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commonwealthoccurences · 3 years ago

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If It's A War You Want

Request: Idea: Sole at the end of Blind Betrayal threatening "You lay one hand on Danse, and you start a war with me!" Can't trust Bethany Esda to write a proper conclusion for my boy Danse, so I trust u cuz ur writing slaps.

Word Count: 2,2027

Warnings: Threats, canon typical violence mentions

It was never supposed to turn out like this.

Sole hadn’t exactly come to love the Brotherhood’s ideology, specifically surrounding their opinions on synths, but it was a means to an end. It was messy, and at times downright infuriating. But Sole never intended to go face to face with them; the priority was the Institute. Once they were out of the picture, Sole intended to enjoy what was considered retirement in the Wasteland, and take up the role of a simple farmer.

Everything shifted once Elder Maxson told them about Danse and then ordered them to kill him. They couldn’t even think to react, to lash out in astonishment or in disgust. They were whisked away and before they knew it, they were being told his location by Scribe Haylen, and off they went. On an assassination mission for one of the people they cared about most in the Wasteland.

Of course, that was never going to happen. The walk to his location left them a lot of time to think. To come up with a plan, specifically. First, they wanted to hear his side of the story. It didn’t matter whether or not he was a synth, but they couldn’t imagine what he was going through, the stress, the betrayal, the possible resentment. Then, they would get him out. Wherever he wanted to go, they would get him there safely.

There would always be a place for him in Sanctuary. If it appealed, the Railroad could do what they did best, though they doubted he would want to lose what little he had left of his identity. Whatever Danse needed, they were there.

Before long, they were shooting down the turrets outside of the bunker Scribe Haylen said they would find him in, and they crept in, gun held in a tight grip by their side. Sole wasn’t sure what state of mind he’d be in. Whether or not he’d be defensive, whether or not he expected an enemy instead of a friend. He was smart. Maybe he expected Elder Maxson to test them the way he was, to send them after him to prove the loyalty Danse knew had wavered the very first day they stepped on the Prydwen.

There was water dripping from the ceiling, a leak of some sort made obvious from the heavy rains. The incessant dripping grew more and more irritating as Sole took careful steps through the damp hallways, jaw clenched, boots barely making a sound. It was a break in the structure of the wall that opened up to the end of their journey. Carefully, they straightened up, and stepped through the crumbled wall. “Danse?” Sole asked, cautious. They raised their hands on either side of their head in an attempt to appear non threatening.

But when Danse turned around, it was apparent he wasn’t going to make any attempt to defend himself. His gun was across the room, bullets scattered on the floor, magazine a few feet away. “Danse?” They repeated, tone softer, as they holstered their weapon.

“If you’re here to kill me, get it over with. Please.”

“Danse, I’m not here to kill you.”

He laughed, but there was no humor to his tone. “You should be. There’s no way you made it here without Maxson finding out, and if you’re disobeying direct orders….”

“I don’t give a damn about his orders, Danse. You know that.”

Danse scoffed. Yeah, he knew that. They had never been great at taking orders from anyone in the Brotherhood, until he asked them himself. It was obvious where their loyalties lied, and maybe he was selfish, but he had been okay with that. Now? Now, their misguided trust was only going to put them in danger. He knew that if they didn’t take back his holotags, they would be the next to fall. It was the way the Brotherhood worked. He had been a cog in their machine, after all; he knew better than anyone.

He turned away. It was nearly unbearable to look at them, at the hope they had represented for him in the year that they had been around, and the fact that they were looking at him pleadingly, a silent begging for him to go with them, and directly result in their death. “Get it over with, Soldier.”

“I’m not a soldier. Danse. You know I was never one of their soldiers. Don’t make this decision for me, please. It’s hard enough.”

Maybe if he begged them, they would go through with it, and they’d be safe. Of course, Danse didn’t want to die, if the loss of his life even counted as death, considering what had been discovered. But between the options of him living just a moment longer with the hope that he could return to some semblance of normal only for both of them to die, or for him to die for Sole to live, Danse would not hesitate in choosing them every time.

The drip hadn’t gone away. It drove at Sole’s patience as they stood there in silence, waiting for Danse to come to his senses. Or maybe it was them who needed sense, the sense to just move, to grab Danse and drag him away where no one could hurt him again. They nearly fully considered it when he spoke. “You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”

They wanted to laugh, but instead, sucked in a deep breath and tapped their fingers against their thigh. “Have you met me?”

Danse nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He turned and looked at them. “It was a blessing in disguise. More than I knew, in the beginning.”

They found themself clenching their jaw tighter in an attempt to suppress the urge to cry. “Danse, let’s go. We can go back to Sanctuary and figure this all out. You don’t have to stay here and be alone in this miserable ass bunker.”

“Are you sure?”

“Danse, please. Let’s go home.”

It would be a long process, of course. To get him settled in Sanctuary, into a civilian lifestyle, without all the heavy-duty armor and the rigid structure to keep him firmly in place. But he would figure it out, Sole knew; he was much more resilient than he’d ever given himself credit for. They held out their hand and placed it on his shoulder when he stepped forward.

They guided him over to his weapon and loaded it for him before placing it firmly in his hands. “You still need to defend yourself.” The double-meaning of their words hung in the air between them as Danse stared them down. He nodded choppily.

The walk out of the bunker seemed much shorter than the trip in, and to Sole’s relief, they put distance between them and the dripping leak faster than they expected. As soon as they were relieved from one pressure, the next appeared in front of them. Through the thick rain, they could see the shadow of a familiar figure, one dressed in an oversized coat that they had thought many times would go for a high price at Myrna’s. “We don’t have to do this, Maxson.” They had to raise their voice to be heard over the pounding rain.

“You had orders, Soldier. Explain yourself, or I end this now.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. And I’m not your soldier.”

Sole could feel the rage radiating off Maxson. The vastness of his ego must’ve taken a dent from being so blatantly disrespected. “Sole, he’s right.” Danse piped up from over their shoulder, not loud enough to be heard by the leader of the Brotherhood, but clearly heard by Sole. They shook their head and raised a hand, clearly signalling him to be quiet. “See, Maxson. I’m not as stupid as you think I am. I didn’t come out here blind. I knew you were testing me.”

They took a step forward, despite the fact that they felt adrenaline and anxiety thrumming in their chest. God knows the rain wasn’t helping, with the way they had to squint to be sure they had an eye on Maxson’s weapon. “I didn’t leave straight away. I have help, Elder, and I don’t take risks without insurance. I’m sure once you return to the Prydwen, after being unsuccessful in locating both Danse and I, that you’ll find many hidden explosive charges located throughout your beloved airship.”

Danse’s sharp intake of breath was barely audible, and they hoped he didn’t make his surprise too obvious. Of course, they were lying through their teeth; they hadn’t had time to even think before they were being ushered out of the Prydwen on their mission. But Maxson didn’t know that. He had simply sat back in his chair and expected them to clean up a mess that didn’t even exist.

“You’re bluffing.” Maxson called back.

“Do you really want to find out? You lay a single hand on Danse, and you’ll start a war with me. With me and the Minutemen, and while you may have protocols and guidelines, know that I will stop at nothing if something happens to someone I care for.”

Silence. If there was anything Maxson cared about more than being respected, it was the Brotherhood. If what they had said was true, they could turn the entire Eastern branch of the Brotherhood into gory, scrap metal ridden confetti and then follow up with their own, albeit small, army if there were any survivors. They shifted their grip on their weapon and raised their chin; this was the moment of truth. Would they get away with their companion in a nerve wracking scrape, or would they die for their loyalties?

Their heart thudded, even when Maxson lowered his weapon and took a half step backwards. The pressure was off, ever so slightly. “Go. You can return to wherever you came from, but if either of you are seen again-”

Maxson didn’t have to finish. The pair knew exactly how little they had as an advantage, and they were lucky to get as far as they did. Sole managed to not burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation and instead gave him a sharp nod before their hand returned to Danse’s shoulder, and they began their departure to Sanctuary.

The first half of their journey was silent. Each was lost in their own thoughts about the situation, about what their futures may look like now that Sole had threatened war against one of the more powerful Commonwealth presences. Danse’s footsteps faltered momentarily just as they made it to Quincy. “Were you- did you actually have the means to blow up the Prydwen?”

Sole, overwhelmed with the confrontation of what they had said, burst out laughing. “God, no, Danse! But I had to think of something. If I didn’t have any leverage we would’ve ended up as ghoul feed.”

Danse frowned. “I told you you should’ve-”

“I know what you said, and it was the worst idea you’ve ever had. Try not to top it in the future, would you?”

The humor fell flat, Danse’s expression barely illuminated by the first rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon. “Look, Danse. I made my choice, there’s no going back, and even if there was, I wouldn’t change my mind. Even if I couldn’t blow up the Prydwen at that moment, I was serious. I would’ve started a war that rivaled the Great War. I still will, if he sends anyone after you.”

“Sole, you can’t possibly mean that.”

Whatever semblance of humor fell from their demeanor. They closed the gap between them and Danse and looked him in the eye. “I know that the Brotherhood may have made you feel otherwise, but you have people that will fight for you, Danse. You have me, and you have the Railroad and Sanctuary now. And it might be hard to believe, but I’ll spend every day proving it to you. Do you understand?”

Danse swallowed. The nod he gave them was barely visible. Stunned. They gave him a weak smile and brushed a strand of his hair away from his eyes. “Let’s go home, Danse.”

#Fallout 4 #Fo4 #Paladin Danse #Imagine #Oneshot #Angst #Fluff #Angst with a happy ending #Canon divergence #other tags im probably forgetting

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transpillarman · 3 years ago

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Pre Part 5! Polnareff x Boss! Reader

Okay, this MIGHT be a series (I am crappy at actually keeping up with things if you can't tell by how long it has taken for me to write this) but I literally have no clue how to write romance if it's not already established so this is a huge experiment! This has also barely been proofread.

TWs and other disclaimers: GN reader, Reader is basically Diavolo, Reader intended to kill Polnareff but didn't, Trauma mentions (revolving around Polnareff's sister, calls DIO's group a cult, other basic info about Polnareff).

You sit beside the bed of the man who should be your enemy, who was sleeping as he had been for almost a month now. You sigh. After what you and King Crimson had done to him? He was lucky not to be dead. You'd certainly been trying to kill him at that moment.

How stupid, you should have given him a chance.

You could still see the image of him flying over the edge of that cliff. His legs had been entirely destroyed by the impact on the rocks, and you'd just barely been able to pull him out of the water.

This whole time, you had been his sole caretaker. You'd secured a house to stay in, by way of killing the previous owners. You'd deal with covering it up once he'd recovered... And you'd figure out what you were going to do with him then, too.

Normally you'd kill someone like him... But of course, you couldn't do that now.

You look him over for the thousandth time. His previously almost perfectly done silver hair was strewn about on the pillow. You had personally washed it and even used your stand to skip over the time it'd take to dry. Normally using King Crimson for such stupid things was too big of a risk, but it was worth it for this man. His expression was calm, yet filled with a certain something that told you he'd been through a lot, and one of his eyes was bandaged. It must've been hit with a rock or something...

You jumped as he snorted in his sleep and rolled onto his side.

You sighed, remembering what brought you both together.

He'd been trying to find you.

That alone had signed his death warrant. In hindsight, you were glad he'd been successful, but at the time it had sparked fear in you that you'd not felt... Well. For quite a long time, actually. But... What exactly made you spare his life? That, you couldn't figure out. There was just... Something about him.

You'd dug up all the information you could to figure out what.

His name was Jean-Pierre Polnareff, he was French, around the same age as you, perhaps younger. He lost quite a few fingers and toes in Egypt due to some accident involving a cult of some sort, the woman you'd sold the arrows to had been involved apparently- which, made you feel a twinge of guilt toward his condition. Your past, of course, always came back to haunt you. Back to Jean. He was born with a stand, which was short-range, and used a sword. He is known for being friendly and quite silly, a hopeless romantic, but can become serious when necessary. He'd been born on a farm. He worked for the Speedwagon Foundation.

...He'd been after the arrows.

You sighed again. You've been doing that a lot lately. How could they send him alone? They should have sent him with someone else to back him up. Maybe they didn't have anyone to back him up? Maybe he asked to be sent alone? Well, it'd make sense that they didn't know what exactly they were sending him into...

And of course, this was perfect for you, too. If he wasn't alone, you may have actually killed him.

You snapped out of your thoughts as the sleeping man rolled over again. His eyes began to flutter. Was he... Waking up? Your heart pounded in your chest. He couldn't see you! He'd already seen your face when you'd almost killed him, if he saw you now he'd think you were trying to finish the job! He wouldn't understand!

You bolted into the old homeowner's bedroom and hid. It may have been cowardly, but it was the best decision for now. Thinking quickly, you pulled out clothes from the closet, tossing off your expensive suit as if it were worth nothing, and slipped into the clothes. Surprisingly, they somewhat fit. It was a white and pink striped shirt, a pair of well-worn blue jeans with plenty of holes in them, and some white socks that were too big and hung around your ankles. You looked at yourself in the mirror. You were still recognizable. Your face was still recognizable.

To your horror, you heard footsteps approaching. Metal clinking footsteps. Was the idiot using his stand to carry himself?! You frantically looked around the room, spotting a white cloth scarf hanging beside the bed. Thinking quickly, you tied this around your neck, wrapping it around your head to conceal everything but your eyes.

The door opened and you turned, forcing yourself to not summon King Crimson.

You both stared at each other for a minute. Wait, you wouldn't be able to see the stand if you were just a normal farmer! Avoiding looking at the knight holding him, you finally broke the silence. "Y-you're... Floating..." You said, quietly, using a weaker and less commanding voice-- one which couldn't be recognized as your own.

Polnareff blinked for a moment, then his eyes widened and he cleared his throat. "Uhm... Eh... No I'm not." He quickly said, causing you to blink. What an idiot! And yet... you couldn't help but smile. "Uh... You're the one who rescued me?"

You nodded, "I found you in the water when I was looking for my scarf, it blew away in the wind." You said, pointing to the scarf wrapped around your face... You figured it'd be better to bring it up yourself. "I have hideous scarring, so I wear this as to not scare anyone."

For some reason, this made his eyes narrow slightly. Had you said something already that made him suspicious?! You swallowed as you watched him look around the room.

"Is this your room?" He asked, tilting his head slightly.

You gulped. "N-no. It's my..." You looked over at the photo on the desk. It was of a young woman who, remarkably, had the same color eyes as you. "...Sister's."

The room was silent for a moment. "Your sister's." He replied, also looking at the photo. "She's very pretty, where is she now?"

Shit, you'd have to explain why she wasn't here!

"... She's..." You looked away, trying to think of an excuse. An idea hit you, just tell a partial truth. "...Not with us." You held your breath. "It's how I got my scars."

You peeked over at him and saw a flash of sadness in his expression.

"Ah. I'm so sorry." He replied solemnly. "I lost my sister, too."

Your heart sank to the floor. How could you forget! His sister had been murdered, and here you are claiming the same! You wanted to just bolt out of there as fast as you could because of the sheer horror you felt in your gut.

You practically jumped as you felt a hand on your shoulder, just barely forcing down the urge to summon King Crimson and punch a new hole through him. He'd come over and set a hand on your shoulder, trying to comfort you. He must've taken your silence as sadness. He noticed your flinching and removed his hand.

"So uh..." He began, "What's for dinner?"

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philliamwrites · 4 years ago

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The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.3]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 7.7k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Chapter 03: Ties That Bind

Where war, and joy, and terror Have all at times held away; Where both delight and horror Have had their fitful day.

The happiest under heaven A king of powerful mind; A company so proven Would now be hard to find

Gawain put on a good cheer. ‘Why should I hesitate?’ He said. ‘Kind or severe, We must engage our Fate.’

[Sir Gawain and the Green Knight]

„Breathe,“ Hanneman says for the third time. At every tap of his pen against the table, you flinch as if someone is knocking right against the inside of your skull. “You have to feel the Crest, become one with it. Don’t think of it as an addition; see it as an extension of your very self.”

You exhale but it’s hard to focus after you’ve been sitting in the same position for nearly two hours and your legs keep falling asleep.

“Focus on it,” Hanneman continues. He starts to gesture with his free hand, an indicator that he’s just as frustrated with your lack of progress as you are. “Focus on the feeling that took hold of you when you fought the bandits. Imagine what you want. Ask yourself what it is you really want, and take hold of that picture.”

Well, first of all, you really want a sandwich.

For the past few weeks, you’ve been waking up before sunrise to attend private lessons with Hanneman to get a hold of your Crest’s power. Now the end of the month approaches, and still your body refuses to get accustomed to work at such an early hour, and more importantly without eating first. An hour ago, your stomach started growling, but Professor Hanneman has proved again and again to be very successful in ignoring factors that disturb his lessons. You continue breathing through what you consider hunger pains instead of the raise of new powers, but with the sound of screaming students outside and the occasional flapping of wings as Pegasus Knights fly by on their patrol, it’s anything but successful.

“Focus!” Hanneman chides again as if he can read your mind and knows exactly you’re thinking of the pheasant roast with berry sauce on the menu today.

“I’m trying,” you groan and slump into the chair, defeated. “But I don’t feel anything.”

“Hmm hmmm,” Hanneman hums and looks at you like you were supposed to understand what he’s conveying with that sound. “Maybe we’re looking at it the wrong way,” he says once you don’t follow up on his inexplicable sound. “Maybe we should stop thinking of it as a common Crest, but approach it like it is something entirely different.” He quickly notes something on his paper, then proceeds to flip through the open books he’s splayed out on his desk. “There is so little we know about the Crest of the Herald. I am much frustrated no one thought of studying it a thousand years ago!”

“I don’t understand. How can it be different?” Your first lesson solely focused on Crests. How they are thought to be power incarnate, bestowed upon humans by the Goddess countless ages ago. Today those who are descendants of Fódlan’s Ten Elites and Four Saints, who fought during the War of Heroes beside Saint Seiros, wear Crests, a sign of wealth and nobility.

“Well, one possible explanation could be that for whatever reason, the first Herald was different from his fellow warriors, the Ten Elites,” Hanneman offers, leaning back into his chair and looking a lot more interested in the conversation now. “The Goddess must have found him worthy of her power just as she found Saint Seiros worthy.”

“Then why wasn’t he a Saint?” you wonder. From your understanding, the Four Saints were special comrades of Saint Seiros, just as guided by the Goddess as their leader. What had made the Herald from back then different? “According to everything you told me, he sounds a lot like this Macuil person. Focusing on strategy and all that.”

“Saint Macuil,” Hanneman corrects you, but there’s no bite in his voice. “And yes, perhaps he was akin to the Saints, but that clearly wasn’t what determined the final decision to name him Herald.”

“Well, that’s just my kind of luck,” you mumble, but when Hanneman makes a puzzled sound, you ask instead, “And you’re sure I’m a descendant of him?”

“Most likely! You bear a Major Crest, which means the Herald’s blood runs strong in your body. After he disappeared, he might have settled down and started a family. Unfortunately, nothing is recorded about him after the War of Heroes concluded.”

“Then how come there was no one else in a thousand years who bore the same Crest?” You aren’t sure you fully understand how they work. Apparently, Crests grant special powers to those who hold them such as high aptitude for magic or enhanced strength. But you know better than anyone that the Crest of the Herald is special. It doesn’t simply give you a boon, it allows you to command the flow of battle. But is it really a blessing bestowed by the Goddess? You don’t remember a divine revelation or talking to a Goddess. Or did that maybe occur even before you were found by the Officers Academy’s students? Before your memory loss? You certainly don’t feel chosen by a deity.

“Trying to explain the Goddess’ whims would wield about the same result as asking this question,” Hanneman says. “Sometimes a Crest may skip generations. No one can say with certainty who will be chosen. If it will be the first or third born. That is why we must further study Crests! For example, why, unlike other Crests, has your appeared physically visible?” Hanneman mutters more questions under his breath and notes them quickly on his paper. It’s remarkable how enthusiastic he approaches the topic if it only didn’t make you feel like an experiment lying on a dissection table.

“I want to know so much more about the first Herald,” you mumble. “What was his name? Where was he from?” Why did he disappear and what were the costs he had paid for such a title. Only one month in and Lady Rhea already granted you an impressive room to reside. People treat you with respect and admiration even though you aren’t doing much besides wave at them on the streets or hold some conversations. If being the Herald only encompasses these tasks, you’ll gladly take on the role and speak to people. But that would be a dream too good to be true.

“We can only speculate,” Hanneman says. “Some believe the Herald came when Seiros needed him most. Our Goddess’ answer to her cry of help. Others believe he was simply a general who originated form a farmer’s family. Other, smaller sources talk about a prince from a far off land who passed through Fódlan and decided to stay. But in all cases, the Herald was a great asset to win the War of Heroes and save Fódlan from the tyranny of the Fell King.”

“Yeah, no pressure there,” you mumble, sinking further into your seat. Hopefully no one expects you to save Fódlan from evil monarchs. If yes, it certainly won’t happen on an empty stomach. When Hanneman releases you, there’s only one place for you to be. The Dining Hall is crowded at this time of hour. Students and faculty bustle everywhere, eager to get their favourite meal on a plate. Just like them, you are drawn in by the amazing smell of roasted meet and freshly baked pastries.

The only thing you can live without is how once you enter the room several heads turn in your direction, and a ripple of “Look, it’s the Herald” goes through the crowd, spreading like a wave. Or a disease, you think with a sour taste in your mouth as you move through the parting sea. They want you to acknowledge them but Goddess forbid you actually engage in conversation with them and they flee like you’re the Herald of Pest.

“Herald!” Well, not everyone escapes. Some seem to like living dangerous.

Edelgard looks straight at you from between the other students from the Eagle class sitting at a table, removing any doubt she means anyone else but you. Running from her would be a sign of defeat, so you drag yourself over to the Eagle table and give the round an uncertain smile. “Hello.”

“Herald, if you have time, please sit with us,” Edelgard offers but the look she pins on you doesn't give you any choice. The silence of her classmates speaks louder than words, and a quick glance to Hubert tells you that he very much would like for you to notsit with them.

“Sure,” you say lamely and sit opposite from her where Bernadetta quickly shuffles to the side to make room, and then further down the bench until she jumps to her feet and flees from the hall. It’s a miracle she’s out of her chambers in the first place, undoubtedly Byleth’s work.

“Did you manage any progress with Professor Hanneman?” Edelgard asks, carefully cutting her pheasant roast into small bite-sized pieces. She looks the complete opposite from someone capable of hacking away their enemies but you wouldn’t dare to underestimate her.

“It’s slow,” you admit, solely focusing on shoving potatoes from one side of your plate to the other so you don’t have to look at anyone. “I’ve only grasped the basics of how Crests work and the Herald’s is so different.”

“Research might prove more fruitful if you’d be called into action,” she says, and it’s difficult to determine if that statement is a simple observation or underlying critique towards Rhea’s decision to leave you out of the major education system. At least that’s something you’re sure of. Edelgard is difficult.

“Maybe. But chances are higher I get myself killed somehow on the battlefield.” You’re already dreading the approaching noon hours. Byleth has worked out a special training programme for you and the house leaders. So far there hasn’t been a day without aching muscles and bruises for you. Thinking of Byleth, you can’t help but ask, “So how’s Byleth as a Professor?”

Edelgard considers her plate with mild interest, but her index fingers start tapping against her cutlery. She has small, delicate hands. Cute hands. You gawk at them for two seconds before noticing Hubert starring daggers at you, and quickly avert your eyes to your cup of ginger tea like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Our professor shows knowledge in the most curious things,” he says, surprising you by joining the conversation. “I think the Adrestian Empire will benefit greatly from that.”

