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fandom-blackhole · 4 years ago

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Hayloft- Ezra x Reader

AN: hahahahahahah hello.....So I know that have have shit I was supposed to write but life has taken every bit of creativity from me so I’m not sure if I’ll ever actually write those. So I am sorry if you have been waiting forever for me to post a story. I’ve also made the decision to close my requests indefinitely unless I change my mind because I just don’t do well with them, sorry. BUT, I struck gold and got the idea for this fic and before I lost the inspo I wrote like a mad man all yesterday! So I do hope you enjoy! And yes, I did get the idea while listening to Hayloft by Mother Mother

Also this is going to be a two part story, I am currently working on the second part and it should be posted tomorrow morning most likely. And I made a playlist, if you’d like to listen to it (I am open to song suggestions to be added!)

Ao3 Link

Masterlist

Words: 3.1k (this a beast for me lol)

Warnings?: not really, AFAB reader, mentions of a stroke, Ezra’s charm (that needs a warning), bad poetry formatting (sorry tumblr destroyed how I had it in my Doc)

The itchy scratchy feeling of the hay digging through my nightwear was worth every uncomfortable second if it meant I could continue to sit here and listen to the man across from me, with his eyes that held galaxies and voice the carried the lilt of the most wonderful song, with that unplaceable accent. He was worth being tired in the morning from staying up all night up here in the loft of my family’s small barn. He was worth all the sneaking around and small meaningful glances sent each other’s way when no one else was paying attention, the brushing of hands when handing something to the other. I wouldn’t change anything about this unless it meant the small glances or the gentle brushing against each other didn’t have to be hidden from the others, if it meant that I could just be with the hypnotic man across from me with his hair as dark as the freshly tilled ground at the being of a harvest minus that one soft looking patch as white as a newly hatched chick’s down and a smile so crooked and white that it felt almost as if he was casting a spell over my very heart and soul. He was worth the pain of picking hay from my hair and clothes in the morning when I have to sneak back into the farmhouse, while already missing the touch of his rough and calloused but gentle hand. It was all worth every bit as long as he helped me forget everything just for the time being.

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Living on K-5 was rather simple. The planet was neither big nor small and it was known for its fertile soil that could grow just about any plant whether it was native to the world or not and once one harvest season had finished the other started as the weather always was spring-like with perfect growing conditions. Not many came to stay and those who did worked their entire life in planets many fields of harvest. To the few that actually knew the name of the forgettable planet called it the bread box of the known universe. Though the planet was known to very few people throughout space, the planet’s harvests could be found on just about any other planet or moon feeding just about everyone.

The farmers of K-5 were known to have bigger families on the premise of needing hands to work the land for food of their own and for money. The farmers also knew that most of their children would leave the planet and look for better elsewhere, and would hope beyond hope that at least one of their children would settle on the sad planet and continue working their farm. Though if luck would have it there might come a ship every so often with people willing to lend hands and work the land if they were compensated well enough. Most that came were floaters looking for something to do in between prospecting jobs, others were looking for a quiet place to finally settle after a long life.

My father had been one of 12 brothers and he was the only one to stay and take over the meager farmer his father and his father’s father had set up on a small corner of the planet. My father never really talked about his siblings, only ever calling them stupid for leaving the haven that was K-5 for a world they had no place to be in. My mother had been brought here by her mother, who had been a floater. They had made acquaintances with a farmer a town or so over and had lived there as farmhands as that family’s children started dwindling as they left. I have been told that my mother had a fire to her that no other on the planet had, that she was a woman of grace and humility, which is rare in space these days, something I was told I inherited though I’m not so sure I believe. We were a small family, I had two older brothers, twins identical in only their looks. Joshua, a dreamer as my father put it spitefully saying he inherited that from our mother, while his brother Anthony took after our father with his pessimistic view of everything including the world outside of our farm and K-5. I always counted Joshua lucky, he was able to sneak out of our small farmhouse late one night only leaving a note on my bedside table saying goodbye as he left one of the few ships to land on our soil. Father always resented me much like he did Joshua for multiple reasons, one of them being that it was the reason mother had passed, as Anthony informed me one night when asked, another reason being that I supposedly looked like a carbon copy of her, as I was told by the few farmers that remembered her, and lastly and most importantly was my fascination with the outside world. He hated that “Joshua did nothing but fill your head with fantasies.” He hated that because of our small family we needed all the farmhands we could get and that I would always sit with them listening to anything they would tell me, though few would say much as the floaters tended to be a quiet breed, preferring to keep to themselves.

In our town, the floaters and drifters were usually pointed to our farm when looking for work and usually met with my father before I ever had a chance to meet them, most ignoring me throughout their short stay, anyway. If we were lucky we would get one or two by the time harvesting or planting time had come around and they were always roomed in Joshua’s old room, now cramped from shoving multiple cots into the room rather than one small bed. The room was furthest from mine, which made it hard to sneak into to and talk with those who were willing to feed my curiosities. Having been caught and reprimanded enough times by both father and Anthony I had to learn how to be light-footed and sneak around unseen, though I believe that after awhile Anthony has given up on trying to ‘knock some sense’ into me and just doesn’t try anymore.

Life was the same for me day in and day out nothing much changing other than the faces and names of the floaters staying on our humble farm. Excitement in our corner of space was far and few between, leading me to seek it out through any means possible, and more often than not it was the few books I was able to get my hands on them being rare as they were, were exceptionally hard to find new stories. Though luck would have it, I was able to get my hands on three battered books whose covers were so worn and dirtied over the years that any image or words depicted were hardly seen. Of everything on my solemn planet, these were what kept me sane, even if I had read and reread each dozens of times. Though their covers were faded, the titles were imprinted in my mind. I treasured my well-loved copies of Pride and Prejudice, The Hobbit, and Frankenstein and kept them close to my heart while also hiding them from my father for fear of how he’d react to them. Though I love every book I owned, it was the newest in my collection that meant the most to me, for it was the first thing that brought the man I long for and I together, a rather small but thick copy of a collection of poems and stories written by Edgar Allen Poe.

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Waking up on Saturdays were the only time when I didn’t mind having to roll out of bed and deal with the early hour chill. Saturdays were the days that I got sent to town to collect groceries and odds and ends for the farm from the weekend markets. Father learned early on that I had the same touch as my mother when I came to finding the best bargains and deals, so he began sending me in his stead while he and Anthony ran other errands or helped the current farmhands do morning chores.

This Saturday wasn’t much different, upon waking and changing into the day’s clothes, I pulled my hair out of my face before stepping out of my room to head to the kitchen to find the list of what was needed on the counter along with the money needed. As usual, I went through my Saturday routine of making a thermos of coffee before pocketing the money and grabbing my bag. I slip my thermos into the side pocket of the bag as I slip the strap over my shoulder, before grabbing the list and scanning the contents as I walked to where my boots were stored next to the door. While glancing through the list, I started to slide my boots on before stopping. In a small section at the bottom were a few items that were reserved only for the few saturdays that the supply ship stopped in our area of the planet, which was very rare if ever. The supply ships were sent to the planet every couple of months with limited supplies and it landed in certain areas to sell what ever cargo it had brought, only to leave when empty. Only the ships usually were emptied after the first two or three stops and this area was usually one of the last stops, making the ships rare and highly sought after in the area. So the fact that our area was finally getting a ship after almost a year and a half without one was a huge deal. A rather large part of me hoped that there would be floaters on the ship willing to be hired out for farm work, especially since the lack of a ship has made my small family have to tend our meager fame with only the three of us because of the lack of farmhands.

Upon arrival, the town was already bustling with life. Quickening my pace, I went to the center of the town where the new supplies always were held, and upon arriving I made quick work of crossing off everything on the list in hopes of having time to browse for myself. Luck seemed to have shown mercy down on me today as everyone I talked to was fair in prices and after crossing the last item off the long list I still had enough money to buy something for myself and give father change without him being any wiser. Smiling I chatted with a few townspeople and other farmers as I browsed the market, and as I came to the last stall I had yet to look in the market. Having near given up and about to turn from the stall, my eye caught something that had fallen from the makeshift table. Upon picking it up I nearly cried with joy having found what I could only hope to be the next tattered book to add to my collection. Flipping the book over in my hands and flipping through the pages my smile grew as I called the seller over. We haggled the price for a couple of minutes before he accepted my offer with a murmur and taking the money and while turning to begin my journey back to the farm I heard my name being called a couple of stalls over. Looking up, I smiled politely when I noticed it was Mrs.Robertson, taking a deep breath and sighing it back out before making my way slowly over to where she stood.

Mrs.Robertson was a stout woman that had a smile that never seemed to leave her face. She was a lovely woman whose lemon pound cake was well-known amongst the area’s farmers and always had a warm cup of tea and an open ear for whoever walked through her kitchen door, even after her stroke that took all mobility in her left arm. While I have always enjoyed her company, especially as a child when I was longing for a mother figure, recently talking with her always ended with her trying to push her oldest son and I together. Her oldest and youngest sons were the only two of her five children to stay on the planet, and while her youngest had already married and had a couple of children, her oldest didn’t seem to have interest in doing the same, even if she swears that he infatuated with me. Father continuously tells me that he thinks the marriage would be a good idea, even as I tell him it wouldn’t work between the two of us.

So as I walk over to her and give her a hug in greeting I prepare myself for another attempt at matchmaking. Instead after parting from the one-handed hug, she had given me she motioned over her shoulder to a man who was standing there with a crooked smile that seemed to hold every last bit of charm left in the universe, and Mrs. Robertson, without missing a beat spoke up, “I was just explaining to this lovely newcomer that your father is always looking for new people to help with the farm and was just about to point him in your farm’s direction when I noticed you,” as Mrs.Robertson continued to rattle on I took the chance to glance back to the man behind her, only to find that his woefully dark eyes were still watching me with more mirth than I had seen in years. Looking back to Mrs.Robertson quickly hoping that no redness would grace my cheeks, though I knew it was there anyway. She quickly stepped aside and motioned to me introducing me before the man, if at all possible, smiled wider and stuck out his hand introducing himself as Ezra. As I stuck out my hand to shake his I opened my mouth to give him a polite reply only to be shocked into silence when instead of shaking my offered hand he raised it to his shining smile and graced the back of my hand with a kiss. Now I was absolutely certain that there was red dancing across my cheeks, if not my ears as well. Not able to take returning the gaze the man, I know knew to be Ezra, seemed to be piercing my very soul with I turned to Mrs.Robertson, thanking her and wishing her well before turning to Ezra who was still watching me and giving him a shy smile and tilting my head in a motion as to say ‘follow me’.

Ezra seemed to be quiet as we walked throughout the town head back towards the farm, though that might have been because the small talk and greetings that were being thrown my way from those from the area that I was friendly with. When we finally broke from the town and the only sound was the dwindling chatter of the market and buzzing of the local wildlife. Though I was startled to a stop from the previous silence by the man as he spoke melodically and seemingly wit purpose,

“In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed; But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him, with a ray Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream, that holy dream, While all the world was chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro’ storm and night, So trembled from afar― What could there be more purely bright In Truth’s day-star?”

Having turned to face the man confused, but noticing he was looking towards the sky with a smile, though one smaller than the one he was sporting when you both had made your introductions with each other, this one seeming more blissful rather than purposefully charming. It was only now though that I noticed the absence of his right arm as his left was moved to his face to shield his eyes from the ever glowing sun. Turning his head back to look at me, his smiled widened again before noticing my slight confusion.

“Sorry flower but I couldn’t help but to notice the collection of stories and poems in your hand there, and thought to quote a poem by our dear morose friend Poe. I find his works to be a tad too depressing for my likes but somethings just stick with your very person,” Ezra drawled before sticking his hand out, “May I?”

Unable to really respond as I was still in slight shock I was only able to nod and pass the book over. Where upon gracing his fingers Ezra was able to skillfully thrumb through the book, mumbling quietly to himself with a smile, “It has been quite sometime since I have been able to visit our friend Poe here or any of my other long dead friends I’m afraid,” he paused for only a moment sticking the tip of his tongue between his lips before giving a small quiet winning cry, “ Ah hah! Here you go, ‘A Dream’ by the one and only Edgar Allan Poe.”

Handing the book back with it open on a specific page and there it was, the poem in which he had just quoted in full. Smiling down at the page, before looking back at him with a somewhat astonished look I dog eared the page before sliding it into the bottom of my bag, “No one else around here really reads anymore. At this point I thought I was the last one in the universe to do so. It….it would be nice to actually talk about reading with someone, though regretfully I just met Poe today so we are not quite as well acquainted as you two seem to be,” looking back up with a smirk and remembering my thermos I grab it out of my bag before lifting it up in offering. “Coffee? Its not quite hot anymore but it is probably still warm.”

With his ever wide smile, Ezra stepped up next to me as I slid my bag back into place and gave a small polite nod, “I would love to do nothing more than share what I am sure is the perfect brew with you, darling flower.”

(If you want to be tagged in part two, let me know in my inbox! Also if enough people are interested I am thinking about opening my inbox to talk and expand on this world I’ve created? Anyways I hope you enjoyed! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are always appreciated!! Much love and Happy 2021!)

(Also if you figured out what I based the planet I created off of please tell me, I’d like to see obvious I made it lol. And if you’d like a hint it’s in the USA)

#ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #ezra (prospect) x reader #ezra prospect x you #ezra (prospect) x you #Pedro Pascal #Prospect #ezra x female reader #the second part may have a little spice #considering the song i based this off of #but not alot bc i have found I suck at smut #but it might be hinted at or briefly described?#anyway i am kinda happy to be back writing wise #ive missed this

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chelsfic · 4 years ago

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Devotions - WWDITS Fanfic - Nandor x Guillermo

Sequel to: Maybe One Day, My Love

WWDITS Masterlist

A/N: Quick note to let you guys know that I have been writing up a storm, but I’ve posted many fics exclusively to AO3. It is just so much work to format every story for Tumblr. AO3 is such a superior place to read and write. So, check that out to see what you’ve missed. Thanks to @sinaesthete for beta reading this fic for me!

Summary: Following a death in the family, Guillermo goes to the park for his weekly "visit" with his ex-master. After two decades of distance and one-sided conversation, Nandor finally steps out of the shadows.

Warnings: Smut, Religious References, Parent Death

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“You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.” -Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

It’s nightfall once again.

Guillermo de la Cruz clutches a prayer card in his fist as he strides down the familiar path for the appointment he never misses. Not even tonight.

Puddles dot the paved lane; he carefully avoids them, not wishing to ruin his patent leather shoes. He’s still dressed in the clothes he wore to the funeral: a dark suit and tie that make him look somehow older and younger at the same time. Like a little boy dressed up in his father’s clothes. His rigid soles scuff against the cement. The scraping sound grounds him in time and place, pulling him back from the vision of the gleaming white casket heaped with flowers.

It’s early spring. The night is still chilly, but the park has begun to transform with the new season. Green shoots of grass peek out between moldy fallen leaves. Crocuses emerge in the flower beds that line the walk. The branches hanging overhead are heavy with verdant leaves whispering in the light breeze. Guillermo breathes in the damp, mildewy scent of new growth. Idly, he wonders if the funeral arrangements have started to wilt.

He rounds the well-known turn in the path, finally arriving at his forgotten little alcove with its dilapidated bench. The wooden slats of the seat give way to his weight as he sits; the wood is soft and worn. He recalls the hard, polished church pews and decides that this is a much more suitable place for worship. The laminated prayer card bites into the tender flesh of his palm and he releases it, taking his hands from his pockets and letting them rest on the well-loved bench.

Night sounds fill his ears: crickets murmuring in the grass, distant traffic rushing on the highway, gentle wind blowing through the trees. No matter how carefully he listens, holding his breath and keeping perfectly still, Guillermo will never hear his master’s approach until Nandor wishes it. Instead he begins his vigil, communing with the night, with this place, the setting for his devotions.

“Let us pray...

I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever live and believe in me shall never die.”

The priest’s words float back to him as if conjured by the night wind. Guillermo’s thoughts fix upon his lord. The one he’s worshiped since he was nineteen-years-old. He calls up Nandor’s image with ease, despite the years that have passed since actually seeing the vampire. Dark eyes ringed in fire, bottomless pits into which Guillermo has been falling for the last thirty-seven years. A body as cold and lethal as a winter’s night. Fangs that reap bloody sacrifices from his victims. Guillermo closes his eyes and Nandor is there before him--skin warm in the candlelight, lips relaxed in a rare smile, holding out his hand and beckoning Guillermo to come forward. In his vision, Nandor places his palm on the crest of Guillermo’s head in a blessing.

“Blessed are those who mourn,

For they will be comforted.”

The snap of a twig announces him. Guillermo eyes snap open; he stares straight ahead into the trees on the other side of the nook. He senses Nandor in the darkness behind him, a guardian or a devil. Both. But he doesn’t turn to look, though every fiber of his being is attuned to his master’s cold presence; though he longs to lunge at him and hold him and never let him leave this place. That is not their arrangement.

Just this once, though, he wishes it could be different.

Guillermo tries to speak; tries to perform their ritual as usual. But the words stick in his throat, congealing into a heavy lump that suffocates him. A shaky breath passes through his parted lips and becomes a sob. Suddenly there are tears spilling down his cheeks. He reaches into his pocket, removes the prayer card with Silvia de la Cruz’s beautiful portrait on it, and sets it on the seat beside him.

“She… died,” he explains in a shattered whisper, scrubbing furiously at his eyes with his fists. “Mi mam á . She’s gone, Nandor.”

For an instant the rest of the words stick in his throat: Guillermo’s not supposed to address him directly. That’s not part of their ritual. Now Nandor will leave; now he’ll never come back. But the grief soon scours away the fear of breaking their rules and Guillermo collapses down to his elbows, hanging his head and sobbing out his heartache and pain.

“It happened so s-suddenly, Nandor. I didn’t get to say good-bye or tell her I’m sorry.”

Guillermo crosses his arms over his chest, hugging and rocking himself in a pitiful attempt to self-soothe. His sinuses are blocked; his face is flushed; his mouth tastes like bile and communion wafers and his t í a’s buñuelos. He’s desperate to get a hold himself, to salvage this evening somehow, but every time he nearly has the crying controlled his mind supplies him with a new torture. The stricken look on his amá’s face when he left home to work for Nandor. The smell of eggs and fresh tortillas in the morning. The sound of her clambering in the kitchen, cursing under breath. Her smile. Her hugs. The way she took him in, without questions, when he came back home covered in blood and hysterical after a decade of being a bad son.

Guillermo is so lost in memories, he almost misses the soft, hesitant touch on his shoulder. A hand--solid, strong, cold--closes around his shoulder and squeezes gently. Their first touch in twenty-six years. Guillermo’s breath stutters from his lungs. He freezes, terrified of breaking the fragile sanctity of this moment. He wavers on the threshold of action. Before he can summon the courage to cross it himself , Nandor does so for him. The vampire’s hands are suddenly clutching, pawing at his shoulders and chest; clawed fingers dig into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket and haul him over the bench. He’s dragged through the spider-riddled bush and then all at once he’s in his master’s embrace. As if it hasn’t been decades since the last and first time they held each other. As if a whole lifetime of experience--sadness, joy, yearning, hope--hasn’t slipped through Guillermo’s mortal fingers.

Nandor wraps Guillermo up in his cape, the rich fabric and gold embroidery are clean and well-maintained. Guillermo finds himself wondering if Nandor has himself a new familiar, quickly deciding he doesn’t want to know. He buries his face in Nandor’s strong, broad chest and breathes him in. He smells like rose water, argan oil, and Tide To-Go Pens. He smells like warm candle wax and brassy, spilled blood. He smells like dust and animal pelts and frozen decay. He smells like home.

“And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.”

Guillermo never really left him, did he? Two decades spent building a human life, and with one simple embrace he is back on Staten Island, a nineteen-year-old boy knocking on a pagan god’s front door and offering himself in sacrifice.

“Nandor,” he cries. It’s a plea, a demand, a tribute, a prayer. Once the name falls from his lips he can’t stop. “Nandor. Nandor. Nandor. Nandor. Nandor. Nan--”

The vampire shushes him, bringing his hand up to cradle Guillermo’s head against his chest. That voice, rich and deep, rumbles through the fabric of the leather vest and into Guillermo’s tear-streaked cheek. “I am sorry, my Guillermo. Your mama… she was a good lady. She took care of you, kept you safe and happy after…” he trails off, clearing his throat uncomfortably. His arms tighten around Guillermo. “I am so very sorry.”

Guillermo clings to him, hands fisting in the cape, tugging at the material until Nandor is forced to stoop down. Guillermo closes his eyes, terrified of opening them to find that this is all a dream. Some kind of religious vision that will dissipate in a cloud of smoke if he breaks the spell. Nandor’s face is so close, he can feel the vampire’s cool breath on his cheeks. Guillermo presses forward, nuzzling his face into the whiskers of Nandor’s beard, gasping at the soft caress of long hair against his face.

“Is this real?” Guillermo whispers; his words are fragile, like moth’s wings fluttering through the air between them. “Master, is it really you?”

“Who else would it be, Guillermo?” Nandor chides in the same old amused tone that Guillermo has preserved in his heart like dried flower petals between the pages of the family bible. “Who else but me? It’s always me, Guillermo.”

Thumbs wipe away the salty, stinging tears from Guillermo’s cheeks and the human huffs out a sound that’s a laugh, a sob and a cry of joy all at once.

“It’s always you, master,” he agrees and seconds later he feels the cool, miraculous brush of Nandor’s lips on his.

“Almighty God, cleanse my heart and my lips that I may worthily proclaim your Gospel.”

Guillermo’s eyes fly open. Dark hair and pale, luminous skin fill his vision. Arms--powerful, undeniable--wrap around his soft little human form. He melts into Nandor, all the strength in his limbs bleeding away until the vampire’s strong grip is the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees. He’s resplendent, overjoyed to give himself up to the predatory angel before him.

The grief--a hollow, aching hole in his chest--is still there. But with it is a new sensation, at once well-known and utterly novel: ecstasy, fulfillment, completion. To be united with Nandor finally, after decades of pining, feels unreal and yet meant to be. It’s everything he’s dreamed of and denied dreaming of for so long.

Nandor’s lips slide against his own, cool to the touch yet soft and welcoming. Nothing like the hard and forbidding marble he’d always imagined. Nandor’s mouth is pliant and giving; it’s not unlike kissing a mortal man… as if Nandor isn’t the untouchable celestial being of his dark dreams, but flesh and--yes--blood. Guillermo flicks out his tongue and traces his master’s full, pouting lower lip. Nandor opens his mouth at once, granting him the entry he seeks. How can this be happening? After a lifetime of longing and supplication?

“Guillermo,” Nandor says his name like a plea, his lips brushing, the syllables melting into their kiss. “My Guillermo. You’re mine, still, aren’t you? Will you be mine?”

Guillermo mouth molds to his master’s. Nandor’s beard drags against the soft skin of his chin and cheeks. He pulls himself away long enough to answer. “Yes, Nandor. I’m still yours. If you’ll still be mine. Oh, God , please tell me you’re mine, Nandor!”

God. For the first time in eight centuries, Nandor feels no pain at the holy word. Instead it dribbles from Guillermo’s lips, melting into their kiss and tasting like sweet honey. Yes, he thinks, finally allowing his hands to roam down his human supplicant’s body. Yes, I am your god, little mortal. And you are mine.

The words spark in the night air, a spell that will keep them safe so long as they don’t stop touching. “I’m yours, Guillermo. Forever.”

They tumble to the earth, a tangle of grasping limbs, rolling hips and desperate, longing kisses. Nandor breaks their fall, landing in the dewy grass with a soft grunt and clutching Guillermo to his chest with reverent care. Guillermo is alight with sensation. Prayers fall from his lips, holy words that once would have sent his master hissing and flinching, but which now seem to feed him.

“Nandor, my god!” He pulses his pelvis with every repetition of the name. “God, I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

Love . A word that should bring Nandor as much pain as the other and yet… Guillermo’s heartache, his abandon, his devotion have unlocked something inside of him. He lets himself free. His hands clench Guillermo’s backside and squeeze; he grinds their pelvises together in fervent desperation. Guillermo settles heavily on his chest, sinking his fingers into the vampire’s soft hair and raining kisses on his face.

“You will give yourself to me, won’t you?” Nandor whispers, an edge of uncertainty in his voice. “Finally?”

The weight of ecstasy and sorrow on Guillermo’s soul leaves no room for the exasperation that he should rightfully feel at those words. As if Guillermo has not given himself to Nandor every day for his entire adult life. As if he wouldn’t have gladly killed to be in this position decades before. But here, in this holy place, in the communion of their bodies and souls, Guillermo doesn’t scoff. He presses a gentle, wet, lingering kiss to Nandor’s lips before answering.

“You already have me, Master.”

“ Take this... and eat of it, for this is my Body, which will be given up for you.”

They lay Nandor’s cape out on the grass like a blanket. It’s almost completely dark in the shadowy undergrowth, but Guillermo still blushes as he shrugs off his suit coat and begins unbuttoning his shirt, aware of the vampire’s heightened senses. The darkness presses up against Guillermo’s eyeballs; he strains to see merely the faintest outline of Nandor’s powerful frame. His face is a dark blur except for his eyes. Nandor’s predator eyes drink in every bit of ambient light and reflect it back at Guillermo. They glow. Hallowed, fiery rings in the night.

Guillermo is no longer a virgin. He feels a small, pitiful pang at the knowledge that he can’t give Nandor that part of himself. He’s slept with a few men over the years. But he’s never truly offered himself to any of them like he’s doing now. Guillermo takes off his shirt, his undershirt. He toes off his shoes and socks and undoes his belt. It’s cold and the cape is starting to absorb the dew and chill from the solid earth beneath, but he doesn’t shiver as he removes his pants and underwear. He lays on his back, nude, flushed, panting and achingly hard. He doesn’t feel the icy wind that raises goosebumps on his arms and hardens the pink tips of his nipples to little nubs. He is a sacrifice; an offering; a tribute. The cold can’t touch him now. Not with the fire of his lord’s eyes keeping him warm.

Nandor’s hands paint ribbons of freezing flame on his skin. They brush lightly, teasingly across his belly, his chest, his thighs. The vampire drapes himself over Guillermo and the human realizes that he’s also undressed. They both gasp as their rigid, leaking erections bump against each other. Guillermo bucks his hips in uncontrolled desire and he feels Nandor sink his fingers into the ample flesh of his thighs to hold him still. A huff of breathy amusement falls from the vampire’s lips. He grabs Guillermo up in another passionate kiss, nipping and licking his lips. A keening, vulnerable moan bubbles up from the vampire’s throat. He clutches Guillermo’s tender body against his cold,, cadaverous frame. Tears--frigid and laced with blood-- fall down his cheeks and mingle with Guillermo’s.

“Guillermo!” Nandor gasps, pulling back. His hands trace patterns on the pulsing hot skin of Guillermo’s neck. The human waits and listens to his master’s labored breathing. A plea hangs in the air between them. “Will you give me this as well, Guillermo? Your blood?”

“With faith in your love and mercy I eat your Body and drink your Blood.”

For the first time, Guillermo wonders if Nandor comes here every week with the intention of offering worship just as he does.

“Take it, Nandor,” he commands. His voice is strong, unwavering, loud in the solitude of their secluded grove. He reaches up blindly and takes Nandor’s face between his hands, guiding him down to the cradle of his neck until the vampire’s cool lips press against his skin. “Drink.”

Nandor whispers something against Guillermo’s neck before biting down. The words are an unintelligible susurrous. He recognizes them as Al Quolanudarese. And though he’s incapable of parsing them, they feel like secret magic words. Words that finally pulverize the last brick in the wall between them. Guillermo knows their meaning in his bones, in his heart, in his soul.

Nandor’s fangs pierce and bruise. His bite is brutal and honest. This is Nandor; no hiding, no subterfuge. He is violence and blood and frozen kisses. He is also the tender stroking of fingers along Guillermo’s tear-stained cheeks and the broken sob he makes an instant before the blood begins to flow. Guillermo’s eyes flutter shut and he fists his hands in the cape beneath him. Take me, take me, take me , he begs.

Blood and body.

He buries his hands in Nandor’s hair, cupping the crown of his head as nonsense prayers fall from his lips. He invokes every sacred symbol he knows. Nandor’s mouth; his tongue; his hands; his cock. The bedroom under the stairs. The candlelit crypt. The parking lot at the immigration office. The blood-stained robe from Celeste’s orgy. The ancestry reports. Wooden stakes and crucifixes. The claw-foot bathtub. Nandor’s hair oils. His coffin. Bubble gum and mason jars and flashcards and feather dusters and boot polish and ice chips and a portrait made from glitter: two men, impossibly hopeful, naive and in love.

