#maybe ill finish this within the next decade

[yourpaceangel]

I’ve never tried this method before and it’s a mess but fortunately it also means I have about 1.4K more words written than I thought I would*

*thought I would have 0 bc I haven’t written in at least two years

[beanjang-draws]

Plague Ponies - Research

CONTENT WARNINGS: no gore

Previous | Next

Summary:

Twilight doesn’t want to admit it, but things in Equestrian haven’t been in tip-top shape recently. It looks like even Princess Celestia has judged that the news cycle has been too grim as of late, as she’s instructed Twilight not to make a public statement about the number of ponies who fell ill after the Everfree attack.

With the help of her number one assistant, Twilight tries to figure out how exactly to quietly prep for an epidemic when they both remember: Granny Smith is super old! She must know what to do? Wait, Pinkie? What are you doing here?!

Twilight and Pinkie end up going to Sweet Apple Acres together, where Twilight is given a book that just might contain the answers she needs. Now to decide her next course of action…should she go back to the orchard and head home now, or should she indulge for just a second in Apple Bloom’s request to check on her project?

Transcript below:

Twilight Sparkle: Thank you for understanding, Doctor. I’ll send word immediately if anything changes.

Greymare: Of course, Princess. We appreciate your generosity. Everything should be ready within the week.

Twilight: Of course. If you’re in need of any more funds, tell the distributors to contact me.

Doctor Greymare bids his farewells to Princess Twilight and takes his leave. Twilight heads back inside the library, where Spike is looking on with concern.

Spike: Twilight…are you sure we shouldn’t tell everypony now? If everypony in Ponyville really is infected, shouldn’t they all know?

Twilight Sparkle: I don’t like delaying things either, Spike, but you read Princess Celestia’s letter out yourself. Our priority is to avoid panic until we know we can answer their inevitable questions.

Spike: I guess that makes sense…hearing about another disaster after the last string of disasters would make everypony totally freak out!

Twilight Sparkle: Spike!

Spike: What? Im agreeing with you! It’s a bad idea to tell everypony about an epidemic after a discord came back, got better, accidentally caused the princesses’ kidnappings, delayed the Summer Sun Celebration—

Twilight Sparkle: SPIKE

Spike lets up after Twilight’s outburst, looking amused as she takes a breath to collect herself.

Twilight Sparkle: Maybe things haven’t been the most…stable, lately, but the princesses have everything under control. Plus, I’ve been reading up on epidemiology and it’s normal for new pathogens to crop up every few decades. We just have to be prepared for them!

Spike: Oh, perfect! You’re the most prepared pony I know!

Twilight loses her composure entirely.

Twilight Sparkle: BUT I’M NOT PREPARED! I’M THE ONE WHO’S SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF PONYVILLE NOW, BUT I CAN’T EVEN KEEP IT SAFE. ALL I’VE DONE IS LEARN TO FLY AND MEMORIZE PRINCESS ETIQUETTE. THAT’S NOT GOING TO HELP ANYPONY!

Spike: Hey, you’ve been busy saving all of Equestria! You didn’t prepare for that either, but it went fine in the end because of your friends.

Twilight Sparkle: I guess so…

Spike: If these diseases pop up every now and then, Ponyville must have had some experience with this sort of thing before. You just finished talking to Doctor Greymare, right? Maybe he could help.

Twilight Sparkle: That’s just the thing, Spike. He said he hasn’t heard of anything like this before, at least not while he’s been running the hospital.

Spike: Is there anypony who might know what happened before him?

Twilight Sparkle: You would have to be ancient to remember anything further back than that. You’ve have to be…

The cogs in Twilight’s head begun to turn, and she and Spike come to the same conclusion simultaneously.

Twilight Sparkle and Spike: Somepony old like Granny Smith!

Twilight Sparkle: Spike, you’re a genius!

Spike: Bah, this is just a run of the mill performance from your number one assistant.

Twilight Sparkle: We should head to Sweet Apple Acres right now—

Suddenly, Pinkie Pie bursts in out of nowhere.

Pinkie Pie: TWILIGHT!!!! SOMETHING BIG IS COMING!!!!!!! THE FATE OF PONYVILLE DEPENDS ON IT

Spike: Pinkie, could you bring down the volume a little? My ears have been sensitive lately…

Pinkie Pie: Oh, sorry, Spike! The fate of Ponyville depends on it!

Spike: Thanks

Twilight Sparkle: Is it your Pinkie sense? Can you feel something bad coming?

Pinkie Pie: Yes! It’s big! Huge! Even bigger and huger than the time you believed in my Pinkie sense!

Spike: Wow, that IS big.

Twilight Sparkle: Well, if it’s so serious, we should tell everypony to stay indoors for the time being.

Pinkie Pie: Waaay ahead of you, Twilight! I already warned everypony not to take any unnecessary journeys on the way here.

Twilight Sparkle: Thank you Pinkie, you’ve saved us a lot of time. Now we can—

Pinkie Pie: —consult Granny Smith for her firsthoof account on Ponyville’s history of health and safety protocols?

Twilight Sparkle: …I won’t even ask. Yes, Pinkie, we’re doing just that.

Pinkie Pie: That’s a great idea, Twilight! Lead the way :3

Twilight Sparkle: Alright, let’s get to Sweet Apple Acres.

Pinkie Pie and Twilight Sparkle begin to clear out to head to the farm. Twilight notices Spike hasn’t made moves to join them, so she sticks her head back inside to check on him.

Twilight Sparkle: Spike, aren’t you coming?

Spike: You know, Twilight, if staying indoors is so important, I think I’d better stay here and…make sure Owlowicious doesn’t go wandering around while you’re gone.

Twilight Sparkle: Alright, number one assistant! I’m leaving the library under your watch. We shouldn’t be gone too long.

It looks like most Ponyville Residents have caught wind of Pinkie’s warnings! Twilight and Pinkie only see a few ponies out and about on their way to Sweet Apple Acres. this far out, the news hasn’t yet reached the Apples, who are occupied with a busy apple bucking season.

Applejack: Howdy y’all! What brings you down to the farm?

Pinkie Pie: My Pinkie sense has been going off all morning! Im not sure what this one means!

Twilight Sparkle: But I think I could figure it out. AJ, could I talk to Granny Smith?

Applejack: Sure thing! She shouldn’t have hunkered down for her afternoon nap just yet.

Twilight Sparkle: Alright, girls, I’ll be right back.

Pinkie Pie: I’ll stay with Applejack and lend a hoof with the apples!

Applejack: You know what, that’d be mighty helpful of you, Pinkie! Big Mac’s been sick, so I’ve been buckin’ these trees all on my own!

Twilight goes off to see Granny Smith on her own.

Twilight Sparkle: Hello, Granny Smith! Sorry to barge in on you like this..

Granny Smith: Not at all, dearie. In fact, you ought to visit more often! I hear so much about you from Apple Bloom, you really should stay for supper one of these days and tell us about your lessons yourself!

Twilight Sparkle: Thank you, Granny. I’ll make sure to visit more often. Unfortunately, I didn’t come by just to say hi today. I actually did have a few questions for you.

Granny Smith: Of course! Ask away, dear, I’m all ears.

Twilight Sparkle: Have there ever been any emergency health and safety protocols in Ponyville?

Granny Smith: Emergency what now?

Twilight Sparkle: Have there been any outbreaks of sickness in Ponyville in the past? Did the town have a way of dealing with them?

Granny Smith: Oh! You just mean the plague ponies. Hold on dear, I know I’ve got a book back here somewhere…it’s been sitting collecting dust! A sign of better times, I reckon…now if only I could find it…

Granny Smith begins rummaging around the house looking for the aforementioned book.

Twilight Sparkle: I think this might be just the thing I need! I haven’t heard of plague ponies before. None of my books mention them at all.

Granny Smith: Oh, your fancy city books wouldn’t have anything on this.

Granny Smith returns with a beat up looking book on hoof.

Granny Smith: I knew I still had one laying around!

Twilight Sparkle: Thank you, Granny. Um, what it is?

Granny Smith: It’s a home remedy book! Back when the town was first settling, we had all sorts of sicknesses popping up. Prob’ly from all the different ponies coming together. Without much of a way to reach Canterlot yet, we couldn’t get aid from the big city for any fancy doctor magic.

Twilight Sparkle: Oh…I had no idea that happened.

Granny Smith: Heh-heh…I’m not surprised they didn’t teach you this in your Canterlot history classes…What city pony aid we lacked, we made up for in home remedies. We each of us came together and pooled our knowledge in books like these. Here, you take this. This one’s got some of my own notes in it. Maybe you could add your own!

Twilight Sparkle: I couldn’t possibly take this from you! It’s a part of your history…

Granny Smith: It’s yours, too. And it’s doing nopony any good collecting dust with me. Just promise me to read every bit of it.

Twilight Sparkle: …Thank you, Granny. I will.

Granny Smith: Alright, now I’m off to hit the hay. Apple Bloom, you should show Twilight your plant project in the barn!

Granny Smith turns to go and take her afternoon nap. Apple Bloom appears, eager to get her turn talking to Twilight.

Twilight Sparkle: Ooh, have you figured out how to get your subjects to multiply?

Apple Bloom: I sure did!! I made the adjustments you told me to and added a little something of my own! You’ve gotta come and see it!!

POLL: Should Twilight go see Apple Bloom’s Project?

RESULT: Yes

End transcript

[splaede]

AFTER DARK. Armin Arlert (CH. 3)

☰ pairings: Armin x Reader, Slight Eren x Reader

┌─ ✮⭒｡ story summary: Armin was tired of being seen as an innocent, goody-two-shoes, little flower boy. Instead, he wanted to be seen in a more romantic and…sexual light. You just couldn’t turn down a sweet boy like him, so you agreed to hone his charms and teach him special…skills.

And he turned out to be much more powerful (and hotter) than you'd ever expected.

└─ ✩⭒｡ story #tags: fluff, angst, smut, friends to lovers, friends w benefits, drama, jealousy, hurt/comfort, manipulative armin, virgin armin, loss of virginity, childhood friends, lots of tension, nerd armin, and then he glows up, love triangles, unrequited love, gaslighting, lots of buildup

☰ CHAPTER THREE. armin's transformation

┌─ ✮⭒｡ chapter summary: Armin takes you out.

└─ ✩⭒｡ chapter warnings: very subtle gaslighting

☰ table of contents | previous chapter | next chapter

You were mid-home-from-work routine when you received a text from Armin. As you unloaded your belongings from your bag, you picked up your phone from the table.

Lately, it seemed as if Armin had been talking to you quite a lot—more than he already did, no less.

Armin: Are you free later?

Ah, typical question. Since it was summer, the time spent with your friends was no longer limited to the weekends, minus the time spent outside of class hours and whenever your schedules didn't conflict. Even with your job, you were much more available compared to the academic year.

Despite having seen Armin almost every day for the last decade of your life, you never hesitated when it came to seeing more of your friends.

You: im free

just got home from work

Armin: Okay, sounds great

Do you want to hang out?

I want to take you somewhere

You: of course i do

where?

Armin: It’s a surprise

It’s really important and I need your help

I’d like for you to come along

You: armin this is really suspicious

but sure

surprise me

Armin: I swear it's nothing suspicious

You: is eren or mikasa coming?

Armin: No

Just you and me

I’ll pick you up from your house

Maybe sometime in the next hour?

You: okay sounds great

and whats the dress code?

Armin: Dress code is very casual

Please don't worry too much about it

You: i trust you armin...

see you

ill start getting ready

Armin: Tell me when you're ready!

See you!

Just the two of you? Just what was he up to? Not that you guys hadn't hung out alone before, but it was almost always the four of you as a group. With recent light of his insecurities and crush on Annie, you began to think it had something to do with that.

Then where could he possibly take you? Where would you even fit to benefit him in this situation?

You remembered the conversation from last night. He probably just wanted to finish it. After all, you were the one that offered to continue. But it felt like a hefty job, and you were unsure if you were suited for the task.

It wasn't as if you were obligated to help him. Still, you just couldn't help but want to—you felt like you needed to. It was hard to come by people like Armin, who was nothing but kind and considerate towards you. Now that your most dedicated pillar of support had finally come to you for help, it was time to repay the favor. You were afraid to fail him when he had already done so much for you.

Still, part of you was excited. You would do anything in your power to win over his crush.

You'd brush it off for now, though, since you needed to get ready. 

Armin's car had been parked within a short walking distance. From your door to his, there was only the scuttle of your shoes on the cracked pavement and the distant sound of whirring cars.

"Hey." He flashed you a welcoming, warm smile.

You scooted into the passenger seat, mirroring his smile. "Hey, Armin."

As you shut the door, you couldn't help but breathe in the familiarity of his car. It was the usual: light air conditioning, quiet music, and that friendly fragrance of his car seats. A mix of something woody and rosy—his cologne—and the minty-ness of the cup container filled with that gum he seemed to always chew.

Armin was never unkempt, always clean, and smelled of his body wash, a warm vanilla scent—a scent that reminded you of home.

You mentally backtracked. You were glad he wasn't a mind reader, or else he'd find out you had been shamelessly smelling him and his car.

"Is that Eren's sweater?"

His voice broke you out of your thoughts, and he shot you a long glance as you buckled your seatbelt.

You looked down.

Oh.

You nearly forgot. The centerpiece of your outfit was none other than one of Eren's sweaters that he had given you yesterday. How could you have forgotten? The sweater hanging off your body was a blatant reminder of your sort-of feelings for him, which you couldn’t help but convince yourself were platonic rather than romantic.

Despite the hot weather, you threw it on, determined to wear it even if you suffered from heatstroke.

"Maybe it is,” you replied with a shrug, tone teasing. 

Armin only responded with an airy chuckle. The car was moving now, a subtle reminder that he had brought you here for a reason. Before you could even ask, a notification on your phone chimed, ringing loud throughout the quiet interior.

Texts from your group chat.

Eren: mikasa and i are getting something to drink right now

you guys wanna join?

you can come meet us there

i'll send the address

we're also getting dinner later so come along

i'm paying

You blinked, rereading the text.

Mikasa and I are getting something to drink right now.

Mikasa and I.

Right now.

Oh.

Had they been making plans in private, only deciding to ask the group chat as a last-minute decision? The two seemed to already be together, after all. You knew that not everything had to be a four-person activity, but knowing that the two were alone together felt strange. You couldn't shake off your uneasiness.

No, no, you were thinking too hard about it. In fact, you were alone with Armin right now. Eren and Mikasa had their own lives and their own choices, and it was all just in your head. This was normal—you had done the same before.

Were you jealous?

You watched the front window view slow from moving buildings to lone traffic lights as yellow flickered into red. You then looked at Armin, who was swooping back his long hair and adjusting his glasses.

"Eren just texted. He and Mikasa are getting something to drink right now and dinner later. He wants to know if we can join,” you finally said.

Armin's eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, drinks...? Eren and Mikasa are...?" He paused, trailing off.

…Together?

Armin spared you a pitying glance, and despite your effort to mask it, he read the disappointment from your expression.

"Don't worry, Y/N, it's the usual. We always go get milkshakes together. All four of us. Maybe Eren was already texting her, or maybe he was driving near her place and decided to drop by. He's done this before with all of us." Armin extended his hand over the console to yours, where he placed his fingers on your wrist and rubbed circles on your hand with his thumb. "Don't think too much into it, okay? It could just be all in your head." 

You nodded.

"We might not be able to get drinks right now, but we can catch them at dinner if that's okay with you." He smiled reassuringly.

You thought it was ironic. The thought of Eren and Mikasa off on their own and leaving you and Armin out worried you, but here you were, alone with Armin and heading off to who knows where. You could only laugh at yourself.

Speaking of which...

"Armin, you haven't told me where we're going."

A cherry, tantalizing smile inched up his face.

"Sorry, you're right. I haven't."

Armin tilted his head towards you, turning ever so slightly until you could see his pretty blue-eyed smile.

"We're going to a barber shop."

You waited for him to finish, raising a brow.

"I'm going to get a haircut."

Your eyes widened.

"You're—what?"

Instantly, your eyes darted to his hair—long and clean and fair on his shoulders. Never once was it tangled or dirty, only silky and faultless as it always seemed. You suddenly found yourself threading your fingers through his locks.

"Wait, are you serious?"

All of this suspense, only to find out you two were going to a barbershop. Even as you pondered the reasoning behind the dramatic wait, you couldn't help but laugh at the silliness of it.

"Yeah! I am. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I just wanted to tell you in person rather than through text." Armin replied, bashfully craning his neck away from your hand that was still in his hair. "Hey, that tickles."

You retracted your hand, laughing, but your thoughts were still swarming with the fact that Armin Arlert wanted his hair cut. Armin Arlert, whose blonde tresses had always framed his face and neck.

"I can't believe it. What type of haircut are you getting?"

One of his hands left the wheel and clumsily felt for his plugged-in phone on the console, handing it to you. You took it without a thought.

"I saved some pictures on my phone if you want to look. You know my password, right?"

You hummed in response, pressed in the digits of his phone password, and swiped around until you found his camera roll. His recent photos consisted of various sunset shots (or sunrise, since you knew Armin was an early bird) that were taken from his bedroom window and the aforementioned hairstyle pictures. A good handful of them, too, all in different angles and lighting.

Wow, Armin sure was thorough for one simple haircut.

"I want an undercut, but I want to keep my hair up to my ears. Kinda like—"

"Kinda like Levi?" You smirked. You eyed him shrewdly, and if you weren't so caught up in your joke, you would've seen him mirthfully roll his eyes with a childish smile.

Armin paused to consider his words, and after chuckling, he spoke. "I've been thinking about getting a haircut for a while now, but I didn't decide until last night. I searched around for some references this morning, and you were talking about him yesterday. You said...you said he was hot."

An easy, brief smile made its way to your lips. "His hair is only one of the many things that make him hot."

You found it cute that Armin had remembered your banter about Professor Ackerman last night.

Speaking of last night, you wondered if he was going to mention your conversation—hopefully regarding how he wanted you to help him. Right now would be a fitting time, wouldn't it? You and Armin, alone in his car. He poured his feelings out once here, so maybe he'd do it twice.

"If you think his hair looks good, then I hope it’ll suit me, too. I just...want a change for once. I'm sure a lot of people would agree."

You almost frowned at that. Growing up, Armin rarely came out of his soft shell, known as the small-framed and timid boy who was overshadowed by his best friend's tenacity when his brains were the only asset at his disposal. Although he seemingly had long grown out of that shell and pushed past that shadow, you knew better.

"Are you doing this for Annie? Armin, I know I've said this before, but don't ever feel like you need to change for somebody."

Him changing himself to fit someone else felt wrong.

"I know, but this is for me. It's only a haircut, nothing big."

Despite the guise of a smile he put on, despite the way he'd brushed it off, deep down, he was still the insecure boy you grew up with. But if he truly was as honest as he sounded and wanted this for himself, then you wanted it, too.

"If you say so. Then I guess you're right. Either way, I think you're going to look great. Annie is definitely going to notice how amazing you look."

When you turned to him, you didn't realize he was already staring at you. He hurriedly shook his head and shied away from your stare with a soft chuckle. His lips parted to say something, but you didn't give him the chance before you butted in.

"I still can't believe it. No more long hair. It was practically a part of you." You eyed him, or rather, his hair. "This is a big deal."

He let his fingers run through his locks, twisting and brushing the strands away. "Yeah. Everyone will be so surprised."

It seemed as if he wanted to say more, but you butted in again. "And thanks for always driving me, by the way. You're always picking me up, even if I have a car."

His one hand came to frantically wave you off while the other fumbled with turning the wheel. "No, it's okay. I'm always the one asking you to pick you up, anyway. I like driving you." He smiled.

Before you could thank him, it was his turn to cut you off.

"We're here."

All of your previous doubts about Eren and Mikasa and the initial shock of Armin's announcement flew out the window and into the sunny skies.

The anticipation was unbearable. The two of you were now parked in front of the barbershop, and Armin was about to get his haircut.

You were going to be the first to witness it.

All you registered when you walked in was the sound of the bell’s chime, and you then found yourself sitting knee-to-knee with Armin as you waited for his appointment, looking down at his phone while he swiped back and forth on his screen.

Armin stilled and tilted his phone towards you. "Do you think I should go with this photo?"

"Yeah, it looks good. Or better yet, you could show them a pic of Professor Ackerman."

His expression became a mix of what seemed like embarrassment and bewilderment before he stammered, "What?! No—no way, I'm going to look like a fool. Professor Ackerman is practically known by everyo—"

You gasped and instantly slapped your hand against his shoulder, or rather, what you thought was his shoulder, but instead, you smacked him square in the face. He jolted back in shock and didn't have time to blink before you redirected his head. "Look! Your barber is ready for you."

Armin stood up, glancing back and shooting you an incredulous look. You only sheepishly mouthed sorry to him in return.

You waited until he sat down before you took your eyes off him. Armin Arlert was about to cut his hair to the shortest length it's ever been.

Now, all there was to do was to wait some more.

In the meantime, you needed to text Eren back, which you had forgotten to do earlier. You saw that Armin had already replied, likely sometime after you walked in and before you two sat down.

Armin: Sorry, I was driving

I’m with y/n right now

We can't make it for drinks, but dinner sounds nice!

You: eren whats the address?

we’ll be there for sure

Hopefully, you would. Free dinner, right?

Minutes later, Eren responded.

Eren: [Current Location]

It looked like they were there already.

You quickly tapped on the link to his location and a restaurant named "Trost's Kitchen" came into view. You had only ever eaten there twice in your life: one time as a child with your family and the second time as a high school student to tease Jean at his part-time waiter job.

If Armin's session went by fast, then you'd be able to drive there with just enough spare time to eat before Eren and Mikasa finish their meals. You amused yourself with how they would react to Armin's hair. Shocked? Confused? Hell, you hadn’t even seen it yourself yet.

For the next few minutes, all you did on your phone was text and scroll.

No, scratch that, you had fallen asleep.

Someone tapped you.

You didn't realize how much time had already passed. Definitely more than those measly few minutes that you spent texting and mindlessly scrolling.

After groggily blinking, your eyes trailed up to find the culprit.

Before you stood a new man.

What was once silky, smooth hair down his neck was now a sleek undercut and cropped short to his ears—just how he wanted, and you could now see his jawline and the innocent skin of his neck. He still kept his bangs, though, which were blonde and neat on his forehead.

You must've been staring too long because Armin nervously looked to the side.

His hand suddenly went up to his face, clasping around your wrist. You didn't even realize that it was there. It had just subconsciously occurred to you that you should reach up and softly intertwine your fingers with his golden locks.

You never noticed how round his cheekbones were, how softened his cheeks looked, or how much of a sharp jawline he had.

Hair really could change a person, huh.

And to your surprise, you had overlooked something even bigger than his new hair. As you followed the undercut to the curve of his ears, you narrowed your eyes at the empty space. He wasn't wearing his glasses. Nothing sat on the ridges of his ears. No thick, black-rimmed lenses around his eyes—nothing but his wispy, blonde lashes that fluttered with each blink. He must've taken them off during the haircut.

Armin seemed to have worked up a ripe, dusky blush with the way you were gently caressing him. His ears flushed a sweet shade of pink, too, just like his cheeks.

"God, you look so good." Your hand withdrew from his head. "You're really attractive, Armin."

You took one more thorough look at his face.

He looked mature.

He looked...hot.

Armin couldn’t seem to decide between meeting your eyes or looking away as you gazed at him. His face reddened when he lopsidedly smiled and squeaked out, "Thank you."

Your hand interlaced with his and you beamed brightly. "Let's go. Have you paid?"

He nodded with a smile.

Then you two were out the door, and when you looked back, his glasses were already back on.

"So...why did I have to come again?"

His eyes flitted to his hand, enclosed by yours. "Um, moral support, I guess...? I don't know. I just felt like you should be the first to see it. I wanted you to be here because it made sense with our... agreement ."

The sky had become a myriad of pretty oranges and yellows, but the blues barely peeked out from behind gray clouds. It made the sunset a little too murky, too pitiless, and too sullen for a summer evening.

"About our agreement..." By now, you two were fastened into your seats and out of the parking lot. "How did you want me to help you?"

He spared you a glance. "Truthfully, I'm not sure. I know you have experience, so however your past lovers got you to like them, apply that to me and Annie."

"So, are you and Annie close?"

"No, we're not that close."

"Do you at least talk to her like you talk to me?"

Lines between his brows formed as he drew them together, his vivid blue eyes flickering aside in confusion. "What do you mean...?"

You shook your head and dismissed him with a wave. "Nevermind."

Surprisingly, Armin didn't press on. You didn't, either. Instead, you turned to your phone.

You: on our way

It wasn't long until you reached Trost's Kitchen. It only took a couple of minutes that had passed by way too fast because you were busy jamming out to songs after he gave you the aux.

The two of you stepped out. It was warmer than you expected, especially after the comfort of the car's air conditioning, and the sunset had long faded away into the night.

You: we're here

Neither you nor Armin exchanged any words on your stroll into the restaurant and merely enjoyed the comfortable silence that you two always seemed to slip into. You were met with the shade of the portico and the chime of bells as Armin opened the door for you.

The bustle of conversation and clank of silverware greeted you at once. You briefly raked your eyes over the rows and rows of tables.

"Okay, wow, it's really busy here," you muttered.

You wanted to send one last text before you deemed yourself too clingy. By now, Eren would've already replied like he usually did on outings like these. Even if he did frequently ignore your messages, you knew that he wouldn't put his phone down until everyone had arrived.

You: please tell me you got a table for four

As soon as you sent that text, Armin nudged your shoulder.

"Y/N? Look..."

In a far corner of the dining space, you saw a woman with short, black hair that you knew all too well and a man with messily tied up brown hair that you knew even better.

Mikasa and Eren. At a two-seater table.

What was only a downward tug on your lips deepened into a frown when you watched them get touchy and enjoy themselves. Had they always been this touchy?

"Kinda looks like they're on a date," you noted.

Armin’s eyes didn’t stray from them when he asked, "You okay, Y/N?"

"Yeah. Let's just get a table."

To your luck, there weren't any available tables near them. At this rate, it'd be a miracle that you'd be seated anytime soon. With the line of people in the reception area and the rows of occupied tables, you almost considered eating somewhere else.

