#runes were meant for carving! carving into surfaces like wood and rock

[lowstakesvampires]

the immortal norseman

[starres-stuff]

FFXIV Writes 2023 | Day 28 | Blunt

Dimitri touches the magic that had been lost to him for so long and creates his gift for Laurent.

“Are you there now?”

The voice poured through the linkpearl that Dimitri wore, giving him a bit of a shiver as it often did when he heard sounds through it. This time it was Vi on the other end.

“Yes, I am to the place that I wanted to go.” He replied as he settled down on the rock and looked out over the crystal-clean water that pooled at the bottom of the small waterfall. Everything else around him was either rock or tree. It was the perfect spot.

“Good now take the item or items you chose from the bag and put them in your dominant hand. Get a feel for the object or objects that you hold. Let me know when you can feel them.”

From his pocket, the Sharlayan brought forth the small bag that he had put the items in. First was a Triskele that had been carved into a small river rock then a black wax had been used to fill the outline of the carving. It was a symbol familiar to him, one that he wondered if it had its origins in Old Sharlayan back before it became such a built-up city. The symbol as he had seen it in the archives meant motion, progress, and energy, things that were very important to the Sharlayan way of life.

Then there was a piece of cedar wood cut from a fallen branch in the shroud and shaped into a small disc. How it got separated from the other discs left Dimitri curious as there was normally a set of twenty-four. It was so perfectly shaped and so beautifully detailed that it was hard to believe one could just go missing. It was said in the old days of Dalmasca there were those there who could use the symbol to create all sorts of things. Rune Knights, he had heard them called Mystic Knights. There was also talk among the Gleaners of Skatay Ridge, the Veena that had come to work for the Sharlayans over the years that there were tribal elders who knew the magic of the Runes. The Rune that Dimitri had chosen was called Algiz by the Veena. It was said to be the symbol of divine blessing, the splayed hand. From this blessing protection and defense were drawn.

The final piece resting in his hand was a garnet heart. It was such a beautiful shade of red that it looked to be alive and pulsing. The jeweler who had once made it had tumbled it to the point that one could see themselves in the glittering surface and the heart shape seemed to be natural. The Shroud Witches believed that garnet was an item of protection, abundance, grounding, and manifestation. He had first seen the stone on his Sister, in a brooch that she often wore when she traveled and he had done his research on it.

“I have them, Vi. They feel like tiny spirits in the palm of my hands.” Up his eyes looked then to the Moon, it was just a few days from the Harvest Moon and he could feel the seasons beginning to change around him. It was such a clear night that he could feel many things, even those that lurked in the wood and watched him now seemed to show themselves to some heightened sense that had emerged from within him.

“Good now, I want you to close your eyes, and hold them in the palm of both hands together. I want you to see the hands like a bowl that is receiving Aether.”

Her voice was so soothing, at first he had been nervous about her working remotely with him but she felt that it was best for she was just a distraction and she did not wish to muddle her own Aether with his while he attempted to create the charm. Oddly enough just listening to her speak, the accent she carried was a perfect blend of Shroud Speech and Formal Ishgardian tongue, he felt more sure of himself than he should have about this sort of thing.

Following her instructions he brought up his other hand and placed it against his first letting the objects roll into the very center and stay there bathing in the moonlight that poured from above his head, the silvery glow seeming to change the landscape around him to the point that it all looked ethereal to him now. He was actually concerned that he would get swept away if he was not careful. “I-I see something, the Shroud is glowing? There is energy everywhere all around me. I used to see this when I would paint, when I was younger before I was told it was wrong.”

“Yes, good. I want you to focus on that. Imagine the heavens above you, the light streaming down to touch the very top of your head, feel it touch you, and as you open to it think of Laurent. I mean really think of him Dimitri of all the things he is to you. Get a clear image of him in your mind.”

It was such a strange thing, the feeling of touching magic. He had such brief memories of it from when he was younger before it was tucked away into a part of his mind that was closed off to the rest of him. Everything seemed so much grayer after that like the Star had just lost its sparkle and further away it got from him as the cycles progressed on. The first time he had felt it again was standing in a storm on the beach in Limsa with Laurent. They had gotten into an argument that night, over an event in Laurent’s past. An event that involved Viviane and Dimitri felt like giving up. Laurent had led him away from the water as the lightning began to fall around them. He could feel the lightning as if he had summoned it himself, the very core of his being hummed with it and he found himself wishing them safe from the storm. In his mind, a dome rested over them. They made it out of that storm safely and still together. That was the night he knew he was in love.

This wasn’t what he loved most about his Partner, however, no what he loved was the bluntness the Wailer used in living his life. He was often a man of few words, yet you could see his greater passions by just watching him as he worked. There was such care in all he did, especially as he traversed the Shroud. In many ways, Dimitri saw Laurent as being married to the woods for there was no greater love that the man held in his heart of hearts and Dimitri was comfortable with being second to that love. He called the night they met on the road. He had been wandering aimlessly when the Wailer found him, on the edge of delirious from lack of food, water, and sleep. They could barely tolerate each other at first, Laurent’s mannerisms and rough words had caused Dimitri to bristle. When the ordeal was over, however, he found admiration for the man for every word he had spoken from the moment they met was true, harsh or not.

Through him the Aether began to course, it felt like water rushing into a vessel, filling it slowly but fully until it would eventually reach the top. The more he thought of Laurent the easier it became to let the energy in, that admiration growing into inspiration as the minutes passed. That inspiration was to be bold, be blunt. Not let others talk over him or tell him how to live his life. Through his time with the Wailer, he had begun to learn what it meant to be an individual and not part of the collective of minds.

“I can see him, Vi, in my mind. All the things we have done so far, and the things I have learned from him. I can see his strengths, and his weaknesses but most of all I can see how uncompromisingly forthright he is in the way he lives his life. I can see how it inspires me to do the same. To fit no one's mold, to use my tongue as it was intended and not soften its blows to make anyone happy.” There was such excitement in his voice as he spoke, his entire body hummed with the aether that flooded him. He felt dizzy and giddy at the same time like he could float into the air and hover there looking down on the Star below, There was the sensation of the animals of the woods lending their hearts to him, the branches holding him in their limbs and the ground supporting his weight so he did not fall.

“Good, now I want you to focus on the items you hold. Put your feelings there, your beliefs, even your admiration. Lay down your blessing, ask the Twelve to protect him in his journeys whatever you feel in your heart needs to be done. Magic is different for each of us Dimitri, you must find your own way to yours.”

This time when there was silence, there was the faint click of the pearl turning off. At first, he started to panic. She left him like this, left him to fend for himself he didn’t know what he was doing! Then he remembered Laurent, remembered that blunt tongue. That passion that fueled the Wailer, the way he seized the day no matter what that day was made of and the fear began to fall away.

“Nophica protect your child.” He found himself saying in a demanding tone. “He serves you diligently and without fail. He protects your woods and your people. You must do the same in return.” At first, he thought he heard the crack of lightning above his head, but there was no light nor rain, just still darkness enveloped by a canopy of Stars. The same Stars Laurent looked up at tonight. “He has given his life to you! Give your blessing in return.” The crack came again along with the splintering of wood. The light that had washed over him and emboldened him to face his fears suddenly dispersed leaving him to think that he had failed, that was until he gained his senses again and gazed into his palm where his offers had sat. What was once three had become one and that one had taken on the spring leaf symbol often seen around Gridania.

“Vi it worked,” he whispered into his linkpearl forgetting she was gone, his eyes were wide and his breath shallow. Had he truly summoned the Goddess to him? Or was this some illusion caused by the Jienuex magic? He almost didn’t know what to believe but there was the proof right in his hand. A smooth garnet rune with Nophica's symbol on it and in that moment he did not care what anyone thought. It was what he believed it was. To him, it was the charm that would protect his Laurent from harm the rest of the Star could fuck off this night.

[newmorenograd]

Lyosha took stock of what dignity he had left. All told, it wasn’t much.

He wasn’t shackled. But there were four Iscan guards with their rifles trained on him, which was just about the same thing.

They had put him in the best uniform the Witch Corps had to offer, but even the best uniform in the Witch Corps had spent 11 years being dragged through blood, sweat, and muck, and looked like it. There was a bullet hole above the right pocket where the coat’s previous owner had met their end, and there were spell burns at the hem. Lyosha felt like a drab moth lost in all the foreign palace’s decadent color.

These cold-blooded fishes were fond of gilt and jewels. His current prison was just an antechamber to the throne room, and yet every surface glittered. There were glinting runes pressed into frames of the military portraits that hung on the walls of the eight-sided room, and into the bases of the lights too, silver and gold writing a language he could never hope to understand. It was mesmerizing for someone from Rat country where carved wood and thread was as much decoration as anybody needed. Even the cats in Krovia did not have this much excess on display; say what you want about them but at least they kept their dogs in kennels.

