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chaoticneutralwriter · 4 years

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Star-Crossed

“ A phrase describing a pair of lovers whose relationship is often thwarted by outside forces. The term encompasses other meanings, but originally means the pairing is being “thwarted by a malign star” or that the stars are working against the relationship. ”

guardian demon!jimin x reader

genre: supernatural, romance, fluff, angst, comedy, slow-burn

word count: 12.9k (once again, back in that 12k territory i didn’t mean for this)

related works: see Masterlist under guardian demon!jimin au

Continuation of Fifth Act: Diligence

A/N: WOW, SO I DIDN’T MEAN FOR THIS TO HAPPEN. THIS WAS HARD BUT I DID IT. WOW. I should’ve known it would take long T^T but here it is finally!! Thank you all so much for your support once again!! <3 I hope this chapter won’t disappoint! T^T

@cherryjiminiee @kokobaekkie @breathebangtan @itsadoozie @thatshylatina @chiminieboi @azulamakesmeblank @sectumsemptae @awkwardwookie @aduky @poisonseashell @shortannoyingginger @caramelmac-chiato @sana-b @jiminstinct @beautifulparisiangirl @taelieninvader @ggukjitaejin @xakemi-chiix @vantaenims @atulipandarose @moments-of-melancholy @xclo02 @cherub-kookie @gottadreamitallaway

Your mind goes completely blank for what felt like a good ten minutes, reacting purely out of the baser, instinctive need to survive – body thrashing wildly like an antelope fighting to get out of a lion’s hold, kicking and screaming. It’s not until you sink your teeth into the soft flesh of your attacker’s hand are you finally released along with a pained shout of surprise.

“Bloody HELL poppet that fucking HURT!”

The force in which you were flung sends you toppling over onto the pavement, unceremoniously landing on your side. Your own groans of pain join in with the male nursing his injured palm and getting over your heart attack, you’re finally able to process who it is; raven hair that falls in long waves, tall, muscular figure and decked out from head to toe in black, complete with combat boots. You sit up if only to yell indignantly, “Well maybe you shouldn’t go around jumping people out of nowhere like that you weirdo!”

Jungkook straightens himself up from being bent over, giving his hand one last massage before he shoots you with a pointed look, “Well I’m not the one who was running around in the open like a headless chicken while an entity from Hell was out trying to kill you.”

His retort makes your mind screech to a halt, “…What?”

At your wide, clueless doe-eyed look, Jungkook’s mouth snaps shut just as he was about berate you some more. Turning his head away, he takes a deep breath in before exhaling through his nose, mussing his dark locks a bit with a furrowed brow as if he’s deep in thought. Then he turns back to you, offering a hand and gestures for you to take it.

“C'mon get up, let’s go somewhere else to talk.”

Your eyes dart from his proffered hand to his obsidian eyes, face set into a neutral expression but you already understand that this is of serious matters. Not like you’re going to refuse him anyways, Jungkook appearing like this was the saving grace you wanted – the key to potentially all of your answers.

So you reach up, enough to clasp your own hand into his larger ones and as soon as he gets a good grip, you’re being tugged by more than the immense strength of a demon; your stomach unintentionally does a flip at the sensation, a familiar whirlwind of colours and images passing by too quickly to be discerned before they abruptly stop altogether and you’re on wobbly knees again from the aftermath.

“Jungkook I swear….” You seethed in disdain, even though you’re holding onto his hand like it’s your lifeline. And again, you hear his snickering that he always seems to fail at hiding. At least this time around, it doesn’t last as long.

“You can’t deny me my simple joys in life. Besides, what’s a little apparating in comparison to nearly dying at the hands of another dark creature, am I right?” He jabs, pulling you until you’re standing upright by yourself and then walking off. It’s only then that you notice you’re back on the garden rooftop again, the stretch of the city skyline before you as you’re surrounded by the shrubberies and wispy grass. This time however, the garden’s greens have significantly yellowed in most places and what little floral that was here had begun to wilt, their blooming cycle coming to an end. You wonder briefly if the rain fall just now would be enough to help revitalize the place. The dark rain clouds from before have since dissolved and migrated further south, away from the city to shower onto some other area, yet the sun still struggles to peek through the denseness they leave behind, the skies remaining a gloomy overcast.

“About that,” You start, following after Jungkook’s long strides down the gravel path. “what do you mean by ‘another dark creature’? As far as I know, I only know two demons and I swear I haven’t done anything to offend any other spawn of satan.”

Jungkook shoots a disbelieving look over his shoulder, actually stops in his tracks so that you can get the full impact of it; arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, head cocked and lips pressed into a hard line. He screams, ’oh really?’ without having to say it.

“You know poppet, sometimes I think you’re either really ballsy, or just plain stupid. But I do suppose that’s what makes you entertaining to watch.” Scoffing, he mutters as if to himself with a shake of his head, “Maybe you two really are meant for each other.”

You don’t get a chance to ask what he meant by that, cutting you off the same time he continues walking again, forcing you to tail after him. “Anyways, it’s just what it sounds like; you went and gotten yourself a new 'friend’ when you decided it was a smart idea to try your hands at summoning a demon for the first time.”

Your steps falter, suddenly feeling lightheaded at the shock overtaking you, “W-Wait – that…I thought it didn’t work…I mean…I didn’t see anything when I was done?”

“Or so you thought. You might not have gotten the demon you wanted but it did the job getting some other lesser creature of darkness for you.”

A chill runs down your spine unintentionally at the thought, memories flitting back to those near misses, now with some twisted, shadowy monster being the cause, lurking around each corner you had turned, stalking and waiting for that perfect moment to kill you off. You had stepped so close to death’s grasp, all because you had so blindly messed with something you had absolutely no understanding of. If it weren’t for Jimin showing up…. You shake away the thought, not wanting to even think about it but….

“So then how did….Jimin and you find me? Is that why you’re here?”

He turns his head, a lopsided smile pulling at his mouth. “Yeah, when you’re a 'spawn of satan’ it’s kind of hard to miss that ominous amount of dark energy that came with the summoning. I’m surprised that you didn’t attract more than just three in a ten kilometre radius so when you think about it, you got what you wanted – congrats.”

In hindsight, Jungkook is right; though it was unconventional, you did indeed manage to somehow get Jimin to show himself finally after days of being missing. But, successful as it is, by no means had it been the way you wanted and thus, the praise came out too back-handed for it to feel anything remotely celebratory.

“And that’s the curious thing,” Abruptly, Jungkook stops walking and it nearly has you crashing into him. Luckily, you catch yourself in time, at the expense of stepping on your toes and nearly falling back on your ass again.

“Your little handy work might’ve been amateurish at most, but… evidently that’s quite some potent things you used there.” He pauses for a second, and then he’s facing you, staring down from his full height that makes you feel infinitely much smaller than you should as he almost accusingly says with narrowed eyes, “Including that thing in your pocket.”

You’re left blinking, pupils shifting left and right like you’re a criminal caught in the act for a good minute before you give yourself a pat down, instinctively going to your pants pocket, feeling nothing but then realizing your tote bag is still clinging onto your shoulder, barely holding on by one strap. You’re actually in disbelief that it made it this far. Grabbing a hold of it, you dig through until you pull out the one possession that the demon could possibly be talking about.

The little black velvet pouch remains unassuming as the day you had received it, so you had thought nothing when you opened it again, expecting to see the same stone crystal inside. To your utter shock however, the stone falls out in broken pieces, chunks split in half as if you had taken a hammer and smashed it. Along with that, the once whole stone had visibly lost its lustre, the natural glow dulled into something much more clouded and opaque. You don’t know what had caused this, racking your brain for an explanation; perhaps this was the only damage resulted from the whole accident fiasco you went through, but considering the forces at work here, you won’t necessarily rule out any other more supernatural possibilities.

“Where did you get that?”

Your confirmation is given by Jungkook’s question, his eyes trained on the remnants of the crystal and tone tinged too much on being apprehensive and wary that you can’t simply brush it off as overthinking this time.

Carefully, you reply, “….From the shop that I got all the other things from. Why?”

He goes eerily quiet, dark brows furrowing into a troubled look that mars his youthful face, and he chews his lips in deep thought. Just when you think he would say something, he schools his face once again, turning away.

“Nothing.”

Your face contorts into a bewildered expression because that sure doesn’t sound like nothing. But you’re not here for that. Huffing through your nose, you stuff the broken stone back into your bag, hand shooting out to grab Jungkook’s wrist to stop him from walking off.

“Look, I know you know something is wrong with Jimin and I wouldn’t have done what I did if he just told me what’s going on. He’s been gone for….I don’t know how many days now, wouldn’t even answer any of my texts or calls, but then still manage to show up when I’m in serious danger yet the first thing he does when he sees me is run?” You let go when you see Jungkook’s attention is back on you except the way he’s hiding any sort of emotion right now is just reigniting the same frustration and anxiety you’ve had bottled up for so long, too long.

Jaw clenching, your gaze hardens as you take in a fortifying breath if only as a last ditch effort to not explode right then and there.

“I need you to tell me everything. No more secrets.”

The words still come out with barely restrained anger.

Jungkook remains unfazed, eyes unwavering as he studies you. He sees the fiery temper waiting to be unleashed through the burning of your irises on him, the strain in which you clench your hands into fists until the whites appear in your knuckles, a tremor that rumbles through you like a volcano just before it erupts – no doubt anyone who valued their well-being would know best to avoid being on the receiving end of your wrath now that it has reached such a peak (he almost feels sorry for Jimin, almost). But amongst the flames, he sees the fan that stokes it; desperation, fear, and….

His lips twitch, bemused.

Jungkook finds you very commendable, maybe even to a fault and perhaps it’s why with one last sigh, he relents.

“All right, relax – don’t bite the hand that’s going to feed you.”

Your heart picks up in pace, anticipation pulsing through you in tandem as you brace yourself. Silently, Jungkook gestures with his chin for you to follow him over to the open space and towards the bench under the tree.

“Has Jimin ever told you how he ended up being your guardian before?” Jungkook asks mid-stride, hands shoved into his pockets casually. His sudden question pulls you away from burning a hole into the back of his head.

“Uh….Maybe once? Something about trying to worm his way out of doing dirty grunt work in the lowest levels of hell after causing trouble.”

“Did he say what he did?”

“…Only that it was quote, 'complicated’.” You respond after some thought. Your answer elicits a snort from the demon in front of you, along with some rueful muttering. Before you can ask, you both have reached the tree and the sight of it surprises you. The branches were now covered fully in bright emerald green leaves, providing the proper amount of shade to the bench that situated below it compared to the first time you’ve seen it but more than that, its even sprouted fruits. Round in shape and about the size of your palm, its colour grades from a yellow-green into rosy reds along the skin and its then you realize they were apples.

Jungkook stops just underneath the tree, side stepping in order to clear a path for you to the bench.

“Get comfortable poppet, it’s a bit of a story.”

Tentatively, you make your way over to sit down, gaze never leaving Jungkook’s and evidently the tension is still running high for you – you’re quite literally sitting on the very edge of your seat. Seeing as how that’s as comfortable as you’re going to get, Jungkook releases another deep sigh, rolling his neck as he begins a tale he loathed to repeat.

“That 'complicated’ thing that your guardian did? That was tempting an actual guardian angel to fall from grace.”

The words took a minute to process for you, not knowing what to expect but when they do, the impact hits you head on like a speeding train. For a split second, you’re trapped in a frozen world that’s numbed you of all your senses; you’re left stunned, speechless, jaw actually dropping and you wonder if you’re breathing still. After your mind was done tripping over on itself do you manage to stutter, “He – I mean how….?”

Jungkook crosses his arms, leaning back on the trunk of the tree as a far off look takes over his gaze.

“Trust me when I say if you knew Jimin like I did, you wouldn’t be half as surprised as you are that he would manage to do something like this. Heaven is only blissful to those who are complacent and live by their rules. There’s no room for doubts because to doubt is to question in your beliefs, and in turn, His beliefs which to angels is blasphemy. And angels, above all, are representatives of that. It is their duty to carry out His will, to be the shepherd to guide the lost sheeps because only you can lead them to salvation, even the most wayward ones; for His love is always gracious, accepting and forgiving. They’re really good at selling that righteous fantasy – makes you feel all high and mighty.”

He exhales deeply, the barest hints of an underlying bitterness carries out with the breath, made more obvious when he says, “But even that in itself was a test of faith. How cruel is it to tell you that your sole purpose is to protect and guide a soul that’s supposedly so precious when they prove to you time and time again to be so undeserving of that love? It makes you start to question a lot of things, like whether all your effort is worth it in the end or….” A sharp inhale. “Maybe you’re simply not good enough.”

You listen quietly, not wanting to interrupt Jungkook but immersed in your own thoughts too. Even though you’re not terribly religious, you’re still somewhat familiar with the concepts. So long as you live your life honestly, commit no sins and do no wrong unto others, you’re more likely not to end up going to hell and be tortured for all eternity. And even if you do, you have the chance to repent and thus be forgiven.

Of course, people twist the words they read to suit their own philosophies but in the end, there’s still that clear line between evil and good. It’s all….very black and white to you. So it should be no surprise to you that beings who serve God would have that followed to a tee, only there’s no room for second-guessing or evidently, second-chances.

You see the unfairness in that; to be expected as someone who’s so devout and pious yet not be given that same mercy as humans.

You think….it’s quite sad.

“Nevertheless, those are thoughts no angel should have. Not unless you want to attract the attention of a demon.” He sneaks a glance at you and you catch the mischievous twinkle peering through the long bangs before he averts his eyes to the horizon in front of him again. “And that’s where your little guard dog comes in.”

You don’t deny the way you perk up a little more at that, pulled from your previously more sombre reveries.

“'Jimin’….He was everything you humans thought demons would be – conniving, heartless, and selfish creatures who takes pleasure in causing misery and suffering on others while indulging in all forms of obscenities as a pass time. He, like many demons, saw the world as his little sandbox and everyone in it his own personal plaything; doesn’t bat an eye to even the most heinous of crimes.”

You find the comparison jarring when you think of the demon you know now as being the very same one who did all those morally skewed things. It’s like talking about two different beings altogether. But the more you ruminate on it, the more you saw the plausibility; for one, Jimin is a demon, his entire existence is to be the devil’s advocate so how can you, a human no less, judge him for doing his job? And secondly, Jimin always did have that cockiness about him, like he knows he’s better than everyone else and he’s not afraid to let everyone know they’re beneath him – you included. It was very prominent when you first met, but now it’s tamed to a cheeky sassiness he uses to lightly tease you with (an impressive feat if you’re going to be honest; safe to say that was quite the learning curve for both of you).

However, it just proves to you that even someone like him could change for the better.

“But unlike many demons, Jimin was…remarkably ambitious, uncharacteristically so because while others are satisfied with living that otherwise lawless, cesspit lifestyle, he grew bored of the monotony – had a need to conquer new challenges, push boundaries, always a hunger for more. And it worked in his favour too.” He pauses to let out a short scoff, a humourless chortle under his breath as his voice lowers to an almost melancholic tone. “Maybe that’s what made him so dangerous; being so good at finding even your most darkest secrets and enticing you with sweet words that it makes it hard for anyone to resist.”

Again, there was something in the way Jungkook is telling you all this, the way his voice would inflect with a deep-rooted emotion without meaning to and you can’t shake off this feeling. It’s almost like….he’s recounting, reliving memories from a different time.

Dark eyes slide to yours and you find yourself locked in an endless abyss, one that you’ve seen before in Jimin’s – swimming behind centuries worth of history, you’ll catch glimpses of a long lifetime of loneliness and bitter sorrow that are much too alien to belong on such youthful faces. “So imagine how easy it was to get to a guardian angel who deep down, knew he wasn’t cut out for the job anyways.”

…. And suddenly there’s meaning to the familiarity in which he speaks of everything; of Heaven, of angels, of this guardian angel….

Cocking his head, Jungkook smiles at you but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “Don’t start crying for me now poppet, you should save those tears for something more worthwhile.”

You hadn’t even realized the way you were staring, practically gaping at him with unadulterated shock. Overwhelmed is an understatement to what your mind is going through; so many thoughts racing a mile a minute yet feeling completely empty of any at the same time. You wouldn’t have imagined that this was Jungkook’s story.

At your prolonged silence, he tears his gaze away from you, not wanting to admit how he can’t stand seeing the sad look you’re giving him any longer. Pity was not necessary here.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t regret it. Jimin might’ve done it out of boredom and as his way to fulfill his self-gratification but it was the first time in so long that I felt like someone was listening to me and didn’t judge me right away for my 'impure’ thoughts.”

You can almost hear him rolling his eyes as he says that.

“Before him, I really thought that I was going to live a miserable life being stuck watching over this poor excuse of a human being who does nothing but just….rot away; self-entitled, greedy, stepping on others for their own selfish gains, never to redeem themselves in the eyes of God. Jimin understood me – offered me an out, something I didn’t have when I was made into a guardian angel and never thought I would get even afterwards.”

