courtyard, where you're pleasantly surprised to note that the rain has finally started to let up, leaving you all doused in little more than a light drizzle.

Shielding your eyes, you squint up at the blanket of clouds overhead and spot the pale suns hiding behind them, trying to break through. You appreciate their effort, but the courtyard is still bucolic without the suns' rays shining down on it.

Like its sister, the stone is held fast to the gazebo's roof by a great, metal claw. “How come you makers all put the heart stones in such hard-to-reach places?” you gripe, raking your gaze over the area to search for anything that might be lurking in the shadows, unaware that Death has already done the same and found the coast is clear.

Karn's boots splash through puddles as he stomps after the Horseman and replies, “If a maker lives long enough, their soul gets too old to pass through the Well. N'when that happens, they'll seek out an empty vessel - like a heart stone. And what would you do if you had your hands on a stone that held a human's soul, hm?”

You consider the question carefully for a moment, then lift your arm in a shrug. “I... guess I'd try and keep it as safe as possible?”

“Exactly!” Karn grins, snapping his fingers, “Those heart stones ain't just powerful artefacts – they carry the life force of our ancestors. We keep 'em up high like that for their own protection. S'a way to stop wee beasties from scratchin' em up, and the like.”

Up ahead, you fail to notice that Death's fingertips are creeping up to gently touch at the wound on his chest. He ascends the steps into the gazebo and comes to a halt directly beneath the suspended heart stone, tipping his head back to regard it pensively with half of his attention on the surrounding area whilst the other half idly hones in on the faraway voices that whisper in the dark recesses of his mind. To quiet them, he brushes his fingers over the amulet's remains that are imbedded in his skin, just above the spot where his heart used to beat.

Suddenly, the Horseman is yanked from his thoughts by a loud splash and a cold spray of rainwater spattering on his leg. Cranking his neck around slowly, he glares hard at the human who has appeared unexpectedly next to him.

Evidently, Karn had lowered you down from his shoulder and – like a human would – you'd elected to jump the last few feet to the ground, landing squarely in a puddle beside Death. The Nephilim's icy glare has you ducking your head and pressing your lips together.

“Pup,” he growls, never taking his eyes off you, daring you to let a grin slip onto your face, “Come over here. I'm going to need another boost.”

The young maker strides forwards, raising his boot as he passes you and giving it a threatening jerk towards the puddle you're standing in, causing you to let out a gasp and leap backwards, shooting him a playful glare once you're safely out of the splash zone.

Showing off his tusks, Karn stops at Death's side and offers his hand. It shouldn't have been a surprise that the Horseman gives it a dirty look before he eventually steps onto the glove, his pride taking yet another hit. Karn however, is beaming from ear to ear as he lifts Death up past his head, more than likely glad to be of help.

The Horseman's scowl recedes ever so slightly at the young maker's expression and with a bit of difficulty, he manages to swallow some of his pride and dips his head in an almost imperceptible nod, as close as he'll ever come to admitting thanks. He doesn't see the maker's reaction, but he does feel Karn bounce excitedly on the balls of his feet, prompting him to turn his eyes skyward and heave a sigh as he sends his phantom appendage up to snag the heart stone.

As soon as the maker's hand is free, he shifts his gaze down and sweeps it across the ground at his feet, heart rate spiking when he doesn't immediately spot you nearby. Opening his mouth to call out, he raises his head and suddenly, your name catches in his throat.

It turns out you haven't wandered far at all. You've only moved several steps away and turned your back on the maker, currently busy staring down at your reflection in a puddle. Curious, but erring on the side of caution so as not to startle you, he carefully leans sideways and tries and get a look at your face, hearing the telltale ‘shing’ of scythes being drawn above him.

Your eyes are heavy-lidded, yet they remain transfixed upon the water, its placid surface casting a grubby and hazy reflection back up to you, and Karn wonders what you must be seeing in there that has caused your face to grow so haggard.

Are you merely seeing yourself? From his angle, all he can see is the vague shape of a human.

Just then, a loud clang shatters the peace of the moment and you suck in a gasp, snapping to attention once more.

Death raps his scythes mercilessly against the heart stone until it comes loose from its metal bindings and plummets to the ground just as the first had, causing Karn to grimace at the treatment. Whoever's soul has inhabited the stone, he only hopes they don't take umbrage.

“Well, Pup,” Death grunts as he drops down beside it again, bending his knees as he lands, “I believe you know the routine by now.”

Brushing a thumb under his nose, the maker nods and waddles over to hoist the stone up into his grasp whilst the Nephilim begins to head back the way you’d all come from, only faltering in his step when he finds you staring down into the puddle once more.

Karn doesn't notice this time. He's too focused on digging some dirt out of the heart stone's notches with the tip of his forefinger and then using the back of his hand to sweep it clean.

It's only when you finally speak up, your voice quiet and subdued, that he tips his head towards you and begins paying close attention.

“Can... can I tell you guys something?”

“Well, o' course you can!” Karn booms eagerly. In contrast, Death merely spares you a curious, sideways glance.

Picking absentmindedly at a nail on your left hand, you try to speak, only to find the words aren't coming as easily as you thought they would, so you let your jaw fall shut again and swallow thickly before making another attempt. “It's just something that's, uh, well, it's bothering me. I feel guilty about it, but – Christ, I hope you guys don't think less of me for saying this but – I think I… I'm actually having a -.... a good time?”

The heavy weight of their stares presses upon you until, after a moment, Karn's face brightens and he announces, “Well that's great,” moving the heart stone further up his shoulder so he can beam down at you, obviously failing to see why your having a 'good time' might be causing you distress.

“No, it's not, Karn! It’s wrong.” Sighing roughly, you rake your hands through your hair and try to explain in a way the young maker would understand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap, I just... I’ve been feeling a bit guilty lately.”

“Guilty?” he asks, “For havin’ fun?”

“No, no. Well, kind of but... I mean, It’s only been a few days. How can I be feeling happy after losing so much? It just doesn’t seem....” Fishing your hand through to air as if you might pull the right words out of nowhere proves futile and you eventually give up, letting your hand drop back to your side.

“...Right?” Death's voice flutters into your ear and you pull your gaze up off the ground to stare at the swaying, ebony hair in front of you, uncertain whether he'd intended for you to hear him.

All the same, you answer. “Yeah... Exactly.”

You fail to notice that Death's jaw has set into a hard line, teeth clenched tighter than a vice underneath his mask.

The Horseman remembers vividly how he'd been nigh inconsolable the day he took Absalom's life. His own brother... Every fibre that made up his wretched, twisted body had come alive with a rage unlike anything he'd ever known.

Creator... He'd been so angry - at the Nephilim, at Absalom, at the Charred Council and his siblings... It had taken centuries before he'd been ready to admit that all he was doing was distracting himself from the real target of his ire. Death always liked to believe he was above falling victim to guilt, yet there it was – still is, in fact - settled in his chest like shards of glass, and no matter how much time passes - centuries, eons or a hundred thousand years – it will never be enough for the Horseman to escape the shadow that guilt casts upon him.

It bears no significance how often he tells himself that his shame is foolish and unnecessary, that he and his brothers and sister did what had to be done. The Nephilim could not go on the way they were. They had to be destroyed, or else the rest of Creation wouldn't have survived.

They had to be.

In moments that are few and far between, Death catches himself wondering what his un-life would have been like if someone else had taken up the mantle of 'Kinslayer.' No, he doesn't regret what he did. He would never choose to go back and change the past... But that doesn't spare him from experiencing the residual shame of what he'd had to do, even so many years down the line.

He almost envies you, in a way.

How easy had it just been for you to admit that you're haunted by guilt? What kind of bravery is that and where in the nine hells had it even come from? How could you say – out loud – something that had taken Death centuries to even admit to himself?

Well, at least in that regard, you're less of a coward than he is.

“It sounds as though you’re clinging to guilt,” he murmurs.

His words strike you hard in the chest. “Clinging?” you echo, “Death, I don’t like feeling guilty!”

“No,” he concurs, patient as ever, “But you don’t like feeling happy either. Because feeling happy makes it seem as though you’re coping. And feeling you’re coping is almost worse, because who could possibly be coping after they’ve lost so much?”

The Horseman’s question is rhetorical, you know, yet still your mouth falls open to respond, though you soon find nothing emerges other than a silent breath in place of words. When you don’t offer up a reply, he turns to the entrance and tilts his head over a shoulder, regarding you from the corner of his eye, adding, “You think being happy after a tragedy makes you a bad person?”

Swallowing down past a thick lump in your throat, you give a hesitant nod.

“Well...” he huffs, “From what I’ve seen, I think I can safely attest that you’re not.”

“Definitely not,” Karn agrees with a decisive bob of his head.

You have to blink hard a few times to chase away the tears that threaten at the back of your eyelids. “Thanks, guys... Doesn’t make me feel any less guilty though.”

“And it likely never will,” Death says matter of factly.

“That’s a bummer.”

The human colloquialism is lost on him but he gets the gist of your expression and lets out a soft snort before he replies, “Perhaps. But grief and guilt do become easier to bear.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Well, maybe not for a long, long time, and perhaps, every so often, they will rear their heads and strike with a vengeance, but it does get easier, because you will learn to live alongside it. I’ve seen it time and again in humans. You’re nothing if not a resilient little species. You will live with anything, if you give yourselves time to learn how.”

And with that, he faces forwards again and begins the long trek back across the courtyard to the tunnels that brought you here. It isn’t long before you catch up to him and keep stride for a few paces, followed, as always, by the loyal maker at your back.

“Huh... thanks, Death,” you smile earnestly up at him. The heaviness hasn’t shifted at all from your chest, but you find that it isn’t quite as difficult to carry as it had been moments ago. “I think that’s one of the most comforting things you’ve said to me yet.”

“Hmph. Yes. Well,” he grumbles, “Don’t get used to it.”

---

With the second heart stone offered up to the Guardian and sealed into place, the three of you turn your attention to the third and final tunnel - the one you’ve yet to travel down, and not least because, emanating from the entrance is an eerily familiar, yellow glow.

Still, with little other option, the three of you gradually make your way through the open doors and find yourselves in a lower subsection of the Foundry. Karn is almost suffocatingly close to you, causing even the maker-intended tunnel to feel cramped and claustrophobic, although you have to admit that having a giant walking so near to your heels does leave you feeling adequately protected from behind, that is, until you come upon a relatively small, nondescript chamber. Or, it would be nondescript and wouldn't even particularly stand out from many of the Foundry's other chambers had it not been for the dozens upon dozens of corrupted, crystalline growths that burst like a fungus from every, available surface.

Death's eyes narrow upon them. “Stay close,” he warns, leading the way down the narrow staircase and keeping as far from the crystals as he can, more for the sake of the two younglings behind him than any sense of self-preservation.

He hardly needs to tell you twice.

The light from those terrible growths of corruption almost seems to burn at your skin as you pass them, and for a moment, you begin to wonder if it's radiation that causes the unnatural glow. Then, you decide you don't know enough about chemistry and put it from your mind. There are far more pressing matters to worry about, after all.

“Death?” you hum, feeling the familiar, winding knots of unease begin to coil around in your stomach.

The Horseman's eyes zero in on a dead construct sitting slumped in one corner. “Stay close,” he growls, but even then, he reaches a hand backwards and blindly grabs the hem of your shirt, tugging you until you're very nearly stepping on the heels of his boots.

On an unspoken whim, Karn closes the distance to an even more claustrophobic degree.

Dangling from a clamp set into the ceiling overhead just like its brethren, you spot the third and final heart stone, and from just one glance, you know you'd been right to worry about things that come in threes.

“Uh, isn't that supposed to be blue, like the others?” you ask, nodding towards it.

“Aye.... It is,” Karn mutters darkly, ears flattening to his head, “There's somethin' very wrong with this one...”

The heart stone glows the same, pus-like yellow as the crystals growing all around it. Black gunk oozes from within it, dribbling down the patterns carved into its surface until each rivulet converges right at the stone's pointed tip, forming one, big globule of corrupted liquid. Eventually, it grows too large and you watch in horrified disgust as it finally relinquishes its hold on the stone and drops to the ground with a loud, wet 'Plop!'

“Ew,” you declare.

“At least this stone doesn't require that I use you as a springboard, Pup,” Death remarks, rolling his shoulders and lifting his arm towards the ceiling.

Recognising the steadily increasing glow emitted by the gauntlet around his wrist, you dart out a hand and snatch his arm back, earning yourself a fearsome glare in return. With the Horseman's golden eyes boring down into you, your nerve begins to waver until you eventually pull away, yet the question bubbling up inside your throat still manages to find its way out. “What are you doing!?” you blurt, “The stone's corrupted!”

“I can see that,” Death coolly replies, making to raise his hand once more before he catches the fleeting look of alarm that you send up at the maker beside you. Sparing you a brief sigh, Death forces his glare to soften, if only a fraction. “Y/n, if we stop here, we'll have come all this way for nothing.”

“But if we put that thing in the Guardian, something could go wrong!” The Horseman subjects you to his most uncompromising glare, one he's often been driven to use on his petulant siblings.

“And if we do nothing, then nothing will change. Corruption will continue to spread across the Forge Lands, Tri Stone may eventually fall, and we'll be no closer to the Tree of Life.”

“But-” Hesitating, you chew on your lip and glance up at the maker. “- But Karn will have to carry it... You said we shouldn't let Corruption touch us!”

Death's expression turns grave and you can see the pinch of his brow, hidden as it is beneath his mask. “I know,” he admits quietly, “It’s a risk. But unless you can think of another way to get it to the Guardian -”

“I don't mind carryin' it!” Karn interrupts, jabbing a thumb into his own chest, “Corruption'll have a tough time gettin' under this thick skin.”

You tip your head back to look up at him, worry laying heavily across your brow. “But, Karn-”

“Oi, don't you go worryin' about me.” The unexpected gentleness of Karn's voice is anything but typical and reminds you more of the dulcet tones you might hear from the soft-spoken shaman, not your zealous and excitable young friend. “I'll be all right.”

Helplessly, you turn a pleading look onto Death, but you find no reassurance in the Horseman's calm and enigmatic eyes.

Your acquiescence comes in the form of a resigned sigh, and once he's satisfied you won't protest further, Death hums approvingly and raises his hand once again towards the heart stone.

It seems so baffling to you that the ghostly appendage that flies from his gauntlet can be so strong and solid. Long, skeletal fingers latch easily onto the stone's uneven surface and clamp down, hard, seconds before Death is pulled up towards the oozing stone and clings to it, withdrawing his scythe.

As he knocks the stone loose of its clamp, you can do little but hold your breath and watch, hands jumping into closed fists when it suddenly crashes to the ground with a dull but tremulous 'whump!' and a moment later, Karn is using the back of his gloved hand to nudge you away from it, giving him enough room to step protectively between you and the corrupted heart stone.

Death drops down to the earth beside it and moves around the maker, keeping a close eye on him whilst he bends down and slides his hands around the stone, braced and ready to react should anything begin to happen. After a few moments of regarding it as though he expects it to spring to life at any second, Karn sets his jaw and with a strained grunt, he hefts the cumbersome load up and settles it upon his shoulder.

The tension in the chamber is thick and oppressive enough that you can almost feel it lend a heaviness to the breaths that enter your lungs. Whatever time-stream this realm rides upon seems to grind to an abrupt halt and you're all left in perfect stillness, watching.... waiting.....

… But nothing happens.

One of Karn's eyes cracks open, having been squinted shut after he first touched the heart stone, and he glances down at himself, letting out a muted 'oh,' of surprise.

“There, you see? He's fine,” Death tells you, “Now, let's get this stone back to its host.”

Barely needing to be told twice, Karn begins to pick his way around the crystal growths and heads back toward the entrance whilst you and the Horseman walk in line with one another, following his path.

“So,” Death starts, folding his hands behind his back, “Are you learning to trust me yet?”

“I already trust you, Death. I mean, it took a while but, I am there.” You're too busy admiring the broken construct you pass by to notice the shock that flashes across Death's eyes.

You trust him?...

And you really think a few days is a while?

He drags his gaze off your face and elects to frown pensively at the straps of Karn's boots. At his silence, you continue, “Just because you trust someone doesn't mean you don't think they can be wrong sometimes.”

The old Nephilim huffs, uncertain of whether he should be insulted that you think he makes mistakes, or impressed at the philosophical side to your argument. After all, he himself would trust his siblings, but is more than aware that they're capable of erring from time to time.

Appraising you thoughtfully from the corner of an eye, Death opens his mouth to accuse you of spending too much time around the puzzling and sagacious Eideard when, all of a sudden, Karn lets out a startled cry, disturbing the relative peace that's fallen over you.

Yelping his name, your eyes snap up to the maker, whereas Death's immediately land upon the reason for his alarm.

From deep within the heart stone, Corruption's hideous consciousness had sensed a fresh, unwitting host, and temptation spurred it to send an insidious part of itself forth in search of the body it yearns to inhabit.

Blood rushes into your ears at the sight of the black, oily tendrils that stretch out of the heart stone and you barely register that you've taken several steps towards Karn before a hand is suddenly hauling you back and you soon find yourself gaping up at the bristling shoulders and jutting spine of a predatory Horseman.

However, much to your shock and dizzying relief, Corruption’s target isn't the youngling.

The heart stone lurches in Karn's grasp and he digs his fingertips into its callouses to keep it steady as the tendrils detach from their main cluster and drop to the ground near his feet. Rankled, the maker back-peddles up the steps and away from the writhing mess of darkness, whilst all you can do is watch from behind Death's guarding arm as corruption slips and gurgles its way across the room like a grotesque slug, heading straight for the broken-down construct slumped in the corner.

By the time Death realises its intent, he's too late to stop it.

The flailing ball of corruption reaches up with its tendrils and slides them underneath the stone plates that make up the construct’s chest.

“What is that thing!?” you exclaim.

When Karn takes in the pieces of stone on the ground, his face turns pale and he sucks in a sharp breath, his stomach sinking like a stone. “It... it’s a custodian,” he utters, his horror lending to your own.

“Karn!” Death barks, and you suddenly find yourself grabbed yet again and shoved none-too-gently towards the young maker, “Get her out of here!”

Acting swiftly, Karrn drops the heart stone and dashes back down the steps, clumsily curling his fingers around your torso and ushering you back to the entrance, away from the shuddering custodian.

A pair of brutally strong hands that look well-equipped to dish out some serious, blunt-force trauma pound into the earth, gripping fistfuls of stone as the thick and undulating strands of corruption knit the broken body back together. The arms are first, dragged across the ground and slotted into the shoulders whilst a blocky head is set into a round, open cavity on top of the custodian's torso, which in turn, is lifted onto the last component; a rotating, stone sphere.