His uniform hid the seal they had inscribed into his neck that kept his power tied close to his bones, tight and coiled and ready to drop like the pin on a rifle. No doubt they would force him to wear Iscan clothes — low-cut tunics, water tones — but at least for a few minutes he could still appear to be what he once was: Voronin, the Crow, the Carrion Eater, the Death Omen.

But the truth was they had stripped him of his names. For without magik he was not Voronin. And without the dirt of his nation under his nails, how could he be Rodinovich, son of the soil?

On the long ride up to the palace, Ambassador Juliya Fydorovna had turned to him.

“In this country, they only have one name. You will be Aleksey and Aleksey only, do you understand?”

So they had taken even Lyosha away from him.

He had nodded in acceptance because he understood duty. He had served his country faithfully in war, and he would do so in defeat too. And this unnaming, this additional kick in the balls, was just another reminder of what they expected from him. He would serve, nameless and powerless, even if he hated what they asked.

Still he could not force himself to make eye contact with the paintings of fish kings and their many victories on the wall, or the golden saints set into niches in the wall, or even with Fydorovna and Utkin who had brought him here and were nominally his comrades. He looked only at his scuffed boots and the sea-bright carpet, which lay beneath them like a fragment of river captured in wool.

He was not sure what the signal was, but there must have been one for suddenly Utkin was pulling him to his feet and pushing him out the door. Still he did not look up. His boots were joined by Fydorovna’s gold-spurred heels. Somebody — perhaps Yulya herself — had thought to carve tiny human livers into the gold. Lyosha wondered if he was the only one who had ever noticed them before — a whispered hint of what animal she truly was.

He looked at those tiny human livers while Utkin pushed him down to his knees on the pooling river of the dais carpet. He did not want to — would not — look up into the eyes of the Asfornholt king and the Asfornholt boy.

Fydorovna was speaking, and Lyosha could barely understand a word. She may have been cut from Krovian rock but she spoke with fishes well enough. He recognized his name — his full one, Aleksey Rodinovich Voronin. He recognized other words that were his, Carrion Eater or something similar; he had heard soldiers yelling it out in their strange toneless language, warning others that he came near. A war rat had no need to understand what other war rats were saying; they could eat each other well enough without it.

None of this made sense at all. He knew, in the manner one knows supply lines and troop movements and one’s own men, why they had lost. But he had not believed it would ever happen. Krovia was old. Magik ran in the red Krovi rock that served as its veins. Maria Morenovna had raised the old capital to the specifications of War herself. Lyosha had danced death into the world each day knowing deep in his bones that an army of rats would never lose to cold-blooded fishes with pale eyes and no witches at all.

He did not understand why he was kneeling here, in the throne room, like he was a dog about to be given to a new master. He was a dog — a hound of the state — but that was besides the point. He had never thought that a master who had put so much training into him would barter him away.

The conversation lulled and suddenly Lyosha could sense not only the eyes of the full court on him but the eyes of the royals as well. Perhaps he was expected to say something.

He looked slowly. The king was sitting on his throne, ensconced by jewels and icons of their gods. The prince was standing before him, one step down, with an expression like ice refusing to melt in mid-summer. He looked unhappy. He looked pale and fragile. Lyosha could snap him in half even without magik.

If he did, the Iscan guards with their rifles would shoot him dead in seconds. He did not want to die. He wished he could do his duty without having to kneel before the victors.

He swallowed all his hate for Isca and for the fish king’s family into his mouth and he spat, “the Three Ninths Kingdom will live forever in my blood.”

Utkin kicked him in the side. His steel-capped boots connected with a rib. Lyosha grimaced but he did not flinch. It would not be the first time he had broken that particular bone. He was very good at not flinching. If you were a commander of men you could never flinch.

“Be good, Vovochka,” the ambassador said with a condescending lilt. Lyosha almost laughed. Calling him Vovochka was almost admitting he wouldn’t be good — Vovochka in the legend certainly never was.

The ambassador smirked at the prince and answered a question Lyosha had been in too much pain to hear. Lyosha turned to watch the prince’s reaction. He looked like he’d never seen a real soldier in his life. He looked a little like he might puke, like a green cat recruit on his first day in the killing field with the rats.

“Get him up,” the ambassador barked to Utkin. She spoke in Rat so that Lyosha could know what was coming. Utkin got one hand around his back and pulled upward; Lyosha did nothing to help. That was petty — Utkin was a good couple inches shorter than him and, after supporting Lyosha’s weight, he would hurt in the morning. Revenge came in small, cold bites.

The prince was before him now. Lyosha had to look at him. The man’s eyes were light, not the winter pale that light eyes were in the Tsardom, but summer green like forests at their most lush. They said the devil made the forest. They said he filled it full of danger.

“Going to give me another scar?” Lyosha asked, voice full of venom. He had more than one of course, but he would never need another. The fish soldier who had caught him across the face with a bayonet at the Battle for Mama Vogg had seen to that. “Or do you just want to look at what a bad job your witch-killers did?”

The fish king said something and the court laughed. They laughed with the king but they laughed at Lyosha’s predicament. A crow stripped of his feathers must have been funny to a court of people who had only known scales.

The prince did not laugh. He was looking at Lyosha like one looks at a sharpened axe. Lyosha supposed that if you had never seen combat, having a war dog on a leash might make you seem like you were in control. He supposed that, as a kept decoration, he was meant to allude to unknown depths of power.

He wondered if the prince had any of those.

The prince opened his mouth and Lyosha almost laughed when what came from it was Krovian and not Iscan. It was a funny and antique sort of Krovian, like Cat but even more stilted. The words were obviously meant for Lyosha but he could not understand them at all.

“You’ll have to be cruder than that if you want me to understand,” Lyosha said to him. There was no venom in that; it was it a fact. Lyosha could neither read nor write anything but the Soldier’s 300; it was more likely he spontaneously learn to fly than he would ever learn Iscan to this pompous bastard’s standards.

There was some fluttering of words, like the sound of birds taking flight, that Lyosha did not understand and did not want to. The result was that the prince stepped away to receive a low wooden box inset with abalone shell. He opened and produced a heavy golden ring. It was ugly as the devil’s ass, but Lyosha didn’t know what else he had expected.

This time Utkin translated for him. The prince wanted him to turn and kneel. Lyosha did so without argument. He knew what was coming. He was to be collared like a hound in front of all these jewel-bright people.

Perhaps the prince was not thinking of it that way — a collar for the married was an Iscan custom, so surely it had some desirable meaning — but Lyosha’s mind could not move beyond its resemblance to a shackle.

He felt it click around his neck. Its gold-plated surface was cold and heavy. He swallowed, and it shifted with the movement of his throat. He would never be free again. If he was a good dog and did as he was bidden, he would live out the rest of his days on a golden leash in the palace of his conquerors. If he was not good, if he followed the implicit order he had been given and killed the prince and the king, danced death into their lives, then he would be shot dead where he stood. He would live a captive or die a martyr.

All he had ever wanted to be was a good soldier. All he had ever wanted to was survive.

He sat with his head bowed for a long moment and thought. In Krovia you were married the moment the marriage price was paid and you exchanged your tokens with your sweetheart. A party might precede or follow, but that exchange was all you needed. Peace was his marriage price. This collar was his token. He was married now.

Slowly, he turned to his husband, prince of Isca, still on his knees. “Is there a collar for you too?” he asked.

The collar they handed him to place on his husband was nothing like the one he was wearing now. Lyosha could have broken this delicate thing in his hands as easily as one crushed a butterfly’s wings. It wouldn’t take him any strength at all.

Then they would have to find another collar for his husband; this whole travesty would be delayed and he could pretend for another few hours that he was free. But pretending was all it would be. He was already shackled.

He stood and buckled it gently around the prince’s throat.

Unlike the rest of the Iscans, who wore loose-fitting tunics and low-cut jackets, the prince’s clothes covered his neck. He had to adjust them so Lyosha could place the foreign collar on properly, and in doing so he revealed the gleaming gold and turquoise seal that kept him from ever having any magic. Lyosha hadn’t been able to look at the one they placed on him — wouldn’t have been able to stomach it even if he had — but he couldn’t imagine they had inked him in gold.

So much for finding a rat husband — someone he could dance with, or weave with; someone who knew the value of rock and how to braid hair in peacetime.

Lyosha’s hands dropped uselessly to his side. He did not know what to do with them. He did not know where to go. The ceremony was over but he had lost control over his own life. He did not get to decide when to leave or what he wanted to do. So he stood there, an awkward, ashen stain on present company.

He turned to the ambassador. “Is it done?” he asked. She was not a rat: too clean, too much money in her pocket. But she served with rats and could understand them. She would understand all his unasked questions.

“It is done,” she answered him. “He has accepted the gift; you go where he tells you.”

“Goodbye Rzhevsky,” Lyosha said to her.