When Nandor finally retracts his fangs from Guillermo’s neck, he laps at the spilled blood, kissing the soft, torn skin with a grateful, remorseful, worshipful reverence.

“My Guillermo,” he cries over and over again, rocking his hips subconsciously and panting as their cocks slide against one another. When he draws up on his elbows Guillermo can see his blood marring those perfectly cruel lips and staining his full beard. His voice is thick with tears. “Your blood, Guillermo. It’s…”

Guillermo nods, wiping Nandor’s cheeks even as his own tears fall into his hairline. “I know, Nandor. You’re mine now. Always.”

The vampire bows his head, pressing his lips to Guillermo’s soft chest directly over his rapidly beating heart. “Your blood is rushing, Guillermo. So eager to give me your life.”

Guillermo sighs, running his hands down the length of Nandor’s sides, squeezing his soft flanks and raising his hips to grind against him.

“And what are you eager to give me, Nandor?”

Nandor brings his hand up to Guillermo’s neck and catches the blood that still flows there. He hovers over Guillermo, balancing on one elbow as he moves his other hand between them and slides his wet, bloody fingers into the cleft of Guillermo’s backside. Guillermo feels the slick of his lifeblood against his sensitive skin as Nandor’s fingers probe and press into his entrance. A shiver wracks his frame at the utter indecency, the absolute sacrilege.

“Fuck,” Guillermo hisses as the first finger breaches the tight ring of muscle and enters him. “God! Nandor, yes.”

Nandor whimpers in gratitude at his human’s praise. He speaks absently, in the grips of religious ecstasy, “Let me show you, Guillermo. Please, let me show you.”

Guillermo writhes and nods his head, arching his back as another finger joins the first. “Show me you love me, Nandor. Show me you fucking worship me.”

A strangled growl fills the little grove and Nandor picks up the pace of his thrusting fingers, subtly rocking his erection against the tender skin of Guillermo’s thigh as he goes. His breath mingles with Guillermo’s as he leans in and presses their lips together in a slow, aching kiss. He inserts a third finger, stretching Guillermo out and swallowing the man’s groan.

“Now, Nandor,” an echo of desperation and sorrow tinges his voice. Nandor scrambles to comply. He removes his fingers, kneeling between Guillermo’s spread legs and placing shaking hands on the insides of his generous thighs, steadying himself.

Nandor doesn’t speak, but the sound of his breathing might as well be a love letter. He’s panting, there’s a hitch in his breath, a tremor in his fingers. Guillermo feels the tip of him against his hole and he nearly sobs with relief and joy and loss and guilt and exasperation. Why now? After all these years? Why on the night of his mother’s funeral when he is ragged and raw? Why couldn’t they have had this when Guillermo was still young and so pitifully in love with Nandor that he was willing to tarnish his soul for the vampire’s convenience? He thinks these things with regret, with melancholy longing and wistfulness; but never with anger.

This is his Nandor and Guillermo will take him and cherish him until he is buried in the ground. Nandor presses forward, entering him inch by inch. Stars burst in Guillermo’s eyes and amidst the furious physical sensations, a feverish thought flits through his head. When Guillermo is dead he wants to be buried in this very spot, in the soil beneath their naked bodies, on the site of their long-delayed consummation. The idea should repulse him, or sadden him, but instead it just feels right. He pictures Nandor visiting his grave every Sunday for the rest of the time and cants his hips, taking the vampire deeper as the blood trickles from his neck and his cock smears precum onto his belly.

Their bodies move together in a rhythm that’s both familiar and wonderfully new. They cling, claw, grab and stroke. Nandor’s length fills Guillermo; the vampire’s fingers wrap around Guillermo’s rigid cock and pump him as he thrusts. The words that fall from their lips are a heady, nonsensical, sacred blend of Spanish, Al Quolanudarese and English. Love is only the beginning. This is yearning, devotion, allegiance, becoming, undoing, transforming. Nandor is god is Guillermo is Nandor. They are whole for the first time in their lives.

The climax takes them both at the same time. Guillermo sobs, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as Nandor roars above him. Nandor spills his plentiful vampiric seed inside of him as Guillermo’s cum shoots out in hot ropes that paint his and Nandor’s bellies. He lets his softening cock fall from Guillermo’s body as he collapses down, pillowing his head on Guillermo’s chest and gasping for air that he doesn’t need. Guillermo cards his fingers through his hair and weeps.

He’s crying for the boy he once was. The one who loved his amá and wanted to make her proud. The boy who fell in love with a demon. The boy who dreamed and hoped and prayed and was disappointed. He’s crying for Nandor, too, who has lived for centuries without ever allowing himself to acknowledge the soft animal of his own emotions. And he’s crying for his amá, whose heart he broke for a decade and who never, ever stopped believing in him even when he came home at the age of 30, jobless, soulless, and ruined.

Nandor nuzzles his cheek against Guillermo’s sparsely-haired chest, pressing kisses into his sweat-slick skin and tracing patterns over his stomach with long, elegant fingers.

“I can hear your heartbeat, Guillermo,” he whispers. “Did you know I could always hear your heartbeat? It’s not usual. I mean, yes, of course vampires have super hearing, but we learn to tune all that out, you know? But never with you, my Guillermo. I listened to every beat of your little heart for eleven years. I was so afraid one day it would stop…”

In the soft, sacred dark Guillermo can finally ask the question, “Then why didn’t you ever turn me? You could’ve had me forever, immortal. Why, Nandor?”

Nandor sits up and his eyes glow as he looks down at Guillermo, a frown in his voice, “I didn’t want it to stop, Guillermo. I didn’t want to be the one to...make it stop.”

Guillermo shuts his eyes and they are quiet for a long, long time. He holds Nandor in his arms. The chill of the night air finally affects him and he shivers once. Nandor grabs the edge of the cape and pulls it over Guillermo to shield him. They lay beside each other, touching, breathing, listening. Guillermo traces the outline of Nandor’s lips, letting his finger dip inside his mouth and feeling the sharp edge of his fangs. Nandor allows it. Of course he does. He could not deny Guillermo anything. Not in this place. Not anywhere else, either. The knowledge settles in his veins, flows through him like Guillermo’s blood.

“Guillermo,” Nandor begins, drawing out the last syllable like he used to. “It is not too late…”

It’s a statement and a question. Guillermo holds his breath, waiting for the vampire to elaborate, but Nandor remains silent. A moment later he feels Nandor’s cold skin pressed to his lips. There’s warmth there, too, borrowed from his body. He tastes blood as Nandor presses his wrist firmly to Guillermo’s mouth.

“It’s not too late,” he repeats.

“May this mingling of the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, bring eternal life to us who receive it.”

#wwdits fanfic #nandor x guillermo #nandermo #guillermo x nandor #guillermo de la cruz #nandor the relentless #smut #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fanfic

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goose-books · 4 years ago

Photo

(original image credit to @/theyshane on unsplash)

a month or so ago the wonderful and very sharp-fanged @yvesdot said i should make a post about the process of Working On A Podcast - what, exactly, does that entail? and so today i set down upon your table a long post about the process of this podcast, its unique struggles, and What Comes Next!

for those of you who are new here: a modern tragedy is my podcast-in-progress, a loose retelling of three of shakespeare’s plays (romeo&juliet, hamlet, and macbeth) set in a modern-day high school. or, alternatively, “so so much drama localized inside a few overlapping friend groups of gay* people”

post under the cut!

tag list (ask me to be added/removed): @piyawrites @harehearts @bisexualorlando @guulabjamuns

*well. gay people and indrajit “macbitch” chopra. never let it be said i don’t have cishet rep 😤

what i mean when i say “podcast”

sometimes when i say, “i’m writing a podcast,” people get the wrong idea - they think i’m going to sit down, maybe with some friends as guest stars, and talk into a microphone for an hour. what i really mean is that i’m writing a fiction podcast - something like an audio drama, if you will.

i’ve had this story concept for a long time (since i realized i was gay, actually. sometime around my coming out i was like “...sapphic romeo and juliet. oh i’m a genius”), but it never really worked as a novel. my inspiration for making it a podcast was the penumbra podcast! which i am not caught up on but which dragged me shirt-collar-first into the world of podcasts. [blowing a kiss to mars] for juno steel.

i will admit that i actually... haven’t listened to a ton of podcasts. mostly because my incredibly helpful attention-deficit brain said listening to things is impossible forever. but let me tell you that starting to write AMT in script format worked immediately. and in hindsight? it makes sense. i mean, i am retelling some of the most famous plays of all time... why not get a little theatrical with it?

the process so far

the podcast is drafted! all 16 episodes of it. all... 176k words of it... only took me a year and a half...

i have my main cast together! AMT has a lot of side characters, not all of whom are cast yet, but my main recurring squad is gathered and i love them all VERY dearly. (also, the population of people i know irl is 75% theater kid. so i think i will be able to figure out the side character thing.)

within the group of voice actors, i also have three assistant directors, a term i use loosely because mostly i just mean… those are my right hand men. the main folks i bounce ideas off of and the main folks i have helping me organize all of this. i’ve said multiple times that i’m just the keyboard monkey and would be hopelessly out of my depth without my beloved assdirectors. (shoutout to @asimpleram, the only one who uses tumblr, you are my best friend and i love you oh so much)

i also have two “bootydirectors” who gave themselves that name and that’s just the people who know the most about recording technology and acting. thanks kings

right now the scripts have been sent out to some sensitivity readers and i am currently editing! (both with regards to sensitivity reader feedback, and also just editing the plot and character arcs in general.) (if you want me to send you AMT and you’re willing to give me your thoughts i will straight-up send it to you honestly just know it’s LONG)

i actually did not consider that writing this might be uniquely hard before i started

fun max tip: if you look too far ahead down the road and realize the breadth of the project you’re taking on you’ll freak yourself out so just dive into things headfirst without checking both ways or considering your actions!!! [i am giving you a double thumbs up from behind my monitor]

i have never written anything like AMT before! it has been an experience! there have been some unique struggles!

working with other people is harder than i expected! which is not about my group, all of whom are lovely people. it is about me and my little OCD rat brain that hates letting go of control. even though... an inherent part of writing a script... is that at some point other people will be involved... wild, i know.

9 main characters! AMT has 9 main characters. this is somewhat excusable because the whole thing is episodic and more like a season of a tv show than a novel. but still. 9 main characters. why did i do that

i’ve never written episodically before, so i’ve had to figure out how to fit the plot into appropriately spaced intervals. there are three running plotlines (one for each play), and they’re all parallel and eventually convergent. so everything’s happening at once and it’s… hard to make episodes that aren’t just “max threw a bunch of scenes together because they were happening at the same time.” (i will admit i’ve defaulted to chronological order when spacing episodes, so the timeline doesn’t get confusing. but i hope each episode is cohesive on its own.)

balancing the tragedy and comedy in tragicomedy has been… interesting. i do to some degree feel like AMT’s gone darker than i initially imagined it; while it’s a high school retelling of these plays (and thus there’s no. there’s no murder. the only person who dies is isaac’s dad and that’s six years precanon), all three plays deal to differing degrees with suicide, among other things, and it felt… disingenuous not to write about that from a modern high schooler’s perspective.

i can guarantee a long-term happy ending for AMT! i cannot guarantee much about what’s in the middle. (there are sixteen episodes; one of my directors likened episode 7 to a five-act play’s third act, when things really start to… hit the fan. he’s right and i’m obsessed with thinking about it that way)

the massive amount of time i have been working on the thing: i started writing this podcast in january 2019. i finished writing it this past summer (2020). that’s two summers that have passed without my recording it (which is obviously easier to organize in the summer… or it was before covid but you get my point). this is… a little disheartening? i don’t know; oftentimes i underestimate how long writing projects will take me. what it comes down to is my urge to put out content vs. my urge to make it perfect…

…especially since i’m technically competing with one william f. shakespeare. (the f is for fucking.) i mean, dear old billy shakes DID write the plot out for me ahead of time, which i appreciate, but still…

AMT is absolutely consumable if you don’t know the first goddamn thing about shakespeare’s works. that said. i assume some of the people who will listen to it are shakespeare enthusiasts, casual or otherwise, and that’s a little terrifying! AMT is a shakespeare retelling, but i’ve made these characters very much my own, and i suppose i worry about how others will approach that, and whether they will disagree with my interpretations, or the way i’ve adapted the plots, and so on and so forth... i just have to live with this one, honestly. i think i could edit AMT for a thousand years and probably still find something to change about it, so i will simply have to get over myself.

that said, i don’t regret the amount of time i’ve spent on it! i think the time i’ve taken to draft and edit these episodes has been well worth the wait; i’m genuinely very happy with what i’ve created, and whether or not you agree with, say, my interpretation of a modern hamlet family dynamic, i hope it’ll still be enjoyable!

so what’s next?

as i said earlier, the scripts are currently in the hands of sensitivity readers, and i’m editing!

over the summer, the cast met on zoom frequently to read through and rehearse scenes. and i will not lie it was the most fucking fun i’ve had this entire wretched interminable year. i am constantly charmed and befuddled by the feeling of Listening To My Words Read Out Loud By A Human Voice and also i love my friends so very much

we have a tentative plan to gather the cast (socially distanced and responsibly, of course) over thanksgiving break to make some actual stabs at recording! i am too afraid to concretely promise AMT Episode 1: Fortune’s Fool by the end of 2020 but like… i’m not NOT promising it! send me your finest vibes. we’re close.

#max.txt #amt tag #the amt cast has a blursed discord server which i have not posted a link to publicly because it’s mostly people i know irl #but if you're one of the folks who's read all of amt which is... a few of you... and you want into the server... dm me #we used to use it to organize rehearsals but now that school's started it's mostly just been me complaining about editing i won't lie #max shouts into the void in his personal liveblog channel while 90% of the cast is offline #anyway i reread this post like three times to make sure it makes sense because i'm illiterate <3

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yakocchi · 5 years ago

Photo

Melted Down by an Extreme Love // Count

beh, the count card is a ranking prize so I can’t use a nice rip of it as the header until after the event so... this will have to do. idk i guess i could use the faust one but that’s false advertising

Honestly, I probably could’ve gotten that all-chara card in that set and it’s more worth it than having to try to rank but… I just can’t spend 8.5k dia on an expiring set of event points it just sounds especially wasteful. Man, if you’re going to do that just bundle it with stamina items instead. Though I guess that would be too good of a deal

I just want the Count card bro. smh. I think Charles might even shape up to be more popular than he is, so why is his card the lower tier one… yea I’m salty but as you’ll see in this event route easily salty people are attracted to other saltines

Spoilers under the cut. Please credit if you take any of it, thenk u (･ω･*) image heavy!! bc i decided to use screencaps to break down this post. tumblr formatting ehuehhh???

—It was a still night in a single room, when a deep voice sweetly rang. [Count]: “So, it is time to administer your punishment.” He pulled my arm with great strength and my body sank into the bed. [Kara]: “A-ah…!” The Count, slowly… as if to steal away the possibility of escape, hung over my body, the bedsprings thickly creaking under the added weight. [Count]: “Did you not expect me to do this to you tonight? Not even a little bit?” [Kara]: “—Hn-” (“Expect”…I couldn’t have expected anything like this, at all.) (I hadn’t realized it at that time...)

...

—It had all started today, early in the afternoon.

[Kara]: “Leonardo, are you in? I brought your things, but…” I had received a parcel during work and was thus summoned to Leonardo’s room. I called out from outside the door, and there was a reply after a moment. [Leonardo]: “Come in. Just - tread lightly, all right?” (Tread lightly…?) Tilting my head, I opened the door the way I usually do when… [Leonardo]: “Wh- Watch out…!”

The moment I opened the door—

With a rustling sound, a tall pile of books came tumbling down like an avalanche.

[Kara]: “Waah…?!” (There’s no way I can avoid that…!)

The very moment I had thought that, I was struck by the drifting scent of sweet tobacco. Returning to my senses, I found myself collapsed over the floor - with Leonardo hanging over me as cover.

[Leonardo]: “…Sorry about that, sweetheart. You’re not hurt?” [Kara]: “I-I’m all right…” (That surprised me a bit, but—…) [Leonardo]: “Nice. Well… I knew it was gonna fall over one of these days, but I didn’t think that would be now.”

⋆ i was about to say, wow my hero we stan etc. but yea this was kind of your own doing huh

Looking over at the mess of books on the floor, he chuckled. But then… [Count]: “Leonardo, I heard a loud noise, but…” Those words were coupled with the sound of footsteps coming through the open door. My eyes widened and turned to face that direction… (Th-The Count!) [Count]: “…Kara, what on earth are you doing?” When I had turned my gaze, I was met with my favorite golden eyes looking down at me scattered across the floor.

[Kara]: “Umm, that’s—” [Leonardo]: “As you can see, I’ve pinned her down here.” [Kara]: “Wha—! Hold on, Leonardo, what are you saying?!” [Count]: “…” I hurriedly rose from the floor to look up at the Count, who had fallen silent. [Kara]: “Count, that’s not true. I…” [Count]: “Ah, Kara, I know.” The Count replied with an apparent smile, before shifting his eyes back… [Count]: “Leonardo. It would be well to tidy your room a bit more already.” With only those words, he left the room.

[Kara]: “Ah… Count…” [Leonardo]: “…Heh.”

Leonardo let out an amused snort, and I naturally puffed my cheeks at him. [Kara]: “Jeez... Leonardo, why would you say something like that?” [Leonardo]: “Yeesh, don’t get too mad. From time to time, it’s a bit fun to tear off our beloved Count’s mask of complacency, eh?” [Leonardo]: “He’s the type of guy who hides his passion and other troubling emotions behind a mask, you know.” [Leonardo]: “So it’s amusing to get to that point where his true thoughts come out.” [Kara]: “’Amusing’…” I could only sigh at Leonardo’s typical devilishly-smirking self. (The Count said that he knew the situation, but… I should make sure that there isn’t a misunderstanding.)

...

That evening after work, my thoughts were naturally occupied with the Count. (Even if what happened earlier was just an accident, I want to discuss it properly this time.)

I peek into the dining room looking for him, and there sat the man himself. With lowered eyes and a teacup on hand, he appeared to be deep in thought about something.

[Kara]: “Count…?” [Count]: “…Kara. Is something the matter?” He wore the same smile as he always did; but for some reason, I couldn’t shake off this awkward feeling. [Kara]: “Um…” (I really want to explain the situation from earlier, but… something about it is hard to put into words.) While I was searching for the right words to say, the Count’s eyes narrowed… [Count]: “If this is about what had happened with Leonardo earlier, I already understand.” [Count]: “Leonardo had protected you from some falling books, correct?” [Count]: “And about that claim of having ‘pinned you down’ - he was only playing around too much.”

My heart finally relaxed at his gentle tone. (I wouldn’t expect anything less from the Count.) (Well, if I think about it… Since they’ve lived together for a long time, it’s not a surprise that they would know each other’s ways quite well.) (With that, he would never make that big of a misunderstanding.)

[Kara]: “Hehe, I’m glad that there wasn’t a misunderstanding. Since Leonardo’s always purposefully messing around, I was restless about it.”

[Kara]: “But, I really was worried. I thought you would care about that sort of thing—” [Count]: “… ‘That sort of thing’, huh.” [Kara]: “Eh?” Turning my eyes at the sound of a low mutter, I see him get up from his chair.

[Count]: “—From my angle,” [Count]: “I had said that I understood the situation, but I do not recall saying that I do not care about it.” (Huh…?) [Kara]: “…Count?” He had swiftly rose from his seat and was slowly making his way towards me. (The Count, he… the air around him is different.) It was... the mood that surrounded him when it was only the two of us.

[Count]: “Of course, I understand that he intentionally instigated the matters of the situation.” [Count]: “But, even then…” The crisp clicks of his footsteps approached, step by step, before promptly stopping right in front of my eyes.

[Count]: “That the sight of you, before my very own eyes, pinned down by another man, would not incite jealousy… Is that what you are thinking of me?”

[Count]: “If so—” [Kara]: “…!”

He captured my chin into his long fingers, turning it upwards. His focused golden irises were filled with so much emotion that a single glance could not capture its entirety. My heart leapt a beat.

[Count]: “Kara, you do not yet understand me.”

The moment my eyes widen, with my chin in his grasp— He stole my lips.[Kara]: “Nn… uh-“ His wet lips joined mine over and over, and a sweet sensation kindled in the air.

[Kara]: “Count, someone might come-… ah, mm-“ [Count]: “Do not get distracted, Kara.”

When I protested between kisses— He immediately grabbed my jaw, sealing my lips to swallow my words. (Even though it’s still bright out…) The fear of potentially being seen by someone melded with the aggressive heat, and it heightened this strange sense of immorality.

[Count]: “…Hah…Hh,” Our lips separated for a moment and his breath mingled with mine. At that moment, my mind suddenly recalled something…

[Leonardo]: “Yeesh, don’t get too mad. From time to time, it’s a bit fun to tear off our beloved Count’s mask of complacency, eh?” [Leonardo]: “He’s the type of guy who hides his passion and other troubling emotions behind a mask, you know.”

(Could it be that… Just now, the Count…) With his face right by mine, I could see his hidden passion, now unmasked of the veneer of placidity. When I had realized this, there came the sound of footsteps in the hallway and the Count’s hands promptly released me. Instead, his lips approached the shell of my ear—

[Count]: “—Let’s continue this tonight, shall we?”

[Kara]: “… Mn.” His voice, tinged with heat, made my cheeks burn... and I inadvertently detached further away from him when I heard the door open.

[Leonardo]: “Oh. Did I intrude on something here?” (…The footsteps from before must have been Leonardo’s.) [Kara]: “Ah, no, you’re fine. I’m done here,” Shaking my head in a fluster, I briskly slipped past Leonardo to leave the dining room.

...

(That moment from before… was that really the Count’s jealousy?) (I know it would be in poor taste to make him jealous on purpose. But…) There lied a part of me that wanted to, once again, touch upon the heat that I had witnessed behind the mask.

[Count]: “—Let’s continue this tonight, shall we?” (The Count’s feelings… I want to feel them more.) Pondering his whispers in my ear, my heartbeat quickened… and I felt my face burn up to my ears.

...

Watching Kara leave, Leonardo gave a small chuckle towards the Count. [Leonardo]: “That face on the little sweetheart… I reckon you’re guilty of that? And to think you ragged on me earlier.” [Count]: “A certain someone had riled me up to begin with, so I merely went along with it. Besides…” [Count]: “Even if you didn’t ask about me that, on purpose— I would think that you of all people would know what’s going on in my head?” The face he gave Leonardo was a composed one, but the heat from just a moment ago still lingered within it.

[Leonardo]: “Well, whatever. Our beloved Count has finally realized how unbearably adorable the sweetheart in his arms is, but…” [Leonardo]: “…Don’t go overboard, all right?” [Count]: “…” The Count simply smiled. Leonardo shrugged his shoulders at his masked old friend before lighting a cigarette.

⋆ The Count simply smiled, knowing that because Leonardo had been a punkass beech to him today he was going to ignore his advice. both of u deserve each other ( ´_ゝ｀)

...

That night—

Surprised by the knock at the door, I slowly opened it to find… [Kara]: “The Count…” [Count]: “Kara, may I come in?” I nodded, and the Count slipped into the room before shutting the door behind him. As if that sound was a signal (for something)— I was suddenly aware of the distance between the two of us and my heart noisily thumped, quickening in pace.

[Count]: “Could it be that you were obediently waiting for me?” (…guh. Appearing as if I had waited for him to “continue” is pretty embarrassing, but…) [Kara]: “…Yes.” He smiled at my straightforward answer. It was a gentle expression, but there was visibly some sort of implication behind it. [Count]: “…”

⋆ i like to imagine that he was just standing there like ( ﾟ∀ﾟ)ｼﾞｰｯ for like 5 minutes. sir you’re scaring me

While calming my rising heartbeat, I stared at him smiling right before me. (First, I need to properly apologize for what had happened earlier today.)

[Count]: “That the sight of you, before my very own eyes, pinned down by another man would not incite jealousy… is that what you are thinking of me?”

Though I am a bit happy about his jealousy, having made him feel that way had been on my chest for a long time. When I had opened my mouth to speak these thoughts—

[Count]: “So, it is time to administer your punishment.”

⋆ ctrl c + ctrl v haha aw ye

He pulled my arm with great strength and my body sank onto the bed. [Kara]: “A-ah…!” The Count, slowly… as if to steal away the possibility of escape, hung over my body, the bedsprings thickly creaking under the added weight. [Count]: “Did you not expect me to do this to you tonight? Not even a little bit?” [Kara]: “–Hn-”

Looking down at me from above, a smile began to slowly spread over his face. [Count]: “So that from now on, you will no longer carelessly enter men’s rooms and get pinned down…” [Count]: “I’ve been thinking that tonight, I shall violate even that easy nature of yours.”

⋆ or “trample on”, if you want something a little more visceral

I was left speechless by his extreme words, unfitting for the soft smile on his lips. [Kara]: “Ah- Please, wait…” Placing a hand to his chest, I tried to resist, but… these hands were easily pinned to the sheets. [Count]: “Do you honestly think… that I will grant that wish of yours tonight?”

Premium Ending

⋆ the Sweet Ending tl;dr pretty much lets her explain her thoughts but they reach the same boning conclusion because she wants to be punished anyway. wowee

[Kara]: “…kgh.”

My body instinctively trembled with a jump, and without an answer to give him… his finger suddenly traced along the vein of my neck.

[Kara]: “Mn, Count..?” [Count]: “First, let’s help you to properly understand just who you belong to, shall we?”

The next moment, he buried his face into my neck— and sharply sucking the skin, a sweet pain ran down my body.

[Kara]: “Ah…” The Count lifted his body slightly, dropping his gaze to my throat. [Count]: “When I leave a mark, it looks just as if I had bitten you.” [Kara]: “Cou-… Ah…” Speaking in a seemingly-amused tone, he buried his face once more. Trailing down, his lips… on the collarbone, on the chest… teasingly left traces of both pain and pleasure. Every time a red mark was left, this heat rose like a flame. (My skin… little by little, it’s like it’s being dyed by the Count.) (Dyed only in... his color.) [Count]: “The only person who can push you down like this should be me. Isn’t that right?”

[Count]: “Next—…” Smiling, his finger touched my lips— While pushing my gently-shut lips open with his thumb, he continued to speak.

[Count]: “I’ll help you to properly understand my thoughts— My bare jealousy and desire to keep you all to myself.” [Kara]: “Eh–…Mn, ah-“ With a kiss that swallowed my voice, he teased my mouth with his tongue. (Nn…This kiss, is more intense than usual…) Our tongues tangled with a wet sound, our sighs mingling. In his kiss that seemed to devour everything, both my breath and mind gradually muddled. (The inside of his mouth… it’s hot enough to burn.) (Is this, the Count’s thoughts…?) Finally, my lips were released… and my vision was blurred from my teary eyes, having been enraptured by the kiss. Wiping the corners of my eyes, the Count gave a bewitching smile. [Count]: “…Do you understand now?” [Kara]: “Y-Yes…”

⋆ (made her cry) expectation: “oh fuc im sorry child” reality: “lmao (more turned on)”

(That passion… to the point where it makes my head all dizzy…) (Ah… I can’t even think about anything but him.) When I nodded obediently, his eyes narrowed before his lips took on a dubious curve… [Count]: “But… it doesn’t end here.” The fingertips that were stroking the corner of my eyes began to move down along the contour of my body.

[Count]: “Kara. I am not saying that I do not want you going into any other man’s room.” [Count]: “Everyone in this mansion is, indeed, like family. I would like you to deepen those bonds as you wish. It is just that…” [Count]: “Even if they are family, I am not taken with you showing your vulnerabilities to others.” [Count]: “—Much less something like getting pinned down.”

As his words trailed, a long finger slid down the line of my neck…. down my chest… [Kara]: “Mn…”

I subconsciously teared up once more, as there lied the sensation of my body being traced over the surface of my blouse - to tease me. His gold irises locked with mine, as if aiming, shooting for prey.

[Count]: “Kara. The ones allowed to your heart and body… you know who they are, don’t you?”

(Ah…) Even my very thoughts were stolen away under those firm eyes. A small, bleary voice came out— but it gave a definite answer.

[Kara]: “Only to the Count… They’re only, for Abel.”

