#instead of making the city streets flow rivers of blood

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

Cecio & his fathers family

Cecios' father is an old noble of Andoran, from a family who made the smart decision of backing the rebellion. Taking in his bastard son was a double edged move, on one hand, he's displaying the ideal that everyone is equal, while also displaying the pedigree & faith of their lineage by having an Aasimar son. 

His father mainly pulled this move because rumors were getting loud about how the family had not fully changed to the nation's new beliefs, and were merely paying lip service to them.

His family is made up of four, his father, the patriarch, a noble turned merchant, who does the bare minimum of lip service towards the current principles of Andoran. He's not particularly corrupt, and by the standards of the previous regime, would have been a gracious lord, but his lack of care towards what used to be the lower classes and particularly his bastard son is a stain on what would be an average merchant lord. 

The eldest son, a man who did his time in the eagle knights, and is now working his way up in the government, hoping to take over his fathers role as the one in council seat, a cold and distant man, one who failed to shed his noble air, and thus only has friends among the nobles, neutral or unpopular among most people.

The youngest son, a shirt chasing fool who is currently a squire for a suffering knight, but one can suppose that the coin makes up for it, he's completely unfit for command and will probably spend the rest of his life wasting his father's coin on cover ups and fine food and clothes

The deceased wife, Cecio's stepmother, a woman who was understandably uncomfortable with the proof of her husbands infidelity under her roof, but who took it out on the neglected child, orchestrating the stealing of his finances, leading to Celia needing to fund his training, all as his father neglected him.

The family enjoyed little change in conditions, as they used their power to gain a large share of the artifact and treasure seeking market, not to mention offering their troops to the eagle knights, meaning they have considerable power for a noble family. It seems the new family tradition is the eldest going into government, and the second eldest going into the eagle knights. 

It seems that Cecio will be the one in the eagle knights, as while all three have gone through knight training, the eldest has firmly gone into government, and the youngest is ill equipped to fight on a serious battlefield, let alone take command and rise to the position expected of him. 

So Cecio works his way up through the Eagle Knights, being sent with the knight he's a squire for to the World Wound, and Mendev. He quickly becomes a full knight, and is granted command over a small group of crusaders thanks to his diligent studying. 

He only enjoys command for a year or two, before he wakes up in Drezden on a stretcher. Only time will tell where he goes from there.

[shellem15]

The Nine Hells of Baator

As a devil fangirl, I finally decided to write a basic overview of the Nine Hells, which has consumed my brain since forever. While most of this is taken straight from forgotten realms lore (shoutout to the wiki!), I've put my own spin on things and emphasized certain details I found interesting. The list of sins associated with each layer (Wrath, Fear, Greed, Lust, Deceit, Gluttony, Sloth, Envy, and Pride) is taken from the Enneagram sins, because I needed 9 of them instead of just 7.

I might decide to go more into depth for each layer/archdevil, but no promises!

Overview:

The Nine Hells of Baator is a plane of pure law and evil, a place where tyranny reigns supreme. Devils, or Baatezu, make their home here, crafted from the souls of the damned and eternally bound to serve their betters. The Hells consist of nine descending layers of sin and punishment, connected by the flowing waters of the river Styx. Each layer is ruled by an Archdevil, a devil of immense power and influence who exerts total control over their domain. While the layers are distinct, they are still interconnected, each serving a purpose to further the Hells' agenda.

Devilish society is centered around power, hierarchy, and order, with those without power seeking to claim it and those with power seeking to keep it. The Blood War, the endless conflict between Devils and Demons, keeps the Hells running; an eternal enmity that keeps the populace from turning against their masters. Everything in the Hells ultimately serves to further the goals of Asmodeus, the Lord and Master of this dark domain.

Avernus:

The first layer of Hell is Avernus, a blasted plane of endless trenches and rivers of blood. It is a war-torn battlefield, the Hells' first line of defense against the ceaseless hordes of demon-kind. This is the layer of Wrath, of eternal bloodshed and unending hatred. The armies of the Hells are stationed here, ready to be thrown to the crushing wheel of the Blood War.

Avernus is ruled over by their fell general, the Archduchess Zariel. A fearsome warrior—a fallen angel—who lives for the kill, for the next great conquest.

Dis:

The second layer of Hell is Dis, a plane of those who watch, and those who are watched. An iron city, one of smoke and steel and hidden eyes. This is the layer of Fear, whose denizens live in terror of those beyond the walls—and of those within, as well. Dis acts as a multi-tool for the Hells: it is a hub of interplanar trade, a great titan of industry that produces the arms and means needed to fuel the Blood War, and, most critically, it contains the greatest surveillance network in the outer planes. Knowledge is as valuable as souls in the streets of Dis.

The overseer of this foul city is the Archduke Dispater, an old devil, paranoid about usurpation despite the tight grip he keeps over his domain. He locks himself away in his iron tower, a panopticon from which he monitors all dealings in his realm.

Minarous:

The third layer of Hell is Minarous, a plane of those who have, and those who have not. It is a thick swampland, home to monstrosities that slither and crawl through the muck and mud. This is the layer of Greed, of crushing poverty, sinking debt, and grabbing hands. The heart of this fetid realm is the Bank of Minarous, the center of all commerce in the Nine Hells. This is only bank allowed to mint soul coins, the official currency of the Hells. The Blood War runs on the souls of the damned, and all souls pass through Minarous' coffers.

The master of the bank is the Archduke Mammon, a miserly, serpentine devil who sits upon a hoard larger than any dragon's. He is a devil loved by none, but money speaks louder than words, and power is oft bought rather than earned.

Phlethegos:

The fourth layer of Hell is Phlethegos, a plane of flame and rock, pleasure and penance, judges and those who whisper in their ears. The great courts of the Hells reside in this volcanic realm, and so too do the pleasure houses and casinos. This is the layer of Lust, of tipped scales and weighted dice, of burning passion underneath cool indifference, of great rewards and dire consequences. Law and order is the backbone of Hellish society, and it is here where "justice" is served.

Reflecting the dual nature of Phlethegos, the rulers of this place are the Archduke Belial and Archduchess Fierna. Belial is the original ruler of the fourth Hell, the great Justiciar who presides over the court system. Fierna is the newcomer, Belial's daughter and rising challenger, the Lady of Lusts and Pleasures. On the surface, it seems that father and daughter are at odds, each vying for power over the other; Much like their realm, however, their interests are more entwined then one might think.

Stygia:

The fifth layer of Hell is Stygia, a plane of lies and exaggerations, of truths distorted in icy reflections. A frozen ocean of dark waters and bright glaciers blinding those who gaze into the ice. This is the layer of Deceit, of endless news cycles and lies sold as truths. A war cannot be fought without support, and the broadcasts of the fifth ensure the thirst for blood among Hell's populace is never sated.

The chief of this artic bureau is the Archduke Levistus, a handsome, silver-tongued devil frozen in a vast glacier. The conniving charlatan was trapped as punishment for his own treachery, and now can only speak though the forked tongues of his servantry.

Malbolge:

The sixth layer of Hell is Malbolge, a twisted plane of cushioned cellblocks, of iron bars and shackles disguised as sweet salvation. It is an endless labyrinth, a prison of luxury and extravagance which traps its inmates like flies in honey. This is the layer of Gluttony, where excess and indulgence bind souls tighter than any chain. Even the Hells have its lawbreakers, its criminals and traitors, and here is where those souls are sentenced, forced to pay penance for their crimes and misdeeds.

The warden of this dreadful prison is the Archduchess Glasya, Princess of the Hells and daughter of Asmodeus. While she oversees the Hells' penal system, she is also the Hells' greatest criminal, bending Baator's laws and rules as far as she can while skirting her way out of consequences.

Maladomini:

The seventh layer of Hell is Maladomini, a once-bustling plane now fallen to rot and ruin. It is a place of the lost and forgotten, of decaying cities, crumbling infrastructure, and long-abandoned ghost towns. This is the layer of Sloth, of malicious negligence and crushing complacency, of rusted factories and strip-mines long since dried up. Bureaucracy is the bane of progress, and here, where all the records in the Hells are kept and stored, bureaucracy reigns supreme.

The chief executive of this putrid domain is the Archduke Baalzebul, the Lord of the Flies. Once a beautiful angel of the Heavens themselves, he is now as grotesque and wretched as the realm he rules.

Cania:

The eighth layer of Hell is Cania, a plane of melting ice and rapid development, of forbidden knowledge and those who wield it. It is a frozen mountain range, one where vast glaciers and snow-capped peaks hide secret laboratories and great libraries, where "progress" is made at the expense of morality and reason. This is the layer of Envy, of the relentless strive to be greater than your peers, of the pain one feels at others' success. The Blood War demands bigger weapons and greater firepower, and Cania is at the forefront of these advancements.

The mastermind behind this frigid realm is the Archduke Mephistopheles, the Hells' greatest wizard and second-most powerful Archdevil. In his resentment of his fellows, the Lord of Hellfire has thrown himself to invention and experimentation, creating new and terrible magics that melt the very foundations of his icy domain.

Nessus:

The ninth and lowest layer of Hell is Nessus, a plane of those who rule and hold themselves above all else—a plane of power itself. It is a wind-swept wasteland scarred by endless chasms and ravines, where grand citadels and fortresses light up the darkest trenches in the Outer Planes; where the greatest deals are struck behind closed doors. This is the layer of Pride, of great hubris and unwavering conviction—the mother of all vices. It is here where laws are made and authority is unchallenged, where power is held as most sacred and holy. All the Hells are beholden to the will of Nessus.

The Lord of this realm, and of all the Hells, is the Archduke Asmodeus. The greatest of all devils, the Lord of Lies and Prince of Evil, the mastermind behind the Hellish Project. He is ancient and powerful, unchallenged in his dominion, and a being of pure, unfettered arrogance. A tyrant who seeks absolute domination over all of reality, and one willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that goal.

[alchemisland]

SubDublin

A wild hunt rides out tonight

Hate is sallied forth

Troubles now are here again

What did we learn up North?

Send them all underground like the Poddle

“Send them all back” its backing breaking bottles

The ill-thought glow of a public bus in flames

Tear chairs out and carry them up the Gaol

Execute the Gael, upon them seat James.

Ana Livia I live here and could more make

Of breaks spent refusing requests for change

The Green goes red, the red is green, easter egg 1916

Skyline laws and peeling frontages, Blessing basins by ton, and Burgesses

Dublin’s not one for change

The change is never spare.

To do for Dublin, to be its Blake

Garda bike the Liffey takes

Clandestine as a married man’s Fetlife username

Print it all, Ashley Madison, immortalised on Traitor’s Gate

Leon jumped into the Liffey, on its bridge the youth getting lippy

In Garda’s face, he returns the lean projecting strength 

Hoping comrades will invade the scene.

The sound of Irish rebellion is a wailed air from a keening woman

The anguished wail of a beauty-leched crone

A blood-bloated battle God whose icon is a crow

The Dwarven rhythm of iron working stone

Rebellion here has a distinctive air

A smell you’d know, an old one, a vintage rare

Wolfe Tones escaping the stout-stripped cheeks of the men who’re there.

Liars light the beacon fires inciting false rebellion

Aren't your countrymen frightened inside? You are, all of you, Trevelyan

No foreign man on Irish shores will loot thy corn for thy family’s stores

Meanwhile on every wall a pale-eyed Eastern gentleman crowned in thorns

Forgiver of forgivers, Enoch that Cain built, Enoch that spoke of rivers, Gods with horns

Riots relish, the city hellish again recalling old destructions; upriver, approaching forms

Drakeprowed viking vessels and direct invited Norman settlers

Arnott’s gutted and cameras culprits spy, what you’d imagine: spides, idlers and should-be-spayeds

We have taken up our hod and spade and ensured that public transport is yonks delayed

We left behind our God and said ‘sure, let’s have something that’s worse instead’

We have always been a mongrel breed, loam bed that rejects no seed.

A country of tall tales, tale tellers talking their tones tuning and tales talling transcendentally

Tall men up north, not quite hyperborean or Pictish but a breed apart, Giant seed

At war their well whetted bodies in violent supremacy the battle ballet, at sport their breathstealing speed

An island of ancient sports and good humoured rough stuff, Tailteann games which bring earthly fames

Men who drain drams and etch out dire dreams, Doirbh agus Draiocht and Craic agus Ceoil

Men who express disbelief through their anuses: “it is in me hole.”

Out with hatemongers down Winetavern street

Into the Liffey, we’ll observe ye all sink

The river that stinks with your blood flows sweet

The soul of the nation is suffering now, I think.

A wild hunt rides out tonight

Hate is sallied forth

Troubles now are here again

What did we learn up North?

[lmsarchive]

ENG 346 Final Creative Project

A Traveler’s Guide to Gehenna

High upon a gargantuan column of jagged rock and shattered glass lies the golden city of Gehenna, surrounded on all sides by a river of fire. The golden city is the sole collecting point of humanity in hell, as all others have fallen to Satan and Legion. Gehenna was built by the great demoness Hepzibah, Creatrix of Vengeance. Hepzibah was the grand concubine of Satan before revolting against him and fleeing from Pandemonium, Capital of Hell and Legion. Vying for power and rulership over Hell, Hepzibah constructed Gehenna by hand as a way to begin building her empire of damned souls and demons unhappy with Satan’s rulership.

Gehenna itself is a large circular city with a grand temple in the center known as The Profanitoria, home of worship to Hepzibah. The buildings are constructed with sandstone brick stained orange by the red dust that blows constantly through in sandstorms. Buildings are topped with golden domes carved with sharp patterns, the origin of the city’s nickname as the “golden city”. Each descending level down from The Profanitoria is considered less and less sacred. The next district down from the top is split in half, the first section inhabited by the Queen of the city along with her court and the second section inhabited by the Black Pope and the highest of archbishops in the Church of Night. The lowest district, least sacred of 50, is in a state of all-out war between various mafias and corporate militias seeking to claim the largest section of the city for their own purposes. Because Gehenna covers the entirety of the column supporting it, the low walls around the lowest district do little to protect against the miles long drop into the Lake of Fire that surrounds the city on all sides.

Make no mistake, Hepzibah may protect her city by standing giant in the Lake of Fire, but she is no benevolent goddess. The city’s energy originates from the blood of its inhabitants. All citizens must pay blood fees to their mountain-sized deity, and those who do not give up enough are bled dry by the city’s demonic police force. The sacrificed blood is fed into fountains at the center of all town squares in Gehenna, which all lead into one giant pipe that opens on the side of the column that the city lies on. The blood which flows from the opening is the red waterfall from which Hepzibah feeds. In turn, she uses her dark sorcery to keep the city intact.

The police force of Gehenna is composed of rogue demons which have decided to leave Legion and follow Hepzibah. Legion is the singular entity created by Satan which manifests in hell as armies of demons. Legion is in spirit one being, but its body is made up of millions. Those demons which now live in Gehenna have decided to split away from the rest of their spirit and serve the Creatrix. They believe that Legion as a whole should convert to serve Hepzibah and her coup-d’etat against the original king of hell. The police force of Gehenna, known as the GPD, is lax in its rule over damned souls. They would not run to save a weak soul finding himself mugged on the streets. Instead, they would join the attackers to collect more blood, and then turn on the attackers for their blood. 

Crime is incredibly common and rampant in the golden city. Mafias fight over turf in the outer districts, and corrupt merchants and politicians push the damned toward violent insurrection and zealotry in the inner districts. The currency of the mafias are slaves, and they trade for the various goods found in Hell. Slavery is also extremely common in Gehenna, but it is not motivated by race or creed. Those who find themselves kidnapped by chance or sold out by loan sharks are a few examples of how most damned end up in servitude. As all damned look like incinerated, dried out husks, the way they look does little to determine who finds themselves as slaves to the rich of the city.

Murder, or the closest thing you can get to it in the afterlife, happens constantly in Gehenna. Those who find themselves with a knife through the neck or crushed under the foot of an abnormally large demon materialize in the tunnels under the city which make up a seemingly endless maze of prisons and torture chambers. The name of this great prison is the Labyrinth. The murdered damned are then tortured and flagellated for a set sentence of 10 years. The one law of Gehenna is as reads, “The weakness of the damned is a stain upon the Creatrix’s great golden city.” Which means the only wrong a citizen can do is to be killed. 

The rich of Gehenna are a class of the most perverted and wicked damned who made their way to the top by sacrificing those around them. Businesses in Gehenna run on blood currency, and the rich are those who gain the most wealth of blood through various means. The wealthiest citizen of Gehenna is Nimrod, the earthly king who commissioned the Tower of Babel. In the golden city, he runs a bank which stores blood reserves for the largest corporations. Another member of the rich class is actually a demoness who chose to run a business instead of joining the GPD. Her name is Aksharz, and she owns the city’s largest brothel. Patrons of the succubus pay in blood for sex with the pixie prostitutes who make up the brothel’s workforce. The reason that blood has become the city’s main currency in trade is because those who contribute the largest amounts, whether of their own or from others, are rewarded with sorcerous powers from Hepzibah. 

The upper class of Gehenna has a complicated culture built upon sabotage and deception. They are violent and send constant waves of fighters to each other’s doors in an attempt to kill their fellow entrepreneurs and send them packing to the Labyrinth. The wealthy do have inner circles of trustees, but their relationships are founded more on convenience and ambition rather than trust and love. Because all damned are instilled with an inner need for violence once they enter Hell, caring relationships are practically non-existent. Do not be fooled, if Nimrod’s found that his closest confidant had suddenly become useless or betrayed him, he would kill him with no hesitation. 

The government of Gehenna is an establishment completely independent of everything that a government should be. The Queen of Gehenna is Hepzibah’s younger sister Keturah, and she may have the title of queen, but she does not rule in any way. She is fiercely protected by the GPD, but her time is spent gorging on giant feasts and participating in massive orgies with her court of 100 demonic nobles. Keturah and her court are completely ignorant to the struggles of their citizens, and they will never do anything to improve the situation. They are the most privileged group in all of Hell, and neither Hepzibah nor the Pope of Night plan to change that. In truth, Keturah is a figurehead. She is the face that the damned in other parts of Hell see welcoming them on banners, pamphlets, and posters to seek out the golden city. Keturah’s immense beauty and promise of Heaven in Hell are the trap that Hepzibah has set to lure in the hopeful. Keturah herself is arrogant, foolish, greedy, and lustful. She has an endless materialistic and sexual appetite and would kill anyone who dares to come between her and what she desires. She may be ignorant, but her power as a lesser goddess should not be ignored. 

The Pope of Night, a favorite damned of the Creatrix, was Cesare Borgia in life. Son of Pope Alexander VI, Cesare gained the rank of cardinal through nepotism and was known for his unchristlike sexual tendencies and 11 illegitimate children. In Hell, he is known as Cesarix, head of the Church of Night, and the enacter of Hepzibah’s will on Gehenna. While Hepzibah stands guard in the river of fire, she sends Cesarix and the rest of the cardinals, bishops, and priests messages telepathically. It is believed in the Church of Night that only the clergy can communicate with Hepzibah, and the damned of the city must attend Black Mass and take communion to stay under the full control of the goddess’s will. This is why none think to escape the city or revolt against the church. What sets Cesarix apart is that he is the only damned who can send messages back to Hepzibah, and this is why he is the Pope of Night. 

While life in Gehenna for the average member of the damned is better off than they’d be simply burning in the Lake of Fire or running on hot coals in the Meadow of Embers, they are still very much in Hell. The average damned in the golden city works tirelessly every day with no breaks under employment to the various corporations. They do this because it is preferable to be paid blood which they can donate during weekly sacrifice rather than have it beat out of them. The natural state of being damned is living in constant pain. Their throats are endlessly sore, their eyes forever cursed to be dry, and their skin covered in third degree burns. The diseases of Hell ravage the damned, and serve as the second most common reason that the damned end up in the Labyrinth. Helion pox is a particularly nasty illness which infects the sick with lava-hot puss filled sacs that eventually explode and burn the afflicted alive from the inside out. The Church of Night sells antidotes for the disease at the price of a week's worth of blood. This means that those who catch disease can choose to die and end up in the Labyrinth, or trade all of their saved up blood for an antidote which will still then cause them to be beaten for having none left to sacrifice. The funny thing is that the antidote is made from the flowers that decorate the inner districts, and the upper class revels in the knowledge that they could cure helion pox once and for all, but choose to exploit the damned instead.

Life in Gehenna for the richest of the damned is much better than it is for their working class brethren. They live in the nicest homes the city has to offer, which still isn't all too great in comparison to earthly accommodations. Basically anything is a step up from sleeping in sewage pipes or being crammed into 75 square foot apartment slums. Because they are able to donate a larger sum of blood, the rich damned are eased of certain traits natural to human souls manifesting in hell. Nimrod for example is wealthy enough that he is able to afford a blessing which grants him a completely mortal form, save for a few 2nd degree burns he didn’t have in life. The “middle class” of Gehenna would have just enough to ease their sore throats and dry eyes. No amount of blood can lower hell’s constant temperature from 106.66 degrees, though. 

The wealthiest damned are able to donate enough that they are granted demonic magic from Hepzibah. They are able to move objects telekinetically, light fires remotely, and sense murderous intent in others. These are the main tools with which the one percent of the golden city have managed to stay on top for so long. The rich are even able to afford what incredibly scarce food hell has to offer from its barren landscape. Most damned are fated to starve for eternity, but the richest can afford pomegranate. These fruits in Hell as opposed to on Earth are rottenly sweet, vibrant red, purple, and pink produce which has a cooling effect on the consumer. They are the sole form of nourishment for the damned in Hell, aside from dishes created through cannibalistic means. 

