#mourns the things he could have given her. the hows and whys of herself. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dirtytransmasc · 6 months ago

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~ Mother Flower — Spider and Sa'syul in grief ~

Spider and Neteyam's ikran grieve their loss together.

Her name is Sa'syul. "Sa" taken from Sa'nok, or mother. "Syul" taken from Syulang, or flower. Name Translation: Mother Flower.

Spider has lost his baby brother, Sa'syul has lost her fledgling, both are everyone's last thoughts in terms of grief, and both seek each other to soothe the pain.

Note: in canon, according to the wiki, Neteyam's ikran is male, but idc about that, I think Eywa would have given Neteyam an older, motherly, female ikran to watch over him and act as a second mother and he would have loved her.

↓↓↓ fic below ↓↓↓

They're both grieving. They're both missing a piece of themselves. Their boy' gone. His baby brother, her perfect little hatchling. Taken by war, never to return.

Sa'syul had stopped eating. She couldn't bring herself to do it, to go out and hunt, couldn't find it in herself to soar the skies or touch the water or weave the odd mangrove forest. Grief consumed her in her seclusion to the dark of the trees, away from everyone else. All but one boy. The human boy. Spider.

Her boy had loved him, missed him, and wanted things to be better. He had been scared to try and approach him after years of being distant. He wanted to fix it, but didn't know how. Now he never would.

Spider found solace in the forest. He had to be strong for his siblings, not wanting his grief to weigh on them, and wouldn't dare mourn in front of Neytiri or the similarly mourning village, he didn't have the right to.

So he went to the forest to be alone, to scream and cry and hit things to try and make the ache in his chest go away. It never did. it just consumed him, like it did Sa'syul, draining him of energy and will and life.

Both hid away in the forest to keen and starve and wallow.

Neither knew what to do with him gone. How was life meant to continue? How were they meant to keep living? How does one live without her bonded? Her fledgling? What about his baby brother?

It all seemed so impossible. How could they just move on as if he was still here?

She watches him, watches him cry, watches him curl into the hollows of trees and sob, watches him punch at the ground and the rocks and the trees till his knuckles bleed.

He had listened to her mourning songs, her grief filled cries, her agonized calls to the sea, calling for her little hatchling to come back to her, to rise from the waves. He watched the skies to see if she would go out and hunt, but she never did, not once since he had returned to his siblings.

They pity one another. It's impossible not to. Both are withering away. Both are alone. No one hears them.

Until one day, the human boy doesn't come to the forest.

Sa'syul didn't hear him crying as usual, she didn't see him curled up in a hollow, didn't smell the blood from his battered fists in the air.

So she goes looking, wanting to know where he has gone? Why was he not here, with her, in the forest, their place of grief and solace?

She finds him lying in the sandy grass, just on the outskirts of the village, basking in the sun, hands mindlessly petting at the grass beneath him, not caring for his risky choice of a resting place.

He hears the rustling of brush and branches from the forest. Part of him hesitates to turn and look at the potential threat, willing to chance fate, but ultimately he knows better, and shifts his head to look at what's watching him from the treeline.

He sees Sa'syul, truly, for the first time in months. He'd caught glimpses of her in the forest, but never sought to look at the hiding creature. He respected her wishes. She would remain hidden from his eyes if that's what she wished.

The last time he'd actually seen her was when he helped Lo'ak tend the ikran after the last raid. Neteyam couldn't do it because he was being tended to. She had preened his hair a bit when he scratched where her harness had been.

Now she was a pitiful sight, coming out of a fortnight long seclusion. Her figure was weak and thinning, eyes sad, posture tired and shaky.

Withered was the right word for her.

Despite this, she's quick to approach him, shuffling forward on her foreclaws, coming beside him without hesitation, nosing at him with her beak, and sniffing him gently, chirping as she inspects him for injury. When she finds him uninjured, outside of the scabbed wound on his chest, she calls to him, wanting him to follow her.

She wants him to go back into the forest, but he doesn't move. She nudges his leg harder, then his side, trying to force him to sit up. When he doesn't, she gets worried and frustrated. This is what her hatchling's body had been like when she saw him for the last time. She knows this boy isn't dead, not like her Neteyam, but why would he get up?

He's not sure what he's meant to do as she stares at him, clicking at him like he was a chick. He shifts ever so slightly so he can lie firmly on his back, a vulnerable position, but one that is solid and secure. He won't risk any sudden moves, especially as he cries and touches become more and more desperate.

After that, he doesn't move a muscle, trying to avoid her eyes, but not closing his own, not wanting to disrespect and anger her, but he won't show weakness either.

When he doesn't move, she decides to settle into the grass with him, unable to hold herself up any longer and giving into his wishes. Maybe the boy just needed time. Maybe he was exhausted like her and couldn't find it in himself to move. Maybe he just needed to see that it was safe.

But she does the unexpected, at least in Spider's opinion. She rests her head against him, rubbing against his shoulder and chin before laying her beak over his chest and arm, careful of the wound there, her wings spreading to soak up the warmth of the sun.

She keens once more. The warmth reminds her of flying. She remembers she will never fly with her boy again. It hurts.

Spider is awe struck. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't even know what to feel. He'd come here for a cry, not having the energy to climb through the brush or up into the trees

— Or the dirty looks every time he came back. No one trusted him, always questioned what he was doing in those hours he spent hidden away —

So he had slumped into the grass and tried to convince himself this was all a bad dream and he had just fallen asleep in the forest, back home, and he would wake up and head back to the village and find all four of his siblings alive and well.

And now he had his baby brother's mourning ikran lying on his chest. He doesn't know what he should do, if he should say something, if one wrong move will get him killed.

Sure he had worked with her before and she seemed to like him, this was different than taking her tack off, she was grieving and starving and who knew how she would react to him.

Ikran were flighty creatures on the best of days and this was not the best of days, so he was erring on the side of caution.

What was she even doing here? With him of all people? He had no idea, but listening to the cries she let out caused something in his chest to well up.

He recognizes them.

He understood them.

If there was one thing he understood about this situation, it was her cries.

They were cries of agony, of longing, of grief and mourning. They were screams of a pain so deep you think it must be killing you.

As her calls reverberated through his chest, they felt like all the ones he had cried himself. She missed him, and he did too.

He can't help the tears that gather in his eyes or the sobs that barrel out of his chest. They're silent at first, part of him terrified to mourn out in the open, but the flood gates open as she begins to keen along with him, agonized sounds leaving her as she slumps into her more and more, clearly exhausted, and silent sobs turn to wails.

He finally moved to sit up, trying to escape the head rush and weight on his chest, taking her with him as he did so, shifting her so her head lay in his lap. She coos at him a bit as she nuzzles into his lap, accepting the change with ease.

He rubs a hand over her beak, up over her forehead, down her neck, and under the edges of her riding saddle — Neteyam never got a chance to take it off, he never would ever again, and no one could get close to her after the funeral. So there it had stayed — scratching at the itch that surely lingered there.

"I miss him too, I miss him so much Sa'syul," he sobbed, peering down into his lap, into her eye, fingers reacting the patterns that danced on her skin, "I want him, I want him to come back, I want this all to be a bad dream"

She cries up to him, lifting her head to nudge her beak into her chin and then his cheek, wiping the tears away, wings fluttering with emotion, tail shifting where it laid on the ground.

"Why did he have to come and save my dumb ass? I would have been fine! I would have gotten out on my own and he would still be here..... it's all my fault," he rubs a hand at his face, a realization hitting him like a train, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. He should be here with you... not me."

The second the words fell from his mouth, she snapped her strong jaw at him, not nipping him, but the sound alone shocked him. She sat up from where she lay in his lap, not straying far, but rising to look him in the eye.

She couldn't speak, but she didn't have to. He bowed his head in respect. He didn't agree with her thinking, but didn't make it known.

Before he can even look up, she's nuzzling him again, breathing warm air out of her vents, bringing her wings in front of her, as if to comfort him and cradle him in her arms. He settles into her chest, letting the tears fall and his heart ache. She does the same. But not being alone makes it feel less all consuming.

As they fall apart in each other's presence, Neytiri will catch a glimpse of them, her first born’s ikran wrapped around the demon's child. She watches as Spider cries into Sa'syul's chest, and listens to the ikrans own cries. A deep feeling of dread forms in her chest. Was it anger? Guilt? Grief? Something else entirely? She wasn't sure.

She just knew she hated seeing them that close, hated seeing how he pet at her head and the bases of her kuru's, feeling that the child should not be anywhere near her son's ikran, should not encroach on that scared bond, should not be taking her son's place… yet, she saw the way Sa’syul clung to the boy, the first person she had approached since being shown Neteyam's body, and she knew that the ikran needed this just as much as the boy did.

She would be cruel to tear them apart, and she should probably feel guilty for even thinking about it, for the way she's treated Spider, so poorly he refuses to grieve in her presence, bottling it up until he can disappear.

She doesn't move to stop them. And when Spider comes back to the mauri hours later smelling of ikran, she says nothing.

After that day, Spider will go hunting for Sa’syul, bringing her baskets of fish and fruits, sometimes meat if he can find something good in the strange mangrove forests he's learning to hunt in. They would sit in the sun at the forest line, leaning into one another, sharing their feast with one another. She'd have her fair share of preening him, nibbling at his salt soaked locs and peeling shoulder, and he'd give her a good rub down, loving on her as much as he could.

They'd even play fight now and then, whether it be a spur of the moment event or a fight over the last piece of fruit it didn't matter. It made them smile.

And te words and calls and songs that would be passed between them were their own little secret, they understood things no one else could, in ways no one else could. They may not share the same language, but they saw each other, and that's all that mattered.

Spider would never be Neteyam, would never be her hatchling, or her bonded, not like her boy had been. But he was a hatchling and he had no one else and he understood her so she would watch out for him. She would love him and care for him and keep him safe, because that's what her boy would have wanted.

And being alone was much worse than being with him. He was good and kind and golden and so much like her boy. He never pushed her or tried to bond with her in anything more than quiet companionship. He brought her treats and scratched all the right places and would cheer when she took to the skies once more. It was like a balm to her aching heart.

and he loved her. She was a warm, calm, wise presence. She did not care that he was human. He respected her and she respected him. she would preen him and he would preen her. Soon they would hunt together in the forest. For once things were a two way street. It was nice.

They made it work. They made the grief tolerable.

#literally going crazy over Neteyam's ikran #I want to know everything about her #and I think her knowing Neteyam wanted ti have a better relationship with his big brother and rhen becoming the inly person Spider could-#truly grieve with would be tragic #they've both lost their boy and now they have each other #avatar 2 #avatar the way of water #spider socorro #miles spider socorro #miles socorro #neytiri #avatar #avatar spider #neteyam sully #neteyam #ikran #avatar ikran #I hate how I ended this but oh well

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nerdanel01 · 6 months ago

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All Things Grow, All Things Go

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 4k+ wc | SFW EXCEPRT: “...you do know how deeply, how profoundly I care for you, don’t you?”

Did she? Agnes had thought she knew, but the fact that Emmrich saw fit in this particular moment to remind her had her calling that knowledge into question. A mild terror seized her of what could possibly follow, if it had to be qualified by that preamble. Given the choice, she would have gladly faced any of the uncatalogued horrors of the Necropolis in place of whatever it was Emmrich was going to say next.

“Emmrich, you’re frightening me,” Agnes said, flashing him a nervous smile. Trying to work a teasing lilt into her voice, as though it were all in good fun. “Just tell me. It can’t be that bad, can it?”

9:50 Dragon

Three days had passed since Emmrich had visited the Dietrich estate to make the arrangements for Lord Dietrich’s imminent passing. Agnes hadn’t the faintest idea what could have transpired on that visit to disturb him so, but this much was clear: he had been behaving strangely towards her ever since his return to the Necropolis.

It was not that Emmrich was rude with her, exactly; Agnes was not sure he had the capacity within him for rudeness, so genteel was his manner. But he had been clipped and short with her, almost formal, and their friendship—otherwise warm, familiar, cherished—had become inexplicably strained. Yesterday, they had planned to make a trip into the Necropolis, an excursion they had been planning for weeks; only a few hours before scheduled their descent Emmrich had postponed it, without offering any satisfactory explanation as to why he had done so. When Agnes had asked how else she might be of assistance to him if they were not descending as planned, Emmrich had waved her offer away, encouraging her instead to take some free time and enjoy the summer weather in Nevarra City above.

Impossible to enjoy anything, though, with the paranoia and anxiety his behavior had inspired in her. Agnes was trying her very best not to jump to conclusions, but it felt awfully like Emmrich had been purposely avoiding her.

And so, that night at dinner, when Emmrich had asked Agnes to join him afterwards for tea in their shared study (Emmrich’s, really; though he had long ago ceded the second table to Agnes for her own experiments) the relief Agnes felt was indescribable. Emmrich could not really be avoiding her, could he, if he was asking for her company? Or at least, that was what she told herself as she made her through the corridors of the Mourn Watch residence to his door.

Agnes rapped her knuckles on the door, prepared to wait patiently for Emmrich’s thrall to answer. But most unusually, the door swung open almost as soon as she had knocked. Emmrich stood in the doorway, dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Agnes,” he greeted her, lacking his usual enthusiasm. There was something oddly harried and distracted about the way he carried himself. He offered her a smile, but it was as cold as the dead; his eyes avoided hers. ‘Is he nervous?’ Emmrich gestured to the pair of chairs in front of the hearth. “Thank you for coming. Have a seat, the tea is steeping now.”

Emmrich shut the door behind her as Agnes entered, then crossed the room towards the tall wooden cabinet beside the water spigot. With his back to Agnes, he began to pull the tea set off the shelf, setting out teacups, spoons, saucers on a serving tray. The crackle of the fire, the clink of the fine porcelain in the study were both unusually loud. Taking in the uncomfortable silence, Agnes finally realized what was missing.

“Where’s Wilfred?” she asked. The thrall had not answered the door, and she saw no sign of him in the study.

“I sent him on an errand,” Emmrich replied, offhandedly, without turning to face her. As though he was talking to the teacups, he managed, “I wanted it to be just the two of us.”

An extremely bizarre sentiment, coming from Emmrich. Wilfred was a fixture of the study, as Alfred had been before him. More out of nerves than amusement, Agnes laughed. “What could you possibly have to say to me that you could not say in front of Wilfred?”

Was it her imagination, or did the muscles of Emmrich’s back tighten reflexively at her question? “It isn’t that I couldn’t, it’s just….” Failing to find the right words, Emmrich sighed, then turned at last, carrying the serving tray laden with the kettle and cups, and set it down upon the table between the armchairs. “It is important, and I did not want there to be any distractions.”

