#one step closer to turning against the monarchy and overthrowing them

[lordsooga]

Joining in on that Barbie movie mug-shot meme

Greg is pretty sure he's about to be executed for treason. Meanwhile Kohga is turning in his punch-card like "hey boys, how'd you try to reinforce the cell THIS time?" (make no mistake, he's only there because he chose to be)

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Seventeen (Zuko x Reader)

Chapter 16 - Part 1 - Part 2

Word Count: 2,130

Author’s Note: All I’m gonna say is that I think my exposition sucks, but here it is, the plot has returned (Alexa play Edge of Seventeen)

News of your newfound comfort with your husband sweeps silently and swiftly throughout the palace following your return from Ember Island, the sideways glances you receive from diplomats and servants alike impossible to overlook. Those mulling about the corridors gawk as you leave your quarters beside Zuko each morning, whispers muttered over the scandal that you now sleep in the same bed; eyes widen when you brazenly peck his lips in the company of others, and cheeks redden when his hand is spied resting shamefully low on your waist. Neither of you mind the reproachful attention, however - you want your love to be seen. 

Of course, it’s a short matter time before the council gets involved in the affair, your advisors calling a meeting less than a week after your return to berate you about the newest stain on your public image. 

“It’s disgraceful!” rages one of Yong’s aides, tossing his arms about as he shoots himself out of his seat. “The Firelord and lady are figures of authority - not foolish teenage lovers! Do you have any idea how idiotic this makes you look to the nation? To the world??” 

“Hakoda loved his wife publicly,” you flatly answer, taking a tauntingly unbothered sip of the tea laid out before you. “He’s still a very respected leader, both in the Southern Water Tribe and in other parts of the world.” 

“Chief Hakoda’s wife held no power,” the aide spits. He leans menacingly over the table towards you, clenching his fists. “You are no longer a weak, sheltered Water Tribe woman. You’re queen of one of the strongest governments to ever exist - you need to damn well act like it.” 

You shift your gaze towards the man, fixing him with a subtle, cutting glare that makes him pale. You feel the weight of your betrothal necklace at your throat, the force pushing you upward to stand at eye level with him. 

“I was never weak,” you state. “I was never sheltered. I watched Fire Nation soldiers murder my parents when I was six years old, and supported an entire village in my siblings’ absence when they left to fight with the Avatar. I willingly left my home to marry a stranger for the betterment of my people; do not call me weak for learning to love him.” 

A heavy silence falls over the room, a dozen sets of eyes trained on you. You stand, unwavering, unblinking, staring at the aide who challenged you; he sets his jaw, refusing to lower himself. Yong comes up beside him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“What Jenshi means,” she sternly justifies, “is that there are still many people in the Fire Nation who are loyal to Ozai, who are used to a Firelord and lady that operate as a political alliance rather than a traditional marriage; those people may view your affections as a sign of weakness and attempt to take advantage of it.” 

“Yes,” Jenshi mutters, lowering his shoulders as he calms himself. “And with all due respect, my lady, we still don’t know who we can trust. The threat may still very well be within the palace walls.” 

You and Zuko turn to each other, sharing a noiseless, worried look; he takes your hand, squeezing it tightly as he addresses the entire room, lowering you back to his side. 

“What do the other sectors have to say?” he questions. “Military?” 

“The general consensus so far is that the military doesn’t care,” answers Counselor Chin. “Your superior skill as a warrior is revered, and the Firelady has proven a great leader in regards to our decolonization efforts. Your personal lives are of no concern to us, and we are primed to defend you against all existing dangers.” 

“Ethically there are a few problems,” chimes Advisor Shi, head of the Integrity Committee. “Your actions go against what has been culturally accepted since before Sozin’s reign; a Firelord and lady aren’t meant to be publicly affectionate with one another, no matter how they may feel for each other beyond the nation’s eye.” 

Zuko hums, nodding. 

“I understand,” he responds. “But we are trying to move away from the traditional monarchy. We’ve already established that we don’t want any children we have to be forced into their roles, and public reception was relatively accepting. What could it hurt for us to be honest about our feelings for each other?”

“It brings us back to concerns over dissent,” Yong interjects. “As Jinshi said, we’re no closer to understanding who was behind Counselor Fen’s murder or what their intentions are; we can’t let them use your emotions as leverage.” 

“Has word really spread that quickly?” you ask her, fear beginning to quake in the center of your chest. “They’re talking about it outside the palace?” 

“No,” Jinshi replies, “but it will soon. If there are actors within the palace, we assume they already know and will attempt to play your intimacy with each other to their advantage.” 

Zuko’s body stiffens, the corners of his lips turning downward into a grave, shadowed grimace. He nods in concession, but doesn’t let go of your hand. 

“We’ll watch ourselves,” he affirms, clutching your palm tighter within his. “In the meantime, I want everyone within the palace’s actions to be heavily monitored. No one is safe if we’re not.” 

After the meeting, you and Zuko take lunch together, choosing the unromantic and relatively public setting of a stateroom outside your private wing of the palace. Anxiety causes your stomach to churn like the ocean in a storm, hindering your appetite so that you only pick at your food - you notice that Zuko does the same. 

“... I visited the physician this morning,” you tell him, breaking the uneasy stagnance. “She said the medicine worked - I’m not pregnant.” 

“Good,” Zuko murmurs. His hand is raised to his chin, his voice distant as he keeps his pensive gaze aimed at an empty space on the table before you. “One less thing we have to worry about.” 

“What’s on your mind?” you ask.

“The attacks,” Zuko relays. “They’re not… normal.” 