“So I took it; in exchange for one insignificant soul, I got my freedom.” Jungkook tilts his head upwards, as if he means to burn a hole right through the clouds themselves, or maybe the place that lies far beyond them. Instead, he reaches out to pluck a shiny red apple from its branch, one of the few you think that are early to ripe. “But to willingly hand over a soul to a demon under your watch was an unspeakable act, one of the surest ways to get you thrown out those golden gates.”

He tosses the fruit up in the air once, catching it smoothly and shooting you a roguish grin. The way his lips curl back gives you a more full view of his canines – you swear they look a lot more sharper than what they were supposed to be on his human visage.

“And yes, it did hurt like a bitch when I fell from Heaven, in case you wanted to know.”

A throaty giggle comes out unintentionally along with the huff of air you release through your nose, one which you try to cover up by clearing your throat.

That was a good reference.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to mind though, actually looks proud of the jab he made before his grin starts to slip away, expression turning into something a little more morose as his eyes drift to the apple in his hand.

“The rest was pretty much history; as punishment, Jimin was made to take responsibilities for intervening with the duties of a guardian angel – quite lenient I might add – and once he gets his stamp of approval, he would go back and take me under his wing.”

“So imagine my surprise….” The grip on the apple tightens a fraction, the words are enunciated slowly, deliberately, like its taking all of his self-control to not completely crush it. You would’ve been convinced he was doing a pretty good job, if it weren’t for the flickers of a deep golden glow that begins to burn behind his once onyx irises and the air around him resonates with a charged energy that had goosebumps appearing on your arms. “When half-way through, he asks me if there was a way for demons to become a guardian angel.”

Right before your eyes, the red apple starts to decompose as if it were in a time-lapse, browning and shrivelling in on itself until all that’s left is a dried husk in Jungkook’s hand. You swear you feel the colour drain from your face along with it, a cold sweat breaking out at the back of your neck. Unsparing of the way your mind is hanging by a thread, the demon turns so that you see the twisted smile stretching across thin lips and he sneers, “The irony of it all, am I right?”

You don’t answer because you physically can’t. It’s like your body is going into shock, eyes unfocused and head spinning to the point where you’re thankful that you’re actually sitting or else you think you might tip over and pass out. Your heart is pounding rapidly in your chest, each beat hammering against your ribcage. You try to take in deep breaths to calm yourself but every inhale and exhale comes out short and shaky, every swallow leaving your throat drier.

“Deny it all you want poppet, but this is the truth you wanted – your little guardian demon wants to become a guardian angel.” You wouldn’t have realized you were shaking your head to yourself if Jungkook hadn’t spoken up, voice too nonchalant after dropping a bomb like that on you. He’s dusting his hands off on his sweatpants, picking and inspecting his nails now that the remains of the rotten apple had dropped onto the ground beneath him. By that time, you finally begin to stumble through your words, more or less thinking aloud in hopes of trying to make sense of this extreme turn of events.

“T-That’s….that can’t be, I don’t – why would he do that?”

Jungkook’s gaze whips to you with a quickness, the gold of topaz so piercing that it startles you and just when you thought you could be any less prepared at receiving bombshell news, Jungkook proves you wrong by hitting you with another one more devastating than the last.

“Do you really not know?” He asks, the question nothing more than a hushed tone filled with disbelief, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s you. You’re the reason.”

You.

The reason is you.

It’s like you’re hit by a physical blow that knocks the wind out of you and you brace your hands on your knees, letting out a sharp exhale. All of your questions are getting answered yet the answers you get are only producing more questions; questions that you don’t even know if you want answers to because you’re terrified of what you might hear. You don’t know if you can take much more of it. But you’ve made it so far. With this, you’ve come closer than ever before to finding Jimin and be able to help him. It’s a huge jump than what you had thought possible in accomplishing. So you take a deep breath in, mustering all of your courage to continue forward.

“Is it even possible?” Your voice comes out in a quiver, hoarse as you try to push past the lump that’s formed in your throat, your confidence left much to be desired. Jungkook offers you a half-shrug.

“It’s the same way I became a guardian angel myself once upon a time ago, only you’re more likely to die attempting it as a demon; as they say, it’s easier to fall than it is to redeem yourself.”

That has you jumping to your feet, so fast that the blood rushes to your head and you momentarily feel lightheaded but you’re more alarmed by what Jungkook had informed you.

“That’s just insane, he can’t – I can’t let him do this!”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, poppet.” Jungkook shakes his head firmly, arms crossing and halting any sort of protests that were about to spill from your mouth. “He’s already evoked the process, and now it’s only a matter of time before he fully succumbs to its effects.”

“Wait, what do you mean…?” You ask, full of apprehension, eyes never leaving Jungkook’s.

“Becoming a guardian angel involves being imbued with holy magic over a period of time; the process is slow, but otherwise painless….if you’re talking about an ordinary soul that is.” He pushes himself off of the tree to stroll forward a few steps, “With a demon? Even I don’t know what will happen to him. As you can imagine, to have both holy magic and demonic powers inhabiting one body is dangerous because they’re two conflicting forces; it leaves you unstable and vulnerable until one rejects the other, or your body gives out and you simply perish.”

A horrified gasp rushes past your dry lips, and you’re once again short of breath as an acute surge of panic overtakes your entire body. You’re moving before you realize what you’re doing, latching onto Jungkook’s sleeves with trembling hands like you’re afraid at any moment, he would vanish and abandon you to suffer this cruel twist of fate. Jungkook stumbles back, caught off guard by the strength of your grip, nails digging into his arms and how frantic you look – wide eyed and pupils shaking.

“Where is he?! I need to find him! Tell me where he is Jungkook!”

His larger hands grab ahold of your wrists to stop you jostling him for answers. “I don’t know that poppet. And even if I do, what does it matter? He’s doing this so he can be with you. Is this not something you wanted?”

Your eyes shut in anguish, head lowering as you can only muster a weak shake. “Not like this…” Never like this…

You hear a soft scoff from above you, and you don’t notice the way Jungkook has yet to let you go nor the way he can’t seem to bear looking at you, gaze set out on the horizon in front of him, the unnatural golden glow long since receded as he thinks bitterly to himself, 'That makes the two of us.’

He doesn’t want to admit that the sight of you like this, devastated and conflicted at what you had learned, stirs up his own complex cocktail of emotions – things he has kept buried in the recesses of his mind. When Jungkook had told Jimin of how he could possibly become a guardian angel, he felt like he had owed him some kind of debt, something to repay for allowing him to break free of his own miserable life – only to be the one who leads someone else back to the same place he was in. Maybe this is why he still hasn’t let go of how resentful he is of Jimin’s choice.

Jimin was a fool – a fool in love. Does he truly understand the consequences of what entails afterwards? He thought Jimin would see just how folly it is to pursue this pipe dream, give up the longer he’s subjected to the gruelling effects of completing the acts but Jimin is not Jimin without that stubborn, ambitious streak.

Worse of all, Jungkook resented himself too because deep down, he dares to envy Jimin for his tenacity, for finding a purpose in a life he saw no worth in and to have someone who is willing to fight for him as much as he is for them.

Maybe through this odd sense of kinship with you….. this is the closure he needed.

It takes a few good minutes for you to gather yourself again, minutes of holding yourself back from breaking down completely because you can’t afford to, not now. Not when its suddenly a matter of life or death. The cogs are turning double time in an effort to come up with something, anything to fix this. And that’s when –

“What if there was another way?”

Jungkook pauses to look at you before letting out a short incredulous laugh at the very idea, “Don’t be ridiculous poppet, as if Heaven – “

“I’m saying what if there was another way Jimin can stay without becoming a guardian angel?” You cut him off and the brief moment of silent questioning allows you to blurt out perhaps the second craziest thing you’ve thought of in your life, “What if I give my soul to him?”

Another long silence drags on, only because Jungkook is practically gaping at you like a fish now; jaw dropped, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen before. You both spend minutes that feel like an eternity just standing there, staring at each other as if to see who would break away first. It makes your nervously racing heart seem ten times louder in your ears and you grow self-conscious. Just when you go to explain yourself, defend your case, Jungkook lets out a wheezing laugh. At first they were short and breathy sounds but as they continue, the volume grows until it’s a full blown cackle as does the almost crazed grin on the demon’s face.

You’re frozen in your spot at the sight, even when Jungkook steps back from you to turn away and pace around, hands on his hips and occasionally running through his hair. You hear him choke out jumbled words to himself, phrases that start but drown out by more incredulous bouts of laughing. When it seems he’s finally able to calm himself, Jungkook whirls back around, eyes locking onto you intensely. “You’re serious? You’re actually serious?”

You sputter at the sudden accusation, “Wh – Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because it’s crazy?” Jungkook shoots back, “You do know that most of the time when someone wants to give up their soul to a demon it never ends well – and I’m saying this from one demon to a mortal.”

“Well I imagine if that wasn’t the case then more people would do it right?” You scowl, rolling your eyes. “And besides, it’s not like I haven’t thought about doing it before this….”

Jungkook reels a bit again at the additional confession, scoffing lightly. You can see the thoughts play out across his face as his gaze fixates on a point past the buildings and trees surrounding you and after seemingly reaching a conclusion, you see him subtly shake his head.

“At most, you might be able to remain bound to him.”

“That’s more than enough.” You say, “He shouldn’t have to risk his life for me like this, not when he’s done so much already.”

“Heavy emphasis on the might poppet.” The tall demon holds up a hand as if it means to stop you from flying off to tear the whole city apart to find Jimin in this instance (which, he’s not wrong given if you had that ability). “And even if you do, I can’t guarantee what will happen to Jimin, whether this will stop the process or not.”

“Then help me find him Jungkook.”

He groans, throwing his head back like a child who’s been asked to wash the dishes and you’re flabbergasted at the response.

“You’re really going to leave your friend to die just like that?” You ask aghast.

“It was his choice.” Jungkook replies apathetically. “I warned him that if he were to go through with it, I won’t be able to help him with what would happen afterwards and he did it anyways. Now it’s out of my hands and I’m starting to regret saying anything because of the headache this is causing me.”

“All the more reason!” The rush of urgency threatens to overwhelm you as you step towards Jungkook, “We won’t know if this will work unless I try!”

Yet still, he remains unmoving and it only serves to freak you out even more. It’s like you can already see this last chance slipping away, right in front of you the more Jungkook becomes reluctant.

“This is because of me isn’t it? So let me fix it.” You beg, grabbing ahold of him. “Please Jungkook, this is the last thing I need from you.”

The weight of your pleas hang heavily in the air around you, almost to the point where you felt suffocated yourself. You hate how everything is riding on whether Jungkook would agree to help or not, is literally what would make or break this. You watch with bated breath, hyper-focused on every small movement Jungkook makes; the way he breaks away from your gaze to look off into the distance, jawline tensing as he clenches them and a deep furrow pinching his brows.

Jungkook watches with unseeing eyes the way the first rays of the setting sun breaks through, the streaks of orange so vibrant that they cut through like a knife and set aflame the dense clouds surrounding them. More and more the sky parts to reveal this fiery blaze until the light is burning into his eyes, even long after he eventually slips them shut.

There’s no doubt that once Jimin gets wind of this, he’ll miraculously summon enough strength to slam him through all seven levels of hell and then some. He’s already overstepped by even telling you what Jimin’s really been up to but it’s not his damn fault that the elder demon really dropped the ball on this one.

… Agh fuck it, he’s already in deep now, so what’s a little more help gonna do? Especially when the blazing desperation in your eyes currently rivals that of the departing sun, still clinging onto the last few minutes it has left before the oncoming night swallows it whole. It’s in the last bit of dying light that Jungkook lets out one long, drawn out sigh through his nose and you see him turning back to face you, eyes softly aglow once more and a meaningful look. You gulp, trying hard not to make it so obvious on how nervous you’re feeling but who were you trying to fool? At this point, you’re ready to drop down on your knees and grovel.

You’re actually a split second away from doing that when Jungkook rolls his head back and with another begrudging sigh, so heavy that his shoulders slump inward, says, “Alright fine! I’ll try to track him down.”

Jungkook settles by telling himself the only reason why he agreed to do this tedious task is because: 1) He’d already come this far in telling you basically everything that’s been going on with your guardian demon, might as well go the full nine-yards, 2) your daring plan of action and commitment was something that undoubtedly piqued his interest once more, enticed him into new territories of what-ifs. Again, commendable, he thinks frustratingly so; it’s like a force of its own getting him to root for you. As well, what kind of demon would he be if he didn’t play the part of being the shoulder devil that eggs you on to do stupid, reckless things?

And 3) ultimately, this isn’t his mess so however way it ends is none of his business and though yes he’s helping you track down your missing demon, he doesn’t have any control on what you intend to do after confronting Jimin. He’s essentially just the messenger, and once he’s done with this ’last favour’, he can dust his hands off and continue on his merry way.

As entertaining as this all had been, you had proven to be more of handful than he had imagined. His first impressions of you was that of a strange human who wasn’t totally obsessed with the idea that a demon had decided to take on the appearance of her favourite idol. In fact, you had even seemed highly unamused by it. But you had rolled with the punches and made do with your equally strange circumstance.

And then things took a turn for the stranger; the two of you end up developing an unlikely friendship but more than that, it bloomed into something more. That was when Jungkook had dropped his metaphorical popcorn. The thought is still unfathomable because…what kind of demon falls in love with a human?! And on top of that, what kind of human falls in love with a demon?! That’s just something someone who’s had a few too many screws loose in their head would do and neither you nor Jimin had strike him as one such person.

Apparently, he’s sorely mistaken.

As it turns out, both of your knuckle-headedness knows no bounds, having expected most of it to come from Jimin (given his track record) but you’ve proven yourself to be in equal competition with him, not one to be left out.

If he had thought you were reckless with trying to do a demon summoning ritual on your own before, you’ve blown his expectations out of the water (once again) by declaring you would willingly give up your soul to a demon – in order to save him no less! What an absolute mad lass!

He lets out a snort, kicking at the remnants of your handy work, finding himself back at the scene of the crime in search for a lead. Initially, Jungkook had arrived to the spot out of curiousity on what was causing such a concentration of dark energy to appear and after poking around, had found traces of your aura still lingering about – that was how he had managed to eventually find you. The discovery however made him do a major double-take; for one, not having expecting you of all people to be the cause of this supernatural phenomena but most importantly, how you even managed to come into possession of the materials to make it happen.

That was perhaps the most troubling bit Jungkook finds about this conundrum.

Not just anyone can get their hands on some of the things required to do a summoning ritual, let alone anything remotely authentic. People just kind of fill in the blanks on what they think they need but somehow you almost end up getting it down pat.

This ’shop’ you supposedly went to apparently has the good shit.

And that’s not all.

Along with the ingredients to a demon summoning ritual, you had also walked out of there with something he had thought he would never see in his new lifetime again.

Angelus Tactus.

Or better known as Angel’s Touch – a stone made of pure starlight, said to be plucked from the Heaven’s themselves which imbued them with magical properties that offer protection from much more malicious entities and energies.

So by every means, it was not something some little shop just has lying around as a trinket for sale no matter how niche they supposedly are.

Jungkook unconsciously gnaws at his bottom lip, mulling over this tidbit of information. None of this sits well with him and he had half the mind to hunt down the identity of the shop owner himself, if only to satisfy his curiousities.

….No, he shouldn’t. If he does then he’s only digging his own grave instead of getting out of it like he’s supposed to be doing right now.

With a shake of his head, he banishes the thought (…for now) to focus back on his surroundings. Eyes scanning, Jungkook notices that the rain had washed away what remains of the chalk pentagram that was etched into the asphalt and whatever dried herbs or salt left over has sunken into the soil where they have been pushed. They soak up the natural energy that’s provided by the earth, enough to give off a low pulse. It’s very weak but as he carefully steps around, it’s enough for him to use in order to help him sift through and amplify other aura signatures that might’ve passed the area.

Yours and the creature you summoned were prominent, and given Jimin’s state of limbo, it takes a little bit of 'feeling’ around before he begins to pick up another faint trace of someone else’s. He closes his eyes, honing in on it and lets his feet guide him until he comes upon a spot where it emanates the strongest. He lets it wash over him, familiarizing it with his senses before his eyes slip open, the topaz glow taking over his irises.

Bingo.

Logically speaking, tracking down a demon would take some time, you figured maybe two or three days because demons are discreet creatures by nature; doesn’t help that the wanted demon in question most likely doesn’t want to be found either. So it makes perfect sense that your only option right now is to wait and use this time to go through exactly how you’re going to give your idiot guardian demon a piece of your mind.

Well, at least try to.

You’re a bit of mess right now, to put lightly. After Jungkook spilled the secret on basically everything and you begging him to find Jimin, swearing that this will be the last he’ll ever hear from you, you find yourself strapped into this Tower of Terror of emotions – going from one extreme to another in what feels like split second intervals. You’d arrived home feeling numb and exhausted, heading straight to the safe confines of your room to sit on your bed in darkness and total silence. You felt like a zombie in which your mind and body were not connected, simply breathing and staring off into nothingness.