"You might just be overthinking it. It's okay, Y/N, I promise. It just...looks like what you think it looks like."

You gave Eren and Mikasa's general direction one more gander before you allowed Armin your full attention. "Nah, I don't think you're seeing what I'm seeing."

His lips pursed into a thin line. "No, I see. I'm sorry. Do you want to go to a different place, then? I'll pay."

You thought about the texts you had just sent. Wouldn't it be weird to just disappear? You were disappointed, but you didn't feel like interrupting the two at the table. Not that you had much of a choice, anyway—not with packed guests and the long wait. 

"I don't know. We came all this way and I told Eren we'd come." you sighed. "But it's better if we find another place. We can tell the others later."

Before you, Armin extends his hand, and all it's doing is insinuating you should leave. "Okay. I'll make it up to you.  Let's go, then."

He was all honeyed words and lopsided smiles, so you didn't hesitate, not even a bit, to take his hand. As you're leaving and talking, you let him draw you closer to the sound of his calming voice. 

Under the ghostly evening lights of the restaurant front, you clutched onto the sleeve of Eren's sweater with your free hand as Armin pulled you away with the other.

☰ table of contents | previous chapter | next chapter

☰ taglist: ✩⭒｡ @rinsie @tengensgirlfriend @ela-dahe @his-brats-fantasies @genderfluid-anime-goth

[stormy333]

Chapter 20...

Hello, my darlings and welcome back to Stormy Ville!

As you can probably tell by the title, we are about to enter a brand new chapter of my life haha, Okay this is terrifying. I’ve had so many changes going on in my life at the moment and before this moment, but this post is going to be very similar to my seventeenth and eighteenth birthday post, AYE shout out to my bestie it’s been two years on the 11th since we met! Happy Friendiversary if you read this but also you know I’m going to blow up your phone! Any who let’s get into this, first we’re going to start with twenty things I don’t want to carry with me into my next chapter/decade/sub-genre of my life.

Guilt

Body shame

Self-hatred

Pain

Her

Him

Shame

Self-pity

Judgement

Cruel words

The fear of loving

Lies

Fear

Toxic Positivity

Denial

Self-Sabotage

The fear that I’m not enough.

Being too prideful to take the first steps to mend a fence.

The feeling of being a burden because of my illnesses.

The idea that everyone has to like me, or I’ll die.

Now a letter to myself before the goals and plans.

May this darling angel find her way back home. May she rest for her battle was great and her faith stayed strong. But one last thing I have to say to her… My love, you still live within me. This isn’t goodbye, this is just see you later. See you when you reform. When you finish your complete evolution or when this version of me is no longer and I join you there in the bed of roses.

Is it peaceful there? I’m grateful to you. I wish you the best, my love. I pray you’re at peace. I’m learning to be who you need the most. I’m learning that forgiveness isn’t just words. Letting go isn’t as easy as everyone acts, and that just because my path is different and “wrong” to them? It doesn’t mean it is. And most importantly… I’m learning to forgive you. For what you didn’t and couldn’t know. With that comes forgiving my current self for not knowing. For not reacting the way we would now. Can you forgive me… for not loving you until it was too late?

We built these walls up together and at some point, we built one between ourselves. Baby girl, I hear your screams as much as you hear mine. We’ve been taking the wall down piece by piece and trying so hard to heal each other but the closer we get the harder it becomes. I want that part of me back, I want you back. I know we can never be the same, but we can flourish together into a perfectly imperfect jewel that is one of a kind… irreplaceable.

Something I’ve learned during our time apart is that we can’t turn the clock back. It’s something so basic but such a difficult lesson. We can’t go back to the days when it was just us kids with gram and grandpa. We can’t erase the things we’ve done. The things we’ve said. The things we went through… they won’t go away. They made us who we are. Honestly, I’m not sure what one was the catalyst for separating us, maybe if I knew it’d do more damage. But I know the moment it all changed. The moment we started to heal. Maybe not the date because it was a blur, but I know the moment and the feelings, and I remember how much we needed each other because at that moment there was no one. Surrounded by people, we were completely isolated. It was life or death for us to pull together for five minutes to try and think.

We did it, our hands touched for the first time in years, and it created a domino effect. That’s when our worlds began to truly heal. We still stand on separate sides of this wall… kept from each other. But at least we have one block gone. Every lesson we learn is another brick down or another link in the chain weakened. Bringing us closer to reuniting and being one again. It won’t change just because we enter a new era. If anything, it’ll get more focus. You will get more focus. Because I love you. And I don’t say that enough.

Signed Hailstorm (You but older and with more knowledge of what you were going through)

Plans and Goals of Chapter 20/ New Era

Go camping!

Finish getting my car situated and get comfortable driving it.

Continue working with Rocky.

Spend plenty of time with my boyfriend (duh).

Set up and organize my room in a super aesthetically pleasing way.

Write (A LOT)

Focus on my mental and physical health.

Learn to balance my health and life better.

Spend more time with family and friends (Shout out to my Gal and her family!)

Get a better sleeping schedule.

Try one new thing every month. (Food, activity, etc..)

Finish watching the Star Wars movies.

Finish listening to the Harry Potter Audio books.

Read 11 books.

Go to West Virginia for Christmas.

Build a Blanket fort.

Go fishing.

Watch the sunset with someone important to me.

Get a Quarter of my book finished.

Never stop learning… especially about myself.

Well, my darlings if you’ve made it this far I hope you enjoyed this post. Happy Birthday if we’re birthday twins or if your birthday is coming up. May all your hopes and dreams come true!

Until next time,

Hailstorm Marie

[spacexcowgirl]

Lightning In A Bottle - G.W.

George Weasley x Reader

Summary: There’s no one who makes George feel quite as alive as Y/N. But will making a move ruin everything?

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Slight drug/high mention (blink and you'll miss it), alcohol insinuation, kissing, George being head over heels in love with Y/N, I don’t think there’s anything else but let me know?

A/N: for the anon who requested a George x Reader based on the song “Electric Love” ! I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go with this originally, but I decided to be lightly inspired by the tiktok trend with this song (where best friends kiss at the peak of the song). Pictures are from Pinterest.

message to be added to tags :)

If you were to ask George Weasley what he was thinking about at any given time, his answer may vary, but always stay within a similar realm. Maybe he’d say pranks, or quidditch, or missing his mum. No response would be particularly groundbreaking, and you’d probably move on to his twin brother to receive a more outlandish and off-the-wall answer. What you wouldn’t know, though, is that whatever George chose to reply with, was most likely a lie.

You see, George did think about all of things listed, but there was something else that plagued his thoughts far more often than he’d ever like to admit. Y/N Y/L/N.

The two of them had been best friends for years now, having met during their first year at Hogwarts. Y/N had this presence that even at the age of 11 had pulled him in. His worst days could be brightened by her smile alone, his best days made impossibly better when she appeared at his side. She was like the strike of lightning shocking a darkened night sky to life, the sugar rush that surged energy throughout your body. She was a drug that brought George to his highest highs, and he would be remiss to let her slip through his fingers.

If it wasn’t clear, George was smitten with the girl. It had now been nearly half a decade that he had harbored feelings for her, and he had never acted on them. He was terrified of being rejected or messing up their friendship entirely. Some part of him was addicted to the rush her presence brought, the way she lit up every room and nearly set him, body and soul, ablaze. He couldn’t risk losing that over his silly feelings.

So, now he sat at a Gryffindor party, where he should be celebrating after a victory over Slytherin. But, he just didn’t have the heart for it. Not while he watched her speak animatedly to Roger Davies, a beautiful smile lighting up her entire face. Even from his place across the room, George could see that Davies was contributing very little to the conversation, but rather seemed just as enamored by her as everyone else.

“Keep staring, why don’t you?” A voice startled George slightly, causing him to gulp before realizing that it was only Fred. “Not like that’s creepy at all.”

“Oh shut it,” George grumbled in response, although he couldn’t help a slight blush from rising to his cheeks. He hated being caught looking like a lovesick puppy.

“Seriously, mate, when are you just going to man up and ask her out?” Fred took a sip from his cup, and George didn’t miss his slight grimace as the liquid burned his throat.

“We’re not talking about this.” George groaned. 

Obviously, he was closer with Fred than anyone else in his life, but Fred just didn’t get it. He hadn’t met a girl that got his heart racing the way Y/N made George’s heart race. So, any girl that Fred was casually interested in, he went for. And it always worked out. George could take a shot at flirting with random girls that he thought were fit, because they didn’t really matter. But the idea of making a fool of himself in front of Y/N, the possibility of ruining things, it made him feel ill.

Fred looked as though he was going to press his brother further, but was cut off by the music stopping abruptly and a sharp whistle garnering his attention. In the center of the common room, Angelina Johnson stood atop a table, her hands cupping around her mouth as she made an announcement.

“Oi, we’re going to be starting a round of truth or dare, if you wanna join come over.” 

Fred glanced over at his brother, a devilish glint sparkling in his eyes before they both wordlessly communicated that they would be playing. They wandered to the center of the room with a few others, Fred immediately jumping over the back of the couch with ease. George took a place on the floor instead, figuring someone else would want to sit on the couch more. He couldn’t help but grin widely when Y/N took a few steps, then plopped down on the plush carpet beside him.

“I‘ve hardly seen you all night, hot shot,” Y/N bumped her shoulder into his, a teasing smile on her lips. “What, you hit the most bludgers in a game and suddenly you’re too cool for your best friend?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” George teased back, chuckling heartily when she gasped and lightly swatted at his arm. “I’m only kidding! Godric, woman, excuse me for wanting to give you your alone time with Davies.” He had intended for his words to come of jokingly, but he heard the way he sneered out the other boy’s name, and he couldn’t help but cringe.

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up, as if she truly had no idea what he was on about, but before the conversation could progress any further, Angelina was clearing her throat and garnering all those who gathered’s attention. She explained that if anyone refused to answer the truth or do the dare they were given, they’d have to take a shot to make up for it. Hums in agreement sounded around the circle, then it finally got started.

George could feel nerves bubbling in his stomach, because it seemed no one was holding back that night. Of course, he was always up for a challenge and very little scared him, but Fred was playing too. And every time he’d catch his brother’s eye, and Fred would shoot him that smirk, George knew he was planning something. 

It was Neville who was the one to ask Fred ‘truth or dare?’ And George’s stomach immediately dropped. That meant Fred would be going next, and he was certain he’d be choosing him. After Fred finished his one-minute long hand stand, per Neville’s very PG dare, the older twin immediately set his gaze on his brother like a predator locking in on its prey. George gulped, causing Y/N to side-eye him warily.

“Georgie,” Fred cooed innocently. “Truth or dare?”

George pondered his options for a moment. If he picked truth, there was a chance Fred would ask something that would force him to admit his feelings for Y/N. Of course, he could always refuse and take a shot, but that would look awfully suspicious, wouldn’t it? Then again, he didn’t even want to imagine what Fred would come up with for a dare. Biting down anxiously on his bottom lip, George pleaded with his brother wordlessly.

“Come on Georgie, we don’t have all night.” Fred exhaled.

“Dare.” George settled on, not granting himself another moment to ponder which was the right choice. As the corners of Fred’s lips curled upward, making him looking strikingly like the Chesire Cat, George was certain he made the wrong decision.

“Alrighty then,” Fred leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I dare you to kiss Y/N.”

“You creep!” Y/N laughed out, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Why would you want to watch your brother kiss me?”

George was certain his face couldn’t get any redder, but his expression was contorted into one of anger. Fred had never understood limits, he always took everything a step too far, and usually George was the one to reel things back in. Fred’s expression seemed to soften at the sight of George’s genuine frustration, but it offered little reprieve to the situation.

“Or, he can take a shot. No big deal.” Fred scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, doing his best to fix the situation he created. Everyone else seemed eerily silent as their gazes shifted between George and Y/N.

“Yeah, I’ll just take a shot.” George sighed.

“Why?” Y/N spoke, a little too quickly. If George didn’t know any better, he’d think she almost looked embarrassed.

“I mean, I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable…” George trailed off sheepishly.

“Right, right,” Y/N nodded in understanding, but George could sense the change in her usual demeanor instantly. “That would be so weird, especially in front of everyone.”

“You guys could go into one of the dorms for privacy?” Angelina suggested, causing both George and Y/N to shoot her a glare. 

George was prepared to come up with another excuse, to just take the shot and move on, but then Y/N sighed and glanced over at him, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth. It was like the small action put him under a spell, and suddenly his mind was entirely blank. With a shaky exhale, he nodded, then stood and offered Y/N his hand to help her up.

There was a few shouts and hollers as the two exited the group, and George was certain he distinctly heard Lee shout ‘I expect Georgie to be wearing your lipstick when you two get back!’ But he could hardly focus on anything but the feeling of Y/N’s hand in his own. The people who weren’t playing the game sloppily danced and moved around, and George was careful to weave the two of them through the crowd as he guided her towards his dorm.

It was like a sort of electricity was surging between them, flowing back and forth between the spot of their interconnected hands. He found himself wondering if she could feel it too, hoping desperately that it wasn’t all in his head. 

As they ascended the stairs, the music from the party became more and more distant. Still, even when they made it to his dorm and shut the door, they could lightly hear the muffled melody from below. George dropped her hand and looked around desperately, a quiet swear leaving his lips as he took in the disastrous state of his room. Of course, he hadn’t anticipated that the girl he was practically in love with would be in his dorm, so he hadn’t had the good sense to pick up.

“So…” Y/N trailed off, seemingly unfazed by the state of his dorm. 

“So.” George repeated, scratching at the back of his neck.

Y/N breathed out a sigh before stepping further into his room and making her way towards his bed. She patted the spot next to her, signaling for him to join her. George was quick to oblige, of course.

Y/N’s eyes seemed to trace every inch of George’s face, her gaze soft. She was usually so energetic and lively, and George adored that side of her, but this newfound quiet demeanor had him weak in the knees. Godric, he longed to know every one of her sides, to memorize every quirk and edge of hers. After her eyes had exhausted the expanse of his freckled skin, they finally landed on his lips, before returning to his deep brown eyes. Then, slowly, she began to inch just a bit closer, her eyes fluttering shut.

George wanted this, so desperately. He wanted nothing more than to cup her face and kiss her senseless and fill her with that same electricity she constantly filled him with. But there was a small voice in his head that was telling him she would never feel the same way as him, and this was a recipe for heartbreak, and the moment their lips met, everything would be ruined. So, he pulled back abruptly and cleared his throat.

“We don’t have to do this.” George spoke hoarsely. “They’ll never know if we don’t.”

Y/N’s eyes remained shut, squeezing just a bit tighter as she let out what sounded like a disappointed huff. George could read the embarrassment on her face when she finally opened her eyes but couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, her eyes remained trained on her lap.

“Is the idea of kissing me really that awful?” Y/N’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet.

“What?” George sputtered, certain he must have misheard her. “No! No, that’s not what I mean—”

“What else could you mean?” Y/N’s voice raised, her usual fire seeming to awaken. “Godric, every chance you’ve tried to get out of it. Do you know how embarrassing that is, Weasley? Do you know how that makes me feel?”

George sat stunned, his mouth hanging slightly agape as she continued on her rant. She was now on her feet, angrily wringing her wrists. Her nose scrunched up in that little way it always did when she was frustrated, and even though it was clear she was not happy with George, he couldn’t help but be endeared by her even then.

“Obviously, you can do whatever you want. I’m not saying you have to kiss me.” She continued, pausing her pacing for a second. “But… We’re best friends, yeah? Am I really so bad you can’t stomach even a peck? What does that say about me, George?”

She allowed herself to glance at him for one moment, waiting to see if he’d grant her any answers, before scoffing and turning away. She was about halfway to the door when George’s senses seemed to come back to life and he forced himself to his feet to stop her. His hand gently encircled her wrist and she was quick to whirl around and look at him in confusion.

Perhaps it was the fact that George had dreamed about this moment for so long, but there were a number of things that stood out to him about it. For one, the sound of his pounding heart beat mixed with the music below, both gradually building up to a crescendo. And he knew, that was the moment. 

Their lips collided right when the mixed sounds of the music and his beating heart seemed to hit their peak. It was as if everything in the universe had been building up to this moment, or at the very least everything in George’s universe had. His lips seemed to tingle where they connected, this mutual energy rushing between both of their bodies. Y/N arched against him, thankful when his arms found her waist and kept her from tumbling over. The passion he portrayed in the kiss made her knees feel weak, and all at once she felt both entirely useless and completely alive.

If George thought that just being in her presence had an effect on him, that was nothing compared to having her lips on his. The feeling of her body curved against his was certainly something he could get used to, and he was certain it would kill him to never experience it again.

Y/N was the first to pull back, slowly, and draw in a deep breath. George found that he couldn’t help himself, though, and chased her lips for another, shorter kiss.

When they finally pulled apart for real, they both gazed at one another with the same question in mind; what did this mean? Before George could speak up and ask, he got distracted by her once again biting down on her lip. He did his best to hold in his groan, knowing damn well she would be the death of him.

“Do you feel that, too?” Y/N spoke, her eyes searching between his. 

Y/N didn’t have to explain what she meant, because George knew, and he did feel it. Instead of answering her, he removed one of his hands from her waist and took her hand gently in his own. He placed her palm over his heart, covering it with his own, and let her feel the rhythmic and steady pounding against his chest. Once he was sure she understood, he brought her hand to his lips and placed a light kiss against her knuckles.

“I only didn’t want to kiss you because… I knew I could handle never kissing you, never knowing. But to kiss you once then never again?” His voice was quiet, although he hoped it was reassuring. “I didn’t think I’d be able to do it.”

“George Weasley,” A smile grew on Y/N’s lips, the one he knew so well, the one that sent a shiver down his spine. “As long as you promise to always kiss me like that, I’ll never ask you to stop.”

With that, Y/N used the hand that remained around his neck to pull him down once more, grinning as their lips moved together. He flipped their position around and slowly began to walk her backwards to his bed, only pausing when she pulled back.

“You know, I think we’re gonna have to thank Fred after this.” Y/N teased, eliciting a groan to tear from George’s lips as he tilted his head back.

“Please, love, can we not talk about my git brother right now?”

Y/N’s giggles filled his ears like the sweetest melody, and he was certain that even a siren luring him to his death could succeed if they sounded as beautiful as her. 

Y/N made him feel alive in the way she shot him little smiles at breakfast, or how she’d slide her notes to him when she knew he wasn’t paying attention, or how her voice would carry the loudest as she cheered him on during Quidditch. Now, he knew she also made him feel alive from the feeling of her soft lips against his, from the way her body arched into his touch, and how even in a moment like this, she’d find a way to joke. As he gently pushed her back onto his bed, he realized he couldn’t let her go now that he had her.

TAGS: @theweasleysredhair​ @letsgotothehop​ @wand3ringr0s3​ @sarcasticallywitty15​ @mischiefisbeingmanaged​ @gcdric​ @lovefromrosie​ @thisismysketchbook​ @george-fabian-weasley​ @evermoreweasley​ @lunalovecroft​ @leovaldez37​

[like-rain-or-confetti]

Blackout (Edward Nygma x Reader)

WARNING: Mental Illness themes and mentions are strong throughout. Death!

"(Y/N)?" A nurse with a shrill voice said making you flinch and turn to face her. She was smiling, one that was rather malicious. That made you nervous as to what was her next words would be. "Doctor Strange wants to see you. I believe he has a new treatment for you." Your blood ran cold before draining from your face. 

Just about every patient at Arkham has figured out that those who catch Dr Strange's attention either never returned or were never the same. You felt pairs of eyes on you, some over hearing, just by the very mention of his name got everyone's attention. It was like being in a slaughter house and you had no doubt that such an environment wasn't helping your mental state. 

"No..." You said quietly, curling into yourself slightly as though it would change her mind.  "Come now, (Y/N), you've been so good this past week. Don't you want to get better?" The nurse moved a hand to your shoulders, her grip tight but not painful. "It won't be long. By the time you're done, it'll be time for dinner. That's very soon." You still didn't budge. The nurse's demeanor changed ever so slightly, a bit of aggravation tugging at her. "(Y/N), do you really want to undo all of the hard work you've done and lose day time privileges? You'll risk solitary confinement and things will be a lot more difficult for you. This treatment is happening whether you like it or not!" You knew you couldn't push any further and so slowly you stood up and the nurses attitude changed to the once again pleasant nurse who gently guided you. Before she could nudge you out the door, you halted turning back to look at the other inmates within the cafeteria. "They're not going anywhere." The nurse assured you with another soft tug. You complied. 

 "What's with that one again?" Edward raised an eyebrow watching just like everyone else had as you left the room. "Well they don’t know, they have many theories but there's always something else that’s unexplained." Jonathan said smoothly. "Something else?" Edward raised an eyebrow. "They are aware of everyone's surroundings, better than ordinary." Jonathan explained. "What?" Two-Face furrowed his brow and Jonathan sighed. "Think of Arkham as a doll house and every person is a doll, (Y/N) knows what everyone is doing, what's happening even when they aren't there, a spectator to real life." "How can someone know what's happening when they aren't there?" Harvey pressed. "Well...security cameras if they had access but that's the point, how can someone know what's happening if they aren't there?" Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "Oh I get it!" Harley suddenly spoke up. "They don't! They imagine it!" Jonathan gestured to Harley sending a pointed look to Two-Face. "So they daydream? That's it?" Two-Face said gruffly. "No, Harv! They stare at everyone, watching us all day long so they predict what we would do and where we'd go!" Harley continued. Two-face shook his head. "They say I'm crazy." "Crazy... or smart, smarter than many of the crazies in here." Jonathan responded. "I personally would say they're in a better position than most of these meat heads." Edward said. "Wow, complimenting someone other than yourself Edward? Looks like your treatment is working." Jonathan smirked. Edward scoffed. "Hardly! It's not difficult to outsmart these dimwitted goons. It's not even a challenge! If anything they've barely proven that they've got more than one braincell!" Jonathan sighed in response but Edward continued. "Besides, I would know, I'm the smartest man in Gotham! If not the whole world." "Oh clam it, bozo!" Harley rolled her eyes. "Now, now Harley...the clown many be in solitary but keep your cool." Jonathan said smoothly. "So I can sit here I listen to the cucumber spout Riddles and call me a dumb broad!?" "No one is calling you such things Harley." Jonathan responded all the whilst Edward gawked. "Cucumber!? Seriously!?" "Hey! Check the facts yourself, you wear green, your green with jealousy half the time when Batman is around and you’re made of mostly water! Now who's the dumb broad!?" "Harley, again, no one is calling you that. No one doubts your intelligence, we only doubt how willing you are to use it." Jonathan finished. Harley huffed. 

You hurriedly looked around the room to find nothing out of place, the walls dirty and barely resembling the white painted walls. They hadn't been cleaned in at least a decade, grime filling every corner as well the random stains that likely had a grotesque story behind each one. No doubt the asylum blamed all of this on a lack of funding rather than admitting to Gotham city that the asylum isn't fit for purpose and hasn't been for years. 

Dr Strange sat at a steel table in the middle of the room that was big enough for two people to work at either side. A bulb hung down from the ceiling which no doubt would explode any given moment just to add to the worn down Arkham aesthetic. "Ah, finally we meet at last." Strange's voice gave you the chills. You didn't look in his eyes, keeping them on your now seated lap. "Your name is (Y/N) (L/N), yes?" You nodded. "I'm told you have been very well behaved over the week. You've been working on social boundaries of sorts, yes?" "Do you mean not spying on people?" You asked. "Is that what you'd call it?" "No. It's what the nurses call it." You retorted. "I understand you were in some trouble when you broke in-" Dr Strange began but didn’t get to finish. "I didn't break in." You interrupted. "The door was open and I didn't break anything." "Yes, you left everything untouched, but nevertheless, you know you can't be in the security room. What were you looking for?" Dr Strange asked. "You know that." You retorted. "I need to hear it from you." Strange pressed. " I wanted to see the security cameras." "Why?" "So I could see what people were doing." You said flatly. "Do you know why you care so much?" Slowly, you shook your head. "That's your job though, right? Your job is to help me figure that out and move on?" You replied. He seemed to think about this statement momentarily. "Indeed. For now though, we are working towards really understanding your mind to get an idea of a diagnosis. I see in your file that there is mentions of multiple possible disorders?" You shrugged slightly. "Although this wasn't confirmed due to your...obsession." Dr Strange finished. "Is that what they call it?" You asked lightly. "No." Doctor Strange said flatly. "That's what I call it."  Finally you lifted your gaze to meet his eyes. "Dr Arkham missed the 'g' in 'diagnosis'." Strange looked at the file in his hand to realise there was that typo but wasn't certain how you could have seen it at such an angle. "Now, let's see about these blackouts." He began. 

Dinner had come and gone and you hadn't returned, not that it surprised anyone at all. The expectation was that if you did return, you were lucky. Even if you had completely lost your mind. 

 At ten thirty, the lights were always out, other than the very dim ceiling lights that were solely for staff to maneuver in and out of the corridors without disturbing the patients. Despite lights going out at ten every week night (and at ten thirty on weekends), patients didn't actually go to sleep at that time. The staff didn't seem to care, as long as they were in their cells. That made the routine rather redundant in terms of creating a daily routine for the patients. So ten thirty rolled around and a nurse was pushing a patient on a wheelchair, seemingly back to their cell. 

Harley wanted to have a look and recognised the patient. It was you, slumped over yourself and unmoving. Harley kept quiet, watching intently as you were wheeled past her cell. You were a lucky one. You had made it back here in the end. 

You woke up the next morning with a very bad headache. It reminded you of your blackouts but judging by your 'treatment' that was likely the cause. Your limbs felt heavy, your brain working on empty. There was many times that you stumbled over yourself on the way to the cafeteria. The same nurse from yesterday was in charge and awaiting your arrival as she moved her attention from Harvey Dent to you. She immediately tugged you to sit next to Jervis Tetch. Across from you sat Jonathan Crane and Harvey Dent. You jumped slightly when Harleen Quinzell no so gracefully sat beside you. However the nurse kept your attention in her with a wide almost menacing grin. "Good morning, (Y/N)!" She said brightly. "How are you feeling today?" She was too happy and by far too loud. Her voice grated against your ears, making you wince though the pain if your pounding headache. "My brain has exploded and my heart is racing like a train." You grumbled, squeezing your eyes shut. "Oh is that so? Well, I'll get you some painkillers for that head whilst you have breakfast. How does that sound?" You grumbled with a nod, anything to get her to stop talking. 

