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enby-hawke · 3 years

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For I Have Sinned Chapter 9

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Ship Malcolm/Leandra

Chapter 9: The Nightmare’s Wrath

TW for graphic violence, racist talk, exploitation of mages, and child abuse. I hope I'm not forgetting any. The Nightmare is not a happy guy.

Word Count: 11682

Leandra held her family’s rosary, counting the beads between her fingers as she sang the Chant silently to herself. She knew she was at the Maker’s mercy at this point and she had no idea what kind of god he would be right now. Was Isaac innocent enough to be spared His wrath? Sometimes she knew not even that mattered. She had to be strong for her cousin and yet she could find no more strength within her. She needed to make that phone call, inform Revka and yet how could she?

She felt frozen by death, he had come for her again. With her grandfather at least it was peaceful, in his sleep in his old age. But when the Hartlings were taken by an irreverent drunk driver who survived it himself, it shattered Mara, and she never quite recovered all the pieces.

Leandra remembered Mara’s dark days. She stopped eating as if she had to punish herself that she still lived. Leandra would bring over meals from her favorite restaurants just to get her to take a few bites. The grief made Leandra awkward. She was so used to leaning on Mara when it came turn to lean on her, Leandra found she could only give old advice, that Mara would see her family again at the Maker’s side.

But Mara asked a question that still scared Leandra to this day.

“What if the Chant’s all bullshit and that’s just something people say so we don’t get sad?”

Leandra didn’t know how to answer that. Mara was angry at the Maker and had lost her faith. Leandra didn’t know how to give it back to her when she had too many questions herself.

The conversation ended awkwardly, with Leandra trying to get Mara to eat again. A sidestep. A misstep.

Eventually Mara started pushing Leandra away and everyone else. She partied dangerously, experimenting with anything that could take the pain away for a few moments. Leandra dragged her out of plenty of seedy Lowtown houses and backwater bars with Mara fighting her every step of the way, only Gamlen able to calm and steady her.

He saved her when Leandra couldn’t. He brought brightness back to her life and Leandra had never felt so helpless. Shallow. Useless. Like her faith was.

She tried to make it up to Mara however she could, it was a regret she’d always hold.

Now she was praying even as the shreds of her faith were left in tatters? Isaac barely turned nine. Revka had already lost him to the Circle, but to lose him to a demon, she didn’t think Revka would survive it.

How could the Maker be so cruel?

And as much as her nephew’s death scared her, there was another regret Leandra found bubbling up that made her feel vulnerable, like she knew this would break her. Her eyes flicked to Malcolm, his presence so calming and assured. His honey eyes looked so resolute as he signed his death waiver without even a flinch.

“Do you want to write out some last words to anyone? Any confessions you’d like to make to a priestess?” The First Enchanter asked, tiredness in his voice.

“No need, I’m not dying,” Malcolm said in the same self-assured manner he always had.

Leandra bit her lip, his hubris making her panic more than feel at ease and she said, “we should at least bring you to a Sister to give you the Maker’s blessing.”

“Don’t need that, either,” he gave her that sexy lopsided grin that made her breath stutter even as his words dripped with blasphemy.

Leandra opened her mouth, her words caught for a second, her cheeks hot. “A-are you really so arrogant that you think you don’t need the Maker’s protection?”

Malcolm’s face then turned serious meeting her eye. “I’d rather skip the rituals. Isaac’s timeline is more important.”

Leandra’s mouth dropped but found no argument. He made sense and yet to think he would go in the Fade again without the Maker’s hand guiding him. Her heart clenched frightened at how badly it ached at the thought of his loss. That he could die without her knowing what his touch felt like. This feeling felt too premature to be called love but it was so close, it scared her. Too soon, she thought, and yet she wondered now if she was also too late. Would the Maker see Malcolm’s arrogance as a slight and take both Isaac and him from her this day?

She didn’t know what else to do. She took the rosary from her fingers, and draped the cord around Malcolm’s neck. “Then take this. It’s protected my family for generations.”

She had held that rosary during every Mass, blessed her family every night with it, and though she hoped it would protect Malcolm she couldn’t see it as anything but a pretty trinket she carried for comfort. Maybe it would protect him, or maybe he could just wear it and think of her. She found she had no more use for it.

Malcolm dangled the golden sun chain between his fingers as if he had caught the tail of a dead animal. “I do not need to be accused of stealing this.”

Both the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander seemed surprised by Leandra’s gesture and was unsure what to make of it. “Hawke is right,” the Knight Commander said for the first time, “he’s too irresponsible to handle something so valuable.”

Malcolm bristled at the implication in the Commander’s tone but Leandra was ahead of him. “Well then I’ll give it to him with all you as witnesses so now you can’t accuse him of thievery.” Her eyes glistened, as she looked at him, imploring him to accept this small token if not the Maker, of herself. “You need it more than I do.”

Malcolm’s shoulders dropped, letting the amulet fall against his black robes. He bowed his head in respect, his dark curls falling in his face. “Thank you for your generosity, my lady.” He then added with a wry chuckle, “though something with Isaac’s essence would help me more.”

Without missing a beat Leandra said, “I have that, too.” She dug through her purse bringing out a children’s book with different automobiles with faces on it. It looked too rudimentary to belong to a nine year old but Leandra said, “This is Isaac’s favorite book. If he has trouble sleeping he might want you to read this just front to back again and again.” The Knight-Commander’s thin lip completely disappeared as she dug out a small cloth bag. “These are his building blocks. He might not warm up right away but if you start building something he’ll absolutely want to join in if you ask.” She closed Malcolm’s hands over the items as she handed them over, the smell of his clover musk soothing her frazzled nerves. “Would any of these help? He hasn’t held these in months.”

Malcolm nodded, opening the bag with interest. He held a small bright red tile between his fingers. “No, I can tell these mattered to him. They are coated in his essence.” He dropped it back into the bag, the blocks clattering together as he closed it and he gave a reassuring smile. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to have these back.”

That’s when the Knight-Commander finally intervened, “I can’t allow these. This goes against regulation.”

Leandra’s shoulders snapped back in fury. “A child cannot have toys?”

The First Enchanter leaned in. “Lady Amell, there are many mage children whose family cannot send them toys. It causes jealousy. It is better that he learns that the Circle is home.”

Leandra couldn’t accept that. “And what home can it be if you’re so harsh that a child cannot play. Is it any wonder my nephew fell prey to a demon!?”

The First Enchanter gathered the large stack of forms they had wasted time on between his gnarled fingers looking completely uncomfortable with Leandra’s temper that only seemed to be rising. “Lady Amell, please be civil. I understand you are stressed due to these events. Go home. Rest. It is in the Maker’s Hands now.”

Leandra crossed her arms, planting her feet firmly. “Excuse me? I’m not going anywhere until Isaac is safe.”

The First Enchanter tensed sharing a look with the Knight Commander. “My lady,” the wizard’s mustache twitched, “we don’t have the facilities to house a noble. Your safety must be maintained.”

Leandra scoffed so hard it blew the bangs from her forehead. “For 10,000 sovereigns you’d better figure it out!”

A snicker escaped Malcolm’s throat drawing the glares of both the Knight Commander and First Enchanter and that’s when Carver stepped in, an uncomfortable bystander to a convenient rescuer. He bowed his head to the Knight Commander offering a peaceful smile. “I believe the chapel can be isolated for the lady. There she can pray for her nephew’s recovery.”

The Knight Commander pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache and with a wince he said, “Fine.” His eyes then leveled his most intimidating glare to Leandra as he said, “but the Circle is a military institution, not a day spa. Don’t expect to be entertained.”

Leandra met his glare with one of her own, though it looked like a chihuahua going after a pit bull. “Oh I’m entertained enough by the fact that you used my family’s misfortune to fatten your coffers. Dare I ask what happens to the mages whose families cannot meet your outrageous price?”

And like a chihuahua, she went right for their knickers.

They dropped their eyes from Leandra’s accusatory stare, their faces twisting into uncomfortable grimaces as the silence answered her question.

Leandra’s heart hardened with more anger. What a barbaric place this was. She tightened her grip on the strap of her purse as she readied to dismiss herself. “Do your duty, gentleman, and know I will be watching.” Even if she had no powers of her own, she could at least hold them to that.

---

Isaac was fine this morning. Malcolm still recalled the huge smile on his face and the boy was practically vibrating at breakfast. Ever since Leandra told him of their connection he made more of an effort to speak to the boy, though the conversations were mostly them making truck noises at each other. Today, though, when Isaac came to bus his tray for Malcolm, Isaac actually spoke words.

“My mama’s coming,” he bounced up and down.

“That’s awesome, little dude,” Malcolm offered him the usual friendly high five but the boy was so excited he ended up head bumping the flat of his hand shouting,

“Beep!”

It kinda hurt but Malcolm laughed regardless. Then Isaac turned to Taylor with the same excited smile, “My mama’s coming,” he repeated with the excited tone.

“That’s wonderful, Isaac.” And when he got his praise from Taylor he turned to Charlie.

To think so much could change in a few hours.

The Harrowing Chamber still smelled like death and everything was as horrifying as Malcolm remembered it. The Fade here was thin, like a film and Malcolm could hear the faint echo of screams that still carried within the stone, thousands of deaths layered upon the other. If he closed his eyes he could see the last moments of mages meeting their ends.

Lanterns lit the walls making the room dark and the shadows bounced off each other as the ground was discolored by various stains that they failed to scrub out. In the middle of the chamber was Isaac strapped down to a table, sweating profusely, his bangs sticking to his forehead as his body fought the demon the only way it knew how. A bright red barrier surrounded Isaac, keeping him in place in case the transformation completed. He whimpered as he thrashed in his nightmare, his voice still chanting in an echo that repeated itself;

“My mama’s coming.”

Along the walls lined the Templars surrounding Malcolm, their guns gleaming in the threat of his failure. The helms hid the Templar’s faces but he could feel the eager energy in the air, ready for slaughter.

Malcolm’s hands were sweaty with nervousness as he waited for Senior Enchantress Karena to finish her spell.

Malcolm fiddled with Leandra’s rosary, well his rosary now, but it was coated in her spiritual energy, almost making it feel like her arms were wrapped around his neck. It made him breathe easier in the nightmare of being back in this room. Gave him hope that there was some kind of future for the two of them after this.

Enchanter Karena hunched over an ancient spellbook reading over the instructions, her glasses giving her fish eyes as she stirred different animal and plant parts into the lyrium brew. She seemed to be taking a long time, cutting things down into the smallest batches and scraping only the tiniest pinches into the mixture.

Malcolm sat on the gurney that they had wheeled in for him, feeling antsy. He gazed over the over at the cauldron, the mixture foul and pungent and heady. “Do you need help?” he offered genuinely.

The Enchantress scowled, “Excuse me, young man, I have made this spell hundreds of times.”

Malcolm wasn’t sure how he offended her this time but he gritted his teeth, biting back his usual snark. “Look, I'm just trying to speed things along. Isaac doesn’t have a lot of time.”

“Don’t rush me! If the ratio is off there can be dire consequences,” she snapped but then she turned back to the brew with a frown, “but I’ve never made such a weak concoction. With only one vial of lyrium I’m not sure there will be enough strength to pull you into the Fade.” She glared at Malcolm, her squinted eyes enlarged in glass. “If you were boasting, young man, that child will pay the price.”

Malcolm scoffed. How many times must he prove himself? “I don’t need to boast.” If only he could slip into the Fade right now and skip this charade. He still had a tile from Isaac’s toy bag, even though Carver had to ‘confiscate’ everything else Leandra brought which also included some sour gummy worms, a phone and a drawing his sister made for him. Still, the tile would be enough to track his dream. He didn’t need this witch’s brew.

Then Enchantress Karena pulled a vial from a case that was especially red, viscous. As soon as she uncorked it an iron smell filled the air.

Malcolm didn’t like the way it tingled the hairs in his nostrils. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he drank that. He had never ingested lyrium before but he was sure it would make taking care of whatever demon assaulted Isaac a piece of cake. Malcolm wrinkled his nose in recognition. “Is that what I think it is?”

Enchantress Karena stiffened as she poured in the vial. “It’s the essence of life and will help tether you to Isaac.”

Malcolm shook his head. In other words, Isaac’s phylactery.

He watched as a portion of blood was mixed into the blue shimmery concoction causing it to bubble, the whole cauldron taking a purple sheen as she stirred. It thickened the air with a copper rain-like smell.

“Soooo, how is this not blood magic?” Malcolm wrinkled his nose. Sure blood would be the easiest way to find his essence but he never expected the Chantry to actually resort to it.

The Enchantress snarled. “This is nothing like blood magic, blasphemer!”

Malcolm held up his hands in mock innocence. “Hey, I’m just asking a question. Don’t bite my head off.” Still he couldn’t help but feel like the Chantry were a bunch of hypocrites.

An armored hand clapped his shoulder, gripping slightly in a warning to be quiet. “Let’s let the Senior Enchantress concentrate,” Carver’s voice echoed from underneath his square imposing helm.

Malcolm sighed, dropping his shoulders as he relented. Of course the Circle sanctioned blood magic under the circumstances they deemed fit. He wasn’t sure why he was even surprised, but it made Malcolm wonder what other secrets the Circle was hiding.

Carver bent over his eyes gleaming from the darkness of his helmet as he said in a low voice. “Don’t take any stupid chances in the Fade.”

Malcolm scoffed, whispering back, “This isn’t my first hunt. I know what I’m doing.”

“Still,” Carver drew his shoulders together, “it never hurts to be careful.” He lowered his helm to Malcolm’s ear and whispered, “what if it’s that terror demon?”

Malcolm stiffened. He had considered that as a possibility, and his leg swung impatiently from his seat. “Isaac’s managed to hold on this long. Have a little faith.”

Carver nodded, the tension not releasing from his shoulders.

Soon the purple brew darkened a few shades and the Enchantress took her spoon tapping off the extra liquid back into the cauldron, the sound echoing like a dull bell through the chamber. “It is done.” The Enchantress poured the concoction into a goblet and passed it to Malcolm. “Now drink every drop and lie down immediately.”

Malcolm gagged as he stared at it. Thankfully there were only a few mouthfuls to swallow but along with blood he had seen animal organs and poisonous mushrooms ground in. His skin turned a shade greener as he held his breath, unable to take the raw odor.

But then he remembered he could change the flavor and took a moment to weave the spell over his tongue before he knocked it back into his throat. He tasted strawberries again, but the texture still made him gag and there was still a distinct coppery taste that overlapped the flavor and burned into his nostrils. He forced himself to swallow before he coughed wishing he had soured something else. The liquid numbed his mouth and his throat and he found himself unable to say anything as he tried his best not to throw up.

“Lie down,” she reminded him curtly, pressing his nails into his shoulder and back into the gurney.

His head knocked against a firm cushion, the swirling feeling overtaking him as the room started to discolor and spin.

She then snapped her head at Carver as she took Malcolm’s arm and strapped him down with the leather bindings. “Bind him firmly, Knight Captain.”

Carver obeyed, his helm obscuring his expression, but his fingers shook as he bound his friend’s limbs tightly to the gurney.

The ceiling melded into indescribable colors but then Malcolm realized it was because the Enchantress had activated the containment barrier they had drawn around Malcolm. The room was swirling as his skin prickled with energy, the lyrium buzzing in his blood so it seemed to be singing.

The pull was immediate, the room melting away and replaced by images of a green sky, the stone walls growing into jagged hills as a road stretched before him, unpaved and uneven the hills glittering with the darkest obsidian. The Fade felt so real, the air smelling like the sea, the gravel crunching beneath his body as he pushed himself upright from the ground.

Usually traversing the Fade felt like walking through a memory, details not always in focus, but he could see every whorl on his fingers, feel the breeze wafting through his hair, smell the dirt coming from his clothes. He looked behind him and saw that he was trapped on an island, a sharp fall into a bottomless chasm that stretched out like the sea. The island stretched upwards and upwards into a tower so high that the clouds obstructed the view from the top. The other islands lay barren and pulverized, every path destroyed except the one forward.

Malcolm thought for a second that he had been deposited to the gates of the Black City but when he gazed over the chasm, there it hung in the sky, looking closer than ever. He plucked the Fade strings with his fingers, reaching out to Compassion.

She didn’t answer him.

In fact nothing did.

That’s when Malcolm noticed there was something strange about the way the Fade here was constructed. For one the usual hum of spirit chatter was nonexistent, the Fade strings seemingly gnarled and cut up. He could sense no connection to any spirits like he was a shorting circuit, and it gave Malcolm a sense of unease. He couldn’t read the terrain like he usually could. It just seemed like the whole area was frozen in a silent scream. The memories of the Fade had been stripped completely blank somehow.

“Somniari?” Compassion’s voice finally rang out in his mind and he flinched like he had been burnt, but the feeling faded into discomfort. The hair on the back of his neck stood at end as the voice coated him, primal fear seeding in him, but he was quickly reminded of his previous conversation with Compassion and bit down the feeling as best he could so he would not warp her.

“A child is in danger of being possessed,” he said aloud, the connection starting to feel more familiar each second, the unease subsiding as he chalked it up to being in the middle of a demon’s web. “I could use the backup.”

“A child? Oh dear, I must come immediately,” her voice said with more enthusiasm than usual. Malcolm thought it odd, but before he could think much on it she appeared before him, her robes more fitted than before. Her eyes burned brightly, but the azure color a shade more lilac than he remembered, but no sooner than he thought that in a blink, the color looked more familiar, and Malcolm chalked it up to a trick of the light.

“Thanks for getting here so quickly,” Malcolm kept polite, but his eye never left Compassion studying her as she took in her surroundings in interest.

She gazed down at the abyss, her braid dangling almost like a snake with how it moved.

Forcing down uncertainty he said, “I think I sense Zefuckwad here, but I’m not completely sure. Something’s wrong with this place, right?”

Compassion’s eyes flashed as the corner of her lips quirked in a smile for once not correcting Malcolm’s mispronunciation. “This realm is sundered, memories swallowed, but whether it is the work of Zelophehad remains to be seen.” Her voice tripped over the terror demon’s name, and for a moment it seemed like the Fade stirred, as if it flinched.

Malcolm could agree with her assessment. There was no memory in the stone, no whispers telling him of secret knowledge. “I’m certain,” he suppressed a shiver. “Only felt like this once before. And the fact Isaac was taken doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”

The spirit pricked up at Isaac’s name. “I sense your connection to the boy. He is precious to you?”

Malcolm’s gut twisted. “Not to me,” he admitted. He suddenly wished he had made more of an effort to build a connection. The boy seemed lonely. He never seemed to hang out with anyone his own age, but clung to his teacher’s skirts.

“Ah,” Compassion cocked her head in sudden understanding. “The connection is to the one is Bound to your heart. My mistake.”

Malcolm suddenly felt uncomfortable, unsure what was relevant about this conversation, though to hear Leandra was Bound to his heart did strike a sense of joy in him. He could sense the Compassion spirit watching his reaction in interest and he decided it was time to change the subject.

“I can track Isaac,” Malcolm said, feeling the block that still was tucked in his physical hand. He pinched his fingers, feeling the ridges, and soon the little plastic red tile formed shining brightly. He let the tile go, letting it take life. It blinked in it’s yellow light, flitting around in a circle as if it was trying to get a sense of direction.

“Impressive,” Compassion nodded, “and so what do you need me for?”

Malcolm touched the tile and it spun, glowing like a star in the murky Fade. “To keep me alive.”

The tile floated like a wisp, droplets of light leaving after images of where it flew. It darted up the rocky path bouncing up and down as it waited for it’s master to follow. Malcolm sighed, dropping his shoulders as his feet crunched up the rocky steps.

The castle hills were craggy that slid down and threatened to plummet them into the chasm below. The walls of the castle crowded them against the cliff, as if they were reaching for Malcolm. Some of the steps crumbled beneath his feet, the rocks clattering down to the bottom and into the pit. The beacon stayed in sight flitting just out of reach leading Malcolm higher and higher until they reached a deserted courtyard. Ruined rubble filled the area, the grass dead brown and dry. Two beheaded statues guarded a dark murky portal that served as the castle’s door. The beacon floated between the crossed axes of the statues spinning in place before it sucked into the hazy rippling portal with a bloop.

Malcolm looked to Compassion. “Isaac’s inside but I don’t like the idea of just charging in blindly.”

Compassion looked between the cracks of one of the large walls that caged them in, her lips in a small thin line. “What are you suggesting?”

Malcolm thought for a second. He had never had to be so careful on a hunt before and he wanted to do this as stealthily as possible. “Can you coat me with your essence? I can hide my physical form but if the demon can track my aura it would be pointless.”

Compassion looked hesitant, even though the request seemed simple enough. “Your aura is so powerful I’m not sure mine will do much to mask it.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

She smiled. “I do,” she then opened her hand and in a flash of white light a staff of dark gnarled twisted wood with long purple thorn spikes appeared in her hand. “This is Thornheart. Use it in the coming battle.”

As Malcolm’s fingers wrapped around the shaft, his hair raised up in alarm. He had never felt so much power in his hand, and he suddenly felt stronger, faster, more alert. He balanced the staff, feeling the ridges of the bark beneath his fingers, an unsettled feeling sinking inside him. “Not sure if a branch is going to help me.”

“It is my soul in solid form. It is the greatest aid I can offer.”

Malcolm felt her power seeping into him, her foreignness feeling like a leather glove over his skin. The way the magic melded together made him slightly nauseous, like he had gorged on too many sweets. The energy gave him a buzzing feeling, and he felt like he needed to run a few laps to burn it off. He ignored that and waved the staff instead, trying to pull parts of the Fade into himself to help mask his presence. By the second turn of the staff he was completely invisible.