“Normal how?” 

Zuko sighs, folding his arms in front of him as he continues to ponder, his brow furrowing in search of the correct words. 

“... They’re not what my father would do,” he says after a pause. “He wouldn’t utilize outsiders like the Dai Li, or kill an indirect target just to make a statement. That’s what Azula would do.” 

“... So you think she was behind it?” you guess. “They could have been her ideas, but the fact that she took herself out means that there had to have been someone else.” 

“Exactly,” Zuko agrees. “And that’s what’s confusing. The only person she ever feared was our father, but after he abandoned her during the comet, she hated him. Everything we have from her investigation supports that. She’d never be allegiant to him.” 

“But who else could have convinced her?” you wonder. “What else? Threatening her life clearly didn’t mean anything, and she renounced her loyalty to the Fire Nation when she was arrested. Do you think that… that maybe someone told her they were trying to overthrow you? That they offered to let her take your place?” 

“Azula was like our father. If she wanted to take over, she would’ve just taken over. She never would have taken the throne if it were offered.” 

“So… she wasn’t the one leading the attacks… but her pride kept her from bending to anyone’s will but her own. What was her place, then?” 

“I think she just wanted me dead,” Zuko admits. “Whoever approached her, they asked for her help in killing me. They gave her the opportunity to exact her revenge in a way that destroyed me little by little, the way she wanted to see it happen.” 

“... But Ozai and his supporters don’t operate that way,” you recall. 

“ They don’t,” Zuko echos. “They take by force.” 

You meet his eyes, a deep, tumbling chasm bottoming out in your stomach, the shockwave reverberating through your body. Your limbs feel limp, your head dizzy. 

“It’s not the Fire Nation,” you realize.

The words come out in a quiet gasp, carried by what little breath you can manage to force from your lungs. Zuko’s expression falls gravely blank; he reaches for your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips without thought or care to who could see. 

“It’s not the Fire Nation,” he repeats. “Which means… there might be no one we can trust.”

The door to your bedroom slides open and sputters shut behind you, indicating Zuko’s entrance; bent over, fumbling with the ties on your robes, you don't turn to greet him, but instead share the message you got that afternoon. 

“Toph is coming,” you announce. “She heard about Azula and is worried about our safety, so she's bringing a group of-” 

You cease completely as you face the man standing in front of the doorway, horrified to find that he isn't your husband. 

“I must say, you really know how to upset things,” Advisor Xiang sneers, pacing slowly towards you. 

You take a few steps back, cornering yourself back against the nearest wall; in the waist of your robes, Suki’s fan presses harshly to your side, too hidden for you to reach without alerting your intruder.

“Get out,” you quip. “Get out before I call the guards.” 

“Make one sound and this knife will end up in your neck,” Xiang threatens. He raises a blade from his hip, holding it menacingly level with your throat; as he closes in on you, he lets it graze your skin, his gaunt, sunken face glaring down at you like a demon summoned from the darkest corner of hell. 

“You were supposed to run, little girl,” he drawls on. “You were supposed to die in Ba Sing Se. None of this - this love you have for the Firelord, your flirting with the possibility of continuing his bloodline - was ever supposed to happen. And we can't let it happen.” 

“Who is ‘we’?” you demand. You try to make your voice firm, unshaken, but it quivers in your mouth, causing Xiang to release a belittling chuckle. 

“You won't find that out,” he taunts. “I've come to discuss the terms of your punishment. You see, since you defied everything we expected of you, we’re going to make you do what we planned to do months ago - you're going to kill Zuko.” 

Bile rises to the back of your throat, your gut seizing in a panicked, terrified hitch. You shake your head, quickly and minutely, tears starting to sear the corners of your eyes. 

“No,” you detest. “I won't do it. We’ll stop you.” 

“You will do it,” Xiang hisses, “because if he isn't dead within the next seven days, your entire family - that bumbling brother, his wife, your sister and her precious little family, even your father - will die instead.” 

He removes the dagger from your neck, grinning tauntingly, maliciously, as he slips it into the loose breast of your robes. His touch sickens you, but you're too petrified to force him back. 

“And don't you dare try reaching out for help,” he snarls. “We have informants throughout the palace - we’ll know every move you make, and if anyone gets word of this, your loved ones will all perish, and this time you’ll have no one to take you in.” 

It's only when Xiang releases you do you realize he had a hold on your wrist, gripping you so tightly that he leaves flaming red marks on your skin. Tears bubble down your cheeks, a sob lodged in your throat that you refuse to let go. 

“Why are you doing this?” you plead. 

You don't know why you expect him to answer honestly - you don't know why you expect him to answer at all. He smirks, showing the ugly, yellowed points of his irregularly sharp canines. 

“Because Zuko would have been better off dead when Ozai gave him that scar,” he replies. “His is a family of sociopaths and murders, my dear - we must end the cycle before it repeats itself.” 

Xiang slips through the door he ambushed you from, and you're left alone in your terror. Fingers shaking, you take the knife from your robes and hide it under the mattress, your mind racing as you try to figure out what you can possibly do to save the people you love. 

You're in bed by the time Zuko returns, the lights turned out and your body hidden beneath the blankets, too shaken to face him. As he lays down beside you, wrapping his arms around your waist and nestling into the comfort of your body, all you can feel is the blade beneath you, slicing your side as ruthlessly as if you were the one sentenced to death.