The tea smelled incredible, but Agnes’ stomach suddenly felt very tight. She steeled herself; commanded of him, “So tell me.”

Emmrich hesitated. Even now, sitting beside her, he could barely meet her eyes. When he did, Agnes was alarmed at the sober, melancholy look he gave her.

“Nessa…”

And Agnes stopped breathing. Cold all over, everywhere at once, like a bucket of ice water had been splashed over her head. No one called her Nessa—only Emmrich, and only when he was very, very tipsy, and feeling especially tender towards her. But his voice did not sound tender, now. It sounded guarded, and anxious.

“...you do know how deeply, how profoundly I care for you, don’t you?”

“It’s not bad at all,” Emmrich said, returning her smile with a feeble one of his own—but the look in his eyes said otherwise. He dropped his gaze, took his steaming cup and saucer in hand; staring into his tea, stirring it. “It is only that there are going to be some… changes, in the guard. I wanted you to hear about them from me, first, before Johanna told you.”

“Johanna?” While Commander Hezenkoss was technically their superior, Agnes could count on one hand the amount of times she’d been called to speak to Johanna in any official capacity. For the most part, her and Emmrich were allowed total autonomy to conduct their studies as they wished, provided they did not neglect their other Watcher responsibilities. “What does this have to do with Johanna?”

“Well…” Emmrich began, and heaved a mighty exhale, deflating with it, “it has been over twenty years, you know, since you joined the Mourn Watch.” Twenty years—more than half of her life spent at Emmrich’s side, in the company of the dead. “Twenty years of you… going above and beyond, in your responsibility towards me, and in your role. Twenty years of excellence.”

Why all this flattery? Why the sudden lavish praise? It did nothing to warm her, only doubled the fear in her heart.

“Certainly it has taken long enough, but that is finally being recognized,” Emmrich said at last, and met her eyes again, forcing a smile. “You’re getting a promotion, dear.”

That couldn’t be right. The Mourn Watch was a fairly flat organization, not hierarchical. “People don’t get promotions here,” Agnes said, stating the obvious; not unless they were being moved up to the position of Commander or Captain, or and that could not possibly be what was happening. Agnes had many admirable qualities; a facility for leadership was not one of them. ‘Do not jump to conclusions.’ She reached for her tea, longing for the reassuring warmth of the cup, for the sake of having something to do with her hands. She counted out the number of skulls on the rim cup and the saucer in time with her breath: one, two, three. Trying to keep her voice even, to keep the panic out of it, Agnes asked, “What does that mean?”

“You’ll be working directly under Johanna,” Emmrich told her. “She has something particular in mind for you, a special project. It is a wonderful opportunity for you.”

Agnes’ grip on the teacup tightened involuntarily; nothing Emmrich was saying made any sense. She felt her heart racing, the dizzy rush of her pulse. “Johanna brought me here from the Circle to work with you,” she said, unable to keep the emphatic edge from her voice. “We work well together. Why would she—”

But no, that wasn’t it; Johanna’s intentions hardly mattered. That was not the urgent question burning on her tongue:

“Are you pleased with this?” she managed, at last. “This… ‘promotion’?”

Emmrich’s gaze fell back into his teacup, to the slinking curl of steam rising from it. His upper lip gave a faint, uncomfortable twitch, the line of his mustache dancing. Silently, Agnes begged him to look at her. Prayed he would look her in the face and smile and take it all back, tell her it was a joke, or a terrible mistake. And when he did not—when he could not look at her—Agnes felt like her stomach had fallen out of her. Like she had been eviscerated, like her entrails had spilled from her abdomen and were lying, steaming like the tea, on the unswept study floor.

Quietly, as though he was ashamed of his answer, Emmrich told her:

“In fact, I recommended you for it.”

A terrible, treacherous clatter arose as the base of Agnes’ teacup struck against the saucer beneath it, shaking in Agnes’ hands. Before it could get worse, Agnes set both cup and saucer back down, the spoons on the serving tray jumping with the force of the impact, tea sloshing out of the cup and pooling like an amber moat in the saucer below.

Agnes bit the corner her lip, grounding herself with the sharp pain of it, fighting for control of her voice. She cleared her throat, then managed a bitter laugh. “You didn’t—you did not think to ask me, first?” But obviously he has not, as they were having this conversation after the fact. For whatever reason Emmrich had done this, he had concealed it from her until the decision had already been made. “And—this cannot be right. Who will protect you if I’m busy working with Johanna?”

Perhaps she had misunderstood. Perhaps this promotion, this project with Johanna was simply a special assignment; that must be it. She would split her time between Emmrich and Johanna for awhile, but ultimately, surely—

“Myrna will begin working with me in a few days, when the promotion becomes effective.”

“Myrna?” Agnes laughed in disbelief. Myrna was talented, certainly—a better necromancer than Agnes would ever be—but she was far less experienced. Her mind hissed at her, insidiously: ‘Younger.’

But then the second shock hit, and it was impossible to keep the anger (and deeper hurt it failed to wholly conceal) out of her voice.

“In a few days?” Agnes repeated, incredulously, quietly, almost unable to believe it. If she spoke much louder than a whisper, she knew her voice would break; she would not give Emmrich the satisfaction “You are that eager to be rid of me?”

He did look at her then, his brows drawn together, expression wracked with pain and guilt. “Agnes, the last thing I want is to be rid of you,” he began, though the fact that this change had come so quickly, so secretively, said otherwise to her. Out of the corner of her eye, Agnes saw Emmrich extending his arm towards her, reaching for her.

She snatched her hand away before he could take it, refusing to look at him, staring instead at her lap as she twisted her hands tightly together.

The silence that followed was terrible.

“We will still see each other often,” Emmrich told her, at last. But whether it was because he was so shaken by her rejection of the comfort he had tried to offer her, or because he did not fully believe it, his voice sounded anything but confident. “At meals. In the halls.”

Not in the city. Not in the evenings, over tea, in the study that they would no longer share. To him, she would become like anyone else. A coworker. Nothing special.

“I know it is rather abrupt… that is part of why I wanted you to hear it from me, first. Instead of Johanna.”

Agnes could hardly believe that he was still speaking, making excuses, trying to convince her. “Did you really think that would make it better?” she asked, glowering at him from beneath her knit brows. “More palatable, to hear it from you?”

Agnes shook her head, sniffed, focusing on her hands in her lap. Wringing them together, desperate to control the stinging in her eyes and the lump in her throat. She hated how much she sounded like a child when she asked him, “What did I do wrong to deserve this?”

“Nothing!” Emmrich cried. “By the Maker, Agnes, why are you so determined to see this as a reprimand?” He kept talking, talking. Agnes barely heard a word he said, her own thoughts racing as fast as her heartbeat. ‘Did he find out? Does he know, at last, that I…? Could that be why…?’ “This position will afford you greater power, greater comfort.” ‘Two things I have never wanted, never asked for.’ “The opportunity to work on projects that interest you instead of following me down into the Necropolis every time I have a theory to test, or a restless spirit to soothe. There is even a very generous pay raise associated with the new position. Of all the things you could be doing in the Mourn Watch, I really do think it will be for the best for you, Agnes.”

At that, Agnes could not help but laugh. Long and low, and building to something slightly hysteric. A pay raise? Did he think she could be bought? The compensation for a Watcher was already more than generous, and other than the splurge she’d made on Emmrich’s ring ten years ago, Agnes had hardly spent her earnings. Nearly twenty years of wages were sitting, barely touched, in a small trunk beneath her bed.

How could more cold, heartless gold possibly compensate for the richness she was about to lose? It was ludicrous to think the two could compare.

And then Agnes was no longer laughing. Her mouth was a razor thin line, full of daggers.

“Who are you,” she asked him, low and seething, “to decide what is best for me? You are not my father.” ‘By this recent betrayal, I am left to wonder if you were ever really my friend. Better for me?’ “It would have been better for me never to have come here, and the only reason I did was because of you.”

Agnes kept her gaze fixed on Emmrich’s face, waiting for a reaction. His jaw was working, chewing at the inside of his cheek. If her words had wounded him, he was doing a very good job of hiding it.

“You’re right,” he said at last, softly, staring fixedly into his teacup, a defeated note in his words. “Perhaps it would have been better for you, if you had never come here to begin with.”

He might as well have struck her. Agnes had thrown the first stone, but she had been entirely unprepared for how deeply it would pain her, to hear Emmrich agree with her. ‘He cannot believe that.’ But Emmrich was not a man to lie, to say something he did not wholeheartedly believe to be true.

“Agnes, don’t you…” Emmrich sounded so tired. Exhausted. Of her, she supposed. “Do you ever think perhaps we are too close?”

Too close? For twenty years, they had not been nearly close enough for her liking. “What are you trying to say?”

“I am saying,” Emmrich said, emphatically, “that you should want more for yourself and your life than to spend the rest of it serving a weary, eccentric old man. And I am trying to give that to you.”

Agnes breathed out, her exhale shaking fitfully out of her. Chest heaving with it.

She was glad that Wilfred was gone, otherwise she would be fighting the juvenile urge to smash him to pieces—just to cause Emmrich even an ounce of the pain that she was feeling in that moment.

But Agnes was better than that. She was more in control of herself than that. She bared her teeth in something akin to a snarl.

“That’s lovely of you,” she told Emmrich, though her tone said it was anything but, her words laced with venom. “My deepest thanks. Really.”

And then, without further comment, she stood to make her way towards the exit. She would not stay here in this study, with Emmrich trying to convince her he’d done her a favor. She would not linger in this space—this space which had for twenty years been her space as much as his, but would soon no longer be.

She heard the clatter of Emmrich’s cup on the tray as he leapt up to follow her, calling after her. “Agnes, don’t go. Please, can’t we talk about this? It was not my intention to—”

Agnes called upon all the spitfire and rage she had within her. Feeling as hideous and fierce as a cornered beast when she turned her face just enough to throw the words over her shoulder:

“It is my intention to smoke my pipe,” she said, casting the words like stones in his direction. “Which you disdain, and prefer for me not to do in your study, so I will go.” She delivered her farewell as firmly as a slap to the face: “Good night, Volkarin.”

Upon her exit, she slammed the door of the study closed behind her with such force that the sound of it carried and echoed through the halls.

‘Don’t run,’ Agnes told herself as she hastened down the corridor. ‘Don’t weep. Not yet.’ Not in the hallways, where anyone could stumble upon her, witness her in a state of such deep distress. She just needed to hold herself together until she made it to the safety and privacy of her own room. Breathing shallowly, unevenly, she counted down the dormitory doors to her own, feeling her control over herself crumble with every step she took. By the time she reached her own door, her hands were shaking so badly she might as well have been Alfred, for all the difficulty she had with her own doorknob.

When at last the door yielded, she slipped inside and shut it firmly behind her. Cast a hasty barrier over it to make sure that any sounds she produced within were not audible without. Then she let her body fall back, the door supporting her weight, and finally released the sob that had been building in her chest, aching in her lungs.

A second sob chased the first, then a third, and she was sinking to her knees, holding her head in her hands, her whole body shaking with adrenaline and rage and—worst of all—grief.

Emmrich was right—she was pathetic. She had no plans for herself, no lofty personal goals or higher accomplishments she was working towards achieving in her life. All she had had was this: the pleasure of working with him, and that had been more than enough. Had she—at times—wanted, wondered if the relationship between them could become more? She had; but that did not change the fact that working alongside Emmrich, for the last twenty years, had been all the purpose she needed.

And now that, too, was gone. And she was close to forty years old, and she was utterly lost.

What would become of her now? What would her life be? How could she possibly endure the Necropolis—for which she bore no special love; the Necropolis which, she had quite possibly all of this time, secretly hated—without the light Emmrich’s brilliance and warmth guiding her through it?

Agnes wept until she exhausted herself, until her stomach and her lungs ached from it and she could weep no more. When at last she was finished, she took two deep breaths, then pulled herself to her feet. Walking straight to the hearth, she plucked the box from the mantle that contained her smoking pipe. She was nothing if not a woman of her word. Letting her body drop limp into her armchair, she began, with automatic movements, to pack the bowl of the pipe with dried royal elfroot, not wholly present in her body, glad for the mechanical distraction it afforded her from her thoughts.

It was petty of her. She did not blame Emmrich in the least for forbidding her from smoking in his study; she would have agreed with him that it was a rather filthy habit, but over the last few years she’d developed a penchant for it, particularly in the rare moments when she was feeling vindictive and spiteful towards him. She lit the pipe, coughed deeply at her first inhale, but then the smoke sedated her, lifted her above and away from all the pain and the anger so that she could dissociate from it, hover in the skies above it and see it for what it really was.

Agnes stared into the cold, ash-laden hearth in front of her, puffing, sending smoke circles spinning around the room, thinking. ‘Why has Emmrich done this?’ Because she did not believe, even for a second, that it was simply in recognition of her merit as a Watcher. Not after twenty years. But all of the answers she could come up with were too painful; and it was not productive, Agnes realized, to sit here trying to guess at Emmrich’s motives. They did not matter. She had no power over Emmrich‘s decisions, only the ability to decide what she was going to do about them. And no matter how many times she turned it over in her head, no matter how many different ways she imagined what her life could be like in the Mourn Watch without him, there seemed to be only one viable course of action available to her.

For twenty years, Agnes had devoted herself to protecting Emmrich. Perhaps, at last, the time had come for her to protect herself.

And if she were going to do that, she could not stay.

Decided, Agnes practically leapt to her feet, walking to her wardrobe and throwing wide the doors. From the bottom of the wardrobe she withdrew the only present Lord Halkias had ever given her: a carpet bag, gifted to her after her magic was discovered and she was bound for the Circle at Perendale. The bag was bigger on the inside, enchanted to carry much more than its exterior volume suggested. The message, at the time, had been quite clear: pack everything that is dear to you when you leave for the Circle, because we are glad to be rid of you, and you will not be welcome back here again.

She had not touched the thing since she had first unpacked into this room. Now she beat two decades worth of dust off of it, and stood it open at the foot of her bed. One by one, she folded up each of her skirts and blouses, then emptied the underwear and stockings from her drawers into the bag as well. Withdrawing the small chest from beneath her bed, she glanced at the gold within, making a hasty approximation of her total earnings, then added that to the bag as well. There was a neat stack of books on her desk, half read, but only a handful of the volumes were her own; these she packed, leaving the borrowed books in place. She threw her pipe and the rest of her elfroot in the rubbish bin. Without the satisfaction of irritating Emmrich, she would no longer have a use for either.

It did not take her long to gather her things. Though she had spent half her life in the Mourn Watch, now she left it with only a handful more possessions than she had when she arrived. At last she scanned the room one final time, checking under and within all the furniture. All was clear, except—Agnes discovered—for the topmost drawer of her desk.