“I’m right behind you,” Compassion spoke in his direction though it offered no comfort.

Malcolm gritted his teeth as he looked at the portal, feeling that familiar darkness lurking within. The demon could have wiped Isaac out at any second, but Isaac was alive, being toyed with. And Malcolm felt responsible for putting him there. If he was smart enough to use the boy as bait, then this changed everything.

With a steadying breath, he steeled himself for the worst and stepped inside.

Suddenly he was in a mansion, grander than he had ever stepped in before. Kids' drawings filled the walls and toys were everywhere, servants surrounded them in a flurry as they brought down luggage from a grand staircase. A tall brown man with a silky mustache that connected to his beard and a wide nose was walking down the stairs as two screaming children held his legs, one a little girl with long brown hair and bright brown eyes, and the other boy he recognized as Isaac.

“Daddy please,” the little girl held onto his pants leg as if she was holding onto her life. “Daddy please don’t go.”

Isaac just kept repeating the same phrase over again like a mantra. “I’m sorry.”

The man practically kicked his children off. “Get off me! I’m not your father. Your mother’s a cheating whore.”

Malcolm clenched his fist, ready to clock the man, but moving in dreams was not like moving through life. Each part was played by a different demon, only Isaac the true player. Malcolm stepped closer to the family, waiting for his moment to strike.

The man headed for the door, Isaac dragging on his heels. “Daddy,” he sobbed, snot bubbling down his nose. “Daddy. I love you.”

The man recoiled as if he had been hit. He bared his teeth, “You are a thing. You don’t even work right. There is no way I am your father.”

That’s when Malcolm almost swung, but before Malcolm could, another demon came from one of the back rooms and started throwing clothes at the man. She was a plump woman with warm caramel skin and a long satin dress. “Get out!” she screamed. “Say no more words to my children and leave before you infect them with more poison.”

The man’s nostrils flared. “Gladly. Just don’t come running after me for coppers to feed these creatures.”

She huffed, angry tears in her eyes. “As if I ever needed your money.”

The man slammed the front door in Isaac’s face, almost smashing his fingers. “Daddy,” he said in a broken voice.

His mother scooped him up as he cried on her shoulder, Malcolm breathing a sigh of relief. Now he just needed to find a way to speak to Isaac to wake him up without alerting the rest of the demons. He tried to find where Compassion was in the nightmare but she had gone oddly silent ever since he stepped through.

The boy sobbed into his mother’s chest, the other little girl reached for her with outstretched hands as she joined in the family cry.

“I’m sorry, loves, I’m sorry,” Isaac’s mother wiped her children’s eyes. “We’re cursed. We’re a cursed family. This is all my fault.”

Malcolm tensed as Isaac renewed his wailing.

The little girl stopped crying and said. “Mama, how do we break the curse?”

The woman smiled through her tears as she cupped the little girl’s face. “It’s simple. We die.”

Isaac took fistfuls of his mother's skirts . “Mama, no. Mama, no.”

The woman took hold of his chin with a razor smile. “Oh, my sweet child, I should have drowned you at birth. It would have saved you so much suffering.”

That’s when Malcolm finally revealed himself, slicing the demon’s hand with a wave of his staff. He gra

“Mama!” A frightened Isaac elbowed Malcolm in the face.

Malcolm gave him some more room but didn’t let him go.

“That’s not your mother, look at her more closely,” he struggled to keep the boy still. He was surprisingly strong for his small size.

The boy reached out for his Mother, her arm not bleeding as much as it should. Her teeth and eyes looked sharper but it didn’t seem to matter to Isaac. He couldn’t see past his nightmare.

The woman waved with her unhurt hand. “Isaac. Mama’s leaving now. And she’s never ever coming back.”

“No, that’s not your mom. Your Mom is waiting for you to wake up, little dude,” Malcolm forced the boy to face him but Isaac's eyes couldn’t leave his mother.

Isaac’s Mother grabbed his sister’s hand and with a sly smile turned her hand on the doorknob. And then Malcolm realized his mistake. He had forgotten to protect the portal.

As soon as the woman opened the door every corner of the room filled with blackness, the only slits of light now emanating from the goat's eyes splitting from the darkness. The servants and Isaac’s family started to warp as the nightmare changed into more sinister shadow forms. Isaac’s outstretched hand lay frozen as the face of his mother morphed into Compassion.

Except now Malcolm could finally see that it wasn’t Compassion at all. The demon was wearing Compassion’s face, but her skin was now too purple, her eyes darkening to a malevolent shade of violet glowing like embers.

A desire demon. Her brown hair started to float as it mimicked the fire that should be on her head.

Malcolm instinctively reached for his weapon but the staff wrapped around his wrists, thorns snaking into his arms and into his torso. Malcolm let Isaac go before the thorns could wrap around him, too.

Malcolm tried to speak, tried to tell Isaac to wake up, but only blood coughed out of his mouth.

“Mama?” Isaac cowered from the figure in confusion, his eyes and heart seeming to wrestle with what was happening .

The Desire demon outstretched both arms, her hand regrown into thorn-like points, her robes turning into flowing strands of silk. “Bound and offered, Master, as you commanded. I told you my plan would work .”

The goat eyes swirled in amusement as another figure loomed in the portal forming in the tendrils. “So you said, Avarice. I am most impressed.”

Malcolm’s spine chilled, trying to move, but the more he struggled the more it hurt. He could feel something stabbing his heart, keeping him from speaking, but even if he could his words would be stolen from him. The voice the demon took raised all of Malcolm’s hair on end and he withheld a tremble as his father stood before him.

The elf was all lean muscle, his fists scarred and fingers broken from fistfights and punching walls. Malcolm forgot how much he looked like his father, the same nose, the same shaggy curls, the same smattering of freckles, even his eyes were the same shade of gold except instead of regular pupils they were square like a goat. They blinked eerily, the corner of his eyes and lips wrinkled into sharp lines.

Malcolm knew he made a mistake but he was so focused on Zelophehad he had never considered the demon would team up with another to trick him, never considered that the demon would successfully dig out the thing in his psyche that would freeze him in place. He watched helplessly as the Desire demon sauntered up the steps towards Isaac, holding her arms out in a welcoming hug.

“Come to Mama.”

Isaac stood his ground, trembling in fear. “Y-you’re…not…” The boy couldn’t finish his sentence. He stood instinctively near Malcolm, even though there was nothing Malcolm could do to protect him at this point.

Malcolm tried to push through the pain, his panic riding against him in an oncoming wave, but couldn’t let himself be overcome. He saw only one option, and he started to subtly weave threads from the tips of his fingers towards Isaac.

The demon was coming closer, faster, it was hard to focus on weaving the magic with the fear eating at his nerves.

“Your mama’s never coming back. But I can be your mama. I promise I’ll never abandon you, child.”

Malcolm panicked as the demon closed in, about to grab Isaac but before she could Zelophehad blinked beside the demon and grabbed her wrist. He raised a thick eyebrow, his sneer almost a smile. “And what are you doing with my snack?”

The Desire demon looked too terrified to fight, but the confusion on her face was apparent. “M-master, I thought this was what was agreed?”

WIth a flick of Zelophehad’s wrist, he broke the demoness’ wrist and she howled in pain staggering back. “I agreed to let you have my scraps, but if you’re so impatient you’re welcome to be included on the menu.”

The demoness looked conflicted. The anger was apparent on her face. “This is how you repay my service? You will reap what you sow.”

Then she blinked away from sight leaving Malcolm alone with his terror demon.

Malcolm had forgotten how overpowering the demon’s presence was, blanking out thought.

Isaac shuffled towards Malcolm grabbing his hand in fright, and Malcolm squeezed back, trying to offer what comfort he could.

“So shall I eat the boy first?” the demon circled them lazily, slouching with confident ease. Tendrils of dark tentacles circled around his legs and snaked up his arms reaching out to taste the fear on Malcolm’s bound body. “Or will you chivalrously go first?”

Every movement still shredded him, but he found with Avarice gone, her magic was no longer overpowering and he could force himself to speak. “Real cocky considering you made your servant do your dirty work.”

“And why not?” Zelophehad said with a gleeful smile. “Is it not what they are for?”

Malcolm scoffed, though that made a thorn stab deeper into his ribs. He held onto Isaac’s hand his Fade strings wrapping around his balled fist. He saw only one way out of this. “You haven’t won, yet.”

“Good,” the demon grinned. “I like a meal that has fight. Let’s see how brave you are after I eat your charge.” Then the tendrils wrapped around Isaac pulling him towards the demon.

Isaac screamed, squeezing onto Malcolm’s hand, and Malcolm pulled, wrapping the rest of the Fade strings firmly around Isaac.

Malcolm closed his eyes, diving into the depths of his psyche and pulling Isaac along with him. He felt the pain intensify as Zelophehad tried to rip Isaac away from him, but Malcolm pulled them safely both into the safety of his mind.

Their spirits tumbled as the Fade tried to give form to their consciousness, Isaac and Malcolm’s memories melding together in projections in every corner he saw, the overlapping memories serving as the Fade’s usual hum. Malcolm could feel the terror demon ripping off the w alls of his defenses, following him inside. He was at his most powerful since it was his mind therefore his dream, but he was also cornered, trapped. If the terror demon managed to overwhelm him here, he had no more tricks to pull, no hidden hole to dive in.

Malcolm wouldn’t have done this if he had another choice.

He needed to become conscious, take control of the dream, find Isaac and wake them both back to safety, but that was easier said than done. The Fade had not become so much as moldable clay but a projection of thoughts and wants sprung to life with just a breath. Any stray thought, no matter how tiny, could derail everything.

It took all of Malcolm’s energy to focus in the dream fog, like a dulling drug to his senses muting his thoughts. Isaac. He needed to find Isaac. He repeated the name in his head, not allowing any other thoughts to surface. He suddenly recalled something Leandra said after gifting him the rosary, which was like a warm tether on his neck. Without another thought he tore off parts of the Fade and reshaped them into brightly colored blocks.

And started building a simple wall. He clicked the pieces together, slowly building as he started to recite what he could remember from the book Leandra brought.

“In this big wide world,

We all have a place

Every bee needs it’s rose,

Every rose needs it’s vase.”

Soon the walls formed into a house where he left room for a couple windows and an opening for the door. The shadows of Isaac’s memories strengthened with each stack of the block, as Malcolm led his spirit back to him.

“But where do the broken and stinky things go?

When the pen in the ink refuses to flow

Do we keep all the clutter? Does anyone know?”

“Yes,” a small voice finally answered him, “it goes in Mr. Dumpdump’s tow.”

He looked up from his work to see that Isaac had joined him, taking the blocks in his hands with focused effort as he started crafting his build.

“Hey, little dude,” Malcolm sighed in relief. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

But Isaac wasn’t listening to Malcolm. His eyes never left his hands as he built up the walls of his structure with impressive speed, all while reciting the book like a mantra.

“He takes what is bad

So things can be good

Isn’t he the best neighbor

In the whole neighborhood?”

The Fade churned as the walls of the dream struggled to take shape in the competing mindscapes of Isaac and Malcolm, the familiar Circle the only common ground for the Fade to form in. Malcolm could tell Isaac was paler than usual, his eyes seemingly blank as if he was far away and not at all aware what his hands were doing. The Fade was practically responding to his creative urges forming walls around him, as if he was trying to block himself in.

Malcolm crept up to Isaac, his fingers reaching out hesitantly. “I’m going to wake you up, now, but I need you to trust me.”

“How can you trust him?” Revka’s disembodied voice rang shrilly across the Fade. Suddenly Revka was there dressed in fitted royal purple silk, her brown hair loose around her shoulders. She outstretched a pointed nail at Isaac, her pupils too square to be human but everything else was a remarkable likeness. Yet Isaac was frozen, staring at the image of his Mother with a tremble as he fumbled with his blocks. “Come to Mama, Isaac. Let me in.”

Malcolm stepped closer, imploring Isaac to listen. “She’s not real. Your real Mom is waiting for you to wake up.”

The demon smirked with a sharp toothed smile. “I’m your Mama. This elf is the one who is not real. Why would he help you?”

Isaac blinked at Malcolm, his eyes suddenly filled with distrust.

Malcolm held up his hands showing open palms forming no spells. “This is a bad dream, Isaac. You can end it now if you wake up.”

“If you wish hard enough you could have more than just this little reality,” Revka’s laugh tittered as the Fade started to shape into what Malcolm could only guess was some twisted form of Isaac’s old bedroom. The building blocks seemed to take a life of their own building into the sides of the room. Kids drawings filled the walls and books filled dragon shaped shelves. Revka sat down on Isaac’s bed, her fingers beckoning him to come closer.

Isaac’s eyes filled with tears. “I-I can’t.”

Malcolm dared to take one step closer to Isaac. “Let me help you wake up.”

The Nightmare growled, the room distorting color. “He wants to kill you. Don’t let him get close!”

Isaac froze, as if he didn’t consider that and backed away from Malcolm. When Malcolm took another step closer Isaac took another step back closer to the Nightmare.

Malcolm gritted his teeth, wondering what he could do to prove to Isaac that he was really him and not some twisted imitation. He needed to prove to Isaac he was real, but he didn’t know how.

And then it hit him and Malcolm took a deep breath and belted out the loudest most obnoxious “HOOOOOOOONK!” he could manage.

The Nightmare blinked in confusion as the boy broke down in a fit of surprised giggles.

Malcolm joined in the carefree laughter, ignoring the glaring Nightmare demon and said, “Hey, don’t leave me hanging. Your turn.”

The boy didn’t hesitate, he threw back his head and screamed, “HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!” in a louder, more obnoxious way that only a 9 year old could manage.

The Nightmare’s forces seemed to be shrinking in the laughter and the demon scowled. “How undisciplined. I guess it’s time to punish you until you listen.”

Then the Nightmare leapt, his claws forming into long scythe-like points as he raked for Isaac.

Malcolm twisted the Fade around the Nightmare and turned into a crushing prison, paralyzing the demon for a moment but he wasn’t sure with its strength how long it would hold.

He turned back towards Isaac who was now huddling behind his constructed wall, his head in his knees and his hands over his ears.

Malcolm crept beside him. “Little dude,” he said in a hurried voice. “You need to wake up now.”

“I c-can’t,” he sobbed into his knees, holding fistfuls of his hair.

The demon howled in pain, causing Isaac to tremble.

Malcolm reacted with haste touching his forefingers to each side of Isaac’s temples, pouring his magic into him.

Isaac popped up socking Malcolm in the jaw as he gasped in shock.

The jab hurt but Malcolm held firm and Isaac’s next fist went through Malcolm as he faded back into the waking realm where he was safe from the Nightmare’s grasp.

Suddenly a claw wrapped around his neck, digging into his skin but no sooner did the Nightmare grab hold did he fling his hand back like he was burnt.

Malcolm looked down to find the rosary around his neck glowing in what he could only describe as a heavenly light.

Warm trickles of blood seeped down Malcolm’s neck and when he touched the cord it grew hot. A strange and unfamiliar sensation ran through him.

Malcolm wasn’t sure what happened. That was no spell he weaved and yet the demon seemed to eye his rosary with a wariness that he didn’t reserve for the man himself.

The Nightmare’s face contorted, its shape shifting into several darkspawn like forms before it settled onto the face of Malcolm’s father, but Malcolm was a bit more ready for it this time. Still the sight of the man before him made him take an uneasy step back, his nerves instinctively screaming at him to wake up from this nightmare.

“Are you going to face me like a man or run like a rabbit?”

Malcolm clenched his fists, the slur even from a demon like a punch to the gut. Still, he knew when he was being baited. “Yeah real manly going after a child. You really do take after my father.” Part of him wanted to throw every spell he knew at his disposal. It was his dream, but he was facing the Nightmare. He knew it was smarter to run.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the demon examined his burn in disinterest, a casual smirk on his lips. “But I have to say if you don’t get rid of me now, I only plan to become a bigger problem.” He tapped a finger on his lip. “Shall I try to eat Charlie next? Taylor?”

Malcolm’s heart froze in his chest as the Nightmare’s golden goat eyes seized him in place with the next name that fell from his smirking lips.

“Leandra has been looking awfully delicious,” the Nightmare fell back to the rosary neck and gestured to his burned hand imprinted with its beads. “Shall I pay her a visit now that you’ve generously supplied her essence?”

Malcolm saw red, sending crackling energy at the demon but it disappeared in a blink and his lightning bolt hit a wall of colorful blocks scattering them.

The demon suddenly appeared behind him delivering a stunning blow to the back of Malcolm’s head.

He saw stars as he struggled to reorient himself. He sent a clumsy fireball at the demon’s direction, but even if the demon didn’t teleport out of reach again the ball would’ve barely grazed the demon.

Malcolm was ready for the Nightmare to be in his blindside again, and moved to dodge, but his foot was caught. He looked down to see that a tentacled hand had wrapped around his ankle from the floor and prevented him from missing the crushing blow to his nose that made his eyes water.

Blood spattered from his face, streaming down his nose so he couldn’t breathe. It felt broken. Jostled, he picked himself up enough only for a blow to the chest that knocked the wind out of him.

This went on for a while, Malcolm barely keeping his footing as he absorbed blow after blow that he was too slow to react from, each spell dying in his hand before he could fling it. He was unsure why the demon chose to use his fists over something more lethal like magic or claws or anything, but Malcolm realized that even with those goat eyes when he was staring at that face the punches hurt more, his reflexes were more hesitant, and that familiar taunting laugh tripped him off balance.

This didn’t feel so much of a fight as a beating.

“What’s the matter, boy?” The demon punched Malcolm in the stomach, avoiding the rosary by inches. There was an unexpected weight behind each punch but this one felt like being hit by a freight train and Malcolm keeled over, almost throwing up blood. “Weren’t you supposed to be teaching me a lesson?”

The demon then knelt beside Malcolm's crumpled form and caressed his curls fondly, which made Malcolm shiver as distant memories were quickly brought to the surface. “I’m going to take everything you love sooner or later. You have two choices, the painful way, or the less painful way. It’s up to you.”

Malcolm tried to flee, to wake himself up, but all he could do more was cough and gasp as he tried to breathe through his pain, the memories of his childhood terror so fresh, he was trembling. His voice was caught in a web he couldn’t get out of. All he could do is touch the rosary around his neck, praying for the help that burned the demon before.

The Nightmare seemed to sense this so he sighed, grabbing fistfuls of Malcolm’s curls. “The painful way, then.”

One punch shattered his nose.

“Even if Leandra loves you, she’ll always love her status more.” Malcolm struggled to breathe as another punch knocked out a tooth. “They’ll laugh at your children.” Another punch dislocated his jaw. “What kind of a father will you be anyways?” By the fourth punch he was losing consciousness, and he struggled to grasp for his body in the waking world before it was too late. Suddenly the Nightmare stopped and took in a heavy annoyed sigh.

“You are intruding, little spirit.”

Malcolm’s spotty vision noticed a blinding glow in the darkness in the room. He raised his head to see Compassion, the real Compassion shining brilliantly, a rainbow crystal staff wielded in her hands.

“Have you not feasted enough, Zelophehad? Is your hunger so great you must swallow everything in your path?”

The demon smirked malevolently, his bloody knuckles cracking as he clenched his fist. “My gluttony is boundless. My wrath is unquenchable. My greed unsatiable. A little compassion will do nothing to stop me.”

Compassion stood vigilantly, unshaken, her staff brightening with indescribable colors from the carved crystals. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

She met Malcolm’s gaze, his head trapped in Zelophehad’s fist, her azure fire eyes burning. “Somniari, trust me,” And then Compassion turned the crystals to the ground, and poured light that made the floor glitter like diamonds.

“Awaken again, my friends,” Compassion poured more healing magic into the Fade, the air brightening to a more normal greenish hue.

The demon hissed, dropping Malcolm to cut off Compassion.

Malcolm hit the floor with a thud, breathing in the magic, that seemed to soothe his aching, broken body. Suddenly, the Fade was no longer silent, a rush of hurried frightened whispers of the particles of the Fade woke up and filled up Malcolm’s thoughts with indecipherable chatter.

“Shut up!” Zelophehad bellowed as he dove for Compassion, his claws coming out to scythe-like points but she blinked out of sight and then beside Malcolm.

She knelt down and touched him with her iridescent hand.

The magic was almost instant. In one breath, everything ached, like shards of bone were digging into his gut, his eye was swollen shut, his nose too mangled to breathe through, and then in the next moment it was like coming up from a cool pond. There was an uncomfortable sensation of bones knitting back into place, as a cooling healing touch soothed his burning skin. In a few moments he could move more normally again, his vision clear, his mind alert.

Zelophehad growled holding up his hand and a beam of concentrated dark light shot towards Compassion. Malcolm, still grounded, threw up a barrier without thinking, and Compassion did the same. The double barriers cracked but held but the force still blew them back. Zelophehad kept the assault, making the beam bigger, the energy arcing wildly.

“Wake up!” Compassion ordered.

Malcolm balked, his energy being drained by trying to keep the barrier reinforced. “Don’t you need help?”

“You’re in the way,” she sneered, which was like a slap in the face to Malcolm. Still, as much as that stung he couldn’t argue that he pretty much had his ass handed to him that fight.

“Fine,” he scoffed, pulling back the magic, and reaching for his body back in the waking world. As he did, the barrier started to crack, light showing through.

Malcolm hesitated, pouring more magic into the barrier.

“I have this handled. Flee, you fool!” Compassion hissed, the crystals of her staff quivering in effort. Suddenly the Fade air shimmered around Compassion, sealing the cracks in her barrier as soon as they formed.

