#i shall leave this here and return to my small mountain of weighted blankets

[solsilverpine]

Last Line Challenge

Rules: In a new post, show your latest line (artwork or written), and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like)!

tagged by @hayesflint and @sunatsubu

Anyone that wants to do this can, tag me if ya do 👉😎👉

I have two fic's i'm working on right now so y'all can have a sneaky peak at both.

Warrior and the Lasat Ch 4

‘Zeb you need to do something about your Imperial,’ Kanan muttered as Zeb came back inside. ‘Look if this is about Hondo-’ ‘No what happened to… you know what never mind, just pick me up and take me to the library. It’ll be easier if I just show you.’

And under the cut a line from spicey lil one shot I've been working on about Kallus and Zeb using their retirement to try new things. (inspired by this drawing Hayes did a while ago)

‘I could spend the next decade praising your d*** with a devotion usually reserved for those who worship higher powers and still not convey everything…and that was before I saw you in lingerie. Now I might never have another productive day in my life. All those times people joked that I left the empire for your d*** weren’t accurate exactly but…they also weren't untrue.’ ‘Huh, look’s like I owe several people money next time we go back and visit- Oh, oh!’

[befuddled-calico-whump]

hi its me your local cerus enjoyer 🖤 may i request #5 and #2 from the “whump fun” section of that prompt list game for him?

Thanks for sending prompts! you know it's a good combo when I immediately know exactly what I'm gonna do with it

a spark of hope + revenge

cw: referenced abuse, blood, explicit gore

from this game ///// Penumbra Masterlist

§•§•§

"Are you alright?"

It was a question Cerus hadn't heard since he was a very young boy, a question he hadn't expected to ever hear again, especially not in this coaldust-streaked hell.

He almost thought he'd dreamt it.

He'd been sick for days now, a fever burning away at his strength like fire on candlewick, and the tiresome, never-ending work had finally become too much for him. Only by some miracle had he made it out of the mountain before collapsing.

"Are you alright?"

The question came again, insisting on its own reality, and when Cerus managed to lift his head, he found himself staring into the bright eyes of a sandy-haired young man. He was half-crouched above him, an expression of concern on his face.

Concern. Didn't he know who he was standing over? Didn't he know better than to care?

When Cerus didn't answer, the man didn't shout at him, or try and beat a response out of him. Instead, he fully knelt.

"You don't look well. Please, let me help." He extended a hand, and Cerus watched it warily. Not that he'd be able to prevent it, should the hand decide to harm him.

"Why?" he asked.

"I am to assist the Healer. It will be my job to see to the well-being of the miners."

"It's not seventh day. The Healer isn't here," Cerus muttered, and the words felt like sand in his mouth, grating against his tongue and throat. Why was he even bothering to speak? Either this would end in pain or it wouldn't, and he certainly had no say in the outcome.

"I wanted to meet the people I'd be helping," the man said, breaking into a sunshiny grin. "My name is Yven."

"Cerus," he practically spat in return. If the man had been oblivious before, surely now he'd—

"A pleasure to meet you, Cerus. Shall we get you to a bed?"

Impossible.

"You… don't you know who I am?" 

Puzzlement crossed Yven's face as he wrapped an arm around Cerus's torso. "You are a convict," he said. "And a former mage, judging by the marks you bear."

Standing proved difficult, even with assistance from Yven, and though it had been months since his shattered bones were mended, pain still spiked through his legs when he placed his weight on them. But right now, Cerus could ignore it. Right now, he was wholly preoccupied trying to figure out what to make of this young healer.

"You are right on both counts," he said, and mentally debated if he should say more, or leave it there. Letting Yven help him when he didn't know the full truth was cowardly, but Cerus was almost too tired to care. Misery was a constant, would now always be a constant. Why not let the younger man help him in his blissful ignorance? Why not allow himself some scrap of comfort, no matter how dishonorable it felt?

And so he said no more, leaning heavily on Yven as he guided him towards the Healer's barracks. The little building was empty when they stepped inside, another small thing to be grateful for. More time to rest in untruth.

Yven helped him into a bed, a real bed, and pulled a soft cotton blanket over him. It was nothing short of bliss. The thought of getting true sleep, of being allowed to hide here, unbothered, for even just a day was almost too much for Cerus to grasp.

He barely noticed when the healer stepped away to lock the door. The click of a lock—of shackles, of doors—was a daily occurrence, and Cerus couldn't find a reason to question it.

Yven returned to his bedside, setting a heavy-sounding bag on the floor beside him. The back of a cool hand pressed against Cerus's forehead, accompanied by a small 'hm'.

"You're burning up. I ought to get you some good hot broth from the kitchens." He sat on the floor. Cerus heard the sounds of metal hitting metal as he rummaged through his bag, and thought nothing of it. One by one, Yven withdrew things he couldn't see and set them on the floor beside the bed with muted thuds. Then he stood, a small pot of blue dye and a brush in his hands.

Mender's paint. A tool for apprentice or novice healers, or sometimes masters if they were taking on a particularly complex or life-threatening wound, it was used to draw runes on a patient's body to assist in concentration and lessen the magical load.

Once upon a time, when Cerus was a child naive enough to think he could master light magic without consequence, he'd practiced with the substance. Now he lay still as Yven dipped the brush into the pot and drew lines of blue over his torso.

Was he trying to quell the fever? Most healers dealt solely in wounds of the flesh, and while Cerus's flesh certainly wasn't unbloodied, Yven seemed more concerned with his illness. Perhaps the younger man thought closing half-healed wounds and mending cracked bone would ease the strain on his body. He certainly wouldn't be wrong, were that his intent, but the runes he was painting seemed far too intricate for simple work such as that.

Yven seemed to register the confusion on Cerus's face, and offered a small smile.

"You'll need strong bodily healing to survive," he offered, making one final curl with the brush before tucking it away.

To survive? The phrasing only brought on more confusion, steeped in a sense of unease that coiled inside him like a viper.

"After all, you've been sentenced to live, haven't you?"

As Yven said the words, panic shot through Cerus like darkness converging on a snuffed candle. Momentarily heedless of his weakened state, he sat up, eyes wide, only to be easily shoved back down by Yven.

"I know who you are. Of course I know who you are," the young healer hissed, leaning in close, one palm flat and heavy in the center of Cerus's chest. His heart pounded against it, blood rushing in his ears, head spinning.

"How could I forget the shadow that fell over my home? The unholy things that crawled from their graves and tore apart the living?" Yven's hand raked through his hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking his head back. "Your evil has stained all of Feyadel. No one will ever forget what you've done."

He knew that, he knew that, why had he expected this new healer's treatment to be anything other than this?

Yven suddenly pulled away, reaching for something on the floor, coming back with a knife.

Cerus was too shocked to even scream as the younger man plunged it into his stomach, right between two blue runes. The pain only reached him when Yven withdrew the blade, blood following the metal out of the wound. And with it came a numb sense of relief.

That it was finally over, that someone had at last had enough of seeing him continue to live and breathe. Cerus embraced the pain in his core, and willed his vision to darken, willed his body to shut down quickly…

But then Yven was covering the split flesh with his hand, chanting under his breath, eyes and runes glowing a cool blue, and Cerus felt the wound begin to close. Within minutes, the skin had sealed, leaving Cerus silently shaking with the memory of it.

He had little time to register what had just happened before Yven dug the blade in again, burying it to the hilt, pinning Cerus with his free hand as he dug a scarlet line from hip to hip. Cerus's scream didn't sound like much of a scream for long, rising in pitch and desperation until it sounded to his ears like something inhuman. A death keen of a dying beast, a shriek from an unholy demon.

Maybe that was all it really was.

It tapered off into a helpless cry as Yven slid a hand into the wound, and that weakened to shallow gasps as the healer began to dig around inside, fingers tangling through guts, brushing organs, tearing at the bits of tissue that held everything together.

He couldn't remember how to beg, or even scream. He couldn't remember how to breathe. 

He convulsed as Yven squeezed and pulled at the parts of him that were never meant to see the light, the pain and deep feeling of intrusion, of wrongness drowning out everything else but the ripping, squirming hand.

The feeling eventually began to fade, and with it his consciousness; an icy numbness spreading through his body like frost, slowly reaching up to take away his senses. But by then, Yven's hand, gloved in scarlet, was hovering above his stomach, and the wound was closing.

Even with the healing, the residual pain left Cerus gasping and trembling, unable to form coherent thoughts or pleas. It felt like a den of snakes had burrowed into his gut and were set on eating their way through him.

The second healing looked to have drained Yven, and there was a tremor to the healer's hands as he washed away the blood. He didn't say another word to Cerus, not that it would've mattered if he had. He'd done what he'd come here to do, what so many others here itched to do.

Blood for blood. Pain for pain.

And as Cerus watched the young healer exit the barracks on shaky legs, the image hazy and distant, he found himself unable to blame him.

§•§•§

Tag list:

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump @chiswhumpcorner @whatwhumpcomments , @dont-look-me-in-the-eye , @turn-the-tables-on-them , @pigeonwhumps , @itsmyworld23 , @andromeda-liske , @starlit-hopes-and-dreams , @haro-whumps , @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

[badacts]

fathers and children

“Daddy.”

Bruce is so sleep-deprived he almost falls back into unconsciousness between the voice and the hand tugging at his shirtsleeve. “Wussit?”

“Daddy,” the voice says again tearfully, “Hadda bad dream.”

“Oh no buddy,” Bruce mumbles, hooking an arm around and pulling the little body up on the mattress beside him. It snuggles into him, warm and sniffling. Actually, maybe a little too warm. “Feeling sick?”

Tim’s head shakes a no into Bruce’s shoulder. He’s got his comfort blanket, referred household-wide as ‘Blankie’, tight in his fist. “I sleep here.”