You aren’t sure how leading the class correlates directly to joining the Empire, but you don’t want to point that out. Hubert is still too much of a puzzle you’re adamant on not piecing together because whatever picture waits for you after the assembly might be one of horror.

“She really is one to look up to,” Edelgard agrees, but she isn’t looking at anyone, so it seems she’s saying it more to herself. You want to try and read more out of her expression, but distraction comes quickly in form of more students from the Eagle class. Caspar is the first bouncing excitedly towards the table, and still he somehow miraculously manages to keep his food from flying everywhere. “Herald!” he calls and slides right on the seat right next to you. “How’s the head situation going?”

“Caspar,” Linhardt chides and gives his friend the disappointed look of a parent that can’t bring his child to use a fork to eat. “Would you stop pestering the Herald with the same question every day?”

Linhardt hits the mark. It was nice in the beginning to have someone show so much interest in your wellbeing, but now you don’t know if the daily reminder how you fail to regain pieces of your past is rude or just Caspar’s naive politeness.

“Yeah well.” You try to stuff as much potatoes in your mouth as possible just to avoid talking about it. “Nothin’ yeff.”

“Herald, please try to keep your manners in check, will you?” Ferdinand comments because of course he catches you with your mouth full and sauce dripping from the corners. Unlucky for him, you don’t really care.

“Well, sorry.” Caspar frowns and scratches the remains from his plate. The two minutes you needed to finish your potatoes, he’s cleared his whole plate. “I just thought it might help.”

“Help to be reminded what’s missing?” Linhardt doesn’t look convinced. “I think the Herald knows so better than anyone.”

“Guys, drop the subject,” Edelgard intervenes. “Let us finish our meals now. Classes resume presently and I don’t want to hear any stomachs growling, understood?” The last part goes with a pointed look towards Linhardt, who answers with a lazy shrug while continuing to poke at his food, looking bored out of his mind. It lasts about three seconds before he brightens up and turns towards you while rummaging through his school bag. From that, he pulls out notes and a pen, and unceremoniously shoves them into your hands. “I have a question, Herald. Would you be so kind and look over these strategic proposals I’ve developed from the last lesson? I understand what you taught us were basics as we find them in the library. I simply took the time and applied those to the strengths and abilities of my classmates.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You did?” Up until now, you didn’t know Linhardt was paying attention whenever you gave the students your sorry excuses of lessons. You feel like you’ve seen him asleep far more than actually looking at the board or writing, so him presenting his notes to you now is more than a surprise. He has a clean handwriting, small letters that curl into themselves and forget to take a break between words. You squint at the sentences, trying to make them out. It sure doesn’t help that half of it is crossed out by what looks like a strategy sketch with little circles and everyone’s names filling out the space.

“This looks … elaborate,” you comment, unsure if you’ll ever be able to solve this enigma.

“No worries.” Linhardt gives a little smile. “Please give me your answer report until tomorrow. And feel free to correct me on anything I’ve done wrong.”

He’s probably done a much better job than you on your lesson notes, but you nod with a lopsided smile. “I will.”

“Oh, and while we’re at strategy talk,” Caspar jumps right in, “any good ideas how to take on a taller opponent?”

“A good kick to their shins?” you suggest.

“A dagger to their liver?” Edelgard says.

“Poison in their cup?” Hubert offers.

“You’re all animals,” Ferdinand says.

Linhardt groans. “I toldyou how to win in a fight like that, Caspar. Why won’t you listen to me?”

You don’t want to be part of the argument breaking out between them, so you turn away and try to see what the other students are doing in the dining hall. At the opposite end, Claude catches your eyes and waves like he’s been waiting way too long to finally get your attention. He points at Edelgard and flaps his arms like a chicken. He points at you and spreads his hands behind his head, forming antlers with his fingers. When Edelgard follows your eyes, his head whips around and he pretends to agree with whatever Lysithea just said.

“I hope you forgive Caspar’s enquiries,” she says, steering your focus back to her. She’s gently tapping the corners of her mouth with an embroidered napkin, and oh there they are again, her delicate fingers. You look away before Hubert catches you staring again and decides to put poison in your cup7. “I speak on behalf of everyone in the Black Eagle House when I say we wish for your full recovery to be soon.”

“If wishing would only get the job done, I might have something to work with by now.”

Edelgard doesn’t blink, her expression frozen. “Meaning?”

“I thought I'd come here and one of the Church's healers would just wave their hands to return my memories,” you mumble, scribbling a tiny Claude with little, evil horns on his head in the corner of Linhardt’s notes.

Edelgard looks at you like you've just insulted her whole noble lineage. “That isn't how magic works.”

You throw your arms up in frustration to emphasise that yes, that's the point. You don't know how anything works in this place, and you doubt Byleth's four pages of lesson plans are going to help.

“If no one comes to your aid, maybe it is time you take matters into your own hands.” You flinch at the scornful sound in Edelgard’s voice. Judging the expression on her face, she seems just as surprised about her outburst. She gets up abruptly and bids farewell with a curt nod, followed closely by Hubert as always. Her classmates look after her, each more puzzled than the next.

“Didn’t she seem … angry to you?” Linhardt thinks aloud, blinking into the empty space.

Ferdinand harrumphes. “She’s always like this. Please excuse her, Herald.”

You don’t think she’s done anything wrong, and yet she certainly doesn’t appear as always. Something about her last words strikes you as especially sharp; reproachful. Those weren’t meaningless words, but you don’t have any ways to decipher the message. A little voice tells you she isn’t wrong either. So far nothing has helped returning your memories—Manuela’s medicine, herbs from the Greenhouse, Hanneman’s spells. It seems like your brain has built defencive walls to repel any probing, which begs the answer to the question what is hiding in secret even more. But can you really do it on your own, like Edelgard suggests? It seems impossible.

With newfound doubt you finish your meal, saying your goodbyes to the now scattering Eagle students as they scurry off to their next lesson. Two hours are left before you’re meeting with Byleth and the house leaders, and since you agreed to look over Linhardt’s notes, the library seems a good next stop. You still want to go over the seven classical manoeuvres of war, especially since the students didn’t really grasp the remaining two last time, and it gives you a good excuse to look over them again as well. At the beginning, you thought there was nothing you could teach those children, not with experienced colleagues at your side who have participated in countless battles themselves. Who could have thought that talking about tactics and strategies came as natural to you as breathing. Well, Rhea did for certain, and even the students drink up your every word like it is a message from the Goddess herself and you her chosen herald. The irony of it.

But it isn’t only the students accepting your guidance. Something inside you changed in the last couple of weeks as well. When you started going through the books in the library, it was more stumbling and slipping on foreign terrain, but just in a couple of days, you moved through the matter like a fish following smoothly the currents of its native waters. It felt like home. Like building the foundation of a house from thousand variables, the result different each time but still the same: art. You build the art of battle, the last decision that will bring victory or death. You love every second of it. Which opens the possibility that it really isn’t your first time, but also more questions: Who taught you? What battles have you fought? How many of them did you win? Since those aren’t as simple to answer, you focus on fulfilling the first purpose, and hope that it will some day be enough for the students to survive battles.

If only it would end there. Your second duty isn’t as easy or pleasant, and it lies in wait for you everywhere, stalking you like a dark shadow with monstrous fangs.

“Herald.” A soldier gives a courteous bow, intercepting you in the Great Hall on your way to the library. “Pilgrims ask for you near the Entrance Hall. Please allow me to escort you.”

Immediately, your nerves tingle with nervous anticipation. This is the scary part. Meeting the people, seeing the hope in their eyes. You’d gladly send them back where they’ve come from, but some have travelled for multiple days, and denying them audience would be cruel.

“Don’t let me stop you from your duties,” you say, unconsciously tugging your clothes in order to appear presentable. “I will welcome them on my own.”

The soldier nods and bows again, his expression barely readable under the helmet before he disappears as quickly as he came.

Planning lessons is easy. You can find whatever you need in the library and work out the flow with the students. But nothing can prepare or teach you how to act like the Herald people wish for. Nowhere is anything written on the old Herald, how he talked to them and what promises he’d whispered when day broke. That is where you are on your own. Not even Rhea could answer that question. She only instructed that you see them, and remind them about their devotion to the Goddess—for she was the one who made it possible in the first place.

The Entrance Hall is emptier than usual. Most of the students are in class, and a handful of knights and soldiers might be at the advanced training camp Jeralt and Alois hold in honour of the Blade Breaker’s return. So spotting the pilgrims isn’t difficult. Especially with the Gatekeeper waving his arms in wide arcs as if fearing you might overlook him.

“Greetings, Herald!” His grin is blinding. “The pilgrims are waiting for you just at the at the foot of the stairs.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I can see them.”

“Oh, yes, of course! If anyone causes problems, count on me to help!”

“Thanks.” You answer his thumbs up with one of your own before moving downstairs. What a refreshing young man. Certainly good looking under his helmet. Byleth seems to like talking to him a lot as well.

Today’s pilgrims aren’t much different from other days. Old people are supported by their family members, who have brought baskets with sweets and flowers, presenting them at your feet.

“Herald,” they breathe in awe, bowing. No matter how often you’ve seen it by now, it still feels incredibly wrong.

“Raise your heads,” you tell them, helping an elderly woman up to hrer feet. She gasps at your touch, then clings to your hands. You try to swallow past the lump in your throat. “The Archbishop and I bid you welcome. The Goddess will smile upon your devotion.” Your cringe slightly when echoing Rhea’s words and wonder if any second the goddess might punish you by throwing lightning your way.

“We are blessed to finally meet you,” a younger woman says, taking the old woman from your hands—mother and daughter maybe? “Please accept our gifts, and may the Goddess guide you on your path to light.”

“She will answer your prayers and guide me so I can bring you peace,” you reply just so you can say something they might want to hear. Judging their delighted expressions this wasn’t the worst you could have said. Dorothea would probably be proud looking at your acting skills. Or point out your bad posture and how you’re avoiding their eyes. Dorothea would probably tell you how much you have to polish your acting skills.

“Bring us peace?” someone from the last row spits, pushing to the front. “You know nothing, the Herald will bring chaos and ruin!” A man in his forties looms above you, an ugly, padded scar crossing his face from one temple to his chin. A war veteran? They way he holds himself looks like he’s been beaten up once too much to get up again.

“You heathen, don’t you dare speak to our Herald like that,” the old woman barks, immediately doubling over in a coughing fit. Her daughter supports her, glaring at the man. “Go in peace, but go if you only came to talk ill about our Herald,” she says, clearly upset. "Doubting them is doubting our Goddess. How dare you."

“First I want to see the Herald do something! What if … if this one is an impostor.” The man turns towards the others, throwing his arms in the air. “Bring forward proof that you are not here to ruin our lands, but to actually serve in the Goddess’ name!”

This time his demand meets less resistance. Until now people were fine with seeing you and the Crest, but to want actual prove? You could easily threaten them and ask if they doubt the Goddess’ decision, but you’d rather leave that method to Rhea. You don’t want to sound like her. You don’t want to scare people. Yet admitting that you don’t really have a clue how to really use the Crest would surely support the man’s accusation. Diminishing the people’s trust in the Herald is the last thing you want, especially if it means facing Rhea’s scorn.

“I—”

“Herald!” A voice calls from the top of the stairs. When you turn around, Sylvain waves and jogs downstairs, looking like he’s been running for some time. “There you are. The Archbishop wants to see you.”

Oh no, has she heard of your failure already? Giving the choice of facing a group of doubting people or Rhea, you’d immediately go to the people. You give him a curt nod, unable to speak because you don’t trust your voice.

“I apologise,” you say to the pilgrims, clearing your throat when it comes out as a croak. “I will have something prepared for another time.”

“No, you do not need to prove anything to us,” the elderly woman says. “We will always believe in you. Please tell Her Grace we are constantly praying to our Goddess and thank her for sending you to us.”

“I will.” You squeeze her hand a last time. “Save travels.”

The man still glares at you, but without a chance to keep you present any longer, he turns away and follows the rest. You can’t wait to leave all that behind, and as you steel your nerves for what’s waiting for you in the Audience Chambers, you look up to Sylvain and ask, “Did Lady Rhea say what it is about?”

He looks over at you and blinks a couple of times, then seems to remember. “Ah ... yeah, about that. I lied.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “You lied?”

“Yup. I don’t know what Lady Rhea’s doing. But you looked like you were about to puke at those poor pilgrim’s shoes. As hilarious as that would have been, I wanted to spare you the embarrassment.” He stops now as well and smiles a boyish crooked grin. Sylvain knows exactly what to do with his face so girls fall over themselves to do him a favour, and boys grow jealous of all the attention he gets. Two weeks in, and you’ve figured out his game, keeping a respectable distance that wouldn’t birth the thought you’re avoiding him. In fact, this could be the very first time you’re actually holding a real conversation.

“Well, I … thank you? But I had everything under control.”

He looks like he doesn’t believe you. The gatekeeper you’re just passing looks like he doesn’t believe you. You press your lips into a thin line and dare any of them to disagree.

“Okay.” Sylvain shrugs. “But now we’re here.”

“Sylvain, what do you want?”

“Cutting to the chase, huh?” He crosses his arms behind his head. “Why do you think I want something?” Your raised eyebrows seem to be answer enough. Sylvain laughs a little helplessly and returns his hands back to his front, raised as an offer of peace. “I promise, I want nothing. Just a little talking. A little talking hasn’t hurt anyone.”

Something inside you wants to argue against it, but without a solid argument in hand, you follow him silently, wondering where his destination and intention lies. He belongs to the many students you can’t really read, nothing about his ambitions or goals. Sometimes he gives you this strange look through half lidded eyes, his gaze focused on your right eye—his interest in your Crest undeniable, and yet he’s been one of the few not to talk about it with you. It’s strange because whenever you come together, he looks like there’s something he’s dying to say. This time is no different.

He leads you to the wooden pavilion in the gardens, but instead of offering you a seat, Sylvain leans his slim hips against the table, half sitting on it. Seteth would be furious seeing this.

“How’s the Herald business doing for you?” he asks the one question you wouldn't expect from him. “Other than you having ‘everything under control.’” He has the audacity to air-quote. This isn’t a conversation you want to hold right now, leastwise with him. Sylvain must discern that you’re ready to bold from whatever your body is showing. With a quick step, he’s standing between you and the escape route, lazily leaning one arm against a column to uphold the illusion that you’re only having a pleasant talk when in reality his body stands between you and your freedom.

“Do you talk to the other faculty members like that as well?” you say through gritted teeth, crossing your arms. Sylvain blinks like he doesn’t understand, but you’ve seen this act before, followed by an eerily precise repetition of a subject to one of his classmates when he thinks none of the teachers pay attention. Sylvain is playing dumb and deliberately hiding a sharp mind.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend,” he quickly says, nothing about this crooked smile appearing apologetic whatsoever. “I’m generously curious. You’re holding up really good.”

“In comparison to what?” you demand, your heartbeat picking up. Is he trying to call you out on something? That you aren’t heraldy enough? But to your surprise, Sylvain looks genuinely surprised by your reaction.

“To nothing. In general?” He shrugs. “Back on the ceremony day, you didn’t look so good standing up there, and His Highness told us everything happened really uh … ‘suddenly.’’ More air-quotes, whatever they mean this time.

“If you mean I wasn’t really asked to become the Herald, then yes.” Your arms drop back to your side. “It was suddenly.”

Sylvain watches you for a moment, and again, there’s this look in his eyes; the need to say something he can’t. He kneads the back of his nape, avoiding your eyes. “All I’m trying to say is … having that Crest out of nothing is cool. Probably. And maybe terrifying? And just—”

You grow impatient. “Come on, get the words out, Sylvain.”

“A Crest isn’t just this nice letter of invitation to a privileged life. Just take care, is all I’m saying.”

And there’s another page to the book of surprises with Sylvain’s name on it. The immediate lack of response catches him off guard; it’s like he only notices now that the vital part to understand this conversation is missing: The source of his doubt towards Crests.

Sylvain’s body turns in a split second, his feet facing the direction he’s ready to bold towards, but this time you stand in his way and block him off. “Sylvain, are you okay?”

He blinks in confusion, then furrows his eyebrows in deep thought like you demanded he recites the Ten Heroes from memory or else fails classes. His face contorts with the effort of looking fine. “Why, yes! Just peachy. Why would you think something is off?”

“Because I have eyes in my skull.”

“Very pretty eyes, if I dare say.” His answer comes out like a fire spell, hard and fast, seemingly more instinct than anything else. He clears his throat and scratches his chin, loosing momentum. “Goddess, I am bad at this.”

“You are.” No need to sugar coat it. “If something happened, just say it.”

“Nothing really happened, I just—” He exhales audibly and stares into space for a long minute, before side stepping you without difficulty. “Actually, I remembered Professor wanted to see me after class. Something about extra lessons about eh. Horse riding. Yeah. I’ll catch you later, Herald.” He winks and bolds away, darting under your outstretched arm before you can catch him. For someone this tall, he’s surprisingly agile and fast, already disappearing behind a tall hedge towards the main building.

If that wasn’t the strangest conversation you’ve held with anyone, you don’t know what might excel that. Maybe it’s time you stop avoiding Sylvain.

The Training Grounds smells of sweat and oil. Many students and knights train, which is surprising at this kind of hour, the short break between afternoon and evening classes. You’d like to know what they’re working on, but Byleth doesn’t tolerate inattention in a classroom or on the battle field, and demands you do push-ups each time your eyes wander somewhere off. You hate her a little for that. For whatever reason, Claude has taken on the role of your partner in crime, and does whatever necessary to make Byleth punish him as well.

“What can I say, I like a good workout,” he said when you asked. He didn’t even try to hide his lie, looking as miserable as you felt. Probably hating Byleth a little as well.

It’s the fourth week of private training with her and the house leaders, and so far you can definitely say that you were not meant to fight on the field. You see how your opponent moves, you can somehow predict what they’re going to do next—but your body simply protests to act accordingly. You stumble, you fall, you need a second too long to get up and before you can do anything, a training sword is at your throat. Byleth always looks like she wants to facepalm her fist through her forehead. Or yours.

“Herald, this is not how you disarm someone,” she says, as always, and demonstrates it in one smooth, swift movement, as always. You blow hair out of your eyes, knowing you’re about to fail again. At least that gave Claude a reason to give you a new nickname, though if it’s better than the last is debatable.

“You gotta twist your wrist, duckling!” he calls from the other side of the hall, immediately drawing Byleth’s attention to him. He and Dimitri are facing off, both wielding a spear which should give Dimitri the upper hand. So far, he hasn’t landed a single hit on Claude.

“Keep your elbows in!” Byleth berates Claude. “Stop flapping them like some kind of chicken.”

Claude lets out a disturbingly convincing cluck.

You raise an eyebrow. “At least someone’s having fun.”

Byleth sighs. “He’s going to get himself killed sooner than later.”

“I don’t know. He’s managed so far, hasn’t he?”

“I’m not sure if it’s a talent or a fault.” She turns back to you and nods her chin towards the side. “Take a break. I’m going to see how the boys are doing.”

You nod, tensing all over because that’s where Edelgard is currently standing and picking out a training axe. You haven’t talked to her since lunch, and you can do without it for a couple more hours. She barely glances at you when you walk over, and instead checks out the edge of the wooden blade, turning it left and right.

“Is she as strict in the classroom as in here?” you ask, unable to go on in awkward silence. Edelgard hums, throwing a quick glance towards Byleth from under her long, white lashes. “She’s systematic and consistent. Capable in both fields. I have no reason to raise any kind of complaint.”

“That’s impressive.” You sure as heck still wouldn’t want her as a teacher. “Even though she’s been pushed into all this, she handles it like she’s never done anything else.”

“I think as a mercenary, she is used to changing approaches depending on the employer.” Edelgard is still looking at Byleth. Reading her expression is impossible, and you don’t want to point out that sticking a sword into thieves and bandits is not the same as teaching kids how to fight in a battle. Her head whips to you suddenly, and she considers the training sword in your hand. “Speaking of different approaches,” she continues, “have you considered that your field of combat might be magic?”

You have, so the answer comes immediately. “Chances are higher I set myself on fire.” You stare at her. “I didn’t mean it to rhyme.”

Edelgard ignores your last comment. “But you haven’t really tried it out, have you?” Your lack of response is answer enough for her, and she nods like that proves a point.

It’s complicated. You haven’t really tried it out because … the simple answer is, you’re afraid. It gets tricky once you try to search for the answer to that. There’s just a strange sensation when you try to use magic, like there’s a vast sea of possibilities and one step inside is enough to get you lost. It isn’t as bad with wind spells or white magic. You haven’t touched Fire spells because a crippling fear chills you to the bones every time you manage to nourish a small flame inside your palm—the complete opposite to Dark magic. When you tried a MiasmaΔ for the first time it felt strangely … secure. The rope tying you to a shore, it had felt like—

There’s a loud crash when the spears collide and Claude knocks Dimitri off his feet. The whole room is silent as everyone watches how Claude taps the blunt end of his practice spear against Dimitri’s chin. “Steady on there, darling,” he says with a smug grin. Dimitri flushes bright red, and pushes with more force than necessary the spear away, quickly climbing to his feet.

“That wasn’t bad.” Byleth quickly steps in before Dimitri can throttle Claude. “Dimitri, you rely too much on your brute strength. That’s a big disadvantage against someone like Claude. And you, young man,” she turns to Claude who’s been smiling victoriously, “are scheming too much and lose time to take action. In a serious battle, you won’t be as lucky as today.”

“Noted.” Claude whirls his spear from left to right, almost dropping it when Dimitri drills his elbow into his side. “But in a serious battle, I won’t be upfront. I’ll be hanging back nicely, and skewing my enemies with a myriad of arrows.”

“You can barely shoot three at the same time,” Dimitri grumbles, his cheeks still splotched with red specks.

“You wanna bet—”

“That’s enough, guys, save it for then next round.” Byleth ignores their sulky expressions and turns to you, raising a single eyebrow. The message is clear. What are you waiting for?

Your feet feel like they’re glued to the ground. Edelgard doesn’t hesitate at all. “Let’s go.”

She strides in the middle, training axe raised. It’s made out of wood, but you don’t doubt that she’s able to severe a limb from your body if she only tries hard enough—and what you know of Edelgard is that she alwaysexceeds even her own expectations. You grip your sword tighter. It’s a clear disadvantage, but better than anything else you can handle. Maybe it won’t be as bad.

The fight lasts for about seven seconds. The moment you raise the blade, Edelgard is on you and unleashes fierce strike after strike, the power behind each hit forcing you back. She doesn’t bat an eyelash when she easily disarms you, the wooden sword flying over your heads and the edge of her axe on your throat. Somewhere behind her, you hear Byleth sigh. “Again.”

The next hour is torture. Edelgard throws you to the ground, again and again. Byleth keeps telling you to get up, again and again. One might think they would cut you some slack, being the Herald and all, but it feels like Edelgard is so much more aggressive today because you’re the Herald. Or maybe it’s personal. Maybe she’s appointed you to be her sworn enemy, and won’t miss out any chance to make it as hard as possible for you.

This isn’t fun. Being watched by Dimitri and Claude, who whisper conspiratorially to each other isn’t fun. Luckily, Byleth notices them gawking and bellows them to focus on working on their stances. Right now, you’re thankful nothing escapes her eyes and she calls her students out on their bullshit. It doesn’t make your current situation easier though. Every muscle burns, just raising the sword is exhausting and your feet feel like they’re about to give out any second. This must be hell.

