#it's just not pleasant to read about. it's cruel. it leaves you feeling grimy

[tyrannuspitch]

people on this website are always talking about how we need more serialised longform media with more pointless meandering where nothing happens well NOT ME. get to the fucking point!!!

[alighieri-sparda]

Cann you headcanon about Vergil holding nero as a baby. But the s/o died while giving birth to him.

I just want angst heh

Vergil in Fortuna Headcanons: Nero and his mother fates.

➤ Masterlist | Rules 

Hello, my dear anon. I am sorry for my usual delay, I hope you are still here to read this.

That’s my first time writing DMC angst, I guess. So yeah it might be kinda shitty I’M SORRY, but I tried so hard. ;w; Hope you like it, my dear. I really do. If you’re not satisfied with its results, however, don’t be ashamed of asking me to rewrite it. I’d do it gladly for you.

Devil May Cry 3 gif because there were no good gifs of him in 4.

WARNING: Angst, mentions of death and blood. 

‣ ‣ ‣

A one-night affair was not something Vergil imagined he would find in the old city of Fortuna. In fact, the population of Fortuna was also not known by its good reception with outsiders; so, when that woman in red approached him and gently declared to be grateful for his work of slashing those demonic creatures, Vergil was more than certain that her words were not about gratitude only. He hesitated to proceed as soon as he found himself succumbing to her subtle proposal, but in his deepest thoughts, he had no real intention of letting this unique opportunity pass by.

Neither of them was completely sure of what they were doing. It was not like Vergil or the woman were uncertain about the decision they made though. Oh no, the point was definitely not that. It felt more like they were just following their pure instincts and deep desires, not giving enough credit to their insecurities or lack of experience on carnal knowledge. Specially Vergil got his mind all blank of important precautions since he was the one who was most aware of what that could turn into later. Besides, they had a wonderful and unforgettable night.

“Unforgettable” is, indeed, a precisely chosen word to describe the consequences of that night in Vergil’s life. He had no intention to come back to Fortuna at all: once his research was done, he would leave that antiqued island and keep his way on his unstoppable pursuit of power. His recklessness would have later consequences though since someone forgot to pull out even when neither he nor the woman had any kind of protection.

He tried his best to ignore his thoughts on the woman and yet her gentle words haven’t disappeared from his mind, not showing any possibilities to go away that soon. Those memories were pleasant of course, but nothing worth his attention, in his opinion. After four months of research and no expressive results, Vergil pretended not to be interested in that ordinary lady and left the old city. But it didn’t mean he didn’t leave something behind: among the crowd of hooded worshippers of the Savior, a humble woman had an accentuated belly bump kindly growing under her red dress.

All of his attempts to forget the woman were all in vain, however. During his lonely and self-destructive path of pursuing endless power, Vergil did remember her several times and wondered uncountable things about her current situation at the time. It started slowly: firstly, Vergil pondered if that gentle lady in red was doing right without him, due to danger caused by the demons who would show up in her neighborhood like on the day they met. Then, he remembered all the lovely words she said to him even after their night, and how her face contorted in sadness when Vergil sharply warned: “Thanks for the good time we had, but do not expect to see me again”.

But Vergil would not submit that easily. Oh, he stubbornly struggled as much as he could not to take another ship and go to Fortuna just to see if she was doing well. If she was safe. And when he finally figured out that the woman was almost certainly pregnant and his direct descendant was completely exposed, everything got even worse inside his mind. Those foolish distractions were driving him crazy, but for how much longer could Vergil run away from his responsibility? Would the consequences of his foolhardiness be that severe for his main goal to be worth his attention and time?

Vergil just made his decision when the memories about his childhood crossed his mind; his tricky subconscious focused specifically on his mother, Eva. After years of feeling abandoned, thrown to the cruel claws of the merciless demonic world with nothing but Yamato and his survival instincts when only being a child, the good remembrance of his calm and happy childhood alongside his family hurt like hell. What wouldn’t he do to have a happy life again? Maybe that woman and his child would be his unique chance to start again. To reconstruct what has left of his broken heart and give his descendent the happy life Vergil couldn’t have. To protect his family at last.

At the same time he missed those old times though, something deepened into his soul was blaming him to feel like that. Foolish weaknesses of his powerless human side, Vergil heard himself saying to no one more times he could’ve counted. 

After nine months of negligence and self-struggling, Vergil finally went back to Fortuna. He was still a bit annoyed about the decision he made, but he couldn’t help it anymore. Even if the woman didn’t want to accept him as her mate, Vergil would try to protect and support his kin regardless. His heart finally embraced at least a part of his humanity; Vergil realized after he stepped into the old gates. This would not distract him from his path of pursuing power, not even close to it; and they could even be something to motivate him to actually proceed.

Thus, the young son of Sparda lost himself among the dusty and antique streets of Fortuna in a search for the lady and the child who filled his thoughts for months straight, and after an hour walking through the common hooded crowd of Fortuna, he found himself in the same quiet street where the woman’s house was placed. Everything was just like it has always been since Vergil left, except for the wild and distorted growling coming from the said house.

No way it was happening again.

Vergil entered the house quickly, but he was too late. Even slashing those demons in the blink of an eye as he’s done uncountable times already, his main reason for being in Fortuna again was laying there: a lifeless cold body covered in blood. Why was she attacked by demons? Did they feel that a Sparda descendant was about to be born, or was she just another unlucky and random citizen of Fortuna who was a victim of the insatiable bloodlust of the demonic creatures? It didn’t matter at that point. Vergil failed on protecting someone who he cared about once more. He was still weak. 

He didn’t even get a chance to talk to the woman again. That sweet voice calling for him, the only one in the world that could make him feel loved? Vergil would never hear it again. 

Although, near the woman’s corpse, a little creature surprisingly was still alive. A defenseless baby was crying his lungs out to no one in that dark room. 

Yet still shocked with the woman’s dead body sight, Vergil immediately crossed the number of demonic carcasses and took the baby in his arms carefully. He had no experience holding a baby, but that fragile and innocent body fit perfectly in his embrace anyway, just like Vergil had done that instinctively. When Vergil put his eyes on his son and realized what was happening at that moment, he couldn’t hold back his tears. His son was alive in his arms, being warmly held and protected after a tragic loss of his family — something Vergil wished had happened to him when he lost his mother. 

However, the guilt Vergil felt due to his huge failure impeded him to keep his son with him. He could not take care of his son, he didn’t deserve it. Vergil didn’t have enough strength to protect him, not yet. But before leaving his son and keeping him away from the dangers of being related to a son of Sparda, Vergil gave him the name “Nero”. The name he would keep in his mind even in his darkest times to remember why he chose to obtain more and more power.

Wrapping Nero in the nearest black blanket he found and gently kissing his sweaty forehead, Vergil lost part of his soul when he basically abandoned his newborn son in front of the orphanage’s door, at the mercy of those who took care of and protected the defenseless children of Fortuna. Next to his wrapped little body, a grimy piece of cardboard was placed to not confuse anyone who would find him: he was Nero. His name would be the only thing Vergil allowed himself to give to him before leaving, no one could ever take it from him.

Once more, Vergil left Fortuna. But this time, he was certain he would go back: but only when he was worthy of it. He needed more power. More power to go back and protect Nero properly. Until that day, Vergil wasn’t confident enough to stay with him, no matter how badly he wanted to do so; it might be too risky. And if when he returned his son wasn’t there, alive and well, Vergil would shatter that city to pieces for pure vengeance.

Bonus: When Mundus turned Vergil into one of his puppets, he had access to his memories and found out about Nero’s existence. Then, Mundus decided to name his new creation as “Nelo Angelo”: to always remind that pitiful descendant of Sparda who he left behind and would never see again for being just a weak and miserable half-demon.

[kindofwriter]

Dr Jekyll’s Suicide Note

This is never going in my final draft, I’m sticking to 3rd person, it’s more of a guide of what’s going on in Jekyll’s life. Sorry for the deterioration in quality towards the end, I’m still figuring out how I’m going to execute that part!

-

I suppose all this started the very day I was born. My mother, a lawyer, and my father, a successful owner of an industrial company, always expected so much of me. Academically it was no struggle to exceed these expectations, but on a personal level I always seemed to disappoint. They wanted me to be meek, quiet, distastefully arrogant. I wanted to get tipsy, make out with boys, and be that friendly kind of arrogant that’s actually quite endearing: I hope.

So I committed myself to a life of duplicity.