“That’s okay,” Bruce replies, tucking him under the sheets without dislodging him. It’s the same feeling of impossible tenderness every time, even when he’s most of the way asleep and Tim is distressingly sticky.

He likely falls back to sleep before Tim does, and wakes about what feels like five minutes later to, “Dad. Bruce, wake up.”

The only thing that stops him from sitting straight up is Tim’s weight at his side. “Dick?”

“I think Jason’s upset,” Dick murmurs, rubbing at his eye with a curled fist.

Bruce exhales, and then slips Tim’s fast-asleep body over so he can get out of bed. “Hop in chum. Thanks for getting me.”

“Uh huh,” Dick says, scrambling under the blankets and curling around Tim, cooing at him sleepily. Tim snores in response.

Dick’s bedroom door is thrown open across the hall from Bruce’s, but the one next door is firmly closed still. Bruce pauses for a second outside and hears sniffling, and a single low sob.

He pushes the door open and slips inside. “Jaybird?”

He’s answered by abrupt quiet. Sighing silently, he perches his weight on the edge of the bed. “Did you have a nightmare?”

The lump in the blankets moves enough to reveal a red-rimmed eye. “No.”

“Okay,” Bruce replies peaceably. “Want to lie back down?”

His head shakes. At six, Jason is as stubborn as they come. He makes intractable Dick look positively agreeable by comparison.

“Can I lie down then?” Bruce asks. “Dick and Tim stole my bed and I’m tired.”

Jason takes a moment to consider this. “Okay. I’m fine though.”

Bruce slides across to the side of the bed, rueing Alfred’s decision that the kids’ rooms should have single beds until they physically required something larger. The psychology of it is sound, but when Bruce lies back his feet dangle over the edge of the mattress. It’s lucky Jason is small for his age.

Once he’s stretched on his back, there’s a scratch of moving blankets, and then a heavy little head drops onto his shoulder. Jay doesn’t ask for comfort, not yet, but he’s passable at accepting it when offered. It’s a work in progress. He’s still shivering a little, wracked by his night terrors in a way little Tim can’t quite be - they’re memories, not products over a too-clever overactive brain - but he settles quicker every time. Bruce toys with his hair.

Jason falls asleep after a little while, crashing hard after the swell of emotions. Bruce, still wide awake after the insistence of Dick’s voice from before, is contemplating his future back pain when he sees movement in Jason’s doorway where he left the door open.

It’s dark, and she’s silent. but it’s easy enough to recognise Cass and the movement of a nightgown. She stays so still in the doorway that it’s not quite right in a twisting way in Bruce’s belly, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up, because no one ever tells you that your own kids can freak you out.

“Cassie?” he whispers, unwilling to wake Jason again so soon.

It’s then that the smell hits him.

His whole life has inured him to any number of bad smells. It’s still unpleasant to deal with those things in his own home. At least it’s just vomit, though.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, hurriedly but gently bundling Jason up and moving him off of his chest. Cass, now sure that he’s awake, lifts her arms in a silent request to be picked up.

“Dad,” she mumbles as he hefts her up. Her chin is marked with sick, and there’s thin trails of it down her front. “Sick.”

“I see that,” Bruce replies, more for her to hear his voice than anything else. Her language skills are still significantly delayed compared to Jason’s, though she’s nine months older, and he’s become used to narrating things to her to help her vocabulary increase. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He whisks her into his own ensuite, stopping briefly to check Tim and Dick are still sleeping soundly on the way. He waits to turn on the bathroom light until the door is closed, then settles Cass on the edge of the sink. Her hand catches in his shirt, keeping him close.

“Does your stomach hurt?” he asks from a crouch in front of her, resting a hand on her forehead. She doesn’t feel warm to the touch, and her eyes are as bright and watchful as ever.

She signs better at him, and then begins trying to wrestle her nightgown off. Bruce sweeps it over her head and uses a clean patch to wipe her face. The struggle is that, as soon as he takes over, her hands go back to clutching at him. Rather than wrestling with her - a battle he knows he would lose - he takes off the cotton shirt he’s wearing and transfers it directly onto her, inside-out and as big as a tent on her. She’s in danger of slipping out through the neckhole, so he wraps it around her and scoops her up.

“Back to bed, wee one,” he murmurs to her, but she slaps at him at Jason’s door with a mostly-free arm, pointing imperiously at her brother’s door.

The two of them are closest in age and seem sometimes like a pair of twins, particularly with Cass’s self-cut short-and-ragged hairstyle (Alfred had confiscated the plastic safety scissors after that, but neither of them have had the mental fortitude to take a wailing, squirming seven year old to the hated hairdresser to tidy it up) and Jason’s overgrown mop. It’s unsurprising that Cass crawls onto Jason’s mattress and flops stomach-down over his feet. It’s a position Bruce has found the pair of them in before during many late-night checks.

Jason snuffles and mumbles something incomprehensible, but doesn’t wake. Cass lets out a contented sigh, tucking the shirt’s hem in like a blanket around her, and closes her eyes.

That’s four children settled. Bruce, accepting the idea that he’ll likely have to sleep on the tufted bench at the foot of his own bed to avoid disturbing a sleeping three- and eleven-year-old, slips through the door of the nursery and peers into the cradle under the window.

Damian blinks up at him, fully awake but silent. His eyes are enormous in his nut-brown face, and his expression seems vaguely disapproving. Bruce is more than aware that it’s a hereditary trait. He’s not crying though, so clearly not hungry or wet - he doesn’t hesitate to make his discomforts known. Just awake.

Bruce lowers the side of the crib and kneels down, resting his elbows on the mattress so his face is on the same level as the baby. Damian reaches out to him with clumsy fingers. Bruce winces at the feeling of nails on his scruffy face - he’s in need of a trim.

“What are you doing awake?” Bruce asks in a low murmur, and yet again he’s warm to his core. It doesn’t matter that he has a board meeting tomorrow, that he didn’t get in till 1AM and that his body hurts with new bruises and remembered injuries, or that the carpet under his knees isn’t really thick enough for him to kneel on it. He’s just warm.

*

Alfred is accustomed to waking early. It gives him time to prepare for the young masters and mistress when they wake in turn. It’s a rare morning when one of them - particularly the youngest - sleeps past seven.

This means that when seven-thirty rolls around without a peep from upstairs, Alfred goes to investigate.

He finds Masters Dick and Timothy asleep in their father’s bed, Dick sprawled on his back and snoring with Tim pillowed on his abdomen. Master Bruce’s bathroom is empty besides a discarded nightshirt left in the bath, haphazardly rinsed.

Master Jason is fast asleep in his own bed, curled like a pillbug with only his hair visible above the blankets. Cassandra, dressed in her father’s shirt which could envelope her four times over, is asleep at the foot of the bed, one of her feet threatening to encroach on Jason’s behind.

The nursery door at the end of the hall is open, sun pouring through the east-facing window and onto the hall floor. In the cot, young Master Damian is burbling quietly to himself, awake but apparently peaceful. The reason for this becomes clear when Alfred steps inside the room - Master Bruce seems to be kneeling beside the cot, forearms crossed on the mattress and head resting on top of them. He appears to be firmly asleep, despite the tiny hand prodding at his loose fingers.

“Good morning, lad,” Alfred murmurs to the baby, sweeping him into his arms. Bruce twitches at the movement, but stills under Alfred’s palm on his shoulder. “Off the floor, Master Bruce. That cannot be good for your joints.”

“Hrn,” Bruce says, blinking into the light from the window. He grunts as he levers himself up, rubbing at his face in precisely the same way he did when he was Tim or Jason’s age. In such a mountain of a man, let alone one precisely as scarred and dangerous as Alfred’s boy has grown into, it’s awfully endearing.

“Into the shower with you,” Alfred recommends. “Then breakfast. I shall rally the troops.”

By the looks of their night, he suspects they’ll be foul at being woken, and likely considerably more so by three this afternoon. Damian will shriek over an upset stomach after his morning bottle, and Timothy will refuse to nap despite being exhausted, and Dick will drag his feet over going to school while Jason cries at leaving the house despite desperately wanting to go to school. Cassandra will be quieter than usual, and terribly willful for anyone besides her father. And Bruce will likely be forgetful and shorter than usual at work, and return home tonight exhausted but determined to venture out onto the streets again.

Alfred wouldn’t trade them for anything.

[alphawitchnyxx]

Cold Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

Summary: The first snowfall of winter happens before Geralt and Jaskier make it up to Kaer Morhen for the season. The cold makes the heart grow fonder.

Author’s Note: This is just more fluff because honestly I’m in a fluffy mood these days because the world is in shambles and I need something to make me feel emotions other than rage. Not an established relationship, love confessions. Also available on AO3!

___________________________________________________________________

The cave wasn’t the greatest shelter, but it was going to have to work. Geralt and Jaskier had been making great time back to the witchers’ keep for the winter season but a snowstorm had caught them off-guard, forcing them off of the Path to find shelter.

“G….g…g…Ger…rr…ralt..ttt,” Jaskier chattered, his whole body quivering. His skin was pale, his lips a light shade of blue, his usually bright eyes dulled with the early signs of hypothermia. “I….I’m f..f…f…fre…freezing.”

Geralt frowned, his brow furrowing. He was definitely chilled, but his mutations protected him against the worst of the biting wind. He knew that if he didn’t get Jaskier warm soon, the bard wouldn’t survive the night. He chewed his lip as he gathered some wood from outside the cave, piling it high before casting a quick Igni, the wood bursting into flame. “Sit by the fire, Jaskier,” he said as he dug out his heavy winter cloak to drape over Jaskier’s shoulders.