[Count]: “…Correct, Kara.” [Count]: “I won’t allow you to accept any man besides myself into your heart and body.”

A large hand snuck under the hem of my blouse, gently caressing the skin. [Kara]: “Hn… Abel-…“ [Count]: “…The one who may reveal every part of you, is only myself.” He tore off my blouse, dropping kisses all over my exposed skin. Pecking here and there, it gave only this frustrating sensation. Heat slowly rose from the core of my body.

[Kara]: “…Mm, hah…” [Count]: “What’s the matter…? You look unsatisfied.” [Kara]: “…Mh, it’s not…” “like that,” is what I had meant to say, but my words had faltered into nothingness. [Count]: “Truly, you are so lovely with your open heart... it is wicked.”

⋆ versus [Count]: “You are, truly, so lovely with your openness/honest nature… it is an ill-natured trait (to have).” when he means by her “openness”, “easiness”, etc. he’s saying that mc is very frank with her feelings. the sort of person where it’s really ez to tell wat they’re feeling and/or thinking abt, u know

[Kara]: “Ah…” With a smile, he dropped a sigh on my skin.

On one side, my body desired more of him, while the other was that in my heart, a different emotion was welling within. (This is “punishment”… but even then…) (His words are cruel, his touches are meant to tease… and yet, I’m somehow completely happy... It’s strange.)

The kisses suddenly stopped, and pulling my arm, he set me upright on the bed. [Kara]: “…?” Foggily looking back at him, I saw him guiding my hands to his clothes…

[Count]: “Now, you try and reveal me too.” [Kara]: “Eh- But.” [Count]: “I know you can do it?” (kgh- It’s embarrassing, but…) Simply nodding as his words had no room for objections, I slowly moved my fingers to loosen his clothes.

(…Ah, just doing this is making my heart beat like crazy.) His shirt finally fell with a light thud, and when I touched his bare shoulder… His skin was carrying a heat that was hot enough to melt. (It’s so hot…) (Could this be, the passion… that he’s always hiding behind a mask?) In that moment, that heat… I was touching that very heat born from his heart.

The intimate touching became unbearable— and as if that heat from inside (of him) was then released, I let out a sigh. [Count]: “Is something wrong?” [Kara]: “You’re being meaner than usual… so my heart feels like it’s about to burst.” Saying this, Abel’s smile deepened. It was not the usual smile of a composed adult, but of a man. [Count]: “Well, that’s quite the problem.” [Count]: “—Because the show starts from here.”

FIN

As usual, there’s an Epilogue with these routes. The Count one is pretty good (*´▽`*)b dunno abt the others but they’re… probably good? idk. they can’t skimp out on Arthur stuff, his JPN stans could probably single-handedly fund the game. and they’re already being spicy with the new guys already for some reason. ( ´_ゝ｀) gotta do that now to prevent audience disinterest amirite

ok sorry about the inconsistent screenshots but i want to buy my cosmic brownies now. ty for reading (*´▽`)

#ikemen vampire #spoilers

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iinfortunii · 4 years ago

Text

rules: code of conduct.

BEGIN.

Before we start, I would like you to have certain things in mind when approaching me ooc. I am very shy and quite awkward, which results in me not being much of a talker; however, I will always try my best to be friendly to whoever wants to approach. I dislike pet names so please do not use them with me unless we are very close. There will be times when I'm just exhausted, so my wording could sound rude/aggressive, to which I apologize in advance -I never mean to hurt people’s feelings. I also reserve the right to interact with WHOEVER I want, and pestering me about it will only get you blocked.

Updates will be made as required.

I. BASIC.

A. This blog is: Selective / Independent / Canon Divergent / NSFW / Mutuals only / Singleship / Mostly iconless / Multiverse / AU, Crossover, OC, and Multimuse friendly / Vaguely affiliated with the OP RP fandom.

B. I am a very slow rper for many reasons —school, family, my ever-fluctuating mood —and I would appreciate it if you refrained from pestering me for replies. In return I offer as much patience as necessary. Think of this blog as low activity please.

C. English is not my mother language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes made.

D. I track the tag #iinfortunii, although mentioning me works just as fine.

E. Constructive criticism is always welcome but anon hate will be immediately deleted. I have no problems if you disagree with my portrayal, but it doesn't give you the right to harass me.

F. Mun and muse are both over 18, so there are chances that heavy content will be present; however I won't be writing smut. I can roleplay anything before or after the act if requested, but the moment things get far too explicit, I'll do a fade-to-black. I ask of you to not lie about your age or else you’ll be blocked indefinitely.

G. This is a heavily headcanon-based blog, and changes are likely to be made as more information is revealed about him, though I reserve the right to adjust the new information according to my interpretation of Deuce or simply ignore it, which is why I’m canon divergent.

H. If you'd like to turn an ask into a thread, you can turn it into a new post, or reblog from me, as I won't be using the Tumblr asks anymore due to the problems that come with formatting and such.

I. Ask box is open for everyone ic or ooc, but you aren't allowed to turn it into a thread and nor I will reply to it if we’re not mutuals. Please don't push me, because I won't hesitate to block.

J. No godmoding —only a minor is allowed if it moves a thread forward —or metagaming, please. Don't kill Deuce either, unless plotted beforehand, and most importantly, don't hold your muse back.

K. Discord is available for mutuals upon request.

L. Just because I write something it does not mean I condone it. Please have this in mind and again, do not pester me about it. Any and all nsfw matters will be tagged accordingly. There will be triggering topics present, and you can know more about this on the section below.

M. DO NOT involve me in drama or call-out posts. I’m heavily against both things. On this note, you’ll never see me rebloging a call-out post. This culture is so damaging and toxic, and I firmly believe no one should play the role of the judge for the good of the community just because you had issues with someone or don’t agree with the things they roleplay. Talk things privately, be mature about it, hard-block the person and move on. I am also very aware that a lot of people have done things that can’t be excused, but I like to believe that people can change for the better. If you try to drag me into it, I'll hard block any and all people involved indefinitely.

II. TRIGGERS.

A. They will be tagged as trigger tw, trigger / and trigger cw.

B. I do my best to stay up to date with my mutuals triggers. Your comfort is way more important to me than you might think, so never be hesitant to approach me via IM, (anonymous) ask or stop following me.

C. Triggers that are likely to appear, although some more than others: violence || blood || death || drugs || abuse || knives || body image || medical equipment || suggestive content || etc

D. I have no triggers, so you are free to go wild with your content. I only ask you remember to tag your nsfw (both written and visual), please.

III. INTERACTIONS.

A. Deuce won't like everyone. He might/will make wrong assumptions about your character. He will insult and bite back. He won't always be nice to those he likes. He does many things that serve his interests. You, as the mun, have no reason to take it personal, because I'm won't follow someone I don't like; if you DO take it personal however, and decide to rouse drama, then I'll be hard-blocking you. Goes for me as well —I have no reason to get angry for any of the things noted above.

B. My bonds page displays the relationships that have been built over time, not necessarily through interaction alone but over plotting as well. Refer to it for more information.

C. Interactions with OCs related to canon characters will only take place as long as said OCs have a detailed about page. Personally, I'm not interested in the idea of an OC being blood-related to my portrayal, so I apologize in advance.

D. Formatting isn’t a big thing across my blogs, save for the small text. Please don’t mix either sup/sub with small text when writing with me, as I have eyesight problems. Don’t use colored text either.

E. Non-romantic pre-established relationships are allowed! Just make sure to talk it out with me first, yeah?

01. Spade / Whitebeard pirates (canon and original characters alike that i am MUTUALS with) will have a pre-established relationship as long as the other mun is comfortable with such idea, though that relationship will be limited to merely crewmates, unless discussed otherwise.

F. You don’t need to match my writing length as long as I’m given enough to work with. If something about my reply bothers or doesn’t work with you, let me know and I’ll re-work it.

G. I really enjoy plotting scenarios or talking out about the relationships my muse could have with other muses, so hit me up if you’ve got any ideas! I’ll try to do the same!

H. Mun does not equal muse, so don’t go assuming I’m a jerk simply because Deuce is an asshole from time to time. I’m set on the idea that I’ll give people the same treatment they give me —which is always nice and kind. Kudos to everyone for this ♡

I. I don’t use a threadtracker because I rely on my memory (terrible mistake, I know), but I try to draft people’s replies as soon as I see them. If by any reason it seems like I lost it, then please let me know / send me a link with it and I’ll be deeply grateful.

J. I don’t do nor reply to greetings starters for matters of my own comfort, so I ask of you to never expect a starter or a reply from them.

IV. SHIPPING.

A. Singleship, with the spot taken by daadzi, which means Deuce is no longer open for romantic relationships.

01. Under no circumstances, I will accept more romantic relationships once the spot is taken. That being said, I won’t discourage your muse from falling for / hitting on him, although I ask you to understand he will never respond with the same interest or will never react gently if he’s pushed too far.

02. If my shipping partner is comfortable enough, I'll interact with duplicates with the condition that the relationship is strictly platonic.

B. Constant interaction, mutual interest, and chemistry are a must for the sake of better communication (both ic and ooc, preferably).

C. Please do not approach me if you wish our characters to have either a: one night stand or friends with benefits type of relationships. It won’t work out due to the nature of Deuce’s personality, and for that I apologize.

E. My ship has its own tag so you're free to block it if you don't want to see it on your dashboard. In addition, I'll also tag those posts with only the ship name for this very purpose.

F. Please do not force ships on me.

V. CELEBRATIONS.

A. First off, I am absolutely terrible at keeping up with dates, and to be frank, I am not the biggest fan of celebrating, which is why I think it’s necessary to say I won’t be partaking in any holidays, not even Deuce’s birthday (not that he has one, to begin with). Obviously I will still reply to any gifts received, and will send out things in return —you know, common courtesy.

B. I won't be sending out birthday gifts every year, and I might write drabbles for people once in a blue moon; it doesn’t mean they will be done for the specific date though, so please be patient.

VI. REASONS TO NOT FOLLOW BACK / UNFOLLOW.

A. Too much drama / call-outs / vague posts / sexual content.

B. Content makes me uncomfortable.

C. You are a personal blog without a visible rp sideblog. Please make sure it's easy to find.

D. You do not have a proper tag system.

E. Your blog doesn’t have a rules and about pages.

F. You lack the manners to deal with people respectfully.

G. I have no interest / lost interest.

H. I'm constantly / only used as a meme archive.

I. Other reasons may apply. I will soft block so we can both cease following each other and avoid any potential awkward situations. I won’t make a fuss if you decide to unfollow so I expect the same courtesy.

VII. ABOUT BEATRICE.

She is not a real person. Her concept as Deuce’s (toxic) pseudolover is my creation and was somewhat inspired from the real life Beatrice Portinari. Do have in mind that Deuce doesn’t talk about her so your muse can’t simply approach him and ask about her unless they can go through his memories / read his mind / any capability alike or he speaks about her, though it won't take a genius to figure out that she's a product of his imagination.

You can read about her by clicking here -link to be added.

She serves as a lie to shield himself from the internalized homophobia he deals with up until meeting Ace.

NOTE: As stated previously, Mun =/= muse, but I too have been dealing with compulsory heterosexuality for far too long, so I'd like to apologize in advance for projecting a bit of that into my portrayal. I'll work so that this part makes sense with what we've been given from Ace's novel.

VIII. MISCELLANEOUS.

A. I will never force people to follow me, so if by any reason you have to unfollow/block me, please go ahead. Your comfort matters and have every right to do what you must to ensure your wellbeing. With that said, I will not tolerate and will immediately hard block if you try to police my content.

B. I do not follow back immediately, and it can take me from a few hours to several days to follow back. Do not take it personally if I choose not to.

C. If I follow it’s because I am interested in interacting. I only ask you to be patient because it might take me a while to gather the courage to send something to your inbox or talk to you.

D. I have. ZERO knowledge about medicine. Don’t expect me to go full force and try to be 100% accurate, because I won’t.

E. I practice reblog karma (send a meme to someone if I’m rebloging it from them). If you see something you’d like to reblog but have no intention in sending something yourself, then please reblog from the source.

IX. FINISH.

Thank you for taking the time to read this! As you might have noticed, there’s no password to send. Make sure to check the psa tag for any updates, or don’t hesitate to send an ask if there’s anything unclear! I do my best so as not to post too much OOC posts, but sometimes it just happens. If it's nothing important, then I'll erase it whenever I have the chance/remember.

Keanu Reeves vc: You’re all breathtaking!

#pinned post.#long post #❝ —talking nonsense ; ooc #❝ —off to new adventures ; queue #ooc.#queue.#[ this is a very long post btw ]

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displacedhobbit · 5 years ago

Text

Update: Greater Than Gold

AN: Whoop whoop; here’s part 3.

IDK who is still out here and reading this but I hope you enjoy!!

Also, the formatting keeps getting messed up when I try to post it on Tumblr so it’s probably better to actually read on FF.net or AO3. One day I’ll get it figured out.

Warnings: Some swearing, shoddy depictions of violence because that’s what I’m garbage at writing.

Also on FF.net and AO3

Chapter 27: Eighty-Three and Seventy-Seven - Part 3

Word Count (chapter): 9368

Thorin shifts farther back into his cell, intent on ignoring Balin’s lecture. He settles into the back wall, into the shadows, letting the din from the idotic elvish party reverberate around the stone to drown out his cousin’s rough whispering.

He knew what he was doing. At least, he thought he knew. Bilbo would come through; he was so sure of it, more sure than most anything else in his life these days. The hobbit owed him no loyalty, could have left a dozen times at least, but he never had. He had stuck with them through all of this mess - had stuck with him . Bilbo had won Thorin’s trust, and had shown the depths of his loyalty. He would wait a hundred years for Bilbo before he bent to trust Thranduil.

He could not say as much to Balin. Not here; not now. So he would let Balin rant himself out instead, here in these damp cells.

He picks a piece of dried mud from his boots, his ire renewing as he recalls how Thranduil’s guard had stripped them of all their belongings, down to their shirts and trousers, and locked them away like criminals. Angrily, he flicks the mud to the ground, then squashes it with the toe of his boot. They were so close . If only they hadn’t lost the road.

He sighs, Balin’s incessant whispering still reaching his ears, though it has become too jumbled for him to make out the words. He hoped the rest of the company fared well enough. Fíli sounded as though he had recovered from the spider’s venom, and he could breathe easier knowing Kíli had returned from Thranduil’s interrogation unscathed.

The fire of his anger grew. How dare Thranduil? How dare he attempt to weasle a deal out of him by having his own son hold a knife to Kíli’s throat? Truly, he lacked all honor.

He releases a shuddering breath. For a moment, he was afraid that Thranduil would issue the order, that he would spill Kíli’s blood on his throne room floor. But, dishonorable as he was, Thranduil was not stupid. Lestwise, he was not stupid enough to kill an unarmed dwarf and incur the wrath of the Iron Hills in retalliation. Dain and Thranduil had a long-standing cease order between their two kingdoms - Dain would harm no elf and Thranduil would harm no dwarf - to violate it would wound Dain’s pride and invoke his wrath.

But still, he’d seen the glimmer of panic in Kíli’s eyes. And Thorin had felt it, too - the fear that he would be wrong . Though he was a king, Thranduil was still unpredictable. He’d been foolish to hedge his bets on the elven king fearing retaliation from Dain.

Once, when Kíli was still a tiny dwarfling, he’d had a horrifying night terror in which he’d gambled with Kíli’s life and lost . It had plagued him since, popping up in quiet moments, surprising him by squeezing the breath out of his lungs in unprecedented panic. The same image always leapt to his mind, of Kíli, pale as snow, his blood poured out around him. Like Frerin. Just like Frerin .

He’s found his thoughts drifting to his brother quite frequently on this journey. He wishes, beyond anything else in this world, that Frerin were at his side. He was so much better with Frerin. Would his brother’s presence have calmed him enough to negotiate a deal with Thranduil? Would his gentle, loving demeanor have tempered his ire?

But no, he had let Frein down ages ago. Let his blood spill on unholy dirt, until the light faded from his eyes.

He thinks of Dís, her sharp mind and quick wit. Had she been with him, she would have surely performed some sort of verbal gymnastics on Thranduil and charmed them out of their cells. She had always been so eloquent, so thoughtful. As children he had often envied her way with words; while he and Frerin stumbled over theirs, she had always sounded like a queen.

And he had let her down, too. Promised to care for her boys but led them on this damn quest, to these gods-forsaken cells.

He swallows thickly. He could not dwell on the past, or on horrors seen only in dreams that he would fight with every breath in his being to keep from coming to pass.

When they were free of this wretched place, he would explain it all to Kíli, explain why he had taken such an unfathomable risk, see to it that he understood that Thorin knew in his bones that Thranduil would not harm him. He would remind him that there was no treasure, no honor, nothing in this world that was worth more to him than Fíli and Kíli. Nothing .

He can only hope that Bilbo will be swift.

-----

He fiddles with his shirt hem, idly fingering along a tear, flicking the flap of it up and down as the sounds of the elven party drift through the corridor. It sounds downright raucous, much more so than the parties that Lord Elrond had hosted. Kíli admittedly didn’t know much about the different families of elves (which made him strangely grateful for the cells that separated them - Balin would chastise his ear off is he knew Kíli had forgotten his lessons), but he had to imagine that the Mirkwood elves were the most...un-elf-like of them all. Perhaps like how Kíli himself was decidedly un-dwarf-like.

He sighs, once again considering trying to fall asleep. He can hear snoring from somewhere, and he wonders who has already nodded off. Not Fíli, at least; he can hear his brother humming quietly. He wishes it were easier to talk with him, but he didn’t dare speak too loud and the music and laughter from the party would probably drown him out anyway.

The redheaded elf patrols by again, glancing into each of their cells as she walks by with quick, light steps. She had been the one who spared him from the spiders in the wood. It was probably proper to thank her, but that seemed senseless now that she was ensuring they stayed locked in their cells.

He also thought she looked quite sad, and he found himself wondering why. Perhaps because she was on patrol while the rest of the elves were celebrating. He tried not to dwell on it too much; for the moment, she was their enemy - an obstacle. Dwalin had warned him that his soft heart would be his undoing one day.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them as he scans the hallway once more. Candlelight flickers off the walls, casting strange shadows. He focuses on Fíli’s soft humming, and closes his eyes.

Fíli’s humming stops. “You still awake, nadadith?” he asks, and though his voice is quiet somehow Kíli manages to hear it clear as day.

“Yea,” he murmurs in reply, scooting closer to the door of his cell. “Don’t think I could sleep with all this anyhow.”

“Such a light sleeper,” Fíli comments, and he can hear the smile in his voice. “One positive of the spiders was that Oin’s drought knocked me right out for a while.”

Kíli snorts. “I know. You’re heavy.” Fíli chuckles outright, and they lapse back into silence.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Fíli says after a while, his tone wistful. “Do you remember that autumn in Ered Luin when we snuck off from Dwalin? And built the fort?”

Kíli smiled. He did remember. They were young, much younger then, and they’d fancied themselves as fine explorers so they’d ‘snuck’ away (Dwalin had told him later that he’d known exactly where the lads were - they weren’t particularly stealthy in their youth), venturing to an outcropping of rocks with a large slate overhang, gathering sticks and stones to fashion their fire and other comforts, pretending they were regal princes of Ered Luin, sword fighting with the largest sticks they could find. They had played for hours, until the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, and Dwalin had come and feigned ire at their escape.

It was a good memory. He hadn’t thought on it in a long while.

“I came upon it on a patrol once,” Fíli says. “I went to look inside but there was a fox and her cubs. ‘Bout near scared me out of my skin.”

“I guess she’s the Lord of Ered Luin now,” Kíli says with a small laugh.

Fíli hums in agreement. Were they in different circumstances, he’d imagine his brother would be packing his pipe and settling in for the evening. Kíli finds himself longing for those simpler times, longing for the only home they’d ever known, wondering if he will ever be that content again. He tries instead to conjure up other happy memories of his childhood with his brother, willing away the loneliness he feels.

Fíli must sense his distress. Even though it was through a stone wall, he could still read Kíli like one of Balin’s books. “After this is all over, I want to go back some day,” he says, quietly. “And I suspect you do, too.”

Kíli swallows the lump in his throat. “Aye,” he manages. “I think I’d like that.”

His gaze focuses again on the flickering light of the hall, trying to make out shapes in the shadows that skirt along the wall. It must be his imagination, because the shadows suddenly move as if blown by the wind, a too-uniform wave passing through their movements. Kíli narrows his eyes, leaning forward to focus, wondering if there is some form of elvish magic at work, but the shadows resume their random dance as though nothing odd happened.

He relaxes, leaning back against the wall with a sigh.There’s the sound of a stone being kicked farther down the hall.

“Did you hear that?” Fíli asks, his voice a sharp whisper, and Kíli’s body snaps to alertness again.

“I thought I saw something move a second ago,” he confirms, hauling himself up to his knees and watching out his cell gate. He can make out voices down the hall, but nothing else.

“ Bilbo !” someone halfway shouts from down the hall, and he hears the sounds of a key opening a lock.

-----

“Come on, this way,” Bilbo whispers, sneaking down the corridor, looking around every corner to ensure they are unseen.

The dwarves follow, boots scraping along the stone floor. Since they’d been divested of their weapons and most of their affects they were much quieter than normal. Fortunate, that was.

“He’s leading us to the cellars!” Dwalin hisses, accusatory.

“You’re supposed to be leading us out, not farther down!” Bofur nearly shouts.

Bilbo whirls to face them. “Shh! I know what I’m doing. Trust me .” He leads them around a corner, where a number of large barrels sit empty. “Well?” Bilbo says, gesturing to the barrels. “Get in!”

“Are you mad?” Gloin replies. “They’ll find us!”

“No, they won’t. I promise ,” Bilbo assures them, turning pleading eyes to Thorin.

Fíli looks to his uncle, then to Kíli who stands uncertainly at his side. Bilbo has proven his worth many times over, and had already broken them free from their cells. What reason did they have not to trust him? Yet still...hiding in barrels in the elven wine cellar didn’t seem like the best of plans.

Thorin turns to the rest of the company. “Do as he says!”

At his command, they clamber into the barrels, the wound in his side stinging uncomfortably. Kíli casts him a worried glance. “I’m fine,” he assures him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reaches forward, grasps the back of Kíli’s neck and presses their foreheads together. “I promise.”

“What do we do now?” Bofur asks, as all the dwarves turn to look at Bilbo.

The hobbit looks uncertain for a scant second. “Uh, hold your breath.”

The floor beneath them begins to creak, and suddenly their barrels are rolling, then falling, then splashing violently into the stream below. The shock of hitting water instead of solid ground forces the breath from his lungs and he sputters, trying to find balance as he bobs in the stream. Once he has his bearings he searches for his brother - frowning at the wide, terrified look in his brother’s eyes as he coughs some of the splashed water out of his lungs. After a deep, shuddering breath, Kíli’s face clears, and he catches Fíli’s gaze and gives him a reassuring nod.

There’s no shortage of shouting and coughing as the dwarves regain their composure. Ori and Bifur, caught off guard in their fall, had fallen out of their barrels, and it was no simple task to get them back inside as they bob about. From behind him, Fíli can hear Dwalin muttering something about useless hobbits and being drowned like criminals.

“Hold on!” Thorin shouts, reaching his arm out to grab Fíli’s barrel. “We must wait for Bilbo.” Taking his uncle’s cue, he reaches for the nearest barrel (Bofur’s, who for his part looks a bit like a drowned rat) and grasps it tightly. The dwarves work quickly to form a chain with their barrels, blocking the path forward in a makeshift dam, when the hobbit suddenly falls from the ceiling, plopping into the water, barrelless.

Once he comes up, sputtering for air, he swims to the nearest barrel, Nori’s, and hangs on for dear life.

“Well done Master Baggins,” Thorin laughs, sounding almost mirthful at this turn of events.

Bilbo waves them on, spitting water as he does. “They’re coming. Go .”

With that, they release their barrels and start paddling to gain speed. They careen down a waterfall, each of the dwarves (and poor Bilbo) clinging to their barrels, and they rise from the water to see that they’re now bathed in bright daylight. It’s a sharp contrast from the dark cells they’d resided in for who knows how long, and it takes Fíli’s eyes a moment to focus. He can see shapes rushing through the woods, when suddenly the elf-guard that had captured them in the woods springs forth, shouting something in elvish just before a horn sounds.

“No!” Thorin shouts from ahead, and he turns to see a gated bridge across the stream, and an elf standing atop it near a lever as a sluice begins to close.

Well, shit . He thinks. They’re weapons-less and, quite literally, sitting ducks. He desperately tries to form a plan, to come up with some way that they do not wind up back in the cells or dead . Thranduil didn’t strike him as a particularly merciful king.

“Watch out!” Bofur shouts, and he turns to see the elf that had stood atop the bridge falling into the water just in front of him, a jagged arrow lodged in his back.

Orcs . Of course the orcs have come.

Now that they have nowhere to go, the dwarves are seemingly forgotten by the elves as they shift their focus onto the orcs. The orcs, however, remain fixed on getting to Thorin, lunging onto their barrels with blades drawn. Fortunately, Bilbo produces a sword from somewhere , stabbing one, and Dwalin, brawny as ever, elbows another in the face, stealing it’s sword before it plops gracelessly into the water. Fíli manages to subdue another, grabbing its dagger.

He catches movement from the corner of his eye, and turns to see Kíli rushing up the ramp, completely unarmed, eyes fixed on the lever the elf had pulled before. Orcs rush toward him, and Fíli’s breath catches in his throat.

“Kíli!” Dwalin calls, lobbing the sword he’d snagged up to his brother. Kíli catches it easily, swinging it down to take out the orc in front of him, sending it splashing into the water below as Bofur reaches over to snag it’s weapon.

His brother continues up the stairs and across the bridge, slashing his way through. Another orc comes up behind him, spear poised to strike Kíli in the back, and Fíli hurls the dagger forward, sighing with relief when his aim rings true and the dagger lodges itself in the filth’s temple. The way is clear now, and Fíli feels a surge of adrenaline as Kíli nears the lever. They’re going to make it ; Kíli is going to open the gate and they’re going to get away -

Suddenly, Kíli lets out a strangled cry of pain and collapses to the ground, grasp coming just short of the lever, sword falling from his fingers and clattering to the ground beside him.. “Kíli!” he hears himself shout, fear welling up within him. From under the bridge, Thorin calls out his brother’s name as well, blind to the situation.

An orc leaps onto the bridge, sword drawn and prepared to bare down on Kíli, but an arrow abruptly skewers its head as more elves arrive. Distracted, the orcs switch their focus to the ambush, and Kíli manages to crawl up to his knees, gasping for breath. With a groan of pain, he throws his weight onto the level, pushing it down and opening the sluice, before collapsing once more.

“Kíli!” he shouts again, grabbing his brother’s empty barrel with one hand and trying to find purchase on the slippery rocks with the other. “Kíli, come on!” he calls again, voice breaking. “Please!” His hands are slipping on the rocks, his barrel is being pulled under the bridge by the rushing current, The other dwarves slip one by one down the small waterfall, into the rapids below.

Just as he’s certain he’s going to lose his grip on the rocks (and by extension, Kíli, because he knows without a doubt in his mind that if he’s left behind he’ll be captured and worse ), Kíli’s body falls from the bridge, landing roughly on top of his barrel, halfway into the water. He looks positively ashen, and Fíli’s heart sinks as he prays to any diety that will listen that the arrow wasn’t poisoned, that his brother will be okay .

“Hold on!” is all Fíli can say as his hand loses its grip on the rocks. Kíli manages to hoist himself back into his barrel, a rough shout of pain bursting from him, and they’re swept along the current with the rest of the dwarves, the orcs still in pursuit.

-----

“Mahal, Kíli,” Fíli breathes as he examines the wound, pulling the torn pieces of his trousers to get a better look. It was already so inflamed, and he couldn’t tell if the arrowhead was still inside or not. “Oin needs to take a look at this,” he says, immediately searching for their healer. “If it was poisoned, then -”

“Just bind it,” Kíli hisses, brow furrowed in pain. “We have to keep moving. You heard Thorin”

Fíli frowns at him, shaking his head. He cannot be serious ; there’s no way he would make it far with his leg wounded so badly.

“I’ll be fine,” Kíli says, looking him straight in the eye, which manages to reassure him, however smally. “We’re not safe here.” Fíli still hesitates, and his brother reaches for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Fíli tries to ignore how badly Kíli’s hand is shaking. “I promise to have Oin tend to it as soon as we can spare,” he adds.

