#i’m very much wedged between mourning the life i could be living and the fact that i probably wouldn��t be living such a life even if i

[gregmarriage]

internalised ableism sucks every dick in the world. what do you mean not only will random strangers be ableist to me (not even overtly), but my own brain will do the same thing????

[aminiatureworld]

Hiraeth

From the prompt to celebrate 900 followers.

Word Count: 1,314; Kazuha x gn!reader

It was so hard to think of Inazuma; it was so easy to remember Inazuma.

The claws of nostalgia were waiting in every budding tree in the spring, and in every golden leaf in autumn. Every breeze that brought with it a scent that was unplaceable and yet so familiar, every drop of rain that fell, unforgiving and unstoppable, every piece of slightly burnt fish cooked after a long, cold day at sea. These things were a beautiful sort of torture, keeping a memory alive, cruelly tormenting the exile with things he could no longer touch.

It was hard not to grieve, and Kazuha knew there was a great deal to grieve about. A friend gone forever, a land that had turned its back on him, friends, family, enemies, archons, people Kazuha would never meet again. Sometimes anger rose at these images; anger and spite which threatened to consume Kazuha from the inside. On those days he dreamt of plans to sneak back into Inazuma and find whatever resistance was active at the time. He would rush into battle, regardless of risk, he would find the Raiden Shogun and challenge her to a duel, he would avenge his friend’s death. Other days there would be grief, a waterfall of it. Tears, regrets, sadness, it would come rushing over the cliffs of Kazuha’s memories and then the exile would find himself wishing none of it had happened, wishing that he could’ve lived in blissful ignorance, in the land of his birth. Kazuha didn’t know which of these two mindsets was the most damaging.

It drove a wedge between him and the outside world, and Kazuha knew that. Still, it was difficult to find the energy to break that wall down, to cross the every widening gulf. What did it matter if he was alone. He was an exile after all, was that not to be his fate? Why should he continue to get hurt, continue to hide his sorrow, when he could just as much sit in the crow’s nest, the wind in his face, pretending like he was the only living person in the world. It was rather freeing to be alone after all. You could trust loneliness, it never changed after all.

So why was it then, despite all these promises, these wishes, these cynical proclamations, that people had still managed to worm their way into his heart? First it had been Beidou, that indefatigable captain who laughed despite it all and who never failed to read Kazuha, despite his cryptic poetry and his attempts to eat at the table farthest from the other sailors. Then it had been the sailors themselves, then the traveler, then the traders at whose ports Beidou did business. Slowly, surely, Kazuha began to find something to ease the longing, something to make the pain bearable.

And then he had met you.

How Kazuha loved you, loved with the sort of recklessness that only some sort of intimacy could create. You were a friend, you were more than a friend, you were something even more than that. You were the soulmate that young romantics liked to imagine right before they went to sleep, hoping their perfect half would somehow appear in their dreams. You were the person with whom Kazuha could have utter, total trust, the kind of platonic soulmate that was so few and far between. Yet his love for you also burned in different ways, as if his feelings for you couldn’t concentrate themselves in one aspect, one facet of love. Kazuha loved you utterly. Regardless of flaw, or temper, or good or bad, he loved you.

However if real love is supposed to fix every problem, then perhaps real love is simply overrated. For as much as Kazuha loved you, he could not stop the ache in his heart, the pieces of him that cried out for his homeland. Inazuma, there was always Inazuma. You never begrudged him his moments of loneliness, the fact that he couldn’t simply leave behind the only place that was his true home. You merely sat next to him, hand on his, breath tickling his hair as Kazuha leaned on your shoulder, mourning the homeland he’d surely lost.

It seemed selfish, to dwell so much on something in the past. Like he was dragging you and everyone else down, bringing something up that you surely didn’t care about that much. There were only so many platitudes a person could say after all, until it all became unbearable. Yet the days that he told himself he should no longer complain, the days that he promised to himself he’d keep it all locked away inside, you still managed to coax all the grief out of him. If Kazuha was unfailing in his longing, then you were unfailing in your kindness, your determination to listen, to tell him that he wasn’t being a nuisance. And slowly, things began to feel a little better.

The first time you had to go on a trip for a long period of time was a shock to Kazuha’s system. Who knew that something that looked so close on a map could be so far away? Mondstadt, as much as it shared a land border with Liyue, felt as far away as the moon. Every day was a trial, every night desolate. He missed your presence, your smiles, your warmth, your even breath as the two of you drifted off to sleep together. Kazuha hadn’t expected this to happen, and for two weeks he waited in bated breath, his every thought consumed by your absence, by the strange feeling of having an integral part of one’s life missing. He wondered if you felt the same way, if you lay awake at night in a Mondstadt in, wishing that he were besides you. He wondered if you needed him as much as he needed you.

The day that you came back Kazuha spent in tears. They started the moment your silhouette was spotted on the docks, mixing with the surprised embarrassment, the wonder of whether it was too much to run to greet you. It was as if he was newly in love again, and Kazuha didn’t know whether he relished the feeling or whether it made him uncomfortable. Ultimately he met you halfway, walking slowly, a dopey smile plastered on his face.

“Welcome back,” he declared. Then there was an embrace that no one could sure of who initiated, as the world fell into place again.

“I realized something while you were gone,” he revealed. It was the evening now, and the two of you were cuddling together in bed, relishing the feeling of limbs once more entangled.

“What is that?” There was something in your voice, a sort of excitement that hadn’t faded throughout the entire day.

“I realized that Inazuma isn’t the only place that I long for.”

“Oh?”

“When you were gone, it was like I was grieving two homes. The home that was long gone, and the home that I had just found.”

“That’s very poetic,” you giggled softly. Kazuha could sense the slight shift in your expression, as you continued. “But funnily enough. I also felt that way. I knew you were important to me darling, but I didn’t realize how important.”

“Despite all my, complaining? Despite how self-centered I can be sometimes?”

“Grief isn’t self-centered Kazuha. And you aren’t complaining by talking about it. I’d rather you cry in front of me every day than keep it to yourself. Okay?”

“Are you sure?” Kazuha couldn’t help the question.

“Of course I’m sure! Believe me, I know my feelings about you very well.”

“And they are?” Slowly the confidence, the candidness that Kazuha felt around you was coming back.

“Love, of course.” You leaned over towards Kazuha, kissing his gently on the lips.

There was very little conversation after that for a while.

[shoutaaizawas]

Can I request a Shinsou villain!au (where he is a hero and reader a villain) with: “how is this my fault?” And if you can choose 2: “do you even love me?”

when i say thank you for this request i really mean it, omg this idea got me so excited.

↳ shinsou hitoshi x reader → falling down

event: au prompts summary: it was just a mission, get close to shinsou and get information. how did it ever get this far? word count: 2.6k+ tags/warnings: angsttt, i’m sorry, but it has a happy ending a/n: wow this got out of hand but i really loved this idea so much. might eventually do a follow up piece.

What if? What if things were simple. If you were a normal woman and he was a normal man. If the biggest problem in your life was picking where to eat for dinner? But things never were that simple were they?

You were a villain that was something you had always been okay with. You had your reasons that you felt justified in being one. The hero association had torn apart your family it was only right that you got your revenge. That’s how you ended up with the league of villains.

What you hadn’t expected was being used as a double agent. They needed information and your face wasn’t known to anyone as a villain. You were the perfect fit.

Shinsou Hitoshi was a risky pick but he would have the best information. So they set it up. It was like a movie, the classic meet-cute. He saves you from a villain attack set up by the League.

The next day you bump into him at the local coffee shop quite literally. Coffee is all over your new shirt and he’s a gentleman. He offers to pay for the shirt and buy you a new coffee even though it was you who bumped into him.

At first, it seems like it might be easy, becoming a part of his life. It’s not hard to get him on a date. No, it’s when you try to get closer. Building that intimacy and trust is not easy.

Shinsou tells you about his childhood, how he struggled with his quirk. People bullying him calling him a villain. How cruel they were to him and how he felt like he could never trust anyone. You could relate to how he felt, you had a similar childhood.

You suppose that’s when things started falling apart. The sting of guilt in your chest surprised you, it had been a long time since you felt bad about anything. You worked hard to burn the guilt out of yourself but you hadn’t worked hard enough evidently. The thought of gaining his trust that was so guarded from the world made you sick. You pushed it down. This was a job. This was for your family.

“The world doesn’t have to be so cruel, you can trust me.” Your guilt was understandable what wasn’t was the fact you wished that they were true.

Slowly but surely he fell for you, any time he had free was with you. Date nights were common but he preferred spending nights at his place cuddled up playing video games with his cat wedged in between you.

“I have a hard time sleeping but when you’re here I have no problem.” He said into your hair as you rested against his chest.

Wrapped up in his arms you felt so safe and loved, listening to his heartbeat. Safe wasn’t something you had felt since you were a child, something that had been taken away from you a long time ago. It was a distant memory.

Since you lost your family you lived on the streets, barely making it through. Stealing was the only way you had been able to survive. When you were a teenager you were thrown into prison for your thievery. What kind of hero saw a starving kid and threw them away?

By the time you got out you had fully realized your purpose in life, the hero association had been the reason for your family's death. Heroes had only every hurt you when you needed help the most. If life wanted you to be a villain then you would be and you’d burn to the ground the organization that had taken so much from you.

Even among villains, you didn’t feel like you fit in. You were constantly watching your back waiting for danger. You had long given up the concept of a safe home where you were cared for.

But laying in Shinsou’s arms was a taste of that life you craved underneath it all. What you wished you had all along. But you were on a mission, he was your target and if he knew the truth about you he would hate you to your core.

A tear ran down your cheek in mourning of the life you’d never have.

Shinsou had gotten hurt at work, you rushed to the hospital and stayed by his side. When they released him and you stayed with him at his apartment helping him while he healed.

His arm had been broken leaving him pretty helpless with things around the house. He protested but you stayed with him cooking for him and cleaning up around the house. It was nice, it felt so unfamiliar and comfortable at the same time.

Sitting on the couch, Shinsou resting between your legs, you softly ran your hand through his hair as you watched TV. He leaned back, looking up at you with gentle eyes.

“Thank you.” He said. “For being here for me.”

“Of course,” You said. “I’ll always be here for you.”

In moments like these, it was easy to forget everything else. To pretend that your life was perfect. The way he looked at you made your head swim, your heart melt. He trusted you, cared about you, maybe even loved you. That made you happy until reality hit and you realized you had him right where the League wanted him.

It had been a perfect night, Shinsou took you out for your six month anniversary. After a nice dinner, he walked you through the park, standing underneath a gazebo lit up he gave you a stunning necklace.

“I just want you to have something that shows just how much I care about you.” He said, looking down into your eyes with his intense purple gaze.

“I-” You were choked up, the emotion in his voice was overwhelming. How you wished that you were normal and this was a normal happy relationship. You were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to cry but you disguised it as happiness. “I love it, ‘toshi. Thank you.”