The sight of the wrinkled programs inspired another swell of grief within her, and set her lower lip trembling all over again, but ‘No,’ she scolded herself, blinking past the tears, ‘you have already cried enough.’ Still she held the stack of paper programs reverently as she withdrew it from the desk, shuffling through the pages. Don Pasquale; The Barber of Treviso; The Marriage of Figaro. Agnes has cherished these mementos like sacred relics, each of them a reminder of a much-beloved, oft-revisited memory of Emmrich. Of time they had spent together. Of moments—however brief and delusional and champagne-induced they may have been—when she had imagined he might one day love her in return, as deeply and as hopelessly as she loved him.

Those, too, she consigned to the rubbish bin, along with her pipe.

One program alone she kept separate from the rest. Agnes set it down on the surface of the desk, before proceeding to clean the room. She beat the dirt from the small woven rug at the side of the bed; she swept the ashes from the hearth and scoured it clean. With a bucket water and lye she scrubbed determinedly at the floor of the bedroom until the tiles shone—as if, by removing all biological evidence that she had once lived in this space (filled it with impossible dreams) she could similarly wash away the indelible marks it had made upon her soul.

And when she was finished—when the room was clean, the bed made, the whole place looking sterile as an infirmary—she set the program for The Elixir of Love, the first opera they had seen together, square in the center of the mattress, the creamy parchment standing out in sharp contrast against the crimson bed linens. In the tempest of her emotions, Agnes did not trust herself to leave Emmrich a goodbye note. It was too likely that she would say something she would ultimately come to regret. The program would have to speak volumes for her: the full weight of both her gratitude and her grief.

One day, perhaps, when all of this was far behind her, she could look back on that night and be happy, instead of feeling so utterly heartbroken and bitter.

It was a cowardly act, to creep out of the Necropolis in the small hours of the night as she was doing. Perhaps she owed it to herself and the other Watchers to formally put in her resignation, but Agnes was certain she could not endure it. She would not endure it. Johanna would ask too many questions Agnes could not answer, not without risk of revealing exactly why it was she needed to leave. And before she knew it all of her secrets would be out, and she would not only be grieved then but ashamed and humiliated, too, for everyone to know how much and how long she had loved Emmrich, and how easy it had been for him to cast her aside.

And it did not matter, really. She would never see any of them again. She did not intend to ever return to Nevarra.

Where would she go? Agnes wasn't sure. It was said the south was kinder to mages since Divine Victoria had assumed the Sunburst Throne, but all that evidence was anecdotal at best. Tevinter seemed the safer bet. What would she do there? Agnes wasn't sure, but she was a mage, and Tevinter ran on magic; she would figure out something. Surely with the Qunari invasion, she could find work as a mercenary, or a bodyguard. And in the short term, she had no need for money. If she was thrifty, she could stretch her twenty years' wages to keep her sheltered and fed for at least a few months, perhaps almost a year. What mattered most was that there was no joy left for her here in the Necropolis, no life left for her here. Anything else would be preferable to staying.

When she emerged into Nevarra City, the night was cool, blossom-perfumed. A clear sky full of stars stretched above her. And although she carried a terrible pain within her, the future seemed pregnant with possibility, if not promise. That, at least, was something.

Agnes breathed the cool air deeply, unpinned her hair from her head and let it cascade down her back. A gentle riverbreeze tossed her dark curls around her face, and as the wind blew past her, Agnes imagined that it carried Watcher Gallatus away with it. Whoever she became next, it would not be the lovesick, heartbroken woman she was leaving behind.

One foot in front of the other, she descended the grand staircase that led from the mouth of the Necropolis and into the city. She did not once turn back.

--- This piece is Part IX in a series of XI. [ Start from beginning ] [ Read Part X ] [ Nerdanel's Fic Masterpost ]

#emmrich volkarin #emmrook #Emmrich Volkahrin #dragon age emmrich #emmrich the necromancer #dragon age: the veil guard #dragon age fanfic #fanfiction #angst

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hekateinhell · 4 months ago

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Do you think Armand regretted what he did to Claudia? What do you think Armand's reaction would've been had he been confronted with something similar to the maybe or maybe not Claudia ghost Louis met?

It really depends on which era of Armand we’re talking about!

I don’t think Armand in TVA very much sounds like he regrets the role he played in her death:

For the record, she was slain by my Coven of mad demon actors and actresses, for, when she surfaced at the Theatre des Vampires with Louis as her mournful, guilt- ridden protector and lover, it became all too clear to too many that she had tried to murder her principal Maker, The Vampire Lestat. It was a crime punishable by death, the murdering of one's creator or the attempt at it, but she herself stood among the condemned the moment she became known to the Paris Coven, for she was a forbidden thing, a child immortal, too small, too fragile for all her charm and cunning to survive on her own. Ah, poor blasphemous and beauteous creature. Her soft monotone voice, issuing from diminutive and ever kissable lips, will haunt me forever.

I find it hard to envision a universe where Claudia tries to kill Lestat, of the people that Armand loves, and Armand happily lets her live. I do think Armand regrets the Frankenstein experiment which he describes as going down with “a sorcerer's willfulness and a boy's blundering.” Like, that wasn’t necessary, Armand! And he knows it now.

But the Armand of the PL-trilogy is much more settled in himself, and seemingly having begun to heal centuries of trauma through his time with Louis, Sybelle, and Benji at their home in Trinity Gate. I always adore this exchange Armand has with Gregory in PL:

“Not so savage really,” said Gregory. “There is not a single one of us, no matter how old, that does not have a moral heart, an educated heart, a heart that learned to love while human, and a heart that should have learned ever more deeply to love as preternatural.”

Armand looked sad suddenly. “Why has it taken me so long?”

He’s finally learned to love with a moral heart, an educated heart, a heart that learned to love while human! And he recognizes that it took him a long time to do so! Trauma, baby! I think this Armand would regret what he did/allowed to happen to Claudia because of the pain it caused two of the people he loves the most, Louis and Lestat. Sure, he loved them back then—dearly, obsessively, possessively—but he wasn’t exactly taking into account how his actions and inactions would damage them.

As for Claudia’s ghost? She would horrify him, and indeed, he says:

For many a year, she haunted me. I could not strike from my mind the faltering image of her girlish head and tumbling curls fixed awkwardly with gross black stitching to the flailing, faltering and falling body of a female vampire whose discarded head I'd thrown into the fire.

Given Armand’s inclination to see spirits, I wonder if he has seen the ghost of Claudia already.

#you ask and hekate answers #armand #claudia #louis de pointe du lac #lestat de lioncourt #quotes #the vampire chronicles #vc

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recreationalfanfics · 2 years ago

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Yandere RoR Loki x Fem! Reader: Love Potion

How does the God of Mischief react when he falls in love with one of the human contestants in Ragnarok? How does he take it when he sees that they love another God?

Not very well to both.

A/N: Sorry if this seems too OOC, I did try to do my best since I'm still trying to get a feel for writing these characters! Feedback would be greatly appreciated!

Being the god of trickery and deceit, Loki was never afraid to use unsavory methods to get what he wanted, and this situation was no different. He stood next to Aphrodite, watching with careful eyes and an unreadable smile on his lips as he watched the pink liquid in the cauldron stir. Apbrodite did not share that smile, in fact, she looked rather digusted as she held her head low with shame as she threw in the final ingredients.

"...Her love for you will be false." Aphrodite warned, her voice low. Loki let out a low chuckle and looked at the goddess, "Love? Is that what you think this is about?"

Aphrodite only frowned and furrowed her brows as he continued to condescend

"No, no, I'm way too above that sort of thing," the God continued to mock, "This is about control."

He wasn't wrong, Aphrodite noted, but there was something else she could sense about this. The fear of being controlled. It appears the God of Mischief has had something happen to him, something that shook him to his core and that nothing, not even his quick wit and sly cunning, could stop it from happening.

He had fallen in love with someone who was in love with someone else, a God nonetheless.

Until now, he thinks with a smirk as Aphrodite hands him the pink liquid colored potion. She looks ashamed of herself as she sees Loki's twisted grin grow on his face as the pink glow from the potion reflects in his greedy purple eyes. Even though she didn't look kindly onto mortals, she couldn't help but pity you as she thinks about what Gods could have been cruel enough to have given you the misfortune of catching Loki's eye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loki pours the pink liquid into one chalice in his room, his face uncharacteristically stoic and his mind too deep into thought. He wasn't sure if he was embarrassed, angry, or upset by the predicament he was in.

Embarrassed because he was doing all of this for a mortal whose beauty was somewhat abnormal by mortals standards but still below a God's, angry because this all could have been avoided if he had acted faster and hadn't pushed you away, and upset because...well...because he remembered Aphrodite's words.

"Her love for you will be false."

At the time, he was so convinced that as long as he had her love that he would be happy, false or not, but now as he had this time to himself to really think; would he really be happy if your love for him was false? Could he accept the fact that whatever relationship you built with him, would just be all because of a single potion?

Then he thinks about the events that lead up to this, about why he HAD to do this. About how this was your fault.

From the very start of Ragnarok you had caught his eye. A great warrior originating from (your country), you were known as cunning, sly, and unpredictable. You fought with brute strength and unbeatable strategy on the battlefields, while most Gods detested against the wars humans had (except for war gods obviously), Loki liked seeing your fights. He wouldn't say that he "adored" you, you were still a mortal after all, but you lived fast and as a result, died young. In fact, he forgot about you for a long while after you had died and didn't really mourn you like your battalion of soldiers had done but then the start of Ragnarok began.

Seeing your name on the roster kinda made him go, "Huh, okay." but seeing you in person was a different experience entirely. After the battle of Jack the Ripper, Brunhilde still needed time to find a champion to go against Shiva and while you volunteered for the challenge, you went against a different God.

And won. Giving humanity it's 3rd win and 1 step away from the God's. Yet, Loki didn't feel the same rage he felt towards you like he had with the previous two champions, because he was too amazed at the fight. The trickery, the smoke and mirrors, unlike Jack who was gambling his life: you made it appear effortless as you toyed with the God. Tearing up not only their mind but their body for the arena to see before you landed the killing strike. Maybe you hid your fear well or maybe you had none at all, and that's what made him like watching you again even more. Except this time, it had surpassed more than a simple like.

"I don't think you're supposed to be here.~" You sang, your tone as sadistic as it had been in the battlefield. Loki revealed himself floating in the air per usual, his legs crossed and his back hunched over as he smiled down at you with his chin in his hands. You raise an eyebrow at him as your small smirk widened, "Looking for a fight, God?"

"Oooh, how confident. I'm not sure if that intruiges me or pisses me off!" He chuckles. You shrug at his response, "As long as you and your friends know that I'm gonna make sure Humanity survives against your wishes, that's all I really care about."

"Big talk from someone who died young." He shoots back teasingly.

"Died young and was a high commanding general who was a queen on countless battlefields with many suitors. All of which weren't able to beat me in battle at my true strength." You reminded, not so gently. Loki tilts his head at your words, "Huh, odd way to mention you're single."

"Odd way of saying you're interested."

He started sneaking into the human part of the arena more, to talk to you, and to continue your little conversations which were more or less passive aggressive insults towards one another. He had learned a few specifics from your life back when you were alive: About your childhood and some struggles you had to overcome, how you had to fight hard for your spot in your military in order to became the renowned warrior you were, and how many suitors tried and died trying to fight you for your hand. No one could beat you when you used your full strength...well, no mortal could beat you.

"So tell me, little mortal, if I were to fight you and beat you for your hand...does that mean you'd marry me?" He asked, mostly out of genuine curiosity and to see if he could fluster you. He did not by the way you side eyed him with that same confident grin, "Maybe. Why? You want me to be yours, puny god?"

Only you could get away with calling him that.

Only you could make his heart skip a beat when you asked if he wanted you as his.

But he had ignored it, his arrogance making him shrug it off and telling him that he could never have a mortal as his lover, not when you and your kind were so beneath him. Which he told you, straight to your face, and you only laughed it off before returning to your quarters.

If he hadn't been so blinded from his ego, maybe he wouldn't feel like a fool, having to resort to methods found in fairytales to claim you. The least he could have done was fought you then and there and win, so even if he didn't want your heart in the moment, he could have it later when he realized that he truly did want you. But no, Loki had rejected the idea entirely believing it foolish to take a human lover.

In fact, he found it so foolish that it kept him awake that night. Thinking about what it'd be like if he challenged you to a fight and won your hand, the idea of having you submit yourself to him gave him a thrill, and whether he'd spare you from the shared fate of humanity after the Gods had won (for there was no doubt in his mind they would).

These thoughts took so much of his time that it started to frustrate him, he shouldn't be letting a human take over so much of his mind, especially when he knew that there fate- though they put up a good fight- was sealed with doom. So he started to avoid you and give you the cold shoulder, which was entertaining for a while to him.

The look of hurt you gave when he stared at you with indifferent eyes, the longing way you'd gave at him like a lost puppy waiting for for its master to return home only for you to try and keep up your tough facade. Everything like that brought joy to Loki because he felt like he was getting even with you for invading his thoughts all day, knowing you were thinking of him as much as he was thinking of you.

You even chased him around, asking him why he was avoiding you and even asking: "What? You think you're too good for me now?"

Until he came.

To which he responded with: "I don't think I am. I know I am. And I always have been."

You then started to distance yourself from him. Though he assumed you just wanted him to chase you, and he would, but not now. After all, no God or human sought to court you so Loki wasn't really worried.

Buddha's betrayal was a shock to many, but overall, a huge win for humanity. Loki wished he had killed Buddha when he had the chance, not just because this means the God's chances of winning were jeopardized but because he had noticed that you and him seemed to be getting along. He told himself that it didn't bother him, not in the slightest yet he could not stop looking your way when he heard you laugh with Buddha and how something about you seemed different with him. Only him. You were only that way with Buddha.

You weren't like that with Loki.

You also seemed a bit more...relaxed? Calm? Almost as if hanging around the Buddha gave you a sense of peace, not even just when he was talking to you but when you were around him with general. Hell, you'd even sneak glances at him when you knew the God wasn't looking. Your eyes no longer cocky or hardened, but softened and tender. You were looking at him with an emotion that Loki couldn't describe but he knew you had never looked at him in that way when he talked with you.

He wasn't able to tell exactly what it was until the one day he decided to sneak into the area where your kind's miserable little champions resided. He had gone to look for you and while he did find you, he did not like what he found at all in the slightest.

You were breathing heavily, using your weapon to help your balance as you knelt down on one knee. You were tired out but you had a smile on your face as you stared at the God before you, his eyes staring down at you through his rose colored shades and a victorious expression on his face, but it wasn't one of arrogance or possession, but one of love. An expression that conveyed pride in not just the result of the fight but the way you fought him as well, as if he was silently praising you for it.