She scowled at him, “Goodbye, Vovochka. Good luck.” And though her lips were twisted her voice held no malice at all.

next →

[plounce]

god ik its a wm au but I would Love to hear more about beauyasha in this au.. also like what has yasha been up to on earth? how does she interact with beau and caleb before molly arrives? 💜🕊

>:)))! i can absolutely do so!!

so in the first two or so seasons before all the heaven/apocalypse stuff, beau and caleb met yasha in an episode. she never SAID she was a valkyrie but that’s what they assumed she was, since she had a lot of viking stuff on her and the accent and she sort of implied that. it’s what made sense at the time, especially because they had no signs that angels are a real thing.

then molly happens, and then when yasha shows back up again they recognize each other and WHAT! YASHA’S AN ANGEL ACTUALLY?? crazy.

basically what happened is that at around 200 bce or so, yasha fell in love. i’m gonna say that zuala was another angel in her garrison, and angels aren’t supposed to fall in love. they’re supposed to be conforming divine warriors who don’t have all the flaws (or strengths, or texture, or spark) that humans do.

zuala was painted as the main culprit in this transgression. rather than making her Fall (les mis voice) as lucifer fell (because by that point they didn’t want to add any more True demons to hell’s side) for punishment, they decide to just obliterate her a la the hellfire in the last scene of the good omens tv show. it isn’t pretty. yasha is made to watch. she screams, and it makes the sun flare.

the rest of the angels are going to have their memories wiped of her - including yasha - but she learns of this in time and breaks through the floor of heaven and plummets to earth. molly helps her escape, but manages to avoid getting caught doing so.

molly was in the same garrison as them, and his memory of zuala was wiped with the rest of them. he remembers yasha, remembers being fond of her, remembers that she left heaven voluntarily and that he helped her, but there’s so many blank spots. they have him move garrisons to the tomb-takers after that, who are very elite and militant, and he becomes a demon-killing expert. it’s meant to drown out all that. and it kind of works; molly remembers more of yasha when he sees her again on earth.

yasha falls and falls and her angel blade slips from her hand as she dematerializes. it plummets and falls deep into some wilderness. a glint streaking down from the shooting star in the sky that night.

what happens next is the thing that happened with anna - yasha has no vessel lined up and she wasn’t given permission to leave, and is swiftly getting her grace cut off by heaven, and her being is transformed into a human baby. she is born, and grows up in a little scandinavian village a little bit strange. her parents tell her how there was a huge shooting star the night she was born, how they think it’s a good omen form the gods, and she has a sense that she’s different - special. she’s strong and naturally gifted with the club and the axe and especially the sword - anything they put in her hands.

when she’s old enough, she’s chosen to go on their clan’s raids. she excels at getting the resources her village needs from the southern peoples. she’s a terror, and everyone knows that she’s blessed from above.

then one year, she gets separated from the raiding party and is making her way through the forest trying to make it back to the coast so she can find their boat. and out of the corner of her eye she sees a strange glint, and something in her pulls her to go to it. it’s a strange sword embedded in the rock, and she puts her hand on it, and pulls –

and memories and power flood into her. memories of zuala, of creation, of molly, of heaven’s gleaming pathways, of zuala, of the first things that crawled on land, of zuala, of the face of god, of zuala, zuala, zuala. smiling, flying, fighting, touching, burning. she screams. her howl echoes through the woods.

her people have been waiting for her back at the boat, because they can’t leave their best warrior behind. when she strides out of the woods, she’s different. she walks different, and has this power radiating from her. she climbs on the boat, tells them to go. she’s almost glowing a little bit. they row away, and yasha spends the entire journey staring up at the sky, out at the horizon.

after that day she’s different. even quieter. everyone assumes she had a holy experience that day, and she doesn’t disagree, because, well. after that day she’s keenly aware of the norse gods’ presences, and doesn’t age. when she realizes that everyone is moving forward towards death without her (humans seem so small now - she loves her human parents, she does, but remembering what the sun looked like in its infancy changes a viking), she leaves, and goes to asgard, and pledges herself to the ranks of valkyries. she’s not nearly as strong as she once was, but she’s strong enough to fit in with her new people, so she finds herself a place there among the aesir.

(side note im keeping my distance from how this world interacts with non-abrahamic religions - thats SO not my business - just know theyve got their own power and their own places that aren’t like. Beneath that of abrahamic god. because iirc spn was terrible about that) (also i say abrahamic bc iirc islam has a lot of angels and demonology in its culture but thats all im gonna say bc again: i am not a theology major, and this au is much more about the surface fun of it all rather than making any statements or assertions about ACTUAL religions (past or present) obviously) (also i’m never gonna mention jesus or the antichrist or whatever)

the angel blade is tied to her grace. her grace still exists up in heaven, locked away in the archives, so the blade still has its source. it also contains her love for zuala and molly and - and all that she loved before she was torn apart - and that fuels it, connects it to her. gives her access to its power. she’s mostly just sort of supernaturally stronger and can take more of a beating than a normal human, and on certain days/times of year she can fly short distances. days that were holy to her. she carves norse runes on her blade, because it’s hers now. she can’t age or die of old age, but she still does have human needs - food, water, sleep. she’s tough, but if she’s unlucky then she can be killed. luckily, she’s very good at fighting.

her wings… they’re not like they once were. being with the valkyries makes humans see them like other valkyries’, but the aesir can see them for what they are - decayed, fragile, skeletal things, with what remaining feathers there are barely hanging on. like her feathers in cr proper.

after ragnarok, when the surviving aesir meet in the fields of asgard, yasha thanks them for their hospitality, and returns to midgard. she wanders for a while, mostly by herself. she helps when she sees people who need her help, but mostly she just keeps herself alive and moving. quiet, contemplative. loving god’s creation even though heaven hurt her deeply. she spends years not speaking to anyone. what happened to the aesir was traumatizing to her, and she’s secure enough that she doesn’t need what they gave her when she was “younger.”

at some point she makes her way to north america. she wanders, builds cabins, and when she stumbles upon the opportunity she watches over what she once watched over. she’s aware of Hunters but is uninterested in them - they’re not hunting for food and while they help widows and the grieving that’s not their Business. not her business.

flash forward to early season 2. we know beau and caleb by this point and the basic premise of the show and the world. on a hunt in montana beau and caleb take shelter in a cabin during a snowstorm, and in the middle of the night the door opens. beau is taking watch and shoves a gun up in the intruder’s face - but it’s just yasha, holding a deer carcass and looking distinctly unimpressed. “you’re in my house.”

beau stutters an apology, caught entirely off guard by the 6′5″ mountain of a woman, and yasha shoulders past her to the table to stoke the fire and clean her kill. it’s her dinner for next month, yasha gruffly explains when beau asks what she’s doing. don’t like supermarkets.

caleb wakes up to beau helping yasha cut away the entrails. he is very frightened and confused, but when beau gives the all-clear he calms down a little. not entirely, because he knows this woman is beau’s type, and they’re still on a hunt.

they explain what they’re up to to yasha, who nods. says she’s noticed things have been strange. and beau helped her, so. she’ll help them. she’s also bored, and has a good feeling about these two.

so she helps out with the hunt, and throughout the episode beau clumsily flirts with her and yasha never turns her down but also never Flirts back. there’s a tension that’s mostly powered by beau but isn’t shut down by yasha (yasha thinks beau’s sweet and attractive, and she’s taken some human lovers over the last two millennia, but is still devoted to the memory of zuala. the audience doesn’t know that thought). she and caleb connect on a We Are Both Quiet Introverts level, like they do in actual cr (reminiscent of the shaving scene after bowlgate).

it isn’t until the end that caleb and beau think she’s anything but a mountain lady. then she pulls out a HUGE GLOWING SWORD carved with RUNES and THERE’S SOMETHING BEHIND HER THAT LOOKS LIKE WINGS? and then she nods, says goodbye, and walks away into the woods before caleb and beau can pepper her with questions about what the fuck just happened.

they run after her, but can’t find her or the cabin again. in the car ride back to civilization, caleb theorizes that she might be a valkyrie, and beau’s like yeah that sounds appropriately sexy.

yasha is a fan favorite. she had a whole focus episode and she was so mysterious and cool! the audience clamors for her to be brought back, and are sad when she doesn’t show up for the rest of season 2. beau and caleb mention her a couple times, so it’s made plain that she isn’t TOTALLY a one-off, but… hm!

beaujester shippers already existed by this point (jester was in season 1 and again in season 2), and beauyasha gains some popularity. beau having attractions to both of them is present in the show, but she isn’t dating either of them. there’s significance to both of them - they’re both people beau thinks of when she thinks of having Somebody.

a lot of fic about yasha is written between seasons 2 and 4, theorizing about her life as a valkyrie and what her and beau meeting up would be like… which is all then jossed when angels happen in season 4.

caleb gets taken to hell at the end of season 3 because of ikithon and for beau. during his last couple days on earth, he begs beau to find jester. or hell, yasha. don’t be alone, please. live and be happy. go get - go get powerlifted by one or both of them. i heard you sleeptalk enough about that. and beau tells him to shut up, don’t talk like that, i’ll - i’ll find a way to bring you back. and then you can see me get gay married or whatever it is you want me to do. because i’m gonna get you out of there. and caleb smiles, and his eyes say we both know you won’t.