Shinsou leaned down wrapping you in his arms and kissing you deeply. You cared about Shinsou Hitoshi far more than you were ever supposed to.

He dropped you off at your apartment and as you walked inside you were met with a familiar face. Dabi.

“Wow, what a beautiful necklace. Your boyfriend must really like you.” He said in a teasing tone. “You looked real comfortable out there kissing him like that, too comfortable if you ask me. I know we picked you to play the part but something tells me your not that good of an actor.” He said circling you.

“It’s none of your business how I get things done.” You shot back. You didn’t like the tone in his voice.

“Which is why I’m here, what information do you have?” He asked.

You had been able to gather a small amount snooping around his place. It wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the league but it would keep them at bay for now.

“I’ll be leaving but a word of advice. I wouldn’t get too invested if you ever feel like running away to play house forever with your purple boy it would be very unfortunate for the both of you.” He threatened as he stepped out the door. You wanted to yell at him but that would only further his suspicion.

But one thing was true, you were in too deep. You loved Shinsou Hitoshi.

This was bad. You had been on another task for the League, it was supposed to be simple but everything went sideways. Shinsou had been there and now he was chasing you down.

He didn’t know it was you, of course. Your villain costume kept your face and hair hidden away but if he caught up to you. If he found out who you were- No. You wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t know. You could imagine his hurt expression and it made you sick. You had to get away.

Thankfully you had an advantage, you knew how is quirk worked. You knew to keep your mouth shut no matter what you heard so you’d avoid his mind control. That didn’t get rid of the fact that he was athletic, more athletic than you it seemed because he was gaining on you.

Turning down an alleyway you hoped to lose him but he followed and unfortunately for you it was a dead end. You prepared to scale the wall in front of you buy your foot was caught and you slammed into the ground as he pulled you back with his capture weapon.

“Gotcha.” He said as he approached you with a confident smile, his mask resting around his neck. The capture weapon was now wrapped around your waist, pinning your arms to your side as he got closer.

You struggled, desperate to get away. This couldn’t happen. No, this was the nightmare you had been having for months now.

Shinsou now stood over you looking down at you.

“Now let’s get rid of this.” He said grabbing at the edges of your mask.

“No-” You screamed out but it was too late. The mask was pulled up, leaving your face bare and your identity out.

Shinsou’s eyebrows drew together, eyes wide, and mouth open. The look of confusion, then denial, then heartbreak.

“You-” He stuttered out. “No, this isn’t right.”

“’Toshi, I swear I can explain.” You begged, tears welling up in your eyes.

“Don’t call me that.” His tone was biting, you had never heard him so upset much less have it directed at you. “You’re a villain-” He started then stopped as if he couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” You tell him, suddenly you wished all of the times you doubted what you were doing you had stopped and told him the truth. Told him what happened, why you did everything, how you wanted to leave your life behind and start a new life with him.

“You didn’t want to hurt me!?” He yells and you flinch. “You were using me? You work with the League, don’t you?”

“They wanted information. They assigned me to get it.” You say softly, it makes you sick admitting it to him.

You never wanted it to come to this but in hindsight what else was going to happen? People like you didn’t get happy endings no matter how much they wanted them.

“I was just a mission for you.” He says almost in disbelief. “It trusted you. You listened to me pour out my heart time after time and you played the part of the perfect girl and fed me lies!”

“You weren’t supposed to be so nice.” You start. “Heroes are evil, that’s all I’ve ever know since I was a kid. The hero association tore apart my family, heroes punished me for trying to survive. They’re all monsters.”

Tears are burning in your eyes now, your breaths heavy as emotion overwhelms you.

“But then I met you and I thought you were just good at hiding it.” You continue. “But you weren’t, you were genuinely good. You care about people and helping them. I hated heroes so much but every single day you tore that hate down with everything you did. If you weren’t so selfless and kind. Why did you have to make me question everything I ever thought about the world?!”

Tears are running down your face now. Your world had been turned upside down by Shinsou Hitoshi. You knew what the world looked like but after knowing him you questioned everything.

“How is this my fault?” He asks, using everything in him to not let his tears fall. He takes a shaky breath in trying to process your words. “Tell me this, did you even love me?”

“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.” You said through your tears. “But everything I said to you, I meant. Every bad day I helped you through. Every touch, every hug, every kiss. I meant it all.”

Shinsou stares at you and you can tell he’s trying to decide if your lying or not.

“What made you hate heroes so much?” He asks, trying to keep his tone even. “Please tell me you have a good reason, I can’t bear thinking the woman I fell in love with is some thoughtless monster.”

Fell in love with? The statement makes your heart flutter than drop. He loved you. Loved. There was no way he could love you after everything you did to him. The betrayal you left him with.

“My parents were heroes. They got in too deep with the commission and when they disapproved they were killed for it. They put me in a foster home but they were cruel. I ran away grew up on the streets but I had to steal to stay alive. I hated it so much but I was so hungry.” It’s hard not to tear up more remembering your childhood. “When a hero caught me I was thrown in jail. When I was in there I realized that I didn’t want to be a good person, I wanted revenge. So I joined the League to do that and then they assigned me to this…”

Shinsou’s eyes had softened over the course of your story.

“I’m sorry.” He said, his voice thick with emotion as he kneeled down to get to your level. The capture weapon around you loosened but you didn’t move a muscle. “You didn’t deserve any of that. It’s not fair.”

“I promise you, everything I felt with you it was real. Everything I said to you about how I felt I meant it. I’ve never loved someone, I’ve never felt so safe around another person. I’m so sorry for hurting you, I’m a monster. I don’t know how to make it up to you.” You cry, looking down.

What you don’t expect is the soft hand at your chin pulling your gaze up.

“You had a hard life. Most people would make the same choices you did. That’s behind you, if you want to change you can.” He said. You didn’t believe his soft tone. “If you leave everything behind, the League, your revenge, I’ll help you. We can deal with what happened to your parents the right way, were no innocents get pulled into it.”

“W-Why? Why would you help me after everything I did to you?” You ask.

“I love you,” His words make your heart skip a beat. “I want to help you and I will but only if you promise me you’ll turn away from it all.”

“That’s all I wanted.” You say, tears running down your face yet again. “I just never thought you could forgive what I’ve done.”

“I forgive you, just don’t do it again.” He teases with a smirk. You let out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

“Thank you.” You sob reaching forward to hug him. Burying your face into his shoulder as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Thank you so much.”

His arms circle around you pulling you even closer. One hand holding the back of your head.

“I love you.” He says. You look up at him with watery eyes, tears leftover in his as well.

“I love you so much.” You tell him. He leans forward catching your lips in a kiss.

As he holds you in that alleyway it hits you. Things are going to be okay, they may not be easy but you know Shinsou will be by your side through it all. You know that you’ll get the safety you craved, the loving home you always desired. And that’s how you know it’ll all turn out alright.

[mintzias]

i don’t think a real introduction post is necessary for me, but i’m still gonna yeet my new character your way. relatively new, beau has been a wip for a while but i never wanted to bring him anywhere for some reason. didn’t feel right before but now i’m gonna try.

anyway, since he’s been under works for a while i actually have a proper info sheet about him saved, so i’m just gonna tweak it a bit and post it under a readmore for anyone who might be interested! he’s not as infuriating as james thank god, so there might be some more connections to me made.

and this is a way for me to feed my obsession with supercars lmao.

tw car accident, death, violence, long post.

born in london to an american mother and english father. spent the first two years of his life in england, being tended to by countless nannies his parents eventually found useless and hired a new one. luckily for beau being so young, he hardly felt the impact of the familiar faces always changing.

on his third year of life he moved to america when his parents were offered a new businesss proposition that required them to be on site most of the time. he lived a posh life in manhattan and was graced with the finest kindergarten while the chaos with the nannies kept on going. not too academically inclined even as a youth, he spent most his time causing trouble and running around like a rascal he still is. this did help him make friends and he was a more physical kid than mental, so he fell easily into the stereotypical boy group.

he was twelve (and his new baby brother was four) when another move came upon them and the family rented out their home and packed their bags. tokyo was calling them for the future and beau was grumpy as hell that he had to leave behind all his friends, and everything he had learned to know just because his parents found a new project to take part in.

they moved, and beau had a hard time adjusting to new culture and new language. he became reclusive and very emo about the injustice his parents made him go through, and it took him close to three years to get his life relatively normal again. he went to school and learned the ways of his new hometown, and reluctantly made friends with his classmates. 

things started to go well and his parents’ project calmed down enough for them to spend more time as a family and not just two businesspeople with a child. things were normal for them, beau continued his academics and his role as an older brother, which would become twice as difficult when his youngest brother was born.

a simple life went by quickly and the next memorable moment was when beau enrolled in university. he wanted to attend a vocational school but his parents scolded him for such menial ideas and told him to keep up his image by getting himself a business degree. he begrudgingly agreed just to please his parents, and with a promise that he would be taking over the million-dollar business.

most of his high school friends parted ways when he started his new studies, but he had a safety new of four when he first stepped into his adulthood, and the harder studies he knew he wouldn’t be able to finish. it was hell, and even if beau tried his hardest, he barely got acceptable grades and was close to flunking. that’s when he met ayame.

romantic meeting or not, she started tutoring him first and eventually they fell in love. they began dating at 19, and it looked like it would last forever. his parents approved of her, and her parents approved of him even with his insecurity about being a foreigner and a whiny white boy.

she was a classic girl-next-door until she dared to show her rebellious side. it took her a year to gather the courage to bring him along to her nightly escapades, and that’s how beau was introduced to street racing. it was a tight community, the underbelly of the tokyo he had learned to know and the racers he had only heard rumors about. ayame was right at home with the gangs and introduced him to them. it became a frequent thing they did together, and ayame taught him their ways, how to race like a pro. it was an adrenaline spike and beau became addicted to it, spending more and more time with the crew while his academics plunged below the point where they could’ve still be saved.

it didn’t take him long to drop out and focus his entire attentions to the races. he never told his parents about his failure as a student, but they didn’t have time to ask him either. he kept his illegal activities away from the eyes of his family and never pulled them into the dangerous lifestyle he was leading.

being acquainted with the wrong side of the law helped beau fake his graduation as well, the fear of his parents knowing of his incompetence fresh on his mind. after the papers were presented, he told them he’d found a job and would be moving in with his girlfriend for better access to the workplace. they agreed and wished him well, and that’s when he became his own man.

he did indeed live with ayame, and they were happily together for four years before he popped the question and they got engaged. it was the happiest time of his life, and the engagement held for a year forward before they would be tragically torn away from each other. 

they partook in a race as a celebration, ayame with her own car and beau with the one he had won some time before. it was a high-stakes race, every car on the line, winner takes all sort of situation. the couple was confident of their chances to walk away with three new supercars, the confidence coming from countless of races won in the past.