Finally, Fíli nods and unceremoniously rips fabric from the hem of his shirt, dunking it into the river in a feeble attempt to clean it, before setting about tightly wrapping Kíli’s wound. His brother winces and grits his teeth as he works, driving Fíli’s own anxiety higher. He knows he will feel much better once Oin has a chance to properly tend to him. He can only hope, as he finishes up, that Kíli will be able to make it to safety. Frowning, he looks at his work. It’s a poor excuse for a bandage, even for a field dressing, but it will have to do. He doesn’t have another option.

“Come on,” he says, helping Kíli back to his feet. For the first few steps, his brother leans heavily on him, but after a moment he regains his footing well enough to walk on his own across the slippery rocks, with hardly a limp in his step as he goes to rejoin the others. Fíli frowns again; he knows how good Kíli is at hiding his hurts and knows that his brother is going to overdo it and wind up being in more agony farther down the line if he can’t get a proper dressing soon.

There’s a commotion from behind him, and Fíli whirls around to see a man, bow drawn and aimed at Ori and Dwalin, the latter brandishing a tree branch as a weapon.

Dwalin raises the branch, ready to fight, and an arrow strikes directly into it, right between his hands, in warning. “Do it again and you’re dead,” the man snaps, another arrow already drawn.

“Excuse me,” Balin calls, using his ‘diplomatic voice’ that Fíli has heard countless times before. He approaches the man with his arms raised. “You’re, uh, from Laketown, if I’m not mistaken?”

The man lowers his blow, casting a sidelong glance at Balin.

“That barge over there,” he continues, gesturing behind the man, where Fíli now sees the very tip of a boat, mostly hidden from their sight by the thick underbrush that lines the river. “It wouldn’t be available for hire , by any chance?”

-----

Dwalin keeps his eyes on the lads as they sail.

Fíli and Kíli are pressed shoulder to shoulder, their backs against the damaged barrels. He’d been worried about the lad since he saw the arrow pierce his leg - orc arrows were rarely free of poisons or filth that could take even the hardiest dwarf down in a matter of hours. Once they’d safely boarded the barge, Oin had tended to the wound and gave it a proper dressing. The arrowhead had still been lodged in his leg, but with steady hands and a sharp knife borrowed from the bowman, Oin had been able to remove it. The old healer had stated that he’d need a poultice to draw out any infection and to help with the pain, but the man - Bard , he remembers from Bilbo’s chastising - had none, so Kíli would have to make due until they were smuggled into Laketown.

Kíli was too pale, so much so that the darkness of his hair and the red smear of blood on his lip (he’d bitten it so hard to keep himself from screaming as Oin had removed the arrow) stood out in stark contrast. It made the dark circles under his eyes look worse. It made it look like he could slip from this world at any moment, despite Oin’s assurances that he would make it to Laketown.

It’s the cold, Dwalin tells himself, it’s just the cold that makes him look so pale.

The small blessing was that Kíli was asleep, that he was able to take this brief respite while his brother watched over him.

They’d come too close to losing him too many times on this quest. Dwalin had sworn to protect him, knew without a doubt that he would gladly die if it kept either of the lads safe, but every time he had been too far away or otherwise unable to help, unable to do anything other than watch . He wouldn’t be able to bear it if they lost one of them and Dwalin had done nothing .

He chews the inside of his cheek, keeping the lads in his periphery as he watches the lakeman. He doesn't trust him, doesn’t like that they’re stuck on a boat in the middle of frigid, foggy waters with him, doesn’t like that their survival may very well depend on him being true to his word. Something sits ill within him, like they’re walking into a trap, but with the other option being trying to beat orcs on the road, unarmed and without supplies, he knows they had no other choice.

Someone comes to his side, shoulder brushing his as they lean along the railing beside him. He doesn’t have to look to know that it is Thorin.

“How is he?” he asks, barely concealed concern in his voice.

Dwalin shrugs. “Not well, by any means,” he says, gaze shifting back to Kíli. “But, not getting worse.”

Thorin makes a small noise in the back of his throat in acknowledgement. “Do you think it knew?”

He does look at him then, eyebrow raised in confusion.

“Azog’s spawn,” Thorin clarifies. “Do you think it knew who he was? That he was my kin?” he adds in a whisper.

Dwalin shakes his head. “Think he was just trying to take out anyone that would’ve helped us escape,” he says. “Wouldn’ta mattered who it was.” He knows this fear, this old, horrible fear that Thorin had carried with him ever since Frerin had died. He couldn’t bear to lose anyone else for being associated with his line. It would almost certainly spiral Thorin into madness, and if it were Azog’s own spawn (for how else could the other pale orc have come to be?) that ended one of the lads...he could not fathom how Thorin would go on.

With a sigh, he looks for his brother, catches him with a gaggle of the company, counting coins to pay their way as Bard navigates them through the waters.

“How do we know he won’t betray us?” he finds himself asking, putting words to his fears in the confidence of his best friend.

Thorin frowns, a misted look in his eyes. “We don’t.”

Dwalin settles back with a huff, hating the answer but knowing Thorin is right all the same. There’s some squabbling between Gloin and his brother that he considers intervening on, but the fog thins ahead, and he finds himself awestruck instead. “Look,” he says softly, nudging Thorin’s arm. His eyes water on their own accord.

The Lonely Mountain sits on the horizon, closer than he’s seen it in an age.

-----

“You look like shit,” he says fondly as he tucks Kíli’s hair behind his ear.

Kíli scoffs in indignation at him, but he doesn’t argue. “I feel like shit.”

Fíli just smiles and wraps a blanket around his brother’s shoulders, sitting beside him on the settee, eyes fixed on the Lonely Mountain out the window. Kíli leans back into the plush cushion, turning himself the tiniest bit into his brother, just a tiny bit too close, as always. His leg is propped up on a footstool, at Oin’s request. Fíli lets his cheek rest on the top of his brother’s head, content.

They’d been welcomed into the home of the Master of Laketown (who, in Fíli’s humble opinion, looked more like a louse than the lord of a town, but men were much different than dwarves), and while the man had thrown them a rather uproarious party, Fíli and Kíli had taken their leave to rest. Oin had instructed Kíli to do so (and Thorin, too, though he need not say the words aloud) to give the poultice he’d packed the arrow wound with time to work. He’d worried that they’d perhaps taken too long, and that after being doused with river water, covered in fish guts, and crawling through a toilet the wound had likely become infected. So off he’d sent them, just after the party started, with a plate full of food and a mug of ale ( for Fíli only he had stressed) - and Fíli had felt Thorin’s eyes on them the entire time he’d helped his brother up the stairs to the rooms they’d been lent.

When Kíli had fallen in the armory, Fíli’s heart had stopped. He knew , the second he’d heard the loud clattering of weapons that it had been Kíli, the ache in his leg finally overcoming him. He had pushed it too far, given too much without resting, just as Fíli knew he would. He loops his arm around his brother’s shoulders, tugging him a bit closer still.

“How’s your side?” Kíli asks softly, sleepiness evident in his voice. He turns to press a kiss against his brother’s hair. Of course Kíli was still worried about him. Even with everything that had happened, even with the wound that Fíli knew was causing him pain. Kíli’s kindness never wavered

“Better,” he says, and Kíli hums in acknowledgement. His head seems to sink further into Fíli’s shoulder, blessedly cool forehead pressed against his neck.

From below, he can hear music, shouts and cheers. The merriment at the return of the Lord of Silver Fountains seems as though it will last long through the night, though Thorin had told the company that they would be leaving at first light.

“Tomorrow, we’ll be there,” Fíli murmurs softly as he gazes at the mountain, but Kíli doesn’t reply. He listens for a moment, pleased to hear his brother’s breathing deep and even with sleep. He presses another kiss to the crown of Kíli’s head. “Tomorrow we will finally see Erebor, nadadith.”

From his right, the door to the guest room they’d been lent for the night creaks open, sounds of the party spilling in, causing Kíli to stir slightly. He cranes his neck around to see Thorin sheepishly enter, closing the door behind himself with a quiet snick . He walks over to them, sitting gingerly on the edge of the settee before reaching out to card his hand through Kíli’s hair.

Fíli sees the fondness there, the raw emotion. It warms his heart - Thorin had been so focused on the quest, so in control for fear that their enemies would discover them as his heirs - he cannot remember the last time he had seen such tenderness from their uncle. He’d known to expect distance; Thorin had warned them that it was important to keep their relation to him a secret. He just hadn’t expected it to bother him as much as it did. Hadn’t expected it to hurt .

“How is he?” Thorin asks, his thumb tracing reverently over Kíli’s high cheekbone, as if committing his face to memory. Fíli frowns; what does Thorin know that he isn’t saying?

“He seems better,” Fíli admits. “I think the medicine is starting to take.”

Thorin smiles at him before reaching over to cup Fíli’s cheek, before dropping his hand to squeeze the nape of his neck.

“Talk to me, Uncle,” Fíli says quietly. “What troubles you?”

Thorin sighs, drawing away from the lads to stand by the window, eyes on the mountain. Fíli hates it a little because he can no longer see Thorin’s face, but he knows good and well that that’s probably the reason he stood in the first place. He almost wants to join him, just so he can see his face and read him better, but he doesn’t dare leave from where Kíli is tucked safely into his side.

“I’ve not been this close since...since we fled,” he says softly. “It’s made me sentimental, I suppose.” Thorin runs a hand through his beard. “I fear what we will encounter when we reach the mountain. I fear what will happen if we awaken Smaug. I fear...everything all at once, I suppose.”

Fíli can hear the barely restrained emotion in his voice. “So do I,” he admits just as quietly. “But I’m also…” he frowns, trying to decide on the right word. “Excited? Anxious? I don’t know. You’ve told us about Erebor our whole lives. It feels surreal that tomorrow...that we’ll be there.”

Thorin stiffins, almost imperceptibly, but he catches it nonetheless. “I hope it does not disappoint you,” he says after a long stretch of silence.

“I doubt it could,” Fíli says quietly. “Even after years of Smaug’s squatting, I’m certain it will be grander than anything we’ve seen before.”

Thorin turns back to him and smiles softly. “I cannot wait to show it to you.” He hears so much in his voice - pride, worry, fear, love - and it fills Fíli with an emotion he cannot quite identify. “But you should rest,” he says as he comes back toward him, bending down to press their foreheads together.

Fíli nods. “You should, too,” he says, an amused smile coming to his lips. “Can’t stay up partying all night.”

“Know that I love you,” Thorin says softly, not playing into his joke. “The both of you. More than anything in this world.” There are tears in his eyes when he pulls away, and Fíli has to swallow the lump in his throat, blinking back his own tears.

“We know, Uncle,” he asserts with a shaking voice. “Kíli adores you. I love you. Always.”

The corner of Thorin’s mouth quirps upward, in the barest hint of a smile. “It is more than I deserve.”

-----

He’s wrestled with this decision for days, though it felt like years.

Ever since his youngest nephew had been struck by the orc filth’s arrow, he’s wondered if he should send him home, or have him wait here, with these wretched men in Laketown. He doesn’t want to. Kíli is, for all intents and purposes and lineage aside, his son . They both are. He’s been with them since they were babes, he’s promised them Erebor since before they even knew what it meant.

They still didn’t know what it meant.

It meant no more rumbling stomachs, no more scrimping and saving, no more threadbare clothes, no more disdain from elves and men. It meant the end of the suffering of their people, the dawn of a new age. It meant peace and happiness in their lives for all the rest of their days. It meant everything to him because it meant he could finally, finally give everything to them . Everything they’d craved, everything they’d deserved…everything .

And they’ve come so far, they’ve conquered so much, and it seems such a shame to send him away when they are but in the shadow of the mountain.

But time is not on his side. If he is to give them all he desires, he must be swift.

And when Kíli makes to step onto the boat, horrible limp still evident in his step, his decision is made. He had hoped Oin’s cures would have had more of an effect, that the solid night’s rest would somehow make him strong enough to complete this last, precious leg of the journey.

But it hadn’t, in his heart he’d always known it wouldn’t. It had been a foolish hope.

“Not you,” he murmurs as he reaches out an arm to stop him. Kíli’s face twists into something that is a terrible cross of hurt and shame and fear, and Thorin knows he must school his features and stay impassive. He cannot let these men see him break. He cannot let them know what his nephews mean to him. They could use it as a weapon against him, and he will not have it.

“We must travel at speed,” he elaborates when he feels many eyes fall to him. “You will slow us down.”

Kíli looks up at him, disbelief clouding his face as he tries to manage a smile, to pretend that this is just a joke.. “What?” he murmurs, gaze flickering just quickly to where Fíli stands behind his uncle. “What are you talking about? I’m…I’m coming with you.”

Thorin can see the pallor in his face, the dark circles under his eyes. Kíli is still clearly not well. It would be reckless to bring him, he reasons with himself.

Thorin gives the barest shake of his head and resolutely ignores the tiny whimper of desperation that escapes Kíli’s throat. He has to do this. He has to keep him safe and win back the mountain. He has to do this. For them .

“I’m going to be there when that door is opened, when we first look upon the halls of our fathers,” he implores. “Thorin…”

He knows Kíli cannot possibly understand why he is doing this, knows he should have done this earlier, should have prepared him, should have explained . But he didn’t. He was a coward, had seen Kíli asleep the night before when he went to speak his mind, and had lost his nerve. With a sigh, he reaches to cup the back of Kíli’s head, pulling their foreheads as close as he dares.

He cannot let them know how much Kíli means to him.

“Kíli,” he murmurs, fixing him with a gaze that he hopes will explain everything. “Stay here. Rest . Join us when you are healed.” Kíli has always been better at reading him than anyone.

Kíli’s eyes search him again, desperate. Thorin’s heart breaks; he doesn’t understand.

Kíli shakes his head, breath coming out in a staggering huff, and a barely whispered ‘Uncle…’ reaches his ears. For a moment he’s terrified that he’ll cave, that he won’t let Kíli go , but Óin comes to his rescue, saying that he’ll stay with the lad. It eases his heart greatly to know that Kíli will not be alone here, that he will be in good hands between Óin and Bofur, if he ever chooses to come round again. He watches as his cousin leads his nephew away, heart feeling leaden in his chest.

When he turns back to the company, he’s met with Fíli’s furious face, nearly cringes when he sees the betrayal shining in the depths of his cerulean eyes. “Uncle,” he murmurs the damning word, but thankfully none of the men seem to hear it. “We grew up on tales of the mountain. Tales you told us. You cannot take that away from him!”

He is hurt, his tone accusing, and Thorin has to focus to keep his face neutral and impassive. “Fíli,” he starts, trying to find the right words to explain himself, but his nephew doesn’t give him the chance.

“I will carry him if I must!” he declares, and in it Thorin hears the silent ‘Uncle, please!’ , but he resolutely ignores it. They’ll be angry at him now, hurt because of him now, but he’ll make it up to them. He’ll win back the mountain. He’ll give them everything that he couldn’t for the entirety of their lives.

“One day you will be King and you will understand,” he says.

You will understand why I have to do this. It’s for both you , he means.

“I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of one dwarf – not even my own kin,” he explains, in nothing more than a hushed whisper.

I cannot risk losing him, losing the mountain, not when I’ve come this far to reclaim it for you…for all of us , he means.

Fíli’s face is filled with disbelief and fierce determination, and Thorin knows what he means to do before he even moves his feet. He reaches out quickly, grabs his arm.

“Fíli, don’t be a fool,” he half-begs. “You belong with the company.”

You belong with me. I am doing this for you . I need you by my side , he means.

“I belong with my brother ,” his heir all but snarls as he wrenches his arm free.

With a heavy sigh, Thorin watches him leave the boat. He cannot blame him. He wants Fíli to stay with him, knows that he will feel better and stronger if he has at least one of them by his side, but he can’t stop him. He won’t stop him.

He turns back to the company, desperately ignores with worried glances, particularly the one Dwalin aims at him, and gives the nod for them to depart. He doesn’t look back, cannot look back, because if he does he will break. Time is not on their side, and if he is to do this, if he is to do this for them , then he must be swift.

Dwalin slides close enough to him so that their shoulders are pressed closely together to give him strength. He knows he needs it. He has to see this through, and when he does everything will be alright in the end. He will be able to give them everything.

He can do this.

He’ll do it for them.

-----

This is how it ends for him, he thinks. He cannot see a way that his brother survives this day.

They are back at Bard’s home, having been turned away everywhere else when Kíli took a turn for the worse. He’d practically fainted, then spiked a deliriously high temperature that had startled even Oin. When he’d peeled away the bandage the healer hadn’t been able to hide his gasp of surprise. In a matter of hours the wound had festered, turning black around the edges.

“It was poison,” Oin had hissed under his breath as Bofur and Fíli had supported Kíli’s deadweight. “Slow acting, very deadly... damn those creatures.”

Deadly . When Oin had uttered that word Fíli felt as if part of his soul had left his body. It took every ounce of his strength to remain calm ( for Kíli , he would constantly remind himself - in his fleeting moments of lucidity he was completely terrified, and Fíli vowed that he would not make his terror worse). It helps that Oin has taken control, that he is barking orders at him, giving him something to do , a task to focus on.

“Get him up on the table,” Oin commands. Bard makes a sound as if to protest, but he clears the table nonetheless, sending dishes and bowls clattering to the floor, making space for Kíli. Fíli stays by his head, knelt on the ground, trying to talk his brother through what is happening, though he has no idea if Kíli can hear him or not. One of Bard’s girls brings in a cloth and a basin of cool water.

“Can you not do something?” Fíli asks frantically as Kíli’s form seizes once again. He is burning hot; even pressing the cool rag to his forehead seems to do nothing.

“I need something to bring down his fever,” Oin calls over his shoulder, to Bard, as he cuts Kíli’s pant leg off and removes the latest bandage, face stricken. Fíli can’t make out what the bowman says in reply. “No, no; those are no use to me. They won’t stop the poison. Do you have any kingsfoil?”

“No; it’s a weed,” Bard says as he presents Oin with his own bowl of hot water and some cloths. The healer immediately starts clearing out the wound, causing Kíli to groan in agony once more. “We feed it to the pigs.”

“Pigs?” Bofur says, jumping up from Kíli’s other side. “I’ll find it,” he says. He fixes Fíli with a comforting look. “I’ll find it, laddie.” He reaches for Kíli’s hand and squeezes it. “Hold on for me, yea?”

Bard’s daughter comes to kneel beside him, placing another basin of cool water beside him, then wetting her own rag and wiping it along Kíli’s face. Sigrid , her name pops into his mind again. He nods at her in gratitude. Sigrid gives him a soft, small smile, and reaches out to squeeze his arm.

Kíli lets out a pitiful, gasping wail as he arches his back against the pain. Fíli can’t take it; the tears spill freely from his eyes now as he presses his forehead to Kíli’s too-hot temple. “Hold on, nadadith,” he whispers, voice tight. “Just hold on for me, yea? Bofur will be back. We’re going to fix this. I just need you to hold on. Please,” he adds, his voice breaking on the last word as he hopes beyond hope that Kíli can hear him.

Suddenly, the ground around them shakes violently. Fíli’s stomach sinks into his boots.

“It’s coming from the mountain,” Bard’s son says, just as the room rumbles once more.

Fíli’s eyes find Bard’s. “You should leave us. Take your children and go; get out of here!”

“And go where?” Bard says, clearly distraught as he takes in each of his children.

“Are we going to die, Da?” the littlest one asks, and Fíli fears that they will . “Is the dragon going to kill us?”

“No darling,” Bard says, quickly striding over to their kitchen and yanking something free from a hanging rack. Fíli bites back a gasp of surprise; a black arrow. Ammunition for a wind-lance. “I’m going to kill it first.”

-----

“What about Bilbo?” Ori asks, a slightly panicked tone in his voice. It seemed like everything was going well enough, but then the ground had trembled beneath them.

Smaug was awake. There was no denying it. Any hope that Thorin had held that the blasted worm had perished and died within the mountain wafted away like smoke.

“Give him more time,” he says finally, eyes anxiously watching the door. He trusted Bilbo; he knew the hobbit would not let him down, knew that he would find the Arkenstone and return it to him.

“Time for what?” Balin scoffs. “To be killed?”

“You’re afraid,” Thorin acuses, crossing his arms over his chest and staring his old friend down. They need the Arkenstone; Balin needs to trust him.

“Yes, I’m afraid,” Balin retorts. “I’m afraid for you .”

Thorin takes a step back, leveling Balin with a glare.

“A sickness lies upon that treasure horde, Thorin,” he needlessly reminds him. “A sickness that drove your grandfather mad .”

“I am not my grandfather,” Thorin hisses, ire rising up within him. He knows , he knows the tragedy that had befallen his grandfather because he had watched it happen, helplessly on the sidelines. Stuck to do nothing while Thror withered into a shell of himself. He would not go down the same path. He would fight, tooth and nail, to keep that from happening.

“You are not yourself!” Balin continues. “The Thorin I know would not hesitate to go in there and -”

“I cannot risk the fate of this quest for one burgular,” Thorin interrupts, hoping that he sounds practical.

“ Bilbo ,” Balin hisses. “His name is Bilbo. Or have you forgotten?”

Thorin frowns, eyes drifting to Laketown, to Fíli and Kíli. The ground rumbles lightly beneath them once more. “What would you have me do?” he says quietly. “What would you have me do to stand against this worm who has taken everything from me.? I cannot hope to triumph against Smaug.”

Balin’s face softens. “It seems that you are also afraid, my dear friend.”

Thorin says nothing, but his gaze shifts back to the stone door. He knows that Balin is right , he cannot leave Bilbo to fend for himself. But still, he cannot make himself move to venture into the halls. He cannot face Smaug again, not without a plan to defeat him. But if Bilbo can get the Arkenstone, he can rally the dwarf kingdoms, they could form an army and stand a chance at killing that beast…

“We have to do something , Thorin,” Balin says again. “We would not have made it this far without him. We cannot leave him to face the dragon alone.”

It shakes him to his core, but Thorin nods.

-----

Kíli has gone positively ashen. His cries have weakened; he has started murmuring nonsense. Fíli can do little more than stroke his brother’s hair from his sweaty face, than whisper empty reassurances. There’s nothing they can do unless Bofur can find the kingsfoil. Nothing.

Kíli will die here, and he probably will too, judging by the ever increasing rumbles coming from the mountain.

A cold resignation settles over him. He presses a kiss to his brother’s sweaty temple, suddenly grateful for the evening they’d had the night prior, when everything had seemed so simple, so much like when they were children. He’d felt safe. Happy. He’d felt like they were going to make it to Erebor, to live out their destiny, but it had all gone wrong.

How had it all gone so wrong so quickly?

There’s a clunk on the roof, drawing Sigrid’s attention. “Da?” she calls, peeking out the door. When she receives no response, she shrugs and turns back into the house, when an orc suddenly lands on the balcony behind her. With a scream, she tries to slam the door shut, but the orc stops the door with his sword.

Sigrid’s scream snaps them all to attention, even Kíli, who struggles to get to his feet, bleary eyes trying to focus on the situation at hand. “Kíli, get down ,” he hisses, pushing his brother behind him onto a nearby settee as the orc forces its way in.

A second orc crashes through the ceiling. Oin is grabbing anything within reach and chucking them at the orcs - starting with the plates. Bain gets his sisters under the table, blocking them from the orcs with the bench as Fíli grabs the pike hook Bard had fashioned for them and throws it with a snarl, finding a sick sort of satisfaction as it finds its mark in the orc’s throat.

More orcs crash through the ceiling, and he hears Kíli cry out in pain behind him. One of the orcs has him by his wounded leg, dragging him off of the settee, and Fíli sees red. He spies a knife on the floor and grabs it, hurling it with deadly accuracy, freeing his brother, who crashes to the ground with a whimper. Fíli has enough sense about him to grab the sword from the creature before turning to face the onslaught.

Just as suddenly, two elves come crashing through the roof, quickly getting to work on the orcs. He recognizes them from Thraduil’s halls - the blond he thinks was the elven king’s son, and the redhead had been the one patrolling the hall with their cells. The orcs must have continued following them, seeking Thorin, and the elves were clearly still hunting the orcs.

Fíli grabs Bain, shoving him down as another one of the orcs rushes at him, giving him space to slay the beast. It only takes a few moments for them to dispel the orcs - the elves are deadly accurate with their blows. There’s shouting in black speech from outside, and the remaining orcs flee from the house, leaving it a chaotic wreck. Fíli pants heavily, eyes scanning the small abode once again to make sure they are safe.

“Are you alright?” the redheaded elf asks the children as she helps them to their feet.

“You killed them all,” Bain murmurs in amazement.

Oin pushes past him, rushing back to Kíli’s side. His brother is struggling to breathe, his whole body hitching as he tries to take in air. “We’re losing him!” the healer shouts.

“What happened?” he hears the elf ask from behind him, but he can barely make it out over the blood rushing in his ears. They’re losing him.

“Please, Kee,” he begs, sinking to his knees beside his brother, a sob forming in his throat. “Please don’t leave me here alone. Please .”

“I found it!” Bofur shouts, bursting back into the home. “What in the blazes happened here?”

Fíli turns to look at him, tears streaking his face. “You found it?” he asks, numbly. Bofur holds up his hand, the plant clutched in it.

“He’s too far gone,” Oin says sadly. “I don’t know what to do.” Fíli chokes on a sob.

“I do,” the redheaded elf says, eyes switching between Kíli and the kingsfoil in Bofur’s hand.

“Tauriel,” the prince says. “We must go. We’re losing the pack.”

She shakes her head. “I’m going to save him,” she says. “Get him up on the table. I need hot water,” she says, looking at Sigrid and Tilda.

Fíli feels something akin to hope blossoming in his chest as they gather Kíli’s limp form and settle him back onto the table. He has heard the stories of elvish healing magic; he prays to Mahal that it will be enough to save Kíli. His brother is mumbling deliriously again, skin so pale that, were he not drawing in breath, Fíli would think he was dead.

He watches as the elf washes the herbs, hands deftly shredding the leaves and creating a poultice. “Hold him down,” she says, eyes fixing onto Fíli with something akin to sympathy. Fíli grabs his brother’s shoulders and Bofur takes his ankles, pressing them to the table as he tries to ignore the whimper of protest that slips past his brother’s lips.

The elf begins chanting in a language he does not recognize, before she presses the poultice into the wound, and Kíli screams. Fíli struggles to keep him still, even as Oin and Bard’s children come to help. Kíli thrashes, but the elf holds steady, keeping the poultice pressed to his wound as she recites the healing magic. After a moment, Kíli takes a heaving breath and his thrashing calms, glassy eyes staring sightlessly at the roof.

“Kíli,” he murmurs, relinquishing his hold on his brother’s shoulders and pushing his sweaty hair from his face.

The elf’s chanting ceases, and she pulls the poultice away from the wound. Fíli gasps aloud - the festering blackness of the wound has vanished, and it looks tremendously better already. He can hardly believe it.

“I’ve heard tell of the wonders of elvish medicine,” Oin says, sounding just as awed as Fíli feels. “That was a privilege to witness.”

“Burn this,” the elf says as she hands the poultice to Bofur, who obediently tosses it into the fire. “He needs rest, though I fear it will be a while before he can have it,” she says softly as she sets about binding Kíli’s leg with a clean bandage. “The poison is gone, but his body is weak.”

Fíli can hardly find the words to speak. He presses his forehead to Kíli’s temple, breathing a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he manages finally.

“He is precious to you,” the elf observes, a small smile on her face as she finishes Kíli’s binding.

“He’s my brother,” Fíli whispers. “My only family.”

She squeezes his shoulder as she stands. “I thought as much,” she admits. “You looked after one another in Mirkwood. With the spiders.”

The ground rumbles around them. Fíli closes his eyes. Have they saved him only to perish in dragonfire?

“You have to leave,” she says, speaking to all of them now. “There is no time!”

Bain hesitates. “We cannot leave without our Da,” he says, but even as he speaks the ground rumbles again, shaking debris loose from their damaged roof.

Tauriel frowns. “If you stay here, you and your sister will die. Is that what your father would want?” Bain blinks quickly, eyes shining when he finally shakes his head, looking to his sisters sadly.

Fíli and Bofur work to get Kíli to his feet. His brother is slowly coming back to himself, his eyes clearing, but he’s far too weak to walk on his own. “Fee,” he mumbles softly, his head lolling onto Fíli’s shoulder as they right him.

“Don’t worry; I’ve got you.” he promises, pressing a kiss to Kíli’s temple. Bofur helps Fíli get his brother onto his back, keeping the weight off of his leg.