there’s a whole genre of fic about jester or yasha (or both) comforting beau and settling into hunting/domesticity with her or helping her rescue caleb after caleb gets dragged away btw. idk why im making up fake fic about this au but you know what. i deserve this.

yasha is sort of put out of mind in the heaven excitement of season 4 and the arrival of molly as a third companion, turning their duo into a trio half the time. the apocalypse stuff isn’t quite happening yet btw (this is where i start diverging from the seasonal structure of spn), it’s just angels being real and caleb and beau being mysteriously important to them.

there is one point where during the beginning of an episode about halfway through the season where they’re regaling molly with a story of one of their hunts - beau is trying to embarrass caleb with a time he got enthralled by a siren, and caleb bats back with well, at least i didn’t let a giant woman with a dead deer push my gun aside so she could skin the thing with no enchantments on me at all. and beau’s like AW CMON DUDE DONT BRING YASH INTO THIS.

then there’s a shot where their bickering dialogue continues but the camera is focused on molly, who tilts his head a little, considering, then takes a sip of his orange juice (he hates coffee - too bitter! if he’s going to consume something to keep up the idea that he’s human, it’ll be something that tastes good!). then it cuts to the car.

it’s intentionally ambiguous if that’s about caleb getting seduced by a siren, beau being embarrassed, or whatever - it’s just an odd little moment. which is significant when they’re up north again, four episodes later, in a little restaurant off the highway, and they’ve just finished their meal and talk about the season plotline is happening when the door SLAMS open, and booted feet stomp across the dirty tile, strong legs in worn jeans, a huge backpack - beau’s eyes widen - and there’s yasha, striding directly to their table with a look of utmost focus and determination.

beau goes to stand, caleb’s brow furrows - yasha, what are you doing here - what’s going on - when, before they can act, molly stands up, causing the table to rock and their cups to slosh over. yashael! he exclaims, his face split in incredulous delight. you’re alive! you survived! you’re okay - it’s been millennia! what are you doing here?! oh, i don’t care, get over here. and he goes to her, and she hugs him, and beau and caleb are standing there, slack-jawed, as stony stoic yasha cracks a wide smile and hugs molly and lifts him off the ground.

did… did mollymauk just say ‘yashael?’ caleb says, stunned. molly is cradling yasha’s face in his hands, and her cheeks are round with joy. beau’s imagination could never have given her this smile, and she’s jealous a little bit, but also in awe, but mostly also trying to process the two puzzle pieces that just locked themselves together that she thought were totally separate from each other.

(relevant posts to their reunion: art, text, text)

from then on yasha is part of their group, at least for that season. there’s a lot of caleb and beau commiserating over their attraction to two LITERAL ANGELS - especially when the truth of yasha’s fall is revealed. beau is torn up inside about all of it - an ANGEL, for the first part, and her dead angel lover (how could beau ever compete with an ANGEL) and, oh christ, molly’s odd humoring of her crush on yasha is cast in a new light now.

and then jester comes back and… well, now beau’s torn between two hot girls who are both important in the grand scheme of things! yipes!

it takes a long time and there’s probably also some romantic drama in that triangle etc, but beauyaster is endgame. because i have a huge fucking brain.

[carmenlire]

Turned Upside Down

I was talking to @followmetopromiseland about this idea and ended up writing a oneshot about it! I hope y’all like this!

read on ao3

Arms full with one of his quivers, Alec pushes the door open to Magnus’s apothecary. The bundle in his arms is a little unwieldy but this particular quiver wasn’t for going out in the field-- it was more of a collective place to rest all of his arrows, no matter if they were for demons, vampires, or just practice.

Dumping them next to Magnus’s desk, Alec rearranges the few books Magnus has sprawled out across the surface-- carefully marking what page his boyfriend had been on. Nodding a little to himself, he turns to the rows and rows of supplies that take up Magnus’s walls and the freestanding, open storage cabinets.

When he’d first asked Magnus if he could browse a little, maybe use a few of his ingredients, his boyfriend had been amused if nonplussed.

Go ahead, darling, he’d said. Just don’t blow yourself up.

Alec huffs out a laugh as he remembers the exchange. Magnus hadn’t asked too many questions and distantly Alec wonders if maybe he didn’t think that Alec was just asking out of curiosity, not really planning on making use of the apothecary that could be as personal to a warlock as their bedroom.

If Magnus had said no, Alec would’ve kept doing this at the Institute. He can’t pretend, though, that he isn’t happy to spend a quiet afternoon away from everyone while still being productive.

As he looks over the rows and rows of shelves, Alec picks out half a dozen ingredients. His search takes considerably longer than anticipated, however, as Alec lets himself be distracted by things he never wanted to see in a jar-- things he didn’t even know could be in a jar, for that matter.

Moon tears. Lizard nails. Hemlock.

Giving that a wide berth, Alec’s just turned his back when he freezes, reconsidering with a tilt of his head. Slowly, he turns back and grabs the vial of distilled poison.

Satisfied that he has everything he needs, Alec brings it back to Magnus’s desk before he’s off again, this time to the window seat. There are a dozen cauldrons in the storage space underneath and he grabs three cylindrical units.

Setting them up in a semi circle around his ingredients, Alec grabs the large quiver and lays it on the chair so that it can lean against the back. He takes the first arrow out-- with its sterling silver head-- as he slips his stele out of his pocket.

He spends the next hour refreshing the runes on the shafts. As always, it’s calming and Alec loses himself in the routine of it, his eyes trailing the glowing runes that signal swiftness and accuracy.

With each arrow he’d runed, Alec had placed it in a designated pile. There was one for almost every downworlder species as well as a few other categories besides. Once he’s finished with this first part, Alec takes the cauldron to this right and etches a few runes across it, watching as they light up against the black cast-iron and settle into place. In tune with the cauldron, Alec feels it hum against his palm, vibrating with angelic power.

Reaching for a jar of Wolfsbane, Alec pours a spoonful of the coarsely ground plant into the base. To that, he adds a few drops of ketamine. Alec watches as the runes heat up slowly, turning from dull gray to a silver blue as the contents heat up, slowly disintegrating into a pool of liquid.

Once everything is completely dissolved and the mixture has faded into a dull green, Alec takes the first arrow, submerging it into the cauldron. He holds the head and most of the shaft in the liquid for a few seconds before slowly pulling it out. He watches as the green sludge disappears into the arrow, as though melting under the surface.

The first arrow done, Alec sets it aside. From all appearances, it looks like the same arrow that it was before Alec dipped it into the poison. It’s even safe to touch with bare fingers. However, when it impales a rogue or feral werewolf, the painful serum will drip into the wolf’s body, acting as a paralysis as it enters the bloodstream.

It’s effective as hell even if it is a laborious process.

So, Alec finishes the silver arrows before moving onto the wood ones carved for vampires. It’s wood from the white elm tree, each arrow devastating for its sharpness, the way it's built to splinter in the chest cavity.

He works for a few hours, steadily going through the different types of arrows. He doesn’t do anything to the practice arrows that are in a variety of materials-- those go back in the quiver once he’s done runing them-- and they’re only a select few anyway, for Alec often likes to practice archery without using any runes. Nothing but his skill and sight leading the arrow to its dead center.

He’s just gathering the last few ingredients he needs to the last batch when he hears footsteps approaching the apothecary. Alec doesn’t look up, though, too intent on uncorking the stopper for the Botulinum vial.

“What are you doing, Alexander?” Magnus’s voice is bemused though there’s also a fair amount of skepticism in his tone. Alec doesn’t look up as he replies, using a miniature stopper to draw a dozen drops from the vial, pouring it into the third cauldron one drop at a time.

“I’m working,” he says easily, retracing the fireproof rune on the side. This particular mixture could be a little volcanic as the acid ate away at the other ingredients.

“And what are you working on,” Magnus asks, and Alec hears him step closer. Looking up, he sees his boyfriend eyeing the desk warily as if expecting something to jump out at him.

“I’m reinforcing my arrows,” Alec answers absently, reaching for a quarter brick of Adamas. It’s in a raw form that can be found in most weapon’s master workshops. Alec kept a personal stash, though, for just this ritual. The Adamas, when in brick form, was purer than anything else that could be found outside of the Iron City.

Coming over to his side, Magnus peers over his shoulder, down at the cauldron that was bubbling ominously. It was a slow simmer as the Adamas melted into liquid light, coiling around the drops of venom, the top of the mixture foaming lightly.

Magnus watches silently as Alec grabs an Adamas-tipped arrow and dips it into the solvent. There’s a low hiss but when Alec slowly drags the arrow out, it shine cleanly.

Seeing Magnus’s mouth part, Alec speaks into the silence first. “The Adamas in the cauldron binds to the Adamas that makes the arrow head. It’s a cleaner layer of film, then, and virtually undetectable until it collides with demon flesh.”