"So, I guess this means we'll be together. If you like the results of this battle, of course." He hums, holding out his hand to help you up. You take it with a serene smile.

Not a cocky smirk. Not a teasing grin. A smile. A genuine smile.

"What's not to like?" You respond, allowing the taller God to pull you into his chest and laughing when he brings a kiss to your forehead.

No...

No!

NO!

NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO-

YOU WERE LOKI'S TO CLAIM. YES, HE MAY HAVE MADE YOU THINK OTHERWISE, BUT IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE HIM. NOT BUDDHA, NOT ANY OTHER MAN, WOMAN, OR GOD- H I M.

But it wasn't him. Loki realizes that when he hears a small crack and looks at the potion he forced Aphrodite to make him, and he sees his pink reflection looking back at him. His expression was bitter at the recall of events that cost him to lose you. It was not him that challenged you to a fight first, it was not him that got to beat you, and it was not him that got to have you in his arms. Then he hears his door knock and he smiles, twisted and obsessive, as he hears your voice from the otherside.

Hiding the love potion and steadying your chalice to make sure nothing looked too out of the ordinary, he went to the door when he confirmed that this would go smoothly.

So what if he didn't fight you and win like you wanted too? He wanted you and he will have you. That is all that mattered to him.

He invites you in with a warm smile, you're hesitant to enter his room and tell him you wish for him too keep his apology short because you had somewhere to be- with someone waiting on you, he reminds himself indignantly- and he assures you all he wished was to make amends and have a toast. After all, he considered you a friend (which was funny because he failed to treat you like one) and was happy for you finally discovering that your love was not a man, but a God. You declined the drink at first, which worried him at first, but with his powers of persuasion-which is really just another way of saying he annoyed you into having one sip-you brought the cup to your lips.

His eyes watched you like a hawk as you drank the liquid and when you had finished with your small sip, you smacked your lips, not having ever tasted anything like it before. Loki wasn't sure when the potion was to take effect but he panicked when two minutes had gone by and you awkwardly excuses yourself to leave.

"Aw, c'mon! Just stay a little longer!" He urged, using his typical childish voice. You respond coldly, "Loki, I no longer have time for your games, I must...-"

Then you stopped in the middle of your sentence suddenly, your once stiff posture relaxing and you shook your head as if shaking off a bad hit to the noggin. Loki could not fight the hopeful smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips.

"(Y/n)? Didn't you have anywhere to be?" He asked, testing the waters.

You turn around, a dreamish look in your eyes. It may not be the same look that you gave Buddha, a poor copy of it, but it was directed and focused at Loki which was all he cared about.

"Why would I want to be anywhere else when I could be with you?" You sigh, running to him and grabbing both sides of his face to bring your lips to his.

He smiles into the kiss as his arms around your waist and deepens it. Perhaps if he had let down his pride for once, you would be kissing him out of your own volition, but he wasn't exactly upset as he thought he'd be.

It's a good thing he was more selfish than emotional, otherwise he might have felt guilty instead and that certainly would've ruined the moment as you pull away from the kiss and look at him again, his image reflecting in your eyes like those of a doll's glass eyes.

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ganondoodle · 2 months ago

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Regarding Demise: He is an interesting concept, as is the whole eternal cycle, but for that to actually become something worthwhile the games/stories would have to actually DO something with it. So far they are introduced in Skyward Sword and thats it! No other game even references them. And, yes, that cheapens EVERY other game because there is this implication that its all out of the control of the actual characters in the story because of this one asshole that we only ever saw once! Why not have Ganondorf realize that he is possessed/manipulated by this weird old Demon God? How would he react, would he embrace it, would he rebel, would he be broken by the realization that none of his actions were ever *his*? I dont even care which of these options they pick, as long as they pick any of it and do just ANYTHING with the concept.

Or maybe Link or Zelda figures out the Cycle and starts looking into breaking it because endlessly repeating Demon Attacks kinda suck and you dont want that for your descendants.

Or have a game focus on them remembering bits from past lives and having to piece it all together or, again, just ANYTHING!

The closest they ever came to was with BOTW Zelda praying to Hylia, aka HERSELF, to unlock her powers, which is some brutal narrative irony, but not much more.

And regarding the whole Zelda is Hylia thing, I've seen some headcanons about how Skyward Sword Zelda is terrified of herself after learning that, because she now has to assume that everything she did was planned by a version of her that she no longer is. Is Link her friend or is he the useful pawn that Hylia needs to turn into the Hero? Does she even deserve his affection when she probably manipulated him into becoming her champion and fighting, possibly dying for her all her life?

Thats juicy, thats something you can do something with but Nintendo really does like to plan those stories game per game without any care for the larger story.

Which I guess is the Irony of it all. They tried the whole larger connected story/universe thing once: With Skyward Sword. After all that was also the time we got the first Hyrule Historia & "official timeline" as well as "How it all began" in the game itself.

It felt like the start of a new era for Zelda games and stories and then it just... wasn't.

And while I get that they want to focus on gameplay over story, I will never stop mourning the stories we could get/have gotten, if they put a bit more thought into things.

I actually feel like its harder to make the 'cycle' into an interesting plot point when its a .. divine thing that happens, and not perpetuated by the people (though not impossible, given how the series is build up it would need alot of work to not make it worse still..)-

i actually cannot stand the idea that ganondorf is possessed or manipulated, made eviler by demise somehow (demise is dead, leave him beeeeee hes not some evil master mind behind anything aaaaah) bc it STILL takes away ganondorfs agency and character and gives right into the whole hes basically born evil and just pushes the fault tm onto someone else it in turn legitimizes that the kingdom of hyrule and its high rule (heehoo) is right and if only gan wasnt manipulated hed be good tm, aka allied with the goodest guys, hed gladly accept their invitation and join their holy empire of goodness tm if wasnt for da demon

(and i love to say, who decides what is good tm and evil tm? bc hyrules monarchs making every other tribe their subordinate and persecuting shiekah for example isnt what id call good but its fine bc the good holy guys did it in the name of "peace" -what is their idea of peace? everyones under their rule and must worship their god? uh oh- and resistance to it is gonna get you labelled as evil!! (unless you join their holy kingdom and become their vassal of GOOD) what good and evil boils down to in zelda is .. being allied/ruled by the kingdom of hyrule and being opposed to them, even if its only not wanting to be subjugated by them)

i can see the appeal to some degree, but i dont like the idea of ganondorf even being able to be manipulated or possessed, what makes his character, before it got flattened into well he just be demon in the eyes of the average fandom, interesting is his unbreakable will, that drive to keep on living and resisting those that want him dead, its poetic and sad, to the point that (until totk ...) it was really just ONE ganondorf that refused to die and came back over and over (also something i found a compelling thought for botw, that after all this time theres nothing left BUT his will to resist, its a tragic idea that rly spoke to me)

my personal idea of the cycle is that its only a cycle bc they, the kingdom of hyrule and their belief system, keep it going, its not a divine thing that needs to be broken (though the divine surely messes with it, just for the bit i guess) but something that keeps repeating bc hyrule is so soaked into the idea that their princess once was a god and hers is the right to rule it all in light- so anyone who doesnt agree must be of the demons from the darkness seeking to destroy the world, and what means the 'world' could just mean the kingdom of hyrule- in botw even with the calamity people went on and lived, same in windwaker, they dont need the holy kingdom to live- (who is to say the 'monsters' are bad for the land, to me they mostly looked like well adapted territorial beasts, and the bokblins etc clearly arent mindless monsters either, why do they need to be eradicated? they attack you? ok dont go into their territory, or defend yourself, you dont need to exterminate something just bc it could be a threat at some point)

(i do agree that conflict with zelda being interesting but uuuh .. well they never did anythign with that huh)

in the end, demise was just a throw away villain, and if i may get my tin foil hat back here, i feel like the whole creation myth skyward sword does was really just a way for them to get out of the predicament of having to consider a villain to be treated like a person to save themselves from having to think about what they imply and can just go, well this is the evil demons, this is the good gods- ironically enough the attempt to get out of having to consider complicated writing it ends up reversing straight back into the WORST of kinds of implications .. that arent even subtext anymore, if totk is anythign to go by, the most 'simple' or 'easy' narrative to go for might not be actually simple, just a so often retold one that it appears simple if not made aware of its dark maw, the status quo repeated ad nauseam

(and if i may, the whole gameplay over story thing is bs in my eyes, that sounds like the typical attempt of dismissing any critique, just like the stupid, and frankly, offensive "its just for kids" argument, story and gameplay are inherently intertwined, the story influences the gameplay, the gameplay influences the story, especially in a series like zelda that is a futile thing to go for and a reason why the stories themselves lack depth, how are you gonna have an epic adventure that drives you to get through any amount of puzzles and battles if there is no story to motivate you, at this point it feels like the series has set itself up for catastrophic failure bc i imagine, people might just keep buying and playing the games bc its attached to the series, bc they hope to see characters they loved return, new ones that will grab their attention, perhaps be taken away by a world that meant alot to them once before, hope that there will be something exciting-

i am not saying the series has no value or doesnt do anything well (hello who am i) but how many times can you repeat 'this guy good he fight evil guy he get the pretty princess as reward' without any interesting twists or narrative, even the most beloved characters can only keep it passable for so long, even the best gameplay loses its potential if its surrounded by cardboard characters and a story so "simple" as offensive it fits into a single page, i often wonder how a game would be seen if it wasnt titled -the legend of zelda- ..

it hurts especially when looking at its long history, how much estblished thigns it could exploit and expand, the potential the series has is still immense, it hurts to see it be wasted over and over :(

#ganondoodles answers #ganondoodles talks #zelda #i dont need it to be mind breaking #i just want it to be interesting #botw was interesting to me!! so much so!! god i miss loving that game- totk just gives everything a bitter taste..#i dont find echoes of wisdoms lore that interesting as some seem to do #the main thing being you play.. as zelda (and need to transform into link via mystic energy to be able to actually fight hahaaa)#and i find that cool but also a little .. sad? like this series is so set in its path that even playing as the other good guy is a big hook #i have nothing much against the game (other than how zelda is handled- of course she da priestess not a hero .. the FUCKING UI ARGH)#idk totk kinda killed how invested i was into the lore #im just kinda numb to it by now ... like whatever #i still care mind you- but it would take alot ot get me excited again #also this long ass response isnt meant agressively or something #i just have .. opinions tm #also .. the whole breakign the cycle is the entire idea of my totk rewrite- with zelda having to realize she is part of what perpetuates it #and everything shes been told all her life was a lie- shaking her entire worldview to the core #anyway #im gonna guess this wasnt the point of the ask but uh ... words go brrrrr

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yourlocaltreesimp · 10 months ago

Text

All Chained Up

All chained up masterlist

last part ੈ✩‧₊˚ next part

Chapter 5: Stunted in sentience

The foolish nature of humanity lies within itself. Only once one has gained sentience can they fully gauge the factor at which they are alive. With such developments is the ability to feel beyond what has been coded into you. A creator's hand can mould a picture out of pigment and canvas— can mould you a form from nothing more than the earth, but it is sentience which gives the form meaning. It is sentience that attaches value to nothingness, that makes you mourn when it’s ripped away. It is sentience that betrays primiality. It is sentience —the very thing we have come to define ourselves with— that breaks you.

Days passed by with the similar mundane of your original life. You consider that it is fate echoing to you, the cage begging for something to trap. The Veteran still stands firm that everything is fine and like the world is normal. Like you’re not even there. The group has gotten more lax the longer you linger— ceasing the pass of distrustful stares in exchange for an uneasy silence. But still, you find your footing. You learned when to push yourself forward and pull back. You leaned when and who to bargain with and when you were better set focusing on that pull towards stagnation. With your progress you’d only been given easy tasks, safe tasks, with which you were usually monitored. You could find and forage food for dinner with Hyrule and Wild, gather kindling or logs for a fire (not that you were allowed to split them, that was down to Warriors or Twilight) or your personal favourite task of keeping the sailor entertained. While the world you hailed from was by no means intriguing to you, it proved to be incredibly so to the others. You’d forgotten how foreign your surroundings were to you also meant how foreign you were to them. It was there in that odd sense off middle ground, no man’s land… or perhaps every man’s land, you found a bit of adoration within the wonder-filled eyes of the young hero as you spun your tall tales. And with it came some small sense of acceptance into the group, as they find themselves getting caught tangled while you strung together story after story. You saw why it united them after they all began to open up, slowly at first. Wind exchanged stories of Outset, his home and his family. With every anecdote from your life was one from him. Surprisingly to you, it was Rulie who came next. He picked his words haphazardly as he spoke of his own home in a daze. His eyes were glassy and he spoke with a half smile, regret biting at his words. Clearly in your mind’s eye could you see his life of running through fields and meadows, living his life before fate came crashing in on him. Many of the others then followed suit, the Champion and his fight to tame the divine beasts, the Captain and his unfortunate situation pertaining to his love life, the Smith and why you presume he’s so short and Sky, who told a tale of a land among the skies and Hylia herself. All who you’ve heard from speak of her. Her gifts— her blessings. Her existence. Her existence in such surety, a word you’ve never known to associate the divine with. Through what you can only trust is true, you learn of gods and their battles. Their war zone among the mortals, fought by iterations of the same. Two gods and one mortal man set to stand between them… In the end, while you get no story out of Time, Twilight or Legend, you’re willing to lay that to rest. For now the knowledge you hold —while carefully curated and heavily gilt— is enough to fill mundane day after day of walking and chore.

After gathering food for dinner and split logs for a fire, you finally let yourself settle. You let yourself sink into your joints and let the world go quiet once more. There was still idle chatter and the quiet call of nature through the shaking of leaves and cawing of birds, but you found yourself within absence. No thoughts your brain sought to process, no motion you sought to make. Instead, you let yourself simply exist for one given moment. A capture in time before-

“Oh c’mon you could at least eat before you nod off.” Wind snickered, plopping himself right down next to you. “You’re Worse than Sky”

“Hey!” He sat up from the stump he was leaning on as he ‘rested his eyes’

“What, he’s not wrong,” Legend added before he could forget to hold his tongue. He’s been getting worse at ignoring you, occasionally passing snide comments in jest before realising who he was sharing his company with. He dropped the blades of grass he was braiding, flinching back from the cold earth as if it burned him.