Malcolm wasn’t sure what Compassion’s plan was, but it was clear she knew more about what she was doing than Malcolm did, so he pulled back his magic completely, and concentrated on reaching his body. It was quicker with the lyrium in his system. He could feel the buzz of it speed up his magic in a way he didn’t think possible so that instead of falling he felt like he was flying back. He was unsure what magic Leandra had given him, but all he knew was that she saved him.

Red light finally filtered through his eyes, and he opened them quickly to find blood all over his face and robes and every templar pointing a gun at him. Even Carver.

Malcolm gulped nervously, his limbs still bound to the gurney. He found himself struggling not to panic at the sight of his friend holding a barrel at him. “I’m not possessed.”

Carver lowered his gun slightly, but there was a hesitancy to it. “I’m sorry Malcolm, but we’re going to need a test.”

Malcolm’s gut dropped. He had forgotten that Carver was still a templar though it would be harder to forget in this moment. He gave a nervous, bloody grin and said. “Yeah, dude, whatever you need.”

Carver walked up to the barrier and turned to the Senior Enchanter and said, “lower it.”

Enchanter Karena nodded and with a wave of her staff the red barriers around Malcolm and Isaac came down.

Carver looked over at Isaac who was strapped to his own bed with a frightened look on his face.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Carver said in the most soothing voice as he could manage, though it was hard to believe with his gun strapped to his side.

He took out a device that looked like a small tablet and scanned Isaac’s head. Isaac squirmed to the side as the device beeped and fed Carver information. It was supposed to be the templar’s foolproof way of thwarting possession, looking for extra brain waves or unusual activity. Though sometimes mages that looked completely fine were sometimes pulled because of weird readings so it never failed to make Malcolm nervous.

Though whatever was on the screen seemed to satisfy Carver. He started unbinding the straps, turning to the Senior Enchanter and said, “get this boy into the infirmary. He’s very weak.”

She nodded and hurried to Isaac, unbinding him fully so he could stretch out his arms and legs. He sat up reluctantly, helped by the Enchantress, who proceeded to cover him with a blanket to help with his shiver.

Carver approached Malcolm with the scanner, and ran it over his head.

Malcolm could hear the device whirring and beeping. This wasn’t the first time he’d been scanned but it never failed to heighten his nerves.

Carver’s voice was a whisper as he eyed the drying blood on Malcolm’s face. “Are you alright?”

To be honest Malcolm wasn’t sure. His body didn’t ache anymore, but the pain was like a ghost haunting him, his father’s cruel mocking laugh still ringing in his ears. He wondered for a second if Compassion made it out alright, or if he had gotten her killed. He might have gotten Isaac safely back, but this felt like a defeat.

“I just need to see Leandra,” his voice was almost begging. He wasn’t even sure if it was protocol, but he just needed a moment, so it all could mean something. He wasn’t sure if he would last if he didn’t end the day at least seeing her face.

Carver started unstrapping his ties as the templars lowered their guns hesitantly, looking at each other in disappointment. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

---

Revka’s sobs filled the chapel as she squeezed Leandra’s hand in a vice-like grip. She had taken the first plane back to Kirkwall and had stormed the Circle, along with Guillaume, Mara and Gamlen who had generously picked her up from the airport. (Well Mara and Gamlen were supposed to, but Guillaume insisted on coming to show support to Leandra.)

Now the five of them were huddled in a group prayer as they begged the Maker for Malcolm to succeed.

The nuns were all very accommodating, reciting the proper Chants with them, and invoking protections on Isaac on Malcolm from afar, though Leandra felt so powerless she felt like she was only doing it to keep her and Revka sane. Because they had to do something to make the time pass.

When asked about the rosary during prayer, because Leandra always prayed with her rosary, she evasively said she lost it and hoped it would never come up again. She was surprised when Gamlen scolded her, because he wasn’t particularly religious. Still, she knew what he would think if she told him the truth.

“It’s my fault,” Revka sobbed, breaking from the Chant as she crumpled in exhaustion. The others broke off from the Chant, looking away to give Revka the privacy of a breakdown. Even Gamlen didn’t have anything smart to say for once.

“No,’ Leandra squeezed her hand. “You can’t think that.”

The tears streamed from her eyes as she shook her head. “What kind of Mother is not there for her children? Colette’s all alone at home. I had to abandon Anna during our visit and now Isaac...is lost.”

Leandra pulled Revka in for a hug unsure of what other comfort to offer. “Have faith in the Maker, Revka. He will deliver Isaac.”

‘And Malcolm,’ she added silently. She didn’t dare say his name aloud while Guillaume was by her side.

Suddenly the doors to the chapel pulled open and all of them turned to see who disturbed them. Carver and the Knight Commander stepped through, side by side, Leandra deflated, thinking that they were by themselves when Malcolm finally lagged behind, a noticeable sag to his shoulders and a sluggishness to his steps.

Revka stood up and pushed her way forward towards the Knight Commander. “Isaac. He is safe?” It was a command rather than a question.

“He is, my lady, you can rest easy,” Carver bowed his head with a warm smile on his lips.

Revka’s eyes then overflowed with tears. “Thank the Maker. And thank you Commander.”

The Knight Commander preened at the gratitude. “Only doing our part.”

Revka’s hands flew to her eyes as she hastily wiped them. “Can I see him? Just for a moment.”

Carver looked imploringly at the Knight Commander who seemed uncomfortable with the idea. “It would do wonders for Isaac’s recovery.”

Leandra stepped up beside Revka glaring at the Knight Commander, joined by Guillaume and Mara. The Knight-Commander’s eyes passed over them, seemingly wanting to avoid a fight, and turned to Carver and said. “Yes, yes give her five minutes and then they all need to leave.”

Revka looked overwhelmed with relief and eagerly held out her arm to be escorted.

Only for Carver to be distracted by the fact Mara was there. Their gazes seemed to catch, her face going red as she avoided his shocked stare. He seemed frozen, as if he had not expected Mara to be there at all, and he didn’t notice he was staring until Gamlen put a possessive arm around her.

“Captain?” Revka asked impatiently.

Carver shook his head as if he was breaking from a daze and said, “Sorry, my lady. This way.” And then he took her arm and started leading her out of the chapel.

The Knight Commander then stared at the rest of the group as if they were ruining his day. “Your mage wishes to return your trinket.”

Leandra bristled at the phrasing the Commander used and she found herself arguing. “It was a gift.”

Malcolm bowed deeply to Leandra, the rosary draping from his fingers. “My lady, the protection magic on this saved my life, and for that I thank you, but I would rest easier knowing it's guarding its true owner.”

Gamlen looked outraged seeing the rosary in Malcolm’s fingertips. “A gift? I thought you said you lost it? Leandra what were you thinking?”

Leandra opened her mouth to argue when Guillaume put a warm hand on her waist and said, “My lady only ever has the purest intentions, Lord Amell. Do forgive her.”

Gamlen barked out a laugh as he eyed Malcolm, a shit eating grin as he muttered “Poor schmuck,” under his breath.

Mara elbowed him in the stomach with warning eyes to be quiet.

Leandra stiffened at Malcolm’s sudden glare, not able to voice what she was thinking and took the rosary back feeling conflicted and partly rejected. Their fingers brushed as the necklace exchanged hands, the feeling like a shock to her heart. She wanted to insist he keep it, but she knew that it would be inappropriate and rude so she bit her lip and examined the beads, noticing some new stains on the metal. She gasped. “Is this your blood?”

Malcolm looked sheepish. “Sorry, I thought I cleaned that better.”

The Knight Commander put a warning squeeze on Malcolm’s shoulder as he pulled him back from Leandra and changed to the real subject he wanted to talk about. “As you can see Malcolm is the finest mage we have to offer.”

Guillaume put a finger on his chin. “Yes, ser, I quite agree,” he said. He offered his free hand in a friendly shake. “You are quite talented, messere. This means everything to Leandra. I can’t thank you enough.”

Malcolm gritted his teeth staring at the hand as if it stunk, but one glance at the Knight Commander had him schooling his face and he took the hand politely. “Anything for my lady,” he said while looking straight into Leandra’s eyes as he gave Guillaume the firmest shake he could manage.

“And a man’s handshake at that. I’m very impressed,” Guillaume beamed amusedly.

It took everything Malcolm had not to snort. He wiped his hand on the side of his robes feeling vindictive and petty. To see Guillaume’s hand so casually on Leandra’s waist was like sitting down for a good meal only to find a dead fly in it.

The Knight Commander gave Malcolm’s shoulder another squeeze. “We look forward to your renewed bids on Hawke’s services. We assure you we’re training him daily and instilling the best manners and education so he can best attend to your needs.”

The Knight Commander's words made that two dead flies.

Malcolm looked at Guillaume, a tall handsome man with everything and the world, who could hold Leandra’s hand in a crowd and kiss her openly in the sunlight, or the moonlight, and everything in between. He found himself trembling as he tried not to scream or cry or punch the man senseless.

Guillaume pulled Leandra closer and took one of her hands as he stared seriously into her eyes.

Leandra shied away from him but didn’t stop the embrace from happening which was like a dagger in Malcolm’s heart.

“Ma cherie, after everything that's happened with Isaac I wouldn’t dare put us at odds any longer.”

Leandra couldn’t meet Guillaume’s gaze, her eyes pulled unwillingly to Malcolm who was not looking at them at all. “Guillaume, I don’t know what you mean.”

Guillaume patted her hand. “I’m withdrawing my family’s bid for Ser Hawke. If there is truly a curse, then I shall not have you unprotected.”

Leandra didn’t know what to say so she went with a diplomatic, “That’s very generous, Guillaume.”

“Not at all,” he said, kissing her cheek, his mouth lingering near her face. as he said, “Besides we’ll be husband and wife soon, so chances are he’ll be serving us both in time.”

And that’s when Malcolm turned to the Knight-Commander and said, “I think I should go check in on Isaac, yes?”

The Knight Commander seemed surprised but pleased by Malcolm’s initiative and said, “Do that. I will escort everyone else out.”

Leandra immediately launched after him as he stormed away, forgetting anyone else was there. “Malcolm!” she cried out.

He turned to meet her, stopping her with a glare and she went red, realizing that Gamlen was smirking at her as he raised an eyebrow about how she would play this.

“Leandra, is something wrong?” Guillaume stared in confusion, a hand touching hers imploring her to spill her troubles.

But her attention was on Malcolm. She bit her lip as Malcolm watched her along with everyone else and unsure what she was doing she stuck out her hand like Guillaume did. “I’m truly indebted to you. I won’t forget my whole life, what you did for me.”

Malcolm’s face softened into a smile, truly the only thanks he was actually looking for, and he couldn’t help but take her hand since it looked so warm and inviting, “And I’d do it again,” he said as he brought her hand to his mouth and put a chaste kiss on her knuckle.

It was proper, but so very intimate that her face flooded with warmth, her breath caught in her throat.

“Messere Hawke,” The Knight-Commander barked strictly, causing the both of them to jump.

Malcolm cleared his throat and left without a word, the Knight-Commander glaring daggers into his back.

---

Every goat eye searched the whole surface of the Fade, but it seemed that the Compassion spirit had indeed escaped his labyrinth. How she managed to get in, he did not know. Everything in this realm was supposed to be loyal to him. If there were whispers of her coming he should have known about it.

And yet the Fade protected her. Hid her. His own minions of his realm would not raise a hand to fight her.

What was she to them?

And why was it so hard to kill one measly Compassion spirit? They had hardly any offensive powers. They spent their days healing the sick, not taking on embodiments of darkness. Still if the Somniari Bonded with her, it would prevent his Bonding to take place. The Spirit would have to die first.

An eye alerted him that it found something and he teleported to a wing of the palace that he had forgotten about but seemed to have been altered. Drapes of fabric held from the ceiling and it seemed like collected human artifacts like statues and goblets filled with gold and shiny jewels was scattered through the room. In the middle was a bed draped in silks, the roof overhead broken so the moon shone on Avarice in a masculine form, wearing nothing at all. Her chiseled muscles were relaxed in the plush bed as she stared at Zelophehad with a smirk on her face.

“So he got away.”

Zelophehad almost killed the demoness out of pride but his need for her kept him from lashing out. “There was an intruder. Why did you not take care of it?”

The demoness’ long fiery purple hair danced on her head lazily, “I thought you didn’t need me.”

The taunting jab made Zelophehad punch a decayed wall. A new crack ran up it all the way to the ceiling. “I can always find a smarter demon.”

That only made her smirk widen. “I delivered the Somniari gagged and bound, as ordered. I could have had him for myself, Master, but I only spared him because of my loyalty to you.”

Zelophehad sneered, his ugly mouth a mess of gnarled teeth. “That Compassion spirit will regret toying with me. I’ll burn every ounce of Compassion until there is none left in this world.”

The demoness chewed on her cheek, her violet pupiless eyes not masking disappointment. “You could do that, or….”

“Or…” the Nightmare echoed impatiently.

The demoness perched herself up on a pillow. “We approach a mortal and make a strike in the waking world.”

Zelophehad cocked his head at the idea, a malevolent smile spreading on his inky lips. “I know just the one.”

#malcolm/leandra #dragon age fic #da fic #dragon age fanfic #da fanfic

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theramseyloft · 4 years

Note

What made you decide to get into breeding mixed birds rather than purebreds?

That’s kind of a long, complicated story, so I’ll try to be succinct.

The first purebred pigeon I actively sought out to raise was the Classic Old Frill.

This is a beautiful little bird, and the lacing was what struck me at first glance, but the more I found out about them, the more perfect they were for me.

Small, temperature hardy, bold, famously easy to tame, with excellent parenting instincts and drive, they were everything I wanted in a bird.

Here is the Breed Standard:

“The Classic Oriental Frill is an exhibition breed of pigeon from the Owl family. It is also known as the Old Fashioned Oriental Frill and the Old Style Oriental Frill. It is the precursor breed from which the modern Oriental Frill was created. It is a beautiful ancient pigeon breed, which can now be seen on exhibit at major American and Canadian shows. GENERAL IMPRESSION: A small to medium sized (average weight 11-12 oz) cobby pigeon, with a jaunty disposition. Stations at near to a 45-degree angle with the tip of the tail just clearing the floor. Typical characteristics include a breast frill, peak crest, grouse muffs, and a medium-short thick beak. Satinettes are shield marked / tail marked birds with white bars or laces on their shield and Moon Spots or laces on their tail. Blondinettes are whole colored birds which also possess white bars or lacing on the shields and Moon Spots or lacing on the tail...Some varieties have the lacing extending over most of the body. HEAD: Roundish to slightly oval, substantial, wide. Arched forehead that flows in a smooth, continuous curve from the tip of the beak to the tip of the peak. Wattle small and neat. EYE: Large, bright and prominent. Eye cere fine in texture and flesh colored. Bull eyes in Satinettes. The eye in Blondinettes to be yellow gravel to deep red brown depending upon the variety. BEAK: Medium short in length, substantial/thick, blending into the forehead in a smooth, uninterrupted curve. Flesh colored in Satinettes, flesh to horn to black in Blondinettes, depending upon the variety. Wattle small and smooth. Classic Old Frills can feed their young and do not need feeders. CREST: Needlepoint Peak Crest. Upright and central. Rising at least as high as the highest part of the head. Peak crest supported by a well-developed mane, without any sign of a mane break. (The indentation between the Peak Crest and the mane.) NECK: Short and strong, appearing thick due to the mane at the back of the neck, and the gullet. Held proudly, and upright so that the eye is directly over the juncture of the toes with the ankle. There should be a pronounced gullet extending from just under the lower mandible down the throat into the frill. FRILL: The frill should extend from the middle of the gullet and continue into the breast (ideally 2" in length). It should be well developed and profuse. A shorter, more profuse frill is preferred over one that is sparse but greater in length. Feathers to grow outward to both sides uniformly. Feathers that grow only to one side or disproportionately to one side will be penalized. Rose shaped frills will be penalized. BREAST AND BODY FORM: Breast is broad, well rounded, held forward prominently and tapering toward the rear of the bird. Size is small to medium with Body Form to be firm. compact and cobby. WINGS: Strong, lying close to the body, covering the back, without "sails", and lying flat on the tail. LEGS: Short, profusely covered with grouse muffs all the way to the toenails. Toenails to be white in Satinettes flesh to horn to black in Blondinettes depending upon the variety. PLUMAGE: Well developed, tight, lying flat with the exception of the Frill and the Peak Crest. FLIGHTS AND TAIL: Flights short, resting flat on the tail. Flights and tail to be shorter rather than longer. Tail to be no more than 2 feathers in width. Tail just clearing the floor when in show position. STATION: Upright station at near to a 45-degree angle, which causes the tail to be held downward rather than horizontal. COLOR: While no preference is given to any one color, all colors should be bright, smooth and even. In laced birds the lacing should be clear and distinct. In barred birds the bars should be clear, narrow. long and even. The color inside the bars or laces should be white. The color inside the Moon Spots or tail laces should be white. The factors which give the Oriental Frill its unique coloring are Toy Stencil and Frill Stencil, in combination. Toy Stencil affecting mainly the body and Frill Stencil affecting mainly the tail. Without these factors in proper combination, various shades of color will be produced, from normal coloration to bronzes/ sulphurs and a root beer coloration, in their various hues. Toy Stencil and Frill Stencil causes the whitening effect that one sees in a well marked Oriental Frill. RECOGNIZED COLORS: Blue Silver (Dilute Blue) Brown Khaki (Dilute Brown) Ash Red Ash Yellow (Dilute Ash Red) Black (Spread Blue) Dun (Spread Silver) Lavender (Spread Ash Red & Ash Yellow) Recessive Red Recessive Yellow There will also be a class for AOC, for other factors which fanciers successfully transfer over to Classic Frills, such as milky, reduced, opal, etc. It should be noted that these factors must also have the telltale marks of Oriental Frills, and that is the Toy Stencil and Frill Stencil Factors, in combination, so that the same requirements stated in other parts of the standard are applicable to any new color factor added to the gene pool. COLOR NAMES: Bluette: Blue Bar Satinette Silverette: Silver Bar Satinette Brownette: Brown Bar Satinette COLOR / PATTERN / MARKINGS: Satinettes are white except for a colored shield and colored tail (including about half of the rump and the wedge to the vent). Ash Red birds are to have clear and obvious tail color and markings (It should he noted that it is most difficult to achieve the same quality of tail markings in Ash Red/Ash Yellow birds as in other color varieties). The shield is laced or barred. Spread birds have a laced tail. Non-Spread birds have a barred tail with white Moon Spots. The shield bars are to be White. The inside of the laces on the shield are to be White. The inside of each Moon Spot is to be White. The inside of each laced tail feather is to be White. There should be a clear delineation between the lacing and the ground color. The bars should be clear, long, even and narrow. The ideal is 10x 10 white flights, always with colored thumb feathers. White thumb feathers will be penalized. 7 to 10 white flights are allowed, with even numbered flights preferred over odd numbers of flights on opposing wings. There is to be an even line of demarcation across the rump between the colored tail and white back. This line falls about half way between where the wings first separate and the actual beginning of the tail feathers. An even line, both top and bottom, is more important than the actual location of the line on the rump. The same description applies to the Blondinettes with the exception that the Blondinette is a whole colored bird and has no solid white feathers. In Spot tail version of Blondinettes, usually just the tail and the wings show Toy and Frill Stencil. In Laced Tailed varieties, the lacing usually extends over most, if not all of the body--these are usually the spread factor birds.”

Let’s look at the beak section again:

“ BEAK: Medium short in length, substantial/thick, blending into the forehead in a smooth, uninterrupted curve. Flesh colored in Satinettes, flesh to horn to black in Blondinettes, depending upon the variety. Wattle small and smooth. Classic Old Frills can feed their young and do not need feeders. “

That highlighted part particularly got my attention.

Because this is what they were a return to form from;

The Oriental Frill

Has no beak.

Which is absolutely by design.

On top of the beauty, temperament, ease of housing, and parenting instincts that make them an excellent beginner breed, the Classic Old Frill is the Retro Mops to the avian pug that is the Oriental Frill.

I was head over heels in love with the breed, and ALL for being part of the effort to return a “modern” extreme to healthy physical function.

But despite the breed standard specifying that the COF should never need a feeder, the bird with the shortest beak won at every show I attended...

The breed club refused to retire breeding birds for needing their peeps fostered, because they threw babies that won ribbons.

When I pointed out that the breed standard specified the beak should never get short enough to require fosters, a respected member of the club with a lot of vocal support said that if I wasn’t raising birds to win ribbons, I was raising them for the wrong reason.

I left after replying that if the bird is nothing but a means to a ribbon, then the ribbon must matter more than the bird does.

And that’s my entire problem with purebred pigeons;

The ribbon matters more than the bird.

Preservation of any specific breed doesn’t matter to breed clubs either.

In every single breed club, the breed standard changes as soon as the current one gets “too easy” to meet.

When you put all of your focus on the aesthetic of an animal with no regard for its structural function, you end up producing animals whose physical structure is so severely distorted that it can no longer function.

I am a strong supporter of Animal Welfare.

These Five Freedoms are globally recognized as the gold standard in animal welfare, encompassing both the mental and physical well-being of animals; they include:

1. freedom from hunger and thirst

2. freedom from discomfort

3. freedom from pain, injury, and disease

4. freedom to express normal and natural behavior

5. freedom from fear and distress.

Pigeons intentionally bred to be so severely deformed that they can’t physically function cannot possibly be assured any of these freedoms except, possibly, freedom from hunger and thirst.

The beakless birds shown above are not able to feed their own young, so their nestlings don’t even have that first, most absolutely basic freedom.

Even with my focus on physically sound breeds, one of the things that sucked the most about show breeding was the need to cage the breeding pairs together to make absolutely certain that the hens mate was in fact the sire of her offspring.