When Byleth finally ends lessons, you ignore everything and crumble to the ground, splaying your limbs out in all directions. Surely they can clean up without you, two hands less will barely make any difference.

A shadow settles over you. You know who it is, and don’t bother to open your eyes. “Go away, Byleth. I don’t want to hear how bad I am.”

“Personally, I think you have improved, Herald.” Your eyes snap open. Dimitri looks down at you, his forehead still glistening from perspiration. “But facing Edelgard as an opponent usually wields those results. Don’t let it bother you.”

You want to point out that he and Claude don’t seem to have as much problems as you, even though yes, none of them have defeated her yet in practice. He goes down to your level and sits beside you, and you hate how this all barely made him breath hard, like it’s just a stroll around the monastery whereas you’re trying to climb the mountains surrounding it.

“I think she hates me,” you blurt out. Luckily, most students have already left the hall, Edelgard included. Dimitri considers this a moment, and you don’t know what to make of his lack of immediate response.

“I doubt she hates you,” he finally says.

“But?”

“But she has a hard time warming up to people. Give her time. Once the ice is broken, you will see that her personality is one you’d like to have around.”

“Oh?” You watch him for a moment, but Dimitri doesn’t blush or look away. It was a heartfelt, sincere statement, which flusters you for some reason. No one should be that honest.

“Talking about breaking ice. Do you know if something happened to Sylvain?”

“Sylvain?” Dimitri raises both eyebrows. “Please don’t tell me he harassed you in some kind of way.”

“No, no, he just—” You finally get up from lying on your back, and try to explain it by frantically moving your hands. Dimitri still looks puzzled. “He said some weird things about Crests in general?”

“Hm.” Dimitri stares at your hands for a moment, then quickly raises his eyes back to your face. “It’s complicated.” Well, that answer is as good as none. “And I won’t go into details without his consent. I can only say that if he talked about Crests, in whichever way, his brother must have upset him again.”

“He has a brother?” Now you’re wide awake. Many students have siblings. You know of Hilda’s brother and Raphael’s sister. It shouldn’t surprise you Sylvain has one as well even though he’s never mentioned it before.

“Do you have siblings?” you ask, generously curious. As heir to a kingdom, it’s hard to imagine his parents would have settled with one child. But he hasn’t mentioned any sisters or brothers as well.

“Hmm, I have a step-sister,” he says, although very hesitant and you can see if someone doesn’t want to talk about a specific topic. He doesn’t return the question, which is kind of him and makes you wonder … maybe you have a sibling as well. Somewhere. Maybe somewhere in Adrestia or Leicester a younger brother or an older sister is currently looking for you, unrelenting in their journey to be reunited at last. The thought alone brings a flicker of hope alive. Maybe they'll come once word of the Herald’s return travels far enough.

“I guess as long as Sylvain doesn’t disturb classes or acts out of order, I would leave him to his brooding. I can tell out of experience, only Felix is capable of cheering him up.”

“Felix?” Your eyebrows rise to your hairline. “Are we talking about the same Felix?”

A smile forms on Dimitri’s mouth. “I understand why imagining that might prove difficult, but I assure you, Felix is one of the view exceeding in handling the mess Sylvain is from time to time.”

“Felix and Ingrid?” you guess, earning a nod from Dimitri. “Ingrid is a very nice girl,” you continue, picking at a loose thread from your uniform. “But Felix seems detests me. Every time he sees me, he looks like he wants to throw his sword at me.”

“That is—” Dimitri stops mid-sentence. “That might be not so far off from his true intentions.”

You groan.

“But I assure you it is for a different reason than you think. Felix is simply … difficult with people holding a commanding position.”

“He doesn’t seem to have the same problem with Byleth,” you point out. No, whenever he trains with her, he manages something close to a smile and accepts her guidance. Then again, she isn’t his teacher.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to make him consider his opinion on you during the Mock Battle. I as well am looking forward to how you will guide us.” Dimitri beams. You stare at him like he’s just lost his head.

“What?”

“The Mock Battle three nights from today?” Dimitri’s smile falters a little. “Have the Professor and Lady Rhea not told you yet? You are to participate in the Mock Battle as the commanding unit of the Blue Lions.” Now he’s pulling his eyebrows together in worry. “Herald?”

“I—” You jump to your feet. “I have to go.” Go far far away. Just yesterday you introduced the students to the tactic called Feigned Withdrawal, which involves staging a retreat in order to induce the enemy to abandon its position and plunge ahead in an attack. Dimitri abandons his position, getting up to go after you, but instead of turning back to surprise him with an ambush, you flee the battle and hope the enemy doesn’t pursue.

43 notes · View notes

starlightxsvt · 4 years ago

Text

Sunrises || Choi Seungcheol au

Pairing: Seungcheol x Female reader

Genre: apocalypse au, slice of life (?), angst, kinda fluff, some action

Warning: zombies, death and stuffs

"Thank you for saving me that day." You murmur to the male sittig next to you.

Seungcheol, in return says nothing, focusing on peeling the apple in his hand.

It was the third day after he saved you and gave you a place to stay. The man didn't offer his name or any other information - though you figured it out from craved wood that hung on his room's door saying, 'Seungcheol's room' - neither asked yours but you enlightened him with it. He doesn't talk much and doesn't like to be talked much but you kept your mouth open anyway.

It was about two months since the strange virus spread and begun the apocalypse and you were lucky enough to have stumbled upon Seungcheol.

"I really mean it." You whisper. "I'm new in this place. Believe it or not but I moved here literally a few days before the apocalypse started."

You didn't get any response to that either.

"Do you have any family? I don't. My mother died long ago and my father's an addict so I basically ran from him."

More silence.

You take in his features which are too concentrated on peeling the apple. His brows were knit to a frown and he chewed on his lower plump lip.

You swallow, "Who's Sunghoon?" You know you probably shouldn't have asked the question but curiosity got the best of you. You saw the name hanging on one of the rooms which was apparently locked.

He looks up at you, an angry look on his face. "I swear to any higher being up there, if you don't shut your mouth I am going to feed you to the corpses by myself." He stands up murmuring, "This is why I don't like helping people."

You watch his retreating figure walk inside the house and you sigh, leaning against the apple tree and watching the sunset.

A week later

You thanked the heavens everyday for making you stumble upon a guy who's a farmer. Seungcheol had his own produce, a small field of rice and corns and a few apple and lemon trees. It was safe to say these were more than enough in a time like this.

The electricity is unavailable most of the time but it takes some surprise visits every few days for a few hours. That's when you and Seungcheol wash up and store water.

Your days go by rather quickly thanks to the neat system Seungcheol seems to have established. He had things run so smoothly that it was pretty unbelievable the world was going through an apocalypse right now. You help him around the house, cleaning things up, watering the crops and such. He had his own rules - don't waste water or tissues, don't eat too much, don't talk too much. You tried to follow them at your best but you couldn't stop yourself from starting a little conversation more often that which were only met with silence or threats. But so far, Seungcheol was a guy nice enough and you counted your blessings for meeting him.

A few more days later

When you ran from your place you only took your female necessities. Those were dumb things compared to others who ran away with guns and foods.

You sat in the guest room Seungcheol offered you, thinking about what you were gonna do after these necessities were finished.

Suddenly Seungcheol appears knocking on your door before entering. You turn to look at him as he takes a seat. "We'll be heading out tomorrow."

"Huh?"

"There's a super shop a mile away from here. We're going there."

"Why?"

"Why do you think, smartass? We need to stock up on tissue paper and dry foods. I visited there a couple times after the apocalypse started. Apparently the government and NGO's provide foods and stuffs there for the survivors out here."

"Really?Then where are they? We need to find them. They probably built a shelter, we can go live there."

"Do you think it's that simple?"

"Huh?"

Seungcheol sighs. "They are moving in their own pace, okay? The shelters are probably full now with survivors. When their capacity increases they'll let us know. I have a friend who works at the NGO. If he's okay he'll come for me."

"When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"On the day of the breakout."

"I see."

"Prepare yourself for tomorrow. Since you are living in my place, you are coming with me." He stands up to leave.

"I'm not a wuss, you know." You roll your eyes.

"We'll see."

"Yea. And you know, it didn't hurt to speak with me! We could talk more often Mr. Grumpy!" You call after him.

"Shut up."

The next day

"Listen carefully, don't waste anytime. Just grab the things you need and walk into the car." Seungcheol says parking the car in front of the convenience store.

You nod and watch him load his gun and tuck it behind him.

The store is a mess. Broken pieces and bits of metals everywhere. You both walk in and look for the things you came for. Luck seems to be on your side as you find a couple of dry food packets, some toilet papers and some pads -though they are not the best quality, you have to make do with these. You quickly put them on the tote bag you brought with yourself and turned around.

Seungcheol was on the opposite Isle looking through selves for God knows what. You walk out to the front of the store and see and notice taped there.

Food will be supplied here every week along with other necessities. If you are a survivor please hang in there. Once we manage more accommodation, we will come for you. Regarding the infected, our research says they are deaf, so please use that to your advantage.

You turn around to tell Seungcheol about this but instead you meet the eyes of a corpse. It stands there, a mess of blood and gunk as your soul leaves your body.

It approaches you, making garbled sounds and you take back a few steps. From behind him you see Seungcheol approaching will a huge piece of metal rod.

The corpse doesn't turn back to the noises Seungcheol's feet makes while approaching you through the mess, instead it's focus is solely on you, ready to devour. They're really deaf, huh. It opens its mouth ready to chunk a piece of your body when Seungcheol hits him in the head and bangs a couple more times to make sure it's immobile.

"Quick, get in the car. More of them might be around here."

You two dash back to the car, carrying your goods and he starts the car quickly. You look behind to see more of the corpses appearing from around the store. Dusk was approaching soon which meant the corpses will be more alive and ferocious.

The car speeds through the empty road as you clutch onto your tote bag. "Did you know they were deaf?"

"You didn't?" He throws at you. You roll your eyes at him.

"Thanks for saving me again."

"Maybe next time I won't."

Another couple weeks or so later

"I'm going to the supermarket."

"At this hour? It's almost dusk. Are you crazy?"

You watch as Seungcheol puts on the necessary protection on his arms and legs and checks his gun.

"They people from NGO deliver foods during this time since there is no survivors out at this hour. I'm gonna go there and try to meet the delivery guy. Also I need to refill my car."

"Why?"

"To pass a message."

"To your friend who works at the NGO?"

"Yes. I need to let him know that I'm alive. Then he'll come for me."

"What if he's dead?"

Seungcheol says nothing. You forbid him to leaves a few more times but he completely ignores your pleas saying he has to take a chance. Before he is out the door, he hands you his gun. "Keep this with you. Until now, they corpses have never been around here so just stay inside the house and you'll be safe. I don't know if you have your memories after you becoming a corpse but if you see me coming here looking like one of them, shoot me."

What? You swallow as your heart tugs.

"Stop talking like that. You don't need to leave. We've plenty of food. We'll get by. Don't do this Seungcheol."

"Remember what I said." He speaks, ignoring you and turns around.

"Wait." You call, tears pooling in your eyes. "At least take the gun with you. You'll need it more than me. Besides I dont even know how to use it."

Seungcheol looks at you for a beat before taking a gun and giving you a small smile - the first one he ever gave you.

You watch him leave as the sky turn in hues of purple and black.

You spend a restless night, sitting in your room watching the sky and thinking about Seungcheol. You think of how he opened up a bit more in the last few days and the moments you shared.

Sunghoon was my brother. He was in the military. We were outside, celebrating his discharge when the infection spread. The corpses got him while he was trying to save me. I failed him.

I waited for him for a long time, thinking he'd come back. He didn't.

Y/n, if I don't return by dawn don't wait for me.

As the night passed anxiety got the best of you. This is it. I lost him. He's gone. I'll have to survive now, alone.

You were about to have a break down as you saw the first streak of light spread through the sky. You walked to the roof of his farmhouse watching the colors in the sky. You start to accept the fact that you're alone from now on. That is until you see Seungcheol's jeep approaching towards the house.

You held your breath and didn't move your position, waiting to see him come out.

You thought sunsets were pretty until you saw Seungcheol's tired figure getting out of the jeep, his eyes meeting yours and flashing a smile, the brightest one probably, at the crack of dawn.

Sunrises were pretty too. Even prettier perhaps.

A/N: Tbh I wasn't so confident in this one but oh well, here it is. Also thank you for loving my previous work, it really means a lot. As for this one, if it doesn't flop, maybe I'll write a part 2 👀.Anyway thanks again! 💖

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sincerelyasomebody · 5 years ago

Text

Lay Your Claim || Oscar "Spooky" Diaz

(GIF Credit: @merakiaes)

A/N: Hello👋🏾, new Tumblr user here. Just giving a heads up that there may be errors; so please be kind. I am not a native Spanish speaker, so refer to the translations at the bottom. Please feel free to correct me if anything is wrong. Jose is used as Sad Eyes' actual name as far as I know it has not been revealed in the show. I've read a few fanfics that have used this name as well. Anyway, happy reading!

Pairing(s): Spooky x Reader

Summary: Oscar may have claimed her; but (Y/N) demonstrates her claim on him.

Warnings: fluff, language, physical altercation, underage drinking (I don't condone this behaviour).

Word Count: 1090

- ♤ - ♡ - ◇ - ♧ -

A party at the Diaz residence wasn't an uncommon occurrence.

The front and back yard filled with people, music pumping through the speakers, food and drinks neatly organised on tables (thanks to Ruby). The atmosphere of the hangout was something (Y/N) was becoming familiar with.

Being Oscar, or Spooky as he was known on the streets, Diaz's lady was a title that many were shocked she had gained.

He was the leader of the Santos, Freeridge's prominent gang (now that the Prophet$ were gone) and she worked as a librarian in Brentwood.

Two completely different individuals; on separate paths in life.

Until a chance meeting at a soup kitchen changed everything.

Now they were a couple; an odd couple to some, but a couple nonetheless.

"Hey, (Y/N)!"

The girl turned around and found José, or Sad Eyes, waving her over. He sat with a few members, each with a beer in their hand. Her boyfriend wasn't among them, but she figured he was off doing something important.

She greeted all of them with a smile, "what's up?"

Out of all of the members, Sad Eyes was who she was most comfortable with. Not to say she wasn't comfortable with the rest - it was just her and Sad Eyes had spent more time together. Whenever Oscar wasn't available, he was the one sent to help her out. At first they didn't talk to each other, he was just there, really.

He only spoke up when he discovered she was spending way too much at the grocery store for fruits and vegetables, so he recommended the farmers market his mum always went to on Saturday mornings.

That was the beginning of their friendship.

"Just checkin' on ya," he responded. "Any cookies?"

(Y/N) baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies when she first met the gang. It was a hit and now requested whenever she was around.

She laughed, "there should be some on the tables."

Oso shook his head, "nah, we finished those ones."

"I baked five trays!?"

"We were hungry," laughed Joker, "are there more?"

"No." Was her response, before walking off as they continued to laugh.

She searched the crowd for Oscar but he wasn't anywhere in her line of sight. Instead she was met with the Core 4 and Jasmine sneaking off with some coronas. She let them be, but made a mental note to check up on them soon.

No doubt in her mind that either Ruby or Jamal would need help staying upright if they had more than one. Cesar, Monsé and Jasmine were somewhat responsible, she concluded.

As she moved through the sea of people, she nodded at the women huddled near the DJ booth. They were the ones who gave her a heads up about being with a Santos, especially with the leader, as they were with some of the older members. She admired them and couldn't have been more thankful for a support system. There were no issues between her and them.

Her issue was with the women who regarded her status as Spooky's lady as something that could be challenged. (Y/N) had yet to put a bitch in her place, but it seemed like tonight was going to be the night.

She glanced over at the snack tables and found Oscar sipping a beer. Josie, a known opportunist, talking to him… though it was more like she was talking to herself because his focus was anywhere else but her. (Y/N) smiled when he noticed her, quickly making her way over to him. It seemed like the girl got the wrong idea, because she moved forward and put her hands on his chest.

Alright, let's do this.

"Excuse me," she pushed herself in between the two and immediately locked lips with Oscar.

He was caught off guard, but quickly accepted the kiss; pulling her closer which allowed her to deepen it. Their public display was met with hollering from Santos and party-goers alike. Jasmine's voice the loudest with her 'yaaaaas, girl!'. They shared a laugh when they finally separated.

Oscar brushed his thumb against her cheek. "Damn, mamas."

(Y/N) pecked his lips as a response, before turning around to face the girl. She gave her a once over, leaning back slightly to which Oscar hung an arm across her chest. The other resting on her hip, with his chin on her shoulder. A position that practically screamed they were together if the kiss wasn't enough.

The hangaround scoffed and rolled her neck, "wow, we were just talkin' and you wanna do all that?"

At this point, the party had come to a standstill. Everyone eager to watch the exchange; especially those who wanted to see what Miss Librarian was capable of.

"He's my man, I can do whatever I damn well please and he sure wasn't complaining," the young lady replied, "and from what I saw, you were the only one talking. Let's make one thing clear I'm the only person that gets to be all up on him. So, back off, bitch."

"Or what?

She stepped away from Spooky, her eyes focused solely on the girl. "Please, try me and find out."

Big. Mistake.

Once Josie swung, (Y/N) dodged it and sent a jab to face. Josie stumbled but charged forward, once again (Y/N) dodged. Only this time she grabbed the hangarounds arm, twisted it behind her back and forced her to the ground.

"Let. Go. Of. Me!" Josie wailed, trying to break free.

She laughed and put more pressure, "what happened to being a bad bitch?"

"Okay, okay, I get it. I won't touch him, I get it! Now, let go! Please!"

(Y/N) held on for a couple more seconds and then released the hold. She got up on her feet as Josie rose to hers, while holding her arm with a glare set on her face.

"I'm Lady Spooky." (Y/N) reminded her, eyes scanning the party-goers. "If you try me, I will not hesitate. So, don't touch my man and there won't be any problems. Okay? Cool."

And, with that the party went back to normal; only this time with added cheers and shouts of 'we see you Lady Spooky'. (Y/N) walked back over to Oscar who was still in the same place she left him. She laughed when he pulled her into his chest.

He kissed her forehead, "you must be crazy about me, huh?"

"You claimed me." Her eyes sparkled with mischief, "only right I do the same."

- ♤ - ♡ - ◇ - ♧ -

Spanish Translation(s):

Mamas - (slang/nickname) attractive woman

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 5 years ago

Text

Familiar Things

Good news for anyone who thought they were free of my strange writing predilections! Not only am I back on writing for @drawlight‘s advent challenge, but I’ve once again taken what really should have been a fairly light story and taken a sharp turn into angst land!

14 - Eggnog (1,933)

Nanny Ashtoreth would never admit how good it felt to walk into that bookshop after months away.

Every Christmas, the Dowlings gave all their staff two weeks off while they traveled, visiting various heads of state. It was a great relief, not least because demons preferred to avoid elaborate Christmas celebrations.

Aziraphale’s bookshop was much as it always had been – crowded with dusty books on every surface, embarrassingly tacky angels tucked into every corner, gramophone playing an ancient, warped disc because someone refused to even upgrade to vinyl. The only concessions to the season were a few sprigs of holly and a string of lights in the window, drawing attention to the sign: CLOSED TODAY – TRY AGAIN TOMORROW!

The sign had sat unchanged for just about ten years.

Stepping through the door, the hat came off, the hair shook loose, and just for a little while Nanny Ashtoreth was Crowley again.

“Ah, my dear fellow, I’m so glad you could make it.” Aziraphale had all the boisterous cheer of the host of a banquet – though as always, it was only the two of them.

“Nh.” Crowley went straight to the sofa, flinging himself down, kicking his feet up onto the armrest. “Next time I have the brilliant idea to create a persona who only wears heels, remind me of this moment.” He settled down deeper into the well-worn cushions, feeling the ache in his back, legs and feet lessen just a bit. So good.

“Crowley, I’ve told you before, I don’t like your shoes on my furniture.”

“And I’ve told you, Angel, I don’t care.” He pulled off his glasses – small lenses, emphasizing the sharpness of his face; he’d need a new pair soon, and good riddance – then looked Aziraphale up and down. Another thing he’d never admit to missing: that tartan bowtie. “No more Brother Francis, then?”

The angel straightened his waistcoat and smoothed his lapels. “I arranged to have myself let go after the gardens were settled for the winter. I have a few ideas for next year, but I’ll need more time as myself to…prepare.”

“I’m staying on through the end of the school year,” Crowley said, leaning back to study the ceiling. “That only gives me about two months but…not as much to prepare, I suppose.”

Neither of them needed to say what they were preparing for. They’d hardly mentioned it for ten years, though they each thought of little else.

“Let me get you something to drink. Eggnog?”

“I’d rather have brandy.”

A moment later, Aziraphale pressed the glass into his hand. Crowley glared at the white liquid. “This isn’t what I asked for.”

“There’s more than enough brandy in there. I just thought I’d be a little festive.”

“Festive.” Must be all that time around the humans, going to his head. “That’s the last thing we need right now.” Crowley raised the glass to his lips just as Aziraphale circled the sofa and suddenly grabbed at his foot. “Oi!” Crowley jerked his leg away.

“Too much brandy?” Aziraphale asked with the sort of innocent expression that had never fooled anyone.

Crowley glared at Aziraphale, his foot, and his glass. “Too much nutmeg, actually. And leave me alone. My feet are killing me, and I’m keeping them up until they stop.”

The angel sighed. “I was going to help you remove your boots. So you could sit however you like without ruining the furniture.”

“Ah.” Slowly, Crowley lowered his leg back to the arm of the sofa. “Well, I suppose that…that makes sense.”

Not quite meeting his eyes, Aziraphale set to work loosening the first high-heeled boot. “These shoes are atrocious. I’m sure you weren’t wearing them ten years ago.” He finally worked it free, and Crowley gave a grunt of pleasure, which he tried to hide with another sip of eggnog. Aziraphale held up the boot by its four-inch heel. “Was this entirely necessary?”

“It felt more in-character.” Crowley shrugged. “Be careful with that, it needs to last until June.”

“I think you just like playing up for the humans.” Aziraphale got to work on the second boot.

“Oh, I’m the one playing up? And what was the purpose of that pirate accent?” Crowley smiled slightly, taking another sip of eggnog. It would probably be quicker to sit up and remove the blasted boot himself, but the angel seemed determined to try.

“It’s a rural accent! Brother Francis was a simple farmer from a rural community and needed a voice to match.”

“Was he? A caricature of a farmer, you mean, with a Mummerset accent.” Crowley chuckled, tilting up his glass. “Next time we do this, remind me to give you a lesson in deep characterization.”

The hands on his boot fell still, and Crowley lowered the glass. Neither of them wanted to say it. That this might be the last time.

“Here, let me get that,” Crowley grumbled, sitting up.

“No, you stay put.” Aziraphale grabbed the boot with both hands, pulling it free, probably casting a small miracle to get it off so easily, and tossed it aside. “There. Now you can put your feet wherever you want.”

Two feet sat crossed on the arm rest of the sofa. To a human, they may have appeared to be covered in some sort of black fishnet stockings, but supernatural eyes could see that the pattern was part of the flesh, wrapping around the toes and fading towards a regular skin tone somewhere above the knee. Every demon had to have some sign of what he really was.

Without warning, Aziraphale lifted his legs and slid under them, lowering the feet to instead rest on his lap.