Jaskier nodded, sitting as close to the fire as he could, his back against the back wall of the cave. The weight of Geralt’s cloak over his shoulders helped to calm his shivering, but he was still cold. “Ger…Geralt…still cold.”

Geralt nodded, coming to sit behind him. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s body, pulling them together. He pressed his nose to the crown of the bards’ head, inhaling deeply. His scent was dulled and his pulse was sluggish, making Geralt panic. Jaskier needed something more.

“Take off your clothes,” Geralt said bluntly.

Jaskier turned to stare at him, mouth agape. “Th…that s...s…seems wrong,” he stuttered.

Geralt was already stripping off his armor as he looked at the bard. He looked so fragile like this, his skin pale and clammy against the bitter cold of the air around them.

“Survival basics. We take off our clothes and huddle together and share body heat,” the witcher responded. “I’ll help you.” He laid out their bedrolls, draping Roach’s saddle blanket over them to provide a buffer from the cold stone cave. When he was satisfied, he moved to Jaskier, gently picking him up and holding him to his chest. He could feel the bard shaking in his arms and he swallowed roughly. He could feel a pit of fear settling in his stomach as he set Jaskier down and began stripping him down, moving as quickly as possible without shredding any of the clothing.

Once they were both stripped down to their smallclothes, Geralt wrapped both of them in the cloaks and whatever spare blankets he could find in their packs. He kept Jaskier close, pressing the bard’s chest to his own. “It’s going to be okay, Julek,” he whispered, his calloused fingers gently rubbing small circles into Jaskier’s back.

“Di…didn’t think y…you r…r…reme…membered th..that n..na..name,” Jaskier said, clinging to Geralt for dear life. He could feel his temperature slowly rising as he remained curled up against Geralt, the white-haired man emanating what seemed like an unnatural amount of body heat. “I think…I only t…t…told you a..about th..that name once. Y…you re…really do listen, ”he said, sighing softly as his shivering began to slow before stopping completely.

Geralt smiled as Jaskier settled in his arms, inhaling deeply through his nose. Jaskier was starting to smell like himself again, the warm cinnamon and buttercup scent filling his nose. It was still muted but it was stronger than before. He looked down and saw that there was the slightest hint of color returning to his cheeks and lips. “I always listen,” he said quietly, burying his face against Jaskier’s hair.

The cave fell into silence and Geralt swallowed roughly. He had hoped he’d never have to actually face his emotions, but almost losing Jaskier to hypothermia had made him realize that Jaskier was painfully and mortally human and he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost him to something as stupid as hypothermia.  

He knew he had feelings for the young bard, and it was only in the past few weeks that he labelled those emotions as love. He could even pinpoint the exact day: it was the day he invited Jaskier to winter with him at Kaer Morhen. Jaskier had been so excited to finally see his home and as Geralt listened to him ramble on about meeting Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir at last, he realized that he cared more for Jaskier than he had about anyone in a very, very long time. That was the moment he knew he loved his bard.

“Really?” Jaskier’s quiet question pierced though the silence like a dagger. He had stopped shaking and his teeth were no longer chattering. The feeling had returned to his extremities and he no longer felt like he was on death’s doorstep.

“Really,” Geralt responded. “In the beginning, all those years ago leaving Posada, I would tune you out during the day. But then I got…I got used to hearing your voice. I liked hearing it, even if I didn’t care much for...for what you were saying,” he admitted. “It got to the point where I’d actively listen to you, even if I didn’t respond. And all those winters apart, the times we’d separate….the silence was unbearable. And…it wasn’t until I asked you to…to come to Kaer Morhen this year that I realized…that…I love you” he said quietly. His chest felt like someone was squeezing it, and he held his breath as he waited for Jaskier to say something, anything, back.

They lay in silence again, the tightening feeling in his chest threatening to shatter his ribs and break heart.

“Jaskier,” he started, prepared to tell the bard that if he hated him or didn’t reciprocate those feelings he’d bring him back down to Ard Carriagh and give him all his remaining coin and walk back up the mountain alone if that’s what would please him. He never got the chance because suddenly his lips were captured in a kiss.

Kissing Jaskier wasn’t like any other kiss Geralt had ever had. Whores didn’t kiss him when he visited brothels, and the kisses he shared with Yennefer were aggressive and full of teeth and anger. Jaskier’s lips were soft, and Geralt could taste the remnants of the spices from their lunch. He pulled back gently, his amber eyes meeting with cerulean ones. “I love you so much, Jaskier, and if you don’t love me back or if you don’t want this, tell me and I’ll carry you back down this mountain and let you go on and live your life,” he said, fingers coming up to brush his chestnut hair from his face.

“Gods, Geralt, I’ve been in love with you for ages. I never said anything because I figured I’d never be able to hold your affections. I’m just a human bard, you’re a witcher, why would you want me?” Jaskier’s voice was light but laced with sadness. “Besides, you had Yennefer, and I can’t compete with a sorceress.”

Geralt pulled him in, kissing him again. “You are a hundred times better than Yennefer,” he said, pressing their foreheads together. “Yennefer was just…I don’t know, there? I don’t love her, I never truly did. I love you, Julek. And I’ll love you as long as you’ll let me.”

Jaskier smiled, his hand snaking up to gently cup Geralt’s face. He held it there for a moment, their eyes locked onto each other with reverence and adoration. “You may love me until the end of time, Geralt of Rivia, and I shall love you until my dying breath.”

Geralt breathed a sigh of relief, pressing his lips to Jaskier’s forehead. “I’m glad you feel the same way. I don’t know how I would have coped…what I would have done if you had died tonight without ever knowing…without ever hearing that I love you.”

Jaskier hummed softly in response, nestling his head into Geralt’s chest. “I’m happy you told me. I’m even happier that you saved me from freezing to death.” He chuckled softly before yawning, flexing his muscles underneath their cocoon of cloaks.

Geralt’s chest rumbled softly with laughter. “Sleep, Jas. I promise I’ll be right here in the morning.”

The bard nodded, drifting off to sleep in the arms of his witcher. Geralt listened to his heart rate and breathing slow down and even out, relaxing when he heard Jaskier snoring in his arms. When he was sure that the bard was asleep and not in danger, he closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him. And when he opened his eyes again, Jaskier was still there, pressed against him and flushed pink with warmth and life, and he knew that things were going to work out just fine.

[vintagevalentinex]

Please

Alright so here is the sequel to Smile!  For a while I was really struggling to figure out how to write a continuation of that story because I really wanted to.  I had two ideas in my head, and knew that both were probably going to play out anyway, so I just started writing and here we are.  I hope you all like it!

I used two songs in this story as my inspiration.  The first is The Man That Got Away sung by Judy Garland.  You can hear that here.

The second song I used is Thank You by Led Zeppelin.  You can hear that here.

I strongly encourage that you listen to the songs so you get an idea of the mood of the story!

Let me know if you want a third story.  I already have something loosely in mind! :)

@bovaria

@icecream-and-winchesters​

@abaddonwithyall​

Title: Please Author: vintagevalentinexx Words: ~1660 Pairing: (Dean x Reader) Warnings: Angst.  A smidgen of fluff.  And then more angst.

You tidied up a little in your small apartment, clad only in a tanktop and panties, just about ready to turn in for the night when you hear a knock at the door.  You furrow your eyebrows.  Who the hell is knocking at this time of night.  I don’t even know anybody in this bumblefuck of a town.  You grab your gun off the coffee table, taking quiet steps towards the door, cursing everything as you wish you had a peephole on the door.  Great, I guess I’ll just wing it.  Gun in one hand, you pull the door open wide, gun cocked right in the knocker’s face.  It takes you a moment, but you finally lower your weapon, eyes full of confusion and sadness.

“How did you find me?” …. …. …. “Hello, sweetheart.”  

The night is bitter, The stars have lost their glitter; The winds grow colder And suddenly you’re older - And all because of the man that got away.

No more his eager call, The writing’s on the wall; The dreams you dreamed have all Gone astray.

You stand there unspeaking, unable to form any words, your mind racing a million miles an hour, wondering how on earth Dean could have found you.  You deliberately covered your tracks, trying to get off the grid and off of the hunter’s network as much as possible.  Clearly your hard work was in vain because in front of you were those gorgeous, forest green eyes that you thought you’d never see again.

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes slowly taking you in.  It had been so long since he’d seen you, been with you, that he couldn’t help himself as his eyes slowly raked over your form.  You were so beautiful.  And it wasn’t just because he could never take your eyes off of you when you wore those particular pair of jeans.  It was because of the way you smiled, the way you twirled your hair between your fingers when you were bored, the way your laugh twinkled in his ear.  There were so many beautiful things about you, but you were still one of the fiercest hunters he’d ever met.  You were predatory and aggressive while you hunted; that would never be debated, but the way you moved, you stalked elegantly and graceful, almost feline in your approach.

It was mesmerizing.  And he was completely captivated by you.

The man that won you Has gone off and undone you. That great beginning Has seen the final inning. Don’t know what happened. It’s all a crazy game! No more that all-time thrill, For you’ve been through the mill - And never a new love will Be the same.

He chewed on his lip as he waited for you to say something.  Anything.  You continued to look at him, still in shock that he was standing right in front of you.

Dean’s eyes finally met your own.

“So…uh…ya gonna let me in?”

And you slammed the door in his face.

You leaned back against the door, knowing that he was still there, a loud groan signaling his presence.

“C’mon (Y/N) don’t be like that!  At least talk to me.”

You rolled your eyes, taking a deep breath, everything that you and Dean shared rushing back to you.  You tried to blink away a few stray tears, biting the side of your finger, otherwise you know a sob would escape past your lips.

Why did he have to show up?  It’s hard enough dealing with this alone every day.  Doesn’t he know how hard this is for me?!