the winding roads were coming to an end and beau held his first place while his soon-to-be wife was second. it seemed like a clear win for them until the third placer abandoned the rules set for the race and rammed his car against ayame’s, causing her to lose control in the speed. her wheel hit the curb and spun out, crashing violently, spinning on the asphalt for several meters before coming to a stop.

there was not even a thought spared for the possible win when beau caught what happened through the rearview mirror. the two others that were in last place were the next ones to stop by ayame’s wreckage, and beau yelled at them to help him get her out of the car. when her body finally laid in his arms, she was barely breathing. he tried everything he could to get her to wake up and come back to him, but despite his best efforts, she drew her final breath.

beau was crushed. his entire life fell into pieces when he held his wife for the last time. he was forcefully pulled away from her when the ambulance and police were closing in and his fellow racers tried their best to keep him from going into a rage when he arrived at the finish line. reasoning with him was impossible and his keys were confiscated when he tried to get back to her, his wife. when there was no way to get out, he lashed out at the one that ran her off the road, beating him into a bloody mess. he was restrained before he could take it too far, but the still fought the men holding him back.

he informed his parents, and mourned with her family. the support of her parents helped him stay in line and not lash out too violently even if no day went past that he would cry his eyes out and hit the walls. as much as her accident haunted him, he didn’t withdraw from the races and became determined to get revenge on the man that caused her death. 

avenging her was nothing short of wrathful. on the same road, the same time of the day, same conditions. he abandoned the set rules and swerved full-body against his car when passing him, sending the man into an uncontrollable spin. the wreck wasn’t as bad and the man survived, but beau didn’t stop to help him. he didn’t finish the race and went home, sent a message to his friends and family telling them he was moving back to america. 

trying to adjust back to the american life was hard and without a proper education he didn’t get a job that could support him. as much as he wanted to give up his career in racing, he weaseled his way back into similar crews and got his debut on the streets. it was no different from what he did in tokyo and the competition was the same, still falling behind him after the starting line. he built his reputation from ground up until his name was just a hushed whisper during the meets, their glances full of fearful respect. he left everything behind in tokyo and tries to live his life to the fullest. death doesn’t deal with warnings, a motto to live by.

FUN FACTS!

his everyday car is a 2017 McLaren 570S, while his main racing car is a 2002 mazda rx-7 spirit.

races independently but has claimed a crew for himself nonetheless ( forest hill riders | f.h.r )

owns a private garage where he stores the best cars he has won.

out of sentimentality, the license plate of his day to day car is ‘AYAME’.

he still tells his parents he works in business that pays extremely well. sound weird to say “yeah i make a couple of mil for driving and selling illegal cars”.

he doesn’t admit that he flexes his cars but he absolutely flexes his cars.

careless af with his money. hears someone say “i want that” and he’ll step up and buy it.

takes his work very seriously and is very stoic when it comes to preparing for a race.

fluent in japanese and english, and can put on a british accent like no ones business.

refuses to drive white cars. hates them in fact. does not like white cars.

bought a 1992 honda nsx and restored it to the same condition as ayame’s car was before the crash, down to the smallest imperfection and craziest mods. it’s not in use, but has stood in the garage for nine years.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

another racer, a type of frenemy situation where the competition is playful yet serious. they would have known for at least ten years and hang around each other during meets, but have a wedge between friendship due to different crew affiliation.

either one of his brothers (born 1993 and 1995) who don’t know about his lawless lifestyle but have made something of themselves. or not. i haven’t put much thought into them, just that beau was fiercely protective of them before leaving tokyo. all they know is that he makes money, has a job, and that he’s still shaken from the accident years ago but kept to himself.

any other connections are welcomed too! i’m bad at coming up with these lmao. if you got this far, thanks! 

[auctes]

014. dealing with the others’ death .

     STRAP  THE  FUCK  IN ,   BECAUSE  THIS  IS  A  MESS .      /      ( @remnantgang . )

                                               it’s  on  a  google  doc ,   if  you  prefer .

SHE  ISN’T  SURPRISED .      and  for  a  while ,   she  isn’t  anything .   maybe  because  fukawa  has  been  on  a  first - name  basis  with  death  for  over  half  her  life —  maybe  because  death  has  always  been  intimately  acquainted  with  a  sense  of  shame .   she  wears  it :   down  her  thighs .   across  her  shoulders .   from  the  apex  of  her  neck ,   to  the  base  of  her  spine .   there  is  no  unbroken  flesh  on  her  back ,   but  she  feels  she  should  have  left  adequate  space  for  kuzuryuu .

she  had  nothing  much  to  do  with  it  —   wasn’t  even  fronting .   fukawa  had  considered  him  impermanent  to  her ;   had  always  approached  him  with  the  fear  that  she’d  one  day  wake  to  find  her  bed  devoid  of  him .   but  he’d  stayed :   right  up  until  the  morning  she’d  woken  to  find  she  was  only  sharing  her  sheets  with  blood ,   so  fresh  and  copious  that  it  couldn’t  have  been  a  relic  of  their  odd  and  dangerous  misadventures .   fukawa  wakes  up  the  next  day  as  much  the  same .

at  which  point ,   she  stops  sleeping  in  the  bedroom .   she  can’t  bring  herself  to  change  the  sheets  —   not  until  she  can  identify  whose  blood  she  bled  onto  them .   the  dusk - quiet  suggestions  that  it  might  be  his  are  a  strange  comfort …   like  there  was  enough  of  it  in  him  to  spill ,   and  the  hours  that  fukawa  spent  listening  for  a  heartbeat  were  worth  her  lapse  in  creative  output .   she  spends  however  many  anonymous  hours  on  the  couch ,   next  to  the  impression  of  loneliness

                                                                 she  changes  the  bedsheets .

it  takes  six  days  before  she  even  turns  on  her  phone :   thirty  missed  calls  from  oowada .   twice  as  many  texts .   a  few  from  iruma ,  too ,   in  that  obnoxious  and  cautious  way  she  texts  when  she’s  hiding  whatever  about  her  is  genuine .   fukawa  filters  through  them  all  over  the  span  of  several  hours ;   spends  far  too  long  indulging  what  little  correspondence  she  shared  with  kuzuryuu :   most  words  exchanged  were  directly  between  them .   the  important  ones ,   anyway .

things  about  him .   not  about  his  life ;   his  afterlife ;   the  immediacy  of  whatever  they  had  mutually  agreed  to  deal  with  together .   innocuous  things  that  make  up  a  person :   the  books  they  read  in  school ,   and  what  about  them  they  remember ;   the  story  behind  their  favorite  shirt ;   how  they  take  their  tea ,   and  at  what  time  they  like  to  drink  it ;   the  ways  in  which  they  refer  to  those  closest  to  them .   fukawa ,   who  was  always  fukawa ,   writes  them  down  de  minimis  .

…   and  she  doesn’t  know  who  to  blame  for  the  inconcreteness  of  what  her  mind  relays  —  syo ,   for  occupying  so  much  of  their  episodic  memory ?   kuzuryuu ,   for  never  telling  them  any  of  these  things ?   or  fukawa ,   for  never  asking .   details  of  who  he  was  never  seemed  important  to  kuzuryuu ;   at  the  time ,   what  was  important  to  him  dictated  what  was  important  to  fukawa .   but  she  realizes  now ,   far  too  late ,   that  he  was  important  to  her ,   no  matter  how  he  regarded  himself .

so  when  she  writes  him ,   he’s  far  less  of  a  person  than  he  ever  was  alive  —   or  dead .   she  can  fetter  her  dialogue  with  profanities  all  she  wishes ,   but  it  never  reads  like  the  smooth ,   dark  memories  she  has  of  him ;   fukawa  doesn’t  even  know  his  favorite  color .   so  she  calls  kuzuryuu’s  phone  —   eighteen  times ,   and  each  time  that  it  goes  to  voicemail ,   she  grows  more  frantic  and  desperate  with  the  not  knowing  what  his  favorite  fucking  color  was  versus  needing  to  be  presumptuous .

“ why  is  that  so  fucking  complicated ? ”      she  tells  his  voicemail  one  day .      “i - it’s  not  as  if  i’m  trying  to  canonize  you ,   for  f - fff…uck’s  sake .   i  don’t  —   i - i  couldn’t … ”      she  knows .   he’d  tell  her  she  was  being  stupid ,   and  then  he’d  tell  her  the  truth :   it  wouldn’t  be  real .   even  if  fukawa  could  conflate  every  detail  into  something  that  spoke  to  her  stylistically ,   it  wouldn’t  be  him .   kuzuryuu  never  matched  her  prose ;   never  cooperated  with  her .   he  had  a  voice ,   and  it’s  not  hers .

fukawa  deletes  his  number .   she  regrets  it  for  weeks .

when  the  murders  start  again ,   so  does  fukawa .   it’s  like  unfastening  the  last  few  buttons  of  a  shirt :   as  if  it  was  hanging  precariously  off  her  shoulder ,   and  the  last  great  effort  leaves  her  bare  and  freezing .   the  first  cut  appears  not  two  months  after  kuzuryuu  died ,   and  there  are  four  more  by  the  end  of  the  week .   fukawa  runs  her  fingertip  over  the  narrow  breaks  in  her  skin ,   and  can’t  recall  their  names .   is  one  of  them  kuzuryuu  fuyuhiko ?

what  bothers  fukawa  more  is  that  genocider  syo  has  compromised  her  integrity .   fukawa’s  not  stupid :   she  understands  the  killings  as  perfectly  now  as  she  did  when  she  was  twelve .   not  that  she’s  been  keeping  track  of  her  lucidity  anyway ,   but  she  feels  that  she’d  be  able  to  fucking  remember  meeting  someone  who  genocider  syo  would  deem  worthy  of  adding  to  the  mantel .   so  fukawa  sits  down  that  evening  with  her  stun  gun  and  a  piece  of  paper .   she  writes ,   ‘ why ? ’

the  first  few  responses  are  deflective  and  incoherent :   she  is  part  of  fukawa ,   after  all .   their  hurried  back - and - forth  against  the  time  constraint  of  the  electric  shock  is  heated ;   accusatory .   fukawa  can’t  help  herself ;   can’t  help  the  fractals  of  her  heart  that  she  spits  onto  the  page  like  loose  teeth .   syo  refuses  to  take  the  blame :   fukawa  needs  her  to ,   because  someone  has  to  —   both  fukawa  and  her  living  room  end  up  torn  to  shreds  before  the  conversation  reaches  any  breakthrough .

it  wasn’t  genocider .   of  course  it  wasn’t .   kuzuryuu  died  in  what  is  tantamount  to  an  accident ;   being  a  vampire  amid  a  sea  of  remorseless  vampire  hunters  tends  to  be  what  you’d  call ,   ‘ accidental . ’   and  though  syo  won’t  admit  it  —   not  when  she’s  already  committed  it  to  her  scoreboard  —   these  fresher  murders  are  accidental ,   too .   fukawa  doesn’t  want  to  understand  syo ,   but  she  knows  herself  sufficiently  to  comprehend  that  syo ,   like  fukawa ,   just  has  too  much  love  in  her  body .