“Fascinating,” Magnus mutters. He looks at the arrow in Alec’s hand before making a show of studying the neat piles over the desk. “You’ve been at this awhile,” he asks dryly.

Alec nods. “The afternoon,” he confirms. “It’s soothing, runing the arrows, cleaning them if need be before coating them in a mixture.”

“I think you mean potion, darling.” Before Alec can protest, Magnus is continuing, “You’re using magic-- your runes that run on angelic power-- and ingredients, most of which seem to be from my apothecary.”

“You had everything I needed,” Alec says defensively. “It’s more convenient than going to the apothecary shop in Queens.”

Magnus waves that away. “I told you that you could use this room and I meant it, even if I never dreamed you’d actually be able to make your way around everything.”

“What did you think I wanted in here for?”

Shrugging, Magnus merely offers, “I thought you were being your usual lovely self and just wanted to learn more about this side of me.”

Alec puts down the arrow before sharply backing away whenever Magnus makes to move closer. Holding his hands up, Alec just jerks his head to the sink in the corner and his boyfriend rocks back on his heels with a quiet, “Ah.”

Heading over to the corner of the apothecary to wash his hands, Alec calls out over his shoulder, “Okay, so maybe potion does make sense for what I was doing.”

“I’m telling you, darling, based on the little I just walked in on, you would've made a very clever warlock, indeed.” Carefully, he raises an arrow with a faint orange tinge up to eye level, studying it curiously. “How did you even start doing this? I thought most shadowhunters just cleaned their weapons on their pants leg before heading off to the next job.”

Drying his hands on a towel, Alec turns back and walks back over the desk, flipping the towel on his shoulder in a haphazard manner that does notmake Magnus find the man in front of him even more attractive than usual.

Alec slides his arms around Magnus’s waist, pulling him close before replying, “I was fifteen or so when I was out on a mission. I was fighting a Dormai demon and my arrow went right where the equivalent of their jugular would be. However, the damned things heal so fast that before I could send a kill shot or even move closer for combat, it had pulled the arrow out of its thigh and sealed the wound. I barely made it out of that fight-- and I didn’t do so unscathed.”

He winces. “I broke four ribs and had a gash on my arm that ended up with a nasty infection. I was in the infirmary for two days following that particular assignment.”

With a small noise of sympathy, Magnus pulls him closer, laying a kiss on his waiting mouth.

“Poor baby,” his boyfriend mutters before smiling and arching a brow. “Let me guess,” he says dryly. “You spent the entire two days brainstorming.”

“What else was I supposed to do,” Alec asks reasonably. “I actually watched a documentary on these frogs in South America that can kill a man with, like, a microgram of poison. It got me thinking that I could do something similar with the demons.”

“How Isabelle-esque of you,” Magnus teases.

“Hey, I scored top of my class at the Academy in combat strategy.”

“Oh, I had no doubts, Alexander,” Magnus primly retorts.

Alec clearly sees him biting back laughter but just huffs out a breath, letting his arms tighten around his boyfriend before continuing his explanation.

“Anyway, I needed something that could act as both a paralysis and was painful as shit. I test a few different formulas but I landed on the one I was now without too much trouble and I’ve been using it ever since. I do this about once a month, depending on my patrol schedule.”

Magnus listens intently to Alec and he can see his boyfriend’s mind moving as fast as lightning behind those wonderful eyes he loves so much. It only takes a second for Magnus’s eyes to dart to the neat piles littering the desk surface.

“What are all of these other ones, then?”

Grimacing a little, Alec bites his lip as he considers Magnus. He’ll tell his boyfriend the truth because anything else would be blasphemy but he has to admit that he’s worried about his reaction.

“Those are specialized formulas for certain groups of downworlders.”

Instead of recoiling like Alec had expected, Magnus keeps his thoughtful expression. “That’s damned near ingenious, Alec. Have other shadowhunters adopted this practice?”

Alec shrugs. “Not really,” he answers. “We usually just maintain our runes on our weapons. Most shadowhunters think anything more than that is unnecessary. Angelic power is all we should need, after all,” he ends sardonically. “Angel forbid we try to augment that power and give ourselves another advantage over an enemy.”

“Well,” Magnus says, pausing for a moment to pull Alec down for a kiss. “How lucky I am, then, that you have such a wonderful mind and that you aren’t afraid to try new things.”

“It’s common sense,” Alec tries to argue but Magnus hushes him before he can say anything else.

“Maybe it is a natural trail of thought to follow,” Magnus allows, “But that doesn’t mean you had to research and put in the leg work to fortify your arrows. Watching you make a potion, realizing its purpose, was fascinating, darling. You seemed so intent on the cauldron, so meticulous in your measurements.” His lips quirk. “It was like you were in your own little world and I was fortunate enough to see it.”

Alec smiles a little, shifting his hands so that they rest low on Magnus’s back. “I’m nothing compared to you,” he says. “I could watch you work in here for hours.”

Laughing, Magnus lays his hands on Alec’s chest and Alec doesn’t try to stop himself from leaning into the touch. “And you have,” he says. He waves behind him. “That’s the whole reason I brought a chair in here. Now that I know you can find your way around here, though, I might put you to work.”

“Oh yeah,” Alec asks softly, grinning.

“Yeah,” Magnus breathes and Alec can’t resist anymore.

He pulls Magnus closer and their kiss this time is soft but lingering. It’s his favorite way to end a workday, coming home to Magnus and kissing him. It’s a start to their time and he never tires of this little ritual.

When he pulls away, Alec doesn’t open his eyes immediately. Instead, he seeps into the quiet that’s settled over the room, the easy contentment. When he does open his eyes, however, it’s to see Magnus already looking at him.

Or, rather, he’s studying him, eyes flitting across Alec’s face like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re always surprising me, aren’t you?”

It’s a question that’s become a sort of joke to them but it’s yet another little thing that makes Alec feel like he’s sitting in front of a hearth, golden fire lapping over him and warming his bones.

“In good ways I hope?”

“Oh, the very best,” Magnus assures him.

Alec laughs and lets himself be pulled closer. Work’s forgotten in favor of much more interesting ways to pass the time and if Magnus finds a sock under his desk the next afternoon, than no one has to know why but him.

[selenebellona-blog]

Welcome to Ashbourne

about: In which Selene lands in Ashbourne and tries to figure out what happened. Did she summon a demon? Cast a curse? Or is this place just weird?  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ She meets a nice human potioneer, familiarizes herself with the town, and learns something about herself and her magic. 

tw: death, blood, abuse 

word count: ~6,300

Selene woke up in a bed of nettle, and around her, on all sides, the carnage of trees.  When her eyes blinked open, it was this carnage she saw.

The smoke was turning the air gray. A fallen trunk was split in three with branches crooked and snapped. Around her, there was the crackle and pop of fire and the smell of cinder and ash, among the flavor of pine sap and earth in her mouth.  It all begged the question—what the hell had happened to her?

Before this moment, she remembered: the library.

Then there had been the great pain. A terrible, dark cloud.  The forces of her magic turning against her.  

And now she was here.

Selene shifted against the earth. She was naked, she realized.  And shivering cold, dirt-covered, and bleeding. This last realization had her wince, feeling a streak of pain move up her leg to the curve of her buttocks, where a branch had caught and tore her skin.  She moved a trembling hand, touching the bloody, stinging wound. When she drew her hand away, it was spattered in red.

The pain didn’t compare to what was happening inside her chest though. Selene breathed out against it. She pressed her bloody hand against where the pain was—in her breast, near her heart. She had a burning coal inside her, lodged firm, pulsing like it was alive.  She wanted to reach inside and pull it out.  

Selene tried for answers again, thinking library, thinking dark cloud, remembering heat this time, the coal pushing into her chest, and a fearsome, massive roar exploding around her like a bomb.  None of it was making sense though, so she had to deal with this as she would any other problem: without emotion.  It did not matter, Selene reminded herself, what had happened. What mattered right now was what she would do about it.

She rose to her feet with her entire frame trembling.  Step one, she told herself, was verifying her injuries. There was the long, jagged scratch from her heel to her upper thigh.  Across her hip to stomach, a smattering of cuts, all, she assumed from the licking whip of branches. 

Bruises bloomed across her shoulders.  Her lip was bleeding— or some other part of her face (nose, cheekbone, any part would do), and she was just tasting the blood from whatever part. With tender fingers she touched around her cheeks and brow, finding another cut near her temple. It was a wonder nothing was broken, with the sensibilities of her bones.   

She could envision what might have happened, though it made no sense. Her injuries meant a crash landing.—head first, through trees.

“But I wasn’t flying,” she muttered out loud, voice hoarse.  

And she couldn’t do this much damage.  

“Step two,” she whispered, moving on.  

Find a place to recover.  Protect herself. She stared around at the ground, seeing the fallen trees and rough trenches carved into the ground by something definitely inhuman. She could have run into some freaksome monster, Selene hypothesized, and battled it—then was left for dead.  If that was true, she needed to flee before the monster came back and swallowed her up.