There was a distinct tightness in your chest, suffocating in its weight that it has you struggle to properly breathe. You don’t know how long you remain like that, but after what felt like an eternity, the strongest desire to scream had overcome you. It’s a rather delayed reaction, you think, moments after you had snatched the closest pillow to you to let out your pent up anger into. You throw your bag violently in the direction of your closet for good measures, the resounding thud pacifying you slightly.

Heaving, you push away the fallen strands of hair out of your face, eyes squeezed shut. You feel your throat closing up in a tell-tale sign of angry tears but you stubbornly keep them at bay. You won’t cry for Jimin, as much as you want to. Though hurt, you’re also livid with what he’s done, is doing…

You shake your head to yourself; you still can’t process the fact that he’s so willingly risking his life for you like this, all at the chance to stay with you as your official guardian angel. But to also not tell you anything about it – just makes you think when would he tell you then? Or was he even planning to tell you at all? The thought of him quietly erasing himself from your life if things went wrong, with you knowing no better and him just….accepting that?

And assuming you would be okay?!

The audacity reignites the flames of your fury.

You’d fallen into a restless sleep in the early hours of the morning, or rather closed your eyes for a long period of time because you don’t think you actually slept. You had tossed and turned, too riled up for any sort of fitful rest. Before you knew it, pale morning light had seeped through your blinds.

Yet you continue to lay there in bed, still as drained as you were the day before, only you’d fallen into a pit of listlessness. The amount of strength you mustered up after a while was to grab your phone, remembering the shift you had later that day and though you hate to be that person, you know there’s no way you’ll be able to work through it. At least, not that day.

But much of your time passes that way, mulling on your thoughts over and over again until you’re giving yourself a headache, the same questions repeating like a broken record in your mind; when did it all start? How could you not have noticed any of this and for so long? How did you let it get this bad?

How long do you have now? Or are you too late?

It has you scrambling to bring forth memories, searching for any kind of answers lost in the past. You dissect each and every one of them, and more and more you begin to uncover the signs; a flicker of melancholy that slipped through before quickly being masked by indifference and teasing, feather-like touches, so light they made you think you’d dreamt it, and…

That night.

The biggest kicker of them all was that night. In a spectacular combination of Jimin’s deflective skills and your tendencies to not be confrontational, you had assumed that it was just as he suggested; some unfortunate, rotten timing on his part that he’d ran into something vicious – another demon, an angel, a hunter, a witch…

Who would’ve thought it was him going through the process of becoming a guardian angel.

Fuck, it all made so much more sense.

As all the puzzle pieces fall into place, it made you realize that the signs had been there all along, just hidden away so well by Jimin.

And every time, you hesitated, faltering on taking action when given the chance.

The regret of not having done more when you could’ve begins to grow inside you and soon, it’s what ate at you the most.

Waiting becomes tortuous. You’re going through the routine of living on autopilot, scatterbrained and anxiously watching for Jungkook to show up at any day, hour, minute, second with news that he’s found a lead. You’re hoping and actually praying to whatever God up there that would listen to give you this one chance to make things right.

So on edge you were that when you came home from what you think was the biggest struggle you had to getting through work to a cryptic message smeared across your mirror, like you’d walked straight into 'The Shining’, you nearly blacked out right then and there.

The yelp you let out was embarrassingly loud, enough to alert Jaehee who came rushing to you, stumbling with shoes half-off from surprising you with an afterwork dinner date. Amidst her frantic questioning and the blood pumping loudly in your ears from your heart that’s ready to bail on you, you come to the realization that while you saw the beginnings of your own paranormal activities movie, Jaehee only saw a plain, ordinary full-length mirror.

It took a lot of nervous laughing and some very poor half-ass excuses to eventually pry your friend off, ushering her out of your room with the promise of properly resting. Once you shut the door, you take deep breaths before turning to look at the offending message that’s ruined your mirror. Now that the instinctual fear wasn’t clouding your judgement, you see clearly that – thankfully – the substance staining the surface of the glass is not blood but something akin to black ink. As for the message itself, it simply states:

’The Whiskey Serpent,

Tomorrow. Midnight.

JK.’

A beat passes and when you fill in the blanks to give context for this obscure set of instructions, your eyes close in exasperation as you heavily inhale.

You’re going to strangle him.

Tomorrow midnight doesn’t come nearly as fast as you wanted it to and your body and mind seems to resent that fact by compromising your sleep (again) and making you feel so jittery you can barely stand still for five seconds. You leave your afternoon shift all nerves and with still too much time on your hands for your liking, even after doing a trial run to the appointed place with the directions you found. You find it easy enough. To no surprise, it’s located in the more luxurious part of the city’s districts, surrounded by sleek sky-rises that hosts either penthouse apartments or five star hotels, streets littered with more expensive cars than you’re used to seeing, upscale boutiques and of course, private lounges and clubs.

The Whiskey Serpent was amongst them, a minimalistic looking building with sleek, black granite stone cladding that gives off the slightest hints of sparkles in the bright sunlight, accented by its polished, dark cherry wood double doors and large, stainless steel handles stretching nearly top to bottom. Atop the entrance sits a metallic amber snake, rearing up and curling around the outline of a slender arm holding a crystal glass, jaws agape and fangs bearing as if ready to strike. It’s all people would need in order to know the name of this establishment.

It’s currently closed; opening hours start once the sun begins to set. So you flounder a bit, not knowing whether you should hang around at a cafe until you have to meet Jungkook or head home. Either way, you know you’re going to fail at any attempts of trying to be prepared for whatever Jungkook is going to say. Perhaps its with that in mind that you choose to go home – if you’re going to be stewing in your anticipation and nerves, you might as well do it in the comforts of your own room.

Your stewing consisted a lot of breathing exercises, fiddling around things on your desk and shelves, standing in one place waiting for a command like a Sim, and pacing. Lots of pacing. You tried stress eating but realize you have no appetite for anything in such a state, a mild inconvenience you know will come back to haunt you later as dinner quickly comes and goes without you so much as consuming a single bite of anything.

As soon as the clock hits half past eleven, you jump on the opportunity to head out, no longer able to wait. You fire off a hasty text to Jaehee the same time you’re speeding to get your shoes on and you’re out the door in record timing. You’re breathless by the time you arrive, breaking out into a half-sprint in your haste. Catching your breath, your eyes take in the way the exterior of the lounge has been illuminated by the little well lights that beam upwards along the walls with a golden glow, now that the skies has darkened. The snake as well has been lit up with its own spotlight, giving it a menacing look as it seems to bore down on you, daring you to enter its domain.

You swallow thickly, squaring your shoulders and with an exhale, mutter to yourself, “Okay, let’s do this.”

Pulling open the doors, you’re greeted by a dimly lit waiting area; black marble floor, an upholstered seating bench on one side and a hostess desk perpendicular to it. Behind the desk was a beautiful dark stone and granite wall fountain, the water cascading down in a steady stream, shimmering against the rough edges as its lit by spotlights lining along the bottom and top and giving off an almost rippling effect. Fixed to the surface were brass vines that crawled from either side, intertwined amongst them were two large snakes that seem to undulate from where they are stuck to, their bodies subtly lifting higher in some places, one head tilted outwards more than the other, as if to give the illusion that they were alive and at any moment, would slither off the wall they were on.

You stand awkwardly, not sure how to approach the elegant looking hostess; a tall woman dressed sharply in an all black suit with hair tied up in a high ponytail, face painted immaculately with well-blended eyeshadows, complimentary lip colour and crisp liner. But you need to if you want to get into the lounge. You’re made painfully aware of how out of place you must look, no where near looking like the type of person to be visiting places like this and the fact makes you freeze up a little.

God, why did Jungkook have to pick a place that screams in your face that you’re poor? Why can’t he just meet you at a cafe or – ?!

“Hello miss? Can I help you with something?”

Your loathing inner ranting is interrupted by the woman behind the desk, who peers at you questioningly, long lashes fluttering as she blinks.

“Uhh…” You stutter, shifting nervously and hugging your bag closer to you in an attempt to comfort yourself before meekly replying, “I’m uhh – here to meet with someone…?”

“Oh,” She sounds surprised and you’re not offended by it. The woman begins to tap on the tablet she’s holding. “Do you a have a name for the reservation?”

You feel like your going to choke on air, mouth opening and closing like a fish as you scramble for an answer until –

“Don’t worry about it, Xenia. This one’s with me.” You jump at the sudden feeling of a large hand clamping down over one of your shoulder and the sound of a timbre voice above you. Whipping your head up, your face contorts into a scowl at seeing none other than Jungkook who, upon feeling your heated gaze on him, shoots you a side-eyed, shit-eating smirk, thick wavy bangs falling over one eye and giving him a wolfish appeal.

Immediately, memories of his little stunt with your mirror resurface and you hold up an accusing finger, scowl deepening further. “You – !!”

Xenia, the pretty hostess, recovers quickly, interrupting you as she smiles and holds out a hand towards the direction of the short hallway that must lead off to the actual lounge.

“Please, go right ahead then. Would you like me to have the usual ready for you?”

“Yes, please and thank you.” Jungkook waves casually, then you feel him nudge you forward and you have no choice but to go. He leads you to round the corner and you finally get to see that the lounge is just like the rest of the building; all dark colours, dimly lit and refined with a luxurious elegance that you’re both in awe and intimidated by.

Around the perimeters of the large room, there are alcoves with black leather sofas, decorated with lavish throw pillows and low tables, each booth separated by corinthian style columns outlined in gold that matches the designs running along the ceiling moulding while much of the middle space is taken up by velvet ornate chairs gathered around tables with tall cylindrical lamps emitting a soft warm glow to serve as lights. There wasn’t much in terms of decor, other than the sleek black grand piano situated in the farthest corner of the room, currently empty with no pianist.

You don’t see many people here, only a few couples interspersed in some of the booths and chairs and the occasional individuals having a quiet drink to themselves. Despite the abundant of open tables, Jungkook doesn’t lead you to any of them, instead directs you to the only other place of sitting which was a long bar taking up most of one side. He takes a seat in one of the bar stool and the bartender wordlessly places down two cozier, crystal glasses and a bottle onto the brown marble counter in front of him, the liquid inside a deep russet colour, before leaving.

“Are you going to keep standing there or are you gonna come sit?” Jungkook gestures to the empty seat beside him. His voice snaps you from your momentary gaping and you kiss your teeth in frustration, annoyed that you keep getting distracted.

“You have some explaining to do. What the hell were you thinking when you decided to vandalize my mirror like that?!” You hiss as you take your seat carefully, acutely self-conscious of not wanting to draw any attention to your presence here – silly considering there’s hardly anyone here.

Still, this is such a new place for you that you can’t help feeling like you’re in over your head being here. Sure you’ve been to a few bars and pubs but the places you go to don’t have mini crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and their liquor selection is equivalent to what you find in your local liquor and beer store; you don’t think you recognize any of the bottles lining the vast glass shelf in front of you.

Jungkook ignores you by choosing to down his glass in one shot and lets out a loud noise of satisfaction, smacking his lips.

“That’s some good shit.” He seems to say so more to himself.

“Jungkook.” You say with warning. The patience you would have had to humour him tonight was long gone, spent on the time waiting to hear any news from him.

“Don’t be so upset, I didn’t have any way to contact you. Plus, you were out with your friend so I highly doubt you would appreciate me just waltzing up to you with her there.” He pushes the extra glass of liquor towards you. “Also would be too suspicious because I don’t think you’re someone who knows that many good-looking people.”

Glaring, you push the glass back stubbornly, crossing your arm. “If you think I’m here to drink with you, then you’re wrong in inviting me out.”

The demon lets out a long breath, flipping his hair. “So serious….” You hear him mutter flippantly before he addresses you again. “Fine, fine…” He takes the bottle and pops the cork off, filling his glass generously. “It took a while, only because his signature aura was so convoluted given the state he’s in. So I lost his trail a couple of times.”

“But you found him right?” It comes out in one rushed breath. You’re leaning expectantly towards him and the pressure of your gaze is so heavy that it makes Jungkook shift a little. He clears his throat, taking a sip from his drink again and then goes digging into his pocket. From it, he produces a folded slip of paper, holding it between two fingers to show you before sliding it across the smooth marble towards your direction.

“Lucky you, he didn’t stray very far – turns out he’s got a place not far from here; one of those fancy new penthouse apartments.” You hear him scoffing in bemusement, “He can be on his death bed and the bastard still won’t let go of his expensive taste.”

The slip reveals an address when you unfold it, messily scrawled in blue ink. You stare at it, not believing that the whereabouts of Jimin is now sitting in the palm of your hand. It makes seeing him tangible again instead of the hopeful prayer you’ve been clinging onto for the past days. For once, you feel confident that you have a fighting chance now.

“….Thank you.” You whisper to Jungkook, clutching at the piece of paper, afraid that it would vanish at any moment. “You have no idea how much this means to me, I really owe you with this one.”

The sincerity and reverence in your voice catches Jungkook off guard, so much so that he doesn’t know what to do with himself for a short second, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck as he avoids meeting your eyes. He settles to grab a hold of his glass.

“Yeah, well you better 'cus I had my work cut out for me.” He mumbles around the rim before taking a hearty sip. You bite down a small smile, catching a glimpse of redness tinging the tips of his ears, made more noticeable thanks to having his hair pulled up into a bun. After swallowing his drink, Jungkook speaks up, shifting the topic back to you as he asks, “So what’s your plan?”

“I’m going to confront him.” You reply assertively.

“Like, right now?”

“Well, yes. At this point, I’m done waiting.”

The demon barks out a laugh, head thrown back at your sheer determination. He nods along, agreeing with you as he gestures to your still untouched glass.

“Then drink up poppet, you’re probably gonna need the extra boost.”

You eye the glass of expensive whiskey uncertainly, having wanted to keep a clear head when you see Jimin in order to get across everything you have pent up inside you but at the same time, you’re shaking with so much anxiety that you can barely think, let alone hope to articulate your feelings properly.

Maybe just a sip or two, you decide, reaching out to take the glass which seems to satisfy Jungkook. He holds his up in cheers, a playful smirk playing on his lips.

“To love, which conquers all.”

The groan slips out loudly and you bury your face in your hands, embarrassment taking over every part of your being. “Oh my God no….”

Jungkook’s cackling doesn’t help, much too deafening in the quiet atmosphere of the lounge that you just want to leave as soon as possible. You get in three sips before you can’t take the burning anymore and promptly ask for a glass of water.

Though it was just three sips, you feel the liquor coursing through your body, warming your veins with the liquid courage you need as you watch the numbers climb on the elevator. After making a quick exit from the lounge, Jungkook had so graciously offered to walk you to the high-rise apartment, getting you past security with ease (must be a demon charm thing) and leaving you at the mirrored elevators.

“As much as I would love to see you drag him through the dirt, it’s never a good idea to be caught in the crossfire of a lover’s quarrel.”

He’d said before walking off, throwing you a two fingered salute over his shoulder.

And now here you are, alone and with sweaty palms as the elevator finally chimes, letting you know that you’ve reached your destination; PH58.

You step out into the hallway, peering around and taking in the deep mahogany walls that perfectly accents the white marble floors and neutral beige and brown decor, giving a very chic, modern look. There are only two doors located on either ends of the hallway, both the same deep wooden colour as the hallway – the one you’re looking for is to the farthest left; PH58A.

Your heart is racing as your eyes lock onto the gold plated number and you feel like you had to force your legs to move, steps heavy the closer you get. You can’t believe this is it, after so much chasing and wondering, the person you’ve been looking for all this time is just behind this door.You close your eyes, steeling your nerves, then raising your fist, you give three firm raps.

You wait with baited breath.

But after a minute and a half, the door remains unopened.

You try again, and wait once more.

….

Yet still, nothing.

Brows furrowed, you begin to question whether or not this was the right address but a quick glance at the slip of paper Jungkook handed to you proves that you are. Was he out at the moment? You take out your phone and dial his number, pressing your ear close to the door and listen. It’s a long shot but you’re willing to try anything at this point.

It rings once on your end, then twice…

And that’s when you hear it, the unmistakeable rumble of a phone set onto a table. The buzzing lasts for a short second, however, it’s all that’s needed to have you straighten up with a renewed zeal.

“I know you’re in there.” You say loud and clear, not caring if you might potentially disturb the only other tenant in the vicinity. “So there’s no point in hiding from me anymore because I know everything.”

Silence.

It rings louder than your words and slowly, your temper flares to life, rearing its ugly head.

“Listen, I don’t care what you were thinking, I deserve an explanation in all of this from you and if you’re just going to be a… a self-sacrificing jerk about this! Then – !” Your voice steadily grows louder, all sense of maintaining some semblance of level-headedness thrown out the window and pushed to the brink of your wit’s end, you shout mindlessly, “I’m never talking to you again!”