This was not a problem when I bred Ringneck Doves because Ringnecks do NOT flock!

They are VICIOUSLY territorial birds that exclusively form one single pair bond and fight viciously with any bird that is not their mate or a current nestling.

It is absolutely VITAL to their safety that breeding pairs of ringneck doves be isolated in their own enclosure and their young removed the MOMENT they are fully self feeding!

Doves absolutely WILL kill their weaned offspring if they can’t get away.

Pigeons are unique among the columbidae by being EXTREMELY social!

Flocks are large extended families that live together year round and vote on everything they do as a group.

Pigeon pairs can’t engage in natural social behaviors if they are isolated by pair the way doves have to be.

So being able to just let them free fly the loft and clean it like one large enclosure is better for their physical and mental health, and much easier for me to physically maintain even with my sever chronic pain.

Instead of focusing on an aesthetic, The Ramsey Loft’s Therapy Bird Project is focused on developing a physically sound, well balanced breed with a strong immune system and bold, curious, friendly temperament, naturally inclined to focus on and bond easily with a human flock mate.

So, I am blending together the physically sound breeds with good parenting instincts best known for their docile tractability.

When a keep back baby reaches 6 months old, the adult of the same sex who is least structurally sound, least healthy, has the worst parenting history, or is the least human friendly is retired.

Other than that, I don’t interfere with their pairings.

I let the pigeons pair up as they will and just document who pairs up with who, what they produce, and what the structure and temperament of the offspring is like.

The pigeons get to be pigeons, I get to observe and document the social behavior of my flock in detail, and each generation we produce gets more human-friendly and easier to train.

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talpup · 3 years

Text

Summary: Yami Sukehiro just wanted to join the Magic Knights and make his mentor proud. He knew there would be trails. He knew trouble would come his way. Knew he would be faced with discrimination for being a foreigner and a peasant. What he didn’t know. Didn’t expect. Was that literal Chaos would come his way. That he and his mentor’s sister would be at the center of world ending trouble. Or that he would fall in love with his mentor’s sister and face more than discrimination; but the jealously of Nozel Silva who loved the same woman he did.

Please remember this fic is rated mature and has warnings of violence, abuse, sexual tension, eventual sexual behavior, and other possible triggers. For a full list of story tags please check the fics AO3 (link to that at the top of my tumblrs homepage).

Sorry about the late update. It was a super busy weekend, and my three big chronic illness bad's are still making me pay the price. Anyway, here you all go. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 96

It was near midnight. All the Captain's were tired, irritable, and on edge. They were meeting because Yami and Teris had never checked-in this evening when Jax had explicitly ordered his Vice Captain's to do so before lights out.

The Black Bulls Captain focused his glare on his fist which rested on the table as questions were asked, hypothesis given, and ideas about what to do were put forth. He blamed himself for Yami and Teris’ disappearance, certain that the Agents of Chaos had taken them.

Having reported to Greywright before this meeting was called, Jax had encouraged the Commander to question the supposed traitor Flic about Yami and Teris’ disappearance. But, Greywright had told him it would do no good. During his interrogation of Flic yesterday afternoon, Greywright had learned that the man knew nothing of the details concerning Alowishus’ plans. Jax would've liked some time alone with Flic anyway. Not to question the man; but simply to beat one of the Agents of Chaos, even if that person was no longer aligned with them.

“I question keeping up the search. Especially this late at night. We went out this morning looking for two Vice Captains and instead of finding them, we lost two more.” Jamie said.

“You sound scared.” Win taunted.

“I’m concerned for the safety of my squad. For all our squads.” Jamie said.

“We’re Magic Knights. We don’t abandon anyone, least of all our own.” Kess said, fiercely.

“I’m not saying we give up.” Jamie told, thinking Pyter would’ve understood if he were still Captain of the Silver Eagles.

“You’ve always been a selfish ass. I doubt you’d want to continue even if it was your own Vice Captain missing.” Mereoleona fumed.

“We don’t even know who took them or why. Blindly searching has done nothing but thinned our resources and wear our Magic Knights to exhaustion, and it’s only been a day.” Danise said.

Whilf nodded in agreement. “There has to a better way to go about this.”

“Better then searching for four Magic Knights Vice Captain’s?” Mereoleona stormed in challenge of the Purple Orcas Captain.

“No one’s saying that. But fumbling around hoping to stumble upon something isn’t working.” Breigha said.

Mereoleona could hardly argue with her friend. During her own futile search this afternoon she had wanted to torch the four kingdoms until whoever took her brother returned him, begging for mercy. She’d fry the fools and then pummel Fuegoleon for letting himself be taken.

“Do we even have an idea if they were taken because they’re all Magic Knights, or three of them royal?” Win asked.

“I’m guessing none of the families have received any word or demands?” Danise tendered. The Coral Peacocks Captain looked from Mereoleona to Julius. She glanced at Kess figuring as Nozel’s Captain she would've been in contact with Nathyn Silva or at least a representative from the royal house.

Julius rapped his knuckles on the tabletop with a silent curse. Just like last year, and two months ago during the Spade Kingdom mess, he had forgotten to send message to Fyntch about Teris being taken. When he had finally gotten around to writing Fyntch last year he hadn’t mentioned that Teris had been taken; simply saying he was sure Fyntch had seen the beam that lit up the sky the morning of the Summer Solstice and assuring him that he and Teris were okay. As for the happening with the Spade Kingdoms Magic Scientist Rayla, he hadn’t bothered sending Fyntch message and told Teris as much so she wouldn’t mention it to their brother.

Having met with Lord Leonidas himself and spoken with House Silva’s representative, Jorah said. “Neither the Silva’s or Vermillion’s have reported receiving demands or word of admission and intent.”

Jamie scoffed, thinking that the Silva’s and Vermillion’s were too proud to admit to it if they had. The two royal houses likely had their own people looking into things and would handle the matter privately if they came across anything.

Whilf looked at the Wizard Kings Advisor. “Has Magic Investigations unearthed anything of use?”

Ellara shook her head sadly at the Purple Orcas Captain. “My people have been out all day checking in with their sources and questioning people searching for some kind of lead. We haven’t given up. But as yet, they have discovered nothing that would tell us who took the Vice Captain's or why.” She looked at Julius, Mereoleona, Jax, and Kess. “I’m sorry.”

Julius and Jax stared at the Wizard Kings Advisor, both thinking Ellara was far from sorry but would be.

96.2

Yami noticed how Calen stuck close by them as he and Teris were made to walk through the portal. Given that Teris had once broken through Calen’s negating magic the first time she had light traveled, it was justifiable that they were concerned.

“Leon! Nozel!” Teris rushed forward only to be grabbed by a cloaked figure.

Yami punched the Agent of Chaos not seeing or caring if the person was a man or woman. He pulled Teris out of their grasp, holding her to him.

“Peace, Livia.” Calen told the woman as Alowishus stepped through the gateway.

Livia stood down and tenderly touched her face.

Hands bound above his head, hanging from a tree branch, Fuegoleon’s eyes blinked slowly open.

Tied and swaying beside the Crimson Lion, Nozel croaked, barely able to lift his head. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice.” Yami said, looking them over.

Nozel took in a slow, shallow, shuddering breath; grimacing at the pain the small movement brought.

Teris tried once more to step to them, but Yami held her firm least someone attempt to stop her again.

Teris trembled in Yami’s arms, a fearful rage building. Nozel and Fuegoleon were alive but they were a battered, bloody mess. And that was only the injuries she could see. They had been in the Agents of Chaos’ custody for little more than twenty-four hours. Who knew what those monsters had done to them.

One eye swollen shut. The other, vision tinted red by blood. Nozel told Yami. “First chance you get, you get her out of here.”

Teris shook her head, angry worried tears blurring her sight. Though she had no idea how they were going to manage it, she promised Nozel and Fuegoleon. “No matter what it takes. We’re going to get you out of this.”

“I’m glad you said that; because you hold the way to freedom for your Intended and your cousin. The path to seeing them live through this is a simple one.” Alowishus said, stepping toward her and Yami.

Teris turned to face him. “Let them go and I’ll do it.”

“Teris... No--” Fuegoleon’s lips moved, sound barely coming out. His voice faltered, weakly coughing up blood.

Yami uttered a stream of curses, his grip on Teris tightening. He scowled at Alowishus and the surrounding Agents of Chaos in the low, flickering firelight of Piper’s magic. He would kill every single one of them even if it took his entire life to hunt down every member of Alowishus’ followers.

“That’s not how this goes.” Alowishus told Teris. “Your friends go free only after you and Yami do as I say. Play difficult and we will continue harming them until you do or they die; whichever comes first. But I warn you. They proved difficult themselves, refusing to answer the simplest questions. It’s left them in bad shape. I doubt they’d be able to survive much more.”

Fuegoleon’s eyes slowly lifted, too weak to rise his heavy head. He wanted to tell Teris not to listen. He would rather die than have his cousin agree to whatever these people wanted. But no matter hard he tried, his brain couldn’t make his chapped bleeding lips form the words.

Yami didn’t need a better look at Fuegoleon and Nozel to know Alowishus was telling the truth. It was clear they had been tortured and were in really rough shape. Nozel’s head lolled. Though it was difficult to tell if the man was unconscious or not.

“What do you want?” Yami asked.

“To get to the treasure vault of a labyrinth.” Alowishus said.

“What? You and your people so lacking that you need us for such a simple task.” Yami mocked.

“This isn’t any labyrinth, Yami. The contents of the vault are meant for you and Teris. Destined for the two of you to find and receive.” Alowishus told.

“Labyrinth 297,353.” Teris breathed.

Alowishus smiled. “I see you’ve heard of it.”

Yami looked at Teris in question.

Teris stared back, both surprised and not that Yami didn’t remember. “He wants us to collect the Future of Chaos.”

“Not just the two of you.” Alowishus said, keen ears hearing Teris’ whisper. “I will be going down with you to also receive the page.”

Yami turned to the man. “The History of Chaos has been nothing but a curse. Like hell I’m going to the labyrinth that has the Future of Chaos. I’d rather see those two die.”

“As you wish.” Alowishus’ eyes slid to the Mage that stood beside Nozel and gave a slight nod.

Nozel’s body tensed and began to squirm. Hanging from his arms, he began to swing. His muscles spasmed at the pain. Teeth pressed together trying to hold back the cry that bubbled in his throat.

Yami couldn’t see any outward wounds being made. But when blood began to come from Nozel’s ears, nose, eyes, and mouth, he barked. “Stop!”

Alowishus tilted his head at Yami, not yet giving the signal for the Mage to cease. “Agree.”

Yami glared.

Nozel began to scream.

Voice caught in fear and horror, Teris’ trembled, knuckles white as she clutched onto Yami’s upper arms.

“We’ll do it. We’ll go.” Yami broke.

Alowishus smiled. “Excellent.”

The signal was given and the Mage stopped.

Alowishus held a beckoning hand out to Teris. “Come here.”

Yami’s arm tightened around Teris’ waist. But he hadn’t needed to worry, she didn’t even try to move.

“It appears you require another lesson in how this goes.” Alowishus turned to the Mage and told. “Don’t be so gentle this time.”

Whatever the man was doing, he did it to both Nozel and Fuegoleon. Both their bodies seized. The Crimson Lion and Silver Eagle crying out. Teris tired to take a step toward Alowishus but Yami held her in place. She squirmed in his arms, pushing at his chest; but Yami refused to release her.

Teris looked up Yami at single tear rolling from its bank and down her cheek. “Please.”

Yami shook his head even as his hold slowly released. Teris stepped away him. He made to follow but was barred by someones arm. They didn’t dare touch him, but it was enough to stay his steps.

Teris was more than halfway to him when Alowishus gave his man a nod.

Teris’ steps ceased. Her head started to turn to look over her shoulder at Fuegoleon and Nozel when suddenly Alowishus was right in front of her. His hand clasped her jaw, fingers digging into her cheeks as he turned her to face him.

The next thing Teris knew, Alowishus was kissing her. No. It wasn’t really a kiss. Though that didn’t make it any less unnerving or make her stop trying to push away. It was more like the way a mother bird feeds her young. Only in this case, Alowishus was forcing a thick, vaporous substance down her throat.

Yami broke the arm barring his way and rushed forward. He was tackled and held down by three men. A cloak of mana flickered around Yami like a sputtering candle flame, present one moment and gone the next.

Calen ground his teeth. His magic fighting to negate Yami’s.

Mana skin blinking in and out of existence, Yami threw one of the men holding him into another that was coming to assist. He got to his feet and tossed a second against a tree trunk ten meters away,

“Stand back.” Slade told the third that was still trying to hold Yami back from their Master. The Rope Mage created a glowing rope. It wrapped around Yami, binding him tight.

Yami fell to the ground. He pulled and struggled against the magical binds, yelling curses and threats.

Alowishus released Teris and staggered back. Misandre was there to help steady her Master.

Teris fell to her knees. Sputtering, she coughed up dense black smoke. Her eyes watered, at the burning cold that seeped through her body into her very soul.

“What the hell did you do to her! I’ll kill you!” Yami roared, the magical ropes breaking nearly as fast as Slade could create them.

“I merely replenished her mana stores. You should thank me. In her depleted state she wouldn’t have survived receiving the Future of Chaos, let alone whatever dangers we might cross down there.” Alowishus looked down at Teris who was on all fours choking up thick black puffs. “Your system is adjusting to foreign mana. It’s not a perfect exchange, but you’ll be fine.”

Yami snarled. His fighting didn’t let up, even as Teris’ coughing eased.

“Let him go to her.” Alowishus ordered.

As soon as Slade’s magic released, Yami was on his feet. He rushed to Teris, sliding to his knees to stop beside her. His arm wrapped around her jerking shoulders as she continued to sputter.

“You alright?” Yami asked, pushing her hair back from her face.

Teris nodded, still wheezing. She wiped the stale taste of Alowishus off her mouth and spit, wisps of black mana escaping her mouth and nose like smoke. She pushed up to her knees, a shaking hand gripping Yami’s arm for balance. “Leon? Nozel?”

Yami glanced over at the still bound men. Neither Nozel or Fuegoleon moved. Their breathing so shallow Yami couldn’t see the rise and fall of their chests. Through his sense of their Ki, he was able to pick up on their faint breaths and weakened heartbeats.

“Still breathing.” It was the only thing Yami could say.

Alowishus turned away. “Let’s go. The new moon rises. We must be in the vault by its peak.”

“What’s a moonless night have to do with it?” Teris rasped, Yami helping her to her feet.

Alowishus turned back her. Rather than answer, he told. “Yami’s power might be on the rise. But he has still faced a small down trend as the Summer Solstice has neared. Your power, though lessening, will continue to grow slightly until the morning of the solstice.”

Yami looked at Teris seeing her frown at the unanswered question. He could see her mind working, trying to figure out the answer on her own.

“Before we head out. Turn around and look at your beloved friends.” Alowishus ordered.

Despite not wanting to do anything the man told her to, Teris couldn’t resist. She turned.

Yami stood in her way, wide shoulders and towering frame blocking her view. He gave her a slight shake of his head.

Teris stared up at him.

“Move and let her see them, Yami. You both should know the stakes any further disobedience will have.” Alowishus told.

“She doesn’t need to see them.” Yami said, eyes lifting to the man that called himself Death.

Alowishus stared back. For a moment it looked as if he would insist. With a sigh, he allowed. “Very well. You’ve seen the state of them, Yami. You know what testing me would mean. I doubt you want to be the cause of their deaths.”

Teris balked at that. She tried to step to the side, but Yami moved with her.

“So protective.” Alowishus smirked. Looking at Teris, he told. “It’s probably for the best. A sight like that will stay with you long after they’ve recovered, or died.”

“Leave her alone.” Yami growled.

Alowishus looked down at Teris. “Just so long as you’re aware. Timeis of the essence for the both of us. Your cousin won’t last more than two hours at most. Your Intended not lasting much longer after that. And that’s only if you behave and don’t kill them yourselves by having me set Nexis back to work on them.”

Yami glared at Alowishus. “We won’t try anything. Let’s just get on with it.”

“For the Prince’s sake I hope that’s true. I will be carrying a charm. If I activate it, Nexis continues his work until I deactivate it. If I’m injured, it activates immediately. If I am rendered unconscious, it activates immediately. As unlikely as such a happening is, if I am killed...” Alowishus smiled at the change in Yami’s eyes at the prospect.

“Let me guess. The charm activates.” Yami said.

“No. The charm crumbles to dust. As does the connecting ones left in the hands of my followers. If that happens, not only will the Silva and Vermillion heirs be instantly killed. But the Agents watching Captain's Julius and Jax, as well a the rest of your friends from afar, will spring into action killing them before they even realize there’s a threat.” Alowishus said.

“But you’ll be dead.” Yami said, as if the rest didn’t matter.

Alowishus gave a tight smile. “Only for a time. You cannot kill Death”

“Pretty sure if I removed your head you’ll die.” Yami said.

“I’ve heard that before. Sadly, only one such commenter was still around to see how wrong they were.” Alowishus sighed tiredly and raised a guiding arm. “Shall we?”

Taking Teris’ hand, Yami stepped after Alowishus. They walked for some time through the dark forest with only the dim glow of the accompanying Agents of Chaos’ grimoires to light the way.

While the mana Alowishus gave Teris might've bolstered her magics reserves. It didn’t do much to help against physical exhaustion. Seeing her start to lag, Yami looked ahead to Alowishus. “Didn’t you say time was of the essence? Why are we tripping through a moonless forest?”

“Misandre will see us inside the labyrinth, but first we must find it.” Alowishus said. Pausing his steps to stare at something in his hand.

“What do you got there?” Yami asked.

“Directions. Of a sort.” Alowishus looked over his shoulder at Yami. “Come have a look if you’d like.”

Yami slowly released Teris’ hand. He glared at the surrounding Agents of Chaos in warning. Grateful for the breather, Teris didn’t move to follow him.

Alowishus watched Yami as he stepped beside him and looked at what he held in his open palm.

Yami scowled. “Are those bones?”

“Finger bones to be precise. They’re from the maker of the labyrinth and are pointing us to the labyrinths entrance.” Alowishus smirked at Yami. “You see? I do my part to make things as easy and painless as I can for the two you. When we reach the area, Misandre will portal the three of us in. Once down there, we’ll make our way to the vault and the three of us will enter and receive the Future of Chaos.”

Yami raised a brow. “The three of us?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I might not have the brains Teris does. But I remember the paper sniffers at Investigations saying Yurist’s prophecy said the ones who found the History of Chaos would find its future. Seeing as you weren’t there when we got the first page of Chaos. I don’t see how you expect to get your hands on the second.”

Alowishus’ eyes darkened. “I’ve forgotten more about Yurist and his prophecy’s than the sum knowledge of the four kingdoms libraries and scholars combined. When it comes to such things, you must be careful, Yami. Yes, the prophecy says the two that find the History of Chaos will also find the Future of Chaos. But the key word there is find. Not receive.”

Yami looked at the man thinking that if the keyword was ‘find’ then Alowishus was still somehow wrong and in for a disappointment; because he and Teris weren’t finding anything, they were being led. Giving one last look at the bones that moved like a compass, Yami stepped back to Teris.

They walked a bit more until Alowishus stopped once again.

“Misandre. Here. Three hundred and seven meters down.” Alowishus glanced at Yami and Teris seeing they too had picked up on the numbers. He and his people still hadn’t learned the full meaning of Yami being a third seventh son; and as much as he wanted to question Yami further on it, now wasn’t the time.

Calen stepped to his Master, his concern evident. He remembered last years long lingering injury Alowishus had suffered from his battle with Julius Nova, and Yami and Teris’ combined attack.

“They know the stakes, and won’t try anything.” Alowishus soothed Calen. He looked at Yami and Teris. “Will you.”

Yami’s left hand rested on his katana’s hilt. “I suppose you’ll just have to trust us. Just like we’re having to trust you about not killing the royals, and letting us all go.”

Calen glared at Yami. “If you harm the Master. I’ll do more than kill your friends. I’ll find this Land of the Rising Sun and end every single member of the Sukehiro line.”

“Good luck with that.” Yami said, sure there had to be a family that went by Sukehiro in his homeland; unfortunately for Calen’s plans, it wasn’t Yami’s family.

Misandre opened up a portal. Alowishus gave the Spatial Mage a nod as he passed through. That’s when Yami saw the woman’s hands. Hands he’d recognize anywhere given the amount of times they had hit him and tried to crush his neck.

Yami pulled his katana from its sheath. “Those don’t belong to you!”

“Yami, don’t!” Teris grabbed his arm, not seeing how his eyes had flicked black for a fraction of a second.

Snarling at the woman wearing Bronn’s hands, Yami sheathed his katana. “I’ll soon see those off you and where they belong.”

96.2.2

“Teris. Give us some light.” Alowishus said from somewhere in the dark space.

Teris’ hand twitched tempted to light up the direction Spade’s voice sounded from and fry him. Her grip on Yami’s arm tightened, grateful they had stepped through the portal together.

Slowly, she lit up the area. The three blinked, their eyes adjusting.

Looking about the space, Alowishus told. “To use your terminology, the labyrinth isn’t active. With it not open and visible to the surface we will have to deal with the dark. But it also means that most of the beasts and traps will be in hibernation. Still, be on guard. The creatures that reside in places like this are more powerful during the new moon.”

“Which leads me to ask again. Why a moonless night?” Teris questioned.

Alowishus tilted his head. “The vault is this way.”

Senses alert to danger even if he didn’t appear to be, Yami commented almost conversationally. “I suppose we should be thankful that Bronn was such a good Spatial Mage. Without his hands, that woman probably would’ve deposited us between bedrock.”