Crowely went very, very still. “What. Uh. What are you doing?”

“Well, I thought…” Aziraphale’s face was carefully blank. Too blank. “Since they’re so sore, you might like a foot rub. It’s, you know, supposed to help.”

He put the glass of eggnog on the table by his head. “Angel. What’s going on?”

“Is it so strange I want to do something to make you comfortable?”

“Yes. It is.” Crowley shifted a little, sitting higher, which actually moved his feet to the middle of Aziraphale’s lap. But he wanted to look the angel in the eye. “We don’t…do that sort of thing. We never have.”

Aziraphale turned to face him, smiling – a soft, sad, uncertain smile, another thing Crowley would never admit to missing during the Brother Francis years. “I suppose we don’t. But I wanted to, well, give you something.”

“Give me something.” The eggnog soured in his stomach. “Angel. We’ve never given each other Christmas gifts. Or Solstice, or whatever came before that. Not ever.”

“Well.” Fingers hovered above Crowley’s scaled feet, not touching but not pulling away. “Perhaps now is as good a time as any to start.”

Crowley swallowed, trying to think of an objection. But those eyes, that smile – they did something to him. Always had. Finally, he slumped back down on the sofa. “Do what you want, then.”

The fingers trembled as they touched him, just slightly, and he fought not to pull away. Then a thumb found the point where the strain from wearing heels crossed the bottom of his foot and pressed and – oh, that felt good.

“It would seem you do like it after all.”

Crowley pushed a hand against his jaw, determined not to make that sound ever again. “’M just tired is all.” With growing confidence, the thumbs and the heels of Aziraphale’s hands worked their way up and down one foot, then the other, and back to the first.

It felt…not pleasurable, not intimate, whatever humans might say.

It was a relief, that’s what it was. The opposite of the pain that had been building up for months and months since he’d decided to put on those frankly magnificent torture devices.

And it was comfortable, like finding himself back on this sofa, so perfectly molded to his body.

Familiar, like a bottle of his favorite wine, discovered in a back room when he thought he’d drunk it all and it was gone forever.

It felt…right. Like this was something they should have been doing all along.

And, he supposed, if you got down to it…it was intimate. How else would you describe a relationship that spanned six thousand years? Intimate in ways humans could never imagine.

It occurred to Crowley that he was no longer describing the sensation of the foot rub, and he wasn’t doing a good job of stopping the tiny sighs of relief that kept finding their way out of his mouth.

There was a smile on Aziraphale’s face, that smug little bastard grin that always made Crowley feel lightheaded. “Let me guess. After this, you want me to do your feet.” He wasn’t even planning to argue.

Blue eyes shot at him, just for a second, then focused back on his toes. “Oh, no. Quite unnecessary. Unlike you, I’ve been wearing practical footwear.”

He didn’t like that light joking tone. “You must want something.”

“Well, if you insist, I…would like to talk.”

Crowley could have pulled his feet back, walked away. This wouldn’t end well, he could already sense it. “Talk about what?”

“Oh. You know.” He swallowed, the motions of his thumbs slowing against Crowley’s soles. “How do you suppose…things are. With Warlock.”

“I’ve told you. He’s normal. Almost too normal. You said that meant it was working.”

“Most certainly.” One thumb moved in an idle circle. “I just… We are prepared for… your final report, aren’t we?”

“Aziraphale. What are you getting at?”

The hands fell still. “Crowley. If we succeed, if Warlock refuses his role…what do you plan to tell your side?”

“I tell them my clever adversary outwitted me again. The angel Aziraphale turned the Antichrist to the side of good, nothing I could do against his brilliant scheming.”

“And they’ll just accept that.” Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around Crowley’s foot, not massaging now, just holding it. “They’ll just let you walk away?”

“That isn’t your concern, Angel.” Aziraphale shook his head, holding a little tighter. “It isn’t. The world will be safe, you’ll get all sorts of accolades in Heaven, and I…” He tried to keep his tone casual. “I’ll think of something. I always do.”

The angel shook his head again. “And if…if we fail? If Warlock does come into his powers?”

“No, Angel –”

“I’ll fight you, you know. If they order me to.” He turned to face Crowley, eyes hard and determined. But they were betrayed by the gentleness of his hands, and the way his lip trembled. “They probably will. So if the war comes, I’ll fight you.”

Crowley finally sat up, pulling his feet away. “I won’t.”

“They won’t give me a choice.” Already his expression was crumbling. “I can’t disobey an order. We’ve been adversaries so long and – And they’ll want me to hunt you down and – I – I will…”

“I won’t,” Crowley repeated, as gently as he could.

Aziraphale grabbed his shoulders, but there was no strength in his grip. “I c – I can’t choose – If it’s you or – or my side – please, Crowley, don’t make me choose.” His breath was ragged now, all but sobbing.

“I won’t.” Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel, pulling him close. “I won’t.”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale sobbed, his voice tiny with fear. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t. I won’t.” Over and over, as many times as he needed to hear it. “I won’t.”

And as Aziraphale cried into his shoulder, Crowley swore to find some way to keep that promise. To hold onto his angel and the life they’d built. No matter what the future brought.

#31 days of ineffables #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale #crowley #nanny ashtoreth #crowley loves his angel #oops its sad #good omens prime #my writing #hurt comfort #whump #somewhere between those two anyway

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naerryn · 5 years ago

Text

I Found You (Part Two)

Part One | Part Three

Who doesn’t shy away from getting onto their feet early in the morning one of these days witnessed a fascinating natural spectacular. The sun set late in the evening and rose sooner with every passing day, the chances of a picturesque sky formations increased significantly. Sometimes tender, then exciting again. A purple clouded sky was worth all the waiting for the first warm sun beams of summer.

And, on rare occasions, the citizens of Caledonia would catch a glimpse of their Guardian flying through the air.

I enjoyed the peaceful silence in the early hours of the day, when only a handful of busy farmers and shopkeepers would fill the tramped down streets. The warm breeze caressing my skin and tousled my hair and the black feathers of my strong wings.

Whenever I caught side of a group of children when I was on my way back to the palace, I would descend from my flying height in the colorful clouds and hurtle through the air, right above the top of their heads. I did it for their giggles, loving the sound of the cheerful laughter which never failed to put a smile on my face.

The exotic flowers of the court garden swayed back in forth when I landed on the freshly mowed grass, shaking out my wings and watched a single dark feather slip to the ground before I drew them back into a more convenient position.

“[Y/N]?”, the familiar voice of the youngest of the two princes rung through the air, audible out of breath and when I turned around to face him, I saw the teenage boy running towards me with rosy cheeks and a faint layer of sweat covering his forehead.

“Is everything alright?”, I called out to him as I rushed to meet him at the bottom edge of the meadow, taking a deep breath of relief when I watched him nod in respond.

It’s been over 20 years since the end of the War of the Roses, which was the last time the kingdom entered a battlefield. Not even when King Henry, or later King Stephan, called for their aid against the murderous beasts of the Moors, the wise rulers of Caledonia refused. With the growing isolation, since the alienate kingdoms declared a trade blockade, the royal family along with the citizens started to embrace and later even enjoyed their new role as outcasts.

And with the increasing sense of security, the King and Queen allowed me to become publicly known within the borders of our country. The best kept secret in the history of a nation, their guardian angel. I always enjoyed the little nickname the King and Queen gave me, so, during a phase of a lean harvest, they appointed me at the Guardian of Caledonia. I flew away into the distance, leaving the borders of my home land behind and came back with bags of exotic fruits and vegetables. We cultivated them, and to our nameless relief, the plants grew and we were finally able to still the hunger of a starving nation.

All of it felt so far away, but when my eyes remained on the heavy breathing Prince Edward, my stomach twisted into a tight knot and I impatiently waited for the teenage boy to compose himself. Strands of his caramel brown hair stuck against his forehead, his clothes slightly out of place. I can’t even remember the last time I saw the Prince running around like that. It must be years.

“A messenger from Ulstead arrived since you’ve been gone. Everyone is searching for you, [Y/N]. You’ll have to go to the throne room, quick.”, the olive-skinned looked at me with his large dark eyes, resembling his mother, a noblewoman of a foreign country, more and more with every passing year.

“I’ll leave at once.”, I swept a curtsy, making a haste to traverse the many crowded hallways to reach the throne room. On my way, I am reminded countless times that everyone, from the royal family over the guards up the the lowest member of the staff, were looking for me.

‘What could be of any importance, especially delivered from Ulstead, that everyone behaved like headless chickens?’, I wondered silently and a growing feeling of worry spread in the depth of my chest. ‘Their Prince is married to this long lost Princess, their child was born months ago. We’ve sent them letters. We’ve kept to ourselves for decades. What are they after?’

I walked around the corner to enter the hallway which led to a back entrance of the throne room, solely available for the royal family and staff. To my surprise, the Queen paced up and down along the closed door and once the sound of my steps reached her ears, she turned around on the spot and exhaled a loud, joyful squeak.

“[Y/N]!”, her black hair, which slowly turned grey, felt over her shoulders in soft waves and the high heels of her uncomfortable looking shoes created a steady rhythm as she ran into my arms and embraced me in a tight hug.

Her upper body was shaking when I wrapped my arms around her, first lightly, but soon the Queen felt like a lose leaf caught in a heavy autumn storm. She nudged her face against the crook of my neck and my bare skin slowly got wet. ‘For heaven’s sake! What made her cry?’

“Mum?”, I whispered against her ear as one of my hands gently rubbed her back. The convulsive sobbing of the woman, who raised me like I am her own flesh and blood, tailed off until she went silent in my arms, pulling herself away to take a close look at my face. Her hands rested on my shoulders.

“I am so happy for you.”, the Queen spoke hoarsely and I raised a hand to wipe off the tears from her cheeks. Her lips twisted into a weak smile, lips shaking as she tried to swallow down the sob in her throat. I had a hard time believing her words, the Queen acted completely strange and her behavior only added more questions then answering them.

“What is going on? Everyone’s acting rather odd today.”, I told her, feeling the soft tips of her fingers running through my hair as her eyes roamed over my anxious face.

Like she’s watching me for the first time.

“Go inside. Your father’s waiting for you.”

Or the last...

***

Bad news travel fast and before the set of the sun, it felt like even the most remote corners of Caledonia heard the word about the Battle of Ulstead and the return of the Dark Faries. About the open invitation to the Castle, with the sole purpose to attend a meeting with the Queen of the Moors.

I sat on the lowest step which led to the throne, my face hidden behind my hands while my elbows rested on my knees. ‘This can’t be true.’, I repeated over and over inside my head, paying no attention to the busy activities around me.

In front of me, not even an arm-length away, stood small delegate of two individuals. A male human with chocolate brown skin, accompanied by a woman with a pair of large horns along with colorful wings. The King, my foster father, introduced them as Captain Percival of the royal guards of Ulstead and Shrike, a Jungle Fae, who lived in the Moors.

Growing up with the fairy tales of the monsters living in the Moors, it felt like a hard punch right into my stomach when a faint voice inside my head slowly tried to make me realize that I am one of those monsters that parents tell their children about in scary bedtime stories.

Not an angel, but a monster. A Dark Fae.

The King offered the messengers a room to retire for the night, but Shrike made it clear she won’t move, not even a single step, until I would finally decide to look at her for longer then a split second.

“Conall should be here, he would know the right words.”, the Jungle Fae muttered to herself, stretching wings in an attempt to shake the slowly spreading tiredness out of them.

Slowly, a single red feather floated through the air and landed silently on the ground, right in front of my feet and through the small gasp between my fingers, my eyes felt on it.

Lowering my hands, I picked up the single feather and turned it from side to side, my fingertips carefully running over the soft surface and glanced over to my black wings.

“You’re a Forest Fae. Just like our Queen.”, I heard the female messenger say in a gentle tone. From the corner of my eyes, I saw her closing the distance between the two of us before she bend down on one knee.

Shrike silently thanked Maleficents wisdom to only sent one of the Dark Faes to Caledonia, not listening to Borras objections. He meant well, everyone did, but she shared her Queens opinion that one of them was prove enough to their story. Also, it gave her some long yearned time alone with Percival, who insisted to accompany her.

“I know, it’s a lot. But, please, give us a chance. All we want is a little bit of your time, so we can tell you our story. Your story. If you don’t like it, you can go back. No one will force you to stay.”, Shrike told her in a low voice and placed a hand on one of my shoulders, giving it a firm squeeze.

I met her dark brown eyes, her fallen out feather still in hands.

“Okay.”

(1613 Words)

***

Note: We’re getting closer to the first meeting of Y/N and the Dark Faries, which also means to a blooming romance. My question now is, who will be the one their heart desires? Will there be more then one suitor? Write me your opinion.

#maleficent #maleficent imagine #borra #borra maleficent #shrike #shrike maleficent #disney imagine #disney #dark fae #imagine #reader insert #princess aurora #prince philip #aurora

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sareyen · 4 years ago

Text

A Machine Without Feelings: A Jane Eyre AU (Part 9/11)

Read on ao3

Chapter 9

Charles, Jean and Ororo giddily chatted to each other as they walked the short path to the new school grounds, a modest building that had once been a barn, but had been extended by a few single-storey stone rooms. Since it was such a small parish school, it was not practical to segregate the boys from the girls, so Charles, Jean and Ororo worked closely together.

The three teachers would swap in and out for different classes depending on which subjects they preferred. Jean enjoyed teaching English and history, while Ororo was in charge of the French and geography lessons. Charles, of course, taught science and mathematics.

Charles loved teaching at the school – though the children were farmer’s sons and daughters and by no means avid scholars, they were curious enough about the ways of the world and listened attentively. It was vastly different from teaching at Graymalkin, and definitely a whole different experience compared to teaching Peter, but still fulfilling.

Charles also loved teaching since it took his mind off other things, namely thoughts about Erik. When he was teaching, he focused solely on the children. When either Jean or Ororo had taken over the class, he would focus on organising the content for his next lesson, or mark work sheets under a single candlelight. When he returned home, he would try to absorb himself into Jean’s poetry readings, or get Ororo to teach him more Spanish.

A season and change passed by just like that, Charles becoming absorbed in his work and not much else. He had recovered from his weakness after being exposed to the elements on the Moors five months prior, and though his foot was still maimed, it did not bother him much at all now. He still used the chair, but found that he could at least walk a lap around the small garden at the back of Eden House with relative ease.

Still, Charles overworked himself, especially once Stryker had seemed satisfied with his competency after the first two months on the job, offering him a permanent position. But Charles had not missed the man’s subtle attempts to find out about Charles’s past. He asked Charles if he remember his education (he said he did not, but that he thought he maybe had a tutor, which he also did not), if Charles worked at another school prior (he said that he did not know), or if he remembered where the Xander family hailed from (he also said that he had no clue, much to Stryker’s frustration).

Charles still remained a bit of an enigma, and Stryker felt, in his robust gut, that the man knew more than he was revealing. He could not attack the man, though, since Charles had become rather popular in the rural parish. He was charming, young and sociable, and despite being a cripple, he managed to curry favour with his students, and more importantly, their parents. Stryker had received many letters stating that they people were immensely happy with the quality of teaching the children have been receiving at the school, particularly mentioning Mr Charles Xander. Stryker crumpled up all the letters and threw them into the fire.

Charles Xander was becoming far too popular, and far too powerful for Stryker’s liking. The only power Stryker had over the man was his wealth, so Stryker was glad that the man was at least poor. It appeased him slightly to know that he still controlled the teacher’s salary.

It was one evening in the blistering winter that Charles’s body grew weak. He had always been sensitive to the cold, and now crippled and overworked, he could not stave off the slight sickness that gripped him. He soldiered on, though, and now sat at the desk Logan had made for him, coughing a little as he scribbled down some notes in his book.

Charles now shared Logan’s bedchambers with him. Not in the same manner that he and Erik shared a room in, but more out of necessity. Sleeping on the chaise in the sitting room was alright during the warmer months, but in winter the room was freezing, and sleeping there was asking for frostbite to nip off his fingers and toes.

Logan’s bed was not large and could not fit another bed in it. It was a good thing that Charles was small, because it meant that the two men could just fit on the pre-existing bed when they lay side by side on their backs, though their arms pressed together tightly. That was not all bad, not when Logan was like a furnace and Charles’s maimed foot did not circulate blood as well as it used to.

Logan was already lying on the bed, only wearing a set of flimsy linen trousers. Charles, on the other hand, was wrapped up in his trousers, shirt, coat, two pairs of socks and was weighed down by two blankets over his shoulders. It did not help that there was a frosty draft drifting in through the gaps in the window, cold even with the warmth radiating from the fireplace on the other side of the room.

Charles coughed again, causing Logan to curse, the bed creaking as the large man sat up.

“Chuck, stop overworking yourself and rest. You’re going to waste away again,” Logan grumbled, Charles just humming as he covered his mouth to cough again, flicking to the next page in his book. Charles heard Logan click his tongue in annoyance, and let out a startled yelp when his wheelchair was suddenly jerked back, his pencil dropping onto his now abandoned book.

“Logan!” Charles began to whine, frowning when the man pressed a warm hand to his forehead, checking for a fever. Luckily, Charles was not feverish, only run down with a little niggle in his throat.

“If you don’t want that cough to get worse, go to bed now, Chuck,” Logan said, ignoring Charles’s protests as he took it upon himself to pick the younger man up, throwing him without a hint of delicacy onto their shared bed.

“You are a brute,” Charles huffed, but shivered with the loss of the two blankets he had been wearing earlier, burrowing into the one on the bed instead. The sheets had already been warmed by Logan’s body, and Charles couldn’t help but sigh in contentment, making Logan chuckle.

Logan lowered himself besides Charles, and couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face when Charles subconsciously snuggled closer to him, chasing his body heat. Logan hesitated for a moment, looking down at the smaller man beside him, blue-eyed and red-lipped, and a surge of desire pulsed through him, unfamiliar and consuming.

Slowly, Logan shifted his arm so it wrapped around Charles, tugging him in closer. Charles’s breath hitched, and the boy immediately froze, ocean eyes wide. Charles’s hand was pressed against Logan’s chest now, pushing a little. Logan’s heart stuttered.

“Sorry,” Logan mumbled, retracting his arm, frowning. “Did I read you wrong, Chuck? I thought, I had the feeling that, even though we’re both men…”

“No,” Charles started, before grimacing. “Yes. And no. I- I’m sorry, my friend. It is not you. You are perfect, and you are right about that. It’s not normal, or proper, I know, but… that’s how I am. If that makes you uncomfortable, I can return to the chaise. You only need to tell me.”

“I just held you, and you’re asking if I am uncomfortable with the fact that you like men?” Logan scoffed, Charles’s cheeks flushing at the bluntness of his statement. “Chuck, you know me. I don’t care about what’s proper.”

Charles laughed, a little weakly, looking up at Logan then. He did find the man attractive, and he did like him. He maybe even loved him, but not in the way he loved Erik. He loved Logan the same way he loved Jean and Ororo, Moira and Alex. Logan was a close friend, as close as a brother.

“Like I said, my friend. You are perfect,” Charles said, holding his hands to his own chest now. Logan cracked a smile, turning to face Charles a little better.

“You said something about it not being me. I’m a simple man, Chuck, but even I can read that you have some sort of past… with someone.” Charles winced at Logan’s words, mouth about to open with an excuse, or quip about having no memories, which Logan knew was utter shite. “Chuck, I know that you remember things. I think you remember everything. You’ve been living with us for half a year, I think we can read you better than most people now.”

“I can’t hide it from you, can I?” Charles sighed, Logan exhaling sharply.

“You don’t have to. You can tell me, and Jean and Ororo. You know that we would never talk. I hardly talk to anyone outside of this household, anyway,” Logan said, smiling wryly. Charles laughed again, before nursing his lower lip. Charles hadn’t told anyone about his past, but he believed that, if he would tell anyone, it would be the three people in this house, Logan most of all.

“It is a long story, my friend,” Charles said, Logan shuffling in the bed to get more comfortable, giving Charles a raised eyebrow to continue. Charles started to talk, his words stunted at first, unsure. But as he continued, the words began to flow more freely, until the flood gates opened completely. It was easy talking to Logan; the man’s face barely changed from its usual gruff indifference, though Charles knew he was listening attentively when the man would grunt every now and then, eyes never leaving Charles’s face.

Charles started from the beginning, about Westchester and Graymalkin, and then about Ironfield. Charles told Logan everything, about how he adored teaching little Peter, about his friendship with Moira and the other staff. He told the man in his bed about the master of Ironfield, the man that had loved him and broken him. He told him about how Erik had made his newborn heart jealous with Emma, and how they had loved each other desperately. How he still loved Erik desperately.

Then Charles told him about the Creeds and the marriage, about the ghost who still haunts Charles now, miles and miles away. Charles ended the story with tears in his eyes, wiping them away as he gave Logan a final, shaky smile.

“And then you found me wandering the Moors. Erik once asked me if I had a tale of woe. I believe I just told it to you,” Charles murmured quietly, Logan silent, before speaking.

“You still love him,” Logan said slowly, Charles nodding. “Then why don’t you return to him?”

“You know why, Logan.”

“He loves you too, Chuck. It’s obvious, from what you told me. A man like that does not let go of someone like you, even if you go away,” Logan said, knowing full well how hard it would be to forget someone like Chuck.

Charles let out a choked noise, fresh tears sprouting from his eyes.

“I hear his voice sometimes, you know,” Charles whispered, pressing two fingers to his temple. “In here. I can hear him calling for me. I don’t know if I am mad, or if my dreams about him linger when I am awake. But I swear, I can hear him.”

“He’s calling you back, Chuck,” Logan said simply, Charles squeezing his eyes closed.

“Is it not too late for me to go back, though? I… have a life here, now. With you, and Jean and Ororo. With the children at the school. I have a life here. Would it not be selfish for me to abandon it, just because I long for one man?”

“You are a strange and selfless fool, Chuck,” Logan said, nudging at Charles’s chin with a rough finger. “And you are tired. So go to sleep, now, and think about things properly in the morning.”

Charles let out a throaty noise, something like an ‘okay’ and a ‘thank you’, before slipping into a deep sleep wrapped up in Logan’s warmth. Logan watched him sleep, for a moment. And he thought, ‘that man, Erik. For him, I doubt that it would ever be too late, not as long as you came back to him. I’d be the same way.’

The morning after, Charles and Logan gathered Jean and Ororo, and Charles told them the story he had told Logan. He did not cry this time, even if his heart ached. Jean and Ororo had tears in their eyes instead, and both got up from their seats to hug Charles, whom they thought of as their second brother. They understood him, and promised that they would be there for him, because that was what family did.

***

Three more months passed, and winter turned into spring. Nothing much happened during that time, and life was simple yet tranquil. The school was operating well, and the occupants of Eden House could begin to afford a few more luxuries in their life with all four members having found employment. They no longer had to restrict fires to a single room, and Ororo finally got her new shoes. Meals were no longer watered-down stew, and they could afford bread and good meat, as well as wine for special occasions.

Charles’s birthday was one such occasion. The festivities weren’t grand – Jean and Ororo had taken it upon themselves to cook a hearty roast meal, and Logan had crafted Charles a new walking stick as a gift. Charles was taken aback by the detailed and intricate design, and had kept running his fingers over the smooth surface of the object.

“It never ceases to amaze me how rough hands like yours can create such delicate art like this,” Charles had said, Ororo cackling at Charles’s insult-compliment, Jean’s lips quirking as she poured everyone wine. The household sang and danced – well, Ororo sang and danced, and Charles just sang. Charles attempted to dance, Ororo spinning him around in his chair, making him laugh wildly, immensely happy.