Suddenly, the crevasses where its eyes would sit fill with the sickly yellow light you've come to know so well, and they lock straight onto the Horseman, who stalks backwards further into the room, deliberately drawing the construct away from you and Karn.

With his quarry's attention fixed wholly on him, Death whips out his scythes and splays his shoulders out wide, offering himself up as a challenge, though you can't help but think that bait would be a more appropriate term. Eerily, the hulking beast doesn't utter a sound from its stony maw, it merely pivots its body towards Death and begins to roll like a charging bull across the room, carried by its spherical base.

It reaches him and rears itself back, arms thrust high over his head, ready to pummel the Nephilim back to dust. You're ashamed of the way his name leaves your lips in a helpless, desperate cry.

Less than a second before he's flattened however, Death strafes expertly to the side and skirts around the custodian, leaving mere inches of space in his wake as its fists obliterate the ground where'd he'd been standing.

Lightening-quick, the Horseman strikes out at its exposed back, though it doesn't stay exposed for long.

The custodian's size and weight give the impression of a creature that should be slow, it's movements cumbersome, yet the ball that bears its mass allows for a much broader range of movement. Namely, within a split second, the custodian whirls around on its axis to face Death, swinging its arm out in a wide arc, a move that would have bowled him clear off his feet had he not leapt back out of the way in time.

Even from halfway across the room, you can hear the growl of frustration that escapes from underneath his mask as he makes another attempt to get close enough to the wildly swinging construct to even land a single blow on it, yet every time you start to think he may have found an opening, he's sent careening back by a sweep from one of the custodian's fists.

“We have to help him,” you realise after the construct once again bludgeons one of the yellow crystal growths to smithereens in an attempt to reach Death. Glancing up at Karn, you find him staring grimly out at the battle with his lips peeled back over gritted teeth and it soon becomes evident that he hadn't heard you.

Jaw setting, you turn about and begin to falteringly make your way down the steps. No sooner have you made it to the bottom than Karn suddenly snaps to attention and he lunges after you, throwing out a hand and slamming it to the ground right in your path, blocking the way forward. “What're you doin!?” he barks, frantic, “You tryin' to get yerself killed!?”

“We have to help him, Karn!” You attempt to sidestep his hand, but the maker is persistent, moving to stop you wherever you go. Grabbing his leather-bound thumb, you pull yourself up onto your toes and peer over the appendage, catching sight of Death just as he deflects a particularly savage blow that sends him skidding backwards for several yards until he's able to regain his balance.

Now borderline hysterical, you cry, “He can't do this alone!”

“He's Death! He's always done things by himself!”

Even as Karn speaks, a foul curse is spat from the Horseman's mouth as he tries and fails to sever the beast's hand as it makes a clumsy grab at him. You twist your neck around and peer up at the maker behind you, causing his heart to thunk down into his stomach when he sees tears welling up in your eyes.

“He shouldn't have to, though,” you utter, your fingers curling tightly into his glove, “Please, Karn?”

The youngling stares back at you. There's not a force in the universe that could move him to action quite like the sight of your tears. Hesitating for all of a second, he sets his mouth into a determined line and his eyes grow as hard and unyielding as the stone underfoot.

“I'll help 'im. You stay here,” he growls, nudging you back and standing to his full height.

You get the impression that he's not asking.

Death's scythes are battered by the custodian's fist yet again, though they still hold strong, even as their wielder's patience is quickly wearing thin. Unleashing a furious growl, the Horseman holds his ground, his back to the staircase as his assailant rolls like an unstoppable steam train towards him, its arm raising high into the air.

Unfortunately for the corrupted construct, due in part to its one-track mind, it's so focused on Death that it doesn't even see the new and far larger threat barrelling in its direction.

There's a gut-wrenching instance in which you're convinced that Karn has entered the fray too late, and the Horseman will surely be unable to counter the coming strike. As the custodian's fist begins to descend, Death braces himself, crossing his scythes in front of him and wondering why he's been unable to call upon his Reaper form during this fight.

All of a sudden, something enormous whooshes past his mask, and from the corner of an eye, he sees a hammer, swinging up through the air to meet the construct's downward swing in a head-on collision that throws the enormous beast off balance and, more pressingly, away from Death. Momentarily stunned, the Nephilim risks a quick glance up to see Karn standing beside him, rolling his shoulders.

“What do you think you're doing?” Death hisses venomously, “I told you to get-”

“Suck it up, Horseman! She's right - You can't do this one alone.”

Curling his lip at the maker's snappish interruption and your insinuation, Death discovers that he has no time to retort because the custodian is suddenly upon them once more.

Karn, although slower, is at least equipped to totter the construct on its axis with every swing of his hammer, and his addition to the battle allows Death more opportunities to get in close and tear a chunk of stone off its arms, back, anywhere that he can reach.

Following only a few minutes of combat, it becomes clear that the speed and unrivalled agility of the eldest Nephilim, coupled with the sheer, brute strength of a maker is too much of a challenge, and the sinister force driving the custodian pauses, rolling its host back a few yards and assessing the threats ahead of it in search of a weakness, an opportunity, a chance.

Karn and Death have planted themselves directly between you and the construct, the maker quivering with adrenaline and the Horseman just as calculating and cold as you expect him to be.

Suddenly, the custodian's head stops swinging back and forth between the two and comes to rest with its yellow gaze pointed straight through the middle of them.

“Why's it just standin' there?” Karn rumbles, an uneasy feeling blooming in the pit of his stomach at the custodian's decidedly thoughtful pause. Next to him, Death's eyes are narrowed to thin slits as he considers the stone behemoth warily whilst it simply peers back, unmoving.

A sensation that he's still unaccustomed to hits him in the chest at full force when he finally realises what – or rather, who – the construct has turned its sights onto.

He's too late to shout a warning, or to try and stop it as the custodian suddenly explodes into motion and lurches forwards, hurtling straight for them and keeping its shoulders low like a battering ram, forcing both maker and Horseman to dive instinctively out of its way rather than risk being mowed down, just as it had planned.

Within a fraction of a second, Death is wheeling about, a cry of outrage lingering in his throat. Karn is quick to follow suit and the maker's entire face drains of all colour once he sees the disaster about to occur right in front of them.

Corruption – fuelled by hate and spite – had spotted the group's vulnerability, and they had just stepped aside to let it pass.

Fear is not something that Karn ever likes to admit to feeling, but in that moment, watching you trip backwards up the steps and land painfully on your backside when the custodian careens towards you with hellish intent, the maker is certain he's never felt so afraid in his life.

Deep below the crashing waves of fear however, there's something far more reactive bubbling to the surface. He's never been an especially aggressive maker, not in temperament at least.

That all changes in a split second at the realisation that you're in imminent danger.

Without even taking the time to think, the maker discards his hammer, leaving it forgotten in his wake in favour of charging after the custodian as though a fire has been lit underneath his boots. But even though he's running at a speed he's never reached before, down in a dark, frightened corner of his heart, Karn knows he's too slow to get there in time. That doesn't stop him from willing himself forwards though, a bellowed shout of 'NO!' blasting from his mouth and a hand reaching out to you.

Behind him, the Horseman's own arm shadows his movements, lifting towards you as well.

Death is aware of only two things.

The first, his Reaper Form is suddenly trying to return with a vengeance, bucking against the magics that keep it shackled. And secondly, even if it manages to emerge, neither it nor the youngling will make it to you in time.

He doesn't even register that he's sent out the mental command to his gauntlet, hardly notices the flash of purple light or the phantom hand that lunges forth and flies across the room towards you, long, disjointed fingers splaying out wide, reaching, stretching to their limits in a desperate attempt to win the terrible race.

Scrambling futilely backwards and blind to everything but the construct bearing down on top of you, your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes, throat too tight with terror to even scream. There are fists as big as cars lifting high above you and all you can think about is how much the next few seconds are going to hurt.

They do hurt. Just not in the way you'd expected.

Pressure suddenly cinches around your torso and you don't even have a second to take a breath before the air is knocked from your lungs as you're ripped forwards violently, your head snapping back from the abruptness of the motion. You collide with something hard and cold that immediately curls itself around you, and when your head stops spinning and you can open your eyes again, you look up to see the underside of Death's chin.

Confused as to how you've come to be in his grasp, you turn your gaze outwards and find yourself staring in horrified awe at the brutal scene playing out in front of you.

The custodian's fists had all but demolished the steps where you'd been sprawled mere moments ago and the beast appears just as confused as you are to find that you're not a blood-stain beneath its hands.

Without slowing for even an instant, Karn rams into the construct's back and digs his fingers into the grooves around its neck, wrenching it back and hurling it sideways into a cluster of crystals that shatter upon impact. You hardly recognise the youngling with the way his teeth are bared, revealing the real extent of his formidable tusks as he bellows resoundingly and unintelligibly, casting aside all decorum to bend down and engulf the custodian's head in his fists.

With you pinned protectively against his heaving chest, Death tries to block the view with his arm, but you still manage to peer over the top of his limb, watching raptly whilst Karn squares his shoulders and gives the head a nauseating and vicious twist, wresting it clean off the custodian's shoulders and effectively severing the corruption from its host.

An awful screech turns your blood to ice, yet you still stare agape at the oily rivers that slide down the custodian's body and sink into the floor, followed moments after by crumbling remnants of limbs and stone plates that are no longer held together by tendrils of corruption.

At last, the chamber falls still and quiet once more, save for Karn's guttural grunts and your tentative sigh of relief.

Flexing his hands, the maker glares hatefully down at the mess and gives it a dismissive snort before he whips his head around to face you, his chest convulsing with every breath. Suddenly, the body curled over you begins to unfurl as Death straightens up again and lowers his arms, letting you take a shaky step out of them before you turn around to face him.

The Horseman doesn't even bother to stop his eyes from darting over you from head to foot in search of any fresh injuries.

“So...” you croak, rubbing at the back of your neck where an ache has already begun, “That was-”

“-Close?” he guesses.

“I was going to say terrifying, but yeah, it was pretty close.”

Booming footfalls alert you to Karn's approach and you turn to meet him, only to be startled by a pair of gigantic hands that curl around you, hovering just close enough to keep you trapped amongst trembling fingers.

“Are you all right!?” Karn blares, beads of sweat trickling down his forrid, “Did 'e hurt you!? Tell me you're okay!”

He's still shaking as the last threads of rage seep out of his bones and you're quick to place a calming hand on his thumb, raising your voice to be heard over the maker's babbling. “Karn, I'm okay! Chill! Death pulled me out of the way in time.”

The youngling's ears remain plastered to his skull and he doesn't look even remotely reassured, his eyes roving up and down your body as though he expects to discover a hidden injury.

After yet another near-death experience, you aren't quite sure where you find the capacity to crack a joke, but somehow, your lips manage to quirk up into a faltering grin and you say, “I-It's a good thing Death found that gauntlet, huh? It.. uh, it came in really handy back there.”

You may have tripped over your words, it may have been awkward and clumsy and you may be subjected to a very unimpressed glare from the Horseman, but for the time being, your focus is on the crumbling maker in front of you.

Karn's heavy breaths pause for a few seconds whilst he takes in your words, blinking at you with a perplexed frown. Then, he draws in a long, shuddering breath and expels it roughly again, his chest deflating as the warm air washes over your face until his exhale turns into a rough, throaty chuckle. “Ha... 'handy,” he grins.

Not even Death's deadpan stare prevents your shaky, wheezing giggle, if anything, one glance at the Horseman and you dissolve even further, breathlessly leaning against one of Karn's hands.

It's clear that the thrill of surviving another potentially fatal encounter has left you feeling giddy, something that Death can't fault you for, and in fact, he even lets a flicker of an indulgent smile bend the curve of his lips. Glancing up at him, you suddenly fall silent, peering at him as though he's sprouted a halo. “Death?” you say, incredulous, “Are you smiling?”

Quick as a flash, his face drops into its usual scowl and he crosses his arms, cocking a hip and drawling, “And why on earth would I be doing something like that?”

Undeterred, you lift a finger and point to one corner of your mouth. “You smile with this side. Your left eye sort of half-closes and gets all wrinkly whenever you do it.”

To that, the Nephilim can't come up with a response, more-so because he's taken aback by the knowledge that you've obviously been watching him far more closely than he'd assumed. Fortunately for his pride, you don't press the matter and rather than wait too long for a response, you let out a hum and push yourself away from the maker's glove as he gets back onto his feet, giving you a clearer view of the now destroyed custodian.

“Talk about putting the 'Karn' in 'carnage,” you say, appraising the pile of rubble before raising a brow at the youngling, who returns the look with a sheepish smile.

“Aye, sorry 'bout that. Hope I didn't scare you none.”

“Don't worry, you didn't. It was weird to see you angry though.”

Pressing his lips together, Karn makes a sound at the back of his throat, something between a hum and a grumble. “Doesn't happen often,” he admits quietly.

As the pair of you absently start to make your way back towards the entrance together, walking side by side, Death goes entirely unnoticed. He considers you both in silence, catching everything from the way Karn lazes into each step which gives you the chance to keep pace, to the lack of distance between you both, always staying within reach of one another...

You make... rather good friends, he realises, stubbornly ignoring the pit that opens up in his stomach at the very thought, reminding him that he wouldn't know friendship if it came up and slapped him around the face. He might not be any kind of expert, but he does recognise it when he sees it.

Earlier, when he had been searching for a way to open the fall gate, he had heard you through its thick stone, his keen ears picking up on the muffled conversation held between you and the maker when you thought yours' were the only ears listening.

You planned to stay with the makers.

Well.... Fine.

Good, even.

The Forge Lands... will make an adequate home for you, Death can't help but privately admit. And the makers will be perfect guardians. Of course, he shall have to have a word with Eideard before leaving, to ensure that the Old one keeps you and Karn out of trouble, as much as he can.

Yes... It's the perfect solution. You'll remain here with the giants, and Death can carry on, alone.

Karn will be happy to have you all to himself. Perhaps in time, you’ll actually even notice the way he looks at you.

“Death?”

The Horseman blinks and looks up, tugged back to the room by the sound of your voice. You've stopped on the staircase and twisted around to face him even as Karn continues on to cautiously retrieve the heart stone.

“Are you coming? Or are you just gonna stand there until the end of time?”

With an air of nonchalance that only Death could summon, he shakes his thoughts away and saunters over to you, using his knuckles to prod you up the stairs once he reaches your side.

“Get moving,” he grumbles, though the command has no real heat behind it, “I'd like to get this stone back to the Guardian before we run into any more surprises.”

You're walking ahead of him, so he doesn't see your smile wither and die as you make it to Karn's side, the youngling already having reclaimed possession of the corrupted heart stone.

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

The heavens had once again split open during your short walk back to the courtyard and the rain drums mercilessly down on your heads as you all emerge from the tunnel and step out into the courtyard. Aside from nature’s downpour splashing noisily against the ground, your journey has passed in relative silence, although Death gets the sense that there are several, burning questions you're dying to vocalise, and he doesn't miss the surreptitious glances that Karn keeps sending your way, the maker's lip trapped between his teeth all the way back to the Guardian.

Much, much too soon for your liking, you soon find yourself standing before the monstrous construct once again, your neck craned painfully in order to look up towards its head where, right in the space above its stony brows, there sits a hole, framed by a bronze surround which is obviously meant to house the heart stone laying across Karn's shoulders.

The skin on your thumb is subjected to a vicious torment by your other hand as you absently pick at it until cold fingers suddenly wrap around your wrist and tug your hands apart. Sheepishly, you peer up at Death and tuck your thumb into the hem of your skirt, hiding it from view. After a few more seconds spent underneath the Horseman's chiding frown, you let out a sigh when he finally releases you and turns to Karn, who's teeth haven't stopped worrying at his lip.

“Pup,” Death calls, causing the maker to give a start and whip his head down, releasing his welted lip in the process, “It's time.”

The small puddle of dread that has been sloshing around in your gut ever since you arrived at the Foundry promptly turns into a flood that rises into your lungs and squeezes at your heart.

As if he's fine-tuned to the same wavelength as you, Karn hesitates, furrowing his brow before twisting back to regard the heart stone and pressing his palm gently to its surface. You could almost swear the yellow light pulses in response, which makes you wonder how deep the connection really runs between these giants and the stones that supposedly hold the souls of their fallen brethren.

“We've seen its work, Horseman,” the youngling says, his ears drooping as he speaks, “Corruption fair weeps from it. Maybe....” He falters, and when he looks down at you, you notice that his forehead is etched by worried lines. “Maybe Y/n's right. Maybe this ain't such a good idea.”

Death's head swivels from the maker on his right to the human standing to his left. Just like that, it dawns on him that he's amongst not one, but two younglings.

“I have a theory,” he begins, impressed that the patience in his tone could match Eideard's, “The other two heart stones were pure. I'm wagering that their radiance will cleanse the third.”

After a pause, the youngling tips his head back to stare apprehensively at the Guardian. “Mayhaps.”

“Not, uh.. Not that I'm any kind of authority on corruption and magical stones and whatnot,” you offer in the ensuing silence, “But have you ever seen what happens when you put a drop of ink in a glass of water?”

The Horseman lifts a brow, retorting, “I hardly think this is the time for -”

“-The water doesn't turn the ink clear, Death,” you press, pleading. When he glances down, he notes that your hands are wringing together. “It's so often the other way around.”

Surprised, he can't help but admit that your analogy raises a rather compelling argument, and a troublesome point. Yet even so, the plain and simple fact of the matter is that by choosing not to act, then the valley and perhaps even the whole realm will be condemned to a slow, but inevitable death.

At least, if things change, there is a chance that they may change for the better. But first, the have to change at all.

Death steels himself against the strangely affecting look you're giving him and he clears his throat, gently putting, “You both know that the greater risk is to do nothing.”

A somber moment passes between the three of you and you finally lower your eyes to the ground, conceding without uttering a word.

Seeing your silent, if not reluctant acceptance, Karn too gives the Horseman a solemn nod and sighs, “Aye.”

Without further ceremony, he steps forward and heaves the mighty stone from his shoulder, offering it up to the Guardian.

Seconds later, your head snaps up when the stone is promptly ripped from his hands and shoots like a bullet up towards the enormous construct's head, propelled by whatever magic resonates underneath its surface.

Teeth grit, you wince as the projectile crashes right through the wooden scaffolding and into its destined slot with enough force to jolt the Guardian in its struts, shaking the gigantic chains that keep its wrists secured to the Foundry walls.

Immediately, golden light explodes from the stone, though it's soon drowned underneath a blinding, brilliant blue.

And then, your heart is thunking down into your shoes as the Guardian's colossal neck plates begin to rattle and at long last, the great beast raises its head, twin flickers of pale light bursting to life in the carved eye sockets. Its heart stone pulses in response with the same blue light and there is, for a moment, the brief hope that perhaps Corruption isn't strong enough to breath this construct's will.