“Noticed that did you?” Alowishus smiled, leading the way.

“Gotta admit, I half expected her to try and smack me upside the head.” Yami said.

“Parts taken carry a residual portion of a persons magic, not a remnant of the persons character.” Alowishus said.

“Why take Bronn’s hands at all? Were Erskin’s a little too chewed up by Saber Wolves? Or were the hands of your dead follower too painful to see?” Teris asked.

“When you have lived as long as I; such feelings of friendship, love, even hate all but fade away. I’m not so old that I’m incapable of affecting such emotions for the sake of others. But, just between the three of us. I feel little to nothing. Well, until the two of you showed up.” Alowishus stopped and turned to to face them. “You two have done much more than give me the means to reach my aims. You have made me feel again. First excitement. Then awe. I have long since forgotten what hope felt like. But I believe I may have begun to feel a bit of that as well.”

Teris’ brows furrowed. “Just how old are you?”

Alowishus wagged a finger at her. “A proper bred young royal like you should know it’s impolite to ask.”

“Just how old are you?” Yami questioned.

Alowishus smirked and turned away. “Come. Time runs short.”

Though they didn’t come upon any traps. They did happen upon two beasts. Just as Alowishus had said, the creatures were more difficult to subdue than expected. Finally they reached a large cavernous chamber with a set of towering double doors that looked near identical to the ones that had housed the History of Chaos.

“Our time together is almost over.” Alowishus said, as if saddened by the fact.

“You’ll keep your word and let us go.” Yami prompted.

“Of course. I’m a man of my word. After this, you and Teris are free to go. Until I next require you that is.”

“Nozel and Fuegoleon?” Teris questioned.

“Your beloved cousin and your Intended will be set free as well.” Alowishus said.

“Last time we faced a vault containing something having to do with Yurist and Chaos the doors snapped shut behind us and didn’t reopen till someone from the outside did so.” Yami said.

“That won’t be an issue.” Alowishus said.

“Why? Got a tracking charm on you that you’ll leave where you’re standing so the Spatial Mage with Bronn’s hands can portal here and open the doors when we’re done?” Yami asked.

“Clever. But no.” Alowishus told.

“Then what’s your plan for getting us out of there?” Teris questioned.

“Me.” Alowishus said.

“You?” Teris stared.

Alowishus’ expression darkened. “Even if you don’t trust me. Trust that I don’t want to be in that vault room any longer than necessary.”

Alowishus turned and looked at the vault doors. Excited as he was to once again see and this time receive the Future of Chaos, he wondered if his grandfather’s work would have him. And if added to his grimoire, what, if anything, the page of Chaos would show him.

96.3

Nozel’s eyes slowly opened. Even with the pain, thirst, hunger, and fatigue muddling his senses; he could feel a swell of mana not too far from where they were.

Guilt washed over him. Not just for Teris agreeing to whatever Alowishus wanted for his and Fuegoleon’s sake; but for the terrible state the Crimson Lion was in.

During their questioning, the Agents of Chaos had taken to torturing the other in effort to get them to comply. The tactic had worked a lot quicker on Fuegoleon, who had caved, reluctantly answering their questions. Nozel’s will to protect Teris and ability to tune things out had seen him hold out longer. Their tormentors cutting into Fuegoleon’s flesh and magically tearing at his insides as Alowishus calmly waited for Nozel to answer.

Much as he wanted to, Nozel couldn’t fully lay the blame of this on Yami. Not when he and Fuegoleon were being used to make Teris comply with Alowishus Spade’s wishes. Not when even he had broke for Fuegoleon’s sake and answered the mans questions. He tried to recall what those questions had been but currently couldn’t.

His still good eye, the other swollen shut, turned in the direction of the swelling mana. The direction Alowishus had taken Teris and Yami in. He hoped Teris was alright, and silently swore he’d kill Yami if the man let anything happen to her.

Still unconscious, Fuegoleon’s shallow breath rattled in his chest. The Crimson Lion was fading. Yami and Teris needed to hurry.

96.4

Yami’s head snapped up, sensing a rise in Alowishus’ mana.

Teris turned to the man as well, tone accusatory. “The peak of the new moon has a similar effect as the solstice does for us.”

“Not the peak of the new moon. The moment right before. When it is at its darkest. The height of the moons death, if you will.” Alowishus gestured to the closed vault doors. “After you.”

“Never been in a labyrinth where the vault doors didn’t open. Do we just bust in?” Yami asked.

Teris shook her head. “There’s magic holding the doors closed. If we try to force it, the reaction could be similar to our magic when it clashes.”

Yami looked up. “Under three hundred some odd meters of earth and stone. I don’t like our chances of surviving that.”

Teris turned to Alowishus. “The labyrinth’s not active. There is no way we can open the vault doors.”

“You disappoint me. Unless you’re hoping I’m that stupid.”

Teris’ mouth opened, but Alowishus continued on.

“I assure you. I didn’t go through all this trouble without being certain there was a way to open a sleeping labyrinths vault room.”

“Then do it.” Teris said.

“Now that does make me certain you know better. Did you forget the rules regarding your friends up top? Think you could see me dead by tricking me and light travel to them before my followers kill them?” Alowishus’ eyes darkened. “Open it up.”

“The mana you gave me— I doubt it’ll recognize it as mine.” Teris said.

“Then we will just have to hope your system was able to assimilate enough of it for the labyrinth to recognize it is you.” Alowishus said.

“What’s that?” Yami asked, looking between them.

Frowning at Alowishus, Teris explained. “If what Yurist wrote is true. Then our mana should be able to open the doors.”

“So why can’t he do that?” Yami asked.

Teris stepped before the doors. “Shall we.”

Yami scowled. “I asked you a question.”

“Leon and Nozel don’t have much time.” Teris told.

Yami stared a moment. Something was off. He didn’t like how Teris didn’t answer him. How she wouldn’t even look at him, staring straight at the door. But she was right. Braid Face and Lion Cub were in bad shape. They didn’t have much time.

Heaving a sigh, Yami tilted his head side to side, stretching his neck. “How much mana are we giving to open up this thing?”

Teris swallowed, nervously. “As much as it needs in order to recognize us as us.”

Yami did the same as Teris and placed his palm on the door. He slowly loosened his hold on his mana. Even a couple paces from Teris and in direct contact with the object he was letting his mana seep into, it was a struggle to keep it from veering to connect with hers.

A pressure beneath his hand built as if something other than the door was stretching out, making contact with him. It apparently approved, as it stopped taking in his mana forcing Yami to pull back on the eased harness of it least his lose control and his mana connect with Teris’.

Yami turned to Teris surprised she wasn’t done as she had started before him. He stepped to her. A prickle of foreboding tickling the back of his neck. “Teris?”

Watching Teris with interest, Alowishus warned. “I wouldn’t touch her.”

Yami spun to the man, temper and worry rising. “What’s happening?”

“It’s trying to decide if it’s really her.” Alowishus said.

“What do you mean, if it’s her? Of course it’s her.”

“Did you forget? I gave her a portion of my mana.” Alowishus said.

Yami’s muscles tensed, concern tipping into fear. His jaw clenched, understanding what Teris and Alowishus had been talking about. Understanding why she had avoided answering and had refused to look at him.

“I’m confidant her system has been able to assimilate enough of my mana and make it her own by now.” Alowishus eased.

“Bastard! I’ll kill you!” Yami stepped toward Alowishus, katana cloaked in darkness.

“Do you really wish to be the death of Teris’ beloved friends when you are so close to seeing them and yourselves go free? Or was this your secret plan all along? To lash out at me and get her Intended out of the way. Permanently.”

Katana raised to send a slash of darkness, Yami paused.

Alowishus lifted a shoulder, smirking. “I can’t say I blame you. You face enough trails with me and my plans as it is. It would undoubtedly be a relief not to have to deal with the mess of having to fight in order to make Teris yours. You know I could just activate the charm. We could finish up here and return to the top. It’ll simply appear to Teris as if they succumbed to their injuries. It will be our secret. She need never know.”

Yami glared. The cloak of darkness disappeared from his blade. “No.”

“I could send message for only Nozel to be put down.” Alowishus tempted. “Fuegoleon, if he still lives, isn’t the problem after all.”

“I said, no.” Yami growled. He sheathed his katana.

Teris fell to her knees.

Yami turned back and knelt beside her. “I got you. You alright?”

“Yeah.” Teris breathed.

Yami brushed her hair back noting how pale and feverish she was. “When we get outta here you and I are gonna talk about the chance you took without telling me.”

“Had to—for Nozel and Leon.” Teris panted, trembling hand wiping her sweat drenched brow.

Looking down at them, Alowishus felt a pang of disappointment that Yami hadn’t taken him up on his offer. Maybe it was merely because Death had helped create Darkness; but there was something about Yami that made him want to win the young man over.

Alowishus stepped in front of the opening vault doors. “Up. We still got our prize to receive.”

Ignoring the man, Yami asked Teris. “Can you stand?”

Still out of breath, Teris merely nodded.

Yami hooked her arm around his neck and wrapped his arm around her waist. Easily bearing most of her weight, he lifted her to her feet with him as he stood. “Let’s get this over with.”

They stepped into the vault with Alowishus. Yami and Teris looked at each other, puzzled when they weren’t congratulated by the same Crazy Happy Killer Voice that had greeted them when they received the History of Chaos.

If the labyrinths were created by the same person. Even if that person wasn’t Yurist himself. Then surely things would be similar. The doors and interior of the vault were almost identical.

At least this vault didn’t have bodies in various stages of decay, Teris morbidly thought.

Alowishus seemed to realize something was wrong as well. Mana flaring, the Master of the Agents of Chaos released a roar of fury. The chamber they were in shook around them. Dirt and stone raining down.

Yami held Teris tight, creating a shielding cocoon of blackness. “Get us out of here!”

Teris would’ve done so but for one thing. Her concern for Nozel and Fuegoleon’s lives. Alowishus still held that charm.

“Now!” Yami gritted, dark cocoon straining against the weight of the crumbling labyrinth.

Teris light traveled them to where they had last seen Fuegoleon and Nozel.

“Get away from them!” Alowishus ordered his people when they made to move against Yami and Teris.

Teris spun around. Yami’s shield dropped,

Teris’ hand lifted on instinct. She sent out a burst of incinerating light only for it to dim and slow as soon as if left her. Slowed as it was, it was still faster than most magical attacks.

Caught by surprised, Alowishus didn’t get a chance to move. The attack struck him in the chest. There was a moment of stillness as everyone stared.

Alowishus and Teris blinked at one another. They both knew he had been undefended and her direct hit should have instantly killed him.

Rage still consuming him, Alowishus counted this as one thing going his way this night. “It would seem your system hasn’t assimilated enough of my mana for it to harm me. Better luck next time.” He saw Yami reach for his katana and ordered. “Misandre. Quickly now.”

Alowishus didn’t wait around long enough to see if Misandre was able to portal his followers out in time. Breaking apart, he disintegrated into the earth.

Katana cloaking in darkness even as he unsheathed it from its scabbard, Yami sent out a several dark slashes. He cursed, knowing before they cut down the trees beyond that he was too slow. Alowishus and the Agents of Chaos were gone.

Yami turned to Fuegoleon and Nozel. With a swipe of his blade, he cut the Silver Eagle and Crimson Lion free. Hoping Alowishus' foreign mana wouldn’t adversely effect her light traveling Fuegoleon and Nozel, Teris took the four of them to Healers Hall.

96.5

Alowishus’ anger had barely calmed. Storming into his private office, he slammed the door behind him and made for the shelf behind his desk, picking up his father's skull.

“Your lied!” Alowishus roared, gripping the skull in both hands.

“I told you, your efforts would be futile.” A voice resonated in his head.

Alowishus shook the skull, not hearing the dead mans words. “The Future of Chaos was not there!”

“The Future of Chaos is not for you.” The voice of the skull sounded in his mind.

“I had a plan to work around that. It was faultless.” Alowishus snapped.

“Apparently not.” The voice said.

“You placed grandfathers work back inside labyrinth 297,353 after you retrieved it, putting special protections in place to keep me out.” Alowishus said.

“You mean after I took back what you stole?” The voice of Erin Spade questioned.

Alowishus snarled, grip tightening. “I had it in my grasp and you took it. Stole it.”

“You stole it first.”

Alowishus slammedthe skull down and turned away. He had barely been able to delve into the unfathomable knowledge that was the Future of Chaos before his father had ripped it from his grasp. He had been sure his father had placed the page back in labyrinth 297,353 for Yami and Teris to eventually find; certainthat his father had merely set barriers to block his re-entrance, since he had been unable to enter again until tonight.

“You placed grandfathers work back inside labyrinth 297,353 after you retrieved it.” Alowishus said, again.

“Did I?” His father's voice sounded in his mind.

“You moved the Future of Chaos to another location!”

“You moved it first when you stole it.”

“You changed the future Yurist saw. You ruined Yami and Teris’ destiny to have the Future of Chaos.” Alowishus accused.

“More thanlikely, I kept theprophecy concerning the Future of Chaosin tact. While my father’s prophetic words could often be unclear. That one sentencewas quite clear. Findand receive. It could hardly be said those twofound the labyrinth, what with you setting upon them and forcing them to bend to yourwill and go down there. I have full confidence that Yami and Teris will find and receive my father’s final work, if they haven’t already.”

“What do you mean haven’t already?” Alowishus demanded.

“Destiny canonly be bent to your will so far before it snapsback to its own designs, Fin.”

Alowishus sneered at beingcalledby his first life's name. “I will have my way, Old Man. Yami and Teris will help me awaken Chaos and see to a finalend. I will get what I have worked sevenexistencesfor.”

“Good luck doing it without the Future of Chaos.” The voice taunted.

“You are useless and more infuriating every time I speak to you. I should ground your bones to dust and forget you ever lived.”

“I wish you would.” The skull of Erin Spade said.

“That would bring you too much joy. Finally finding your rest after all these years. No. You will not rest until I have my way.” Picking up the skull, Alowishus set it back on the shelf. “Till the death of the next moon, Old Man. Know that I won’t enjoy the three nights of your company anymore than you will mine.”

Comments are VERY MUCH appreciated and really make my day. Thank you to those who have left hearts. And a special THANK YOU to those who have recently commented or re-blogged. It really means a lot.

Next chapter snippet:

“He’s ill.” Jax said.

“How ill?” Marx asked.

“Deathly.” Yami rumbled.

#yami sukehiro #nozel silva #fuegoleon vermillion #julius novachrono #mereoleona vermillion #black clover #light in the darkness

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like-the-wings-of-butterflies · 5 years

Text

This Moment In Time (Racetrack Higgins x Reader)

Summary: Upon moving into your first apartment with Race, you’re reminded of the moments that led you to where you are

Warnings: Some mild angst quickly followed by sweet sweet fluff because I’m an absolute sucker for it

Word Count: 2,244 (this is longer then any of my usual stuff wtf)

A/N: I KNOW I’M A QUEEN BLOG BUT I NEEDED TO WRITE THIS AND DIDN’T FEEL LIKE SETTING UP ANOTHER BLOG TO POST IT SO ENJOY SOME OF MY OTHER FANDOM NONSENSE

A.K.A - I rewatched Newsies for the upteenth time (god bless you disney +) and it sparked an idea which is only a tiny little bit self indulgent

Feedback and comments are always appreciated! ♡

“So this is it.” You breathed into the darkened room, a smile dancing on your lips.

Race placed the burning candle in the centre of the one room apartment before rising to his feet again and grasping hold of your hand. The gentle flickering glow revealed that the small apartment. It was neglected to say the least, paint peeling from the walls, dust-encased windows and the odd squeaking floorboard; certainly a step up from the lodging house however. “I know it ain’t what we were dreamin’ of, not even close, but it’s-“

“It’s got a roof and it’s got you,” You finished for him, squeezing his hand in assurance with an honest smile despite him barely being able to see through the darkness. “It’s perfect. Nothin’ a bit of cleanin’ won’t fix.”

Truly, you couldn’t help but fall for the mess that was Racetrack Higgins. When you first showed up on the doorstep of the lodging house at the age of 13, it was Race that volunteered to take you under his wing and teach you the fine art that was selling newspapers. Staying as his selling partner permanently wasn’t exactly part of the plan, either was becoming one another’s best friend, but the pair of you couldn’t imagine selling with anyone else; having grown too accustomed to each other’s company.

He’d always flirt with you - as he would with every other person who’d give him the time of day— flattering you with compliments and cheesy pick up lines at every opportunity. You’d flirt back of course, not being able to resist the handsome blonde’s charm, but at the cost of catching feelings; no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise, a childhood crush steadily emerged, turning the heads of the other newsboys.

But as the years progressed, you both matured into young adults. Your experiences bringing you closer together as you grew fonder of one another day by day.

Never in your entire life did you think you’d be living anywhere else but the crumbling walls of the lodging house or in one of New York’s damp alleyways. Yet here you were, hand-in-hand with your fiancé, settling into your first home together. Many were shocked that you were engaged at such a young age, but neither of you could truly see yourselves without the other in your life. Now too old to live in the lodging house, Race ironically managed to find work operating printing presses, and you as a server at Jacobi’s. In a unlikely twist of fate, you managed to earn enough money to move into the small apartment and support yourselves, all while keeping a close eye on the other Newsies.

“Should we check out the penthouse?” Race grinned ear to ear, running to the window upon your nod. He wrestled with the frame for moment before it opened with a satisfying ‘crack’ that echoed through the apartment, before stepping out onto the fire escape.

“M’lady~“ Race offered his outstretched hand with a charming smile, helping you step onto the raised surface. Your breath hitched as you saw the landscape in your surrounds. You were about four floors up which made the view expansive, and you suddenly became keenly aware of how many beautiful sunrises you’d be able to watch from your current position. You’d been in Jack’s penthouse on a couple occasions, but never just to sit and admire the view.

“How the hell did we make it here Racer?” You breathed in awe as you watched lights and lampposts decorate the otherwise dull streets of New York, like little stars in a blackened sky.

Race wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into a sweet embrace, your back pressed against his chest and his head resting on your shoulder, “I was just the prettiest Newsie you’s had ever seen and you’s couldn’t help but fall for me,” He teased, pressing a long kiss against the side of your neck as he giggled lightly to himself.

“You don’t think growin’ up or working together our whole lives had anythin’ to do with it?” You jested back, reaching a hand behind you to fiddle with the curls upon his head as you closed your eyes and leaned into his embrace.

“Absolutely not. But the strike?” He mused thoughtfully, “That’s when I realised I loved you.”

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

It was no surprise waking up to Race sitting on the cold floorboards beside your bunk the night after the strike had been announced. Your beds weren’t too far from one another and Race always slept lightly, often being the call of comfort whenever anyone was having nightmares. He gently shook you awake while brushing away the tears that stained your face, smiling lightly once your eyes opened.

“What’s goin’ on Doll?,” He whispered out, careful not to wake the others, “Why you’s havin’ nightmares?”

“I’m scared what we’re doin’ is gonna get us all hurt,” You croaked out into the darkness, doing your best to hold back a sob. “That we’s gonna end up in the Refuge.” Nobody was oblivious to the chances of the strike ending in violence, the stakes were high; you were only a group of kids fighting against one of the most powerful men in New York after all.

Race’s hand stilled on the side of your face, his warm palm flat against your cheek grounding you and bringing you a sense of comfort. He could see in your eyes just how scared you were.

“I’m scared too,” He admitted before pausing, seemingly collecting his thoughts, “But we’s gonna be okay. Jack and Davey are smart, they’s know what they’re doin’.” He vowed, taking hold of one of your hands and rubbing his thumb against your knuckles.

You both sat in silence for quite some time, both too distracted by your thoughts swirling around your heads. As you felt your eyelids growing heavy, you lightly tugged on Race’s arm who brought his eyes up to meet yours.

“Stay with me?” You queried, eyes hopeful.

Without so much as a second thought, he lifted the thin sheet covering your body before sliding into the small bed, his chest pressed against your back, “Anythin’ for you (Y/N).”

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

A few days later, when the bulls attacked, you were an absolute mess; much like the others. In such a short amount of time, your entire world had flipped upside down and everything was shrouded in a new sense of seriousness.

Of the entire group, Davey, Mush, Albert and yourself had come out relatively unscathed - save for a couple bruises - meaning you’d been tasked with patching up the others who weren’t as lucky. You’d just finished tying up Les’ arm into a sling, only as a temporary measure however, just to stop the energetic boy from exercising it too much until he got home. You bargained on the fact that Mrs Jacobs would have a far better fix to his seemingly broken arm, knowing that if worst came to worst, the family could afford a doctor.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” You grinned softly as you walked towards Race in the back corner of the lodging house, shrouding himself in the shadows of the late afternoon sun.

“Ha ha.” He imitated, his usual playful attitude absent as he refused to look in your direction.

Something wasn’t right.

With your bodies facing each other, his legs hung over the edge of the table he was perched on as you remained standing. After a few moments of unmoving silence, you lightly tapped his knee, asking him to move so you could stand between his legs. He complied, but kept his eyes secured to the wall on your right. Slowly, you reached out to cup his jaw with a gentle hand, tilting his face to meet yours. You face fell the instant you saw the extent of his injuries.

His left eye was swollen shut, with hints of black already forming on the delicate skin. His chin was tinged an unforgivable red from where he’d wiped away the blood from his busted lip and damp trails ran from his watery right eye.

He’d been crying.

Your own tears welled up when he looked you in the eye, and you found yourself biting your lip to stop any from falling.