Oin and Bard’s children gather some provisions as Fíli and Bofur make their way down the stairs to the dock. It is slow work; Fíli is careful not to jostle his brother and Bofur works to ensure he maintains his balance as they navigate the steps. He is just getting Kíli situated at the back of the boat, propping his wounded leg up on the side, when the others rejoin them.

A horrible tremor shakes the ground, sending waves sloshing through the lake. In the distance, they hear the shriek of a dragon. Fíli locks eyes with his brother.

Smaug is coming.

-----

No. No, no, no, no, no .

Bilbo stammers to his feet, chasing after where Smaug had fled, the other dwarves clambering behind him. He can hardly breathe. How had this happened? Thorin’s plan had been so good , he was so certain that it would work to subdue Smaug, but now ...now thousands of innocents were now in Smaug’s path. Because of them. Because of him .

They can do little more than watch when Smaug unleashes his flames upon Laketown.

-----

AN - So it looks like I’ll be rounding this bad boy out at 30 chapters. Next chapter will be pre-BOTFA focused, 29 will be BOTFA, and 30 will be the end. I’m sad and anxious and excited all at the same time.

Anyway, as always thank you so much for reading this little story that has occupied so much of my life at this point. It means the world.

#greater than gold #durin family feelings #hahahahahaha i am just making myself sad about dwarves again #THANKS QUARANTINE

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amphtaminedreams · 5 years ago

Text

All The Tattoos I Couldn’t Really Afford

Hi to anyone who’s reading!

I thought I’d write about my tattoos a lil bit.

Partly because I’d like to talk generally about tattoos and what they mean for people who have dealt with self-harm and poor body image and partly because I get questions now and again about the more practical side of things; who did them, how much did they hurt and probably the most frequent one, how much did they cost (I mean, only my entire livelihood and every last spare pound I had for about 2 years but nbd)? The point being that I can put all this information in one place, especially as I don’t plan to get any more in the foreseeable future.

See, as much as I get tired of people I don’t really know commenting on them, I suppose I did kind of bring it upon myself. Facially, I probably look about 15. I get told I'm exaggerating when I say that BUT I WAS STILL BUYING CHILD’S TICKETS ON THE BUS UP UNTIL LAST YEAR BC AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR £2.60 SINGLES. Where do you live for a bus single to cost £2.60 I hear you ask? In a tory heartland, my friend.

Anyway, the point is that I look pretty young to have a sort-of sleeve and tbh, I am. I’d say that for a lot of people, a sleeve is something you build on kinda throughout your life, not something you plan on getting pretty much the minute you turn 18. That isn’t exactly how it was for me either. I was more like 20 when I started on my left arm, lol. I started on the rest when I was 18 and had known most of the tattoos I wanted to get since I was about 14/15, so for quite a while. I think I always associated a tattooed version of me with a version of myself I liked and respected a lot more than the girl I saw myself as at that age, but I didn’t realise just how true that would be. The tattoos definitely aren’t the reason I’m so much more body confident than I was back then; I’m at a weight I feel more comfortable in, I’ve learned how to do my makeup better and I think I’ve grown into myself more. Plus, I got my braces off, which helps. The constant fear of having food in my teeth hardly conjures up a sense of nostalgia, lol. On top of that, seeing a wider and more diverse range of faces and body types celebrated online and in the media has definitely helped me too.

But one thing that I noticed is how much more respect having tattoos gives me for my own body. When you have talented men and women’s art all over you, it makes you feel like less of a body and more of a blank sheet. I think the attention moves away from the parts underneath that you might not like so much to something you don’t necessarily associate with yourself. It helps me to notice myself more objectively, with appreciation taking the place of scrutiny. And with regards to self-harm, on a practical level, I don’t want to damage somebody else’s hard work.

The first tattoo I actually got, about a month or so after I turned 18 was pretty simple. I found the studio by way of recommendation from someone who’s tattoo I liked, which imo is probably the best route to go down for your first one. Word of mouth is generally a pretty good indicator of what to expect.

The 5 planet formation on the back of my neck was based on a Tumblr photo I’d saved on my phone, though in the original design I believe the planets were on the person’s chest.

PROTIP: If you’re getting a tattoo based on something you found on Pinterest, Google Images or Tumblr, the best thing to do is first to probably make a note of the artist and ideally ask them for their permission. This is something I wish I’d done at the time; the majority of my tattoos are based on images I found on the sites I just mentioned and saved without thinking and I generally deleted the photos once I sent them to the tattoo artist. Understandably, artists see it as respect thing to credit them and if I do ever come across the designs some of my tattoos are based on, I will of course make sure to add their details to this post, BUT to be completely honest, nobody outside of the internet is that bothered if you copied a tattoo you saw on Pinterest one time.

I think the best thing to do is to ask your tattoo artist to put their own spin on a design and add to it, which is what I’ve generally done, and that way you should avoid anyone feeling like their work has been stolen. I like that approach anyway, especially if you’re going back to the same person for all your tattoos; it adds a consistency to them.

This being my first tattoo, there wasn’t really much of a deeper meaning behind it. I liked the way it looked and wanted something simple that could easily be covered. I got this done by dclxvi.tattoo on Instagram, and it cost around £40. In terms of pain, there wasn’t much at all. I thought it was going to be a lot worse from what others had told me, and more than anything I could feel the vibration of the needle. I’d give it a 1/10 on the pain threshold.

My second was the quote on my left side over my ribcage which reads “think deeply, speak gently, give freely and be kind”. This came from one of those cheesy typical middle class white people signs we usually put in our kitchens; we currently have about 6 and counting in ours. The full quote is “Think deeply, speak gently, love much, laugh a lot, work hard, give freely and be kind” but I thought that was a bit long winded so I kept the parts I liked. I suppose the meaning meaning of this is pretty self-explanatory, lol! When I was younger and still even now with the people I’m close to, I worry way too fucking much what people think of me. It’s a very cliche saying but at some point, I learnt that what others say about you says more about them than it does about you. From then, I started realising that as long as I know I do my best to treat people well, that’s the important thing and this tattoo is kind of just a reminder of that. IIRC, this one cost about £60 and was with the same artist as my first. She was really lovely and made me feel very comfortable so I went back to her for this one, and my next couple too. Again, even though it was on my ribs, I’d give it a 1/10 for pain.

I kinda lose track but I’m pretty sure it was over the summer of my 18th that I got the 3 you can see in the photo above, all still by the same artist. The first on this area of my arm was the quote “love yourself so no-one else has to” inside the heart/feminine symbol hybrid. Similarly, it’s quite self-explanatory but if I had to expand on it, it’s just a reminder that it’s not about what other people think and that as long as I’m happy in myself and BY myself, that’s what matters. This was around the £40 mark and I vaguely remember tattoos getting slightly more painful around this point as we’re getting into musclier territory. Not to make out I have guns or anything, lol, but I’ve always found that tattoos that are on top of muscle are the most difficult to sit through, still though I’d give it a 2/10 for pain. Shortly after I got the crystal ball with the quote underneath. The crystal ball is pretty much a copy of a tattoo I found on Pinterest by the tattoo artist Emily Malice/@emilymalice on Instagram:

I then chose a quote to add underneath it to make it my own which was: “it’s not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves”. It’s the modernised version of a quote from the Shakespeare play Julius Caesar, and basically sums up the idea that if we want something, we have to go and get it ourselves. I’m not really a believer in fate or destiny or the idea that the universe has a bigger plan for us and though that might sound really pessimistic, I find it empowering in that we can go out and make our lives into anything we want them to be. Of course there are things that are out of our hands but for the most part, it’s down to us; I’m on that inner locus of control shit. And yes I remembered that from A-level psychology, lol. On the pain scale, also a 2/10.

Next was my Lana tattoo. Imagine copious amounts of the heart eyes emoji here. It’s based on this drawing:

Which I cannot find the artist of fucking ANYWHERE. The image is all over the bloody internet and returned about 30 different results on TinEye but I can’t for the life of me find the original version so if anybody knows, lmk!

Anyway, it was my first of 2 Lana tattoos and it’s probably my favourite of them all. I’ve been a hardcore stan of this woman since I was about 12 and Video Games went viral (yes, I was a very pretentious 12 year old/general human being) and her music has been my soundtrack to EVERYTHING for the last 7/8 years. I’m a basic bitch and so Born to Die: Paradise Edition and Ultraviolence are still my favourite albums of hers but I wanted to pay tribute to the Lust for Life cover with the flowers in the hair because it represented her moving towards inner peace and contentment and I loved that.

COST: approx. £70

PAIN: 2/10

That was my last tattoo for a while until about November 2018, from which point onwards I was getting them pretty much constantly up until a few months ago. I was no longer at uni, had a part time job and for the first time had proper disposable income, so I got my first proper “piece” tattoo:

This one I very shittily designed myself, though the lip part was based on this tattoo by Heidi Kaye/@heidikayetattoo on Instagram:

The lips were always going to be the centrepiece though it was originally a much bigger design. The idea was that it would be a piece based around the elements, water, earth, air and fire, with the things that represents each being something sentimental to me. Well, apart from the lips which would represent the passion of the fire signs; I just thought they looked cool, lol. On a less shallow note, the butterflies, which represent air (along with the moons), I associate with my mum as she’s always wearing butterfly patterned outfits and jewellery. Yeah, I don’t know how you can claim a whole ass insect either but apparently they’re her thing! And similarly, the scorpion is for my sister; it represents water, scorpio being a water sign. She and I used to watch Orphan Black together and took to affectionately calling each other “sestra” instead of sister like the Ukranian character Helena pronounces it in the show. At one point, I believe it’s season 3, her character hallucinates a scorpion (don’t ask, that show was pretty wack at times), hence the scorpion tattoo. Lastly, the flowers and the agate rock represent earth, which is the home of my sun and moon sign. There were originally going to be a lot more details to the piece but I wanted to keep it on the back of my arm and when I showed it to my new tattoo artist, Matt Cassy (cassytattoo on Instagram), he simplified it for me so that it would fit. It cost around £140 and took the longest time yet, but I’d give it a 1/10 for pain and it’s my favourite tattoo after my Lana one, probably because it’s the most individual.

Next after this was my sunflower and it took me to one of kindest and most talented people I’ve ever met! I’m pretty sure this was the first one she did for me and from this point onwards, I went back to Bianca Kidd (biancakiddtattoo on Instagram) for 90% of my tattoos. It’s a pretty basic piece but I really wanted a tattoo on my shoulder and preferably something that will never really go “out of style”. Flower tattoos are so simple but the absolute prettiest imo and I don’t think I’ll ever look back on this one and be like “what was I thinking?” I got Bianca to add the stars which were SUPPOSED to be in the form of the constellations of my sun, moon and rising signs, Capricorn, Virgo and what I thought was Scorpio but turns out is actually Cancer. Shoulda known considering how much of a needy, over-emotional twat I am, lol. On the one hand, it seems kinda contradictory to my crystal ball tattoo quote to believe in astrology but on the other, I think there might be something to the time of year a person is born and the environmental factors that come with that (climate, financial patterns etc.) affecting a person’s temperament slightly. It could all be a load of BS, considering the vagueness of most star signs and our tendency to want to agree with positive statements about ourselves, and I DEFINITELY don’t believe in the stars having any impact on your future or fate but it’s still fun to read about either way. Would be even funner if I didn’t have regrets about getting my natal chart wrong and being sure enough that Scorpio was my rising sign to get a tattoo referencing it every time I did, but there you go. If anyone asks, the placement of the stars is TOTALLY. RANDOM.

COST: approx. £140

PAIN: I find that even if a tattoo isn’t in a super painful position, your skin begins to get a little raw and thus more sensitive when it’s under a needle for a long period of time so 3/10

Next was the snakey boy on the inside of my right arm which I got just before Christmas, again by Bianca:

I don’t have much to say about this one other than it’s pretty much a copy of one I saw on Pinterest that I’d saved quite a while before (unfortunately I can’t find it anywhere now but if anybody does know the source lmk!) because I fricken love snakes and think they’re cute and misunderstood af. Not as cute as cats but definitely up there. Bianca changed it slightly by adding the dots around the rose and we went from there, and the main thing I remember is that this one actually hurt. Close to the armpit and on top of the muscle is a bad combination and I’m totally in awe of the madmen that go right into the pit itself. It cost £80 and for pain I’d give it an 8/10.

Cop the exact same pose only with the other arm instead, but I also got my mermaid around this time:

She was done by Polly (biffinx on instagram) who’s an apprentice tattoo artist. If you are looking for a slightly cheaper tattoo, apprentices are a good shout, as they usually charge slightly less, though in Polly’s case are equally as skilled at what they do; you’re also helping them build their portfolio so it’s a win-win situation for both you and the tattoo artist. That being said, make sure you do your research and get someone who’s good at the style you’re looking for before you commit. Instagram is often your best bet, and if not, tattoo shops often have websites with photo galleries showcasing each artist’s work. It might take you a while to find what you’re looking for but you really can’t compromise when you’re talking about something that’s probably going to be on your body forever. NBD. I got the mermaid as a nod to both growing up by the sea and how much I loved to swim when I was younger. I feel like I’m going to end up saying this far too many times but she’s one of my favourites.

COST: £60

PAIN: 8/10

I also got the other 3 tattoos on my upper right arm during this time. Bianca did the satanic kitty (can’t find the source of the tattoo it was based on! again, if anyone does lmk!), because of course I had to have a cat tattoo, and that was around £50 and a 3/10 on the pain scale. The two shells, which again are a reminder of where I grew up, were done by Terry Weeks (terryweekstattoo on Instagram) and cost £70 for both. I’d give them a 2/10 for pain.

Next were my knee and calf tattoo in February of this year, for which I went back to Matt Cassy:

He did the two of them for £140 and it took around 3 hours. Palm trees always remind me of California which I absolutely love, and the spider’s web was kinda just because...spooky, ya know? Honestly, I hate spiders and I equally hate that it gave the old man on the bus the inspiration to make the joke (imagine this being said in a strong Dorset accent) “you’ve got ae spiderr on yerr leg” at me that one time on the bus. Plus, I’d give my knee tattoo a strong 9/10 for pain. Realistically, it probably wasn’t any more painful than the inner upper arm tattoos but you have the added burden of suppressing your reflexes; when somebody is carving into the skin on your leg, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that your knee jerk reaction is to...well, kick that person in the face. Or away from you at least. I also got the elbow pit tattoo on my left arm from Bianca around this time for £160. 8/10 for pain on that one.

And then, there was the 10/10 in March. The things I do for Miss Lana Del fucking Rey.

Because the Just Ride tattoo above my knees HURT. I wasn’t expecting it at all but BLOODY HELL. My tattoo artist actually had to get the numbing spray out for this one. It was, again, the combined effect of it being on top of muscle and the need to resist my reflexes so that I didn’t flinch, which clearly I didn’t do a very good job at, hence the spray. I think my reaction at the time was kind of, what the fuck, has this stuff always existed? But the more you can put off asking for the spray, the better, because used in large quantities it can be pretty dangerous. This was the only tattoo I felt I did need it for because I literally couldn’t sit still and there was a risk of me jogging the tattoo artist, Megan, the amazing @bunnystattoos on Instagram. Her stuff is adorable and she has such a strong vision and brand and if I was going to get another, I’d love to just give her a starting point and see where she’d take it from there. Like, I’m not a Star Wars fan but LOOK at this set she designed for someone else:

I also got my Dream On tattoo with her in the same session and in total she charged me £110 for both which is pretty reasonable considering how in demand she is (and how much of a total baby I was about the Just Ride tattoo). I chose lyrics from Ride because lyrically, it’s probably one of my favourite songs of hers, plus the opening 30 seconds are pure magic.

Megan also did the linework orchid lady on the back of my arm around the same time:

I suppose you could say this is my most “meaningful” tattoo, because it was inspired by something my care-coordinator said to me about my diagnosis of BPD. In amongst all the other less than complimentary comments, she told me that it just means we need a little more care and sensitivity than others, like orchids do in comparison to other flowers, but that that doesn’t make us any less deserving of care or less beautiful. Basically, in the right circumstances, we can bloom too. And I liked that.

This one cost £80 and was about a 3/10 for pain. I can’t find any photos of the tattoo it was based on so for the millionth time, if you do know, hmu.

From April-May I got a shitload of tattoos and to be honest, I can’t really remember what order it was in so I’m going to group them into artists. First, the ones I got from Polly:

The anatomical heart I got in March and was based on this tattoo by Harry Plane (@harry.plane on Instagram):

COST: £50

PAIN: 7/10

And the sun and moon kissing was also around £50. 2/10 for pain.

Bianca did a few for me too, starting with the floral design on my lower left arm around March, which was probably my biggest piece yet:

The floral piece started off as a 4/10 though it creeped up to a 6 the closer it got to my wrist. Going over raised scars is also slightly more painful, something to bear in mind. Along with the Keep It Cute tattoo (6/10) on my wrist:

It came to £180.

Bianca also did the linework of my favourite GIF, like, ever.

Yes, it’s Go Go Yubari from Kill Bill about to try and maim The Bride, who don’t get me wrong I am perennially rooting for, but come on. It’s an iconic moment in film history Once Upon a Time in Hollywood wishes it could replicate. 4/10 for pain due to it being over scarring, otherwise we’re talking about the kind of placement that’s a reliable 2/10. I also got wrapped into the whole renaissance inspired trend and got Bianca to do me a little cherub gap filler based on this flash sheet I found on Google Images (link to the image found here https://creativemarket.com/Sonulkaster/280110-Angels-and-Cupids-collection.?utm_source=Pinterest&utm_medium=CM):

I suggested the cigarette as a cheeky little addition, lol! I’d give it a 5/10 for pain, being close to the inside of my arm n all and it set me back around £40. Unfortunately, I don’t have any great quality photos of it that I haven’t already used in the post but here’s one where you can see it a little bit (idk why my hair looks so brown and basically my natural colour in this photo but I DO NOT APPROVE, it is not at all fitting with my wannabe mildly goth aesthetic):

Finally, we have my last 2 tattoos.

See, getting my finger tattoos done was an absolute necessity before I went inter-railing and not because I’m an over-dramatic bitch who wanted a little something to make my multitude of me-holding-food photos more aesthetically pleasing (though of course it helped on that count), but because I made the fucking huge mistake of trying to stick and poke them myself. To be fair, they weren’t THAT bad at first. Like I was pretty pleased with them. Buuuut they faded super quickly and I guess that’s the issue with stick and pokes, especially on your fingers, where even professional tattoos are a bit of a flight risk anyway. So, after having to go over them a million times and spilling Indian ink all over my laptop keyboard, I decided to admit defeat and get Bianca to go over them for me. It cost £30 and I’d only give it a 4/10 on the pain scale. After months of having to explain my shitty faded finger tattoos to everyone and convince far too many customers at work that they weren’t just drawn on with a sharpie, I’m finally happy with them. Lesson learnt. Don’t stick and poke kids, especially not near your laptop.

Lastly is my “Wouldst Thou Like to Live Deliciously?” quote that Polly did for me:

The cost of this tattoo? £30. Having to explain to every person who hasn’t seen The VVitch what it actually says and then what it means too? Priceless. Hotel? Tri-

I joke. It’s actually very annoying having to explain what it says and vague what it means, not because I don’t EXACTLY know but also because I feel like a snobby film hoe (which is quite an accurate description of me) every time I do. The VVitch is super good, guys. Please watch if you’ve got the patience, it’s a slow burn.

Anyways, I hope anybody who read to the end enjoyed the post and found it informative! If you have any other tattoo questions, shoot me a message and I will definitely respond. I think one of the most common things I get is people saying they’re too indecisive to get a tattoo and that they want one, but are worried they’ll go off it. What I think is that once you get your first, getting a tattoo starts to feel like less of a momentous decision. Like there are tattoos I have that I probably wouldn’t get now but that doesn’t mean I regret them because, although it sounds cheesy, they sort of become a part of you and represent what you liked at the time. The more you have, the less significant one individual tattoo is. At the end of the day, are you ever going to regret getting a tiny rose? Worst case scenario, you can always get a cover up or if you’re brave and rich enough (lol), get laser removal. In terms of aftercare, I’ve always been kind of sloppy. Follow the instructions your tattoo artist gives you but also, if you don’t get time to moisturise them, it’s not the end of the world. TRY not to itch them but one tiny scratch isn’t going to permanently damage your tattoo.

One thing I will say, though, that’s probably kind of obvious to everyone but me (being the dumbass I am) is that you should NOT go in the sea right after getting a tattoo. It is literally the equivalent of pouring salt in an open wound and whilst it didn’t ruin my Lana, it really fucking stung for about 3 days afterwards. I’m an endless treasure chest of protips, didn’t you know?

Thank you for reading!

Lauren x

#tattoos #ink #lana del rey #lana #lana del rabies #inkaddict #tattoed girls #ewwhatacringeyhashtag #spooky #spoopy #personalstyle

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the-art-of-animated-gifs · 6 years ago

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Bill Tavis: One of the originals

For some reason Bill Tavis never made it onto my radar despite being one of what I would call one of the original gif artists. He has made over 500 since 2010 and if you look at art on the internet for about 15 minutes you will probably see one of his trippy fractal gifs. I recently posted some of his new gifs on Cross Connect (his 3rd time being featured there) and he generously answered my questions and had especially thoughtful responses about gifs as art.

Where are you located? Where are you from?

I'm currently living in Austin, TX and grew up in Albuquerque, NM and moved around a few places in between

Do you have formal art training of any sort?

I got a Bachelor's Degree in Animation, and I have taken other classes in painting and programming. A lot of what I do is self-taught though. Also, I believe that you can learn techniques from others but that's only half of the puzzle. The other half is the inspiration and expression and those are things that just have to be felt.

What do you do for a living?

I self-publish fractal posters (www.mandelmap.com), I paint murals, and I sell fine art prints and do commissions

When did you start making gifs, and why?

I first started doing my halftone style back in 2005. It was all done by hand with ink on paper. Someone mentioned that it looked like a computer filter and so I thought I should actually make a filter, even though I didn't know how at the time, and I didn't think of animating it yet. At some point I saw a GIF of moving black and white lines, and I thought "what if those lines were changing thickness as well?" When I finally knew enough programming, right away I designed my halftone software to make looping animations, even though halftones are usually supposed to be for printing purposes. I didn't care because I was obsessed with the way the moving lines looked. I made my first halftone GIFs in 2010 but I didn't know where to upload them in that form, and so I converted them to video to share online. I also only made a few because my code was clunky and naive. In 2013 I improved my halftone software to the point where I could finally get really creative with it, and I also found Tumblr which seemed to be a great place for GIFs. Once I started it was like a faucet was opened, and I have made and uploaded more than 500 by this point.

What keeps you coming back?

I feel like this is my purpose and I think I have some interesting things to say, so I want to take an active part in culture and that requires constant work. My GIF output has slowed down in the last year but I haven't gone away, I'm just exploring new avenues of halftone expression! And there's now a backlog of GIFs wanting to get out of my brain so you can count on seeing more at some point!

What do you think about gifs as an Art Form?

GIFs are perfectly suited for looping animations, and I think loops are very artistic in nature because they don't have a beginning or an end. It's an infinitely suspended moving moment, rather than a finite linear progression like a movie. The lack of sound contributes to this quality. Also, GIF compression relies upon a limited color palette, so it is the perfect format for my halftone style because I am breaking things down into lines of just a few colors. GIFs are also cool because they are actually image files, not video. For those three reasons, I think the GIF format will continue to be relevant, and it has unique aesthetic characteristics that I've never seen in another medium.

Are you making money on your gif artwork?

I have had a couple commissions, but for the most part I haven't made money directly from my GIFs. It's so ephemeral that it's hard to monetize, and making money with the GIFs has never been my focus anyways, I always just wanted to put them all out there for free. I have paid my way with commercial art for a long time, so I saw just how much money can influence expression, and I wanted my halftone work to not have that influence. However I'm not against making money from it and I do make other things with my art that people can buy if they want to support me. Since my style is based on halftones, I have been able to turn some of my work into screenprints, as well as nicer engraved pieces, that you can find on my website https://billtavis.com

#Bill Tavis #Fractal #gif #gif art #gif aesthetic #art #animated art #animated artwork

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a-writing-bear · 6 years ago

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[PruCan] Chapter 9: Soft-Spoken Calling, They Want Their Shyness Back

Ao3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11159997/chapters/42689768

This Has been cross-posted onto FF & Ao3 under Aliases: BearBooper

You can read this Fic on Tumblr under ‘Keep Reading’ - Ao3 version is formatted, tumblr version is not. Ao3 is recommended.

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers

Main Pairing: Gilbert Beilschmidt & Matthew Williams (Prussia & Canada)

AU: College AU - Art Student Matthew and Media/Film Student Gilbert

Age Rating/Mature: Teen And Up Audiences (12+ due to mentions of mature themes as well as swearing)

Trigger Warnings: Recreational Drugs & minor connotations of anxiety (Future addiction to mention themes such as addiction, rape etc.) WITHIN THIS CHAPTER - Mentions of Depression, Anxiety, Therapy, Counseling, and anti-depressants. (please note I am NOT anti-meds.) Family Issues are implied, Distance and abandonment suggested.

The world stiffened as strawberry blonde hair covered his tired eyes, Alfred had scooted much farther away as he let his brother gather himself. Racing, pulsing thoughts jumped in his head; everything felt slow and too fast at the same time and the unease of having someone else in this private session was more off-putting than he would have thought.

“I….I didn’t finish the painting.” Ms Paisley’s demure look did not falter, unsurprised but still polite, her scribbles of notes were no doubt some follow up questions about his inability to get something done- he felt foolish for bringing it up, his subconscious already tormenting him about his inadequacy to shush up. His brother, on the other hand, was lost; What does a painting have to do with Matthew’s health?

“What was it this time Matthew? ...noise? … distractions?” her voice trailed on but Alfred’s mind was hooked on her reasoning-

“Not noise this time. I was quite...fine. I was fine- I just can’t get it to look right and I feel…” He mind was smoothened a little bit as he tried to articulate his thoughts. Fiddly hands kept tracing the hemming of his hoodie edges, eyes strictly avoiding his brother’s questioning gaze.

“Lost. I felt like I was detached again. I couldn’t get it right and It’s just so difficult to stay up…” Closed eyes and uncertain breath faded into a hum, he almost forgot Alfred was there as he thought of the image of his childhood. Bright. Vibrant. Utterly simplistic in its approach.

“I’m on top of work. But that just means I sleep more... I'm tired. Very tired. I know I say that a lot but I am. It’s just so-” his voice breaks off into a bit of a laugh as he grimaces at his repetitious mantra, “I’m exhausted, Paisley.” He bites his lips; he’s been trying to get out of the habit of saying tired. The word was so addictingly bittersweet and had glossed over his lips so often that the definition of such a word had practically been imprinted into his personality. Dr Paisley looked up as Alfred patted a hand onto his knee, the gesture making the male almost jump as his eyes popped finally realising his brother was still in the room.

“Well. I’m sure the painting will turn out beautifully- Have you shown anyone your work, has Al-”

“It’s a surprise! It’s...not ready and I don’t want Alfred to be spoilt” The interruption let out another hiccup as Matthew slid his back down the couch, his head almost lolling straight into the couch’s depths.

“Okay. I think you should have some downtime while I Just chat with your brother, would that be possible Matthew?” He slowly got up, feeling ashamed for his messy rambling and eager to leave the room. “John could get you some tea while you wait..” the remnants of that sentence was lost on Matthew as he had already made his way out back into the little room from before.

“Hi Alfred, Long time no see, How have you been?”

“Alright, Uni is exciting as always...can we just get to the reason why I’m here? Matthew-- My brother says you want him on more medication?”

“Yes. He hasn’t been on anything for a while, and he’s made a lot of progress but recently...He’s been having trouble with our recent goals, and I don’t want to worry any of you and your family. From a professional standpoint, I would recommend this as it would help him just balance out his anxiety. He hasn’t been on much for a while now.”

“I trust you doc, but I’m still worried. He’s been kind of...really secretive I guess?

“How so? He’s told me he’s been chatting and unloading a lot on peop-”

“Well, obviously not me. Not..me. We don’t go out anymore, he always liked to sleep in but some days I have to genuinely bash his door down to get him up. It’s...a slump.”

Dr Paisley sighed, a knowing glint in her eye as she listened to the wistful way Alfred talk about his brother- knowing of what?