Speaking of cannibalism, the practice is absolutely normal in the filthy streets and alleys of the golden city. The flesh of the damned is burnt, rancid, and maggot filled, but this doesn’t make much of a difference considering the complete lack of any other foods. Water is completely non-existent in Hell. The damned may feel a constant thirst tugging at their throats, but no such substance exists in the entirety of the dimension to satiate it. The most common form of cannibalism is filial cannibalism. The anatomy of the damned still allows for reproduction, but the resulting child is completely non-human. It is believed that because the Well of Souls in Hell is solely occupied by Legion, all offspring of the damned are demon souls in mortal bodies. Because of this accepted theory, the damned feel no remorse eating their own children. The alternative is the child maturing into a beast called a cambion, a half human half demon entity which is savagely violent and capable of massacre. 

The demons which inhabit Gehenna come in a large variety of shapes and sizes. The abaddons are the most common form of high demon, they are totally anthropomorphic aside from their vibrant red skin, forked tails, and animalistic heads. Their skin tones range from dark rich maroons to light saturated scarlets. They are a mostly civilized species, but as demons they have a knack for sadism and battle. The head of the GPD is a particularly fierce and ancient abaddon who had great influence on ancient Egypt known as Sekhmet. She has the head of a lion and vibrant cherry colored skin decorated with sacred tattoos and scarification patterns. Because of her history as a goddess in kemeticism, Hepzibah chose her as the head of her military. Another influential species of demon in Gehenna are the succubi, and by extension their lesser brethren the incubi. Succubi are on average eight foot tall demons that resemble human women with cloven hooves and horns. Each succubi has a harem of incubi, three to eight on average. Higher ranking succubi are known for having larger harems and draconic wings. The incubi are on average six foot tall and have similarly cloven hooves and small, imp-like horns. Keturah, Queen of Gehenna, is a succubus. 

The lesser demons of the golden city, also known as fae-kin, are various semi-sapient species such as the imp, satyrs, goblins, pixies, and troll-kin. These species which naturally live in the wild of Hell have adapted and taken over certain neighborhoods and districts in Gehenna. They live like wild animals and pester the damned around them. They are known for their mischievous nature, but are also known to gang up on damned and torture them for entertainment. These fae species are often used by the rich damned and higher demons as their personal militias within the city. Skirmishes between mafia militias and corporate militias are very common, and there are entire districts that have become war zones. Militias of fae-kin are often smaller compared to the hordes of damned that make up mafia militias, but the demonic nature of the fae-kin evens out the odds and results in a lot of close drawn battles. 

The grandest and most powerful species of demon in Gehenna has only one member, and it is Hepzibah. The Creatrix is a type of demon called an infernal primordial, a group of completely unique beings that all have the potential to hold celestial titles within Heaven, Hell, or Earth. Not all primordials do hold these titles though, and most don’t. Hepzibah does not hold a celestial title, but earning one is her sole desire. Satan is an infernal primordial and his celestial title is Lord of The Third Realm. In the earthly dimension, the greatest beings are known as corporeal primordials, and Gaia holds the title of Lady of The Second Realm. Primordials in Heaven are called heavenly primordials. God is the Lord of The First Realm, a title which also comes with rulership over all three realms. 

As an infernal primordial, Hepzibah’s appearance is completely unique and unlike any other entity. Standing at a height which is miles long, her form of movement is closer to a slither rather than a walk. From the waist down she is ophidian, hinting to her status as predecessor to the trans infernal to earthly species of gorgons. She has two heads, the primary one being a maw of razor sharp toothed tentacles with a singular eye sprouting from the middle. The second splits off from her neck and resembles a giant, demonic ant. She has four arms, all of which end in razor sharp talons splattered with golden ichor from her fallen angelic foes. Her upper torso is feminine in shape, but her entire abdomen is covered in protective plating made of an organic substance similar to chitin. As a demonic entity, she is capable of withstanding all levels of heat. The Lake of Fire has an unreadable temperature, but she is able to live in it without any hindrances. Although Hepzibah is extremely powerful, as all primordials are, she would be completely overwhelmed if she attempted a full takeover of Hell. Satan himself is a primordial and he has the loyalty of most others of their kind in Hell. If Hepzibah wants to rule, she is going to have to aim a bit higher.

While Gehenna’s placement on a barbed column of rock in the middle of the miles long Lake of Fire may create the impression that it is an impenetrable fortress, the constant flood of attackers on the city are not hindered by the geographical location. The fact that Hepzibah has managed to create her own capital of power in Hell is a direct affront against The Holy Trinity, the three branch government of Heaven. God has placed a call of action against Gehenna, meaning his angelic army constantly reigns attacks on the city. The one-eyed, dozen-winged angels stream in through portals, and Hepzibah is in a constant state of battle with them. When an angel “dies”, their wings collapse in around their singular eye and they are teleported back to heaven for rejuvenation. In the rare case that an angel’s eye is grabbed and crushed before their wing’s collapse in, the angel is permanently killed and their corpse does not rejuvenate. Hepzibah is so large that she wears a necklace decorated with the bodies of angels that have been eternally exterminated.

While most angels slain by Hepzibah are lucky enough to be returned to heaven or experience eternal death, there is another alternative that is worse. Once, about every 5 years, Hepzibah takes special care to capture an angel alive. The Holy Trinity is not sure what happens to their captured agents, their best guesses cannot be confirmed as each agent’s energy signatures disappear a mere few months after they are reported missing. The current theory is that they are kidnapped and tortured for information. The reality is, unfortunately for the angels, much worse. When an angel is captured, they are brought to The Profanitoria, the large temple to Hepzibah in the center of Gehenna. Upon arrival, they are handed off to the Pope of Night, Cesarix. The angel is then escorted to the chapel at the center of the temple, known as the Sanctum of Vivisection. In the sanctum, the angel is experimented on and dissected live. Only the pope and highest of the archbishops have been briefed on the Creatrix’s plans and what she stands to gain from observing the anatomy and magical capabilities of angels. Hepzibah’s plan is to recreate the spell that angels use to travel interdimensionally between Heaven and Hell. The end goal is to create a spellcrafting formula that allows demons to recreate angelic travel magic and invade Heaven. Hepzibah’s plan is not to expand within Hell, but to raid Providence and overthrow God as the Ruler of the Three Realms.

There is a last trump card of The Holy Trinity that Hepzibah hasn’t taken into account. An extremely secretive agency shrouded in subterfuge has trained since its formation to defend Heaven in the event that Hell and Legion are able to invade and make an attempt on The Throne of The Three Realms. The Nephilim are a specialized group of angels that have studied dark sorcery and taken on the burden of demonic nature to defend their creator and the sacred city of Providence. As each day passes by and Cesarix grows closer to unlocking the secret to angelic travel magic, the Nephilim prepare for the bloodiest war that both Heaven and Hell have ever seen. While Hepzibah slays the angels that sacrifice themselves for the sake of distraction, Keturah gluttonizes all the pleasures Hell has to offer, and the Pope of Night distracts himself with his sinister political machinations, The Holy Trinity arm the best of its grand military to carry out a full reset extermination of Hell.

[talesofsorrowandofruin]

Manuscript Search Tag

Thanks for tagging me, @sentfromwolves and @late-to-the-fandom! :D

Words: above, bloom, crystal, sun, wrist, struggle, surrender, swirl, sharp and silent. These are from Totentanz and LSOHG:

Above:

It was evening. The sun was just above the horizon. The shadows cast by the trees outside the gate were long and sharp. They made Hariye think of fingers reaching out to grab him. He shuddered and tried to avoid them as he left the room.

Bloom:

Unlike Diarnlan, Teivain-ríkhorn-hrair hadn't built herself a castle in her realm. Instead she'd built an average-sized house that floated above the ground. A flight of stairs made of clouds went from the door to the path below. Diarnlan's realm had been eternally winter, while this one was eternally late summer. The leaves on the trees were just starting to turn brown. Flowers bloomed all over the ground. A river ran in front of the house. Instead of the path going over the river, the river went over the path. It formed a tall arch that flowed without any concern for the laws of physics.

Crystal Jewel:

His eyes widened. It was a necklace made of multi-coloured jewels that glittered when the light caught them.

Sun:

The stretch of water separating Vakaryan and parts of Sui from Çarisar was technically the easternmost inlet of the Finsennak Ocean. But generations ago it had gained a name of its own: the Blood Water. Theories for where the name came from ranged from "a fierce battle was fought on the shore" to "the sunrise makes the water look red". Whatever the reason, it was usually peaceful in spite of its name. Three kingdoms relied on it for fishing and trade. All of them had a vested interest in making sure the Blood Water stayed peaceful.

Wrist:

Karandren grabbed her wrist and tried to physically pull her out. Diarnlan yanked her hand away, then slapped him across the face. He had the audacity to yelp and clutch his cheek as if she'd seriously injured him.

Struggle:

The snowball fight degenerated into an undignified scuffle that ended when Karandren dropped a sculpture's head on top of Diarnlan. As she struggled to free herself she kicked him and sent him flying into another sculpture.

Surrender Defeat:

"We need to defeat the skrýszel so definitively that their owners will never send them through the veil again. We need... Oh, I don't know. Some sort of ward that would kill them as soon as they step into this world. Hey, do you think we could manipulate a skrýszel into attacking its owners?"

Swirl:

The hole in the veil opened right in front of her. For one nightmarish minute she looked through it into the Óhreinnjǫrð. Colours swirled behind the veil, colours that human eyes should not be able to see. In seconds the landscape changed from mountains to valleys to cities that defied all logic. She saw palaces built on top of enormous spindly towers. A thousand shapes rolled back and forth in the gorge-like streets.

Sharp:

The emperor's complacence had completely evaporated by now. He openly glared at his son and spoke in a sharp, clipped tone. Konstantine could practically see the thoughts going through his head: He's spent so long among the barbarians he's become one of them. But how can he be anything else when his mother is one? At least this time the emperor had the courtesy not to say what he was thinking to Konstantine's face.

Silent:

Hariye nodded silently. No matter how much he tried to think of it as an adventure, he couldn't help feeling more like a hunted animal. He didn't feel like exploring the house just then. All he really wanted was to curl up in a corner somewhere, go to sleep, and hope this would turn out to be a nightmare when he woke.

Tagging @aalinaaaaaa, @writeblrfantasy, @garthcelyn​, @fearofahumanplanet, and anyone else who wants to do this! :D New words: grate, governor, glasses, genuine and grudge.

[ssamie]

ten. “greatest desire”

kozume kenma x fem dazai!reader

(bsd x hq)

tw: mentions of suicide, guns & cementaries

masterlist.      suicide freak!

"uh hi.. i know we don't really know each other that much.." atsushi started off. the boy had a nervous smile on his face as he stiffly waves at kenma, with tanizaki and naomi by his side 

"but have you seen y/n-san?" atsushi asked 

"y/n? why, what happened to her?" kenma asked worriedly 

atsushi, tanizaki and naomi were stood in front of nekoma's gym, trying to look for the girl, as per the president's wishes. "its been about a day since you guys went out to the arcade, right?" tanizaki chimed in "has she shown herself to you, or atleast texted any of you?" 

kenma frowned as he shook his head no. he looked back at the team who were trying to act like they weren't eavesdropping. 

"no.. i just assumed she was busy with work" kenma muttered 

"hmm, i tried to ask ranpo-san but he's too busy" naomi chimed in as she hugged tanizaki's arm to her chest 

"oya oya, sorry to barge in on the conversation-" kuroo interjected. the captain had a sly grin on his face as he walked towards the group. "but we just so happen to overhear something about our manager going missing?" kuroo mused 

"yes, sorry if we're intruding" atsushi bowed 

"but y/n-san went missing again, and the president ordered us to find her in under four hours" tanizaki sighed 

"or else we get our asses handed to us" atsushi shuddered 

kuroo and kenma gave each other a look and nodded along. "we'll try to look for her later" kuroo said "we'll let you guys know" 

"thank you so much!" atsushi exclaimed with a smile "would you mind calling the agency if you find her?" he said as he handed them a piece of paper with the agency's number 

"its really hard tracking her down" tanizaki says with a chuckle "when she chooses to disappear, it's like she never existed in the first place" 

"anyways, we'll be on our way" atsushi excused "we've troubled you long enough" 

"its no problem.." kenma muttered 

naomi waved them goodbye as they walked away. the duo waving back meekly as they watch their retreating figures disappear. 

"hey, you okay?" kuroo nudged his friend kenma nodded and looked down at his shoes "yeah.." 

"i think i'll go look for her now" kenma muttered "eh? kenma, we could just go later" kuroo said with a raised brow 

"im going. bye" kenma muttered, completely disregarding kuroo as he went straight out the door 

"where's he going?" yaku asked as he peeked his head out the gym doors "he's gonna look for y/n" kuroo answered 

"damn. what a simp" yamamoto sneered 

"wow. that's rich coming from you." 

"i swear to god.." kenma grumbled "if she ends up getting found in a ditch and i wasted all that time running around for nothing.." he scoffed 

he's been running around the streets of tokyo, passing through every street and alleyway to try and look for the girl. so far he hasn't seen a single trace of her, not even a single person who has managed to pass by her. 

"y/n.." kenma huffed out. he was currently by a riverbank, leaning against the metal railings of the bridge while he tried to catch his breath. 

"you called?" 

kenma jumped at the sudden emission of her oh-so-familiar voice, and turned around to face her "what the- y/n?! where did you come from?!" kenma shrieked out 

"also, where have you been?! atsushi-kun and a bunch of people from your job came to the school today looking for you" he said 

y/n chuckled and strode over to his side, jumping over the rails and sitting on the flat surface of the bars. "if i told you that the port mafia took me hostage and threatened to execute me, would you believe it?" she mused 

"no." 

"then i won't bother to say" she shrugged 

kenma eyed her warily. her port mafia story could actually be believable, now that he thought about it. given as, her bandages were loosened and torn, almost as if they broke off with too much movement. and along with the dried blood resting upon her cheeks and hands. 

"are you okay?" kenma asked worriedly 

even if it was believable, it could've been just her trying to kill herself yet again. not that it was any better

"of course" she smiled "though my body is a bit sore.. chuuya really doesn't hold back"

kenma froze and slowly turned his head towards her with a blank and emotionless look on his face. 

"chuuya doesn't what." kenma spat out "did you seriously disappear to hook up with that dog? that-that man child? that eyesore? that-" 

"what are you talking about?" she laughed

kenma huffed and propped his elbow on the cold metal, resting his chin on his hand as he pouted 

"you're really funny, kenma-kun" she mused 

"really? cause im not laughing." kenma grumbled "i ran around the whole city for you, only to find out you ran off with some guy" his honey hued orbs eyed her down, watching her chuckle softly as the golden rays of the sun illuminated the surroundings around her

"y/n.." he mumbled "why did you really disappear?" 

"i already told you" she replied with a sigh "the port mafia is truly a force to reckon with" 

"that's why you gotta stay safe, kenma-kun" she mused "you never know who and when they'll strike next" 

kenma sighed and nodded along. it was old news -- the port mafia, that is -- its been stirring up the whole city for the past few months. 

"ne, kenma-kun" she called out "if we do end up dying alongside each other, i suggest we drown ourselves in this river." she said 

she stared down at the flowing water, the golden colour of the setting sun reflecting off of it. "its clear and pretty, not much people are around.. its quite tranquil." she hummed

"i never really understood this.." kenma muttered "but why are you so intent on dying?" 

"and i never understood you, and so many others." she replied "tell me, kenma.." she turned to face him, her bandaged hands loosely gripping the railings, as her legs and feet dangle off the ledge. 

"do you really think there's any value in the act of living?" 

kenma didn't answer. instead he stared at her, and her clouded eyes, each orb holding an unforgivable amount of sin and deciet that he could only imagine. 

"well.. is there any value in the act of dying?" he asked back 

she blinked dumbfoundedly at him, fairly shocked at his question. 

"isn't there anything else you desire? life is kinda cool too yaknow?" kenma said in a sheepish tone 

she stared at him a few minutes longer before averting her gaze. she chuckled and closed her eyes as the cold wind breezed past. "man fears death, and at the same time, man is drawn to death" she said 

"its a singular event in one's life that no one may reverse" she hummed "and that is my greatest desire." 

kenma didn't know how to reply to that, so he didn't. he simply looked down up at the setting sun, letting silence wash upon them both. 

"hey kenma" she called out. kenma looked at her, curious and wary. "yes?" he asked 

"wanna hang with an old friend with me?" she suggested with a soft smile

"me? won't that be intrusive though? i don't really know them.." kenma muttered nervously

"it's fine. he'd probably be happy i even talk to people my age" she said with a chuckle. she jumped off the railings and landed on the ground with a grin. she stretched her aching arms over her head and patted kenma's back. 

"he's a lot like you" she mused "always saying life is worth living and all.." 

"okay then.." kenma agreed reluctantly "but if i sense that person doesn't like me one bit, im leaving." he groaned out

"im pretty sure that won't happen" she chuckled sheepishly 

"why are we in a cementary?" kenma grumbled 

"is this where you kill us both?" he scoffed playfully "i wouldn't be surprised if you already have a hole dug for us" 

she chuckled and shook her head "no, no" she mused "were just taking a small stroll" she cooed as she looked around the awfully empty surrounding  "ah! there it is" she perked up "it's been so long since i went here that i almost forgot my way around" 

kenma followed her as she skipped away, though he was quite confused, he didn't question her. 

"hurry, kenma" she called out as she watched him struggle to walk faster "i hate you" he grumbled back, which she chose to ignore 

she smiled softly as she stood infront of the oh-so-familiar grave. 

"geez." she mumbled "its been so long since we hung out, odasaku" 

"shame we couldn't meet at the usual place" she chuckled and sat down on the grassy ground. she leaned back on the gravestone, resting her back against it as she waited for kenma to arrive 

"y/n?" on cue, kenma chimed in. he was panting slightly, most likely from running and walking around for so long "what are you doing?" kenma raised a brow at her 

"kozume kenma-kun.." she called out

"yes?" he asnwered

"do you know whose grave this is?" she mused, pointing her thumb to the gravestone she was leaning on 

kenma eyed the name engraved on the stone and shook his head. "no..but it's someone dear to you, right?" 

"what makes you think that?" she hummed out in amusement 

"i've never seen you pay visit to a grave before" kenma muttered. the pudding head hesitantly sat down infront of her, bowing at the grave before settling down on the ground. 

"does it look like im visiting a grave to you?" she asked with curiosity 

"it does.. why?"

she smiled softly and leaned her head back, letting it fall and her eyes to land straight at the cloudy sky "well, i thought of it as hanging out with a friend but.." she trailed off 

"i guess that works too" she sighed out 

kenma frowned as he watched her close her eyes. her smile faltering as a wave of comforting silence washed upon them. "im sorry" kenma muttered "i shouldn't have said anything.." 

"its fine." she chuckled "its been years since he died." she smiled bitterly "i guess it's time someone snaps me out of my daydreams" 

kenma didn't respond. he simply toyed with the grass on the ground and the few flowers littered around. 

"yaknow, kenma" she said with a smile "you're the first person i brought here" 

"me? why?" kenma asked in surprise and confusion 

"because this friend of mine was a good man." she said "he told me to try and look for my reason to live."

"and i think i found it" she whispered as he looked into his eyes 

kenma blinked in shock as he basked in her awfully heartwarming words. 

"my reason to live is to die with you." 

"of course. its gonna be about suicide again." kenma sighed dejectedly.  "but y/n, if you think of me as your reason to live.. then i'll take it upon myself to keep you alive" kenma smiled at her, tucking his blond hair behind his ears as he kept his honey hued orbs trained on hers. 

"kenma.." she teared up 

she blinked repeatedly as she opened her mouth to speak. 

"i.. I DON'T WANT THAT! I WANNA DIE WITH YOU!" she whined loudly "i already had our suicide planned! i even suggested the whole river thing a while ago!" she exclaimed 

kenma deadpanned as he watched her ramble on and on about her ideal double suicide. "i really don't care." kenma groaned out "i don't want you to die." he whined "why do you keep trying to kill yourself" 

"just because, okay?!" 

"just for that, im gonna call your agency and hand you over" kenma sighed as he dialled the agency's number 

"traitor!" she shrieked "kunikida-kun will undoubtedly beat me up" kenma ignored her as he started speaking on the phone. 

"yes, she's with me.." he muttered "is she behaved?" he repeated the question as he sent her a pointed glare 

"no, not really" he scoffed 

"kenma, you're heartless!" she shrieked in horror 

"cmon. let's atleast pay respects to your friend before we leave" kenma said with a sigh "dont worry, kenma-kun! i already thought this through" she grinned. she then pulled out a bottle of sake and a book and placed it on the ground. 

"you brought him alcohol? seriously?" kenma furrowed his brows 

"hey, it's two of his favourite things, okay?" she defended with a laugh 

"do you know how ridiculous i looked while buying these things at the store?" she chuckled "they thought i was a madman or something!" 

"i would've too" kenma answered back 

"you're so mean to me, kenma" she pouted "anyways, we should go." she said as she dusted her pants and unravelled a thin layer of her torn bandages. 