As she walked away, you rubbed your aching temples, eager for some kind of relief. "Oatmeal and toast, it seems to be today...as usual." Harvey grumbled. "My puddin' still ain't here!" Harley scowled, making you wince slightly. "Hey, do that one a favour and don't make such a fuss." Harvey gestured to you, sending Harley a look. "Give it a rest for today won't you?" Harley rolled her eyes. "Fine!" She turned to look at you with a sweet smile. "Sorry, dollface!" You nodded. "Don't worry about it, Harley." You groaned, putting your head on the cold table. "That bad, hm?" Two-Face asked. "I don't even remember what happened." You grumbled against the table. "My hands hurt. My head hurts...everything hurts." The nurse caught Jonathan's eye, she was briskly approaching that sadistic grin still on her face. "Well, your saviour and your hell is approaching. Someone actually did get you something after all." Jonathan nudged your side. You groaned. "Maybe it's rat poison." "It's pills by the look of it." "Arsenic then." "Here you are, (Y/N) dear. For all of your cooperation last night and as well as your behaviour." You picked up the glass of water in front of you as she handed you two pills. You cast a quick glance at Jonathan who was also looking back at you. "C'mon arsenic." You mumbled, popping them in your mouth. Jonathan smirked. He understood, you weren't the only one who thought Arkham Asylum was worse than death and hell combined. The nurse grabbed your jaw, opening your mouth and making sure the pills were gone before she left you alone. "Why wouldn't I take the painkillers if I'm in agony?" You asked dumbfounded. Jonathan shrugged. "Probably checking you still have that initiative." Two-Face smirked. 

As trays of oatmeal were given out, you couldn't help but notice that whilst you had been sat with this particular group, one of them were missing. "Where's Edward?" You asked. "He's usually one of the firsts to get here." "He was put in solitary confinement." Jonathan said, making a look of disgust at the greyish, blob on his plate. "Solitary confinement? Why?" You asked. Two-Face shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe riddled one of the docs to death." He snickered. "He was taken for his own treatment, going crazy!" Harley grinned at the fond memory. "After some time, you were brought back to your cell and minutes later he was covered in blood and being almost dragged to Solitary Confinement." Harley explained. 

You couldn't help but notice that during this time, Jervis hadn't looked up from his lap, not even so much as glanced at his food. Although you had been around long enough to know that Jervis had some days like this. Perhaps running around in wonderland in his mind. You turned back to Harley. "Blood?" "Yeah, news has it that two guards were killed a few rooms down. I say good on him. No idea he had it in him! " Two-face responded. "Damn...and I missed it." You said eyes wide. "You were out like a light when I saw ya!" Harley giggled. "You could have been that bozo's puppet and never had a clue!" "Who's?" You frowned. "The-The puppet guy! Y'know, talks through that puppet. Scar-face? Damn what's his name!?" "Arnold Wesker." Jonathan replied. "Yeah, him!" Harley said excitedly. You turned to the other side of the room. 

You'd seen Arnold Wesker a couple of times but never actually spoken to him. Across from him was someone you were had spoken to many times. Peter Merkel Jr. Also known as Rag Doll. He was mostly known for being triple jointed, a contortionist. Well...rumour had it that being triple jointed ran in his family. A trait he didn't inherit and in the end, he supposedly had many life-threatening surgeries to allow his joints to move in inhuman ways. He could actually be a decent funny guy...once you got past his creepy communication skills. You turned back to the group around you. 

"Group therapy today, shit I forgot." Two-Face said suddenly. "How could you ever forget such a momentous occasion?" Jonathan said sarcastically. "It's you, me and (Y/N) in this one. If Edward is there, who knows. Don't know about who the others will be though." 

As each patient was situated in a seat within the circle of chairs, a guard approached you. "Hands out." He commanded gruffly as he took out hand cuffs. "Are you kidding me? For what?" You nodded to the cuffs as Dr Vern approached. He was one of the more patient and less brutal doctors who seemed to actually somewhat want to help patients, rather than torture them. Since observing that many times, you learned to somewhat trust him. Especially since he had treated you a couple of times and actually considered you a person. "It's just a precaution due to your therapy last night, (Y/N). I can assure you, it's nothing to worry about, they'll be off as soon as the session is over." He put a hand on your shoulder and you looked uncertain before showing your hands and wrists. You noticed Edward was getting the same treatment, looks like he made it out of isolation after all, even if it's only for a brief time. Although he was cuffed because he was in isolation and therefore deemed just as unpredictable. 

Dr Vern sat on the opposite side of you and at the top of the circle. "Alright..." He hummed to himself as other inmates began to settle, whilst he looked at his clipboard. "...we have Arnold Wesker, Peter Merkel Jr, Edward Nygma, Harvey Dent, (Y/N) (L/N), Jonathan Crane, Victor Zsasz ...Jane Doe and last but not least, Roman Sionis." He looked over everyone with a small smile. "How is everyone today?" "Is that a legitimate question?" Edward huffed. "Of course, it is. It's the whole point of these sessions." Dr Vern responded. "Honesty is encouraged, there is no wrong answers." "Well then, I've felt like crap all day and to top it off, I'm now handcuffed." You grumbled. "I know, (Y/N). As I said, it's only a precaution whilst we wait to see if your treatment worked. Please don't take this as a punishment, you've been doing so well as of lately." Dr Vern turned to his right. "Roman, how are we doing today?" "Everyone is wearing their masks today." Roman responded quietly, as though distracted, not entirely present in the room. "You've been keeping to yourself, more frequently lately. Are you feeling okay?" Dr Vern pressed. "Yes, doc. In truth there is nothing new with me. Although that shouldn't be a surprise when it's clear that I am not insane." "Yes, so you've said but unfortunately your results say otherwise. Psychosis, remember?" Dr Vern responded. Roman grumbled. "Whatever." "Forgive me, Doctor but I can't help but notice Jane is here." Edward narrowed his gaze on the masked woman across from him. "We all know she doesn't respond as herself and hasn't said a word since she's got here. So pray tell, why exactly is she in a group therapy session where the whole point is to talk?" Jane continued to look down at her lap as though she hadn't heard anything. Her mask covered her entire head. She had two, that were known, this one was Arkham's 'finest'- hardly of her collection. Accommodations were made for her after discovering she tended to become violent and otherwise catatonic without a mask. So whilst she was usually in a straight jacket, they kept the mask on, she was more cooperative with it. Arkham figures it would be a process that eventually shed no longer need the mask. You begged to differ. You were willing to bet that it's simply Arkham giving her exactly what she wants. She was good like that, you admired it. "Jane is more than welcome to these sessions, Edward." Dr Vern responded, almost scolding in his tone. "She is more than welcome to break her silence at any time and if being here encourages her then she'll have overcome a great milestone. Leave her be." Edward rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Dr Vern looked towards Peter Merkel Jr, who wore a ghost of a smile on his face, all the while, his eyes wide. "Hello Peter, I haven't seen you in a while. How are you doing today?" Peters head flopped to Dr Verbs direction. "Hello, Dr Vern. I am doing just fine." His tone dripped in sarcasm. "I assume you are still in a lot of pain. Have you received those ointments today?" Peter hummed, rolling his shoulders further back than should be humanly possible. Then again, Merkel went through a lot of surgeries to make sure of that. "Yes, but only recently." "Ah, I see. Well, I'm certain you'll begin to feel better soon. What have you been doing since I last saw you?" Dr Vern asked. Peter hummed again. "Nothing. Staying in my cell. If not there-" Peters head snapped to look at you with his wide eyed smile. "- I've spent most of my time with (Y/N)." "I see. Are you two friends?" Dr Vern asked looking between you both. You shrugged. Peter responded. "Sure. Something like that. They are very intriguing." Dr Vern nodded as he scribbled on the clipboard, immediately you tried to see what he was writing, the cuffs making a clang. 

It was like an impulse, you had to know what he had written. Whilst you were excellent at keeping secrets, things went south if you were kept in the dark about anything, even the tiniest of details. Peter's grin widened in amusement and Dr Vern looked up at you. "It's alright, (Y/N). I'm just noting down what Peter has said. It's good progress for the both of you. If you two don't mind, might I ask Peter a question about this new friendship?" Your eyes narrowed but sat back on your chair whilst Peter agreed. "Peter, I hope you're encouraging (Y/N) to continue this good behaviour and not reduce it." Peter cackled. "That is your job, Doctor! I neither encourage one or the other. They appreciate my talents and I appreciate theirs." Doctor Vern didn't seem to like that answer much but continued. "(Y/N), why don't we move on to you? We have a lot to talk about." Dr Vern leaned forward in his chair. "You say you weren't feeling well this morning?" "Yes." You responded simply, shifting your wrists in the cuffs. "Describe it to me." Your face contorted as though remembering something suddenly. "What time is it?" Dr Vern caught on immediately. "I'll tell you after today's session, (Y/N). That's not important right now." "Yes, it is. I need to know." You insisted with slight panic. "No, you don't." Doctor Vern responded. "There's no need to be anxious, (Y/N). It's not necessary." "It is to me. You-you know that." You said shakily, fidgeting. "I'll strike you a deal, hold off for as long as you can, I guarantee by the end of the session you will know the time." Dr Vern responded. The distress was sudden upon your face, as you shifted against your cuffs. "Looks like the doc is gonna make them cry." Two-Face smirked. Dr Vern ignored him as your knees bounced with anxiety, looking almost uncontrollable. "(Y/N), focus of me." Dr Vern said soothingly. "I know why you want to know. The treatment has had you a little foggy and you've remembered about others outside of this room. You're trying to pin point where they are what they could possibly be doing. That's why you want to know the time. I promise you, you're stronger than the urge to know. You've not known all morning and everything is fine. Push through this urge." "Oh, now I get it." Jonathan thought aloud. "Put some volts in them and who knows what else you did to them last night and then torture them now. Very helpful indeed, doctor." "Jonathan, that's enough." Dr Vern looked at Jonathan. "You're agitating them." "Of course, they're agitated!" Edward said loudly with a roll of his eyes. "You'd think you'd take it easy on them after all that but no let's push them and wonder why they lash out! Morons!" "Both of you. Enough." Dr Vern said sternly. "You're encouraging them whilst I am trying to reason with them." 

Suddenly, your shaking stopped. You leaned back into your chair once more, oddly stoic. The shift was most definitely noticed by everyone in the room. "What's going on!?" Scar-Face snapped. "This'll be good." Two-Face smirked whilst Peter giggled with glee, eyes wide and unblinking. "It's between eleven and twelve. We haven't had lunch yet. Group therapy always happens at that time." You said quickly, answering your previous question. Dr Vern blinked with unease. "Alright, good. You've got your answer, now lets-" Suddenly, you spoke again, staring at nothing whilst your words came out rapidly."If it's eleven fifteen- the nurses will be going for their coffee break. Nurse Jill will be sneaking away with William Dean, the guard for the other ward probably for a quickie in the closet. If it's eleven thirty, Nurse Gillian will be preparing the next round of meds and wondering just where the hell Nurse Jill went." "Stop it." Dr Vern said quickly. Jonathan and Edward couldn't help but smirk at you but you didn't seem to notice anyone, lost in your own head. “If it's eleven forty-five, Nurse Jill will be hurrying back to her post before Doctor Strange leaves his office to head for the staff room for his own coffee. No milk, no sugar. Then he'll take a detour for the cameras, have a look at what we're all doing whilst Dr Vern rounds up today's group session, before Edward and I get the cuffs removed, we'll all be led to the cafeteria. Then Dr Vern will call his wife, and not get an answer, especially when his erratic patient reveals that his precious Sandra has been sleeping with the neighbour, fourteen blocks away. No doubt he'll rush home because he can't ignore what his patient said-" "(Y/N), enough!" Dr Vern snapped in anger whilst you finished your sentence "-even though he'll lose his temper at his patient." You finished in unison with Dr Vern's outburst. 

After a moment of silence, Dr Vern finally spoke. "You know where I live?" You smiled simply. "Of course. The security room isn't the only place I can get into. Dr Arkham's files are more than interesting to read. Although I'm certain he has just as many mental issues as the rest of us." "You've been sneaking in there too? Where the Asylum's files are kept?" Dr Vern asked. "Would you like to know the combinations for the locks?" You asked lightly. "You're asking for isolation, (Y/N)." He earned in response. "Am I? It says on your clipboard that I only get isolation if I black out." You shrugged. "I am perfectly conscious. Whilst I'm at it, that is not how you spell my last name." You said flatly. "See? Fun." Peter grinned at Victor Zsasz. "Now how about you don't put a recommendation in for another one of those nasty therapy you wrote down next to my name. My head is foggy as it is and I don't want to be a vegetable." You wagered. "So you can see what I've written?" Dr Vern stared you down. You smiled. "First, you can spell my name right, then you can score out that recommendation and then you can stop pressing me about every little thing I do or else I will do a lot more than prove how much I know. I'll also prove how I can use all of that really screw up your life."  Dr Vern's eyes narrowed on you. "What is that supposed to mean?" "It means, your life wouldn't be the first persons I've ruined. My family tries to keep that quiet, pay off anyone who will speak out but not even they weren't safe in the end." Dr Vern was quiet for a moment. "You were doing so well, (Y/N). We had really really hoped you wouldn't ruin all this good behaviour. So is this what you were doing last night? Spying with the security camera's again when you were supposed to be in bed?" Your face changed to confusion. "What?" "You were found out of bed with Mr Nygma last night. Have you been pretending all this time?" "I wasn't out of bed." You glared. "Ignore him, (Y/N)." Edward spoke up. "What do you mean I was out of bed!?" You glowered. "(Y/N), leave it." Jonathan said quieter. "No!" You said sharply. "You've already asked me about the incident and I told you what happened!" Edward glared at Dr Vern, ignoring your protest. "What happened!?" You snapped. "You and Nygma were found covered in blood last night." Dr Vern responded looking between the two of you, his pleasant demeanor long gone. "Two staff members were killed in that very room you were found in." "They deserved it!" Edward snapped. "They were hurting them!" "You expect anyone to believe that you defended (Y/N) and effectively killed those two people when you've shown almost no interest in (Y/N) before?" Dr Vern asked lightly. To his surprise, Jonathan responded. "I do. Your staff members are deplorable. I speak through experience on both ends. I think (Y/N) to be very lucky Edward was there." "Too right!" Harvey agreed. "The shit that goes down in this place is downright evil and that's coming from us!" Edward's jaw clenched. "Besides, (Y/N) was in an absolute state after that so-called ‘therapy’. They were wandering around and those two guards were going to take advantage of that. I would know since they were supposed to take me to my 'treatment' and suddenly (Y/N) wanders by and the things those men were saying... disgusting! I intervened the moment I saw that (Y/N) was beyond confused and dazed and instead growing distressed!" "Forgive me, doctor." Roman spoke up. "Isn't it Arkham's finest of staff's job to ensure the safety of all patients?" "Of course, it simply adds to the poor reputation of this place that they simply do not. So much so that other patients have to step in." Jonathan responded with a smirk. Your gaze was locked into Edward as you struggled to believe the story. 

He was narcissistic at the very least and didn't spent much time on you. Edward Nygma just didn't strike you as the saving type and you would have known if that was the case. 

You were waiting for Edward at this point to come out of isolation. You had asked almost every one Edward spoke to in the asylum. No one seemed to know anything and even confirmed your suspicions, Edward wouldn't just jump in to save an inmate but for whatever reason Edward had to lie, they'd support it. 

When Edward got out of isolation it was like a tease, you barely saw him, Arkham staff doing it's best to keep you apart. However whilst this was irritating, it got to a whole new level when Edward’s associates seemed to know exactly what had happened and weren't willing to share. Just the thought made you tremble, that Edward and his friends knew what really happened that night...and you didn't have a clue. 

You usually had taken satisfaction when Dr Vern handed in his resignation, he had to now that he knew how much you knew about his life. However, you noticed how disheveled he was and it dawned on you he must have confronted his wife. Dr Vern couldn't ignore such accusations, you knew that. It would have chewed away at him but you didn't get to enjoy the satisfaction. Not even when he glanced at you with unease when quitting. You couldn't enjoy it because your own thoughts were chewing away at you. You needed to know what happened that night and the longer you didn't get answers, the more drastic measures you'd take. 

By Saturday morning, you couldn't take it anymore. Perhaps it was a lack of sleep, or indigestion...or it was the question that had been tearing you apart for days. You knew you'd have to force Edward to talk. He was incredibly intelligent, he didn't slip up or give things away like the others did and in that moment, it simply drove you mad. 

When Edward locked eyes with you, his stomach dropped. To put it simply, you didn't look well. Clearly you hadn't been sleeping, there were dark circles under your eyes and you slightly curled into yourself, as though barely having the strength to hold your body up. Edward also couldn't help but wonder if you had been eating. From what he had seen you were in a foul mood, nearly getting yourself isolation multiple times. Each time Edward, Jonathan and Two-Face got you out of it. 

"Alright (Y/N), you can calm down now. Jervis picked up your book by mistake." Edward had said once, sliding the book towards you before you could get into serious trouble with the nurses. It seemed to distract the nurse more than it did you and his action, yet again caught you off guard. 

The second time he set off Harley, distracting the nurses, all because he insulted the joker who had still not gotten out of isolation. 

Your piercing stare could have surely killed him if he hadn't been across the room. He knew immediately that you were hitting your breaking point and so when you stormed off, he followed. 

You led him to an empty lab. A lab with no camera. That left Edward on edge but held onto the fact that you were still very much coherent. The empty glazed over look in your eyes like that night was far away. "Do you know that I killed two people in a blackout once?" You asked, your back still towards him. "Yes." Edward responded. 

Many Arkham patients had murdered. So much so that two was virtually nothing in comparison to the number that many inmates had, Edward included. "Do you remember when I first got here?" You asked. "Yes. You weren't responsive for four days. The one that got you to break your silence was Dr Vern." You were impressed although not so surprised that Edward knew so much. Of course he knew. "I couldn't believe what I had done. When they told me my father and stepmother were..." You looked over your shoulder. "They put me in here, undiagnosed as well as not knowing a motive as to why I'd ever murder my father and the one woman who had been the closest thing to a mother I had ever had." You blinked back a memory. "I don't know why they painted such a picture that those two were so wonderful. They weren't." "Reporters and the justice system love their innocents." Edward replied in disdain. "My parents weren't innocent. If the GCPD looked a little further. They'd have known the motive." You finally turned to face him. "Why?" Edward asked. "Because they deserved each other." You responded icily. "They were committing fraud, wanting the extra money and expected me to play along regardless of how nice they were to me. They began to put their problems on me, expecting me to fix them. They never thought about what that could to do their kid." You swallowed. "Every mistake they made, I was blamed. To the GCPD I was a difficult child, it wasn't that my step-mother was trying to steal multiple bottles of alcohol and convinced me to carry them in my bag. Every single time, my parents chose each other, every time it was at my expense and I never got even as much of an apology. That's what I was there for. To hide their mistakes, I was to play the problem. So I accepted that. I accepted this is what they wanted, what they deserved. It hadn't been the first black out I had but it was the most brutal. Their bodies were side by side." Your gaze met Edwards eyes. "I couldn't forgive myself when I found out what I had done. I didn't speak a word after that, not until that day after some time here. Dr Vern was the first, as you said. Look where that got him." You couldn't help but smirk. "I actually liked the guy but, I knew where his loyalties lie." Your smirk vanished, your brow creasing. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I don't know what happened that night Edward but you do and you lied to Vern, you lied to Strange and you're lying to me. You're getting your friends to do it too." "(Y/N)-" You cut Edward off. "No!" You said sharply. "I want the truth. I need it. You're going to give me the truth." 

Edward stayed silent. "Damn it, Edward!" You snapped, digging into a drawer behind you before pulling out a very large syringe. "Don't do this." Edward said lowly. His hands raising slightly to calm you. "You know something I don't!" You snapped. He thought this over. "I know many things you don't." "You know what I mean!" You yelled. "You didn't care before. Why now? What changed? Are you using me?" "No...no, I'm not." Edward said. "Then what is it!?" You cried. "Put that down and I'll tell you." Ed nodded to the syringe in your hand. You looked at the syringe before back at him as he hesitantly took a step closer. "Give me the syringe and I'll tell you." "You won't lie?" Edward shook his head. "I have no reason to." 

After a couple of seconds you dropped the syringe and it clattered to the floor. Edward immediately lunged, taking your hands and pulling you into his arms. You gasped, panic setting in. The Riddler was one of the most dangerous people in Gotham and he could kill you in a heartbeat. Although it took you a moment to realise that he was simply holding you to him, almost like an embrace. A quiet voice, almost a whimper escaped him. "They were hurting me." He began and you heard a slight quiver in his voice. "They were hurting me and you helped me. I know you don't remember that night but I do." 

Edwards plans for the night didn't include electric shock therapy. Regardless if it was Arkham's so he kicked and screamed creating a fuss along the way. The more he struggled, the more assistance was needed. He had even caused a few other patients to cry out from their cells, a minor but pestering bother for Arkham staff. 

By the time they reached the room with the chair, the guards had enough and immediately surrounded him for a beat down. Edward curled into a ball, covering his head and ribs as much as he could as doctors and nurses hurried away from the room. Typical. 

Suddenly there was a yelp that didn’t come from Edward, everyone seemed to freeze, Edward looking up to see what had happened. One of the guards were stunned, frozen in shock, staring at the other guard who looked horrified. In his neck was a syringe of what was previously a sedative for Edward. The thumb pressed down, plunge the contents into his neck. A laboured breath escaped the guard before he fell to the ground before Edward, who was slightly alarmed and wondering just how strong that sedative was, if it even was that. The hand had been yours, eyes glazed over and very still. 

Without warning, as soon as your eyes locked on the other guard, you lunged towards him. He had no time to process what had happened or even prepare himself for the attack. He fell to the ground, you on top as you ferociously beat his face with your hands. Your strength was astounding and it was the clearly why you were such a threat. You were like an deranged animal, it wasn’t enough even when he was out cold. Edward wasn’t even sure if the guard was still alive. However, you moved onto the next guard just as quickly. Perhaps you hadn't noticed him. 

He stood corrected when you halted your attack and turned your sights on him. Slowly he stood up, wincing at the pain in his ribs. You followed suit, your eyes still wide and empty. Slowly you moved forward. Edward went to move back but something blocked his path. He felt panic run through him but did his best not to show it. Something he often did with the Bat. Although you didn't lunge, as a matter of fact you were incredibly slow.

You seemed to notice his pain. Edward stiffened as you slowly wrapped your arms around him. You were so gentle he didn’t even entirely feel the hug. He looked down at you, your head resting against his chest. You were looking at the ground as though feeling guilt. In that moment, Edward took charge. ”Give me your hands.” He said quickly. He did his best to wipe the blood from your hands and onto his own as well as his arms. Edward always did have a soft spot for you. He never allowed it to show but he couldn't deny it to himself that it was there. So in the moment you had saved his life, he knew he had to protect you. No one had ever helped him yet you had, whether it was consciously or not didn't matter. If he didn't do something you'd wake up in isolation with possibly even more deaths. 

Edward knew you better than you thought, killing wasn't something you were proud of. You didn't want to add more to the list. So maybe in this way, he was protecting you just as you had protected him. Edward also noticed something that seemed to trigger your violent tendencies. It was violence itself. If you witnessed it, it seemed to drive you to be violent to the point of deadly. So he took the fall for it and eventually, they seemed to buy his story and take you back to your room. Throughout all that time, you didn't speak a word and the next morning you didn't remember a thing. Just as suspected. 

"I couldn't tell you." He said, looking into your eyes. You had never seen him so vulnerable. "I couldn't risk Strange finding out. It was better for you if everyone thought it was me." "Why? Why protect me?" You asked. "Because you protected me...such a thing is very hard to find in Gotham." "I...I killed those people." You whispered and Edward nodded. "You saved my life." He corrected.

[monsterywriting]

Thenerius - pt 3

Masterlist

Word count: 4,581

AN: so i gave up on making this just 3 parts lol. will probably finish up in the next part. maybe. the last couple parts i posted weren’t showing up in the tags initially so fingers crossed this one does on the first try.

Alfore was nearly devoid of all life as your odd pair rode into town, the cold driving most residents indoors to the warmth of their hearths. Besides the occasional resident outside running errands and icebreaker ship crew, the streets were largely empty.

You were frankly jealous, your knitted wool coat thin with overuse and doing little to protect you from the cutting wind. However, the largest source of unease for you was the stares following you, only able to catch the subtlest hints of movement in windows whenever you would whip your head around to look.

It took you a minute to figure out why, but the reason was obvious once you thought about it.

Thenerius still led the way, a few feet in front of you despite the fact that he had no idea where you were headed. Even in a city filled with all kinds, purple skin and twisting horns stood out, and it was evident to anyone who caught a glimpse of his clothing what the nature of his occupation was.

Pirates weren’t rare in Alfore, but really only venturing here in the warmer months. There were hardly any normal sailors this time of year, much less the more criminal ones. And, despite their frequent visits to the port, pirates were by no means a welcome sight to the residents.

The city council had even imposed alcohol bans within city limits to try and discourage them from stopping here, the only reason The Deep was able to turn a profit as the port was a necessary stop for trade between the eastern and western hemispheres and too far away from any major kingdom for adequate protection, making for prime pickings for pillaging.

So of course Thenerius would be stared at, most average people resenting his presence. It made you antsy, paranoid someone would grow brave and decide to confront the lone pirate and his companion - you. But even as you feel nervous, Thenerius seems unfazed by the glares, sitting tall while on horseback.

“We’re turning here,” you scowl as your voice waivers, uncertain, as you try and get Thenerius’ attention.

You turned Horse down a narrow side road, now in front as Thenerius was forced to turn his own horse around.