“Look. Mr Jones, I need to know if you’re planning on any big life changes.” Alfred seized up, caught off guard by the question, almost nervous of his own answer- “It’s just that Matthew right now needs some extra support, we’re assuming he’s just in a bit of a drop right now...he goes through it once…” her voice seemed to trail off as Alfred and his ever calculative brain were in the works of what to say: tell the truth or to wait for a better moment? Surely he could put off telling Matthew of his...no if he told the doctor now he could avoid a confrontation from his family later on…

“-Would moving away count as something big?” the professional paused in her sentence, concern out and open.

“Who would be moving?” Alfred explained his new course offer from some prestigious lab in Japan, the willingness he had to go there and the excitement was clear but the more he explained he had begun thinking of how’ll it affect his brother.

“...we spent enough time apart as kids. Last time really fucked him up and I just don’t...he lost trust in me and that’s okay I just... I- what if this is the thing that really...pushes it?”

The two stared at each other for a few seconds, both deep in thought before the doctor gave her insight: “Your brother will be fine. He wants you to live your life. He just needs time to know what’s going on. He needs to talk more. Do you know anyone he could talk to while you’re away?” There was Tim, their childhood friend of whom Mattie had always been attached to; the Dutchman always came to Matthew’s heed and Mattie always complied with the scarf-wearing weirdo. Alfred drifted, he had that new German guy, right? He never really liked Gilbert, always saw him at some trashy party- he was so different from Matthew, it would be difficult for his brother to open up to someone like that…

“Besides Tim, there’s this new guy. I think Matt would tell you about him. I don’t really trust the guy.” before the doc could synthesise a plan Matthew had knocked on the door rather meekly, sticking that fluff of a hairdo through the door and asking if he could back in.

“Of course. Matthew, your brother and I are okay with our new goals, would you like to go through with it?” the young man barely nodded, still in the doorway, leaning a bit off the frame as his eyes wandered in Alfred’s direction as if still asking if he could come in. Alfred got up, shaking off imaginary dust and he made his way out, ruffling his twin brother’s hair as they swapped places. He’d have time to think about what he wanted to tell him while he waited.

“I’m really sorry we can’t have our full 1 hour Matthew, Is there anything you’d like to talk about in particular today?” Matthew had cosied up on the chair, crossing his legs as he used to as a kid- Dr paisley had reassured him no harm would be done to her soft plush couch even if he brought his foot upon it.

“I’m just tired is all.” he had started picking at the seat fibres once more, his glasses sort of slipping off as he pressed the couch experimentally. “I understand, Alfred said you made a new friend? Wanna chat about that?” At first, Matthew was puzzled, confused as to who she had meant before realising that she probably referred to Gilbert.

“Oh. Gilbert. He’s...cool. I don’t want to talk about him. Do I ha-”

“You don’t have to do anything Matthew. This is about you.”

Matthew relayed his story about going to see Tim (minus the weed of course), how he had overstepped Tim’s boundaries once more by accident, ranting way too long and not getting anything done when he could have been doing something, anything, he never gets things done, why can’t i get things done, it’s impossi-

“Matt- Matthew breathe. Hey, hey slow down. You were taking a break right?” Matthew gulped. He didn’t realise he had been mumbling incessantly again. “I don’t think you overstepped. I’m sure Tim would have said something if you did. He’s been your...friend for a long time.” the blonde nodded, awkward to where this was going.

“Do you...pardon me if this seems inconceivable or rude...do you have feelings for Tim?” Matthew looked at her as if she had slapped him in the face-

“nO! OH Nonono- Tim’s my… he’s just a really...good friend, I couldn’t...I like someone else... I think?” his mind drifted to a pearly white smile and red eyes that really should be more intimidating than attractive. God. Gilbert’s got him good and it’s hardly been a day. He needs to stop. Paisley just smiled that ever kind smile, and it kinda sickened Matthew knowing at the end of the day she was paid to smile like that regardless of what he said to her. The rationale in his head reminded him she was genuine and that this was a good experience- counselling was better than hiding in a room getting high off his rock...that sounds more enjoyable at this point. The two chatted, Matthew once more relearning his breathing, noting to himself to write in his personal log once he gets home to keep the doc and himself on check.

“I’ll see you next Saturday? Afternoon at 1pm. 1 hour for sure Matthew.” with that the two parted, Matthew, worming his way out of the office and straight to the registering counter, prescription form in hand. Alfred had signed it. So had he. He’d have to pick them up tomorrow. Fuck me.

The two twins waddled back out, getting into their car and driving to their little detour: the diner just off campus. “Ahh loving the shoddy lights as usual,” Alfred commented as they got out the car and saw the overdone and tacky 60s light decor falter. Sliding into the opposite sides of a booth, the two sat in silence, obviously avoiding conversing about what was talked about during Matthew’s appointment. Or so Matthew hoped.

“So doc tells me ‘bout a painting.” Liar. Matthew knows Paisley wouldn’t have told him jack shit about that painting. “It’s nothing. It’s a surprise, Al, don’t go sticking your nose into my art and I won't question your phall-” Alfred burst out laughing before Matthew could finish his joke, he supposed seeing his brother laugh did brighten his moods. The waiter, dressed in a stereotypical apron, brought over some coffee (“it’s not Tim Hortons, but it’ll do”) and Alfred waved her off to get some burgers with a ‘thank you doll’ that only resulted in a tut. They talked about Alfred’s course and how his lab work was going, Matthew, in turn, talked about the next hockey season and how’d he hope he would get back on the team after his hiatus. Parents. They talked about their parents- neither of whom had called. Their father, ever the distant soul, last they heard, was back in London sorting out some legal case and hadn’t even texted Alfred the usual monthly check-in text. Matthew grimaced. If he didn’t even text Alfred...then he must still be mad about the two of them going to see mother last summer. The coffee was burnt and bitter, and this dinner was as rugged and worn out as Matthew’s weary soul, yet he couldn’t help feel comforted by the fact his brother was still here and not painstakingly somewhere ignoring him. Matthew hated being ignored.

*DING*

T @ 7:34 [Are you at the Diner? I see an oddly familiar car out here.]

Of course, Tim was here.

M @ 7:34 [Yeah Al’s here though. Just came back from Dr.P’s. Wanna join dinner time?]

T @ 7:36 [I’ve got Laura and Luca with me, I’m sure they’d love to catch up with your bro. Though you wanna chat out back for a bit?]

Matthew paused. Looked away from his phone to see Alfred once more chatting with a waitress, idly stacking up some creamer cups.

M @ 7:38 [Your sister would smell the shit on us. Tell the L duo to come in and I’ll come out.]

T @ 7:39 [I’ve got deo and we can blame it on smokers outside. They’re going.]

“The Van-de-bergs are here. I’m gonna go out just to chat with Tim for a bit. Please don’t hit on Laura again- Tim will murder you and I’ll tell Kiku.” Matthew got up quickly, making his way very quickly as his brother tried responding with a resounding “I’m not that big of a flirt-” Laura and little brother Luca in tow came bursting in, gladly waving at Matt as they made their way to the table.

“Tim says you two need to chat so he’s-”

“Outside.” Matthew pushed his way past them out the door. He’s not usually so dismissive of the kind girl but he wanted to get away from some of the noise for a bit. A smoke really sounded good right then. The air seemed nippy as he stumbled into the evening light. The fuzzy streetlights illuminated the tall figure that was Tim leaning on his car. With a head flick and a motion, the two moved, trekking to a dodgy avoided spot right behind the diner; smoker paradise as cigarette buds were littered across the gravelled area.

“..I’m assuming shit didn’t go well.” Matthew denied answering because he himself didn’t really know. Today went well. He just didn’t feel it.

“Well. Let’s chat then schatje.”

Gilbert had enjoyed Matthew’s empty bedroom for a while. But he found, no matter how charming the walls were and the strewn pieces of art- as captivating as they were, felt strange without Matthew actually being there. He had gotten out, leaving the room as immaculate as it did when he had first gotten in and wondered where the North American brothers had gone. Oh well. His work had occupied him for as long as he needed, and by dinner time he was truly starving. With his, worn out jeans and leather jacket snugly on, and his motorbike keys pocketed he decided he’d go off campus and get some takeaway. The food hall seemed a bit too dull for a Saturday night lunch right? And nothing was better than hunkering down on some takeaway and calling it a night early. With a resounding roar, his bike came to life, driving him down the quiet nighttime roads, running away from the campus that seemed to be riddled with late-night students wandering all over the place.

Unlike Alfred, Gilbert unironically liked the 60s vibe that the diner had possessed. It reminded him of his Grandfather who always liked the middle of nowhere businesses and of Ludwig and his avoidance of less than stellar looking establishments. The food was fantastic too and always made good 24/7 pancakes. Gilbert wouldn’t mind pancakes for dinner, he could get them half price if he sweetened that lady over the counter again. Just as he pulled up, and was busy stowing his helmet away he saw a familiar person walking behind the restaurant- Matthew. Matthew with someone most definitely wasn’t Alfred. I thought he said he was with his brother. Gilbert scolded himself...it’s none of his business. For all he knew Alfred was there too...behind the diner...where cute Matthew was walking with a shady looking tall dude. Yeah, not awesome. Gilbert began walking.

He’s just making sure his new friend Matt was safe. A good samaritan keeping someone safe. Gilbert's inner voice was spouting bullshit.

#prucan #APH Canada #APH Prussia #SoftSpokenCalling #prussia x canada #hetalia #hetalia axis powers #Axis Powers Hetalia #Hetalia Fanfiction #hetalia fanfics #hetalia fandom #fanfiction #fanfic #Multichapter

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qrbits · 6 years ago

Photo

Finished the project I’ve been working on for the past month! It’s kind of a hybrid of a visdev portfolio and a self indulgent story guide. Due to tumblr’s photo limit, I only shared about half of the pages here, but if you’re interested in reading the whole thing, you can find it here.

I have a lot to reflect upon, but the text is very long (and basically a creative biography ;;;), so I’ll put it under the cut.

(I’m taking advantage of the fact that tumblr is supposed to be a blogging platform and actually writing a blog for once LOL)

As I said in the introduction page, Red Scherzo is a story I’ve been musing over for several years, and it’s not possible to truly understand the project without understanding its history. As most other creatives will relate, writing is Hard. Creating worlds is Hard. And even more so, creating people is Hard.

The inkling for this story began in 2014 after I decided that I wanted to write something good. Something cool, something grand. And like most clueless 15 year olds with too much time on their hands, I began to daydream. I reasoned that the best way to make something really cool would be to list out everything that I ever wanted to see in film, in text, in anime, and to somehow mash it into one story. Here are some of the things I demanded from it: nonlinear storytelling, genius foreshadowing, heavy symbolism, characters who are the perfect balance of tragic and relatable, a powerful message, and the list goes on and on. I collected images of beautiful places and beautiful people that I wanted to write stories about and decided that I would incorporate them somehow.

As you can see, these are all very vague, ambiguous elements of storytelling. And so, with only the notion of wanting to make greatness, I began to write. I wrote and plotted and drew iteration after iteration, and I was never satisfied, because how could I be? There was no way that I could have satisfied the guidelines I set for myself.

A few years in, about 200,000 words of plotting and 2 or 3 Nanowrimo’s later, I’d decided to make the story (it was not called Red Scherzo back then) a webcomic. I was starry-eyed and determined. This would be the project I worked on for the foreseeable rest of my life. I’d calculated that if I posted an update a week, it would take until my mid 30′s to complete.

Saying that now feels so incomprehensible and hilarious. Very little planning went into how the story was going to look, and I had little to no experience storyboarding, panelling, scripting, and so much more. I jumped straight in with a script that was maybe 1/1000 complete, and let my whims drive the visual direction. I got 4 decently sized updates in until I realized I couldn’t keep doing this.

After one last Nanowrimo I did for this story in my first year of college, I decided that I needed to trash the whole thing. Just forget the entire past four years happened, and release myself. It had become a burden, trying to perfect the story, trying to make it something bigger than what I currently had the capacity for. And so I did. I closed all the Google Drive tabs, closed all the Photoshop files, and just stopped thinking about it.

It was a very strange 6 months. I hadn’t known what it was like to not have story in my head for many many years. To not have some scene playing out in my head as I went to sleep, to not see something quirky happen and think about how my characters would react, to not see a beautiful setting and want to inject my story into it. Because my head was clear now, empty and free of any sort of expectations. Of course, in this time, I tried to carefully and slowly plan other stories, and to find some sort of spark that would bring me back into the story realm. I won’t say those were all failures, but just that they need some time to brew, just like Red Scherzo did.

In those 6 empty months, I paid more attention to living. I paid attention to people, ideas, and truths that were important to me. I was struggling with academics for the first time in my life, and learning what it meant to make sacrifices and live in a fulfilling and exciting way. I reread my old old stories that I believed held some capacity of beauty and authenticity and began to illustrate them. I decided what kind of art I wanted to make and what kind of things I wanted to say with it.

And then I returned to Red Scherzo. My mistakes were glaringly obvious now. This story was written during high school, during a time where I was not challenged, not exploring, and not genuine. I used the excuse of plotting to have something to be working on, always, and to be able to show off how much work I was putting into an arbitrary project. It was written during a time when I was feeling bored and suffocated, and used the story as a lifeline to entertain myself. I had goals and things I wanted to say with my writing, but it was all artificial, because I didn’t know it felt like to live like I wanted to.

You’ve probably grasped by now that the morale of what I’ve just written is that you need to live in order to create. (And that this blog has gotten horribly off topic). You can’t know what kinds of characters you want to write if you don’t go out there and meet characters. You can’t know what kinds of worlds you want to build if you’ve never experienced yours.

Okay, so trying to loop all this back around to the actual portfolio.

Well, obviously, I’ve never been a schizophrenic rich boy living in the 1950′s who writes symphonies and chases murderers. But I think that now, I’m able to understand and respect the people that guide my stories a bit better. I’m less impatient and less worried about making something perfect, which this portfolio is definitely not.

I have a good number of gripes over how this project ended up, but I’m not going to try to add to it or fix it because I want to keep it as a marker in time. This right here is the current maximum of my creative efforts. There are many things in it that I’d never drawn, much less designed before in my life. Cars, knives, buildings, interiors. I discovered that I enjoyed drawing many of these things. I also did the entire thing in a style that I’d hardly used before, just to challenge myself. (I took a lot of inspiration from the way kenesu’s was formatted, and the style that Renareve and Sophie Li’s was done in).

By the time I hit the midway point, I already knew that I was capable of far more than the project was offering me, but I stuck it through because I needed to finish something solid.

I’m excited to let this project go into the wild and begin to plan what my next one will be like. There are so many styles and genres I want to try. I feel like I’ve only just discovered the tip of the iceberg of my creative potential.

If you made it, thank you for reading until the end. I hope at least some of this blog made sense or resonated with you!

#visdev #visual development #original character #character design #yeah i wrote a lot #I don't mind if no one reads it #I just needed to record it for myself lol #reblogs are still appreciated tho LOL #this is all oversharing but I do think someone out there might be able to gain something from it #this might as well be a biography ;;;

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ragecandyfics · 6 years ago

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Archanea Week Day 3: Loyal/Heart

Characters: Ogma, Caeda, some Samuel Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, torture Word count: ~15K

Ogma is more than willing to put his life on the line for Princess Caeda; she did save him from a terrible fate, after all. But Caeda doesn’t want anyone’s life to be on the line; that’s why she saved his in the first place.

Notes: Due to Tumblr's ridiculous refusal to show posts with links in them in search results, I’m going to paste the whole thing here. Due to Tumblr’s inability to keep my formatting, italics and bold won’t be preserved, and, due to Tumblr mobiles disregard of read mores, mobile users are in for lots of scrolling. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll put the AO3 link in the notes for those who want to see the fic in its intended format.

Loyal

Ogma wasn’t a reckless fighter by any means. He wasn’t quite so cautious and guarded as many of the younger soldiers, either, but that was only because he had years of experience behind him and could usually judge danger very accurately. Besides, with his skill level, he could afford to throw some caution to the wind now and again. He rarely did, for fear of incurring Princess Caeda’s wrath―but he could, theoretically, afford to.

When he spotted the archer nocking an arrow towards the sky, though, he didn’t stop to think about it. The fear of his lady’s anger; his own instincts he’d honed over the years; the swarms of Macedonian soldiers around him―none of it even registered. Ogma moved. He plowed through their ranks, weaving between hulking suits of ebon armor and flashing lances that nipped at his heels, and the lucky few enemies who reacted quickly enough to step in front of him were only met with the edge of his sword.

By the time the archer heard his fellows’ screams and glanced away from the pegasus he’d been about to shoot down, his head was already toppling off his shoulders.

There. One less archer; one less potential threat.

Only then did Ogma stop to consider the situation. And he quickly came to the conclusion that, having accomplished his goal, he was now essentially trapped behind enemy lines, completely surrounded, and still riding a wave of adrenaline that made his hands shake and his vision go dark around the edges.

‘Princess Caeda is going to kill me,’ he found himself thinking as the Macedonians broke out of their stupor and turned their weapons towards him. ‘Or,’ he amended after a moment, ‘she’ll kill my ghost.’

Physically impossible, but she would find a way.

Then the soldiers fell upon him in a confused flurry of steel, and Ogma could do nothing but drop flat to the ground. One weapon whistled over his head―he couldn’t see it, but it sounded like an axe―and he sent it flying with a deft twist of his sword, clearing up just enough space to get his feet back underneath him.

Seeing little choice, he took three haphazard stabs at the soldiers nearest to him in quick succession, still crouching under the wild singing of various weapons overhead. All three men hit the ground, and he heard a fourth man scream as―Ogma risked a glance to check―the pinwheeling axe from earlier caught him in the shoulder, sending him stumbling into the mage behind him. Ah: a rare stroke of luck. Taking advantage of the brief confusion, Ogma rolled forward, barely evading what would’ve been a fatal stab to the neck, and skewered both the grunt and mage at once.

He allowed himself exactly half a second to marvel at the quality of his newest sword. Not many blades could pierce two bodies in one go, even with Ogma’s considerable strength behind them. Then he sprung back onto his feet, knocking aside a clumsy sword slash, and the fight began in earnest.

After that, he didn’t bother keeping tabs on each individual attack. The way he moved was mostly instinct, combined with some simple on-the-fly assessments―those halberdiers are a real problem; I should take care of those next. This swordmaster has no idea what he’s doing, so it’s probably safe to leave him alive for now. That archer might decide to go after Princess Caeda―there we go. Not anymore, he won’t. It was a tried and tested formula that he’d developed back in the gladiator days, and it had yet to fail him.

(But there was, of course, a first time for everything.)

Ogma couldn’t identify the attack which finally broke through his defenses. That was the nature of being attacked from behind: you either noticed it beforehand or you just wondered where that sudden stabbing pain had come from.

Whatever kind of wound it was, it hurt, and Ogma faltered, letting out a sort of choked growl that fell just short of a shout. Then something jostled inside of his newly-injured shoulder―the weapon hadn’t yet been removed, he supposed―sword? Axe? Too shallow to be a lance; too much movement to be an arrow―

He barely even realized that his own legs had buckled underneath him (the traitors), but that was definitely dirt beneath his knees. And a quick, bleary-eyed glance proved that, as he’d suspected, he was still completely surrounded. A dozen soldiers on their feet versus a wounded mercenary on his knees. It was a fool’s wager.

With one last burst of adrenaline, Ogma buried his sword up to the hilt in the closest target―some poor chump’s thigh―and then the weapon in his back twisted very deliberately and Ogma lost his grip, both palms hitting the ground.

Belatedly, he snarled in pain, fingers gouging into the dirt. The Macedonians tightened around him as if he wasn’t already hemmed in, hastily dragging away the swordsman he’d injured―and, with him, Ogma’s sword, still embedded in his leg. Even if he’d managed to keep his grip on the damn thing, he still would have been done for, but the added helplessness of being disarmed was enough to make his throat constrict in an uncharacteristic moment of panic.

‘Princess Caeda is going to turn to the dark arts,’ he found himself thinking nigh hysterically (and rather incongruously, given the circumstances). ‘Princess Caeda is going to defect, and have Gharnef teach her forbidden magic, and bring me back to life, solely for the purpose of killing me again, but slower.’

Then, as he began to lose coherence, his muddled brain added, somewhat more rationally and much more distressingly:

‘Caeda’s gonna cry.’

The weapon in his shoulder drove down until his vision went white and his ears rang, and Ogma screamed, slamming against the ground as his limbs crumpled uselessly underneath him. Blade scraped bone, pushing through flesh long since torn asunder, and a jolt of white-hot agony vibrated through his entire being, tearing another choked gasp from his lips.

He was dead. He was a corpse. His mind was already severed from his body, hovering on a separate plane of existence as he waited for his chance to pass into the afterlife. Waiting to see whether he would be admitted into paradise or consigned to a much less pleasant fate.

Perhaps, he thought, the gods would judge him kindly for his meager years of service to Princess Caeda. Surely, if they even spared a glance at his soul, they would find it sorely wanting for virtue. But perhaps the Princess’ overabundance of virtue would reflect well on him. She may yet manage to save him a third time.

Agony―a sudden burst of it, centered around his shoulder―and Ogma’s mind writhed even as his body remained inert and lifeless. No such luck, then―he’d already been found lacking. Understandably so, perhaps. Caeda’s command had been the best part of his life but, ultimately, the shortest part as well. It wouldn’t hold much weight in the value of his soul, even though it felt as if his life hadn’t truly begun until he’d looked up through bloodied eyelashes and seen a puny girl with deep blue hair standing over him.

Another jolt of pain, followed by the strange sensation of being moved. Ogma wondered why he could still feel his body if his soul had already abandoned ship. An incomprehensible cacophony of unintelligible noises wormed its way into his ears, overpowering the shrill ring that hadn’t yet faded, and he surprised himself by physically squirming. Was this Hell? Did the damned have bodies that they could move? Perhaps his corpse was simply still twitching.

He didn’t notice that the pain in his shoulder had receded somewhat until it came back again full-force. A sharp jab against his chest was all it took to jostle the wound, and he surprised himself again by groaning out loud. If this was Hell, then it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected―yet―but even this was probably enough to merit the title of “damnation”.

Another jab, another groan, and another squirm. Ogma wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know what was prodding him or not. It was too blunt to be a trident like the ones that demons traditionally carried, and, other than that, he didn’t have even a guess. But, when it pressed insistently into his chest, he decided that he probably had no choice―this would continue until he relented and looked.

With monumental effort, Ogma managed to pry his eyes open. He could barely see anyway, the light nearly blinding him, his vision blurry and unstable, but something about the few vague, pulsing colors he could make out gave him pause.

Finally, the world came into a shaky sort of focus. The colors solidified into something more tangible―shapes; figures; wings?―and Ogma wondered if this was an angel coming to spirit him away. Then the image sharpened―blue hair; red clothing; white wings―not on her, but a pegasus―and Ogma thought, ‘Oh, I was half right.’

Princess Caeda―it could be no other―was hovering over him, mounted atop Tempest, but they weren’t airborne. The butt of her wing spear was pressed lightly against his chest, pushing his wound into the ground, which explained why it hurt like hellfire. In her other hand was a blood-crusted axe.

Briefly, Ogma entertained the idea that Caeda had, in fact, resurrected him so that she could kill him herself. Then she tossed the axe aside, urged Tempest into a sharp turn, and thrust out her hand in a desperate grab for his arm. Ogma couldn’t really hear what she was saying, but he definitely saw his name cross her lips as she leaned further out of the saddle, still too far off the ground to reach him.

He wasn’t sure whether to classify the feeling that overtook him as nostalgia or deja vu, but, either way, it was intense enough to drive some of the cotton from his skull. Staring up at Princess Caeda, gritting his teeth against wave after wave of pain, trying to piece together the fact that he wasn’t yet dead as she stretched a hand towards him―it was all very familiar.

Well, his soul might still be forfeit, he mused to himself as comprehension finally dawned on him, but Caeda would get the chance to save him a third time, anyway.

Ogma forced a bit of feeling back into his numb extremities. He wished for all the world that he could just lay there until his shoulder stopped screaming for mercy, but that was no longer an option.

He was still alive.

Caeda had passed her judgment.

Clawing into the deepest chasms of his body, Ogma managed to scrounge up one last scrap of adrenaline. It was just enough for him to stifle the pain and throw out his arm in an inelegant grab for Caeda’s. Luckily, at the same time, Caeda lunged towards him, nearly unseating herself in the process, and they each managed to clumsily wrap a hand around the other’s forearm.

The Princess’ grip was bruising, and Ogma’s shoulder strained when she rocked back into the saddle, tugging him halfway off the ground. Tempest reared―he noticed, only now, that they were still encircled by Macedonian soldiers, albeit far fewer than before―and then Caeda jerked his arm with all the force of a killing blow, pulling his limp body off of the ground entirely.

For a split second, he was airborne. He spent most of that split-second on a strangled but vehement curse that he hoped wasn’t loud enough to sully the Princess’ ears. Despite his pained shout and Tempest’s distressed whinnies, though, the nauseating sound of his shoulder popping out of socket was still audible.

His forehead ricocheted off of Caeda’s pauldron with a clang that sent his head spinning, and the rest of his body made contact an instant later, his torso colliding with hers and his legs ramming up against Tempest’s side. All three yelped on impact, and the two humans immediately clung to each other as the pegasus underneath them reared once again. Ogma thoughtlessly scrambled for a foothold, boots scraping against Tempest’s hide, which only exacerbated the situation.

Caeda didn’t give them time to get situated. As soon as her grip on Ogma was secure enough that she could be reasonably sure he wouldn’t fall, she spurred her panicked pegasus off of the ground, and they took off. The Macedonians shouted, but Tempest was too fast for them to catch, even when she was throwing a fit.

Half-delirious with pain and panic, Ogma clawed for purchase against both Caeda’s armor and Tempest’s side. Already, he was beginning to slide dangerously downward, gravity doing its damnedest to pull him back to the ground, and Tempest’s desperate thrashing wasn’t exactly helping matters.

Before he could fall, Caeda tightened her grasp on his torso―he hissed in pain, but she wisely didn’t relent―and heaved him up, both of them teetering precariously. Through mostly dumb luck, Ogma’s kicking legs hooked over the side of the saddle, and, with a bit of flailing and a few near deaths, Caeda managed to settle him behind her on Tempest’s back.

Without his feet in the stirrups, and with Tempest still bucking and neighing, Ogma had no choice but cling to the Princess for dear life, stifling an agonized cry into her shoulder for lack of anywhere else to stifle it. For a moment, her hand alighted on his, and she turned to say something over her shoulder―Ogma thought he might have heard his name, and perhaps a ‘hang on tight’―before she leaned forward to take Tempest’s reigns in both hands.

A sharp yank had the pegasus whirling around, and Ogma seized the leather strap of Caeda’s breastplate between his teeth rather than letting himself scream. The wind was whistling past them, now, as Tempest picked up speed, and he was becoming progressively surer that Caeda had, in fact, warned him to hang on. It seemed to be sage advice.

The thought of tightening his grip―and therefore pulling at the wound on his back―was enough to make him flinch in breathless anticipation. Neither of his shoulders was in particularly good condition right now―one bleeding profusely, the other dislocated―and trying to ‘hold on’ with his arms injured like this would be... perilous, to say the least.

This was going to hurt, he acknowledged numbly. It was going to hurt far more than that petty little wound he’d gotten earlier. And he was fresh out of adrenaline to drown it out.

‘Rise, Sir Ogma of Talys. From this day forward, you will serve as my personal retainer.’

‘As you wish, Princess Caeda. This body is yours until it breaks.’

With the last of his strength, Ogma clung to Caeda as tightly as he could, instinctively taking two fistfuls of her shirt as his arms locked around her torso. As he’d expected, the motion made his back and shoulder scream like the souls of the damned, and he squeezed his eyes shut with a choked gasp. The more it hurt, the tighter he held. The tighter he held, the more it hurt. If he was even somewhat aware right now, he might worry that his grip would suffocate her.

But he was not, so he just held on, his eyes still tightly screwed shut, his entire body taut and trembling, his breaths coming fast and unsteady.

He maintained his tenuous grasp on consciousness just long enough for Tempest to land. Then, his duty completed, Ogma let his head loll forward against his liege lady's back and surrendered to the encroaching darkness.

Samuel had concocted the plan.