"i can't wait to tell you about this suicide method i learned about." she beamed. she tugged on his arm and pulled him away as she continued to blabber on his ear "apparently this one does the job right away!" she exclaimed 

"can you believe it, kenma?" 

"wow. crazy." he replied dryly 

"yeah, and all we gotta do is shoot ourselves with these guns-" 

"no." 

"oh my, this almost feels like a welcome home party!" she cheered. she gave the detectives a close eyed smile while they simply stared back at her with a look of agitation and worry 

"where the hell were you?!" kunikida exclaimed angrily as he tapped his foot on the ground 

"the port mafia!" she answered back nonchalantly 

they all perked up in surprise from her claim. "huh?! the port mafia?!" 

"hai hai! but don't make a big deal about it!" she chuckled as she waved her hands dismissively 

"you could've died!" kunikida exclaimed  "now, now! i'd like to think of it as akutagawa-kun needing some attention that's all" she joked 

"jesus christ" kunikida sighed as he adjusted his glasses "that boy could kill you and you still won't take him seriously" 

"anyways, why is he here?" he asked as he pointed to kenma, who simply ignored him and avoided their eyes as he played on his phone 

"oh! he's the one who found me, so i thought it'd be right for me to repay him" she smiled brightly as she squeezed kenma to her chest, all while he unbotherdly continued on with his game

"i've thought of so many fun things we could do back in my dorm, hehehe~" she chuckled mischievously as kenma's face paled. she only gripped him tighter when he tried to scurry away. 

"i- i see.." kunikida stuttered out. he looked at them with wide eyes as she started squeezing him tighter while kenma tried to pry her off 

"y/n, you're strangling me!" kenma huffed out "i know!" she grinned 

"we'll leave you two alone then!" kenji said with his usual smile as he ushered the others away 

"they're worse than tanizaki-kun and naomi-san.." atsushi shuddered "that's because she's trying to kill him" tanizaki sweat dropped 

"and herself, as well" yosano sneered "go get your man!" she cheered as she sent y/n a sneaky wink 

"yosano-san! don't encourage her!"

[anghraine]

“the voices of the sea” - fic

I wrote a thing! There might be errors, since I wrote it very quickly, but it was fun (in its way). It’s part of the Aranorverse, where the explicit throwbacks in LOTR (Aragorn, Denethor, Imrahil, and Faramir) are genderbent (as Aranor, Andreth, Imraphel, and Míriel).

In particular, it’s a very belated sequel to “cloven shield and broken sword,” in which Aranor found a dying Boromir:

She remembered him tugging at her leggings, demanding to know but what next? And she remembered him in Lothlórien, haughty and suspicious until he began to speak of Míriel, the sister he had loved and protected through all the days of their lives. Boromir the tall, the fair, the bold, had died, and his treasured sister lived on; what was Aranor’s grief to that?

May the news of his loss come to you swiftly and kindly, jewel-maiden!

The dream always began the same way.

Míriel stood in a city of white and gold, grander than Minas Tirith, grander even than Osgiliath of old, though its domes and towers were similar enough in form that she knew she looked upon the work of Dúnedain. Most of the people around her, however, belied the impression, with their bright hair and soft features—or so it had once seemed. They were handsome, but in a way that unsettled her, like overripe fruit covered in sweet cream. Some particularly disturbed her: tall men in long red tunics, leading lines of bound prisoners towards a building beneath a particularly large and glittering dome.

The prisoners would not have looked out of place in Minas Tirith. Míriel’s stomach turned as smoke trailed up from the dome.

The first time, she still knew not what she saw at this point. It was strange and disagreeable, but little worse, until the winds began to blow. Míriel’s black hair whipped around her face, rain splattering on her head and cheeks and the ground, where it pooled into large puddles. Nobody seemed to notice her. Men came running from what looked like a harbour, shouting things in a language she couldn’t quite understand; her impression of their thoughts was dark and clouded, enough that she shrank back. 

But she was not a shrinking sort of girl, not really. The prisoners had drawn her attention again; the red-robed men seemed to be distracted by the newcomers and the prisoners had seized the chance to struggle with their bonds. She ran over to them.

“Who are you? Do you come from Gondor?” she asked.

No one answered. No one so much as acknowledged her existence. But as the water splashed over her sandalled feet, the prisoners broke free and fled, chased futilely by only a few of the robed men. She caught a single familiar word amidst all the clamour: storm.

Yes, of course. It must have come on very unexpectedly; everyone appeared to be dressed very lightly for this kind of weather. Míriel was herself; her thin tunic soon soaked through, and her skin went numb. The sky grew darker; she almost thought she saw the shadow of some enormous creature flicker across it. And the steady fall of the rain turned into torrential sheets of water that blasted through the streets, scattering the people on them.

Míriel ran as quickly as she could, like the rest, but instead of retreating into houses or flying to the ships, she turned and scrambled towards the clearest sign of refuge: a mountain near the city, rising clear and pure above its buildings. Smoke puffed from its summit, which struck her as wrong in some way.

She was a child at the time, her steps short, but somehow or other, her feet brought her out of the city and to the side of the mountain before the driving wind and rain could wholly flood the city and its environs. Ahead of her, a small woman in an embroidered white tunic, with sparkling bracelets about her wrist and a golden collar at her throat, clambered up the sides of the mountain. The air was hot, hotter than it should be, but Míriel could think of nowhere else to go. She struggled up the mountain after the woman.

“Can you hear me?” she called out. “Let us help one another!”

To her surprise, the woman looked back—but her fair face, though not unsettling in the way of the others’, was filled with utter terror. She didn’t seem to see Míriel at all, her pale grey eyes wide and staring. 

Míriel followed her gaze, and gasped. Water was rushing out of the city and drowning the green valley below, rising with impossible swiftness. Míriel was not craven, but at that, she turned back to the mountainside and struggled to scramble up its ledges, ignoring the pebbles that pressed into her feet beneath her thin, drenched sandals. Now, she could not look back, and she ignored the horror that filled her mind.

They never did make it to the top of the mountain. But they reached a high enough point that Míriel could see past it. Water was flooding beyond it, too, pouring through forests and rising over hills from every direction.

Even as Míriel gazed upon it, the storming water splashed up into foamy waves that roared beneath them. This did not, however, prepare her for what happened next.

To the west, all the waves seemed to join together into one, towering and impossibly enormous. But it grew still larger, cascading up and up and up and up, above Míriel and the woman, above the mountain itself, above everything. The hills and valleys, forests and cities, all fell under its heavy shadow. Míriel’s very blood felt cold, her her breath coming in small, frightened pants as the wave’s inescapable darkness deepened.

The woman, clinging to rocks, screamed something that Míriel half-understood. Then the wave began to crash down on them.

In Míriel’s bedchamber, her eyes flew open. That time, the first time, she promptly burst into tears and cried until Boromir came running, thinking she was ill. He managed to console her, but within a few nights, the dream came again, and then again within a few nights of that. So it continued, on and on, through the years that followed.

The horror of it never really abated. Yet she grew accustomed to it, in a way: to the sight of Númenor in its most terrible hour, only made worse by the understanding of what came next and why, to the glimpses of her namesake, the rightful queen. Indeed, nothing but the wave itself left so strong a mark on her mind as Tar-Míriel’s face, so beautiful and so terrified.

She, Míriel of Gondor, would never forget her, or Númenor, or where the folly and evils of their people had led. She could never forget. Perhaps that was the purpose of the dream. Perhaps it was a warning of what victory could mean in the end, however improbable victory might seem in her waking hours. Perhaps it was something else yet. But it never stopped haunting her.

Nearly thirty years after the first dream, though, it changed. Míriel dreamed again of Armenelos and the Meneltarma and the shadow of death rising inexorably above all. But there was no waking. The wave slowly began to collapse over them, foam and droplets spattering her face before it reached her. Míriel stood tall and straight, refusing to cower, allowing herself no further weakness than blinking the water out of her face. She opened her eyes to more water, feeling it slosh about her bare ankles.

But it was now deep into night beneath a pale moon, just bright enough for her to see that the water in which she stood flowed smoothly past the familiar shores of the Anduin. The terror of the Downfall had shifted to an overwhelming sense of peace.

As she watched, she saw a small boat come floating up the river. In colour, it was a peculiar, shining grey; in design, she could not recognize it. Nor did she expect to, for it cast a dim light all around it. Though nobody appeared to be rowing or steering it, it continued on its serene course without interruption.

Míriel felt a distinct desire to draw nearer the boat, to understand what could possibly explain all this. She thought of resisting the desire; she might have—but it did not strike her as foul in the way of the Enemy’s arts, so she dared approach. 

The boat slowed as she came near, within hand’s reach of the prow. Her instincts warned her against touching it, but she saw illuminated water filling the boat, and a warrior who first appeared to be sleeping in it.

Míriel gasped.

“Boromir!”

She knew at a second glance that he was dead. Anyone might have, without need of fallen Númenor or any other powers of this world. His chest had been pierced with many wounds. His sword lay broken on his knee, and others at his feet. His black hair had been carefully laid over his shoulders. She recognized everything he wore except a lovely belt of linked golden leaves, and his face was not only restful, but beautiful, even more than in life.

She and her mother had already feared the worst, when they heard the echo of his horn coming from the north, unaccompanied by any news of him. But it was one thing to fear, and another to see.

“Where is your horn?” she asked, as if he might somehow answer. 

The boat kept floating under her gaze, drifting past where she stood in the water. 

“Where are you going?” she cried. “Oh, Boromir!”

It passed on, down the stream and fading into the night, towards the sea. Míriel stood alone in the water. No priest of Sauron, no Faithful prisoner, no doomed queen or frightened citizen intruded upon her notice. No brother, either. 

She tilted her head down to stare into the clear river-water, her reflection a dark blur at this hour. With her hair hanging loose around her face, obscuring the sight of the shore, it reminded her of peering into the waters near Dol Amroth on a calm night. Perhaps it had reminded her father of the sea he missed, too. Oh, the sea, the sea! Must it always be the sea?

She felt tears slide down her cheeks—as if the occasion required more water, when Boromir was gone and forever consigned to the fate of Men. They would never see him return. She would never feel his great embrace once more, nor listen to him with their mother, nor ride out to the Pelennor with him, nor ever again see him laugh among the knights of Dol Amroth. Míriel squeezed her eyes shut.

She pressed her fingers to her face, rubbing away tears, and opened her eyes again. She felt no surprise at the sight of her bedchamber in Minas Tirith. Yet she was not lying in bed but sitting upon it, her hands still pressed to her cheeks, as if she had actually woken some time before, or never slept at all. Míriel rose, shaking out her dry shift, and walked over to her window, which looked westwards.

Boromir had risked death constantly; it was his duty and right as Captain-General and heir to the Stewardship. She had always known this. She had certainly known it when he set out on his errand, driven by a dream of his own. Yet, in some way, she had not known—not understood—and now—

Now, she must tell their mother.

[e-milieeee]

from the ground up (ladynoir)

Summary: There are two things Ladybug hates the most about Chat Noir, and two things she loves best.

(They may or may not be the same thing.)

Notes: i love ladynoir and their dymaic so here this is

Click here to read on AO3!

There were two things Ladybug hated the most about Chat Noir.

She hated how he flirted with her. Shamelessly, loudly, and always, always out of place.

Monday mornings were hectic as they were, and the akuma at five didn’t help with anything. It was Tikki who shook Marinette awake, chanting something about Hawkmoth, and Marinette had nearly face-planted onto the floor in an attempt to just get out of bed. Why was Hawkmoth even awake so early? Did he not sleep?

Her coordination wasn’t any better as she swung across the rooftops towards the site of devastation. Sliding behind a rooftop, Ladybug peered at the akuma—a woman who was wreathed in a dress of flames, floating leisurely down the street as she set fire to everything she could. She was still a couple of blocks away, but the fire was slowly but surely licking its way towards her hiding spot.

“Good morning to you, m’lady!” Chat’s voice sounded behind her, and Ladybug whirled around. “Early cat gets the bug, it seems.”

He was so chipper that Ladybug took it as a personal offence. Even with the chill of the morning air, she was still struggling with keeping her eyes open. Yet here was Chat Noir, looking invigorated and happy and awake.  

“How,” Ladybug grouched, “are you so cheerful at this time?”  

He winked. “Only because I got to see you.”

It was too early for this. “The feeling isn’t mutual,” Ladybug shot at him.

“Meowch! I lay my heart bare to you, Bugaboo, and you stomp all over it?” He clutched his chest and tilted his head back. “That’s cruel, even for you.”

Ladybug pushed his nose a little ways from her own. “Focus, chaton,” she chided. “If we finish this quickly enough, I can still go home and sleep before school starts.”

Chat let out the long-suffering sigh of someone who had gone above and beyond. Ladybug wanted to remind him that it was his own theatrics that often landed him in that position. “If I knew any better, I’d say you didn’t want to spend time with me.”

He had long mastered the hurt puppy (or was it kitty?) expression, and Ladybug giggled slightly as he pouted at her. The pout turned into a wide smile when she reached over to scratch his chin, and Chat positively melted against her hand. It was cute, sometimes, how a little could go such a long way—even if Ladybug would never admit aloud to anyone that she found him cute.

“Alright,” she said once he looked satisfied. “Let’s go get that akuma now.”

***

If Ladybug could choose the thing she hated even more than the flirting, it was the self-sacrificing.

She could live with the puns. She could live with the flirting. She could live with Chat trying to steal a kiss from her every once in a while. But Ladybug wasn’t sure if she could live with herself if Chat Noir were ever gone.

The akuma had been a bad one—it was still rampaging around the city, wreaking havoc. But none of that mattered, because the worst and only part Ladybug could focus on at the moment was Chat Noir’s state as he limped into the alley with his arm around her shoulders.

The red of his blood was barely visible against the red of her suit, but Ladybug could feel it, slick against her hands. She could see it too, the scene imprinted against her eyelids, just as well as she could still hear Chat’s cry of pain when the blow meant for her had hit him instead. And now, the smell of blood permeated through the air, clogging all of her senses. The memory tore through her head again and again: the blur of the silver blade heading towards her transforming into black and blonde and green, the agony she had braced herself for that never came. All of that lay manifest in her partner’s state at the very moment, and Ladybug thought that she had never felt more frightened in her entire life.

“M’lady,” Chat rasped. “I think we’re far enough. Can we—can we sit down?”

“Yeah.” Her voice shook, and Ladybug tried to school it back to normal. “Just… can you?”

Chat nodded dazedly. She gripped his arms as he eased himself onto the ground, a quiet groan escaping when he stretched the wound at his side. He ended up against the wall, head tilted back and teeth clenched as he tried to quell the blood flow with his hands.

“Chaton,” Ladybug whispered, cupping his face. Her hands left smudges of red against his cheek, the contrast stark. “Look at me. Open your eyes.”

A slit of emerald green showed as he peered at her from under his lashes. A smile-turned-grimace appeared on his face. “I’m okay,” he reassured her. “Really.”

“You’ve been stabbed!”

“Worse could happen,” Chat replied, a hysterical little giggle bubbling. Then he winced. “Shit. That hurts.”

Ladybug was torn between laughing in incredulity or smacking him. In the end, she did neither but tried to staunch the bleeding with him. Her stupid, brave, loyal, self-sacrificing partner. She hated it. She hated him.  

Somewhere in Paris, the akuma was still on the rampage. Every second counted, but Ladybug couldn’t bring herself to care. One of her hands was pressed against the wound at his side, the other gripping his fingers so tightly that it seemed like she was the one bleeding out on the ground.

Chat was the one who ultimately broke the silence. “If this is all it took for you to hold my hand,” he joked, “I might’ve chosen to get stabbed more.”

Ladybug glared at him. “Stupid cat,” she hissed. “Make another joke out of this and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

“Still threatening me in this trying time, m’lady?”

He smiled at her again, blood on his cheeks, green eyes hazy. Yet somehow, in that state, he still managed to look at her like she was the only thing that mattered. As if he hadn’t just been skewered through a supposedly indestructible super suit, as if he wasn’t bleeding out in a random alley somewhere.

She stared at him for a couple seconds more. Her responsibility as a hero was but a dull thrum in the back of her head, demanding an answer she refused to give. She knew she had to, but there was no way she could simply leave Chat there as she left to hunt down the akuma.

As if he could read her thoughts, Chat Noir nodded at the rooftops. “Go,” he encouraged. “I’ll still be right here when you’re done.”

When Ladybug still didn’t move, his bloodied, clawed fingers slid on top of hers. “Go, Ladybug,” he reiterated. “I’ll be waiting.”

She stared into his steady, unwavering gaze, then surged forward and hugged him.

A small noise of surprise left Chat when her arms first wrapped around his neck. After a couple of seconds, he slackened into her gasp, cheek pressed against hers. Ladybug breathed in his scent—it was almost overpowered by the rustic scent of blood, but  still faintly—and told herself that he would be fine. He would be fine, because he had to be fine.

It felt like a second yet eternity when she finally pulled away. “Go,” he repeated for the third time, “and save the world, m’lady.”

She hated him—oh, how she hated him—but every time, she also loved him a little more.

***

There were two things Ladybug loved the most about Chat Noir.

She loved how he flirted with her. Shamelessly, loudly, and always, always out of place.

He found her perched on a rooftop overlooking the Seine. The night was now quiet, illuminated by streetlights. Ladybug had been watching the river sweep by, the distorted reflection of the cityscape imprinted fluidly on its surface. Nighttime Paris was her favourite—there was something beautifully unreal about it that also soothed her after a bad day. And today had been a particularly bad one.

There was a quiet thump behind her. Ladybug jumped, surprised, before a clawed hand rested on her shoulder. “Relax, Bugaboo,” Chat said as he sat down next to her. “It’s just me."

“Oh, great,” she grumbled. “There goes my peace and quiet.”

Chat, accustomed to her dry jokes, still feigned offence. It had long turned into a little game between them, and neither of them wanted to stop. “So many purrsonal attacks,” he protested, a hand over his heart. “Why, m'lady , if I didn’t know better, I’d think it’s because you’re too embarrassed to admit you want me here.”

“In your dreams, kitty.”

He sat down next to her. For a little while, both of them didn’t speak, and Ladybug continued staring forward, trying to soak in the serenity. Chat Noir remained silent as well. For someone who could be obnoxiously loud, he also knew when to shut up, and Ladybug appreciated that about him.

“M’lady.” Chat finally spoke up. “What’s on your mind?”

“How do you know I have something on my mind?”

He drew a leg up and rested his cheek against his chin, turning to look at her. Ladybug met his gaze as well. His green eyes, glowing slightly in the dark, were surprisingly serious. “Well, for one, you’re here. This is your sad spot. Your go-where-I’m-angry spot.”

“I come here when I’m not sad too,” Ladybug protested.

“Let me finish. Secondly, you didn’t put your heart into rejecting me tonight. Something’s wrong.”

“That’s how you tell?”

He shrugged. “Worked, didn’t it?”

A shaky laugh escaped her. “It’s personal,” Ladybug said. “I—I can’t really say. But you’re right. I’m glad you’re here. I came up here to be alone, but realized that I didn’t really want to be by myself. So, thank you.”

When he didn’t reply immediately, she wondered if she had hit another sore spot about their personal lives. Before she could apologize, Chat opened his hand and stretched it out in front of her.

It took a little too long for her to realize the offer, but the moment she did, she took his hand. His fingers wrapped around hers, tight but not too tight, steady and warm and anchoring. He didn’t say it aloud, but Ladybug could hear the implication behind his actions: I’m here for you no matter what. And she knew—even if she couldn’t talk to him about school, about her friends, about Adrien—he would be ready to listen or to offer silent support.

Comfortable silence blanketed them. Between Chat’s hand, the whisper of the wind and rippling of the Seine, some of the exhaustion and frustration and anger from that day began to slowly melt away.

“Ladybug,” Chat began.

She looked at him again. “Hm?”

“I’m so glad Eiffel for you.”

It took at least a couple of seconds for the pun to sink in, and then a giggle escaped Ladybug before she could stop it. Before she knew it, she couldn’t stop laughing, doubling over, howling until tears formed in the corners of her eyes and her stomach ached.

It was so stupid, and so… Chat. Only Chat Noir could possibly dream of such terribly perfect timing and know the exact, dumb thing to tell her.

“I hate you,” she wheezed.

“Nah,” he grinned. “You love me.”

Ladybug couldn’t bring herself to disagree.

***

If there was anything better than the out of place, over-the-top flirting, it was the way he always had her back.

Sure, they had their disagreements or the occasional fallout. But when she needed him most, Chat Noir never failed to be there.

Sometimes it was loud—he would come in whooping and shouting and being obnoxious—and other times, he would be silent, blocking what she couldn’t, making sure she wouldn’t be hurt, a steady shadow at her back. No matter what it was, Chat was always there at the right moment: not too early, not too late.

The mob of reporters were getting overwhelming as Ladybug edged back. The questions didn’t stop: where was Hawkmoth now? How long would it be before she and Chat Noir stopped him for good? Although her powers restored everything in the end, how much longer did they have to live in fear? Before she could even think of the answer to one question, there was another, then another, then another until they turned into a pile of demands that seemed to have only one answer: I don’t know.  