She knelt to the ground again and worked quickly. Selene did not have any of her tools. No grimoire, no components, nothing. But she’d have to make do. She still had her magic, which she could feel inside her, stirring in every part of her, awake and at the ready.

She cleared leaves from a patch of dirt, gathering one wide-toothed oak leaf in her hand and holding it up into the air. As a small breeze passed by and tickled the leaf, she pushed her magic out, caught the wind on the leaf as though the leaf was a web, and the wind an insect. 

Selene lowered the leaf back to the ground where she drew a compass with her finger. She put the leaf with its caught wind into the center of the drawing. What else did she need for a location spell, for fuck’s sake—she couldn’t think, not with her mind like this.  Wind, compass rune—something, something else, something human, she remembered—to find a town—

She didn’t have time to think.

She smeared her blood on the leaf, not caring for consequences.

“Proximam domum inveni,” She hissed the command and she felt the push of magic from her body, the leaf trembling and then bursting apart violently into a thousand small pieces from the force of her magic (that wasn’t supposed to happen—it was the blood magic, she knew, the blood she should not have used). But the parts of the leaf lifted and, like the wind had switched direction, began to carry its swirling debris quickly away.

She moved fast, feet crunching underbrush, staggering after the remains.  She ignored the cuts on her feet, the sharp and quick pains that came from rocks and thorns.  The leaf-debris pushed faster and made her pick up a quicker walk, then a half jog.  She saw the house when it appeared through the trees and slowed then, let the leaves zoom toward the house without pause.

The leaves slapped into the side of the house with a wet smack.

And here Selene stopped. From one hundred feet away, she watched the bits of leaf turn to blood. The blood trickled, languid, down the side of the house.  Spell broken.

Selene stared at the dripping blood—her blood—as a hole inside her began to grow. She was becoming aware in an out-of-body way that she was thoroughly fucked. Naked, staring at her own blood she shouldn’t have used for an innocent spell that took her to a human no doubt, and what was she going to do about the carnage in the distance, the fire in her chest, the sickness in her brain? She heard herself gulp in air as panic began to rise.

But she didn’t have time to panic, as the door opened with an old creaking noise. A middle-aged woman poked her head out, streaks of gray through otherwise chestnut hair. Her face was friendly, inquisitive—her curious frown quickly turned into a smile.

“So here you are,” she said. Selene watched as the door opened all the way and the woman stood in the center with her hand on her wide hip.   “Well then,” the women continued. “Are you just going to stand there all naked, or are you coming in?”

–

“More honey for your tea, dear?”

Selene stared at the woman from across the table, the pain in her chest still throbbing like its own bruise. The rest of her was decidedly more put together, skin cleaned, hair de-nettled, and the cuts and other abrasions lifted from her skin with just a few sips of healing tea.  She couldn’t believe the sheer coincidence of finding help at the edge of the woods, but she could think—with much dizzying skepticism, still—that perhaps her blood on the leaves had sought out magic— that the power of the spell magnetized itself to similar power.

Whether that was true or not, here she was—skin healed, memory still wiped, in the house of a woman named Astoria. The kitchen was beautiful. There were marbled counter tops, where the polished sink shined and the stovetop, above the oven sat near the corner. There was  a marbled island in the middle, where there was a bowl of fresh fruit.  She had watched with quiet admiration as Astoria brewed the medicinal herbs in a small, copper pot above a fire, stirring with a winking-silver spoon with a lapis lazuli stone embedded in the handle.  

Selene honestly never paid potioneering much mind either, but watching Astoria work, and smelling peace and tranquility whirling in the grassy green smoke from the tea brew, she realized how silly she’d been to overlook it.  

Selene felt a streak of guilt—wondering if Astoria was brewing things, was she a witch? Any person could stir a cauldron of course, but the thought flitted across her mind out of this concern: would Astoria sense her blood spell? 

But Astoria did not mention it, just came over with her spoon dipped in honey. She stirred it right into Selene’s blue-glazed ceramic mug.

“There you go. That will sweeten up the magic. It takes on an awful bitterness when you mix it with wheatgrass, you know.”

Selene smiled just a little and sipped the tea, savoring comfort among the honey.

“So, I suppose you want to know where you are, now that you aren’t so rattled,” said Astoria. She wiped her spoon on her apron, followed by her hands, then took a seat across the table from Selene. “You’re quite lucky, you know. You’re right at the boundary of a magical town.”

“A magical town?” She repeated. “Are you a... witch too?” 

Astoria scoffed and laughed, almost at the same time.  

“It takes everyone a while to find their legs around here. Not that they have much choice. You look like a smart girl. American?”

“Yes,” she demurred with a slight dip of her head, eyes darting down to her tea. She watched it swirl as the tiny green bubbles dance across the surface.  

“And what was this American witch doing before finding herself in Ashbourne?”

“I was studying,” Selene answered. “In the library. Not a public one, the small one we’d put together, the one for us - my coven. I’m a Bellona.”

“Ah yes - that name. Very talented. Well, welcome to Ashbourne. No one leaves here.”

Selene sat up straight. “And what do you mean by that?”

Astoria laughed, shaking her head and a few loose strands of hair with it. She pushed at them then, tucking a few behind her ear before fiddling with the ones at her neck, trying to tuck them back into her tie. Then older woman started talking and didn’t stop for quite some time. She talked about the Blood Tree and the supernatural and the strangeness that seeped through the town. 

Selene had to tell her to stop after a while, feeling the overwhelming urge to start bawling. She couldn’t have that and bit her tongue to stop it from happening.  

Astoria cocked her head. “I should have brewed a bit of courage in there too, shouldn’t I?”

“Or clarity,” murmured Selene.

“Now now dear,” Astoria sighed and reached across the table, patting Selene’s hand.  “If only such a thing was easy to come by. Now, I’m a bit on in my years, compared to you, and I can tell you you’re handling this rather well, even if your…ingredient use... leaves much to be desired.”

Selene could feel the color rise to her cheeks and drank her tea to try to hide it. But everyone in the kitchen knew. She knew—Astoria knew—of her crime. And perhaps she was right. And that was a growing fear in her heart, that heart of hers that didn’t feel like hers anymore, that was rumbling like thunder, and, she feared, changing shape.  Whatever had happened to her had been her fault and caused this pain. It stank of dark magic.

And Selene—having been dabbling a little in gray and black magic recently—knew it wasn’t out of the question she’d done exactly what Astoria suggested and was being punished swiftly for it.

“After you finish your tea, how about I draw you up a bath and get you settled for the night, hm?” Astoria said to fill the silence, rising again and moving toward the stove. She tapped her spoon against the side of the pot.  She began to clean up the area as she talked. “And tomorrow, after a nip of breakfast, we can figure out how to sort you out. But you’re welcome to stay here—Selene, you said?”

She glanced back at her, smiling so warmly that Selene thought of her mother for the first time in a long time. She smiled in return.  “Yes. Thank you for all this.”

“Oh, just doing what I’d do for any witch, even one as young as you,” she teased. “Now I think I’ve stored up some charm I bought for pleasant dreams around here somewhere. I’ll use that in the bath bubbles!”

—

The next morning, Selene woke and felt much better. Her stomach was settled and the heat in her chest, while still felt, no longer pounded. It was dull and achy and easy to ignore. Maybe it had just been residue of the spell-gone-wrong, Selene figured.  Maybe she’d expelled so much magic from inside her that she’d injured herself inside and it needed time to heal.

She dressed herself in a few of Astoria’s clothes, pinning them in and folding over the sleeves to make it somewhat fit her bony, square frame.  She drifted down the stairs, feeling strangely shy until she peeked into the kitchen and saw Astoria already at work with the breakfast. 

She was using a blade to slice her bread. It reminded Selene of her Athame. 

“Oh good morning!” Astoria greeted. “Coffee or tea oooor I can whip us up some juices, I am sure. I’ve got fresh blueberries, raspberries and blackberries that need to be pulverized into something or other—we could make jam, couldn’t we! Well that’s decided.”

“Tea would be lovely,” Selene hedged just a little. “Would you like any help?”

Astoria chuckled. “Ohhh you’ve never met a real potioneer, have you? You’d know better if you did! Would you let anyone near your grimoire?”

Selene blushed. “No, of course not. I’m sor—“

“I’m just teasing you,” Astoria stopped her, chuckling more. “Though some potioneers are very strict about their kitchens, that’s true. Here, you want to fetch the berries? We’ll just use the mortar and pestle; that’s in the top drawer right over there.”

Selene removed the berries from the fridge and stood on her tiptoes to catch the drawer’s handle and pull it open. She could barely reach the mortar and pestle, but caught it with the tips of her fingers and edged it out.   

What was quite funny to her was in the same cabinet was an electronic blender. It made her smile and tilt her head, something that Astoria noticed.