Charles had never thought too much about birthdays. He had rarely celebrated them in his childhood, only getting a cake from Kitty and an impersonal card and toy from his mother. At Graymalkin, birthdays did not exist, though the one birthday that he shared with Raven was a cherished memory, the girl making him a crown of daisies as a gift.

Nineteen was no major milestone, but it was now his most favourite birthday, and an important memory. Charles was not aware that it was important in a different way, one that would rock the newly built boat he had built after his last one had been overturned in a storm.

It was another month after Charles’s birthday that Jean came running in to the school building, cheeks flushed as red as her hair, the hem of her dress caked with dust and mud.

“Professor,” Jean said, still using the affectionate nickname despite knowing that it was in no way true. “I have news. Startling news.”

“What is it, Jean?” Charles asked, putting aside the writing boards and chalk he was tidying up, wheeling over to his sister and grasping her slender arm.

“I think I should sit,” Jean said, wringing her hands together, taking a seat at the edge of a long bench besides Charles’s wheelchair. Charles’s brow was furrowed with nervousness and suspense, Jean rarely getting so agitated about anything.

“I had just talked to Stryker about ordering more benches for the students, since our numbers have grown since winter. When I left, there was an unfamiliar man that went into his office; he was wearing a fine suit, and was definitely from the city. I had a feeling, you see, so I stayed around to try and listen. We have never trusted Stryker, and the whole thing smelled off,” Jean said, glancing around, checking to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Neither Charles nor Jean sensed any other presence in the room, Jean continuing in a hushed voice.

“That man, I could not catch his name, said that he was a lawyer from -shire. You said that was where your old residence, Ironfield Hall, was, so I knew it had something to do with you.”

“Has Stryker’s inquiries into my identity yielded fruit, then? Jean, this is terrible news,” Charles said, heart seizing. Jean quickly shook her head, though her tensed figure did not ease.

“Stryker did not seem to know your real name, but he does now. The lawyer said that he was looking for a Mr Charles Xavier, formerly of Westchester, Graymalkin School and Ironfield Hall. The lawyer has been looking for you, and had heard rumours of someone matching your description – it was likely because Stryker was asking about you, and the lawyer put two-and-two together.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groaned, Jean grabbing his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Did the lawyer say what he was looking for me for? Was it about Ironfield? Did… Did something happen to Erik?”

Jean shook her head.

“No, Stryker asked about the reason too, but the lawyer said that he could not disclose private information to anyone other than Mr Charles Xavier. Stryker knew that the man would not budge, and I think he wanted to send the man away, but this was an opportunity for him to discover the truth about you. Charles, I ran here the moment I heard, but the man is coming here to the school, now. I wanted to warn you, first, so you are prepared.”

“Thank you, Jean,” Charles said, just as there was the sound of crunching gravel from the path leading to the school building. Jean and Charles looked at each other, the woman touching her palm to Charles’s cheek supportively, before she stood from the bench as the lawyer entered.

“Mr Charles Xavier?” the lawyer asked, looking directly at Charles. The teacher could see the man confirming the description he had been given; blue eyes, brown hair, short stature. The lawyer had not been told that he was a cripple, however – the account had been from someone who had only seen him a year or so prior, so it was not unlikely that the information was outdated.

“Yes, I am Charles Xavier,” Charles said, clearing his scratchy throat.

“Excellent, I have journeyed far to find you, Mr Xavier. I am Jean-Paul Beaubier, a lawyer employed by the late Mr Brian Xavier,” the man said, smiling at Charles, whose mouth dropped open at the mention of his father’s name.

“My… father?” Charles asked, the lawyer nodding. “You knew my father?”

“Yes, quite well, in fact. A man of your father’s standing, he required legal counsel often, and I’d like to think that he considered me a friend. I saw you once, when you were just an infant. Your mother had been holding you when I executed your father’s will. I have just been to visit your mother in my search for you, actually. She is faring well along the seaside. It seems that being freed from her second husband did her well.”

If Charles had not been sitting in his wheelchair, he was sure he would have collapsed on the spot at the news.

“So you’re calling upon me in relation to my father? He has been dead almost nineteen years,” Charles said, the lawyer nodding, a little sad at the memory of his friend’s passing.

“Yes. You are nineteen years old now, correct?” Charles nodded, the lawyer smiling as he pulled out a document from his case, passing it to Charles. “You may read it, but I will tell you the short of it. There was another part written in your father’s will that only he, I and your mother knew about. Even though your father was not able to spend as much time with you as he wanted, he loved you dearly. He was also a smart man, who knew that his wealth would attract unsavoury characters who may take advantage of his grieving widow and his infant son. So, he stipulated that, upon your nineteenth birthday, you should two receive an inheritance of 20,000 pounds.”

Jean gasped audibly, Charles startling in his chair.

“20,000 pounds?!” Charles exclaimed, looking at Jean, who was looking back at him with her mouth on the floor.

“Yes, Mr Xavier,” the lawyer said, laughing and pleased at Charles’s reaction, no doubt expecting something of the sort. “It is hard to believe, I know, but it is all written there. Your father knew that by this age, even if circumstances were poor, you would be independent. From the journey I have taken to find you, I think that your father predicted the future aptly.”

“My… My mother never told me. You said that she was aware of this?” Charles asked, eyes rapidly drinking in the printed letters spread across the pages in his hands. They said exactly the same words that Mr Beaubier had spoken, the signatures official, the seal ironclad.

“Yes, she became known to the fact right after his death, when his will was first executed. When I saw your mother most recently, she told me that… she had not been a good mother in many aspects. Maybe in all of them. But, the one thing that she said that she did right was protect this secret. She told me to tell you that she hopes with this, you can begin to forgive her for all that she did, and did not do.”

“I…” Charles started, mouth open in silence. “Jean.”

“Y-Yes?” the woman said, jumping at being addressed. Charles turned to her, a smile beginning to grow on his mouth, hands shaking with excitement.

“Jean, I think that we are set for life.”

***

“So now you’re a pompous and rich git, Chuck,” Logan said after being momentarily shocked into silence, something that did not happen often. Ororo just stared at Charles, slack jawed, looking down at the papers in his hand, back and Charles, and then back down again.

“Professor, this is written in English, yes? Because I can’t seem to make sense of it,” Ororo said, Charles laughing.

“I assure you, Ororo, everything you read is true. We no longer have to worry about putting food on the table. We can even renovate the entire house, or by a whole new one! Or ten!” Charles said, wheeling over to lay his hand over Ororo’s.

“20,000 pounds,” Ororo mouthed. “10,000 multiplied by 2. 20,000. Professor, you are a true heir! By dickens, you’re leagues richer than even Stryker, and we thought he was overly stuffed!”

“Speaking of Stryker. He knows your real name now, Chuck. It won’t be long until he finds out about your past,” Logan said, voice dangerous. The mood in the house immediately dampened, Jean coming to sit beside Ororo, looking worried. Charles could feel Logan pacing the room behind him, heavy feet clunking on the wooden floor.

“Will he do anything about it, though? I know money is not infallible, but the reason he is so revered and feared is because of his money. I know I sound like a complete arse, but I can out-pay him more than twice-fold,” Charles said, Logan snorting.

“Yes, you sound like a bloody arse, but you also sound like an idiot. Stryker is not only powerful because of his money. He is a man that is able to use your weaknesses against you. He will incite fear amongst the people, and – you know these are not my thoughts – but when he finds out your…” Logan started, Jean clearing her throat and piping up.

“Your proclivities,” she supplied carefully, Logan rolling his eyes.

“I was going to say ‘when he finds out about your love for cock’, but that works too,” Logan said, the girls blushing while Charles spluttered. “Anyway, Stryker is not above using those despicable tactics. He will think that you are a threat because of your wealth. Chuck, this is my opinion, but you can’t stay here.”

Charles’s heart dropped in his chest, eyes wide as he twisted in his chair to look at Logan.

“Are you asking me to leave?” Charles whispered, his sisters also turning to their older brother with shocked faces, as pained as Charles.

“Logan, you must be speaking in jest,” Jean said, reaching to grab Charles’s hand, like her slender fingers could tether him to their side.

“Yes, brother! Charles is family, I can’t believe you’re talking about throwing him out! We know you love him, too!” Ororo said, Charles blushing, catching Logan’s eye. The older man just huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You lot think so highly of me. I’m wounded,” Logan said sarcastically, leaning to against the back of the chaise. “I said that Chuck should leave, but I didn’t say that he would leave alone.”

Charles’s heart warmed, Logan smiling a little as Jean and Ororo let out relieved sighs, the latter hitting Logan’s arm for making them think about something as horrible as parting from Charles.

“But if we all leave, we would be abandoning the children,” Charles said, frowning at the thought. “We are the only teachers here, they’d be left with no one to guide them.”

“Stryker would be able to find new teachers eventually,” Logan said, shrugging. “He’d probably just have to empty his bloated pockets some more. Just because you’re filthy rich, you can’t forget that Stryker does have a comfortable sum too, Chuck.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” Charles sighed, Logan whistling, shaking his head. “Very well. I don’t feel completely comfortable with leaving the children, but Stryker is a dangerous man and I don’t want to endanger you all. I’ll at least leave the school with a sum of money – the pastor is a good and honest man, he can at least use it to help sustain the children in our absence, until new teachers are found.”

“Selfless as always, Professor,” Jean said, shaking her head fondly. “Let us begin to pack, then. Stryker will get information soon, so it is best if we vanish long before then.”

***

After living a frugal life for years, Jean and Ororo found it hard to part with things, even after Charles assured them that they could buy everything anew. So, they just packed their clothes and toiletries, and things that were particularly sentimental, like family sketches, Logan and Jean’s mother’s keepsakes, some books. Their travel cases were packed full to bursting, Logan having to stomp on them so they latched closed.

They made plans to leave in two days’ time. It took couriers at least two days to get to their parish from any of the larger cities, including that of Ironfield. Charles had given the pastor a sum of 2000 pounds, telling him that it may be best to tell no other soul about it. The pastor had understood, the large amount of money likely to spark a frenzy in the small parish. The pastor had thanked Charles for the donation, telling him that they would use it wisely.

It was now the eve of their departure, and Jean and Ororo were in their room trying to sleep, but too excited to do so successfully. Charles could hear them whispering about going on their first long carriage journey, smiling at his sisters before wheeling himself to his and Logan’s room.

Logan was busy neatening up some of the things on Charles’s desk, and turned when he heard the teacher enter.

“We’re leaving tomorrow, but Chuck, do you even know where you’re going to go?” Logan asked, Charles tapping on the arm rest of his chair, biting his lower lip. Logan waited for Charles to answer, but when he didn’t, he stopped organising Charles’s books to turn to the man. “Chuck?”

“I… Logan. If I… If I said that I would go back there, would you oppose it? Would you still want to come with me?” Charles asked, Logan blinking.

“By there you mean… to Erik?” Logan’s voice was even, and Charles could not pick out his feelings on the matter based on his voice and expression.

“Yes. Apart from here, Ironfield is my only home. I know I could buy a whole house for the four of us. Gosh, I could buy us a house each, and still have plenty to spare. But…”

“You want to return to him,” Logan said simply, Charles nibbling on his lower lip again, nodding. Logan just shrugged, turning back to Charles’s desk. “I knew you would decide that. I was just asking to make sure that you knew what you wanted.”

“Logan?”

“Look, Chuck. I like you. A lot,” Logan said, Charles’s cheeks reddening. “But I know that you love that Lehnsherr man, and I know not to bet on a losing hand. You’re family, Chuck, even if I see you as more than a brother sometimes. You’re infuriating like that, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Logan,” Charles said, Logan smiling and shrugging again.

“It is what it is. Like Jean and Ororo, I just want to see you happy. God knows you deserve it, after all the shit he put you through.”

“You’re coming for my title as the most selfless git now, Logan,” Charles grinned, Logan throwing a wad of paper at the young man, who laughed.

“Sure, sure. You should go to bed, first. I’m sure that spending 2000 pounds without batting an eyelash earlier today was draining on your energy reserves,” Logan said, Charles throwing back the stack of paper at the man’s jibe, Logan letting out a husky laugh.

“Stop it, Logan. You know this money is as much yours as it is mine,” Charles huffed, Logan’s teasing smile turning gentle, the man regarding him carefully.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Chuck, but your father left that money for you. He’d want you to use it for yourself. If this is about you wanting to repay us for taking you in, you repaid that debt long ago. Not that there was a debt to begin with,” Logan said, Charles shaking his head.

“No, you don’t understand, Logan. I’m not doing this out of duty or debt. I… My father gave me this money because I am his son, his family. And like you said, you are my family. So I want to share this money with you, too. Please let me,” Charles said, looking at Logan with fierce eyes. Those eyes were ones that could make any one weak to do his bidding. Logan was no exception, and maybe even more susceptible than most.

“You’re still the most selfless fool, Charles,” Logan said, using the young man’s real name, just this once. “Now go to bed. You have a long journey tomorrow, and your foot might not fare too well in a bumpy carriage.”

Charles smiled at Logan, hoisting himself into bed with a practised hop and twist, having lived in his wheelchair for the better part of a year now.

Unlike his sisters, Charles fell asleep quickly. Before he slipped into unconsciousness, Charles felt fingers run through his hair, the touch gentle, but feeling more like a goodbye than a caress.

***

Charles found out that it had been a goodbye the next morning, when there were a series of frantic knocks on the front door. Charles had woken up to an empty bed in the morning, Logan’s side cold. Charles figured that he had gone out to make last minute departure preparations, and hadn’t thought too much of it. The man had always been an early riser, unlike Charles.

Charles was making sure that they had all of their luggage, Jean getting up from where she was retying her shoes to answer the door.

The moment she opened it, a group of policemen immediately stormed the house. The peelers were clad in long blue coats and stiff tall hats, imposing as they kept their hands on their batons. This parish was in one of the boroughs that had adopted a professional police force, and most of the parish’s families were wary of the blue coats. The parish constable walked in after the swarm of blue filled out the small foyer, Jean and Ororo standing stiff, alert.

“Gentleman? What seems to be the matter?” Charles asked, wheeling to move between the group of policemen and his sisters, looking at them with a frown.

“Where were you three last night, around the time between three and four,” the constable asked, tapping his finger on his baton, carefully evaluating the three of them. Jean and Ororo looked at each other, confused, while Charles’s heart thumped. Something in him knew that, in some capacity, Logan was involved. Logan, who wasn’t here right now, who, likely, had not gone to bed at all last night.

Charles tried to keep calm as he spoke to the officers. They were still a new police force, and though their uniforms were crisp, they held a buzz of nervous and uncertainty. Whatever they were here about unsettled them, and Charles could only imagine what that was.

“We were asleep, in our beds,” Charles said, Jean and Ororo nodding. The way the sisters were glancing at other, they had also come to realise that Logan wasn’t among them.

“Can anyone corroborate your claim?” the constable asked, and Charles swallowed.

“No one apart from us. We do not receive guests at that hour, and definitely not while we sleep,” Charles replied, the constable narrowing his eyes at Charles’s slightly sharp words. “And may I ask why you are asking these questions, barging into our home without so much as a greeting?”

“Mr Stryker’s body was found dead in his home this morning, with three slashing knife wounds from sternum to navel,” the constable said, Jean and Ororo letting out shocked noises, Charles’s eyes widening. The constable took in all of their reactions; all three had seemed to have genuinely been shocked, making the constable’s shoulders loosen slightly.

The constable looked around the room properly then, noticing the packed bags, and how the women were wearing their travel cloaks. The house was neat because it was empty, and the furniture had been covered by white cloths with the intent to leave it vacant for a long time.

“You can’t blame me for being a little suspicious that you three seem to be fleeing the morning after a murder,” the constable said, Charles tensing imperceivably.

“Yes. You may have heard that I received news from a lawyer in recent days. There had been a withheld request in my late father’s will, and I have been called away. The others of Eden House are my family, and they sought to accompany me,” Charles said, the constable humming.

“You three are all teachers at the school. Stryker would not have let you all leave. Maybe that is why you…” the constable dragged his finger from sternum to navel, mimicking a knife being dragged down. Charles felt ill, and he shook his head, mouth a tight line.

“We would never do something like that,” Charles said. Even if Stryker was a monster, even if he deserved it. “And constable, I would like you to take a look at the three of us. My sisters are young maidens, and would not be capable of injuring Mr Stryker in such a cruel manner. And I, am, well. It is no secret that I am a cripple. There is no way I could best Stryker in this state.”

The policemen all looked at each other, mumbling ‘yes, he’s right’ and ‘of course’. The constable, too, found this to be a sound idea, but that only lead him to remember that four people lived at Eden House, and not just the three in front of him. The missing one was, by far, the most dangerous of the four.

“Mr Logan Howlett lives here too, does he not? Where is he?” the constable asked, the three family members tensing.

“Truthfully? I have not seen him since this morning,” Charles said, jerking his head towards their bedroom. “He went to bed last night as per normal. I would know.”

The constable’s eyes narrowed, peering into the bedroom, and noticing that there was only one bed.

“You two… share a bed?” the constable asked, shocked murmurs erupting from the congregation of policemen.

“It is out of necessity, officers,” Jean piped up, keeping her voice steady. “This house was not made to accommodate four inhabitants, and my brother here came to us less than a year ago. It is too cold for him to stay on the chaise like he did during spring and summer, so he was forced to share a bed with our brother. You can imagine that it would not be appropriate for him to share a bed with me or my sister, is that not true?”

Charles turned to look at Jean, head nodding minutely. Jean returned it by stepping forward, resting her hand on Charles’s left shoulder. Charles felt steadier when Ororo flanked him on the other side, her dark hand squeezing his other shoulder reassuringly.

“Yes, it is as my dear sister said. It is in that way that we seek to leave now. This house has become too confining for us, so we seek a new residence. And regarding the matter about this parish losing its teachers – I have given a weighty sum to the Father to help with the hiring of new teachers, and to support the children in the meantime,” Charles said, the constable now managing to look surprised.

“That was you?” the constable asked, staring at Charles. “The Father did hint that he had received a sizeable donation for the children. If that’s the case…”

“Yes, so you see, Mr Stryker – rest his soul – had approved of our leave since we did not leave him empty handed. We have no reason, and no means, to injure him so,” Charles said, the policemen looking at each other once more, before filing out one-by-one. It was only the constable that looked at Charles carefully, a touch sharper than the newly-instated fledgling police force. He seemed to weigh up some things in his mind, before taking a step towards Charles.

“You taught my son, and he has sung nothing but praises for you,” the constable said, mouth curling up at the corners. “And, you evidently care about the children, more so than Stryker ever did. His ‘care’ was only flaunted when it made him look good. You, though. You genuinely care for them, I can see that. So I’ll warn you – it would be best for your brother to not show his face around here any time soon.”

Charles, Jean and Ororo let out shocked noises, the constable just smiling, tapping on Charles’s hand-rest twice.

“Safe travels, Sir. Misses,” was the last thing the constable said, tipping his hat and departing from the residence.

When they were sure he was out of sight and earshot, Jean and Ororo huddled in front of Charles’s chair, babbling about ‘What in the dickens did Logan do?’ ‘That idiot!’ ‘Did he really do that to Stryker?’ ‘Where is he?’

Charles quickly turned back to the bedroom, going straight to his desk. The papers and books Logan had been sorting last night were still there, seemingly forgotten. But Charles knew that, though Logan seemed messy, he was purposeful. Charles rummaged through the papers, flicking through the books until he found a folded, slightly crinkled piece of paper wedged in the back of one of them.

Chuck,

You are probably angry, and I wish I could see it – you were always the most alive when you were angry. If you’re seeing this, it’s either because you have unpacked after you returned to that master of yours, or you’ve found out about what I did.

I know Stryker more than you, even more than Jean and Ororo. They were too young to know, but Stryker and I, we have history. Bad history. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that I know what type of man that he is intimately. He has killed to get where he is, and Chuck, that man wasn’t nearly as powerful as you. What’s scary, is that you don’t even know the power you can have over people. I’ve seen it, and Stryker’s seen it.

Even if you leave, Stryker will seek to defame you and slander you. Even though you mean no harm to him and his empire, he will never believe that. He will try to destroy you, use your reputation about you ‘proclivities’, as Jean put it, to end you. The world is not like us, and would likely rather see you hang.

And I can’t have that, Chuck. So, I did what I had to do.

Since you’re reading this, know that I have gone far, and believe that I am safe. Ororo said that the Americas is wild and untamed. I think I’d like that. I can take care of myself, believe me. Jean and Ororo, though. They will need you, Chuck. So, if I can ask you to be selfless one last time, please look after them.

This is not good bye though, Chuck. Time is long, and I think that we could meet again, in the future.

Logan

“Idiot,” Charles whispered, as Jean and Ororo both smothered sobs as they read the letter from behind his chair. Charles rubbed his eyes, worried for this hulking idiot, who in the end, was really the most selfless of them all.

‘I’ll look after them, my friend. You can trust me on that, and one day, you can come and check to see that I’ve kept my promise in person.’

After an hour spent crying and accepting that Logan had truly gone far, Charles, Jean and Ororo took hold of their packed cases, beginning their journey. For Jean and Ororo, it was a new adventure. For Charles, it was a journey to return back home.

Charles could barely sleep the whole carriage ride, but when he drew nearer to Ironfield, he swore that he could hear that voice calling out to him in his mind.

‘Charles’.

Next chapter (10/11) →

#cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #professor x #magneto #xmen #xmen fic #marvel #jane eyre #jane eyre au #charles x erik #james mcavoy #michael fassbender #i just love cherik and jane eyre ok

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etraytin · 4 years ago

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Quarantine, Day 77

Very big day today! MIL got her test results in that prove that her mild fever really was just that nasty sinus infection (the fact that the antibiotics made her feel better immediately was a good sign, but the test was nice for corroboration.) Officially Fit for Outside once more, we embarked upon our greatest adventure yet: the shoe store!

Now you may think that this trip is somewhat frivolous, but if you believe that, you have neither seen nor smelled my child's current pair of shoes. He has had them for six months, which is approximately one geologic age in ten-year-old's-shoes years, and they are basically ruined in every way. My shoes are less visibly ruined, but the sole is completely peeling off one of them and that is less than ideal. My mother in law, of course, had those two falls the other week because she was wearing slippy-soled shoes and has been wearing her sandals ever since despite the rainy weather. And my husband always buys the same pair of black shoes every time he shops, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need to try things on. And carry stuff. At any rate, we all needed shoes very badly, so we have been discussing the big Shoe Store Visit for literally weeks now.

The trip was complicated from the outset by the fact that kiddo's shoes were not only visibly ruined but still completely soaking wet from yesterday's water adventures. We tried unsuccessfully to tumble dry them, but Nana's high-tech dryer cannot understand the wetness level of shoes and kept thinking it was done. I eventually just made him wear them the way they were and bring along a second pair of socks so he wouldn't be trying on shoes with wet socks. That is rude even in normal times.

He was pretty excited because this was his first time in a store that was not a convenience store since March. I have gone out shopping an average of once per week, and my husband went to campus until the powers that be allowed him to remote teach from home (more than a week after they sent the students home), but we've kept the kiddo pretty much away from anyplace where he might give or get germs. Some people have to take their kids with them to shop, I figure, so it's better if everyone with the luxury to shop alone does so. He has his own mask with Dr. Seuss characters on it, but he's only really had to wear it when we stop for gas on our long car rides.