Because Ladybug didn’t know. Because Ladybug couldn’t. Because no matter how hard she tried, it seemed as if Hawkmoth was always a step in front of them, and they just kept falling further and further behind. The noise grew until it seemed to engulf her like a wave, and Ladybug was drowning in their demands and fears and—

“Hey!” A flash of black dropped into her vision and just like that, Chat Noir was shielding her from the questions and cameras. “Back off. Have any of you ever heard of personal space?”

In his presence, a semblance of common sense returned. Chat had managed to create a circle of space for them, enough to hold back the pushing crowd, and Ladybug was struck with the urge to leave. She had to leave.

“M’lady,” he murmured, quiet enough that only she could hear. “Shall we go?”

Ladybug swallowed thickly. “Yes, please.”

An arm wrapped snugly around her waist the moment the words left her mouth. Despite being perfectly capable of keeping up on her own, Ladybug let Chat lift her. He gave the crowd a mock solute, a grin hanging on his lips, before his baton shot skywards.

Wind tore at them, and Chat let out a shout as gravity took hold and they plummeted down for a couple seconds. They vaulted over Paris, over waving children and surprised adults, until Chat finally landed on a bridge overlooking the scene. In front of them, Andre Glacier’s ice cream truck parked. Chat set her down gently. “Give me a second,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

Ladybug waited as Chat approached Andre. They were talking in too low a tone for her to hear, but not long after, Chat was returning with an ice cream in hand, two spoons stuck in it. He offered her a hand.

When Ladybug didn’t respond, Chat picked her hand up and gave her a slight tug. “They must’ve done a number on you if you’re not even rejecting me,” he joked, but it was half-hearted. “Come on. Let’s find a bench to eat this on.”

Minutes later, they were seated facing the Seine, with Ladybug clutching the ice cream. Mint chocolate chip with strawberry—a strange combination. Stranger still was how good it tasted. Chat let her eat in silence, let her thoughts process, let her take the time she needed. It was only when she realized that the two spoons meant the ice cream was for the both of them that she actually handed it to him, sheepish.

“Sorry,” Ladybug mumbled. “I almost finished it.”

Chat shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m not that hungry anyway.”

He took it nonetheless, scooping the mix of mint chocolate chip and strawberry. The ice cream, slightly melted, swirled into a mix of green and pink on his spoon.

“Thank you.” Ladybug finally spoke up. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

“Well,” Chat replied around a mouthful. “You could’ve told them all to fuck off because you’ve done much more than they have the past couple of months.”

Her breath escaped her in a choked laugh. “Chat!”

“What? It’s true.”

“Paris’ superhero shouldn’t be trash talking anyone,” she scolded.

“Well, for you, m’lady, I’ll do anything.” He stuck out his tongue, still coated with ice cream, and Ladybug let out a shriek and backed away from him.

“Gross! Chat!”  

He burst out laughing. Chat’s laughter had always been contagious, wonderfully so bright and sunny and cheerful, and Ladybug found herself laughing with him. They laughed until Chat tipped over their ice cream, the only thing left being melted sludge, and it splattered unappetizingly against the sidewalk. Then, one look at each other, and both of them started again.

By the time Ladybug was finally getting herself back under control, a bit of the weight had lifted. In her periphery she could see that Chat was still watching her, a smile on his face, and Ladybug tried to ignore his expression until she could no longer pretend.

“Stop staring at me,” she complained. “It’s—” Distracting.

The words left her. Because there he was, looking at her with such affection and trust and adoration in his eyes that Ladybug was certain that she, of all people, didn’t deserve it. Everything she was going to say seemed to disappear, and she stared at Chat Noir, stumped and breathless.

As if he knew he had caught her attention, he smiled again. “Everything they said today,” he started, “throw it away. Don’t listen to it or keep any of it to heart.”

Ladybug jolted from her reverie. “Chat—”

“Let me finish. Paris sees you saving them, but if they can’t be thankful for it, that’s on them. Don’t let anyone let you think you haven’t done enough. No one. Especially not yourself. And don’t ever say you don’t deserve every bit of praise you get, m’lady, because you deserve it all.”

A response welled up, but it didn’t make it past her lips. Ladybug stared at Chat with wide eyes, mute, as he took her hands. “We’ll get Hawkmoth together,” he promised. “When we do, there’s no way he’ll be prepared for what’s coming for him.”

There were still no words Ladybug could say, but she smiled. Between the two of them, sometimes words weren’t needed.

Because even if all of Paris were to burn, as long as she had her partner by her side, things would turn out fine in the end.

[greytoiletpaper]

Out on Allen Street, it’s 7 in the Morning

Set in the Street Siblings au by @a-sketchy-character | @streetsiblings without which I may not have had the motivation to write this much.

Drizzle | Deluge | Squall | AO3

Chapter 4: susurration

The world is dark.

Somehow, she knows how many marks and cuts criss-cross her body; how many bruises decorate her like a canvas. But she can’t feel them, not even one.

Instead, all she can do is listen, tuning in to the rain as it pours, as red droplets fall in time off of Mad Dog’s blade. If she really listens to the sound, it almost sounds like a different boy’s laughter.

She focuses on the noise and it alone, her body so perfectly still.

Mad Dog thrusts his blade to her chest, and Cassandra’s eyes open.

-- 

They’ve only been in Gotham for a week, yet, it feels like he never left. At least for Park Row, the “Crime Alley”, the city has never changed. Slowly, the Red Hood and Ravager make the area their own. He does everything to make sure that the Bat never catches a whiff of what he’s doing. He knows it is pointless; even if Bruce knew, he would be too much of a coward to venture into the evil heart of the city.

It infuriates him, the remnants of the old argument. If Batman was ever truly needed. It would be - no, should be - here. In the black, beating heart of Gotham, where crime and cruelty channel through its citizens as if it were in their own blood. Yet for all he prattles about his crusade of justice, Bruce will never set foot into Crime Alley; too hung up on the ghosts of his past to banish the ones that haunt others.

It’s why he’s wearing the original persona of the man who murdered him. Jason had lived these streets, born and raised and died because of them. Deep down, Jason understands what Bruce simply refuses to believe. Some people simply want to watch the world burn, and they can never be stopped, only carefully controlled, managed or otherwise taken out. He never wants what happened to him to be inflicted on someone else. Not if he can help it.

Now, Red Hood is here, slinking through the darkened hallways of Arkham. Past every guard and camera until he arrives at one particular cell. He knocks on the door, and a mop of neon green flips upwards.

The madman beams; his eyes are whirlpools of chaotic energy.

“What’s this? Birdy clipped his wings!” The Joker begins, guffawing like a howling hyena. “I was wondering when you’d come back to see me, little Jay.”

To his credit, Jason doesn’t react. The pneumatic seals of the helmet hiss as it comes off. The Joker never takes his eyes off his face.

“There you are, my boy. Just like your uncle Jay” The lunatic says without tone, feral grin seeming plastered. “Say, you seen Cass anywhere?”

That makes him shift uneasily on his feet. The Joker leans in close, almost conspiratorially.

“You think the Bat ran her out? That he…” Something morbid flashes in the eyes of his monster. “Killed her just like I did you?”

Jason wants to drive his fists into the man’s back. Stamp on his legs until the bones shatter. Bludgeon him over and over with whatever is on hand until the madman’s flesh is nothing but paste. Instead, he stands frozen as the cackling echoes around the room and in his ears.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Is what he says. “And I’m not doing this for me either.”

His hand lifts the pistol from its holster.

“I’m doing this because someone has to do what Batman can’t.”

The Joker takes the words in stride, nodding to himself. To Jason, it’s the calmest he has ever seen him.

“Not a fan of the whole motorcycle fetish style, but to each his own,” The madman’s eyes, still rotting in their own insanity, meet his. Something about the gaze seems so clear despite the instability. “You’re going to be wonderful for the Red Hood name.”

He sighs.

“When you do it, boy, make sure you get as much of the colour out of me.”

Jason nods and presses the barrel into Joker’s forehead, closes his eyes, and everything is silent.

 --

He presses his hand to the glass, the rain sliding down the pane on the other side, its streams the same lengths as the rivers that flow from his red crown.

--

Fact One, a statement: Roman Sionis is the Black Mask, one of Gotham's most powerful crime lords with connections running deeply in the underground drugs and weapons trade.

Fact Two, an amendment: Roman Sionis is the Black Mask, arguably one of Gotham's most powerful crime lords with sizeable connections in the weapons trade.

Fact Three, a truth: He is absolutely livid with the Red Hood and the Ravager.

Roman stares at the text on the notepad; he picks it up and throws it across the room.

In the space of two nights, the new duo had taken over his entire drug operation and cut off every tie Roman had to Crime Alley. Internally, he thinks ‘cut off’ is still too lacking a description. Half of his thugs breathing through tubes for days. Pimps found castrated and dangling from lampposts. Drug dealers with their mouths frothing as they dissociated. If the rumour mill among villains is anything to go by, Red Hood had killed the Joker in his own damn cell. Roman shudders. He’d seen the images from the crime.

The pair are definitely a threat, and Roman needs him gone as soon as possible. Hiring the Joker would have been one of the best choices: effective, relatively cheap and definitely motivated to take on whoever dares don his previous mantle. Alas, reality disagrees.

Black Mask picks up the phone, ready to dial the more expensive alternative. He sighs and hopes they don’t call Deathstroke the ‘Terminator’ for nothing.

 --

Cassandra dives away at the last second, adrenaline flushing through her body and lifting the fog from her mind. Her opponent’s blade impacts with the ground, firmly planting itself the whole way. Mad Dog, clearly thrown off, becomes an easy target with her renewed energy.

She does not hold back, unleashing a flurry of blows to the assassin’s chest, even as he tries to hold his defence together. With renewed focus, she redirects every strike he makes and strikes him back thrice as hard.

It is not long until Mad Dog is at Cassandra’s mercy, nearly a bloody pulp under her hand.

“Finish it,” Shiva calls suddenly, and she almost complies. But, with her hazy vision, the images of Faizul and the assassin blend together. The vertigo Cassandra is feeling becomes sharper, and she’s drowning in it.

In her hesitation, Shiva tuts and stabs her own blade into Mad Dog’s heart, crimson fluid spraying in all directions.

Cass doubles over, desperately heaving, and liquid green purges from her body.

 --

Bruce stares up at the readout on the Batcomputer. There are new players in Gotham, but there’s something that makes them stand out from the others. They make headway faster than he’s ever seen it, clearing out and claiming Park Row as their own territory in a week.

Twenty-seven confirmed kills and thirty-four hospitalisations. He would have stopped with his investigation then and there. Yet, the detective in him tugs the back of his mind. He checks through the names again and finds that each one is attached to a laundry list of crimes that become more appalling the further he reads.

Then Red Hood killed the Joker; and for the first time since the madman’s debut, Gotham is quiet.

Bruce rubs his face in his hands and turns to the screens entirely dedicated to monitoring his daughter Cassandra. (The memorial makes itself known in his peripheral vision.) Her work in Hong Kong as Black Bat had been phenomenal so far. Every story he can find of her weaves the same story: Black Bat, hero of the Forgotten. Of the waylaid and the oppressed.

What would they think? Bruce finally turns to the statue, mouthing the words on the plaque to himself. 

“Can you promise something for me, Bruce? Just one thing?”

  “Anything for you, Jaylad.” 

He tears his eyes away.

Damian becomes cagey whenever either of the three vigilantes come up in conversation. It is suspicious, but he has had the lesson very solidly ironed in his mind how unconducive to understanding he can be. So, he gives his son his space.

Despite the child's refined nature, little pieces of him remind him of Jason, far beyond the boy's temper, pride, or even his cursing. Bruce had seen Damian in the library once, his fingers tracing the spine of a newer copy of Huckleberry Finn.

Red and orange flash by his primary monitor, and Bruce pulls himself from his thoughts.

Batman rises, ready to confront whatever ghosts will taunt him in the shadows.

-- 

The world roars in her ears, and no matter how hard she tries, Cassandra can’t stop the erratic sequence of deep breaths that claw out her throat. For once she’s glad she’s not wearing her old costume. The mask reminded her too much of smoke inhalation and chains and-.

“Why?” She rasps in a throaty, breathless voice that has not escaped her for years. “Why would you do this?”

“Can’t a mother test the progress of her daughter?” Shiva replies coolly. Her stance gives off nothing, so Cassandra does not deign her a response.

“He went looking for me, you should know.”

Her head snaps up.

“He was curious. A unique girl who can read the body as if it were a book and a unique woman who can do the very same? An unlikely coincidence,” Shiva turns her head away, ducked down as if she had already admitted too much. “He asked me, if it was my choice to leave you with your father.”

“It wasn’t.”

Sandra nods.

“He told me that was, and I quote, ‘a load of shit’.”

“Sounds like Jason,” Cass mutters under her breath. A hush falls between them, not comfortable but not unwelcome either.

“It is not me you came here for,” Sandra says with such conviction that Cass can’t help but gape in her disbelief. Of course, she did. Shiva gave birth to her.

Before she can voice her thoughts, Sandra grasps her shoulder and wraps her arms around Cass.

“You’ll find your brother soon. I can promise you that.”

 --

Gotham rumbles, her shock snaking through the crown of her scalp. She knows that tonight is the night; when events will pass and tear the whole city asunder. For better or for worse, she cannot tell.

But she is eager to find out for herself.

 --

“Think that’s a wrap for tonight?” Jason asks quietly, almost inaudible over the Gotham rain. It’s the only coherent sentence he’s made in days, so Rose takes what she can get.

“Probably, you’re not shanghaiing me into grabbing groceries, right?”

“Maybe,” He chuckles, but even though his voice is filtered by their comms, she can tell it’s forced. “Anyone ever tell you how similar some of our problems are?”

“Really? You realised this just now?” Rose rolls her eyes because, honestly. “I mean, at least your dad isn’t some psycho assassin supervillain.”

“Aww, Rosie, making your old man sad. Truly, I’m hurt,” Hues from orange and blue armour melt from the shadows as Deathstroke emerges, eyeing her. “You don’t wear the uniform like Grant did.”

“It’s not meant to and either way, I barely knew him or Joey.” She draws her blades, trying to hide how much her arms are shaking. It doesn’t help. “No thanks to you.”

“Is that Slade?” Jason’s voice is like music to her ears, relaxing her muscles in the ways she needs.

“I made your brothers stronger,” There’s an edge to Slade’s voice, sharp as the glistening blade he brandishes. Ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. “I suggest you come with me so you can be the same.”

“What, dead because of problems you caused?” She laughs shakily, grimacing under her mask. “I suggest you fuck off.”

“I’m coming, Rose.”

“No can do. There’s a hit on the two of you, and its fait accompli,” Deathstroke makes a ‘what-can-you-do?’ gesture and Rose darts forward, her tears faster than the raindrops that dance on her skin.

 --

Batman has followed the Red Hood for hours now, and he has no idea what to think. He expected someone wielding the Joker’s former identity to be as insane as the Clown Prince himself. Yet, the red helmet only bobs up and down as if it were in conversation rather than rotating listlessly.

Despite how antithetical the new face in Gotham is to his beliefs, some actions catch him off guard about the man.

While he has seen no deaths on this patrol, with every bone the criminal breaks, the same hands offer food to street children and escort working girls to their homes. Bruce is thrown, viscerally, into a memory of the bird that flew beside him to do the very same.

The Dark Knight watches him stalk through Park Row, freeze and then take off in another direction.

It is time.

He pursues the criminal, sprinting across the rooftops of Gotham, gliding above catwalks and fire escapes. Within minutes, he overtakes and blocks the path ahead of Red Hood, who curses and vaults over his body.

Or at least, he tries to as Batman grips the man’s ankle and slams him back into the pavement. Hood never misses a second, drawing a knife and swiping at his limbs. He lets go; the man faces him again, twirling the knife round and round.

“B,” A modulated voice hangs in the air, but there is a quality to it that tickles his conscious, like an old ghost whispering in his ears.

“Red Hood, I suggest you surrender peacefully, or I –.”

“Cut the act, alright? You think that just because you’re Batman, nobody can be above you,” Red Hood laughs. Through the modulator of his helmet, it comes off as hollow. “The truth with a saying like that –.” The knife is stowed away. “– It just means nobody is beneath you either.”

The criminal grapples him; kick, jab, punch, kick again in a rapid dance of attacks that Bruce can barely keep up with. Some of the criminal’s movements are achingly familiar yet so foreign that the composite form nauseates him. Red hood strikes over and over until he actually has him, the Dark Knight, pinned.

“And some of us can’t wait to drag you all the way down.”

Jason had always had a gift for speaking. His sister’s hands may be knives, but his words were bullets.

Breaking out of the Red Hood’s hold, that is what Bruce muses in his mind.

 --

They’ve been at a game of cat and mouse for so long now. Locked in a chase of diving and darting around a maze of alleyways and rooftops. Jason drops on one of them and turns to face his pursuer, who draws short away from him.

“What, can’t work it out?” He triggers the seals on his helmet as he lifts it off. Without the lenses he can see, even in the rain, the second Bruce recognises him. “You really didn’t care enough to remember my name or something?”

“Jason,” Bruce’s tone gives off nothing and everything. “W-Why are you doing this? How are you –.”

“I’m doing this because you refuse to do what needs to be done.” Jason snarls, venom laced in every word. “You want to rule them by fear, but you never go any further with the ones who aren’t afraid.”

“Jason, I don’t under-.”

“I died for your cause, and in less than a year you shove some other kid in the uniform so he can die too!” He is raving now. He also doesn’t care. “You let my murderer run wild and slaughter thousands and when someone finally steps up to do what needed to be done, you cut her out?”

“I had to –.”

“Had to what? Isolate her? Run her out of the only family she’s ever known? She was my sister, my whole fucking world; who believed in you and you left her like she means nothing to you! Cass is gone now, and that is your fault!”

“If you would –.”

“Do you even remember? That the only thing I ever made you swear to me, that you vowed on your life, was that you’d never let her down?” For once this night, his voice isn’t angry or vicious. It is a void, detached from any feeling. “Guess I should have known better.”

He knows, almost intrinsically despite the years, that if there is one thing that Jason has said tonight, those are the words that pierce Batman’s defences. It’s why he lets Bruce rush forward like he wants to. Allows the chase to continue. When he jumps, Jason lands in an apartment that carries the same bloodstains that leaked down his mother’s arms a lifetime ago.

 --

Black Bat arrives in Gotham, and superficially, it is empty. She almost hails Barbara when bright flashes shine in her peripheral vision. Lo and behold, Deathstroke and an unknown are locked in a duel below her.

Cassandra drops from above, and at that moment, she kicks Deathstroke into a wall hard enough to knock him unconscious. His opponent, she notices, stops immediately.

Before her is a girl, hair silver under the moonlight, garbed in orange and black.

Then the Batmobile rounds the corner, a small figure rising from the hatch.

"Black Bat," Robin says, "You have not responded to Oracle, she was-."

Damian's eyes bug out once he notices the girl beside Cassandra. She fully expects him to snarl or draw his ridiculously long katana. Instead, uncharacteristically rushes forward and embraces the girl tightly instead.

"Wilson. A-are you finally assisting us in Gotham?" Damian says, even with his head buried in a shoulder. "Drake may be intelligent, but his incompetence with the sword is impossible to rectify."

"Missed you too, D-man," The girl chuckles and ruffles the boy's hair. "I would help, but what’s up with tall, slim and broody over there?"

Cassandra crosses her arms expectantly at Robin, who obviously only just remembered her presence when he unlatches himself immediately. His cheeks may be red, but Damian still raises his chin proudly.

"I found her, Rose," His body language and eyes seem to sing. "I found his ukht."

The girl spins sharply, wolfish eyes drawn wide. “You’re her,” Rose breathes, awe rippling off her body. “You’re Cass.”

She would have flinched, but the body language is so familiar. Cass tilts her head.

“Yes.”

Rose grabs her arm so hastily that she almost rips it back in shock. But something is so honest about her body language that Cass relents, letting the girl lead her where she is needed.

 --

He kneels, tracing the dark stains. Behind him, Batman pauses. Not even he would dare to disturb the sanctity of this room.

“Jaylad, please -.”

“Don’t call me that. That isn’t who I am,” Jason rounds on Bruce. He gestures to the shattered window, the ripped upholstery, and the bloodstained floor. “This is what I grew up being, what I never wanted anyone else to.”

He taps the insignia on Bruce’s chest with his pistol.

“That, right here, was your promise to people like me. People that needed help and protection,” He spits. “And you couldn’t even do it for the ones closest to you.”

"I just want to-."

"Want to what? Parade your antiquated sense of morality to hide, while the rest of the world suffers for what you refuse to do? Or cast out others from taking it in their own hands?"

Tears are building in his eyes, but he wipes them away while Batman stands ramrod straight.

"I don't think you understand. That you've never understood," The man begins, and Jason gapes because what the hell does that mean? "If I let myself cross that line, even for Joker, I won't ever come back."

"You know what I think about that, Bruce?" Jason breathes deeply, feeling the whispers of the Pit roaring with the heavy rain in his ears. "I think that's a huge self-aggrandizing load of bullshit."

He charges forward, knocking Batman's legs from under him and ramming his face into the ground. Batman is down to his knees before either can even blink.

"And I'm so fucking tired of hearing it."

Jason levels the barrel at Bruce’s forehead, torbernite lining the edges of his vision, engulfing him in an absence.

“What’s the use of you learning to do right when it’s troublesome to do right?”