“Where exactly are we going?” Thenerius asked after an innumerable amount of turns in the maze-like structure of the city, the sound of the water of the bay now audible with how close you were to the water.

“I am going to the doctor’s office to buy medicine for my mother,” you say, keeping your eyes trained on the street signs as you navigate.

“What, exactly, does your mother have?” Thenerius asks, his voice careful, though you’d been expecting the inevitable line of questioning.

“She fell ill with an unknown sickness a few years back,” you say, unable to maintain the usual bite in your tone you had for Thenerius when you thought back to those uncertain times, “Mr. Thistle wrote to me that it seemed I should prepare for a funeral, she had gotten that bad. They had to bring her to Alfore for treatment The doctors weren’t sure what it was, just that it wasn’t the consumption.

“By the time I arrived from the capital, she had recovered somewhat and insisted on going back home. The doctors couldn’t stop her, and they said it was just a matter of her body fighting it off, so she went back,” you finished, wincing once you realized just how much you revealed.

You hadn’t intended to say more than she was sick, but it had been like a dam had broke once you started speaking.

It felt… cathartic. To talk about what had happened. You couldn’t talk to your mother about it - it inevitably devolved into arguing about selling the cottage to move to Alfore. And though Mr. Thistle insisted that you could always come to him with any trouble, having a heart to heart with your prickly halfling godfather about how sick your mother and his best friend of decades was, was about as appealing as it seemed.

“What does the doctors say now?” Thenerius asked, seemingly unaffected by your rambled speech.

“I’ve been saving up for one to make a home visit, but it’s been almost a year since he last saw her.” You think back to how bewildered the doctor had been when he came to check on your mother after so long the last time and her condition hadn’t improved.

You find yourself glancing at Thenerius through your periphery. He was staring right at you. You quickly look away, not wanting to see the pity in his eyes.

“Actually, I’ve finally earned enough for the final payment, so I’ll also be giving him that today.” A small lie of omission. You would be able to make that final payment, as well as the next month’s supply of pills, but there wouldn’t be much leftover until you go back to work, and even then with only your base salary to last you the winter as the cold kept even more travelers from crossing its threshold, much less tipping ones.

Miraculously, Thenerius didn’t push the matter further. You’re grateful, finding that mulling over every answer to avoid oversharing exhausting. You find that word beginning to describe your state of being more and more lately.

The doctor’s office is a small storefront in a larger building, nestled in between a tavern and barber’s facing the choppy water of the bay, only a single cobblestone separating it from the drop-off.

After hopping off Horse and tying him to a post outside, you step inside. The doctor had no receptionist, so it was just a matter of being able to find him amongst the clutter of medical devices and books everywhere.

“It’s been a long time, child,” the doctor’s wizened face appeared from what you now realized was a desk underneath the mess, nearly giving you a heart attack, “Good news, I hope?”

“I have the final payment,” you smile, but it’s forced and awkward as you desperately wished you had good news to share. You give up on the smile and pull out your coin purse to hand over to him, “it’s all in there.”

“How is your mother?” He asks as he waves you into his office, clearing out a small section on his desk and flipping through papers until he somehow finds one particular one. He pulls out a pair of spectacles from his pocket, looking at the paper, shaking his head before putting it back and flips some more. He then begins the arduous process of counting your gold.

Dr. Inderpahl was old as dirt, to put it mildly. He was the doctor who delivered you and your mother before you. You’d believe it if someone told you he had some magical blood in him, keeping him alive much longer than a normal human. Though his body was ancient and senescent, and he hadn’t been able to perform a surgery in years as his hands had become gnarled with rheumatism, his mind was still sharp as a tack. So, though he counted every coin painfully slowly, he made no mistakes that would have further set back his progress.

“Yes, it’s all here,” he muses, crossing something off on the paper. At some point, Thenerius had found the two of you in the back room and both of you now stared expectantly at the doctor still scribbling away, “Okay. I’ll be seeing her in the spring.”

The relief you had been feeling burned away, your eyebrows furrowing as your mind refused to process what he said.

“What? No, Dr. Inderpahl, she needs a checkup as soon as possible. The payments- you said it was enough to close your practice for the day!”

“I’m sorry, child, but I’m afraid I’m unable to travel in the cold. I’m much older than I used to be, you know,” he said, struggling to rise from his seat in one go as though to prove his point, “and your mother’s condition remained largely the same the last time I went, correct? I’m afraid a house visit will have to wait.”

Your eyes sting, but you quickly grit your teeth and stand, nodding. With a trembling lip and small voice, you give a small “ok, thank you” and turn to leave.

Thenerius was leaning against the doorframe, his lip curled in disgust as he watched the doctor. He pushed off the wall, taking a step towards the oblivious old man futilely straightening a stack of papers. Sensing the danger in the look in his eye, his expression twisting into that familiar anger you’d only ever seen the one time before, you jump into action.

“I also need the medicine for the next month,” you say, stepping in front of Thenerius and stretching both hands back to keep him from moving forward. You do not want Dr. Inderpahl to be scared off before he can get you your mother’s medication - or worse, become unwilling to go out to your cottage to check on her, even if months later. Thenerius fortunately seems to get the hint, tense behind you but stilling.

“Of course,” Inderpahl muttered, finally noticing the pirate for the first time and eyeing him disapprovingly.

You pray he doesn’t ask about him, your mind already trying to think up an excuse as to why a pirate would be with you that wouldn’t come across as an intimidation tactic. You could say he was a stranger, but Thenerius may argue that assessment and that would look suspicious. Friend was too vague, partner may be taken as romantic which… with Thenerius right there, you refused to say.

Your whirring mind slows as Inderpahl finally looks away without a word, walking around the tiefling with no fear and back into the storefront, a large row of bookcases pushed against the far wall repurposed to hold various ingredients for medications.

Thenerius still doesn’t move, and you realize you’re gripping his sides tightly. You immediately drop your hands back to your side and step forward to put distance between you.

“Please, don’t do anything,” you hiss, about to follow after the doctor before Thenerius grabs your arm just above your elbow.

“He’s scamming you,” Thenerius seethed, “How much gold have you paid him so far? I can’t believe you’re going along-”

You break his hold on you, immediately rounding on the tiefling. You struggle to keep your voice low, but the outrage is evident, “He has helped my family for decades. He is the only doctor we can afford and the only one willing to even go all the way out to see her. You absolutely cannot ruin this by scaring him off or- or worse!”

When Inderpahl returned with an envelope of pills, you were afraid Thenerius would ignore your plea, but he fortunately kept his mouth shut. His expression, however, was a different story, glaring daggers at Inderpahl.

You thanked the doctor as you took the pills, elbowing Thenerius’ side to get him to move to the door.

He allows himself to be ushered by you out the door, though he lets the tips of his horns scrape the top of the doorframe (or you may not have given him enough time to duck completely). Either way, you make it outside with no bridges burned and everything you needed to do done.

“I suppose the apple does not fall far from the tree. If you’re anything like your parents, I’ll be seeing you two soon,” Inderpahl bids you farewell from the entrance.

You freeze, the meaning of the doctor’s words sinking in. It wasn’t malicious, and as you turned around the old man was smiling at you from the doorway.

Nodding dumbly - unsure of what else to say and hoping Thenerius didn’t ask questions - you shove Thenerius towards your waiting horses.

“What did he mean, like your parents?”

You suppose a nice, silent ride it was too much to ask of Thenerius. And, if it meant he could learn something so personal about you as your lineage, you held no doubt that he would jump at the chance. But, it had miraculously taken him until you reached the inner limits of Alfore to ask his question - a whole ten minutes, during which you lost track of his many attempts to speak up beforehand.

Not once had you ever affirmed aloud who the man was, first because everyone in your life already knew - more than you, in fact - and then because no one in your life knew. Once you went to the capital, everyone you met came from wealthy families, their fathers nobles and doctors and the like.

You weren’t necessarily jealous of that - you didn’t miss a man you never met. As far as you were concerned, you had no father. You were, however, upset at what his abandonment did to your mother. How she constantly worked, spreading herself so thin to provide for the two of you, to try and give you a better life while he was off fucking around at sea. Most of all, how she still loved him despite all that, refused to curse him for the scoundrel he was for leaving her.

Realizing Thenerius was still waiting on your response, you cleared your throat.

“My mother also used to work at The Deep and…” you trail off, the words feeling foreign and heavy sitting on your tongue, “My father was a pirate.”

“Was?” Thenerius asks, “What does he do now?”

You shrug, the edges of your mouth twisting downward, “Wouldn’t know. Never knew him.”

Thenerius is silent for a long time, seemingly sensing your souring mood but clearly wanting to say something.

“Your friend, at the tavern. She truly is worried about you,” Thenerius thankfully changes the subject, though not to one you feel like talking about any more than the topic of your parentage.

You sneak a peak over your shoulder at him, confused at the sudden change of subject. He’s staring at a spot on the back of his horse’s head, seemingly mulling over what he wanted to say.

“She says- you never accept anyone’s help, would rather say everything is fine and do things on your own. She asked me to check on you, even gave me your pay to give to you. She said they were all worried you’d ‘off yourself,’ I think it was. Not that day, just in general you… offing yourself.”

Putting aside the tiefling’s apparent penchant for exact quotes, as well as any mention of doing yourself in, you instead focus on the important bit of information shared in that entire rant.

“That was my gold?” You ask, pulling Horse’s reins to slow him down until you were riding next to Thenerius.

“Oh, yes, here,” he said, feeling up his coat, pulling out the small pouch and handing it over to you.

You glance down at it briefly, noting the small embroidered frog leaping off of a lily pad before stuffing it into your bodice, your brassiere holding it in place. You ignore Thenerius’ lingering stare.

“My offer still stands,” Thenerius finally spoke again and you wished he hadn’t.

“What offer?” You feign disinterest, hoping he’ll drop the subject but knowing better.

“Let me help around your farm. I’ll stay at The Deep but… just let me help you.”

You blink, your rapid-fire retort to a different response dying in your throat. You hadn’t been expecting that. You thought for sure he’d bring up the proposal again, using your obviously dire financial situation as incentive to marry him at least for convenience. You’re not sure what to say and the silence is only extending, threatening to seem as though you can’t turn down his offer.

“I can’t afford to pay you for that,” you finally manage before quickly adding, “and I won’t let you work for free. I’m not going to take advantage like that.”

You leave your final statement vague, but the point is clear. You don’t want to take advantage of his feelings for you, obviously much deeper than the initial infatuation you believed it to be. No matter how badly you may need the extra set of hands around the homestead, you simply could not bring yourself to agree to such a one-sided agreement, unable to give Thenerius what he truly wants. You almost wish it was the fleeting nightly obsession of drunken pirate, vanishing with the onset of the inevitable hangover and gone with the morning dew, dried out by the light of day.

Fortunately, Thenerius seems to recognize the finality of your decision and makes no further argument, following you wordlessly.

Rather than head straight back out of Alfore, you make a detour towards the market in the heart of the city, a block lined with stalls and shops in the old town square.

As you approach the center of Alfore, the city also grows more lively as people run their daily errands. Once the streets become crowded with stalls and people walking between them, you dismount from Horse and tie him to a post, trusting his surly attitude and the crowd to keep any would-be horse thieves at bay. Once you were certain he was secure, you grabbed the empty satchel hanging from the saddle and throw it over your shoulder.

“I’m going to go pick up an order,” you turn to Thenerius, holding up a hand to stop him from following you, “Alone. No pirates allowed.”

“But-” Thenerius began to protest, but you shook your head firmly.

“Her business, her rules. And you don’t exactly have the best disguise,” you gesture to the tiefling’s clothing, the most obvious pirate garb even a child would recognize and was already earning both of you a few stares, “Go… look around or something. Keep an eye on the horses. I’ll be done soon.”

With that, you leave Thenerius behind and head to the blacksmith’s.

Unfortunately, when you reach the street of your destination, there’s several crowds converging around it. Nearby stalls selling firewood and thick fabrics and pelts for winter clothing were of course at their busiest, and flanking the one place you needed to go.

With great difficulty and several sour looks directed your way when you squeezed in between people in lines, you finally reach the entrance of the small stone structure. As though to further mock your misfortune, a small piece of paper stuck in between two pieces of the wood making up the front door.

Of course the blacksmith would be away making a delivery when you arrive, you think with a brief flash of bitter annoyance, sitting on the step as you wait for her return.

By the time she does, the crowd on the street has largely dispersed, the stalls nearly completely sold out of their wares, and you were on the verge of freezing to death.

“You finally came by to pick up your order,” Yagiri said, sweeping you aside to unlock the forge door.

Yagiri was a half-gnome. Well-suited for the heat of the forge though perhaps not for the nippy winter air, evidenced by the sheer quantity of layers she’d wrapped herself in, looking more like a textile merchant’s inventory come alive.

“Yes, I’m sorry I’m so late,” you answer sheepishly, following her into the forge.

“I’d tell you I was going to sell everything off to the next customer who wanted them, but truthfully no one’s building anything this time of year,” she called out, pulling small boxes of iron bits onto her workstation, “Is there a particular reason you finally decided to come by?”

“Finally have time to use everything,” You reply, waiting awkwardly as she counted forty small nails, various hinges and pieces of wire mesh. Not entirely a lie. You have a week before your next shift, but you had plenty of opportunities to come down and at least pick up the order.

You apologize again as Yagiri hands your items to you, placing everything in your satchel and take care while rolling up the meshes.

Yagiri walks you to the door, both of you freezing as you step around her to see Thenerius standing across the street with both horses, dressed in more simple clothes and a wolfskin coat.

“He with you?” Yagiri grunts suspiciously and you wish you could deny it before Thenerius grins and waves at you, calling out your name.

“Yes, thanks again,” you murmur, quickly exiting the blacksmith’s and tugging Thenerius away from Yagiri’s watchful eye.

“I bought regular clothes,” Thenerius said proudly, showing off his new outfit to you.

You were definitely wrong. It wasn’t so much the clothing that made the pirate, but his overall demeanor; too carefree and wild to be anything else.

“I also got you one, too,” Thenerius held up another pelt coat, this one appearing to be from a bear based on the sheer size of it.

You balk, tempted to throw it on over your own but not wanting to encourage Thenerius’ affections, and there was no way you could pay him for it. Pelts were worth two months of your wages at The Deep. You had no idea how much a finished coat would be.

“I can’t pay you back-”

Thenerius grabs your arm before you can continue walking, “I have to insist. You’re going to get sick if you don’t wear something thicker, and then how will you work?”

You can’t argue with his logic, but can’t help but stiffen as he throws the coat over your shoulders and begins to tie it off down the front. As soon as he finishes, you step away and slither your arms through the sleeves.

“Better?” Thenerius chuckles, you practically swimming in the coat, “give me your bag, keep your hands in the pocket.”

You’re no longer shivering, so used to it at this point that you no longer noticed you it was so bad until you were finally able to stop and your muscles slightly sore where they’d been overworked.

You nod, silently handing over the satchel still clutched in your hand so you can stick your hands in the felt-lined pockets of the coat. With that, you lead the way through the labyrinthine streets to the section of vendors selling live creatures. You take your time looking at each vendor’s wares, smiling at the cute animals until you come across a stall with what you’re looking for.

You smile at the old woman manning the stall and her granddaughter sitting a short ways behind her, both snuggled comfortably in rabbit pelts, before turning your attention to the rabbits curled together in their cages.

“How much for the spotted buck and three solid does?” You ask, pointing out the each rabbit you’re referring to in their respective enclosures.

The old woman grins toothlessly back, holding up three fingers, “three silver pieces.”

You hesitate, not sure you’d have enough to take all four home today. You grab your coin purse from a pocket of your satchel and dig around for any silver, finding two and starting to count up the equivalent bronze when the old woman suddenly clucks a “thank you, sir.”

You look up in surprise to see Thenerius retracting his hand, the silver pieces disappearing into a pocket of her coat before you can even protest. You don’t know where where Thenerius was keeping his coins, much less how much he had. She picks up an empty cage and begins gathering your picks, each easily curling up into the crook of her arm when she grabs them.

“The gray one’s already pregnant. Two weeks left,” she whispers, winking at you as she hands the full cage over, continuing loud enough for Thenerius to hear, “Good luck for you and your husband.”

Your smile strains to remain plastered on your face, merely nodding in thanks so as to not cause a scene. You already feel the heat rising in your face, refusing to meet Thenerius’ gaze as you walk away from the market despite how deeply you could feel it boring into you.

The ride out of Alfore was mostly silent, you lost in thought and playing absentmindedly with one of the ties of your coat.

You think back to what Yagiri asked you. Why you were picking up your order now when it had been ready for weeks now. You had already made your decision, one you had spent the entire afternoon thinking about but was now unsure how to bring the topic up again.

“What did you buy from the blacksmith?” The question sounds nonchalant, but when you look over, Thenerius looks concerned as he looks at the satchel. You suppose Thenerius wouldn’t be very familiar with a blacksmith’s more mundane talents in metallurgy.

“Some things to build a hutch,” you reply, looking away.

“You’re building a hutch?” Thenerius asks incredulously.

“No, you are.” Is your brilliant retort, and you hope your burning face isn’t noticeable from where Thenerius is.

“I am?” It isn’t teasing, or negative, but actually sounds… hopeful. It’s almost enough to make you backpedal, tell Thenerius nevermind or that you somehow misspoke.

“I still can’t afford to pay you,” you say instead, swallowing a lump in your throat you think is your pride, “But you will be compensated with room and board.”

“Yes,” Thenerius agreed immediately, his mood obviously perking up, “but I’m going to pay rent.”

You are on the verge of arguing but soon think the better of it, “Twenty gold a month.”

Thenerius scoffs, “Why so low?”

“It’s five gold less than the rate at The Deep,” you shoot back, “or were you lying when you said you couldn’t afford a room there?”

“Yes, I did,” Thenerius admits immediately, surprising you with his shameless.

You feel the amusement begin to bubble up and before you can stop it, what you thought would be a small snort comes out an uncontrollable peal of laughter.

You bend forward, body shaking with the force of it, threatening to fall right off your horse’s back had you not had your feet securely in the stirrups.

Once you’re finally able to compose yourself with only the aftershocks of your giggling managing to escape, you realize Thenerius is beaming over at you.

“You’re still paying twenty,” you fail to put in the sternness you wanted in the words, to out of breath to sound firm.

Either way, Thenerius would no doubt change his tune about paying the extra gold after a few days of the work you planned to put him through. There was plenty of work you’d been holding off on doing yourself around the homestead, having planned on waiting until the weather warmed.

“Alright,” Thenerius agreed dreamily, or so you determine, a small kernel of gratification germinating within you at the thought of your ability to turn a sea-hardened pirate into a lovestruck fool.

Residual mirth, you tell yourself, forcing yourself to not read so deeply into things. Perhaps it was unwise - stupid, even - to invite the tiefling whose ultimate goal was your heart into your home for an indefinite stretch of time, but as you continued riding down the path, the sun finally making its presence known and still buzzing with your good mood, you can’t help but drown out your objections.

Besides, after a week you’d be occupied at the tavern and your daily interactions would undoubtedly be limited to the mornings when you returned from work.

part 4

[westmoor]

and above the lilies weep (2/2)

< Part One

The door screeched loud enough to wake the dead when Geralt finally wrenched it open.

Forcing the hinges to give and stepping inside, the noon light filtered in through clouds of dust kicked up by his movements and the sudden draft. Seven decades of disuse permeated each musty whiff of breath but the interior looked in otherwise good repair, despite most locals being too scared to spend a night there it still saw some use as day shelter when local shepherds collected their flocks from summer grazing.

The single room within was sufficient, if not spacious, for its purpose - small enough to be efficiently heated by the tall turf hearth bricked into the far wall. A spare stack of sods filled the space under the bed on the right-hand side, overhung by lofty shelves creating a rather cosy alcove. Beneath a small window on the opposite wall stood a rough wooden table and a rickety chair, and a short bench took up the last of the space.

Before he could set his pack down on the narrow bench to properly examine his lodgings, the first droplets of rain tapped the tiny windowpane. By the time he dug out some candles and kindling, it had built to a steady thrumming.

He decided against a more thorough search of the perimeter, the lack of elevation leaving miles unobscured to a simple glance and the premise of the stories suggested any disruption would seek him out if it so intended, and instead set about organizing his supplies and settling in for the long evening ahead.

Daylight faded quickly, driven away by darkening clouds blown in from the northeast and the wind picking up to whip against the sheltering walls. They were thick, however, and once the turf got burning a single candle was enough to keep the encroaching night at bay for a while longer.

Rifling through the few possessions left by previous inhabitants he went to yank the heap of rags and blankets from the bed, meaning to hang them up and chase out what moisture had settled there. While not intending to sleep on the job he could at least lay down flat to meditate, make the most of whatever rest was offered.

Something rattled. He paused.

Pulling more carefully and divesting the cloths on the floor, he bent to investigate the wooden bench of the bedframe. Upon some prodding the innermost board came loose and uncovered a hollow space beneath, hidden from the rest of the room by the pile of turf cut for burning. The darkness of the recess from the shine of the light was a challenge even for his eyes, and he reached in blindly, bending and searching until his fingertips brushed a smooth, solid object. Gingerly wrapping his fingers around that of it which he could reach, he hoisted it into the light.

It was a lute.

A valuable lute even, by the looks of it, elven made or a decent copy of elven made if the elaborate carvings were anything to go by.

Geralt knew little of music and less about instruments, but he did know craftsmanship, and turning it over in his hands he saw quality not just in the intricacies of the pattern weaving across its body but in the wood itself, in the make and fit of each individual component. At first glance it seemed almost new, unblemished and gleaming, but inspection soon rectified that impression: It wasn’t unused as much as it was well-used, tended to and cared for by one whose hands knew how to properly maintain it, like a smith’s favourite hammer or his own silver sword, old but not worn down by age.

Later, he would have no concept of how long he stood as entranced, weighing it in his hands and pondering the whereabouts of its owner. There had been a musician involved in the first incident, he recalled, but that notion was quickly pushed aside. That would’ve made it near a century old, and drought and moisture, the rise and fall of the seasons should’ve long since contorted the wood, warping the neck or snapping the pegs from their holdings. One of the shepherds then, maybe, an unusually gifted one. People met so many odd fates.

He turned it over once more, strings sharp under his fingertips as if daring him to strum but he kept them fixed - even in this solitude it seemed a violation to tinker with an instrument so clearly possessed by another.

Instead, he set it gently down on the bench by the table, leaned it upright against the stone wall. And then he turned back to the sheets and blankets, flipped and spread them out for the heat to take hold.

Nothing seemed in a rush to disturb him, and Geralt was glad for it. Although he should be pushing to progress his current undertaking and move on to the next contract - ideally a little closer to civilization and for a far better salary - perhaps at least the miller had spoken truly: He might just be in for a quiet and peaceful night, undeniably comfortable as warmth seeped into every enclosed corner and crevice, and soon enough he had the thick waft of brewing mutton stew to go with it.

He had pushed the old chair back against the wall and sat at an angle from the door, let his eyes fall shut. Those weapons not attached to his person were within easy reach and no sight was required to find them should anything succeed in catching him unaware.

Instead, his attention drifted to the hiss and crackle of the fire and the stew slowly thickening in its hanging pot. Of the fabled music of the moor he heard nothing, save for the howling of the gales through the tall chimney, what had earlier been a stiff breeze now battering and breaking against rough but sturdy walls like a great starving beast.

Knowledge of what wreckage such weather would’ve wrought on a common camp made shelter all the sweeter, and despite himself, Geralt sunk into it how one might sink into a steaming bath.

Tension seeped from taut shoulders, but the more he leaned into the quiet the more disconcerting it became. The sounds of fire and food, of his own heartbeat and breathing, should be enough to fill the small room but they weren’t, it sounded to his ears as though something crucial was missing and once acknowledged it couldn’t be shaken, digging into his mind like an unreachable itch. He couldn’t pinpoint its source, or lack thereof. Across the table, the lute stayed as silent as any shrine.

---

Supper was long since finished, half of it left to mull until morning, and the day would’ve long since faded even without the cover of storm clouds when Geralt was roused from his thoughts. He had paid no attention to them at first, dismissed as just another trick of the roaring wind, perhaps something knocked loose and toyed with. Their hurried approach snapped him out of it.

Footsteps.

Not the shuffle of four-hoofed ungulates and lacking the stealth of any predator, they dragged and stumbled heavy through heather and bracken, sounding absurdly and distinctly human.

Fixating each of his senses on its trek beyond the windowless wall Geralt could hear breathing, shallow and ragged, wet and sputtering as though they - or it - had already inhaled half the bog.

He leaned toward the window with furrowed brow as a shadow passed it but the single candle in the room held little against the thickness of the night beyond, and rain washed down the pane in heavy waves, twisting what shapes he might otherwise have made out into unrecognizable phantoms.

His hand grasped the hilt of his dagger in the same instant as something heavy crashed against the door. Rapid knocking saw him on his feet in the next, only mild hesitation before he flicked the latch. After all, ghouls and drowners were rarely polite enough to knock.

Whoever, whatever he had expected to meet at the other side of that door, this wasn’t it.

The boy - or man, rather - was lean, and smooth-faced, and clung to the doorframe with hands that shivered so badly it must’ve hurt.

Any colour in his face was washed out by chilled torrents and sparse light, pallor accentuated by flattened dark hair that clung to his brow. But his heart hammered in his chest, rabbit-quick, eyes bright if frantic where they sought for Geralt’s in the darkness. They were blue.

Belatedly, Geralt realised he was silhouetted and standing in shadow, his face likely completely inscrutable to human eyes. Later still, he realised the stranger was talking, rambling, voice pitched high to pierce the rush threatening to steal it.

“- know it’s hardly an appropriate time to be calling on decent company but I saw the light, and I - I seem to have lost my horse, you see, something must’ve spooked her, the poor dear, and…”

Geralt said nothing - or he might have, too taken aback to be certain - but pulled away to leave a gap wide enough to pass through. The youth needed no further prompting and tumbled more than walked into the offered refuge.