“Please…Please, (Y/N).  At least say something.”

Good riddance, good-bye! Ev'ry trick of his you’re on to. But, fools will be fools - And where’s he gone to?

The road gets rougher, It’s lonelier and tougher. With hope you burn up - Tomorrow he may turn up. There’s just no letup the live-long night and day!

You continued to stare there, trying to slow down the rapid beating of your heart.  You pressed the back of your head to the door, closing your eyes, everything from the past couple of months brought back to the front of your mind.  There was no denying that you missed him.  You had thought it would get easier as time went on, but you were finding that it was actually becoming more and more difficult without him.  The day you left it was as if you left a part of yourself in that bunker, somewhere between the cheeseburgers and the ancient books of lore is where it resided.  It was somewhere in the garage, lingering in the impala, and on the old speakers that Dean and you rigged up to dance like idiots all through the bunker.  

You fought a smile, shaking your head, knowing that being with him again meant more pain, being ignored, and loud, boisterous fights.  Could he change?  Would he ever be different?  Could he be different for me?

“Please, (Y/N).  Don’t tell me that you can’t remember a single time when we were happy!”

It was a chilly late September night when Dean practically abducted you out of the bunker to take a ride with him. (“Where are we going, Dean?  I have a lot of work to get done in the library.  Can’t we just go back to the bunker?”  “Live a little, (Y/N), you’re becoming a little too attached to that library.  Can’t have you turning into a girl version of Sammy.”)

He wouldn’t tell you where you were going so you just leaned your head on the window of the impala, smiling to yourself as you listened to Dean sing off-key to a Led Zeppelin song:

If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you. When mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me.

Kind woman, I give you my all, Kind woman, nothing more.

Little drops of rain whisper of the pain, tears of loves lost in the days gone by. My love is strong, with you there is no wrong, together we shall go until we die. My, my, my. An inspiration is what you are to me, inspiration, look… see.

And so today, my world it smiles, your hand in mine, we walk the miles, Thanks to you it will be done, for you to me are the only one. Happiness, no more be sad, happiness….I’m glad. If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you. When mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me.

He would look at you every so often, singing the lyrics to you while you giggled, his hand ever so present on your knee as the both of you drove into the night.   After what seemed like at least an hour of driving, Dean had finally pulled over onto the side of the road, looking at you and waggling his eyebrows before he drove the impala into the field beside the highway.  You looked at him inquisitively and all you got in return was one of his shit-eating smirks that drove you crazy.  You rolled your eyes as you watched him get out of the car to rifle around in the trunk.  He finally came around to your side, wrenching your door open so you were blasted with the chill of the night.  He produced a blanket that you were about to snatch from him but he moved it out of your reach, taking your hand into his as he pulled you around to the front of the car.

You huffed at him, Dean chuckling under his breath as he laid the blanket out on the hood of the car, turning to you and picking you up by your hips, depositing you onto the hood.  He climbed up beside you, shrugging his jacket off to drape it around your shoulders, pulling you close to the heat of his body.

“This is all I need.  You and Baby.”

“Who are you talking to, Dean?  Me or the car?”

He chuckled.  “What could be better?  My baby on top of Baby.  This is the life.””

You rolled your eyes, your lips parting into a smile.

“You’re an idiot.”

“But I’m yours.”

“Please, (Y/N).  Just let me know you’re there.”  His voice sounded strangled, the way you know it sounded when he was trying to choke back tears.

“Please…”

You shook your head, holding yourself, your arms wrapped around your body as you blinked back a few more tears, knowing that this was the best for the both of you.  He just didn’t know it yet, but you knew eventually that he would understand that you were doing something for the both of you.  You were trying to be strong for the both of you so he could save the world like he always had to.  He did not need you as another thing to worry about in his life, and it was hard enough to be with him during the good times.

As you went to go throw on a pair of pajama bottoms your heart began to race, all of the memories too overwhelming to stop thinking about.  Maybe you were wrong.  Maybe you should just hear him out.  It was kind of a dick move to leave him at the door like that. As your hand reached the doorknob, your heart race, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what kind of outcome this was going to have.  Hopefully you could just get him out of your system if you heard him out and saw him one last time.

You turned the knob, pulling the door open, mumbling something about how he could come inside if he wanted to.

Ever since this world began There is nothing sadder than A one-man woman looking for The man that got away…. The man that got away.

But he was gone.

Read Part 3

[naddy-and-stuff]

To the Men that I Love

I finished Camelot some time ago so... Here's an additional thing to celebrate. XD .

I staggered, overcome with vertigo as I took my surroundings in. The familar chrome backdrop of Chaldea eased my heart, dispelling all fears of harsh and gritty desserts and pure white walls. An arm shot to steady me and I, assuming it was Mash, held on for dear life.

Traversing through the Camelot Singularity had been exhausting. The opposing Kings clearly tested my mettle and many truths rained down on me like arrows. It was hard to take in at once, but I had decided to let it be tomorrow's problem. I wanted to sleep dreamlessly and spend a few blissful hours ignorant. I pressed my head against soft cotton as opposed to hard armor. Looking up, my eyes met with Dr. Henry Jekyll's kind green ones.

Ah yes. As a man of many fields, he was a tremendous help to Chaldea. He was smart enough to understand how the systems worked even though he was not a magus himself. Being a Servant came as a convenience as he was more than capable of keeping an eye on the systems far longer than Dr. Roman could. I had intended on bringing him along to Camelot with me, but he had insisted on staying. Henry had wanted to be useful even without using Edward's combat capabilities, an endeavor I supported. As his Master, I was glad he was stepping forward with plans of his own.

"Sorry Henry," I muttered, staying in his arms more out of necessity than desire. I was tired and could hardly trust my knees to keep me standing.

"Senpai, you should go to your room and rest," came Mash's kind voice. She sounded invigorated; refreshed. I almost envied her, but then I remembered how Camelot was basically home to her Servant side. "Shall I escort you?"

"No," I declined politely. She meant well, but she went through everything I did during the Singularity and the last thing I wanted for now was to hear anything related to Camelot or the Lion King, or the Knights of the Round, or the Pharaohs and their pet sphinxes, or the mountain people and the Hassans. I knew Mash was just concerned, but she would ask questions and I did not want to be asked or reminded. My own mind could paint me a vivid picture and any more encouragement was the last thing I wanted.

"I think I can manage." Skeptically, Mash pursed her lips but before she could argue, Henry gently cut in: "Don't worry, Mash. I'll make sure she gets to her room safely."

"Oh, Dr. Jekyll," I almost winced. His last name always reminded me of his legend and knowing that people used it because they did not know him as I did made me feel uneasy sometimes. To me he was Henry, the man given a chance to remold his shell instead of grow out of it. I know it is juvenile, but it felt to me like an underestimation of his efforts to be better. But again, Mash meant well and besides, she did not share the bond I shared with Henry. "Thank you. Well then, please take care of senpai. I will be retiring to my room as well."

I smelled smoke and cherry blossoms and inwardly groaned. Most of the time, Kiyohime was tolerable, even after prolonged periods of separation. She had found her calling in the kitchen, preparing edible food for the staff because I had told her once that the better fed the staff was, the easier they would work and in turn, I would have an easier time at a given Singularity or Rayshift. She took her duties as cook alongside Her Majesty Boudica to heart, believing it was the best way for her to serve me. It was easy to brush her off on good days, but today was hardly a good day and I could barely summon the strength to pull away from Henry's arms, let alone fend her off.

"My, my Master. You look exhausted. I should take you to your room and watch over you sleep?"

Please don't.

She smiled, truly believing that she was helping me and I appreciated it. "I would fight off any unpleasant dream for you, Master."

"Perhaps you should allow the Master to sleep alone," Henry spoke, though his tone was not what it usually was. Edward was talking, but in the other person's speech pattern. "I am well aware that you wish to spend time with her like everyone else, but as you can see, she is exhausted and needs to rest."

Kiyohime frowned and flames crackled from her fingertips. Mash tensed and the entire room stilled as the Berserker prepared to unleash her fury. "Get out of my way, Assassin," she growled and I felt Henry's grip tighten on me. "I will be the one to take care of Master."

The shift was almost imperceptible, but Henry's gentle green eyes turned red and his gaze became venomous. Mash was quick to place her shield between Henry and Kiyohime and I felt tears pricking the corner of my eyes. I was tired. I just wanted to sleep and this uncertain tension felt quite like wandering the dessert and storming Camelot. It was tempting to curl into a ball and just cry.

"Alright, alright," I heard a light-hearted motherly voice intervene, effectively cutting through the tension. I released a breath I did not realize I was holding. "You escaped from kitchen duties, young lady. That wasn't nice of you."

"But Your Majesty," Kiyohime whined. "Master is back."

Boudica nodded, patting the Berserker's long snow-white hair. "Yes, yes. And she'll still be here tomorrow. I know you miss her, but let her rest hm? Besides, the bread you're making in the oven won't let itself out. If it gets burnt like the last time, I'm sure a certain someone would never forgive you."

The shift in Kiyohime's mood was so abrupt, it was almost comical. I would have laughed if I had not been so close to tears a while ago. "Ahhh... The dreaded Saint of the Waterside and her Fists. I shall return immediately, Your Highness." To me she said, "Master, please rest well. I have lots to feed you when you're better."

To ensure that she would leave, Boudica started pushing the Berserker to the direction of the kitchen. She smiled kindly at me, Henry and Mash, her eyes warm and homely. I could only smile in return. It was followed by a brief whirlwind of good-nights and see-you-tomorrows before Henry lifted me into his arms and made his way to my room. We came across Sanson and Mata Hari as we walked and they gave brief greetings before resuming their way.