     and  now  she  has  nothing  to  give  it  to .                          ( six  months  hence ,   and  no  new  kills . )

fukawa  learns  a  lot  about  oowada .   he  actually  can  read ,   surprisingly ,   and  he’s  very  adept  at  woodwork .   neither  one  of  them  can  spare  much  time  for  the  other  outside  of   ‘ work ,’   but  they  make  time  anyway .   fukawa’s  mouth  is  stitched  immediately  &  uncomfortably  shut  whenever  she’s  wedged  into  close  proximity  with  oowada’s  gang  —   so  he  indulges  her  persistence  in  company  by  removing  them  both  to  elsewhere .   never  overwhelmingly  public ;   always  during  the  day .

she  can’t  tell  if  oowada  is  concerned ,   or  relieved ,   or  both .   while  neither  of  them  are  eloquent  in  communicating  such  mattters ,   fukawa  would  sooner  have  herself  believe  that  whatever  continues  this  correspondence  is  genuine ;   she  genuinely  can’t  seclude  herself  in  a  house  that  now  feels  oppressive  and  tomb - like ;   she  genuinely  can’t  bounce  her  questions  off  the  wall .   she  genuinely  needs  someone  to  tell  her  she  is  worthy  of  grief  —   that  what  she’s  feeling  is  mourning .

oowada  never  knew  kuzuryuu  like  fukawa  did .   she  should  fucking  hope  not .   what’s  more ,   he  never  knew  that  fukawa  knew  kuzuryuu  in  the  ways  she  did  because  they  never  mentioned  it ;   showing  oowada  her  side  project ,   then ,   was  stupid  in  immediate  hindsight .   she  watches  him  grow  uncomfortable  with  the  revelation  —   feels  ten  times  as  such  when  he  fixes  her  with  that  look  that  someone  might  give  out  of  pity  for  the  sick  and  infirm .

he  quizzes  her  senseless .   demands  to  know ,   ‘ what  were  you  thinking ? ’   and ,   ‘ you  couldn’t  have  fuckin���  told  somebody ? ’   though  that  feels  more  to  do  with  the  fact  that  kuzuryuu’s  living - undead  status  than  the  fact  that  fukawa  loved  him  in  spite  of  it .   she  tells  oowada  such  without  any  expectation  that  he  will  even  try  to  understand ;   but  he  does  try ,   even  if  he’ll  never  completely  fathom  what  it  felt  like  to  have  to  have  her  heart  beat  for  two  people .

                                they  don’t  talk  for  a  week .   and  then ,   they  get  back  to  work .

sometimes ,   she  thinks  about  turning .   fukawa  doesn’t  realize  she  does  until  she  catches  herself  lingering  in  the  omnipresence  of  death  outside  of  things ,   and  then  she  reminds  herself  of  all  the  ways  in  which  she’s  disgusting  for  doing  so .   to  hypothetically  surrender  her  existence  to  one  she  knows  she  detests  —   to  the  very  thing  she  knew  kuzuryuu  loathed  beyond  loathing  while  he  was  comparatively  more  alive  than  he  is  now .   she  thinks  about  his  flesh - crawling  self  regard ;   the  distance  it  placed  between  them .

there  are  several  parts  of  simultaneous  selfishness  &  stupidity  to  it .   if  either  of  them  were  more  forthright  with  their  errant  distaste  for  the  matter  prior  to  the  fact ,   then  maybe  fukawa  wouldn’t  have  to  linger  in  it  now ;   truth  be  told ,   it  was  something  that  had  crossed  her  mind  occasionally ,   to  varying  degrees  of  her  harsh  internal  commentary .   the  postulation  was  this :   what  about  the  future ?   did  they  even  have  a  future ?   five  years ,   or  ten ...  her  life  would  move  forward ,   hindered  only  by  kuzuryuu .

it  concerns  fukawa  greatly  that  she  has  always  been  so  sure  of  her  place  in  life  —   what  she  wants  out  of  it  —   but  that  there  was  reason  for  her  to  even  consider  compromising .   but  on  their  good  days  —   the  truly  good  ones ,   when   things  seemed  almost  normal  —   fukawa  would  look  at  him  and  think ,   ‘ maybe  this .   maybe  this  is  something  worth  dying  for . ’   because  she  knows  she’d  die  for  him :   she’d  give  her  life  in  a  heartbeat ,   if  only  to  quantify  the  value  of  his  existence  in  tandem  to  hers .

                on  their  bad  days ,   fukawa  would  shut  herself  inside  her  bedroom  with  those  thoughts .

but  she  stayed  regardless .   she  stayed  because  that’s  what  she  does  —   she  finds  a  strength  in  enduring ,   grits  her  teeth  against  how  punishing  that  can  be ,   and  indulges  her  need  to  be  reminded  that  nothing  worth  living  for  comes  without  a  little  agony .   i  deserve  it ,   she  thinks .   i  deserve  it  for  ever  thinking  —   ever  hoping  —   that  this  will  ever  mean  as  much  to  him  as  it  does  to  me .   stupid  bitch  that  she  is :   stupid ,  senseless ,   idiot  girl  with  a  half - baked  romantic  death - wish .

she  never  mentioned  it .   never  saw  the  need .   what  would  be  the  point  when  kuzuryuu  would  only  serve  to  give  substance  to  what  was  already  being  whispered  to  fukawa  from  the  corner  of  her  mind ?   it  wouldn’t  make  them  any  more  normal ;   dead  people  can’t  make  life  decisions ,   such  as  when  to  have  kids ,   or  where  to  establish  themselves .   and  he  would  grow  to  hate  her  like  old  wallpaper ,   or  worse  —   he’d  admit  outright  that  he  could  never  love  her  within  the  context  of  centuries .

                                        but  sometimes ,   fukawa  really  thought ,   ‘ maybe  this . ’

fukawa  remembers  each  of  kuzuryuu’s  tattoos  as  individual  pieces  as  opposed  to  a  fully  realized  work ;   it’s  how  she  remembers  literature .   passages  that  moved  her  through  very  deliberate  syntax  rather  than  the  whole  work  to  which  they  belonged .   she  never  took  the  time  to  explore  kuzuryuu’s  body  all  at  once :   only  in  pieces .   in  a  sequence .   his  arm  around  her ,   sleeves  pushed  up ,   or  his  shoulders  broadened  across  her  mattress  as  his  spine  caught  the  moonlight .

much  of  what  he  wore  was  unfinished :   turned  before  this  cell  could  be  pigmented  or  before  that  piece  could  get  a  touch - up .   tattoos  never  appealed  to  fukawa ,   and  they  don’t  appeal  to  her  now :   but  they  were  his ,   and  they  were  exquisite .   she  thought  often ,   whenever  she  traced  the  linework  that  would  be  perpetually  bereft  of  color ,   that  she  might  fill  it  in  herself  with  her  words :   impermanent  as  they  are ,   they  might  have  filled  those  spaces  in  him  for  a  time ,   with  aptness  to  change .

but  nothing  she  ever  wrote  ever  seemed  to  fit  among  something  that  was  simultaneously  austere  and  lovely .   maybe  she  should’ve  written  more  poetry ;   maybe  if  she  wrote  more  about  kuzuryuu  whilst  he  was  alive ,   she’d  have  a  much  easier  time  feeling  something  in  his  absence .   fukawa  catches  sight  of  her  back  in  the  mirror  one  day  —   nothing  there  is  fresh  enough  to  yield  her  pain ,   but  as  her  hand  cups  her  shoulder ,   she  almost  feels  kuzuryuu’s ,   learning  fukawa’s  brand  of  brutality .

it’s  strange :   how  you  can  catalog  an  entire  history  of  a  person  through  what  they  wear  on  their  skin ,   and  how  someone  like  her  can  parse  it  as  plainly  as  any  book .   fukawa  can’t  draw ;   so  she  tries  to  put  those  things  into  words ,   and  to  recreate  the  tapestry  that  kuzuryuu  bore  under  his  clothes  in  a  way  that  will  make  sense  to  her  when  she  can  no  longer  remember .   and  she  finds ,   not  for  the  first  time  where  it  concerns  him ,   that  the  written  word  does  not  do  the  justice  she  owes  to  his  life .

when  she  looks  at  herself  —   really  looks  at  herself ,   in  the  way  kuzuryuu  might  have  seen  her  if  he  had  ever  looked  at  her  the  way  that  fukawa  looked  at  him  —   she  feels  filthy .   these  things  crawl  along  the  surface  of  her  complexion  and  bury  underneath  it ,   raising  all  those  intimately  horrible  parts  of  her  to  just  below  the  surface .   she  wants  to  claw  herself  free :   cover  herself  in  newer  skin  so  she  never  has  to  remember  what  she  did .   the  sheer  fact  of  her  existence  never  seemed  to  bother  him .

but  it  bothers  her  exponentially .   and  when  she  asks  oowada  about  tattoos ,   he  is  predictably  unhelpful .   but  he  finds  her  a  place ;   holds  her  hand  while  they  lay  the  groundwork ,   and  holds  her  upright  when  she  thinks  she’s  going  to  pass  out  from  the  pain .   fukawa  makes  it  a  half  hour  into  the  sitting  before  she  vomits  —   but  keeps  going .   and  when  she  peels  the  clingfilm  away  from  her  aching ,   swollen  thigh  some  hours  later ,   she  sees  more  of  herself  in  the  artwork  than  what  it’s  covering .

it  heals .   and  though  fukawa  gave  herself  the  timeframe  of  fresh  and  renewed  skin  for  the  rest  of  her  to  heal ,   there’s  much  of  her  that  still  lingers  in  her  memory .   she  sometimes  thinks  that  she  should  just  gun  herself  stupid  —   fry  her  brain  —   forsake  any  claim  to  her  body ,   and  let  syo  pilot  them  through  the  rest  of  their  lives .   that  would  be  so  easy …   and  kuzuryuu  would  tell  her  that  she’s  being  irrational  and  ridiculous .   fukawa  doesn’t  care  if  it  is ,   but  something  still  stops  her .

she  takes  a  much  deeper  appreciation  for  sunlight ;   for  breathing ;   for  the  fact  that  her  hair  still  grows ,   her  skin  still  bruises ,   and  that  days  without  sleep  will  inevitably  compel  her  to  collapse  for  hours  at  a  time .   they’re  the  caveats  of  living ;   the  things  that  kuzuryuu  would  never  be  able  to  appreciate ,   even  if  he  were  still  alive  in  that  half - finished  sense .   fukawa  sits  outside  as  another  autumn  moves  into  another  winter ,   and  she  thinks  of  him .   it’s  chilly .   was  he  colder  than  this ?

either  way ,   she  misses  it .   she  misses  having  reason  to  complain  that  he  was  freezing  —   and  trying ,   in  vain ,   to  warm  him  with  herself .   kuzuryuu  occupied  space ,   despite  his  resting  temperature .   fukawa  is  reluctant  to  fill  it …   she  doesn’t  know  where  to  start .   whether  it  could  be  another  person ,   even ,   or  just  something  that  elicits  vaguely  what  she  attributed  as  love .   when  her  new  book  is  published ,   it  helps  a  little .   probably  just  because  there’s  a  sense  of  completion .

whatever  she  does  and  thinks  now  is  not  to  glorify  kuzuryuu ;   most  of  what  she  feels  is  that  which  she  has  always  felt :   frustrated .   small .   insignificant .   like  whatever  strength  she  can  muster  is  still  no  match  for  the  walls  that  occupied  his  countenance .   the  world  has  always  been  much  the  same  to  her :   some  rich  and  exclusive  thing  to  which  fukawa  was  not  permitted  entry .   she  liked  standing  on  the  periphery ,   as  long  as  it  was  with  him .   she  wonders  if  she  ever  had  a  place .