For all the kid’s faults, it was a pretty ingenious idea, and he’d already gathered all the information they would need before he made his proposal. They would slip out after tomorrow’s tournament ended; Samuel would lift the keys from one of the guards after his bout, which would be second-to-last. Once he’d been escorted back to his cell, he would free himself and the others. As always, Ogma would be given the last and toughest opponent; when the guards led him back to his cell, the other gladiators would ambush them and get Ogma unshackled. They would fight their way out to the back entrance, where they would close the gate and sever the ropes used to open it, effectively locking it shut. Once it was “locked”, they were home free―they’d simply split into small groups and vanish into the city.

Other than the obvious, unavoidable issues, such as the high likelihood that they’d stand out from the crowd here in Knorda and quickly be recaptured, it was a very solid plan. Samuel had taken almost everything into account, from the length of the patrol routes to the number of men who could feasibly go unnoticed in a crowd. He’d even managed to pilfer a weapon from the arena: a single iron sword, which, by unanimous vote, would be given to Ogma.

There was only one problem.

Not everyone could make it out.

No one else seemed to notice the fatal flaw in their little scheme―or, if they did, they didn’t point it out. Ogma, however, saw it immediately.

The plan called for Samuel himself to hold back any remaining guards while the others escaped, then quickly slide under the gate just before it could close. And, gods, the kid was good with a sword, but not that good. He was underestimating how quickly the guards would mobilize. One man couldn’t hold the lines on his own; he would be overcome quickly, and then the entire thing would fall apart. But they couldn’t afford for more than one person to stay inside; their plan revolved around as many men as possible making it into the trees before the gate was even shut.

The idea was good on paper, but putting it into practice would probably meet with failure. Sure, one or two people might escape, but the rest would be captured and punished severely for their rebellion―tortured, probably, and then executed for good measure.

But this was the best chance they were ever going to get.

So, as he and his co-conspirators sat in a tight circle, whispering amongst each other as they laid out each and every second of the escape in excruciating detail, Ogma placed a hand on Samuel’s shoulder and muttered, “You should stay with the rest and make sure everything goes smoothly. I’ll hold off the guards.”

He was fully aware that he was unlikely to survive that encounter―and, if he did, he would just find himself in the gallows―but it wasn’t as if he was likely to survive if someone else took up the job, anyway.

Besides, Ogma had only ever been good at one thing―fighting―and his years of nearly non-stop combat in the colosseum had destroyed what little conversational skill he’d had before. Even if he did make it out, he wasn’t sure what he would do with his newfound freedom. Probably just go looking for a fight. Samuel and the others were... different. Most of them were very young―teenagers, even―with some real talents and dreams. They had a whole life’s worth of possibilities ahead of them.

That was something worth dying for, he supposed.

To Samuel’s credit, up until the guards started pouring in, the plan went off without a hitch. After his unsurprising victory in the arena, Ogma allowed himself to be led back to his cell, only for Samuel to leap out from a dark corner and knock the guard out cold. Ogma’s wrists were freed and he took the proffered sword, and then they were off, their fellow gladiators quietly slipping out of their unlocked cells to join them. They encountered only the two patrols they’d expected to encounter, both of whom they dispatched of with ease, and, soon enough, they were working together to hastily raise the back gate. Freedom was just a short sprint away.

Then the first wave of guards surged around the corner.

Samuel cursed―he hadn’t expected anyone to realize they were gone―but Ogma just drew his sword and lunged, lopping off the first guard’s head before he could even raise his lance. “Hurry!” he snarled―as if that wasn’t a given―and the other gladiators frantically cranked the gate further up.

The first group of guards was small and unprepared, and Ogma cut them down effortlessly, like wheat at the harvest, though he quickly realized that the sword he’d been granted was incredibly dull and far too light. That would have been a problem, he suspected, if he was planning on surviving this battle. For his purposes, though, it would do just fine. Even a rusty old iron sword like this could at least last long enough for the others to escape, and, once the gate was jammed shut, Ogma couldn’t care less what became of the sword. He wouldn’t need it where he was going.

As the second wave poured in, followed closely by the third, the gate finally rose far enough for everyone to duck underneath, and Ogma shoved Samuel away when he stepped forward as if to help fend off the guards. “Go,” he urged, his voice deathly calm. Knowing with some certainty that you were about to die was strangely soothing. “Lead the others to safety. You’re the one with the plan.”

Samuel, for some gods-forsaken reason, actually hesitated. “But―but there are so many of them,” he stammered, gesturing to the guards who were almost upon them. “You can’t take them all on at once―you’ll die!”

A sweet sentiment, but ultimately meaningless; Ogma had already concluded that he was only leaving this room in chains or a coffin. Not that a rebel gladiator would be afforded a proper burial. “Go,” he repeated firmly, kicking Samuel one of the dead soldiers’ swords. “I’ll be alright.” A blatant lie. The kid would have to forgive him.

One more moment of hesitation; then, with a resolute nod, Samuel turned and released the mechanism holding the gate up, ducking through the door before it could fall down on his head. Just cut the ropes, Ogma wanted to say, but he doubted the fool would listen; he was still convinced that Ogma would be escaping with the rest. The gravity of the situation hadn’t quite hit him yet.

Ogma just hoped that, when he did figure it out, he wouldn’t make a scene. He preferred to die with as little pointless fanfare as possible.

Then the guards were upon him, and he couldn’t afford to watch any longer. He would just have to hope that Samuel would realize what was happening and cut the cables before he left. Ogma had his own things to cut―mainly throats and tendons―and he couldn’t waste time on the gate.

To their credit, the soldiers that patrolled this place weren’t exactly half-rate. More like... three-quarter-rate. Sure, Ogma sliced through their ranks easily enough, dodging clumsy thrusts of various weapons and aiming for the parts of the body which they foolishly left unprotected, but it wasn’t as effortless as it could’ve been. As the last of the second wave fell at his feet and the third wave crested over them, Ogma even found himself thinking that, under different circumstances, he might be proud to serve alongside men like these.

Circumstance was everything, though, so he still cut them down without hesitation.

It was only part-way through the third wave that Ogma felt himself begin to tire. He hadn’t taken any direct blows, but there had been several scrapes and brushes with various blades and spearheads, and his lungs were beginning to beg for air. It wouldn’t be long before he was overwhelmed and either killed or captured.

Numbly, as he ducked under a clumsy sword swing, Ogma decided that he should double-check to make sure that Samuel had cut the cables before he left. If he ended up pinned and the guards opened up the gates, then this would all be for naught; the others couldn’t outrun an entire arena of soldiers with only a minute-long head start. He would just have to wait for a good opportunity to turn around.

The choice was taken away from him almost immediately. “Ogma!” Samuel cried, way too close to be anywhere near the treeline, and, against his better judgment, Ogma risked a brief glance over his shoulder. Simultaneous waves of fondness and irritation crashed over him when he caught sight of the kid kneeling on the cobblestone, his shoulder braced against the underside of the gate, fists white-knuckled on the bars. He was holding the heavy cast-iron up on his own―keeping it propped open just enough for Ogma to, theoretically, take a running start and slide to freedom.

Of course, theory wasn’t always reality, and, in reality, several soldiers swerved around Ogma, using his distraction to their advantage, and made a beeline for Samuel with lances drawn. The kid hastily let go of the gate with one hand―the extra weight visibly bore down on his shoulder, and he grunted in pain―and unsheathed the sword that Ogma had tossed him. Any fool could see that the sword was useless, though. Half-a-dozen soldiers on their feet versus a burdened gladiator on his knees.

A fool’s wager.

Without pausing to think about it, Ogma knocked a man silly with the hilt of his sword, swept several off of their feet with a swing of his leg, then completely disregarded every ounce of combat instinct ingrained into his mind and threw his sword across the room. It pinwheeled clumsily through the air, not properly weighted as a throwing weapon, but his aim was true enough; the blade hit one of the soldiers across his shoulders, and he stumbled with a pained yelp, his comrades pausing and whirling around to face this new threat.

Ogma met Samuel’s wide, surprised eyes and bellowed, “Drop it!”

Naga be praised, the kid didn’t stop to argue; he let go of the bars and managed to get out just in time, the gate hitting the ground with a clang right as the first soldier’s lance pierced the space where his head had been seconds earlier.

Relief flooded Ogma, and he allowed himself a fleeting moment to be grateful to the gods for letting this crazy, harebrained scheme actually work. Everyone who had intended to escape had already escaped. The gate was closed. In a moment, it would be closed for good. They’d done it. Samuel had seen the plan through.

They were home free.

Then several guards piled on top of him, grabbing him around the neck and under the arms, hands twisting in his ragged clothes―boots kicking at his knees, fingers scrabbling at his throat―and Ogma could do very little but snarl like a caged animal as he was wrestled onto the ground.

Unfortunately, as intelligent as he was, Samuel apparently hadn’t foreseen this, because he gasped, lunging forward and wrapping both hands around the iron bars between them. “Ogma―!”

Gritting his teeth, Ogma braced himself against the floor and managed to throw one of the soldiers off of him, startling the kid into scrambling back. The guards’ lances slipped through the bars, and Samuel danced out of the way, but he didn’t run. Idiot―idiot, idiot, idiot― “Go!” Ogma snapped, even as two more soldiers took the last one’s place, weighing down on him as he struggled to get his feet underneath him.

Samuel, damn him, still hadn’t caught on. “Wh-what―?!” he spluttered, eyes wide and almost affronted; as if Ogma had just asked him to slaughter an infant in the cradle.

“Go!” he repeated without hesitation as another soldier jumped on top of him. Even his strength faltered under that much weight, and his knees banged painfully against the ground. The real agony, however, was watching two more guards rush towards the levers to reopen the gate while Samuel just stood there, staring like an idiot, mouth agape and sword limp at his side.

“But you―” the kid started.

Ogma didn’t give him a chance. “Go without me, you fool!” he practically screamed.

By now, the guards had managed to get him on his stomach, his cheek pressed flat against the cobblestone, but he could still see the shock and denial play across Samuel’s face. Damn it. “This was the plan!” he yelled, hoping that the admission would jar him into action. “I knew I wouldn’t make it out! I never planned to make it out! So stop playing the martyr and go!”

And, yes, Ogma did see the hypocrisy in that statement, but he was already functionally dead, and Samuel still had a fighting chance―a fighting chance that Ogma had essentially died to win for him―a fighting chance that dwindled with each passing second―

“Hurry!”

This damn kid and his bleeding heart―right at the verge of being home-free, yet he hesitated, eying the swarm of guards warily, as if he was sizing them up―as if he had any chance against them―as if saving Ogma was worth forfeiting all of their lives. One guard was working each crank, the ropes straining as the gate began to inch up again, and Ogma’s heart pounded. “Go, damn you!” he bellowed one last time, a rare note of desperation coloring his voice.

(Get out of here, you stupid kid, or else I’ll have died for nothing.)

For a moment, Ogma feared that his words, spoken and unspoken, would fall on deaf ears. Then, in one quick, fluid motion, Samuel unsheathed his sword, slashed the wrists grabbing at him through the gate, and severed both cables, sending the gate crashing back to the ground―this time, for good.

Ogma could just barely hear a quiet “I’m sorry,” over the clang of cast-iron bars hitting cobblestone and the myriad of curses as the wounded guards stumbled back. When the soldiers bent to the ground and frantically tried to lift the gate back up, Samuel was nowhere to be found.

‘Dumb kid,’ Ogma thought privately to himself, even as his shoulders slumped in both relief and resignation. ‘Say ‘thank you’, not ‘sorry’.’

Of course, the guards were trained well enough―they’d managed to overpower Ogma, which was impressive even given their vastly superior numbers―but they were no Samuel. They hadn’t been forced to fight for their lives nearly every day for years, and manually lifting the gate off of the ground was much more difficult than stopping it from closing, anyway. After a few minutes of futile heaving, they gave up.

“No use,” one of them grunted, letting go and clambering back his feet. “That thing’s right stuck.”

His fellows quickly followed his example, wiping the sweat from their foreheads. “Damn lowlives did well to jam it like that,” another admitted begrudgingly. “We’ll have to send scouts to sniff ‘em out.”

The first man snorted derisively. “Gimme a break―those mutts don’t stand a chance out there. Stick out like sore thumbs, they will. And no way they’ve got a plan on what they’re gonna do now. Bet they’ll come crawling right back here once they realize they got no place else to go.”

Ogma had stayed silent until then, but, at that, he couldn’t quite stifle a snort of his own. “Yeah, sure,” he rasped as the guards turned to scowl at him, “I bet they’ll give up a life of freedom and come back here to be beaten, imprisoned, and killed. That’d make sense, wouldn’t it?”

One of the guards gave him a warning kick with a newly-polished boot. “You’d be smart to shut your mouth, prisoner.”

Ogma shot the lot of them his most smug, condescending smirk―he was dead anyway; might as well raise their hackles for the hell of it. “Well,” he drawled, “I never was the brightest―”

“Clearly,” a deep voice cut in, and the soldiers snapped to attention.

Ogma refused to react on principle, but he couldn’t quite help the slight twinge of dread in his gut as the guards scrambled into some semblance of order. Only two stayed down to keep him pinned. It didn’t much matter to Ogma, but he was a bit insulted that they thought two men were enough to hold him―though he wasn’t exactly planning on proving them wrong. No point, really.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the now-silent corridor, and Ogma grit his teeth to keep from growling. “What happened here?” the voice continued in a heavy accent, and the soldiers visibly shrunk back.

After a moment of silence, one of them cleared his throat. “The prisoners mounted an escape attempt, sir!” he said with false certainty, despite the nearly imperceptible quiver in his voice. “They jammed the gate and ran into the forest! Sir!”

“Escape attempt?” The anger dripping from his voice was enough to make even the guards on top of Ogma squirm. “I think you mean ‘successful escape’. Unless you’ve already got them all back in their cells.”

There was a collective cringe from the room as a whole. “S-sir!” one of the guards cried after a moment, snapping to a sharp salute. “Most of the prisoners escaped, but we managed to catch this one, sir!”

At those words, the grunts who’d tackled him each grabbed an arm and hauled him to his feet, eager to prove that they hadn’t failed completely. Ogma grunted quietly, but didn’t bother struggling as they dragged him across the room; he could probably wrench himself free, but it wouldn’t last long. He would just end up on the floor again, this time with even more guards on top of him. Anyway, he’d known that he would lose; might as well take it gracefully.

With a well-placed kick, the guards forced Ogma onto his knees, though they didn’t release their grip on his arms. A boot landed between his jutting shoulder blades, pushing him into a deep bow, and his shoulders strained. Nevertheless, he craned his head back as far as it would go, meeting his captor’s eyes with fierce defiance.

“Oh,” the colosseum’s owner growled from above him. “It’s you.” He drew his thick eyebrows down in a glare, which only made his bulbous eyes seem to pop even further out of his head. “I should have known.”

Ogma grinned up at him like a wild dog and congratulated himself when the craven dastard cringed away, taking a reflexive step back. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “you should’ve known. But you didn’t, didja?” He tilted his head to the side, grin not wavering. “You got any idea how long I’ve been planning this? Months. Months, and you didn’t even notice.” Less than a week, actually, and Ogma had only been let in on the plan maybe thirty hours ago. But the enraged, humiliated look blooming across the owner’s puce-colored face was way too satisfying to pass up.

“You―” His word devolved into a growl, and Ogma had a moment to brace himself before a boot landed directly in his face. His head tried to snap back, but it was already craned as far as it could go, so it just fell forward; his pained grunt sprayed red-tinted saliva onto the ground. Quickly probing around with his tongue, he determined that the worst of the damage was his split lip and the small cut where his teeth had snapped shut around his cheek.

Before he could lift his head again, his owner’s foot pressed down on the back of his skull, pushing down until his already-aching neck strained. “Don’t pretend that you won,” the owner spat, grinding his foot down. “If your plan was so foolproof, then why are you here?”

It was hard to say whether he gave the guards a silent gesture or they were just following his lead, but, either way, a flurry of kicks suddenly rained down on Ogma from both sides, and he locked an elongated snarl behind his teeth. Nonetheless, he couldn’t stop his body from jerking in the soldiers’ hold, and his owner laughed at him, loud and mocking. “Not so clever now, are you?” he gloated, the tread of his boots rough as he leaned a little harder on Ogma’s head. “We foiled your little escape plan, prisoner.”

Ogma managed to crane his neck back just enough to grin at the bastard, blood dribbling sluggishly through his teeth. “Yes, good job,” he slurred; “You captured the decoy.”

A scowl crossed the corpulent man’s face, and he kicked Ogma hard enough that the guards holding him almost lost their grip. Another few seconds of pregnant silence followed as all the soldiers held their breath. Then― “Well, what are you waiting for?! You―alert the other guards! The rest of you, out through the front entrance and after them! Every prisoner that escapes, one of you idiots takes his place in the gallows!”

Immediately, there was a mad scramble to follow his order, the guards pouring out of the room at top speed. Some bent over to scoop up the discarded weapons that their friends had left behind; others just clutched their own weapons to their chests and ran. Within maybe ten or twenty seconds, only the owner, Ogma, and the two guards restraining him remained.

“Sir, what about him?” one of those guards asked tentatively, nudging Ogma with his foot as if it was unclear who he was referring to.

The owner looked down his long nose, curling his lip as if Ogma was something unpleasant on the bottom of his shoe. “Call up a crowd and have him flogged out front,” he said simply after a moment of deliberation. “Hang him when you’re done.”

“How many lashes?”

“As many as it takes.” Neither Ogma nor his owner broke eye contact. “Don’t grant him death until he begs for it.”

To his credit, the guard cringed sympathetically. “And if he doesn’t?”

The owner grinned sickeningly down at Ogma, eyes sharp and borderline gleeful.

“Keep going,” he drawled, “until he does.”

Ogma just smiled grimly, having anticipated such a fate. “Your threats can’t touch me,” he rasped.

His owner―whose name Ogma had never bothered to learn―scowled. “We’ll see about that.” He huffed harshly through his nose, then snapped his fingers and waved the guards away. “Take this maggot out of my sight. I don’t want to see him again until he’s dying or dead.”

“Yes, sir!” the soldiers replied, and they immediately tugged Ogma off of his knees, though not quite all the way onto his feet. As his bare feet scrambled for purchase on the blood-splattered cobblestone floor, his arms were jerkily maneuvered in front of him, one guard holding him still while the other removed a set of iron manacles from his belt.

Cold metal closed around his arms with a clang and a click, and Ogma wasn’t sure whether the sinking feeling in his gut was dread of his impending death or just resigned acceptance at the familiar weight of shackles on his wrists.

Either way, he didn’t put up a struggle as they dragged him away. Might as well face death with what little dignity he had left.

The plan had worked; the others were safe. That was all that mattered.

Neither of the guards spoke a word as they led him through the winding corridors, still full of panicking soldiers trying to get ready for a manhunt. Ogma didn’t really mind. Nothing they could say would change the situation at all, so he was glad to be spared any further mockery―or, worse, meaningless sympathy.

Being dragged outside, however, was... strange. In a way, it was a good feeling―he imagined that, after years spent in dingy cells and death matches, anyone would be relieved to feel the open air on their face again. He was almost tempted to rip himself out of the guards’ hold just so that he could properly enjoy the grass beneath his feet and the wind in his hair, but... well, to be frank, he didn’t want to run and, therefore, seem afraid. No; he wouldn’t give his owner the satisfaction.

Still, Ogma decided as the sun warmed his face, this wasn’t a bad way to g0 at all. Out here, he could die with a lungful of fresh air, and his body would be quickly discarded, rather than being left to decay until the guards couldn’t stand the smell anymore. He had no intention of begging, so he would be whipped until his body gave out, which was significantly less pleasant, but it was better than bleeding to death in the colosseum or rotting alive in his cell.

He had a lot to thank Samuel for, he supposed, even if their plan hadn’t exactly proceeded flawlessly like he’d promised.

A crowd was already gathered around the raised platform used for public beatings and executions, and Ogma marveled at the speed with which they congregated when they were promised something juicy like a flogging. He wondered if any of them cared who he was and what he’d done to warrant this, or if they’d just come running at the word “scourged”. Probably the latter.

Then he was lifted onto the platform, his already tattered shirt roughly torn off of him, knees forced to the floor for the hundredth time today, and Ogma barely even registered the painful scrape of splintered wood against his chest as he was slung over an old, blood-stained block. Rusty chains were hastily hooked to his bound hands, stretching them out before him, and his legs were similarly shackled to the ground, keeping him pressed firmly against the block with his bare back fully exposed.

“This prisoner,” one of the guards announced to the restless crowd, “incited a riot that killed and injured dozens of innocent guards! In retribution, he shall be lashed until he repents for his crimes!”

An excited murmur rippled through the crowd―everyone knew that “lashed until he repents” really just meant “lashed to death”―and, for the first time in this whole ordeal, Ogma felt his stomach turn. At the very least, some of the people watching seemed uncomfortable―he even saw a few leave, curiosity sated―but the majority were visibly enthusiastic.

This was just a show to them. Their weekly entertainment. A bit rarer than fights in the colosseum, and therefore significantly more exciting.

He wondered if any of them recognized him from the tournament that had just ended, less than an hour ago.

He wondered if such recognition would make them more or less excited to witness his last few agonized hours on this miserable earth.

Cold fingers clamped around his face, tugging it up until he was staring directly into the face of his executioner. The man already had a long, nasty-looking whip in one hand, though Ogma was at least relieved to notice that it was not the cat o’ nine tails. He still had some time to prepare himself for that particular torture.

“Any last words, cur?” the executioner asked, sounding distressingly sadistic and almost bored at the same time. As if this was an exciting but utterly mundane occurrence. Yes, a flogging: how fun, yet how truly unspectacular.

Ogma spat out a mouthful of blood. “My life is well-spent,” he croaked, “buying the freedom of my comrades-in-arms.” Then, eyes flickering down to the crowd, he added, “And this was no riot. It was a daring escape. If you plan to kill me, at least do so for the right reasons.”

The executioner released his chin, and his head flopped back down to hang between his bound arms. “The prisoner refuses to repent!” he shouted, and the crowd cheered. “He must be shown the error of his ways!”

Ogma closed his eyes and breathed deep. He’d known that this would happen. He’d chosen this. No sense struggling; these manacles offered very little slack. Besides, there was nothing to hold out for―no reinforcements were coming; no specific number of lashes would be deemed “enough”; there would certainly be no sudden mercy. The quicker he bled out, the better. Until then, he would just have to endure the pain to the best of his ability.

‘Everyone else made it out,’ he reminded himself as the executioner circled around him to loom over his vulnerable back. ‘They have their whole lives ahead of them,’ he reminded himself, even as his instincts bubbled up and his body jerked futilely against the chains keeping him laid out like an invitation.

‘You chose this,’ he reminded himself as the executioner raised the whip over his head, but the words rang hollow.

Then the crack of the whip rang throughout the clearing and Ogma’s body jolted.

‘You chose this.’

Through the first five lashes, each one its own distinct, sharp sting against his back, Ogma remained dead silent, his teeth clamping down tight on his lower lip. The sixth drew a low, stifled grunt from him before he quickly regained his composure and locked another noise deep in his throat.

‘You chose this.’

By the ninth, his silence ended for good; each subsequent lash dragged a sharp gasp from his lips. He grabbed onto his chains in an effort to ground himself, fingers white-knuckled against the cold, corroded metal, but his body still jerked every time the whip fell.

‘You chose this. You chose this. You chose this.’

He lost count at fifteen. They came so quickly and steadily that they were hard to distinguish from one another, each wound layering over the last, criss-crossing over his back from shoulder to shoulder, neck to hip. The endless firings of his nerve endings were beginning to lose coherence. The endless wave of blows was beginning to drown him.

‘You chose this you chose this you chose this you chose this you chose this you―’

He didn’t start screaming until at least lash number thirty.

His body was on fire. His skin was melting away. The fractured bones beneath his skin were shifting; poking up through his flesh like jagged teeth emerging from a beast’s mouth. The boiling blood inside him was solidifying into a sea of tiny needles, pressing out against his veins insistently; trying to destroy him from the inside. His mouth tasted like rust. The chains got tighter every time he thrashed.

He could hear the crowd go wild.

‘It’s almost over,’ he thought to himself, half-delirious with pain. ‘You’re almost dead. You’re almost dead. You can rest soon.’

Or, he acknowledged numbly as another lash landed on his flaming back, perhaps not. After all, if the gods spared even a glance at his soul, surely they would find it sorely wanting for virtue. He couldn’t possibly be worthy of paradise. Which meant he would be consigned to a much worse fate.

Or perhaps such a fate had already befallen him. Perhaps he was already dead and simply had yet to realize, because his eternal punishment would simply continue the punishment he’d been given in life. Whipped over and over, without rest, until he was blinded by the pain; until he couldn’t remember how to do anything with his mouth besides scream.

It would certainly explain why his back was writhing in multiple different layers of agony, as if someone had peeled back his tattered skin to whip his bare tendons, and then peeled back his tendons to whip right down to his bones.

It didn’t really matter, he supposed. If he was dead, then it made no difference. If he was alive, then he wouldn’t be for long. Whether he was still breathing or not, this would be the rest of his pitiable existence. Thrashing in the shackles holding him down, screaming his throat raw, and waiting for an end that would never come.

‘Kid,’ he found himself thinking in one last flicker of lucidity, ‘you’d better be enjoying your freedom, you hear me?’

It took him a long moment to realize that he’d stopped screaming. He’d long since stopped hearing his own voice, the ringing in his ears and the roaring of the crowd overwhelming all other sounds, so he only really noticed when he managed to suck in a deep breath without it hitching. Maybe ten seconds after that―or one second, or three years; he’d lost all grip of time however-long ago―he realized that the crowd wasn’t cheering quite so loudly anymore, and the agony painted all over his back wasn’t growing. There were no more cracks of the whip.

He felt fingers grab him by the hair, and he felt his head be yanked back, but he couldn’t see anything. His eyes were still closed, he realized after a moment, and it took another moment to remember how to open them.

The executioner swam into view. Ogma was cognizant enough to see his lips move, but the sounds jumbled together in his brain until they were unrecognizable, and he just stared blankly. A sharp smack to the cheek jolted him back to relative awareness, and he blinked away stars.

“Beg,” the executioner said gruffly, voice distant and quiet despite the closeness of his face. “Beg, and I’ll give you a quick death.”

Ah―still alive, then? Or just a ruse by the devil to lure him into a false sense of security before starting on another wave of torment?

Either way, his response was the same. Ogma licked his lips and, in absence of his trademark insolent grin, conjured up a pained grimace. “No,” he croaked, lacking the spare breath or brainpower for anything cleverer than that.

His hair was released, and he allowed his head to fall back down, chin bouncing against the edge of the block. “The prisoner refuses to repent!” the executioner said again, and the crowd cheered. Ogma blinked a few times in a futile effort to stabilize his vision, then just closed his eyes again. He could use this brief respite to collect his composure; steel himself for the next wave of lashes.

‘You chose this,’ he reminded himself one last time, breathing slowly.

The whip fell upon his shoulder this time, curling down to stretch down his back, and Ogma grunted, but didn’t scream. Another blow, on the other shoulder, earned a similar reaction. Ah―so his tormenter was switching it up a bit. Whipping him from the front, rather than the back. Flaying him alive vertically, rather than horizontally. Would the next blow land on his face?

The singing of the whip as it whistled through the air. The enthusiastic cheering of the crowd below. The loud clanking of Ogma’s chains as he flinched. The crack of the lash meeting skin.

A soft cry of pain. Not his.

A chorus of gasps and screams.

Ogma barely realized, at first, that the blow had never connected. A minute ago, he wouldn’t have noticed at all, but the brief lull had cleared his mind a bit; he could distinguish between each blow again, and there was no new pain this time. Just the throbbing welts on each shoulder and the absolute inferno that was his back.

Confused enough to be curious, Ogma sluggishly cleared the ringing out of his ears, trying to tune in to the sudden, strange silence around him. The crowd was no longer cheering; the whip was no longer singing; even Ogma’s chains had gone quiet as he held still and tried to listen.

There was a thunk as something hit the floor, followed by a few faint murmurs that were far too quiet for Ogma’s muddled brain to make out. He thought he heard the executioner stammer out, “My―my lady―”

Then the cotton in his ears finally cleared enough for Ogma to make out the soft, trembling breaths, bordering on sobs, right in front of him.

Caught off-guard, Ogma pried his eyes open and tilted his head back, blearily blinking up at the blob of colors standing before him.

There was some deep blue, but it was mostly pink and peach and white, vaguely arranged in the silhouette of a person, and Ogma wondered if this was an angel coming to spirit him away. Then his vision cleared a bit―enough for him to realize that those weren’t wings, merely a fluttery white gown of some sort―and he thought, ‘No, just a noble.’