My room smelled nostalgic and I could not help but sigh as I inhaled a lungful and exhaled. Henry placed me on the bed and strode purposefully towards my cabinet. I flattened my palms on the familiar blanket. It smelled of fabric soap, signifying that it had been freshly laundered. The hamper at the foot of my bed was empty; someone must have washed my clothes while I was gone. It was those small things that made tears slide down my cheeks as the gravity of the situation as well as my exhaustion and the situation earlier fell on me like an unbearable weight.

"Master?" Henry walked back, holding a pile of clothes. Knowing that he rummaged through my dresser to retrieve my clothes only dimly embarrassed me.

"Sorry Henry... I just.. "

His hands enveloped mine, cradling them like they were something precious. I hated it when he treated me like this: like I would break anytime soon, like he was afraid of hurting me. Angrily, I raised my head, ready to snap at him, exhausted as I was.

A gentle smile was on his face and everything that surfaced onto my tongue dissipated, like smoke unfurling in the air. I wished he would stop looking at me like that; the lump in my throat became heavier and the tears would not stop threatening to fall. "H-Henry..."

"Welcome home, Master. We're glad you're back."

.

I don't have Emiya to serve as Chaldea's mom so it'll be Boudica in this case. I think she'd be able to keep Kiyohime in line, because, well she knows what it's like to want revenge too. That justification sounded better in my head. XD Also EVERYONE is afraid of Martha. I love you, Punch Saint please come home in your Ruler form next year. :3 I also have another headcannon here. From which I am basing an upcoming fanfic... XD

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

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TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 02: RITUAL OF THE MAHJARRAT

QUEST SUMMARY:

With the Mahjarrat Ritual upon them, Jahaan, Sir Tiffy and the others venture into the frozen North in an attempt to curtail Lucien’s latest power grab and reclaim the Staff of Armadyl. But a bloodcurdling battle of the Mahjarrat might be the least of their worries…

CHAPTER 2: RETURN OF LUCIEN

Enakhra was annoyed. She’d been waiting beside the Ritual Marker now for hours, shivering in the fiercely cold terrain. Mahjarrat were not made for the winter; her tribe's home world of Freneskae didn’t exactly have anything other than ‘bloody hot’ on the temperature scale. Hence, she much preferred her home in the desert. The only saving grace was that, while waiting, she’d spent the most part of it undisturbed. Akthanakos turned up about an hour ago, not even giving her a small wave in greeting before standing on the opposite end of the plateau. Neither Mahjarrat enjoyed small talk. That, and it was no small secret that the two despised each other. Akthanakos had spent much of his time on Gielinor with the camels in the desert, teaching them to fight and conversing with them through the aptly named ‘camlet’, the amulet of camel-speak. This association went so far that he began being depicted as the ‘camel-headed god’, even by the humans of the desert. Enakhra, on the other hand, had spent thousands of years dwelling inside the temple she had built to honour Zamorak. Her god visited the temple once, and did not receive the gesture as well as Enakhra had hoped. She still found the time to capture and imprison her bitter rival, Akthanakos, inside, until he was eventually freed by a budding explorer.

Such acts did not calm the already turbulent waters between the two...

When’s this thing going to start? Enakhra grumbled internally, cursing herself for her promptness.

Boredom fueled her intense impatience, as there was only so many times you could count the tiles beside the marker or try and catch snowflakes on your tongue. She stopped the latter as soon as Akthanakos had arrived.

Then, as if karma was punishing her for her restlessness, the last person she wanted to talk to teleported in and made a b-line towards her, attempting and failing at a suave swagger.

“Hey Enakhra.”

“Zemouregal,” she rolled her eyes. “I don’t feel like talking right now. There’s plenty of plateau to go around. Go stand with Akky.”

Relaxing into a casual stance, Zemouregal replied, “I think I like it right here.”

Rubbing her cold hands together, she shot him a look of intense irritation. “As if the Ritual wasn't tedious and miserable enough…”

“You know, you really need to get over yourself, Enakhra,” he grumbled, frustration getting the better of him. “You think you’re so much better than everyone, just because you're the last female Mahjarrat. Arrogance doesn't suit you.”

“This coming from the man who wrote ‘This is me. I am amazing’ next to his own name when making notes on the Mahjarrat.”

At this, Zemouregal froze. “How did… y-you read my notes?”

The smile she flashed was wicked. Finally, she thought, I've found a way to shut that mouth of his.

After a long enough silence to make his embarrassment crystal clear, Zemouregal cleared his throat and tried to pick up some of the dignity he'd dropped on the plateau. He narrowed his eyes and tightly warned, “You know, it’s better to make allies than enemies at a time like this.”

“Right,” she scoffed. “Because someone might suggest, ‘I have an idea - shall we kill the last surviving female of our race and doom us all into extinction?’, to which the reply will be, ‘what a splendid idea!’. Yes, Zemouregal. That’s astute.”

“Oh yes, you’re really continuing our survival, pining after Zamorak like that.”

“Shut up,” Enakhra hissed. “When will you take the hint, Zemouregal? I’m. Not. Interested!”

Zemouregal threw his hands in the air. “It’s literally for the survival of our species! Our child would be the future of our race!”

“If the future of our race has your blood, evolution has already failed us.”

Jahaan woke up at dawn, having gained only a handful of hours of sleep. With all that had transpired the previous day, relaxation wasn’t exactly in the cards for him. After tossing and turning for about an hour, he finally lulled himself to sleep by counting sheep. A classic, but when you get up to three hundred and two, your brain shuts down out of boredom.

Pulling himself out of bed, he rubbed the sand from around his eyes. The bunk next to him, Ali’s, was already empty, and the door to their chamber was open.

Stumbling to his feet, Jahaan dragged himself out the door, thinking some brisk morning air would wake him up enough to begin the day. When he reached the balcony, Ali was already outside, pondering up at the fading stars that were being eased from the sky by dawn’s early light.

Ali didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. Instead, he simply stated, “The planets have aligned. The Ritual begins now.”

Once everyone awoke that morning, preparations were immediately made for the Ritual to come. This included gearing up with armour, weapons and other useful items. Now, while he did have a rather nice runite dagger, Jahaan didn’t fancy his chances against Lucien with a fishing net and a tinderbox. Bringing this up to Sir Tiffy, the old knight assured he’d sort him out in a jiffy.

The longer he awaited Sir Tiffy’s return, the more his excitement grew. The anticipation of getting to wear some decent armour was like a boyhood dream come true. After all, the best he’d ever worn was mithril, way back in the day. It was incredibly decent, for sure, but Temple Knight armour - heck, even White Knight armour - was superior to that.

His expectations were soaring.

However, when Sir Tiffy returned with three squires in tow, two heaving large, dusty crates and a third hefting a long, rickety box, his expectations were cut down a little bit.

“‘Fraid there was a little snafew, old sport. Something about protocol, initiations, yada-yada… long story short, the armoury’s off limits to you, my lad.”

Doing his best to hide his disappointment, Jahaan watched with quiet desperation as Sir Tiffy blew onto the old crates, an innocuous act that ended up forming a dust cloud so big he started choking on it.

“These here belong to a couple of the knights,” Sir Tiffy continued, wiping his monocle clear. “I say, it’s been here almost as long as I have. They forgot they even had it! What?”

With apprehension far overwhelming his former anticipation, Jahaan pried the lid off the first crate. However, when he laid eyes on the contents, he gulped, mouth suddenly feeling very dry.

Then, he started to grin.

“I think this’ll do just fine.”

Jahaan would leave the White Knights Castle wearing his new armour, a full set of runite. It fit like a glove, moulded perfectly to his form. While he thought that mithril was good, compared to wearing runite, mithril was like wearing granite. The mobility it provided was so significant, he felt like he could traverse the Barbarian Agility Course in this thing. Plus, it was so much lighter in weight, and a lot quieter too - no more bumbling about with the stealth and grace of a pigeon. Despite being second hand, there was barely a scratch on it, and no dents in sight. Jahaan wondered if it had ever been worn.

The weapons he had been provided with… ehh…

Glass half full, glass half full, Jahaan reminded himself, awkwardly clutching his steel kiteshield and scimitar.

Full runite armour, full steel weapons.

One of these things is not like the other.

Soon enough, everyone was ready to go to the Ritual.

Idria and Sir Tiffy tried, in vain, to convince Akrisae to stay behind and not attend the Ritual - the man was a priest who hadn’t swung a sword in over twenty years - but he couldn’t be talked out of going, preaching something about wanting to keep a ‘close eye’ on the Mahjarrat. It was like arguing with a brick wall.

Sir Tiffy gathered a group of his strongest Temple Knights to accompany him, while Idria took two other Guardians of Armadyl alongside her. They didn’t have too many to spare, to be honest. Thaerisk rounded up some druids that had combat experience to attend as well.

Fortunately, all the druids were well-versed in teleportation magic and, between them, they managed to teleport the entire entourage in one go.

In the iciest depths of the Wilderness was the Mahjarrat Ritual Site. Technically it was located within Troll Country, between the Trollweiss Mountains, but no trolls had traversed the Ritual Site in centuries. The closest points of ‘civilisation’ were Zemouregal's Fortress to the west, and the abandoned Zarosian fortress of Ghorrock to the north. Aside from the Marker and a few crumbled pillars, the plateau was vast and empty, blanketed by snow.

Fortunately, Ali had told them all to dress up warm enough, but nevertheless, neither knight nor druid was prepared for just how cold the site was.

“I say!” Sir Tiffy hunched his shoulders. “A bit nippy, isn’t it, ol’ chap?”

Ali, too, was shivering, despite having detoured back to his home in Nardah for some fur-lined clothes. “This is why I like the desert. Before we continue, I wanted to reiterate how thankful I am to have the support of your forces against Lucien. I fear we will need them before long. These things never go down peacefully. The other Mahjarrat will have their own forces, too. One just hopes they train them on Lucien and not us.”