                                               if  she  did ,   then  she  sacrificed  it  for  his  sake .

even  so ,   there  is  a  unique  shape  carved  into  the  side  of  the  world  that  was  distinctly  for  them .   fukawa  likes  to  think  she  put  it  there  herself :   that  it’s  hers  to  do  with  as  she  wishes .   everything  is  tinged  with  him  in  ways  that  the  murders  never  were ,   and  still  aren’t :   this  isn’t  guilt .   this  isn’t  even  love ,   or  remembrance .   this  is  simply  getting  along  with  the  part  of  herself  that  never  belonged  to  her .   kuzuryuu  isn’t  alive  to  chide  fukawa  for  her  sentimentality .   but  that’s  fine .

[sanctuaryforascrivener]

Homecoming

Word count: ~2k  Inspired by the last few lines in @ladyoftheshield‘s lovely fic Cacophony. I thought it was rather original, before I saw these posts by @the-redwaller, but whatever, I like what I did. Unbeta-ed, so any concrit is welcome. 

Snow lay in deep drifts upon the ground all through Mossflower woods. Through the bare branches of the trees, the slate-gray sky could be seen, heralding more flurries before the day’s end. Deep beneath the trees, far from any path, a young mouse was wending his way south through the snow drifts. Oftentimes the snow drifted higher than his ears, and he clutched his ragged, too-long cloak around his shoulders, the hem dragging in the snow behind him. His paws had long gone numb and ice rimed his whiskers, but he kept doggedly on, putting one paw in front of the other.

Head down, eyes slitted almost shut with exhaustion, the tiny mouse--only a child, really, five seasons at most--didn’t stop until he walked headlong into a low hanging larch branch. He went sprawling, sticks and ice-covered stones digging into his ribs as he lay on the forest floor. A weak cough shook his thin body, and he shuddered, drawing his knees under him as he tried to stand again. They gave out almost immediately, and he toppled forward again. For a moment, he simply lay there, watching the way each ragged breath formed a tiny cloud in front of his nose, fainter and fainter.

The wind whistled through the tops of the trees as he closed his eyes, haunting and faint but getting louder. Just for a moment, he told himself. Mama said the cold would kill--but, strange… He felt so warm, right now…

And then, faintly, in the distance but coming nearer, the little mouse could have sworn he heard… singing.

When the winter winds blow through the vale And you’ve roamed far from home There’s nothing quite like ‘Tober Ale And a place to rest your bones. Oh ice! Oh snow! Oh freezing rain! You will not bother me! For I have friends and food and love And they’re waiting there for me!

Yes, somebeast was singing. Bold as brass and coming nearer. The young mouse opened his eyes and blinked once, twice.

Someday soon the springs will come The white shall change to green The rivers shall swell and the flowers shall bloom And all the larks shall sing. Oh sun! Oh breeze! Oh gentle rains! I ever welcome thee! Come chase the dark and cold away And celebrate life with me!

The song cut off, and the young mouse heard steps on the path beside him, before boots stopped in his field of vision. They were a warm brown, bark and a bit worn, and the mouse tilted his head, looking up at the other traveler. It was a mouse, a plump little fellow with light fur, and a smile wide enough that his bright eyes almost disappeared in the folds of his cheeks. He was dressed in a green jerkin and green cloak, dark over light, with a hat perched rakishly over one large ear. “Well, hello there, matey,” he said cheerfully, crouching down closer to him. “You won’t get very far if you lie down like that, y’know.”

The young mouse took a deep breath and braced himself. The short rest had helped, if only a little, and he forced himself upright. He swayed, but steadied. “I liked your song,” he said.

“Of course you did, li’l matey, I made it up, didn’ I? Now, c’mon, let’s get you back home to your mum n’ dad. Bet they’ll be thrilled to see you again, eh?” The older mouse flashed another grin and performed a little hop-skip as he straightened.

“Haven’t got a dad,” the younger corrected him, a faint smile playing across his face in spite of himself as he watched him caper. “Haven’t got a mum anymore, either. Sickness.” He shuddered again, as much from the memory of his mother wasting away as the wind. He pulled the cloak tighter reflexively. “She told me to go to Redwall, but I got lost.”

Some of the madcap joy drained out of the mouse’s smile, turning it warmer, sympathetic. “Aye, well. If your mother told you to go to Redwall, she was a wise one for sure.” he said. “You’re in luck, li’l matey. I can definitely get you to the old Abbey. I’m a prince of pathfinders, just ask anyone!”

“There isn’t anyone around,” he said, but trailed in the other mouse’s wake without protest.

Laughter rang through the trees, and he couldn’t help but smile in response at how very free it sounded, how very hopeful. It was easier, now, to put paw in front of paw. The mouse turned to look down at him. “Excellent point, me lil’ matey. What’s your name, anyway?” The mouse turned and trotted backwards, hands clasped behind him.

“Matthias,” he said. The brief second wind was wearing off now, and he stumbled, and barely stopped himself from sprawling in another heap.

“Are you?” The other mouse slowed, but didn’t stop, still walking backwards. For the first time, he wasn’t  smiling--not as if he were angry, or sad, but simply thinking. The serious expression didn’t fit him, but it didn’t last long. “Is it that time already?”

“Am I what? What time?”  

“Are you Matthias, that is.” He grinned again, as if he had just said something clever. “No matter. C’mon, Matthias-matey. You’ve not got far to go until you see the bell tower. You ought to be just in time for dinner.” The mouse groaned in delight and placed both paws over his fat little stomach. “An’ oh, the dinners at Redwall are to die for. No better food in all the land! I ought to know. Hot cider with cinnamon an’ nutmeg, an’ a hot scone, right out of the oven with strawberry jam, or a blackberry tart with cream--nothing better onna winter’s night in front of the fire listenin’ to a story.”

Matthias trudged along beside the garrulous mouse as he extolled the virtues of the Abbey’s kitchens and cellars, mouth watering. He wiped his whiskers with the back of his paw and swallowed, teeth beginning to chatter again. His gaze wandered back to his feet, unable to keep his head up. It was easier to travel with a friend, true, but he’d still been walking since dawn. Matthias had woken early that morning to find himself curled against his mother’s stiff body, the embers of their tiny fire long cooled to grey and white ashes. He sniffed and wiped sharply at his nose. His throat was starting to burn again, and he coughed, trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears.

The mouse circled in front of him and paused, and Matthias narrowly avoided walking into him. “Chin up, Matthias,” he said, and knelt in the snow to bring them to eye level. “It’s hard, I know. I lost my mum and dad, too, but you’re not gonna be alone for long. We won’t letcha. It’ll be hard--by the fur, it’ll be hard. But you mourn, an’ you remember ‘em if you can, an’ you don’t let it stop you.” He smiled, paw resting on one knee. “You’ll see ‘em again someday, an’ when you do, you’ll have lived a life that’ll make ‘em pleased as punch.”

Matthias sniffed again, and combed claws quickly through his whiskers, trying to hide the fact that he’d been crying. “D’you--d’you really think so?”

“Think? Matthias-matey, I know so!” He straightened indignantly, paws akimbo. “Now c’mon, frozen britches. I’d like to get warmer before I get colder! We’re almost there.”

The young mouse stifled a wet giggle and followed, feeling just a little bit lighter.

His odd little guide turned out to be right. One more turn brought a red tower into view against the slate-gray sky, and Matthias almost burst into tears again at the sight. As friendly as his companion was, the promise of food, drink, and a warm corner to curl up in made the tiny mouse almost collapse in relief.

Matthias stumbled the last few steps across the frozen grass between the line of the trees and the northern wall, scraping his paws on the old red sandstone as he caught himself. He hauled himself along, using the wall for support, until he reached a small wooden gate and wedged himself against the jamb, sinking to sit on his haunches and pulling his cloak tightly over his ears. Rest. He’d just--just rest for a moment, before trying to get someone’s attention on the inside.

“Ahoy, matey!” Matthias startled at the shout. In the rush of relief, he’d forgotten about his guide, but the mouse was standing a foot or two away, neck craned back and both paws cupped around his mouth as he shouted. “I’ve got a delivery for you!”

Matthias leaned his head against the jamb and closed his eyes with a smile. Seemed like his new friend was doing the attention-getting for him, then.

There was a pleased, distant shout of greeting from far above him, and before Matthias quite knew how, there was another mouse on the sward. He cast a quick, friendly smile at the other, before he crouched down beside Matthias, concern painted across his face. “He’s half frozen, the poor mite,” he said, and Matthias relaxed into the jamb, feeling--inexplicably--as if everything would be all right, now. Though the new mouse was clad in a simple green habit, he didn’t seem to notice the cold, sitting in the snow without a second thought. “Running a fever, too. Oh, Matthias…”

Curiously, Matthias raised his head to look the other mouse in the face, regardless of the difficulty. Equal parts worry and love shone in grey eyes against dark fur, and a strong paw reached out to rest on a thin shoulder. “Come now, my little warrior,” he said. “We’ll knock on the door together.”

Matthias took a deep breath and let it mist slowly out again, before bracing himself against the jamb and pushing himself to his feet. The mouse kept his paw on his shoulder, moving to stand behind him, as they both raised their other paw to knock on the door.

“Please!” Matthias shouted, voice torn to rags on the gusting wind. “Please, is anybeast there?”

Another knock, stronger this time as the mouse’s paw tightened on his shoulder. “I need help, please!” Matthias toppled forward, braced himself on the wooden door, fighting to not simply drop where he lay.

“Courage, Matthias,” the whisper came from behind him. The young mouse forced himself upright once more, and slammed a paw into the old wood so hard it ached even through the numbness.

“Please!” He shouted, voice cracking. “Please!”

From behind the door came the sound of running, and then the most welcome sound in the world--a scrape as the door was unlocked, and Matthias staggered as it swung open. Strength and balance failing him, he tripped over the threshold and sprawled at the feet of an Abbey brother.