Dinner would’ve been painfully quiet if it weren’t for Wind's rambles about some massive lava crab he fought during his journey. He might not have been able to pick up tone in nearly any capacity, but who were you to rain on his parade? When was the last time he had adults or mentors he looked up to take him seriously? You’re not sure the longer you think. And think is exactly what you do, all the way until the sun had led the sky and night was beset across the land. The small hero had already curled up with his head resting on your thigh by the time you snapped out of your thoughts. He’d seemed to be well out, not responding as you moved him so you too could lay down. The fire had started to dwindle without it being fed, and yet its characteristic warm glow was still cast upon the camp. It was then you noticed it. The moon. Crimson blood cast over the surface of the moon, eerily reminiscent of the same night you arrived. You lay awake for a long while after, never casting your eyes upon the carmine glow as much as you can help it to. You repeat a mantra of stories within your mind to push its influence out. You hear small voices begging for your attention clawing at your mind and no longer do you have the energy within you to shove them out. Your mind is not your own, cradled by tiny hands that sift through you. The coddle and coo as you’re split at the seams of your mind.

The nothingness fills you.

The sentience swells and crashes like an uneasy tide.

It draws back.

You are whole.

#linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #link x reader #linked universe x reader #yandere linked universe #link x you #x reader #yandere linked universe x reader #yandere link x reader #all chained up #lmao #sorry this took so long #i’m gonna go take an 100 year nap

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bokettochild · 10 months ago

Note

For the febwhump:

Day 10 with little legend in ALTTP and killing a knight for the first time?

Okay, so Legend wasn't really talking (shock and grief do that, it's okay) so this is Fable's POV. I hope you enjoy it!

Rating: Teen

Wordcount: 4,985

Summary: Death is familiar to the little girl who will one day be queen. To the boy she had to ask to be her champion, not so much.

Zelda has never particularly thought about death before.

Sure, mother and father were betrayed and killed by a dear friend, and she knows this, but it’s just as much a fact of life to her as the stones of the castle and the swords in the hands of her grandfather’s knights. Death exists and she’s seen it, seen public executions held for terrible criminals and traitors to the crown, but even to her tender years these things are simply part of life. The people who die are always faceless people who don’t matter anymore, and she’d never known her parents anyway, so why should she mourn for them?

She’s heard the castle staff call her a ‘cold little thing’, but in a world where her destiny is to wait for the next escape of a demon she or her descendants must face, how can they blame her? Especially since most of the staff don’t seem to like her much anyway, or Grandfather. She gets the idea that the king of Hyrule isn’t liked at all by most people, but she doesn’t know why and she’s long since given up asking. The knights only assure her with their loyalty and the servants excuse themselves under the pretext of having chores to attend to.

It’s alright, she doesn’t really care what they think. She doesn’t really care about them either.

That is, until suddenly her maid is dead and she’s being hauled down to a dungeon by soldiers who now do not swear their allegiance with charming smiles, but who march, stone-faced, to lock her up, despite her demands to know what’s going on, what they think they’re doing, and what on earth is wrong with them. She can feel it, a heavy magic settled over them, and she doesn’t blame them for their actions, since she knows they aren’t in control, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying when she’s tossed into the cold stone cell and left there, locked up like one of Grandfather’s prisoners. Calls into the darkness for answers go unheard, and as the night drags on, all she can do is wish, wish, wish for someone to please just answer, to get her out.

Maybe the servants wouldn’t call her a cold little thing if they could see her curled up in her cell, pretty dress ruined and golden hair dirty, sobbing her eyes out into her skirts, but they aren’t here. She doesn’t even know if they’re alive. She doesn’t mourn them either, although there's some distant idea of sadness that their families might not see them again and that they don’t deserve to die just because of whatever it is that’s happening. Still, death isn’t a very present thought in her mind until at last, she manages to catch wind of what’s going on.

Aganim, her father’s old friend and counselor, who’s been serving her grandfather for some time now, has betrayed them, has taken control of the minds of their knights, and now intends to re-open the Sacred Realm, which her ancestors sealed, in order to- like so many other foolish, foolish people- try and obtain the Triforce. To do it, he must first gain the power of the seven sages and the princess herself, and based on what little she knows of dark magic, she’s rather sure he’s not just going to ask them all nicely.

She needs to get out, desperately. She needs to get out before Aganim uses her magic to open the way to the realm where Ganon is sealed! She needs to get out before he kills her, using her like an offering, just like what almost happened to the Spirit Maiden all those thousands of years ago!

Her wishes and cries to the heavens grow more and more desperate. A call to anyone, just anyone, to please just come and help her!

“Who's calling to me?” The answering voice startles her, makes her pull her head up and look around, trying to see the person speaking. The voice sounds almost like her own, but tired, so tired, and somewhat confused.

She feels the same. She hasn’t been able to rest all day, attending to her studies, and now she’s spending the night in a dungeon, away from feathered pillows and heavy blankets and any small semblance of warmth. She wants out, but here, at last, someone’s heard her.

“My name is Zelda,” she says back, wishes back. She doesn’t think there’s a person here with her, just a voice.

She’s heard those favored by the Triforce can gain strange power, but being able to send and receive thoughts isn’t something she’d been counting on. Still, she’s not complaining, and she’s not going to question it either, just as long as she can get out of here and back to someplace safe.

Oh heavens, is grandfather safe? Will Aganim do anything to him? He doesn’t have powers to use and he’s not much of a threat these days, not without anyone to back him up. Will the wizard maybe let her grandfather go? Just lock him up or hide him or not let him do anything? Is he under control of the wizard too, like the knights?

“I’m Link,” the voice answers, still confused, still tired, still sounding too young to do her any good.

She’s no adult herself, but everyone else is. Still, maybe he can tell someone? Maybe he can send help? At least someone can hear her, she’s not going to give up just because they sound like they’re her age! “Help! I’m Zelda! I’m trapped in the castle dungeons! Please, send some help!”

Like a ribbon slipping between her fingers, the presence she could feel answering her; the warmth and light and ray of hope, slips away, no voice answering in return. She slumps down onto the stone again, sobbing. It’s not fair! She hasn’t done anything wrong! She doesn’t understand! Why is this happening? Why would her father’s old friend do this to them? Why isn’t anyone doing anything? Why is the only one to hear her a child?

Just a boy. Just some kid out there who probably doesn’t know how to get around in a castle or how to deal with a knight or a wizard. Just a kid, and she knows, she knows, kids never get listened to! No one listens to her, and she’s the princess! So why would anyone listen to a random kid? Especially one who tries to say that the princess is in danger, when most people don’t like royals to begin with, and anyway, no one’s going to believe that sort of thing! As far as anyone outside the castle probably thinks, she’s all tucked up in her big bed, just finished with dinner, and drifting off to sleep. Who’d bother to check and see otherwise? Especially if it’s only at the behest of a child!

Maybe some people think she’s cold, but the sobs that ring through the dungeons sound terribly awful to her, and it’s enough to make her cry harder, because try as she might, the sounds and sights of crying just makes her cry, no matter how much she fights it. Her own tears echo back off the stone, like the wailing of some tortured soul, and her mind flies off to what and who might have been here before her.

What sorts of people have lived in these dungeons? Died in these dungeons? Where there ever any little girls like her? Did they die down here? Did they escape? Did they have mums and dads to try and get them out, to hold them, or did they get left down here like she is? Just sobbing and crying with no one to hear them until they died and did whatever dead things do.

The old books say that dead things are monsters that wander around, long and thin with ghastly smiles, and attack heroes and knights when they come too close. What if that sort of a dead-monster is down here? Gibdoes, she thinks they’re called, or is it redeads? Whatever they are, she doesn’t want them to be down here. She’d much rather be alone and forgotten than be found by something so awful.

Except she won’t be forgotten, her mind whispers, and it’s not such a comforting thought as she wishes it was. Aganim knows she’s here, and he wants to keep her here until he’s ready to sacrifice her, split her open and make her blood spill to give power to his spell.

She’s seen heads chopped off before, but they were far away and not important. She didn’t care who they were, because it didn’t matter once they were dead and she couldn’t do anything about it anyway. Will other people think about her that way? Will it not matter? Impa will care, and Grandfather too- if he’s still okay, if he finds out, but who else will care? The knights who are nice to her are now mean and cold, and the servants never liked her anyway. The thought of being forgotten is worse than the idea of turning into a dead monster and trying to eat people- or something, but she’s all out of sobs and her eyes hurt from crying.

It doesn’t matter anyways, no one can hear her either way.

Or, rather, she thought so, only there’s the sound of feet in the hall. Feet that patter softly and do not thud and thump like the heavy boots that knights wear or swish and shuffle like the wizard in his great heavy robe. No, they creep slowly across the stone, slow and unsure, like a deer coming slowly out of the trees. They move quietly and quickly, but hesitate, and that alone tells her it’s not a rambling, long dead evil that wanders the halls, nor a servant or soldier who knows this castle. It's not feet she knows, but foreign feet are her best chance of getting out, so she pulls herself up, wipes away what’s left of her tears, and moves to peek through the bars of her cell and out into the hall.

She cannot see anything but stone. Whomever crafted these cells had no intention of allowing the occupants to see what was happening anywhere save just in front of the door.

She can still hear though. She can hear the quiet, unsure tapping of boots. More importantly though, she can feel, and that delicate, evasive ribbon of hope drifts back into her hands, a light presence making itself know in the darkness around her, like a candle coming alight befgore her tired and puffy eyes.

The boy.

Link.

She isn’t sure why he’s here, alone, but at least someone is trying. It’s more than she supposes some people would do, and at least he listened to her, which is far more than most people have done! His steps are wary, but she calls out, with her mind, like before, rather than her voice, urging him closer, telling him that’s he’s close, almost there. Just a little further and he’ll be here and maybe, just maybe, they can figure out some way to get this prison open, or at least she can tell him what’s going on so he can tell someone else.

If the Sacred Realm is unsealed, Ganon will be set free, and the people of Hyrule are not prepared for that. They need to send warning- she needs to send warning, needs to tell someone and get the word out, to give something to her people so they know that things aren’t as they seem, that they’re sitting on the edge of a precipice, too close to the fiery hell before them. Her history books talk about a time when Ganon won, when he ruled their kingdom. She doesn’t want that for them, especially because she’s heard grandfather say they’ve only just recovered from that war. They can’t take it again. Hyrule needs peace. She doesn’t think peace is likely, but maybe they can stop too much of the world from being hurt by the evil magic, if they stop Aganim before he can do anything more.

The feet stop.

She can hear breathing now, soft and rattling somewhat, like her own does as she tries so hard to look through the bars of her prison. Has he been crying, like she has? Come to think of it, if she, locked up and also away from anything else in here, is scared, how must it be for some common boy who’s probably never been in the castle? Or the dungeons much less? For all she knows, he might have been here before, to visit someone or say goodbye before an execution, but still! He’s got to be at least a little scared too.

She tries reaching out, listening again. His voice had been tired then, but she’d heard it, heard it from far away (because she knows there aren’t any little boys in the castle; she’s the only one her age). She could hear it then, so he, like her, must have been able to catch ahold of her thoughts, sent out like a wish to the stars she can’t see from in here. That means maybe she can reach out and hear his!

Except that the sound of a loud clang makes her jump, startle back and fall over, unable to see what it was that made the sound, but well able to hear what’s happening, and tell that it’s very close indeed. There’s a scuffle, a gasp that shudders before there’s panting, feet skidding over stone and another loud clang.

It sounds like the executioner’s axe on the stone of a courtyard.

“Shit!”

It’s him. It's Link. That's his voice, breathing and panting and gasping as she hears another clang, this time the blade screeching off of stone.

Desperately, she moves along the bars of her cell, trying to see out, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s happening. She’d call out, but Grandfather always told her to keep quiet if she hears things that worry her. Enemies might be close and she should never make it known where she’s hiding, because that puts her and anyone with her in danger, and princesses should not put people in danger if they can help it. So, she keeps her mouth shut, and her ears open.

Light feet dart, this time without hesitation, a hiss of breath that maybe carries soft words on it sounding, as well as the rasping of a second voice, breathing within something. Breathing within something heavy and thick, making it echo. It sounds like a knight, one with one of those very big and scary helmets that Grandfather makes them take off if she’s around, so she can see their real faces instead of the cold iron ones.

She hopes it’s not a knight.

The sound of an axe hitting stone, yet again, says it might be.

Link’s voice is panting, feet darting. She hears a hiss of steel, a sword drawing, and then there are a series of very loud blows. There’s yelps and shouts from Link, but nothing from the heavy, echoing breather, just the slam of an axe, again and again.

She can’t do anything. She can’t help or watch and she can only hear the awful sounds, the cry of pain from what she thinks has to be Link, and the clang, clang, clang of blades on stone, on armor, or on each other. She can only sit. Only sit and hope.

No, she can pray. Grandfather says that her lineage, that mother and grandmother and all of them, that their prayers mean something extra special, because they have power from the heavens. When bad things happen, even if he won’t let her know what, he always tells her to pray. Pray for their people and the kingdom and for him, so he’ll do what he should, or can figure out what to do. She always does. Impa takes her to the little prayer rooms in the castle, or sometimes down to the church, and she offers prayers between her studies and her meals until Grandfather tells her that things are better again. She may not be good at a lot, but she has lots of practice praying, so even though the cell floor is so dirty and the clanging of weapons is nothing like the deep ringing of bells, she still kneels and prays as hard as she can. Prays until she hears a scream and a shout and heavy thud.

The clanging stops.

She keeps praying. Please let Link have won. She doesn’t know how (unless maybe he’s a squire? Yes that could work!) but she needs it to be him who won. She needs to know that the only person who can hear her call for help is indeed the one who’s still standing, because she doesn’t know if she can handle having hope stray so close only to be torn away at the very last of seconds.

Soft, gently scuffing boots creep across the floor again, heavy panting, like a fawn just escaped from a hunter, peeking out to see if it’s safe once more.

“Link? Is that you?” She doesn’t get up, keeps her hands folded, she’s got to be ready to start praying for help again if it isn’t.

The voice that answers back is gentle candle-light and warmth, although it shakes and stammers. “M-Miss Zelda?” She doesn’t have time to get up before feet move closer and then there’s a boy standing in front of her. He’s short, maybe her height but probably a bit shorter, with messy pink hair hastily tucked under a green cap. His eyes are wide and blown out in the darkness, but the lantern in his hand makes them dance a bit too, almost red. Red to match the blood that spatters up and across his front, covers his boots and still touches his hands and the cloak wrapped up around him. “Are you okay?”

She blinks. Is she okay? Why is he asking that? She’s the one who just sat in here, praying, untouched, and he was the one that fought...whatever it is that he just fought. “I’m alright. Are you? You’re covered in blood...”

He winces, looks away, doesn’t look down and instead his flickering eyes dart all over everything else, as if desperate to not think about the fresh crimson all over him. “I’m okay.” And then, a moment later. “It’s....it’s not mine.”