At home I would be the uppity golden child my parents had always coveted, and the second I escaped their clutches I would be rowdy and curious; like a regular person. This would’ve been a fine arrangement, had I not so frequently got myself into trouble. The second time I was delivered home by the police was the last straw for my parents. I was nothing short of incarcerated until my university days.

But what they didn’t realise was that this repression only fuelled my desire to wreck havoc. My thoughts turned from underage jaunts to the pub to theft, brutality, even murder on occasion, but only that of my parents. I wanted to suffocate them like they had suffocated me. Those were the daydreams of an angry child, however. I would never follow through in reality.

Those lonely years spent locked in my room made me yearn to be another person, and it was then that I began my life’s work: actually becoming someone else.

At first I conceptualised a way to transfer my consciousness to another body, but all that was far too complicated. And anyway, I’m no Victor Frankenstein. So then my thoughts progressed to how I could alter my appearance.

I threw myself into the study of chemistry so devoutly I now find myself with a PhD in it. For a while I found that lab work and shallow friendships could distract me from the rage that burned inside my chest, but alas it was no long term solution. If anything, my mastery inflamed the issues, thrusting me into the public eye. I now had my reputation to consider when I wanted to get blackout drunk and throw beer cans in the Thames.

And what of my sexuality? I felt no shame in it, but I knew there were many doctors who would refuse to consider my research on this basis. Must I remain chaste my entire life lest I wish to peruse my passion?

No. I quit my job and dove back into my research.

It was gruelling. Lots of experiments gone wrong, many leaving me bed-ridden for days. I was manic in my desires.

But finally, years into my research, I had done it. One shot of this serum and my cherubic features would melt away, leaving me with hollow eyes and sharp cheeks and a diminutive frame. But my mind was still in tact. Or so I thought.

For a month or so I encountered no errors with my serum. It allowed me to masquerade as a fine young gentleman as I drank myself into oblivion and engaged in public displays of affection. Finally I could continue my contributions to the world of chemistry without feeling the need to repress my humanity.

And then something began to go wrong.

I began to transform without the use of the serum.

At first it was nothing to worry about. The only occurrences were when I allowed my mind to wander to the darker pleasures of life, and once transformed it was easy for me to control my behaviours.

Really I should have seen this as a red flag, but I was desperately in denial. For the first time since childhood I was experiencing freedom; the light, tingling ecstasy of being human. I’d made a deal with the devil to get it, but God be damned for all He’d ever done for me!

So I ignored the slight glitch in my system, instead electing to inform Poole that my new friend Mr Hyde would be frequenting the house, often in my absence but always with my permission.

Then of course, as I’m sure you know if you’re reading this, things worsened.

Edward Hyde was just a pseudonym I had constructed, a way of ensuring I would never slip up and reveal my true nature. But several months into my use of the serum he was beginning to develop thoughts and ambitions of his own.

It started off as overtly rude behaviour I would never have wilfully engaged in, but could easily pass off as me getting swept up in my new persona. But soon I was watching myself throw vicious punches, abuse my body with vile substances, and even purchase a house in Hyde’s name!

I had no control over this man! I had surpassed the ability to alter my appearance; I had created an entirely new person.

Hyde was born out of hatred, jealousy, and shame, and he acted like he knew it. If I was short-tempered, he was explosively violent. If I was selfish, he was narcissistic. If I was gluttonous, he was all-consuming, hedonistic greed.

I no longer had any control over when I transformed, and what I did after the matter. I was at the mercy of Mr Hyde, and he was not a kind master.

My one confort was that when Hyde collapsed into bed at the first tendrils of dawn, I would usually awaken in my own body, fully in control, if exhausted. Instead of relishing in the freedom Hyde had given me I began to feel trapped again, suffocated, desperately awaiting the hour when I would be free of Hyde.

Panic rolled in like a storm when, one morning, that hour never came.

I awoke in the home Hyde had purchased for himself in Soho, warm and dozy and grateful to have been returned to my former self. Things felt a certain degree of uncanny from the moment I became conscious, but I hadn’t been feeling myself for a while now, even in my own body.

Hyde’s various drug habits and vicious scraps had no impact on my physical body, but always inflicted a hazy sickness on my mind. The turmoil lost me a great deal of sleep and significantly reduced my appetite. All my life I assumed losing weight would be a pleasant sensation, but it only made me feel alienated from my own form.

But that morning I found I was experiencing more than the usual dysmorphia.

As I reached my hand up to draw back the duvet I saw not my own pale knuckles and perfectly manicured nails, but Hyde’s grimy fingers and bloodied hand.

Heart palpating with anxiety, I dressed in a rush and hurried home. Once in my lab I realised I actually had no conceivable plan.

The serum, which I had had no need for in months, was kept in a fridge under the worktop. It was the only project I had worked on in years, so was really the only substance in my lab.

In a fit of blind panic, I stabbed myself with a needle full of it.

Realising what I’d done, a whole new wave of panic engulfed me. But that was quickly replaced with the agony of cracking bones and melting flesh. I was certain I had killed myself, and the thought brought a strange sort of peace.

But then the pain subsided and I found my body had been returned to me.

I thought I was rid of Hyde then. Tentatively, I began to piece my old life back together; reaching out to friends, working on a simple paper on combustion, eating more than my share of deep fried breakfast foods. I began to engage in new activities, too. Soup kitchens, hospital visits, public gardening.

I had it. What I’d been so desperately trying to achieve with Edward Hyde, I finally had it. Freedom. Happiness. Fulfilment. I spent my days doing activities that made me believe in the literal soul, and my evenings in such a way that made me believe in the metaphorical one.

It couldn’t last, however. Scarcely had my head hit the pillow one night when I found myself awake again: and Hyde was awake, too.

He didn’t even bother to change out of my pyjamas. So long had Hyde been trapped at the back of my mind, he came out like a tornado.

He proceeded towards the Thames, stopping only to purchase LSD and to kick a poor homeless man. He lumbered along after an older gentleman who, God bless his soul, repeatedly glanced behind him in fear. Hyde sneered at him, so he crossed the street to walk along the side of the Thames.

Hyde crossed after him.

The man turned to confront Hyde, edging backwards as he did, but before he could even utter a coherent sentence he had stepped through a gap in the railings and into the water.

I screamed and reached out for him, but of course I was a mere consciousness, and had no voice with which to scream nor hands to reach.

The Thames is a perilous place for the strongest of swimmers; I knew without a flotation aid this old man would never survive.

Surely, I thought, Hyde would not be so cruel as to let this man die.

He strolled towards the railing, but made no attempt to remove the buoyancy aid. Instead he watched, head tilted in morbid curiosity, as the man thrashed beneath the surface of the water.

If I’d had eyes I would have been crying.

If I’d had lungs I would have been screaming.

But Hyde just watched. Watched the tumultuous waters. Watched as they grew still. Watched as the man’s last breath floated to the surface.

Then he shook his shoulders and continued on his way.

The next morning, reunited with my body, I was violently sick.

My initial thought was that I would report the crime myself. Find Ms Enfield and tell her everything. It’s not as though I’m deserving of anything more than a life in prison, what with the knowledge that this vile and careless apathy dwells within my soul.

The only thing holding me back was the thought of transformation. Were one to occur while I was incarcerated, which seemed exponentially likely at this point in time, I would be tortured to death in the name of scientific research. As despicable as I am I could not resign myself to that fate.

Thus, I tried to carry on as before.

My dearest, dearest Gabe, I trust you are reading this letter and know what comes next.

I apologise, but I must say it is true: I am desperately and inconceivably in love with you. I understand that it is not flattering to have a vile creature such as myself confess his undying adoration of you, but as you read this letter I will have parted with my last breaths, and thus will have nothing left to lose.

Please believe me when I say that I so desperately wanted to kiss you that night, but this monster inside me did not. He feels only lust, which cannot compare to the deep, profound love I have harboured for you for so long. Forgive me for pulling away. I could not live with myself if he had hurt you.

I used the rest of my serum to transform that night, but I knew it wouldn’t last. At a loss, and far too ill to operate my own lab, I paid a visit to Hatty. She greeted me, as usual, with slight warmth, masked by overwhelming distain.

As I began my explanation as to why I needed her help I felt myself beginning to lose control. The transformation was never painful, not like it was when I transformed back into myself, but it was as familiar to me as putting on a shirt.

Hatty gawked at Hyde in horror, unable to even utter a sound. She was a perfect still from a horror film.

I fled.

I think at that moment we both realised it was over. It would not be difficult for Hatty, world-renowned chemist, to prove my transformation. Hyde wanted to kill her, I could feel it in his mind, but he had been thrown at Harry’s witness to our transformation so I had, quite literally, taken the body and ran with it.