“Oh, my--” the brother gasped, before bending to scoop the youngster up in both paws, dashing for the Abbey as he shouted, “Father Abbott! Father Abbott!”

The last thing Matthias saw before exhaustion finally pulled him under was the two mice who had helped him, still standing beside the open northern gate.

Martin watched as Brother Alf rushed Matthias into the infirmary, arms crossed and eyes distant. So many threads being set in motion, tangled and untangled and woven together. His musings were cut short as Gonff dug an elbow into his unprotected side.

“So that’s Matthias, hm? Y’could’ve mentioned he was on his way, you know, I’d’ve kept an eye out for ‘im.”

With a huff of laughter, Martin turned and gave his friend a playful shove that nevertheless sent him staggering a few steps. “Contrary to what most creatures think, o pincher of pies, I don’t know everything.”

“Oh, no,” Gonff said, slinging an arm around his shoulders with his usual good cheer. “Just most things. Like Dandin needing to carry that sword. Or that it’d get struck by lightning and nearly skewer a squirrel. Or--”

“All right, all right,” Martin laughed, shaking his head. “But I didn’t know when, Gonff.” He fell silent again.

There was a beat of silence. “He’ll be all right,” Gonff said suddenly, uncharacteristically serious. Martin glanced at him and tilted his head curiously. “He’s almost as stubborn as you are, y’know. Got the same eyes.”

A smile twitched at Martin’s mouth, and he nodded, looking back at the Abbey as if he could see through the walls to the infirmary, where Abbot Mortimer was bending over the newest addition to their abbey, rubbing limbs and paws briskly to warm them. “Aye, he does. Noticed that, did you?”

“Hard not to. Suspected he might be Matthias afore he mentioned his name, y’know.”

“Did you really? Or did you finally pick apart am that is when he gave you his name?” Martin asked, deliberately not looking at the mousethief, though the worry in his stormy grey eyes had faded, only to be replaced with mischief.

Gonff huffed. “Matey, I’ve never been so insulted in all my years! How dare you suggest that I, the prince of puzzle solving, didn’t know exactly who you were talking about?!”  

Martin snorted and, with a quick movement, caught his friend in a headlock, rubbing furiously at his headfur. “You did, did you? So your endless pestering for the scores of seasons since you found the rhyme was a clever blind, eh?” Laughing too hard to extricate himself, Gonff pushed at Martin’s arm. After a moment of fruitless struggling, Martin released him, laughing as well.

“C’mon, o warrior,” Gonff said once they’d laughed themselves breathless. “You promised Sunflash and the babes to help build that rope swing Saxtus doodled.”

Martin stretched up onto his footpaws. “I’ve not forgotten, I promise.”

“Right behind you, matey.”

The pair of mice vanished back to the Dark Forest, secure that both their realms--Redwall and Mossflower Woods--would call if they needed it.

[puppetwritings]

Vultures || Jihoon || Oneshot

Word Count: 2418

Genre: witch!au, angst

Summary: Jihoon had always been proud of his power. He never resented it no matter what. It wasn’t until he met you that Jihoon felt he really was cursed.

Minghao // Mingyu // Wonwoo // Seungcheol // Junhui // Hoshi // Joshua //

❝ One day, whether you are 14, 28 or 65, you will stumble upon someone who will start a fire in you that cannot die. However, the saddest, most awful truth you will ever come to find - is they are not always with whom we spend our lives. ❞

— Beau Taplin

Since you were a child, you knew a witch. He was bright, rarely smiled, handsome, yet cold. He took care of you well though and protected you from the things he could and comforted you about the things he couldn’t. He was a good friend--one that you wouldn’t mind keeping for a lifetime. And this friend had a power, special to him as other witches had. It was the power to see death.

“When will I die?”

Jihoon looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You repeated yourself with more purpose, “When will I die?”

Jihoon remained silent for a long time before he turned back to his book, grumbling, “How in the world am I supposed to know?”

You rolled onto your stomach and looked at him. “What do you mean you don’t know? You can prophesize death! You know when the person can die. That’s the power of your vulture, isn’t it?”

Jihoon flinched at the mention of his patron animal and turned to you. “Why do you want to know when you die? Those types of things are best left unknown.”

“But you know them.”

“Yeah, that’s just me,” Jihoon pointed out. “You are a regular person. You don’t need to know when you die or when anyone else dies.”

“I just think it’d be nice to get a heads up,” you shrugged, rolling onto your back and looking up at the ceiling again. “Prepare any last words I need to prepare.”

Jihoon rolled his eyes. “Don’t think like that. It’s depressing.”

“And you see it every day. How are you not depressed?”

“Because I’m used to it,” Jihoon grumbled, turning a page of his book. He frowned and glanced over at you, “But…”

You sat up. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged.

You frowned, “What do you mean nothing? You can’t just lure me to sit up and tell me it was nothing.”

“I just wanted you to sit up because you were being lazy. You were oozing your potato juice all over my bed.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

You scoffed and moved from Jihoon’s bed to where Jihoon sat on the floor. “What are you even doing?”

“It’s none of your business,” Jihoon replied, though he allowed you to touch the books he was reading.

“Are these magic books?”

“No, they’re regular books.”

“I meant books about magic, dummy,” you mumbled.

Jihoon smiled when you looked up and playfully pushed him. He laughed and nodded, “Yeah, they are. They updated some spells and created new ones through the years so I’m reading up on them again.”

“This stuff is constantly updating, huh?”

“It’s like the dictionary,” Jihoon shrugged. “Fads come and become actual spells so they have to be added.”

You let out an “ooh” of interest before you returned to picking out a book and leafing through it. You wrinkled your nose, “It’s all in latin.”

Jihoon chuckled. “Of course it is.”

You glanced at him and smiled before leafing through the book again.

Jihoon watched you silently, an aching beginning to occur in his chest. He reached over and carefully brushed a strand of your hair from your face. You looked over in surprise. Gentle gestures were never Jihoon’s strong suit. He shrugged at your questioning look and mumbled something about how you’d complain if your hair started to stab your eye and he turned back to reading.

You grinned and moved closer, laying your head against his lap as you continued your attempt to comprehend the latin text.

“You’ve been looking down lately.” Jihoon looked up at Jeonghan’s words. He watched as the older witch leaned against the counter and lifted a hand to cup his own face. “What’s been bothering you?”

“Nothing,” Jihoon turned away, walking back to the fridge to put away the juice he had pulled out. He knew it was useless to lie to Jeonghan but he had to try anyway. Perhaps today his powers would fluke and--

“That’s a lie,” Jeonghan replied decisively.

“It is,” Jihoon acknowledged.

“So, what is it?” Jeonghan asked, progressively growing more worried. If Jihoon actually attempted to lie, knowing Jeonghan would know that it was a lie, something must be very wrong.

“It’s nothing,” Jihoon shook his head.

“...It’s not nothing,” Jeonghan mumbled. He pushed himself from the counter and followed Jihoon. “Just tell me. I won’t tell anyone else. I’m just worried about you, Jihoon.”

“I appreciate the worry,” a truth, “But I really don’t want to talk about it,” a lie.

Jeonghan grabbed Jihoon’s arm and pulled him back. “Is it something life-threatening?”

Jihoon shook his head. A truth.

Jeonghan let out a sigh of relief. “Honestly, Jihoon, you’re older now. Stop making me have to worry about you.”

“Worrying is a choice,” Jihoon replied in a very matter-of-fact way.

Jeonghan glared at Jihoon who gave a soulless smile back. Before he could say anything else, Jihoon’s phone rang. He glanced at it and gave Jeonghan the glass of juice he had been holding

“I’m leaving. I’ll be back tonight,” Jihoon said, quickly stepping towards the front door and was gone.

“You’ve been answering my calls all the time lately.”

Jihoon glanced up from his ice cream. “Have I?”

You nodded. “What’s up?”

“I’m just tired,” Jihoon shrugged. “I have too much to do so I feel like slacking off.”

You frowned at him teasingly, “Are you saying that I’m a very free person?”

Jihoon smiled and nodded, “Yes. I’m glad you understood.”

You scoffed, pretending to take offense. “Well, Mr. Lee Jihoon, I’ll have you know that I’m a very busy girl. I’m just making time to talk to you, a dear friend.”

“Ah, I see,” Jihoon chuckled.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you completely,” Jihoon reassured you.

You giggled and returned to eating your ice cream. A comfortable silence fell between the two of you. There was space for words but none were needed. You concentrated on eating your ice cream and peculiarly enough, Jihoon focused on watching you eat your ice cream. You didn’t think to look up until the last second when he looked away. You shifted in your seat and cleared your throat. Jihoon looked over.

“If tomorrow was your last day, what would you wish for?”

“It isn’t though.”

“I’m just saying if,” you rolled your eyes.

“If tomorrow was my last day,” Jihoon repeated in a lower murmur. He looked at you and smiled, “For you to live for a long time.”

You scoffed, “That’s it?”

Jihoon nodded. “I think it’s a very nice, heart-felt wish.”

“I dunno,” you chewed at your spoon.

“What would you wish for?” Jihoon asked.

“Huh?”

“What? Did you ask this question without expecting me to ask it back to you?” Jihoon chuckled.

“No, it’s just I wasn’t finished thinking,” you frowned, chewing your spoon a bit more purposefully. “Mm…do you want me to be honest?”

Jihoon nodded.

“I want,” you glanced up at him and then back down. “I want you to know that I like you.”

Jihoon’s eyes widened. He felt his heart drop and his mouth grew dry. You looked up at him hesitantly to find his mouth hanging open and you found yourself smiling a little.

“If you don’t like me, you can just say it. We’ll forget I said that,” you said easily, stabbing your spoon into the ice cream.

“What? No,” Jihoon hurriedly said. “I-I like you too.”

You looked at him, eyes widening. “I’m talking about the ‘I want to date you’ kind of like.”

Jihoon nodded vigorously. “Me too. That’s what I’m talking about.”

“O-oh.”

“So,” Jihoon reached over the table and took your hand. He looked at you sincerely, “Let’s date.”

Your heart fluttered and you nodded numbly. “Sure. Let’s date.”

He smiled and lifted your hand to his lips, lightly kissing your knuckles. His eyes gleamed happily, though they glistened. You didn’t think it was a big enough of a deal to cry over though.

Jihoon laid on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His heart ached and his eyes had been constantly filled with tears that day. When asked what was wrong, he shook his head but the others knew what it was. Someone was going to die today.

No matter what people said, Jihoon had always found his powers to be a blessing. In this way, he would never say anything wrong to a person and he would never be able to regret his actions before this person passed away. He would be able to make arrangements ahead of time for them and everything would pass by smoothly without a hassle. As a child, he had treated death as a fact and never mourned or questioned it...he never did. Not until now.

Now, he knew why people cried at funerals. He knew what it felt like to have a person’s death act as a knife, wedging itself into his heart until he wished he was the one that died.