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[whittakerjodie]

Unconditionally (Dhawan!Master X Reader)

Prompt: the Doctor tries to get the Reader back on her side but the Reader, having loved the Master for years and years, has a couple of words for her. (requested by anon) 

Words: 2.4k 

warnings: suspected manipulation, reader is a timelord

 Even travelling with the Master for hundreds of years, knowing every adventure would end up this way, you were disappointed that the evening had taken a turn for the worst. When you first landed, the Master had given you time to explore the planet before he began overthrowing the monarchy. 

In the fields of Dianus he sat with you for hours, listening intently while you read the book you’d brought along. Long fingers softly tangled themselves in your hair as you fought the urge to fall asleep. When your stomach started to rumble, he hoisted you to your feet and, with an excited grin, led you to a massive restaurant so you could have lunch together. Finally, before he began enacting his ‘evil plan’ he took you to the Diamond Gardens. 

Each flower seemingly shone with the power of a thousand suns, reflecting light all over the place. You gasped as you stepped past the arch, fingers moving outward to carefully brush against the precious stones. 

“Do you like them, the diamonds?” The Master asked, arms wrapping around your waist. He reached down to rip one of the flowers from the ground (an act you were sure was very illegal on this planet, not that it mattered to him) His hand moved to yours, unfolding your fingers so he could set the glittering flora in your palm. 

“I love them” You whispered, and he smiled before dipping down to press a deep kiss into your lips, holding you possessively against his form. Against your lips he promised, 

“When this is all over, I’ll fetch that princess’s crown for you. It deserves to be worn by a true princess” Your eyes widened. You’d seen the crown he was talking about in paintings and flags all across the kingdom you were visiting. Although you couldn’t accurately tell based on the different renditions, it seemed massive, with hundreds of gemstones adorning its surface. 

Per his instruction, you were to wait either in the gardens or in his TARDIS for him to finish his chaos. It wasn’t that you didn’t support him, it was just rather hard to see. So, as he left the garden to fetch your present and release some of his rage, you turned back to the flowers so you could take pictures. It didn’t take long before you could hear sounds of unrest begin to get louder and louder. It was rather irritating, so you made the decision to go back to the Master’s TARDIS after sneakily grabbing a few more flowers. 

The streets were panicked and screaming about ‘invaders in the castle’, so you had some difficulty getting past the crowds. Suddenly you heard someone yell: “Y/N!” It was not the Master's voice, and, to your knowledge, no one else on this planet knew you.

 Instead of acknowledging the mystery person, you began to walk faster. The last thing you needed was to interrupt the Master’s plans by getting kidnapped. Obviously, if you were to be taken, he would come to your rescue, but it was rather inconvenient. The voice yelled for you again and you kept speeding up gradually, until you were in a full sprint. 

To your right and left, there was a web of connected alleyways that you could conceal yourself in. However, you’d never been in said alleyways, and you didn’t want to run the risk of getting caught in a dead end. The castle was close; hopefully, you could make it there, get past whatever defenses they were putting up to get rid of the Master, and safely get to his side. 

It didn’t seem like there were any defenses, which you found rather suspicious. The possibility of an ambush flew away in the wind as your eyes, which had been scanning the ground, landed on a small pile of shrunken men. Classic. There was a door on the side of the castle, one that you were assuming was reserved for the servants and various workers. That would be your entrance, you decided. Unfortunately, the third party that had called out your name had a different idea. 

“Y/N.” The voice moved softly through the air, carrying recognition with it. The Doctor. Every muscle in your body tensed, like her words had seeped into your veins and paralyzed any attempt at movement. Only your head could turn, eyes narrowing. 

“Doctor,” You acknowledged. She sighed, stepping closer. 

“I should’ve known the Master was up to this. I’m surprised he wasn’t more extreme this time.” 

“He’s barely doing anything,” You say with an edge to your words. The Doctor was always ruining the Master’s plans- she had ever since the three of you had first begun drifting apart in your early days on Gallifrey. 

“You know that’s not true, Y/N. What’s he done to you?” 

“What’s he done to me?” You face toward her now, anger coating your tongue. Why couldn’t she leave you be? Everytime you’d seen her, whether it be with the Master or not, she always reduced your motivations- always reduced you- to another one of the Master’s pawns. But your relationship was so much more than that; it’d been centuries, now, travelling with him, and while you didn’t exactly approve of everything he did, you loved him all the same.

 You’d told the Doctor that, when your heart and mind were nearly torn to pieces by his acts on The Valiant. When Missy was trapped in the vault, you insisted upon visiting her nearly every day because you cared. Every single time, you spoke only the truth and yet the Doctor, wise in her uncountable years, couldn’t listen to your words properly. 

“I saw this before, with Lucy. You remember her, right? His wife? His hypnotization wasn’t just on the British people, Y/N, and I can help you.” 

Oh… she thought… he was manipulating you. Using his many tactics and charms to bend you to his will. You supposed, if she was correct, you wouldn’t be able to tell that here was any sort of distortion, but it certainly didn’t feel like he was changing you. That was obvious enough in all the times you were able to tell him off and get away with it. 

“He’s not- he wouldn’t do that” You tried to explain. But the Doctor’s eyes were still looking at you with a powerful pity, hands stretching towards you. You scoffed; You’d cut her out long ago, to avoid events like the one currently unfolding. 

“Just let me show you,” She whispered carefully, eyebrows raised to ask your permission. Although hesitation was making you lean backward, you knew it would be most beneficial to just give in. Otherwise, the Doctor wouldn’t stop and the next time you had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting her she would likely bring this up again. So, as her fingers eased against the skin at your temple, you gave no resistance. 