We entered my lab. I locked the door.

Hyde was stronger than me. I had known this for a while now. He screamed and hammered on the door and wrestled for control. It was like trying to reign in a wild animal.

I took a scalpel and impaled it in my thigh. Hyde roared in pain, but I, merely a numb observer, managed to keep my wits about me.

I think perhaps that’s why I’m not so afraid of what’s to come. I won’t feel it. It’s him who has to endure the rush of agony, and I don’t feel the slightest sympathy for him.

This really has been a long time coming. Hatty’s expression, one of such pure terror, such disgust and fear, but at the same time one that said all her suspicions had been confirmed, that was the last straw.

To Hatty, Hyde was never the monster; it has always been me.

That’s the one thing we have in common, I suppose. We both know that Henry Jekyll is the real monster.

Well, now I lay that monster to rest. I am truly, from the bottom of my empty soul, sorry.

-

Thanks for reading!

[it-was-so-human]

I read you for some kind of poem

It reminds her that what they have is little, no nothing, more than an arrangement. He is a prince and has all the power in the world. (And she has little more than her ability to stay invisible.) Jon and Sansa AU.

- - -

They make fun of how she always tries to keep clean. Trying to keep mud from splattering her hem despite sleeping on the floor at night.

They tease her for her love for songs of romance and princes. They snicker at how she stays hidden in the tunnels just to listen to another ballad sung in court.

Varys even calls her his Little Ladybird.

The other little birds pull her hair and elbow her for her fanciful ways, say she thinks she’s better than them.

But that’s not true. She’s knows she’s not better than anyone. Most birds have mothers and even fathers. Others have brothers or sisters.

She has no one.

But the songs about chivalry and love leave her feeling warmer at night and make her raggedy dress feel like beautiful silk.

- - -

But regardless she is good at being a little bird.

There are many many of them, but she is among the ones that gets to fly around the Red Keep.

She collects whispers and reads secrets from the letters just as Varys taught them.

And one day she is given a special assignment.

The young bastard (but no-longer bastard) Prince Jon Targaryen is older now. And Varys wants to know his doings.

She needs to spy on his chambers when he retires at night. Hear his whispers, read any letters.  

Though she is proud that she’s been entrusted with such an important duty, she wishes she was told to watch Prince Aegon instead.

(He’s such a beautiful prince, with long blond hair and sharp violet eyes. He looks just like Aemon the Dragonknight. Probably.)  

She shakes her head, who is she to judge anyone? A (no-longer) bastard (now-legitimate) prince is still a million and one ranks above a street rat.

But she is still considering Jon Targaryen’s shortcomings with his serious features and dark curls when she hears him.

“I know you’re there. I can hear you. Come out,” he calls.

She didn’t realize that children were far harder to spy on than adults.

They notice more. Listen more.

“Come now, don’t you think I know the best hiding spots in my own chamber?”

She was found.

Sansa is trembling now; she knows what happens to little birds who make mistakes.

She slowly unravels her limbs and crawls from the small crook behind the wall.  

And now she is standing in front of the youngest prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Are you one of those little birds?” He sounds more curious than angry.

But her legs are barely holding her up now.

He’s not much older than her own six years, but he’s a prince.

He will have her head by sunrise.

Her legs give and she falls to her knees, bowing down to him

“No don’t do that.” His voice is firm, before he lets out a sigh. “I don’t like being spied on, but at least they sent a pretty one.”

She sniffs, the gods were kind in their own cruel way. The realized dream of a prince’s regard, right before she was to die.

He studies her, and she in turn studies him through lowered eyes.

His clothes are fine and he has the unmistakable air of… of a prince.

(But when she sees him in court he seems to carry himself with a stiffness, as if an intruder in the royal family.)

“How about we make a deal? I won’t tell anyone–and you will extend the same courtesy to me.”

Could that be possible? No. It could not.  

“They’re going to know I’m not doing my job,” she whispers. As if it was his concern

He shrugs and points his finger to a corner seat.

“Sit there, where I can see you. Pretend you’re spying.”

She moves to the corner he points at, and instead cautiously lowers herself on to the floor. She stares at her grimy feet, her heart beating so loudly.

A few minutes later and she hears him coming toward her, she flinches away expecting pain.

She knows how to defend herself despite her frail size. Little birds learn to use claws—but she cannot attack a prince.  

But instead he places a little yellow cake in front of her.

She knows she should not, but she cannot resist this temptation. (She is always always craving the candied fruit Varys gives them on occasion.) Especially since she’s still not sure whether she is to die or not.  

She takes a hesitant bite. It’s sweet and rich with oh—a pleasant tang.

“Good?”

She nods.

She takes small bites, resisting the desire to gobble it up in one go.

“When you have to spy on me, you can stay here instead. Far more comfortable for both of us. I’ll even slip you some secrets.”

- - -

The next time she is sent to spy on him, she sits quietly in the corner of her chamber.

She refused the chair he offers, so he comes and sits next to her.

A prince, sitting crossed legged on the floor. Next to her. (Were there songs about this?)

She can’t answer his questions about why she was sent and what she knows. So he changes his approach.

“Who are your parents?” he demands instead.

This she could be honest about at least.

“I… I don’t know. I am an orphan.” She frowns, struggling to find the right words. “Sometimes however I feel like I did have parents.”

He laughs at that, “Everyone has to have parents. We don’t drop down from clouds.”

She feels her cheek burn from embarrassment, from frustration. She lives in Flea Bottom, has heard the screams of childbirth her entire life. (She probably knows more about how babes are born than he does.)

Sansa can’t explain it, but she has these fuzzy memories. A beautiful woman singing to her and stroking her hair. A dark haired man, strong but gentle, smiling down at her. (She grasps on to them at night. Praying they’re real, but knowing they’re not.)

“It’s just that… I think they loved me.” She feels so stupid when she realizes what she’s said out loud.

He raises his eyebrows as if amused.

She shrinks back, she feels tired and just so little.

“I know, it’s just a silly dream.” (Her head is always in the clouds, but it’s far better than the filthy ground she walks on.)

He watches her for some time, and she wishes he would just let her be. Go do some princely things.

But then she feels him cup her cheek, gently.

“Not silly in the slightest. I am sure you were a beloved daughter.”

She knows he is teasing, but his voice isn’t unkind.

(And for a moment she believes him.)

- - -

She wants to stay out of his way. As much as is possible at least.

He’s sitting at his desk, composing letters. So serious for a boy of ten.

She sits in her corner, playing with a small bit of thread and singing very softly to herself.

“That’s a pretty song,” he observes absently.

She stops singing and focuses more on her stitches, it’s rare she finds any thread to practice with so she has to be careful.

“You don’t have to stop. It’s a pretty song, but I’ve never heard it.”

She swallows.

“It’s one I hear mothers sing to their children.”

No one’s every sung to Sansa, but she’s sat outside windows listening in. Pretending their gentle voices and sweet words were for her.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says it with a sad smile. “I don’t have a mother either, little bird.”

She’s a little bird, but she isn’t really one right this moment.

“My name… my name is Sansa,” she tells him.

“Okay then, Sansa. Please keep singing.”

- - -

She hears whispers that there’s growing unease, that the other realms are increasingly unhappy.

Robert’s rebellion may have failed, but the unrest it stirred and the legacy of the Mad King remains.

Especially with King Rhaegar growing even further obsessed over his prophecy of three dragon riders.

Sansa knows these concerns have nothing to do with her. (But she does worry just slightly at what it means for Jon.)

-

“I have something for you,” Jon says, arms hidden behind his back before holding up the most beautiful doll she has ever seen.

“It was one of Princess Rhaenys’, but she’s outgrown her toys.”

She reaches eager hands for it, but pulls back quickly.

They were grimy, unclean, and the doll’s silk dress so fine-looking.

She does not deserve it. Didn’t want to know what she would have to do to be worthy of such a gift.

“I… I can’t accept that.”

She knew why men gave women things. (Even though she was not a woman yet, she knows.)

She heard a maid yell at her daughter that the only reason a boy gave her flowers was to rut between her legs.

(And that was just a butcher’s apprentice and some wilting blooms. This was a prince and the most beautiful doll ever.)

She didn’t want that. She didn’t want Jon to hurt her like that.

“You can accept it. I’m giving it to you.”

She shakes her head furiously but her fingers are itching to feel the soft face and pretty hair.

She’s never had a toy before, let alone one so precious. (The little doll was probably worth more than her life.)