Jihoon hadn’t gotten the call yet and he was purposely ignoring the clock. He didn’t want to sit there and count down the last seconds. He didn’t want to think about it but he thought about it anyway. He’s known since you two first met but he had never really thought about the day it would actually happen. He never thought about what he would do then. It had seemed so far away yet…

Jihoon reached for his phone, ignored the time to the best of his ability and went into his contacts. He pressed your number and turned on his side, allowing his phone to sit on his face as he listened to the dial tone. A moment later, you picked up.

“What’s this?” Jihoon smiled when he heard your giggle. “Why is the great Lee Jihoon calling me?”

“Um,” Jihoon took a shaky breath, “I missed your voice.”

You laughed, “Silly, we saw each other yesterday!”

“Yeah but I just,” Jihoon pursed his lips. “I just missed you.”

“Why are you so needy today?” you asked, amusement lacing your voice like a lovely melody.

“Can’t you just let me love you?” Jihoon chuckled. His eyes trailed to the clock. Another hour.

“Of course, of course,” you hummed happily. “How was your day?”

“My day?” Terrible. “It wasn’t the best but it’s a lot better now that I get to hear your voice.”

“You’re being overly cheesy today,” you said, “What’d you do? You didn’t cheat on me did you?”

“No, no,” Jihoon paused for a long time. “I just…”

“Jihoon, are you okay?” you asked, suddenly concerned.

“Yeah,” Jihoon’s voice broke. “I’m fine. How are you today? Did you eat lunch yet? You’re staying hydrated, aren’t you?”

“Nagging too, hm? There really is something wrong,” you speculated.

“There isn’t,” Jihoon smiled. He rolled onto his back, “There really isn’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” you said, an obvious pout in your voice. “I’m going to go over there tonight and cook you a nice, warm dinner and then you can tell me what happened.”

Jihoon’s lip quivered and he placed a firm hand over his mouth. He removed his phone from against his ear for a second and sniffled before holding it back up to his ear again.

“Hello? Jihoon?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. Sorry, I was thinking about how terrible your food would taste.”

“Liar! You love my food,” you said indignantly.

JIhoon laughed, “I do. I really do…Man, you haven’t cooked for me in forever.”

“Don’t over exaggerate, Jihoon. I cooked for you on Monday.”

“And it’s Thursday. That’s a long time,” Jihoon said, his eyes tearing up again.

You laughed at his antics. “Okay, I’ll cook for you tonight.”

“Okay,” Jihoon’s voice came out quick and breathy. He cleared his throat. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“You better. It’s going to be good,” you assured him happily. “So cheer up, alright? Listen, i gotta go back to work. I’m getting off early so we can spend some time together after.”

“Sounds great.”

“See you later!”

“Wait.”

“...Hm?”

“I love you,” Jihoon said, his smile wavered.

You giggled, “I love you too. See you tonight.”

“See you,” Jihoon barely got the words out and barely hung up when the first of his tears slipped down his cheeks. He looked at the clock. Forty minutes left. Forty minutes until…

It was an unpleasant thing to wake up to. The sound of his phone ringing. He knew what the call was going to be about and he answered anyway. He answered in the most casual way possible and reacted in the most unprepared way possible. He froze even though he knew what had happened. His heart pounded against his chest and his mind turned to mush. When he stood, he nearly tripped as his legs gave out. His hands were shaky as he opened the door to his bedroom and soon, he was running out of the house and teleporting himself to the hospital without regard for the rules.

He stumbled through the sliding doors and went to the front desk, telling your name to the nurse who directed him the right way, saying that you had just come from the emergency room. You didn’t have much time.

Jihoon walked numbly to where they said you were staying. Doctors surrounded you and you were just barely breathing. When they saw him, they scattered.

Jihoon knelt down by your bed, shakily taking your hand.

“You knew,” you said with a pained chuckle.

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon softly cried. He pressed your hand against his lips. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…”

“I know,” you smiled weakly. “It’s the rule, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he breathed out with a nod. “You remembered.”

“I’m not as forgetful as you make me out to be.”

“I know.”

“Yet you always made fun of me for being forgetful.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

You pulled your hand from Jihoon’s and allowed it to gently cup his cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m just glad you agreed to date me. Even if it was out of pity.”

Jihoon bit his lip as tears further slipped down his cheek. He scoffed, holding your hand against his cheek. “Pity? Do I ever do anything out of pity?”

“True...you’re pretty selfish…”

“Exactly. I dated you because I wanted to...because I love you.”

You smiled but your response never came. Instead, Jihoon heard the cold beep of the heart monitor and the doctors ushered in. You were gone.

[livvyplaysfinalfantasy]

You return to Azys Lla on the Enterprise Excelsior, and at first everything goes according to plan. Estinien struggles to retain control of Nidhogg's eye but ultimately does so, and the aetheric converger succeeds at breaking through the barrier surrounding the floating Allagan isles.

Yet immediately thereafter, things go awry: the Gration, flagship of the Garlean VIth Legion, has followed directly behind the party to take advantage of the destruction of the wards that surrounded Azys Lla. Just when it seems that you are about to get blown out of the sky, a fleet of dragons arrives, led by Hraesvelgr and Ysayle on his back.

Ysayle then transforms into Shiva and sacrifices herself to stop the Gration's cannons.

This is by far the most infuriating plot point in all of Heavensward. It's left a bad taste in my mouth for nearly two years, and it isn't an exaggeration to say I've been both relishing and dreading the opportunity to discuss it. (Incidentally, I wrote a takedown of this scene two years ago in the form of a meme, and I was shocked to realize how widely it resonated with a variety of players.)

That Ysayle dies is not, strictly speaking, the problem with this scene. The problem with this scene is the extreme lack of respect afforded to her character on a number of fronts - and for clarity, I’m going to break it down into a couple of points.

First and foremost, we as players have neither seen nor heard anything of Ysayle or her whereabouts since the party’s return to Ishgard before the Vault - twelve hours of playtime ago at an absolute minimum. The last we knew, she was busy contributing to peace talks between heretical factions and the Ishgardian Orthodox Church. For such a major character to be absent from the plot for so long only to emerge at the very last second to save the Warrior of Light is nearly the textbook definition of deus ex machina - which, used as it is here, is a hallmark of poor writing.

This moment also marks an extremely sudden change in Ysayle’s arc from when we last saw her. Since the beginning of 3.0, Ysayle’s driving goal has been to atone for the crimes she committed against innocents in order to expose the Church’s corruption; prompting her fellow heretics to choose peace after Nidhogg’s death was a step toward fulfilling that goal. While Ysayle choosing to sacrifice herself isn’t wholly inconsistent with her motivations, it is a much more dramatic action than anything that has been hinted at so far in the game. There is nothing in her character or the plot as a whole to so much as foreshadow that she might choose to give her life, even in hindsight or after subsequent replays.

It is only briefly explained in-game - and by Estinien of all people - how Ysayle and Hraesvelgr know to find the party at Azys Lla in the first place. The fact that Hraesvelgr could sense Nidhogg’s eye from afar is further established through a short story, “The Dreamer and the Dream”, which was published roughly two months after Heavensward’s release as part of 2015′s Rising event. The story explains Ysayle’s relationship with Hraesvelgr in further depth, though it does not ever touch upon exactly what prompted her to leave Ishgard to return to Zenith.

Furthermore, “The Dreamer and the Dream” goes much further than this cutscene in portraying Ysayle as a woman whose shattered personal convictions are just as painful to her as her loss of faith. We know that Ysayle truly believed that she was a reincarnation of Saint Shiva, and that meeting Hraesvelgr forced to question even her identity. What we do not see in the game - at least not to any real extent - is the young woman’s apparent preference to die holding onto her false dream instead of living to rebuild a life for herself and others. If anything, her choice to call for peace in Ishgard is much more of a step toward the latter: toward Ysayle redefining herself in the context of a world without the Dragonsong War.

Supplemental materials are great. I love my lore book, and I am very eagerly awaiting the Tales from the [Revolution?] short stories that we might well be getting this coming Rising. But supplemental materials cannot be a stand-in for good in-game character development.

Again, I should stress that tragedy itself is not the issue here. Part of the reason why this cutscene is so upsetting is that through Haurchefant’s character arc, we as players saw an example of tragedy done well. There was considerable buildup to Haurchefant’s death, leading to eventual catharsis - not to mention a crucial shift in the tone of the entire game. Put simply, Haurchefant's death meant something to both the players and to the characters in the game, and it served a purpose that was deeper than a solution to a very temporary problem.

We see none of this with Ysayle’s death. Her character, unlike Haurchefant’s, is never established to its fullest in Heavensward to begin with. Ysayle’s role in 3.0 is to be beaten down over and over, with absolutely no long-term payoff for all of the suffering she endures: she mourns innocent lives taken by her own actions, she travels with a man who constantly demeans her, she fails to use her Echo to weaken Ravana and gets severely injured for it, and she discovers that everything she thinks she knows about herself is a lie that she herself created. The absolute most one could argue that she gains is that she finds friendship in the Warrior of Light and Alphinaud and possibly Estinien for a very, very short time. And she dies in such an excessive manner - getting shot with the Gration’s cannons no less than three times when she has clearly already exhausted her aether - that it’s difficult not to see her own death as just another example of Ysayle achieving nothing and getting kicked while she’s down. Yes, the Gration is said to be the strongest airship the Garleans have ever built - but even so, it is not difficult to imagine it being stopped without the cost of Ysayle’s life. I remember expecting Ysayle to fall in exhaustion to the deck of the Excelsior after casting Diamond Dust, or for Hraesvelgr to attack the Gration as Midgardsormr attacked the Agrius at the Battle of Silvertear Skies fifteen years before; while the latter might not have worked due to eventual happenings in the Dragonsong War requiring Hraesvelgr, he could easily have intervened in some greater way without entirely undermining the aloofness that defines his character.

To touch very briefly on future plot points, this scene is not even afforded respect within the context of the rest of the game. Only a few characters have anything truly positive to say about Ysayle for the remainder of 3.0, when they mention her at all; immediately following her death is a short series of comic relief quests featuring Biggs and Wedge and an Allagan droid named Gilly. Though Haurchefant is shown in 3.0′s credits to have received a funeral and a gravestone in the Coerthas central highlands, Ysayle receives no sort of honor. Though a few nods are given to her throughout the remainder of Heavensward’s story, I would argue that she is only ever truly remembered in 3.3, and even that happens outside the main story quests.

Ysayle could and should have had a much greater purpose in the game and its plot. Ysayle’s journey to come to terms with her false beliefs had special relevance in an expansion that is at its core about seeking and finding truths; she could in so many ways have contributed to an elegant story about Ishgard finding its own way as word is revealed of the origin of the Dragonsong War. At the very least, her death could have been developed into something with actual depth and meaning through the use of consistent, quality characterization.