Suddenly, the entire world around you begins to shudder and shift and the air fills with the deafening sound of a mountain trying to move.

Death's hand appears from nowhere and grabs your shoulder, holding you steady when you almost teeter sideways as the Guardian wrenches at the chains, straining against them until a thunderous CRACK rings out across the courtyard.

To your horror, the rusted metal gives way completely, falling from the Guardian's wrists and crashing to the ground with one, final heave.

Over the din, you can hear Karn shouting excitedly. “The corruption has burned off like rain on a hot forge!” Beaming at Death, he exclaims, “You were right!”

However, one glance at the Horseman, and you can tell that the enthusiasm is far from shared.

Death's fiery eyes narrow to slits as he looks up at the Guardian.

Before you can ask what the matter is, he rasps a phrase that turns your blood to ice and sends panic sweeping through your veins.

“I was wrong.”

You turn to meet Karn’s horrified gaze over Death’s head, the youngling’s expression perfectly conveying your own thoughts - at least those that consist predominantly of nonsensical screaming.

Seconds later, you're clapping both hands over your ears to protect them.

From somewhere deep in the Guardian's cavernous chest, there booms forth a roar so powerful, it feels as though a thunderclap has gone off right beside you.

Turning your focus up once again, you can't help but to gasp at the sight. No longer is the final heart stone shimmering with the blue radiance that the others share. Now, the unmistakable, yellow glow of corruption is prominent, drowning out any trace of blue, whilst thick tendrils sprout from within it. At an alarming speed, they grow larger and longer, so much so that in no time, they start to wrap themselves around the Guardian's neck and dig their pointed tips underneath its plating.

One of the colossal arms gives an almighty shake, as though the beast is attempting to rid itself of the tendrils that are now snaking their way down to its elbow, coiling and spreading in every direction until a thick webbing of the stuff has engulfed its solitary hand.

But tragically, whatever fight the construct might have put up was already over the moment the heart stone entered its head.

Helpless, you can do nothing but stare and cover your ears against another, ear-splitting and haunting wail as the lights inside its eye sockets lose their pale hue and turn the colour of pus, flashing and flaring like a pair of suns on the brink of going supernova.

You're so distracted by the somewhat mesmerising display of such an effective, parasitic takeover that you hardly notice the titanic leg moving towards you until it smashes through the stone and wood scaffolding built around it and hurtles straight for you, Death and Karn.

Dragging your eyes down to what can only be described as an entire tower speeding in your direction, you try to choke out a gasp and your brain chooses that moment to freeze up, failing to provide you with a direction in which to dive.

Lucky then, that Death's brain is still functioning perfectly.

Whilst you and Karn stare agog at your impending doom, the Horseman, driven by sheer instinct, throws his scythe out towards the youngling and a hand towards you.

The weapon's edge curls around one of the straps on Karn's backpack, and at the same time, Death's fingers wrap around the neck of your top.

Without a split second to spare, the Nephilim leaps backwards out of the Guardian's path and subsequently drags you and Karn right along with him.

The maker lets out a grunt as he lands on his rucksack, whereas you find your spine hitting Death's chest when he falls to the ground beneath you, and not a moment too soon, as the construct's leg goes sailing over your heads before it pounds into the dirt again just a few, scant feet from where you all lay.

To you, the world had almost come crashing down on top of you.

To the Guardian, it had done little more than taken its first step into the world for which it was created.

All around, pieces of debris continue to crumble and fall as it approaches the cliff walls that hem the Foundry in, walls that bear no obstacle for a creature that stands twice their height.

Trembling against Death's chest even when he pushes himself into a sitting position, you stare after the Guardian, your teeth chattering to witness it step over the cliff wall like you'd step over a stick in your path.

The thunderous foot falls recede into the distance, and only then do you scramble to escape Death's hold and shoot up onto your unsteady legs, a sudden, awful realisation hitting you harder than a slap to the face.

“I-It's – it's heading for Tri Stone!” you struggle out, your exclamation followed by Karn's accompanying cry of, “The others!”

The youngling doesn't hesitate. He breaks into a lumbering run, bee-lining for the courtyard's primary entrance without even glancing back to see if either you or Death are following.

“Karn!” the Horseman barks.

“I have to go back!” the maker bellows in return, never slowing his gait, “I have to make sure they're alright!”

Fatigue is blessedly exchanged for adrenaline and you're able to forget all about your aching body as you break into a run and start after your friend in stubborn spite of the instinct to sprint in the opposite direction. The Guardian is an impossible obstacle that you have no way of hurdling.

And still, you run.

With a snarl of frustration, Death spits an old Nephilim curse and follows suit. For a human, you manage to kick up a bit of speed as you chase after Karn through the Foundry, a Horseman hot on your own heels.

Hitting the enormous, circular chamber, you almost think you’ve somehow gone the wrong way, but the chains hanging down from the walls and the lava spitting and bubbling below you are so, unmistakably familiar, you have to do a double take, roving your gaze across the room as you hurtle along the curved catwalk. When you notice the rather worrying change, you nearly stop dead in your tracks.

“The hammer's gone,” you breathe, following Karn at a sprint through the doors, your voice raising in pitch until it's an alarmed shout, “Are you shitting me? The hammer! It – It took the hammer!”

Karn’s feet pound like thunderclaps against the stone ground whilst Death’s are hardly heard at all. However, the cold that chases the back of your neck is reassurance that he is there, always behind you, even when you burst through the Foundry’s main entrance and spill out onto the bridge.

Smoke plumes rise ominously from beyond Tri Stone’s outer walls and all you can do is keep running until the wind stings at your eyes and the icy rain hits your skin like tiny sparks of fire.

The sky suddenly lights up and just moments later, from somewhere further down the valley, there’s a boom of thunder, indicating a swiftly approaching storm.

#Darksiders #Darksiders 2 #Imagine Darksiders #Death x Reader #Karn x reader #one sided pining #jealousy #fluff #angst #worry #Guardian #dealing with guilt #grief

102 notes · View notes

malkumtend · 3 years ago

Text

I Like Your Laugh - A SquirrelCrow AU - Chapter 21.

Squirrelpaw tried not to look at her surroundings as she followed her father.

It was strange. She could remember the first time she had attended a gathering. The freedom of leaving Thunderclan for the first time, following her clan beyond their borders, it gave her such a sense of pride.

She remembered seeing flowers and trees she couldn’t identify, the mist of new scents hitting her like a colourful zephyr. It was like Silverpelt itself had been struck by a unique current that would change her life forever. The forest had expanded beyond her own understanding, pulsing her with the exhilaration and excitement of growing up.

Now. The change of the forest was not so freeing. Looking at it now felt more like drowning.

Without the shelter of the trees, exposing them to the bite of the moonhigh night, everything felt so cold. Nowhere looked safe to the molly. This wasn’t travelling to fourtrees, this wasn’t clan life. This wasn’t normal. The bitter air clogged in her throat, and without looking down she could feel the deadness of the earth below. Life had been sucked out of the forest as if it was prey losing blood. With it, everything Squirrelpaw recognised in her heart had been extinguished. Nothing looked like home.

The trees, the ground, the cold, it was all so suffocating. Frightening.

This wasn’t the forest she’d grown up in. Not anymore.

That would become even more clear once she saw fourtrees, she had no doubt. At least… what remained of fourtrees.

Webfoot had said the clans had watched as monsters ripped them from their roots. Generations of history stripped away just like that. It was inconceivable to the young cat. But it had happened. She had heard it from her friends too.

“It was horrible.” Whitepaw had said. “None of us could believe it. The monsters tore them apart.” The horror on her face told Squirrelpaw how grotesque the images were.

Beside them, Shrewpaw had nodded. “It didn’t make any sense.” The softness the usually snappy tom conveyed made another chill strike through the medicine den. “They didn’t even react to them. They just… ripped through them like they were nothing. By the time we looked back, they’d all fallen.” He’d stifled an angry grunt, “Then by the next day, they’d carried away the trunks. How strong are those things?”

Strong enough to tear apart the forest, Squirrelpaw knew.

“Are you sure you want to go back there?” Whitepaw mewed worriedly, “What if they come back?” Her whiskers trembled with fear.

“Don’t worry.” Squirrelpaw strutted forward to press her muzzle against her friend’s cheek. “I’ll be fine. Firestar and Brambleclaw will be there with me, as well as the other Clan leaders. Besides, I don’t think they’ll go back now.”

“How do you know that?”

Truthfully, Squirrelpaw didn’t, but the cats were going to meet there regardless. She couldn’t worry about that now.

Luckily, Shrewpaw came to her aid. “Don’t be a worry worm, Whitepaw.” The tom jabbed her with a forepaw. “If they were that close again, we would have heard them. Besides, remember what Greystripe said, they seem to be more focused on Windclan’s territory right now.”

Whitepaw seemed to relax a little, albeit begrudgingly, at that information.

Squirrelpaw only felt her stomach twist with panic.

She felt her sister’s tail on her pelt, Leafpaw could always tell when something was off. A different panic convulsed along Squirrelpaw’s tail. “Don’t worry, Squirrelpaw. From what I’ve heard, Windclan have been able to find new territory. There’s no cats where the monsters are now.”

“Yeah!” Shrewpaw agreed readily, perhaps sensing his words weren’t as comforting as he’d hoped. “Windclan cats are quick right, they’ll have gotten away fine.” Whitepaw rolled her eyes at his weak conclusion, but she didn’t say anything.

It was a small comfort, but Squirrelpaw couldn’t afford to choose. She flattened the fur on her tail, licking her chest to quell the nervous shakes that still rattled in her stomach. She let a forced smile come to her lips. “Yeah, I guess.”

Leafpaw purred beside her, “You’ll see. Once you’re at fourtrees tonight, you’ll be able to hear how the other clans are. Firestar will convince them that we have to leave, you’ll see.” As soothing as her sister’s voice usually was, Squirrelpaw wasn’t so assured this time. She’d seen how hostile the Windclan cats had been when they’d all returned, even to their own clanmate. Even in the middle of all this, clan divisions still ran rife. Would they really listen to a prophecy fortold by a few Warriors and a badger?

Could a truce really be found? It wasn’t even going to be a full moon tonight.

Squirrelpaw let her tail lay flat. She had to believe her friends could convince their leaders. Her and Brambleclaw had been able to convince Firestar after all.

She had to have hope.

“Exactly!” Shrewpaw mewed with a grin, he seemed to brighten as every pair of eyes fell on him. His tail wiggled behind him with a confident movement that seemed warm in the cold den. “If anyone can lead the clans out of this mess, it’s Firestar! Mark my words, by the next moon we’ll all be nice and snug at our new home!”

His voice was high and kittish, but by the stars was his optimism missed. Thinking back, Squirrelpaw remembered how even behind their slitted eyes, both Leafpaw and Whitepaw were smiling. Even if Shrewpaw was a mouse-brain most of the time, it was undeniable that what he believed was what they all wanted. If he saw a future brighter than the one they all expected, it was only natural they’d follow him there.

Even if he sounded naïve, he had a faith that Squirrelpaw knew the cats would need.

That’s what she tried to tell herself again and again, with every step through this destroyed terrain. That was why she kept her eyes away from it all. Looking at it just made Shewpaw’s voice grow fainter and fainter as if it was disappearing into a dark cave.

And it wasn’t just her. Just ahead, Brambleclaw padded behind her father and Cinderpelt. The tom occasionally looked back to check on her, and Squirrelpaw could see how meaningless his smile was. She knew how Brambleclaw really showed himself. The sag in his whiskers, the alarmed prickles over his back, the roll of his jaw, back and forth without control.

He kept a brave face, but he was frightened.

They were all frightened.

She realised, when she noticed his face shift as he looked ahead, that he was only smiling at her in order to comfort her worries.

A nice thought, but pointless all the same.

All she could do was give him the same worthless smile.

She was home, back with her clanmates and father, and yet she felt so… alone. She could still picture the harsh glares sent her way. As if she was a traitor for trying to help her clan. But maybe it wasn’t so surprising. The thought of her mentor, the cat she thought of as the strongest in all Thunderclan, broken and shrivelled by the loss of his kit. Everyone was suffering. That was why this had to go well. Starclan had to give them a chance, a glimpse of hope after all of this.

It had to come.

It had to.

A gasp of horror broke her from her misery. “Oh Starclan, no!” Brambleclaw choked.

Squirrelpaw looked up and regretted it immediately.

Fourtrees, the heart of the forest itself, was gone. The ancient columns of wood that once stood tall and triumphant, as if breaking through the clouds, were now nothing more but hollow circles of wood, barely reaching a leader’s height. The places where cats would gather, pacified by the truce, were scorched and blackened by the trail of the twolegs destruction. The ground was now a sickening black, littered by sharp stones and torn shreds of wood. Even the brilliant glow of the moon paled away behind a murk of ashy clouds holding its light from the cats below.

Squirrelpaw stared ahead, her jaw slack in horror. It hit her just then why the clans had been so hostile to their return. If they had seen this so long ago… It was as if a piece of the clans itself had been killed.

But what was even worse was the sight of the Great rock.

If it could even be called that anymore.

Instead of the stone that had seen proud leaders pass moon by moon, all Squirrelpaw saw was a scatter of cats sunken in a thick ooze of mud that shrouded the base of the Great rock. It had been clawed out of its place; Squirrelpaw could still see the deep rivets the monsters had marked the stone with at its base. Now, the noble stone lay on its side, discarded like the forgotten bones of a mouse. The seasons it had stood withered in the past, and its future now lurked inside an empty, lost void.

A harsh growl Squirrelpaw recognised as belonging to Blackstar confirmed sullenly what every cat realised. There would be no more gatherings. That part of their lives had been taken from them all.

Squirrelpaw wondered if that meant the truce was over as well.

She was given a slight hope when she saw Brambleclaw rush forward with an overjoyed cry. “Tawnypelt!”

Squirrelpaw couldn’t help but smile, properly this time, when she saw the siblings collide, both purring in relief. Anything that could remind her of the journey was a welcome sight. She bounded over as well, and saw Stormfur beside the Shadowclan molly. Squirrelpaw was about to burst with his name until she saw the wounded look in his eyes.

And then she remembered Feathertail, and her smile faded away.

She padded, a little more slowly, towards her friends. There was a low growl in the air and Squirrelpaw was shocked when she saw who it came from. Firestar was watching Brambleclaw, still buried in his sisters’ neck, with narrowed eyes. Eyes that were judging his loyalty.

Squirrelpaw watched her father until he swiped his head away, grunting. Squirrelpaw glared at him as he stormed away. Was he still angry at Brambleclaw because he had let her come? Or was this something else? The molly shook her head. How could any cat judge their loyalty after all they had been through? Tawnypelt was Brambleclaw’s sister for crying out loud, did their clans really have to mean that changed so much?

She wandered through the heavy silence, following the cats until she was at Stormfur’s side. “Hey.” She said softly, pressing her nose against his shoulder.

The grey cat turned to her gently, his eyes were glazed and distant. “Hey.” He paused. The silence was terrifying. They had spoken so easily before. He breathed haggardly. “How are things in Thunderclan?”

“Not great.” Squirrelpaw admitted. Even that was an understatement. She tried not to sound downhearted. “We need to leave soon. What about Riverclan?”

“It looks like the Twolegs haven’t reached our territory yet.”

Squirrelpaw’s eyes lit up. “That’s…” She was about to say ‘great’ until she saw the weariness in her friends’ eyes.

Stormfur sighed, he looked small. “It’s coming, I know it. But because Riverclan hasn’t suffered yet, I can’t convince Leopardstar of anything.”

Squirrelpaw’s mouth opened as she realised the gravity of that knowledge. She knew about Leopardstar. Truthfully, the young molly had never had a pleasant thought when it came to the leader. She knew the stories that surrounded her, the whispers of what had once occurred during the time of Tigerstar. The story of Bone Hill was a well-known horror story among the apprentices.

Only this story was more than just fantasy.

Squirrelpaw had never understood it. How any leader could betray their clan to another and just live on without any consequences? She remembered asking her father about it when she was a kit. What justifiable reason could any leader have for doing something like that?

“It’s a complicated story, Squirrelkit.” He had said. “Sometimes leader’s think they’re doing the right thing for their clan when in fact they’re doing the wrong thing. But that doesn’t mean that they are bad cats at heart. A leader will do anything to make sure their clan survives. The important thing is to move on from those mistakes and learn to forgive.”

That might have meant something, if Squirrelpaw hadn’t remembered the story of how Leopardstar had just sat and watched while, the then, Blackfoot had killed her deputy. How exactly was that protecting your clan?

Squirrelpaw remembered then how it had been Feathertail and Stormfur that Stonefur had been protecting.

She wondered how they did it. How they could trust a leader that had agreed to their deaths?

And now, after all of that trust, Feathertail was dead and Stormfur was telling her that Leopardstar wouldn’t lead her clan to safety?!

Her heart swelled with horror. “Is there no cat who you could convince? What about Mistyfoot?”

“Mistyfoot’s gone.” Stormfur said simply.

“Gone?” Squirrelpaw had to fight to keep her voice low. Terror widened in her eyes, “You don’t mean-”

“We don’t know” Stormfur clarified, but his mew was rough with fear.

A thought came to Squirrelpaw. “What if she was captured by Twolegs?”

Stormfur turned to her blinking. “What? What do you mean?”

“I heard that some cats had been taken by them!”

“What for?”

Squirrelpaw could only give him a frightened silence. Stormfur turned back, his face creased by the moonhigh shadows. His head dipped with a pained whine. “Starclan help us.”

“But… But Riverclan wouldn’t leave without their deputy, right?” Every leader needed their deputy. Surely Leopardstar realised that! She wouldn’t just abandon one of her most trusted Warriors.

Now, a glistening anger came into Stormfur’s face. “We have a new deputy.” He hissed, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying.

Squirrelpaw paused, her jaw was stiff. Leopardstar really would do that. “W-Who?”

The grey tom jutted his head forward, reluctant hate in his eyes. “Hawkfrost.”

Squirrelpaw didn’t recognise the name until she was looking ahead. She could just about remember the bulky rogue that had been accepted by Riverclan. He strode ahead, far away from them, beside Leopardstar and another huge creamy molly that she remembered as being his sister. Mothwing? That was the name that Leafpaw had told her at least. From what she had heard, her sister only had good things to say about the molly. She hadn’t mentioned her brother that much. But he was a deputy now? Squirrelpaw tried to understand how that could have happened.

“Leopardstar made him deputy? Why?”

Stormfur opened his mouth, but he soon shut it as they made their way to the other side of the stone.

Squirrelpaw’s paws prickled in frustration. “Stormfur, I-”

She fell silent as she saw the cats waiting by the low dip of the uprooted stone.