Sharp eyes followed every movement the newcomer made, even as Geralt shouldered the door shut and firmly replaced the latch, no twitch or turn dodged his scrutiny. He noticed, then, how the room and cabin itself barely received a cursory glance, while Geralt’s own belongings - his packs, cloak and swords - were subjects of far more interest. He also noticed how, no longer straining against the throes of nature, tremors ran up an ill-clad back, arms wrapped tight around his torso as though it would keep each breath from rattling through his chest.

The doublet he was wearing had once been fine, now soaked so thoroughly in grime he looked to have fallen in the mire and crawled back out, it’s colour indiscernible. His breeches were in much the same state, sodden boots trailing mud across the floor.

«You’ll want to take that off,» Geralt grumbled before he could consider his words. Their recipient spun to face him, wide-eyed and tense. He tried again, less gruffly: «Or you’ll freeze.»

That was met with a halting nod, and a darting look searched his face before slow compliance saw the first soaked garment pulled from hunched-in shoulders. The likewise stained shirt underneath was so finely woven water might as well have dissolved it with how close it clung to skin, no imagination required to behold the gentle tapering curve of his waist nor the smooth swell of muscle in his upper arms, sharp point of a collarbone accentuated by shadows cast by candlelight.

Geralt promptly averted his eyes, the walls he’d seen as lofty mere moments before suddenly drawing stiflingly close, trying to provide some modicum of privacy despite the unwillingness to fully turn his back on someone currently so close to his own swords.

Lack of distractions and senses far too sharp to be a blessing in the moment left him still all too aware of the activity at the corner of his vision, bent first to divest of the boots then straightening to full height, and even as numb fingers fumbled with the fastenings that cinched the breeches high at his waist, Geralt’s mind was drawn to a performer he once knew in Vizima, all strong and slender limbs and fluid motions.  

Cleared of the heavy silk and velvet and before those hands could venture near the gossamer-sheer chemise - fabric that thin would dry quick enough - Geralt grabbed his own woollen blanket and thrust it at the man, and waved towards the narrow bench where the lute still stood propped against the wall.

Only once the table provided a modest barrier between the stranger and most of the things that could’ve been wielded as weapons did the witcher move his hand from where it hovered near the hilt of his dagger and turn to the hearth, revived the fire with another sod, and reached for the copper pot.

“Thank you,” the present companion said and leaned in to cup his hands around the bowl that had been set in front of him, seeking its heat. He sounded earnest even through gritted teeth, jaw still clenched tight to keep his teeth from clattering. “My name is Jaskier, by the way. Since you asked.”

“I didn’t,” said Geralt, settling on the chair opposite.

“I noticed.” Even without fully looking, and the bowl obscuring the lower half of his face, he could tell Jaskier was smirking. “I also noticed you didn’t give me yours.”

“It’s Geralt.” Idle chitchat had not been part of the contract but the words spilt into being before he could divert them, and for a fateful breath he felt as though petering on the edge of something he couldn’t identify.

“At the risk of coming across as overly direct, Geralt, what regrettable decision led you all the way out here?”

Geralt chanced a suspicious glance at him, but the man - Jaskier - seemed utterly unperturbed. Was this a game of some sort? “I’m working.”

“Ah!” Jaskier raised a hand and tilted his head as though in realisation, in honesty or mockery Geralt couldn’t quite make out. “It’s funny,” he said, nodding to his right where the lute still lay upright. “You didn’t immediately strike me as a lutist, in fact, with those two very scary-looking swords I would’ve sooner taken you for a wayward Witcher. But I understand now that I must’ve been mistaken.”

The half incredulous, half-amused huff Geralt failed to contain garnered a victorious grin, beaming even as he turned his attention back to the stew.

“So you are a Witcher,” Jaskier continued at length. “And you are here for a job, and you do not play the lute.” He had a pleasant voice, an innate ebb and flow of tone that made for easy listening. “Are you here to kill me, then?”

Geralt regarded the lad carefully, weighing his options. His hair had started drying, he remarked, tawny brown and no longer plastered down but curling slightly across his forehead, the smouldering fire giving him a russet halo. The pallor of his skin had also faded, warming instead to a healthy flush that could’ve been a trick of the light, but also could’ve not. The line of his blanket-covered shoulders, the tapping of his fingertips against the now-empty supper bowl, nervous energy and ease in equal parts. Something unnamable tightened in Geralt’s chest.

“I suspect I’m a bit late for that.”

An outburst would’ve been expected, a shock or a scene, but instead it earned a full-bodied laugh, rich and zestful like summer wine.

“I suspect you are.“ And then he extended his arm, blanket slipping back off his shoulder and the lute, thus far remaining a silent spectator, found its way into deftly knowledgeable hands.

Time passed in relative peace, bard strumming and tuning and the witcher mulling, before Jaskier again broke the silence. “You didn’t quite answer my question.”

Sensing the sudden gravity in the air, Geralt turned to fully face him. He wasn’t one for sweet lies. He never had been. “As long as they have cause, they’ll send others.”

“I didn’t - They don’t!” Agitation sparked as a flame in dry grass and for the first time since entering the cabin, an edge of desperation crept back into his voice. “Those two - the sons of the town blacksmith, I believe - the first ones, they told me to meet them here. Gave their word that they would help me, promised a way through this desolate hell of a country and I know it was naive. I’m not a fucking fool. But I had to get to Cintra, that was my chance, but then when they showed up and they…”

Despite decades of experience in human disfavour, Geralt felt a chill run down his spine.

Slumping in his seat, the outpouring faltered as though the words he tried to speak had clogged his throat and wavered, motioned toward the windowless western wall and beyond it, to the bottomless mire into which single tracks of bootprints now strayed each morning after rain or storm. That from which nothing was recovered, and where nothing could decay.

Some moments went by before he could speak again, before the wet in his eyes no longer threatened suffocation. Geralt let him have them. “The others, the ones who came after… I didn’t mean to. I only meant to scare them off, I swear to the fucking Gods, Geralt. I never hurt anyone who left me a choice.”

At a loss for anything better, Geralt could only nod. There was always a risk he could be lying, a steeled voice chimed in his mind. He didn’t think he was.

The lute was set down lightly on the bench. “I’d leave if I could,” its owner said, voice more collected. “But it seems I’m either in here,” and he leaned his elbows on the table, mostly-dry chemise rolled back over wiry, delicate wrists. “Or I’m out there,” his eyes fastened on the opposite wall as though he could pierce it with a glance. “Or I’m nowhere at all.”

In the tender glow of their sparse light Jaskier seemed near otherworldly, unreachable as though the great moor lay between them in its entirety, and yet Geralt had wanted nothing more in that moment than to cross it, would’ve travelled every wretched wasteland on the Continent just to feel the angle of that cheekbone underneath his own fingers, to know the curve of that lip for himself.

He did.

---

“I expect I’ll hear no more of you.”

The storm had abated and the sky cleared enough for a moon just past full to peer through. Jaskier sauntered ahead of him, shiver-thin shirt billowing slightly in the lingering breeze, looking as white and luminous in the cold light as the heads of cottongrass below.

“If you do, will you come back?” The weight of the implication did little to temper the spark of mischief in the eyes that turned on him, as deep and as blue and bright as the heather-framed pools filled by rain, now still as mirrors and gleaming through wisps of fog. Slender fingers not missing a note where they found and plucked the strings underneath them.

Geralt felt more than formed the fond upturn of his lips. “I might come back if I don’t.”

The laugh it earned him rang pure and true as silver, chiming like bells it would carry for miles if the wind blew right.

[salt-warrior]

OMG CAN YOU DO A FIC WHERE CINDER TELLS KAI SHE'S PREGNANT!!!

Okay, fine. I’ll finally write the fic…

In Denial

Summary: Cinder discovers she is pregnant and tells Kai the news. (WC: 1.6k)

“Hey,” Kai whispered to Cinder during their world leaders meeting. His hand rested on her back, rubbing gentle circles there in such a comforting way that Cinder almost forgot all the nausea roiling inside of her. She turned her face toward him and saw concerned copper eyes with hair falling into them in such a way that Cinder itched to brush it back.

“Huh?”

“I think you should skip the next meeting,” Kai murmured, his fingers reaching up and twirling in her half-down hair. His knee began to bounce in a way that let Cinder know that he was anxious. “I can handle it by myself, and you can go take a nap.”

Cinder leaned closer to Kai, longing for him to hold her but knowing that she had to keep her well-practiced posture in order for a certain someone— cough Queen Camilla cough— to take her seriously.

“Kai, the next meeting is for cyborg rights. I can’t miss that— it literally concerns my rights,” Cinder placed her hand on Kai’s knee, stopping it from bouncing up and down.

Kai winced, his nose twitching at Cinder’s catch in his anxiety. He leaned his head even closer to her. “After being married to you for five years, I think that I’m just as concerned about cyborg rights as you are. I can handle it alone— trust me.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you…” Cinder started, but trailed off as Kai’s eyes bore into hers. She let out a sigh. “Fine, you go to the meeting and I’ll go…”

“Take a nap,” Kai finished for her, his fingers writing N-A-P across her back. “You haven’t been sleeping and look dead on your feet.”

“Thanks,” Cinder glared.

“No no,” Kai rolled his eyes. “It’s just that— well, if you’re not sleeping, you’re not going to feel great. So get some sleep and maybe you won’t feel so sick. I just want for you to feel good. It’s been rough the past couple of weeks.”

Cinder let out a sigh but nodded her head all the same. She’d felt ill for about ten days now, and was pretty much over it. Never had Cinder been good at the lying in bed thing— even after being stabbed through the heart. So while she agreed to Kai’s offer of a nap, she knew she wasn’t going to take one. She had other plans.

The idea had been nibbling at her for the past few days when she realized that she hadn’t had her period in— well, a couple of months. She wasn’t much for tracking her cycle in the first place due to its unreliability, but even this was a little out of place for her.

She and Kai had talked about kids— they wanted them for sure— but they hadn’t been trying either. It was something to think about in the future— not now while they were still so young. Sure, they had been married for half a decade, but they had also gotten married at ages nineteen and twenty-one.

It no longer mattered though— she was going to take a pregnancy test.

***

Cinder stared at the stick in shock, unsure what to think or feel. She had thought that maybe… but seeing it in reality was more than she had ever expected. The two pink lines running down the panel, showing that she most definitely had a creature living within her— a baby.

Her hands shook as she set the test down on the sink counter of her bathroom. Her brain panel warned her of rising hormones, but Cinder brushed them away— no duh she felt a rush of adrenaline and the like.

She ducked her head into her hands, feeling a swell of emotions rising within her. Everything from shock to fear to indescribable joy hit her in a wave so fierce that her eyes began to throb with her lack of tears. It was both the most exciting and the scariest thing to have ever happened to her— and she had once gone up against her tyrannical, mind controlling aunt with her own life and her friend’s lives all at stake. But this was so much different.

“Hey, Cinder,” a knock sounded outside the door and Cinder froze. She tried to stand, but her legs gave out on her and she fell back down to the ground. “Are you okay in there?”

“Uh-huh,” Cinder gasped, barely audible. She finally managed to grab hold of the sink and drag herself up to her feet. She opened a drawer and threw the pregnancy test inside next to Iko’s meticulously arranged hair products for Cinder that she had never once used.

“I know you hate to admit defeat, and I really admire that about you,” Kai said, his voice gentle in that way it only ever was with her. Not that he was a demanding man with anyone, but he had that air of authority about him that suited his rank. “But I think that you should see a doctor. Just to make sure that everything’s okay.”

Cinder rested her hand on the handle of the door. Her body shook all over and she knew that if she opened the door in that moment then there would be no way she’d be able to hold back what she had just discovered.

When Cinder didn’t respond, Kai kept talking. “We have some really good doctors— I don’t even think any of them are spies like Dr. Erland was. And the guy who diagnosed you with summer allergies, I totally think he’s right, even if you believe him a liar. I see you sneezing in the summer. You’re just in denial. But you don’t have to see him. You can see Dr. Blanchard or- or someone else, I don’t know.”

Cinder let out a little sigh— Kai was such an idiot sometimes, but quite possibly the most wonderful person upon the face of the earth or Luna. He loved her, and she loved him.

She turned the door handle and stepped out. Her body quivered just a little bit, and Kai stared at her, as if by looking at her he could figure out what was wrong.

“I’m not sick,” Cinder said, though her voice was barely over a whisper.

“Cinder-”

“I’m not sick, Kai,” she took his hands, trying to smile, though her lips hardly twitched. “There’s something else.”

“What do you mean?” Kai asked, taking a step closer to her. “What else could it be?”

“I…” Cinder swallowed, unable to get the words out of her mouth. I’m pregnant. How does one say such words? How do they get them out?

Kai stepped forward, concern scrawled across his face. He placed a hand on her forehead as if to feel for a fever. Cinder let out a laugh and reached up to take his hand from her face.

“I’m not sick, Kai,” Cinder repeated, pulling his hand to her lips and kissing it. “I’m— we— I don’t know how to say this.”

Kai’s face went pale, and he pulled Cinder closer to him. She could see the gears turning within his head, calculating her symptoms and everything that she couldn’t seem to say.

“I’m pregnant.”

Kai’s jaw dropped, then a smile took over his entire countenance accompanied by the tears that Cinder herself hadn’t been able to cry. He threw his arms around her in the tightest hug that she had ever received, lifting her off the ground in his excitement.

He suddenly pulled away, his hands upon his shoulder and dewey eyes piercing Cinder’s own. “Are you sure?”

Cinder nodded vigorously, a smile overcoming her face despite her lack of words.

“Are you okay? Do you feel okay?”

She smiled at him and nodded slowly. She’d never felt so happy in her entire life. Kai grinned and pulled her close to him again, his hands playing with the loose strands of her hair.

“We’re having a baby?” Kai asked, though it was less of a question and more of an exclamation. “When did you find out?”

“Just now,” Cinder whispered into his shoulder. She breathed in the soft, clean scent of him, reveling in the feeling of being in his arms and him just being close to her and loving her. She would have never believed a love so strong could be held in regard to herself a decade before, but alas, here she was, being held by the one person who had given her the whole world and so much more.

“Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” Cinder grinned. “You?”

“I’m so happy that I don’t really know what else to do than hug you until the excitement wears off.” Kai cupped the back of her head in his hand, then kissed the top of her head. “The only thing is, I don’t know if my excitement will ever wear off.

“Mine too,” Cinder sighed, then she leaned her head back and kissed Kai. She would never understand how she had gotten so lucky— maybe it was for all that she had done for Luna and cyborgs and people who had suffered. But for whatever reason fate decided to shine kindly upon Cinder, she was grateful for her happily ever after.

Tag list: @cerenoya @strawberry-seraph @jacihayle @horton-hears-a-who @cindersnightmare

[darkhymns-fic]

Grief and Love Shapes Us

When Kratos stays at Dirk's home, unable to follow the others to battle Mithos, he fully realizes the wisdom of the dwarf with the gentle hands of a craftsman - and Dirk is reminded how freeing it is to open one's heart.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters/Pairing: Dirk/Kratos Aurion, Lloyd Irving Rating: G Mirror Link: AO3 Notes: I was part of the Tales of Rarepairs event, arranged by @talesofexchanges! This was written for @theguineapig3! Thanks so much for this fun event. :D

--

“Already noticed the flowers wilting, haven’t ya?”

Ever since the man named Kratos visited his home, Dirk had already had his suspicions. The mercenary didn’t flinch, instead simply turning towards the dwarf who walked towards him and the gravestone. The white lilies on its well-tended grounds had already lost a few petals to the poor weather.

“Pardon me,” Kratos said, stepping back to allow the dwarf some room. “I did not mean to trespass onto your property like this.”

“Ah, maybe next time you’ll succeed in being a bit stealthier then.” Dirk gave a great grin as he said so, and the look of confusion that passed over Kratos’ face was so stark that it nearly made him laugh as well. But in just that particular shade of the moonlight, and the way it bounced off the man’s hair, Dirk could see those familiar features. Such details had grown under his eye for over a decade.

He replaced the flowers over the stone, feeling Kratos’ eyes track his every motion, a great weight felt within the silence paused between them.

“You knew the boy’s mother?” Kratos asked him, and in that tone, perhaps he hadn’t realized just how much he had revealed just then.

“For a short time – enough to give me her name and Lloyd’s.” Dirk stood back up, the dying flowers held in his thick hands, cradled carefully, for they still had their own uses in the garden. “All these years, I had a small worry if I had carved it correctly. Sometimes human names still go past me.”

A small thread through the night, seeking and gentle. Dirk only dared a brief glance towards Kratos before the human turned away, his steps as fleeting and light as a deer who had come upon something too close, much too close.

“It is,” Dirk heard. He let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

.

.

.

--

Perhaps from a certain standpoint, he could admit when one was being reckless. Lloyd had given him that depth of knowledge more than anyone else.

Kratos winced as he tried to move his leg, and from this other certain standpoint, he could see that it was a mistake. “Urgh…”

“What did I say about moving?” he heard echo from the hallway. Dirk opened the door to the room as he held a platter in his arms, with what looked to be a wooden bowl along with a mug of hot tea on its surface. “More likely to keep that leg splintered if you go rushing off.”

“I was doing no such thing,” Kratos argued, and wondered why he had to come off sounding like such a petulant child. “I was merely trying to get comfortable.” Another shift as the bed underneath him creaked. “I don’t think this bed suits my stature.”

“Aye, and it barely suits Lloyd either. Boy kept outgrowing how fast my hands could even build!”

Kratos leaned back, hitting his head smack dab in the center of the headboard where one potted plant was still placed. “I see…”

Though it was not only the bed, but everything else in this home that had been built by such steady hands, he realized.

This place was simply a wooden structure on the outskirts of Iselia, entrenched within a clearing in the woods, but it was only now that Kratos had ever truly gotten a view of what such a home was like. Where the sunlight pierced through the open balcony doors, where the leaves rustled during the night, like whispers in sleep.

It was oddly nice, to just sit here, in a simple place, and worry only about just how the sun would hit his eyes as he rested. That is, when he didn’t keep knocking over the plants that were next to him…

Luckily, his host paid no mind to such accidents, instead taking the wooden chair placed next to a work desk and bringing it closer to the bed. “This is no potluck surprise, but the broth should get rid of any chills you might be having.”

The scent of chicken and spices permeated the air, and somehow, it instantly made him more relaxed. Perhaps it was combination of the room he was in, along with the assortments of potted greenery. Dirk had insisted the man stay in this room, though he was worried as to how Lloyd would feel about such a thing.

“You know Lloyd would insist you rest up here too,” Dirk had told him once, right out of the blue. Kratos had not voiced such thoughts, yet the dwarf’s words gave him a relief he dared not even confirm. And perhaps, after giving Lloyd his sword, maybe his son would not mind him using the only bed in the home that was even close to holding his frame.

He brushed such things aside. Dirk was still holding the food, as patient as the ancient trees in the backyard.

“Thank you,” Kratos finally said. Sitting up was at least slightly less awkward then laying down, though he thought he felt his back creak from the effort. The dwarf placed the platter over his legs, not disturbing even a fraction of the hot liquids in their respective containers. Once again, the scent seemed to instantly relax him.

Kratos reached for the bowl of soup – but Dirk got to it before he could.

Confusion was plain on his features until he saw the dwarf dip a polished wooden spoon into the broth, then bring it near his face. “Careful, blow on it first.”

Oh, he was not this bedbound though…

“I promise you, I can feed myself quite well,” he argued, trying to sit up straight and ignore the fact that his legs nearly shifted the tray a few inches too far to the right. “It is only my leg that is injured, not my arms.”

Dirk chuckled. “Ah, can’t even spoil an old dwarf, can ye?” But the dwarf conceded, placing the spoon back into the brothy depths. “Just brought old memories of when Lloyd would be sick as well.”

Kratos could not completely curb the mixture of both jealousy and embarrassment in his mind, and cleared his throat well before he spoke again. “I am not so grievously ill, mind you. Simply a tenacious injury…”

“Brought on by my son,” Dirk finished. “It’s not surprising. That boy will never know when to give up. He once insisted on doing all of my woodcutting when I was finishing up a job for a client.” The dwarf shook his head, but laughed at the memory that only he could see. “Even I was surprised he was able to do all of it! Though he was foolish to not wear his work gloves during that time.”

Kratos listened aptly to such a story, questions rising in his head all the sudden. How old was Lloyd then? Had he stopped asking about his parents? Had he learned to call Dirk his father so readily?

But he didn’t, simply nodding. “Then it was a very good ideal you’ve taught him.” Though still, his leg was quite stiff, and the sword that had cut such a wound on him had been done so expertly. Had it been Lloyd’s skill? Or the power of his special Exsphere? Even now, Kratos still wondered… and then such thoughts fell away once Dirk cleared his throat.

“I taught him another ideal that I think you should be learning yourself.” He gestured at the tray still over Kratos’ legs. “Eat up and be well-rested.”

Ah, to be chided by another adult was quite embarrassing. But few times had Kratos felt so caught off-guard, and all by a dwarf’s well-meaning words and a smile that could only barely be seen through a thick beard.

“I will. I just-” But even the simple act of reaching for the spoon seemed to be a monumental task. The stiffness from his leg seemed to travel up his side, to grasp at his shoulders and make his fingers twitch. He groaned, exerting all he could to keep his body in place and not knock over the tray to the ground.

It made such little sense to him. He had only been injured at the calf. Why was his whole body betraying him like this? Another shift, and the mug upturned, spilling tea all over the tray. “Damn…”

But Dirk was quick, belied by his stature. A towel was already in hand as he went to pat away the liquid before it could trickle onto the bed. The mug was already in his right hand as he took it away. “There, no harm done. Even if the tea had spilled further, ya wouldn’t have been burned. No use brewing a cup that ya can’t even drink.”

Kratos said nothing at first, shame keeping him bound before it was enough. “Forgive me. It seems I’m more injured than I thought.”

“Luckily one of us is the better thinker here then,” Dirk chided, but with another smile thrown his way. “This is what happens when you try to go it alone, you know.”

The words flew over Kratos’ head so swiftly, that he could feel their metaphorical flightpath just through his hair. “I don’t follow…”

“Let me put it another way then.” Dirk placed the now clean mug on the work desk. There were the leavings of a tools over its surface; a box full of jewelry parts, a discarded chain, and half-cut gems, as if their crafter had been in a rush to leave, forgetful in putting them away properly. “Why do you think Lloyd was able to defeat you?”

Whether Dirk was asking him such a thing to humor the dwarf, or if there were any true wisdom here, Kratos couldn’t decipher. That, and he was still feeling rather exhausted. “Because… he has grown strong.”

Dirk shrugged. “Aye, you’re not wrong. But it’s not only that.” The dwarf raised a bushy eyebrow at him. “Come now! Isn’t it something you’ve taught Lloyd yourself?”

How lost Kratos was. Or maybe it was the way the dwarf was positioned, his broad arms crossed over his chest, sitting up straight and looking as thick as a mountain where not even the most furious Desian could throw him down. Perhaps, he was distracted by that gentle air of dignity then anything else.

“The lad would complain about that to me when he would come home.” Dirk then uncrossed one arm to clap the man’s shoulder with a rough pat. “Don’t overdo it.”

Of course Lloyd would vent about such a comment. Kratos sighed. “I only said such things so that he would be more careful…”

“And since when does such comments not apply to yerself?” Dirk shook his head, but with a familiar motion, with a wisdom that Kratos had eluded for thousands of years. “You have been going through so much alone. It is too much for just one man to bear. But Lloyd is smart enough to know that you need more than just yourself to get through life.”

Being rendered speechless was a bit of an understatement, yet Kratos couldn’t deny the truth ringing through Dirk’s voice. “I had no choice,” he excused.

“As I said before, Kratos, your determination is admirable.” The dwarf sighed, placing his hands on his knees. “But, that is why I have said ever since you’ve arrived, you must rest, and you must rest well.”

It was difficult to argue against. It wasn’t only the injury keeping him bound, he knew though he tried to deny, but of bone-wearying fatigue that had been weeks in the making. Of long days and nights searching for the materials to craft an ancient ring, of careful wording in his throat to avoid the suspicion of Mithos, of Lloyd, of everyone else. He had traveled to both worlds more than he had ever done in the last four millennia.

He was tired. So very tired.

Perhaps if Kratos hadn’t shed all his tears on that night over a decade ago, he would have done so now. But he felt Dirk’s gentle gaze, felt no judgement in them, despite everything that had occurred. He stared at the breakfast tray and at the soup that was no doubt growing cold. “It is a beautiful place you have here.”

He could hear the dwarf’s smile in his tone. “I put much pride into my work. When Lloyd finally settles to make that boat of his, I said I would help him with it.”

So he knew of that dream as well? Of course he would, for he was Lloyd’s true father. Even as he felt envy at that, he felt relief as well. “I will look forward to when it is complete then.”

“Ah, enough about that. Now will ya be finally eating or what?”

“Well, of course,” Kratos said, but how could he exactly? His hands still shook a bit.

He already predicted the answer before Dirk reached for the spoon once again, taking it in rock-steady hands.

The dwarf’s grin could be seen through his beard. “I promise ya, I have many years of experience.”

“I don’t doubt that…” Kratos said with defeat. “Don’t I still need to blow on it?”

“Of course. Unless you’re asking me to do it.”

Something about the image flustered Kratos just a tad. “No, no, I can…at least handle this.” Must I really be treated like a child?

But once Kratos finally conceded, it hadn’t truly been the worst. Despite still being a head shorter than him, Dirk held the spoon at perfect level each time it was brought to his mouth. The soup was only slightly less hot, warming him enough to make him feel sleepy. Or was it all of his years, catching up to him finally, after living for much, much too long?

Maybe Dirk had advice for such a thing, being long-lived himself. But it would be much too silly to ask.

“Good, ya even finished the whole thing!” Dirk spoke with pride as he placed the spoon in the empty bowl. “Now I can see where Lloyd gets it from.”

“I normally don’t eat so quickly…” Though that was all that Kratos would argue about, also a bit surprised at how famished he had been.

Then, something unexpected. He felt Dirk’s hand brush through his hair, firm but gentle. The slight pull relieved the tension in his skull, and the warmth he felt from such fingers made him lose his train of thought for an impactful moment.