“What, you think I’m completely anti-electricity? Got indoor plumbing, don’t I?” Astoria said.  “That’s just when I want to make smoothies for myself and don’t feel like doing it long-hand. Besides, did you know—once you learn a thing or two about potioneering, even blenders can become part of your tools.”

“Really?” Selene asked, absolutely fascinated. “How... progressive. I’ve always been told a grimoire is a witch’s greatest asset. My tutors have told me—”

“Bound it with leather, survive any weather?” Astoria laughed. “Oh oh, what about the one with the, the lizard hide. Do you know it?”

“Magic boundless and wide with a lizard hide,” said Selene and she was smirking a little. It did seem ridiculous to her - even though she valued tradition and believed the repetition of ancient practice imbued the practice with its own kind of power, much like how the use of kitchen tools in potioneering was what embedded the magic deep inside them. That was at least the theory, and Selene loved theory of magic. 

It was odd to think, that here she was, talking to a woman who was not a witch but was so surrounded by the supernatural. A woman that was a potioneer. Selene still had so much to learn bout Ashbourne but, for second, she wondered if this was the potential for equality the world had if it let the supernatural out of the shadows.  

She turned back to the mortar and began to smash the berries together with the pestle.  It did feel nice using her hands this way. She did loathe potion making (seemed so formulaic), but this was just cooking—wasn’t it?

Soon, the two women had gathered together a beautiful breakfast spread of toast, jam, eggs, and sausage, with the leftover tea from last night.  

“I never really thought about studying potioneering before,” Selene admitted to Astoria as they sat down and began to enjoy their hard work.  “I suppose it never seemed interesting to me.” 

“My mother was a potioneer,” said Astoria. She broke her toast in half and used the Athame-looking knife to spread the jam too. “I grew up here in Ashbourne smelling magic all around the house and eating it too, or you know, eating the residue—can’t help it sometimes, it just slips in. Potioneering’s no easy road itself of course. Much longer than, say, telekinesis or illusion casting or—what is it that you are studying?”

“I’m going to be a seer one day,” Selene said. It made Astoria’s eyebrows rise at once.

“Now that’s quite something.”

“I’m not one yet.” Selene nodded and scooped up some egg onto her toast.  “I have an intuition for it though.”

“Was it part of your first spell?”

Selene licked her lips, brow furrowing. “Well…perhaps not the very first, but I used—at home, we have these old statues everywhere and so much beautiful art and…all I wanted was to talk to them.” She blushed, knowing she sounded silly and dreamy. She’d been young then, of course. Eight or nine.  “And one day with my tutor I just was thinking about it, wishing it, and it happened. One of them came to life—a little bird off the fountain. It flew right down to me, alive and covered in feathers and it told me of things that were going to happen. My tutor was very impressed and sat me down with about twenty books on omens after that.”  

“That is very impressive. You just know then, don’t you?” Astoria said very fondly. “Potioneering takes years and years to get your kitchen to listen to you. But once it does…there’s nothing like it. A potioneer in her kitchen just can’t be touched,” she said. “It’s the perfect space.”

“I think I’d like to learn some of it,” Selene said. “I don’t know if I could be a true potioneer…at least, not right now or even in a few years, but…I’d like to be at least a little knowledgeable.”

“I’d be happy to show you a few things,” said Astoria. “It informs so many other kinds of magic, like spell-casting. Above all else though, I find it relaxing.”

As they ate, they continued to talk of magic, all its forms and all its wonders, until they’d cleared every platter and Selene thought she might burst. Her insides were stuffed and warm to a point where she didn’t notice the pain in her chest at all and could even fall right back into her bed upstairs and nap the morning away into afternoon. As she helped Astoria clear, the human began to tell her of her own daily tasks; she’d be going into town for groceries, errands, and letter-mailing.

“You may come if you’d like,” she said.  “See the little town.”

“I think I would like to come.” Selene nodded, hair bouncing a little around her face. She tugged at one of the unruly stray hairs.  

“Why, splendid! I’ll grab my jacket and we’ll be off.  If you’d like one, dear, they’re in the cupboard—it is a little chilly outside.”  

Selene took the extra jacket, draping the velvet plum-purple around her shoulders and clasping its silver hook in the front. She was instantly warm, almost burning up, the feeling increasing as they headed out into the November day. Selene found the sun, shining as it was, to warm her up too. But beside her, Astoria made a ‘brr’ noise and drew her jacket in tight. “Goodness, feel that chill! Going to be a hard winter!” She remarked.  “Snow any day I imagine.”

Selene didn’t say anything. She kept her frown away from her lips. She just nodded, swallowing, and followed Astoria down the road and into town.

—

Astoria informed Selene that today was actually a Saturday (she’d…fallen here on a Friday evening, apparently) and so the town looked more alive than she last remembered it.  

“Here’s the fabrics store. I’ll be a tick in here if you’d like to come in and browse with me, or you can head down a little and see the rest of it yourself.”  

“I think I’ll wander a little, if you don’t mind?” Selene answered and Astoria waved her off, her eyes light and mouth in the kind of half-smile that reminded Selene of mothers and grandmothers who found their children funny.  She thought about it as she turned and went, biting down at her lip. This whole experience was practically a nightmare turned into some sort of odyssey, complete with Astoria filling the role of a witchy godmother.  She’d not missed her coven—and she did not miss them now. But she did feel some space in her fill, with every one of these kind smiles that Astoria gave her, and it made her wonder if the missing would come after, once she’d left Astoria too.

She came across a trinket store and wandered in, getting lost at once in the maze of shelves stuffed with knick-knacks of all kinds. As she looked, it was impossible not to overhear the talk at the front near the counter. It was a bunch of natives, she figured, the way they easily conversed with each other. 

“Yes, an investigation! I overheard Sheriff saying so himself,” came the hushed voice of a woman with a French lilt.  

“Probably just a vampire getting up to trouble,” said a much gruffer voice.   

“Oh I don’t know about that….”

“Least no one got hurt.”

“No one yet.  Ah, my. I worry, I do! What if it isn’t one of our wolves?”

“Ms. Lewis,” the gruff voice became sweet, indulgent, “Come now, don’t start conspiracies.”

“There were claw marks—a foot deep, monsieur! Who do you know who could do something like that? I have children you know!”  

Selene’s stomach had become stone, her heart fettering against her chest in that hot, sick manner that felt like it was going to crack open into flame.  Her mind had already flashed back to the forest, to the claw marks, to the destruction. And her in the middle of it.  

Had her magic—was it possible that she unleashed a demon while working on a spell? But why would it take her here?

She moved through the shelves, closer to the citizens. She could see the woman now, a dolled-up, richly dressed woman. The man was much older and mustached, busy counting money.

They saw her, voices dying off. The woman straightened and flicked at her hair.

“Sorry,” Selene said softly, a smile cracking on her lips. “I—I didn’t…mean to intrude, I …was just curious about the forest—

“Aren’t we all!” The lady—Ms. Lewis, apparently—chirped.  “Ah yes, dear, no doubt you’ve heard. It is circling all over the place.”

“Is there anyone in town who could do such a thing?” Selene asked.

“This is what me and Lucien here were debating,” Ms. Lewis said to her. “He seems to think it is just one of the bloodsuckers, I think it’s a wolf. Incidents like these seem to be a dime-a-dozen here.”

“Astoria would’ve said something, if she thought it was actually dangerous,” said the man behind the counter. “Her home’s near there anyways.”

“You know what I heard,” pressed the Lewis lady.  “I heard it was a demon.”

Selene stared at her. The woman continued. “Yes, yes! I am not making this up. I heard it from Monsieur Jackson; he was out fishing and saw a giant black lizard catapult into the forest. On fire. Quite the show.” 

“Jackson’s got seven little girls to take care of, he’s probably seeing things due to all that stress!” scoffed the man.

“No, no, I heard it from others too,” she said. “Monsieur Stephan even says that it was undoubtedly a demon. He said that at the pack neighborhood they heard the most fearsome roar followed by a resounding crash. He’s already preparing his boys, in case a hunt is needed.”

“Unnecessary, unnecessary.” The man shoved this cash register closed. “Say, ma’am, don’t let this talk scare you. There’s plenty wrong with Ashbourne - but certainly no demon dragons!”

Selene just continued to stare wide-eyed.

 What was this town?

Amidst the talk, the pain had returned.  But she knew it had a name. Panic. Anxiety. She was hovering on the verge of a panic attack and she had a feeling this was not the first time she had one, just the first time she was aware—and would remember, but then again—who knew anything anymore? The black gaps in her memory were more frightening than even this rumored demon or wolf or vampire or whatever. 

She hurried out of the store, running into a young girl walking through the streets with her nose shoved in a book. Selene barely managed to utter an apology before she rushed on down the streets, her breath puffing in the air—frosted. But she wasn’t cold. 

Selene ducked into a café, curling herself into a seat in the corner. Like the flame of a candle, a memory flickered, in and out, whisking her back to California and the library. She could remember the black cloud coming over her, the pain and heat intertwined, the sound of her own screaming and crying.  She could remember the aftermath of the forest. And in between, she put a demon. She’d summoned a demon.  