It was Tallstar… wasn’t it? Squirrelpaw tried to think of the leader of Windclan, the one who had seen leaders come and go all through his reign, the one who had already led Windclan for moons while her father was still an apprentice. Even in the last time she’d seen him, despite Windclan’s dismal water situation, he had looked strong and noble as he stood high on the Great rock. Squirrelpaw respected him immensely. There had always been something about Tallstar, about how naturally and respectfully stood among the other leaders, how he put his clan before his pride. That much had been clear when he’d begged Riverclan to share their water supply without hesitation.

He was prideful without being arrogant, respectful without being weak, and strong without being cruel.

But what Squirrelpaw saw now. This was not the Tallstar she remembered.

She didn’t think she’d ever seen a cat look so skinny, so hungry! His eyes sank into the hollow shape of his head, blinking listlessly in the cold darkness. He looked to be missing several small patches of his short fur along his belly, the fur that remained was dirty and uncared for. Squirrelpaw could picture when she had gone through the two-leg place on the journey, she had seen a dead mouse resting on the stone outside a two-leg den. It had clearly been killed a while ago. It looked like a shrivelled root, its precious moisture and juices squeezed out by the hot sun above them. She’d asked why the cat that had killed it hadn’t eaten it. What was the point of killing it if it wasn’t going to be used?

“Some kittypet’s just like the sport of it.” Tawnypelt muttered in disgust. “They don’t need it for food with all the feed they get from the two-legs. Hunting’s just a game for them.”

That had made Squirrelpaw angry. Not only because it showed just how dishonourable and easy a kittypet’s life was, but because of how little they regarded their prey. Prey meant survival in the forest, cats died because of hunger, and these two-leg playthings just killed because it was nothing but fun, exercise, for their sluggish lives.

They had killed a creature, and had left it to rot and decay like it was nothing.

Tallstar reminded Squirrelpaw of that mouse. Of something unwanted and forgotten, left to waste away in its own time. He looked as if his own guts were shrinking, leaving him to become nothing but a thin slather of skin and fur on a wasted pile of bones.

He could barely even stand. He tried to look strong in the face of the other leaders, but it was clear the only reason he was standing up was because he was balanced by the small tom beside him.

Even in the darkness, Squirrelpaw recognised the tom. It might have been the way he stubbornly kept his small frame tall, as if nothing in the forest could touch him. It might have been the glow of his eyes.

Squirrelpaw took a deep breath. The last time she’d seen those eyes, they had kept hollow as he gently pushed her away, like nothing had ever happened. She tried to not remember how much it made her heart break. Instead she tried to take comfort in how despite everything he looked healthy. Maybe even dignified as he held his leader close beside him, never shivering away. She watched as he turned, watching the other clans approach them.

Even from this far back, she offered him a loving smile.

Whether he noticed her or not, his eyes narrowed and he stiffened up, his tail prickling, as if warning them. Then after a mutter from Tallstar, he slackened and turned his head away.

A real sense of fear began to rumble in Squirrelpaw’s chest. It thundered beside the pain.

Crowpaw only kept his eyes on his leader until the rest of the clans had made it to where they stood. Squirrelpaw saw Stormfur’s coat shiver when he passed by the Windclan tom. Crowpaw had a similar reaction, but his face was contorted in a scowl. Stormfur cleared his throat, as if ridding himself of a sickness, and said nothing as he sat beside Tawnypelt, a tail-length away from the dark apprentice.

Squirrelpaw held back a horrified breath. She understood how Feathertail still loomed over their thoughts. She would never forget her as long as she lived. But when she thought about how it had hardly been a moon since she had seen Crowpaw and Stormfur side by side, talking with a growing friendliness, the sight of such stiffness now was confusing to the molly.

Come to think of it, as the leaders pulled themselves up onto the shifted slab that had been the great rock, her heart aching with pity as she saw how Tallstar needed her father’s help to struggle onto the platform, she began to feel something tight in her chest at how her friends shifted uncomfortably as they sat together.

Like they had never even met.

She gulped and shook her head. It didn’t have to be like this. She still had that power surely. She eased herself to the side of Crowpaw, whispering to him as the leaders began to talk. “Hey.” She mewed. She was smiling. It still felt right next to him.

He gave her a sideways glance. It was barren. Squirrelpaw pushed away the memory of their last meeting. She had to move forward.

“Hello.” He said, then he looked back to the leaders.

Squirrelpaw hoped the disappointment didn’t show on her face. But her heart began to pound with a creeping panic. She took a quick breath and followed his stare. “How are things in Windclan?” She asked, trying not to cringe as she saw Tallstar shake off the worried mews of her father.

To her surprise, she found the other chosen cats had heard her, and they all turned to Crowpaw hopefully.

Crowpaw didn’t meet any cats’ eyes. His tail swung hotly as if he was trying to thaw a coat of ice. “Awful. Windclan can’t stay there anymore.” He said with dreadful assurance. It made Squirrelpaw scared. He looked so defeated.

“What about your clanmates?” Brambleclaw asked hazily.

“You can’t call it Windclan anymore.” Crowpaw said icily, ignoring Brambleclaw. “There’s nothing left of our territory.”

There were no implications. His voice was slow and stony with the plain truth.

“But that means that Tallstar wants to leave, right?” Brambleclaw spoke up again.

“Yes.” Crowpaw said. “He knows there’s nothing left for us here.”

Squirrelpaw felt her whiskers curl with a bizarre relief. If Tallstar would allow Windclan to go, that made things so much easier for this meeting! Now it wouldn’t just be her father arguing for them all! “That’s great news! Firestar’s just waiting for the other clans to decide before he says anything.”

Crowpaw scoffed bitterly. “We can’t afford to wait.”

Squirrelpaw’s paws began to quiver again. She began to notice the lack of warmth as she stood by Crowpaw’s side.

She breathed again. Time. She reminded herself. He needs time. She had to picture how much he was going through. She couldn’t just pull a cat out of their grief. She wasn’t over it, she couldn’t just expect him to be with all his clan was going through.

“Blackstar’s ready to leave as well.” Tawnypelt said quietly.

“He is?” Brambleclaw mewed. Squirrelpaw saw the rising hope in his face.

Tawnypelt just looked bleak. “I think he made his mind up before I even came back.”

A silence followed. “But… did he believe you when you mentioned the prophecy?” Stormfur asked hesitantly.

Tawnypelt said nothing.

That was enough for their hope to fade.

It only got worse as Stormfur confirmed what most had expected. Leopardstar didn’t want to leave the clans. Squirrelpaw wasn’t so surprised by this when he mentioned how Riverclan’s territory hadn’t been affected by the Twolegs.

‘Yet’. She thought regrettably.

She tried to force understanding into her heart. If their land was safe and their prey was running well, then it only made sense for Leopardstar to want to remain. Why would she leave when she saw no threat to her clan?

But Squirrelpaw wondered if the leader had actually opened her eyes?

Had she not seen what was going on around them? Had she not paid attention to the loss of four-trees? She was standing on the ruined remains of the Great stone, wasn’t she? Did she really not think that this was going to find her clan sooner or later?

“Leopardstar’s convinced the Two-legs will never reach our territory.” Stormfur admitted, there was a thick clog of fright and dismay in his voice. He looked beyond drained and Squirrelpaw shivered at what Stormfur must have been subjected to when he was trying to convince his leader.

Tawnypelt looked like she was about to rub her shoulder against the grey Warrior’s, but she stopped at the last moment. Nervously, she kept in place. “Can’t she be convinced?”

“If Mistystar was here, maybe?” Stormfur flinched as if he’d been burnt. “But Hawkfrost isn’t convinced we’re in any danger either.” The grey warrior coughed to burn away the growl in his throat. “He… He told me I was a traitor for even going on the journey in the first place when I wasn’t even chosen.”

Squirrelpaw jerked where she sat, her mouth dry with disbelief. She turned, glaring at the so-called Riverclan Deputy. He sat looking up at the leaders, his mouth rested in a smooth frown. His icy blue eyes seemed to peer through the night like the predatory glare of a fox. He didn’t appear to notice the angry molly as he kept still apart from the cool sway of his tail.

A growl dripped over Squirrelpaw’s fangs. Stormfur had been a clan cat long before this mongrel had showed up, and he had the gall to call him a traitor?! “What does he know?” She hissed in a tight whisper. “Why would Leopardstar even let some rogue become Deputy anyway?”

She soon wished she’d never asked.

Crowpaw was staring at the Deputy, as well, with such a burning flame of hatred that Squirrelpaw found her own anger cool in her shock. Stormfur had begun to shiver in his own spot, a pounding shame on his muzzle.

“Was that his reward after he lied to Leopardstar?” Crowpaw hissed, twisting to face Stormfur. The tom’s teeth were bare in a creased snarl.

Stormfur couldn’t meet his eyes, “I-I don’t…” He trailed off and that seemed to make Crowpaw angrier.

“Don’t what?” He hissed. “Don’t understand what your clan’s done?!”

Brambleclaw stepped ahead, blocking Stormfur from Crowpaw’s view. His amber eyes looked down on the apprentice warningly. “Crowpaw, calm down. What’s going on?”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Crowpaw was barely keeping his voice low enough to not alert the leaders. His eyes blazed in the dark. “That fox-hearted rogue told Leopardstar that Windclan was stealing prey from Riverclan. Now she’s forbidden us from using the lake!”

“What?” Squirrelpaw squeaked.

“You heard me.” Crowpaw didn’t look back. His back arched, fur shaking with fury. “How are we supposed to survive without water?”

Squirrelpaw began to understand Crowpaw’s anger a little easier. The memory of Tallstar begging for Windclan came back, the reality of desperation in his actions, and now Leopardstar had made it all for nothing. She thought back to Webfoot and that skinny apprentice she’d seen when she’d come back, and apprehension surged in her legs. They hadn’t even been able to drink for who knew how long. No wonder Tallstar was ready to leave the forest.

Brambleclaw seemed to settle at the realisation of this information. He sighed deeply, already sounding softer.

“I’m sorry, Crowpaw. But there’s nothing I can do.” Stormfur said, “Leopardstar believes his story.” There was a quiver at the end of his voice.

Crowpaw caught it, his tail thumped against the ground. “And do you?”

Stromfur flinched, “I never said that.”

“I asked you a question, didn’t I?”

“Crowpaw, please!” Brambleclaw pressed stepping forward again. Despite the pity in his eyes, he still kept his voice firm. Crowpaw eased back a little but his mood didn’t waver. “I get how you feel, but Stormfur can’t change Leopardstar’s decision.”

“So Windclan cats should just die of thirst then because of some lies?” Crowpaw muttered indignantly. Then he began to stare at Brambleclaw a little more. “Or do you believe that rogue as well?”

Brambleclaw sighed, “Crowpaw-”

“We. Didn’t. Steal.” Crowpaw snarled out, “And if we did it’s because we didn’t have a choice! My clan shouldn’t be left for dead because of that. You never saw them.”

Squirrelpaw suddenly remembered the first time she saw Crowpaw. How he had lunged at Brambleclaw after they’d found his patrol… stealing.

She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Stealing prey didn’t mean a whole clan had to go without food or water. If Thunderclan was in such a position could she honestly say she wouldn’t do the same thing. Every clan had elders and mothers to feed. And this wasn’t a usual time for any clan, they couldn’t let any cat grow weak now. She couldn’t help but understand Crowpaw’s anger.

After all, it wasn’t that surprising to her.

The pure anger and quick blame in his tone; it was a Crowpaw she knew but still didn’t recognise.

“Your clan is not the only one that’s suffering, Crowpaw.” Tawnypelt cut in, casting a narrowed glance at the apprentice.

Crowpaw stood there for a moment, then he only hissed and turned away, staring at his paws. “No. But they may be the only one’s who can’t make it.” He didn’t need to lookback at his leader to prove his point.

Every cat fell silent again.

No cat may have noticed the flicker behind his anger, the trembling in his tail, but Squirrelpaw knew what she saw.

He was hurting. So much.

She couldn’t stop herself. She stepped towards him, hoping to swell her fur with warmth, and pressed her side against his. A small comfort, but one she wanted to give him nonetheless. It wasn’t because she… Well, nevermind. No. Windclan was on the verge of ruin and Crowpaw looked like he was trying to balance it all on his shoulders. Her pelt gingerly rubbed his and she swallowed down the stuttering in her chest. “I’m so sorry, Crowpaw. If there’s anything Thunderclan can do, I’m sure Firestar will-”

Her pelt went cold as Crowpaw stepped away with a low growl. He wouldn’t face her as he spat towards the ground. “I don’t need your pity. I’ll make sure that Windclan survives this, with or without the other clans.”

Squirrelpaw stared.

She stared and stared and stared.

The cat beside her didn’t look back once. Squirrelpaw blinked to check if she was seeing things correctly. This cat had the dark fur, the sleek frame and the blue eyes of Crowpaw, but this couldn’t be him surely. She knew he was moody, she knew he was in pain, and she knew how they weren’t beside each other by the sun-drown place anymore.

But this… even after the cold goodbye and the distance he had drawn…

No. He sounded genuinely angry this time.

At her.

That wasn’t Crowpaw. That hadn’t been her… After everything…

What was going on?

“Don’t be like that!” Tawnypelt snapped through her teeth. Crowpaw growled at her. “I’m sorry Crowpaw, but you’re being foolish if you think any clan will survive without the rest of us! Did you learn nothing from the journey?”

“Tawnypelt!” Her brother pleaded, “Please! We’re here for a sign! If we fight now, we can’t show Starclan that the clans will work together!” His amber eyes burst with pain at his words.

Tawnypelt sighed, her expression was sullen, “It isn’t us that will decide that, Brambleclaw. Who knows if the sign will come?”

“Maybe it’s too late for that.” Stormfur mewed weakly.

“Stormfur, you can’t say that.” Brambleclaw insisted, his voice broken with shock. “Think about… Would Feathertail want you to give up now?” He sounded desperate to keep the groups hopes alive. It was clear belief was slipping out of all of them.

The sound of her name was like the chill of invisible rain.

Stormfur looked up slowly, his eyes were dull. “I wish we’d never stayed in the mountains.” He said softly, his eyes travelled through the group before sliding back to the dark mud.

No one could say anything.

It didn’t matter much as the leaders’ voices took over the clearing.

There was no agreement between them. They were arguing, divided, split as they had always been.

Like Stormfur had said, Leopardstar refused to leave her territory when they still had food and water to thrive from. She didn’t offer any share to the clans.

Blackstar wanted to leave the forest, he said there wouldn’t be anything left soon anyway, but he didn’t want to lead his warriors on the words of some badger. He would decide where they went. He made that clear with a flash of his eyes, as if he anticipated the other clans to argue. Tawnypelt’s jaw dropped when he announced he’d be leading Shadowclan to the Twolegplace, but her voice was gone. It offered no match to her leader’s.

Beside her, Brambleclaw had grown stiff with inconceivable panic. He looked at his sister, frozen with aghast fear, trembling at the thought of leaving her forever.

But no words of comfort came out of him.

No comfort came from any of them.

Squirrelpaw was finding it hard to breathe. Every minute they waited for a sign just made the poison in the air thicker. Her sight had gone from glassy to clouded in a matter of minutes, but she found that no tears dampened her cheeks. Perhaps she was too stunned to cry.

She just didn’t know what had gone wrong? She wasn’t an idiot, she had known, and expected, that things would be different once they came home. But when she looked at the cats she had spent moons eating, sleeping and travelling with, the cats she considered her friends, she couldn’t believe what she saw.

Even if they were back at the clans, did that really mean they had to act like strangers?

She remembered nights where they had sat together telling stories, unafraid to laugh or moan at the jokes they shared. They had been warm in the growing trust they had established. But here, under the shadows of their leaders, they all looked stiff and cold, scared to even look at each other. Their words were as blunt as winter bark, wrapped in thorns that pierced through them all.

They had been through so much. Squirrelpaw knew that. She’d been there. She remembered it all.

So why did it look like they couldn’t?

Where was the sign? That was all they needed, right? If that came, it would have to make the leaders know they were telling the truth! So why wouldn’t it come? Squirrelpaw could only watch as the impatient leader of Shadowclan stormed off the Great rock, denouncing their prophecy as foolish. She also saw her father try to stop him, meeting the bared fangs of Blackstar as he did so.

Squirrelpaw’s stomach turned. Midnight had told them that the leaders would have to listen. But they were still snarling like enemies.

They couldn’t come together.

Maybe that was why Starclan refused to respond. Why waste time on cats who couldn’t believe what they had already foretold?

Squirrelpaw breathed in to stop herself from shaking. No… No! They had to survive this! If they couldn’t carry on then why had they even gone in the first place? Why had Feathertail…

It didn’t matter what interjections the chosen warriors made. The leaders of Riverclan and Windclan had made up their minds.

In fact, Squirrelpaw only saw Leopardstar’s attention drift once.

When she saw her hulking brown Deputy pound onto the Great Rock and sneer at the leaders himself. “If the other clans want to leave,” Hawkfrost said carefully, his fox like eyes glinting, “I think they should. Don’t let us stop you when you can’t stop us from staying here.” His mouth curved into a thin smile that appeared to taunt the angry eyes of Firestar and Tallstar.

Squirrelpaw couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her tail flared. How could this tom address the leaders like that? He seemed to flicker in the shimmers of moonlight, expanding like some dark dream into the clouds. He seemed to burn with an arrogance that made Squirrelpaw sick.

But what truly caught her was how Leopardstar said nothing to this disrespect. If anything, her eyes shone with agreement.

She believed this tom, this cat who had sauntered into her clan just over a moon ago, over the word of her own Warrior.

Over the sacrifice of her dead Warrior.

Squirrelpaw’s surprise began to bubble into rage. It wasn’t isolated as Brambleclaw twisted up to face the tom with a furious snarl. “You just want our territory!” He accused, his face contorted savagely.

Hawkfrost narrowed his eyes, but he simply cocked his head to the side as if addressing a kit. “What would you need it for?” He said smoothly. He wouldn’t even deny it. “If you wish to abandon your territory, it can’t surprise you that other cats would take it. That’s just nature.”

“What would you know of our nature?” Brambleclaw shouted, “You’re not even clan born!”

Hawkfrost only stared, unwavered.

“Brambleclaw!” Firestar hissed. “Show some respect!”

Squirrelpaw turned to her father in cold horror. Was he really defending this fox-heart over his own Warrior? She knew it was important to not start a fight, but she hardly could see how he could snap at Brambleclaw when Leopardstar had only watched Hawkfrost admit how he wanted to steal their own territory!

As Brambleclaw gazed at his paws in shame, Squirrelpaw could only watch, teeth clenched, as Hawkfrost looked down at them with cold satisfaction.