Time Lords were all, to an extent, telepathic. Most could only communicate through touch, and only without when engaging with close friends or loved ones. You hadn’t used your telepathy in years beyond short conversations with the Master when required, so the sensation of the Doctor softly combing through the branches of your mind was unfamiliar and slightly uncomfortable. Before you shut your eyes in an attempt to block out any further discomfort, you saw the Doctor’s eyebrows furrow in frustration. 

“He’s always been talented at this,” She grumbled. Her irritation was eclipsed by your satisfaction: she wasn’t finding anything. The short-coming had nothing to do with you, either. You were fully opening your mind to her, and still she could find no evidence of wrong-doing. 

As your triumph grew, so did your boldness. Gathering your most favorite memories of your time with the Master, you threw together a mountainous glacier of thought towards the Doctor through your growing link. Each one was backed up by your unfiltered feelings of love and respect, building a bridge to help you get your point across to her properly. With a yelp, she dropped her hands from your head and your eyes shot open as the connection was severed. 

“Y/N, what are you doing? You have to let me help” She pressed. The genuine concern in her eyes only irritated you further. 

“Don’t you see?” You growled, trying to calm your mind so it would stop ringing as hard as it was. “The Master isn’ manipulating me, he’s not hypnotizing me, nothing. I have loved him, fully, freely, for years. I loved him when he died that day on the Valiant. I loved him when he came back to life, when he was a woman- and god, what a time that was-  and I love him now, Doctor. What will it take you to realize that this is my choice?” 

The timelord’s eyes were wide, hands slowly dropping back to your sides. Then, there was the sound of footsteps behind you and her gaze shifted there, eyes narrowing again. “I’d like to hear it from him, I think.” 

You didn’t have to look to see who was approaching; the Master’s stormy presence slipped easily into your mind, not to influence, but to help brush away the remaining aches from the Doctor’s search. His arm wrapped around your shoulder, and from his fingers, the princess’ crown hung, sparkling in the light around you. The Doctor’s lips tightened as he kissed the side of your head softly, and you noticed it missed its usual intensity. 

“When I learned you were on planet, I assumed you were here to foil my plans. Imagine my disappointment when I found you trying to ruin something else of mine.” 

“She’s not yours-” the Doctor began, but she was interrupted by your insistent, 

“Yes, I am. “ To give more weight to your point, you reminded her through gritted teeth: “By choice” 

The Master’s arm tightened around you, and his other arm was moving to the pocket against your back. Face unmoving, you tried not to give away his plan. “Do you hear that, Doctor? Or are you too stubborn to admit that someone would rather travel with me than you?” 

His statement packed a punch; millenia ago, when the Doctor had first left Gallifrey with her granddaughter, clinging to the idea of a better life and a sense of duty you knew would last until the end of the universe itself, she’d asked you to come along. At that time, you weren’t yet intertwined with the Master in the way you were now, but you still couldn’t find yourself to leave with her. 

That refusal was repeated a few times, in her 7th life, her 9th, and most persistently in her 10th life, after you’d watched the Master die in her arms. As the Master’s TARDIS, back in it’s default form, began to materialize around you, you watched the Doctor’s face fall. Past the point when you could no longer see her, the disappointment and shock that radiated from her eyes remained, settling in your mind, blanketed in your own disgust. 

The Master knew exactly what to do to get her out of your mind. Your body swung downward as he dipped you lowly, pressing a searing kiss to your lips. The effect of gravity pulled on you and you wrapped your arms around his neck to ensure that you wouldn’t fall (although the move was unnecessary; you knew he would always catch you). After a long moment, he broke away from you to rest his head against yours, a laugh ringing through the air. 

“I love you,” you whisper breathlessly, unsure of if his maniacal cackle would drown it out or not. His lips landed on your forehead with his usual intensity, the laugh continuing in the back of his throat. Before you could lift yourself up to meet his lips again, he tugged you back upward, causing you to fall rather clumsily into him. His hearts were beating against his chest and into your ears, his mind playfully embracing yours. 

“Did you mean all that, back at the castle?” His fingers ease into your hair similar to earlier, briefly massaging your scalp before smoothing the tousled hair down and holding you tighter to his chest. 

“Of course I did,” you mumble. “Don’t ever doubt that.” 

The hand on the back of your head gave a small tug backward so you were looking into his eyes. Although it was unlikely he would allow the growing tears to fall, you rested your hand against his cheek in case you needed to wipe any away. His bottom lip was extended in a pout, watching you carefully. He could see into your mind, yet, similarly to the Doctor, he would always, to an extent, doubt the truth he found there. The Master wasn’t one to believe strongly in love, but you were willing to change that. 

“I love you,” You reminded him. He nodded, kissing your forehead again. It didn’t bother you that he didn't say it back. The Master’s love was always more evident in his actions, not the words that he felt would trap him. A weight caused your head to fall slightly and you realized he was putting the crown on top of your head, carefully shifting it until it reached his ideal of perfection. 

“There,” He whispered. “Now it’s in its proper place.” 

You laughed slightly, trying to get used to the accessory as he pulled his arms from around your waist, jogging to his console. 

“Now, I’m taking you somewhere incredible, somewhere where she will never find us. Name your preferences, dear, because it’s all for you” 

His eyes are excited now, hands shaking as they reach for the buttons and levers on the console. You were reminded, in times like these, just how much you love him, and always will. Before you began thinking of the type of place you’d like him to whisk you off to, you tucked away the events of the last few hours into your favorite memories. 