I’ll conclude this by saying that I have the utmost respect for XIV and its developers. I understand just how hard they work on a daily basis, and how much of a struggle it was to successfully fulfill their vision for Heavensward on such a tight schedule and budget. I would be the absolute last person to refer to the writing in this scene as “laziness” on their part. But so too should a series with the legacy of Final Fantasy be held to much higher standards of storytelling than what is exhibited here. This scene had lasting repercussions for XIV as a whole and elicited such an overwhelmingly negative reaction from its playerbase that it can and absolutely should be examined to ensure that missteps of this scale are not ever repeated.

[the-roci]

Aftershock Summary:  In the wake of a victory, two leaders of the Downworld mourn what was lost. Find it on A03

“To victory,” Luke says, half-heartedly. He’s slumped against a cushioned booth in the Jade Wolf, shoulders curling in on themselves the only indication that he’s still recovering from Valentine’s wound. Magnus healed the worst of it after the battle, feeling muscles repair themselves in the hum of blue emitting from his fingertips, before he was told to stop. Luke wasn’t ready for the wound to heal, not completely, and even though Magnus wanted to keep going, he understood some pains were too deep to be reached by magic.

Aged whiskey coats Magnus’ tongue before burning the back of his throat, but he breathes through it like the best of them. Six shots have been divided between the pair, and by the way Luke reaches for the bottle, they won’t be stopping any time soon. “If only it felt like one,” Magnus murmurs in the aftermath of the burn.

And shouldn’t it feel like one? With Valentine imprisoned, shouldn’t everyone be breathing a little bit easier knowing the champion of their destruction has finally been locked away, likely suffering unimaginable pains at the hands of the Clave? Instead they’re counting their dead and picking which side is more to blame.

With fingers pointed in all directions, Magnus should be delegating, re-directing pent up tension towards finding the Soul Sword and the person who took it, but he allows himself this moment of selfishness. Wedges himself into this pocket of silence while the others take the lead; he’s fine here, chasing away the rotten taste of a victory in his mouth one tip of his head at a time, until he doesn’t have to think about accusatory glares and ignored correspondences. For this brief moment, Magnus can lean forward until his chest is angled against the table and give his full attention to the look of grief pooling in the depths of Luke’s eyes.

"Alaric was a good man,” Magnus says, wishing he had more time to learn that first hand. “I can’t imagine this being an easy loss for your pack, or you.”

Luke nods, “Alaric was one of the best.” He drags his palms from the bridge on his nose to his ears, as if he can pull the pain away with the swipe of his hands. “Can’t say we always saw eye to eye, but I could always count on him to have my back. Hell if that night didn’t prove it. Alaric backed my play even though he didn’t trust it and he paid for it with his life.” A confession, bleak and crisp like the sound of glass hitting the table. “Christ, half my pack is dead over a plan they didn’t trust. My word against their instincts and they’re gone. How am I supposed to live with that?“

"You examined the evidence and made a call,” Magnus assures, but feels the weightlessness of his words in the growing shadow of everything they’ve lost. "For what it’s worth, I would have made the same one. And if you’re interested in keeping score, I’m the one who brought Clary to the Institute.” Rings slide against one another as his fingers twitch for the bottle but he’s unwilling to set the pace. “Without her there, Valentine wouldn’t have been able to trick Jace into using the sword.”

Without Clary there, Simon would have died. One casualty versus hundreds and Magnus still can’t say he could have left him there, abandoned.

“We played right into his hands. And the worst part, the thing that hurts more than this,” Luke says, indicating to his abdomen with the tilt of his head, “is that I let it happen. He was my parabatai, Magnus, I should have smelled the trap on him the second he was in range instead of leading everyone into it.”

Maybe unconsciously, Luke’s hand drops into his lap, closer to where skin is starting to fuse together into a calloused scar that will forever remind him of how far they’ve fallen. “He always had a way of hiding his goals from the people that flocked around him, and here we are again, scratching our damn heads wondering how it happened.”

“This isn’t on you, my friend. We’re all guilty of letting our fears blind us to what was happening.”

“You’re a wise man, Magnus, but something tells me Meliorn won’t see it that way.”

And isn’t that another pressure pushing against Magnus’ already frayed nerves. “Speaking of our fine general, how are things with the Seelies? All of my fire messages seem to have been pointedly ignored.”

“Doesn’t that say it all? From what I’m able to gather, things with the Seelies are tense, and that’s best case scenario.” It’s enough of an answer to return some of the weight dulled by alcohol. "Meliorn made it clear where they stood and he made it equally clear where we would stand if things went south.”

Magnus feels the pull of muscle as he roles his neck, a smooth circle from left to right, but it doesn’t bring any comfort. What he would do to be home with Alec, the feeling of long fingers digging deep into his muscles until everything melted in the warmth of those hands and Magnus could forget about everything that’s building up around them.

Instead, he settles himself with a drawn out sigh. “And now their people are dead while Valentine lives.”

“Valentine, along with the rest of the Shadowhunters. You should have heard Maia, she was so sure Jace lied to us, that he tricked us into getting our people inside the Institute, and who can blame her? Who can blame any of them for thinking the same thing? And trust me, she won’t be the only one.”

“Oh, I very much doubt she’ll be in the minority,” Magnus agrees, redirecting his attention to the bottle sitting between them, amber liquid dull in the dimming light of the restaurant. For a moment, he feels betrayed that all the answers he needs aren’t reflected back at him.

Lost in his stare, he almost misses the subtle shift inside himself as betrayal turns into something real and uncomfortable, his own distrust stirring between his ribcage, a chaotic flutter that was dimmed by his growing affection for the Lightwoods, Jace, and Clary. But there it is, alive and all too aware that while his friends may mourn for the Downworld, the Clave will certainly call this a victory, no matter how many Downworlders were lost, and doesn’t that say it all.

Luke grabs his tumbler, circling the bottom against the table. “I’m almost hesitant to ask where Raphael and the clan stand.”

Something twists low in his belly at the name, tugging at his intestines until his throat is wet with unease. "Now that we’ve given it a few days to let the dust settle, I suppose we’re due for a conversation.”

As if four days could somehow take away the coil of anxiety that wriggles in his stomach like the snakes he snapped into existence with the very same hands Raphael ordered to be bound, tethered as if he would have used them against him. Somewhere in the space of seconds compared to the centuries they’ve known each other, Raphael found reason to distrust him at a time when all of their survival depended on cooperation. Magnus wants to pick at the moment with expertly painted fingernails until he has a clear understanding of what happened but he’s stopped every time he hears the accusation reverberating in his eardrums –

So you could use your magic against us?

Surely Raphael knows Magnus would never harm him, but he was so, so close to killing Clary- of course Magnus had to stop him, just like he stopped Alec when accusations turned into balled knuckles and split lips. Yet, he can’t stop the sinking sensation in his gut when he thinks about the fact that Clary is alive and many members of the clan are not.

And there it is again, the familiar feeling of coils wrapping themselves around Magnus’ legs, arms, torso until he’s being pulled in several different directions all at once. Every time he breathes, thinks, moves, he feels the coils constricting, one notch after another until they threaten to cut him open.

For a long time, Magnus thought the burden was his alone to shoulder, but now he looks across the table, and sees the same conflict in the shake of Luke’s hand. “You know how this goes,” Luke says, equal parts exhaustion and frustration staring back at Magnus. “He’ll say we gambled their lives for Clary and Alec. My pack, Maia, they’re all thinking it.”

“Did we?” Honesty, sharp like the dagger that cut through Luke’s skin. Because as much as Magnus wanted to help Simon, he can’t deny the need to get Alec out of the institute, even if that meant agreeing to bring Clary into the proximity of the sword. But he never meant to put other lives on the line. All at once, he feels every year on his existence deep in the groves of his bones, a creak wearier than the trees that have felt air not yet touched by man.

As if picking up on his fatigue, Luke’s shoulder drop as his body slides further into the seat. “I couldn’t let them hurt Clary, not after losing Joclyn, but I wouldn’t have moved against Valentine unless I thought we could take him down. Killing Clary wouldn’t have brought them any closer to destroying the real threat.”

“No, it wouldn’t have,” Magus agrees. “But for people who’ve had their lives controlled by Shadowhunters, it probably feels like we took away one of the few choices they had to make.”

Another pour straight to the brim. “So how do we come back from this?“ Luke doesn’t say he doesn’t know if they can come back from this, but he doesn’t need to, they both know the score. “Raphael’s trust, my packs trust, it wasn’t unconditional, and unless we get things sorted, things are only going to get worse.”

Magnus hums in his throat. Another alliance fracturing before it could find proper footing. For a second there, it felt like they were moving forward, bridging century wide gaps even he wasn’t particularly keen on bridging until he fell in with the Nephilim, and now, well, now Magnus is suddenly very, very tired.

Sitting across from Luke, eyes becoming heavier with every pour, he thinks it’s getting late, he thinks it’s near time to go home, but he gives in to his urge and reaches for the whiskey because Luke lost someone – again- Luke steadied himself and went after Valentine, his parabati – again- because Luke wanted it to be over, because he was trying to do the right thing and look at what it cost him. Briefly, Magnus wonders, how much more they’ll have to sacrifice before this is all over. He wonders if it will be worth it.

The flash of guilt isn’t unexpected. All things considered, Magnus got off relatively easily. There were a few hours of gut clenching terror because Alec was stuck inside the Institute with a mad man, because Alec would do anything so long as it meant keeping everyone safe, and in those ominous hours, Magnus swore he would trade everything so long as Alec made it out. And here he is, able to wrap himself around Alec and feel the solidness of his partner, pull Alec close until he loses himself in the warmth of his boyfriend because Alec is alive; Alec got out, breathed the miracle of life against Magnus’ cheek before saying I love you like it was torn out of him with need.

Now Magnus clings to the warmth of it, pulls it in like the last rays of sunshine on a winter’s day, because as wonderful as this feeling is, to know that he’s loved after giving up on ever feeling this again, he knows how fragile it is, and he’s petrified that he may be on the cusp of losing it to the chaos heading towards them.

"You have to talk to Alec,” Luke says. “Valentine may have been a Shadowhunter, but the Downworld suffered too much to not get a say in how to handle him. It’s the only way to attempt to come back from this.”

Magnus huffs out a laugh. “Ah yes, I’m picturing it now, Clave officials clamoring over each other to be the first to send out formal invitations for a summit on how to best handle Valentine. A meeting to end tensions and present a unified front in the face of our adversary.”

“I’m not saying it will be easy.”

“Let’s go with impossible.”

“If Alec’s the acting head of the Institute it’s worth a shot. It may be the only shot we’ve got.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Magnus said, wondering if it’s too soon for another shot. “Let’s just hope it’s enough.”

Magnus has lived for centuries; witnessed the destruction and creations of empires, watched as riverbed dried and mountain ranges formed, but he can’t stop the feeling of something heavy pressing in on him, on them. Something dark and growing and the only thing he can do is try to brace himself, and his own, against it. But for the first time, in a very long time, he’s not sure he can protect those he loves from what’s coming, and it terrifies him.