With your other hand, you grasped hold of the brim of his worn hat and placed it on the table beside him, letting the mess of curls fall lose against his face.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded solemnly, bringing a hand up to wipe away at his own tears before resting his head against your chest and wrapping his arms around your back, “You?”

“Just shaken up.” You stated, wasting no time in wrapping your arms around his shoulders and placing your chin upon his head. The pair of you stayed like that for an extended period of time, without anyone questioning you. It was a hard day for everyone, no one needed to make it any harder. After some time, the sun had set and the lodging house was quieter then ever before. You longed to sit down and fall asleep yourself, your legs sore and aching. But you couldn’t bring yourself to disturb the heavy sleeping form of your best friend. The years of denial on your behalf, stating that you hadn’t caught feeling for Race were long forgotten now.

The things you’d do to make that moment last forever.

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

A few days later, you and the other Manhattan Newsies had recovered for the most part. Physically, everyone were well on their way to healing, but emotionally there was still a fair way to go. Crutchie was still in the Refuge and Jack was still missing but everyone had managed to rest up while Davey reassessed the group’s future movements.

While the others sat glumly in Jacobi’s, you’d decided to go for a long stroll around New York to clear your head, musing the thought of visiting Crutchie in the Refuge. He was one of your closest friends, so sweet and so caring with an equally as vibrant personality, the thought of him in such a wretched place brought tears to your eyes.

You’d helped Jack smuggle food and blankets on too many occasions to count; how difficult could it be without him?

Your thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the shout of your name from a long way down the busy street. Race’s figure came into view quickly, his chest was heaving as he sprinted down the cobblestone footpath towards you. Immediately, you panicked, thinking Race had been caught stealing cigars again and the cops were on their way but much to your surprise, he slowed as he neared you. Rather then desperation being painted across his features, his face held joy. Pure, unadulterated joy.

“We’s in the papes (Y/N)!” He gasped out, bending to place his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

“What are you talkin’ about Race?”

“Katherine got us in the paper!,” He heaved, sweat glistening on his forehead. He pulled the rolled up newspaper from underneath a strap of his suspenders, before unrolling it to the front page and holding it out to you, “Look! That’s us!” He beamed, pointing a finger at the image underneath the headline: ‘NEWSIES STOP THE WORLD’.

In your slight state of shock, you glossed over the story and mentally took note to personally thank Katherine later on.

You actually made it into the papes.

“You’s know what this means?” You queried, your smile transforming into a bright grin as you grabbed hold on Race’s hands, tucking the paper under your arm.

“We’re famous.” He finished for you, his grin matching yours.

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

“Newsies of New York City.” Jack addressed from the top of Newsies Square, Joseph Pulitzer at one side and governor Theodore Roosevelt at the other. It was nice to see him back where he truly belonged, the so-called ‘King of Manhattan’. You could feel your heart beating painfully in your ears as you awaited the news, the anticipation making every second feel longer then what it actually was. Race’s hand was tight in your grasp as you sucked in a final breath, “We won!”

The chorus of cheers that sounded was deafening. It was finally over. After two ruthless and unforgiving weeks of striking, and everything had finally come to a close.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realise you were holding and turned towards Race. Race grabbed your shoulders and pulled you into his chest, laughing and chorusing while you were grinning ear to ear yet entirely speechless.

When he pulled away, you were slightly disappointed with the loss of contact, but when his arms around your body were replaced by his lips against yours, the world melted away. Slow and soft yet fiery and passionate the same time, as unpredictable as Race himself. His hand moved to cup your jaw and draw you closer, your arms finding their way to wrap around his neck.

When you pulled apart, there was stars in both of your eyes.

“I love you (Y/N).”

“I love you too Racetrack.”

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

You sighed lightly at the fond memories, feeling incredibly grateful for all that had happened in order to bring you to where you were.

“We’s really made it huh?”

Race briefly chuckled into your shoulder, before raising his head and placing another long kiss against your neck, “We’s really made it.”

#newsies x reader #racetrack higgins x reader #race x reader #newsies race x reader #newsies #jack kelly #davey jacobs #jack kelly x reader #davey jacobs x reader #x reader #fluff #fanfiction #fanfic #writers on tumblr

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yezielmoore · 4 years

Text

Prompt #12: Tooth and Nail

Put under cut because this has some vague 5.3 spoilers. Vague, as in the kind of spoilers someone who hasn’t played yet and doesnt bother to avoid them may know. (like me! lol)

Of all the things you were expecting as you made your way back from the Tower, precious cargo in hand, a slumber party was not one of those.

When you finally enter the Rising Stones, you're received by muted cheers, not because they aren’t ecstatic at the Scions revival, but exactly because of that, because the rejoining of mind and soul to body had been taxing and everyone is utterly drained. Tataru is also waiting for you and right next to her is Krile. Krile, who immediately zeroes on the body you're carrying on your back.

"Is he…" alive, she doesn't say, doubt and hesitation plain in her face, even though she should know better. She does know better. She can see and feel his aether after all, deeper and richer than before, but still the same hue it’s always been. But maybe that's why, the miqo'te on your back probably feels little like the young man she knew. Like the friend she thought lost forever.

He may not be lost, but he certainly isn’t the same man, and for all that Krile has known that all along, it’s a hard truth to reconcile when finally presented with undeniable proof.

“Tired,” you say.

Before the start of this journey, G'raha had explained his experience to you, what it had felt like to wake up 200 years in the future, how weak he had been despite the fact that his body was perfectly preserved; how tired he had been, as if 200 years of slumber had just been a two minutes’ catnap after a two days’ bender.

This time it wasn’t nearly as long, barely three years and change, but the feeling is much the same. Or so he had said, face pressed to the floor on Xande’s throne room, after his failed attempt at standing on his own two feet landed him there.

Krile hovers around you for a moment, uncharacteristically anxious and solemn. You don’t know her well enough to guess at her thoughts but you don’t think you imagine the relief in her gaze, the fondness in the slant of her mouth, the worry hidden underneath it all.

After a moment or two, she shakes herself and turns away in a direction you know by heart. “Come, the others are already resting.”

You follow behind her, despite the fact that the path towards the Scion’s temporary lodgings is burned in your memory. You say nothing, for if there’s a thing you have in common with her is your love for these people and you understand in a visceral way the urge to check and recheck that they’re alive and here and present.

That this is not a dream.

If the life you now carry on your back hadn’t been on the line, you would have never left their sides, not until they got tired of your hovering and sent you on your way.

You weren’t expecting the slumber party.

The beds had been stripped bare and pushed against the walls, and in the middle of the room, in a nest made of mattresses and every single piece of bedding in the room, was the cutest, most wholesome image you had ever seen in your life. occupying a place of honor in the middle were the twins, Alphinaud face up and Alisae half draped over him like the most belligerent and most protective blanket in all worlds. To one side, not quite touching but definitely turned towards the youngest members, was Urianger. Thancred was on the other side, arm extended over the twins and unconsciously reaching towards the one person not in touching distance. Finally, Y’shtola was drapped over Thancred’s back like a lazy cat, tail swishing contentedly.

She’s the only one that stirs at your entrance, opening a blind eye in your direction. She doesn’t speak, as that would only disturb the precarious balance. She hums and smirks in your direction and then closes her eye again, breath evening out.

Next to you, Krile huffs, part amusement, part exasperation. “We told all of them to rest,” she whispers, not really upset.

You hold back a snort. As if Y’shtola would ever do something just because she’s told it’s in her best interests.

You move forward and proceed to carefully disentangle G’raha dead weight from your back and onto a free spot close to Urianger. You don’t plan to stay, as you don’t need rest like they do used as you are to traversing the rift. But before you can get up, G’raha’s hand weakly tangles in yours, pining you as surely as if he had casted a spell on you.

“My… friend?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. You see him visibly struggle to wake up and you can almost see his thoughts running around in a panic because if you’re leaving then there’s a job to do, an enemy to fight or a friend to assist and he can help. He can help.

“Fine. I’m. Fine,” you say softly. He languidly blinks up red, red eyes up at you, adorably confused and so visibly exhausted you feel tired just looking at him. “Rest.”

“But…”

“I… stay,” you assure him, “rest.”

“...okay,” he mumbles and just like that he’s once again unconscious.

So that’s how you sit watch over your family that night.

G’raha never liberates your hand and at some point he moves and curls until his head rest on your knee, which you know must be uncomfortable as hell, but he seems more content that ever so you let him be. Instead you use your free hand to pick apart his braid and proceed to run your fingers through his hair, marveling at its softness as well as its rich red color, not a single white tip in sight. He curls closer to you at this, but doesn’t stir.

You look up and you feel the same marvel at the sight of your family, reunited in the correct world at last, finally out of (immediate) danger. Something tight and hot in your chest loosens its hold on your heart, until you can finally take the first full breath you have had since Thancred collapsed in front of you, so long ago. You’re here, you’re all here, safe and sound. Alive. It’s a marvelous thing, a miracle you sometimes didn’t feel you could pull off and then your failure would signify the deaths of this patchwork family you somehow managed to build.

It’d have killed you.

But you fought, and moved and ran and fought some more; with the Empire self-destructing and wreaking havoc on one side, the threat of Zenos looming on the other, and Elidibus doing his damned best to ruin it all. You fought tooth and nail through it all so that you could get this miracle, your friends and family at your back, as always lending you their wisdom and strength to continue, and you did it. You all did it.

You can hardly believe it, even with the evidence right in front of you. But it is true, and somehow you let yourself relax, you let yourself live in this moment where you’re all safe and reunited.

There’s more, much more to do, but for now, for tonight, you let yourself breathe, you let yourself just be.

Unseen, Krile smiles as the most bull-headed member of the group finally surrenders to her well-earned rest. She closes the door with utmost care and finally lets out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Sweet dreams,” she whispers to the empty hallway.

#FFxivWrite2020 #FFxivWrite #ffxiv #yeziel writes #my writing #x'lial ris #g'raha tia #the resct of the scions #fluff #vague spoilers

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jawsandbones · 5 years

Text

a commission for @boss-saarebas, thank you! NSFW under cut.

His hand only leaves her for a moment, the other still at her back. He slams the door shut behind them, without looking. His attention is focused on her, on the taste of pastry which still lingers on her lips. Sweet. Raspberries. Champagne on the edges, expensive and rare. Only the best for the Winter Palace. His hand returns to her waist, the other keeping her steady, her body leaning into him. A hand at his arm, the other at his shoulder, and she’s opening her mouth to him, her tongue pressed against his.

“That’s an amazing dress, boss” he says, voice low and hoarse as they shift. “Been dying to tear it off you all night.” She’s slow to open her eyes, while the smile comes almost instantly. Lips red with attention, the desperate affection that hasn’t stopped since they left the balcony. Her hands move over his shoulders, down the perfect buttons of his coat, and settles against his chest.

“I’m glad you showed some restraint,” she says, as she undoes the sash around his waist, begins to undo the buttons. “I’m also glad you don’t have to show any restraint now.” A strangled noise in his throat, and Bull puts a hand over hers, leans down to kiss her once again. His hand splayed at the small of her back, unwilling to let her go. His jacket half open, she pulls the sash away, casts it to the ground even as he walks her backwards.

A gasp, as her shoulders touch against cool glass. The windows of the Winter Palace almost touch from ceiling to floor, pale moonlight shining through. He’s caught glimpses of her, here and there, as she waged war against the court and its nobility. A flash of blue. Following in her wake. It was never enough. Gold glitters down the front of her, armor built into silk. A long flowing train, a split for a teasing glimpse of her leg. The back, oh, the back. Cut low, showing taught muscle, the strength she keeps from all sides. He could look at her for an age.

She leans back against the window, reveling in the way his glance devours her. She reaches out with a hand, follows the seam of his now disheveled jacket, and pulls at the fold of it. “Come here, big guy.” Spoken with a sly smile, an assured glance upwards, a lick of her lips. Absolute smugness in her as she brings him closer with a touch, tilting her head upwards. “What are you waiting for?” she murmurs against his mouth. A low chuckle, and his touch moves over her arm, her shoulders, a hand at her throat, and thumb underneath her chin.

Bull crushes his lips against hers. His other hand grabs a fistful of dress, drags it upwards. His hand runs against bare skin, her thigh, finding the slip of her undergarments. Without warning, the kiss breaks. He turns her deftly, her palms against the glass, his hand still at her throat, arm against her chest, holding her steady. His other hand follows the line of her undergarments. Her breath fogs against the window as he leans close to her, the smallest bite to the tip of her ear. There’s no one in the courtyard below, the guiding lights of the garden extinguished.

“They were all looking at you, Inquisitor,” he says. She can feel his mouth moving against the shell of her ear, breath warm against her. Under her dress, his hand, calloused fingertips. All the scars and marks that make his hands so distinctly his. He keeps his hand light around her throat, a stroke against her neck keeping her reminded that he’s there. The touch at her thigh is following the line of her undergarments, moving against her belly.

“Everyone could tell you were the one in charge. All the nobility of Orlais. They want in your graces. Want a part of you. But you’re all mine,” he says low, hoarsely, in a charged whisper.

Slipping inside her undergarments, his big hand pressed up against wet curls, a finger pressed aligned with her cunt. Biting her bottom lip, eyes closed, her hands curl into fists. The window begins to fog with her breath, a steadily rising rhythm. The quick inhale. The groaned exhale.

“You were so good tonight Boss,” he says. A single stroke down her cunt and she shivers, while he holds her steady. “You had them all wrapped around your finger.” Another stroke, slow, from her entrance to her clit, and back again. “You have a nation under your command now.” Again, but this time his finger lingers at her clit, a pressed circle, one that makes her gasp, her leg shake. Bull’s hand squeezes slightly around her throat, “they’ll listen to your every word. Whatever you want. Tell me what you want.” His touch moves in unceasing circles, and she trembles in his grasp.

Her eyes snap open, and she looks over her shoulder, her elbow pressed against the window, hand in a fist, as her other moves over his wrist, and keeps his touch focused on her entrance. “Fuck me,” she tells him. The smile spreads across his face as he presses kisses from her ear lobe to her temple, his other hand slipping down her chest. Pulling up her dress from both sides, and with a quick flick of his thumb, drags her underwear down her legs. She steps out of one, as he undoes he laces of his trousers.

He settles his hands on her hips. Keeping her legs close together, he slides his cock between her thighs, against her cunt. Back and forth, becoming slick as his cock is coated in her wet. A hand shifts from her thigh to her breast, fondling her over her dress. That gold stitching is well crafted, but provides no shield from the finger that slips over her nipple, the palm that rolls against her breast. He holds her well and good in his grasp, as he finally slides his cock into her cunt. Pushing in slowly and surely, the moan slipping from her lips as she raises herself up on her toes. Filling her up completely, and Bull’s never been shy in making his own pleasure known. “Fuck.” Spoken in a husky groan, almost a prayer of sorts.

Filling her up so full, and she grinds backwards slightly against him, resting her head against her forearm. Her other hand moves back to the glass, just fingertips touching against it. He tightens his grip on her thigh, the other at her breast as his hips move back, forward again until he’s buried in her to the hilt. Biting lip gasps wide and her breasts bounce with each heavy and punctuated thrust. “You’re so good,” he speaks in that same groan, “good girl. That’s it.” Her dress pulled up so, and he runs a hand over her ass. The slap is unexpected but welcomed, her cunt tightening around his cock, and she puts a knee up onto the windowsill.

Skin slaps against skin, his trousers halfway down his ass, his jacket still unbuttoned. The glass is almost completely fogged, from the breath of her, the heat of them. With each moan, he rewards her with a slap, a flat and carefully practiced thing, made for pleasure. “Good girl,” follows each one, a reassuring squeeze of her hip. “Ellana.” The low rumble of her name, almost a desperate plea, and those, more than anything else, are the words she likes the best. “Ellana.” The shudder of his hips, an increase in tempo, and his hand is leaving her breast, finding her clit once again.

A mewl, at the touch of it, the quick flicking motion, spelling his name into her pleasure. “Cum for me,” he says, “That’s it baby, cum for me. Ellana, Ellana.” He curls against her. All of him, at her back, surrounding her, his mouth at her neck, one of his horns touching against the glass. Fucking up into her, a close grind, a steady rhythm on both fronts and with a stuttered inhale – her cunt squeezes around him in waves, and he rides her through her pleasure, her exhale.

He slips from her, his hand wrapping around his cock, wet with her, stroking himself to completion. He spills himself into his other hand, goes to reach for one of the towels on the table near them. She turns, her back against the window once again, sliding down until she’s sitting on the sill. She watches as she cleans himself, begging her breathing to return to normal, for the red tipped fire in her face and ears to dissipate. Wisps of her hair escape the bun that had once been so ornate, float against the glass, around her face.

Bull kneels down before her, his touch slipping against the back of her leg. He kisses the inside of her thigh, looks up at her as she puts a hand on his horn. “Hey boss,” he says, his voice still hoarse.

“Hey,” she says fondly. He rests his head on her knee, and keeps his hand on her leg. After a few moments of silence, he finally looks up at her once again.

“That really is one hell of a dress,” he tells her, as she breaks into startled peals of laughter.

#iron bull #the iron bull #inquisitor #iron bull x inquisitor #dragon age #iron bull x f!inquisitor #iron bull x f!lavellan #f!inquisitor #f!lavellan #dragon age inquisition #dai #writing #mine

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eremiss · 5 years

Text

10. Foster

Set post-5.0, spoilers below the cut!!!

Thancred has thought that Gwen would make a good mother ever since he saw her tending to the flocks of unkempt street children in Ul’dah. Though, admittedly, she would be one that would worry far too much.

But the sweet thought always turns bitter, like sugar burning in a pan.

Gwen would have made a good mother, if the world didn’t so desperately rely on the Warrior of Light. If it weren’t for the Echo, if it weren’t for the Scions...

If it weren’t for him, and that fateful day under the Sultantree.

He hasn’t thought about it in years. About five, to be precise.

And then, all of a sudden, Ryne is beginning to lag behind them. Her movements grow labored, expression tightening with discomfort and concentration as a queasy color creeps across her face.

This isn’t the first time she’s taken ill. Life on the road, on the run, is rough on everyone, but especially a child who spent the first many years of her life in a cell, not exposed to the world. Ryne is a lot stronger now, made of sturdier stuff than little, golden-haired Minfilia had been, but she’s still at a disadvantage.

Thancred is just glad they’re near civilization this time, instead of having to make due in the woods.

This is, however, the first time Ryne has been sick since Gwen arrived on the First.

Gwen notices before Thancred does, and suggests they stop in Wright for the night. He swears she has a sixth sense for knowing when one of her companions isn’t feeling well. One she has used on him far too often.

Ryne is quick to protest, determined to bull through as she’s seen them both do so many times. They trade an awkward glance and keep a guilty little cringe off their faces.

Thancred puts his foot down and states they’ll get a room for the night in Wright, his tone stern enough to discourage any arguments. He softens the authoritarian decision with assurances that they could all do with a break from nights on sleeping rolls and hard earth. After a beat, just as Gwen starts to give him a meaningful look, he adds that Ryne’s illness isn’t making her a burden, nor will her recovery cost them time, or slow them down, or whatever it is that’s surely bothering her.

Ryne is sullen for the rest of the walk, and glowers halfheartedly at both of them when she realizes they’ve slowed their pace for her. But Thancred can sense the slightest bit of relief in her sulking, and takes that as thanks.

A few bells later poor Ryne is holed up in the small bathroom emptying her stomach… again. Gwen is with her, holding her hair and rubbing her back. She’s been all but attached to to Ryne’s hip since her symptoms started to grow worse.

Between the two of them Thancred arguably has the more savory task, though it doesn’t feel as useful at that moment. He readies Ryne’s bed, gets their gear in order and digs out a few things they might need, then grabs a few extra towels and blankets and puts them somewhere close at hand but out of the way.

He hears more retching sounds and grimaces. He considers making a joke, trying to make light and lift their moods, but eventually decides against it. Jokes never did anything but grate on him when he was feeling ill.

Instead, despite how much Ryne will think the suggestion unappealing, Thancred goes and inquires with the kitchen about mild food and herbal tea. Back on the Source ginger was good for soothing the stomach, but he doesn’t know if the First has anything similar.

The cook, an older miq--mystel woman --gods all these years and he still slips up sometimes, thank the Twelve that never happened with Lyse-- is nothing but sympathetic. She has a child of her own, apparently, and is well versed in the trials and tribulations of sickness.

She offhandedly refers to Ryne as Gwen’s child, and the assumption makes Thancred’s head seize up for a moment.

She doesn’t notice, as he’s ever been a master of keeping his poker face even when the rest of him stops working, and she promises to send up something Ryne will be able to stomach.

Thancred mutters his thanks and makes his way out of the kitchen, standing around uselessly at the bottom of the stairs for a moment before getting his head straight again.

When Thancred gets back to the room it’s empty and deceptively quiet, the door to the bathroom still cracked slightly.

His mind is working again, but the line, “Your little girl is in good hands. Tell her mother not to worry,” tips it off balance once more.

A strange, twisting feeling rises in his chest, at once tender and bitter. The dichotomy is unpleasant and confusing, and surely he has more important things to do than stand around worry about an offhanded comment…

Suddenly in want of something to do, Thancred gets a glass of water to put by Ryne’s bed. He frowns at the wastebin and sets about plundering other rooms to find one that’s not made of wicker or some other woven material. He knows from personal experiences that the decorative or otherwise-perforated wastebins are... less than adequate for dealing with sickness like Ryne’s.

...And with that matter handled, he’s really out of things to do.

Thancred sighs, running his hands through his hair a few times and wondering what to do with himself.

After a moment of quiet and stillness he recognizes how wild and frayed his thoughts are, the worry that has been eating and pulling at him loud and clear now that he has no means of keeping himself busy.