“Think nothing of it, ol’ chap, “Sir Tiffy slapped Ali on the back. “We want him gone just as much as you.”

Smiling warmly, Ali said, “Come now, the Ritual Marker itself is just up this ridge…”

But before they could walk much further, Ali stopped abruptly, sensing a disturbance.

Then, in a whirl of blue and purple, a bulky looking Mahjarrat warrior in battle-hardened steel and black armour teleported into the fray. A skull emblem was emblazoned crookedly upon his chest, matching the bare skeleton of his skinless head. His sword was about as tall as Jahaan, and looked like it weighed as much, though he carried the razor-sharp blade with ease, what with his frame being as bulky and as statuesque as it was.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then this particular Mahjarrat had flattered a lot of large boulders in his time.

Accompanying him were human troops - looking like dwarves in comparison, but they were most certainly human - in similar armour, carrying steel longswords. When looking between the Mahjarrat’s blade and the ones the human’s carried, they might as well have been wielding butter knives.

The Mahjarrat drove his sword into the snow and rested on the hilt. “So, all the vermin together in a pack, ready to be slaughtered like lambs!”

Ali the Wise rolled his eyes. “You never were our brightest star, Khazard. 'Vermin slaughtered like lambs'? What mess of idioms is that?”

Despite the insult, General Khazard’s fearsome demeanour relaxed into a somewhat casual one. He squinted his eyes, leaning forward slightly. “Wahisietel, is that you?”

“What are you talking about?” Sir Tiffy demanded. “Who's Wahisietel?”

Khazard pointed to Ali, a baffled smirk getting the better of him. “He is!”

With a wave of his hand, Khazard cast a spell that engulfed Ali the Wise in stars and glowing white light. In mere moments, it faded away, leaving a olive robed Mahjarrat in its place, red lines crossing over his slightly spiked skull, with a gem in the middle of his forehead.

Akrisae jumped back, aghast. “What in Saradomin's name is this? What fowl abomination have you brought upon us, Jahaan?!”

Instead of answering, Jahaan regarded Ali with solemn, heavy eyes, mumbling, “...Ali?...”

Frowning, Ali turned to Jahaan and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I apologise for the deception, my friend. ‘Ali’ was a necessary disguise in human lands. My real name is Wahisietel.”

The Mahjarrat turned to the apprehensive knights and warriors - alongside a fearful priest - behind him and addressed, “You need not fear me. I am still on your side. Do not waver now, save your holy crusades for later. We have Khazard and his lackeys here to worry about first.”

“And worried you should be!” Khazard scowled, “I think you'll make the perfect sacrifice for the Ritual, Wahisietel, just as soon as we've dealt with these maggots!”

Akrisae edged closer to Sir Tiffy and whispered, “Should we get some more back-up?”

“No need…”

This response did not come from Sir Tiffy. Rather, it came from Azzanadra, who materialised just in front of them. Bringing forth a ball of pulsing energy to his palms, he stared down Khazard and declared, “This child is not worth the effort. We can deal with him ourselves.”

“Knights, ADVANCE!” Sir Tiffy bellowed, causing his Temple Knights to surge into combat. They clashed with Khazard’s mortal troop, black and white melting together as steel battled with armour and, occasionally, flesh.

From their vantage point beside the Marker, Enakhra and Zemouregal just sat back and enjoyed the show, the latter wishing he had bought drinks and refreshments. Akthanakos watched on with trepidation, not daring to get involved.

They watched as Azzanadra sent a rush of smoke to engulf Khazard, seeing him stumble backwards ever so slightly, only to return with a fierce blood spell of his own that Azzanadra barely had time to deflect.

The younger Mahjarrat had discarded his sword very quickly, having enough wits about him to know to fight fire with fire, and that trying to cross the distance of the plateau to charge his opponents with his blade would leave him vulnerable. Alongside his impressive sword skills, Khazard was an incredibly apt sorcerer, casting intrinsic and deadly blood and smoke spells with ease.

Unfortunately for him, Wahisteil and Azzanadra were a lot more proficient, especially the latter, and thus the younger Mahjarrat realised soon on he had bitten off more than he could chew. Nevertheless, he kept fighting on, knowing that all it took was one well-placed, highly impactful strike on his part to extinguish the flame of one of his Mahjarrat brethren, and it would all be over. The Ritual would be complete, everyone else would be rejuvenated, and he wouldn’t have to see any of the miserable fools for another five hundred years.

That last thought alone made fighting an uphill battle much easier.

Between them, Jahaan, the Guardians of Armadyl and the Temple Knights managed to keep Khazard’s elite troops at bay, allowing Wahisietel and Azzanadra to take on Khazard personally. The soldier’s Khazard had bought were incredibly well-versed in melee combat, holding their own against the numbers disadvantage quite formidably. A handful of Temple Knights even fell victim to their blades, and one of the Guardians of Armadyl severely wounded her leg due to a carefully targeted lunge of a dagger, effectively sidelining her for the rest of the ensuing battle. While a couple of druids tended to her, the other two continued their assault on the Khazard troops from a distance, sending precise and effective spells at their opponents.

With a malicious cackle from Khazard, a targeted burst of lightning struck the ground beside him and, from the crack in the earth, a skeletal, ghostly apparition pulled itself from the ground. When it reached the surface, it was apparent that this was Khazard’s deceased hellhound - and Postie Pete’s worst nightmare - Bouncer, raised from its eternal slumber to aid him in combat once more. Bearing his teeth with a constant growl, his mouth was full of daggers.

The undead hellhound launched itself at Jahaan, gnashing teeth biting and snapping at the young man who fell to his back in shock. His shield fell to the side, but luckily, Jahaan got his scimitar up to protect his head, pushing back Bouncer with all his strength as the dog tried to chew his sword in two. Jahaan shrunk back into the snow, wincing away from the growling and barking monster pinning him to the ground. Then, suddenly, Bouncer fell limp on top of him with a muffled whine before disappearing in a puff of smoke altogether. Looking up, Jahaan saw Wahisietel send him a brief nod of reassurance before resuming his attack on Khazard. Scrambling to his feet, Jahaan readjusted his grip on his sword and went to work on some of the remaining Khazard troops.

Before long, all of Khazard’s elite troops were all defeated, scattered and wounded in crimson patches around the plateau. Azzanadra’s latest blast had sent Khazard to the ground, next to the unconscious body of one of his soldiers. After looking around and seeing his army in pieces, realisation sunk in.

General Khazard pulled himself to his feet, clutching his wounded shoulder. “Ha! You think I'll end up being the one sacrificed today? Not likely!”

In a flash, he teleported away, the sound of maniacal laughter being the only remnant he left behind.

Jahaan’s shoulders sagged. “After all that, he just runs off?”

Wahisietel straightened his cuffs. “Fear not, Jahaan. Khazard may be a cowardly child, but even he is not stupid enough to leave the area at such an important time. He’ll return.”

Leaving the wounded where they were to be tended to by druids, the remaining forces of Sir Tiffy, flanked by the Mahjarrat, made their way up towards the Ritual Marker. Azzanadra scowled at Zemouregal, the first one to catch his eye, but did exchange a friendly nod of greeting to Akthanakos.

“And here I was hoping Khazard could be sacrificed before I had to bother conversing with you two,” Azzanadra cast heavy eyes at the two Zamorakian Mahjarrat.

“It’s not going to be Khazard,” Zemouregal stated, his challenging glare not flinching against the weight of Azzanadra’s. “I’m not having a Zamorakian sacrificed today.”

Enakhra joined him, “As much as I hate to agree with this tool, I concur.”

Akthanakos protested, “No! It will be Lucien or Khazard. Oh how I’d love it to be you, Enakhra. If you weren’t the last of your gender, you’d have been thrown to the Marker ages ago.”

“Well, it’s not going to be me. Besides, I would toss you to the Marker without even breaking a sweat.”

“Your mind is warped by your arrogance, Enhakra,” Akthanakos growled. “My power supersedes yours with ease, and I’ll take on any Zamorakian that challenges me.”

“Please! You were too scared to join in on the fun.”

“I didn’t see you throwing any punches out there!”

Stomping away from the pack, Wahisietel demanded into the skies, “This is ridiculous. Come out and fight, Khazard! Prove yourself, coward, or face oblivion!”

“Khazard's not here... Will I do, Wahisietel?” the voice floated alongside the snowflakes, sinister and malicious.

Wahisietel’s eyes narrowed. “Lucien!”

“Yes, it is I…”

In a haze of black and smoke, Lucien teleported directly in front of the Ritual Marker. From years of decay his skin had withered away to nothingness, leaving only the frail, haunting shell of his skeletal frame. The crimson robes he draped himself in did little to shield the emptiness of his body. Yet despite his hollow exterior, he somehow managed to give an imposing, almost commanding presence. Perhaps it was the way his robes flowed that gave the illusion of strength and muscle, or the pulled back lips that showed the ridges of his jaw, or the sunken black sockets of his eyes being filled with an icy green glow. There was a stench of death and overwhelming magic that surrounded him, too.

Zemouregal strode to stand closer to the arriving Mahjarrat. “Greetings, cousin. You came at the perfect time. I was growing tired of these Zarosians.”

Instinctively, Idria’s fists clenched into tight balls, her vision turning red as she spat, “Lucien, you murderer!”

Lucien cackled, regarding the assembled entourage with disgust. “And what's this? You've bought some feeble excuse for backup with you too. Who do we have… a faltering priest, an old man, and-”

When his eyes laid on Jahaan, they lit up with malice. “And so we meet again, adventurer.”