His tunic is ripped a bit on one side, and she can see where damage has been done, but she doesn’t challenge him. Boys are funny, Impa says, and if you tell them they’re wrong they pout and throw a fit and won't listen to you anymore. Link’s the first person who’s listened in a long time; she doesn’t want to lose that. Instead, she just nods, doubtful, but doesn’t say anything. It’s not like either of them can do anything about it anyways. She can’t heal and there’s nothing she can offer him either.

He glances at her, and she recognizes abruptly that his eyes are terribly vacant. He’s there, he sees her, but he doesn’t seem to register anything else, just stare at her dumbly, like he’s not all inside his head.

“Did you happen to see a key somewhere?” It’s sort of a reach, since she doubts that the wizard would make it that easy, but the flickering crimson eyes turn back again towards the way he’d come from, and she can see him shudder, revulsion briefly marring his otherwise rather pretty features.

He nods. “Yeah.” There’s no waiting for her to say anything, just the setting down of the lantern in his hand, an old thing but well-tended, and he moves back out of her sight again. There’s some shuddering and catching of breath, rustling and clanking, and a squelch she supposes might be blood. He’s back again a moment or so later, slower than before, but holding the keys. They’re also covered in blood. He’s got more on him too, but his dull eyes are focused on the door, on unlocking it and pushing it open, and she’s quick to stand when he does.

She will not stay any longer, not now that there’s a way out. She’s not sure which of them took the other’s hand first, but as she tells him where to go, he leading the way with the light and with a still dripping sword on his back, and she following, it doesn’t matter. She follows past the fallen corpse of what she recognizes as the royal executioner, through the halls that run rampant with rats, trudging through sewers and mire and muck. The ground underfoot squelches, making her stomach churn. The quickly cooling blood that smears over her hand from Link’s own only makes it worse, and she fights back the urge to pull away. She has to stay with him though; he’s her only hope and only protector, there’s no other way out and she can’t do this alone.

They walk and walk, and she’d never realized before how many traps and dangers lay between the castle and the many hidden exits it possesses. The tunnel is cold, is wet, is damp, and once they exit again into the outside world, she finds it’s much the same. Rain beats down, lighting flashing overhead and thunder booming in their ears as they dart across the open spaces of Hyrule Field. Now out of the castle, she’s not sure what they ought to be doing, but she follows him. She’s never allowed outside alone, but he’ll know this land well, he’ll have lived here. He’ll know enough to hopefully know a safe place for them to hide. Still, it’s terrifying. She’s never seen the world flash like this, never slipped and tripped and made herself this muddy before. Link wraps her in his cloak, eyes still blank and distant, hands deft and fumbling, and while it’s warmer, by just a bit, it smells terribly of blood. Still, it’s better than nothing.

In time, through the rain, she can make out a familiar structure. Almost like a second home for how often she’s been there; the church rises up before them with it’s spires and glittering windows, bells chiming twice and twice only, just as they’re hurrying up towards the doors. She knows they’ll be unlocked.

They are.

Link pushes them open with some trouble, more than they require at any rate, but it’s only then that she realizes that he’s shaking. Not from cold, she doesn’t think, otherwise it would have started far earlier, he would have been shaking when he first came to her, because he was soaked then too, wet and spattered in muck from the sewers as well as the blood. No, now he’s shaking so violently that she finds herself reaching to take the lantern from his hand the moment they're inside the dimly lit sanctuary.

“Princess Zelda?” The familiar voice of the church Father catches her attention, making her turn from her companion to face the man. It’s two in the morning by the ring of the bells, and she can’t fathom why he’s awake, but there’s a candle burning and the smell of incense in the air, familiar and, like Link himself, an assuring presence that makes her heart stop the pounding in her chest, settling instead with a heavy sigh and soft cry she didn’t know was still left in her.

The Father hurries towards them, and while she’s always been taught to be reverent, she can’t help but throw herself into open arms, shaking and trembling herself as his hand soothes her hair, warm, creaking voice- ancient as the trees she thinks sometimes, sounding in words she doesn’t bother to hear.

They’re brought in and given warm blankets, and the bell-ringer appears to offer them warm tea, which she drinks slowly while the Father sits between them. Relief is a strange thing, a foreign thing, but she accepts it the same way she’s been taught to accept her other confusing feelings, sitting and listening to her heart and letting her mind spin until it finds itself too tired to keep on spinning. Soft prayers and the sound of rain fill her ears, and when at last she’s got a handle on herself again, she turns to look at her savior.

Link is still shaking, arms wrapped tightly about himself and eyes vacant.

She reaches out, not with her hands, but with the thoughts in her head, like before, and this time there’s no sudden noise to disrupt it. Link’s thoughts are far more jumbled and spinning than even her own.

‘-didn’t mean to, I didn’t! I- oh heavens, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t! I- he's dead, I killed him he died and I- I- oh heaven help! I didn’t want to! I didn’t-” he’s shaking, teeth gnawing his lip and eyes slipping closed. ‘We’re safe, we’re safe, we’re safe. I got Miss- Princess Zelda is safe and I got her here and I didn’t end up crying and I didn’t let her down. God, she must have been so scared, I know I was, let her be okay? It must have been awful being locked up in there! I- I couldn’t-” he’s shaking his head, hands plucking at is sleeves, at the blanket. Even with the rain, there’s still bits of blood stuck about his nails and the cuffs of his sleeves, and he seems acutely aware of that fact. His mind spins so much she’s dizzy just listening, hearing him worry first for her and then be washed over with regret at killing, only to them have his mind drift to death and watching people die and-

Zelda is struck with the sudden realization that Link, unlike herself, is not accustomed to death. She’s seen it enough times that seeing a body only brings disgust and discomfort, but sadness does not wash over her to see an enemy laid low. She’d only thought to avoid the pooling blood as passing the slain knight outside of her cell, but Link is actively experiencing regret for ending said knight’s life.

“Link?

The Father turns at her words, but the boy does not, instead rocking slowly as too fast breaths escape him.

“Link, dear boy, can you hear me?” It’s such a relief to release it to the Father and let him try to get the attention of her savior, the man turning fully towards the curled up little boy, one hand settling on his shoulder.

Link does not respond.

The father’s hand slips to rub across trembling shoudlers, steady, soothing motions as his voice, warm and soft, continues. “I do not know what brought you here at this hour, but you are safe here, my son. It is alright.”

“M-Miss-”

“The princess is alright.” The Father assures. “She is safe here as well, and no one will hurt her.”

There’s a small sob from her companion and she can hear his thoughts, the raging swell of the becoming less and less an effort to hear, instead pushing back against her, pushing out and demanding release, pouring into her own mind with terrifying clarity. Pain, anguish, regret, fear, guilt, overwhelming sadness. The ever-present thought of “be strong for her, she looks so scared” makes something inside her own heart twist up and her own breath catch.

“You got me out,” she murmurs, because speaking aloud seems almost wrong in the silence and peace of the otherwise empty church, “thank you.”

Dull eyes fall, Link burying his face in his arms with a sob that has tears pricking at her own eyes all over again. Shre’s always been weak to tears, a fault that Grandfather has warned her must be controlled, lest it be used against her, but she can’t help but cry along with the boy beside her, even as the Father comforts them.

Maybe she’s used to death, but he isn’t. More so though, he’s the one who swung the blade. He had killed a man, killed for her and soiled hands that no doubt had never caused harm further than a fight with friends or other such mischief that common children are allowed to get up to. Blood is new to him, terrifying still, not something he was raised watching be spilled, not something he expects.

His clothes are soaked with it. Even though a potion was given to him, prompted slowly to his lips and choked down dumbly, he’s got his own blood and that of the fallen knights both spattered over him, staining his clothes. It’s not only theirs though, because her peeks into his thoughts grant her visions of a man, in the same dungeons as they had been, wounded and bleeding out, of this same boy, only moments before finding her, finding said man and pleading, fighting against the flow of blood, of tears on his face and hurt in his heart. He’d lost someone just before coming to her. He’d been blank even before killing, forcing himself onwards to help her, guided only by the final words of the dead man in the sewers. He’d wandered and been chased, had faught a foe three times his own size, been forced to thrust a sword that’s too big for him into the heart of a man after just seeing the effects of the same.

Death is following this boy, biting at his heels tonight, and the more their thoughts bleed together in her head, the more the weight of what has happened hits her.

He’s killed for her, and with the knights taken over and the only ones on her side being the Father and this boy, she might have to ask him to do it again.

#alttp #a link to the past #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #lu fable #ketto writes #asks and answers #febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #tw death #tw blood

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steddieas-shegoes · 2 years ago

Note

sort of a fantasy/ angst scenario i’ve been thinking about… (I love your writing so much - maybe this is something?)

When Steve goes through a misunderstanding and breakup that has him socially exiled, everyone is mad, and feels justified when he disappears - they assume the worst of him and that he just up and left without telling anyone.

Years later - on the tail end of a series of unexplained natural disasters around the world stopping miraculously, he shows up - surrounded by a small group of people with a similar haunted look in their eyes and littered with more scars, maybe a hand that too metallic to be real.

Aka Steve is visited by a group of strangers, claiming he’s some sort of prodigal son of a Prophecy - disappears to end the apocalypse and shows up, years and a full hero's journey later, changed - and the others have the grapple with the fact that they’ve been wrong the entire time.

Or bonus - he never ends up showing up at all - a stranger shows up at their door during a party family gathering, battleworn, letter in hand about a burial taking place at the edge of town at dusk.

This was an INSANELY GOOD request. Like this could easily be a 100k fic, so I hope you're okay with me having very little backstory. I want someone to run with this ASAP. I didn't do the bonus part, but I stuck with a lot of the first part of it. Again, this was so hard to keep short, so I do hope someone makes this AU really deep and really solid. I don't know if you took ideas from a bunch of different fantasy novels or what but man this is gooooood shit. I hope I was able to do at least some of this justice! - Mickala ❤️

-----------------------------------------------------

Steve Harrington did not give up. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

Which is why he was leading his battleworn group back home.

It’s been years since he stepped foot in Hawkins, years of war, disaster, and pain. But walking through the gates of Hawkins was the scariest and bravest thing he’d done in five years.

Dustin limped along next to him, his leg hurt, but not broken. Max was on his other side, left eye blind and left arm broken, but in good spirits overall.

Lucas and Erica fell behind him, both physically fine, but mourning the loss of their parents in the latest earthquake.

Steve had given them an extra day before making the journey back, made sure they had a way to lay their parents to rest despite the chaos surrounding them.

Robin had gone ahead of them to announce his entrance, wanted to make sure that the town was prepared.

When Steve left five years ago, the only people who knew were the people currently with him. They followed him, without question, the moment he said he had to go. They were children when they left, could barely offer anything but their support at first, but over the years grew into the type of soldiers anyone would be lucky to have on their side.

He broke Nancy's heart, he broke his promise to his parents to stay in Hawkins until he turned 21, and the world broke around him.

He made a choice that day, a difficult one, but one he hoped gained him the respect of the people he left behind.

“How are you feeling, Steve?” Dustin asked quietly as they approached the outskirts of town.

“Could be better.”

“Could be worse,” Max added.

That was their answer to everything.

“Steve, wait!”

Robin was running towards them, nearly tripping and falling on her face every few steps. She had incredible aim when it came to shooting and throwing, but ask her to take more than five consecutive steps without tripping or otherwise hurting herself and you would be shit out of luck.

“What is it?”

“You have to wait. It’s bad. It’s real bad.”

She was out of breath, which was odd since she was in surprisingly good shape for someone who couldn’t run.

Steve looked past her, watching as a small group of people on horseback approached.

She turned to see them, then turned back around and let her head fall.

“Shit. Okay. So your parents are dead. Everyone who was ever in power before? Dead. Hopper? Dead.”

Hearing this should have been more upsetting, but Steve was used to losing people. He was used to losing nearly everyone. And to hear that his parents were gone was more a relief than anything else.

He could hear the people talking in the distance, could feel the ground shaking with the efforts of their horses.

There weren’t many, maybe only six or seven, but enough to keep Steve feeling a bit protective of his group.

They were tired. They’d been through enough.

He didn’t want to fight, but he would if he had to.

“Who are they?”

“Soldiers. Everyone that’s left are soldiers or farmers.”

“Steve Harrington! It’s been a while!”

He knew that voice. Not well, and obviously it’s been five years since he’s heard it, but he knew it.

Who was it?

“Interesting that you choose now to show your face again! We survived the worst of everything without you, I’m not sure why you expect us to welcome you with open arms.”

Eddie Munson.

Steve would know those long, curly locks anywhere.

Steve didn’t recognize anyone else with him, but that was probably for the best.

Eddie got up close to his group, but didn’t pull any weapons.

He didn’t want a fight either. Interesting.

Steve lost his hearing in his left ear nearly three years ago, at the same time he lost most of his left arm. He tried not to let it show as a weakness, especially to people who could be a threat, but he was having trouble hearing over the wind blowing.

“I’m sorry for coming somewhat unannounced. We ran out of supplies to write over a month ago, and money to send a messenger even further back.”

That wasn’t entirely true.

They had money. Not much, but enough to get by. Certainly enough for a messenger if needed. Steve just didn’t want them to know that, not if they were desperate for things like he suspected.

He wanted to help, not give away everything he had.

“If I let you in town, you’ll be dead by morning.”

“Why’s that?”

“Everyone blames you for everything. You left and we had a flash flood the next day that took out half our crops. A week later, half the town fell ill with an unknown plague that killed almost everyone who caught it. The earthquakes took what little we had left and that was before the looting from surrounding towns attacked us for months on end. You were nowhere to be found. Our “golden child” couldn’t bother to come help us. Forgive me for being hesitant to want you around now,” Eddie snarled.

Steve could see the way everyone behind him reacted to Eddie’s words, could feel the worry coming from his own group.

They didn’t deserve this.

“All I ask is you allow my soldiers here back to their families. I’ll be on my way by morning and won’t use any resources. Lucas and Erica lost their parents and will be staying with Dustin.”

Eddie looked them all over, frown on his face.

“Dustin? Henderson?”

“That’s me,” Dustin piped up, always braver than people expected him to be.

“Claudia’s son? She thought you died.”

Steve could hear the emotion in his voice, like he’d had to say that too often, like it was true too often.

“I almost did many times, but I’m here.”

“She’ll be pleased to see you,” Eddie said, though his voice sounded different, a bit more emotion behind the words. “And you?” He turned to Max.

“Only her mom is alive as far as we know,” Steve supplied the bare minimum.

They heard a lot of things, but didn’t know how old the news was by the time it reached them.