The door suddenly snaps open and you nearly choke on the gasp the rushes out, startled. Your eyes dart to the figure standing in between the gap and immediately they widen upon seeing who it is.

Jimin’s shock mirrors your own, obsidian eyes boring into you as if not believing you were there standing in front of him either and for a moment you get lost taking each other in.

He is still breathtaking in every sense; dark raven locks swept off his forehead, slightly damp as if he had just showered, the ends of his fringes grazing delicately over his eyes – longer than what you had remembered. He’s dressed in a simple white t-shirt that’s distractingly thin with the neckline dipping so dangerously low that you can’t help but let your eyes trace over the smooth expanse of his clavicle and sternum exposed to you as well as black jeans that never fail to hug his thighs in all the right places with cuts just above the knees, revealing more skin than you can handle right now.

But as you drag your eyes away and to his face, you notice the pallor of his skin has significantly lost its glow, the paleness turning his flawless complexion lifeless, almost cold. Dead. The ashen bruises under his eyes are more noticeable now and the more you look, the more you’re convinced that he might’ve lost weight too; his face slimmer and jawline more prominent to you. An ache blooms in your chest then, muting the resentment briefly.

He looks exhausted, more than you’ve ever seen him before.

And your heart is breaking seeing him like this.

“Cherub…” Jimin breathes in disbelief, the tiredness reflecting even in his voice. “How…”

Like a spell being broken, you break from the trance that’s taken over you and you surge forward.

“You – !”

Caught off guard, Jimin steps back into the foyer of his apartment but you follow after him with a fierceness, driven by the storm of emotion tearing through you right now.

“You fucking asshole!” You continue to lash out, hands flying at him and you land a push that forces him back again. You’re relentless in your pursuit, hate that you’re reduced to pushing and shoving because the words come out in broken pieces, barely formulated enough express the fraction of the hurt you feel because of him. He catches your wrists as you go in for another hit.

“Y/N – ”

You rip away from his grasp easily, flinging your bag to the ground in the process but that’s the least of your concerns as your eyes are trained on him.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?!” You shout, shoulders heaving. “Were you ever going to tell me truth?!”

“Y/N, what are you – ” Jimin struggles, confused at having not expected you to find him.

“Were you ever going to tell me that you’re trying to become a guardian angel?!”

He freezes, like a deer caught in the headlights but as your words finally sink in, his eyes slip shut and he brings a hand to run through his hair, sighing.

“Was it Jungkook?”

“Does it matter?” You spit back. “What matters is that you hid this from me!”

“I was going to tell you once I transitioned.”

“And what if you didn’t?!”

“Wow, I love the amount of faith you have in me….”

“That’s not what this is about!” You yell, body heating up and trembling from the intensity, “Do you not see yourself?! How can you risk your life doing this and not tell me anything?!”

“And performing a demon summoning ritual isn’t putting your life at risk?” He argues with a hard gaze. “If I hadn’t found you on time, you would’ve been killed!”

“I wouldn’t have done it if you had just told me what the fuck was going on!” You snap back just as quick.

“I was trying to protect you!” He finally confesses, voice rising to match yours in volume, his own distress peaking. “I wasn’t going to risk anything more than I need to. If I have to put my life on the line in order to guarantee your safety then I don’t care.”

“BUT I DO!”

Your words resonate loudly throughout the room, reaching to a pitch that has it ringing in your own ears. It felt like time itself had come to a stand still with the way Jimin is frozen in stunned silence. You’ve never been one to scream during a confrontation, hadn’t counted yourself as the type but you suppose this is your first time being pushed to the extremes of your limit. When neither of you speak, you take in a ragged breath.

“Did you think I wasn’t going to notice that something was wrong?” You ask, voice hoarse and breaking from the emotional and physical stress. “That I was going to sit around and do nothing?”

Jimin swallows thickly, suddenly unable to meet your eyes and you see his jaw tick. After a pause, he admits quietly. “….I can’t protect you, Y/N. Not the way an angel can because demons aren’t meant for it – I’d only end up hurting you if I try.”

“Hurting me?” You scoff at the audacity. “You thought avoiding me, ignoring my calls and texts with no explanation wasn’t going to hurt me? You didn’t think that if you – ” You choke, and you had to fight to get the next few words out. “If you died because of me, I wouldn’t be hurt?”

He says nothing in response, can’t hope to because any words die on his tongue at the sight of you. He thinks this is the second time he’s seen you like this – distraught with glassy eyes wet with unshed tears – the first being that night when he had showed up bleeding on your bedroom floor. It makes him want to reach out, to hold you and brush away those tears before they fall but the guilt keeps him where he is, away from you.

Yet despite how close you are to breaking, there’s a quiet determination that’s ignited in you and it’s what dares you to take a step closer to him.

You’re not going to run. Not from this, not from him.

“You might look like Jimin, might sound like him and I might’ve watched hundreds of videos of him…..But I don’t know him….” You say, shaking your head. “I don’t know Jimin.” And your next words you say with a softness so tender that it’s heartbreaking to hear. “But I know you.”

The way you’re so sure of every step you’re taking makes him withdraw back. His mind is at war with itself; he knows he shouldn’t let you come this close, afraid of what he might end up doing when he feels what little self-control he has left slipping away, like sand between his fingers. It was so much easier with you hitting and screaming at him.

Jimin feels the sofa hit the back of his thighs. You keep going.

“I know you won’t hurt me without meaning to.”

“Y/N…Don’t –”

It’s a feeble attempt; he knows it’s no use, not when there was no meaning put behind those words. He can smell you now, your scent overwhelming and tempting, and it further empowers his traitorous heart. When he swallows, he swears he can taste you.

He’s losing focus, his senses being filled with nothing but you.

“If you think you can scare me by saying that, you’re wrong.”

You tentatively reach out, waiting to see if he’ll turn you away but all he does is watch you entranced, to see what you’ll do next. Gently, you place your palm against his cheek.

Jimin inhales sharply at the touch, melting at the warmth against his chilled, clammy skin. He can feel himself come alive again, the dull constant ache of his body soothed for the first time, and his eyes flutter shut. He looks so serene this way and your heart squeezes, wanting to offer more solace. To let him know that he has you. You lean in until your foreheads touch and you feel the light caress of his breath brush against your cheeks and lashes.

“So I don’t need you to be a guardian angel. All I need is for you to stay beside me just as you are, like you always have.”

Muted crimson eyes are suddenly peering at you through a half-lidded gaze, the colour dulled but they bore into you intensely. There’s a flurry of emotions flitting through them as they flicker over your face, searching for any traces of hesitation yet finding none. Your willingness astounds him, and he’s almost afraid that it’s all a delusion conjured up from his carnal desires. But you mean to prove him wrong the moment you catch his eyes lingering on your lips.

The first brush was as light as a butterfly’s wing, chaste and soft, but it’s enough to subdue him completely, bring him to his knees and have him craving you like a starved man in the middle of a dessert. The moment seems to last too shortly for him. Even when you barely part away, Jimin mourns at the lost of contact.

“Stay with me?” You whisper.

He answers by closing the gap between you again, pressing firmly this time and sealing the words against your lips. You sigh out and he swallows the sweet sound, finally getting to savour the taste of you. Like taking the first bite of the forbidden fruit, the newfound hunger takes over, consuming him.

And he gives into the lust, leaving him wanting more.

#guardian demon!jimin #jimin x reader #jimin x you #jimin reader insert #jimin fanfic #jimin fic #jimin scenario #jimin scenarios #jimin fanfics #bts supernatural au #jimin fics #jimin fluff #bts jimin fanfic #bts jimin imagines #jimin imagines #jimin x mc

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the-weeping-monk · 4 years

Text

visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)

Chapter 3

prev-next/find on ao3

They had been traveling for hours and had only stopped to make camp when the sun’s final rays disappeared beyond the horizon.

Lancelot had offered to walk and had given Nimue and Squirrel his horse, despite having to clench his teeth against the pain of his wounds. It was the least he could do, he reasoned. He deserved much less than the kindness Nimue had afforded him.

Throughout their journey, the young queen had habitually glanced down at him from time to time, almost like she was checking to make sure he would not run off and lead the Paladins right to them. She had caught him looking up at her more times than he’d like to admit, and each time she had quickly whipped her gaze back up to the path ahead and pretended the encounter had not happened.

Maybe if he told her of his origins, of what he truly was, he wouldn’t be met with such disdain. But a part of him refused to entertain the notion—he deserved every hateful glance she threw his way, deserved every cruel word. Maybe things would be different if he told her that he was Fey, but that did not mean that she should treat him better.

Lancelot had killed his own kind for a god that hated his very existence. How could he face the Fey Queen after admitting such a thing?

The answer was that he could not, and so he kept his mouth shut.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” Nimue said as she dismounted Goliath, breaking their mutual silence.

Lancelot moved to help Squirrel down, but Nimue shot him a scathing look and helped the boy down herself.

If you so much as make one move against me or Squirrel, I will make good on my threat to disembowel you where you stand.

He swallowed.

Though he and Nimue had not officially met before that day, tales of the fearsome Fey Queen had passed through the Paladin ranks like wildfire.

More powerful than Merlin himself, they had whispered. Ambition that rivals a king’s.

With each story, his respect for her grew. Though her ire was now directed at him, he was glad to see that the rumors did not lie—she was every bit the queen they had said she was.

“Monk,” she said, addressing him.

He snapped out of his reverie and met her eyes.

She looked away. “Can you hunt?” Her tone was begrudging.

Lancelot had never actually needed to hunt before, but he was not about to tell that to the woman gripping the hilt of the sheathed Sword of Power—though he suspected that she would be able to kill him quite easily without any blade. “I can.”

“Good,” she said. “Find what you can and then meet back here. I’ll get a fire going.”

Squirrel ran up to Lancelot’s side before Nimue had the chance to object. “I’ll come with,” he said decidedly.

“No, you will not,” Nimue commanded, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “The sun is setting—it’s too dangerous at night.”

“I want to help,” Squirrel said, brow furrowing.

Nimue shook her head. “I just got you back. I can’t lose you again.”

“I’ll be fine—I will be with him.” Squirrel jabbed his thumb in Lancelot’s direction.

“That’s precisely what I’m worried about,” Nimue said, frowning. Her gaze met Lancelot’s then, and her eyes narrowed.

Squirrel would not take no for an answer, it seemed. “The Green Knight made me a knight, too.”

“And I am sure he’d be proud of you. But right now, I need you here, with me,” Nimue said, voice soft.

Crossing his arms, Squirrel said, “You’re not my mother.”

Hurt flashed across Nimue’s face, but the expression was gone so fast, Lancelot was not entirely sure if he had imagined it or not. “No, but I am your queen.”

And just like that, the fight left Squirrel. The boy turned to Lancelot, disappointment etched into his features.

Lancelot put a hand on his shoulder. “I promise that you can hunt with me some other time,” he placated, “but she’s right—it’s too dangerous. And besides, knights have a duty to protect their queen.”

Squirrel frowned but didn’t argue. He nodded and stepped back towards Nimue, who was observing Lancelot with an odd look. Lancelot gave her a single nod and strode into the dark woods beyond them.

He had only gone hunting for animals once before with Father Carden. Lancelot had been eight and had been learning how to be silent in the woods despite the forest floor being littered with dry leaves and fallen twigs. Though he practiced sly-footing often, hunting was another matter entirely—it took precision and care, not to mention stealth in order to be able to get close enough to a target.

He remembered being proud that Father Carden had trusted him enough to take him hunting, and the feeling of excitement at being considered ready for such a task. But when Lancelot had his bow aimed at a beautiful white stag, he could not release the arrow. Something about the way the animal looked at him had stalled his hand, and before he knew it, the stag had disappeared into the maze of trees.

Father Carden had been furious, but Lancelot did not regret what he did—or, rather, what he did not. He still did not regret his actions even when the Paladin forced Lancelot to whip himself.

Ever since that day, Lancelot stopped hunting had not gone hunting for animals. Instead, he had hunted the Fey.

There was a rustling sound in the brush beside him, and Lancelot didn’t think twice before flinging a small knife into the shrubbery. Oh, how far he had come.

Would Father Carden be proud? The thought made his blood run grow cold, and so he distracted himself with finding his target in the brush.

It was a rabbit, barely larger than his hand. Lancelot’s tiny knife was lodged in its tiny back. It appeared to be dead already, the life gone from of its round, black eyes. An image of the white stag flashed across his vision, and he shook his head to rid himself of the memory.

Burying his discomfort, Lancelot removed his knife from the rabbit and wiped it clean on his cloak. It only took him a few more tries to secure another rabbit, this one larger than the last.

Satisfied that this would be enough, he made his way back to camp, ignoring the uneasiness in his heart.

He returned to find that Nimue had constructed a fire. Squirrel was tending to the flames as Nimue plucked ripe apples from a tree that had definitely not borne fruit an hour ago. She caught him staring and he quickly glanced away, deciding that it was pointless to wonder; this woman could apparently do anything—making fruit appear on a fruitless tree was something she probably did in her sleep.

Lancelot set the rabbits down next to the fire and began to skin them. The process was slow, but it gave him a distraction from his thoughts, which had been louder than usual.

You can’t hide what you are forever, his subconscious—which sounded suspiciously oddly like the voice of Father Carden—whispered. You’re a beast, and therefore, you are damned.

Once he was finished skinning the animals, Lancelot fashioned a spit and roasted them over the fire. He caught Squirrel watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he gave the boy a small smile.

Encouraged, Squirrel stood and made his way over to the log Lancelot was using as a bench.

“Do you do this often?” the boy asked, his eyes on the flames stretching into the sky.

Lancelot felt Nimue’s gaze on them as he answered, “Not exactly. Someone else usually does this for me.”

It was true—in the Paladin camps, Lancelot never cooked his own meals; they were prepared for him. Cooking was something Father Carden refused to teach him. In hindsight, Lancelot figured that the Paladin didn’t actually know how to cook, and didn’t want to be embarrassed by his lack of knowledge.

Nevertheless, when he was younger, Lancelot often sneaked into the kitchens. He tried to offer his help to the cooks, but they always turned him away with disgust written across their features.

There was one soldier, however, that allowed Lancelot to watch him while he roasted an animal over a fire. He had even let Lancelot try it for himself, had taught him how to steady his hands, and rotate the spit. It was the only experience the Monk had had with cooking, or with kindness.

“Oh,” said Squirrel, bringing Lancelot back to the present.

“That must have been nice,” Nimue said from across the fire. The waves of heat contorted her face, but not even that could make her less lovely. “I suppose you get certain privileges with the more Fey that you murder in cold blood.”

There it was. Realistically, Lancelot knew that it would have to be brought up at some point, but he had deluded himself into thinking it would be far in the future.

He should have known—he was never that lucky.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I should never have followed Father Carden.”

Nothing you could say would make me trust you.

Nimue scoffed. “I don’t understand. You murder countless Fey and then just expect to be forgiven? For us to welcome you into our ranks? For the people whose families and homes that you burned to forget what you have done?”

You burn their homes. You slay their mother and their fathers. And you watch your Red brothers run them down on horses. And you see it all through those weeping eyes. That makes you guilty.

“No.” Lancelot shook his head. “Nothing I can do will ever be enough to repent for what I have done.”

Her eyes bore into his, blue orbs the brightest fire, the most consuming waves. “You say that now, but are you sorry enough to become my prisoner?”

Lancelot blinked, the question catching him off guard. Though she didn’t sound entirely serious, it made him think. Leaving the Red Paladins was the best choice he ever could have made—for both himself and the Fey—but that didn’t mean he wanted to give up his newfound freedom for different chains.

In his silence, Nimue continued. “I thought not.”

“I do not wish to be your prisoner, but I will offer you my service,” Lancelot said instead. “I can fight. For you, for the Fey.”

You could be our greatest warrior.

“Even if I let you join us, what makes you think that anyone would fight beside you? What makes you think you can be forgiven?”

“I would not blame them if they couldn’t forgive me,” Lancelot said. “I would not forgive me either.”

I reach out and there is only darkness.

Lancelot finished roasting the rabbit meat and cut it up into equal portions. He handed Squirrel his ration and stood to give Nimue hers. His eyes were downcast, unable to meet her gaze. No words were exchanged, but she gave him a nod of acknowledgment. It was more than he deserved.

They ate in silence.

When they all were finished, Lancelot gave Squirrel his cloak to use as a pillow. The boy took it with a mumbled “thanks” and moved off to another fallen log farther away from the fire. When Lancelot turned his attention back to Nimue, he found that she was already looking at him.

She glanced away and shook her head slightly. “I’m going to gather more firewood,” she said unceremoniously before rising and grabbing a piece of burning wood to use as a torch. She headed into the forest without saying another word.

In the moments after she left, the darkness seemed to close around him. When he was younger, Lancelot had been afraid of the dark—until he had learned that it was the least of his problems. The dark was not as scary once you yourself became something to fear.