 --

Then, her voice shatters the tension in the air, gripping his heart and silencing the susurrations of the rain that suffocated his ears.

“When it ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same.”

-- 

“Cass?” The boy in the alleyway says. A gun. An apple in his hand. The girl falters in the doorway, her fist tongue clenches, and she nods.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[visionsofus]

im loving your wanda + vision's mixtape series! my song request is "I Know Places" by Taylor Swift! the song works perfectly with those two during the times between civil war and infinity war :)

Anon I'm sure you expected something quite different with this song... but here is what I wrote :) I hope you still enjoy even though its angsty! 

Track #13: I know places by Taylor Swift 

| read on AO3 here | mixtape playlist | send me an ask with your song/prompt request |

Synopsis: Wanda and Vision try to spend a peaceful evening out for dinner in Paris when they are suddenly attacked. To keep each other safe they split up, forced to make the harrowing journey to the next safe house separately. Vision is faced with Wanda's mortality.

Warnings: Angst/ mild whump, blood, guns, reference to a gunshot wound, I mostly skip writing the gore because no

All Wanda had wanted was a peaceful evening. She should have known it wasn’t to be. You didn’t get peace when you were a fugitive.

But they were in Paris, it was their first time in the city of love, and it was impossible to resist the opportunity to spend an evening together at a Parisian restaurant, overlooking the River Seine. They’d put the necessary research in, knew how private the restaurant was and chose the night it was said to be quietest – a Tuesday evening. They were so caught up in being in love with each other and in the hope of having a normal evening, like a normal couple. One of the first lessons Nat had taught Wanda was how easy it was to hide in a crowd, a lesson she shouldn’t have forgotten so quickly. But after two years of hiding on and off with Vision in different cities Wanda had come to associate privacy with safety.

Of course, they was no way they could have predicted that their server would be attending university for international relations and was not only knowledgeable in the Accords, but had aspirations of reaching the United Nations. It was the wrong time and the wrong place, but it always had been for them. Time was never on their side.

The first sign that something was wrong came before they’d even sat down. The restaurant was quieter than they’d anticipated, with only two other couples occupying the interior of the restaurant.

Wanda tried to wait patiently for their nervous waiter to return and shivered slightly at the breeze coming off the river below. They’d chosen the balcony in the hopes that it would put them further out of view of anyone else in the restaurant, but she hadn’t anticipated the cold. In response to her shiver Vision slid closer along the bench, wrapping an arm around her waist and she gratefully pressed herself to his warm side.

“She’s taking too long with the menus,” Wanda murmured quietly reaching out to fiddle restlessly with the napkin in front of her.

“You worry too much,” Vision said pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We took proper precautions.” But he too sounded worried and Wanda was beginning to second guess their whole decision to spend an evening out.

To their relief the young woman returned a moment later with two menus clasped in her grip. They began the motions of ordering food and Wanda started to hope that everything was going well.

She was mid conversation with Vision about their plans for the duration of their trip when she heard a series of car doors slamming down on the side street below them. Vision too went quiet, listening carefully. He rose, walking to the edge of the balcony and peered over, his eyesight far superior to Wanda’s human eyes. At that exact moment their server returned, two drinks in her hands and Wanda couldn’t help it. She reached out into the woman’s head, just enough to see what had happened in the time since they’d arrived. What she saw made her jerk back, fear alight in her heart as she launched herself up from the table and the server scurried back inside.

“Vis,” Wanda said stepping towards him, “we need to run.”

He didn’t get the chance to reply as a series of bullets ricocheted off his chest. Of course, his Vibranium form was impervious to such amateur tactics but Wanda still felt her chest constrict in fear. Her powers rose to the surface immediately and she encased them protectively behind her magic, shielding them from whoever was shooting.

“Perhaps this was a bad idea,” Vision said scanning the area and Wanda could almost hear his thoughts as he ran through possible escape routes. “They’ll have circled the building by now, we’ll have to get out via the roof.”

“Up it is,” Wanda muttered and launched herself towards the roof with her powers, Vision close on her heels.

“How did they find us?” Vision asked as they ran along the roof shingling, or rather she ran, and he flew.

“The server recognised us immediately and reported to the local police,” Wanda called, stumbling a little on the next rooftop as she launched herself across the space between two buildings.

Vision was at her side, grabbing her hand and pulling her along. “We have to get out of the city.”

‘Pyramus Protocol?” Wanda asked, hating using the name of the plan that was their last possible resort.

“I’m afraid so,” Vision replied, and they stopped atop a flat rooftop, far enough away that they surely must have bought some time.  

Wanda sighed, pulling herself to him and hugging him tightly. “It’ll be ok,” she murmured a promise to herself and to the night air around them.

“I’ll see you in two days,” Vision said drawing back just enough to kiss her tenderly.

“Don’t get caught,” Wanda murmured trying to keep her eyes closed a little longer as his thumb brushed along her cheek.

“Stay safe.” His voice was a whisper and when she opened her eyes he had disappeared.

Wanda cursed their frivolity even as she ran over rooftops, launching herself across spaces no regular human would have been able to in the direction of their rented apartment. Pyramus had been a requirement when they decided to keep seeing each other, despite their divided teammates, the havoc wreaked on a German airport and most significantly, the very legal international treaty that now divided them. Anytime they started feeling guilty about the danger they were putting each other in, the Pyramus Protocol was there to fall back on.

They’d designed the plan at the demand of Nat and Steve on one side and Tony on the other. Wanda knew it was the main reason their friends didn’t have more problems with these secret meetings. Vision hadn’t been able to resist naming their escape plan after Pyramus and Thisbe, the star-crossed lovers of Greek mythology whose tragedy had inspired Romeo and Juliet. Wanda didn’t mind, as long as they hadn’t cursed their relationship to end the same way.

Thanks to the Pyramus Protocol they had a safehouse in mind, deep in the mountains in the south of France. In every country they visited, there needed to be an alternate safe house if things went to shit, or it became too dangerous to leave the country. Such as right now. With Wanda’s cover blown the authorities would be keeping keen eyes on borders and airspaces, so the only option was to venture further into the country.

Part of the Pyramus protocol was to split up in the event that only one of their covers was blown and as Vision purposely hadn’t let his human form go public in the US, it was safer for them to be apart. Wanda could only hope that the authorities were only out for her. The secret of his appearance was all that was protecting him from becoming a fugitive like her if she got caught and it was this assurance that silenced Wanda’s guilt enough to keep seeing him.

Wanda was so lost in her head that she almost flew straight past their apartment, managing to slow down just in time to drop onto the small balcony facing the street. She laid a hand to the glass, using her magic to turn the handle from the inside and stepping quietly into the apartment. Vision didn’t often bring anything with him, but Wanda kept all her belongings on hand and couldn’t afford to leave everything behind, lest they find some evidence that could be traced back to her teammates.

The bag was always semi-packed, always sitting at the foot of the bed and within magic’s reach if she had to run, or worse, destroy the evidence.They’d gotten lucky so far. Until tonight.

Wanda knew something was wrong as soon as she stepped into the apartment. A floorboard creaked to her right and she threw her hands over her head as something whistled past her ear, narrowly missing her neck. A tranquiliser.

Wanda jumped into action, grabbing the duffle bag with her magic and launching herself back to the doors, smashing through the glass and up onto the rooftop once more. She heard the shouts of her pursuers and waited until the four men made it out onto the balcony, swearing in French and looking around. When one finally looked up, Wanda reached out to their minds, hating it even as she did. She managed to subdue three of them but the fourth persisted and Wanda fought between keeping the three under and trying to wrangle the last man into submission. All it took was the distraction of sirens nearby and her control waned enough for the fourth man to draw his gun and take several, carefully aimed shots at her. Wanda swore and launched herself back, throwing her power up as she did. But she was not quick enough, and one of the bullets found her shoulder, sending pain ricocheting through her left arm. She fell to her knees on the rooftop huffing in pain, tears burning at her eyes. She’d been faced with guns often during her time with the Avengers but never had a bullet actually hit her. She vaguely recalled that you weren’t supposed to leave it in, but worried about not having anything to staunch the blood flow if she tried to pull it out. If she passed out from blood loss now, she’d never escape.  

Instead, she pulled off her winter coat, removing its woollen belt and using that as a temporary bandage, her blood warm against her fingers as she tried to breathe through the pain. To hide the bloody stains on her top she took a jumper from her duffle bag and tugged it over her head with great difficulty. She heard grunting and a hand reached over the side of the rooftop, sending her scuttling to the shadows as she tried to gather her wits once more. Shouting could be heard below, and Wanda knew this was her last chance to lose her pursuers.

The station was only 20 minutes away by foot, but Wanda made slow progress, sticking to rooftops as often as she could, always on alert for how near the sirens were. She launched herself from rooftop to rooftop with one hand, her other arm too painful to move.

Once she was sure she hadn’t been followed she purchased two north bound tickets using a traceable credit card under her name, and for her real ticket used cash, messing with the ticket officer’s mind to ensure he only recalled her buying the first two. She’d paid extra for a private cabin with a bed for the overnight train ride that was due to have her arriving late afternoon at the Pyrenees mountains.

At the platform Wanda reached into the conductor’s mind as he waited at the door, erasing any memory he had of her boarding the train even as he checked her ticket. She made it to her cabin without further event, shutting the door firmly behind her and pulling the blinds down. She lowered herself carefully to the cramped bed set against one wall, breathing properly for the first time in an hour. She groaned quietly as the pain in her shoulder hit her fully and her adrenaline abruptly ran dry. It took all her strength to stretch out on the uncomfortable bed as the train started to rock, leaving the city. With the knowledge that she had gotten away she closed her eyes and let sleep overtake her.

Vision was waiting in a café, a French newspaper propped up in front of him and a steaming coffee in his hand, though he hadn’t drunk any. He was doing his best to act normal even as he listened to a couple near him chattering in French about the international fugitive spotted in Paris the night before. It was all over the various news channels, but so far, no mention of him had appeared. Better yet, the authorities seemed to have no leads on where Wanda had disappeared to.

Vision gasped as his forehead sparked with pain, exactly from where the mind stone usually was when he was in his normal form. He put his hand to his head and rubbed nervously. It was throbbing sharply, and he gritted his teeth as he tried not to draw any attention to himself. Then it was as though the stone was trying to speak to him, images flooded his mind – Wanda lying unconscious on what seemed to be a train, someone opening the door, the cry of sirens as police cars pulled into the train station. It all happened so quickly that Vision thought he might have been imaging things. The stone throbbed persistently, and he knew he could not ignore the warning. He needed to get to the train station immediately.  

Now that he was further south, it had grown colder and though Vision didn’t feel the discomfort of the temperature drop, he was glad to be wearing the thick woollen coat, flipping the collar up and pressing his chin down. He disappeared into the street, just another person avoiding the harsh wind blowing down the main street.  

The station was relatively busy as the train pulled in just on time and Vision found himself darting around people, making his way towards the front of the train where the priority seating was. The row of empty compartments appeared just as they had in his head, and there was the final compartment, its blinds still pulled tightly down.

He glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder and tried the door handle. Once inside he could have sworn his artificial heart stopped for a few moments. He dropped to his knees next to the bed and the woman lying in it. He was eye level with Wanda’s pallid, unconscious face and her eyes flickered weakly beneath eyelids.

“Wanda,” he said voice raw with pain. He reached out to her shoulders hoping he could wake her up. That was when he felt the blood, his hand coming away a dark red as he looked at her shoulder in horror. “You’re alright, you’re alright,” he whispered to himself more than anything as he picked her up carefully, hating how limp she was in his arms.

Throwing caution to the wind he phased right through the side of the train, moving so quickly he only hoped that no one on the platform happened to see him heading straight for the outskirts of town where the safe house was waiting for him. He didn’t care if he was spotted now, it wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t help her.

The house was as basic as possible, an empty cabin in a small mountainous town. The last place Vision hoped the authorities would come looking. But it was hard to be concerned about that with the alarming situation presented before him. Wanda was hurt and there was no way he could risk taking her to a doctor or trying to get her to Steve or Natasha. But Vision had always assured her that he would be there no matter what, now was the time to see that promise through.

While the cabin might have been lacking in interior design and scarce of furniture, it was equipped with an extensive first aid kit beneath the kitchen sink which Vision quickly located. He had laid Wanda out on the couch and was startled to see her slowly coming to as he returned.

She tried to sit up, gasping as she looked around frantically at the unfamiliar surroundings. “Vis?” She cried her voice full of desperation.

He appeared at her side instantaneously and she pressed a bloodstained hand to his cheek her lip quivering as she looked him up and down, as though assuring herself that he were real. Despite his concern for her jostling her injury he leant into her as she rested her head on his chest, sitting so that she could hug him with her good arm, and he could hold her.

“It’s okay,” he said kissing her cheek even as tears began to roll down, “you’re going to be okay.”

“I was so scared they’d get you,” Wanda said through her crying and Vision’s heart clenched and he held her tighter.

“It’s okay,” he whispered over and over, giving her the time she needed to calm down.

Her breaths were still coming out in hiccups even after ten minutes of holding her, but Vision couldn’t afford to wait any longer. Now came the difficult part. He pulled back gently, cupping her cheek and she relented to lying back down, wincing as her weight was put into her back and her shoulder.

He prepared the first aid kit, the tweezers to remove the bullet that was still lodged in her shoulder and the needle to stitch the wound back up. Her power must have stopped some of the impact because the bullet thankfully hadn’t gone in too deep. He’d already profiled the area and made sure it wasn’t pressing on any arteries. It would be a painful, if quick procedure.

“Wait,” Wanda said hoarsely when he looked at her for confirmation to begin. “Can I hide in your head?”

“Of course, darling,” Vision said presenting his forehead to her and relishing the feeling of her warm palm on his cheek, and more distantly, the warmer feeling of a consciousness alongside his.

He looked at Wanda for the go ahead and she nodded slowly, closing her glowing eyes as she retreated out of her own mind and into his.

The mental distance helped Wanda as Vision started cleaning her wound up. The pain was a distant foe and though she winced as he withdrew the bullet it was infinitely better wrapped up in the comfort of his mind. He let her filter through the memories of the previous evening, and she was glad to see his escape had been relatively uneventful, he’d travelled west first and then south to the mountain range. Wanda hadn’t gotten a very good look at the space so far, hadn’t taken in anything beyond the simple fact that he was by her side and that she felt safe for the first time in 24 hours. But she looked now, reliving through his eyes as he made his round of the house. It was simple but cosy and reminded Wanda of the time a year ago when they had stayed in the Swiss mountains for a week. They’d spent their time going on long, secluded walks on mountain trails or sitting wrapped up together in front of the fire. It was a week spent taking each other in, catching up on the separate lives they’d been living in the month spent apart, and relishing in the closeness they could have when it was just the two of them. This cabin certainly wasn’t as lush, but Wanda was grateful to feel the warmth behind those memories even as her body cried out with pain in the physical world.

Wanda drew back to herself as the pain began to lessen, the stinging on the surface of her skin sufficiently numbed and the bloodstained belt and bullet discarded.

The rest of the evening was quiet, though neither were able to settled down after such a close call. Vision moved Wanda to the bedroom where she might be more comfortable, and she tried her best to relax as the pain medication slowly kicked in. He helped her eat something, though her appetite was non-existent. Then he waited for her to sleep, her head resting on his arm as they lay together. He ran his hands through her hair, gently teasing tangles apart and doing his best to clean the dried blood away from her neck.  

He left bed once to double check the locks, ensuring that the motion sensor alarms were set for the outside of the remote property, ready to warn them if they were found. But Vision had been monitoring the news all afternoon and the press seemed to believe the trail of the international fugitive had gone cold, much to his relief. He distantly noted that Tony had tried to contact him twice in the last few hours and he silenced the notification, it was a problem for tomorrow.

He heard creaking coming from the bedroom and dashed back in alarm. But it was just Wanda doing her best to stand up against the wooziness from the pain medication and exhaustion.

She reached for him wordlessly, her eyes threatening to spill the tears gathered there and Vision was at her side instantly, cupping her head to his shoulder and slipping a hand under her knees so that he might return her to bed.

“It’s alright,” he whispered as she twisted her fists into his sweater shakily.

“Don’t let me go tonight please,” Wanda whispered as he tried to make her comfortable even as she gritted her teeth past pain, getting as close to him as she possibly could. “You’re the only thing holding me together right now.”

Vision wiped her tears away and kissed her softly. “I’m not going anywhere; I’ll always be here.”

“What if they find us?”

“They won’t,” Vision whispered though he couldn’t possibly say for certain, “and if they do, I won’t let them take you.”

“I’ll never let them take you,” Wanda whispered looking into his eyes as she promised. “Anything but you.”

“It will never come to that,” Vision said with such conviction that tears began spilling down her cheeks again.

They remained intertwined the entire night, Wanda curled into his side, her back to the outside world, her head resting on his shoulder.  Some part of Vision managed to rest, taking solace in the fact they were together and for now, safe. But there was a part of him agonising over what had happened, the part of him that remained conscious over-analysing every creak and crack of the old cabin as winds swirled through the forest outside. The same part of him that desperately dreamt of an alternative, a life where they didn’t have to run and hide anymore. He clung to that hope as they clung to each other throughout the night. Though Wanda had told him he was the only thing holding her together, Vision knew he’d be in pieces if they were ever separated by something more final.

[therainbowwillow]

When Hell Freezes Over AU: Part 4! 

The whistle hasn’t blown for over a week now; Eurydice hasn’t worked. The temperatures have only dropped lower. Colder and colder until the rivers of the underworld had frozen over, all except the Phlegethon, where the shades spend all of their days conserving what little heat can be found at its banks.

Eurydice had joined the huddle as quickly as she could, staking down a spot as close to the river as possible. She’d brought with her everything she owned: the bottle given to her by the bartender, her thin bed sheets, and the scrap of paper with her name written on it.

She sits beside the fiery river, clutching her slip of paper. She knows its information is true now. The Lethe has frozen over, they say. It must have. Every day, she remembers a little more. First, her name, without her paper. His name. And losing him.

She wants to throw her shred of memory into the fire. Watch it burn. The paper’s edges are charred from past attempts, but she can’t bring herself to watch it turn to ash.

Of course he’d turned. She wishes she could blame him. Watch his name go up in flames. She wants to hate him. But would she have done anything differently? She had abandoned him, lost faith in his music. She’d broken her promises, he’d broken his. How could she accuse him of betrayal when she had left him first?

Why had she come here? Hadn’t she known the weather would never spare her, no matter where she ran? Her broken promises hadn’t brought her peace. The winds had caught up to her, even in death. For this, she has only herself to blame. He turned, but she gave him reason to distrust her.

A murmur goes up through the crowd: Persephone’s home. Early. Eurydice hears it. She does not remember how long it had been since the Queen of the Underworld had gone to the surface. It holds no meaning to Eurydice. Spring won’t be found down here, no matter how early Persephone arrives.

It’s the next rumor that catches her. “Hades is coming,” they say. She tightens her blankets around her shoulders, trains her eyes on the river. “He’s looking for someone.” She crumples her paper and tucks it into her pockets. “A girl. Eurydice.” Her hair stands on end. Her feet beg her to run. Flee, hide, pray she can stay out of sight. But there’s no dodging Hades’s watchful eye. 

Eurydice hears footsteps, slowly approaching her claim on the riverbank. She keeps her head down. If he spots her... “You.” She recognizes Hades’s gravelly voice. She feels a hand on her shoulder and doesn’t look up, forcing herself instead to hide her fear. 

“Get up.” She rises to her feet. “Let’s go,” he growls.

Eurydice follows Hades as he leads her away from the river bank, finally gathering the courage to speak up as they enter the heart of Hadestown. “Where are you sending me?” she asks, keeping her voice non-confrontational to mask her fright. There are worse places in Hadestown than the factories, if rumors are to be trusted. 

“Home,” he responds, bitterly.

“Lord Hades, I reside in the east district,” she reminds him. “This is the wrong direction.”

He makes a sound of acknowledgement but does not change his course. Anxiously, Eurydice continues to let him guide her. For all of her months in Hadestown, the city may as well be new to her. Its perfect grid of streets is a labyrinth, impossible to navigate. Every building looks the same as the last, every street is a copy of the next. If she loses him, she may as well give up any hope of getting back to anywhere recognizable. 

Finally, the path ahead begins to look familiar. The railroad. A woman beckons to them to hurry. Hades hastens his pace. They arrive at the train station, where Eurydice had arrived so long ago. Persephone stands waiting. “Eurydice.” The Queen of the Underworld pulls her into a tight embrace. “It’s been too long.”

“How long?” Eurydice asks, monotone. It’s colder here on the railroad track. Much colder. 

Persephone frees Eurydice from her hug and looks the young woman up and down. “What’d he tell you, hon?” she asks, noticing Eurydice’s anxiety.

Eurydice shrugs. “”Home. That’s all he said.” She doesn’t trust herself to say more, the lump in her throat only growing.

“Home,” Persephone repeats. “That’s it? Hades, don’t you think you could’ve been a little clearer?” She glares at her husband. “Home on the surface, Eurydice.”

She draws in a little breath. “Orpheus?”

Persephone sighs and chews at her lip. “Mm hm.”

“What is it?” she asks, alarmed. “Is he alright?”

“I’ll explain on the way. Hades, you’ll handle things down here?” He nods. Persephone steps onto the train, offering Eurydice a hand. “I’ll be back before you know it, lover,” she reminds her husband.