She looked at her clanmate in deep sympathy. This wasn’t fair! Brambleclaw was the one who had been given a message from Starclan, Brambleclaw was the one who had risked his life to follow their instructions, and Hawkfrost was the one who was standing next to his leader in triumph. How was this just? She wanted to scream at the mongrel herself, but she didn’t have the chance as the air was filled by her father’s pleas as Blackstar stormed away with his clan.

She couldn’t say anything, she could only sit there, fighting for breath as Tawnypelt, looking defeated, was forced to follow her leader, unable to even give a goodbye to her gasping brother.

Stormfur was soon forced to leave as well. He offered Squirrelpaw a sad goodbye and a promise that he would try to talk with them again soon, but he didn’t sound like he believed it.

Even when Tallstar scrambled from the Great rock, shouting in a withered voice that they needed to make a truce, Leopardstar didn’t bat an eye. She strode off, eyes cold, followed by the proud, smirking Hawkfrost. Stormfur could only follow, head dipped. He was the only one who looked back when Tallstar fell from the Great rock in his panic, his fall only lessened by the quick pounce of Crowpaw. Then he slid into the shadows.

Squirrelpaw could feel the failure on her tongue.

It swarmed around the Great rock like a cloud of locusts. There would be no sign tonight. And there would be no agreement either, only conflict.

She heard her father’s sad voice above them. A leader’s tone, soft with defeat. “I couldn’t convince them.”

No one could.

Squirrelpaw gazed into the shadows where her friends had disappeared. Beyond her sight, they had returned to the ruins of their own clans. And yet, their leaders couldn’t believe them. They had denied the meaning of their journey and relied on their own decisions, no matter the cost of the other clans.

The only hope she could find came from how Tallstar was on her father’s side. But even that was thin as the Windclan leader was desperate to leave soon, while her father begged him for more time to reassure the other clans. It wasn’t a surprise to the molly. She only needed to look at Tallstar to understand his frenzy. But like her father, she knew they couldn’t just leave the others so easily.

“Why didn’t the sign come?” Squirrelpaw said breathlessly. Why hadn’t Starclan come to them? She turned to her remaining friends and was heartbroken by the hopeless look on Brambleclaw’s face. His shoulders had sunken and his head was low. He looked as if he couldn’t find the strength to lift a paw. Crowpaw hadn’t seemed to hear her as he kept close to his leader who sat, shaking, talking with Firestar.

“I don’t know.” Brambleclaw said hollowly.

Squirrelpaw blinked rapidly, “What are we going to do now? We can’t just leave the other clans?” She couldn’t imagine the thought of doing that. If they kept apart who knew what that would mean for the clans. Squirrelpaw was certain that no clan would survive if they didn’t stay together. She couldn’t just let Tawnypelt and Stormfur go that easily!

Brambleclaw let out a mew of pain. “It’s like Tawnypelt said.” His voice cracked, “It isn’t up to us anymore.”

“No… We-We have to do something!”

“What can we do?” Brambleclaw looked up and Squirrelpaw shivered at how dark his eyes looked. “We can’t change the minds of the other leaders. Not even their own Warriors could do that.”

Squirrelpaw shook her head. The logic of her clanmates words was something she refused to accept. “No! Starclan gave you that message because they wanted us all to save the clans! That’s what we have to do!”

“I want to believe you, Squirrelpaw.” Brambleclaw looked up to the expanding darkness. He seemed to be pleading internally for a light he didn’t think would come. “But what if we can’t.”

“We have to!” Squirrelpaw squeaked. She would not allow herself to believe this was all for nothing! They had to save the clans! They had to!

It was what Feathertail had died for.

Squirrelpaw fixed her brow into a determined frown, she forced herself to keep straight. “Things will work out, Brambleclaw!” She meowed. When Brambleclaw just silently looked down at his paws again, Squirrelpaw didn’t waste a moment. She fixed herself beside him and wrapped her tail around him. “You’ll see. We’re all going to be okay.”

They would be, she told herself. We’re going to be okay.

We’re going to be okay.

She repeated it in her mind until her vision was clear.

There was a silent appreciation in Brambleclaw’s eyes, but he didn’t smile. His tail patted Squirrelpaw’s back thankfully, before lying still again. Squirrelpaw sighed, disappointed, but she backed off. The tom clearly wanted a little space to think. All she needed to do was remind him when he was too much in doubt.

Her head turned towards her father and Tallstar again, they were stood beside their medicine cats discussing the failure of this night.

“You’re too proud, Firestar.” Tallstar rasped, his eyes were narrowed. “If you wait around for the other clans to agree, both of our clans will die. You know that.”

“Tallstar.” Firestar said softly, fighting to keep straight. “I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t… I can’t just let my clan leave the others in this chaos.”

“And what about when the chaos consumes us both?!” Tallstar demanded.

Squirrelpaw’s ears fixed back, her heart suddenly stabbing with pity for her father. How could any leader be asked to lead in a situation like this? She saw Crowpaw watching a tail-length away. His fur was flat on his back as he watched his leader warily, like he expected a sudden attack from Firestar.

Squirrelpaw tried to swallow down her anger. But that was difficult. When she looked at Crowpaw, a terrible feeling rattled in her chest. The bitter sting of his words, the lack of trust, the assurance of his own isolation, it consumed Squirrelpaw’s heart like a hungry adder.

She cringed and forced herself to look back at him again. But when she did, she was so stung by what she saw. This wasn’t the Crowpaw she knew. This bitter shell wasn’t her friend, it couldn’t be. He was in pain, just like her. Despite what he said and how he acted, Squirrelpaw knew, she just knew, that there was a part of him that needed her.

Just like a part of her needed him.

This wasn’t about how she truly felt.

More than anything in the world, Crowpaw was her friend and if he needed her, she would be there.

Besides, a voice in her head had reminded her of something she needed to do.

Biting her lip, waiting a moment, then taking another deep breath, she stepped towards him. Crowpaw’s ear flicked and he turned back, upon seeing her his angry expression softened somewhat but it was by no means recognisable yet.

Squirrelpaw gulped, shaking away the hurt of feeling how awkward it had become to just talk with him. “Crowpaw?”

“What is it?” His voice was sharp.

Squirrelpaw’s tail sank a little, but she kept her face straight and gentle. “I just…” She looked at him deeply, hoping to catch the part of him that remembered the journey. The good parts. “I’m happy that our clans will be travelling together.”

Crowpaw bristled, “We should be leaving soon. My clan can’t afford to wait.”

“I know.” Squirrelpaw said gently, “Mine can’t either, but we just need more time to-”

“We don’t have time!” Crowpaw snapped, his voice was a quiet lash. He stepped closer so his leader wouldn’t hear him. “We tried to convince the others, but they wouldn’t listen! That’s their fault!”

Squirrelpaw gasped, “Crowpaw, we can’t just leave without them! What about Stormfur and Tawnypelt?”

“What about my clanmates? What about yours? Do you really want to let them suffer because Leopardstar and Blackstar can’t see sense?”

Squirrelpaw’s brow furrowed, she couldn’t stop herself. “What about their clans? Their clanmates shouldn’t be allowed to suffer instead! We need to try and convince them.”

Crowpaw scoffed, “I’m sure hunger will convince them soon enough!”

Squirrelpaw shivered. She didn’t like the bitterness in Crowpaw’s voice. She forced herself to ignore the voice that screamed that was what Crowpaw wanted to happen to them. He wasn’t the kind of cat who’d want that for anycat… she was sure…

“I don’t want to argue with you, Crowpaw.”

“Then what do you want then?” He looked back at his leader carefully.

Squirrelpaw’s jaw rolled back and forth, there was a biting sensation in her chest. “Greystripe told me to tell you something.”

Crowpaw paused.

He knew who Greystripe was. He knew who his family were.

Squirrelpaw saw a slight trembling in Crowpaw’s tail. She blinked when she felt her eyes start to become glassy again. “He wanted me to thank you. For… being Feathertail’s friend.”

Crowpaw’s ears flattened hard against his skull. Instantly he turned to Squirrelpaw, his face numb with bewilderment. It felt so new that Squirrelpaw was caught off guard.

Then she allowed the hope to fill her again.

Feathertail.

That was who they were bonded by, she was the cat that would always be in their memory. She was the reason for the hope that Squirrelpaw kept so close to her heart.

She felt, she just felt, that Crowpaw had to share that too.

But then Crowpaw killed that hope with three words.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Whatever response Squirrelpaw had expected, it wasn’t that. She hadn’t mentally fortified herself for the bleak audacity in his voice.

The air suddenly felt like it was stinging.

“What did you just say?” Squirrelpaw whispered, her voice was sharp as her pupils shrank into tiny pricks that blurred the darkness of the night. Through her trembling sight, she found she could barely distinguish Crowpaw from the dark anymore.

And what she did see, the sunken cavern of his face, looked like a complete stranger.

“I said it doesn’t matter.” The darkness let out a soft growl that rumbled and buzzed in the night. “What good did being her friend do when she isn’t even here?”

The night began to shrink. Squirrelpaw began to shake.

It didn’t matter?

Those three words began to glow red in Squirrelpaw’s mind.

“She was our friend.” Squirrelpaw said, her voice tight. “Of course it matters.”

“How?” The hollow voice responded, “Did it stop her from dying?”

“That’s not the point.”

“There’s no point to it at all!”

Squirrelpaw’s heart began to burn, “You don’t mean that. You don’t.” She said it again to give him a chance. “How can you say that? She would have done anything for you! For any of us! You know that!”

“Yeah I do!” The voice hissed, “That’s why she’s dead.” There was a long, glaring silence. “If that’s why she’s dead then it would have been better if we hadn’t been friends to begin with!”

In the draw of her scattered breath, Squirrelpaw’s cold denial transformed into a storm of fury! She twisted her head up to the cat, her breath racing in a fierce rage. He didn’t even look stirred. He just sat there, glaring at his paws as if he had said enough.

It didn’t matter. That was what he’d said.

Their whole friendship.

Feathertail’s laugh.

Feathertail’s kindness.

Feathertail’s smile.

None of that mattered?

By all accounts, Squirrelpaw realised with a simmering blaze, the implication of those three words was that Feathertail had died for nothing. Whether it was his intention or not, Squirrelpaw did not care. Feathertail had died for him, because she loved him, because she loved her clan.

Did her sacrifice mean nothing then?

“How dare you?” Squirrelpaw said, her voice was rough and scratchy. “You can’t be serious!”

Crowpaw looked up at her silently, then with a sharp grind of his teeth he turned away again. “Why don’t you think about it? She died for all of us! She would have been better off if she’d just looked after herself!”

“She sacrificed herself because she wanted us to survive!”

“And now she isn’t here!” Crowpaw spat out, he shook his head with a hiss.

“I can’t believe you! Have you forgotten what she wanted? She wanted the clans to work together! She wanted us to be friends!”

“And look where we are now.” He wouldn’t even look at her. He couldn’t do that much! “Look around you, Squirrelpaw! The clans aren’t going to change just because a Warrior wants them to!”

Squirrelpaw stared at him icily, her paws tensed and her claws scraped into the mud. “That isn’t what she believed! And how can you say that? You said…” Squirrelpaw fumbled for her breath like she was reaching for air above a roaring river. “You said you wanted us all to continue meeting.”

She wanted Crowpaw to acknowledge that. It was something. It was a memory. It was hope.

Crowpaw didn’t even bat an eye. “Yeah? Well… that was my mistake.”

Mistake…

“Are you kidding?” Squirrelpaw said gently. She had lost the effort to find her voice straining.

Crowpaw didn’t respond, he just looked back at his leader.

Mistake.

Was that how he saw everything?

Squirrelpaw sat there not listening as Tallstar and Firestar began to end their discussion.

She felt like she was waiting as her eyes kept fixed on Crowpaw. He still had his back turned to her. Maybe she was waiting for the slightest break that showed he was lying. That he didn’t regret everything he said. That everything important to Squirrelpaw still meant something. That she still had a reason to hold on to the memories of the friends she had made.

Crowpaw didn’t move.

Squirrelpaw felt something hopeless inside her.

She breathed in and out.

Fine.

“Fine.” She said to the dark back. “You know what? If she could see you now, she wouldn’t even want to see you again.”

There was no reaction.

She could sense that Windclan were about to leave. She wouldn’t let him have the power of ending this conversation. Of ending their friendship. She rose to her paws and let her heart speak before her mind.

“In fact,” She said in a voice she couldn’t believe was hers. “She’d be ashamed of you.”

She didn’t wait to see any reaction, inside of her was a putrid pool of satisfaction and regret that was too heavy to let go of.

She didn’t wait for her clanmates, she just began to stalk her way back. She’d tell her father and Brambleclaw that there was nothing else to hear. Sliding through mud and sap and destruction was too easy for the molly now. That terrified her.

But she would wait until she got back to the gully where her clanmates were sleeping before she let everything truly take place in her heart.

The hopeless situation.

The loss of her friends.

The belief she struggled to hold.

She wouldn’t cry. She told herself.

She wouldn’t cry.

She cried. Nestled in the dark gully between her sister and Shrewpaw, in this place that screamed the truth that her home was gone, she cried silently. Her face buried into two paws, sucking in her sobs like she was hiding from predators, she let her eyes water until they were sore and she was too exhausted to do anything else.

But even as she fell asleep, she couldn’t ignore the shadows over the faces of her friends.

And she couldn’t stop the pain of feeling so alone once more.

She wanted to dream of hope.

But her thoughts were black when she finally fell into the haze.

…

When Squirrelpaw opened her eyes, she was shocked when she didn’t smell the sharp rot of the gully. Instead the air smelt ripe and sweet, like they were glistening somehow over her fur. She looked around and saw a vast field, seeming to go on forever. It reminded her of the sea from the sun-drown place, so open and free.

All around her were glittering strands of grass, as well as patches of flowers whose colours seemed to stream into the sky itself. Squirrelpaw could only look up in astonishment as she saw the sky was a bright shadow of dark blue, like how the night began to glisten before a sunrise. Beams of light seemed to hand in the air itself around her. Were they stars? If they were, Squirrelpaw had never seen stars like them. She’d never seen anything so beautiful.

She looked around in awe. Where was she?

What kind of dream was this? It wasn’t like those that passed between a blink, she felt alive here, in control.

And entirely at peace.

She felt like she didn’t want to wake up.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Squirrelpaw froze.

Not out of fright.

But out of something strange and blissful.

She couldn’t give herself this kind of hope surely. It wasn’t… It wasn’t possible.

The sweet laugh echoed over the dream like a soft cloud.

Despite the painful truth of her reality, Squirrelpaw couldn’t bring herself to ignore the voice that she knew. It was warm. It was bright. It made her chest gleam in a way she hadn’t felt for so long.

Squirrelpaw held her breath as she turned.

A tree-length away from her, a molly stood there. She was glittering under the lights around her, like she was part of them herself. They sparkled over her silver fur like stars that could never go out.

Squirrelpaw had to be dreaming.

This hope couldn’t be true.

She breathed slowly as she met the eyes she knew so well. The ocean blue eyes glowed as they connected with hers.

“Hello Squirrelpaw.” The soft voice cooed. “I missed you.”

Everything in Squirrelpaw told her to keep back and safe from this certain trick.

But Feathertail, real or not, was there. And she gave Squirrelpaw the one thing she missed so much.

A friend’s smile.

It was that that made Squirrelpaw run. And when she found herself buried in the soft fur of her friend, she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore if this was real or just a dream.

But then she caught Feathertail’s scent. Familiar and striking.

And it all became real.

Squirrelpaw cried. But nothing could stop her from smiling.

…

#squirrelflight #crowfeather #brambleclaw #tawnypelt #Stormfur #Feathertail #the new prophecy #Warrior Cats #Warriors #fanfiction #squirrelcrow #crowsquirrel #i like your laugh

39 notes · View notes

moonlights-inkwell · 4 years ago

Text

I Love You, Don’t Say Anything

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 6,047

Summary: Healing from your wounds is a trying experience. Even if it comes with new friends.

A/N: Ha. Remember me? Yeah, me neither. Mental Health is... a bitch.

Here’s part three tho!

Part One Part Two

You’re dead. At least, you think you are. The dull, throbbing pain in your neck means you must be, surely. If this is death, though, you expected worse. Hellfire and sulphur, or angelic chorus and white clouds, or the white void of purgatory, but no. There’s none of that at all. Nothing but the pain in your neck, nowhere near as painful as it had been earlier but its still there, aching and sending occasional rushes of pain down your arm.

It’s dark. Pitch black, permeating and seeping into anything and everything, with nothing at all to break the darkness. No moon, no stars, no flickering candlelight; nothing at all. It ought to be frightening, but really it isn’t- it’s familiar. You feel like you know it, know it well at that, but you don’t really know how you do.

You have your eyes closed. That’s what it is. It’s not dark like night, no it’s dark like when you've woken from a sleep that is so overwhelming that you cannot bring yourself to open your eyes. Sleep, oh heavenly beautiful sleep, you long for it but that pain in your neck will not allow for anything like that, so instead you just lay there, eyes closed and just living in this moment. It's nice. Warm even. Like being held.

There’s a warmth across your waist that only gets warmer on your stomach, your back feels like it’s facing a fire, but there’s none of that residual pain. It’s like being held; reminds you of your childhood. When your father passed, you had been no older than six, and spent every night for a year sleeping in your mother's bed, her vice-like grip keeping you in place, held to her bosom the way a new mother would her babe to their breast. It was a hard year. Your mother had become so engulfed by her sadness that she had become almost a stranger, never smiling or laughing, not able to cook or clean or even collect fire wood; you had grown up too quickly then, having to take care of yourself and your mother until she finally found herself once more. She was so wrapped in her grief that you had spent every moment by her side- to assure her she was not alone- but it had grown into something else entirely. The house you had known as warm and sweet smelling became cold and foreign to you, and it never quite recovered even after she had. The songs came back, but sadder, the bread never as good, the honey never as sweet. Innocence lost; you suppose the childish wonderment buried in a fisherman’s watery grave along with your father. The memory makes you stiffen a little, but it’s what it reminds you of that really makes your breath catch in your throat. Your father. You haven’t given him a thought since you were eleven, and now you can’t even remember his face, it’s little more than a hazy blur in your mind. His voice, a gruff but cheerful thing, only exists in shallow memories of him singing along with your mother, whispering bedtime tales of princesses and knights. Pain pricks behind your eyes, and so you try desperately to distract yourself, focusing on the heat behind you. Familiar warmth.

It reminds you of the autumn too, when the days grow shorter and the nights colder and more likely to be filled with rain. On those colder, wetter nights something changes; boundaries disappear and you can indulge in the sweetness of not sleeping alone as you normally do. Those special, sacred nights when Jaskier, Geralt and yourself have to squish close together in a cave for warmth, pressed between the bard and Witcher so you can stay warm and protected. Geralt is always somewhat cold like a corpse, silent as the dead, but Jaskier is a different story entirely. Even when you fall into sleep on your back, you wake with him pressed into your back, face in the tangles of your hair and murmuring nonsense that must mean something in his dreams. He’s warm, like a bed warmer that can cling to you and occasionally hums lullabies when you startle awake in the night.