“And this time will be the last time, Lucien,” Jahaan didn’t care how cliched he sounded. “You'll answer for the deaths you've caused.”

“How dare you address a god in such an insolent tone!” Lucien exclaimed, venom on his tongue.

Wahisietel retorted, “You're no god, Lucien. You’re just a petty thief.”

“Well said!” Sir Tiffy cheered. “Where’s the Stone, sneak?”

“Like I'd tell you. The Stone is mine and mine alone. Allow me to demonstrate some of the power these new artefacts have given me!”

With a hand in the air, Lucien summonend the Staff of Armadyl into his grasp with a malevolent sneer. Holding the Staff aloft, Lucien caused a grey skull of smoke and ash to emanate from the peak. It washed over him, transforming into pulsing rings of black and purple energy. The ground began to shake, cracking the ice. From these cracks, the ground morphed into two dozen ice-based monsters, covered in spikes and flashing glowing red eyes.

Wahisietel shrunk back a few steps. “Oh no… this isn’t good at all…”

Sir Tiffy, on the other hand, kept a steady expression of resolve. “We'll do our bit if you can hold off Lucien again, old chap!”

Wahisietel nodded. “I'll do what I can, but I fear this will require more power than I own.”

“Then perhaps it is time for us to fight alongside each other once more, brother...” a voice echoed through the crisp breeze.

Fading out of thin air came a black and purple robed being; his skinless appearance and tall stature suggested he, too, was a Mahjarrat. He was hunched over, wringing his skeletal hands together constantly, like some sort of nervous tick.

Jahaan jumped backwards as the man appeared next to him. “Gah! Where did he come from?”

Wahisietel hurried beside the newcomer, a relieved smile breaking into his face. “Praise Zaros! Sliske! Always in the right place at the right time.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Ah, Sliske. I wondered when you might slink in... but you should have stayed hidden in your shadows this time. What can you alone hope to do against the power of Lucien?”

Sliske’s lipless mouth cracked into a grin, his lifeless eyes challenging Lucien. “Who said anything about being alone?”

Teleporting backwards, Sliske held out his arms, and they began to shake and quiver as energy pulsed through them. One by one, six fully armoured warriors were summoned in front of him. Their green armour was cracked and dented, rusted slightly from age, but their weapons, my...  they were unparalleled, some of the finest craftsmanship in the five ages. One held a large crossbow with a quiver full of knife-like bolts at his hip. Another, a fearsome battleaxe that looked like it weighed as much as he did. One held a ball and chain, another a curved spear, and another a twin set of warhammers. The last, hooded and cloaked, held a battlestaff. Though they all wore some sort of face protection, one thing could be realised if looking closely enough…

...they didn’t have pupiled eyes.

Sneering, Zemouregal drawled, “Still the puppetmaster as always, Sliske. Well, two can play at that game…”

In a wisp of darkness and shadows, Zemouregal summoned his loyal gargoyle commander, Sharathteerk, to his side, alongside half a dozen armoured zombies. The poor being hadn’t quite got around to dying yet, it seemed.

“I come at your call, my lord,” Sharathteerk bowed before his master, his rocky joints creaking with the action.

Gritting his teeth, Lucien pointed towards Sliske and the surrounding group, barking, “DESTROY THEM ALL!”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[ecotone99]

[SF] 792

The machine slowly hums its digital tune as I drunkenly slide myself between its bed and lid, setting myself prostrate on the cold fiberglass. I reach for the bundle of probes and cords and slowly, carefully, begin attaching them to the necessary points on my body. Neck, breast, stomach, arm. Neck, breast, stomach, arm. This is the seven hundred ninety-second time. The tremor in my hands attempts to fight back, screams at me to give up, but this is all I want. With the external links attached, I reach for the coffin-like lid of the memory bed and pull it down. There’s only enough room to awkwardly shift my arms from my sides to above my head, pulling the full-face visor down over myself. I breathe in deeply, breath out, prepare myself to see her again. “Begin simulation.” The whir of the instruments transition from humming to a room-filling sequence of vibrations, swishes, and jarring voltaic clunks, the inner workings of the machine banging against each other and transmitting millions of packets of data in seconds. It’s enough to make me nauseous, but I slowly inhale and exhale through my nose, softly as possible, straining to not vomit all over the visor. Finally, the machine simmers down. A female voice comes to life from the machinery below me. “Initializing.” The machine takes over. I feel my essence sucked into the virtual space of the apparatus, my mind being sponged up by the apparatus like a garden hose absorbing a cracked sidewalk’s pond. As swiftly as it starts, it is over. Here I go into the past. I open my eyes to the tightly knit log walls of a cabin, my hands on the armrests of a woodgrain cedar chair. The same components of the same log cabin. I gloss over the vintage wood stove, the contrasting steel refrigerator, the metal tool chest, and the dining table right beside me with the same polished cedar finish and three other chairs. The bed. She’s resting in it. I lift my hands inch by inch, adapting to my current reality. Sudden moves might disorient me. I gently bring myself to my feet, the chair creaking underneath my arms’ weight. The taxidermied black bear rug rustles underneath my leather boots. I’m oriented now. I can’t feel the bottle of hundred-proof whiskey I consumed in that other world. This is reality. I make my way to the bedside and gently press her shoulder. She inhales first, that light wisp of air being sucked between her full lips, then she rolls over. Her amber eyes flutter open, taking the ceiling in, taking me in. She grins. “Good morning, love.” I muster a half-smile and reply back. “Good morning, Rachel.” She stretches, her thin arms extending out until they bump against the wall behind the bed, her long legs tapping the golden lattice rising just over the edge of the bed’s end. I brush aside her wild hair with my hand so I can admire her face without barriers. The auburn strands, smooth as Mulberry silk, fall away easily. She’s still grinning. I mentally prepare the question. “Were you thinking pancakes today?” The same question. The same meal. The same cabin. Seven hundred ninety-two times. This one shall be no different. “Of course, but don’t forget the butter!” A slight giggle emits from her slightly agape mouth. The same request for butter. I nod and return the smile. Relief takes over. She’s here. She’s back. I make my way to the stove, cranking a knob and adorning a burner ring with a cast-iron skillet. I go through the checklist in my mind: mix the batter, retrieve the syrup and butter, flip at the correct time. The plodding of batter onto the skillet produces a puff of vapor and a crackling sizz. I turn my head in Rachel’s direction and speak. “So i was thinking we could sit on the pier and dip our feet in the lake after breakfast?” She sighs sarcastically. “You and that lake.” Rackel sits up and sets her miniscule, elegantly curved feet on the chilled wooden floor. “Of course we can, love. I was thinking of doing it later in the day, but it’s no problem. Whatever you want.” A single tear wells up in my eye. She lives to make me happy. The same eagerness. I finish the first flapjack and deposit it onto a pinewood plate, butter already melted and spread on top. I throw the second batch of batter into the pan and drizzle maple syrup on the first. “You know you want it too. The sun’s barely over the mountain. I never get tired of it.” I look out the window over the stove to the distant snowy crest of the single mountain present around the perimeter of Lake, barely visible over the vast expanse of the waters. A fiery orange ball rests just above the peak. The same sunrise. The second pancake is done. I continue my handiwork at the stove while Rachel slips out of her little white nightgown and into one of my plain T-shirts, adorably oversized on her form. I look down and see I’m wearing the same dark denim jeans and white tee. Her voice, almost as small as her form, flickers through the air like a low candle. “You don’t have to cook, you know. That’s what I’m here for. I can make dinner tonight. Steak and potatoes?” I wince and my mouth contorts. There never was a “tonight”. The hope and expectation in her words tear at the immersiveness of the simulation. I feel my skull throbbing, threatening to reel me back into that lesser reality. I compose myself, concentrate on my cooking, and clear my throat. “That sounds incredible, darling.” The same fucking lie. Second flapjack finished. Starting on the third. I jolt ever so slightly as Rachel’s hand rests smoothly on my shoulder. She doesn’t acknowledge the movement. Her touch shifts into a hug from behind, her arms resting on my chest, my hands holding the skillet and spatula. This is all I need. I can feel the warm breath on my shoulder and the strands of lengthy hair tickling my skin just below the tee’s sleeve cutoff. The same embrace. Another two pancakes come and go, and my work is finished. No, not work. Not a chore. This is a privilege. This is what should have been. Seven hundred ninety-two times I have prepared this meal, in this cabin, in this reality. It didn’t happen in that other world. Rachel cooked the pancakes. Rachel suggested the lake. Rachel suggested I don’t bring beer to the pier. I didn’t listen. I snap back to the moment. This is reality. I grab up the pinewood plates and serve breakfast atop the dining table. We sit and eat, Rachel with her hand on mine while she deftly cuts into her food and carefully chews. When she isn’t focused on her food, she’s burning into me with those amber eyes. A flame of affection. A beautiful burn. We finish, scrub the plates and utensils clean, and grab a cotton comforter and sweaters from the closet. I follow Rachel outside and breathe in the frigid morning air. It shocks my lungs only for a second, a stark contrast from the toasty cabin atmosphere heated by a rustic fireplace. I adjust to the temperature and we begin the walk to the pier. The late autumn leaves crunch under our feet and a rustling storm of red, yellow and brown barrels along the frozen grass. The branches of fir trees shake to the serenity of the breeze on either side of the gravel path we tread. The sun has inched its way higher into the cloudless light-tinged sky. We arrive at the pier after the short walk and spread the blanket on the moist wooden platform near the edge of the water. I sit first, then Rachel sits next to me and leans her body into my neck, laying on my shoulder. We breathe in the fresh dawn draft, no longer a shock. The surface of the lake ripples, ten thousand little waves of nature. This is my favorite. “Let’s never go back.” Rachel arches her neck a little to look into my eyes. “We can bring David here and settle down. Let’s do this for the rest of our lives.” I freeze up, fighting back another wince. I wish we could. This is all I want. “You know we can’t do that. David has school and I have to work. We’re not prepared to live off the land. But we can come here every month, if only for a weekend. It’ll always be refreshing.” Rachel tilts her head back down and lets go a sigh. “I know, love.” She rubs her hand on my knee, her bony fingers tracing imaginary shapes on the denim. I want this forever, but I can’t have it. Rachel looks me in the eye again and smiles before leaning in for a kiss. Her lips still tingle with the taste of maple, and I inhale the aroma. She emanates the scents of faint lavender and lilac. A noisy burst of static cracks the calm silence. I pull away from Rachel and look at her. A gash of white noise runs from the center of her forehead, over her eye and down to her left cheekbone. An impossible patch of skin has been replaced by a horrific anomaly. This is not the same. She’s frowning, quivering like the cold air is bothering her. She tries speaking, tries opening her mouth, but only a jumbled, incoherent array of hissing and popping escaped her mouth. The same anomalous static emanates from her mouth, resembling a jack-o-lantern with an electrical candle burning inside. I can’t move. I can only stare, a pit in my stomach dropping like an anchor from a sailboat, bringing me down into the depths of hell. Finally, instinct takes over me. I grab for her shoulders and start shaking, start screaming. “Rachel!” That is all that I can do. All that I can say. I shout her name, shaking her lightly, causing more shards of her digital skin to slip away. Her right cheekbones peels off, more white light beneath. Her other eye falls away, leaving a sightless vessel, mouth still moving, still spewing unintelligible, machine-like, guttural moans. I can’t stand the sight anymore. She’s slipping away. I reach in for a hug, but the second my body starts moving towards her, the ground and sky and love of my life fall away, warping inward, into a singular point in the center of the sun. All is black. My eyes are open, but I am enveloped by pitch. The humming sound of the memory bed is audible, but it is faltering. Sputtering. I come to my senses and realize I’m back in the room. Back in the other reality. This has never happened. Not once in seven hundred ninety-two times. I bolt up primally, instinctively, smashing the face of my visor against the roof of the bed. Pain shoots through my skull, dulled by the whiskey still pulsing in my veins. Then the roof opens to the light. My son is standing over me, the central power cord dangling in his clenched fist. “You promised me.” His eyes are puffy, his cheeks still wet. His lip is pulled upward, his mouth showing disdain, his eyes showing sadness. I take the visor off and continue to stare at him in disbelief. “What did you do, David?” He drops the cord and takes methodical, calculated steps backward. “You know what I did, Dad. I pulled the plug. That goddamn machine isn’t real. It’s not mom in there. You told me you wouldn’t do it again. Losing your job, getting drunk off your ass, being all miserable and coming in here so many times every day to lie to yourself. You sat at mom’s grave and promised me. You’re disgusting.” He’s shaking his head. He should be angry- he’s right. Rachel is gone. David continues on, shaking with rage. “What’s more is, I know you did it. The cops talked to me the night it happened. I’ve been sitting in my room, waiting for you to get better, Dad. I’ve waited so many months. At first, I didn’t blame you. I thought maybe they were wrong. Maybe you didn’t drink too much. Maybe it was the other driver’s fault. But look at how guilty you are. You can’t forgive yourself. You crashed and you killed mom, Dad. It’s your fault.” I shake my head. He’s… right. But still, I shake my head. I didn’t want him to know. I was too slow. Driving home from the cabin that day, I had drifted into the other lane, my reflexes numbed by the alcohol, and before I could seize the wheel and save her, the entire world had gone dark. I woke up in an ambulance and the paramedics told me. Rachel was dead, and her blood was on my hands. “David, please.” “I’m fucking done with you, Dad.” He turns and walks out of the room. The machine is silent. The room is silent. I can only hear my labored breathing and my thoughts. Seven hundred ninety-two times, I told myself a lie. I would never go back. I would face the true reality. But what remained of Rachel was always there, waiting for me, excited for breakfast and the sunlit morning on the pier. The other her. She’ll always be alive in my memory. I cannot accept the truth.