“Please—”

Lancelot’s head snapped up at the sound, and his gaze landed on Squirrel. The boy was curled in on himself, mumbling in his sleep. Every so often, he fidgeted, as if he was trying to escape from his subconscious. But, up until then, he had not spoken. The dreams must have gotten worse.

“Please, don’t”—a thrash—“don’t hurt them!” Squirrel cried out, his eyes squeezed shut. “Please—” A sob tore loose from his throat. “Stop it!”

The boy’s nightmare was a painful reminder of the terrors that plagued Lancelot’s sleep. His past never left him, his ghosts were a part of him. Those he had killed were tethered to his mind, a permanent reminder of what he had done to his own kind in the name of a god he did not believe in.

The boy’s hands grabbed at the dirt floor beneath him as tears streamed down his face, and before Lancelot had a chance to think, he was up and at Squirrel's side.

“Wake up,” he murmured, lightly shaking the boy’s shoulders. “Percival, wake up, it’s just a dream.”

Squirrel’s eyes shot open and he scrambled away from Lancelot. His chest was heaving and his pupils were blown wide as he took in his surroundings.

Lancelot remained where he was, barely moving, hardly breathing. He raised his hands as if to placate a wild animal—and then cursed himself for making the comparison. Percival was not an animal, he reminded himself, and neither are you. It was a difficult habit to break, beaten into him by Father Carden so thoroughly that it was near impossible to remember what it was like without the older man’s voice inside his head.

The Fey are dangerous beasts, Carden had said. And beasts have no reason.

Lancelot grit his teeth and tried to clear his mind, if not for his sake, then for Squirrel’s. The boy was still staring at him and breathing hard; the dream had not yet left him.

Addressing the boy, his voice was soft as he said, “You’re safe now. It was just a nightmare.”

Squirrel looked away and rubbed furiously at his eyes, almost as if he was ashamed to be seen crying.

A hollow ring of familiarity resonated through Lancelot. When he was not much older than Squirrel, he had been forced to hide his tears from Father Carden for fear of what the Paladin would do.

He remembered distinctly one night when he had been haunted by a night terror. Carden had heard his screams and had come to his tent, a whip in hand.

Do not be scared, boy, he had said as he handed the whip to Lancelot. The Lord will cleanse you of your pain, just as you must cleanse yourself.

Lancelot had been expected to whip himself over a nightmare he could not control, and so he had. He was seven at the time, a mere child. But Father Carden hadn’t cared, just as he had not cared when his Paladins murdered Fey children. They were beasts in his eyes, animals that needed to be cleansed from the earth.

But it was only now that Lancelot realized that perhaps Carden had not wanted to see that the Fey had hearts, just as humans did. Perhaps he had wanted to remain in ignorance, content with the false belief that the Fey were solely animals without feeling.

“It’s alright,” Lancelot found himself saying, “I have nightmares, too.”

Squirrel’s eyes assessed him, but, after a moment, he mumbled, “I had a dream about my parents.”

Lancelot blinked up at the boy from where he was crouched. “Oh” was all he could say.

Squirrel clenched his fists and drew his brows together as he studied the fire burning low. Shadows danced across the clearing and made the boy appear older than he was, more burdened by the life he hadn’t yet had the chance to live.

“The Red Paladins killed them,” Squirrel said, voice barely above a whisper.

Lancelot moved to sit on a fallen log and motioned for the boy to join him. Hesitant, Squirrel moved to sit, albeit on the other side of the log. Though it should have stung, Lancelot knew that the boy’s reluctancy stemmed from a valid place—Lancelot had been among the Red Paladins only days prior.

He could understand Squirrel’s unease in his presence, perhaps better than anyone. When he had been a child, stolen from his home, Lancelot would dream of his parents at night. They were kind and they had loved him. And Father Carden had stormed into his village and he had killed them in the name of God.

Squirrel had every right to be wary of Lancelot.

He mulled over his words before he spoke. “The Red Paladins killed my parents, too.”

“Then why would you join them?” Squirrel’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Why indeed. If Lancelot had been asked that same question three days ago, he would not have hesitated in his answer.

Lancelot watched the flames lick up into the sky, greedily stealing oxygen to fuel themselves. He felt the heat of the fire that burned his village, felt it sear his skin. “I was afraid.”

“You’re the Weeping Monk—the most infamous Paladin there is. Why were you afraid of them?” Squirrel asked.

“Not of them.”

“Of who, then?”

Lancelot shifted under the boy’s scrutiny. He forced the words past his lips. “Father Carden.”

“Why do you call him father?”

Lancelot shrugged. “It is his title.”

But that wasn’t the entire truth, was it? Carden was the closest thing Lancelot had to a father. Yes, it was messed up, but he could not change the fact that Carden had been a prominent figure for nearly his entire life.

“I was younger than you are now when the Red Paladins killed my parents and burned my village.” He paused and looked over at Squirrel, who had shifted closer, not quite as afraid as he had been before. “Fa—Carden took me under his wing and molded me into a weapon. I never thought to leave, and even if I did, I had nowhere to go.”

Squirrel broke a twig off of the log they sat on and fiddled with it. “You could have used your ability to find one of our villages, you know.”

Lancelot’s smile was grim. “And you think that they would welcome me with open arms? After everything I’ve done?”

You murder countless Fey and then just expect to be forgiven? For us to welcome you into our ranks? For the people whose families and homes that you burned to forget what you have done?

“They would not have turned you away,” Squirrel said. “We Fey have to stick together.”

All Fey are brothers. Even the lost ones.

A pang of regret echoed in his chest, remorse for not saving the Green Knight when he had had the chance. And now it was too late.

Neither Lancelot nor Squirrel said anything more, the crackling of the fire the only sound to disrupt the silence of the dark.

A twig snapped.

Lancelot was on his feet in a second, his sword drawn and eyes surveying the woods beyond their tiny encampment. The arm not holding his sword was outstretched in Squirrel’s direction, willing the boy to remain behind him.

“It’s just me,” said a decidedly feminine voice.

He blinked. Nimue.

The Fey Queen stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the fire. In her arms, she held a stack of twigs and broken branches. She was staring at the two of them with an odd look on her face.

Lancelot sheathed his sword and resumed his seat on the log, wincing at the pain of his wounds now that the burst of adrenaline was gone.

Nimue dumped the wood she had gathered into a pile and slowly fed each individual branch into the fire. She did not look up at him, nor did she say a word.

“I know you don’t trust me, but I made a choice,” Lancelot said, breaking the silence. “I’m going to fight for the Fey—for you.”

The young queen only stared at him, her face betraying nothing. And then she nodded, once, before standing and walking over to him.

Lancelot tensed, expecting her to unsheath her sword and point it at him as she had when they first met. Perhaps she had come to the conclusion during her hunt for firewood that he was better off dead.

But Nimue did not unsheath her sword; she didn’t even appear to be angry.

Her gaze was soft as she sat by Lancelot’s other side. “You’re wounded,” she said, nodding toward him. “I found some ingredients for a Fey remedy while I was looking for firewood. I thought you could use them.”

Lancelot did not know what to say, and so he said nothing. He only nodded his assent and positioned himself so that his body was turned toward her.

“They really did a number on you, didn’t they?” Nimue asked, taking the medicinal supplies out of her pockets and lining them up on the log between the two of them. “I’m not saying you didn’t deserve it, but this . . . is a little extreme.”

A slight breeze passed through their camp and caught in her hair. The light from the fire illuminated her in an almost ethereal glow. When he had first seen her on the battlefield, Lancelot had thought she was beautiful, but it was only then that he realized exactly how beautiful she was.

Whatever he had been about to say caught in his throat.

“Yeah, they did.” Squirrel spoke up from behind him. “The Trinity Guard beat him up, but Lancelot got ‘em back for it.”

There was a hint of excitement in his voice as if the boy were reliving the adrenaline-fueled fight. Lancelot was not sure if it was a good or bad thing for the boy to be as enthusiastic as he was, but he supposed that worrying about it could wait.

“Why do they call you the Weeping Monk instead of your name?” Nimue asked as she mashed plant roots and moss together.

Beasts don’t deserve names, Father Carden’s voice had said.

Lancelot swallowed. “Would it have made a difference?” He looked up at her, not sure when he had stopped. “Would you have taken pity on me if your Fey had been fighting a man and not a beast?”

Her eyes tightened. She was the one to glance away this time. “No,” she murmured. “I suppose not.”

Nimue gently applied some of the green mush to a particularly deep cut on his forehead, and Lancelot clenched his jaw to keep from flinching. He couldn't remember the last time he had been touched with such kindness—it was foreign; new, but not bad.

He watched her as she worked, observed the tiny crease in her brow and the subtle purse of her lips. The way she cared for him after threatening to kill him only a day before gave him whiplash, but he found that he did not mind the change.

When she leaned in to press more of the remedy to his cheekbone, he couldn’t help but take in her scent: apple blossom and pine and the air before it rains.

“Done,” Nimue said at last. “That should heal some of the deeper cuts, or at least make them more shallow. Leave them on until the morning.”

He blinked himself out of his reverie. “Thank you,” he breathed.

Nimue only nodded and gathered her things, before heading back to the opposite side of the fire.

Lancelot let out a deep breath and ignored the look Squirrel was giving him.

“Go to sleep,” he ordered the boy, who only rolled his eyes in return. But it did the trick—Squirrel shuffled back into his previous spot on the ground and left Lancelot alone to contemplate.

Nimue rested her back against a tree trunk and said to Lancelot, “If you so much as move against us while we’re vulnerable, I will kill you.”

Though he didn’t doubt that she would follow through with it, her voice wasn’t as serious as it had been the first time she threatened him.

“I would expect nothing less from the Wolf-Blood Witch,” Lancelot said.

Nimue nodded, satisfied, and closed her eyes.

Lancelot settled back against the trunk of a tree despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink; his mind was alive—the good kind of alive—for the first time in years. He did not think that he would ever feel completely safe, but he felt safer at that moment than he had in his entire life despite being threatened by the most powerful woman on the planet.

When he was sure that Nimue was asleep—and the gentle rise and fall of her chest indicated that she was—Lancelot murmured a soft “thank you” into the night air.

Perhaps for the first time in a long while, he felt that he was on the right path.

#visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)#nimulot #nimulot fic #Nimue x lancelot #cursed #nimue x the weeping monk #cursed netflix #Lancelot and squirrel #Arthur x the red spear #Arthur x Guinevere #nimue #the weeping monk #nimulot fanfiction #squirrel #the-weeping-monk

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kattegat-kittycat · 4 years

Text

Chapter X: The Last Day On Earth

The story so far and a short synopsis are over here.

A/N: So, this is it. The last chapter of the first part of this story. The last chapter of Ivar’s life as just a son of Ragnar, if we’re being honest. This is where he starts growing into his legacy or destiny or whatever you want to call it. I’m also looking forward to writing with the new, better and badder (yes, I know, worse) Ivar, I got a lot of mischief planned, but well, here are your and Ivar’s last hours in the world as you know it. :)

Once again, thanks to the people who asked to be tagged: @youbloodymadgenius @xnnskwjeheb2j @blonddnamedhandz

Look above into the misty air I hear the waves reminding me of fear I'm not alone but still I am confused Will you return and will your dreams come true?

[…]

Farewell proud men Spirits will guide you May they save you Farewell proud men

Frightening ocean sacred as the wind I beg you please be careful with these men At night I dream of wonders and of change Will I receive a message from you then?

(Leaves’ Eyes – Farewell Proud Men)

I woke up to the uncanny feeling that someone was watching me, and when I opened my eyes, they met Ivar’s right away. He was studying my face with a weird expression on his.

“You look different, somehow.” He cocked his head and stroked my cheek.

I groaned. “That is because I am not a morning person.”

It made him chuckle. “Tonight we will hold the sacrifice and we will leave shortly after the Gods have blessed our voyage.” He said with a voice still a little hoarse from sleep. It reminded me so much of these first days we spent together after our wedding, when we laid in bed and talked for hours on end. It made it hard to breathe and tugged on my heart. I was missing Ivar, even though he was lying right next to me, which made no sense, but then again all the sense in the world, because I was starting to notice changes in his behaviour. I had been right, when I had told Ubbe and Sigurd that he would come back changed, no longer the Ivar we had known. I swallowed and had to blink away a few tears.

He still noticed them and shook his head, grinning. “I take it that you are going to miss me?”

I slapped his upper arm. “Of course I am going to miss you. You are a nuisance, but still.”

He acted outraged, but then kissed the top of my head. “I will miss you too, my beautiful wife. But there is one little thing you have to promise me, before I leave.”

I raised my eyebrows questioningly and Ivar went on: “You don’t tell anybody about last night!” he suddenly hissed. “Not a word to a single soul, you understand?”

His hand that had been resting on my shoulder suddenly gripped me harder, his mood shifting faster than the tide.

“Why would I tell anybody?”

“I don’t care why you would do it, I only tell you not to do it.” His eyes were a piercing shade of blue and ice cold.

I gave a nod. “I will not tell anyone, Ivar. I have no reason to tell anybody.”

He gave me a grim smile. “Good. I have to take care of a few last things before we leave, but I am sure, you will find something to keep you occupied.”

I shrugged. “I have a few things to take care of myself. I am almost as important as you, you know?” I laughed. When I met his eyes, I realised that it was no laughing matter to him.

“Yeah, you do your things, I do mine. I guess I will see you at the sacrifice tonight.” He mumbled, before he left the bed and got dressed in silence, only to leave me alone on the bed.

I sighed deeply, staring at the ceiling and listening to the chirping birds that nested in the thatched roof. Then, with a jolt, I found myself on a battlefield in a place I did not know. I looked around, then recognised the scene. I had seen this play out on our wedding day. Ivar was leaning at the side of his chariot, which I now recognised, other than back then. He was drenched in blood and in a blood-thirsty frenzy, shouting half-mad at the Saxons. I told myself that I could not see my husband in all of that, but maybe I could just a little too well to admit to myself.

The scene changed, the scenery with it. We were back in Kattegat and Ivar was burning Lagertha – Lagertha? – at the stake. A petite blonde woman stood by his side. I stared at the two of them, unable to process what I was seeing. I almost started screaming at them, but instead I sat up in our bed, gasping for air and dry heaving. I was quick enough to make it out of the house and into a corner of the garden before I puked into the shrubbery.

A smirking Sigurd, woken up by the ruckus I had caused, stood by the door, watching me puke my guts out.

“Funny, here I thought that you hadn’t even been at the wedding long enough to be that much worse for the wear.”

“Oh, shut up, Sigurd…” I managed, before the heaving started up again.

He shrugged. “Or…could it be…are you with child?” he added in a mock tone.

I glared at him. “Sigurd, I can not be with child, because…”

“Because my brother is Ivar the Boneless, I know.” Sigurd ended the sentence for me.

“…because I have not even been back here long enough to be this pregnant, you fool.”

Sigurd smirked like he knew more than me. I hated his guts. I really did. “Oh, come on, we both know that little Ivar has more trouble than that.”

I glared at him furiously. “I will not talk to you about our marriage!” I shouted back at him. I did not even know if Ivar wanted me to talk about the few successes in the bedroom.

Sigurd shrugged. I knew, he saw that as confirmation for his claim, but I really did not want to tell him about that one time. But pride won. “He can get it up, you know?”

He just waved away my words. “Don’t lie for my brother’s sake. But if it helps you; I would not stay sober if I were married to Ivar either.”

I was already clenching my fist and Sigurd was lucky that I was still too sick to just jump and fight him.

But he was already turning away. “Be careful, little Y/N, be ready to run for the hills when the real Ivar comes out.”

I frowned at Sigurd’s back. “What does that mean?”

He turned around again, shrugged. “I’ve seen him grow up. All Ivar cares about is Ivar. Other people to him are just a means to further his own ends. He was raised that way by our mother. And he will not change for something like love. If he could guarantee a win by sacrificing you? He’d do it in a heartbeat. He might shed some false tears, but that would not stop him. Believe me, Y/N, I’ve known him all his life, but all he has learned in those years, is to get better at acting like he cares.”

Sigurd looked at me with a small but sad smile. “For what it is worth, I like you, and in another world, I would have wished for you to make my brother happy. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

He was sincere, I could tell that much, I just didn’t know if he might be right. He was about to leave and once again, I spoke to his back:

“Sigurd, heed your own warning. Don’t anger Ivar.” I remembered the death of the fair-haired man way too well.

He laughed it off. “Ivar cannot kill me, I am his brother. The others would have his head, before my eyes even close and he knows that.”

I swallowed when he walked away. The problem with knowing things was that once he was angered, Ivar rarely thought straight enough to remember them.

At last, the heaving had subsided and I went back into the house. That was the second time within two days that I had had a vision of some sorts and I did not know if it was Ivar’s proximity that triggered them or if I just started becoming more susceptible to them with time. I thought about visiting the seer, but he had asked me not to seek him out anymore the last time I was there, so I did not.