“Rhaenys would be glad that it was still being loved,” he offers So she takes it, is too weak. She could love it so easily. She grasped it tightly, as if the doll was some kind of a talisman.

At night, snuggled under her thin bedding, she holds the doll close to her.

And she doesn’t feel so alone.

- - -

“You need to be quiet today. I need to have this memorized this for tomorrow. Maester says that Aegon is further ahead, and my eyes are growing tired.”

He’s grumbling, but Sansa knows he has but a friendly rivalry with his half-brother. They do seem to care for one another.

“I could help you?” she says hesitantly.

He scoffs and she’s indignant. “I know how to read!”

And he only laughs, “Okay, then you read this to me.”

She sees what he’s studying and smiles brightly.

“Oh I already know this!” she smiles.

“Why would you know of Northern Houses?”

She doesn’t mean to feel hurt, but the jab reminds her who she is and who he is. (Sometimes she forgets.)

“Birds pick things up. That’s our job.”

And she does—Varys even encourages her to learn the names of all the Lords and their sigils and mottos.  

So she tests him, gently guiding him when he makes a mistake. (He is a prince after all, she means to not forget that again.)

“My favorite is House Stark. Doesn’t a direwolf sound magnificent?” she says with a smile at one point after they both note how absolutely terrible the sigil for House Bolton’s was.

“There is no more House Stark,” he snaps at her.

Oh.

Varys also encourages her to learn the North’s history.

And she suddenly remembers that his mother was a Stark. And though she died, his King Grandfather had the Stark family called to King’s Landing. And he had them burned.

And he then gave Winterfell, their centuries-old home, to a more loyal house.

She wonders if he’s angered by the Starks or if he’s… saddened.

Sometimes Jon Targaryen seems so lonely when she spies him from afar, and she wonders if this is why.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“So am I,” he answers softly. “Please continue.”

And they review until late at night when she’s feels heavy-eyed and so very sleepy.

She wakes up to a delicious unfamiliar warmth.

She stretches lazily before realizing with a start where she was. Still in his chamber, but before daybreak, thank gods. With velvety soft furs tucked around her.

- - -

“I need you to whisper something to Varys. Tell him that you hear I’m fighting with my brother. That’s I’m upset with him. Fuming in my chamber.”

“But you’re not,” she says forgetting.

He puts a finger under her chin and lifts her head, making her look into his eyes.

“Is this something you can manage or not?”

“I can manage it.”

But she hates when he does this.

It reminds her that what they have is little, no nothing, more than an arrangement.

He is a prince and has all the power in the world.

(And she has little more than her ability to stay invisible.)

((But sometimes she forgets.))

- - -

“He’s no direwolf, but It thought it might please you to play with him tonight.”

It’s a little pup. Snow white and cuddly with adorable little yelps. But he would grow up to be a handsome one.

There are dogs a plenty in Flea Bottom, but they’re normally angry and ready to attack. As they should be if they want to survive.

She lets out a laugh as the dog nips at her fingers.

It’s as if Jon is making amends for the past week. (But he has nothing to apologize for, it’s not his fault she forgets.)

He kneels down next to her.

“Sansa, we all have our duties, but I have no right to treat you unkindly.” He pauses before continuing, “No one has the right to do so.”  

She buries her face in soft puppy fur.

(She doesn’t want to tell him that his greatest unkindnesses are far kinder than how most people treat her.)

- - -

She hears whispers that he’s to be engaged. A beautiful and charming and witty young lady. The Lannister granddaughter, Myrcella.

But he only shakes his head when she tells him what she’s learned.

(She can’t deny him the secrets she’s learned that are about him.)

“That would never happen. My father does not trust the Lannisters.”

But he doesn’t sound very certain. She knows he is wary of his father, and growing only more so.

“I hear she’s very pretty,” she offers, but knows there’s a grudging tone to her voice. (She cannot help it.)

The two of them will make quite the pair. Like in the songs. A prince and his princess.

He’s becoming quite… handsome too. His seriousness more appealing on a young man than it was on a child. He also has a genuine smile, attractive dark curls, and bright gray eyes.

(Sometimes she feels a sharp tug that he reminds her of something, but there’s never been anything so good in her life before.)

“You’ll grow up to be pretty too,” he says knowingly. “Don’t fret.”

He says that as if she should be pleased about this. Jon Targaryen might be a prince and sit in on council meetings and learn swordsmanship, but he knows little of reality.

“I don’t want to be pretty.” And it’s the truth. (She knows what happens to pretty girls.)

“What do you want then?”

So much. More food, a bed, a family to love her and for her to love, and for you to not forget me.  

Instead she offers an easier answer.

“Lemon cakes.”

“Well, that I can manage.”

- - -

She knew what would happen when she got older.

What type of employ a street rat turned woman could get.

Not even enough respectability to get a job as a scullery maid at the lowest of inns.

She’d be one of those women men thrust against the wall for pennies.

The thought sends panic through her, she can’t breathe when she starts thinking of it.

She will do anything to avoid that, she saves as many coins as she can, ate even less than the little she could afford. She found discarded needles and thread throughout the castle to practice on.

She was very good with a needle; she knew she was. She just needed a chance. (But who would employ a street rat as a seamstress?)

She’s scared every time she sees her skirt hem is falling higher and higher.  

Little birds are supposed to be little.

- - -

She’s grown tall, still skinny skinny. But not so little anymore.

Varys told her that she would no longer be a bird. But he was sending her somewhere.

She doesn’t know where, but she knows she’s leaving King’s Landing.

She knows she’s going to miss Jon Targaryen.

He made her feel… as if he cared for her.

He called her by her name.

She didn’t mean to start crying when she went to tell him goodbye, but she feels tears prickle the corner of her eyes.

Her throat hurt and her chest ached. She was dirty and a low low lowborn.

And she was ashamed to want so much that was not made for her. (She would never see him again and she wants to see him for forever.)

“Why are you crying, Sansa?”

Because I’ll never ever see you again.

“I’m being sent away, I’m too big now,” she manages.

He steps closer to her.

“Where? Where are you being sent away?”

“I don’t know, but I made you something.”

She still has the doll, keeps it hidden during the day and close to her at night.

She wants him to have something from her too.

She knows he probably doesn’t care.

(Maybe he thought she was just an amusing little street child.

Maybe he was using her to feed Varys his red herring secrets.)

But she wants him to remember her a little longer.

She pulls out a small square of fabric and hands it to him. She had struggled to find it and used the pennies she’d saved to get the right thread.

On it was embroidered a direwolf. The Stark sigil.

He might think it’s treasonous, but she doesn’t think so.

He runs his finger over the delicate threads, creating the wolf’s fur in varying shades of gray, "It’s beautiful, Sansa. Thank you, thank you.”

She feels her face redden, but she’s so pleased.

He swallows heavily. “Don’t, don’t go. You don’t have to go. I can keep you here in King’s Landing.”

She shakes her head furiously.

Even if Varys would her go, she was almost eleven now and afraid she’s becoming pretty. She sees the way men’s eyes follow her.

She didn’t want to know what kind of work he could find her. (Not him. Not her prince.)

“Are you going to be safe?” he finally asks.

The slight panic in his voice is the first time she realizes this… this friendship might mean something to him as well.

So she does her best to act brave, lifts her chin, and says with more confidence than she feels.

“Of course I am.”

A small fond smile grows on his face.

He places a firm kiss to her brows.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Goodbye, Sansa.”

- - -

“Be brave, Little Ladybird,” Varys says as he walks her past the castle walls.

He hands her into a waiting cart, but not before whispering in her ear.

“I know you’ll miss your cousin, Lady Sansa. But do not worry. One day you’ll be his Queen of the North.”

- - -

Also on AO3.

- - -

I’m like posting this from a flight (no one’s sitting next to me!), so like I blame this on bad circulated air.

Ugh. My next story is just going to be an AU where Sansa just wears cozy sweaters and drinks hot chocolate, I swear.

[thefudge]

lima syndrome || a klonnie fic

klonnie week: day ii. | TROPES

lima syndrome  - def.  the phenomenon in which abductors develop sympathy for their captives, named after the abduction of the Japanese Ambassador's Residence in Lima, Peru in 1996 by members of a terrorist group

(you can also read it on ffnet)

“my grandmother is going to kill you.”

this is what she tells him as he fastens the polyethylene rope around her ankles. 

his fingers linger on her calves, pulling the leg to see if she can get out of the trap. he notes in passing that the flesh is firm and the muscles are strong, stronger than one would expect of a pampered witch princess. 