submitted by /u/cursedwithBDE [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3bq3aq4

[photonicolo]

Travel notes from my year in India (2004): Hampi. 7 of 16

There is an image in my mind of a magical distant world, mysterious and beautiful. A place far away from what I am used to, both in space and time. I had never seen it, just a mental creation after innumerable books and movies and stories. Until last morning, when I woke up to realize that it was here, all around me, real.

A lazy river slowly crawling like a snake through lush green rice fields, in turn surrounded by banana plantations, then palms, and finally the orange desert with immense granite boulders that have been shaped in surreal round figures by 3 billion years of wind. In the middle, the small village of Hampi, former residence of the Vijayanagara empire some 600 years ago. The magnificence of this rich distant time still easy to picture, like an image out of focus, through the hundreds of stone temples that hide throughout the landscape in a desperate attempt to resist the inevitable return of the stone to the earth. Many had to go through the humiliation of losing their former glory and accept new roles as staples, bus stops, schools, and farmer homes. Still better than the rest of their colleagues, which can only claim to be a home for the monkeys.

So here I am, under the shade of a huge mango tree, panting as my little sports watch informs me that it is again 38 degrees Celsius. Impossible to walk around in this heat; all I can do is to lay still and drink liters of water to avoid dehydration while I wait for the sun to become a bit more forgiving. Even the monkeys find it too hot to bother me. Only the local children seem to find the energy to run after empty bicycle tires. Occasionally farmers also walk by with heavy loads of bananas or dry wood. The black buffaloes hide under the trees and stare at the local ferry crossing the river: an over-sized round bamboo basket with up to 15 people inside moving like a merry-go-round that has escaped from her master.  I smile at the little tourist restaurant that boasts Italian food such as 'spageti con basilica', 'pasta-al-amatucian', and 'lasania with tometo chease'. Not surprisingly the place is pretty empty. The owner looks with a little envy at his competitor across the street that has decided to narrow it down to only Israeli food and therefore is completely full of young kids complaining in Hebrew about how the service is not the same as back at home. I rent an Enfield motorcycle that must date before the British left this place and where everything seems to have been intentionally placed in the 'wrong' place: back brake on the left, first gear up, ignition key under the engine, light switch in the center….

I am heading for the Hannuman (the monkey God) temple. It will not be an easy journey: the bridge across the river is not finished yet and thus I will have to ride down a steep dirt track, cross the river on the big bamboo basket (considering my bike must weight close to 180 Kg., the ferry is VERY close to sinking), then up another hill. The final 'coup de grace' is the 586 steps that lead to the top of a large granite mountain that floats alone in a sea of deep green fields. And it is still 38 C.

Panting, I make it up in time to witness the game of shadows all around me: first those of the palm trees slowly munching the farmers, then the larger ones from the boulders eating entire fields, and finally those from mountains swallowing entire portions of the landscape.

I sit on the highest rock to be the last to be eaten by the shadow of a distant mountain chain. A monkey sits next to me and imitates my leg position.

Past, present, and future are all in front of me. So much so that I do not notice everybody else leaving, or the stars starting to twinkle. I am returned to this earthly dimension by the call of a priest from the temple. He has been observing me and has decided that I shall be their guest for the night. Without a word of English, I am introduced to everybody: the big Yogi, his 'second in command',

8 other disciples, 2 female temple keepers. We smoke together, we laugh at each other and at our own clumsiness, we perform evening prayers, play drums, smoke again, laugh again.

Without hesitation, a large meal is placed in front of me. Then we all head out. The monkeys have left for the night. I am offered a mattress, a blanket, a pillow. We lie in a circle, enjoying the nightly breeze and staring at the moon and stars, slowly falling asleep. I am the last one, and also the first one to get up in the morning, not wanting to miss even a moment of the return of the sun. The sky slipping from black to blue to red to yellow, the birds awakening with loud songs, the monkeys re-appearing. A bit of satisfaction in seeing that they are also panting! One of them decides to ride on my shoulder while I run around taking photos from all angles; she is utterly amused at me.

The priests get up one by one and greet me with a smile of complicity. I enter the temple with the sparkle of joy in my eyes and breakfast is placed silently in my hands.

I am asked to sit next to the Yogi, we converse with our eyes and hands. Slowly, to my surprise, the temple fills with hundreds of villagers. They fall on their knees, kiss the feet of their spiritual leader, and touch my own (better safe than sorry?). Prayer starts, with chanting and drumming. A woman falls in a trance, dancing wildly with both her body and her eyes. Nobody seems to notice. Then we sit and the Yogi starts giving personal advice. A young priest asks me to take some photos of his master as he scolds the village mayor for taking advantage of a poor farmer. I make a mental note not to walk around too much in this village. Only I do not know which village they are from!

As I admire the Yogi's ability to treat everyone the same beyond surface masks of status, sex, skin color, I understand that I have been welcomed for who I am inside, not what I carry with me on the outside. I part with the same simplicity: a hug, a comment on how I will always be welcomed by them, a blessing for my journey.

I return to Hampi and am instinctively drawn to the main temple, where I start chatting with the caretaker of the local elephant: a 16 years old cute female teenager that likes to play with my camera bag. I am invited to join them for the morning bath in the river the next day. Another invitation I cannot refuse, another early rise.  That is how I find myself celebrating my birthday knee-deep in water with a 6 tons cutie that shakes her legs when you brush her under the belly as she lies on her back. And that is when I come to another realization: life gives us only and as much as we are ready to receive.

That is how I know that I shall continue to follow my hearth with confidence that there is a path waiting for me. Even and especially when I cannot see it. I walk blindfolded and confident into the embrace of Gaia, the mother earth. The future is to remain unknown, the past gone, the present shining in all his glory.