The flat of your hand pushes down in front of you but sinks down into comfortable fabric. Not the ground. Not the ground at all. You swear you were on the ground when you fell onto Jaskier's lap, right in front of the fire but this isn’t where you fell asleep.

You wonder, still half asleep if Geralt had managed to talk some poor inn-keep into letting you rest in their home while you heal. Unlikely. But this definitely is not camp. No, this is somewhere else entirely, somewhere with a bed- somewhere blissfully warm.

Just blissful heat. After a second or two, you realise you are being held, but only when the hot burst of breath spreads across the back of your neck and though it takes more effort than it should, your eyes creak open. You’re in a room, dark save for the glowing of a fire in a small archway across from you, with dark velvet curtains covering the windows. It’s comfortable, far more expensive than any inn you could ever afford, and in your tired daze you can’t string together anything more coherent than that. It’s comfortable.

“You’re awake. That’s good.” A voice says from by the fireplace, smooth and feminine, and your blurry eyes catch sight of a woman who you're sure wasn’t there a second before. She’s gorgeous. Intimidatingly so: tall, with black curls that frame a flawless beautiful face, corners of deep pink lips turned up into a smile. Never, in your entire life, have you seen a woman so beautiful: and you recall a story from your mother about a woman with hair like coal and skin as white as fresh fallen snow and eyes the colour of honey, but hers are not. No, they’re purple. Like amethyst, amethyst that is watching you intently.

“Am I dead?” The question escapes you before you can realise how silly it is. The voice that comes out of you is almost unrecognizable as your own. It sounds like you’ve been gargling shattered glass and assorted rocks since birth, and this woman chuckles slightly at your words. For some strange reason, the sound puts you at ease; even though you don’t know this woman, she makes you feel safe enough to not want to deal out your sword and ask how you got here.

“Dead to the world for a few days, but no. You’re still alive. Lucky to be so, too. Especially with the wound you had. Nasty thing, it was.” She steps towards you, head tilting to the left as you try and push yourself onto your elbow only to fumble. “Oh, don’t. You'll hurt yourself. It doesn’t hurt any more does it?” qqq

It doesn’t. Well, not as badly as it did before, just a dull ache rather than excruciating pain, and you allow yourself a deep inhale. Bearable, and the smile that overtakes your face is undeniable.

“...Thank you, miss...”

“No miss. Just Yennefer.” She says as she moves towards you, pushing a flute of something red into your hands. “Drink. You'll feel better.” You eye it suspiciously, holding it in both trembling hands.

“What is it?”

“It'll make you feel better.” It isn’t much by means of explanation, but it’s enough, so you tip the glass back and gulp down the fed liquid within. It tastes like liquorice and vinegar, bitter and tangy in such a way that your nose crinkles in disgust and Yennefer laughs once more. A pretty sound from a pretty woman, like tinkling bells. You wonder if she’s some sort of siren, but sirens are hardly known for their willingness to heal people. You feel drunk but the pain is lessened even still, drawing a little sigh from you, and she takes the glass. “It tastes horrible, but you feel better, right?”

You do feel better, so you let her take the glass from you when you catch sight of your arm. It’s covered, but by blue velvet, not the blouse you were wearing earlier. It’s a familiar blue velvet at that, the colour of a stream and embroidered in gold. Jaskier. It’s one of his doublets, your favourite of his doublets at that, but you have no clue how you’ve found yourself wearing it, you've never worn any article of his clothing before-

“He put it on you.” She says airily, gesturing behind you with a vague wave, which has you assuming that the confusion must be written across your face. “You gave the poor idiot a real fright, Little Miss.” The pet name comes playfully from her, but you stiffen at it until a quiet groan comes from behind you and that warmth on your stomach turns into a fist that you realise is on exposed flesh. “Geralt too, I cannot remember a time he looked so worried. The Bard hasn’t left your side though. I think he may have been worried you...”

Would die. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence for you to know what she means. You don’t want to think about that, want to focus on something- anything- else.

“You know Geralt?”

“That... is one way of putting it, yes.”

“You could say she's a heartless witch who insists on toying with Geralt.” Jaskier grumbles tiredly behind you and Yennefer rolls her eyes. For the first time since opening your eyes a coldness settles over her features, no less pretty but harder. Firmer. Women don’t normally turn cold at Jaskier, but Jaskier doesn’t normally insult women either. This dynamic is new, uncomfortable to be between, and you can see her trying to bite back words, presumably for the sake of your weak self.

“I'll take my leave, then. Try to rest, Little Miss.” Yennefer says simply, brushing the back of her knuckles across the underside of your jaw as she heads towards the door, sauntering out and closing the door behind her.

“Cow.” Jaskier huffs against your neck, tickling the skin as he lets his hand relax and flatten against your stomach once more. Unclothed stomach. You realise, a little belatedly, that you don’t have your corset on; someone has removed your corset, and you’ve been laid here, chest exposed with Jaskier around you for days. You could have died, bled to death in a wood far from home with no one to mourn you but a Witcher and his Bard, but all you can understand is that Jaskier has been lying beside you in this state of undress, and that you feel... ashamed, somehow. There's not even a reason why, but almost bare, save for his jacket you feel shame gather in your throat like vomit. You almost died. You worried him so much he hasn’t left your side, cleaned you up and put you in his clothing, but all your mind can focus on is that he must have seen you bare and you didn’t even know, couldn’t even see how he had reacted.

Your body is a body to you. It’s not something you attribute any great importance to; you've never considered yourself some buxom beauty, some sultry siren or dainty darling. Your body is just that, or was before you started your travels. Now it's a weapon, of sorts, marred by swords and scratches and bites, thighs thickened by travel, fists scarred and bruised. Insecurity is not a concept you think of in conjunction to yourself but you think of yourself and your body as different beings entirely- it’s nigh on impossible to not be insecure about the criss-cross of scars that span the plains of your belly, the raised skin below the hollow of your throat, healed over incision just to the side of your breast beneath the collar bone. He’s seen it all now, and without you seeing his response. It should be enlightening that after seeing these marks he remains still, but it isn’t. No, no, your mind is not put at ease by the hand resting over your navel, touching your battle-worn skin like it gives him comfort; it instead is overwrought by the thought he's stayed because he thinks he ought to. Feels sorry for you, has remained by your side because he wasn’t there when you were attacked, and now he has seen all he can of you has decided to wait for you to wake to inform you that he has no interest in you. He beds queens and ladies of status and not scarred wretches who almost had their throats ripped from their necks.

He’s not said a word of the sort, but this invented rebuffing of your feelings has your eyes watering and body curling in on itself, away from him. He notices immediately and curls closer around you without a word, just smoothing your hair away from your neck to press a kiss to it.

“I know you’re awake.” In spite of yourself, you smile at the sing-song lilt of his voice.

“No, I’m not.” You mumble, childishly, and the bard chuckles warmly across the back of your neck. It’s enough to make you roll onto your side to face him.

Gods, he looks tired. You’ve seen him muddied and rained on and smeared with gore, but he’s so tired it almost breaks your heart. The bags beneath his eyes are so dark you think them bruises at first, deep purple and blue, stark against his skin and almost merging into the mussed-up mess of his hair that hangs like curtains curling into his eyes. He’s no longer in your dress, but instead a chemise crumpled beyond compare and trousers to match the doublet currently covering you. Dead to the world for a few days, Yennefer had said, and you believe from the state of his clothes that he's been mourning the same amount of time. Memories of the-thing-that-wasn't-Jaskier flash before your eyes, but he smiles, your fingers slide up to rest on his chin. Even sleep deprived and bleary eyed, he’s gorgeous, smiling at you like you're the gift that he's begged for on his birthday, some prized possession. He’s stayed beside you.

“There's my love.” He says gently, thumb rubbing circles into the skin of your stomach. It’s the simplest thing he could have said, but it’s reaffirming and sweet. “You frightened me, Little Miss.”

“Force of habit at this point, Dandy.” You say, fingers straying from the rough stubble of his chin to his lips, tracing his cupid's bow with your fingertips, feeling his smile before you see it.

“I'd prefer you leave it for a while. I don’t think my heart could take that again any time soon.”

“I doubt I could survive anything like that again.” You try to laugh but the pained look he shoots you makes you still again. Joking about almost dying is nothing new, and still he’s looking at you like your mortality is something he had never considered at all before all this.

“I could have lost you.”

“Takes more than some monster in your skin to kill me off, Bard.” You smirk and lean in to peck his lips but he leans back to stare at you like you've two heads.

“What do you mean, in my skin?”

“It. It made me see things, while it... did that. To my neck.”

“See things?” He asks timidly.

“See you.” It comes out like a confession and you can’t even meet his eyes as you say it. “Doing things.”

“What things, Darling?” He presses, thumb stilling and your own fingers fall from his mouth to the pillow. “Please, Lovely, what things?”

“Jask-"

“Missy, please. I need to know, you looked so afraid, I don’t want you to-"

“You had your fingers in me.” You cut him off, and he blinks at you in shock. “Pinned to a wall, with your fingers inside me.”

“It didn’t-" It's obvious as to the destination that his thoughts have arrived at.

“It was a dream.” You try desperately to reassure him and he heaves out a sigh of relief, tugging you to his chest while his face buries into your hair. His heart pounds against your ear and you can hear him breathe in deeply as he holds you tight. “It didn’t touch me. Not like that, anyway.”

“No, it just almost killed you.”

“Like I said, Dandelion, I'm fine.”

You aren’t fine though; not really. Memory of the thing that looked like him touching you, kissing you, haunts you- especially with Jaskier holding you tight. It shouldn’t affect you in such a way, but your heart is racing and your core throbs with each breath. You aren’t afraid. Not at all, and that’s all the more worrying. No, you feel desperate; desperate to know if his fingers would actually feel that good curling within you, filling and spreading your most private of areas.

“It made you see me. Touching you.” His tone is almost unreadable, not quite disappointed but instead like he doesn’t understand even though he wants to. That’s not the issue. The thing you disliked had nothing to do with the fingers inside you, instead that you knew it wasn’t him and there’s no way to explain that to him without sounding like some kind of wanton whore.

“It. Must have seen us together in the woods.” You offer and he flinches, grip on you weakening.

“It hurt you because I was thinking with my cock and not about what was going on.” He says coldly, but that bitter chill doesn’t quite reach you, no, the cold is aimed internally. You know this blame, know it well from nights when Jaskier has fallen asleep early and Geralt will allow you a few stories of his own. Hunts gone bad. People he couldn’t save, sparce words but the meaning is there all the same. You don’t understand it from the Witcher and understand it even less from the bard.

“Jaskier-" You start to argue but he shakes his head.

“I wanted to fuck you.” He says it so forcefully, a term you’ve never heard come from him in regards to you, but it makes you still. He wanted to Fuck you, not progress, not move forward. Fuck you. Spear you on his cock ‘til you weep for him. “And because I wanted to, it could hurt you. Knew how to hurt you."

“Stop with the self-loathing, if I wanted that I'd seek Geralt out." You try to joke, but the pain in his eyes is enough to silence you. Eyes like those shouldn’t look so pained.

“You undressed me.” You whisper into the newly created silence and he nods softly.

“You were covered in blood. I... I couldn’t bear to see you like that. Besides, the jacket rather suits you.”

“It’s yours.”

“I’m aware, Little Miss.” He chuckles weakly, smoothing your hair away from your eyes. “Makes us quite fair now, Darling, don’t you think? I’ve wore your dress and now you've worn my jacket.”

Fair. Nothing about this is fair, there is nothing fair about the hurt written plainly across the Bard's face, how tired he is, how he is blaming himself. Nothing fair or right about how his trembling bottom lip has you thinking about nothing but trapping it between your teeth and sucking on it until he whimpers. But you sigh softly and lean in close to gently kiss his forehead.

“I think you need to sleep.” You whisper, watching as he smiles and squeezes your hip gently.

“You sound like my mother.” He says, tone somewhere between humour and blankness.

“Oh?”

“She loved to tell me what to do too.” It’s a joke, but your throat constricts painfully at the word mother.

“Yes, well. You remind me of my mother sometimes too.”

“Was she devilishly handsome too?” He raises an eyebrow, a smile toying at the corners of his lips.

“No. She blamed herself for my father's death.” You say concisely before rolling away from him and shutting your eyes, ending the conversation.

She used to sing too. Once upon a time.

/////////

“There are men that that wound would have killed, kotku. I’m impressed you’re so well so soon.” The brush runs through your hair, a little rougher than you expect and you’re barely able to choke back the quiet whimper of pain. You've not had a proper chance to brush your hair since the attack, and when Yennefer had offered to help with it you took the opportunity with both hands, mostly so you didn’t have to concern yourself with the matted locks of hair and blood. She had taken the job in stride too, never complaining, just moving forwards with a quiet little hum. You sit there, hands resting on your knees and twisting the fabric of a borrowed nightgown, while her soft hands manoeuvre around your head and shifting your hair away from the healing wound on your throat.

Yennefer is a breath of fresh air. Not just because she’s another woman, though that fact doesn’t lessen your enjoyment of her presence: Yennefer is wonderful and so far from any other woman you've known, strange and dark in ways that would never have been tolerated in your home, gentle but with something just below the surface which has yet to rise for you. Any other person would be far more annoyed by the presence of an injured stranger in their home, but she’s taken you being here in good stride; Geralt and Jaskier though, less so. You’re a welcome guest, they are treated more as inconvenience. There is baggage here, that no one is willing to talk about, and you are unwilling to breach this unspoken conflict. It truly isn’t your place.

That, and you don’t want that sort of coldness to be fixed on you. The woman's haughty annoyance is easily ignored, and you really don’t want to be on the receiving end of it- there’s a deeply childish part of your soul that is desperate to have her be your friend. You’re rather lacking in the friend department at the moment, and completely without any female friends. Yen seems a good friend to have.

“I like to think I’m better than any man.” You reply playfully, trying as hard as you can to keep still. How her hair looks so shiny and fine if she brushes her own hair as aggressively as she’s brushing your own is a mystery. It’s like she’s trying to scalp you.

“Two weeks for a wound like that.” She hums appreciatively, leaving you all but preening under the praise. Yes. Yen is a good friend to have, you decide, especially when her words of affirmation have you desperate for more.

When you were young, you were the same. Following the older girls about the village, desperate to be involved, to be friends- to feel older than your age, they had humoured you at the time. Braiding your hair and singing you silly songs that you’re old enough now to realise were truly kind gestures, but gestures non-the-less. They weren’t your friends, no more than you were friends with the stray cat that used to yowl at the turnips that grew in your garden; you were a pet. A sweet little thing to keep about for fun, and send away once they had outstayed their welcome and the noise was no longer endearing but annoying instead. You can’t help but hope that it isn’t like that with Yennefer. You want to be her friend.

“I'll be fighting again in no time.” You laugh, Yen’s brushing stopping entirely and she pats your shoulder.

“Not today. Bath and some clothes, then we'll see how you are just using that arm.” She gestures towards the steaming tub in the other room. “I’ll leave you something. It might not fit right but it’s better than nothing.”

Everything that the raven-haired woman has worn has been expensive looking and beautiful, but she is most definitely not the same size as you. Yennefer is slight and slender, and her deep skin looks beautiful against the fabric, even during that one winter you ate nothing but cabbage stew you weren’t as slim as her. “Stop it. In the water.” Yen chides, and you feel like a child. She has a strange sort of way of knowing how you think which you’re trying not to question. Mostly, because it feels like it would be impertinent to ask. So, you do as she asks and pad into the adjacent room, shutting the door before stripping down to nothing and climbing into the tub.

The water is almost blisteringly hot. You’d wince, if it wasn’t exactly what you need. The heat feels like it’s stripping away all dirt and sweat that has ever been on your flesh; wiping away the touch of the phantasmal Jaskier. Your thoughts return to him again. In inns, when you can find them, Jaskier always orders you a bath, slipping a bottle of scented oils into your hand before you can argue about him wasting coin on you. It’s always sweet and floral and light, almost definitely more money than it’s worth, and beautiful. There’s a collection of oil vials in your bag that you would never admit to, a few containing flowers he’s picked for you during your travels. Sentimental as it is, you’re a realist. One day all of this will end, and they’ll be all you have to remember him by- oh Gods, you want to remember him always, stupid jokes and bad puns and all. You haven’t seen him in a week.

Yennefer has insisted Geralt and Jaskier give you space to heal, you think she meant for them to go about Witchering and she would send you to find them when healed, but they’ve stayed. Some days you can hear them, arguing about something or other, sometimes playing Gwent. It’s bittersweet to have them so close but not speak to them. For a while, they’ve been the only consistency in your life, so not having them is... strange. You’re trying to readjust to sleeping alone. It isn’t easy.

Your hands sink into the water and you scoop it about your body and begin scrubbing, trying desperately to distract yourself from Jaskier. It’s sort of silly just how much you miss him. He’s just A Bard. A silly, wonderful, handsome bard. It’s ridiculous how someone like him could so simply work his way into your heart.

The world feels a smaller place without him.

You stay in the water until it chills, and would have stayed longer were it not for the numbing of your rear and thighs. When you finally make your way back into your bedchambers, Yen is long gone, and in her place is a dress. It’s very much what you expect from her, black velvet with hints of red running through the fabric, a deep plunging neckline and a cinched waist. Even with a corset tied as tightly as possible, you doubt it will fit but try and stay upbeat about it. It was nice of Yen to even lend it to you in the first place without your being moody, so you retrieve your undergarments and pull them back in place, tying your corset tightly. It takes a second or so to convince yourself to even touch the dress, never mind try on. It’s soft to the touch, far too rich for your blood, making you feel like some sort of maid who ought be bringing this garment to a queen or countess, not putting it on. You do put it on though, afraid that it will be much too small, only to be pleasantly surprised once you lace it and turn to the mirror. It fits, comfortably too, hugging your frame in a way that makes you feel attractive. Beneath the mirror, which you try not to look at, you find a small number of cosmetics, you assume courtesy of Yen, and smile. You barely ever wear such things but putting it on surely couldn’t hurt. A little bit of powder, a smudge of kohl about the eyes and rouge to the lips, it takes very little time, but you barely recognise the woman staring back at you. She’s familiar, like a relative you seldom see, but you wouldn’t assume it to be you. Her hair is a little wild, but the face is one of a dark sort of elegance, simple but enough to make a difference to you especially when combined with the dress. You had miscalculated the neckline, assuming it to be a deep plunge but instead it is far less severe and hangs off of the shoulders to form puffy sleeves that taper in at the elbow to tight cuffs. It's gorgeous and you feel beautiful but its not right. You feel like a child playing dress up. You breathe in shallowly and turn towards the door.