I hadn’t known that we would have a human sacrifice, though in hindsight, I should have assumed as much, knowing how much was at stake with the raid ahead. As I stood with the forces of Jutland and we saw Earl Jorgensen being led towards Lagertha, I turned to see Earl Magnusson, but his eyes were glued to the young man whose death would ensure our men’s victory or at least the favour of our Gods. My eyes searched for Ivar in the crowd and found him near Torvi of all people. His eyes were wide with excitement and he looked like he did not want to miss a minute of what was going on. I remembered the scenes I had seen this morning and a shiver ran down my spine. I forced myself to watch the ritual instead of my husband’s eager face and prayed for Ivar’s protection. I prayed that no harm would befall him on their journey and that he would return to me safely. I was startled when Lagertha actually drove the sword into Earl Jorgensen’s chest, took a deep breath and closed my eyes. As I opened them, I saw the look of utter fascination on Ivar’s face at the blood that started pouring from the young Earl’s wound. I remembered somebody telling me that he was like a dog who had tasted blood for the first time and even though I had shrugged it off at the time, I thought how it looked so literal in this moment. Somebody gasping and pointing at the sky interrupted my thoughts. A comet, fiery and bright made its way across the dark night sky. We were fated. I could not stop what was coming. The Gods had a plan for us and they had made Ivar one of their chess pieces. And all I could do was watch on as they took my husband from me, as he went willingly after the promise of fame and wealth and power. I didn’t know if I felt angry or like crying, but I had to keep up my façade a little longer. First, I had to say my farewells and goodbyes to my men, wish them wealth or Valhalla, only then could I go home to find my husband sitting on our bed, in a surprisingly chipper mood.

“Did you see, Y/N? The Gods blessed us once again. I do not doubt for a moment that we will be victorious.” His eyes were so bright, his smile so genuine, that I wished I could remember him like this. It made me happy and sad at the same time.

I gave a nod. “Even if you win the battle, make sure you don’t lose yourself in it.” I was too tired to think my words over.

He huffed at me. “I would have expected a little more enthusiasm from you. I am going on this journey to find out who I really am, so I don’t know what you are even talking about.” His lips were pressed in a tight line and I knew he was willing to fight me on this, too.

I sat down beside him and sighed. “Ivar, I don’t want to fight anymore. There are so many things between us right now and you are leaving tomorrow. Can we just be here in peace for a moment?”

He looked at me, his eyes carrying the same pain mine probably did. “And whose fault is that? If you had never left for Ripa…”

“If you had never left with yor father…” I interrupted him impatiently, then took a deep breath. “We both made mistakes. But we cannot change the past. We cannot yet do anything about the future. But we can decide what we do right now.”

Ivar gave a short, humourless laugh. “And what would that be? It’s not like I can…” Then he looked down to the ground.

“Ivar, it is not about that. Just…be here with me, alright?” I asked him.

He looked at me and swallowed hard. He wasn’t as cold as he acted, but he rarely let it show. His eyes turned soft and warm, his mouth formed a small smile and he kissed my temple. “Alright.”

And there we were; my broken heart and husband, our cracked marriage and a fragile truce in what felt like our last night on earth.

It went quicker than I would have thought. One moment, I was watching on as Ivar packed up his things and they heaved them and his chariot into one of the longboats, the next, I was saying goodbye to my husband. He sat on a railing at the harbour, to be at the same eye-level as all the other men around, and looked anywhere but at me and I started searching his face for traces of feelings. I found them, etched into the worried creases around his eyes and on his forehead. In the way the muscles of his jaw were working as he looked for something to say. I lightly touched his face and forced him to look at me and he swallowed.

“Why do I have the feeling that this is the last time I will see you?” he whispered, his eyes angrily beating away at the tears he did not want to let fall.

I kissed him lightly and his lips followed mine for a moment. I felt him exhale a breath he had been holding.

“Because the two people we are now will never see each other again. War will change you, life will change me. But we will meet again. The Gods will not keep us apart, not even should we wish for it.”

He looked over my shoulder. “I have to leave. I cannot let the army see me in a weak state.”

I gave a laugh. “My husband, you are everything, but you have never been weak.”

He inclined his head and smiled at me. “You know that, I know that, but let the world underestimate me. Let them pay for it. But they don’t need to know that there is someone I care for left in these lands.”

“I am perfectly capable of defending myself.” I protested.

He cackled. “I know, it is one of the reasons why I…” he looked down suddenly, couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “Be safe, my Sif.” He said instead, let himself drop to the wooden ground and crawled away from me. I wanted to run after him and ask him, what he had meant to said, tell him to be safe, but I knew it would not help. Instead I turned around and ran straight into Hvitserk and Ubbe, who hugged me goodbye and then went on their way. Björn gave me an acknowledging nod as he went by me. I fell to the back of the crowd and then stood and watched from the shadows of one of the warehouses as men and women gave their farewells, when I heard someone clearing his throat right behind me. I jumped in surprise and turned to find Floki standing there. He giggled and gave me a hug.

“Couldn’t leave you and not tell you goodbye. Almost didn’t see you here.” He said and smiled at me.

I laughed at that and smiled at him. “I am beyond relieved knowing you to be with Ivar. Take good care of him.”

Floki scratched the back of his head. “Your trust honors me. But you take good care of you, too.”

He hugged me again and then went off. Just before he was out of sight, he turned around. “Hugsi is a good name.”

“What?”

Floki just smiled at me and shrugged. “Just a random thought.” And with that he was swallowed by the crowd.

I was one of the last people looking at the small dots on the horizon that were the ship of our Great Heathen army. My things were packed, a small boat had been left for me to sail back to Ripa with, but there was still one thing to do. I heard the crunching of sand beneath somebody’s feet beside me and knew who it was right away.

“Queen Lagertha.” I acknowledged her presence.

“I take it, you will be sailing back to Ripa now that your husband is gone?” she asked.

“That depends. I have something I wanted to tell you for a few days now. I fear there might be an ambush on Kattegat while the men are away. If you need me, I could stay here.”

She laughed at that. “There is no telling what you will do, is there? First your husband believes you will be staying here and wait for him, but you leave for Ripa. Now he thinks you will leave and you want to stay here.”

I sighed. “I would not stay for myself. I would stay to settle my debt.” I turned to her and saw her piercing blue eyes on my face. Her smile was not entirely cold, but enough so that I knew that she had thought so.

“Not this time. I have been fortifying Kattegat just for that reason. I knew that its riches would attract envy and jealousy. So I will not be needing you.”

“It will be after the first snow fell.” I said, accepting her decision, but telling her what I knew. “They will also try to take the city from within. So, be wary of suspicious merchants. Be prepared.”

Lagertha smiled, warmer this time. “Thank you for your concern, Y/N. Do tell Ragnheiđur my greetings, she can stay with you as long as she wishes. I know the two of you are able to lead each other to greatness.” She squeezed my shoulder and then turned to go.

“Lagertha!” I called. “Thank you. For everything.”

She inclined her head and left, leaving me staring at an empty horizon and with nothing left but telling Margarete goodbye and sailing home. I took a look around the now empty harbour. Kattegat. I would miss the city in the fjord, but I was also looking forward to softer shores and calmer times.

Ivar had fallen into a restless sleep, tossing and turning, but then, as the waves beneath the longboat started to calm down, so did he.

He was sailing along a river, through blooming meadows and lush marshes. He had never seen these lands before, but had to admit they were beautiful. Then around a bend, a city appeared, houses strewn through the landscape, and a wide jetty with a bustling market. His eyes were looking through the people going about their business and he took hold of the mast to hoist himself up. It started to get harder, the older he got, he noticed not for the first time.

Then he saw her, standing on the wooden landing, looking across the river. His rightful queen. She looked older now, wiser, but also more worn out than when he had seen her last. As his boat had reached the landing, she crossed over to meet him, and there was something else, but as much as he tried to see it, it slipped his eyes. He squinted, but to no avail. So he focussed on her face, the lines that ran deeper now, the way she still regarded his face with the same softness in her eyes, in spite of everything they had gone through. Maybe even because of it.

One of his men helped him out of the boat and another extended his crutch to him, so he could stand. Then they made off quickly, because they had heard the stories of Ivar and his first wife, better not to get in between the two of them.

She smiled lopsidedly and shook her head, something that seemed eerily familiar to him, because he himself used to do it all the time. Then she extended her hand and traced a scar on his cheekbone. “I still resent you for getting us this one.”

Ivar chuckled. “My queen, it is good to see you again.”

She bowed her head. “My king, welcome to Ripa and the Kingdom of Jutland.”

Ivar awoke with a start, panting in the cold night on the ship.

Hvitserk, sitting watch, looked at him. “Ivar, are you alright?”

Ivar shook his head in confusion. “I don’t know, Hvitserk. I don’t know.”

“Go back to sleep, Ivar. It was just a dream. Morning will be here soon enough.” Hvitserk said, dismissing his brother’s concern.

“I can’t.” Ivar whispered. There were too many ghosts between now and his dream.

Seasons change Spirits wake up Birds fly away to faraway homes True love lasts forever I imagine you in a thousand glimpses

(Leaves’ Eyes – Leaves’ Eyes)

END PART I

#ivar the boneless #ivar imagine #ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #vikings #history vikings #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless fanfiction #vikings fanfiction

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caravanslost · 6 years

Text

4 - Loyalty

Characters: Nikandros; Laurent; and Damen (mention).

Tags: Post-canon; I just want Laurent and Nik to be friends so BAD goddamn; can you imagine how happy it would make Damen; can you imagine how happy it would make me. Written for @capri-month.

Laurent says, “I have been negotiating tariffs all morning. My temple feels fit to burst. Will you walk with me, Nikandros?”

Nikandros had been training with members of the Veretian guard when the young page interrupted him.

Damen had ordered him to the garrison that morning, where seven young men were waiting for him. They stood in a perfect line, their backs rigid with a canny imitation of confidence. They could not have been older than 13.

They were recent recruits, hand-picked by Laurent himself, who had demonstrated enough raw skill with a weapon to be plucked from the horde. They were to receive the privilege of a few hours of training from the Kyros of Ios. Nikandros walked up and down the line a few times, pausing before each recruit for a few moments at uncomfortably close quarters, just to see whether any of them would flinch.

None did. He was forced to admit, begrudgingly, that Laurent had picked a good bunch.

Nikandros went to the farthest wall and selected two swords. He returned to the group, and stood in front of the boy on the far left.

“You, boy. What’s your name?”

“Éduin, Excellency.” He says, his tongue heavy around the last word, delivered in clumsy Akielon.

He was the smallest of the bunch, but his approximation of confidence was the most convincing. Nikandros had trained enough soldiers in his short lifetime to read the unassailable ambition that burned in the rare recruit. He could read it in this boy’s steady gaze ahead, the taut muscles of his neck, and the stillness of his body like marble.

“Éduin.” Nikandros says, and offers him the second of the two swords. “Step forward. Let me see what you can do.”

It takes three strikes for Nikandros to disarm him. Éduin immediately picks up the sword off the ground and resumes his position, the steel in his eyes intractable. The laughter of the other boys peals around them, and Nikandros gives them a look. Silence falls like a curtain on the garrison.

He turns his attention back to Éduin. “You can do better. Try again.”

The next time, it takes a little longer to disarm the boy, and the time after that, a little longer still. He puts him through enough motions to tire a more experienced soldier, but Éduin does not show his exhaustion. He manages to hold onto his sword for almost a minute by the time Nikandros is done with him. Impressed, Nikandros allows him a break and turns his attention to terrorising someone else – Tristan, who had been the first to laugh.

The training falls into a pleasing rhythm of fighting, disarming, and barking instructions about posture and technique. Nikandros has missed the simple pleasure of being outdoors, and fighting. A Kyros spends too much time inside.

The revelry is interrupted several hours later by another young boy. He arrives dressed in the brilliant blue of Laurent’s Pages, a golden starburst emblazoned on the centre of his chest. The boy wears more fabric on one sleeve than Nikandros does on his whole body.

He falls into a deep bow. “Your excellency,” he says. “His Majesty the King has sent for you.”

“Thank you. There are two of them.” He says, and a corner of his mouth quirks when colour flares into the boy’s cheeks. “Which one?”

“King Laurent, Excellency.”

Strange, he thinks. Nikandros signals for one of the servants in the wings of the garrison, who rushes over and relieves him of the sword, offering a damp washcloth in its place. He wipes the sweat off his brow, his throat, the back of his neck.

All the while, his mind sits uneasy. He feels as though he has been summonsed by a parent - and that perhaps, he is in trouble.

“Did his Majesty specify what he needed?”

“Your humble servant did not ask, Excellency. I beg your forgiveness.”

In hindsight, it had been a stupid question.

“Never mind.” He says. “Thank you. Lead the way.”

The Akielon delegation had been in Arles for eight days. His ability to navigate the palace had not improved in that time. There seemed to be three ways from any one point to another, and he found himself walking familiar routes only to end up in corridors he did not recognize. Everything in Vere, it seemed, was duplicitous. Nikandros yearned for Ios.

The young page that had fetched him walked a few steps ahead. Nikandros allowed himself to be led through one grand hallway after another, past galleries and colonnades and atria. No two spaces looked alike. The shock of colour in each space, the tessellated tile-work and the multi-foil arches in the ceiling, made his head hurt.

They stop in one of the many courtyards branching off the palace. Laurent is gazing out at the gardens, hands leaning on the white balustrades, his back straight enough to measure by. He is wearing a circlet instead of his crown, but his hair catches the sunlight so brightly that there is little need for gold.

When he hears the approach of their footsteps, he turns. His expression is characteristically unreadable, and Nikandros knows better than to try and decipher it.

He immediately takes a knee before the King and bows his head. He realizes suddenly that this is his first time alone in Laurent’s company since the Akielon delegation arrived in Vere. He still cannot banish the suspicion that he is in trouble, and wonders mildly how Damen sleeps at night.

“Exal—forgive me. Your Majesty.”

“Rise, Nikandros.” Laurent says, and when Nikandros looks up, he is met with a brief smile. Laurent turns his attention to the page. “Thank you, Henri. You may leave us.”

The page gives a deep bow, and disappears back into the palace.

Laurent turns his attention back to Nikandros. His gaze is sharp, but the hostility of their first few meetings is long gone. A slow and hesitant trust has developed between them, under the mollifying influence of Damen’s company. They had not progressed further than formal civility, but that was good enough.

Laurent says, “I have been negotiating tariffs and importation quotas for grain all morning. My temple feels fit to burst. Will you walk with me?”

Nikandros bows again. “If it pleases your Majesty.”

“You may dispense with some of the formalities, Nikandros.”

Nikandros looks up, and measures a softer look on Laurent’s face. The effect it has at close range is startling.

Choosing his words carefully, he says, “I would hate to overstep the mark.”

Laurent smiles properly, and begins walking. Nikandros falls into step next to him. He leads them down a wide path, flanked by two large rectangular pools, leading out to the first parterre.

“If you overstep the mark, I would spare you.” Laurent says, and then, with a suppressed smile, adds, “But only for Damen’s sake.”

“I think he would forgive you anything. Even my homicide.”

“Intriguing theory.” Laurent says, “But I don’t intend to test it today. Tell me news of Ios.”

This, at least, is more familiar territory. They wind through greener pastures, walls of shrubbery tamed into latticework. Nikandros speaks to him of the justice reforms he has planned, and asks him about the Veretian practice of specialist courts.

Laurent is a natural scholar, and an attentive listener in matters of state—more so than Damen, if Nikandros is an honest man. Laurent solves problems reflexively. He proposes that Nikandros should send Akielon envoys to observe the Courts in Vere, and that when reforms are ultimately implemented, Veretian delegates can be made available to assist. He even rattles off three or four names that immediately spring to his mind, and offers to summon them to the Palace the following day.

For a supposed break, Laurent has achieved a lot, but he seems energized by the conversation. They walk in silence for a while thereafter.

Eventually, Laurent says, “You were wasted on Delpha. Ios is lucky to have you.”

Nikandros does not respond immediately.

But eventually: “I know it was your idea, to barter Ios for my loyalty. Perhaps I should thank you.”

“No. You shouldn’t. It was a means to an end at the time.” Laurent says. “But I have never regretted it, and you have risen to the challenge admirably. Damen is very lucky to count you in his service.”

“Your Majesty.”

“I understand that your first loyalty will always lie with him, as it rightfully should,” Laurent says, and then he stops, and looks very seriously at Nikandros. “But you must feel free to correspond with me. I care to know about Ios. I want to help you, how I can. If you will let me.”

They have reached the topiary, and they are alone. Laurent watches him with an intensity befitting his offer. Nikandros thinks to himself that it feels overwhelming, to be trusted by this man.

“I’m grateful, Laurent.”

The acceptance of the offer – and strangely, even the familiarity with which Nikandros has addressed him – seems to please Laurent.