“Mayfield?” A man from behind Eddie asked. “I recognize the hair. Your mom’s been workin’ at the pub. Serves beer to the soldiers at the end of their shifts.”

“Sounds like her.”

Max wasn’t all that fond of her mom, never had been, but she still wanted to be reunited with her, even if only temporarily.

Steve had been telling the truth about only staying until everyone in his group had found their home. He knew even before coming that he didn’t want to go back to his own.

“Robin wishes to find work here, settle away from her own home. It’s not safe for her there. She’s a fantastic shot and knows many languages, could be useful as a soldier or a teacher,” Steve hadn’t let Robin know ahead of time that he didn’t plan on staying. She was under the impression before now that they would settle here together, maybe find wives and share a farm. “All I ask is that she gets a fresh start and is not associated with my name.”

“Why do you think you’re in any position to ask for favors?”

“I’m not. I realize that asking for any favors is asking too much. I’m just doing what I can to help the people who have helped me for years.”

Steve watched as Eddie considered, clearly taking into consideration the fact that everyone surrounding Steve had someone waiting for them in town, whether they knew it or not.

“You’ll all come with us. Including you, Steve. But you will stay with me for the night so that no harm comes to you. Many people in this town wish you dead.”

“Including you?”

“To be determined.”

Eddie turned on his horse, and the rest of his group followed.

Steve nudged everyone forward, hoping that by putting them first, he could avoid questions from them.

But that was easier said than done.

“You didn’t say you were only planning to stay one night!” Dustin whisper yelled.

“You were going to leave us?” Erica asked, arms crossed over her chest.

“What if something bad happened when you left?” Lucas added.

Robin was busy helping Max along the rocky path, but she kept sending glares at him over her shoulder.

“I knew I wouldn’t be welcome here. You all deserve to be here with your family and friends. I can find a new place.”

“What about us?”

He ignored the question.

They would be fine, and he would be…well, probably not fine, but alive.

They followed Eddie and his group in silence after that.

When they got closer to the main road, Eddie stopped and hopped off his horse.

“The guys will take the rest of you into town. Steve will need to sneak in. This is not up for discussion and if you don’t agree, you can leave.”

Steve gave everyone a look that said if they tried to argue, he would cut their arms off. He wouldn’t, but the look must have been convincing because no one said a thing.

“You all can come to my house tomorrow to say goodbye to Steve. The guys will tell you where it is. Do not come together and do not bring anything with you. Understood?”

Everyone nodded, giving Steve quick nods before they were led away.

“Hop up,” Eddie said from right in front of him.

When did he get that close?

“I’m sorry?”

“It’ll be less suspicious if you look like a guard. She’ll lead you to my home and I’ll walk a bit behind. If you run for it, we’ll find you.”

“I’m not dressed like a guard.”

“Everyone is off duty sometimes. But you’ll wear my cape to cover your clothes. You look like you lost a few fights.”

“I did.”

Eddie grimaced.

“I think we all have.”

Steve didn’t push, didn’t want to test how far Eddie’s patience and kindness would go.

He hopped up onto Eddie’s horse, settling into the saddle quickly.

Eddie didn’t give him much of a chance to get acquainted with the beautiful horse he was on before he touched her neck and she was off. Eddie laughed at Steve’s shocked face.

He hadn’t ridden a horse since he lived in Hawkins.

It was freeing.

He arrived at Eddie’s cottage much faster than he thought he would, surprised to see that Eddie lived along the outskirts of town, just past the first few rows of trees in the woods. It was solitary but still had easy access to the main road.

And it was cozy.

Steve could tell Eddie liked his quiet time to himself, just from the entrance to the cottage.

A small shelf held his weapons, though probably not all of them, and a table that looked hand carved held letters and drawings.

Steve made his way further inside, trying not to be nosy, but needing to know more about Eddie before he arrived.

The cottage was small, almost entirely all one large room. No couch, only a single rocking chair in the corner and a small stack of pillows next to a bookcase filled with books. The kitchen area was just enough to get by, only a small table and two chairs to sit at.

He walked into the only bedroom of the house, where the only bed was messily made, and clothing was strewn across the floor.

If he intended to keep Steve here all night, was he expecting him to sleep on the floor?

Steve had slept worse places, he supposed.

“Have you gotten all the information you need from snooping or shall I come back later?”

Steve jumped. He hadn’t been snooping, just looking, but Eddie snuck up on his left side and he hadn’t heard a single hint that he arrived.

When he turned, Eddie did look slightly apologetic, but didn’t say so.

“I managed to snag some fresh bread for us to have with the soup I made last night. It’s not very flavorful, but it’ll do,” Eddie said as he took off his boots and threw them into the corner of the bedroom.

“I won’t eat your food. I told you I wouldn’t use any resources,” Steve reminded him.

“You look like you’re one missed meal away from collapsing. You need food. I have food. You’ll eat.”

Eddie walked out of the bedroom and Steve had no choice but to follow.

They ate in silence. Steve didn’t even feel like he should be sitting at the same table as Eddie, but he didn’t have much choice when Eddie set a bowl of soup down and gestured for him to sit.

Steve didn’t know what to make of him.

—--------------------------------

Steve cleaned up, insisted on doing that much to show his appreciation. Eddie decided not to argue, told him he was going to change and wash his face in the bucket of water he had in the bedroom.

Steve waited for him to be done.

“Are you tired?” Eddie yelled from the room.

“A bit.”

That was an understatement.

Steve hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time for five years. His body was constantly exhausted, and now that he was in an actual house, he could feel his body giving up.

Safety usually did that.

But he couldn’t really know for sure that he was safe, couldn’t know that this wasn’t a trap.

“I have something you can change into for bed. It’s not quite clean, but it’s not dirty either. Come change, I’ll get the fireplace going.”

He’d almost forgotten that the night would be much cooler, that without a fire, he would likely have caught a cold or spent the entire night shivering.

Another reason to be grateful for Eddie.

He didn’t want to be in this position though, owing someone. Especially not someone who could ruin his life or those he loved.

He seemed like a higher ranked soldier, like someone most people listened to and liked, and one order from him could end Steve’s life.

Steve was good at defending himself, but he was tired.

He changed, ignored the way Eddie was staring at him as he did so, not wanting to answer any questions about his arm or the scars littering his body.

He was willing to repay Eddie in some way, but not with answers.

“I’ll take this side,” Eddie mumbled as he started moving the blanket on the side of the bed closest to the door.

“Um.”

“The bed’s big enough, just get in.”

Steve watched as Eddie got on his side, moving around until he was comfortable.

“I can sleep on the floor.”

“Steve. Get in the bed before I send you to the stable.”

Steve wouldn’t have really minded that, maybe even preferred that, but he decided to listen to Eddie.

He got in on the other side of the bed, laying on his side facing the wall, taking up as little space as he could.

“Steve, just get comfortable.”

So, he tried. And surprisingly, he found a very comfortable position on his stomach. He used to sleep that way as a child, never having to worry about if someone would sneak up on him in the woods.

He figured the only person who would try to kill him probably already would have tried by now. Maybe he could actually get some sleep.

He sighed into the pillow, drifting off before he heard Eddie turn over and face him.

—-------------------------

Steve woke up slowly, his body warm and not sore for the first time in years.

He’d forgotten what it was like.

And then he started to take inventory of his surroundings.

He was cuddled into Eddie’s side, his face buried against Eddie’s stomach and hand wrapped around his waist. Eddie’s hand was in his hair, not moving, just holding the strands.

Steve was stuck like this.

Surely, Eddie would wake up and push him away and then he would be sent away as planned.

Surely, Eddie didn’t know this happened in their sleep.

He felt Eddie’s legs shift, then his hand.

A groan.

Steve tried to pretend he was shifting away in his sleep. He closed his eyes and started to turn away.

The hand in his hair gripped harder, kept him where he was.

“You ‘wake?” Eddie whispered.

Steve had two options: pretend to be asleep or say he was awake and possibly die.

So he stayed quiet, let his breathing stay slow despite his nerves. He kept his eyes closed in hopes that Eddie wouldn’t think he’d been awake at all.

“Good.” Eddie whispered. The hand in his hair gently carded through his fingers. “Sleep as long as you want. You need it.”

Steve couldn’t cry like this, it would give him away, but the softness of Eddie’s voice, the gentle way he was holding him, it was all too much.

He bit back the tears, and adjusted himself slightly so he could hopefully fall back asleep.

—-------------------------------------------

When he woke up screaming, Eddie was holding him, rocking him back and forth to calm him down.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. You’re okay,” Eddie was saying quietly against the top of his head.

He was shaking, and crying, and had to get away from Eddie. He couldn’t show any more weakness.

He tried pulling away, but Eddie wouldn’t let him go.

“Steve, wait. Calm down first, okay? You’re barely breathing.”

He knew that. But he needed to get out.

“Air.”

“Okay,” Eddie said.

And then Steve was in Eddie’s arms as he got up and walked over to the window.

Steve knew he wasn’t as big as he should be, often only ate what was absolutely required to stay alive. But Eddie lifted him like he was lifting a small bag of food, and put no effort into carrying him across the room.

He adjusted Steve in his arms, until Steve was wrapping his legs around his waist and one of Eddie’s arms supported him. His other arm worked open the window, and he let out a small grunt when it got stuck about halfway.

Steve was too busy crying to worry about anything else that was happening.

Eddie held him next to the window, the cool air slowly filtering through the room and into his lungs, waking him up all the way and helping him focus.

But once he could focus, he realized where he was. He realized what he was doing.

He started to drop his legs down, but Eddie didn’t let him.

“Darling, you need to relax. Take some more deep breaths.”

Darling.

Steve looked at Eddie.

Eddie Munson had called him darling before.

”Steven! Come say goodbye to Wayne!”

Steve made his way downstairs to say goodbye to his family’s personal guard. Once a year, he left for two weeks to visit with his cousins in a town nearly a day’s travel away. The second in command usually covered for him, but this year would be Wayne’s nephew, Eddie’s, first time taking his place.

He was the best of the best, and not just according to Wayne.

And he was only two years older than Steve.

Steve loved Wayne, had considered him to be more of a dad than his own dad most of the time.

He crashed into Wayne, face buried in his chest.

At 16, Steve was too old to act like this, but Wayne didn’t believe that anyone was ever too old to give or get a good hug.

“Alright now, it’s alright. It’s just two weeks, son.”

Steve hadn’t noticed that Eddie was standing to the side, serious face to represent his very serious job.

“I’ll miss you,” Steve said.

“You know I’ll miss ya too. But Eddie will take care of you all just fine.”

Steve looked over at Eddie and then back at Wayne.

“He won’t bring me a cup of mead after my parents go to bed, though.”

Wayne laughed and looked over at Eddie, who was refusing to look at them.

“I’ll be sure to bring you two when I get back.”

And then he was gone.

Steve’s parents left the same day for a trip to visit the farms up north.

Steve was alone in the house except for the help and guards. And Eddie.

He hated being alone.

He woke up from a nightmare that first night, shivering and crying silently.

There was a knock on his door, and he felt like he might still be in the nightmare.

But Eddie peeked around the door and Steve relaxed slightly.

“I brought you mead,” Eddie said as he came into the room holding a mug. He paused when he saw the state Steve was in. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Eddie was next to him in a heartbeat, setting the mug on the table by his bed. His hands were cupping Steve’s face, checking him for injury.

“Just a nightmare,” Steve breathed out, still trying to center himself.

“Darling, you’re barely breathing.”

Steve’s eyes looked up at Eddie’s, searching for something, anything that would tell him why he just called him darling.

“I’m okay,” Steve finally said.

Eddie’s hands were gone, but the concern on his face remained.

“Do you need anything?”

“Could you stay?”

Steve hated asking, he hated being vulnerable with anyone. But he hated being alone more.

“I’ll stay, darling.”

“Why are you being nice to me?” Steve couldn’t help asking.

Eddie hadn’t been unkind before, but he certainly hadn’t made it seem like he wanted to be friendly.

“Because I know you don’t deserve to be treated poorly.”

Steve watched as Eddie contemplated what he was going to say.

“I know about the prophecy. Your parents told me when you left. They sat me and Wayne down, explained how important it was to find you, to keep you here so that our town and the world wouldn’t suffer. I didn’t believe it, but then the flood happened, and everything happened, and we’ve spent years just trying to survive. And the only thing that made sense was that you left and this started.”

“They didn’t tell you the part of the prophecy that I knew, though.”

“I figured it out though. I learned the part they didn’t tell anyone. That if you stayed in Hawkins, Hawkins would be safe, but the rest of the country would burn. But if you left, you had a chance at saving everyone.”

Steve nodded.

“Darling, you’re so good.” Eddie cupped his jaw and smiled sadly at him. “You went out into the world to save it, risked your life to help all of us. It came at a cost, but so does everything.”

Steve was crying again.

“What happened to your arm?”

“I lost it when I lost the hearing in my left ear,” Steve started, but paused when Eddie’s finger started tracing along his left ear. “We were stuck in a town that wasn’t prepared for anything. I could feel an earthquake coming, it’s just the way the ground feels under my feet. I tried to warn everyone, some people listened, but. There was a little girl. She was alone in a shop. I couldn’t leave her there. I misjudged how far off the earthquake was, misjudged how bad it would be. Managed to push her out of a window before the building collapsed. I got stuck under a counter that fell on my head, knocked me out cold, then more beams fell on my arm. By the time Robin and Max got to me, they had to cut it off or leave me there.”

“And the prosthetic?”

“Got it about a year ago. Helped a family escape from a tornado, managed to save most of their possessions even, and one of them was the prototype for this. The man had it built in a week for me. It isn’t perfect, but it does what I need it to do.”

“You can’t hear anything out of your left ear?”

“No.”

“That’s why I scared you earlier.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry that you’ve had to do this, darling.”

Steve shrugged.

“No, you should have never had to do this. I don’t know what changed in your mind to make you leave, and I’m glad you were able to help, but it should’ve never fallen on you.”

“I broke up with Nancy. I just had a moment when we were together, I realized she didn’t even know I liked having mead in bed. We were together for nearly a year, planned to marry, and she didn’t even know I liked drinking mead. It sounds stupid, but it just. It reminded me that on the first night you had to protect me, you brought me mead because you overheard me tell Wayne about it.”

Eddie looked at him with something like awe on his face.

“So you left because you broke up with her?”

“Yes and no. I broke up with her because I needed to for a lot of reasons, but I left because she was the only thing keeping me here. I knew I couldn’t ignore what my future was, and ignoring it would only make it worse for everyone outside of Hawkins.”

“But it was a suicide mission.”

“I had help.”

“The children?!”

Steve smirked and patted his cheek.

“Every single one of those children can outwit and outmatch you any day of the week. I guarantee it.”