Kiddo was not wild about wearing the mask in the store, not least because the mask is a little bit big for his face and he couldn't look down very well, but he was good about keeping it on. As things open up and we can go out more with him, I'm going to have to see about getting him some masks that fit better. it's possible that if schools reopen on schedule in the fall, he might have to wear a mask for some or all of the school day. If that's the case, it had better be comfortable! Anyway, we went as fast as we could, splitting up so everybody could get shoes with maximum efficiency. I had to measure his feet myself and wound up getting it wrong, but we figured out the correct size by trying on several pairs that did not fit (but remained totally dry!).

He got a cool pair of tennis shoes in size five and a half, (holy puppy-dog feet, Batman!) and a pair of red socks with cats on them. I tried on shoes faster than I ever have before because everybody was waiting on me by the time I finished with the kid, and got myself a comfortable pair of walking shoes with both soles firmly attached. My husband found a two for one deal in the men's department because I have trained him to spot a bargain, coming away not only with his usual plain black shoes, but also black winter boots. I was very proud! My mother in law got a new pair of shoes with much better soles, so overall we came away with all objectives accomplished in only about forty minutes. Nearly everybody in the store was wearing a mask and distancing well, and the fact that it is a massive warehouse-sized store helped.

So that was our big thing for today, a quarantine milestone! Today's lunch was salsa chicken again because we had lots of leftovers, but I dressed it up by making fresh tortillas. Learning to make pasta has considerably improved my kneading and rolling game since the days when I lived in Laredo and try to make tacos to fit in. While I would not characterize my efforts as round in any form, they were substantially less like pita pockets than the ones I used to make. In Laredo they sell raw corn tortillas in the grocery store so you can cook them yourself at home. I miss that! Dinner was a recipe for "fancy Hamburger Helper" that my husband found in the New York Times, which was good, and the lettuce greens I picked up at the farmer's market this afternoon. Everyone at the farmer's market wore a mask. I read an article that said doing pretty much anything you'd normally do indoors outdoors instead reduces the risk of sickness, so a farmer's market with everybody in masks and the booths 20 feet apart is basically the shopping ideal.

Also, if you want to try and make tortillas, they are great quarantine food so long as you have flour. I bought lard specially to make tortillas with, but I am told margarine also works. Lard is cheap and it keeps for a long time, though! You basically whisk together four cups of flour, a half teaspoon of salt and two teaspoons of baking powder, then add two heaping tablespoons of lard and mix it with your hands until the lard is all spread throughout and has changed the consistency of the flour. Then you add a cup and a half of water and knead the resulting dough on a flat surface until it's smooth and stretchy. Then you divide it up into 24 little balls, roll them out individually, and cook them very quickly on a hot skillet, flipping them once each. It turns out that 24 tortillas is Very Many Tortillas for four people, so next time I will halve the recipe, but they were good!

Also for some reason I spent nearly all day thinking today was Thursday. Eventually time will become real again, but it doesn't seem to be happening anytime soon. Oh and for the record, for the Me keeping score from the future, today is May 27, a Wednesday. Today is notable because it marks 100,000 COVID-19 deaths in the US. We have been in quarantine since the schools closed on March 12, and away from home since May 1. Wow, May went by _really_ fast.

#quarantine #recipes #shoe shopping

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yukiwrites · 5 years ago

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Libra, Taking Charge

Thanks for the support as always, @xpegasusuniverse! This couple is actually one of the first ones I did in my awakening files, so it was super satisfying to write for them! ;v;)b

Summary: Libra and Cherche were more than used to their lives as the heads of the orphanage they built at the outskirts of Ylisse. The children were well loved and gave young Gerome much needed companionship. Winter was approaching and it was time to plan for the yearly fundraiser...

Commission info HERE and HERE!

______________________________

The spring flowers were just about to give their last bloom to the world, welcoming the warm summer yet again. By the window of a recently built orphanage, Libra smiled softly as he watched some of the children play around the garden, guarded by a very unlikely pair of eyes.

The wyvern Minerva was a highly intelligent animal -- she could understand words and commands, and, although she couldn't speak per se, she was also able to communicate with her knight, Cherche and Headmaster Libra, Cherche's husband.

Libra chuckled heartily, turning his attention back to the cloth doll he was making. The sound of a door opening in the distance preceded the delicious smell of his wife's cooking, making Libra's smile widen.

"My, you're getting ready for it quite early this year." Cherche's voice had an amused tone, followed by a graceful laugh inherent only to her.

The monk raised his attention from his work only to receive Cherche's kiss on his cheek before turning back to finishing the doll's smile. "Indeed. I fear that this year's winter will be harsher than usual." He said in a preoccupied tone. "All the more reason for the fall fundraiser to succeed."

Cherche slid her hands on her husband's shoulders, leaning on the cool window. Her gaze also fell onto the children playing outside, which only made her smile widen. "Should I come up with a new recipe for this year, then? Hearsay is that the pumpkin crop is going to be bountiful -- surely the usual farmers will donate more than usual to help with the event."

Libra's hands stopped moving as he lifted the doll close to his face so as to properly examine it. Then, he leaned his head on his wife's arm, closing his eyes to enjoy the last of the pleasant sunlight before summer began. "That would be wonderful, my love. I have a few ideas involving the children as well -- they expressed their interest in joining the organization last year, so I've been wondering since then what we could have them do."

"Oh?" Cherche asked quizzically, never taking her eyes off of the playing kids right outside. Their guard, Minerva, was flapping her wings humorously, clearly having her fun as well.

"It would be wonderful if they could sing a carol, don't you think? The church usually has the village children sing during mass, but this one group would be composed solely of our children."

It wasn't unusual for Libra and Cherche to refer to the orphans they took care of as their own children -- young Gerome was also being raised amongst them, so they all might as well be the couple's kids, no problem.

"Oh, that sounds positively wonderful!" Cherche hummed happily, scratching her husband's neck to forewarn him she was moving her hand away lest he bonked his head on the window. "What shall we have them sing? Oh, perhaps I could even sew some adorable uniforms for them all to wear -- our Gerome included! He will look dashing with the blonde hair and heavenly voice he got from you!"

"Er-" Libra flinched, more than quickly putting himself on his feet to look at his wife. "Perhaps I should design the uniforms, my dear?" He asked with a hint of desperation. He knew his wife's sense of fashion quite well. "We can sew it together," he added before she protested, "however I'm sure you- yes, you will be rather busy coming up with the new pumpkin recipe, won't you?"

Cherche placed one hand over her cheek, almost pouting. "Why, that would be no trouble at all -- I need but confirm which crops we will receive as a donation to combine with the ones we already grow here..." She sighed, visibly unhappy. "Aren't you the one who will have much on his hands, dear husband? To give the children singing lessons, craft unique dolls to sell during the event and meet with the people from the church surely will have most of your attention."

"Gh-" Libra gulped. She was right and both of them knew it. However! He could not let her take the reins of the uniforms.

It... It was for public safety. Yes. Indeed, for public safety.

"Nonsense, Cherche." He let out a nervous laugh as he carefully placed the doll and his sewing tools on a nearby table. "It will be a simple drawing -- after that I promise I'll share the workload with you."

Cherche didn't move from her I-am-visibly-showing-how-upset-I-am pose, though her expression held a simple pout and a cocked eyebrow. Libra felt cold sweating itching down his back -- if she started fighting for the position of designer, he would need the blessings of all gods to withstand and counter her sound arguments and perfect execution of any task assigned to her. Cherche's heart was in the right place, but the things she regarded as 'cute' were... not. What was appalling was that even the children were starting to absorb her, well, unique beauty standard, making Libra even wonder what was true beauty in the first place.

Of course, as a monk, he was of one mind to accept any and all who would come to him, no matter their tastes. He actually found that side of hers to be rather endearing, but that wasn't the point at the moment: The entire point of hosting a fundraiser was to attract people into donating, which meant appealing to the masses.

Cherche's tastes were far too... Advanced to be understood and accepted by the people around them, though Libra could actually see the entire village charmed by his wife in a few years' time, just like with the children.

However, that time was not now. He had to stand his ground.

"Oh, very well." Cherche sighed in defeat, walking from behind the chair towards her husband. She placed her index over his chest, a smirk brewing at the corners of her lips. "You'll leave the new dish to me as agreed, yes? I'll make sure to go over it with the nuns at the church so I can sell them beside their booth."

Partly relieved for taking the uniforms away from Cherche, Libra smiled with uncertainty, now worried about whatever it was that his wife was cooking -- quite literally! -- this time.

Nevertheless, Cherche simply reached in for a quick kiss before winking to her husband. "Come; lunch's ready! I'll ask Minerva to round up the children so we can all eat together."

Libra's shoulders sagged minimally, huffing a smile. "Thank you. I'll help set the table."

The fundraiser for the orphanage happened yearly at the end of autumn, just as the last of the leaves were falling and all the delicious crops have been harvested -- it served to help raise funds for the upcoming winter, so they could have more blankets, reinforced walls, proper roof management, warm clothes and such.

As predicted, the harvest had been bountiful -- so were the donations. The event consisted in most of the nearby farmers donating their surplus to the church so it could hold the festivities which ranged from caroling (debuting this year!), racing games and the selling of baked and handmade goods. Since the couple’s arrival, there was also the amusing and somewhat nerve-wracking wyvern-riding event as well, but that was for children older than 13 and adults, of course.

Libra, Cherche and the nuns were the ones who organized everything as well as set up their booths during the entirety of the event -- it was a tiring business, to be sure; but it was all worth their while and labor if it meant to see the children smiling and having their fun.

The scheduled carols were a huge hit -- the kids were more than lacking in the vocal department, but their charisma was off the charts, especially with the adorable uniforms they wore. They captivated their audience every time they were on stage, being called to encores more than once during their presentations.

Cherche never did find an especially, er, adorable dish she could make with the leftover pumpkins, so she simply presented a pumpkin purée inside a cup that very much looked like a cracked skull, to Libra’s despair. She also had ‘dragon eggs’ in her repertoire, not to mention a spider shaped bread with sausages… Surprisingly, they were all hits with the children, though the adults would need a bit getting used to to their… unique designs.

Despite the bolts of cold sweat springing up here and there during the day, Libra was delighted to reach the end of the event with a full sold-out house -- earning promises from his wife to bring the ‘adorable’ dishes back the next year, alongside a few new additions.

“Oh, well,” he chuckled as they packed everything back into the church. “As long as she and the children are content, it was all worth it. Perhaps next year I’ll see her designs for the uniforms…”

“Oh, what great news!” Cherche giggled from inside the dark room, making Libra flinch out of his skin. “I’ll hold you onto that, my dear husband!” She snuck a peppy kiss while Libra carried a crate, unable to even tear away from her to speak.

“Mhm!” Libra widened his eyes with the sudden kiss, though sagged his shoulders in defeat. Oh, well. He meant what he said, so now he should own up to it. May the next year be good to him!

#libra x cherche #libra fire emblem #cherche fire emblem #fire emblem awakening #fe 13 #my writings #yuki's commissions

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twilighcreed · 7 years ago

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Title: Wolves Bane

Pairing: Daenerys Targaryen X Male Stark Reader

Author: TwilighCreed/DawnWrites

Word Count: 4.9k+

Warning: Violence, explicit language, slight sexual content, mention of blood, slightly depressed reader, fluff, slight angst. Spoilers for season one and seven. Short chapter?

Summary: Y/N Stark was forced into exile after helping three fugitives escape beyond The Wall from King Robert. Four years after his exile, he receives news that Lord Arryn is dead and his family could be in immense danger. After accepting an offer to help get him home to his family, Y/N is to work for Magister Illyrio Mopatis and protect the princess, Daenerys Targaryen. What the lone wolf did not expect was to fall in love with a woman he could never have…

Author Note: Hey guys! Once more I apologize for the long wait. I’ve finally got this part done and will start working on the next one tonight or very soon. I will finish this series. I really do enjoy writing it. I just do not like rushing my writing and spitting it out, I like to put quality in my work so you guys can enjoy it and I am not wasting your time. I did decide to put this into four parts instead of three so that I have more to work with and I can put the chapters out faster. Like that works... lol Next part will be solely around Dany and male reader. I did kind of find it difficult to write Dany since we do not get much of her personality before the start of GOT. So I am going to be going off how the book describes her. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy and have a wonderful rest of your day/night!

Enjoy!

Part One ► Pilot [PREVIOUS] Part Two ► The Dragon’s Bodyguard [HERE] Part Three ► The Lone Wolves Howl [COMING SOON] Part Four ► The Rouge Wolf of the North

ONE WEEK LATER

298 AC, The Free Cities of Essos, Pentos

There was a strange and peculiar scrutiny Y/N felt the moment he dismounted from his horse and step foot through the northern gate of the Free City of Pentos. He was used to getting the odd looks and glances from time to time, but it was much more protruding this time. He wondered what was so bizarre that had them all gawking at him like he was some sort of hero out of the many stories his wet nurse use to read to him as a child. It was uncomfortable, but he did his best to shake it off and seem as if their stares did not concern nor distract him from his objective.

“Go to Pentos and ask for the man named Illyrio Mopatis. He’ll know what to do.” Lord Varys told him back at the docks in Braavos.

Their talk did not last much longer after Varys told him of the news of Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Hand of the King. It consisted of Y/N getting very heated when asking about his father and mother, but Varys seemed to have prepared for their encounter and spoke with soft words. He had even given Y/N a letter from his mother.

“Why are you giving this to me?” Y/N asked, his eyes holding a deep emotion of pain and his hands shaking as he held the neatly folded letter.

“Your mother wanted me to give this to you a long time ago. I couldn’t find you, but now that I have…”

“You just love playing your sick little games… Don’t you?”

Y/N could still feel the bitter angry he felt at the moment, but he did what he could to suppress it and think of something else that did not involve his precious family.

Holding the leather reins with a redundant tightness, Y/N walked cautiously among the people of Pentos, navigating himself with the prior knowledge he gathered from taverns, traveling merchants, and the locals, he was able to find himself in the center of the Market. Merchants called out to the bypassers with their lowest prices, farmers trading their livestock and tailors showing their latest work in patterns and designs. The overbearing smell of spices surrounded Y/N as he walked past stalls, he could even taste the heat of the spices on the tip of his tongue just by smell. There was not a moment he did not feel suffocated by the heat, different smells, and the people―he needed to leave.

Pulling on the reins to lead himself and his mount, Y/N started to make a break to the other side of the market when he felt someone place a heavy weight on his shoulder, forcing Y/N to turn around a face his intruder. What he was not expect was the broken nose and busted lip of the Captain.

Before Y/N could reach down and pluck his sword from his hip to defend himself―he saw the inevitable form of the Captain’s large fist and the expected splittingㅡnose crunching pain before he blacked out.

291 AC, Westeroes, Winterfell

It was cold. It was very cold, colder than Y/N could ever remember. A young boyㅡno older than eleven namedaysㅡlaid underneath the warmth of deerskin pelts and furs, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweating so profusely, his eyelids closed and his breath erratic. He was battling a terrible fever.

“There has to be something you can do, Maister?” Eddar asked, his voice cracking with desperation.

Luwin gave a deep sigh, glancing over at the sick young boy and his concerned mother by his bed.

“I’m afraid I’ve done all I can. It is up to the boy and the gods now.” Maester Luwin regretfully informed, “I will supply him with the milk of the poppy for the pain, but that is all I can do, Lord Stark.”

Eddar shook his head, looking over at his firstborn son and to his wife Catelyn, he felt a pain in his heart to see his son and wife. It broke him to see them this way knowing he could do nothing about it. But it did not mean he wasn’t going to try.

Discussing more discreetly with the Maister, Eddar and Luwin talk about other resolution for the young Lord. Neither finding an answer.

Catelyn sat near the end of her sons’ bed, her back to the warm blazing fire in the pit and a cold wet cloth in her hand. Slowly she started to rub the cloth all along the boy’s forehead, her thoughts running wild, blaming herself for her son falling ill.

If she had just kept her mouth shut and Jon did not hear her spoke so foul about him, Y/N wouldn’t have gone about his and fell in the lake. Out of all the frozen rivers and lakes, why that one?

Catelyn let out a soft sob, a tear rolling down her face. She leaned over and gently kissed her sons’ temple.

“Is Y/N gonna be alright, mother?” Robb asked, looking over at his older brother in bed, Jon, Bran, Sansa and even little Arya next to him, looking up at their mother with hopeful eyes. Jon seemed to be the most concerned out of the others.

Catelyn secretly hated that Y/N and Jon were so close…

Not wanting to frighten her children, Catelyn gave an uncertain nod. Noticing how short she was, Cat gave them a much more determined nod. “He’s going to be alright,” she said, giving them an encouraging smile, “Y/N is strong. He’s a Stark, he was born in the cold. Nothing can hurt him.”

Jon looked down at his folded hands; backing away slightly. He knew he was responsible for Y/N going after him. He would never leave Jon alone. A soft sniffle left his lips, his black curly locks bouncing with each movement he made, catching young Robbs attention. Going over to his brother’s side, Robb placed a small hand on his shoulder.

“This is all my fault… if I hadn't―”

“Of course it’s not your fault! Y/N shouldn’t have been the fool and walked across the lake!”

Jon shook his head.

“He pushed me out of the way… I was supposed to be the one. I should be in that bed―not him.”

Ned glanced over at the young boys when he overheard Jon’s guilty confession. Walking over to where his son and nephew were, he got down on his knee. Looking over at Robb, he gave his son a short nod dismissing him before looking back at Jon.

Placing two hands on his shoulder, Eddar made Jon look up at him. When the boy refused...

“Jon, look at me.”

“It’s my fault, Lord StarkㅡIts my fault.”

“I know, I know…”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, I swear!”

Eddar smoothed out Jon’s ruffled hair, looking into the boys’ eyes. Eddar was not ignorant of his son and his nephews growing brotherly bond, Y/N saw Jon as a brother as he should, even though the young boy was smarter then he looked. Y/N saw right through Ned, even for a boy of nine.

“Listen to me, Jon. You stop this nonsense right now. We both knew Y/N wasn’t going to leave you alone in those woods, you are his brother. Brothers look after one another, you are no exception. Do you understand?”

Jon gave Ned a soft nod.

“Good. Now clear your eyes. Y/N is going to be alright.”

THREE DAYS LATER

298 AC, The Free Cities of Essos, Pentos

Y/N had woke with a startle. His body covered in a thin layer sweat he did not realize he even created. His throat was parched and his body was sore and heavy. It was as if a large boulder was placed on top of him keeping him pressed against the soft material of what he presumed to be a bed. Everything seemed to hurt, his nose is what kept his attention. The consent throbbing seemed to follow the rhythm of his heart and the tightness he felt with every breath. For a moment Y/N could not remember what happened, his head was pounding too much for him correctly recall the events that lead him hereㅡwherever here is.

With the little strength he could muster up, Y/N pride open his eyes. At first, he was blinded by whatever source of light was coming through the room, but slowly his eyes adjusted. Formerly, everything was a soft haze, each time he blinked and rubbed his eyes lazily, the smeared objects began to take shapes around him. When his eyesight became normal again, he was able to look around himself more thoroughly.

Instead of being tossed in an alley or left on the streets of the market, he was in a large open room. It was bright, the large windows were covered by a soft velvet see-through sheet that moved with each breath of wind. The room consisted of several white pillars, a small stone makeshift fireplace in the corner as well as wooden bookshelves that held trinkets, rolled parchment. A desk was shoved at the bottom of the window giving whoever sat there a clear view of the outside world. Makeshift decorations littered the walls beautiful, gold lining the bottom and top of each pillar. Orange, red and bright colors of sort themed the room giving off a warmth, almost welcoming vibe. Feeling underneath him Y/N felt the silk sheets and soft blanket that he had been lying on.

A bed?

Where am I, he thought.

Thoughts of paranoia quickly spread and Y/N was quick to get to his feet, regretfully, a sudden burst of agonizing pain almost crippled Y/N to his knees. Settling back onto the bed in a sitting position, Y/N looked down at his side where he noticed bandages wrapped around his ribcage. With a shaky hand, he quickly started to unwrap the makeshift bandages. When the bandages were gone he saw no blood or any wounds on the surface, but he did see a large patch of discolored skin on his left side. It was tender to the touch and it looked horrible. Dark purple shades covered a large portion of his left side following his ribcage, spots of red and a light pink even visible.

“What the hell?”

“You were ambushed by a group of pirates down at the market if you were wondering.” a light grating voice filled the emptiness of his room. Startling Y/N into looking up at whoever the intruder was.

A man stood near an archwayㅡa doorway Y/N presumedㅡwith his hands by his side and a rather curious look in his eyes. He was a large man no doubt, and by the flamed silk grab he wore, Y/N judged the man was of great wealth. Was he one of the Magisters of Pentos? He had to be. He seemed to hold a delicacy within himself, even with a man of his size, the way he struts over near Y/N’s bed seemed to tell him that much. He wore loose clothing as well; it reminded Y/N of the gowns his mother used to wear.

“Lucky for you, before those thieves could make out with you and your small living, my guards stopped them. It’s rather a coincidence that my men stumbled upon you, don’t you think Lord Stark?”

Y/N went rigged, “How do you knowㅡ”

“Lord Varys told me of your arrival. With his description, it’s not hard to tell an exiled Lord away from the common man.”

Y/N cringed at the words ‘exiled Lord’. He didn’t have to add salt to the wound.

“And you’re supposed to be Magister Illyrio?” Y/N asked, strengthening his back to appear much more than he was. Although it was a poor attempt, Illyrio admired it.

“I am, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos.” he corrected, brushing away the attempt on insult. “And you are under my care and roof, I suggest you act more generous to your host.”

Y/N glanced over at Illyrio before looking back directly in front of him. He didn’t like the idea of being treated as a lower, he was born a Lord, but considering his statues, Y/N was nothing in Essos, just a common mercenary.

Putting his pride aside, Y/N slightly lowered his head.

“Forgive me, Magister. The trip was long.” Y/N spoke.

Illyrio seemed pleased, it almost made Y/N gage. He never bowed down to anyone, he hated it.

“Good. Now that we have that out of the way… how are you feeling?” Illyrio asked, taking a seat in front of Y/N.

“Like shit.”

Illyrio didn’t seem surprised.“Mhm… expected. Before my guards could retrieve you, the men who attacked you beat you. Your ribs where badly bruised in the process and they left you with a bloody nose, other than that you should be fine. A few cuts and bruises are all.”

Y/N nodded, “And my pursuers?”

“I’ve sent word for their arrest.”

“I have never taken Magisters at the type to call for a bounty. You are just a merchant.”

Illyrio seemed to slightly smirk.

Another man with tricks, Y/N though grumpy.

Shaking his head, Y/N looked around to room before going back to Illyrio.

“How long was I asleep for?”

“Three days. You like to push your body beyond the ordinary. That sort of thing will get you killed.”

Y/N frowned but said nothing.

“I have a proposition to offer if you’d like to hear it.”

“And what if I don’t?” Y/N challenged.

Illyrio sighed, “Then I suppose going home back to your family is impossible. Help me and I will help you.”

Y/N knew that he had little to no chance of getting back to Westeros and to the north without allies or help, it was impossible. If he was right then the pirates must have taken his gold and with that his ticket to get home. He needed the coin to get on a ship and sail west. If it wasn’t for those damn pirates he would be so close…

With a sigh of regret, Y/N nodded his head, “Okay.”

After Y/N was cleaned, redressed of his bandages and thrown into a comfortable cotton tunic and a pair of trousers, he and Illyrio walked the neatly designed layout of the Magister’s home. They were tailed by two well-dressed slaves, their head down as they followed. Y/N was surprised to find slaves. Pentos was supposed to be a free city, but from the looks of it, it wasn’t.