“let’s not get ahead of ourselves, love.” 

bonnie looks down at him. he might’ve been handsome if his jaw didn’t stick out so much. it’s as if he has a grudge on the world. 

“i don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing, but this valerian root won’t hold long. i’ll get my powers back...”

“and i’ll keep injecting you,” he supplies with a crooked grin. “pity it doesn’t shut you up as well.”

she struggles a little in his grasp, trying to kick him in vain. “you won’t get away with this.”

“that’s what they all say,” he remarks moodily.

she’s surprised to see that he’s taken her to what looks like an airbase. 

“you can’t possibly hope to get me on a plane as your captive.”

klaus - she’s heard his henchmen call him that and she found it oddly upper-crust for a kidnapper - tilts her head up with a brush of his fingers. “only private jets for her highness.”

and indeed, the landing strip is bare except for a gleaming silver beast, the kind high-stakes ambassadors usually fly in. whoever has ordered her capture has ample means. 

“i hope they’re paying you well,” she mutters as he guides her towards the tarpaulin. 

he must admit that she’s acting very level-headed for one so young. she is calm and thoughtful, her panic having receded to a private place in her mind. from time to time she will clench her fingers, as if calling out to her fettered magic, but she’s doing her best not to make a scene. she’s realized there’s no audience except him and his men. and his men are worse than him. 

“you’re a werewolf,” she says, as they fly over the panama channel. 

she’s half-asleep (it’s been two very long days) and her eyes have turned a darker shade of green, like deep pools at the bottom of the ocean. 

“i can sense it, even with my magic low,” she mumbles, cradling her chin in her hand. 

he leans back in his chair and smiles in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “and what do you sense exactly, witch? my impure blood?” 

“yes...” she mutters, eyelids closing against her will. “it smells like oranges...in the sun.”

he’s a little shaken despite his better judgement. he turns towards the window and avoids looking at her again. all these witches are the same - mystical fools with no damn sense in their heads.

an hour later he puts a small pillow under her head. he doesn’t want her breaking her neck, does he?

they land at 3 am in no man’s land and she’s not entirely awake for the business of disembarking and walking over the pebbly ground to the nearby shack where a few men are waiting for them.

so, he has to carry her in his arms. he feels rather foolish at first. he hoists her up firmly over his shoulder, the smell of freesias and sweat invading his senses. but she keeps sliding off his body like a woodland nymph, so he hooks his hand around her shoulders and another under her legs, and carries her like a bride. she doesn’t nestle into his chest. her head falls away from him. he stares at the length of her neck and listens to the throb of her pulse. 

they spend half a day at the dilapidated motel outside the village. to anyone else’s eyes, the building is abandoned. but inside, a small army of men are preparing for a ritual. 

bonnie gradually understands the purpose of her abduction. she can feel the nervous energy in the air pouring down from the amazonian rainforest. they’re only miles away from one of the temples. 

she starts to cry laconically, tears running down her cheeks while her face remains a funeral mask. 

the werewolf crouches down at her level. “you needn’t cry. it will all be over soon.”

“what do you care?” she snaps, and it’s the first time she sounds bitter. 

“i don’t. but tears irk me.”

she spits on his shoes. “you irk me.”

she’s not likening him to oranges in the sun anymore, that’s for sure. he smiles coolly. “it would be rather strange if i didn’t.”

bonnie looks away, disheartened. “you don’t have to do this.”

“ah, another thing they always say.”

it’s hot and sticky in the truck as they drive through the half-submerged jungle. there used to be a city here, many hundreds of years ago. now it’s just vines and sticky leaves and bugs the size of your head. there’s probably bones too, buried under the foliage. 

he hates the jungle. he hates the humidity, the smell, the pressure of it all. his head feels about to explode. 

his men sit on the dumpster bed behind, holding machine guns over their shoulder. it’s mostly for show, in case any unlucky humans crop up in a ten-mile radius. they don’t really need them. their claws would sink into your heart before you had time to blink. 

bonnie sits by his side, forehead leaning against the grimy window. 

klaus hates the stifling silence so he turns on the radio, but the signal is warped in these parts of the forest and all he gets is truncated fragments of a popular ballad. 

bonnie heaves a weary sigh. “it’s my birthday today.”

his hands stiffen on the wheel. “i know.”

she laughs bitterly. “right, it’s gotta be my birthday for the ritual.” 

“well. happy birthday anyway.”

he doesn’t know why he says it.  it’s very daft, given the circumstances. he rubs the back of his neck. he can’t stand the silence, so he presses on. “i don’t know my actual birth day. no one can tell me, as no one can recall with certainty.”

the witch raises her legs to her chest. she’s not tied up anymore seeing as there’s nowhere to run. she scratches the red welt on her arm where he injected her with the next to last dose of valerian. he’s saving the biggest shot for the ritual. 

“your parents probably wanted to forget the day you were born,” she tells him callously. 

“...i suppose i deserve that one.” 

she nods wearily. “you do. you’re a disgrace.”

“a disgrace?” he echoes, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “that’s a bit much.” 

“we’re both servants of the moon and instead of helping me, you’re sending me to my death.” 

he scoffs. “both servants of the moon? no, little witch. you don’t have to chain yourself when the moon calls for you.”

bonnie shrugs. “maybe i do.” 

they don’t speak again for the duration of the ride.

they spend a rainy night in a moldy tent on the side of a precipice where the ground is still relatively warm and dry. 

she protests weakly at first that she should be given her own tent, that she’s not about to make her escape and die in the jungle, but he won’t hear it. he knows her kind is “crafty”.

“crafty?” she explodes with a laugh. “if i was such a wily creature, i’d have found a way to kill you by now.” 

klaus lets her words wash over him like the rain beating down on their tent. 

there is hardly room for two people inside; her proximity is inevitable, but it’s comforting too. he doesn’t know if she feels the same, but it drives away the demons of the jungle. 

he rolls down two sleeping bags.

bonnie watches him with a guarded look. “are you going to sleep too?”

he laughs. “of course not. i’d give you a prime opportunity to kill me, like you said.”

“i doubt i could,” she complains, looking around despondently. “i don’t have my magic. i don’t see any sharp objects around. and i don’t think i’m strong enough to strangle you.”

“oh, don’t give up hope yet,” he teases amiably, which makes her shiver uncomfortably. he removes his jacket. his t-shirt is stuck to his skin, exposing every line of his body. bonnie wonders if he can see her body through her thin dress and even thinner shawl. she folds her arms over her chest. 

“you should rest for tomorrow,” he tells her gently, but it’s rather cruel. 

“yeah, i should get my beauty sleep. i don’t want to look bad on the pyre,” she retorts, holding back a fresh wave of tears. he looks disturbed by her comment but can’t bring himself to offer her any comfort.

they lie down, side by side, on the sleeping bags. bonnie stares up at the dirty canvas. 

“i was going to...open a school for witches,” she says softly, staring at the shadow of an insect on the side of the tent. 

klaus turns slightly towards her. his bare arm accidentally brushes against hers.

“you wanted to teach?”

she nods, wiping her wet eyes quickly. “i wanted to help young girls like myself find their footing.” 

his thumb traces a few freckles on her elbow. she means to move away from his touch. she means to scold him. but she doesn’t, because this is her last night alive and she won’t deny herself this small human gesture. 

“you’d be good at it.”

bonnie scoffs. “you don’t know me. you have no idea what i’d be good at.”

“maybe. but i’m a wolf. i can sense these things.” 

“that’s superstition.”

“really. a witch telling me about superstition.” there’s humor in his voice. she hates that she will probably think of that when the flames engulf her. 

“well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” she bites back, wishing she could hold something to her chest and squeeze it tight.

and somehow, he reads her mind because he pulls her towards him. it’s strange and unexpected - even to him - the way his fingers clench around her waist.

“what are you doing?” she asks quietly as her hands touch his chest tentatively. 

he doesn’t answer at first. he stares into her heart-shaped face, almost as if he’s trying to memorize her features. his hand runs up and down her spine, leaving pleasant tremors in its wake. his eyes, she notes, have globs of amber in them. the sun made liquid. 

“i want you to know, no one’s paying me,” he says at length. 

“what?”

“it’s my mother. she is the one who wants you dead. she wants to absorb your power.”

bonnie’s eyes widen. she clenches her fingers around his t-shirt. “your mother is esther? you’re esther’s son?” 

he nods gruffly, as if ashamed of the legacy. 

bonnie is speechless for a moment. “but she - how -?”