[ilvulcanico]

— ALL ABOARD ! The HMS PROMETHEAN welcomes ( TEODORO FIORE FOLTIER ) to the expedition in their capacity of ( THE VOLCANIC ). They are ( THIRTY-TWO YEARS OLD & MALE ) and might be painted as ( KIT HARINGTON ). When you strike up an acquaintance, address them as ( he / him ). Their deeds on land precede their arrival — people say they are ( strategic, self-assured in a way that comes from a long string of privilege, and startlingly watchful ) but ( full of a deeply measured rage and a plan on where to place it, bottled up until suddenly he is not, and with loyalty to no person and no country ) when the tide turns. Their purpose aboard the Promethean falls in line with ( survival, no matter the cost ; mutiny ).

some wanted connections.

born in italy just before the time of revolution against king ferdinand i. very, very low level connections to monarchy so his family had been wealthy at one point long before teo’s birth, but they were a failing name by the time he came into the world. classic image of a crumbling estate. 

when teo was ~12ish, the fights, the changing world, the bitterness between his parents really wore him down. something really small pushed him over the edge and, oops, he started a small fire at his family’s place. 

he didn’t run off until the estate burned to ash, and while no one died in the fire, he knew they would blame him and he absolutely booked it out of town. he also knew that there was something to the fire, something cleansing. sometimes a family is you and 1,000 matches. 

used some of his stolen family trinkets to backflip to england for a while. figured out he was good at fighting for other people, was basically a hired thug. it got boring. learned that power is rooted in the anticipation of punishment -- that oftentimes, the fear that comes before the punishment is worse than the act. he started placing (metaphorical) dynamite between people, sometimes for his advantage and sometimes just because he could. something happens (tbd), and eventually he booked it to france. 

came up with some pieced together backstory to show he’s french. changed his last name from fiore to foltier. became a gunner then canon master then ice master. he’s shockingly good at what he does. 

then came the agathe. 

uh-oh, sisters! 

now he’s on the promethean and, uh, he’s not doing so hot. he thinks it counts as therapy to overthrow the promethean, head back to france, and take out all his anger / fear / frustration at what happened on those that helped make the expedition a reality. and then probably head to, like, portugal and Try Again. (take 4) 

PLOT POINTS: 

a dead and dangerous thing: i want him to step onboard, and people to be afraid, even if they are not sure why. i want there to be a dark cloud that follows him -- rumor and reality mixing, and him letting it be mixed. he is charming until you look closer, a person until you look in his eyes and see nothing there. he thrives in his reputation; he finds pleasure in what people think they know of him. he loves to use it and twist it to his advantage. he’s actually quite smart, which makes him all the more frightening. he’ll seek those out on the ship he thinks he can manipulate, and then he’ll do exactly that. 

nature knows no kings: what is he manipulating people for, you might ask? before the agathe, it was to get to a place he was comfortable. it was to earn his title, his money. it was to survive another day. on the promethean, it is a more extreme version of that. he has gone through something that has shaken him to his core: he feels like he is a hunted animal, and he will do anything to survive. including… inciting mutiny! his goal, from the moment he is brought aboard the promethean, will be to incite a mutiny so that he can go home and raise hell with the people who sent him on the agathe. he wants to get as far away from the arctic as he can. but he is not going to do this all at once. he is methodical. he will watch this new crew, he will plant dynamite between the people he must, he will ruin relationships and find allies, and then he will strike. 

crime and punishment: if you were to ask him if he was french, he would say: “i am an ice-master of the french fleet, am I not?” if you were to pick up on his careful accent, you might ask him if he was italian. he would say: “yesterday i was italian, today i am french. if the promethean pays me to stay on this vessel, i will be british tomorrow.” this is a man who has never found a cause, a person, or a country to be loyal to. he follows his paycheck with a frightening ease. loyalty has never served him back; why should he give it time? with that said, i think he is ripe for potential. either, he might find someone or something aboard the promethean that gives him pause, that makes him shift from his path. this would be frightening in itself; his loyalty would be a terrifying thing to have, for all its violent nature. but, and this is what I’m really interested in, if he does not find loyalty with someone or something aboard the ship -- how messy will it get? if he is willing to survive no matter the cost, if he is surrounded by people he does not know, what will he do to ensure his own survival over theirs? (aka: things are gettin too chummy here, and he WILL backstab anyone.) 

the temperament of gunpowder: teo is a person that is so full of rage but rarely expresses it, that he keeps it all locked up until something small sets him off. he’s bounced around to a few spots in the world, often leaving craters behind him; he will simply be calm and collected for years until he is suddenly lighting a match on his situation and skipping out to the next place. france is the longest he’s been somewhere since he was a child, and he had been building a reputation, building relationships, building a life. with everything that happened aboard the agathe, his reply to it is: just let me survive. let me get back so I can show them what they’ve done to me, what they’ve made of me now. all that terror and anger and confusion has built in him, but he’s not dealing with it -- what will happen when the long fuse of the gun meets the gunpowder? what happens when something sets him off here, before he is ready for it?

[starl1ght-child]

Enthralled

Rezyl Azzir x F!Non-Guardian OC

(FINAL) Chapter 15 : Renege [ WC 1.6K ]

masterlist

Rezyl’s head was constantly splitting as of late, the only relief for it he ever found was when he was in the field, with his Rose in his hand.  It made it impossible to think or focus.

Even still, he was trying to do better for Rilea.  He was trying so hard to keep all of the promises he had made.  He came home to her every night, he laid with her until she fell asleep and comforted her through her nightmares, which became more frequent during the following weeks.  He would get up at night and sit in a chair by the bed, still unable to sleep.  He would watch her rest and started to learn the signs for when she was having a nightmare so he would wake her before the worst of it forced her out of sleep.  Most of the time, he could find peace in the calm on her sleeping face.  Occasionally, she would smile while she slept.  He prayed to see that smile every night, because it meant her dreams were good.