Thancred closes his eyes and wills his thoughts to slow and still, weaving frayed edges back together into consistent, sensible thoughts.

Was he this worried the previous times when Ryne was sick? When she had been Minfilia and it had just been the two of them?

Yes and no. Yes he’d been worried, but it had felt more manageable at the time because he had been the one caring for her.

That realization inspires a weird, uncomfortable pang in his chest. Gwen is handling Ryne’s care now, and doesn’t need his help. She hasn’t said he couldn’t help, she hasn’t sent him away or anything like that, but it’s plain enough she doesn’t need him. The thought should be at least a little relieving, but it only inspires another tight pang,“Tell her mother not to worry,” spiraling off and upsetting his train of thought again.

Thancred rubs at his chest with a frown like the strange feeling is a surface-level itch and not something much deeper. When that offers no relief he tells himself it’s ridiculous to get so caught up in his own head like this.

So Gwen’s taking care of Ryne. Big deal. So she doesn’t need help. That’s fine. It’s fine. What matters is that Ryne is cared for, not who does the caring.

He mutters at himself and shakes his head. It’s ridiculous. He’s overthinking and tying himself up in knots-- why?

Because he’s not the one cooped up with Ryne in a bathroom that reeks of vomit? That’s a hell of a thing to whine about--and he’s not whining about it. He isn’t.

Because one woman made one little throwaway comment? One. It’s ridiculous. Absurd, even.

Because that woman had jumped to the conclusion --a perfectly logical and reasonable one, mind-- that Gwen and Ryne are related? Well it’s no surprise people would assume a child accompanying two adults would be related to at least one of them.

Even though, given Gwen’s brown-and-gray hair and deep green eyes, he’s not sure where the mystel woman thinks Ryne's red locks and blue eyes came from.

Obviously not you, slips through his head like a razorblade. He shoves the thought away, pointedly not thinking his own features and the colors they lacked.

Ryne doesn’t resemble either of them because they’re not related, of course. Everyone they meet probably assumes she’s adopted. Perfectly reasonable.

That had been the original point he’d been trying to make, only for it to sour and knot along the way.

Thancred rubs his chest again, still not feeling it through his plate armor, and shakes his head. He’s thinking about all this entirely too much.

It’s still quiet, which he makes himself think of as reassuring. At least Ryne isn’t vomiting anymore.

He eases the door to the bathroom open and pokes his head in.

Ryne is curled miserably on the floor, her head in Gwen’s lap and her hair wrapped and knotted up in a loose bun to keep it away from her face. He’s not sure when that happened.

Gwen looks up, expression laden with sympathy and the mild frustration of one who can do nothing but wait. He’s wearing a similar look. She gives him a smile and nods him in.

Thancred is suddenly reminded that Gwen is far better with children than him. In fact, despite Ryne’s initial envy of the Scions’ shared history and bond, the two quickly became close.

Hardly a surprise, as Gwen has no problem getting close with anyone.

He knows that. He’s known it for years. Yet seeing the two of them together now...

That uncomfortable pang comes back, butting up against an equally powerful feeling that’s far softer and fonder, warm in a way that’s almost as uncomfortable.

“Sleeping?” Thancred mumbles to break the silence.

Gwen nods. “She just drifted off.”

That's good, at least. Sickness is always easier to deal with when one can sleep through it. “How is she?”

She sighs. “I think it’s food poisoning, or one of those shortlived illnesses like we have Source. Hopefully she can sleep through the worst of it and be on the mend by morning.”

Thancred mumbles his agreement, looking over Ryne’s prone form. He lets relief wash over all the other feelings battling inside him and takes another calming breath. “Let’s get her to bed, then.”

Bells later, Ryne sips listlessly at a cup of broth, her eyes just shy of closed. She wouldn’t even be sitting up if she weren’t propped against Gwen’s side, and Thancred is keeping a close eye on her cup, ready to catch it if it starts to slip.

Ryne doesn’t look quite so green anymore, thankfully, though beyond that she isn’t much better. She has a long night ahead of her, unfortunately. He really hopes she’ll be able to sleep through most of it.

Gwen hasn’t spoken much other than to murmur gently at Ryne. She’s been doing little but fret, honestly. Thancred isn’t sure whether to find her hovering and coddling endearing, frustrating or concerning.

The element of frustration gives him pause and inspires a little jab of guilt.

Frustration. What’s he frustrated about? Gwen taking care of Ryne? Perhaps. In part. More like… frustrated that she’s taking better care of Ryne than he could.

Thancred frowns, glancing towards the darkening window.

That’s hardly fair. Gwen has always been the worrying sort, and she’s always tried care for the Scions, of all ages, when they were sick. This is par for the course, surely.

That she has the situation so well in-had on her own is leaving him a bit off balance, he can at least admit that to himself. There’s only so much to do to help one who is sick, and it’s all been done by this point. Gwen did most of it. Little as he wants to sit and wait around uselessly, there’s not much else to do.

Whatever feelings all of that inspires, he knows, are his problems to solve. Or to talk about, because he needs to get better about addressing and discussing issues like that, rather than holding them in and burying them. That’s something they’re both trying to work on.

He hasn’t mentioned what the mystel woman said, which was probably what started all of this off. He’s not sure if he should, and he’s not sure if he wants to, either. Most of the tight, unpleasant pangs in his chest had started after her little throwaway comment.

Which is still ridiculous. So what if she said-- so what if she made an assumption? People made similar assumptions about him during the years he and Ryne had been traveling together. Multiple people had called him her father right to his face, even. But it just been a word then, a word he’d forced himself to let roll off him like water on wax. Because his head had been too crowded with webs of heartache, denial and fear to let it be anything else-- to let it mean something.

But that was then. He’s working to make amends for ‘then’, and Ryne is open to his efforts, thankfully. Even so, the whole thing is...complicated.

Thancred sighs softly. All of that is his problem, too.

A hand rests on his, and he looks back. Gwen offers a small, tired smile.

She looks... too weary, Thancred realizes. She looks like she’s already spent and worn out. Just one afternoon looking after a sick child is enough to exhaust the Warrior of Light and Darkness?

When she squeezes his hand he automatically returns the gesture, studying her expression curiously.

Gwen looks older somehow, worry weighing heavy on her features and making the gray in her hair stand out more than normal. There’s an old, fragile thing hanging in her eyes, a pall of melancholy and shadow that he hadn’t noticed before.

That pang he doesn’t want to recognize fades for a moment, tempered with insight and a sudden wave of realization.

Ryne’s hands start drifting towards her lap and the cup starts to slip from her fingers. Thancred quickly catches it and sets it aside, and Gwen helps her lie down again. As she sets a cool cloth on Ryne’s heated forehead Thancred mumbles, “She’ll be alright.”

“I know,” Gwen says automatically. Knowing doesn’t always help, though.

Ryne mumbles something nonsensical, eyes tugging half open for a moment before sliding shut again. She’s fighting rest as hard as Gwen and Thancred do.

“She isn’t Aifread,” Thancred says, softly enough that Ryne won’t hear.

It’s true, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the right thing to say.

Gwen almost flinches, tensing and hunching slightly as though he’d shouted at her. Her eyes snap back to his, awash with a torrent of sharp, aching emotion.

Thancred holds her gaze against the tide, patient and steady.

They stare at one another for several breaths.

Then Gwen’s expression shifts, her brow knitting and bending just a little. Her green eyes slide aside and drop, her lips twitching with a few unsaid syllables before she mumbles, “I know.”

Knows, but does not accept. Y’shtola’s words had followed him out of her room in Slitherbough, ringing in his head.

Thankfully he isn’t Y’shtola, and Gwen isn’t him.

Thancred takes her hand again and squeezes gently, a silent assurance that his words had been an observation and nothing more. A statement, not an accusation.

She breathes deeply once. Twice. Then she sags, her posture softening as she squeezes his hand.

He’s pointed it out, and he knows that’s enough. He’s planted the seed, and it will grow on its own.

Gwen will linger on it without further prompting, as she is ever wont to excogitate and overthink. She’ll process it on her own, maybe through writing, maybe through talking, because she’s been trying to do more of that lately. Whatever means she chooses, she’ll work it out. The only question is how long it will take.

Thancred makes his way back to the kitchen when it is properly dark and most of the lights have been put out. The cook isn’t there, which is hardly surprising given the hour. He breathes a sigh of relief, glad to accomplish his mission in private.

Back in their room, Ryne is sleeping, as she has been since dinner. Aside from the occasional turn and grumble she seems to be resting peacefully.

Gwen changed clothes in his absence, shedding her armor and claiming one of his shirts. She sits on their bed with her journal open in her lap, one hand in her hair as she stares at nothing in particular and sporadically writes --scribbles-- whatever thoughts she’s managed to break down and shape into words.

Despite the tumult in his head, Thancred smiles a little. He’s always been amused by her habit of stealing his shirts, even though it’s occasionally proved annoying. Little things like that were what he’d missed the most during their time apart.

Five years…

Thancred offers her one of the mugs and sets his down on the nightstand. It’s not cocoa, but hopefully it’s close enough.

Gwen puts her thoughts aside for a moment and accepts the mug with a grateful hum and absent smile.

If he had to guess what she was thinking so very hard about...Probably his comment about Aifread.

Rather than second-guess the wisdom of invoking such a poignant name, even so delicately, Thancred starts the process of removing his armor. Plate has its benefits, but quick and easy removal aren’t among them.

Gwen peers down at the mug and gives it a curious sniff.

“Masala chai,” Thancred says before she can ask, carefully setting aside his bracers. He keeps his voice low to not wake Ryne. “You haven’t had it?”

“No.” Gwen blows the steam away before taking a careful sip. She considers the flavor for a moment, and then her expression lifts slightly.

“Well?” he asks, despite the hint of approval.

She holds the mug close to her face, wrapping her hands comfortably around it and breathing in the steam. She murmurs, “It’s good. Thank you,” and takes another sip.

Thancred allows himself a satisfied smile, mood lifting for the first time all day.

In better spirits, the mystel’s comment doesn’t twist or kick so hard when he mulls it over again. “When I went down earlier,” Thancred says, as offhandedly as he can, “the cook thought you were Ryne’s mother.”

Gwen blinks in surprise, a small, embarrassed laugh slipping past her lips. “Did she really?”

He grins at her, “And told me to tell you not to worry so much.”

The way she pouts and narrows her eyes says she thinks he’s lying about that part.

Thancred chuckles as he tugs off his undershirt, knowing his amusement is only making her pout more. It lifts his mood a little higher, putting him malms above the bitterness he’s been grappling with all day.

He really missed this sort of thing. The contentment, ease, and simple comfort of quiet moments.

“She said,” he decides at the last moment not to attempt an impression of the woman’s voice, “‘Your little girl is in good hands. Tell her mother not to worry.’”

Surprise flickers across Gwen’s face, morphing slowly into a thoughtful look as Thancred sits on the edge of the bed and starts on his boots. She’s probably trying to come up with a way to argue that she hadn’t looked that worried--when she definitely had.

Gwen says, a little carefully, “She thought we were her parents, you mean.”

Thancred opens his mouth to correct her and stops. “Your little girl is in good hands. Tell her mother not to worry.”

Your little girl. Yours.

She said ‘mother’ far more explicitly, but the implication that Ryne is his daughter --that he’s her father, and he and Gwen are her parents-- is still crystal clear.

It had gone completely over his head.

Thancred’s mind seizes up again. That aggravating pang --envy, he always knew it was but didn’t want to say so-- stretches tight and snaps, leaving him blinking dumbly at the undone latches on his boots.

That’s not the only thing she implied, is it? There are layers, though she probably hadn’t intended them.

His and Gwen’s relationship is the Scions’ worst kept secret, and people making assumptions is hardly groundbreaking. But none of that feels so strangely jarring as the implication that they had a child. That they were parents.

After five years apart and the rough patches they’ve been through, both old and new, that simple little assumption is… almost disorientingly heartening.

A cup taps against wood somewhere else, and then Gwen’s warm hand touches his arm. He lets her move it aside while he tries and fails to fit some sort of coherent thought through his mostly-immobile mind, struggling break the swell of soft sentimentality and half-formed thoughts down into simple logic and facts that he can file away like he always does.

He’s been called Ryne’s father far more directly at least a dozen times before, even though they hardly look alike.

Foster child, obviously.

So why is that mystel’s one little comment leaving him so winded?

Gwen’s leg presses against his and she tucks herself under his arm, wrapping her own around his waist. He leans on her, hoping to absorb some of her steadiness, or at least rely on her to hold him up while he devotes his energy towards getting his head back on straight.

There’s a small smile on her face when she rests her head on his shoulder, one that’s equal parts knowing and teasing. One that says she knew the implication had slipped his notice, subconsciously or otherwise, until she pointed it out and she finds his realization and reaction to be quite amusing.

Thancred knows he’s been sitting there dumbly for too long, but his thoughts are only just starting to come together again. At the very least he should get himself under control enough to muster up some suitably sarcastic comment about the look on Gwen’s face.

There’s a low, ominous moan from Ryne’s bed.

Gwen scrambles to help Ryne lean over the edge of the bed, nearly tripping over Thancred when he lunges for the wastebin

He can think about it all later, right now he has a job to do.

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

Still playing around with present tense, and tried to do less dialogue again along with more general vagueness.

I try too hard to be super crazy precise and accurate 100% of the time even when it doesn’t matter and general descriptions or implications would suffice @_@ (but they have to know the room is 6x10x10 so they can get the PERFECT PICTURE I’M TRYING TO CONVEY)

I think I did pretty good here!

*did a quick edit to fix the spacing, because tumblr decided double spaces between paragraphs should show up as a single space so the whole story turned into just one wall of text with no breaks -_-*

#FFXIVwrite2019 #Thancred Waters #Shadowbringers #Ryne #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred #Dadcred #My writing #foster family #overthinking things so much you miss half of the original thing #post-ShB

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

so in love with simple things (branjie) - holtzmanns

A late night snack excursion and running through the summer rain like nothing else matters, not really.

AN: Did I write this instead of applying for jobs like I should be doing? Yes. I regret nothing. For writ, who wanted some softness and instead got whatever this is. Thank you bean for betaing and being the best. Title from ‘Free Spirit’ by Khalid.

Vanessa’s sure that the grin on Brooke’s face, the one all spread across his features and crinkling at his eyes when he opens the door mirrors the one on his own.

“Hey,” Brooke says.

“Hey yourself.”

“What brings you here?” Brooke leans against the doorway, clad in sweats like every other single day on the road. At least he fucking bought a new pair - Vanessa had been ready to do it himself if Brooke hadn’t.

Vanessa shrugs at his question. “I’m hungry.”

He’s not that hungry. He just needs an excuse to spend time with him.

Brooke sees right through it, by the glint in his eye. Doesn’t care, apparently, as he grabs his wallet from the hotel room bedside table. Ignores the clock that reads 2:42 am.

“Snack run?”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about, bitch.”

It’s like they can read each other’s minds. Would this be considered a Nicholas Sparks movie moment? Probably not. But still. It’s nice.

Their hands brush each others’ as easy as breathing. It shouldn’t feel so natural, so simple, the way Brooke’s hand squeezes his as they cross at an empty intersection.

It’s like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has.

That’s for Vanessa to turn over in his mind another day. Not tonight, when they’re in a dingy 24-hour convenience store and grabbing stupidly sugary snacks that will definitely give both of them a headache.

Tour feels strangely easy, strangely right. Vanessa had thought that they’d be doing an intricate dance around each other the entire time, avoiding the feelings and pain and longing and fucking pining that he knows he’s been experiencing, at least.

But they’ve never been that way. Not ever.

Not after they first broke up, when they ended up back in each other’s beds after only a week. Not after their season premiered, when rare nights in hotel rooms felt like heaven. Not after the reunion, with their baggage and their hearts ripped clean open for the world to see, to comment on. Not when they sought comfort in each other, the only other person who could understand.

So, it makes sense. Touring and ending up beside each other on the bus, borrowing eyeshadow palettes and wigs and jewelry in the dressing room to wear a piece of the other. Hamming it up on stage for the screaming fans and laughing along because it’s a joke; it’s their schtick. Or so they let everyone think.

Vanessa looks at him when he thinks he’s not paying attention and sometimes he swears that he catches Brooke glimpsing his way, too.

He lets out a grunt while attempting to balance the bags in his grip as they walk back, filled with pop and chips and candy and all the shit that neither of them should be eating. Hell, they can pass it off to Silky and A’keria. It don’t matter. He looks up at Brooke, whose arms are similarly full. He’s already cracked open a Red Bull, and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he takes a sip is enough to make Vanessa want to look away.

The obnoxious neon glow of the hotel sign is visible from blocks away as they walk, a beacon that’s pulling them not only back to tour, but back to each other. It crackles under the dark sky, illuminating the street in purples and pinks as it blinks on and off, the bulbs from the 90s that sit inside close to burning out, never to be fixed again.

The only thing that shines brighter is the tendril of lightning that illuminates the sky, the crack of thunder following loud enough to make both of them jump, look at each other.

“We didn’t bring an umb-”

The rain falls hard and fast. “Shit!”

Vanessa’s yell makes Brooke cackle, grab onto his hand in response and tug on his arm, breaking into a run. Vanessa’s about to drop the bags but he doesn’t care, not when their shoes are soaked and their hair is wet and their clothes are sticking to their bodies like they just fucking rode Splash Mountain, cause it’s so much fun. It’s like he’s twelve again, when he ran home from the bus stop without the raincoat or umbrella that his ma has yelled to take with him that same morning.

Who needs protection from the rain, anyway? Not gonna kill you. Not like other things can.

He’s always loved it. Tampa’s humid as hell, the stuffiness of the air all heavy and moist but not quite refreshing. The occasional rain had always felt like a fucking cleanse back then, more so than showers ever did.

And now, as they reach the hotel in breathless laughter and shaky hands that can’t quite open the side door of the building with their keycards, he feels clean.

Brooke’s room comes before his, in the hallway. 407. His 412 lies ten steps farther, three doors down and on the other wall, facing Brooke’s. It feels ten steps too far.

Brooke pushes the key card into the door, gets the green light. Opens it. Doesn’t go in.

He turns towards Vanessa, instead, when the blast of air conditioner sends shivers through both of their bodies. Their soaked clothing now feels heavy, like cold sheets of ice that burn the skin.

“We can eat some of this stuff together?” Brooke phrases it like a question as he lifts a bag up, the tentativeness a contrast from him in the daytime. All self assured and unbothered and shit.

Vanessa feels the smile on his face. It’s obnoxious, really, the way Brooke’s strange quirks are so fucking endearing. At least, to him. No one else ever seems affected.

“Yeah sure, why not.” As if he wasn’t jumping on saying yes in the first place.

So Brooke holds the door open for Vanessa and he ducks under his arm as he enters, dropping the bags on the table. Brooke shakes out his soaking wet curls the way that Vanessa’s dog does, droplets peppering nearby surfaces. He then tugs off his shirt with complete disregard for Vanessa’s feelings, really, not noticing the way that Vanessa can’t keep his eyes from roaming along the ripple of his back muscles as he tosses the shirt on top of one of his suitcases.

Or maybe he does notice. Maybe he’s doing it on purpose.

Vanessa’s always been too weak to resist a response.

Brooke still has his sweatpants on when he turns to Vanessa, head cocked sideways just a little bit as he stands in the bathroom door. “You don’t want to stay all soaking from the rain, do you?”

“What are you playing at?” He’s gonna make Brooke spell it out. Doesn’t wanna assume shit the way he always does.

Brooke turns on the shower in response, looks at him with those stupid blue eyes as the bathroom mirror starts to steam up.

Oh, what the hell. Why not. It’s already almost three. Might as well get no sleep at all.

So he tugs off his shirt too, catches the way Brooke’s eyes linger.

Nice to know it’s not just him.

Well, he knows. But he needs the reassurance sometimes. That it’s not one sided.

From the way that Brooke tugs on his pants, his boxers, pulls him into the cramped shower, it can’t be.

Brooke dots his back with kisses in the shower, nips which will make his skin bloom into constellations by the next morning. He doesn’t have it in him right now to stop it from happening. Brooke is warm and thaws Vanessa from the inside out when he leans his head forward for a second, resting it on Vanessa’s shoulder.

Brooke tugs the shampoo bottle out of Vanessa’s hand when he goes to grab it, instead opening it himself and lathering up a bit in his hands. Vanessa can’t help but let out a noise when Brooke massages his scalp, fingers in soft circles through his hair that make him close his eyes and lean into the touch.

Vanessa grabs the bottle again when it’s his turn, building up bubbles in his hands but then Brooke is too fucking tall, he can’t reach. Skyscraper. He can’t help but pout when Brooke lets out a laugh, especially when going on his tiptoes doesn’t make him tall enough to reach the top of his hair either.

Brooke takes pity on him, leans against the wall and crouches down. Much better.

Brooke’s curls have darkened under the water, all weighed down and flopping on his forehead. Vanessa brushes them away from his eyes, watches Brooke let out a little hum as the bubbles roll down his shoulders, down his body, down the drain.

They have nights where they don’t talk, can’t talk about it. Where the only way they can get their messages across to each other is through quick fucks and bruising touches that leave ghostly imprints on their skin that they try and ignore in the morning. Those nights always leave Vanessa feeling worse off, trying to grasp at something that he feels is slipping out of his fingers, disappearing fast. He pushes extra hard during the performances that follow such nights, letting the resulting sore muscles and gasps for breath distract him, make him aware of sensations other than the one in his heart that won’t stop thinking about Brooke.