“even the original witch makes mistakes,” he replies bitterly. “my biological father is one.”

she’s overwhelmed by his confession. she doesn’t know how to respond. 

they stare at each other for several long minutes, pondering on each other’s strange fate.

“what do you get out of this, then?” she asks quietly. 

“she’s my mother, bonnie.”

her name on his tongue has a strange effect on both of them. he closes the gap between them and kisses her on the lips, without permission or apology. he cradles her cheek and kisses her like she was always his for the kissing. but it doesn’t feel proprietary. it feels like he’s been waiting to do it for a long time. it’s funny to think a few days ago she didn’t know his name. 

she sighs into his mouth as he removes the shawl from her shoulders. 

they kiss for a small eternity, glued to each other by sweat and exhaustion. he doesn’t disrobe her any further, he only touches her body furtively, skimming small islands of bare skin before coming back to her face. he loves touching her face. if you follow her features closely, they’re rudely asymmetrical, but still beautiful, all the same. he’d like to draw them. 

she strokes the back of his neck as he bends down to kiss her lips again and again. 

his fingers brush against her knees, parting them slowly. his knuckles caress the inside of her thigh making her heart jump in her throat. but she whispers into his neck. “no. not like this.” 

and he understands. he removes himself from her.

they fall back, side by side, staring at the canvas, their shoulders touching. 

“i’d like to...” she says nervously. “someday. after you’ve taken me away from this place and bought me dinner. maybe.” 

klaus laughs and it sounds innocent and boyish for once. “you’re wasting your breath, witch. i’m not taking you away. i can’t.”

“i know,” she mumbles, closing her eyes. “but a girl can dream.” 

a girl dreams. and in this dreams she burns like a bundle of hay, like a handful of branches. the werewolf kneels by her pyre and weeps. everything tastes like ashes.

but bad dreams eventually melt with the coming of the sun.

he injects his mother with an almost lethal dose of valerian as she comes towards him to embrace him. her smile is greedy. her eyes glint with a murderous need. he doesn’t feel too bad about sticking the needle in her. he knows she won’t outright die. her powers will be weakened beyond conscious state and she’ll fall into a deep coma. she’ll wake up in the middle of the jungle. and maybe she’ll survive. 

his men listen to him as he’s their alpha. some of them defect because they don’t like the sudden change of plan. they’re old creatures, wary of novelty and all things young. klaus lets them go without killing them. all he wants right now is to get out of the jungle. 

bonnie drives the truck haphazardly across the wet trails, glancing from time to time at the werewolf. he doesn’t seem capable to do much else anymore. but that’s fine. he did his part. now, she’s the one taking them away. 

sheila bennett doesn’t understand why her granddaughter smells like oranges every night she comes home. 

[lesbian-kyoru]

eruri for @gouguruheddo. prompt: "Where do you think we go when we die?"

I'm honestly a little shocked because this was supposed to be a tiny little thing and then it... grew? but I kind of like where it went. it was PERFECT for these old men, no doubt adksjhfs. I hope you enjoy it! <3

unofficial "official soundtrack" for this is arctic by sleeping at last. give it a listen while you read, it sets the mood too well. T_T

manga spoilers (up to chapter 84).

written for the “send me a number and a pairing” prompt challenge. y’all can feel free to send me other prompts from that list as well! :)

questions and answers

They weren't able to bring back the bodies. As he stands at the memorial service, Levi doesn't care to ask why. He's too far gone, too numb. He feels the weight of the air pushing against him again - the weight of being the only one left behind.

He can still feel it. Blood everywhere. It sneaks under his finger nails. Covers his half-shattered blades, the wet ground, Furlan's waist, Isabel's severed-

All he can do now is follow that light. Trailing behind Erwin on his horse, like a lighthouse in the storm. He follows Erwin to the memorial service for their lost comrades, too - like some cruel joke, he somehow ends up at Erwin's side as they listen to the lifeless, clinical proceedings.

Levi doesn't understand why he hasn't been tossed into some grimy jail for all of this yet - he held a blade to Erwin's neck less than a week ago. He looks up at Erwin, weariness etched in the lines of his face, arms held in a rigid salute.

And in that moment, he thinks that Erwin has bigger things to worry about.

Levi walks in step with him as they head back to the barracks after the memorial - another paradox, walking together.

"I apologize about Church and Magnolia, Levi," Erwin says. The sincerity in his voice is pins and needles on Levi's skin.

Levi grunts. "You're friendly all of the sudden." It's the first time he's spoken in several days.

Erwin slows as the hallway splits into two. In one direction, the trainees' barracks; the other way, the officers' housing. Levi can't help but linger with him.

"Where do you think they go?" Erwin asks.

"What?"

"When they die. Where your friends went..."

Levi's jaw tightens. "Don't ask questions like that." Words laced with venom are enough to block out the images that flash into his mind, swirl in his eardrums. "And who the fuck asks that at a funeral..." he trails off.

In the silence, Erwin smiles sadly. Eyes blue and downcast.

"Forgive me," he says, his mouth a grim line. "I suppose I ask too many questions at times." He salutes to Levi, then turns on his heel.

Levi watches him walk away. He doesn't bother saluting back.

Erwin asks more questions as the years go by. Levi answers the ones that he can manage. Oddly enough, the annoying questions somehow become less annoying as Erwin breaks down his walls, as they start eating together after expeditions, as Levi falls into his bed some nights.

Levi scoops beef and rice into his mouth. "Twenty six men dead," he mutters, "and we couldn't even capture the damn titan."

Erwin leans back in his chair. In his office, just the two of them, he lets his mask slip. Lets the age show on his face - the exhaustion.

"Perhaps we'll have more success next time."

Levi's fist braces on the table. "Those men sure as hell won't get a next time."

"Levi."

Levi looks up, but he can't meet Erwin's eyes for more than a few moments - there's a warning in them, but also a sadness. Something Levi can't handle right now.

"Sorry." He wills the anger boiling in his gut to settle.

They're quiet as Erwin stands up and walks over to his bookshelf. He runs his hand over several of the spines, like he's thinking - always thinking, never trying to block the world out, the sound-

Levi speaks, because nonsense is better than what he hears in the silence. "What's up your ass?"

He watches the rise and fall of Erwin's shoulder blades as he sighs, like he's grasping at something to say.

"All of our comrades. Don't you wonder... where they end up? Gone in an instant. Never a next time." He turns back to Levi, and his stupid, childlike frown makes Levi's head ache. "It can't just end like that... can it?"

Levi slumps in his seat. Furlan and Isabel flash in his mind.

"That's what death is, Erwin. It's the end."

"And then what?" There's that urgency, in the furrowing of Erwin's brow, the... desperation in his voice. "Levi, where do you think we go when we die?"

The question hangs in the air - a soldier suspended in ODM gear, who might fall to his death at any moment.

Levi stands up and moves closer to Erwin, finds his way into his outstretched arms.

"You can't worry about things like that, old man. You'll go crazy."

Erwin laughs softly. "That's the nature of my job, Captain."

Levi holds onto him tighter.

They're set to leave for Shiganshina in the morning. Levi packs their supplies and some clothes. Erwin makes revisions to his will, in a sloppy, left-handed scrawl.

Levi has only tried to break his pen - stop him for fuck's sake - once.

Eventually, the sound of Erwin's pen on paper comes to a halt, and Levi looks up. Erwin stares pensively out the window. His eyes squint, like a child who is trying to see beyond mountains, beyond the horizon and the sky.

Levi has never been able to look that far ahead. Maybe that's why he's always needed Erwin.

Erwin looks back to Levi. His eyes are pleasant, but distant.

"Levi."

"Yeah?"

Erwin gnaws at his lip. "When our soldiers die..." he begins, but he trails off as Levi rolls his eyes.

"This again? Stop it already." There's a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Wherever it is that they end up," Erwin presses on, "... do you think they see each other again?"

Levi refuses to meet Erwin's eyes, can't meet his eyes. His toes curl and he swears that room drops a few degrees in temperature.

"I don't have a clue," he says bluntly.

He steps away from packing and crosses to where Erwin is seated at his desk. He places his hands on the back of his chair, rests his chin on Erwin's head. Breathes in the smell of his hair.

Neither can find any other words to offer. They're not brave enough to voice the real question.

Do you think we'll see each other again?

When the morning comes, Levi puts on his jacket and follows Erwin without a second thought.

They brought back the body this time. Levi made sure of that. Looking at Erwin's lifeless face, Levi wants to carve the pale tinge right out of it. Bring back the color, the life. Anything.

The memorial service is long, cold, and stifling - but it passes quickly enough, because Levi is still kneeling in front of the casket long after the last guest has left.