Eurydice takes a seat in the nearest booth, her legs trembling. “Persephone?”

“I’m sorry, hon. I would’ve explained more if I’d had the chance. I expected my husband to...” She snorts. “Okay, no, I didn’t.” Eurydice’s expression doesn’t change. Persephone gives something of a half laugh, to fill the silence. She goes on: “He loves you, that Orpheus. More than anything. I want you to know that. No matter what happens up there, he loves you.”

Eurydice swallows, forcing back her terror. “Why are you telling me this?”

“He misses you.”

Unable to contain herself any longer, she raises her voice. “Take me back. I don’t want to see him.” She carries on, unsure what spurs her outburst. “Winter is here. His song’s a failure.”

Persephone looks at her with an unreadable expression. 

“That song... it’s no failure.” It’s Hermes who speaks up from the far corner of the train car. 

“Not a failure?” Eurydice snaps, forgetting herself as a mortal, disposable to these eternal beings. One word to Hades and she’d face a punishment far worse than the factories. Still, she goes on, the slip of paper she’d long held on to quivering in her hand. “It’s colder than ever. Even Hadestown feels this winter. I don’t want to go back only to lose everything! He’s... he’s gone.” She crumples the paper in her hand and throws it to the ground.

Hermes retrieves it. “Do you know where you got this?” he inquires, gently. 

“I don’t care,” she snarls.

“Orpheus folded it up like a flower. Just some old newspaper. You threw the rest to the fire, a last bit of kindling for warmth. But you didn’t dare to burn it all.”

She wipes her eyes, under the guise of brushing away loose hairs. “I should have,” she mutters.

He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t. You won’t.” She knows it’s true, but she can’t bring herself to admit it. “He needs you, Eurydice.”

“What do you want?” she inquires, sharply.

“He laments losing you,” Hermes informs her. “You’ll see him again.”

“Under what terms?” Her voice blunt and devoid of emotion, expecting some new impossible fight. A goal she’ll never reach.

Hermes sighs. “That you end this winter.”

“Then we may as well turn around,” she says, the defeat apparent in her tone.

“No. Eurydice,” he tells her, “Orpheus is the cause of this winter.” 

She almost laughs. “How? He’s a miserable poet, missing his lover. Nothing more. Orpheus is no god.”

“When he sings, the world sings with him. The world feels with him. Listen.”

She falls silent. Over the sound of the wheels on their icy tracks, she hears a melody on the wind, sorrowful and heart-wrenching. It catches her breath in her chest. She turns away, hiding her tears. 

“The world sees no light as long as he sings. Will you try to reach him?” He presses the slip of paper into her hands.

“Teach me the song,” she requests. “The old song.”

...

Orpheus has long since lost track of time. He cannot remember her name, the name of the one he sings this elegy for. She is faceless as she is torn from his arms again and again and again. 

The world, he finds, tires of his mourning. They had found him, women, worshipers of Dionysus. First, they had asked him to stop, drunken pleads. Whether or not he had heard them, no one could say. Finally, they had brought their blades upon him, maddened and miserable by his endless lament. 

He had hardly felt the sting of their knives at his flesh. And who were they to stop him? Orpheus had sung twice as loud. The winds heard him and, driven by the power of his melody, his attackers had been frozen solid.

Others had approached him, their faces blank before his unseeing eyes, blinded by the snow. They too had met cruel fates, fallen like flies, effortless. He had taken no pleasure in their deaths, nor despair in the harm he’d brought.  

Only once had he felt anything at all. Not remorse, not joy. Recognition, perhaps. In some far-off world, he’d known this man, divinity flowing in his blood. Orpheus had seen ichor stain the snow gold when he had thrown the man backwards, preventing his approach. Unlike the mortals he had warded off, this man had woken from his daze and he had fled. Once, Orpheus had wished he hadn’t gone. By now, he’s nearly forgotten the encounter. 

His song simply washes away all concept of memory or hunger or cold. All he knows is his faceless lover, torn away from him. He holds her now, pleading to keep her. With each failed attempt, she seems more featureless. She stays in his arms for shorter and shorter seconds before she fades to dust once more. 

He has no name to call to her before she’s gone. It is a nightmare and just as he wakes, he’s thrown back to relive it all over again. Yet he longs for her. He longs to see her again, just for a second. So he sings. As long as his melody rings in the air, he hopes she will be there. Another second. Another minute. Another day. He sees her. Again and again and again.

(Wow, I actually really like how this turned out! Usually I’m kinda meh about the writing of these fic parts, it’s more about the plot than the shiny words, but I quite like how this reads!)

[onthepageoftears]

Hold Them Closer ~ Ch.10 [Jaskier x assassin!reader] || Witcher

A/N: hello all! I’ve been a bit busy with school, so im going to try my absolute best to stay on schedule with these chapters. there are only a couple chapters left (gasp) but I just thought id put a warning here that I might be a day late posting etc. also, this is pretty much a filler/goofy chapter, but still I hope yall enjoy!

Your kind words and reviews mean a lot to me, so please don’t afraid to leave a message/comment!

Summary: The past is not something you can truly escape from.

Warnings: mentions of killing/death/murder/blood, some fighting, slight gore, language, violence, memoriessss

Words: 2,112

Please Don’t Plagiarize My Work!

The fire crackled gently in the cave, its embers floating up until they disappeared in the darkness. The four of you sat around the fire, Theodora aimlessly throwing in stick after stick to keep it going. She was quiet now that you were all sitting in the nighttime, and you wondered what was going through her head.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Jaskier’s low voice next to you. “I cannot be-lieve this kid just willingly came to a monster’s nest.”

You looked over at Theodora, making sure she couldn’t hear you. When she didn’t make any sort of comment, you leaned into Jaskier’s side to lowly whisper, “At least she’s safe.”

“Yeah, after she threw herself into danger.”

You raised your eyebrows, slight amusement crossing your features. Jaskier pouted at the fire in front of you, his brows furrowed in irritation. “Why are you so on edge? She’s just a kid.”

He turned to you with a sigh, “Exactly.”

It was then that you realized Jaskier was, in the simplest terms, worried. Obviously, you all were — having to go find a kid at a monster’s nest wasn’t something you wanted to do every day, much less not knowing what you would find when you got there. Though Theodora was pretty well trained, she was still young. Digging a grave was hard enough, but a small grave was, well, awful.

This worry wasn’t unfamiliar with Jaskier — you remembered how he acted with Lilla, the little girl you all saved from bandits not long ago. Theodora was completely different, of course; where Lilla practically latched onto you and Jaskier, Theodora made sure to stay several feet away — and brandish her sword while doing it. Perhaps that was why he worried so much: people who held a strong exterior often were much weaker inside.

You huffed, pulling one of your knives out and tracing the edge delicately with your finger, “Kids do stupid things. I’d’ve done the same.”

Within a millisecond, Jaskier’s attention shifted, his worry turning to curiosity. “Oh, do tell.”

You shifted uncomfortably under his strong gaze. “What is there to tell?”

Jaskier’s guffaw had now gained the attention of both Geralt and Theodora. You glared at him for making a big show, but still, you smirked. He placed himself purposefully on the ground just slightly in front of you, his eyes sparkling despite the darkness.

“You cannot tell me as a trained killer and adventurer, you have no stories of rebellious youth.”

“You’re an assassin?” Theodora’s emphasis on the word ‘assassin’ threw you off.

You blinked, shaking off the feeling while straightening your posture. Pointedly ignoring Theodora’s question, you spoke, “Okay. What kind of story would you like to hear?”

“Something wreaking of blood, sweat, and action.” Jaskier waved his hand in the air. “So…a bedtime story for young Theodora will do.”

“That’s Theo to you.”

“Okay.” You took a deep breath in, ignoring the way Theo glared at Jaskier’s back while you searched your memories for a good story. You smiled when the perfect one came to mind. “I was around thirteen, I think. It was winter, so me and my uncle were staying in the city to try and scrounge up some work. We moved around a lot otherwise, but he wanted to make his mark on the guilds there.”

You shuddered at the memory, Rauf’s many dealings running through your mind. You quickly pushed them away, instead remembering someone else from your recent past. “My friend — Joneta, who I only saw once in a while — she was in the same city as us. Whenever we were together, it was inevitable that we’d get into trouble. Stealing, pranks, mixes of the sort. But nothing that I’d do now, of course.” You looked pointedly at Theo, who rolled her eyes.

“We were sitting around at one of the guilds, bored out of our minds. Joneta suddenly stood up, saying we should go to the notice board and find a small job, something that could get us enough coin for some stupid card at the market.”

Jaskier nodded, “Gwent. Classic.”

Theo glared at the bard, “Will you shush.”

“Children, please. I’m telling a story.” You ignored the glares and closed your eyes, letting the memory overtake you.

Joneta’s grin was mischievous. Whenever she got that look — the look that always preceded the two of you getting in loads of trouble — a fluttery feeling rose in your chest. Even though you knew it meant no good, the chase for adrenaline and action always enticed you — especially in winter when you had nothing else to do.

You squinted at the girl in front of you,“What kind of job will we take?”

“The little ones never give enough coin. We have to do something risky. Something dangerous.”  

Your stomach did a flip. You knew if Rauf found out the two of you were going to do something stupid, he’d have your head. But you also knew that he would rather you be doing the said stupid thing safely.

So, you nodded your head at Joneta, silently standing up and gesturing for her to follow you. Because if you were going to take a dangerous job, you would need the proper weapons to do it. And getting those weapons was a risk on its own.

“You stole weapons from the guild?” Jaskier asked, bringing you back to reality.

You shook your head, a small smirk forming on your lips. “I took them from Rauf.”

Theo scrunched her nose in confusion, “Who is Rauf?”

“The uncle.” Geralt added, his voice surprising you. You honestly hadn’t realized he had been listening, and listening so intently. His elbows were resting on his knees as he leaned forward slightly. He played it off by throwing another stick in the fire, but you knew his interest had been peaked.

Jaskier clicked his tongue from in front of you, drawing your attention back to him. “You’re telling me you stole weapons from your uncle to go take a job that could very easily get you killed?”

“Yes, exactly that.” You tilted your head, “May I continue?”

“Please.”

“Thank you.” You cleared your throat, for once reveling in the attention the group was giving you. “Now, where was I…right. I stole Rauf’s knives.”

It was a miracle that you made it out of the guild without getting caught. Rauf was in some sort of meeting, and no one seemed to pay mind to the two little kids scampering around unsupervised. You and Joneta even snuck past the gate’s guard while he talked to a fellow assassin. It was way too easy, and you knew that Joneta would want an even more dangerous job just because of that.

The notice board of the city wasn’t far. By the time you got there, snow began to fall, leaving you and Joneta shivering in your spots. But still, you both searched the board for something good.

“There!” Joneta pointed before snatching a flier off the board. “‘Drowner stuck in ice near the river. Hefty reward for its head.’”

“Sounds good to me,” you said, the adrenaline warming your frostbitten skin.

The two of you ran through the streets towards the river, your determination making people jump out of the way. The area near the river was quiet, probably because of the rumored drowner nearby.

You and Joneta stopped at the edge of the bridge, eyes searching the ice cold water.

“We need to get a better look,” Joneta said, running over to the staircase that led to a platform closer to the water.

“I don’t like this.” Jaskier sighed, immediately being cut off by Theo’s groan.

“Then don’t listen.” She waved you on to continue despite Jaskier’s glare. You bit your lip, but continued on.

As you and Joneta looked all around the bottom area, searching for the drowner, you began to feel uneasy. You frowned, watching the river flow smoothly in front of you. The notice had said the drowner was stuck in ice, but the river wasn’t iced over anymore. Your stomach churned at the realization, but before you could say anything, Joneta let out a scream.

You turned around in an instant, seeing Joneta struggle against the drowner’s grip. It growled at her from the water, its hand clasped around her ankle. With little hesitation, you pulled out one of Rauf’s knives, getting ready to slice the drowner’s hand.

Before you could, Joneta yelled,“No, we have to lead it out!”

“Are you crazy?” You breathed, your heart jumping in your throat.

Joneta pulled gently on her own leg, trying to coax the drowner out of the water.“We have to kill it!”

You scoffed at her, but realized that leaving the drowner here would only put other people in danger. You ran over to Joneta, grabbing under her armpits to pull her further from the water. The drowner kept its grip on her ankle, letting the two of you drag it onto the platform.

As soon as it was out of the water, it pulled Joneta from your grasp, crawling on top of her with its slimy teeth bared. She kicked at its legs but it didn’t budge — quickly, you slid out from under her and grabbed at its shoulders, wincing at the cold skin as it fell to the side. You readjusted the knife in your hand, and with one swift jab, you stabbed the drowner square in the face.

“Fuck.” You breathed, stepping away from the now dead creature.

Without a word, Joneta snatched the knife from your hand, bringing it to the drowner’s neck. She sliced into its cold skin, sawing back and forth with determination. You grimaced, watching as your friend beheaded the thing that just tried to kill her.

You looked at the group around you with a shrug. “And then we brought the head to the shop owner and got the reward. Plus a used Gwent card.”

“Bullshit.” Theo’s eyes narrowed at you, a mix of awe and disbelief hidden beneath them. “There’s no way that actually happened.”

You snorted. “If only. My uncle had me clean out the local horse’s stables for a month because of it.”

The night was silent once more. You looked between each of your group — Theo, now frowning at the idea that your story was real, Geralt, who was stoic as always (but you could see he was amused, if not impressed) — and, Jaskier, who winked at you once you caught his eye.

He clapped his hands together, bringing the silence to an end. “Well. That was a lovely, lovely story. Are you feeling sleepy now, Theo?”

“Fuck off.”

You smirked at the two, standing from your spot on the ground. “I’ll take first watch.” Leaving the sound of low bickering and a crackling fire, you walked to the edge of the cave, hand on the hilt of your sword.

With a deep breath, you let yourself remember Rauf, even if you didn’t want to.

Your uncle was furious when you got back to the guild. He stood in front of you, his brows creased in a frown, arms crossed over his chest.

He had been staring at you for a while now. At this point, you wished he was yelling, maybe even giving you a whack on the head for what you did. But his eyes remained situated on you like they were frozen solid, forever indebted to giving you a disappointed glare.

When he spoke, you nearly jumped from your seat. “How did you do?”

Now it was your turn to frown. You looked up at your uncle, eyes narrowed. He didn’t ask if you were okay, or why you did it — he asked you how.

You cleared your throat, feigning bravery under his glare.“I did well. Took the drowner down on my own.”

His brow was still creased when he nodded. And, just like that, he left the room without another word.

By the time the memory faded, you realized you were inspecting one of your own knives. Not long after that day, Rauf found a blacksmith to make you some of your own— the very ones you still held.

You sighed, placing the knife back in your sheath. No matter what you did, you would never be rid of the man you called your uncle. He was everywhere you looked, even when you slept. All you could do now was try to be nothing like him.

You leaned against the cave wall, looking up to the night sky where the stars shined brightly. You hoped, that after all of this, after all you’ve been through — you would find your mother. And soon.

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Let me know your thoughts!

[mediaeval-muse]

Book Review

These Violent Delights. By Chloe Gong. New York: Margaret K. McElderry Books, 2020.

Rating: 3/5 stars

Genre: historical fiction

Part of a Series? Yes, These Violent Delights #1

Summary: The year is 1926, and Shanghai hums to the tune of debauchery. A blood feud between two gangs runs the streets red, leaving the city helpless in the grip of chaos. At the heart of it all is eighteen-year-old Juliette Cai, a former flapper who has returned to assume her role as the proud heir of the Scarlet Gang—a network of criminals far above the law. Their only rivals in power are the White Flowers, who have fought the Scarlets for generations. And behind every move is their heir, Roma Montagov, Juliette’s first love…and first betrayal. But when gangsters on both sides show signs of instability culminating in clawing their own throats out, the people start to whisper. Of a contagion, a madness. Of a monster in the shadows. As the deaths stack up, Juliette and Roma must set their guns—and grudges—aside and work together, for if they can’t stop this mayhem, then there will be no city left for either to rule. Perfect for fans of The Last Magician and Descendant of the Crane, this heart-stopping debut is an imaginative Romeo and Juliet retelling set in 1920s Shanghai, with rival gangs and a monster in the depths of the Huangpu River.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content/Trigger Warnings: violence, blood, gore

Overview: I love the premise of this book. A Romeo and Juliet retelling? Set in 1920s Shanghai? Sign me up! There was so much to love about These Violent Delights: the setting, the characters, the prose, the complexity of the social and political situation... so why didn’t I rate this book higher? Well, despite all the things I loved, I didn’t love the pacing and the plot. In my opinion, Gong had the tendency to kill a lot of suspense and over-explain things, which not only made the main plot feel slow, but I felt like I was being told a lot of things about characters instead of shown. Thus, it was hard for me personally to absorb the significance of things and become emotionally invested. Overall, though, These Violent Delights is an ambitious book, and I look forward to reading the sequel.

Writing: From the first page of the prologue, I was hooked on Gong’s way of describing the look and feel of Shanghai. I love the way she describes settings, using vivid imagery and almost poetic phrases to evoke feelings of seediness and poverty. Gong ensures that her prose doesn’t get too purple, however, so I think she overall strikes a nice balance between being literary and being accessible.

I do, however, think that Gong had the tendency to tell rather than show when it came to descriptions of the characters’ backstories, motivations, or other things, such as the bloodfeud between the gangs. We are told, for example, that there is a bloodfeud, and we get scenes where gang members bristle at the sight of one another, but we don’t really have any scenes where the bloodfeud serves as a major antagonist or threatens characters in a real, tangible way. Juliette’s and Roma’s pasts also don’t feel very laden with pathos, and I got the impression that we were supposed to feel sympathetic without really seeing how their pasts continue to affect them in the present. For example, we’re told that Roma’s mother was killed by Scarlets, but Roma barely ever thinks about her, doesn’t have any longing for her, etc. Perhaps some flashbacks would have helped make these pasts feel more impactful, or maybe a change in the way characters think and act, but as it stands, I didn’t feel like much of the violence was really “present,” so to speak, because everyone who dies isn’t really given a real presence in the novel.

I also think Gong had the tendency to interrupt the flow of her story by inserting unneeded descriptions or background information at inopportune moments. For example, when Roma and Juliette are running from the scene of a crime at one point, they agree to meet up at a restaurant nearby, and Gong proceeds to give us a paragraph on what that restaurant is like. It has no real significance to the action - the characters don’t really spend a lot of time there, and it never comes up again. As a result, we get some descriptive or expositional passages in the middle of a scene, which I think really slows down the book’s pace and removes a sense of urgency. In other words, form didn’t match function in places where it really mattered.

Lastly, I think Gong over-wrote some of her passages to the extent that the reader was being told things that could have been inferred. We would read, for example, passages where Gong would tell us why a character was speaking quietly or why a character was acting in a certain way, and some of those things would be obvious from context. I think Gong could have benefitted from pulling back a little bit and letting readers piece together some things on their own.

Plot: This book mainly follows Roma and Juliette, to heirs to Shanghai’s two most notorious gangs, as they track down a monster which has been causing a mysterious madness to sweep across the city. In my opinion, this madness/monster plot was a little weak - not only did I feel like the mystery itself wasn’t very clever, but I didn’t get the sense that the madness was truly a threat. As I mentioned above, violence doesn’t really have a tangible impact on our named characters - the gangs aren’t shown to suffer much from the impact on their operations (Juliette doesn’t have to make do with less income, for example, and she doesn’t seem all that connected to the common resident of Shanghai to be altruistic) and even if we just accept that Roma and Juliette want to solve the mystery to prove something to their fathers, I didn’t feel like I cared enough about their statuses in the gang to want them to succeed or fail. To solve this problem, I think I would have liked to see more stakes; if they fail, would the gangs be entrusted to more violent people who would do more harm than good? If they fail, would they be chased out of town or sent away? Something a bit more urgent, I think, to show us that. Granted, wanting to impress their fathers is a good motivation, but I wanted more urgency.

Characters: Juliette, our primary heroine, is perhaps the most well-developed character in this book. She’s the heir to the most powerful gang in Shanghai, but despite the nominal security of her title, she has to prove herself worthy because A.) she’s a woman, and B.) she spent a lot of time in America, which makes her too Western for her people’s standards, yet too Chinese for the Europeans living in the city. She’s also hot-blooded and impulsive, which gets her into some trouble (a flaw that I think Gong wrote well, as it felt like Juliette was being ruthless out of some sense of insecurity). I really enjoyed her as a character, and I think Gong wrote her well.

Roma, our primary hero and Juliette’s love interest, is somewhat less interesting. He has some qualities that seem good on paper: he’s an expert with a firearm and isn’t enthusiastic about violence. He also cares deeply for his sister and has a complicated relationship with his father. However, he didn’t have the same level of complexity as Juliette. He didn’t have any convictions about why he and his gang deserved to be in Shanghai, nor did his family’s history with the Bolsheviks seem to influence the way he responded to the communist uprising. I wanted a little more from him, and I wanted to be shown why Juliette was in love with him (other than their history and, supposedly, Roma’s ability to “really see” her).