“I’ll not let you keep her from me a minute longer!” You hear shouted through the door. Jaskier. His voice rings clear as a bell.

“She's bathing.” Yen says simply. Her voice is passive, even bored, and you can tell she's only doing it to upset him.

“Alone! After being injured! She could have drowned or-"

“Have you always been a mother hen? Or is this some sort of way of trying to get into her bed?”

“How dare you!”

“I know how you act, Dandelion. I’ve seen you around women. Bedding them, leaving. Your little miss deserves better than that.”

“You act like I don’t know that!” He snaps back at her and you step out of the bedroom, following their squabbling until you’re stood in the doorway watching them. Yennefer has a finger thrust into Jaskier's chest, pointed black nail leaving an indent in his clothing as he bares his teeth at her, like an animal raring to attack. It’s like watching day meet night, blue boy scowling at a woman shrouded in black.

Your blue boy.

It’s been a week, you’ve gone longer without seeing rain, but the sight of Jaskier lifts a weight off of you that you hadn’t even known was there. He looks better rested, if a little strange glaring, hair still dishevelled. The fact that you had heard the two of them all the way to the door is the only way you know that the two of them hadn’t been in a physical fight before you got there. You know the sound of skin on skin too well to have missed it. One might break out still if the tension in the air is anything to go by. You’ve broken up drunken scraps over less, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Some part of you wants to see how this plays out before you intervene. A sick part of you wants to know if they will fight, over you at that. Dandelion is hardly the kind of man to start a brawl with a woman, but Yen most definitely seems like the sort of woman who would start a fight with a man. Truly, she seems like the sort of woman who would win a fight against a man, or ten.

“She almost died-"

“And you’re leaving her alone in a bath where anything could happen! She could fall asleep and drown. Could trip and hurt herself more! I have put up with this for a week, Witch, and I won’t be putting up with it for a moment longer. I was willing to be quiet for Geralt’s sake, but he isn’t here now.” His voice is venomous, cold enough to make you shiver. Jaskier isn’t cold. He’s all sunlight and summer, like coming home to a lit hearth in the depth of winter; this is new. You’ve never been the subject of his ire, but every time you have seen it, its been. Different. Angry Jaskier is smug, self-aggrandising and sure, this is almost afraid. Like you being without him might cause you to be lost to him. Has that happened with others, you wonder, time ripping people from his grip?

“You’re being an arse! Making her sleep alone in a stranger’s home-"

“She’s a fucking grown woman, she can sleep without you lingering about her like a fart in a crowded room!”

“Do the two of you always argue like this?” You ask lightly, leaning against the door frame for stability. Both turn quickly, startled by your voice seemingly coming out of nowhere.

Normally, when you walk it’s with a purpose, in sturdy boots and belts that clink together, there is no way to be silent, so the gown has given you a silent presence that is impossible to achieve normally. Geralt is always silent, appearing and disappearing like a phantom. Must be fun, you think to yourself, to linger in the background just listening to how other people interact with each other. So much gossip to hear, arguments to silently choose a side in. You almost wish this would be a regular occurrence, even if you can’t help but miss that sound of chinking metal on metal from buckles and blades.

As much as you know that the difference in your appearance is drastic, you aren’t expecting the response that you get. Jaskier gawks at you, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, while Yennefer smiles at you, nodding with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Well. Look who didn’t die in the bath.” She says, voice all light and playful- a world away from the cruel tone she had used for Jaskier. It feels a little patronising, like she’s speaking to a child or a pet, but you smile all the same. She's been so kind to you, and you know better than to bite the hand that feeds. “You look pretty without all the mud and blood.”

“I feel pretty.” You admit, tripping a little over the words. “I'm surprised the dress even fits.”

“Of course it does.” She replies with such finality as she sidles to your side, brushing down the fabric at your hips. There are no wrinkles there, you’re quite sure, but the act makes you blush- barely anyone touches your hips, so the feeling of hands on them, even through the clothing, is enough to make your mouth go dry. Violet eyes focus on you like you’re the only person in the room and you almost feel like it. It’s like you’ve been bewitched, and you only return to reality when a choked-out noise across from you brings you out of your own head.

Jaskier is still gaping, staring at you like a stranger, and your blush only intensifies under his eyes. The stare is almost hungry, and you recognise it from that night when your neck had been ripped open- but not from that dream. No, from when he had laid you down in front of the fire and slotted himself between your legs, member thick against your thigh. You feel like a slab of meat in front of a hungry animal, like at a second’s notice he will pounce on you and sink his teeth into you. A vein in his throat bulges as he breathes in before Yennefer steps away from you.

“Jask?” You ask, and his only response is an exhale that verges on a pained moan. You move toward him worriedly. “Jaskier?”

“Gods, Little Miss. Look at you.” He whispers.

“What’s wrong with me?” You ask quickly, afraid all at once that you don’t look as pretty as you had initially thought. Too pale, eyes too dark, lips too much like blood.

“Absolutely nothing.” Yennefer intervenes sharply, hand resting on your shoulder in a manner that is both reassuring and restrictive.

“You. You.” He stammers out, looking you up and down, which you mirror. “You... You look like...” He stumbles over the words forming in his throat and just reaches for you instead, hands finding yours and tugging you into a possessive grasp, body melting around yours. “Gods, I don’t even know.”

You want to ask if that is a bad thing, but you know it isn’t. The knowledge makes you feel powerful.

#jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #the witcher

75 notes · View notes

corvidkingden · 3 years ago

Note

Hello it is me the Panda asking for some good good Promptis idiots in love

Promptis, idiots in love?

Got it. How about a first kiss that almost didn't happen? [Read it on ao3]

“Noct, I swear if you don’t get your ass up here,” Prompto called down to him from where he was perched rather precariously on the edge of the cliff overlooking their camp. It wasn’t particularly high, high enough to give them a bit of space from Gladio and Ignis, but low enough that Prompto felt capable of scaling it on his own. Just barely so though, any higher and he would not be up there, he was a disaster walking and he knew it. It was a miracle he’d made it up without any scrapes as it was. Grinning widely he leaned forward just enough to peer down at Noctis as he stood at the base of the cliff, looking up at him silently judging for not just asking to be warped up.

“Yeah yeah, I’m comin’, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t fall off,” he huffed out, taking a few steps back for a better vantage before warping up beside him. It was a far more graceful approach than the blonde’s awkward clamoring up the side of the rocky wall. Which he most definitely watched him do but was pretending he didn’t for now. He’d tease him later for the number of times he stopped to give himself a pep talk.

“So what’s so important-woo!” Noctis yelped in surprise at suddenly being dragged down by the surprisingly strong blonde, his heart rate spiking as he teetered over the edge, but Prompto held a firm grip on him. He had half a mind to chew him out for being so reckless, even if he could have easily warped out of falling, but the moment he planted himself next to him what little anger that fueled the urge faded. The unabashed joy he saw on that freckled face, lit up with a grin, was all it took to melt it away.

He made it so hard to be mad at him.

“Look,” Prompto answered, nudging his shoulder with his own as he gestured up at the sky, turning Noct’s attention away from him for now. He probably could have kept staring at that grin all night otherwise.

The sun was slowly setting on the horizon, dipping low between the trees in the distance, still painting the land in golds and pinks where it shone through them. But the highest point of the sky was now a deep blue black, stars twinkling overhead. It was beautiful for sure, but it was hardly their first night under the stars. So what made this one so special? “What am I looking at?”

“You have no eye, I swear, come here,” the crownsguard huffed in exasperation, hooking his arm around his neck and dragging him in closer as he pointed straight ahead. “Look again.”

Noctis was momentarily distracted though, focused more on how close they were than where Prompto was trying to get him to look. All he could think about was his warmth, his smile, how he could see every tiny little freckle, even the palest ones that dusted his cheeks. How easy it would be to lean in and kiss across them and watch those cheeks turn pink. But he forced himself to look ahead, catching sight of what Prompto was pointing out just in time. A small shooting star danced across the sky in an arc of light, making him gasp softly. “Oh shit…”

“See? Told you,” Prompto murmured, in awe of the sight himself, watching the shooting star disappear into the black blanket of the night sky. His arm stayed hooked around Noctis as they both watched more slowly light up the expanse of darkness, turning the void into a shimmering pool of light.

It was beautiful, peaceful, a much needed moment of serenity after everything that had happened already and...well everything they still had to prepare for. They could hear Ignis and Gladio talking below while they prepared dinner, the tent long since set up. Insects and frogs chirped in the distance, the world falling asleep around them and falling away entirely as they both drifted and were lost in the moment.

Without thinking, Prompto looked over at Noctis as the meteors started to dwindle, growing fewer and less frequent, about to make a snide remark about him trusting him next time. But his words caught in his throat. He could see the reflection of them in his blue eyes, the small smile that curled on his lips as he’d fully relaxed for the first time in weeks. He was even more beautiful than the night sky above and all the man could do was stare in silent awe.

Feeling his gaze on him, Noctis turned to ask him why he wasn’t looking but he never got to get the words out, their noses brushing from the proximity, a tension settling between them so suddenly it almost seemed to knock the wind from them both. It wasn’t new, it was something that had always been there between them but they both tried so desperately to ignore it. It was never the right time, never the right place. Neither of them could seem to drum up the guts to admit to the feelings overwhelming them, completely unaware that the other felt the same.

The air between them felt heavy, hot, a spark of static tingling across their skin as they were caught frozen in limbo. Who would move first, would either of them even do it? Would this finally be the moment to break their resolve or would it soon be catalogued as another too little, too late. Noctis could hardly think past the sound of his own heart thumping heavy in his chest, dulling out the sound of anything else.

Just as he thought maybe, maybe he could do it, maybe now was the time to swallow his nerves and seize it, they were interrupted. “Dinner is ready,” Ignis’ voice carried up to them from below, unaware of the moment he’d just cut into so abruptly. “You’d do well to come down anyway, you’re not in range of the runes and daemons should be coming out any moment. I’d really rather not have to spend another night listening to an Iron Giant lurking outside our camp please.”

“Right-right, sorry, Iggy. We’re coming,” Prompto called back, stumbling over his words as he quickly let go of Noctis, pulling away to try and find his own air to breathe and gather his thoughts again. They’d been so close, he’d been only moments away from ruining everything by closing what little space had been left between them. Ignis calling out was a blessing and he didn’t even know it. He was flushed so thoroughly that he felt feverish, his heart was practically trying to break out of his chest the way it was beating so hard and his stomach was twisting so painfully he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to eat dinner. But he needed to get down there and regain control over this. He’d gone this long keeping his crush a secret he was not going to let it slip now.

Noctis cleared his throat awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at the two men below already plating up their meals. He knew he should say something, even if the moment was ruined, because that was the closest they’d ever been and who knew when it would happen again. If it would happen again. He needed to tell Prompto before they left for Altissia and he might have just lost his chance. “I uh…”

“Thanks for coming up and watching them with me,” Prompto cut him off, that brilliant smile gracing his face again, though Noctis could see the hesitation and worry in his eyes. He knew him too well to fall for that grin, even if it did make him feel a bit warm and more than a little fuzzy inside.

“Yeah, yeah of course...surprised you didn’t get any pictures,” he smiled back, laughing slightly, hoping he could ease the awkwardness that had settled between them by sparking up another conversation instead of simply warping away. It seemed to work because Prompto truly lit up almost instantly, hopping up off the ledge.

“Actually, I did! I had my camera on the tripod getting some long exposures,” he grinned widely gesturing behind them, earning a laugh from the prince when he saw it. “Two steps ahead of you bud.”

“Always are,” Noct shook his head, eyes shining with mirth as he gazed at his best friend for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to just drag him right back in and fully close that space between them, to finally feel those soft lips against his own.

Prompto floundered silently under his gaze, looking back at him, feeling frozen in place as he tried to read what he saw in those eyes. As he tried to fight his own desire to scurry back over and lean in to kiss him too.

“If you’re much longer, Gladio may come up and drag the two of you down here himself,” Ignis called again, completely ruining the moment once more. Prompto saw it as a blessing, saving him from potentially making a horrible decision, but Noctis wanted to warp down and smack him for cock blocking him twice now. Kiss blocking? That just sounds weird.

“Coming!” Prompto called, snatching his camera off the tripod and tucking it away in his pocket again, tossing the tripod back into the armiger in one smooth motion. Marching back over to the ledge he eyed it a bit skeptical, trying to figure out the best way to scale back down the side of the cliff. Climbing up it had been so much easier, though it helped that he hadn’t looked down the whole time.

Seeing the nervous look on his face, Noctis saw an opportunity, hooking an arm around his middle and pulling him in close. “I got ya,” he said, though it had sounded way more suave in his mind. But he didn’t give it time to ruminate, warping the two of them back down into the camp below in a spark of blue light.

When they landed, dizzy and warm and full of adrenaline, they forgot that they weren’t alone for a moment. Pressed close as they were, chest to chest, Noct’s arm still wound tight around Prompto’s waist to keep him safe, it was like something straight out the movies. It would be so easy, so perfect, to just close that gap.

Noct could feel his nerves quickly dwindling under the weight of how much he wanted to just kiss him already, overpowered by the build up of years and years of denying himself. He wondered if Prompto felt the same, the way he could feel his heart racing said yes but the kid was shakier than a chihuahua, it could mean anything.

“You two need a room?” Gladio taunted as he made his way over to help Ignis pass out the plates, an all too amused grin spreading across his lips as he took in the sight of them huddled so close. He and Ignis had been able to read the tension between them from the start, but at this point it was so palpable it was unbearable. They’d both had half a mind to just shove them together themselves. But Ignis insisted that if it were to happen to let it happen at it’s own pace.

“Shouldn’t you be doin’ push ups or something?” Noctis shot back at him, and if looks could kill Gladio would be dead where he stood. Much as he wanted to do this, he wanted to be the one to tell Prompto how he felt, not Gladio and his big mouth. Letting go of the blonde in question, he didn’t notice that the boy looked ready to burst; he was so red. Slipping away from him he took one of the offered plates and planted himself down in one of the chairs to eat.

They eventually all settled in, no one daring to bring up what had just happened, though Prompto was uncharacteristically quiet through dinner. Noct kept looking his way hoping to catch his eye, trying to pull him into the conversation but Prompto was thoroughly distracted it seemed. Maybe he was reading the signs all wrong? He felt his stomach twist nervously at the thought, what if he’d made him uncomfortable?

He was entirely unaware that Prompto was just trying to figure out the very same. His mind was reeling, flip flopping frantically between imagining those lips against his and the thought of him pushing him away. Maybe he was wrong and Noct wasn’t trying to kiss him, maybe he was just trying to be nice and not flat out reject him.

But if he did want to, what did that mean for them? Was it even worth pursuing at this point? He was supposed to get married soon, that was the whole reason they were out here in the first place. Astrals, this was too confusing, it was so much easier when he thought his crush was entirely one sided.

Ignis and Gladio were all too aware of the tension between them, they’d seen it coming a mile away and if either of them were asked, they’d say they were surprised it took this long for it to finally happen. When neither Noctis nor Prompto seemed to be paying attention to what was going on the two older men got up to clean off their plates and clear away what was out from making dinner, giving the boys a moment with their backs turned.

It took a second, but Noctis realized the pointed departure, watching them to be sure he wasn’t misreading it before stretching his leg out to nudge Prompto’s boot. “Hey…”

“Hm?” Prompto quickly lifted his head, flushing slightly at being caught completely zoned out.

“Can we...talk?”

“Oh-uh yeah-yeah sure,” he nodded, brow furrowing immediately with worry. This was it, this was where he’d tell him off, turn him away. At least he’d been preparing for this for a long time, he was ready for it. At the end of the day he was just happy to be his friend after all.

Noctis stood then, a bit solemnly seeing the way Prompto’s face turned. He’d definitely made him uncomfortable it seemed, so at least this way he could apologize with a bit of privacy. Leaving his plate by his seat, he offered Prompto a hand up, tugging the blonde from his chair once he set his own plate down.

They walked to the far edge of camp, putting more distance between them and the older men, sitting on the edge of the rune lined space they both kicked their legs, an awkward silence settling between them. It was the polar opposite of the peaceful quiet they’d had up on the cliff, making them both want to scream just to break it.

“Noct, I…”

“Let me,” Noctis said, patting his knee gently, leaving his hand there as he turned to look at him. He could feel that lump swelling in his throat again, stomach twisting anxiously but he knew he needed to do this before he lost the chance again. “You...you’re my best friend, you know that right?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Prompto nodded, shifting to face him more as his stomach dropped heavily like lead. Rejection he could deal with, but was he about to say he didn’t want to be friends anymore either? “Of course, forever right?”

“Forever,” the prince nodded, looking into those lilac eyes and seeing the worry in them. Maybe that wasn’t the way to start this off, he opened his mouth to speak again but stopped lost on what else to say that wouldn’t simply make it worse.

“...Noct, it’s-it’s okay,” Prompto reached out, taking his hand. “I understand, you don’t have to say it. I made you uncomfortable and I know I shouldn’t have, it really wasn’t my intention. But I still want to be friends with you, I don’t want to lose that-that’s so much more important to me.”

“No, Prom, wait--” Noctis tried to interject as he watched him fall into one of his flustered tangents. They were endearing, but he was going to dig a hole for the both of them with this one.

“Honestly, I knew I was okay with it a long time ago, and I’m sorry I made it weird earlier. I really promise I wasn’t trying to. I just get so in my head sometimes and I don’t think about what I’m doing or-or what I’m saying--”

“Prompto,” he groaned.

“I just want to make sure you know I’m not gonna be upset, I get it, I’m not goin’ anywhere--”

Noctis cupped his cheeks and pulled him in, shutting him up with the crash of his lips against his, feeling him tense at first before melting right into the kiss. Pushing his fingers back into his soft blonde hair, he pulled him closer, shifting so their noses weren’t pushed together so uncomfortably. Feeling Prom’s fingers curl into the front of his shirt and tighten only made his heart leap though. This was it, it was happening.

They kissed until they were breathless, until it felt like the world was spinning faster and yet somehow frozen all at once, pulling away only because their lungs begged it of them. Their foreheads still pressed together, Noct let his hands slide down to the sides of his neck, simply holding him there as their breathing mingled, steadying despite the frantic patter of their hearts.

“You’ve really gotta let me speak next time,” Noctis murmured, grinning as a giddy laugh bubbled up out of Prompto.

“Shut up,” he huffed in mock exasperation, pulling him right back in and kissing him again, feeling every ounce of worry fall away from his shoulders.

It wasn’t what either of them had pictured, but it was special nonetheless. Sat underneath the stars, far away from any of their problems, they lost themselves in one another for what brief moment the gods would grant.