Y/N had learned from in a course of a few hours the many boundaries Magister Illyrio had in place for him, the rules and layouts of what Illyrio expected of Y/N and what should not be tampered with. He was very detailed in each his rules, making sure Y/N knew everything that needed to be known, even the consequences if he ever stepped out of line. It was a lot, but nothing Y/N couldn’t handle. This was easy compared to the ruling as a Lord. Although he did have to listen to each and every word that came out of Illyrio’s mouth, he did take the time to study Magister Illyrio and his large manse.

“… it is best if you are discrete in these halls, you are a bodyguard, nothing else. Speak little and when in the presence of the Targaryen’s, keep your eyes low and your tongue lower, especially around the King. We don’t need him getting suspicious of who you are.” Illyrio spoke quickly, ushering the both of them into a large room.

It was well decorated, the room’s colors were similar to the rest of the manse Y/N had seen. Red and orange, a common theme he found. It had a large desk in the middle, parchment and open letters scattered all along the surface.

This must be his office.

“I have informed my guest that you are a hired mercenary,ㅡseeing that you are well known for that line of workㅡyou are to be a guard for the Targaryens, more specifically the princess,” Illyrio said, walking over to his desk while his slaves shut the door behind both men, leaving them alone.

Y/N was taken back when Illyrio had informed him that the Targaryen’s where his guest. He was housing them, guarding them, feeding and providing clothing and every possible needed. It took him not long to suspect Illyrio of supporting the Targaryen rein, there was no other explanation other than he wanted to use them for some sick joke.

There was no secret that some did still support the Targaryens even after their tragic downfall, but knowing that the Starks, his family, was one of the reasons why the Targaryens were defeated during Robert’s Rebellion, it unsettled the wolf greatly. He understood why there were so many rules to conceal his true identity.

Sitting in a chair opposite Illyrio, Y/N tried his best not to disturb his side. Breathing was painful, let alone moving and walking, he was already feeling fatigued.

“You want meㅡa Stark, the reason her family is here in the first placeㅡto protect a Targaryen? Is your Unsullied not enough?”

“I’m afraid not. Viserys is convinced King Robert has sent hired knives. I want the King to have a comfortable stay while in my house. You are to be that comfort.”

Y/N narrowed his eyes, doubting the man of his true intentions but said nothing.

This is for your home, for your family, don’t screw it up Y/N, he reminded himself.

Nodding his head carefully, Y/N couldn’t help but think of all the things that could go wrong with this. If one thing fell out of place and who he was, was discovered, any chance of home was gone. He felt a sudden sickening feeling fall at the pit of his stomach, it was a lot of pressure, but Y/N knew how to cover up his emotions well.

“When do I start?”

THE NEXT DAY

Signs of the morning started to show as the day passed into tomorrow. The events of yesterday left behind where they belonged at the chase for the future once more began. The beautiful dark moon made its way down past the mountain range into the far distance, it’s following shadows close behind as the sun’s bright rays started to stretch across Essos, waking the land from its dreams.

Y/N laid across the sheets of his newfound bed, laying on his back to avoid any pain or any possible further damage to his bruised ribs. They had a different source of medicine here than Westeros; he had to deal with the throbbing sensation as best as he could. Y/N had a high pain tolerance, however, the continual ache was driving him mad. He would do anything to have the milk of a poppy right about now.

Thankfully, it was quiet in the room; the only sound was the distant splashes of water from the courtyard’s fountain and the waking servants. The birds singing their morning tune could also be heard in the far distances. It was peaceful.

The light from outsides sun started to filter through the cream curtains, pushing the darkness back and lighting up the room with warmth. It took the wolf several moments to stir in his bed, a soft groan mixed with his movement gave the sign of him waking. He gave out a deep sigh, his muscles relaxed and his mind at ease, his eyes closed recalling the delightful dream he had.

No not a dream: a memory.

He remembered running across the open grass fields that laid in front of Winterfell’s great walls, a wooden play sword in hand with one thing in mind: don’t let them catch you! He remembered his brother Robb’s battle cry as he tried to best his older brother in a spar.

Jon watching on a fallen trunk with Theon Greyjoy leaning against a tree, and a young Bran watching from the tree’s canopy. He loved to climb. He could remember sidestepping and swinging his play sword at Robb’s knees, resulting in him watching the young wolf fall. Y/N would never forget the face his brother gave him when he once again, won. Robb always tried to beat his brother.

Deeply inhaling, Y/N opened his eyes lazily, letting them fall on the ceiling above him, silently thinking to himself. He wondered what his father would say when they saw each other. Would he even recognize the young man from a fourteen-year-old boy he saw sail away on a ship to Essos? He doubted, but he still had his hopes.

Getting up from his bed, Y/N allowed himself a second to stretch his sore musclesㅡcareful of his sideㅡbefore cleaning himself up and getting ready for the days work. Redressing his bandages himself, he took his time to dress before strapping on his black leather stained armor. It took more time than necessary, but he was able to manage to drown out the pain with more pleasant thoughts.

Strapping on his sword, Frost, he gave the blade a few practice swings before sheathing it. Deeming himself ready, Y/N stepped out of his room and into the halls of Illyrio’s manse.

Remembering the way to Illyrio’s quarters, Y/N took his time to observe the manse in much more detail than before. He wasn’t able to see much while he walked with the Magister, so he took this as an opportunity to get a lay of the area, especially if he was to call this place home for a time.

Like most of his observations, the color theme was the same. The halls were open with archways and tall marble beams, the floors were tile and the halls decorated with a soft elegance. Y/N did notice a large number of Unsullied soldiers guarding post, doorways, as well as several of the main gates.

Viserys must be terrified if there are so many guards, Y/N quietly though.

Walking down a short flight of stairs and into a much more open and greener area, Y/N quickly took notice of the tall green Evergreen trees and neatly cut bushes and a large amount of vegetation growing within the courtyard. It was undoubtedly beautiful with the endless different breeds of trees and blooming flowers, Y/N was almost afraid that if he touches the velvet petals they would turn away from his cold fingers.

Walking further into the courtyard, Y/N spotted a large statue of the anatomy of a young boy, his body poised in a duel with what looked like a bravo’s blade in hand. Gold shoulder-length hair and white marble skin. He was at the center of a marble pool, six cherry trees surrounding the water making it almost look like a sacred altar.

At the base of the pool, Y/N perceived a small patch of wildflowers, a small bush that survived inspection. He noticed the small green buds that started to spring from the stems of the bush. Kneeling down in front of the small bush, Y/N started to lightly pick at the dead leaves and pluck the small insects that infested the plant. When he was satisfied, he cups his hands, drew water from the pool and poured the cool liquid on top of the plant.

“Grow.” Y/N encouraged quietly, watching the ground soak up the moisture rather quickly.

Y/N reminisce about the times he used to walk by his mother’s side when he was young. It was too cold in the north to grow any summer flowers, and the frost killed a majority of any seedlings he and his mother nurtured. But the few plants he was fortunate enough to help raise, he learned much about the earth’s herbs and flowers that he started his own study as a herbalist. His father was surprised, yet, he was proud.

—“Who are you?”

A soft voice spoke out from the distance startling Y/N from his position crouched on the ground. He wasn’t aware of a feminine figure standing behind him, watching with careful eyes as his large northern hands gentle brushed through the petals of a Tropaeolum bush.

She has never seen this type of man before. When the stranger quickly got to his feet and turned to face the voice, bother were astonished by each other.

A woman stood a yard in front of Y/N, a soft silk slip covering her most intimate parts with a braided rope woven into the fabric; wrapped around her neck. It was the only thing keeping the summer gown from falling and leaving her vulnerable; Y/N took notice of her bare shoulders, but it was not as eyes catching as her features were.

Her hair was long, almost past the mounds of her breast. The color almost looked blonde, but unlike the gold locks of Lannister, it was much lighter, paler, almost white although it did not cross that line, it was like a pale comparison to silver being melted down. It was beautiful. It looked almost unkempt with how puffed out it appeared, like how’s his mother’s hair looked after a few strokes of her brush, yet, it looked almost purposeful. Though that was nothing compared to her eyes.

His breath hitched in the back of his throat when his dark stormy eyes met the stunning pigment of her gentle violet eyes. They were majestic, and with this angle with the sun shining in her eyes, they reflected back as slightly pale purple with hints of a deeper purple near her ires. They reminded Y/N of the rarest kind of gems he’d seen on Kings and Queens crowns of old—one of a kind. Her flesh looked well taken care of, soft to the touch; pale.

Daenerys watched with cautious eyes as the man stood star struck, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes taking in each of her delicately carved details. It would have been flattering to have such eyes like his on her, however, she was used to the animalistic eyes of a lusting man that she was unfazed, yet, she did not see such motivation in his eyes, this sparked her interest.

“Did you not hear me?” the women pressed, disturbing Y/N gawking. He snapped out of it, his eyes rapidly blinking before they landed on her eyes, his lips pressed into a line and a much harder emotion overthrew the soft curiosity he previously had. “Who are you?” the woman asked once more now that she had his full attention—not that she did not already.

“Forgive me,” Y/N hesitated, “—princess.” Unsure of himself, Y/N gave the woman a reluctant bow.

This was foreign to him, he did not like the idea of bowing to no one, he was, at a time, a Lord, and once more he had to remind himself: For your family, for your homeland, for your namesake.

“I am Y/N; your assigned personal guard.”

It was not hard to pick out her royal blood. The silver hair and striking violet eyes—everything screamed Targaryen.

The Targaryen princess eyed the exiled Lord suspiciously. If it was not for the countless Unsullied soldiers guarded at every post and ever doorway, she would have thought the man to be a trespasser. There have been few of those in the past and they’ve always been caught. Even with her faith in the Magister’s security—she still narrowing her eyes; doubt flooded her mind.

Y/N stood there unassertive in his spot by the fountain. He was uncomfortable and unprepared to encounter the princess. He didn’t even know her name, just that she was an exiled royal and King Robert loathed the Targaryens and that his father supported Robert’s rebellion, his father supported the unthroning of her family. He could now see why Magister Illyrio was cautious.

He cursed himself quietly. He should have just went straight to Illyrio and avoid this until further instructions. He was too damn curious for his own good.

Trying to settle the tense look in the girl’s eye, he spoke softly and gently. The last thing he needed was for her to scream and then he’d be surrounded by guards, who may or may not be unaware that he was now a guest under Illyrio, whether they did or not, he was not taking a chance.

“You are unaware? If you’d like, your Highness, we can go—”

She stopped him.

“No.” she spoke in a stern voice.

This took Y/N by surprise; even the woman who spoke the word was astonished. But before the wolf could question her, Daenerys averted her eyes away from the man and began to walk away.

Disoriented and confused, Y/N stood in his spot, completely oblivious to what just happened. He would have stood there for a while if it wasn’t for the young princess to stop and look over her shoulder, speaking in an almost authoritative voice. “You are my guard yes?” not giving Y/N an opportunity to speak, “Well don’t just stand there.”

Quickly, before he could make a fool of himself again, Y/N took several strides and was by the princesses back in a matter of a second. Turning her head away, Daenerys begins to walk forward, deeper into the garden. Y/N was so caught up in his own anxiety and analysis of the situation that he missed the smile that passed her lips.

Photo Credit(s): –

Disclaimer: I do not own the Game of Thrones pilot, characters, events, or any reference to the TV show or George R.R. Martin’s books series, all credit goes to creators. I only own my own plot twist. (2018)

Tag(s): @tybg400

May 3, 2018

454 notes · View notes

sam-i-am-27 · 6 years ago

Text

Living With the Past

READ IT ON A03

Pt. 2

Summary: Introducing our main protagonists of the story: Virgil, Patton, Roman and Logan, each with hidden secrets and a great adventure ahead of them.

Word Count: 2,785

Pairings: None at the moment. May be fluffy or platonic not sure.

Warnings: Death of a pet; Blood Mention

Thank you so much to @pastel-and-gore for being such an amazing person and editing this! Without you, this would probably be such a different story!

Early 19th Century

Virgil hated being alone, especially at night, and his parents knew that. So why did they send him out to the woods at night to collect water for his father? He could only guess it’s cause he was the only one not afraid of the dark. Sure, he was afraid of what might be lurking beyond his sight line, but he could at least be sure that nothing was going to come out and attack him.

Or maybe it was because he was young and worth nothing if he wasn’t out changing the world and was instead hiding at home learning how to cook.

But still… the creaking in that tree might be some sort of cat that was just as hungry as he was. It would explain why he felt like he was being watched like he was a single loaf of stale bread in front of a family of six.

“It’s nothing, Virgil,” he whispered to himself, rubbing the fabric of his cloak between his fingers slowly as his other swung the lantern slowly in front of him. “Just the wind… you’re just being dramatic…”

“Just being dramatic, Virgil,” he whispered again nearly ten minutes later, shuddering a little at the wind that was blowing through the clearing. The well was just ahead of him and he let out a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. Setting down the lantern next to the well, he began to lower the bucket, humming a soft tune to himself. It wasn’t much, just a little passing-the-time song he had picked up from farmers around the village, but he still enjoyed the sound of it.

“That’s pretty.”

Virgil jumped, causing him to lose control of the bucket and heard a splash faintly at the bottom, leaving him without water and with a stranger in the deep, dark woods. He turned and came face-to-face with a young woman wearing a long draping cloak, a stark-white dress that flowed around her, and had her blonde hair pulled into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. The sight of her made him shudder, not just because she had suddenly appeared, but because she was almost too perfect. Pale, completely flawless skin that almost reflected the moonlight, clean hands, and a dress void of any mud or leaves, much unlike Virgil’s muddy boots.

“Uh… thanks,” he said cautiously. “Are you here for water? I’m sorry but I just lost control of the rope. If you want water, you’re going to have to wait until tomorrow for someone to fish the bucket out.”

“No, I’m not here for water. I just like to go on midnight walks sometimes. Not entirely sure why I was the one chosen to be the outcast and do that type of stuff, but hey, I’m here and I enjoy it,” she said, approaching the well and leaning against the stones. Her hand brushed Virgil’s and he thought for a moment that maybe she was made out of some sort of icy fire based on the way the skin-to-skin contact left his hand tingling and hot.

“I kinda get that… being an outcast I mean. My family wants me to marry so I can get out of the house, but I don’t want to marry for a purpose other people want! I want to marry someone because I love him and-”

Virgil slapped a hand over his mouth, but the woman didn’t seem to mind. She just kept looking at him softly, almost curiously.

“I’m not interested in women! They intimidate me and I don’t see them in a romantic way. I-”

Was it just his imagination or did she lick her lips ever-so-subtly? Was that a stomach growl from her? She gave a hearty chuckle, breaking him from his own thoughts. “I like you. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he said, holding out his hand even though he already knew what her skin felt like, but his manners practically took control of him and forced his shaky hand out. “I’m Virgil.”

She smiled at him, and the sight of long fangs dripping with a clear venom made him regret every little thing he had ever done in his life that had led up to this point right now. “Nice to meet you, Virgil. Now remember, everything will be explained…”

“Wha-

The hand that had been brushing up on his suddenly whipped around and grabbed his forearm. The hot-cold feeling rushed up his arm and into his body, paralyzing him. His eyes were frozen open in shock as the woman lunged forward and sunk her fangs into his neck. The venom rushed into his veins,. Suddenly he could feel every single one of them set ablaze by the liquid, but at the same time, he felt like every bit of oxygen was being sucked out of his lungs and through the fangs embedded in his neck. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move. Everything hurt. His neck, his back, his arms… his mind and body felt like it was on fire. The world was turning black and faintly, he felt the fangs leave his neck and the woman was standing in front of him, his own blood coating her face and dress.

“I am sorry, Virgil. But thank you.” She turned into a large owl and flew away into the dark. He stumbled backwards, finally able to move but the world was continuing to grow dimmer and dimmer… His back hit something hard and he felt himself falling down, down, down…

Mid 20th Century

The fact that a saltwater siren and a freshwater sprite was known far and wide across as many shores as the water-fae could reach. Some were sure that the friendship was known as far as the coasts of Japan. Not that the two cared. They were friends for the sole reason that they had heard that the other type would be toxic towards the other and were more than willing to test that fear.

“Hello,” the Siren said cautiously from the water, looking at the small form sitting on the rock, his skin blue like the sky and his curly hair an even darker shade. His wings were dripping from his back and looked as if the currents of the ocean had been solidified. His eyes were being magnified by the strange glass held by metal on his nose. Prolonged time on land had left his fingers and hands a light tan and freckled color. “You’re not jumping in…”

“Should I?” the Sprite asked curiously.

“I mean, normally things that aren’t sirens that hear a siren’s voice kinda jump into the water and die,” the Siren said calmly, but then a grin broke out on his face. “I’ve never gotten to talk to anyone that’s not a Siren! What are those on your face?”

“They’re my glasses!” the Sprite said, handing them out and setting them just out of reach of the farthest point the ocean came up the shore. The Siren took the glasses hesitantly and tried them on. Everything seemed to tunnel in and suddenly the Sprite seemed closer and yet very far away.

“They help me see! Right now, you’re just a red blob,” the Sprite said, picking up the glasses once the Siren had put them down on the ground again. “I like your tail! It’s really pretty!”

“Thanks!” the Siren said, lifting his gold-and-red scaled tail high out of the water for the sprite to look at. “I like your wings!”

The Sprite smiled sadly and looked back at them. “They don’t work. I don’t think they ever will. They’re just kinda there.” He suddenly smiled mischievously. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

The Siren giggled. “Me neither! I’m Roman.” Since they had learned from personal experience just minutes prior that when freshwater meets saltwater, it created temporary burns and pain for the both of them, Roman opted just to wave at the Sprite.

The Sprite waved back. “Patton!”

Since their families thought they were exploring with friends, they decided that they wouldn’t tell them that they snuck away from the group in order to see what the flash of light had been. But as all children of any species did with a secret, they tried to tell as much as possible to as many people as possible without spilling the beans, but ended up telling the complete background of the secret within days. Within those few days, their parents had put up barriers against the two seeing each other ever again.

Unbeknownst to their families, the two had made a cross-heart promise to reunite as soon as they possibly could, something that was considered sacred to children, especially magic children. So one day, when both had experienced another fifteen years of life and in those years, grown used and tired of the constant watching, they found a way to the surface without being seen.

Roman sat on the beach, half out of the sand so the tips of his tail were beginning to separate into human legs, never losing their shine or scales the entire time. He looked around, sensing something nearby. It wasn’t human, that was for sure, and it had a magical presence that he had felt before and had felt tugging at his soul for the past decade.

“Patton?”

The Sprite stuck his head out of a nearby bush and burst into a grin at the sight of his childhood friend.

“Roman! You’re getting legs! And you’ve grown up!” Patton came skipping out of the bush.

“Yeah, my fins have gotten a lot bigger and I have control of my voice at long last. Your wings haven’t really changed though,” Roman said, pointing to the small wings that still hung limply at his back. Patton shrugged, his blue curls and skin tinted tan from time on land. “I’m fine with it. They’re pretty and I like the way they move.”

“Whatever you say,” Roman said. “So… we do realize what this means, right?”

Patton nodded and took a satchel the size of Roman’s hand off of his shoulder, reached in elbow-deep and pulled two pairs of human clothes, accidentally letting fruits and frozen fish spill out with the cloth. “Of course I do… I’m not happy with it, but I learned to accept what the promise meant years ago. Our parents, sure they’ll be upset, but there was no way they could stop it.”

Roman nodded in agreement starting to haul himself out of the water, the split lengthening and deepening until Roman had two distinct legs. Sure, they were still covered in his scales, but he could walk. His stood shakily, using a rock as support and brushing his sticky brown hair out of his eyes.

“Legs are weird, how do you and land creatures handle it?” Roman asked.

“I don’t know, but you obviously can’t ankle it,” Patton said with a smirk. Roman didn’t really understand the joke and began to pull on his clothes, with Patton’s help. The instant they were dressed, with Roman’s scales hidden and Patton’s wings tucked safely under a jacket, both took one last look at their former homes.

“You ready, Roman?” Patton asked softly.

Roman didn’t say anything. He bent down, scooped through the dirt for a second before producing a shell the size of his index finger. He held it up to his ear and the sound of the ocean echoed from the depths of the shell. He smiled sadly and put it in his pocket.

“Yeah.” Without another glance at the water, the two turned around and disappeared into the night.

Late 20th Century

Logan had never known his father, which should have been the first sign to him that he would be different. Weren’t most main characters with special fates alone with only one or neither of their parents? Not that Logan cared; they were just characters and he was a real life person living with a single mother who had been left by a father. At least gracious to leave her with just enough to get by as she raised a child by herself.

Within the first days of kindergarten, Logan was already being seen as the makings of a prodigy for a majority of his life. He was the smartest one in his class, finishing third grade as the others completed kindergarten. It was a little odd, especially considering how little he seemed to pay attention in class and instead spent his time filling notebook after notebook with descriptions of his dreams.

“Rachel tripped and she scraped her knee in my dream,” Logan explained, pointing to the sentence that, although very grammatically incorrect, explained everything in explicit detail. It didn’t stop the journal entries from becoming real within weeks, the time-span between each truth growing smaller in size as Logan grew older.

However, the strangest thing about Logan wasn’t a mental aspect or the knack for predicting little things like scraped knees or things falling. It was his eyes. Not only did he have heterochromia, each eye was a unique color that no doctor could explain. His left eye was dark red, almost the exact color as the crayons he would leave destroyed after an hour of doodling, while his right eye was the color of actual gold.

Logan only cared or remembered his eyes were weird when they were pointed out by bullies or doctors. Whenever he wasn’t being asked about them, he studied as much as he could with his pet hamster, Sir Squiggles the Brave (hey, he may have been a prodigy who used to write about his classmates being in pain, but he was still ten). He seemed like he could handle the life of a ten-year-old prodigy.

And then one night, he found himself walking into his mother’s room, tears streaming down his face from his beautiful eyes. He could barely see but he knew that his eyes were letting out a slight glow, illuminating his mother’s sleepy face.

“Logan, honey, what is it?” she asked calmly, beckoning him into her arms. He crawled in and huddled against her.

“I-I saw Sir Squiggles… in my dream…”

“What about him?” she asked, petting his hair softly.

“H-He was-wasn’t moving,” Logan sniffed. “I p-poked h-h-im… b-but he didn’...”

“It was just a dream, honey,” she whispered. “You can stay here if you want or do you want to check Mr. Squiggles?”

Logan shook his head and just cuddled up deeper into her embrace. He matched his breathing to hers, slowly counting under his breath until he lost count with his consciousness.

The next day, Logan missed school and instead spent the entire day, kneeling in front of a pile of dirt no bigger than the size of his hand. He wasn’t grieving… some part of him had known it was coming and if he knew it was coming, he shouldn’t mourn… should he?

The years went by and things kept on aging. Logan kept on aging and, as he did, his emotions seemed to drain away with the years, leaving only a hollow shell of what used to be a happy child behind. Everyone else thought it was part of being a prodigy, but Logan was doing better than okay in all his advanced classes. It was the dreams that were making him a robot and conform to what society had to offer.

Dreams of pain and suffering, death and unavoidable tragedies. He saw every single one happen: the death of his friend’s mother, the breaking of his teacher’s ankle, and eventually, the diagnoses of cancer in his own mother. By this point, he knew it was unavoidable. He could see death and destruction in the future… and the exact moment his mother passed in his arms, the sense of deja vu washed over him with the first wave of emotion he had felt in years that sent him into a spiral.