His skin crawls, and he stands up abruptly. He has no business being here anymore - kneeling in front of a dead body like a fucking idiot.

But he can't quite tear himself away, either.

He paces in front of the casket as sunset turns to nightfall. He thinks of all those dumb questions Erwin used to ask - starts to wonder what they meant, too. He wonders where Erwin's soul is now. If Erwin had a soul, and if it will just disappear. If Erwin will slowly fade away - first with the decay of his dead body, and then with the decay of Levi's memory.

Like he was never there at all.

Levi looks at Erwin's face again, suddenly desperate like an animal. The air tries to push him down like it has so many times before, and he's panicked. He tries to memorize every ridge, every groove, every scar on Erwin's face. Tries to keep the image locked in his mind's eye.

For a moment, Levi rests his hand on Erwin's forehead, trails his finger down his cheek, to his lips - carefully, as if a touch could make his body vanish. Like a rat touching a holy object.

The one left behind again.

"Levi, where do you think we go when we die?"

Levi still doesn't know the answer. Maybe he never will.

But he looks down at Erwin's face for the last time... and he thinks that he's never seen him look so at rest before. Like a child, asleep after a long day.

He gently closes the casket. "I'll see you soon, Erwin," he whispers, hands shaking.

He turns away and looks out the tall windows. For the first time, he tries to squint like Erwin did. Like he's trying to see beyond mountains, beyond the horizon and the fucking sky.

He tries to look far ahead.

the end

[stumblingsbalderdash]

Lonely Mountains

 A special thank you to @writingfromdaughterofathena for letting my write about Amarth <3 He’s so percious and I adore him! Thank you. :D

Night had fallen across the frozen Frostback mountains, concealing the warm setting sun from the small dilapidated camp. In less than an hour’s time,  the sky’s once beautiful streaks of reds, oranges and pinks faded into a matt black canvas dotted with shining silver stars. The thick darkness seemed eternally ethereal and everlasting. Even the soft glow of the camp’s fire only allowed him to see an arm’s reach in front of himself.

 Despite the others huddled in their darkened tents, Amarth felt solitary amongst the frigid unapproachable mountains. Only he and the mountains seemed to exist bearing against the chilly wind’s bite that could be felt through the thickest woolen blanket.

 The hairs on his arms raised as the sharp sting of the wind caused small bumps that tingled uncomfortably and the bite seemed beyond flesh.His blood ran cold, his bones ached uncomfortably from the icy chill causing him to toss bedroll. Amarth curled tightly trying to preserve his heat, shivering in his own tattered darkened tent.

 He promptly tucked the tips of his exposed toes under the rough blankets and shivered violently as the last stinging wind blasted his tent. Amarth yearned to join one of his travel companions; spooning against their back, greedily stealing their natural warmth. However, they had been joined by an odd group of worn wardens now sharing the other’s temporary lodgings. The only members of his ragtag group with available space was Wynne or Sten.

 He tossed with an uncertain trepidation about the strange newcomers. His fingers nervously twitched as he had watched their new warden companions excitedly gossip with the others at dinner- with the exception of one, the mage. The human made Amarth’s stomach flutter with an anxious suspense.

 A fearful suspense: inspired by a nervousness conditioned from years of bitter torment at the hands of a sadistic mage. It stood idly under his skin waiting to burst out from under his fragile control. The racking of memories, crowded his mind and made his heart beat violently and breathing become hard. He felt a desperate to need to keep a vigil eye on the mage.  

 The man under scrutiny was clad in a traditional warden armor adorned with rich leather gloves, tight black breeches, and tall dark boots. His aged notched stave was shorter than the advantage mage’s and appeared comparable to an old man’s walking stick, than a defensive weapon. Amarth briefly pondered the mage’s odd stave and lack of a grimoire.

 His conversations with Wynne had made him knowledgeable in battle magic and defense; he knew a worthy mage carried a grimoire. He clenched down on his teeth, remembering his former master’s cheaply bound grimoire and the sharp painful swats he received for getting to close to it. The irksome thing contained the old bastard's magical sigils and incantations, without it-- Amarth shook his head interrupting his miserable reverie, turning his attention back to his current magical problem.

 The mage’s towering figure stood apart from the rest of the group, until Wynne called him by name. Momentary, the man’s expression soften as he headed in her direction, stopping just short of the elder woman. A warm smile bloomed across her wrinkled face as she reached up patting his, in a motherly fashion. They appeared to know each other. Tilting his head, Amarth wondered if they had meet in Ferelden’s spire. He continued to cautiously watch as Wynne’s lips move as she spoke to the man but had trouble understanding conversation.

 Nervously, he tugged at his pointed ear watching the mage’s face fall back into it’s rancorous scowl as he shook his head. Wynne’s smile harden into a stern line before she reached out to stroke his cheek again.  Turning, as if to avoid the crowd, the mage slinked back into the dark recesses of the shadows, leaving Wynne to shake her head in disapproval.  

 Whether it was curiosity or the need to watch the human, Amarth realized the closer he observed the mage, the more he could appreciate the human’s  well formed face. His rich raven hair was tousled griminess which whispered promises of finesse. The mage had strong angrily arched  brows and dark, thick eyelashes that framed his strangely colored eyes . They were deep and tragic, a clouded iridescent expanse of lavender that softly melted into a deeper royal hue.

 He had high distinct cheekbones and an angular jaw that was adored with a dark soul patch right below his full bottom lip. His contrasting pale skin made him look devilishly handsome, if it weren’t for the bitter expression he continuously worn. When their eyes would locked Amarth felt queasy, he had seen few that bore such an intense anger.

The mage’s eyes had a deadness, a stillness. As if the man never knew laughter or one who had developed an undeterred hardness. It was as if Armath could read all the human’s anger in his extended glare and forgiveness wasn't an option. For a brief moment, he felt a juxtapositioned feeling of fear and pity for the creature yards away from him. Or perhaps, Amarth simply understood the broiling rage under a ill disgusted placidity.

Between the human’s towering form and angered expression- Amarth was on edge. It caused him to bite down on his plump bottom lip, fidget with his chestnut hair or find interest in his uniform’s buckles avoiding the mage’s haunted eyes.

 The wind blasted his tent again, snapping Amarth out of his sluggish stupor. He tugged the itchy blanket close to his head trying to protect his long tapered ears. They burned from the frigid air. He tried rub the blanket against his ears hoping to relieve the cold burn. Finally, he sighed pushing himself from the hard ground; too cold to care about the strangers in camp. Amarth, needed someone to curl up with.

 He stood up,wrapping his petite frame in his heavy blanket. Haphazardly tossed on his brown leather boot without care enough to tie them and headed towards Wynne’s tent. It was better than Sten; the qunari would not appreciate unsolicited guest in his bedroll.   

 Amarth dashed through the snow, to the woman’s tent and with great care untied the flap’s latches before slipping into the darkened sleeping area. He tried to keep the opening as small as possible to keep out the cold air.

 As soon as he tied the latches closed, Amarth could feel tepid temperature of the tent brush against his cheeks. Wynne’s smaller tent felt slightly warmer than his own and seemed to have an abundance of blankets spread across the hard ground.  He felt giddy as he made out her sleeping form in the darkness. Finally, he could curl up against someone warm and sleep without fear of hypothermia. He felt the bitter chill on his toes as he removed his boots inching closer to the mage.

 Carefully, he lifted her surprisingly heavy arm and slid gracefully under, his back to her chest. He paused for a moment wondering why Wynne’s chest was harder than he thought. He quickly disregarded his thoughts settling on contentment he felt burrowed into the human’s molten heat. Pushing his tattooed cheek into the warmth, he smiled and drifted into pleasant sleep.

 ****

Daylen could hear the snow crunch outside of Wynne’s tent  because of a faint footfall. By the weight, he could tell it someone smaller than his own stature and closed on the tent at a rapid pace. Whom or whatever it was,  favored their left foot- perhaps an old injury. He couldn’t tell quite tell because the wind muffled the noise,  but with each clumsy step he felt anxiety build. Daylen stilled himself waiting for the stranger to make their intent known.  He slid his hand behind him, pulling out the small dwarven blade his Commander had gifted him and slide it under his threadbare pillow.

 Daylen’s hypersensitive hearing had saved their platoon on several occasions, including the darkspawn invasion. They had been scouting outside in the Wilds, when the main horde struck Calian’s forces, obliterating Ferelden’s military. He could still hear the horrifying screams, smell of sickness and the clash of metals as the King’s army crumbled.  Daylen’s terrible recollection ceased as the shuffling became louder and more frantic as the stranger reached the tent’s flaps.