Every now and then she would flinch when he went to touch her.  The guilt he felt for what he’d done would never go away.  He didn’t know what had come over him that day.  But ever since that day, he noticed he was losing time.  Especially out in the field.  He’d been losing time for a while now.  Even his Ghost had commented once that he seemed distant when they were out on patrol.  Like his mind was elsewhere, or not even there at all.  He wasn’t like himself.  His Ghost can account for everything, but Rezyl can’t.  It was enough to drive him close to insanity that he couldn’t make up for this missed time by himself.

On top of everything, Rezyl was more frustrated than ever with the Consensus.  The Concordat faction had tried to overthrow the Speaker and the Consensus in a coup a few weeks past, but they were brought down by New Monarchy.  It was like the Faction Wars all over again.  

There was one thing he was starting to realize:  there would never be true peace so long as there were people in power, grabbing for more, laying waste to everyone below them.  There was no point in fighting for it by killing Fallen or Hive to keep the Last City safe if the unrest was coming from the inside.

Occasionally, he would fall asleep beside Rilea or in his chair.  It was a rare occurrence, but whenever sleep found him, it was never restful.  Most nights lately he dreamed of a dark figure dancing in the distance, singing a violent tune that was achingly familiar.  He was frozen in place in the dark, restricted.  Caged.  The song slowly grew louder as she came closer to him.  He would force himself awake before she got too close.  Those nights he would slip out of bed and sit by the window, quiet and pondering, his eyes shifting between the lights of the City and his love who still slept in bed.

These dreams forced him into insomnia.  And the longer he went without sleeping, the harder it was to force himself awake.

He’d been awake for twenty-three days now.  Twenty-three dreadful, exhausting days.  He slipped into sleep unknowingly while he was keeping watch over his partner.  When he opened his eyes, he was in the dark ebony halls of the Hellmouth, frozen on his knees, restricted.  Caged, just like every dream before.  Bound by invisible chains.  An orange lamp covered in thorn-like spines hung high above him, barely casting any light on the floor he knelt on.  His eyes focused in the dark.  At first everything was silent.  Then whispers in the distance, an ethereal figure in the distance.  Then the song that split his skull and made his ears ring.  Rezyl writhed and struggled against the chains, but he found no strength in his muscles this time to break free.  His ears bled as the figure approached, her cruel voice growing louder.  The bone chilling tune started to take shape as she got closer. 

He was so tired that he couldn’t force himself awake.  He slumped down on the ebon floors and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out everything, to shut his mind off from the song.

“My Champion…”  

Rezyl’s eyes opened at the sound of her voice.  His blood turned to ice in his veins.  

He was forced to look up at the demon witch that hovered over him when a clawed finger lifted his chin.  Xyor, the demon witch whose consort he killed, floated above him, three eyes peering deep into his soul.  His jaw clenched.

“I am not your champion,” he growled.  

The demon woman’s head tilted.  Her voice was angry and cruel when she spoke again.  He flinched as her claw dug into his skin. “You have shown your devotion in bones and paid your price with blood.”  Her entire hand moved and she cupped his chin and her fingers dug into his cheeks. 

His eyes widened and fear made any color he had left drain from his face.  His Rose.  He felt a painful burn starting to release from the witch’s palm and he writhed in pain as tears leaked onto his cheeks.

“It’s time for you to come home and fulfill your role...”

His mouth opened as the pain grew hotter, but no sound left his throat.  All air had left his lungs and he felt like he was suffocating.  He closed his eyes against the pain, for a moment he even prayed for death if it would end this suffering.

“You will continue to kill for me, Champion, but I thirst for more… for Light…”

When she released him, Rezyl’s eyes opened and he was back in his bedroom, sitting in the armchair.  There was air in his lungs, there was no burning, and Rilea was still asleep.  He felt moisture on his cheeks so he reached up and wiped his eyes.  When he looked at his hand, his eyes narrowed at the black on his fingers.

…What?

He stood and silently walked into the bathroom, the door closed behind him.  He flicked on the light and looked at himself in the mirror.  Eyes widened at the reflection in front of him.  Blond hair was darkening to black at the roots.  But what struck fear in him and made him feel sick was his eyes.  His irises were… brighter, but not in a good way.  They were yellow-er, more chartreuse than emerald, and almost seemed like they were glowing.  The whites of his eyes were black.  Black, sludge-like fluid leaked out of his eyes and onto his cheeks, poisoning his skin.  He tried to wipe it away, but it just kept coming back, leaving dark streaks on his cheeks.  His hands started to shake as he turned on the faucet and splashed some water on his face.  Maybe he was hallucinating.  But when he looked in the mirror again, everything was still there.

Rezyl took a step back from the sink and sank to the floor.  He held fistfuls of hair in his hands as he tried not to freak out and wake his lover who was still sleeping in the next room.  Somewhere in the back of his head, a whisper.  A low hum with vicious, murderous intent.

He didn’t even think.  He silently left the bathroom, had Amit gather all of his belongings and put them on his jumpship, which was currently sitting in orbit.  Amit tried to ask questions, but the Titan gave him a look so dark that even his Ghost shut up and did as it was asked.  Rezyl cloaked himself and picked up the holster for his cannon and wrapped belt around his hips.  When he picked up his cannon, he saw for the first time how different it was.  Hive bone had spread around the barrel, warped the chamber and the hammer.  There was an eerie glow at the end of the barrel, a swirling orb that matched the green glow of his eyes.  He slid the lead out of the chamber and looked at the bullets, sharply pointed and warped to look like thorns.  He slipped them back in place and closed the chamber with soft click.