“Whatever,” Eddie blushed. “So you’ve been out there for five years, basically alone, saving the country?”

Steve nodded.

“I-” Eddie shook his head. “And the nightmares, those are memories?”

“Mostly. Some of them take it a bit too far and go from memories to worst case scenarios.”

“You have them often?”

“Pretty often. Robin usually wakes me before they get too bad.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize what was happening until you were already screaming and crying.”

“It’s okay. Next time.”

“Next time?” Eddie smiled.

“If you’d like. I’m not in a rush to go. I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

“You seemed pretty set on leaving tomorrow.”

“I didn’t exactly feel welcome.”

Eddie kissed his forehead softly, letting his lips linger for a moment before he whispered.

“Do you feel welcome now?”

“I suppose with a cup of mead, I might.”

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #the party #robin buckley #fantasy au #hurt/comfort #sort of enemies to lovers #anon request #ficlet

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midnightanxietytm · 11 months ago

Text

Kitana muses about her creator

A/N: I'm back lovelies, and this time with a Mortal Kombat snippet. I had this one laying on my docs since like a month after release so enjoy! Requests are open btw

Summary:

"The man tilted his head at her with a smile, standing beside her on the balcony. She turned back at the horizon, resting her arms on the railing and pulling one of her fans, absentmindedly spinning the blades. “Why did you make us?” She asked, finally.

Liu Kang looked at her, puzzled."

Kitana doesn't really know how to feel about the alternative versions of herself and Liu Kang.

Contents: Liutana mentions, MK1!Kitana thinking about Titan!Kitana, character study, introspection, Kitana pov. Listen she's been my main since forever im lowkey obsessed with her.

Word count: 699

For as long as she could remember, Liu Kang has been there.

Officially, she was very young when she first met him, just old enough to start mingling in court business, what earth realm would define as a teenager.

She remembers he was polite, that he had intense eyes and that he never looked down on her, not that anyone ever dared to, but Liu Kang had something in his eyes that resembled a mixture of pride and pain, as if he was mourning what she could become. He had told her things about earthrealm then, about its champions, its people, then about the outworld, the places she didn’t really step into as a princess. He always had a lot to say. Now she knows why.

"You and my Titan version seem awfully close!" She had mentioned it once, and he refused to elaborate.

Not that he needed to, Kitana had eyes.

The definite confirmation came in training with an alternative version of herself; an idea given by Liu Kang himself.

"A god?! He's my consort!" She heard her own words with muted shock, but it made perfect sense now.

It was weird to think about; the fact that in multiple timelines, her and Liu Kang were… together. And it explained the weird glint in his eyes every time he looked at her. The protector of earthrealm had been mourning the lover he thought he lost, while staring at a perfect copy of her. How painful it must have been, she thought as she stared at the sunset.

“Ah, good evening, princess.” Said the subject of her musings, in his usual polite tone. “Am I disturbing you?”

She turned to face him, the remaining sunlight casting shadows on her face. Liu Kang was a handsome man, and he had always been polite and kind… “Not at all, In fact, I was thinking about you.”

The man tilted his head at her with a smile, standing beside her on the balcony. She turned back at the horizon, resting her arms on the railing and pulling one of her fans, absentmindedly spinning the blades. “Why did you make us?” She asked, finally.

Liu Kang looked at her, puzzled, so she continued; “It brings you pain, I can see it. You look at us and you see eons of history, yet you know it wasn’t really us there, at least not the ones you knew, we are constant reminders of everything you lost, or worse, everything you could have had.”

The god turns away from her, once again silent. He wasn’t angered by her question, that Kitana knew. The silence drags, the sun is almost gone.

“It pains me, yes.” He said, finally. “But it brought me a certain peace, knowing that I could give those I loved a better, more peaceful life. Even if it was in a completely different reality.” Liu Kang looks down at his own hands, Kitana does too. Those hands had created the universe, the realms, created her. “I won’t exactly tell you what happened in the previous timelines, but trust me, it was nothing but pain for all of those I loved, every ounce of happiness we achieved was snatched from us…”

The princess touched the tips of her fan blades. “From us…” she quotes him in a whisper, and again the silence engulfs them for a heavy moment. “I know about you and… the titan me.”

Her creator only let out a soft laugh, almost tender. “Every version of you is too smart for their own good.”

“You are the one who could have made me less smart.” She laughed too, and they turned back to face the last rays of sunshine disappear. “Can you at least be with… the one you love?” Be with me, or titan me, a version of me, was what she taught at first, but it felt too intimate to say, too confusing, she wasn’t his Kitana, and he wasn't the one for her either, not in this reality.

“Not all the time, as I would wish, but it’s already better than nothing.”

And that’s comfort enough, she thinks, for all of them.

Thanks for reading! My request are open and i added some fandoms including MK, the lists and rules are pinned.

#mk1 2023 #mortal kombat #liu kang #kitana #liutana #titan liu kang #time god liu kang #titan kitana #i am obsessed with her #mk1 fanfic #mk1 fluff #mk1 character study #Midnight anxiety posts

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gayerthanevertbh · 2 years ago

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would you say yes? | arcadia pt. 2

pairings: older!natasha romanoff x young!reader

navigation | series masterlist

summary: after a year of despair, y/n has come to terms with her indecisiveness and guilt over her past “relationship” with the older woman. though her marriage is failing, she’s losing herself and mourns for the lost of her own first love. what she doesn’t know is that natasha sent her a letter that her husband has been keeping for over a year.

takes place in “the other woman” & “the last time” series!

warnings: angst, tension, age difference, reader being stupid, slight cheating, and mor - 18+ MINORS DNI

author’s note: wow i haven’t updated this in so long but good luck reading this! LMAO

I didn't understand why I had consented to see Natasha. I felt as though my body was awake but that my mind was in a deep sleep because I was mindless. But given that I was always that way as a kid, that's just an excuse to hide the fact that I'm gullible. I took a quick glance around me before returning to the coffee mug I had just set down on the table. What if I stood up for her? She had every right not to show up; I was the one who abandoned her in the first place. The thing is, she invited me to coffee; it's not like I asked her to join me; it was her idea.

"Would you like a glass of water?" When I looked up, the waitress had bright eyes and a tight smile on her face, and I shook my head in response. I watch her as she walks to another table, wondering what they will order for lunch. Which made me realize, I haven’t had one myself. If she ends up abandoning me, the way I did to her, I guess a sandwich in this cafe might appeal to me.

When the clock struck 12:30, I let out a sigh of disappointment and began to peruse the menu. Natasha sat across from me and grabbed the menu from my hand before I even had a chance to decide what I would have for lunch. She appeared stunningly beautiful, as usual. However, I could see dark eyebags under her eyes, which gave her a worn-out appearance. Considering how much I second-guess my marriage to Patrick, I can definitely relate to that. Yet she always appeared so... refined. So ethereal.

Natasha smiled at me with surprise.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” she tells me, and I let out a strained laugh.

“I’m surprised that I did come.”

She doesn't look at me; instead, she licks her lower lip and focuses on the table. She might have been ashamed that we were sitting at the same table as if nothing had ever happened between us. But in reality, it should be me gazing down at the table, not her. I hear her asking, “Is Patrick with you? I-I’m sorry, I just don’t feel comfortable–”

“He’s away for work,” I replied in a nonchalant tone. Natasha looked back up with questionable eyes, but I tried not to mind that. “I’m all alone for a week.”

“You didn’t come with him?”

“He’s always away,” I said with a deep sigh, taking a sip of my coffee. “I got tired of traveling.”

"But you like to travel," she said, as if she knew me even though she only knew the "younger" me ten years ago. "We went to Italy together, and you loved it."

“That was only one time though, Natasha.”

I noticed her shoulders deflate as I called out her real name and not her nickname. But in a matter of seconds, she smiles again and leans against the chair behind her back. “Right,” she coughed quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

We both ordered our food and sat quietly in front of each other; this was getting awkward, and I should never have agreed to this meet-up. But she seemed at ease with me, like a child who has been wanting a toy for a long time and is overjoyed when they finally get it. We remained silent for a while, and I could tell that her gaze was fixed on my face. She has a tendency to smile to herself before drawing nearer to the table and noting each freckle on my face. I knew that she was trying to memorize me, as this might be the last time I see her.

“You’re getting creepy,” I joked.

She laughs, scratching her nose. “I’m just happy that I get to see you, after everything that happened between us.”

I bit my inner cheek as I nodded. Should I apologize for leaving her? What happens if she sobs in front of me? What should I do? Should I abandon her again? No, I was too cruel for that. Natasha has always had a special place in my heart. And no matter how hard I try to deny my feelings for her, they will always be there - they will never go away with the snap of a finger. "I know you're hurt because of what happened," I said, looking down at her lips.

“I’m trying to move on from it.”

“And I’m sorry for leaving you again,” I said, my throat bobbing with fear and stupidity. “I’m sorry for everything, Natasha. I know my apology is not enough, but hopefully, someday you will forgive me.”

Silence had begun, and I felt uncomfortable in my seat.

After a while, she replied with a quiet voice.

"I've forgiven you for a long time, Y/n," she said, her eyes welling up with tears. "It hurt, yes, but I can't change what happened. It will always be there, and that is something I will never forget. What you did was unfathomable. I had to look for you all over town, but I couldn't find you. I'm guessing you moved in with Patrick because you changed your phone number and left your old apartment. I tried to find him, but he was also difficult to locate. I just wanted to see if I could get another chance. But perhaps I don't, and perhaps I never will. You eating with me is more than enough."

I was debating whether I should tell her I was married or not, knowing that it would break her heart. In retrospect, our situation was somewhat ironic. She was married to Maria when she fell in love with me, and now I'm married to Patrick, and she still is. And I can't deny that I'm in love with her because I've always been. But it's better to remain silent than to witness your loved one's heart full of sorrow and wonder.

My mouth began to speak, “I’m married to Patrick, Natasha.”

I could tell her face had dropped. I wanted to grab her hand, but I couldn't. She said, "Oh," then stopped talking and stared at me. I still hate myself for hurting her, especially when I told her I was married to a boy she despised.

“I’m sorry,” I said with an apologetic look. “I should’ve told you that I’m married.”

"I had a feeling you were," she chuckled to alleviate the pain. She fiddled with her fork while staring down at her own plate. "But I kept telling myself that if you were still available, I could marry you in the end if I found you."

“Y-You wanted to marry me?”

"Of course," Natasha shrugged as if there was no point in saying it. “But you’re married; I can’t do that.”

If I hadn't married Patrick in the first place, I would have been Natasha's wife. I could have been Natasha's wife if I hadn't abandoned her in the first place. And now that I was married, possibly to an unfaithful husband, I had no chance with her - no matter how badly I wanted to, I couldn't come back to her in that way. We have so much history together that it's like reopening old wounds.

“Would you say yes, though?”

“Huh?” I asked, feeling aloof in my head.

“Would you say yes?” she asked, a glint of hopefulness in her eyes. She reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently. Her hand was still calloused. “If you had never left and married Patrick, would you say yes?”

No, I can’t. I’m horrible for you, and you know that so well.

“Y-Yeah,” I responded under my breath, my chest feeling heavy all of a sudden. “Yes, I would’ve said yes.”

She sighs, gripping my hand like it's the last time she’ll hold me like this. She then suddenly let go of my hand and hung her head low. I didn’t know what else to do but sit in silence. Sometimes, I enjoy silence like this.

“Your marriage must be colorful,” she said in a whispery tone, her fingers fidgeting on the cloth table. “Full of rainbows and sunshine, huh?”

“I have a feeling he’s cheating on me.”

Natasha looks at me again, worried, but I try to reassure her that nothing bad has happened - at least not yet. "How are you so certain that he is cheating on you? Have you gone through his phone?”

"He's not that affectionate with me," I explained. “And maybe I’m the fault for this. Do you know I’m still in therapy and I could no longer get better?”

“Don’t say that, you will get–”

“But it’s true,” my voice was getting pitchier, and I saw the way people turned to see who that was. I lowered my head once more and muttered, “I could never get better, I’m forever going to be like this.”

“You know that’s not true, Y/n.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s unfaithful to me.”

"I could never hurt you like that," she says, taking my hand again and bringing it close to her lips. I could feel her breath on my skin and tried not to think about it. What happened between us still hurts me, and her doing this will only make matters worse.

But I couldn’t seem to pull away.

"You're the only girl I'll never hurt," she says. Natasha kisses the back of my hand, and I can feel the wet stain running through my veins. "If he is causing you pain, then leave him. It's pointless to stay if he's abusive to you; leave him."

“It’s easy for you to say that.”

“Nothing is easy in this world,” Natasha mumbled, kissing my hand again. “It wasn’t easy for me to forget you, and here I am being a hypocrite. I can’t ever forget someone like you.”

Natasha walked me home that day, telling me stories about her lonely life in her cold, dark house. I even asked if Lucy would pay her visits, but she only remained silent and held my hand as if we were back together. When Natasha left, I began to question whether this was even a good idea, but we never made such plans. It was all unexpected, which leaves me perplexed. So what happens if I return to her? In the end, I'd abandon her. Nobody deserved it, let alone her.

Around midnight, I decided to send her another email while watching a cartoon on my laptop. It usually helps me sleep, Patrick would call me a child but not in a harsh way. Yet, maybe I’m still a child.

Thank you for today; I honestly thought I'd never see you again. I hope we see each other again soon; I think we're good friends.

Sincerely,

Y/n.

Now I know Natasha will never consider me a friend, but I also know I will never be her lover. It took her thirty minutes to respond, and I tried to watch my show before responding. But I was enticed by her message, so I opened her email, which left me wondering.

We will meet again soon, I know we will. Thank you as well, Y/n. I can’t stop thinking about you, you know? Anyway, I’ll be sleeping now. Goodnight :)

Natasha.

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I closed my laptop. Patrick's phone number was displayed when I pulled out my phone. I had completely forgotten that I was going to talk to him this evening, and he would be upset if he found out that I had been with Natasha all along. Not in an angry way, but in a sad way. And I didn’t like that.

“Hello?” I answered quietly, laying my head against the soft pillow.

“I was trying to call you a while ago, are you busy?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to my therapist.” not true.

"Sorry about that," his voice was deep and quiet, and I almost couldn't understand what he was saying. "I'm leaving Italy in a week; I hope you're doing well on your own."

“Don’t worry,” I sighed, smacking my dry lips together. “I’m keeping myself company with my therapist.”

He laughs, “I bet. Just wanted to check on my best girl.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, looking straight at the ceiling as I thought about Natasha in my head. I was cynical. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Y/n.”

soooo... now what

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x yn #natasha romanoff angst #Arcadia Series

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