“Good. You will find,” Laurent says, eyes dancing once more, “that Damen chose me for more than my blonde hair and blue eyes.”

Nikandros flushes to the heavens.

“Gods, is there anything he doesn’t tell you?”

#captive prince #caprimonth #captiveprincemonth #nikandros #laurent

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dragon-hall · 6 years

Text

“Vater unser im Ewigenreich”

I’ve been watching all of K Project’s series and episodes these past few weeks and I want to write something for it. This prompt seems interesting to me and the what ifs are plenty.

(K Project // Divergent - Space)

Writing Prompt: An ancient god “cursed” you with immortality, expecting you to watch the Sun swallow the Earth. When that day comes 7.6 billion years into the future, you’re living large on the other side of the galaxy.

“...even though the so-called ancient god is nothing more than an old slab of ancient stone.” The perpetual smile on his face is simply fond as his long fingers trace the edge of the slate. The slate, even though limited by its seal, glows with shifting orange light that can be understood as lethargic merriment.

Shiro - no - rather, Adolf K. Weismann chuckles at the silent words it transmits through its aura alone.

“Indeed, I share the same fate but need I remind how I came to have such fate?” His words carry a small lilt in it that never betrays his carefree personality.

He leans against the stone’s side, taking a seat on the edge there as if it is a sickbed of a friend. In hindsight, the Dresden Slate has been his constant companion for years ever since he laid eyes on it. Here, at the center of his craft, they talk about past lives, present companions, and future destinations. Adolf surmises that the slate, confirmed to be an entity, shares his loneliness and makes it easy to talk to.

“A fate that leads to this very moment,” Adolf mutters. His smile morphs to despondency as his thoughts take him to the very reason why they ventured out in the open on this very day. “Honestly, I felt insufficient. How it is that I was granted an Aura and my sister was not despite her being the better person. I ran away plenty of times and here I am still. Many are deserving and yet here I stand.”

The slate beneath his hands glimmers in a pale yellow, sympathy as Adolf understood. Is it comforting him?

His smile is back following an airy laugh. “Rest easy. The time for regret has passed. There is nothing to fear considering the treasures I’ve picked up on the way.”

As if on time, the sound of the automatic door opens and a familiar bell-like jingle echoes through the room. Above them and up on the balcony overlooking the hall is Neko, still youthful as ever and fluffy judging from her choice of fur coat and her ear muffs, a new feature.

“I found Shiro!” She exclaims and jumps from the balcony to Adolf’s waiting arms. How she survives such falls every time is beyond him. “Are you done talking to Dresden?”

Dresden, as she calls the slate, shifts to an earthy brown as it relaxes in their presence. Even to this moment, Adolf is still amused to hear the name. After all, it is the Dresden Slate.

“We’re just about to wrap it up.” He pets the young woman who is obviously happy to get more physical contact and addresses the slate in finality. “I know you’re not fond of fireworks so I’m going to assume you won’t watch this one with us. I’ll bring tea down here after dinner, yes?”

The stone glows green this time as it conveys its optimism to his proposal because tea could only mean Shiro and company. The King and his clansman leave arm in arm and proceeds to the viewing deck.

The deck is purely Adolf’s own personal taste way back in the 18th century. A large hall with marble floors, towering marble pillars and gigantic glass windows for a panoramic view of the galaxy. There are shrubberies on the sides with a few white flowers blooming in earnest in contrast to the dark space outside their ship. In the middle of the hall is a depressed platform where windows upon windows of hologram show current news from nearby habitable planets and statistical readings of a singular planet they are observing. The graphs show spikes and changes in one particular planet.

A pair of leather couches instead of a single one situated near the viewing area above the platform. There is already a tatami mat situated beside them and a single occupant is already there as he gazes at the view before him.

“Everything alright, Kuroh?” Adolf asks in his normally gentle tone.

Yatogami Kuroh, one of his first and foremost clansmen, and one of his dearest friends take his time savoring his favorite tea. He sits facing the depressed platform in a perfect seiza all the while watching the events unfold. Years have passed and even so, with the power of the slate given to him through the Silver King, he retains his physical appearance in its youthful state right down to the tips of his long dark locks which he wears in a ponytail like old times. Even the way he acts is the same although with wisdom and maturity that his old master would surely be proud.

“The Union is currently in session to finalize the relocation procedures of the evacuees. Nearby habitable planets are currently on high alert for a radiation surge but nothing far as the dwarf planet but the Centauri system is also raising an emergency. There are reports of minor casualties here and there but nothing to be concerned of.”

“Mm. I guess no one needs our help right now. How’s the evacuation?”

“The Blue King is handling the evacuation most efficiently. Earth has already collided with Mars’ atmosphere fifty-seven hours ago and left a decent hole on its surface where most of the population resides. I’ve received a report that there are no deaths recorded so far and people were already on board Scepter 4 blimps.”

“It is thanks to your clairvoyance that they acted fast. Without your warning, we would be mourning many deaths,” Much is not known about how he managed to have such a talent but since Kuroh was a clansman of the Colorless King, the late Ichigen Miwa, then it is believed to be a latent talent from the Colorless Aura. “By the way, it is said that the current Blue King is the second rising of the legendary Munakata Reisi. What do you think about that, Kuroh?”

“The boy still needs to earn his stripes against me.” The swordsman clicks his tongue, his eyebrow twitching in annoyance. It does not help that the current king of Scepter 4 also wear glasses and a smug face he wants to bash so badly. “Having an exemplary leadership does not change the fact that he is wet behind the ears when it comes to battle. Compared to that man, he is nowhere near an eighth of his capabilities.”

“Hah! Kurosuke likes to torture Boss with glasses junior to get back at Bosumegane senior!” Neko chirps from Adolf’s side and detaches from his arm to drape herself across the couch.

There is no doubt that his friend still holds a grudge towards Scepter 4′s previous king and it also extends to the successors over time. By the time the fifth Blue King was chosen, Kuroh delegated to himself to train every succeeding Blue King with the sword and martial arts as revenge from the time Munakata Reisi outsmarted him. He never forgets the experience.

“Don’t be too hard on him.” The Silver King takes a seat next to Neko who moves to lay her chin on his thigh so he can pet her some more. When he does so, she starts preening with attention. “The Gold King is already expecting so much from Scepter 4.”

Now that he thought about it, the current Gold King resembles his late best friend so much that Adolf was not even surprised that time he learned that she has the blood of Kokujōji Daikaku. To think that the lieutenant had children and he was not informed, he feels a little miffed during that time.

“They multiplied like rabbits as they should be to cover the entire universe but quality must never be sacrificed for quantity.” Kuroh huffs against the lip of his teacup. “And I, Yatogami Kuroh, will never fail to remind him of that.”

Adolf merely chuckles at his enthusiasm and plucks his own teacup, an intricately designed china cup compared to Kuroh’s traditional japanese set. The hot tea was already brewed by his friend and a healthy serving of snacks lies next to the pot for consumption.

“Any time now and she will be entering the Sun’s coronal atmosphere, isn’t it? There is no turning back from that point on.” The Silver King leans back on his seat, Neko purring against his thigh as they watch the events unfold.

“Earth as we all remember her wears a beautiful face even under duress. That her strength and resilience through time will surely be passed on to her beloved children and to those witnessing her final moments.”

Trust Kuroh to say something optimistic during the time and Adolf completely agrees with his words.

“That we are all sons and daughters of our Mother that we return on this very day to honor the place we once called home.

---

Derjenige, der die Freude küsst, während sie fliegt Lebe im Sonnenaufgang der Ewigkeit

#K Missing Kings #K Return of Kings #K project #K: Missing Kings #K: Return of Kings #adolf k weismann #isana yashiro #yatogami kuroh #neko #wordsnstuff

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winniesycamore · 6 years

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the lion sleeps tonight // task eighteen

(tw: animal death by poison.)

You mussssssst find, battle, and kill a lion.

“That ain’t too hard,” Cricket replied, shrugging at the snake. She looked down to the sword that she’d strapped to her waist with some of her parachute fabric. Easy peasy. She wasn’t very happy to kill a lion, but it couldn’t be that hard, right? The snake looked her in the eyes again, grabbing her in its trance.

No weaponssssss.

No weapons? She was five feet tall, fourteen years old, could be blown over by a strong wind, maybe 95 pounds soaking wet. A lion would eat her for a light snack. The task already seemed impossible.

“That’s ssssstupid,” Cricket snapped back, mocking the creature. It glared at her again before turning its attention to another tribute.

Missy had her task too, and they took the time to make plans to meet up after they were done. It was a promise: a promise not to go get themselves killed. A promise to come back, to survive, to do what they had to do to keep going forward for the people they loved so much.

And that’s how Cricket found herself hiding in some shrubbery, watching a pride of lions wander through the Arena. They were huge. And the little ones were babies, and it didn’t matter if Cricket was going to get killed over it, she would never kill a baby anything. Gamemaker-invented or not.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cricket noticed a little rat. It was way too close to the lions to make any sense to her. It was almost as though it was naturally unafraid, like it’d been attacked by a lion before and knew how to defend itself. It’d only been in the Arena for a few hours, and yet, it was starting to figure it out. It adapted, just like Cricket did.

As the rat hurried to a small thicket of trees, Cricket followed it, watching carefully. Cricket watched the small rodent nibble at the edges of a plant before licking at its hind feet. It did it repeatedly, almost as if it had a plan. Could rats make plans? Probably not.

The rat covered itself in the tree’s sap and then hurried over to cross near the pack of lions. Intrigued, Cricket followed it, taking solace behind a bush to watch what it was going to do next. As the rat hurried across the plain, one of the smaller lions pounced on it. It took a bite into the rat’s hindquarters, and Cricket flinched. But something amazed her.

The lion recoiled. It stepped back, horrified. And a few minutes later, it dropped to the ground. Dead.

“Poison,” Cricket whispered, looking from the rat, scurrying away unharmed, back to the dead lion. “It used the poison. It learned how to adapt, just like me.” Her heart beat a little faster. She still didn’t want to kill a lion, but this was a lot better than trying to bite it’s throat, which was the only option Cricket had.

Moving over to the same tree, Cricket scraped her sword along it, shaving bark from the tree. It was a tree she’d never seen before, but one that he She collected it in her little parachute pouch, focusing intently on gathering as much bark as she could. She’d probably get hurt in the process, but this was better than not trying at all. The Lowrys never had pets of their own, but she still hated causing harm to an animal. Even though the Gamemakers had made it up with a big, fancy computer. It still felt real.

Cricket crept toward the pride of lions and watched as one female lion wandered away. She’d been watching long enough to know this one didn’t have cubs, and it was small enough to be killed by the poison like the other lion she saw, not just get wounded by it. It was her best shot.

It was all a blur. In hindsight, she was so blinded by fear she hardly remembered what had happened. She’d hurried over, but the lion had spotted her and swatted out with one paw, smacking Cricket in the back, piercing her with her sharp claws. She’d hopped over and leapt around the lion, confusing it as she engaged in a weapon free battle. And finally, she’d gotten in the space to plunge her hand into its mouth, pushing the bark as far in as she could before retracting her hand, the lion’s teeth raking hard against her injured arm.

In hindsight, it was incredibly stupid. But Cricket had other things on her mind.

She took off running, holding her injured arm close to her as the lion pursued her. But as the poison started to affect it, its movements slowed and Cricket slowed with it. And then she was there, bleeding from the arm and the back, and staring at a beautiful creature that she’d hurt. In that moment, it didn’t matter that it was made by Gamemakers, like Nova, with computers in front of them. In fact, she wasn’t sure she could look Nova in the eyes after this. After Nova was one of the people who made her do this.

Nova said she was going to try. That she was going to do everything that she could to help. But she didn’t, if she was going to sit there and watch while Cricket killed a lion. While she programmed creatures to attack her. It was sick. Even though Cricket knew that Nova couldn’t put her job in jeopardy, that she couldn’t send her a gift or a sign that she’d be okay, Nova was still her friend.

Cricket prayed that Nova hadn’t changed. That she was still against this.

“I’m real sorry,” Cricket whispered, patting the lion’s fur softly. It moaned a little and she leaned against it, snuggling up close. “They made me do it. That snake said I’d die if I didn’t, and I’d use the sword to help you out, but it said I ain’t allowed to use my weapons. It’s real mean,” she added, leaning her head against its flank. “It’s real, real, mean. They’re mean.” She felt the tears prick her eyes and leaned heavy against the slowly fading animal, burying her face in its fur as she cried. “They’re so mean.”

She relaxed against its pelt, feeling its breath slow. “Once there was a big lion in a forest,” she began, remembering the stories Nova had told her out by the campfire. Maybe it would remind her, when she got to watch, where she came from. Where her roots were. Just in case she’d forgotten.

“And a little mouse was runnin’ along. The lion hit the mouse with its paw, and the mouse was scared. He said that if the lion let him go, then the mouse would pay him back with a favour someday. The lion thought this was real funny, so he let the mouse go.” The lion was quiet, its breath coming in small bursts. Cricket stroked her paw and gave it a little kiss.

Cricket continued. “A few days later, the lion got trapped by some mean hunters. It was trapped under a whole bunch of ropes. But the mouse came along, and it used its teeth to nibble through all those ropes. The lion was so surprised to see the mouse, but the mouse smiled and just said you laughed when I said I would repay you, but now you see that even a mouse can help a lion.” She wrapped her arms around the lion as it took a stuttering breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, softly into its ear. “I promise I’m gonna make your death worth somethin’. I promise, promise, promise.” She hummed quietly, a song she’d heard many times before around the campfire, rebels trading old songs from a world Cricket wished she’d known. After the lion took its last breath, the task completed, Cricket looked down at her re-opened and bloody wound. Her own lionheart could deal with that later, she mused, as she curled up into the side of the lion, letting its size and safety protect her until Missy found her again. Another one of the spiky rats scurried by, and Cricket swore it looked at her before it continued along its path.

She hummed to herself as she closed her eyes to sleep.

Hush, my darling, don’t fear, my darling, the lion sleeps tonight.

#tw: animal death #tw: poison #ruleandtask #cricket has a way of figuring out creative ways to do things #so this was not nearly as bad as it could've been #i wanted to get this over with so now it's done and i can breathe again #(yes i gave the snake a snake voice how could i not)

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afraschatz · 7 years

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#roblivion #35 bits and bobs from the mill #i wrote something #matan4il

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thebackroadtourist · 7 years

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The Great Serbian Quest: #TechnOlympics