#my writing #fanfic #drabble #ffxv #final fantasy xv #promptis #prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum

19 notes · View notes

love-we-write · 4 years ago

Text

Eccedentesiast

Character: RichyxMC (ambiguous platonic or romantic) Genre: Hurt/Comfort? Friendship/Romance? Unbeta-ed mess is for certain Words: 4,188 Summary: Richy is used to being known to be able to bring a little bit of comical sunshine to everybody’s gloom. He’s just not used to letting anyone know that he’s burning behind that light. But then, you appeared in his life. Potential T/W: mentions of panic attacks A/N: Done in conjunction with the Duskwood Secret Santa event~! Dear @anatomical-myocardium, Merry Christmas to you~! Sorry this took so long to post, I swear my laptop crashes on me at the most inconvenient time sometimes. I hope I did this justice as a gift to you, and I hope you like it, just as I absolutely love your gift to me~! Have a safe and happy Christmas~! ❤️ ❤️

And with a renewed vow to write anything and everything that I want to write without minding if it’s a game, or an anime, or an anime game, or Kpop, here we go~! ❤️ ❤️

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

Richy is most known by his friends and all the Duskwood residents for his carefree nature, and he is very much aware of this.

With his small group of friends, he has been the joker of the group longer than memory can serve, always light-hearted with that small touch of dry humor to help liven up the mood. From their weekly battle of Doodle Friends to their catch up session at Aurora’s, all seven of them look to Richy to brighten their days with his quick-witted comebacks and his lame jokes that gets even Lily - ever the serious one - to chuckle.

At his job, his bright personality makes him one of the select few who could talk to Alfie without unnerving the boy, and from greeting old ladies who pass by his shop to chatting away with his customers while he repairs their cars, everyone does not have qualms to admit that Richy’s easy-going nature is his most admirable trait, a warm relaxing ray of sunshine that comes out and give others a bit of cheer on their gloomy days.

Richy knows that his ability to not take things too seriously gives comfort to his friends.

Richy knows this, knows it in the way Jessy thanks him for being there for her when she is frustrated with how Dan is treating her affections, knows it in the way Thomas looks at him silently yet gratefully when he brought them to Aurora’s and filled them with a copious amount of beers and stupid jokes for a self-proclaimed “pity party” after Thomas’ fight with Hannah.

He knows it during the wake of Hannah’s absence when Thomas is on the verge of breaking down, and when Jessy fought with Cleo over how to handle the investigation, Lilly had reached out to him in the middle of the night, quiet words of “I feel like you’re the only one keeping this group together,” mumbled into the phone in between sniffles.

Richy knows he is most known for his easy-going personality, and he is used to it.

He is also used to that horrible feeling of uselessness constantly haunting him in the deep dark solace of his mind. That sinking in his stomach, the heaviness settling in his core as he contemplates whether he has anything worthwhile at all anything good to offer to this world, the constant feeling that he doesn’t have anything at all. It is a dark void spanning the crevasse of his mind that comes up in his solitude, whispering that he is not good enough, that he does not deserve grief and his fear is only going to burden his loved ones.

Because who is he to voice out his sadness and anguish when everybody else has so much on their plate already? Who is he to want to cry at Jessy to look at him, just LOOK AT HIM WHO HAS BEEN THERE FOR YOU when she is heartbroken herself. What right does he have to voice out his grief, his guilt at being the first one to come to Hannah’s house but still unable to save her anyway? What right does he have to say these things, when he only had lost a friend while Thomas lost a girlfriend and Lilly a sister?

What right does he have?

So, Richy does what he does best. He smiles. He jokes. And he hides. He stopped trying to figure out the line inside him where his smile ends and his fear starts. To him, they all bleed together.

Richy is used to being known to be able to bring a little bit of comical sunshine to everybody’s gloom. He’s just not used to letting anyone know that he’s burning behind the light.

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

But then, you appeared in his life. You with your contagious kindness, you who are the one person who does not have any personal stakes with Hannah in this investigation but still decided to help out of the sheer good in your heart.

Richy sometimes thought that you were highly naive when you said that them getting your number and bringing you in this group must have meant that there is something that you could do instead of just seeing it as it is; an ominous invitation from an unknown hacker. However, that thought of your naivete is blown out of the water when he witnessed your bright-eyed curiosity and your sharp perception.

‘You like Jessy, don’t you?’ you had texted him out of the blue during one of your conversations when during the first few days after you appeared in their lives.

Richy swore he almost dropped his phone in his coffee when he read your text. No one has ever picked up on his one-sided affections towards Jessy, not even their group, not even Jessy herself who has been his close friend.

He has always been wary of you when Thomas first invited you in. A stranger whose number was given to them by another stranger seemed to Richy like a well-timed disaster waiting to explode in their faces. Richy liked to think of himself as neutral when it comes to matters of your involvement; skeptical enough to not be desperate as Thomas but to the point of hostility that Lilly has shown.

But with your eagle-eyed intuition, Richy realized he had to be extra careful with himself around you.

‘Uh, gotta go. Coffee’s about ready and I need that caffeine injection for my sanity, in case some more shit happens around here, haha,’ he had typed quickly, adding in several emojis in succession for some good measure. He puts the phone face down almost immediately, as if that would help distract him from your reply, and busies himself with work.

‘That’s okay. Coffee sounds like a great idea. The next time you want to subtly avoid having uncomfortable conversations about yourself, I have a list of ideas :D,’ was your reply to him when he checked his phone during his break.

Mirth bubbles up in Richy, a feeling of familiarity and comfort fizzing up in him like downing cold soda on a hot summer day. Richy chuckles towards his phone, seeing as you really did provide him with a list of excuses to make to get out of conversation, each item sillier than the previous one.

Your entrance into his and the way Richy felt you seeing through to him feels like a breath of fresh air.

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

‘Richy, hi.’

Richy smiles, looking at his phone vibrated on the countertop as he is pouring his third cup of coffee for the day. Seems like the weekend is as good as any for him to gather his thoughts to himself, to compartmentalize his feelings away from the crowd, but the texts from you over the days is a welcome distraction.

From asking him about Jennifer Manson, to asking him about the phone call he made on the day of Hannah’s disappearance, to random conversation about your favorite movies or music, messages from you have become something he looks forward to daily. He found himself slowly thinking more and more of you; whether you are okay, what you have been doing among other things

‘Now, what more information does my lady seek from me?’ he types quickly, anticipating as the three dots beside your name blinks back at him.

‘Good sir, is it such a crime if I just want to inquire about your day? :(’

Richy would be lying if he said that his heart did not skip a few beats over those words.

‘Our previous conversations would indicate that you always would have things to ask me after you know about how my day went, so out you go. :D’

It feels nice to see you playing along with his jokes.

‘Cleo told me you fought with your dad?’

Ah.

Not information about Hannah’s disappearance then. Which, to him, is much much easier to divulge.

‘That girl is going to get into trouble one day over how much she’s eavesdropping.’

‘I know. But more importantly, are you okay?’

Are you okay? Wow, Richy thinks as he stares at his idle phone. A simple question, but look at how he is struggling to answer. So he quickly typed in.

‘I’m okay, don’t worry, haha. Listen, the cat outside my apartment is literally meowing my window panes down, I better go check up on it before it eats itself,’ Richy began typing his response, as if him staring down the digitized letters will give him some form of epiphany over what the best course of action is.

Excuse #12 from that ridiculous list that you gave him from weeks ago. From feeding non-existent stray cats outside his house to a car needing their tires changed, it quickly became an inside understanding between the two of you that this is a signal that he does not want to talk about it.

But, inside, he wants to talk about it. Wants to talk to you about how this fight is a series of continuous disagreements between him and his father over how to run the family’s garage. Wants to talk about how this garage is not what he envisioned doing in his adult year, that he has no interest whatsoever in running the family’s business. How he had wanted to be a photographer, but was forced to run the garage by his dad to continue the family business.

And how each time his father berates him over the losses their garage suffered due to the new competing garage in town, he feels a slight vendetta to bring up that he is never interested in what happens in this garage but is only doing it for his father.

He has long perfected the art of hiding anything of him that isn’t polished and brightened, so when you picked it up immediately, he felt flustered. Flustered because he doesn’t know what to do when faced with the idea of someone perceptive as you catching his vulnerabilities that he is ashamed of. But, also flustered with the fact that he feels a small sense of comfort that someone took time to notice the small things about him, and that deep inside, he feels some small part of him wanting to reach back out.

For now, he just added a bunch of cheerful emojis for good measure and hits send.

He wants to talk about it. He wants to.

‘You know, I don’t expect you to exhaust that list so quickly. I would have thought it’d be good for at least 2-3 months.’ came your reply.

‘I worry about you, Richy.’

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

And it is true, you are worried for him. It has been close to three weeks since you first got added into this strange group, and if truth be told, you would never have thought that you’d be as invested as you are now. You could not deny that Jessy and Richy were two of the friends you never thought that you would care for as much as you did. You know that Jake had warned you over the group, and you ARE a bit more wary of some more than others, but you did not expect your trust to go wholeheartedly to this small trio that you have formed with Jessy and Richy.

Jessy is the sweetest girl you have ever met in the world, always kind. She has this effect around people that made them feel cared for, and you are thankful how she had welcomed you and helped you out when everyone else seems to think you are the kidnapper.She wears her heart on a sleeve, and she trusts easily, but she means well. And Richy…

Richy is an enigma. On surface level, it seems that he is a bright ray of sunshine, all lighthearted jokes and wit, a perfect comedic complement to Jessy’s more emotional tendencies, but you notice the things that made Richy much more complex than he lets on.

You see his calm and composed nature when he is the one to suggest the group to think more critically in the case of your appearance and Hannah’s disappearance, how he calmed everyone down and brought their spirits up. But you also see his aversion to talking about how he himself feels.

Even though he does not show it, you know the incident with Hannah affected him just as much as it had affected everybody else. You see the sprinkle of emotions he has shown, from Jessy who told you how quiet he had been on the day his garage was spray painted with the sign of the raven, to his deprecating jokes about himself when you asked about the phone call he had made to Hannah on the day of her disappearance.

You see that sliver of fear, that glimpse of guilt over those short moments, but come any closer and you could miss it with how subtly and skillfully he averts to more cheerful topics.

But that’s the thing. You worry for him. Jessy goes to the both of you for comfort while Dan goes to Jessy. Lilly has her family, Cleo goes to Thomas and Thomas’s grief is acknowledged and heard by all of them.

But who listens to Richy? Who gives Richy their shoulder for him to grief? Who lift up his spirits the way he does to you? For now, all you can do is put your phone close to your ear, Richy’s number dialing in the background.

‘I worry about you, Richy.’

‘It gets better, I promise you. You don’t have to be alone. I’m here for you,’ you added under your previous text. It goes unanswered and your calls only gets redirected to voicemail. So all you can do is hold your phone close to you, placing your lips on its receiver, only able to hope that it goes to him, that his cheeks or his forehead feels the warmth as a sign that you are here for him.

Miles away, in Duskwood, Richy only stares in his phone longingly, wanting to call you.

‘I’m here for you.’ your text that had him feeling hopeful, comforted and flustered him all the same.

It has been a long time since someone sees through him so transparently, heck, the void in him has bled together with his façade so much that even he himself cannot see through the layers of sunshine to where his dark insecurities start. He has crafted so many walls, perfected so many smiles that it even fooled Jessy, the person most close to him here in Duskwood. Perhaps at some point, maybe he even fooled himself.

And yet, here you are. Effortlessly breaking through those walls like it’s paper, unblinded by the fake shine he puts on, and sees the darkness in him for what it is. He has to laugh at that as he leaned his forehead on his phone, somehow feeling a sense of comfort just in doing that. What have you done to him?

Perhaps one day he can begin to talk about it.

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

That day came sooner that he thought it would be. That night in December, it snowed heavily in Duskwood. Angry snow fell down in a furious blizzard, gusts of wind wailing outside in anguish, doors and window panes shaking almost in fear. Sometimes, the wailing picks up speed and bangs on the window with a scream.

Inside, Richy is just as furious, just as anguished as the blizzard outside. The man without a face seems hell-bent in getting them to stop finding Hannah and to obtain your location. Richy would bend over backwards and go to hell twice before letting your location fall in its hands. And with the search not showing any signs of stopping, so did the threats to them.

Today, it took the threat to another level when it involved their families as well. Richy had woken up with a call from his father. He had expected the call to be his father picking up another fight with him, but the urgency in his father’s voice and the manic sobbing of his mother in the background struck a cold chord in him.

It turned out that his family house has been vandalized with the signs of the raven, only this time it is worse than the one did in the garage. The windows were splashed with red paint, with papers jammed in their mailbox full of threatening letters of ‘give me her’ and ‘Richy, you’re next’. It took him a good two hours to scrub the windows clean, and then another hour to comfort his mother that this is just a prank pulled by some reckless vandals, to clean up the papers from the mailbox and throw them in the trash.

But, deep inside he knows it. This is not a prank. This is a threat to him. To them.

Duskwood is a small town. People will talk and come tomorrow, his friends will find out. He needs time. He needs time to sort out his thoughts. Time to properly compartmentalize.

He needs time to sort out through his guilt of not being able to protect his family from being terrorized from the man without a face. There is the fury with the fact that it has been established that the man without a face is someone within their circle, given how much they know about your presence.

He needs time.

There is the fear that you, being the lynch pin to all that the man without a face wanted from them, will be burdened more. He needs time to sort through the fear that he could not protect you, and even though it is for the best interest of your safety that none of them knows where you are, you are still all alone having to pick up after these seven dysfunctional people and no one to protect you.

Then, there is the confusion, the stress, the angry sadness that this is a game that he has to continue to play with his friends. The betrayal that one of them, one of his close friends is responsible for this, that they could have the balls to laugh with him, smile with him and turn around and do this to him.

He needs time to sort through this anger and he doesn’t have the courage to face them and continue playing this game tomorrow, not when all he wanted to do is lash out at each one of them and threaten them and ohgodheneedstimeheneedstime--

In the solace of his room in his family home, Richy feels his thoughts become as white as the blizzard of snow outside. He hears his breath quickens, a voiceless wail stuck in his throat and he feels the shivers in his spine like the doors trembling in front of the wind.

Heneedstimeohgodpleasegivehimabitoftime----

And like a lifeline, his phone besides him rang and vibrated and he clutched it to him like a lifeline. Like a miracle in December, he sees that it’s your name. Somewhere in his blank white thoughts, he hears a small chuckle and how impeccable your timing is.

He answers and your voice in his ears sounded like a buoy thrown to him that is flailing about.

“Richy, I had a bad feeling about something. Is everyone okay?” and Richy hears himself laugh at that, a horrible mixture of a broken laugh and a hiccup and a helpless wail, all mixed up to become a horrible wounded noise.

Over on your side of the phone, your heart picked up pace when you heard that choked laughter from Richy. It is horrible and it is scary and you would never want to hear it from anyone again, least of all not Richy. He is having a panic attack.

“Richy, are you okay?! Richy, listen to me. Breathe with me, sweetheart. Breathe in, breathe out,” deep inside you tried to stay calm because that is what he needs, but even you feel like being on the verge of tears listening to this man - who has cheered you up so much - break down in front of you.

After he seemed to have calmed down, you tried again.

“Richy, what’s wrong? Please talk to me. You deserve to not be alone in this Richy. I see you. I see you smiling to get everyone to smile. You listened to me and you lifted up my mood when Jessy was attacked, and when I received threats over Lilly’s video. Let me do the same to you, yeah? Tell me what’s wrong?”

And to Richy, who has clutched onto your voice like a lifeline, who wants to share everything with you, just burst like a dam. Everything that he has kept secret from his friends, the sadness behind his smile, everything that he has even kept from himself and just swept under the rug and pushed into a closet at the back of his mind. Everything burst right there in front of you, from his guilt to not being able to stop Hannah’s kidnapping and Jessy’s attack, to him feeling unworthy of being sad compared to others, to his fear when he saw the sign of the raven in his garage and now on his home, his fury at knowing one of his friends are doing this, to his fear for Jessy, his fear for you.

He hated everything. He hated himself.

You told him that he is strong, that you admired him so much, but he needs to see that he deserves to be comforted just as much as he has comforted everyone else.

In that snowstorm-clad night, the winds wept and wept, but beneath its howl, you can hear the intermittent wail of a broken man as Richy cried, and cried, and cried.

As he lets out everything, the blank white fog of his mind begins to clear and gain color. It started from the reds of fury, to the blacks of fear and the blues of guilt, but then your voice came in, and slowly the pinks of comfort, the yellows of hope and the purples of peace began melting through.

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

[EPILOGUE]

Both you and Richy sat over the phone for over 3 hours just talking about nothing and everything after his outburst.

He seems to have gained his color back, his cheerful self almost back as he cracked his lame stories about gangster seagulls eating his sandwich once in his travels. Richy feels like this time, his color - albeit still a little faded - is much more genuine than the blacks filtered from a rose-colored glass that he has shown before. Your laughter as you listen to his story and object to its credibility, slowly made those faded colors in his mind more vibrant.

“Thank you for listening to me, for um… taking care of me,” he begins a bit meekly after he finishes his story. He’s not so used to being listened to, not at this vulnerable a level and definitely he is not used to being taken care of.

“You did the same to me when Jessy was attacked. And you would have done the same for me again, I’m sure of it,” your voice sounded like a smile would, and God, would he give up everything to see that smile in person. He laughs to himself internally. How has this person made him so whipped for her in such a manner?

“I’m planning on going to Duskwood soon,” you had said out of the blue, bringing him back from his reverie.

“Absolutely not. In case you forgot my magnificent show of tears just now, the man without a face is threatening us to get to you. You coming here is the absolute worst thing to do,” Richy snorted, a mock indignant and wounded tone from him that made you chuckle.

“Well, how bad can it be? If we keep my arrival a secret from the rest of them, and spend the days, just you, me and Jessy, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Someone needs to go there and give you a hug and take care of you,” you had replied back shortly, almost giving no thought to what you had said.

“Oh my, my lady, are you flirting with me?” Richy’s exaggerated gasp brought you back to reality, and his implication had your heart skipping beats.

“Well I mean… um…” you stuttered, and Richy swore your hesitance and stuttering made his heart soar just a little bit more in hope. But pursuing it is for another time.

“W-Well, someone needs to stop you from being such an eccedentesiast!” you had blurted out, extremely grateful that the distance makes it unable for him to see your bright red hot face.

His laughter after that sounds like the most genuine you have heard from him so far, and he might have said something along the lines of “nooo use small words, your idiot here doesn’t understand what that means,” but you couldn’t remember clearly. All you remembered was you thinking that you would give almost anything to protect that genuine tinkling laughter of his.

#duskwood #duskwood game #duskwood richy #duskwood mc

105 notes · View notes