Supporting characters were hit or miss. I really liked Rosalind and Kathleen, and I loved the dynamics they brought to the story. As sisters and cousins to Juliette, they have a complicated relationship with the Scarlet Gang - they’re family, but not family enough to have true power or protection. I liked that the sisters responded differently to this situation; Kathleen seems more desperate to do whatever Juliette asks, while Rosalind feels that people like her have to deal with all the fallout of the Cai’s actions. Benedikt and Marshall, Roma’s companions, also had a nice dynamic; Marshall is somewhat outgoing while Benedikt was reserved, and the two brought out new behaviors in the other that made me think they have a budding m/m romance. However, I didn’t really understand their motivations enough to feel invested in their stories. They felt more like sidekicks than characters in their own right - they wandered around Shanghai doing errands for their gang, but didn’t really seem integral in ways other than that.

Antagonists were somewhat bland, in my opinion. Tyler, a hot-headed Cai who wants to be the heir instead of Juliette, weaves in and out at convenient moments, inserting tension at random moments that didn’t seem to build on one another. I would have liked a more sustained storyline where he is constantly interfering and competing with Juliette, perhaps to raise the stakes. For example, if he had also been working to track down the monster, and the two had had more confrontations about their progress along the way, Juliette’s success might be a little more urgent. Dmitri, another hot-headed wannabe heir on the White Flower side, is barely present and doesn’t feel like a threat. I would have liked to see the same thing be done with him: have him investigating the mystery, but in a way that opposes how Roma does things (perhaps a way that exacerbates the blood feud). Even the people directly involved with the monster plot seemed to be stock characters, and I wasn’t entirely convinced that they were formidable opponents for our protagonists.

Romance: For a Romeo and Juliet retelling, I was surprised that the romance (or the relationship, at the very least) wasn’t more of a focus in this book. I guess if the book hadn’t been marketed that way, my thoughts might be different, but then again, many of the names are deliberately crafted to resemble the names in Shakespeare’s play. Even so, I think I liked that the romance didn’t take center stage all the time, as it allowed Gong to give us a retelling that wasn’t just the same plot points as the original play.

However, I definitely would have liked more tension or angst in the scenes when Roma and Juliette were together. We’re told (rather than shown) that the two have a complicated history, but when they’re working together, there’s no real chemistry that convinced me that the two still had feelings for one another. Juliette tells us in her POV that Roma sees her and understands her, but other than that, I didn’t get the sense that there was any passion or emotional intimacy between the two - just history. I would have liked to see more conflicted emotions in the places when Juliette or Roma are forced to interact so that there is a stronger buildup to the more intense emotions later in the book. But as it stands, the revival of their romantic feelings felt rather sudden, and I didn’t quite understand why the two were in love.

Themes: One major thing that I think Gong did really well was convey her passion about the state of Shanghai during the time period, especially when talking about politics and colonialism. Gong would have her characters meditate on the conflict between nationalists and communists, as well as the presence of Westerners and other foreigners who don’t bother to respect or engage with Chinese culture (or language). For example, Juliette often remarked upon how she felt like a stranger in her own country, and a lot of the ways she had to navigate racism and sexism reflected that. In my opinion, these themes brought out the best in Gong’s writing, as I could tell that she was invested in them and had a lot to say.

TL;DR: These Violent Delights has an intriguing premise and a well-developed heroine, and Gong is at her best when writing about these things while pushing back against colonialism in 20th century Shanghai. However, I ultimately didn’t feel like I could get emotionally invested in the gang dynamics, the romance, or the mystery itself, mainly because of the writing style and the lack of explicit stakes.

[krispydefendorpolice]

Once Upon A Miraculous - Part 2

Ok before we even get into the story here’s yet another warning to think twice before you continue. Jason dies. He dies in a gruesome, traumatizing event and even though I think I went over it very lightly I still think it’s pretty fucking graphic. I’m the writer and I. Had. To. Fucking. Stop. And take a break before I could continue with the story.

Violence and the results it can have on the body ahead. Madness from the pit and angst from hurt feeling of being replaced ahead. For the last time. You’ve all been warned so read at your own risk.

I’m going to trust that you all know your headspace well enough and for those that choose to read anyways? Thank you for going on this journey with me. I hope the falls between here and the end are worth the river journey and the lake we reach at the end (yes those are f*ing metaphors. I’m feeling philosophical at the moment)

Previous Masterpost list

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“It’s me Nettie. I’m alive”

****************************

Jason was 14 years old when he met the Batman. He came across an unwatched batmobile. The tires on it could be sold for more than the average car and he had the tools on him.

One last check and he got to work. He was already thinking about the things he could buy for himself and his street siblings that he forgot the number one rule. Always keep a lookout.

The Batman caught him red handed with three wheels off and the fourth half done. After being forced to return the wheels to the car Jason was taken to the underground batcave. He met Alfred and the unmasked Batman. Bruce “fucking billionaire” Wayne.

Less than a month later he’s living in the manor and has been “adopted”. He doesn’t trust it. Rich men don’t want son’s and there are too many kids with stories about the horrors that “nice family’s” hide behind closed doors. But he’s got a roof over his head and food in his stomach. If Wayne thinks that will be enough to buy him he’s going to find out how wrong he was.

Jason starts small at first. If he can just get the man angry enough to throw him out he won’t have to worry about being brought back. Setting all the alarms in the house and making them unfixable was a bit of a challenge. Seeing Bruce’s face when he changed the passwords was brilliant.

It continued that way for a few months until Bruce finally decided if Jason was gonna be a little shit he could learn to fight better instead. Jason decided that if he was going to learn to fight he would take over the abandoned Robin role too.

Dick was not happy. The first time Jason got to meet the man was after he was seen as Robin. He came to the manor and yelled at Bruce, saying he had no right to give his costume and name to someone else. Jason listened from the second story.

As angry as the two men got neither came to blows over it. Dick ended the fight by storming out and he put the older hero on radio silence for months after but neither had any injuries from their disagreement. If Jason had ever even looked at his old man funny as a kid he would have a black eye and welts on his back to show for it.

Maybe Bruce could be trusted after all?

****************************

At 15 years old Bruce is engaged to Selina Kyle. Their on again off again thing as hero and thief where they danced around each other had been driving Jason and Alfred batty. It was nice to see them actually settle into their thing as each challenged the other and kept them on their toes.

When Selina said she was going to be spending the summer with the daughter of an old schoolmate of hers Jason didn’t think much of it. He knew she had a legit degree she used to assess the potential spoils of her criminal activities.

He arrived at Wayne Enterprises a little early for their lunch meeting. Bruce had told him they’d meet in the lobby so after greeting the receptionists he looked for a place to sit. In one of the chairs facing the doors a small girl looked up at the windows before going back to her book and writing something. No she was probably drawing with long pencil strokes like that.

Curious he walked over to see if he could look at her drawing. He could see what looked like an image of the stained glass windows on the page but the lines through them gave it a softer, almost flowing shape. Which was weird cause glass wouldn’t follow those lines.

“What are you drawing?” He found himself asking her.

She jumped so he’d obviously surprised her. His thoughts were captured by her bright blue eyes. In the light coming from those stained glass windows she’d been admiring they almost seemed to glow.

She said she was designing a dress while she waited for her guardian and the fiancé to return. This must be Selina’s friends daughter.

Lunch was a fun affair where the girl shared she would be designing costumes for Jagged stone to wear during his concert tour this summer. She would stay with Selina in Gotham from Monday to Thursday while she designed and created clothes she would fly to whatever city Jagged was playing in from Thursday to Sunday to be on hand during the concerts for any costume repairs that would be needed.

Bruce volunteered Jason to show Marinette around the city since it wouldn’t be safe for her to be alone. Jason agrees because it’s summer break and he likes the Marinette he talked stained glass windows with and wonders what other beauty she will see in his dark city.

**

He is breathless by the beauty she sees all around her. The joy and happiness she shines as easily as she breathes. Everyone she meets becomes a new friend. Even the tamer of the Rogues and the Siren’s who meet her are enthralled by her smile and her charm.

Kissing her was a completely spontaneous action. He had thought about it for weeks by then but she had said there was a guy back home she sort of still had a crush on though she wasn’t happy with how they wanted to deal with the liar situation. So he was resigned to keeping his budding feelings to himself so that he could see her happy.

It had been the night of the last concert. Jagged had Marinette come on stage where he officially introduced her as his designer and the creator of all the tour costumes to the world. She had beamed with a smile so wide that when she threw herself into Jason’s arms after walking off stage he had just pulled back and placed a kiss on her lips.

He froze when he realized what he did. Marinette had stood on her tiptoe to start their second kiss.

For a week they were blissfully happy and free with their affection. Multiple paparazzi got pictures of them holding hands, kissing each other or just cuddling when they were waiting. Jasonette and the Sunshine of Gotham blew up on social media.

Saying goodbye to her was a really hard thing to do. So Jason went shopping for something he could give her to remember him by. They had decided they would try a long distance thing but he was afraid it wouldn’t be enough. If they did fall apart from distance he wanted something she could use to always fondly remember the summer fling they had.

It was perfect. He knew it might be impractical but he was convinced that it would be the perfect gift for her someday.

************************

They made it work. They had talked everyday and he spent every chance he could in France with her. He met her parents and they met Bruce as well. Marinette had her school situation resolved following her return.

He was proud of her for sticking up for herself when all her classmates seemed ready to abandon the liar just because Marinette had a connection they could use again. Nathaniel, Rose and Juleka were all artsy like Marinette and he could see how their creative energies inspired each other and themselves.

He was a week away from his departure to spend the summer in France with Marinette and her family when it happened. A false lead led to his capture by the Joker.

(Begin Angst)

The first break hurt but it was bearable. He had broken bones before. His bio dad had broken them frequently when he was still alive. The fifth hurt as bad. He also had a concussion and several burns at that time as well.

What felt like days, weeks, years... minutes?, passed in a haze as he jerked with every new hit. He was a mess from vomit, blood, piss and shit when his body couldn’t follow his commands any longer.

He held to the belief that Batman would come for him. That his father could still save him.

When the Joker left, Jason was lying on the concrete floor looking at the bomb countdown. He knew he had to get out of there, he pushed his battered body past the point he could feel pain and struggled to the door. He pulled on it but it wouldn’t open. The rattle of chains on the other side told him why.

He collapsed to the floor, tears streaming as he watched the numbers countdown.

10, 9, 8...

I’m sorry Alfred.

7, 6, 5,...

I’m sorry Bruce.

4, 3,...

I’m sorry Nettie.

2, 1,

I love...

(End Angst)

He was only 16. He would never see 17.

***************************

It was dark. It was small. It was hard to breathe. He was in some kind of box. He screamed and hit the walls around him trying to get out, trying to find some air.

It surprised him when cold pieces fell from above him. It had a new smell. He focused his determination on that spot. More of the new thing came down into his cage. He pushed it away from him and continued. There. Briefly a breath of clean, fresh air.

With new determination he pushed harder towards the life giving air. He was able to pull his head and shoulders out of the box. He rested for a moment swallowing greedy gulps of air into his starved lungs. When he was able to continue he pulled himself from the ground and looked around. As far as his eye could see were stones standing from the ground around him and beyond those trees and underbrush fading into shadows.

He picked a direction at random and began to walk.

**

It was familiar. Grab an item, run. The actions came without conscious memory. The streets were cold but he was big enough to scare off the worst of the predators. There were a few small people, kids, that came to him for protection from the bigger people. He did what he could but it never seemed to be enough he thought, as he stood over another small, broken body.

“I can give you a way to protect them.”

He looked up. She was beautiful but her eyes were cold. Empty and unfeeling. But she had promised to give him a way to protect the little ones. He was willing to try anything for that power.

What was his name? How old was he? He didn’t know.

****************************************

Jason.

He remembered his name as he lunged from the sickly green waters that Talia had led him to. He remembered Bruce, his father, but he didn’t save him from the Joker. He remembered the Jokers laughter ringing in his ears as he stood over another broken child on the streets. And the new shadow following the shape of the Batman when he was an amnesiac wandering the streets of Gotham.

He had been REPLACED!! He fumed. The anger and resentment over Bruces inability to save him, to avenge him and his replacing him as if Jason meant nothing, festered and boiled in his mind.

When he left the League of Shadows his only plan was to go back to Gotham and get revenge for his own death and to hurt his so called father as badly as he could. If Jason meant so little to him then he would show how little Bruce meant to him.

**

(Mild violence ahead)

Their first reunion was in a fight over drug dealers selling heroin to kids. Jason looked directly at the bat, pulled his gun and shot the dealers in the forehead.

(Violence over)

“These are my streets now. I won’t tolerate kids getting hurt on my watch.”

He disappeared before Batman could restrain him.

For weeks they danced around. Batman trying to catch him and Jason using every trick he learned from the Bat himself to avoid him.

Blood flowed freely from the wicked and the corrupt. He was a villain in his own right bringing judgement and execution down upon the criminals of Gotham.

Batman always appealed to the better side of him, to stop his madness. Didn’t he understand that part died? The child that trusted in heroes to protect the innocent died at the hands of a monster. A monster that his father couldn’t chase away.

The RedHood was risen from the pits and unleashed upon the evil of Gotham.

He was 18 years old.

******************************

Months of their back and forth dynamic between RedHood and Batman passed. The Batman couldn’t arrest the RedHood but the RedHood couldn’t stop tweaking his cape to get a reaction.

Didn’t he care? Wasn’t he going to stop him? He was doing everything wrong so why wouldn’t Bruce do the same for him that he did for all the other criminals in Gotham?

It was when Jason had the Joker at the business end of a gun that he got his answers.

“Don’t do it Hood,” Bruce pleaded. “It will change you beyond what you can come back from if you do.”

“I’ve already killed, B,” his words caught as he gasped, fighting back tears of rage. “My hands are dripping in blood.

He laughed madly then, “‘Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’ Who knew that bitch knew what she was talking about.”

“It’s the madness that’s done it Hood. You’ve barely held control before. But you’re fighting the killing urge and directing it to those that do deserve it.”

“And yes,” he interrupted before Jason could argue, “no one deserves it more than Joker for what he’s done to you. But if you do it then the madness will win. Please I can’t lose my son again,” he begged.

“WHY DOES THAT MATTER NOW?!” Jason screamed. “He killed me. I was dead in the ground and you let him walk. WHY COULDN’T YOU KILL HIM?! AM I THAT MEANINGLESS TO YOU!?!!”

“I COULDN’T!” Bruce yelled back. “If I killed him I wouldn’t be able to stop killing. It wouldn’t just be the Joker that died, it would be every criminal in Gotham who dared step out of line. I wanted to. I still want to. He took my son from me but I know that once I start I won’t be able to stop. I’m sorry that I’m so weak, but I couldn’t.”

The Batman, no Bruce Wayne, stood before him, head bowed in defeat as he admitted to his greatest shame.

Jason looked away before dropping the gun and walking away. He knew Bruce would take the Joker back to Arkham so he just needed to get away and think.

**

They worked to build their relationships anew. He couldn’t be the son Bruce remembered anymore, too much had changed, but he could be the son he was today. He could do what he could for the Replacement and make sure the kid didn’t get himself killed on the streets. The girl that joined them got the same measure of protection though she was better able to defend herself.

When he finally let go of thoughts of revenge he could think about a time when a stray spark of living Sunshine found its way to cold, grey Gotham. He finally looked up news of Marinette to see how she was doing. He broke down and cried when her wedding announcement to the son of a Parisian fashion house was the first thing to pop up.

Selina, Bruce and Alfred all encouraged him to take a trip to France anyways to get some closure, to say goodbye. But he refused, the smile in her eyes as she looked at her new husband in the picture convinced him that she was happy. And that was all he ever wanted for her, even if it couldn’t be him giving the her the world.

He was 19 years old when he made peace with his past.

****************************

He was 20 years old when news of the villain Hawkmoth and his defeat hit the international press. He was livid to realize that his beloved Nettie had been in so much danger just living in a city that should have been safe. That the Justice League had done nothing when the citizens pleaded for help.

It felt like the period after his revival in the pit as he stormed the halls of the WatchTower. His vision was in various shades of red and his thoughts just kept turning back to how Marinette might have been killed in one of the villain’s monster attacks. Hell, she probably did die once or twice only to be revived by the hero’s magic.

If he ever got to meet LadyBug he would shower her in appreciation for defending the city his Nettie lived in.

The door crashed and nearly fell off the hinges when he threw it open and stormed through into the Leagues council room.

“RedHood,” Batman said calmly as he stalked up to the table.

Slamming his hands down and leaning over the collected heroes he asked what he’d wanted to since the news broke.

“Who. Screwed. Up?”

“When footage of the attacks first reached the League, investigations were done. No lasting damage was left from the attacks so it was written off as a publicity stunt and subsequent messages were ignored,” Batman explained. “It was a phone operator that fielded these calls. They went based off the assessment done by the League and deleted them.”

“She could have died B. I was dead and couldn’t do anything but you should have been keeping an eye on her. You know what she means to me.”

Batman nodded, “I should have. The messages never reached me but I should have been keeping a watch on her regardless of that.”

“You’re going to make amends to those heroes for ignoring them,” Jason stated. “All of you are,” he added, including the other heroes in the room in his statement.

“Yes,” Batman agreed.

Jason jerked his head in a nod and left the room. Going back to the cave where he can do his own check and make sure Marinette was safe.

********************************

It wasn’t just the League that failed Marinette. Jason knew he was as much to blame. If he had gone to Paris? If he had seen her? If he had told her he was alive? Would she have suffered under Hawkmoth? If, if, if.

News of the divorce of up and coming fashion designer MDC and the son of the fashion mogul and former villain Adrian Agreste hit airwaves like lightning. In the beginning people claimed it was Marinette who left because of Hawkmoth’s identity. Adrian was fast to shut that down and own that he was the one to ask for the divorce for personal reasons. With what seemed to be an amicable break up the world turned its attention to the next sound bite.

He’d failed her again. Jason just sat by his empty grave as he cried when he learns about it. He argues with Alfred and Selina when they bring up him visiting Paris afterwards. This time Bruce supports his decision. He doesn’t approve and lets Jason know it, but he supports him.

Returning to the cave after patrol, Jason was the last to arrive. He didn’t know why everyone was gathered by the computer so he went to take a look. He didn’t hear what Alfred said as he walked over. Momentarily blinded by the helmet as he removed it, he froze when he finally saw what, no who, had his family’s attention.

She had grown since their first meeting, not in height but in maturity. She had traded the fun pigtails for an elegant braid, and jeans for a sundress obviously of her own design.

“Hi, Monsieur Alfred introduced the others but I haven’t gotten your name yet. I am Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she introduces herself as if she were meeting a stranger for the first time.

It hurt his heart that she would do that with him, though he realizes why she did. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know that it was him under the mask.

The words wouldn’t come though when he tried to find them and tell her. He finally settled for showing her, hoping she would believe her eyes.

After she gasped in reaction to his reveal he thought maybe his approach was a bit boneheaded after all. Nothing to do but go forward from there though.

“It’s me Nettie. I’m alive.”

Marinette teared up but instead of breaking down and crying she ran to him and jumped into his arms. Burying her face in his neck she just murmured “You’re alive” over and over.

“Yeah,” he admitted. He held her as tightly as he dared. A little worried he might hurt her by accident.

When she pulled away he reluctantly let her go but it was worth it.

She gave him the biggest smile and he saw it again.

He was 21 years old and the sun was shining in cold, grey Gotham once more.

————————————

So I really got into the structure I used for the first chapter and exuded to use the same for this one. They end at different ages because Jason’s a few months older and this happened in that in between time (the real reason is sections were getting too busy so I add another year to his story. How do I rationalize it? Well birthdays are a thing so there you go).

I hope everyone enjoyed this wild ride. I do plan to do an epilogue chapter but that will have to wait until next weekend. Anyone have any ideas you can send it to me.

@pepelachanel @mellownieice @kris-pines04 @zebrabaker @two-faced-biatch @vixen-uchiha @mandy984 @shamefullove @mycupisbroken @dawnwave16 @abrx2002 @mochinek0 @tbehartoo @fertileleaf @thanks-captain-obvious @ravennightingaleandavatempus @hinata3487 @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @hypnosharkrebeldreamer @zalladane @dast218 @miraculous786 @18-fandoms-unite-08 @moonlightstar64 @mooshoon @ladybug182 @iggy-of-fans @legendaryneckjudgestudent @megawhitleycalderonpaganus @finallyaniguana @tog84 @mystery-5-5 @evil-elf16

[nighteyed]

Shine On ~

Let me preface this story with a disclaimer. This is my first ever, Jurdan fanfic. It is by no means perfect. Second, I listen to music and write. If you are an Amity Affliction fan then the title and the contents of this story might not surprise you. I pulled a lot from the lyrics and from their official music video, even throwing in a few scenes from the video. (EXCEPT WHEN YOUNGBLOODS PLAYED AND “FUCK THE REAPER” GOT THROWN ACROSS A SHIRT) 

Fandom: The Folk of the Air 

Pairing: Jude Duarte x Cardan Greenbriar

Rating: Teen (there are descriptions and mentions of abuse)

Written By: forbiddencorvidae | corvids_5

The green door stares me in the face, it’s like a mocking leer, the color for which I share a name. I hate it. I hate this place, but I press forward, grip the handle and turn it. 