 The intruder entered Wynne and his tent; they shifted nervously as they clumsily tied the flaps together, trying to keep the icy wind out. Daylen could hear them slink around his own body; pausing long enough to toss their heavy shoes aside.  He furrowed his brows and pondered whether he should strike at creature, clutching his dagger in his hand, he needed to keep Wynne safe.

 Suddenly, Daylen felt an icy hand wrap around his heavily scarred wrist lifting up away from his body. He flinched uncomfortably as their delicate fingers lightly dug into his largest scar marring his left wrist. Out of instinct,  his eyes snapped open as the fabric of his bedroll shifted under the stranger’s lighter weight. They pressed their lithe back into Daylen’s  hard chest.  

 The smaller being pressed further into his cloth covered chest and mewled with satisfaction. There was a delicious moment where Daylen’s face washed blank with confusion; his mind couldn't process  fast enough to take in the what had happened. Every muscle of his body just froze before a nervous panic set in; he’d never been touched in such intimate manner.

 He was horrendous and few people showed him affection. He felt a pulse of hot anger rush through believing this was a cruel prank.  He wrapped his muscular arm around the other’s tapered waist, pulling them closer to his own body, desperate to figure who it was.  He could usually tell by scent, voice or touch but his circumstances did not afford him the luxury.

 Covertly, lowered his nose to scent the stranger but was interrupted with a soft sharp jab to the eye. Daylen blinked rapidly as his eye watered ; he reached out to feel a soft chilled ear. He ran his fingers carefully along the shell of the tapered ear, feeling the intruder unconsciously shift and push further into his warmer palm. Who ever it was he could tell the stranger was of Dalish origins. Unlike a city or hybrid elf’s ear, the Dalish’s ears were more exaggerated, sharper and flexible.

 The only elf he come into contact with was the antivan who carried the scent of fine whiskey and leather.  The intruder’s natural scent bombarded Daylen’s senses with a savory earthy smell of cool rain, tang of the elfroot and a slight undertone of masculine musk. It was calming, copacetic, and addictive. And definitely not Antivan.

 The elf shivered violently again as the wind strengthened against their tent. Panicked, Daylen pressed his hand to the elf’s cool smooth forehead. The elf’s muscles shook uncontrollably for a few minutes while his body made a last ditch attempt to reheat before it conceded to bitterness.

 Daylen scrambled, pulling the elf closer to his body; convinced the other had developed the beginning stages hypothermia. The elf must’ve been delirious, it was the only explanation for his odd behavior and why he'd curl next the mage. Gently holding the elf's head, he sat up pulling off his own thick cotton socks and pulled them over the elf's small feet. Grabbing the elf’s blanket, Daylen tucked the blanket tightly around the stranger’s  thin cotton covered legs like a cocoon ensuring his feet stayed warm.

 The elf squirmed, adjusting himself against Daylen. The mage prayed the elf would wake up, but the creature went limp. Daylen sighed, reminisced his healing tutelage desperate to remember his next course of action. He removed his own crudely stitched shirt and carefully place over the elf's baggy shirt and softly he ran his hand over elf’s face.  

 The elf’s face was strong and defined, his features molded from granite. He’s eyebrows sloped downwards in a serious expression furrow right above his nose. His narrow nose sloped gracefully above his full lips. His lips seemed to be drawn into a hard line across his face but managed to still be perfect and soft. He ran a callused thumb from the elf’s lips to his elongated ear. It was still frigid, Daylen wrapped a second blanket around them reached out to warm the ear with his palm.

 Using his fingers and palm rubbed the elf’s ears hoping to warm them and ease the elf's discomfort. Daylen's brows furrowed, lying back he tugged the creature towards his chest flattening his hand against the elf’s smaller cloth cover chest. The mage released a small amount of pulsing healing magic into the other’s body while working his other hand around the elf’s cold ear.

 The stranger groaned and started to shift against the healer. Daylen sighed in relief, at the least the intruder hadn't fallen too far in the throws of hypothermia. He tightened his grip on elf pulling him closer to his body heat. Daylen rested the elf's head on the nook of his shoulder, continued to gently release small pulses of heat into elf’s chest.

 Daylen felt the other shift against him and heard the elf intake sharply before a sharp pain bloomed across his face, causing his nose to spew warm blood.

 The elf stuck him across the face and ripped away from his grasp. Daylen clutched  his bleeding nose as hot angry broiled under his skin. Snarling, he felt his control slip releasing a small burst of magical energy.  

 ****

Slowly, Amarth consciousness began to emerge from his sluggish dreams. A pleasant heat made his thoughts sticky and hard to gather cohesively.  The rough and gentle strokes at the shell of his ear made him instinctively push into the warmth enjoying the tingling sensation running through his body.

 Every muscle seemed to welcome the warmth like an old friend. It was strange, pulsing heat he had never felt before. The air around him was heavy with the subtle aroma of wild woods and other unfamiliar earthy tones, reminding him of a sprawling autumn forest.

 He slowly opened his eyes, as the second pulse of heat hummed through his chest. It took a few seconds before it dawn on Amarth, he was not in the warm woods but on a frigid desolate mountain. The pulsing heat was not the bright sun, but from a heavy human hand latched to his chest. Instinctively, he reared his elbow back ramming into the owner of hand’s face , he heard a painful gasp and the hand loosened from his shirt. He rushed forward, tumbling over the tightly wound blankets around his feet. With a heavy thud, Amarth was sent sprawling across the plethora of blankets and cold ground staring at a very angry mage--now with a broken nose.

 The hair on the back of neck rose, as the half naked mage clutched at his bloody nose growling like a wounded animal. His dark loose hair fell round his face and muscular shoulder before he glared back at the elf and enraged, releasing magical pulse.

 Amarth scrambled further from the angered mage planning a shift escape before the other cleared his throat, “ Why in Andrastate tit’s did you do that!?”

 Amarth felt his face flush with indignance but before he could speak and soft yet stern voice stole their attention. “Perhaps it because, Daylen, you molested the poor dear.” Wynne lifted her from her spot across from the other mage. “ Maker’s sake Daylen, what were you thinking, if at all?” She paused, stretching her arms above head and yawned loudly.

 Amarth huffed, stared at the younger mage crossing his arms. The mage’s horrid glare morphed into expression that mimicked a fish. Wynne stood, shaking her rumpled night gown and crouched in front  Daylen. She place her hand on his nose and emitted a soft healing magic.  

 “Remember, we covered this in ‘The Races of Thedas’ and anatomy studies.” She lectured the mage, clasping his nose tightly. “An elf’s ears are an erogenous zone--or were you not paying attention?”  She continued her lecture, the mage’s down trodden face invoked a giggle from Amarth. The towering man looked like a small child being punished by his mother. She raised an fine eyebrow before clearing her throat again, “Well ?”

 She pulled her wrinkled hand from the mage’s face, his brows furrowed and then softened. He stared at his large hands for moment before incoherently mumbling something.

 Wynne stood, crossed her arms and tapped her foot, “The warden can’t hear you, Daylen.” She stated in a stern voice staring down at the flushed pouting mage.

The man’s eye widened and glanced in Amarth’s direction ungracefully fumbled with his words, “ Warden?-- I’m sorry… didn’t  mean to--” He blushed glancing back down, clenching his fist, biting nervously at his bottom lips. “I--didn’t know...I-- hypothermia.” He stuttered over his words.

 Amarth tilted his head nervously tugged on his ear, how did  the human not know he was a warden or about elves’ ears.

 “ How did you not know?” His curiosity getting the better of him.  The human’s face flushed brighter as nervously picked at his blanket.

 Wynne sighed, glancing over at Amarth, “ Daylen has never had a friend, let alone any kind of relationship” she paused staring at the even further flustered mage “it's that terrible face he makes” she shook her head and glanced back the elf “--I’m sure it was ignorance, Warden.”

 She smiled at Amarth and scooped up an extra blanket, handing it to him carefully.  Amarth watched the flustered mage on the ground feeling a small amount of pity for the man. He removed the human’s shirt, handing to the man and laid the blanket down aways from the man. “It's--ok just don't do it again.” He prepped a new bedroll watching the lonely man shake his head.  He finished rolling out his bed and paused glancing back the man’s muscular back, “Sorry about your nose.”

 Daylen’s back stiffened before he turned to acknowledge the elf, his cheeks flushed before whispered in a husky voice, “It’s ok, think I earned it.”