This night feels different. Maybe it’s because it’s nearly 4 am (thank fuck they don’t have a show the next day, nowhere to be, no call time) and they’re both holding back yawns while they dry off, but when they’re done and Brooke gestures to his bed, Vanessa follows.

Neither of them stay the night, most of the time. It’s easier that way, helps to separate the satisfaction of their physical needs from the cracks in their hearts that so desperately want to be fixed. But climbing into Brooke’s bed, curling into his side when an arm is wrapped around his torso feels so fucking easy, snacks long forgotten on the table. Makes him wonder why they haven’t been doing it the whole time, broken hearts be damned.

Vanessa feels the rise and fall of Brooke’s chest underneath his fingers, the way that it grows deeper with every breath. It matches his own, the synchronicity making it feel like they’re on the same wavelength, for once.

It feels right. Like where they should have been the whole time.

He’s not sure if he’s dreaming when he feels the ghost of a kiss brush against the top of his head - could be his own mind making things up, not that he’d admit how much he wants it to be real. But then Brooke’s arm around him squeezes his side gently, pulls him in closer until they’re both defrosting the icicles that have been lanced through both of their chests.

Maybe it’s the late time (fucking crack of dawn), the exhaustion from travelling between cities and not staying long enough to remember their names. But falling asleep with Brooke’s arm around him, legs slotted between his like gears that fit together perfectly makes his heart calm down, feel safe. Feel appreciated.

Feel loved.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #s11 tour #canon compliant #fluff #not really angst #holtzmanns

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a-shakespearean-in-paris · 4 years

Text

Enchanter Come to Me

When Cullen comes to the Tavern one night, Lydia dances and enchants, hoping he will come to her even if she knows he won’t. She hopes to tell him something, something important, though the night may offer more than she initially thought.

Cullen x Lydia Trevelyan, about 4,000 words. Smut. NSFW. There is some serious lemonade making in this. The piece also talks about his past in Kirkwall, with some first times, oral sex, and sexually confident, lightly dominant Cullen. (With more in the next chapter.) This is part one of two :)

READ ON A03

He’s here.

The Commander doesn’t often habit the Herald’s Rest, so his presence draws attention from many men and women alike. When Lydia first sees him enter she also sees the rush of soldiers rising from the tables with their mead. So sorry Commander, reporting for duty at once sir, yes sir! Cullen, mildly amused, assures them that they are off duty and it’s alright. He’s off duty himself.

He’s never off-duty, Lydia thinks to herself, but indeed he doesn’t wear his armor or mantle—thank the Maker—but a simple red tunic with breeches. He takes a seat by Captain Rylen, one of the only people who can crack his professional façade and make him laugh. Except, of course, for her. Once. Mildly embroiled with a thing often called jealousy, she watches Cullen laugh at something Rylen says.

Once, he laughed at her ridiculous quips that she always used to offer to Josephine when it came to the visiting Orlesian nobles, and when they played chess not too long ago in the garden, she saw him smiling from the corner of her eye at her concentrated face before eventually giving up and giggling. He was patient with her novice chess skills, and she’s certain he let her win. He may be obstinate, but he is kind. He always used to ask if she’s alright, if she’s holding up. We asked so much of you, he said once. And when never wondered if you were alright. From Haven, he found her in the snow and carried her home.

She knows. He’ll never talk to her again.

She knows that, so she doesn’t bother. So, unbothered, when the band begins to play, she’s nudges Sera next to her for a dance, making sure she’s in his line of sight. To the gentle beat of the drum and lute, their hands linked, they make time to the music. She’s thankful for her choice in outfit, as she wears a blue gathered skirt that dances with her, and as she quickens her pace her sleeves drop from her shoulders and her brown hair falls from it’s bun. She’s painted her lips red as well—a favorite shade of blue-toned red that matches both her vibrant blue eyes and light brown skin. When Sera lets go, tired, she finds herself next to Dorian, and he laughs and they dance together. From one companion to the next—Bull, Krem, Cassandra even with some goading after a noise of disgust—Lydia dances. They clap for her, her people who have given their lives for her cause without truly knowing her, but at least on this night, they know she loves to dance. Indeed, she dances with one after the other learning their names—Bevel, Ophelia, Connor, Falia, all until she’s in the arms of a scout named Jim. He can’t move, he’s blocky and his starstruck attitude prevent the concentration he needs in his footwork, but Lydia laughs it off and promises he’s doing well.

“Your ladyship,” he says, far too excited as Lydia is forced to take the lead, “your hair smells like jasmine.”

“My perfume,” she says, the two of them heading into a corner next to the bar. “Oh…please don’t, you’re going to step on my foot…oh I think you should practice more…”

“Pardon. Allow me.”

Jim says it before Lydia can, “oh, Commander, of course,” and wordlessly Lydia take’s Cullen’s hand—his ungloved hand—and he pulls her into his frame just as Maryden begins to sing “Enchanter.” Before she can think this isn’t happening, as she was convinced he wouldn’t speak to her again, she smells the elderflower and oakmoss from his shirt, (a trick his mother taught him to keep clothes fresh, he confided once.) she knows it’s real. It’s him. He has her in his arms.

“I’m afraid I can’t dance,” he says, self-deprecatingly so, and she lets him pull her closer, to where she can feel his beating heart. He’s somewhat right—he’s unsure of his footwork and where he should take them on the floor, but he holds onto her hand, the other on the small of her back, and he keeps his eyes on her, even as the music changes to a softer, melodic lute.

“You’re not bad,” she compliments, a small offering of peace after his own offering. Of course they’ve been pleasant to one another in the War Room or when she comes to his office to discuss the Red Templars, but not since she spoke to him in the garden have they spoken as acquaintances, friends, more.

He thanks her with the slightest of blushes, and they sway together, his heartbeat never truly easing as Maryden sings, enchanter come to me. She apologized in the war room hours after their confrontation, Leliana of all people inspiring her. (“I know you are frustrated. I am too. But…he has been through so much he’d rather forget. Sometimes I think he looks at me and remembers. He cares for his soldiers, and the Inquisition. I believe now is what matters.”) After her apology, he said it was “forgotten,” if not forgiven before he moved on to the Red Templars. He was too business-like after, too cold, and he must have seen how her heart ached.

But she did it all herself. He had such warmth before when he spoke to her. Smiled at her, rare for him, and he wasn’t beyond light teasing when they played chess together. After she confronted him, he erected an icy wall that only cracked after her apology. Even now as they dance, even as his eyes remain fixated on her lips and her eyes, she knows. He doesn’t want to be hurt again.

But why is he dancing with her? Why did he take her into his arms?

The questions ignite a fire, and she can’t take it anymore. “Cullen,” she says, “May we speak elsewhere?”

She plans on speaking outside the tavern, but it’s crowded with soldiers watching a friendly sparring match and she knows she can’t do it there. Before when she confronted him it was in the garden, and she was fully aware that a crowd gathered to watch the Inquisitor’s tongue lashing at the Commander. Inside the hall, she thinks, , but there are people there as well, visiting nobles from Orlais and Ferelden both that she will not let into her world. With no other option, she suggests, “My room?”

There’s apprehension. “is it proper?” he asks, but she assures she wants private, and when Josephine hired only the master masons for Skyhold’s repairs, she asked the Inquisitor’s chamber be just that, a private oasis.

“It’s practically the size of my old quarters that I used to share in the Circle,” Lydia says. “And there’s a fire going. It’ll be warm.”

Still apprehensive, he none the less agrees and follows her up the stairs and into her room. Once inside, she remembers the decanter of sweet wine she swiped from the kitchens with permission from the cook Emmaline (“You need a treat,” she said, one of the few who ever said such thing to her_ and pours both herself and Cullen a glass in a silver goblet. As she heads over and hands him the wine, she decides to crack the unease by way of light jokes, prattling on about actually seeing him out of his armor and mantle. Not only that, but he isn’t working. Surely now griffons will fly across Skyhold. He smirks. “I saw Cole before coming to the Tavern” he says. “He told me he didn’t know the armor came off.”

“Wasn’t sure if I did either.”

He grins. “Well. As you can see….”

Certainly, she sees. His burgundy shirt is open at the collar, the briefest bit of golden hair peeking through. The mantle and heavy plates have hidden his physic, she sees. His arms, forearms and shoulders are broad, typical of many Ferelden men she has met. However, it is his bare hands that she is drawn to. She’s so used to his brown gloves that his bare hands seem too intimate. They too are broad, and his fingers long. There are scratches here and there, but they only make them look more lived.

She offers him to sit on the throw rug near the fire, and he does as Lydia readjusts her gathered blue skirt, setting her wine down on the stone floor next to the furred rug. “Cozy,” he comments, and she agrees. She tells him there is always a fire in her room when she comes home, curtesy of too many kind people who take care of her in that way.

But as she talks more of her room, the blue curtains and blue bed sheets, the four poster from the Marches, and the majestic view outside the open window, she realizes she’s stalling. She has to say what she wants to say. He deserves it.

“Cullen,” she begins, thinking of that life, what he has done and what he will continue to do, not before, because he’s given her no reason to think otherwise. “I wanted to tell you again.”

She observes his face. His amber eyes are trailed to her, kind, but they don’t forget.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, words meaningless, but offering them anyway. “When Hawke told me about Kirkwall and the things that happened, I shouldn’t have asked you like I did.”

He sighs. “Inquisitor—”

“I know I already apologized. But things haven’t been the same between us. I thought we were friends. And...” Her cheeks turn hot. “I ruined it didn’t I?”

“No.”

She feels as though he has inched closer to her, his fingers mere centimeters away from hers. “I wanted to tell you. I planned on it—first thing I was going to do when you came back from Crestwood,” he said. “Truly, I wanted to tell you for so long. But I was worried you’d…think less of me.”

She thought about it for a long time after Hawke told her the truth about him in Crestwood, that it took him ten years to see through Meredith, and he thought less of mages during those ten years. But she never saw that when he was with her, when they talked and laugh. She saw a man who worked too hard to keep his men safe, who poured over reports and missives for hours, and who respected her, a mage. He defended her to Roderick in Haven, after he called her mage, infidel. He respected her. Talking with him, she felt her titles strip away until she was only a woman, only Lydia. In turn, he was her Commander, he was Cullen.

The past mattered, but the present mattered the most.

“Inquisitor—”

“Please, call me Lydia,” she says. “You called me Lydia after you found me in the snow and you carried me home, but you haven’t since. Please.”

He looks into her eyes, the fire crackling. So she pleads once more, “forgive me please.” Then, she adds, “I was wrong before in the garden. You’re not a coward. I should have never called you that.”

“But I was once,” he says with a long, defeated sigh. “I couldn’t see. I was blinded by rage. But I should have seen through Meredith sooner, known I was complicit. Lydia…” He looks away from her eyes, toward the fire. “I…I understand if don’t want anything more than friendship, or even if you don’t want that. I shouldn’t have come to the tavern, but I thought…”

“I liked your hands on me Cullen.”

He meets her eyes, though she is the one that inches closer. “Forgive me,” she beseeches again.

She can’t help but notice how he looks at her painted lips. “Forgiven,” he mutters. “But, forgive me. Not for my past. I know you can’t, no one can. But forgive me for not telling you sooner. I was too afraid you wouldn’t…” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t think you would want me.”

That was something that hurt, she realized moments after she called him a coward and saw his face. She did still want, because she knew who he was then. Her commander, Cullen. It took nearly loosing him to find out, and that hurt most of all.

“From now on, tell me everything,” she whispers. “And I’ll do the same.”

“I can’t stop thinking of you.”

She stares, her heart beating quickly. She has a river of thoughts but she cannot speak, and when he mistakes her silence, he rises from the rug, hurt again.

And Maker she doesn’t want him hurt again.

“I should go,” he says. “I’ve taken too much of your time. I—”

“No.”

She rises and grabs his shoulder. He stops. She knows, she tells him. She has known. She senses it every time before when they were together, knew it when he saw his face fall after she called him a coward in the garden. And she keeps her vow, by telling him the same. She can’t stop thinking of him.

“You knew I’d be there tonight,” she says. “You wanted me in your arms. You came for me.”

The enchanter she was, she came to him too.

He nods. Her hand finding his, he pulls it into his. It is her marked hand he holds. She feels as though she should pull away, and yet his amber eyes speak a different tale. He will not harm her, he will not turn away. And then he presses his lips to her palm, against her mark. One, and then another. Desperate kisses, anguished kisses, kisses that say I need you.

They’re in each other’s arms, and fingers twist through his hair, his hands splayed against her back. He kisses with his whole being, pours every ounce of his soul as he captures her bottom lip and she answers in turn. They pull away, but not completely, their foreheads pressed together.

“Don’t go,” she pleads.

“If I stay longer, people will talk.”

“You care about that?”

She feels his smile against her. “No.”

“Then stay.”

“It’s too soon to stay,” he mutters, though she can see that veneer of a blushing gentleman is disappearing with each gentle rock of her hip against his. He’s hard, already.

It’s thrilling.

“Too soon,” he says again. “Lydia…?”

“Why?”

The question flummoxes him. His bare hand caresses her cheek, warm and gentle.

She reminds him of their recent promise.

“I’ve thought of you since I saw you,” he answers, needy, hungrily. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you since I saw you by the rift. But…you’re the Inquisitor. We’re at war, and you haven’t always seen me in the best light.”

“I don’t care. I want us to be together.”

She speaks it with such desperation, but she knows it’s true for him. She can feel his want pressed against her.

“Lydia…”

“We don’t have to. I understand. Maybe it’s too fast or it’s not proper, but—”

Words she means to say fly away. She loses herself in the tangle of arms and lips, and when he says, “fuck what’s proper,” she soars, she dances, she is, and she exists as a nothing but wanted and hungry woman in the arms of her lover until they are standing at the edge of her bed. She’s not the Inquisitor, she’s Cullen’s lover. The word ignites her, lover. Has she thought of herself, what she had needed during this time? Has he? Fuck the world at war. In her room, they can be each other’s.

Indeed, they dance like they did earlier, but with entirely different steps as they touch, kiss, feel as she leads them backwards to her bed. “Fuck what’s proper,” she says, mirroring his words. “Be rough.”

The words alight him, and yet even though he holds her, she can feel a wall between them erecting.

“Are you sure? Now?” he asks.

“Maker, yes,” she replies.

“We don’t have to. We can be slow.”

“We’ve talked as friends, we’ve argued, we’re back again, here. Cullen, Knight-Captain, Commander, when you were in Kirkwall, did you think of what you wanted? Were you selfish?”

He shakes his head. “Be rough,” she says, “be greedy. Tell me what to do and what you want. I have everything to give.”

“Let me give it back.”

Her fingers twist in his shirt. “Do you know what it’s like, to be the Inquisitor? I’m not a woman to these people…I’m not Lydia. I’m a symbol. I don’t want that with you. I want to be wanted, desired, tasted.” She holds him, and whispers in his ear, “I want it from you.”

“I…I’m scarred,” he tells her, as if he’s ashamed. “You’ll see and—"

She holds his face in her hands, kisses his forehead before he can finish. “I don’t care. I want to see.”

“Lydia—”

She unbuttons her shirt, assuring him it’s alright when he asks what she’s doing. It flutters to the floor, and she gulps before she reaches behind her and tugs down at her breast band. With her breasts free, she lets him see. It’s a jagged scar across her chest, pink from where it healed, and barely touching her left breast. He stares with awe, he stares with something else in his eyes.

“A templar.” she says. “When the Circles fell, I tried to go back home. Ironically, I got this when I was trying to go back to the Circle.”

His fingers lightly ghost over the pinkish mark, against the valley between her breasts, but carefully avoiding them, for now. He traces lightly before he places his hands over her bare hips, and he kisses the mark, grazing his lips over her skin. Her hand wraps around his hair, mussing the waves into curls, keeping him there until he rises to kiss her. They fall against the bed, his body pressed flush against hers. He only pauses his ministrations to kick off his boots, and Lydia does the same, tossing off her flat shoes with a dull thud to the floor. She tosses off her skirt, Cullen helping her until the only thing covering her body is her undergarment. He though, is still covered. When her hands reach to remedy that, he helps her.

She wants to see. She rises when his shirt is gone, skimming his hands over his shoulders and the blonde hair on his chest, kissing the reddish burns from fire, the marks from swords, and then finally, the scar across his lip, rough yet smooth underneath her darting tongue. Their lips meet again, and she settles against the pillows, his body acting as her blanket. He mutters words of how sweet her kisses are, how beautiful she is, and then he grows lewder. He never imagined he’d get to feel her, never thought he’d bury himself inside her.

“More,” she urges, enflamed. “Tell me what you want.”

“Put your hands over your head.”

She obeys with ardor, and his hands skim against her arms, lips following where he touched. He nips her chin and then his warm mouth is over her neck, and even in places where she never thought there should be kisses—underneath her arms, underneath her breasts. He kisses again that scar before he palms her breasts, pinches her nipples lightly and makes her cry out.

“Be loud,” he instructs, husky and low, and slipping her undergarments down. “I have everything to give you.”

He does. He peeks from between her thighs as his tongue darts against her inner thighs. He licks her clit once, and then again before using the pad of his thumb. She could never pleasure herself the way he pleasures her—her hands are too delicate, too unlived. His are strong, and she grabs the other as he slips a finger inside, moves in and out until her thighs quake around him. She shudders with the bliss that his tongue brought, and Maker, he laps her arousal, he kisses her with his arousal still on his lips and tongue.

She could spend the night kissing him, and kissing him only, her hands wrapped around his cheeks, the way he poured his whole being into each press. And yet he rocks against her, and she instinctively allows her hand to travel. He gasps when she caresses his clothed cock, allows her to help him take the off his breeches. He’s warm against the juncture of her thigh, straining as he moves against her thigh to abate himself somewhat.

He looks at her in the eye, breathing heavily and pupils blown wide. She nods. She thinks he meant to be slow, but she’s warm and welcoming from the art of his hands and mouth, and she did tell him, rough. He obeys, as he’s inside all at once, filling her to the brim.

She meant not to cry out, and she succeeded, but her face betrayed her.

“Lydia,” he breathes, exasperated, cradling her face head in his hands, “you’re a virgin.”

A man…Cullen is inside her. That alone thrills. “Not anymore,” she assures.

“I should have known. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says with a smile, moved by his concern. “I wanted you.”

“Does it hurt?”

He’s remained inside her during their dialogue, and though it never truly hurt—it was more an adjustment to the feel of him inside, a slight burn at the stretch. She shakes her head, and she gasps as he moves, holding onto his arms, squeezing the sinews. She throws her head against the pillow and he rewards her with reverent kisses against her neck and collar, and then again to her lips, catching her sighs of delight.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks as he moves, grounds her to the bed, centers her world from the Inquisition to only the two of them.

“I didn’t want you gentle.”

“I’d prefer to make love to you, not fuck. There’s a difference.”

She plants her feet against the bed. “Oh. Have you fucked before then?”

He smirks, a silent, now Lydia, truly? And she knows the answer. It doesn’t matter, she absolves, as they belong to the moment.

The moment continues, her Commander wrapped in a bliss she’s never seen from him before. “Wrap your legs around me,” he asks, and when she does, she angles her hips just so, to where his feel is deeper, more intense. He asks her to touch herself, he won’t last much longer, and she obeys, sticking her hand between them and rubbing her clit before he decides he’d rather his hand there. He stimulates inside and outside, an intoxicating duet, and her second orgasm comes again with fervor and heat, a rush. She falls when he pulls out, mourns the loss of his cock, but the feelings are brief. His earlier action inspires her to slap his hand away, bring him his end with her hand. Flushed, illuminated by the fire, hair in disarray, golden, and at her mercy, his moan as like music, and he spills onto her belly. A moment and a lifetime together, both ended too soon.

And yet she feels deliciously satisfied, and wanted. Loved.

Her heart still races as his hand rummages through the bedside table, finding a cloth. He lays by her side to clean his spent, and she can’t help but blush—though she obviously knows why he pulled out, she never thought of a man’s seed on her skin before. Romance novels often didn’t touch on that, or the sweat, or the moments between when they re-adjusted positions and spoke. Lydia finds she prefers it their way to the novels.

Eventually, their eyes find each other, and his smile is radiant. He leans by her side and that kiss is the sweetest.

“Don’t you dare talk of going now,” she says to him. “Stay.”

Enchanted, spellbound, he says he will. And she asks again, because she finds she must, do you forgive me?

“You ask me after I’ve been inside you?” he asks, holding back a chuckle. “Lydia, dear. Yes.”

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and she tells him that the man she is with now, she likes what she sees in more ways than one. He boyishly admits he’s glad of it, also in more ways than one.

“Golden lion,” she mutters. “Beautiful, radiant man.”

“Lion?” he repeats, amused. “Maker…”

She doesn’t ask if that makes her a lioness. Rather, she calls herself an enchanter, and she casts a spell on him, so the night can stretch longer than the hours it usually lasts.

“It’s not over yet,” he tells her.

“No. But I want you to sleep. I have you now not working, so please sleep while you’re here with me. You deserve it. Darling.”

Darling. She likes calling him that, and indeed he has the softest of smiles on his lips as she wraps a blanket around them, kissing his forehead after. Truly, it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep, and he falls asleep. When he’s asleep, she promises him what she’ll promise come morning: she’ll never hurt him again.

She knows, without a doubt, that the same is true for him.

A/N thanks for reading! If you are familiar with my long fic in Waking Dreams things operate differently there, but I was inspired to explore a different way to write their coming together. thank you for reading!

#Cullen rutherford #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x trevelyan #cullen fic #lemons #SMUT #smuttty smut smut smut #will put on a03 tomorrow #also Lydia is in my profile and mobile sidebar #:)#lemonade

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