It curls and wraps, shrivels all around, the smoke that sinks into my skin, burns across the whites of my eyes and stains them yellow. There is a haze in this room, as I slowly close the door behind me. My eyes landing on the dozen blue ribbon cans on the kitchen table, my bag swaying at my hip. There is a cat mewling in the corner, four kittens suckling and my lips curl in disgust. Curdling, the smoke weaves through my hair, grazes my cheek bones, congeals at the corners of my mouth and then dives deep down my throat and strangles me. 

I turn to my right, a safe hallway that I will escape through, to the safety of my room and a window that I am desperate to throw open and gulp down air that will purify my already rotting lungs. Doc’s hit something sturdy, hard bones and meat and I’m falling forward, downwards, in a spiral of swinging arms, bracing against the wall, trying, trying not to wake him. 

There is a beast in this tunnel, beneath me and I will not escape him. 

I’m flattened, defeated, pinned under a body much bigger than my own. My eyes are filled with obsidian spots that flutter across my vision. My head pulses and splits, spitting images across my eyes, blocked out by the dark specs that blind me. I feel a hand on my throat, claws digging into the sides of my neck, palm hot and pressing. I’m a child hiding in a closet, afraid and weeping. I feel the wisp of a tail, hear a cat mewling and I am weak, undone, I succumb to the torrent and do not brace for the onslaught. Tears are leaking from my eyes as my nose crunches into my face, a fist smashes against my cheek, my head flies into the wall. Adrenaline rockets though me and my mouth salivates, my body begins to shake as my blood free flows and chokes me. It pours from me in rivers. I’m drowning in my spit, tears and blood, I am drowning in life.  

It’s going to be a real shinner, I hear him say. His laughter penetrates and permeates, slithers up my spine and around my neck. My bag is forgotten as I manage to fight my way to my knees and brace the wall, pulling myself from the floor and fumbling towards my bedroom door. It swings open, a rabbithole that I am all too happy to fall within and my bed a welcoming crash against my skin.

*  

It is raining as I watch them. Three girls file from the suburban and march across the lawn to the red front door. The house across the lane is no longer empty, it is now filled with people and Balekin tells me that one of them has horns. 

“General Madoc is to be my personal bodyguard," Balekin pulls at his collar and smirks. He is proud, I hear the bragging undertones in his voice, cool like onyx. "There has been some disturbing mail coming into the office. Some threatening letters and I do not stand by and obey idle threats." Balekin pulls at the cuffs of his suit and presses the palm of his right hand to the crown of my head, my lips sneer at his touch. 

“You can stop sending them, little brother,” Balekin turns and drags his knuckles along the innards of the hallway, his rings scraping against the paint and drywall. “One day you might end up at the bottom of the creek.”

Good, I want to say, but I've learned that with a quick witted tongue you have to learn to hold it. Instead I feel the corners of my lips twitch and I pick at the tips of my fingers, there is glue under my nails.

*

There is a tap against my window that wakes me. My blood has crusted against my skin, and there is a weal under my right eye, it swells and presses into the underside of my eye. My head is still a ringing mess, my body sore and aching as adrenaline has seeped from me. My sheet sticks to the side of my face and I feel the hairs on my face pull and release as I rip myself from my bed. But when I turn to look at the window, I finally see for the first time, everything that he has tried to blackout.

“You have been home for hours and you never opened your window Cardan,” I can hear Jude from behind the sheer black curtain, from behind the single pane glass. “Cardan,” Jude is already pulling open the window, already swinging her leg through it and into my space. I bow my head at her commanding presence, her air as she enters my room, she fills every part of me with molten, down to my toes that threaten to drag me towards her. My neck is a hinge and I have lost all my will to lift my head and look into her eyes, so I close my eyes and I remember the day that she told me the first truth I have ever received. 

*

I’m free, the wind blowing through my hair. I peddle faster and faster, all the while Jude Duarte yells behind me. Her auburn hair is styled up in horns, like some freak, like those stupid stories she reads.

“I HATE YOU CARDAN GREENBRIAR!” She is screaming from behind him, running as fast as her legs will take her. 

“YOU HEAR ME? I HATE YOU! YOU AND YOUR BLACK HEART!”

I can’t help but smile at her words, they warm my blackened heart because no one has ever spoken such truth to me. 

I will reward her by dumping this pink bike in the creek tonight. 

*

“Cardan…” 

I hate the sound of her voice, as it is now, laced with pain and pity as it pulls me from a precious memory. She will never know how much I wish her to be that little girl again, in the street, yelling that she hates me over and over again. I just want to feel alive, with the wind in my hair and her words in my veins. 

She approaches me tentatively, it has been different, since that time. When I took her on this bed that is now stained with my blood. She is soft and full of sweet words, when all I need is her seething and swearing under me, over me, around me, I don’t care so long as she breaks over me, like water against rock, coating me, consuming me.

“Cardan, look at me.”

I see her booted feet from between my legs and I struggle to lift my head. Her hands come into my line of vision as her palms cradle my cheeks, my shoulders flinching at the warm, delicate touch of her skin. Slowly, she helps me, rolls my head on my shoulders until it is fully erect and I am staring up at her.

“Will you kiss me now and make this better?” My words are laced with venom as I say them and they slather against her skin as her fingers drag across my lips. “Kiss me Jude,” I press my tongue against her palm, my eyes never leaving her’s. Her gaze, lighting a fire in my heart as she stares down at me with eyes full of adoration, full of love and my guts twist at the emotion. 

“Stop Jude,” I turn my head to my left, tucking my chin to my shoulder. “Stop staring at me with those eyes that disgust me.”

There is a long pause that billows in the air and nestles itself into my collapsing lungs. I pull in a ragged breath, the insult pains me more than the evidence on my face. 

“I know you are hurting,” Jude whispers.

I want to bury my face in her white tank, but instead I snake my fingers through her belt loops and drag her towards me, pressing the crown of my head into her abdomen. I'm weak, so weak, so tired of this and all I want is to find a better place to live.

“But you are too strong to drown Cardan,” she whispers and it is to the room, to whomever will hear the words, I know they are not words for me. Those words are a prayer, for her alone.

I feel her nails drag across my scalp and they catch on a patch of matted hair and a memory flashes through my mind.

*

“Why do you speak like that?” Jude is sitting next to me by the creek and the sun is setting behind the buildings of the city beyond. “You sound too smart for a thirteen year old, it isn’t...normal.”

I scoff at her word choice and deign not to answer, but she presses and I acquiesce to her persistence. “I read Jude, books of all shapes and sizes. To learn, sharpen my tongue, to save me.” My sable hair ruffling in the warm breeze as I feel her shift next to me. Jude presses her pink lips to my cheek and my brows knit together. Partly at her action and partly because her lips have stoked the ache back into my jaw, my bruise with it’s yellowing center and purple ring ripples as I clench my jaw at her touch. Jude weaves her arm between mine and she pulls me closer towards her, it warms my bones. I feel something growing underneath the surface of my skin and there is no energy within me to deny it. So, I do the one thing that I am good at when it comes to Jude, I destroy it. 

"Why do you wear your hair like that?" My question is blunt and like a club it strikes at her. I can see her discomfort as she shifts and pulls away from me and it is only shadowed by the simmer in her eyes. 

"The Queen of Elfhame wears her hair like this," Jude spits at me, like I should know this, like we hadn’t played High King and Queen when we were ten. In a rare moment, when I found myself in Jude’s room, I saw her tattered copy of “The Queen of Nothing”, it fell from her nightstand, under her bed. I had reached to retrieve it, to place it back safely where she could find it when my fingers found a slip of paper instead.

I hate you Cardan Greenbriar. I hate you Cardan Greenbriar. I hate you Cardan Greenbriar. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Hate. Hate. Hate. You. Cardan Greenbriar. I love you.

"Some fairytale, those aren't real Jude. Grow up." My words leave my mouth like needles and I have aimed them to prick in all the right places. There is nothing better than this. This is what we have. I have a brother who beats me and she has… 

A demon lurks behind the walls of her home, a murderer. 

“There has to be something better than this Cardan. Something worth living for,” Jude traces a finger to the bruise along my jaw and gently presses. Jude is so full of hopes and dreams, so hungry for all the things that people like me cannot have. She is blinding, like the sun shinning through a diamond and splashing against me. Yet, I want to believe her, to feel hope curl along my insides and blossom in my chest. I want to be so full of hope that I am sick of it. I blame the day she cursed me in the street, cursed my black heart even though I know it bleeds for her. 

If she wants a fairytale then one day she will have it and I want to see her shine, be the one to give it.

“One day, Jude, I will take you to Insmire,” I let loose a rare smile and revel in the widening of her eyes. 

*

“Jude,” I let my left leg shoot between hers and I crane my neck upwards so that I can see her, my cheek still firmly against her. Walnut eyes stare down at me and my fingers clench tightly against her hips, she is wearing a hat, it isn’t like her. “Your hair—its not, the horns," my voice is soft, questioning, so unlike my usual tone.

"I'm not twelve anymore Cardan," Jude presses her thumb to my bottom lip, her fingers cupping around my chin, pressing the side of my face firmly against her. "You were right. fairytales aren't real. Insmire, Elfhame, they are not real. No matter how much I wish them to be. No matter how much I wish that this—" She finally lets lose the breath that she has been holding in, since she has seen my face. “I just wish this was easier and if I could, I would break him.” Her words are like razors and I know that there is a truth to them. Jude is fire against me and I know now that I don’t want her to crash against me like water, I want her to scorch me, mark me, taint me. 

We are not children anymore.

We've tasted sweet whiskey, gone skinny dipping in the creek, she has seen her mother killed, her father cut down, I've lived my life on the ground, with bruises and cuts inked into my skin and I've pressed my tongue between her legs and tasted sweet bliss. I've felt her heat around me, pulling me closer to her, wringing from me everything that I am and she has always outlasted me. 

"Jude, go home." I push her away as I rise from the bed I've slept on since I was a child, the bed in which I laid her bare. Her eyes are full of hurt, but I see the curiosity that is stitched along her irises, she doesn't understand why I am doing this. 

"You shouldn't be sneaking into the Governor's house," I say as I ruffle the paperwork on my nightstand. "You aren't a kid anymore. It's breaking and entering," I sigh as I fall back on my bed and slide my fingers under my mattress, the thick envelope greeting the tips. 

"Balekin wouldn’t dare," Jude scoffs.

"Balekin, hates you, leers at you." I press my forefinger and thumb to the bridge of my nose and squeeze, the pain knitting my eyes closed. "Balekin says many things Jude. There is only abhorrence for your family, your father, deeply seeded and nourished with pale ale." My eyes find her's, there is shock there, truly. What did she expect?

"Do you hate me Cardan?"

Her question would have caught me off guard, if I didn't actually know that it was coming. 

Yes. 

My voice whispers across the blackness of my mind, her eyes like glass, round and waiting.

Make it easy for me, do not stare at me with those fragile eyes.

"Yes," I finally say. "Yes, I hate you. You once cursed my blackened heart, Jude, but it isn't the worm riddled, flea bitten parts of me that hates you. It's the parts that you have ignited and turned to flame."

She steps towards me and leans forward, her lips brushing against the shell of my ear as she whispers. A second later she is gone, out the window and the last light of the day fades with her.

The shower spray hits my skin like heated bullets and I watch as the water bleeds red between my toes. My hair falls into my eyes as I drag my fingers across my nose and press, I hear a faint pop from under the spray and my toes curl. I can breath again, barely. I toss around Jude’s words in my head and a smile creeps across my lips. I turn the shower knob and I’m left standing naked and in the cold. 

I hear Balekin, in the other room, the television is fading in and out as he flips through the channels and I can see him through the drywall, sprawled across the couch, a blue ribbon can, clutched between his bruising fist. My smile pulls into a smug of satisfaction as I know that even though he has beat me, I have left a mark on his unblemished skin. Tomorrow, when he holds his scheduled press conference, he will wear gloves, in the middle of August and I will know that underneath them is the evidence of his abuse. 

I pull a pair of black jeans on and open the bathroom door, then I break for my bedroom, my toes barely touching the wood floor, it feels as if I am flying. I click the door close softly and grab a black hoodie from my closet, pulling it over my head I make my way towards my bed, slipping into my doc martens. I flip the mattress and pull the envelope, the one that I felt earlier and tear it open. I count the bills in quick succession, the envelope now forgotten on the floor as I pocket the money down the front of my jeans. I pull a book from my nightstand and I grab a duffle from underneath my bed. I quickly pack what I may need and I brace myself to enter the hallway and head towards the front room. 

I see the television from the mouth of the hallway and I count the seconds with each breath that I take. A minute goes by and the television channel has not changed, I hear a faint snoring and I exhale. I tip-toe across the room and I find Balekin’s briefcase tucked underneath the table. I feel inside the pockets until my fingers brush along something cold and heavy, my fist wrapping around the keys and I tear them from the bag. I have to tip-toe to the front door and I close it gently. 

In my driveway Jude is waiting for me. Her hair is flowing in the evening breeze and she leaves me breathless with the sight of her. Her auburn hair is rolled up in two horns on her head and I can hear the little girl in the street from all those years ago. Yet, this time she isn’t screaming how much she hates me, she is whispering in my ear that she loves me. She is wearing a black tank top with a saying across the front and it makes me smile, a gut tightening, teeth bared smile and I want to fall into her eyes as they widen at me. Before I know what I am doing, my feet take me to her and I drop my bag at her feet, my hands reaching for the sides of her face and pulling her into my lips. 

She tastes like spun sugar and I worry that if I am not gentle I will break her, that she will wilt in my embrace, but she pulls me closer and hugs me tighter. 

“Lets go,” I say as I pull her towards the passenger side of Balekin’s black mustang.

“Wait, wait,” She whispers into the night around me. “I’m going to drive, you push and when we are down the block, I’ll start her up.”

I smile at her wonderful mind and watch her as she darts across the front of the car and jumps into the driver seat. I hear the car slink into neutral and it rolls slightly down the driveway. Tossing my bag into the back seat, I reach the backend and push, the car rolls and with every second that passes I can taste freedom. It isn't until I hear the engine roar to life and Jude’s laughter from the front seat, that  I finally run towards the passenger side and jump in. 

Jude hits the gas and the wind pulls at my hair and I do the one thing that I had promised myself that I would never do. I turn and look back at the house that will probably forever haunt my dreams. I smile and raise my fists to that green front door and I flip it off, a howl of laughter escaping my lungs and it feels so good to finally breathe. Without hesitation, without the worry that I would wake a sleeping beast. 

Jude is to my left and there is a smile on her lips and I thank every star in the sky. Her hand weaves towards mine  and I link my knuckles to hers and squeeze, bringing the back of her hand to my mouth. I kiss her flesh with vehemence and press my nose to her pulse. 

I reach for the stereo, flip it on and as we drive through the night, under the shining stars, Jude sings.

"Shine on, shine on young love." 

And I lean towards her and whisper in her ear. "Thank you, for saving me."

[booknerdproblems]

Immortals Chapter 3

Hello lovely people! This is chapter three of my throne of glass fanfiction, Immortals. This is a bit of a filler chapter, and I found it really hard to write as it wouldn’t flow so it’s not my best work. Next chapter will make up for it! Promise! 

You can find my masterlist with the links to previous chapters here

TW: none

Cheers of joy reached Rowan’s ears, streamers were thrown and children laughed in the streets. Music filtered through the cobbled streets, so unlike those of Doranelle, the melodies joyous and upbeat. Smiles graced everybody's faces, not an unhappy soul in sight. Rowan was wearing a finely made tunic and pants, but they were comfortable and easy to move in, not at all like the itchy, restricting clothing made by the shopkeepers in Doranelle. You would think immortality  would make better clothing.

Rowan was happy and content, a wide smile curving his lips as he overlooked the chanting crowds. 

His arm was wrapped around a lithe, warm body, pressed into his side. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, the golden-blonde strands floating on a phantom breeze. 

He took her hand, bringing it up between them and placing another kiss on the ring newly added to her finger. 

Someone clapped him on the shoulder, and he looked back to see Fenrys smiling warmly at him, 

“Congrats, Rowan. You both deserve this happiness.”

Rowan smiled at Fenrys, and looked back to the crowds, still chanting with joy.

He turned his head, and met the turquoise-and-gold eyes of Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.

Long live Queen Aelin! Long live King Rowan! Long may they reign!

-x-

Rowan shot upright, his heart pounding as blood roared in his ears. He ran a hand through his hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his breathing uneven. He grabbed a shirt and weapons, heading for the forest that surrounded the City of Rivers. That dream had unnerved him. The new queen and… him. Engaged. Side by side. In the white walls of Orynth. No blood oath. No pain, no death, no war. And it looked… nice. Content. He’d even looked happy. 

But that wasn’t his reality. No, in reality he had a blood-oath, immortality and no memory of being truly happy. Not real, that dream wasn’t real. 

That was what Rowan was repeating, over and over in his head as he ran. Not real, as his feet thumped on the forest floor. Not real, as his Fae form streaked through the trees. Not real, as sweat started to form a sheen over his skin. Not real, not real, not real. 

Ever since Lyria died, he’d been in an endless loop of serve and protect. Maeve, his brothers, the Fae of Doranelle. But Rowan still felt discontent, as if there was something better out there, just waiting for him to find. In the deepest parts of him, he longed to be free, to see more and more of the forests and mountains that covered the world. And even deeper than that, he longed to have a home. Doranelle had never quite been his home, not really. In his and Lyria’s house, nestled in the mountains, was the only place he’d truly felt content. And even then he’d longed to leave. And he had. He’d left his pregnant mate alone. And they’d slaughtered her for it.

Just as Rowan was about to turn back toward Doranelle, the clash of swords and grunts of effort reached his ears. He looked through the trees, and his breath caught in his throat. 

Aelin Galathynius was fighting. Training, by the looks of it, with the human lord. She was dressed in a skintight black suit that looked like it hid more than a few lethal weapons.

 And she was good. Really good. And completely unmatched. She moved like a storm-blessed wind, swift and sharp and strong. The man was panting, barely still gripping his sword as he deflected attack after attack. She had barely worked up a sweat. Her hair was high up in a ponytail, the ends drifting just to her lower back, even tied up. Her hairstyle revealed her rounded ears, and Rowan stared, curious, at the way she moved. Less grace, less power than the night of the ball, not an ember to be seen. Utterly human, as much as she’d been fully fae before. And still entirely lethal. 

Gods, if this was her as a human, imagine how much of a fighter she’d be in her Fae form. She might even be able to beat him. 

Before he could take a step toward the pair, Aelin stopped and sheathed her sword, the young lord just smiling grimly at her before stumbling to where they’d stashed waterskins, nestled in the roots of a gnarled tree.

“Damn, Aelin,” the man, Ren, panted.

Aelin just smirked, not moving out of her defensive position. She was scanning the trees around the 

clearing she stood in the middle of, her piercing eyes drinking in every detail. Rowan quickly moved, on Fae-silent feet into the shadows of the nearest tree, not wanting to be seen. No matter how sharp they were, her human eyes would never catch a Fae when they didn't want to be seen. Aelin seemed to debate shifting, but seemed to decide against it, just offering a hand up to the male sitting on the forest floor. 

“Let’s go,” Aelin muttered, “we aren’t alone.”

The man took her hand, hauling himself up and casting a look around the clearing, clearly uneasy. Rowan turned, deciding not to follow, instead sprinting back to Doranelle, relishing the fleeting glimpse of freedom that came with pushing his body to the limits. 

-x-

“Report.” Was Maeve’s only order to the cadre.

Vaughan started, “The shifter. Lysandra Ennar, from no noble bloodline, but to be a Lady of  Terrasen when she chooses. She owns a small territory in the north of Terrasen, by the name of Carraverre, but has not yet taken up the title.”

Maeve nodded, her face impassive.

Gavriel spoke next, “Her Majesty has left a demi-fae male in charge in her stead, goes by the name of Aedion Ashryver, a Prince of Wendlyn, her blood-sworn, lived in Terrasen since birth.” 

The wise male had an odd sort of tension in his face but it, thankfully, didn’t draw Maeve’s notice.

Rowan hesitated, then spoke, “She’s a formidable fighter. She’s had training, and a lot of it. I saw her sparring with the human male this morning. He's good for a human, but she could beat him into the dust in minutes. In her Fae form, with her magic, she could easily take on any of us.”

At this, Maeve finally looked interested.

“And without her magic?” She asked.

Rowan thought back to the forest, where Aelin Galathynius had displayed her skills. She was in her human form, not an ember to be seen, and still utterly unbeatable by a human. But by a Fae? With her magic, she’d be unstoppable. 

“Without her magic, in her human form, we could beat her. In her Fae form, again without magic, it would be hard to say. I don’t believe we have seen the true extent of her skills. And armed, with her power, it would be nearly impossible to get her into a position of no magic.”

Maeve’s face remained impassive, but her eyes betrayed a glimmer of interest. 

Fenrys spoke again, “Rowan and I will approach the queen today, to see if she would like an audience with you, majesty, or to see the trade advisor.”

The trade advisor, an older Fae noble, who Rowan would enjoy seeing go head-to-head with the Light-Bringer. 

Maeve nodded to Fenrys, a sign of acceptance, then dismissed them all.

-x-

On the streets of Doranelle, the sun beating down, Rowan looked to Fenrys, mentally cataloging the weapons he had on him. Hopefully, this meeting wouldn’t come to blows, but it didn’t help to be prepared.

Standing in front of the suite of rooms that would lead them to Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, Rowan Whitethorn took a breath, nodded to Fenrys, and knocked on the green-and-gold door.

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