For days, he sat in his room, trying to understand what was happening. At night, he would continue to see dreams of what would happen, but now that the biggest tragedy had passed, they were all losing meaning. Some were of people around him meeting those he had never seen before, others were just of random events that didn’t really seem to have a meaning to the world.

But eventually, he wiped the tears away and kept plunging forward. This curse would not stop him from living a full life. He may never find an answer to whatever the hell was happening to him, but if he had to live with it up this point, he would keep on living with it unless something changed.

A/N: So this should be fun! Again, thanks so much to Pastel for editing this and I really hope you guys like it!

Once again, I was an idiot and lost any taglist I had. So if you want to be tagged in general, or just for this, just let me know!

Uh... yeah!

Reblogs are always appreciated and accepted, you’ve all seen the posts.

Feedback is the good kush.

Have a great day!

#Thomas Sanders #Sanders Sides #Fan Fiction #AU #Fantasy Creatures #Virgil Sanders #Roman Sanders #Logan Sanders #Patton Sanders #Deceit Sanders

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queen-scribbles · 6 years ago

Text

Such is Life

For the @pillarspromptsweekly Roll For It! I picked my elements this time around, so it’s Raedric, Edér, and... well, I couldn’t decide between ambition, knowledge, and promise, so they’re all sort of in there. You may have to squint.

It was raining when Charity woke up. This meant two things. First, it was probably a good bit later than she thought, given how dark the sky was. Second, depending on how long it had been raining, she and Edér might have to put their plans for the day on hold. Mud made sparring interesting, but only to point. Past that made it more of a challenge than she wanted.

She would have been perfectly happy laying in bed another hour, enjoying the sound of rain and not worrying about how much of the day she was “wasting”, but Sparrow decided she wanted breakfast now. It was hard to enjoy anything with an impatiently meowing calico walking on your chest. And head.

“Alright, al-oof-right, I’m comin’,” Charity sighed, pushing herself up to a sitting position as the cat hopped off her chest.

Mroaw. Sparrow sat on the pillow, tail flicking back and forth.

“What, no mice today? Or are you bein’ a little priss about the rain?” Charity stretched and looked over at the cat. Sparrow just blinked slowly at her. “I’m gonna take that as a yes to the second one. C’mon.”

She took her time preparing food for both of them. The rain had stopped, sun peeking through the clouds, by the time she finished eating.

That was promising. Charity cleaned up from breakfast and dressed quickly. Hopefully the rain had hit that sweet spot of lasting long enough to water everything for her without going so long the ground was completely saturated. The first couple steps out her door squished, water welling around the soles of her boots, and she grimaced. That proved to be premature, however, and further out from the house the ground was damp enough for her to leave footprints, but not so much to be slippery. All the sprouting vegetables and flowers alike had been thoroughly doused, so she’d only need to weed and check for bugs.

Thank Eothas I won’t hafta haul water today. That was getting old. The rain had, unfortunately, watered the weeds as well as the things she wanted growing, so there was more to pull than she expected to find today. Such is the life of a farmer, Charity thought wryly, and got to work.

~~~~~~

Three hours later, she’d made it through the vegetables without too much trouble and was starting on the flowers when Edér showed up.

“Now that should be a paintin’,” he teased, leaning against the fence as he watched her work.

Charity wrinkled her nose at him and huffed hair back toward the messy shambles of her bun. “I don’t really want my eternal bane immortalized like that.”

Edér grinned. “Aw, c’mon, Char, who in their right mind would focus on the weeds rather’n you?”

She chuckled, even as her face warmed. “Sweet talker. Thought you said you wouldn’t be by til noon. You had that trade commission meeting.”

“Darlin’.” Still grinning, he nodded toward the sky.

She followed the gesture to see the sun sitting high at its apex and scowled. “Damn cloudy morning. Threw my sense of time all off.”

Edér laughed. “Me, too. I was almost late for the meetin’, which woulda been a shame.”

Charity shared the laugh as she pushed to her feet. “’Cause we both know how much you love that part of your job.”

He chuckled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck as if massaging out an ache. “They woulda just waited for me. Gotta have their neutral party so they can yell at each other an’ call it fair.” He grabbed her hand once she was close enough to the fence and pulled her in to steal a kiss. “Let’s have lunch. It’ll make my day better” --he smirked as her stomach rumbled--”and yours too, from the sound of it.”

“Fine, but you’re cooking.”

He laughed and wiped dirt off her cheek with his thumb. “Deal.”

~~~~~~~~~

“So, how’re things lookin’ closer to the heart of town?” Charity asked, tone casual, as they ate.

Edér shot her a knowing look. “Pretty wet, but not awful. Sparrin’ ring’s just muddy enough to be fun, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.”

“It was,” she said. A sheepish smile tugged at her lips. He knew her too damn well. “I’m lookin’ forward to another shot at kickin’ your ass.”

He laughed an playfully nudged her ribs with his elbow. “Figure if you keep tryin’ eventually you’ll succeed?”

“Exactly. Perseverance is one of those virtue things,” she joked. “I keep tryin’ it’ll pay off sooner or later.” Her playful smile morphed into a concerned frown when Edér rubbed the back of his neck again. “You alright? That’s about the eighth time you’ve done that an’ you ain’t even been here two hours.”

“Listenin’ to merchants bicker for an hour’ll make anyone tense,” he joked. “But we might wanna hold off on sparrin’ til tomorrow. To make it a fair fight.”

Charity swallowed the last bite of her lunch and nodded, smirking mischievously. “Sure. Wouldn’t want you havin’ any excuses when I whip your tail.” She set aside her dishes and beckoned him closer. “In the meantime, c’mere.”

Edér raised an eyebrow but complied, scooting closer and sitting with his back to her as she indicated. “Can I ask what you’re up to?”

She laughed as she settled her hands gently on his shoulders. “I may not be as good at them as you are, but you ain’t the only one who knows how to give a back rub. An’ you seem like you need it.”

“Can’t argue that,” he conceded, leaning back into her hands as she started massaging out the worst of the tension. “Gods, that feels good.”

Charity chuckled fondly, her thumbs rubbing the tight muscles between his shoulder blades. “How bad were these merchants?”

“Pretty... mmm.... pretty bad. Why can’t people get along?”

She laughed, hands working down his spine. “I ever find an answer to that one, I’ll let you know.”

“Great. I’ll use it as my secret weapon at meetings like this,” Edér said, amusement in his tone.

Charity didn’t make it too much further--a little over halfway down--before her thumb grazed over a ridge that was definitely not just a wrinkle in his shirt. “Edér...” He tensed ever so slightly as she left off the backrub to slip her hand under his shirt and trace the scar from where she found it down to just above his hip. “What in the blue blazin’ Hel...”

“Goes the other way, too,” Edér commented with a dark chuckle. He tugged the collar of his shirt til she could see the other end of the scar; just below the top of the opposite shoulder blade.

She winced, mentally following the scar’s path. “Do I wanna know where it came from?”

This laugh was much lighter. “Goin’ away present from the fella in charge of Gilded Vale, Raedric. See, he’d started driftin’ toward being a paranoid-zealot type. Real suspicious of just about everyone, killin’ them for no real reason beyond not bein’ able to tell him what he wanted to hear. Right around when me an’ Aloth started travelin’ with Tavi someone asked her to kill him. Seeing how he treated his people--tree full of corpses don’t speak well of the man in charge--she agreed. So we sneak in, find him.” He snorted softly. “Thing about paranoid zealot types is they fight back real hard. And are very prepared. On our way in, we’d found that he murdered his wife for birthin’ a Hollowborn, saw it as proof she was a heretic, so Tavi was out for blood. I’m tryin’ to keep her from bein’ too reckless, keep Aloth from gettin’ overwhelmed, and, well....” he shrugged. “Raedric moved fast for a man in full blazin’ plate. It ain’t really all that bad; just looks like shit ‘cause Tavi’s doctorin’ consists of ‘Stitch it up and pray’.”

“This is the man you got the ‘free land for new settlers’ idea from?” Charity frowned, staring hard at the part of the scar she could see. It was pretty ugly on the lower end, tapering off quickly as it approached his spine, then felt much thinner on the high end.

Edér shrugged. “Good idea’s a good idea. Even if it is the only decent thing the man did in the last decade.”

“And it really doesn’t hurt?” she murmured, brushing her fingers over the low end.

“Nope, promise.” Edér turned to wink at her over his shoulder. “It’s more ticklish’n anything.”

She grinned. “Really?” She ran one finger along roughly the path of the scar, lazily zigzagging over it, and giggled when he flinched. “I’m gonna have to remember that.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Are you feelin’ better, though? Even if I didn’t get all the way through the backrub ‘fore I got distracted?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, it did helped. Most of the soreness was up top, so you got all of it.”

“Good. Feel like sparring, or should we still put it off?” she asked, sliding her hands around, still under his shirt, until she was hugging him.

“Let’s do it tomorrow. Gives the ground more time to dry out, an’ me more time to relax.” He rolled his shoulders to emphasize the point. “So it’s a fair fight.”

“I do like the sound of that,” Charity concurred. “Then whaddya want to do today instead?”

“You ain’t done weedin’ yet, right?” Edér asked, hands settling over hers.

“Right,” she said reluctantly. “Still gotta do the flowers.” She smirked, “Also, there’s a weddin’ the two of us really should be at least starting to plan...”

Edér shook his head. “Not on the same day as a trade commission meetin’. I’ll stick with the weeds, thanks. You want help?”

“Yeah, but won’t that make you sore again?” Charity pointed out.

“Maybe you’re real good at backrubs and that’s my plan,” he said teasingly.

“You’re just diabolical,” she teased right back, poking his stomach.

He laughed as he shied away from the poke. “Or maybe I just wanna spend time with you, since it’s been a few days, an’ if that means endin’ up a little sore, so be it.”

“Such a romantic,” Charity ribbed. “But if you’re serious, I will take you up on that. Sparrow’s not good for much b’sides company when it comes to weedin’, when she deigns to do even that much.” And she liked the idea of another pair of hands--especially his--making it go faster.

“I am,” Edér said, finally moving to slip free of her embrace. He pushed to his feet and offered her his hand. “Shall we?”

Charity grinned and took it. “I believe we shall.”

#queens fic #pillars prompts weekly #eder teylecg #charity #ederity #eothasian idiots #it hit me as i was writing this one that they're technically engaged now #and like #wedding planning is a thing they need to do #cue fangirl screaming in my head #bc no one ships these two harder than me #except maybe tavi ^^

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cayleyshortstories · 3 years ago

Text

A Heart of Gold

Written by Dennis Vergara & Illustrated by Allysa De Leon

The sun dawns over the once darkened plains adjacent to the perfectly coned volcano. Alongside the grandeur of this scenery, an unpresuming hut cabin can be observed situated at the foot of the rolling mounds — where the Delgado family humbly resides. The early morning sees Anton and his wife Celeste wake up as they begin their day in meek preparation, both occupied with the tedious task of completing the morning chores for their children.

To keep a steady income, the couple earnestly spends every minute of the day toiling in productive labor. The family patriarch, middle-aged yet robust and able-bodied, sets his day directed in tilling the Bicolandian fields and harvesting rice crops.

As the sun came into its zenith, Celeste came home and began cooking for the three of her children. Once done, she began to summon her children to come for lunch — Greg and Danica sprawling into the kitchen table. Along with the playful murmurs, an infant’s rowdy sobbing can be heard from across the room. Celeste heard this and came to his room. She picked the little boy up and shushed him back to sleep. Once back, she saw Anton and her children waiting for her to sit down to start eating together. Every time they finished praying and started getting their food, Anton would be the last to get their food and smiled as he saw the beauty of the family he established. After the meal, both Greg and Danica cleaned themselves up as well.

Gregorio, or as he goes by the nickname Greg, is the eldest of the three children. Youthful and ecstatic, the first-born has been determined to finish his elementary schooling where he had already set himself on the path to become the family’s breadwinner. Yet the truth of the matter for the young lad was upsetting — another farmer’s son was to sacrifice his years’ worth of education to lift the burdens off of his impoverished family. Despite this, he continues to be of great use to his father in tilling the barren fields and tending the needs of his younger siblings. His younger sister, Danica, is the sole student in the family. She was a light of hope for the family, capable of thrusting the marvel of scholarship education into the heft of their suffering. The youngest is the juvenile infant named Elijah whose smiles were capable of bringing momentary joy to the family.

After clearing the kitchen table, Celeste proceeded to dress her daughter for school.

“Did you forget anything?”, Celeste asked her daughter.

“No ‘Nay, I am ready,” Danica responded.

“All right, we’re going. Greg, please take care of your father.”

Greg nods.

Kisses and goodbyes were exchanged as they went their separate ways. En route to the ramshackle school campus, Celeste held Danica’s hand and grasped the infant Eli on the other as they strolled in a path where the wayside brimmed with rice paddies. Anton and Greg, on the other hand, rode the grizzled carabao on the way to work. The family lived a tranquil life, despite the daily sojourn of trials and challenges. Moreover, they loved each other so much that there was an account of how loving this family truly was.

On one peculiar day, there would stand a challenge. A small, but important lesson for the family. Anton woke up seeing that Celeste wasn’t there and that she was already cooking for breakfast. Anton felt like something was wrong. He stood up and it felt a nauseating pain like he was ready to come crashing back down. But his legs refused to cave in and he regained his balance. He went and ate with his family but it felt so heavy for him that he couldn’t even finish his usual intake.

“What’s wrong?” Celeste asked

“Nothing. I just couldn’t eat today” Anton answered

“Maybe he’s thinking of the harvest today”, Greg answered with a smile

Anton returned the smile

“I mean it is that time of the year ” Danica said

The two siblings then subdued their noise and continued with their meal. Although breakfast was quiet, Celeste couldn’t think of a reason why her husband wouldn’t eat all of a sudden.

“Are you sure?” Celeste asked

“Maybe my appetite is off today, but I might recover it later,” Anton said in a frail voice

Celeste didn’t ask again, but she did keep an eye on him, worried that something was wrong with him. He would always be eating a lot before going out to the field, as it was a lot of work and it was stressful. Thoughts had continued to grapple her mind as she continued washing the dishes.

“Greg, come here”, she commanded

“Yes?” He asked as he came to his mother

“Check on your father when you go out in the fields.”

“But what happens after lunchtime? I couldn’t leave Eli alone for very long”

“Don’t worry about him. I’ll go home earlier than usual to take care of him. You just go and watch your father.”

Greg nods

As they bid farewell to each other, Celeste gave her son a look that reassured him as he went about to do his duty. Greg didn’t do a lot on the field, as he would always listen to his father and help him whenever he needed to. As they went to the fields, Greg and his father were dead silent, which was not common for the pair. After saying their goodbyes to both Celeste and Danica, they would almost immediately talk about something, like how the harvest was, what the expected weather was for today, and sometimes even advice. But now, the only one talking was the wind. Greg was instructed to look out for his father and it already seems that something was wrong. Anton didn’t want to spend the hours in idle reticence, so he quickly came up with a topic to talk about.

“So, how are you today?”

“Nothing, I just wanted to go back to school to continue studying”

“Why? Aren't you having fun in the fields?”

“I mean, I don't want to stay stuck here forever in repetitive work. I want to go out into the city to study and maybe have a little fun.”

“Don't worry, when you grow older, you'll appreciate all of this and -”

"No, I won't!"

Greg raised his voice over this but quickly came to his senses, pulling off a rapid yet reserved apology to his father.

“It’s all right, I’m sorry that I didn't know you liked the city that much”

Greg was shocked. He expected his father to fume out at his vexations. He didn’t. His voice wasn’t loud and the tone was forgiving. Greg repeated his apology and continued talking. Anton seemed like he was doing well. But he didn’t want to scold his son while silently ailing in pain. As they continued walking, he pondered to himself, “Should I let them know? How will I feed them?” and these questions would motivate him to keep going with his job. He may not have a lot of strength, but his resolve was as firm as ever. So, they went their way and into the field. He was then greeted by his fellow farmers and then continued on with his day as if nothing had happened.

Greg helped his father move the crops and plant in the fields as he usually does. Anton continues to work diligently and meticulously, but by that day, his body lost its vigor. Earlier that morning, he already felt dizzy and as time went on, it worsened. His thin and limp legs lost their balance and were nearly exhausted by the heaviness of each bag of rice. A sense of discomfort in both arms triggered him while he was working. Tiredness struck him and he seemed to be catching his breath. He was experiencing excruciating pain on the left side of his chest as he leaned towards the plant. But despite all that feeling, he did not mind and kept working hard.

On a lunch break, he let Greg come home and look after Eli.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” Greg said

“Why?” his father asked

“Well, I-uh couldn’t think of a way to punish my wrongdoings and maybe-uh that I’ll just stay here and keep working.”

“What about Eli?”

“Well, I can check on him after the lunch break.”

“No, check on him now!”

Anton knew it was very unusual for his son not to come home. With each rebuttal that Greg throws, he becomes angrier and angrier, as that is the first time Greg has spoken to him in that tone of voice.

“I don’t want to! He’s safe in our home.”

With that, Anton snapped.

“Go home now! You didn’t do a lot here and you always want to sleep, so why don’t you go and take care of yourself and Eli instead!”

Other busy farmers who were eating and having a conversation refrain from talking. They instead focus their attention on Anton and his son. Greg was offended and hurt by the words his father had left him, but knowing that other farmers had heard him, aggravated the pain. Rather than fight his father, he turned his head and left the field. Anton felt that he went too far with what he told his son. He has already regretted what he said, but instead of apologizing immediately, he would do so upon returning home. However, this does not appear to be the case. His body, in what was already in a weakened state, just got weaker. His head that already felt like getting spun was spinning even harder. Then all of a sudden, after a few steps, he suddenly stopped, felt his heart but then fell to his knees, and consciousness was gone.

He dreamed of the dearly beloved family he built. The birth of his children and the moments of joy they had together flashed back in his memory. They might not be the wealthiest family in the world, but finding happiness by the people who are with him for the rest of his life has been enough for him. Soon after, he regained consciousness. He felt something heavy on his left arm. He saw a long narrow tube filled with fluids inside that was dextrose. But on the other hand, he can’t move his arm at all. Not because he couldn't feel it, but because someone was sleeping on it.

“Danica?” Anton saw Danica still in school uniform as she slowly woke up from her short nap.

“Tay?”

She breathed a sigh and smiled at him. She then went outside the room and informed the rest of the family that his father was already awake and was feeling well. Anton saw his son, having an unpleasant odor as he was soaked in sweat. But it didn’t matter, as he was glad just to see his face

“Tay, I’m sorry, I didn’t know that you were sick, you felt fine while we were walking but I-”

“It’s okay Gregorio, I’m sorry I scolded you in front of other people, I wasn’t thinking straight at the time.”

When he had finished talking, Celeste went into the room.

“Kids, go and take care of your brother outside. I would like to talk to him.”

They wanted more moments with their father, but they understood the situation. They kissed their father upon the forehead and came out of the room. Celeste glanced at Anton but quickly averted her eyes as she started speaking.

“I talked to the doctors. They informed me that you suffered from a heart attack. Luckily, you were saved before it was too late, as the other farmers helped you get here. The doctor also recommended that you should take a rest from now on"

“Bu-but I can’t do it! All of you would starve if I don’t work! If only I could take this illness away, then I would be able to work harder for all of you. How long will I –“

Teardrops rolled down Celeste's face as he paused

“Anton, please, next time, if you don’t feel well, you can tell me what’s wrong. I don’t want to lose you. What would we do without you?”

She looked back at him with her face full of tears. Anton looked at her face and just saw the pain and grief in her eyes. He no longer wanted to argue and instead reflected on what she had said. He could not help it but break down as well.

“I’m sorry, I just- I can’t just take a-a break. We need income to feed you and the children and for Danica to go to the school of her dreams. I just can’t stop and contemplate taking a break.” Anton said in a soft and calm voice.

“I just don’t want to lose you. I love you. The children love you. We will do anything to compensate for the work you have done previously.”

Celeste cried, as well as Anton, and they started embracing each other. After calming down and telling the reason why Greg was making up excuses as to why he didn't want to come home, they wiped their faces, Celeste called the two kids and explained the matter at hand.

“Well, what are we going to do while your father is here?” Celeste asked the kids

“I’ll work even harder so that father wouldn’t worry about staying here for a long time. Also, since I’m going to work a lot starting now, who would take care of Eli?” Greg said

“I’ll do it,” Danica said

“But what about your studies? ‘Tay worked hard for you to study” Greg rebutted

“I’ll bring Eli to the market instead, that way, you could continue to study and we can have a steady income” Celeste suggested

Danica nodded

“Also, every weekend, we visit ‘Tay here and see how he is doing” Celeste added

All qualms were set aside as the children willingly agreed to the situation. Anton heard all of this and shed a tear. This was the family he had always dreamt of. It felt like home once again for him.

A period of time had passed by. Anton has been discharged from the hospital and is now in a convalescent state. He still works in the fields but not as much as Greg who had already assumed the position of the latter in tilling the fields. Celeste also returns in selling fresh goods in the market, all the while tending to the needs of both Eli and Danica. The ordeal had permanently altered the family bond for the years to come. Yet along with the rapid tides of tribulations withstood the familial custom of bringing home pasalubong as dusk loomed over the tinted skies above the volcano. The family would continue to spend the tranquil nights at the dinner table, with conversations and laughter basked in unadorned yet beguiling joy. Anton would then exchange tender goodnight kisses to his children, ending the day and starting anew as the dawn shines light once again over the rice crop fields.

____________________________________________________

ILLUSTRATION EXPLANATION:

The theme portrayed in the story is family love. Five people are depicted in this illustration. The story unfolded in the Philippines and the Filipino culture is proof of that. The perfectly cone-shaped volcano can be associated with the Mayon Volcano in Albay, Bicol. Banana trees, palay, bilao, salakot, etc are additional elements to effectively set the story. The one holding a bunch of palay or cereal grain is the breadwinner of the family, Anton. The girl in uniform that has a bag on her back is Danica. The guy in yellow is Greg who holds Eli for he's the one who takes care of him after he helped his father on the fields. The lady who wears a purple dress and apron is the mother, Celeste.

Various symbols can be drawn within the image. The heart there symbolizes unity. It unites their family as their hearts grow with one another. They become cohesive with one another, which creates a stronger bond that nothing can break. As each day progresses and they grow closer to one another, their relationship strengthens particularly in the latter part when they know that Anton has heart disease. Raising his right hand as he holds palay symbolizes hard work. This shows that no matter how hard it is for him, especially that he has a serious problem, he will endure all of it just to see the smiles on his family's faces in exchange for all his work. A smile on his face is visible for his sole joy is the happiness of his family. Since he already has a fragile heart, the hand of his wife serves as his support. This simply implies that no matter what the struggles he goes through, his wife will always be by his side who will support and help him despite all the challenges they face. They both used their farming and selling works to raise their family and make a living. The hands of their son and daughter also touched their hands to signify that they are willing to help their parents even at a young age in order to ease their burden.

In conclusion, this story simply means that regardless of the difficulties they face, they are always there for one another. Problems would never arise and they would never allow these barriers to destroy the bond between them. Also, they might not be the richest family, might not have professional work, a mansion, and they do lack money, despite all of these, they are full and rich of love for each other. They don't have any material thing a wealthy family possesses, but they do have their greatest treasure, the love each of them shares and binds their family together.

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