Of course, that elucidated very little, in the grand scheme of things, so Ogma wearily glanced around for any other clues as to what was happening. The executioner was standing a few feet away, stock-still, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open; the whip was laying on the platform at his feet. Ogma couldn’t really make out the crowd, but they seemed to be similarly frozen, still dead silent.

After a moment, a couple of armored figures shouldered through the crowd and clambered up onto the platform, their movement so jarring in the otherwise still tableau that Ogma’s eyes snapped over to them immediately. “My lady, get away from there!” one of them cried, hurrying towards Ogma, while the other rounded on the executioner with an enraged “How dare you strike Her Highness?!”

The cogs in Ogma’s head turned very slowly. The executioner had... attacked someone else? The noble girl standing in front of him―was that who he had attacked? But why on Earth would he―?

Wait.

Her Highness?

At that moment, the noble girl took a step back from the armored man, putting Ogma’s face inches from her back, and shouted “No!” with such vehemence that everyone froze in place.

Ogma tilted his head up so he could see over her shoulder, his confusion only growing by the second, as the armored guards sputtered, disregarding the executioner entirely. “M-milady,” the woman stammered, “please, don’t be reckless―I know it’s scary, but executions are a necessary part of―”

“No!” the noble girl―the ‘highness’―cried again, and Ogma only then noticed that her arms were extended to either side, as if to shield him from harm. “I won’t move!”

“Princess Caeda―” one of the knights tried again, but the girl―the Princess; Princess Caeda―disregarded him completely, instead twisting around to meet Ogma’s unfocused gaze. He startled, and some instinct urged him to bow his head―not because he’d overheard that she was royalty; there was just something about her demeanor that made him think ‘important person’.

Naga only knew why; in that moment, she looked nothing like a princess and every bit a little girl. Her eyes were wide and misty, her lip quivering, and he even saw a bit of snot leaking from one nostril. Only her elegant pink and white clothing hinted towards her status.

It was then that Ogma saw the angry red welt that marred her otherwise pale skin, staring at her collarbone, slanting across her bare shoulder, and then curving around to trail down her back, where it vanished under her dress.

Finally, his mind pieced the puzzle together. Yet all that came out of his mouth was a faint, slurred, “You’re bleeding.”

That startled a laugh out of the girl―the Princess―Caeda, though she remained teary-eyed. “You’re bleeding more,” she whispered softly, as if it were some great secret.

Ogma stared for a moment, struggling to formulate his thoughts into words. “I’m supposed to bleed,” he eventually settled on.

At that, the Princess―Caeda―scowled. “You’re not,” she said fiercely. “No one is supposed to be hurt. Not ever.”

A pause; then she quietly added, “My blood, at least, is useful for one thing.”

With that, she turned back towards the executioner, her knights, and the crowd, and loudly announced, “I will not be moved until this man is freed!”

The executioner floundered. “Wha―but―Princess Caeda, you can’t―we can’t just... let him go!”

Princess Caeda glared at him until he shrunk back. “Will you disobey your Princess, then?” she demanded. “You can’t hurt him anymore! I won’t let you!” As if to prove her point, she spread her arms wider still, standing on her tiptoes to block his view of Ogma entirely. Their proximity was so close that her gauzy skirt draped across Ogma’s chained arms like a bedsheet, the fabric no doubt soaking up more blood and sweat and grime the longer it touched his absolutely filthy skin.

For a moment, the entire world seemed dumbstruck. Then the guards and knights began to whisper furiously amongst themselves, shooting the Princess uncertain glances every few words. Ogma saw them gesture towards him, and the female knight kept making aborted grabs for her sword, but he couldn’t make out a word they said over the persistent ringing in his ears and the low murmur of the crowd.

Princess Caeda, meanwhile, remained firmly planted before him, chin held high and arms still outstretched, even though he could see her teeter unsteadily on her toes as her wounded shoulder trembled with exertion.

Her dress was stained, now, he realized, and not just where it had come into contact with him; the welt on her collarbone was bleeding sluggishly, crimson trickling down her back to leave dark, ugly blots on her frilly silk collar, and, before he could stop himself, Ogma croaked out an incredulous “Why?”

For all intents and purposes, the question was completely meaningless―too vague to communicate much of anything other than general bafflement. Yet, somehow, Princess Caeda spared him the trouble of trying to articulate when she glanced down at him over her shoulder, her face not hesitant and helpless but sure and resolute.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked, with the tone of a statement. “Just let you die?”

Ogma had no response.

Luckily, the Princess didn’t prod him for one, and they both waited wordlessly for the guards and knights to come to an agreement, Caeda keeping rapt vigil over Ogma in case anyone worked up the nerve to attack him again. An eternity of heavy, pregnant silence seemed to pass before, at last, the executioner threw his hands in the air and gestured to the other soldiers, setting his weapon aside.

As the guards approached, the Princess moved with them, trying to keep her petite frame between them and Ogma. In the end, her knights ushered her aside, mollifying her with a whisper he couldn’t hear, but the gesture was enough to make his throat thicken with―something. Gratitude, perhaps, for the girl who’d tried to save his life. More than even that, respect―for the girl who’d faced down a squadron of trained soldiers unflinchingly, even after she’d gotten her first taste of the whip.

‘It would take balls of titanium to disobey a Princess like that,’ Ogma found himself thinking. Yet, somehow, he still managed to be surprised when the guards knelt, unhooked his arms from the block, cut his legs free, and heaved him to his feet.

The rough handling hurt like all hell, reigniting the agony etched into his back, and he let out a strangled cry without really meaning to. The reaction was immediate. “Stop! Be careful, or you’ll hurt him more!” the Princess snapped, and the guards hastened to comply, taking most of Ogma’s weight without jostling his wounded back. “And unchain him at once―all the way!”

Oh―he hadn’t even noticed that his wrists were still shackled before him, like usual. Clearly, this had been a conscious decision on the guards’ part, because they sputtered once again under her demands. “B-but―Your Highness, we can’t―”

“You can and will,” she interrupted before they could even try to make their case, a note of authority in her impossibly young voice. “I will hear no arguments. He has been pardoned, so he shall be freed.”

One of the knights―a tall, well-built woman with a wicked-looking scimitar at her hip―placed a cautious hand on Caeda’s shoulder. “Milady, it’s not that simple,” she said, not unkindly. “He was already a gladiator before he did any crime. The pardon of every princess in Archanea wouldn’t change that.” To the knight’s credit, Ogma detected a hint of righteous anger when she continued, “Pardon him, and he goes back to being property. And you can’t seize private property without a lawful reason.”

Ah. So that was the catch. He would return to the colosseum, the Princess would be appeased, and, in her absence, he would simply be dragged back to the block, once enough time had elapsed for this novel occurrence to fade from the public consciousness. As soon as he’d regained his relative anonymity, he would end up right back here again. Or, perhaps, he would simply be pitted up against opponents that he could not beat so that his death could be claimed “accidental”. With his back injured so heavily, it wouldn’t be difficult to find a foe who could best him.

‘Or,’ Ogma found himself thinking, ‘maybe I’ll survive. Live to die another day. Help some more people escape―maybe even manage to escape, myself.’

It was one hell of a long shot, but something about the gutted, distressed look on Princess Caeda’s face made him want to believe that her fears were unfounded. More than anything else, he wanted to reassure her; at the very least, she’d delayed his death significantly―but, somehow, he doubted she’d be happy to hear as much. It felt... wrong, though, to not even attempt to console her, after she’d given him some concrete hope to cling to in his dying breaths―not just hope for himself, but hope for the world to which Samuel and the others had escaped.

(Talys couldn’t be too bad with an heir apparent like this.)

Apparently, though, the heiress in question was perfectly capable of generating her own hope, because the despair in her eyes was short-lived. “Let’s say, then, that I don’t pardon him,” she said, her voice beginning to wear thin, unused to maintaining an air of importance for so long. “Instead, I find him guilty and sentence him to a lifetime of community service. This would not be considered seizing property, just claiming my natural right to...”

She glanced at the other knight―a short, burly man in heavy armor wielding an imposing polearm―for assistance, and he cleared his throat. “To ‘render the supreme judgment of the crown’, my lady,” he tentatively filled in, “but I’m afraid that criminals charged with murder and violence cannot be given community service.”

“Exactly!” the executioner cut in from the side, stepping forward with unwarranted confidence, only to immediately quail when both knights and their liege leveled him with icy glares. “I-it’s... that is to say... it’s just public safety, Your Highness. A mongrel like him could get somebody killed―somebody innocent.”

It was a perfectly reasonable argument, and it would have been perfectly reasonable for Princess Caeda to subside and send Ogma away to whatever gruesome fate awaited him―to save herself the trouble, if nothing else. At this point, though, Ogma was hardly surprised when she stood her ground without ceding a single inch. “But the... the reasoning is sound, yes?” she pressed, eyes darting back over to the burly knight. “I don’t have to pardon him, I can just... change his sentence?”

The burly knight considered this. “There is precedent for such a thing,” he said slowly, “but, in extreme cases such as this, the only appropriate sentence would be jail time, and he would still be considered property of the colosseum’s owner upon release. Unless you gave him a life sentence―”

Before he could finish that thought, the other knight pulled Princess Caeda a bit closer and stooped over, bending low to murmur in her ear, “Do you think life in prison would be a kindness, milady?”

The Princess visibly started, as if this question was a new and alarming thought that hadn’t occurred to her, and her eyes flickered over to Ogma, who couldn’t quite contain his own startled jolt. Watching the three interact, he’d almost forgotten that they were talking about him. Now, under the full weight of the Princess’ regard, he found himself wondering the same thing―which would be better: life as a gladiator with a probable execution incoming, or life as a prisoner with no end in sight until he eventually wasted away?

To her credit, Princess Caeda was only struck silent for the briefest of moments before she wiped the shock off of her face. “Very well,” she said, the slight tremor in her voice belying her stoic countenance. “What... what is your name, good sir?”

A strange question, if she was going to ask one, but he wasn’t complaining. “Ogma,” he answered simply, his voice rough with under- and overuse.

The Princess nodded her understanding. “And what are your charges, Ogma?”

Ah―a much more reasonable question. And, unfortunately, one with an answer that didn’t paint him in the best of lights. The correct response was “Inciting a riot”, but Ogma threw caution to the wind and instead replied, “I helped my fellow gladiators escape the arena. I was a diversion.” Then, because he might as well be completely honest if he was going to tell the truth: “I killed the guards to keep them from recapturing everyone.”

One of the guards made a triumphant noise. “You see―he admits it!” he tried, but immediately fell silent when the female knight shot him a warning look.

Princess Caeda didn’t react to either Ogma’s explanation or the soldier’s words; she just continued to stare at Ogma with such intense scrutiny that it was almost enough to make him squirm. After a long while that felt even longer, she nodded again, acknowledging his words as truth. “For these charges,” she began, her voice tender in sharp contrast to the hardness of her eyes, “what do you feel to be a fitting sentence?”

Shouts of protest arose from the guards and crowd alike, but the Princess quelled them with a wave of her hand and a responding brandish of her knights’ weapons. “I will hear his plea, then render my judgment,” she said firmly, leaving no room for complaint or compromise. With that, she returned her piercing gaze to Ogma. “Well?”

For a moment, he could summon no words. He had to remind himself to swallow, rather than letting the spit pool up in his mouth, and his stiff muscles strained against his throat.

Finally, he managed to string the syllables together as coherently as he could. “I had resigned myself to death when I decided to help the others escape,” he said simply. “Any other fate is preferable, but I’m not scared to face the block. If you want me to die, then I’ll die now, without regrets.”

Surprise flickered across the Princess’ face for only a moment before she hastily swallowed it down. She searched his face again, and, whatever she was looking for, she must have found it.

“What if...” Her tongue swiped across her lip, and she began again, her voice steadier this time. “What if I want you to live?”

She’d struck him speechless before with such frequency and in such quick succession that, this time, Ogma wasn’t even surprised so much as he was bemused. Still, he didn’t speak for a good long moment, taking the opportunity to scan her face as thoroughly as she’d scanned his.

Caeda’s eyes were fierce and unwavering, her posture impeccable and her shoulders thrown back, but there was a gentleness there; not naivete or clinical pity, but a genuine empathy that was rare to see in nobles―much less nobles with that kind of fire in their eyes.

He made his decision.

With some difficulty, Ogma wrested himself from the guards’ grip. The crowd gasped, and the Princess’ knights drew their weapons, but he didn’t lunge; he merely lowered himself slowly, his back screaming in protest, until one trembling, bruised knee was pressed against the floor. Then, breathing through the pain, he raised his head to meet Caeda’s wide eyes.

She looked even younger now, and Ogma allowed himself a moment to marvel at how strange it was―that this was the first person he’d willingly bent his knee to in years.

He swallowed a mouthful of dirt and blood and said, as clearly as he could, “Then I’ll live for as long as you want me to, if I can.”

(He was always thinking about how he needed a reason to live―a reason to fight―more than anything. And, well, she’d spared his life, anyway―it practically belonged to her, now.)

This time, there was no sudden determination that broke across Caeda’s face to cover her surprise; she remained wide-eyed and open-mouthed, even as she gulped and shakily nodded her understanding. “I see,” she said faintly. Then her eyebrows drew down and her lips thinned, though the rest of her expression remained guileless and stricken.

“Dame Aiveen.” Her voice no longer trembled. “Your sword, please.”

For all that he’d come to understand Caeda in the brief interactions they’d shared, Ogma still considered for a moment that maybe she’d decided to remove his head, after all. Then she accepted the sword her knight offered and nearly dropped it to the ground immediately, arms quivering under its weight as she struggled to lift it without losing her balance, and he felt like a fool for thinking, even for a moment, that she had a cruel bone in her body.

The sword wavered noticeably as Caeda raised it with both hands, shakily holding it before her, with the tip less than a foot from Ogma’s face. “In repentance for his crimes,” she declared, loud enough for all to hear, “Ogma shall serve the Crown of Talys until his dying breath.” She met his eyes. Her confident stare, which he had already come to think of as her “true” expression, was finally back. “He shall swear his fealty as my vassal and pledge eternal loyalty to me and me only.”

Ah. So that was her game. Swearing himself as a vassal to the crown would rid him of his status as ‘private property’ permanently. Vassals, after all, could own land, and you couldn’t own property if you, yourself, were ‘property’. What a simple solution. A truly elementary idea.

Ogma was certain that he was supposed to respond with some specific line, but he had no clue as to what such a line might entail, so he simply bowed his head and said, “Yes.”

No one seemed particularly concerned with the informality of his words―or, at the very least, no one stopped her from leaning forward and touching the flat of the sword to Ogma’s shoulder. It landed with a thunk as she failed to manage its weight, but he was able to completely smother his hiss of pain, so it was of no consequence. When it moved over to his opposite shoulder, though, it was much gentler, the blade’s quivers intensifying as Caeda struggled not to put too much of its weight on him, so she must have noticed his pain, anyway. Naga only knew how.

The sword withdrew from his shoulder, and Ogma raised his head on instinct, meeting his new liege’s eyes. Her expression was mostly blank, save for the certainty and confidence that she exuded as a default, but that was fine. Ogma couldn’t even wager a guess as to what his own face looked like right now, anyway, so he was in no position to judge.

Caeda took a deep breath and lowered the sword to the ground, placing both hands atop its pommel. “Rise, Sir Ogma of Talys.” Her voice rang loud and clear and certain, like a church bell’s toll. “From this day forward, you will serve as my personal retainer.”

Lacking the strength to stand on his own, Ogma just bowed again, even as the tattered skin on his back strained. “As you wish, Princess Caeda,” he replied, dead serious despite the near-giddy glee welling up in his chest. “This body is yours until it breaks.”

Without warning, her hand shot out and clamped down on his shoulder, nowhere near the welts but still tight enough to elicit a flinch. He looked up to find a teary glare bearing down on him.

“It best not break any time soon,” Caeda said, her tone threatening despite the thick emotion dripping from each word, “because breaking my heart is against your vows. Understand?”

Despite himself, Ogma let a small, sincere smile slip onto his face―and, against all odds, when he softly replied, “I understand,” he was telling the truth.

He awoke to a dry throat, a bone-deep grogginess that he couldn’t quite shake off, a faint but insistent pain in his back, and the familiar sounds of soft humming and metal scraping against stone.

Over the years, he’d grown to recognize the medical tent almost immediately by scent alone, and, by the time he’d managed to pry open his eyes, he already had a decent idea of what was happening. The sensation of a wound completely healed by magic, leaving huge patches of too-new skin that twitched and tingled at the slightest touch, was easy to recognize when you’d had so many wounds fixed in such a manner. A thin sleeping pad, damp with sweat but much cleaner than his usual cot; light sheets draped across his body, and a thick duvet on top, rather than his thin woolen blanket; bandages squeezing his torso, but only his trousers covering him otherwise.

He must have been badly injured, and the clerics must have narrowly saved him.

Once he reached that conclusion, his memories came rushing back to him. The archer; the Macedonians; the unseen injury; Princess Caeda’s intervention; the perilous flight back through enemy lines; losing consciousness just as they arrived.

It appeared that Princess Caeda, as always, had gone for the most daring save imaginable, and, as always, her harebrained scheme had succeeded.

Torn between a fond smile and a pained grimace as his freshly-fixed injury tingled uncomfortably, Ogma settled for a soft groan, slowly blinking his eyes open. Sure enough, the tan canvas of the medical tent swam into view, although it was far less crowded than it tended to be directly after a battle. He must’ve been out for a while, then. It made sense, he supposed; his wound had been bad enough to temporarily convince him that he was dead, so it must’ve taken a while for his body to recover. In that time, the rest of the wounded had evidently healed and returned to their own tents, leaving him seemingly alone in the middle of the tent.

That also meant that he’d either suffered the most grievous injury out of the Archanean troops, or else those who’d suffered worse injuries had passed away before he could wake. Given the sheer number of troops they’d faced, the latter seemed more likely, but Lord Marth was a cautious commander and the thought of his allies dying because he hadn’t been there to protect him made his stomach roll, so Ogma optimistically chose to believe the former.

Breathing out heavily through his nose, he experimentally rolled his shoulders, feeling his new scar tissue strain with the movement. Lena, Wrys, and/or Maria had done an admirable job; other than the obvious stiffness and aches, the pain was almost nonexistent. With a week or so of rest, it would likely fade entirely. He would have to remember to thank whoever had fixed him up at the first opportunity.

With that thought in mind, he breathed deep through his nose and slowly began to sit up, using his good arm to support himself and trying not to strain his injured back or shoulder too much.

“Ahem.”

Ogma startled, accidentally jostling his wound, and whirled around. Sitting a few feet behind him, with her back against the canvas tent wall and her legs crossed daintily beneath her, was Princess Caeda, wearing only her undershirt and an old pair of trousers, yet somehow twice as intimidating as a Macedonian soldier in full armor.

As he stared, instinctively shifting his legs underneath him so that he didn’t have to twist over his injured shoulder, she slowly looked up from the wing spear in her lap, which she appeared to be in the middle of sharpening. Or perhaps she’d been sharpening her eyes, instead, because the cold look on her face pierced Ogma with the ease of a ballista shot and the force of a rampaging wyvern.

“You’re awake,” she observed icily, and Ogma wondered how likely it was that she’d gone to the trouble of saving his life a third time just so she’d have the satisfaction of killing him herself.

That was a ridiculous thought only born of apprehension, though, so, rather than frantically try to explain himself, he just swallowed and warily responded, “So I am.”

Caeda made a noise that acknowledged she’d heard his words but imparted no other information about her thoughts or current level of anger. Slowly, she set her whetstone aside, though her grip on the wing spear didn’t falter as she leaned forward.

“How is your injury?” she asked, her voice still perfectly impassive, though the question seemed genuine, not just a way to fill time.

Ogma gratefully accepted the transition into a much easier conversational topic. “Much better,” he said, turning to face her fully so he could demonstrate his improved range of motion without letting on how strange and tight his skin felt. “Whoever healed me did a da―a good job.”

Caeda caught his cut-off curse and rolled her eyes, but didn’t comment. “Let me see,” she said instead, shuffling forward without waiting for a response. She sidled into his blind spot with complete nonchalance, and he allowed her to quickly and carefully unwind his bandages to get a better look at the afflicted area.

Of course, observant as Caeda was, there was no chance of her catching something that the healers had somehow missed, but he knew that it eased her fears to see the scar tissue with her own eyes, and who was he to deny her that paltry comfort?

After a brief moment, she hummed again and carefully redressed his wound, though Ogma seriously doubted that it was necessary at this point, since it was nearly completely healed. “Looks fine,” she said neutrally, without her usual relieved ‘I’m so glad you’re alright’ or ‘We should both count ourselves lucky’.

Right. It was easy to forget that she wasn’t pleased with him when he couldn’t see the clear signs of thinly-veiled anger in her body language. Clearing his throat, Ogma turned himself around once again to face her. “Yeah,” he began, “it doesn’t hurt any―”

Then he saw the bandages wrapped around her right shoulder, nearly blending in against her pale skin, and abruptly forgot what he was saying.

“Princess,” he interrupted himself, the urgency in his voice enough to make her look up at him immediately, “your arm―”

Understanding crossed her face, and she raised a hand to silence him―it didn’t escape his notice that she raised her left hand, rather than her dominant right, which stayed limp in her lap. “Peace―it’s already mostly healed.”

“Mostly?” With the extensive healing magic they had at their disposal, only grievous wounds like his would be only ‘mostly’ healed this long after the fact―and, even though she had to have used both hands to sharpen her spear or untie the bandages, Ogma couldn’t help but think, irrationally, that he hadn’t seen her right arm move yet.

Caeda simply shrugged, reaching up subconsciously to wrap her left hand around the bandaged area. “Arrow wound,” she explained. “Didn’t hit Tempest, thank the gods. Lena and Wrys got me patched up, but I wouldn’t let them waste their magic on such a minor injury―a vulnerary each morning for a week without strenuous activity, and I’ll be fine.”

Ogma had no good reason to feel like the breath had been knocked out of his lungs by those words, but, well. Here he was. ‘An arrow wound.’ Clearly, his efforts in clearing the battlefield of archers hadn’t been enough. Of course they hadn’t―one man alone couldn’t protect the Princess from harm when she often found herself on the front lines in the middle of a war―but some irrational part of him was still shocked that something had slipped past him.

Caeda snapped her fingers, and he startled back to attention. She frowned at him. “What’s the matter?”

Ogma opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. He didn’t think it prudent to mention that the entire reason he’d nearly died in the first place was that he’d rushed into the middle of an enemy platoon just to take out a single archer. Nor had he ever admitted that he always targeted archers first, even when they weren’t currently taking aim at her.

Unfortunately for him, Caeda seemed to glean all of these things without being told. “Ogma,” she said dryly after a moment, her face frosting over again, “this may surprise you, but you are not physically capable of incapacitating every archer in Macedonia, no matter how many times you charge into a huge group of enemies without backup. Actually, as your liege lady, I’m afraid I’ll have to forbid you from doing so again, since this incident alone has already removed a good three years from my lifespan.”

Ogma winced. The rebuke hurt all the more for its accuracy―worrying aside, his recklessness had very nearly gotten his Princess killed. If Tempest had bucked just a bit harder while Caeda had both hands off of the reigns, busy trying to get Ogma situated, then they both would’ve fallen. And, if the impact hadn’t killed them, the Macedonians would have. Either way, these reckless charges had to stop.

“Of course, my lady,” was all he could say, bowing his head slightly, both in apology and recognition of her orders. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Caeda didn’t reply. When she did, it was uncharacteristically soft―a quiet, uncertain mutter of “As long as you don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” Ogma responded immediately, less as a conscious thought and more because he couldn’t stand to hear his liege sound like that. Raising his head, he tried to impart some of his sincerity through his eyes, but she wasn’t looking at him.

He hesitated for a moment, then gestured to her bandaged shoulder. “May I?”

She nodded her affirmative, brushing her hair back with her left hand, and he reached forward to undo the bandages as carefully as he could, just in case she’d exaggerated how much she’d already healed. Fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case: all that was left to indicate she’d been wounded was a dark scab. It must not have been a very deep injury, he supposed.

“Like I said, it wasn’t even worth the magic,” Caeda murmured after a moment, and Ogma quietly hummed his agreement, glancing over to see if she was still refusing to meet his gaze. Halfway there, though, his eyes caught on her collarbone, and his whole body stilled.

By this point, the scar had become faint with age, even harder to pick out against her naturally pale skin. It curved around from her collarbone to her back, thicker and bolder along the top of her shoulder where the whip had struck hardest, but thin enough in the back that it was almost difficult to see if you didn’t know what you were looking for. Mainly, though, it wasn’t the color that set it apart, but the slight puffiness of the scar tissue; the marks that the welt had left behind blatantly raised from the rest of her smooth skin.

Ogma swallowed thickly.

He still remembered how she’d refused to allow the clerics to attend her first. ‘Sir Ogma is hurt far worse,’ she’d said, stomping her feet petulantly even as she exerted her authority over the royal attendants with ease. ‘You can’t heal me until you heal him! That’s an order!’

They’d warned her, as they set to the nigh-impossible task of mending his back, that it was likely to scar quite noticeably if she didn’t allow them to see it at once. If anything, though, she’d taken that as a challenge. In the end, by the time she finally gave in and let the medics approach, at her knights’ and Ogma’s behest, it was too late to avert or even lessen the scarring.

She’d never seemed particularly ashamed of the scar, which Ogma was endlessly grateful for―it wasn’t something she should be ashamed of, by any means. If anything, it was a badge of honor that displayed her courage and sense of justice for all to see, and she was right to wear it as proudly as she did. Naga knew he held more respect for anyone who’d felt the whip before.

Still, every time he saw it, he couldn’t help the vague guilt that collected at the back of his throat.

Without thinking, he reached forward and touched the scar with the tips of his fingers. Caeda didn’t react, and he hastily yanked his hand back once he realized what he’d done, but there was no way she hadn’t noticed, and he coughed awkwardly into his fist. “Erm, sorry, Princess,” he muttered gruffly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

No response. After a moment, Caeda reached up herself and wrapped her hand around the mark, rubbing it like an old wound that still ached. Like Ogma sometimes caught himself rubbing his own shoulders, because he couldn’t reach far enough to rub his back in a useless attempt to sooth the scars that lay there, hidden under his shirt.

Ducking his head, Ogma deftly did up the Princess’ bandages again, carefully working around the slim fingers wrapped around her shoulder. When he moved to knot it off, though, Caeda’s hand suddenly slid down to cover his, grip tight enough to make him jump.

He glanced up, but she was still facing away from him, the small visible portion of her face unreadable. Shifting uneasily, he kept his hand carefully still underneath hers, even as he fumbled with the bandages. “Princess Caeda?”

“Do you remember what I told you that day?” she asked suddenly, voice not betraying her emotions.

Ogma couldn’t help but huff out a half-chuckle at that. “You’ll have to be a little more specific, Princess,” he replied, not unkindly, although he was reasonably certain that he remembered just about every sentence that left her mouth that fateful day―if not by word, then certainly in spirit.

The silence was fleeting. “I told you not to break your body,” Caeda elaborated after a moment, “because that would break my heart―”

“―and breaking your heart meant breaking my vows,” Ogma finished for her, matching her quiet, solemn tone. His eyes flickered down for a moment, and he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “...Yeah. I remember, Princess.”

Abruptly, Caeda twisted to look over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his with a vehemence that was, at once, startling in its ferocity, completely incongruous with the mood in the room, and so typical of her that it was hardly surprising at all.

“Then act like it,” she ordered, her voice firm despite the unmistakable quiver of thick emotion.

At that, despite himself, Ogma really did laugh, his eyes squeezing shut and his free hand automatically rising to cover his mouth. When he regained himself and looked back, Caeda’s gaze hadn’t wavered, though her expression had softened considerably. She didn’t relinquish her hold on his hand.

Well, what was there to say? He couldn’t stay somber and downtrodden in the face of the girl he’d sworn his life to.

“As my lady commands,” Ogma said with a grin, and carefully knotted the bandage into place without wresting his hand from Caeda’s grip.

#Fire Emblem #FE Ogma #FE Caeda #Shadow Dragon #archanea week #FE11 #angst #hurt/comfort #Angst with a happy ending #but they have to earn their happy ending #oneshot #THE WORD COUNT GUYS #I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED #scene 2 somehow turned into 10k???#blood tw #violence tw #torture tw

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