He caught the rare flash of surprise on the dwarf’s face before the hand left him. “Ah, sorry about that,” he apologized with a soft chuckle, the kind that reminded Kratos of the distant boom of thunder from a short summer storm. “Old habits. Always gave Lloyd a pat on the head for finishing his meal.”

That would explain his appetite, but Kratos kept that to himself, not out of any worries. More so because he was still trying to process the feel of Dirk’s callused palm over his skin. “Think nothing of it. Thank you.” He cleared his throat, watching as the dwarf took the tray and mug, and left the room, keeping the door half-open in case the man needed to call out to him as he worked.

And yet…how could one man tell another that a touch from him made him feel oddly comforted? Kratos fell asleep with such a question held inside his heart.

--

Dirk had always felt more at ease with his hands, aged as they were. From forging broadswords to carving out the ancient runic structures on metal, he had kept them steady. So, of course, holding a spoon to feed another was simple to him.

Yet Kratos’ eyes had been very distracting.

Ah, but he was being foolish, and it was always said that dwarves such as he, of those who favored wood over iron (despite how well he handled both) were of the gentler sort. Or perhaps he needed to be, to care for a human child he had found hidden within the protective curl of an injured creature. One’s nature can always shift, always grow.

After washing the bowl and mug, Dirk went on to continue with his chores. The logs out in back still needed cutting, and Noishe’s stable also needed a bit of cleaning, with more fresh hay to give the poor whining dog a bit of comfort since Lloyd’s absence. After traveling as much as the he could with Lloyd, Noishe had finally reached a point where it would have been too dangerous for him to continue going.

That was what was Dirk’s home was filled with – two old men and a dog, who could only give Lloyd their best as he went forward on his journey. Yet still, was it not important to keep a home steady for when their son would return?

At that thought, Dirk paused in mid-action – a trowel in hand as he had been moving the soil from the garden that was at the front of his home. “Our son, huh,” he said, and true, Kratos was his father, and Dirk considered him a father to Lloyd in his own right. But hadn’t what he thought just now sounded as if they were married? Now, that was just silly.

It was almost too perfect when he heard the creak from the stairs inside the house, and the soft call that followed. “Dirk? Are you…?”

“Outside doing some gardening!” he boomed back, knowing that was more than enough for the man to hear. Though, he seemed to recall a story from Lloyd on how angels could hear much too well… Hopefully, he hadn’t just blown out the other’s eardrums just now.

Through the half-open door, Kratos appeared, walking with a slight limp, dressed in his shirt and trousers, his cape long discarded once he had stayed here. He gazed down at the dwarf doing just what he had said he was doing, so why the surprise on his face?

“Still not resting your leg, I see,” Dirk intoned with a smile. He was kneeling beside the garden bed, already abandoning the trowel to start using his gloved hands once the soil was loose enough. “You can’t rush yourself.”

He thought a caught a flush on Kratos’ cheeks, and the sight only made him smile more warmly, happy to have witnessed what he was sure was a rare sight. “My Exsphere heals my body more quickly than most. I am fine to walk for a little.”

“Got tired of being cramped on that bed?”

“…It is quite small for me.”

Dirk couldn’t resist a chuckle leaving him, but it felt good to have it bubble within his chest. The lilies in front of him stood out starkly against the dark soil, but some were entwined with the weeds that had snuck in and took root. Though it was more difficult than he expected, Dirk moved his focus from Kratos to the flowers that needed his care.

“There’s a small trail out in the back if you would like to get some fresh air. Monsters don’t come by at this part of the forest if you’re worried about such a thing.”

“I gathered it was more than safe here,” Kratos said, his gaze shifting to the trees and their outreaching boughs that just brushed against the rooftop. “Noishe wouldn’t be sleeping soundly otherwise.”

Another chuckle that was a bit harder than the last. “Ha! So you do have a sense of humor about you.”

The flush from Kratos was another reward on its own. “I didn’t really mean that as a joke…”

Dirk tried to refrain from teasing the man, but it proved to be too tempting. He still continued his work on the garden, dirt staining his elbow as he shifted plenty to get at a particularly stubborn weed – when he felt Kratos’ presence right next to him. This was followed by the man's knees creaking slightly from the strain.

"What have I said about pushing yourself?"

There was a pout – one that echoed such familiarity that Dirk already had another reprimand on his tongue. “I assure you I am feeling better. Besides, I am allowed to be curious.”

“Never weeded a garden before then?” Dirk chuckled. Gloved hands shoveled the dirt to get at the invasive little plants, their roots holding firm into the ground. “Even angels such as yourself must look at the earth every once in a while.”

“Well… my particular angelic role as kept me preoccupied.” A clearing of the throat as he looked at what Dirk was performing, fascinated by something as simple as gardening. “And even when I wasn’t one, I never found the window for such an opportunity.”

“A window? All ye need to do is look at the ground and start planting.” Dirk shook his head. Sometimes, humans still baffled him exceedingly. “No need to overcomplicate things.”

Kratos didn’t answer him. Instead, the man kept looking at the plants, eyes rapt on the lilies, petals hanging from the stem like arms reaching out.

“I would, like to help, if I may.” Kratos cleared his throat, looking as shy as if he were a child, caught in a secret he wasn’t sure if he should share. “These are for her, aren’t they?”

Dirk weighed on it, though it was not the answer he was pondering. He had already decided Kratos would help the moment the man had come outside, sensing his unspoken request. But with a nod, he then reached to grab a pair of gloves from his pockets and handed it to him.

“First, you must use the tools necessary. Calluses from sword work and from gardening are quite different.”

Kratos only hesitated a moment before he took them, and Dirk couldn’t help a strange sense of pride then. It was familiar again, this feeling of helping another. Lloyd had also been eager to try his hand at his work before boredom would strike him. Hopefully, Kratos would stay more invested.

“These dandelions are particularly nasty little things. Ya can only uproot them with your hands, and ya need to do so carefully. Already they’re trying to take up the other flowers’ space.”

“I see…” Kratos answered, as he tried to mimic what Dirk was doing but with halting motions. He grasped at one dandelion, the seeds already blowing and getting caught in his hair without him noticing. “It should be simple to-” He pulled, stopped, and creased his brows.

Dirk grinned. “Weeds stronger than an angel?”

“I am just… not at my full strength.” Another shift, but the roots stayed attached to the dirt. It was with a particular twist that Kratos finally got the dandelion out, more of the seeds floating away on the breeze. He half stumbled on his knees, but Dirk quickly reached out, grasping the man by the shoulders to keep him steady.

A pause, more than a few seconds of breathing, and then the dwarf reached out to brush the dandelion seeds out of Kratos’ hair, its auburn shade always echoing that familiarity.

“…Horticulture has never been one of my talents,” Kratos admitted, looking everywhere he could.

Dirk could only smile, feeling comforted at the shyness of it all. “Ya can be decent with some practice.”

Kratos did keep trying, rooting up the rest of the dandelions along with Dirk, and then following along as the dwarf took up a few pots to place some full-bloomed lilies within. He gave them to Kratos, no words exchanged, and gestured the swordsman to follow him to where the grave was. Noishe was already there, curled up around it, enjoying the heat of the sun beating over his fur.

Healing can take so much time, Dirk thought, watching Kratos place the flowers on the ground, watched the motions done so more easily, a calmness that had not been there before. But we all go at our own pace, don’t we?

--

.

.

.

It was at the age of ten that Lloyd had been the most mischievous he’d ever been, much to Dirk’s surprise.

By then, calling the dwarf his father was done so without any pause or hesitance, even when those in Iselia questioned so. It was with that same surety that he called Noishe his dog, the great creature three times larger than any dog that lived within the village, with fur as verdant as the hills they lived in.

But this was also when Lloyd had been more daring, sometimes sneaking the sacred Chosen away from her church lessons to play sword fights in the woods just outside of Iselia’s gates, or when he’d readily tell Dirk he had done all of his homework and then rush down the pathway towards Genis’ home to ask for help with such things. A time of evading chores, of staying up late to work at a project that took stock from the gems in Dirk’s workshop, or simply to seek out discoveries – for Lloyd, despite his energy, also got bored so very quickly.

That tendency to seek and disobey Dirk had seen in plain sight when he caught Lloyd in the dwarf’s room. It was a simple room, with just a bed, work boots placed to the side, and a cabinet off to the side with dwarven letters inscribed over its surface. Lloyd was holding precious papers in his hands, reading through them thoroughly as if suddenly he enjoyed the written word for the first time – all while the cabinet he had just lockpicked stood half open.

“Lloyd!” Dirk shouted, and all the papers went flying out of Lloyd’s hands, like a flock of birds heading towards the sunset.

“I-I didn’t do anything!” Lloyd swiveled around on his feet, half-leaning from a stumble he quickly saved himself from. “I was just… Um…”

The letters stayed uncrumpled at least. Dirk sighed, crossing his arms as he watched the boy fidget underneath his gaze, the scrape from an earlier tumble through the brush still plain on his face. The light from the gas lamp placed on the wall hook cast flickering shadows all around the room – his room. Not that Lloyd wasn’t allowed to be in it, but snooping around the corners was another matter entirely.

There were words that hovered on the dwarf’s tongue, ones that echoed for when Lloyd wouldn’t finish the vegetables off his plate, or when he didn’t wake up in time to get to school. But his eyes kept straying to the papers with their curved handwriting, the dates on them calling to his heart with a plethora of memories that felt as warm as the sunshine on his back when he cut the wood for the fireplace.

Dirk then bent down to pick up the papers, thumb lingering on a word he had brushed over by chance before reaching to another. Lloyd stood in silence, and that silence might as well have been as loud as the boy’s shouts when he’d practice his sword skills.

Then a small creak of the floorboards. Lloyd was on his knees, reaching for one paper that had slyly flew underneath the dwarf’s bed. “H-Here. Uh… sorry…”

Dirk gratefully took the letter from Lloyd, looking over the signature on the bottom with a fondness. He knew he should be disciplining Lloyd right now, but it was hard to do away with the smile.

“I’ve not seen these in several decades,” Dirk mused aloud, shaking his head. He slid the letter along with the rest. “It’s a wonder the parchment hasn’t turned to dust yet.”

He could tell that poor Lloyd was confused. Hands on his knees, he looked to the letters with the same curious gleam in his eyes as when he did so just moments before, reading the words underneath the flickering glow of the lights. At least from this, he now knew all those lessons on dwarven languages hadn’t been for nothing.

Dirk had to ask. “So, how much do you even understand?”

Lloyd started, eyes as wide as the gems he’d just started working with. “I didn’t read much! I swear!”

A few moments passed, Dirk as patient as stone. Lloyd fidgeted again, doing his best to not let his mouth betray him. “Okay, I read like five pages… This Deagen guy doesn’t write like the textbooks that we read in class.”

Ah, how long had it been since Dirk heard his name aloud?

“He was always a very spirited writer,” Dirk confessed. He chuckled, shuffling the letters once more. “Had a talent for the pen over the pickaxe, but it was one of the things I’ve loved him for.”

After reading through so much, even Lloyd must have gathered what the letters truly meant, and why they had been locked away in a soft leatherbound skin, to keep the sun’s rays from fading away the ink.

“So I was right! He was your husband, wasn’t he?” Lloyd grinned wide, as if he had just solved one of life’s greatest mysteries. “I thought so!”

“Very confident in that statement now, are we?”

“But it’s true!” Lloyd wouldn’t back down, eyes brighter than the fire in the forge. “It’s why you sometimes wear that ring when you’re working. How come I’ve never met my other dad?”

Oh, Lloyd was already dreaming and wondering, and Dirk almost felt cruel to bring such dreams back to humdrum reality. Yet to think he had noticed the ring, an old comfort for the dwarf that was hard to let go of. “Well, you are half-right, lad.” He nodded, getting to his feet while clasping the letters in both hands. “He was meant to be my husband – but he was only my betrothed.”

He could see the surprise on Lloyd’s face, but some things must be done first. Going to the cabinet, he placed the letters in their leather skin, tied up the string around it, then placed it back inside, along with old trinkets, old photographs, old friends that could not be brought back. There was a soft click of the cabinet lock mechanism working as he shut it away.

“Sickness took Deagen before we could make our vows.” The dwarf rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers – yet the smile remained on his face all the same. “But even in his final days, he would still write to me such poetry.”

“Oh…” He heard Lloyd’s soft intake. Once facing him, the boy looked flustered then, scratching the front of his scalp in nervousness. “Sorry, I didn’t know… The ring made me think that…”

A soft pat on his head by the dwarf’s great hand. “I should have answered your questions sooner, Lloyd. Sometimes, I still grieve, and the grief stays for too long.” He shook his head. “Despite it being over a century or more…”

“Whoa…and you still kept what he wrote to you?” Lloyd’s own reluctance was quickly being blown away, finding the opening to dive in and learn all that he could. “Did you write him back? I didn’t see any letters from you!”

“Aye, well that’s because he had them. That is the point of a letter, after all.”

“So you did write to him! About what?!”

Dirk made a show of thinking on the question, all while Lloyd looked up to his dwarf dad (that he was close to outgrowing), his feet shuffling on the floorboards in his excitement.

“I’ll tell ya… If ya do the gardening chores for the next three weeks.”

“What?! But that’s so much!” Lloyd pouted. “No way!”

“And no more lockpicking. Or are ye going down the path of thievery?”

“But that’s not fair! I didn’t lie-” Lloyd stopped, remembering what had just happened a few minutes ago. “Okay, never mind…”

All young children are curious at heart, and Lloyd’s heart was filled with it – and it was only right for a parent to nurture his child’s curiosity.

“You’ll really tell me then?” Lloyd asked, as if binding Dirk to a sacred promise.

The dwarf would treat it as such. “Of course. Gives this old man an excuse to talk for hours.”

.

.

.

--

When Lloyd was home, suddenly the previous quietude of the home felt more energetic. No longer was it just the sounds of Dirk’s hammer clanging away over the anvil, of Noishe’s soft whining on his lap when he visited Kratos in the room, or of the rhythm of bird chirping from the branches overhead. Lloyd stomped over the stairs as he rushed to pack his belongings, as he greeted Dirk each time he passed him by the forge, as he moved with renewed motivation for another journey out into the world.

Kratos, meanwhile, sat at the dining table, content to watch his son already make his decisions. As he would need to do so himself. His leg had healed up, in part by his Exsphere, but also by Dirk’s care.

Yet he wondered if it was more due to the latter…

“Krato- Uh, I mean, dad.” Lloyd ran up to him, still stumbling over the word that was both familiar yet not. But the effort was appreciated. “Here, I meant to give you this, since you have to go… It’s a wooden charm! Presea helped me out with the design a little, and since you’re giving me your pendant, I figured… well, you know.”

The gift was unexpected, but Kratos held out his hand to accept it – a polished piece of wood, set in the shape of a seed, with curves and sigils carved into its surface. A long piece of twine looped through a makeshift hole at the top of the charm, creating an intricately made necklace. Lloyd scratched his cheek, looking slightly nervous but eager all the same.

“You can adjust it to fit around your neck or wrist if you wanted! But, you don’t have to wear it at all, I mean.”

Kratos smiled. Even as his first instinct of denying he was not worthy of such a gift resurfaced (old habits), he instead tried to learn acceptance of himself. “Lloyd, thank you. It is more than enough for me.”

The pride on Lloyd’s face was nearly so infectious, a grin that sported a brightness matching the sun. “Hehe. I can help you put it on!”

Well, perhaps Kratos could go about acceptance a bit more slowly then. “Ah, I can do it myself-”

“Ay, now that’s nonsense.” The thick-accented voice of Dirk reverberated throughout the household, followed by his stomping footsteps. Even so the dwarf was at his side in barely a moment’s notice. “Allow me to help then. Can examine my son’s handiwork in the meantime.”

Kratos’ embarrassment must have been so plain on his face. He cleared his throat, but Dirk had already taken the wooden charm necklace, unfurling the string. “Really, I can do this myself…”

But he was helpless to Dirk’s smile, to his gentle hands as he shifted aside Kratos’ hair, sliding the necklace over him. He felt the other’s fingertips brush over him, even the frizzle of his beard that took up nearly half the dwarf’s face, yet it didn’t dim the other’s smile in the slightest.

Now why was Kratos so nervous over something this simple? He couldn’t understand it…

“Been improving, lad. Maybe Presea can be your new tutor.” Dirk tied the knot just at the base of Kratos’ neck.

“Told you I was getting better! I always made sure to practice while I was away.” Lloyd discussed with Dirk so easily, despite Kratos’ blush that must have been growing more obvious by the second.

Once Dirk stepped back, he let out a breath that had been held so long in his chest – and then inhaled again once the dwarf wrapped a friendly arm around him.

“You do make your fathers proud, Lloyd,” Dirk complimented, before looking down at Kratos. Seated at the table as he was, he was now, for the first time, at a lower height than Dirk. “Looks very fine on you, too.”

“I-” Kratos stuttered, cleared his throat again, feeling the cool surface of the wood against his collarbone, but remembering the warmth of the hands on him. “That is… It is only because of Lloyd that…”

“Learn to accept a compliment, why don’t ya?” A grin that could warm the ice on a chilly winter day. “A handsome man like you should be used to it.”

“That’s… not necessary…” But the arm around his shoulder felt so welcoming that he stayed in it, with no thought to leaving it just yet.

It took him a moment to remember that Lloyd was but a few feet away from them. He gazed back at his son, who was looking at the two very curiously.

“Huh, did I miss something…?”

Oh, I’m being a fool, Kratos thought with a bit of shame. But the arm only held him more firmly, so steady.

“Just a bit of fatherly bonding, is all,” Dirk told his son, with a confidence that Kratos wondered if he ever had in his entire life.

Lloyd blinked, angled his head just slightly – and then realization hit. “Ohh!” His grin was practically identical to Dirk’s. “I see! That’s great for both of you!”

With a cough, Kratos placed a hand over his forehead, unused to such vigor from so many at once. It is not even true, yet he accepts it so easily, Kratos thought, even as he felt a sense of relief. Or, was it true? He wasn’t even sure now.

“Does that mean you’ll send him letters too then?” Lloyd asked suddenly, eager just as before.

Kratos raised his head, once more left in the dark. “I’m sorry. Letters?”

Dirk’s grin stayed on, but with an air of fondness. The arm around him seemed to feel even gentler. “Aye, a bit of a story there. If ya want to hear, I could tell it.”

“Let me tell it! Let me!”

“Lloyd, don’t you have some packing to do still?”

“Aw, but I can tell it good, I swear!”

Kratos sighed, feeling a little weary, both for the situation and for what he would need to do once he made his own journey. But a smile finally graced his lips, hearing both Lloyd and Dirk chat away, still being held so close.

Maybe it was okay to be this happy, at least for a while.

[spaceskam]

prompt #5: hallmark-esque returning to hometown after years [ao3]

Jenna Cameron had no intention of seeing Liz Ortecho again.

They’d met in a college town in 2010‒Jenna was on leave and Liz was stressed over finals and they were both looking for a distraction. They’d talked for too many hours in a bar that didn’t say anything about their underaged patrons and had stumbled out a little drunk and a little handsy. They hooked up in Liz’s dorm and Jenna stayed the night. They ate breakfast together, talked, laughed, spoke vaguely about staying in touch, hooked up one more time before Jenna had to get ready. She had a plane to catch.

They didn’t stay in touch. There were too many reasons that they couldn’t, too many life things. Jenna was focused on taking care of her sister and hating the men she was surrounded by. When she finally got out of the military, she bounced around for a while to find somewhere that felt right and she ended up landing in a small town called Roswell, New Mexico.

Her coworkers were nice and the townspeople weren’t bad if you ignored most of them. It was fine, for now. She could have fun hooking up with the broad shouldered deputy and she had the time to teach herself how to knit half a sock that was too big for any living human and she finished a book for the first time in nearly a decade. It was fine for now. It was like she was waiting for the reason she felt this was a good stopping point, waiting for something to happen that would make it make sense.

And then she saw Liz Ortecho.

“License and registration?”

“Oh, this is bullshit. It’s the middle of the night and there is no reason for this unless you’re searching for a goddamn murderer that might be running, so, tell me, are you? Do you think I have a murderer in my car, hidden under a blanket in the backseat? Are you going to search? Or do you just see someone who isn’t white as a sheet and think‒”

“Liz?” Jenna asked. Liz froze as she blinked with the light in her eyes, so Jenna turned the flashlight to face the ground.

She didn’t actually expect Liz to remember her. Hell, she hadn’t expected to remember Liz. There was no reason for her to remember a one night stand, regardless of how charming she was. Jenna thought of her more often than she should when she knew she would never see her again. But here she was, somehow in the same small town eight years after they’d met.

“Jenna?” Liz asked, her eyes widening as recognition set in. Something twisted in her gut at the fact that Liz remembered her. Liz was memorable, sure, but Jenna? She’d never felt memorable a day in her life.

And yet…

“What are you doing here?” Jenna asked at the same time Liz said, “Why the hell are you a cop?”

“I’m, I’m visiting my dad. I grew up here,” Liz said. Jenna almost laughed. Of all the places to feel like a temporary stopping place, of course it would be the hometown of a girl she hadn’t been able to forget even after all these years. “Your turn, since when the hell were you planning to become a cop? I thought you hated the whole military environment, why would you go to the next closest thing?”

And all Jenna could think was she remembered something I didn’t like.

“Life, I guess,” Jenna offered in lieu of childish awe, “It was easy. Something I can do for now.”

“For now,” Liz repeated. It wasn’t a question. Just… for now. Not forever. “So, uh, are-are you gonna search my car or whatever?”

“No, no, you go. Go see your dad,” Jenna said. She couldn’t actually remember if she checked her license and registration. It didn’t matter.

“Yeah, okay, uh, was nice seeing you again,” Liz said, giving a small smile and a nod.

“You too.”

Liz looked forward and put her car back in drive, but she barely moved a centimeter before she slammed on her breaks again and looked over to Jenna with that familiar look in her eye. God, it was familiar. How could something she hadn’t seen in eight years feel so familiar?

“My dad owns the Crashdown,” she stated. Jenna’s eyebrows raised a little.

“That’s where I get breakfast,” she admitted. Liz smiled.

“Then maybe I’ll see you around.”

“You will.”

Liz drove off for real that time and it left Jenna frozen in her place. And it seems, just like it was for the last eight years, her thoughts were consumed with Liz Ortecho. Just, now, it was something within reach.

Because Liz Ortecho had come home and Jenna was, for some reason, already waiting.

-

Jenna Cameron had never been known for her restraint.

Quite the opposite, actually. She was impulsive and, while she never quite considered herself to have vices, she also never deprived herself. She was never irresponsible or stupid, but she understood humans had only so much time before they died and it was over. Why not chase after things that were good and do risky things that were always worth it?

It was how she ended up at nearly midnight, walking past the Crashdown.

There was no reason for Liz to still be awake and there was no reason for Jenna to be strolling past, but Liz was and Jenna was. She looked through the window and Liz was just dancing, enjoying herself, because what else did pretty girls do if not dance like no one was watching? Wasn’t that a saying for a reason?

It was stupid and entirely built on some memory of kissing soft thighs while Liz giggled through her explanation of chemical compounds, but Jenna found herself knocking on the door with the confidence of a man who had never been told ‘no’ in his life. Liz jumped and turned her head, clearly startled. Jenna just gave her kindest smile. She had no idea what she was going to say to her. ‘How have you been’ sounded too hollow, while ‘I’ve been thinking about you every day for eight years’ felt too full.

“Hi,” Liz said, a soft smile replacing her shock as she unlocked the door, “Funny meeting you here.”

“I felt like we got off on the wrong foot,” Jenna said, “Wasn’t exactly the best way to see you again after all this time.”

“Yeah, officer,” Liz laughed, “Maybe you shouldn’t have checkpoints.”

“They’re routine.”

“They’re pointless,” Liz corrected, still giving her that smile that told Jenna everything she thought about it. Jenna just nodded. She couldn’t disagree.

“But I wouldn’t have known you were back in town, so maybe they aren’t completely pointless,” Jenna said. Liz gave a playful glare up at her.

“We get it, Jenna, you’re charming. This isn’t news,” she said. Jenna laughed, looking around. It looked different at night. Picturesque, almost. Perfect place to be standing across from a girl she’d missed for no reason. “So, can I get you anything?”

“Aren’t you already closed?”

“I can make an exception for you,” Liz offered. Jenna smiled easily, biting the inside of her cheek slightly as she looked at her. She’d somehow, miraculously, gotten more gorgeous since the first time they’d met. She didn’t know that was possible. “I’ll make you a shake, give me a few minutes.”

Liz hopped around to the other side of the counter, stealing glances over at Jenna as if she thought she was going to disappear. She had no intention to as she sat down on a barstool and leaned forward against the counter.

“What have you been up to?” Jenna asked, eager to keep the conversation going. Liz looked up at her a little wistfully.

“I was working on a study, boring biomedical research. It was for regenerative medicine so I could eventually start targeting more chronic illnesses and making them at the very least bearable, but our funding got pulled and I guess it just seemed like a good time to come home,” Liz said, shrugging.

“It’s not boring,” Jenna insisted. Liz smiled just a little. “I may not understand it, but it’s not boring. Besides, my sister does something like that. But I’m sorry your funding got pulled.”

“It’s fine,” Liz said, shrugging her shoulder, “Life happens. Just gotta roll with the punches.”

“Doesn’t make it suck less.”

“That’s true,” Liz laughed, bobbing her head to a song that was playing faintly from the jukebox, “I didn’t know your sister was into science.”

“She’s a genetic engineer,” Jenna filled in. She left out the part where she got in trouble for whistleblowing. That seemed a little too heavy for a second meeting. Still, Liz’s face lit up.

“Seriously? Does she live around here?”

“No, she’s still in the military,” Jenna said. It wasn’t a complete lie.

“Well, if she’s ever in town, let me know. I love hearing new perspectives,” she said. Jenna nodded. She didn’t actually know how she’d handle her sister and Liz talking about smart things she didn’t quite understand past a very, very basic level. It might cause too much fondness for her to handle.

“Sounds like you intend to actually stay in touch this time,” Jenna teased. Liz whipped around and pointed a spoon at her, a playful glare on her face.

“You didn’t keep in touch either.”

“I was in the military.”