He looked over at Rilea while she slept in bed.  He felt overwhelming sorrow.  Before he left, he grabbed a piece of looseleaf and wrote her a note.  His final apology.  He tucked the note underneath his pillow and walked around to her side of the bed.  His fingers ghosted over her hair and around the frame of her face as he gazed down at her for the last time, then pressed a featherlight kiss over her lips.

His voice was barely even a whisper.  “I love you, sweet girl…  Forgive me…”

— — — — — 

Rilea woke the next morning with a yawn, but when her eyes opened she realized that Rezyl was nowhere to be found.  She got out of bed and slipped into her robe, and she called out for him.  No answer.  She looked around the entire apartment.  He was nowhere to be found.  Nothing of his was here, no clothes, no armor, no weapons.  Not even a damn sock.  

Panic set in.  She dressed and hurried out onto the streets.  She visited everywhere she could think of, every place that she knew had meaning to him, to the both of them.

Nowhere.

She took the elevator up to the Tower.  It was the only place left he could possibly be.  Every Guardian in the Tower looked at her strangely.  At this point, tears were streaming down her cheeks.  And she looked everywhere.  From the North Tower to the Hanger.  She even asked Amanda Holliday if his ship was anywhere in their manifest.

It wasn’t.

Fear was gripping her heart by the time she ran into the Hall of Guardians.  All three Vanguards over at her.  Commander Zavala and Master Rey exchanged a look.  Cayde-6 looked at both of them in confusion.  He’d only been Vanguard now for about two months.

“Rilea,”  Ikora Rey said softly.  She was the only Vanguard who knew her name.  “What’s the matter?”

The woman was visibly shaking at this point.  A new stream of tears rolled onto her cheeks.  Her voice was broken when she finally spoke.  “Rezyl’s gone.”

The Vanguard didn’t believe her.  Not at first.  He was a hero of the Last City, so why would he just disappear?  It would take them six months to realize that he was really, truly missing, and by then it was too late to start searching.

Rilea knew Rezyl.  If Rezyl didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be.  She returned home that evening cold and drained and empty.  She curled up in bed and hugged his pillow to her chest.  She heard a small rustle as something fell to the floor.  She sat up and walked around to his side of the bed and found a folded piece of parchment.  Tears formed in her eyes as she picked it up from the floor, flicked on the lamp, sat back down on the bed, and unfolded the parchment.

Rilea, my love, my paramour,

I can’t forgive myself for the pain that I’ve caused you.  I promised you that I would never hurt you again and I can’t risk losing you in the crossfire of my mistakes.

I love you too much to let my mistakes corrupt you, too, sweet girl.

I hope you can forgive me. 

- Azzir

Tag List : @mail-me-a-snail

[ecotone99]

[FN] The Blackwood Chest

The Blackwood Chest was a fabled artifact crafted by a master of magic to contain a relic that had once destroyed the known order of the world. Or so the man standing in the market place wanted everyone to believe. This was no ordinary market place that this man chose, however. This was the open market of the Engracity Kingdom, the largest and most powerful monarchy of the world, unrivaled by any of its neighbors. This market place, called the Silver Lined Square, housed the most powerful and influential merchants of the time.

The man stood out among the crowd, though no onlookers that day could quite place why (leading most to attribute this to the powers of the Blackwood Chest). The man looked no older than twenty. He was clean shaven and wore foreign clothing. His hands and face were un-dirtied (a rarity in those times) and stood up straight, giving him a height advantage over the bent and broken crowd that surrounded him. As he spoke, he had a habit of running his right hand through his brown hair, which let people notice the fine rings that adorned his fingers. Looking around himself, the man soon realized that the crowd surrounding him was growing too large for those at the outer edge to see. He cast an observant eye around the square, finally laying eyes on the highest point. The gallows. Apologizing to the crowd, the man explained that in order for everyone to see, he would be moving to higher ground. As he passed through the gathering, everyone dispersed in front of him, as if the crowd had suddenly become liquid before him.

As the man glided up the gallow's old, tilted stairs with his old, glossy box, the crowd grew more, as people ogled the sight of such a young man climbing those murderous steps. Upon reaching the top, the man heaved the box down with a loud thud. Not attracting the amount of attention he wanted with the sound, the man walked over to a bell used to announce when executions were starting that hung near the lever. Grasping its cord, the man rung it wildly. As the rings echoed through the city, silence fell over the square. All eyes were on him.

"Let me begin again. My name is Cylar Cromwick, and I am here to bring you the most wonderful opportunity that this kingdom has ever seen! What I bring before you is The Blackwood Chest, a mysterious artifact that holds an even more mysterious history."

While the original story told by Cylar was lost many years ago due to oral retellings of the story rather than a written record, the core story goes as follows.