We’ve all been there. Drunk and lost in the shrubbery of Serbia in search for a warehouse. This Harold & Kumar version of a Russian, Aussie and a New Yorker lost in the swampy outskirts of Belgrade would inevitably make for an epic journey. And it did. It all began with a rakia shot at 6pm. My new Russian friend Kirill and I stumbled upon rakia shots for sale on the bohemian street outside our hostel. As we downed the smooth plum-based brandy the vendor cranked techno music emerging from the speaker behind him. The ears on Kirill’s head perked like that of a dogs’ when food enter’s it’s bowl. Kirill is a techno music producer and a world traveler who’s tracks are influenced by the countries he’s visited. He lives in L.A. and works on contracts as an emergency room nurse 3 months at a time and then travels 6 months at a time. The vendor acknowledged our enthusiasm to the music and urged us to go “The Drug Store” that night to see a top local house DJ. Our plan that night was to attend the 2nd night of a 5 day beer fest, but not before visiting our hostel’s garden bar downstairs from our rooms. A few more shots of rakia ensued as we befriended an Aussie and an Englishmen who would join us on the trip across the river to the beer fest. We arrived at the festival grounds by cab and were in shock at what lay before us. This wasn’t your average beer fest with a measly couple of tents and some food. It turned out to be an all out extravaganza where thousands of Belgrade locals and tourists roamed the venue from stage to stage to dance to electrifying bands in the warm Serbian summer heat. We took turns buying rounds - from local IPA’s to stouts to lagers and sweet beers, drinking like amateurs mixing light and dark beers oblivious to the torturous hangover that would await us the next day. We danced, laughed and partied our way through the festival grounds perfectly present in the elated atmosphere without a worry or a care. The Englishmen disappeared when it was his turn to buy the next round, an “English Exit” we joked. Kirill, the Aussie and I continued to crush beers until our bellies reached maximum capacity. We knew a change of scenery was upon us, knowing deep down this night was far from over. Next stop: The Drug Store. We knew this mystical place was in an abandoned warehouse “somewhere along the river” as we were told by the vendor earlier that night. In hindsight we should have researched exactly where this techno venue was before we left the hostel. With no address nor wifi available at the festival grounds, we put our faith into cab drivers, and boy was that a mistake. Our first cabby was a middle aged man with a long beard and spotty English. “The Drug Store” we demanded as we piled into his rusty Fiat. He made a prompt right before entering onto the bridge, persuading us that the Drug Store was on the beer-fest side of the river. We trusted him as our anticipation rose and our livers tried to metabolize the beer and rakia we had consumed. Our man confidently dropped us off at the river bank and pointed to the right “Drug Store” he said, motioning with his fingers that we needed to walk there. 50 meters into our walk we ran into a string of nightclubs on the river bank. This is it, we thought - it’s here somewhere. We followed a group of girls down the steps to what appeared to be some sort of night club “I don’t think this is it” claimed Kirill. We asked the girls where they were headed and they laughed when they heard the word techno. “BOOORRRRIIINGGG!” they giggled as they walked away. Whatever, we thought. Maybe we needed to walk some more. We walked, and walked, and walked, but no Drug Store. The night was nearing 2am now as we pondered on our next move. We had reached a dead-end in the middle of nowhere, underneath a tunnel where shrubbery and river-swamp surrounded us. We made a U-turn and walked 400 meters back to road where the first cabby screwed us over. “I think it’s just right across the bridge, lets walk it” I suggested. So we climbed up the stairs onto the long, tall bridge that connected mainland Belgrade to festival grounds. We leisurely strolled across the bridge, laughing at the night and our first and hopefully last hiccup of our techno. As we reached the other side of the bridge we were greeted by another string of nightclubs. “It’s GOTTA be here!” we agreed, it has to be. Where else could it be? Again we hiked, roamed, and marched, bumping into one basic night club after the next, Jason Durelo blasting through the speakers. No. We wanted Techno. It was now about an hour since our last beer as sluggishness overcame us, yet we prevailed. We had a lot of calories to walk off so I didn’t mind. Time for another cab, we agreed. We hailed down the next cab we could spot but he didn’t know where it was. We hailed another cab and the same thing happened. By this point we kept trekking through the Serbian shrubbery, hopping over rocks, wandering under tunnels, stepping along a trail with sticks popping beneath our feet. Not a human being in sight and not a noise to be heard. We thought we were finished, destroyed, beaten. But then the unthinkable happened: We hopped over a vacant construction sight to find a cabby standing there smoking a cigarette outside his car. This cabby seemed to know EXACTLY where the Drug Store was. And can you guessed what happened? The guy takes us back over the bridge and drops us off exactly where we began. Like a video game reset button. After 90+ minutes of trudging through no where, and several failed cab rides later, we were stumped. “Was this place even real?” we thought. But like any great sports comeback- there is a great techno club search comeback. We hailed down our 5th cab for the night, an older gentleman on the larger side. “Drug Store” we sternly said, as all three of us looked him dead in the eye, as serious as can be. No more games. “Boom Boom Boom?!?!?” He pumped his fists to his chest, elbows pointing out. YES!!! This is our guy. We felt it in our guts, this would be the one. “Do you pinky promise?” I asked, as I held out my pinky. He looked at me strangely and shrugged as we piled in. And boy was this cabby on a mission. He white-knuckled the steering wheel as we zoomed through the life-less backroads of Belgrade, unsure of where he would take us. Back over the bridge and around several bends we went, our excitement grew as the clock ticked closer to 3am. And then, VUALA! The Drug Store. The man was right, the boom of the speakers blasted through the concrete warehouse walls as the vibration of the bass palpated our cores. We ecstatically group-hugged, jumped and soaked in this joyous, celebratory moment. The cabby got out of the cab to interrupt our touchdown dance as we were so happy we forgot to pay. Our experience at the Drug Store that night was above par, not because the DJ was off the charts and not because the warehouse reminded me of Bushwick, but because of the adversity we fought against, the struggle we persisted against and the challenge we over-came to enjoy this night, this moment, this journey.

#travel #solotravel #backpack #thebackroadtourist #beerfest #serbia #yugoslavia

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thejonathanagar-blog · 8 years

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How to Start a Fire

*Older story, Originally appeared in Purdue University Calumet's Best of Student Writing*

A miniature cloud of dust puffed around my Hush Puppies as I stepped from the comfort to the air conditioned passenger bus into the sweltering heat of late August. The moment of departure from my safe-haven, I was greeted with beads of sweat rolling down my face—as well as a few unmentionable places. I could nearly see my suit being ruined from the perspiration dripping down my back. In hindsight, I probably should have removed my jacket but what’s the use of a beautiful suit sans jacket? Can you imagine? How ridiculous.

Examining the area, I noticed I was in the middle of nowhere. There were hardly any buildings, just trees. Hundreds of trees, providing shade that did little to help with the heat. With its lack of paved roads, and subsequent lack of civilized people, I immediately began cursing my editor for ever giving me this assignment. The "Band’s Big Break" contest seemed intriguing at first, but the intrigue wore off the second I knew I would be following a heavy metal band known as RUI. RUI, I learned, was an acronym for "Rednecks Under the Influence" or "Rockin’ Under the Influence," depending on the person asked. Either way, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the task at hand, especially upon learning that I would have to spend two weeks in hell-like weather, not to mention the swarms of bugs attacking me.

I looked over my shoulder at the bus driver and gave him a pondering look. "Sorry, end of the line," he explained, "We don’t go any farther. Company policy."

The bus sped away, spewing dirt and dust from the "road" all over my suit. If it wasn’t ruined before, it was now. I might’ve been able to dry clean it but I decided to dump it when I got to my destination. I couldn’t possibly pass up the opportunity to splurge on another suit.

Searching every direction, I found no sign of life, save for one lone soul in a rundown shack that must have been a convenience store. As I opened the door, a wave of heat hit me square in the face. I didn’t think it was possible but it was about 200 hotter inside the shack than it was in the sun.

"Can I hel’ ya’?" the clerk asked in an odd Cajun influenced southern drawl. He was quite stereotypical: unshaved, with long, greasy hair. He was wearing jeans that apparently had been attacked by a runaway lawn mower and a tattered tank top, the kind affectionately referred to as a "wife –beater."

"Do you happen to have any Evian?" I asked wondering if he happened to live in a trailer.

The clerk stared at me with one eyebrow cocked.

"Water," I clarified, "I could use some water." He gestured toward the corner, not at a cooler filled with glorious bottled water, but to a crude water fountain. As much as I wanted to turn around and catch a bus back to the airport where I could buy a fresh bottle, I was already starting to feel groggy from dehydration. The water was ice cold as it brushed past my face, much to my satisfaction. My satisfaction quickly turned as I gulped down my first drink of Louisiana water. It tasted like rust covered dirt. I opted for a bottle of grape Gatorade.

"Do you where I can find an establishment known as ‘Ned’s Tavern?’ It sounds like a fancy venue." I jested. He didn’t seem too amused.

"Ned’s? Four miles that way," he jerked his head to the left.

"How am I supposed to get there?" I received my answer with a simple glance over the counter at my feet. I purchased a second Gatorade for the trip and set out on my trek.

An hour and a half later, I stumbled into a packed Ned’s Tavern albeit a half an hour late. A rusty lean-to, Ned’s wasn’t the type of bar I was used to. Nobody was dressed to impress, just a collection of sixty some-odd men in wife-beaters and flannel shirts with the sleeves cut off, and a handful of scantily clad women. Nobody was drinking fancy cocktails, just beer and simple concoctions of alcohol mixed with coke. There wasn’t anybody dancing, except for the ten person mosh-pit directly in front of the band. The stage was nonexistent, just a dirty rug placed in the middle of the bar floor, four sweaty dudes crammed on top of it.

RUI was smack dab in the middle of the one hour set and I was absolutely broken up about missing it. How could I ever survive knowing I missed a half hours worth of mediocre Pantera imitation? Now, I may have been a bit too harsh there, they weren’t half bad. They weren’t half good either, but I didn’t feel the need to run, run away, as I had envisioned. All in all it was… pretty forgettable actually. That was, until the encore. An encore that consisted of one song. A song so modestly entitled "The Greatest Song You’ve Ever Heard Before In Your Life." By the show I just witnessed, I sure was expecting the prophecy to be fulfilled.

Sarcasm aside, the song was pretty damned great. Not quite the greatest I’ve ever heard, though it is my job to travel around the world and listen to music. It very well could have been the greatest that the rest of the crowd has witnessed. A melodic, immensely complex guitar arrangement (with minimal accompaniment of drums and bass) poured out of a talented young guitarist who also took over vocal duties—scarce as they were—for the song. The rest of the band grooved along onstage, with an exception of the vocalist who was held up at the bar glaring at the guitarist, a shot of some dark brown alcohol in his right hand. Twelve minutes of amazing guitar work later, the band abandoned the stage to a deafening round of applause.

"RUI, my name is Stephen Lyndon. I’m here for the ‘Band’s Big Break’ contest. That was a spectacular show ending, one of the best I’ve witnessed in my fourteen years of reporting."

"Nice ta meet ya, Steve," the burly drummer took my hand. "This is Scott," he pointed towards the bassist, "Alan," towards the vocalist, "they call me ‘Bear,’ and that little prodigy over there is Syd," he motioned towards the guitarist sitting on his amp, detached from the group. "Syd don’t talk much."

"Well, Syd, I hope you talk to me, it would really help the story." I pleaded with the young man. Syd just nodded in my direction.

"Mr. Lyndon, it’s time for our post-show ritual. Five shots a’ Jack and back to the house fer the after party," Bear chimed in, seemingly the spokesman for the band.

"I’m not much of drinker," I revealed, thinking of my usual one martini that I would slowly sip throughout the night.

"You ridin’ with us, you gots to drink!" That statement I would soon learn is the motto of RUI and a proper representation of the next two weeks of my life.

Twenty minutes and five shots later, we were approaching the RUI house in a cramped Volkswagen mini-bus filled with five sweaty men and six equally sweaty females. My head was spinning and I was being squashed between two scantily clad women (not that I was complaining) when we came to a screeching halt. My body jerked foreword as I struggled to hold my liquor. I managed to, barely.

The house was much too small for all four band members, but they all managed to occupy the residence. A kitchenette, a living room, one bedroom, and a bathroom were all filled with partying people. Everybody must have come from Ned’s.

Thirty minutes of raucous partying later, I found myself being dragged out the back door by three members of an inebriated RUI. "Wh-what’s going on?" I asked.

"You’re gonna learn how to start a fire," Alan slurred.

"I think I know how to start a fire."

"Not like us," Bear chimed in.

Hey dropped my hard on the dead grass that was their back yard. I felt dizzy as I fought to keep down my liquid dinner, a battle I lost. After I emptied the contents of my stomach all over a defenseless dandelion, I noticed two heaps of sticks and shrubbery. I watched as Alan and Scott each poured the contents of a gas can on their respective wood piles.

"Now, there’re three ways to start a fire: the cocktail method, the Harry Potter method, and the boring method," Bear explained. "I’m sure you’re familiar with the boring method. That’s the one most people use." He proceeded to explain the "boring method" as if he were a Boy Scout counselor. "We don’t use the boring method," he chuckled.

"So, what method do we use?" I asked.

"Well, that depends on who you ask," Scott explained. "If you’re Alan, you use the cocktail method. I prefer to do it Harry Potter style." He looked at Bear. "He just likes to watch it burn."

"But tonight, we gonna figure out whatchya like," Bear said handing me a Roman candle. "This is the Harry Potter method."

I looked at him, confused. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Pretend you’re Harry Potter," he explained as he lit the Roman candle with a lighter emblazoned with a confederate flag.

The first fireball exploded into the air in a brilliant flash. This was not met with "oohs" and "ahhs" as is tradition, rather grumbles and instructions to point the next fireball at the pile of gas soaked sticks. The next few flaming balls soared right past the pile. I steadied my hand as best I could in my drunken stupor and the final fireball connected with the pile, erupting like a volcano, as the entire pile engulfed in flames. The crowd cheered, but only momentarily.

Before I could even wrap my head around my actions, Bear shoved a half emptied bottle of brown liquor in me left hand. I recognized it to be Jack Daniels based on the color and shape of the bottle, although I can’t be certain; the label had been peeled off. I attempted to take a swig, assuming this was my order. Based on the previous happenings of the evening, it must have been. It wasn’t. Bear stuffed an oily rag into the neck of the bottle.

"Ya only got one chance this time," he said with a grin as he lit the rag with that same confederate flag lighter. So, cocktail method meant Molotov cocktail. I should’ve guessed.

I hurled the bottle with all the might I could muster from my left hand. I probably should’ve switched to my right, my more coordinated hand, but I was too intoxicated to think that far ahead. The bottle crashed to the ground directly in front of the pile and I was met by the jeers of the crowd. Luckily, the flames happened to find a trail of gas leading to the wood pile and it managed to catch on fire. The jeers converted to cheers as the pile ignited. It wasn’t as spectacular as everyone had expected, but I had managed to light both piles.

We sat around the fire, drinking and talking for hours until I noticed that someone was conspicuous by his absence. "Where’s Syd?"

"Who cares?" Alan barked back. "He can go to hell for all I care."

"Come on, man," Bear tried to reason with the angry vocalist.

"No, no, no. Why are you always trying to protect that asshole?" The anger ringing in Alan’s voice, he continued, "He doesn’t like any of us. He doesn’t care about any of us. He doesn’t contribute anything to the group."

"What about…," Scott tried to interject.

"Don’t you even say ‘The Greatest Song!’" he commanded. "He wrote one song. One. One song that has nothing to do with us. One song that doesn’t even sound like us. One song that steals the show. Night after night. All anyone care about is that one goddamned song."

"Alan, man, he’s a good guitarist. He’s a good guy. He’s just likes to be alone," Bear attempted to soothe the scathing singer.

"He doesn’t care about the band," Alan said in a rather calm tone. "He wants the spotlight."

"That’s not true," Bear argued.

"Yes, it is," Alan tried to convince the beastly drummer. "Nobody else plays on the song. Not really."

"Ya know, he’s got a point," Scott interrupted.

"Shuttup," Bear hollered. "Look, let’s just all go to bed. Sleep off the alcohol. It’ll be okay in the morning."

The partygoers meandered away, presumably to their own places of residences. RUI retreated into their house as I sat alone in the middle of two smoldering piles of ash.

"You coming?" Scott called out to me from inside the kitchen.

"Nah, I’m gonna stay out here for a while."

I awoke in a puddle of my own perspiration, my back aching from my bed of scorched grass and dirt. My eyes burn burning in the sun, I noticed a figure sitting on a lawn chair to my right.

"Hey, Syd," I said, noticing the stale alcohol and vomit taste in my mouth.

"Hey," Syd responded, sounding distant.

"We missed you last night."

"I bet," he answered in sarcasm.

"Well, I did," I explained. "Where’re the guys?"

"Fishing. They didn’t want to wake you."

I stretched my aching body. "I’m hungry. Want to get something to eat?"

I sat with Syd at Caroline’s Corner Café, which was only a block away from the RUI residence. I was so hungry, I could’ve eaten anything. Upon seeing the dusty, miniscule eatery, I was prepared for the worst. I was delightfully surprised when my steak and eggs arrived. Everything was cooked to perfection, one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten. I looked at Syd, shoving a spoonful of grapefruit into his mouth.

"You excited for the show tonight?" I asked him. He answered by simply shaking his head back and forth. "Why not?"

"What’s the point?" he asked hypothetically. "We play the same songs, for the same people, in the same bar every night. We’re not making any money. We’re not finding success. We’re not even playing good music."

"It’s not bad," I argued halfheartedly.

"It’s crap. It’s the same crap that every other band in our ‘scene’ plays. I don’t like it. I never liked it."

"Wait, what?" I inquired.

"I don’t like heavy metal. I don’t like Pantera. Give me The Beatles, give me Dylan, give me Pink Floyd. Give me talented songwriters. Not this ‘I’m angry. Let’s get drunk and scream’ crap. There’s no artistry in it."

"Why do you do it?"

"Because Jimmie asked me."

"Who?"

"Bear. He’s my uncle. RUI was desperate for a guitarist, and he asked me to fill in for a few weeks. That few weeks turned into a few years a little too quickly. And I don’t know if I can take it anymore."

"That sounds familiar," I said under my breath.

"What was that?"

"Last night, Alan went off. Saying you didn’t care about the band."

"He would know."

With that, he left. At the time of this writing, he hasn’t returned. The show that night was cancelled, to focus on finding a new guitarist. They found one a few days later, a scrawny skinhead named Derek. I spent the next week with RUI. They sound pretty much the same, like just another Pantera rip-off. Nothing special.

I still keep in touch with RUI, for they gave me a pretty eventful two weeks. They are currently in the process of recording their debut album. They are hoping to release it early next year. If you like the southern metal sound, pick it up; you should enjoy it. If that’s not your usual taste, the album probably won’t change your mind about the genre.

I received a letter from Syd, just yesterday. He has moved to Chicago. He has a job giving tours at the Art Institute. A job which he loves. He is also working on an album, a solo record. There is no tentative release date, but he says he’ll keep me informed.

Thinking about my two weeks spent with Rednecks Under the Influence, I am thankful to the band. It was an experience that I will cherish for the rest of my life. I learned a lot; they taught me how to start a fire.

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