“All the more reason for you to tell me where to send letters too. I could’ve written really long, obnoxious love letters and sent, like, boudoir pictures to make everyone you worked with jealous,” Liz said. Jenna laughed and leaned into the counter more.

“You could do that now, though I don’t know how that’d fair in a police station.”

“Fuck police stations,” Liz said simply. Jenna rolled her eyes and huffed a laugh. When Liz turned to her again, she gave her a very exaggerated smile as she batted her eyelashes. “Sorry, Officer, forgive me?”

“You’re forgiven,” Jenna said easily. Liz dissolved into laughter as she finished up the shake and placed it on the counter. “You’re something else.”

“Something good, I hope,” she said. Jenna nodded as she watched Liz push a straw into the drink and push it Jenna’s way.

“Very good.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Liz teased. Jenna took a sip of the shake and nodded her approval. Liz’s smile widened. “I still got it.”

She hopped up a little more and leaned over, her lips closing over the straw that Jenna’s had just been on. Then she looked up through her eyelashes and… She knew exactly what she was doing. Jenna shook her head just a little.

“Yeah,” Liz said, falling back to her feet, “I still got it.”

They stared for a long time. It felt like they were 20 again, back in that shitty college bar and drinking when they shouldn’t. Jenna’s heart picked up speed as if preparing to be tugged upstairs to prove that she’d gotten better in the eight years between them.

“I still can’t believe you’re a cop,” Liz said softly, “Didn’t you want to do something better? I feel like you said you wanted to do something better.”

Jenna shrugged. “I’m 28 and I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.”

“That’s fair,” Liz said, “Not many people do.”

“You do.”

“I got lucky.”

They fell into silence again, just staring. The jukebox shifted songs again and a song she couldn’t quite remember the name of started playing. It was nostalgic in a way where the exact memory didn’t come to her, but it just made her feel young.

“I haven’t heard this song in forever,” Jenna said. Liz smiled, but it wasn’t that big, bright one she’d been giving all night. This one was just a bit more bittersweet.

“It was one of my sister’s favorites,” Liz said, tapping the counter, “I pretty much liked anything she liked, so I sort of have this one memorized.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“She, uh,” Liz said, eyes drifting around a bit before meeting Jenna’s again, “She died when she was 19. Driving while drunk. Or high, or whatever.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jenna said, empathy pulsing through her. She was already struggling as it was and her sister wasn’t even gone forever. She was just in jail for something fucking stupid. She couldn’t imagine losing her like that.

But Liz just shook her head and smiled. “It’s alright. I’ve had a decade to mourn.”

“Yeah, but grief doesn’t go away,” Jenna said. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say in the moment and it sure as hell wasn’t going to get her laid, but it was honest. She’d lost people and grief never really faded. It just got a little bit easier to manage, a little bit easier to work it into your day to day life.

Liz seemed to know that very well.

She licked her lips, fingertips grazing the counter as she walked back around to the other side. Jenna smiled softly as she hopped into the barstool beside her. Liz nudged her shoulder into hers.

“I used to wonder what would happen if I ever saw you again,” Liz admitted, “I didn’t expect it to be here.”

“Me too,” Jenna agreed, “To both.”

Liz tapped against the counter and then leaned closer against. Jenna took a sip of the shake before turning the straw to Liz. She took a sip and looked up to Jenna, staring for a minute. Jenna was pretty sure she could enjoy Liz staring at her for the rest of her life.

The first time they met, they had been exactly what the other needed. Something light, something new, something fun. Tonight, Jenna was beginning to wonder if they’d met again at the right time to be what the other needed‒a new start when they felt a little lost.

Liz leaned a bit closer and Jenna tilted her head down to match.

“If I kiss you now, am I moving too fast?” Liz asked.

“Technically you’ve been stringing me along for eight years,” Jenna responded. Liz smiled wide and then moved up for a kiss.

And they kissed.

And they kissed.

And then there were gunshots. 

[shes-fast-like-me]

Day Seventeen: Home

Day Seventeen: Home

TW: Discussion of drug addiction, sobriety, mental illness, relapse, abandonment issues and suicide. Mentions of vomit/nausea. Ask to tag!

Pairing: Established Lifetane (you know me :P)

this is decades late but i still wanted to post this even tho i didnt finish the challenge so. here ya go

If you like it, please reblog it!!!

=+=+=+=

He wakes up pretty late these days but it's okay. Ajay says it's probably better for him than his old schedule of going to bed at 5am just to wake up at 8am for a morning jog. Running on three hours of sleep his whole life wasn't healthy, according to her. Well, maybe he could see some truth in that.

Waking up to an empty, messy pink room was always nice. The blinds at the window did a poor job of masking the fact that it was almost noon and that Ajay had been awake for several hours already, starting the day without him.

He didn't feel like getting out of bed.

Maybe he was just tired or it was the anxiety eating him up from last night but he didn't want to stop sleeping. For the first time in decades, sleeping felt genuinely comforting to him and he'd hate to leave now and lose the comfort and warmth of their shared bed.

Or maybe it was withdrawals, making it hard for him to lift his head off the pillow and get up to put on his legs and start another day without his crutch. It was so damn hard to get through a day without at least one substance, but he was doing okay. Two weeks sober. A small victory but a victory nonetheless, Ajay had said. He wasn't really feeling like a winner right now though. This feeling sucked.

A twist in his stomach and a wetness in his mouth as he lifted his head confirmed his suspicions. Yep, definitely withdrawals. He knew he wasn't going to actually vomit though, but the thought still crossed his mind. He forced himself to stand up.

The world outside their bedroom was a lot brighter than the gloomy, sun-shielded bedroom. Honestly, Ajay should just leave the blinds open in the mornings despite the sun shining directly into Octavio's sleeping face. Maybe it'd wake him up in a happier mood.

"How yuh doin'?"

In the kitchen, Ajay stood over a pan of sizzling eggs, still in her pyjama shorts and in one of his many black t-shirts with some band's logo on it. His eyes definitely lingered on her frame before he crept towards her and wrapped his arms around her middle.

"Am fine." He mumbled into her shoulder and kissed the back of her neck. Honestly, his back kinda hurt from sleeping in his usual overly-contorted way but besides that and his withdrawal symptoms he was definitely better than he had been yesterday.

Ajay hummed, "Tha's good to hear."

Honestly he didn't wanna let her go but she needed to move in order to finish up their 'breakfast', if you could even call it that at this hour. It was nearly 2pm, he noted from glancing at the clock above her.

He leaned on the counter next to the stove and watched quietly as the eggs sizzled and spat oil around on the pan.

He wanted Stim, just for little bit, just to go for a short morning run, but he was tired. He couldn't mess up his two week sobriety streak now either. Plus, Ajay would be disappointed in him and that would hurt more than the actual drug use. He glanced at her face fearfully as if to check if she was reading his thoughts. Sometimes when he thought too loudly he was afraid others would hear him and realize what a fuck up he was. He didn't want Ajay to know he was struggling that bad.

"Whatcha thinkin' about? You're starin' at me." Ajay mused and smiled, plopping the eggs onto two plates with some bacon on the side.

Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze. "Nothin’.”

Ajay nodded for him to walk over to the table as she handed him his plate. They sat down together, Ajay bumping her pedicured feet up against where Octavio's stumps met his prosthetic legs under the table.

"Yuh father called this morning."

Octavio's blood suddenly ran cold and he winced. "What did he want?"

"Askin' about the holidays, thinks he's gettin' invited over," She picked at her food with her fork, "I told him to piss off."

A small smile crept onto his face at that. At least Ajay had his back.

"Mm, I dunno, nena. Weren't you gonna visit your Nana in Olympus before we go back to Talos for the next season?"

"Plans changed," she shrugged, "I'd rather stay with you here."

He furrowed a brow. "I could come with you, you know."

"There's no reason for us to go to Olympus again. This is our home now." She said firmly.

Home, huh? Her little apartment on Psamathe, in a small, rural area away from Olympus and the big cities...

Our home, she said. With Octavio included in it. Granted, he had lived with her for the past three months or so but he never thought of it as being permanent. Would she really let him live here with her?

"I can see the gears turnin' in your head, O. Did ya think I would just kick ya out after a while?" She joked and Octavio knew it was playful but... something about her wording really struck a nerve within him and before he could even realise and stop it, the tears were in his eyes.

What’s happening? Why was he so scared of her leaving? Why did he even consider this as a possibility?

"....Yeah." His voice wavered.

It felt like he was with his father and the world was crashing around him all over again. He could remember how mad his father was when he refused to let Octavio come back home, how he said he had had enough of dealing with his failure of a son, told him that he's an adult now and could just fend for himself now. He remembered ending up on Ajay's couch, and later in her bed, that first night and how terrified he was. Nausea clawed at his stomach. Everything was coming back to him so violently, it felt like he was back to being a scared, broken man at the doorstep of his father's home. Overwhelmed.

"O, it's alright, I didn't mean it like that." Ajay stood up and he could barely make out her silhouette through the blurriness in his eyes. He was shaking and when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, he instinctively pulled her closer, almost as if holding on for his dear life.

He didn't want to be left alone again. Not by her. He couldn't deal with it. He wouldn't live through the loss. He'd have such a destructive breakdown, he'd lose his streak and kill himself in the process. He just knew it, he just knew he couldn’t survive without her. It’d kill him. It'd be a death sentence.

"I'm not leavin' ya. Ever. You hear me?" She rubbed his back as his tears sunk into her shoulder.

"I'm not leavin'. It's okay."

He nodded. He wanted to believe it, needed to.

"This is our home now, O. You're gonna be alright."

Octavio's whole body shook against hers as he struggled to breathe in, deeply, trying to calm himself down the way his therapist taught him to.

He forced himself to believe that she wouldn't lie to him. No, she had never lied to him before. She was the only person he could ever trust fully. She’d never lied to him and he need to remember that. She wouldn’t leave him.

He took a breath in between sobs.

This was their home now. These walls, the pastel pink walls in the bedroom, the cool wooden flooring, the small but cozy kitchen and living room. The clock on the wall, the stove, the couch, the seats, the table. They were shared.

This was their home, where they laughed and watched movies together on the couch, where they came home and unloaded all the groceries into the fridge, where Ajay held him and reaffirmed that she still loved him and that he was still a fighter, no matter how bad he felt, over and over again, until he believed her.

He believed her. He believed everything she said.

Ajay was what made this place feel like home, and he wouldn’t lose her, not this time.

[written-on-the-trees]

So Much For A Silent Night - Spencer Charnas Fan Fiction

Prompt: Mistletoe

Warnings: Non-graphic mentions of murder

Word Count: 1350 words

Summary: It’s been a long time since Spencer has seen his favourite hunter, but mistletoe is the plant to meet old friends under...or while one of them is wearing it.

A (sort of) continuation of this fic here.

Spencer was bored.

 He was bored stiff, bored to tears, bored rigid.

 Some might even say bored to death.

 Yes, Spencer would’ve killed those people - making death jokes about the undead was so overdone - but he supposed some people would still be stupid enough to make it. People like the hunters he’d just finished feeding on, the ones who had honestly thought that they could sneak up on him without him noticing.

 Just the thought was enough to make Spencer roll his eyes.

 There was only one hunter - one human ever - who had ever managed to get the drop on Spencer, and she hadn’t been seen in over a year.

 Robin had dropped off of the face of the planet after their last encounter, and despite his efforts to find her, or at least learn what she was doing, he had no idea what had happened to her. He didn’t even know if she was alive - or whether she was dead, undead, or something else entirely. It was…frustrating.

   If only that was all that was.

   Spencer shut down on that thought before it could get away from him, knowing that it was a pointless avenue to go down, especially when he needed to get away from the bloody mess he’d made while dealing with the hunters. Wherever Robin was, whatever state she was in, it was entirely her problem. Nothing to do with Spencer. Not anything he needed to concern himself with at all. He didn’t care at all.

 He didn’t.

 He really didn’t!

 …He did a bit.

 Robin was one of the few interesting beings Spencer had any dealings with. There were such a limited amount of beings Spencer could actually stand to spend any amount of time with, especially humans, that he could admit feeling a little…possessive of the humans who didn’t make him want to tear his own ears off just to stop having to hear them talk. If anyone was going to end them, it would be him, and the fact that whatever had been done to Robin had been done by a hand other than his own was irritating, and slightly upsetting.

 Spencer would miss Robin, if she was actually gone. It was an odd thing to have to come to terms with, for a man so accustomed to not getting attached to anyone, but Spencer had had a while to adjust to the idea. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t always known it was a possibility; Robin was only human, and that’s what humans did: they died. He’d always known that he might not be able to convince (or force) Robin to accept the turn, he would lose her eventually.

 It was a sad reality for vampires - they lost people. Spencer may not care that deeply for Robin, but loosing her to death - real death - was still regrettable.

 Of course, seeing Robin, alive and in the flesh, just feet away from him, leaning against a car in the opposite the building he’d just been in was enough to unsettle that notion that she was gone forever and throw him off enough to stop him in his tracks.

   She grinned sharply: “Miss me, sparkles?”

   Spencer was, for the first time in decades, speechless.

 He’d thought Robin was dead for almost three years…yet here she was: a little thinner than he remembered, her hair shorter, and her eyes darkened by shadows…but here. Here, in front of him, alive and in the flesh.

   “Little bird…” Spencer finally managed to force out, his voice sounding choked even to his own ears.

 “Hi, Dracula.”

   Spencer stepped forwards, wanting to reach out to touch Robin - to confirm she was really here, and to his slight surprise, Robin let him. Normally she wouldn’t let him within arm’s length of her, but even though she tensed when he reached out of her, she didn’t flinch when he rested a hand on her forearm, feeling the warmth of her skin through her black leather jacket, and hearing the beat of her heart. There was no gentle haze of witches’ magic, no fruit-sweet scent of the fey, nothing that would belie any form of trickery.

 It wasn’t a trick. She was here.

 Robin was really here.

   “I thought you were dead. Truly dead!” before Robin could pull away, or even reply, Spencer pulled her into his arms.

   She was stiff in his embrace, and Spencer could feel the itching sensation of some protective spell or talisman designed to ward off evil, but he didn’t care.

 Robin was alive. He hadn’t lost her. He didn’t care if he had to put up with some magical itching, or about the fact that maybe he shouldn’t wear his heart on his sleeve so openly by literally hugging Robin. Even if was something he would normally restrain himself from doing, right now he just couldn’t bring himself to give even the most fleeting of fucks about what he would normally do. He was too happy.

   “I’m pretty sure the mistletoe was meant to prevent you getting this close.” Robin muttered, sounding extremely grudging for a person who was slowly relaxing in his arms.

 Spencer just smiled where she couldn’t see him: “Mistletoe might ward of evil, but it’s also a plant of peace for friends to meet under. I mean you no ill-will, little bird, so it’s not going to keep me away.”

 “Please tell me it’s at least annoying you.”

 “It’s a bit itchy.”

 “Good.”

   Spencer laughed, squeezing Robin gently against his chest, before releasing her and stepping away, just in case she came to her senses and went for a stake. She didn’t seem like she was going to, but it never hurt to be cautious, not with Robin. She was an excellent hunter, and he wouldn’t put it past her to have some kind of trick up her sleeve - perhaps even literally.

 God knew she’d hidden plenty of tricks up there before.

    “I’m surprised you haven’t tried to stake me yet - are you going sweet on me, little bird?”

 “I’m not an active hunter anymore, sparkles: I’m just the interval between your first act and the second act.” Robin responded mysteriously, before sighing: “Something that, should you want to avoid being staked, you might want to go back the way you came.”

 Spencer tilted his head to the side, curious: “And why’s that?”

 “Because if you go forwards, you’re going to walk into an ambush.”

 To say he was surprised would be an understatement - “Why are you telling me this?”

 Robin shrugged: “I don’t know. Because my gut is telling me too. Don’t get used to it.”

 “I would never presume to get used to anything about you, little bird.” Spencer responded, his surprise sending him back into his usual flirtatious repertoire…before realising exactly what she’d done.

   She’d just betrayed her own side - for the enemy.

 Robin may not be an active hunter anymore - and he absolutely was going to find out more about that - but hunters didn’t just drop out of the profession. They died, or they stepped back to teach the next generation of hunters. Even non-active hunters were still hunters, and still had the same goal to destroy any member of the undead they came across, albeit indirectly.

 But Robin had just warned him away from an ambush she had been used as bait for, and that was even more interesting than why she had stepped back from active duty. Spencer wanted to know everything…but he wasn’t going to, not tonight anyway.

 Instead of even trying, he darted forwards once more to press his lips against Robin’s forehead, whispering a quiet ‘thank you’ against her hair, before taking off back the way he’d come, just like she’d told him to. He made it away clean, not coming across even one hunter other than the dead ones from what Robin had mysteriously called the first act.

 There were plenty of questions Spencer had after tonight’s events…and he’d get his answers, one way or another.

 This was not the end.

[starsailorstories]

In other news I finally finished the long, wild, aristocratic-nonsense-fraught history of altamai

The first officially-sanctioned superatmospheric settlement on Altamai broke ground in the year 2190 of the ninth Taregan cycle, and her first official citizens arrived just under a (Taregan) decade later, after a long and dangerous building process largely carried out by the indentured and indebted of the ancient city-state of Solreg. In this early period, the population was scattered between “legitimate” landing sites, fly-by-night towns, and nomadic groups. The planet was a frontier: land changed hands via sword and seduction; criminals held territory with no trouble but the occasional vigilante; and vigilantes operated however they saw fit for good or ill, living in their starships and chasing bounties across the foggy plains.

The supposed descendants of the original Captain-Queens who settled Tarega had long had an informal international council, which became formal in the early years of Altamaian habitation. Gradually, national lines began to be drawn--most of the wars had already been fought, and there was a period of non-violent, albeit not necessarily just, claims and concessions. By virtue of the ancestry of their leadership, the Oghai, Saiven, Solrega, Nadega, Avesian, and Faellran peoples emerged as major powers.

In an oathing ceremony performed at request by a praeceptor-trained priestess, these seven world leaders would become (in addition to the queenly titles most of them brought from their homeworld) the Avesian Maximatas--to this day, the highest offices of Basillan nobility outside the royal family, passed down in a continuous line for over 600,000 planetary years. Here they swore to be mothers to the planet, to care for all of her inhabitants and follow the will of the goddesses. The language of the oath would later become a rallying point for commoners seeking accountability for their rulers, although ruling classes in the Binary have always had the kind of accountability problem that only revolution really solves.

Anyway, for holding to a vow of such profound importance, the priestess exacted a high price--she asked that if, as had been discussed, they chose a High Queen for the planet, it be her own country’s queen, Athaema Seflioma of Aves. They technically could have refused this request, but it would have been, to use the proper terminology, a Whole Thing. To turn down the bargain of a priestess and an oracle, and one sanctioned by the holy city, would be seen as akin to disrespect for the goddesses if it got out that it had happened, and wouldn’t start the new seat of power off on a popular foot. And so, in 10230 19th cycle, High Queen Athaema was crowned by her peers and sisters, and immediately got down to business setting up a royal court designed to serve the entire Sol Jenya system, planning and constructing ten state-of-the-art “civilized” cities to centralize industry and government in the various population centers, placing unaffiliated frontier towns under the jurisdiction of local landed gentry, and bearing over 2,000 children, her successor Aviana among them.

The crackdown on unaffiliated settlements was indiscriminate--lumping peaceful, self-sufficient villages established by poor colonies seeking freedom from the abuses of the feudal system in with organized-crime strongholds rife with violence and exploitation. The decree was presented with a spin that basically guaranteed its popularity with those who had no firsthand experience with the situation--without the care of the nobility, the court instructed its messengers to say, fly-by-nights were vulnerable to extreme poverty and plagued by thieves. A select few hard-luck stories were treated with highly public charity, and the project is still widely understood as a benevolent one by Basilean citizens at the time of the story. In reality, many fly-by-night towns were happy, prosperous, and most concerningly, egalitarian; and these fought tooth and nail to remain free until they could fight no longer. The far left wing of Basilean opinion remembers as martyrs a handful who went down swinging to the last girl standing. During Aviana’s comparably unremarkable reign, others simply vanished into the mists, operating in such secrecy that only the archaeological record attests to their existence. Fairly recently at the time of the story, a colony was discovered who had been living in self-imposed isolation for so long that they had developed a unique dialect of the Solrega Aundell language, a unique projection style adapted to their low-visibility home in the Tonevan cloud forest, and even a few subtle but distinct physical adaptations.

As the 23rd cycle drew to a close, Athaema’s granddaughter Ouriama died suddenly before she could produce an heir. Although an assassination was suspected, no proof was uncovered, and it remains an unsolved mystery and system-wide legend. The crown passed to her wife’s colony (and to another of the seven powers) in Faellra, where a new mother had just been born who could inherit it, and the guardian of this new queen, Analemma Olaean, jumped at the opportunity to make her ward Daemarima the best-connected and most legally powerful High Queen yet. This unwittingly made her a prime suspect in the previous Queen’s death, but from the international council’s centralizing perspective, it was all worth it. High Queen Daemarima commissioned the construction of Standard Altamaian, a single lingua franca for the planet, less than a turn (not that they measured turns back then, but it’s a good way to describe a period that feels like ‘a quarter year or so’ in astraea lifespans) after her coronation. In the ninth year of the twenty-fifth cycle, the planetary government financed the implementation of the new language in schools and other institutions, and in a more sinister move, outlawed the speaking of local languages in a handful of key centers of resistance to the hierarchy. 

The Olaen dynasty lasted six cycles, during which interstellar exploration flourished in this new era of semi-forced international unity. Worlds in the ante-dome and outer disk were “discovered” by Altamaian newcomers on the regular and treated like matrona gifts in potentia for the various queens and aristocrats, although the era of outright invasions was still long to come. A sailor named Via suddenly appeared claiming to have lived on isolated, well-defended Esmrrrder for nearly thirty planetary years, and told tales of an advanced civilization perched high on its planet’s abundant mountains. The dream of crossing the vacuum between galaxies was already being heavily discussed as well, but before an expedition could be mounted, Daemarima’s great-great granddaughter married a commoner and abdicated the throne to her sister Leiliora, who would bring their dynasty to an abrupt end when she challenged Sastiena Fortefemen to a duel in defense of her sister’s honor and lost, dying that same night of an infection from a wound on her side. The Fortefemens had merely accepted the Queen’s challenge, but they stepped obligingly into the power vacuum and proceeded to rule the planet for longer than any other family, effectively controlling a throne they won in a sword fight for like 30,000 years. This is basically all you need to know about the Fortefemens.

It was early in her reign that Sastiena’s former ward Deracoura--named for the scriptural “protector” of the Taregan desert wayfinders--reached out to the leaders of the various Basillan-controlled worlds, as well as those of Sitheria, to spearhead the first intergalactic exploration mission. As you know from my broader historical overview of the Seven Suns, this expedition went in search of sapient life and returned with the first Cadrian delegation, who toured the cities of Ovaiakon, Solrega Nova, Neroka, and Alegia. It was on Altamai that the initial commoner-owned shipyard was founded via Cadrian investment and began exporting to the Maculata (as well as importing from the Elorican asteroid fields) and providing a colony-estate-esque setup for workers who viewed the Cadrian-style wage system with suspicion. As it turned out, providing the bare minimum was more profitable, at the time, than paying workers in flexible currency, and it had the added appeal of letting owners of capital basically act and live like nobility. 

Within the next two cycles, the business interests of commoners continued to grow, and the Union of Commons was formed to protect those interests. They published a manifesto expressing their belief in the right of landholders of low birth to govern their own lands--basically a “hey, we have money, so why don’t we also have power?” directed at the High Court and the nobility. Practically in response, nonroyal nobility from every clan and country began clamoring for international lawmaking power as well. They formed a planet-wide legislative council of their own, and while they declared no hostility to the royal tier of society, they asked no permission from them either. In the middle of all this, while en route from a visit with the Council of Emperors far across the intergalactic sea, Queen Deracoura unhelpfully died. 

Trying to please everyone, keep the peace, and maybe punish her insubordinate maximatas just a LITTLE bit, her heir Felixania Fortefemen ordered the creation of the High Parliament, which included representation from the nobility of each nation as well as for gentry of common birth. She still had the final say on everything no matter what, and it led to the creation of a lengthy court season that allowed the royal family to keep their nobles under close scrutiny, so in a way it was a devil’s bargain. 

In this era, there were clashes of interest between a variety of Basillan and Cadrian notables. In space and even on-planet, business owners enforced their deals like crime bosses and crime bosses did a steady trade. In a climate where the penalty for a breach of contract could be a village burned to the ground, the nobility increasingly styled themselves as the protectors of the people, loyalties strengthened, and divisions grew. Among the common people, favor was split between the common capitalist class--who seemed to offer freedom from the whims of the nobility by offering a relatively secure income, as well as representing the promise of moving up in the world; and the old aristocratic families, who represented tradition, family loyalty (Altamaian nobles overwhelmingly ruled over their own historic colonies and their offshoots, meaning their peasants were all actually related to them--providing, to be fair, accountability that later Basilean aristocratic rule would lack) and a kind of symbolic cultural function--still today conservative Altamaians take the tack that the gentle Great Ladies suffer for their sake and must be defended from (in modern times largely imaginary) outside threats. The nobility was more broadly fractured, with favorites of the one-nation queens and the High Queen defending them stridently while others feared their unchecked power would leave the ancient families destitute to be overrun by the nouvelle riche. Just outside the metropolis of Solrega Nova, a shipbuilding-business billionaire bought a castle, noted for its beauty, built by the Celetorias--an original-lander colony--and announced plans to demolish it to build a complex of vitruvol foundries, giving the entire planet something to throw down about for five seasons straight (she eventually chickened out).

Just as these ideological tensions were reaching a fever pitch, Felixania and High Queen Esthardine of Glasmiri announced that their scionettes were betrothed--an unprecedented consolidation of power in a single household. The marriage of Delianae Fortefemen and Celafina Vividel was the event of the cycle whether you were for the high court or against it: three of the planet’s titled first daughters lost their crowns in duels that day, and three more lost their lives. Scholars took to the streets to warn the peasantry while by and large the peasantry took to the public houses to toast the beautiful young princesses who after all looked so smitten in their official portrait. It was the middle of fiber harvest season in a good market year; people were exhausted and ready for a show.