Long ago, there was a powerful ruler. This ruler had taken control of much of the world, but in secret. Not wanting forces working against him, he created underlying organizations in every kingdom to keep control over everything. This ruler, however, was dissatisfied with controlling everything, he still wanted more, but what did he want? Even he didn't know the answer. He commissioned everyone in inner circle to create something for him, something powerful, something that no one could wield but him. Many gifts were brought to him, stones that could control the elements, water that elongated life, weapons that could destroy any nation, but the ruler was not satisfied. Just as his followers gave up in their task, a young man with brown hair in strange clothes appeared to him. "What do you bring me, young man?" The ruler questioned. "I bring you nothing, nothing but advice that is." This young man approached the ruler and whispered into his ear. As he listened, the ruler could not help but smile, for this was it! This is what he had been looking for and it had been right under his nose! He thanked the young man and asked what he could give in return for his sage wisdom. The young man smiled, " I will return when death is at your door, and then you will know my request." With that the man disappeared. Soon after he was gone, the ruler was asked what it was that he had been needing. He responded with two simple words. "A legacy." Many years later after having children and passing on his power, the man found himself bedridden, and knew his time was nearly over. The young man from before appeared, but he looked as if he hadn't aged a day. On closer inspection, this was a similar looking, but different man entirely. "My father had a favor to ask of you, and I am here to fulfill his request." "For the man who made my life complete, anything." This new young man took the strength and wisdom from this ruler and transferred it into an old relic just as the old ruler passed on into the next life.

"These two young men I have told you about were my great-great grandfather and my great grandfather, and what they created disrupted the world order and was passed from kingdom to kingdom until the world was left in ruin. That is when my father regained possession of the relic and he and I set to work containing it."

At first, this seemed ridiculous, how could something ruin the world without the people knowing it? As they thought on it, however, the cause of a great war some one-hundred and fifty years ago was shrouded in mystery. If this man was powerful enough to contain such a relic, wouldn't he be able to give himself some sort of magical longevity to have survived since then? The crowd was buzzing with excitement.

"We not only succeeded in containing the power, but also in re-purposing it. Let me demonstrate it's power."

Cylar walked over to the chest and started unpacking it's contents. After removing twelve locks on the outside, he slowly tipped back the lid, exposing the many runes and engravings on the inside of the chest. Next, he gently lifted out a gold box, gilded with silver depicting many old battles, long lost from history. Removing four locks and four seals, he slowly lifted the lid and from this box pulled out a bag woven from spider silk that glistened in the midday sun. Unraveling the rope from the top of the bag with one hand, he held the bag closed with the other.

"I will now demonstrate the power of this relic using my assistant, and I want you to understand I do this with a heavy heart."

A second, older looking man stepped up beside him from the stairs of the gallows. Before stepping up, no one had noticed the man's presence, but now all eyes were on him. He had long gray hair, and a weary, wary look as he eyed the crowd.

"Know that this man is being very well compensated for his contribution today."

Slowly, Cylar opened the bag towards the man, careful not to show the rest of the crowd. After seeing it's contents, the man gripped his chest tightly flailed around on top of the gallows for a few seconds before diving head first into the crowd, lying completely still on the stone street. As people gasped in horror at the sight, a woman crouched down to the body and loudly declared for everyone to hear, "He's dead." In horror, the crowed turned to a grave looking Cylar, an expression everyone agreed seemed to hold a deeper understanding than anyone else in the crowd.

"This is the gruesome power that ruined the world. After containing this evil, I was struck with a question. Could this be made into a constructive force of change, something to make the world better? I improved on my father's original designs, creating a magical filter that restructured the flow of energy generated by the relic in order to counteract the negative after affects of the magic integrating itself into the soul of its user."

(Most, if not all, of these terms were outside the comprehension of the general crowd gathered.)

"After many years of work, I have perfected the process, and am willing to sell it for a reasonable price." Cylar said this as he meticulously packed the relic back into its many layers of protection. After the final lock was in place he gingerly sat on the chest. "So... Any bidders?"

A kid shouted, "Twelve copper!" Everyone laughed, but no one laughed harder than Cylar, sat on his chest. Soon serious bids started rolling in. "Ten gold!" "Thirty gold!" "Three-hundred gold!" "Two-thousand gold!" One voice projected over the entire crowd.

"Ten million gold." Cylar laid his eyes on the man who just spoke, estimating the mans potential value against his bid. This man was worth his words,however. The man in question was one Gracen Baen, the most powerful merchant in the city, and second most powerful in the country.

The two men met in secret to finish their dealings, and Cylar was never seen again. Three years after this fateful day, Gracen took power in Engracity, overthrowing the king, and prospered for ten years afterward, until he was overthrown, and the usurper after that and the one after that, until another kingdom had become the most powerful and took the remnants of Engracity and the Blackwood Chest. This pattern continued for many years, the chest passing from kingdom to kingdom, none of them lasting longer than ten years at a time. Each new owner carved their name into the exterior of the chest, until each was overlapped and unintelligible Many countries tried to recreate the chest's powers, but none of them succeeded. The one that got closest had tracked down and commissioned the son of Cylar, Syrus Cromwick, to recreate his late father's work. The chest was identical, but without the relic, it was powerless.

After the world had begun recovering from the second Great War of Ruin, a young ruler appeared with a kingdom that had avoided the destruction. Being the only one left, this kingdom inherited the Blackwood Chest. The young ruler laughed as the chest was brought before him. He passed his hand over it, feeling the names of each person who had fruitlessly pursued the chest. The ruler opened the chest, then the box, then the bag, and pulled the bag inside out, showing that it contained nothing. After showing this, he ordered the chest destroyed, and denounced the existence of magic, "This ruin that was wrought across the world came from nothing more than the superstition of man, nothing else." The chest burned in the Silver Lined Square, exactly where the gallows once stood.

As the kingdom industrialized and time passed, the ruler brought his son, who was then nearing twenty years old, to the throne. The old man excitedly passed his right hand through his brown hair (which was slightly graying) as he told the story of his father (and his fathers before him), an old relic, and the chest that held it. As the ruler removed a magic seal from the front of the thrown, the seat unfolded, showing a black chest, graying with age, with one name distinctly carved into the lid. Cromwick.

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