Following her mother’s death, Delianae laid low (letting the nobility handle urgent matters themselves) until all but the most paranoid aristocrats practically forgot about her, focusing on well-received local historical projects such as the restoration of the first Aivuran temple and a modernized housing for the shrine where the Avesian Maximatas took their oath. Behind the scenes, she reached arrangements with multiple once-hostile Cadrian interests and secured a substantial income from intergalactic trade which was primarily socked away for the use of her daughter Deracoura (styled as Deracoura the second, or sometimes, when she was really feelin’ it, the third). 

Early in her reign, under the guidance of her elder sisters, Deracoura II established the highly profitable Fila Fenaeta swarm, a specialized, state-of-the-art vapor-harvesting operation set amongst the young stars of a resource-rich nebula. While the floating settlement started small, it was destined to grow into a veritable nation of employees of the crown. Almost immediately there was conflict over working conditions in this deep-void environment and the protection of the residents’ few rights as peasant-class planetary citizens (which were still meant to be upheld by the law despite their distance from home, but were not always, particularly with regards to due process in criminal trials and oversight of tribute apportionment--it was common practice for representatives of the nobility to embezzle a great deal of something valuable from a peasant colony and then disappear on a fast spaceship, leaving them on the hook to explain to their rarely-sympathetic lady where all the product went). Repeated uprisings were quelled through mass evictions that displaced families in far-flung space--often with inadequate supplies to get much of anywhere--and forced many to live as outlaws deep in the clouds, gaining the area a reputation as impoverished and dangerous. Dia “Acutri” (Altamaian: sharp-eyed) filia Senema, a second-born mother exiled by her noble sisters, founded a multigenerational pirate colony there that still persists at the time of the story.

The unrest was ultimately no hindrance to the prosperity of the Altamaian throne, and Deracoura continued with zeal the illumination of the galaxy (and beyond) to Basillan and Sitherian travelers that her great-great-grandmother had begun, opening trade routes in the ante-dome that would go on to gradually rob entire cultures blind. The deep roots of the Hyperian empire lead to things sown by the Fortefemens, even if they would later consider themselves rivals.

For two generations now, the narrative that the Old Ways had died with Deracoura I and been buried with the creation of the parliament had been kept at the top of the political toolbox, but no one had used it quite as Siderina Hyperia did from the beginning. With Altamai becoming increasingly inhospitable to its peasantry with the ongoing consolidation of wealth, her appeals to a kind of populist escapism--complemented by her position at the helm of the construction of the Rings and in guardianship of the heir to a little-known but prosperous landed colony--struck a chord with those who saw their planet’s new capitalist class as inadequate caretakers. While she never made any rhetorical attack on the High Queen, she took the angle that the enfeebled royal line now needed to be taken in hand for its own good. With her beautiful ward Estartina, she would revitalize the noble matriarchy of old and lead it to a glittering future in the Rings.

Siderina’s wholesome public image hid the mind of a shrewd general. Weeks after the Rings were announced complete, she commanded her knights to such a decisive victory against the royal guard that she was famously allowed to walk in and kill the old queen (Deracoura II’s daughter Athaema) with a small ivory dagger. In the aftermath she announced that she had acted to protect her world and avenge its integrity, claiming that the Fortefemens had sold information to a hostile Cadrian interest. This may or may not have been true--evidence did materialize here and there, albeit a bit conveniently--but the story was mainly believable because assertions of overfriendliness with Maculatan enemies were not a new thing for the dynasty, and a large segment of the public was willing to accept it. 

Siderina was tried for her regicide in a number of courts, but, by slipping names in the elderly queen’s ear, she had rallied those with judicial power on Altamai mostly to her support, and was never convicted of anything. While the coup had certainly not been a formal duel, the transfer of power was adopted mainly on the strength of the precedent set by the Fortefemens. While Glasmiri was a center of popular resistance, the thrones of the two worlds were still heavily tied together for economic reasons, and the Vividel line remained effectively in Altamai’s thrall. When the Sitherian Archpraeceptor objected to the matter of Estartina’s coronation, Siderina had her ousted, either bribing or threatening practically every organization of priestesses in central Ovaiakon. All of this occurred in the space of two planetary decades--a blink in astraea reckoning. In the twelfth turn of the Rings, Estartina Hyperia was crowned not with the traditional Avesian coronel but with what would come to be called The Diadem of The Empress of the Seven Suns.

At the time of the story, almost two hundred quinturns later, Altamai--the Motherworld of the Basileans, as it is called by the aula--is a place of extremes even beyond its dramatic terrain and climate. Below the cloud line, it is an industrial powerhouse where thousands live in sprawling underground complexes and spend their workdays extracting rapidly depleting natural resources. Above, the last children of the old nobility rehearse the motions of the ancient ways between the pink cloud-carpet and the blue sky. In this dreamlike setting, heavy security, subtle propaganda, and armies of carefully vetted servants work to evoke the memory of a utopia that never existed, tailored to the political predilections and aesthetic whims of the Last Great Ladies. The granddaughter and heir of the deposed high queen, who escaped the coup with her governess as a young child, remains in exile far away in the Perseus Cluster, dreaming, as the old Royalist battle hymn goes, of double sunlight on plumafore fields.

[squidpro-quo]

I am LIVING for your Geralt/Jaskier Hurt/Comfort! Would you ever do things the other way round with a hurt or ill Geralt and Jaskier helping him out?

    Aakdjfjsjdf thank you for the kind words, they mean a lot to me! I hadn’t considered it the other way around, but I loved this idea so much, I couldn’t stop thinking about it! This is a wonderful prompt to try to write for ^_^ and I hope I could do it some justice

Jaskier wanted to curse Geralt’s taciturn ways to Nilfgaard and back as he bangs on their shared inn’s door after playing enough songs to cover their stay for the night. He’d polished his lute, made sure to pick the rowdy songs so the patrons would feel free to toast between verses and loosen the strings of their purses by the end of his performance. It would have been more entertaining to see Geralt’s brooding face as stolid as the moon off in the corner, pretending that he didn’t finish his pints right on cue with Jaskier’s songs, but the witcher had had a different job to do tonight. One he’d not even deigned to tell Jaskier he’d actually finished already. 

    “Geralt! Open the door, if you’re going to hog the water tonight at least have the decency to let me be in the room at the same time.” He strummed the most dissonant notes he could manage on the lute in frustration, before continuing in more of a mutter. “I can just take a bath vicariously. I mean, you can’t get weird about me watching by now, right?” 

    He’d seen Geralt only briefly, passing by without a glance before he’d disappeared behind their shared, even if Geralt was apparently trying to renege on their agreement, room’s door with not even a grunt as greeting. That itself had been rather odd. Despite their companionship of only a year or so, Jaskier prided himself on having graduated to the point of meriting an acknowledgement when he was within eyesight of Geralt. It was practically equivalent to a rousing yell from a neighbor coming from Geralt. To not get even that basic common courtesy from the witcher meant something had to have happened. 

    “Was it because I sang Toss a Coin seven times? I can throw in another song to break up the repetition, but really that’s why they say ‘encore’, Geralt! I am at the mercy of the whims of the audience, you know I can’t exactly sing just for you in a crowded inn,” Jaskier shouted through the door, uncaring as to who heard him as long as Geralt did. 

    When that didn’t earn him any more than a stony silence, he rested his forehead against the rough-hewn wood of the door in thought. He couldn’t remember anything particularly grating he’d done lately, certainly not something that would merit this kind of treatment. 

    He tried the door handle again, jiggling it in its socket and contemplating the idea of asking for the spare key from the innkeeper on the pretense that his paramour had locked him out in a fit of fancy. But instead, the door swung inward on its own, leaving the handle still in his fingers and revealing a sight he hadn’t considered even remotely in the realm of possibilities. 

    Geralt sat in the bath, as he’d thought, but unlike in his imagination, he wasn’t cleaning the grime out of his hair with glistening muscles but rather wincing as he struggled to reach the slash running across his back in an angry jagged line from his shoulder. The wound bled sluggishly into the water, leaving plumes of red to drift to the bottom. 

    “Geralt…” Jaskier stood in the doorway, his fingers turning numb on the strap of his lute as his eyes scanned the room. How could he have missed it? Was he so blind as to not notice when he was injured? Damn the worn armor Geralt still used, for hiding the cut as yet another hole torn from a near miss of the monster’s claws, damn the black leather of it dark enough to hide the blood seeping into it until it carried more of Geralt’s blood than anything else’s. 

    “How did you get in?” Geralt frowned at him over his shoulder, letting his hand drop back into the water with a splash. 

    “Inns aren’t exactly known for their stellar locksmiths,” Jaskier said, his lute slipping from his grasp to land at the foot of the bed and tossing the handle into the corner. His eyes didn’t leave the wound, its canyon hewn into the expanse of Geralt’s skin as a reminder that while he called himself inhuman, Geralt still bled as red as any of them. And had bled for them over and over. The scars that pulled and dipped along his body were reminders, of all the harm he’d taken in trade for years, decades, and even now he’d suffer another. 

    “What are you doing?” Geralt’s next question interrupted Jaskier’s thoughts, pulling him back to the moment and finding himself leaning over the bath with his fingers just barely hovering over the wound. He could call himself the bard traveling with the witcher, but he’d been duped by Geralt’s fortitude just like the rest, had become used to the quickly healing scratches that marred his hands and yet he should have known. 

    “Helping,” Jaskier said, deciding himself at the same instant the word left his mouth. His tongue had always been a little too fast for his mind at times and now was no different. “You know, I’ve been told I have magic hands.” 

    “Are those what made that god-awful noise out there? I don’t—” Geralt cut off as Jaskier began cleaning the gash with the cloth he’d stolen out of Geralt’s hand in a moment of distraction. He’d managed to wash the part cutting into his shoulder, but his back had been a futile endeavor to reach and the grime of the fight remained despite his earlier efforts. Jaskier shuddered to think how it would have been left so untended until it scabbed over. 

    “What if it had gotten infected? You’d rather die of that than let me inside?” 

    “Worst that would happen is it takes a little longer to heal; infection’s not a problem for witchers.” 

    Jaskier slowed in his work, the cloth in his hand now stained red and his fingertips brushing over a gnarled knot of skin in the middle of Geralt’s back. Of course it would. Witchers were made to keep going, no matter what happened to them, as long as they lived to survive for another fight. That whorl in his skin was the memento of a time when Geralt didn’t have the money for a healer, or wouldn’t be treated even when he asked for it—when he was alone. 

    “You going to ask what happened?” Geralt turned his head, face close now that Jaskier had crouched down next to the tub for a better angle. The gold of his eyes fairly glowed in the dim halflight of the room, softened like an ingot in a fire. Jaskier knew he was looking at something precious, but still scalding. 

    “I know you better than to think you’d suddenly be less stingy with the details because you’re naked.” He wiped clean the last bit of dirt from his ravaged skin, hands questing for the salve Geralt had left on the floor for when he was done. “Maybe from the bloodloss. That might loosen your tongue.”

    He kept his tone as flippant as always, but he didn’t want to even entertain the idea of a Geralt that far lost. 

    “And as payment?” Geralt hissed out a breath at Jaskier’s first touch of the salve against the gash, the rumble in his chest reverberating back into his skin like the purr of a cat. Jaskier half-thought that meant it stung until Geralt relaxed against the weight of his hand like it brought him relief, a modicum of tension draining from him into the water to mingle with the rest of the blood he had lost. 

    “That’s not how this works, Geralt. I’ll get your stories from you the usual way.”

    “By getting caught up in the trouble despite all warnings?” 

    “Getting injured didn’t make you more humorous, you know, so don’t strain your funny bone on my account. I’ll excavate the precious nuggets of information out of you when you don’t look paler than that banshee from last week.” 

Unrolling the bandages once he was done, he lay one end across Geralt’s back and passed it under his arm, mindful of each brush against the wound and the way the corner of Geralt’s eyes tightened each time. The silence, it was the default, the omission of any kind of weakness when the townsfolk beneath their feet had to believe in the witcher that could slay all troubles and stand in the face of darkness. He wanted to be closer, worth sharing Geralt’s secrets with instead of left on the outside as all the rest. 

Geralt shifted in the bath, his back pressing against Jaskier’s hands as he wound another layer over the slash, heaving a single, long breath. It was the months of watching him from across the table in taverns and across the campfire at night that keyed Jaskier in to the fact that Geralt was tired, movements slow and eyes closed as he waited for Jaskier to finish. As he tucked the end of the bandage snugly into place, he left his hands to stay on Geralt’s shoulders while he watched the witcher’s features smooth into an expression nearing serenity. 

    “Don’t fall asleep in the bath,” he said, breaking the almost companionable quiet with regret. 

    He stepped away to let Geralt dress and picked up his lute from the floor, plucking a few strings quietly to ensure it was still tuned properly. 

    “Perhaps you were right,” the low murmur came as a surprise and Jaskier turned to find Geralt pulling on his shirt with a careful shrug of his shoulders. 

    “Me? Right? Always.” He paused, before caving to the temptation. “About what, exactly? Please specify.”

    Geralt looked at him in consternation for a moment, as if he hadn’t expected Jaskier to ask but the gold in his eyes was still molten and so he spoke. 

    “Your hands.” His own hand was testing the strip of white peaking from underneath his collar and Jaskier almost missed the smile that played across his lips in the interim. “Magic.”

    “Well, if you remember to leave the door unlocked next time, I can promise they’ll work just well next time,” Jaskier said, with a nod towards the abandoned door handle beside the dresser. “No stopping me anyhow.” 

    “So I see.” Geralt considered him for a long moment, then nodded. Jaskier might hate the silence that led to the fear that struck him at the sight of Geralt’s pain, but he could read the quiet as if Geralt had bellowed at him from across the room. His orbit was already firmly tied to the witcher’s, and now he’d shifted a little closer to the sun at his center once more. 

prompts open

[friendlyunclej]

The Failed Hero

Prologue

     If I’m to be honest with myself, I’ve never truly cared much for this village. My family were looking for a new start when they were offered the opportunity to be founders of a new settlement. Whilst I was barely a teen, I was forced to leave Crimmor without any say in the matter. If I remember correctly, it has been nearly four decades since then and I still reminisce about the city. Just last night, I had a dream of Crimmor’s busy streets. I recalled racing my friends to get across major roads during the busiest hours of the day. Dodging and weaving between wooden carts, we would occasionally be reprimanded by the caravan drivers when their horses would get scared as we bolted past them. Sadly, the dream swiftly became a nightmare as I remembered the moment that those caravans stopped seeming so fun to me.      While racing across the street, I failed to hear the drivers shout for a full stop. I thought that I had timed it just right, but I didn’t take into account the other drivers not listening. I’m slammed by one pair of horses, knocking me to the ground beneath one cart that has come to a full stop. I watch as the car that hit me tips over, slamming its content into the group in front of him. Everyone’s panicking and running away as swiftly as possible, even the drivers. I pick myself up and try to see why everyone is leaving their carts, trying not to get trampled in the meantime. Once I get close enough, I realize that the cart had spilled a number of barrels filled with smokepowder and a lantern had lit a fire near it. Realizing that I was close enough to be blown to pieces, I turn as fast as I can and try to run before hearing something shout from underneath the covers of another cart. To this day, I still don’t truly understand what drove me to check it, dancing even closer to death simply because of an odd whimper. I think, perhaps, it sounded similar to a small dog or cat that someone had left behind. Maybe in my young mind, I had convinced myself that it was an adorable ferret’s cry for help and that I could keep it if I had saved it.

     When I tore the tarp away from the cart, I was surprised when I locked eyes with an Orc no older than I, caged like livestock. I recall the gentle stare that she returned my confused look with, pleading for help with a mere glance. I desperately pull at the lock just as the smokepowder ignites. The last thing I see is the Orc girl’s face streaming with tears before I feel a force smash me through her cart.      I’m conscious as I soar through the air, losing any semblance of direction as I spin head over tail. My hearing is gone, turned deaf by the explosion but I can feel my throat going coarse as I scream. I can feel a constant searing sensation on my back with what feels like needles the size of my arm jamming into my sides. When I return to the ground, my clavicle shatters on impact as my right shoulder breaks my fall. I feel myself skid across the road as darkness creeps into the corners of my vision. The last thing I see is the Orc girls’ upper half slam down in front of me, her eyes still locked to mine with no light behind them.      Perhaps, that’s why my family left. Maybe my father and mother had seen enough of Crimmor after that day. Maybe they knew something about that Orc girl that I didn’t. Maybe they just got tired of me asking about it and wanted to get me away from that memory. Regardless, I’ve still never had anything to care about since then.      My parents died not too many years after moving here, leaving me alone. I had fought with myself over moving back, but, by that time, the small village my family helped found was now flourishing. I decided to stay a few more years, but soon found myself helping train a small guard and scouting force. When I had finished that, I found out that I had been appointed as the head general for its forces. Barely being large enough to be considered an army, I didn’t want to agree but I didn’t know what would become of them without direction. Before I knew it, a decade had past and all I could see was a graveyard of dreams as I strolled around the village on my days away from duty. All this settlement has ever been is a village waiting to be pillaged, yet I stayed anyway as if it was a noose around my neck that I had no way to remove.      As the years passed, I became complacent with my life in a weary village, surrounded by people who were comfortable enough to be around. Being on the south side of River Esmel, we were close enough to Small Teeth that we should have been destroyed a long time ago. Thankfully, Purskul was more enticing.      My complacency lead to depression as I continued to contemplate my life. All the different roads I could have gone down. The many different decisions I could have made. Soon enough, I eventually found myself by Lake Esmel, staring at my reflection with the moon over my shoulders. I recall that no one had ever truly recorded the proper depths of the lake. Some had even suggested that it was endless. I would’ve found out for myself that night if I hadn’t heard an odd whimper on my left.      Glancing over, I saw what looked to be a tarp with something below it writhing around. With a fit of deja vu, I dash towards it and toss the tarp aside. There, crying and naked, Ilmater had provided another sign to persevere, even if only for a bit longer.      I named the boy Lubash and raised him as my own. However, I saved him the curse of my last name. After all, too many would be curious if a Half-Orc boy shared the same name as a village of humans and a few halflings.

An Attempt at Heroism

     Lubash proved to be a greater gift than I had realized. The boy was surprisingly kind, even to those in the village that glared at him with concern. He would always help around the village, even offering it to those who would swiftly speak ill of him behind his back. Much to my own surprise, he even seemed to prove himself to have a surprising bit of charisma, turning many people’s eyes and heads for more positive reasons once he grew to puberty. However, I always noticed something weighing heavily on him. From the moment he started interacting with the other kids, it would seem like he had a mask on. As soon as he returned home, I would see the mask melt from his face as his chin, which he always kept high when interacting with others, immediately flew to the floor. He carried this weight with him well into his teenage years. Whenever I would ask him about it, he simply replied that it was nothing to worry about before heading to his room. I let him be, trusting in his ability to figure it out himself.      Although some may have told me that it was a bit late to do so, I started training him in martial combat around the end of his puberty. I needed to be certain of what to train him in, so I kept from teaching him anything for a bit longer than usual to know what would fit him best. When I handed him a rapier, I was surprised to hear him question it.

     “Old Man,” he said with concern in his voice, “Why not train me with a sword like yours?”

     Taking a few steps back, I unsheathe my broadsword as I tell him, “Well, my boy, a sword like mine requires a bit of strength to wield it properly. The wide blade and heavier design may not be suited for you, as you are far more agile than you are strong.”

     He replies with a hint of sadness and doubt, “Oh, I understand.”

     Seeing his eyes linger on the blade I handed him, I slowly walk over and place my hand on his shoulder as I say, “Speak your mind, son. It’s not healthy to think so much that it prevents you from acting.”

     “I just don’t see why I can’t use your blade,” he retorts, something deeper troubling him.

     “Hmm, well, if you’re so keen to use my sword,” I say, walking up and trading blades with him, “Come at me.”

     “What?” he asked, struggling to properly grip my broadsword.

     Skipping a few steps back, I repeat, “I said to come at me. If you can land a blow on me with my own steel, I’ll train you with a broadsword instead.”

     Lubash agreed as he charged towards me. He’s sloppy and reckless still, swinging my sword in a wild overhead arc. I simply take a quick step to his right and he slams my sword into the dirt. He turns back around to swing again, but he nearly trips over himself as he’s unable to pull the blade from the ground. I walk over, playfully slap him behind his knee with the flat body of the rapier, then pull the sword out myself.

     Handing him the rapier, I tell him, “You may have some strength, but your speed and agility is your best quality. With the proper technique, you’ll be able to fight much better with a weapon that can match that speed rather than one which will work against it.”

     Nodding in agreeance, he takes his blade back and I begin training the last soldier I’ll ever know. I’m settling into my sixties now and I can feel the curse of time working against my movements. Soon, he’ll be a worthy successor and he’ll need to know how to fight, even if he makes the wise decision of leaving this town before it consumes him like it has me. He trains hard, trying to perfect every thrust and parry I teach him. Within a year, he’s already beating me in sparring sessions. All I feel is my pride bolster as his skill surpassed my own.      For the few years of peace that come after his training, he begins to show interest in the world outside of his home. With what few coin we do have to spend on luxuries, he spends his own on detailed maps and historical books focused on the rest of Faerun. He shares his aspirations to explore with me and I listen, hoping to preserve that spark in him that I never had. Alas, it would seem that Cyric had a different plan for me.

     The years of peace and complacency made the standing guards lackadaisical. More importantly, it made me lazy. Couple those factors with my body showing its age and keeping my own son from joining the village’s combat forces in fear that he’ll turn out like me, it should have been clear what came next.      I awoke one night to the sound of my son calling for me. When I rushed to the front door, I saw a fellow guard out of breath from running through the streets. I asked him what the matter was just as an arrow slammed into his neck. Calling to my son to fetch our blades, I immediately jerk him back into our home just as an arrow soars pass his head.      Glancing towards where the arrows are flying from, I see a lone armored hobgoblin racing towards me on the back of a worg with an arrow drawn. I use the dead guard’s body as a shield, but I’m unable to pull the sword from his belt before the assailant leaps on me. As we wrestle and thrash about on the ground, he screams and gnarls in my face as I desperately reach for his sword. Just as I’m about to reach out, I feel the hobgoblin pick me up by my collar and throw me against the wall of my home. The wind gets knocked out of me, but I barely manage to stay on my feet just before I’m picked up by my throat. He drags me high enough over his head that I can see the rest of the village beginning to glow orange against the night sky. I gasp for air as I hear the screams of the other villagers, crying for mercy. My arms go limp as the last gasp of air leaves my body.      Suddenly, I drop to the ground and fill my lungs with a startled gasp. Surprised to have gained a second wind, I frantically look around to see Lubash grappling the Hobgoblin. After dropping my broadsword next to me, my son didn’t hesitate to tackle my attacker. I manage to regain my breath just as the Hobgoblin tosses my boy aside. Rushing him myself, he pulls his blade to match mine as we begin to cross swords.      Matching blow for blow, we seem to be evenly matched despite his greater strength. Unfortunately, my son’s scream in pain distracted me. As I turned towards the scream, I saw Lubash fighting the worg with his rapier. He had been pinned down by the creature and was blocking its jaws with his forearm. The hobgoblin took this opportunity to skewer me through the side with his longsword. I gritted my teeth as he laughed in my face. Needing to help my boy, I resolved to headbutt the hobgoblin. Stunning him by the show of brute force, I gained enough space to deal a substantial slash across his body. As he fell to the ground, I immediately rushed to Lubash, driving my sword through the worg’s throat.      After freeing his arm from the dead beast’s jaws, I try to tell him to run from the village and never look back, but I’m caught off guard again. Before I could say anything, I feel the sharp sting of a dagger slam into my back. I spit up blood on my son’s shirt as I feel the blade tear out of me then reenter my clavicle. Suddenly, everything goes black as the last thing I hear is my son call for me.

Epilogue

     The village is burning behind me while I carry my father’s body back to the house. Tears run down my face as I place him in the same chair he always spent his time in. I give him one last hug and call out for him to wake up one final time as if the attempt will have any different outcome from the last five times I tried. As gently as I can, I remove the longsword from his side and the dagger from his clavicle before placing his broadsword in his lap. I tell him to enjoy his rest as I step back outside.      Hearing the Hobgoblin struggle to drag itself along the ground, I walk over and give him a kick. He flips over to his back, staring up at me in a manic combination of fear and frustration. I place my rapier against his throat and watch him feebly try to raise his arms to knock it away, unable to after I cut his ligament. Slowly, I push the tip of my blade into his throat, taking my time to relish the kill. Feeling a headache pierce my skull, I take a sick enjoyment in watching the light leave his eyes. His strained grunts and desperate gurgles fill my ears like a sweet midsummer ballot compared to the other sounds filling the air. Watching him drown in his own blood, I tear my rapier from his throat before taking his daggers as my own. I use what fabric I can find to bandage my wounds as I make my way through the village. What follows is the longest night of my life, filled with ambushes, blood, and fatigue. When the dust settles, we take count of the dead and give them a proper send off. I handle my father’s remains alone.      As I return, the majority of people still alive are already leaving. They tell me that, with the last member of the founding family gone, the village is better left behind. I don’t fight them. A good chunk of me feels like they’re right, but my pride is telling me otherwise. In hindsight, I should’ve listened.      That was almost a lifetime ago now. The village is gone now. The last residents decided to leave for greener pastures not too long after we all realized that it just wasn’t going to work out. Unfortunately, I was too stubborn to realize that I should have let the village die alongside my father. Nearly lost myself before I realized that I was doing the exact thing my father tried so hard to make sure I wouldn’t.      Since then, I’ve been travelling north towards the rest of West Faerun, mainly trying to get to the rest of the Sword Coast. It took longer than expected to get around Cloud Peaks, but I’ve finally made it. Pretty soon, I’ll be in Greenest, a town founded by a Halfling. Hopefully, they won’t mind a Half-Orc in their midst. Even if they do, I’m just passing through, anyhow. I reckon that nothing in the Greenfields will be able to hold my interest.