Maybe. 

Had it followed her here? She didn’t have enough power to summon a demon. She looked down at her pale, small hands, knowing that inside them, there was power, but not enough for that. Not enough. She hadn’t followed any steps or done any rituals or knew the correct runes or had the right ingredients—

A drop of water fell onto her palm, making her finger twitch.  She’d started to cry.

“Silly,” she croaked out loud, ignored the look it got her (and in general, she was getting a lot of odd, concerned looks right now).  She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes.  “Hardly helping, is it?”

“Ma’am…?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, sniffling again as she rose and brushed off her dress, situating the cloak on her shoulders again.  She did not even look to see which stranger the voice belonged to.  She was absolutely done having this…this panic.  Was she not Selene Bellona, prodigy with promise?  Could she not take on a demon in a strange town where she wasn’t allowed to leave? Could she not find a way to banish it? 

This was the conclusion she came to, as she swept out of the store and back to find Astoria. It did not matter how she summoned the demon. Or even why.  It only mattered now that she found it and put it back where it came from, or slay it in the process, before it destroyed everyone in the town.

If it even was here...

—

Evening came swiftly and with it dinner.  Selene helped Astoria prepare the meal yet again and this time, Astoria even let her wield her Athame to help cut up the roast.  She held it and it made her miss her own Athame.  It made her giddy to hold and almost reluctant to let go.  

It might be useful, she even thought, for sticking into a demon’s eye.

They settled down at the table. Selene scooped the vegetable medley, mashed potatoes, and yams onto her plate, followed by a beautiful piece of the roast.  Astoria put down more of the medicinal tea by her side.

“I’m feeling much better, actually,” she said, smiling at Astoria. Since the afternoon, finding a purpose—no matter how dark and terrible it was—had given her more direction and calmed her down.  

Astoria pat her shoulder. “You do seem it,” she said cheerily. “I’m just trying to drink it all up. Waste not, want not!” She lifted her own mug and smiled.

Selene returned her kindness by clicking her mug against it and then took a sip. She did love the effect it had almost immediately, she could feel the blanket of peace settle over her. It gave her great confidence. She must find the recipe.

About halfway into the meal, their chit-chat died down a little and Selene knew now was the time to say what she needed to say.  She was only slightly nervous—the tea was helping. “I heard a rumor, while in town today,” she started. Astoria glanced up from her plate.

“Why that’s small towns for you,” she said with a coy smile.

“Yes…” Selene bit at her lip. “I…have you—you must have heard the talk of a demon. The destruction - ”

Astoria’s face became grave very quickly.

“So you have?” whispered Selene. She cleared her throat.  “What…what do you think about them?”

Astoria wiped her hands against her apron again.  This time it was her turn to take a deep breath. “Well, Selene, it does seem quite troublesome, the whole situation, doesn’t it?”

She must know. Selene’ nerves spiked again. Her stomach was turning a little too, her veins feeling strangely tight, like her blood was slowing to a crawl. She reminded herself to breathe and that—it would be fine. Astoria would take pity on her foolish mistake.

“I know it’s my fault,” she said, with tears in her eyes that she blinked against.  “But I want to do something about it. Surely—I can do it by myself, but…it shouldn’t be hard to banish the demon, right? We could do it, I know, and I know it’s too much to ask—“

“You should finish your dinner, Selene,” urged Astoria. “Drink your tea.”

She swallowed again and put down her fork.  “Please, Astoria. I know you must find what I’ve done insulting to magic but… “

“Selene, we should have this talk after dinner, don’t you think?” She said sweetly. She reached over and pat her hand.

Selene stared at her, the slow crawl of her blood filling with something else…a kind of stone dread. She took a deep breath—sharp.  She smelled peace and tranquility and underneath it all: poison.

“There’s sage in this,” she murmured, and looked down at her food—at the tea. She’d had about half of the mug. She glanced back up to Astoria with eyes blown open in shock.  “You’ve poisoned me.”

Astoria smiled the same maternal smile she’d been using the whole day.  “Oh dear, dear, dear, you are talented. Not many would notice.”

She stood up abruptly and felt her legs nearly fold. She caught herself with a hand on the table, which knocked the mug over. It shattered when it hit the ground. “Wh—“

“I’ve just put your magic away,” she said in a soothing tone as she rose from the table. “It’s still there, don’t worry. What you’re feeling is what human’s feel. This is how slow their blood moves—isn’t that funny? Unpleasant, I know, but it won’t be long for you.”

Astoria moved away from the table toward the counter where the food preparation was still all laid out.  Selene stumbled away, attempting to make it out of the kitchen, but sank to the ground near the threshold of the door. She let out a sob. The sound of a knife being sharpened filled the air.   

“Why are you doing this?” Selene said as she looked back, seeing Astoria with her Athame. The silver blade had begun to glow as if it had been held over a fire.

“You’d think a seer would have seen this coming.” Astoria said.

“What?” Selene croaked.

“As a hunter, I’ll spare the judgment. Blood magic, white magic, does’t matter to me. Prey is prey you know? And sometimes you’re lucky enough to have your prey walk right into your home.”  She turned abruptly, holding the Athame up.  “I’ll take great pleasure in stabbing this through your dirty black heart, witch.”

And she flew across the room.

Selene shrieked and caught her wrists as she came toward her with the knife. The heat rushed from the center of Selene’s chest into all parts of her and she could feel it, like a electric shock, pushing her blood faster, making her strong enough to stop the glowing tool just inches from her chest. The two women fell back in a heap, Astoria screaming and howling on top of her.

Selene kicked at Astoria’s shin and wrestled the Athame, tugging and tugging, never losing contact with Astoria’s wild eyes.

They sparked with hate, the color of ice.  

Selene screeched and yanked the Athame away from her, and, not even thinking, plunged the tip into Astoria’s shoulder.

Astoria jerked back with a wicked howl and Selene scrambled from under her, back into the kitchen.  She grabbed for another knife that had been disposed of in the sink. She held it out—like a sword—her entire frame trembling hot—as Astoria rose with the Athame still firmly lodged in her shoulder. Blood was blooming on her pink dress.

“You should barely be able to move,” she hissed.  “Should have finished your tea!” Astoria flung the copper pot from the stove and it exploded against the wall of mugs behind Selene. She covered her face and fell to the floor, feeling the sharp bite of the shards of broken ceramics cut into her hands, against her cheek, getting caught in her hair.  

She crawled, with the knife, still firmly clutched in her hand, around the island in the middle of the kitchen in an attempt to escape.

“Bad idea to fight a potioneer in her kitchen!” Astoria shrieked again and all the cupboards began to clatter as the tools began to topple around her. Selene glanced back and saw the knives shudder—until each removed themselves from the knife block.  

Selene screamed and darted onto her feet as they came shooting toward her like comets. One sliced as it whizzed past, skimming her neck—not deep enough to catch the artery but enough for the blood to start flowing down her collarbone.

She ran into the dining room connected to the kitchen when the pain in her chest absolutely exploded. She screamed as if she had been shot and toppled to the ground, her knife falling out of her hand and sliding across the wooden floor.

Selene clutched at her chest, breathing hard. She heard footsteps. She looked up, seeing Astoria coming toward her—Athame still in her shoulder. She was smiling and Selene never thought a human could look so much like a demon until right then.

Astoria yanked the Athame out from her shoulder. It dripped with blood.

“No!”

The knife came down again and Selene caught the actual blade of it, covered in Astoria’s blood.  She could feel it slicing against her own hand. She could feel everything right now. All kinds of pain. All over the place.

She had one thought only and that was that she wished this fire, this fire inside her, could consume Astoria too. And the thought was powerful enough.  Fire erupted from her hands, the blood transmuting into flame.

Astoria screamed as the fire crawled up her arms. “You used my blood! Blood magic!” She screamed and fell back.  

“Demon!”

Selene’s own hands were full of fire, but it did not burn. In fact, it was spreading too. She felt the spell move, the flame catch on the blood on her neck and inside her too—and she realized the blood had been too powerful—and all blood in the household was now catching.

Astoria writhed on the ground. “It’s in me!”

Selene pressed a bloody hand to her own chest, clawing at it—the flame she’d put inside herself—and when she ripped at her skin she felt the coal inside her hatch.

The house erupted in flames. 

–

Selene came to, hours after, surrounded by the charred innards of Astoria’s home, an untouched five-foot ring around her. 

To her own surprise, Selene didn’t find herself scared. In fact, for the first time since she’d woken up in the forest, she could say she was happy—almost blissful. She knew that flame now and what that hot coal had been. A Phượng Hoàng. It’d been in her family’s familiar for centuries. It told her that family, - or some reason - family was close here in this strange town. In that, the young witch found strength. She’d find them.

The memory had come back as well. She knew the whole story. She could remember the boy (he would only be referred to as such, deserving no name) holding her down and hurting her. She remembered him taking her grimoire.

She remembered death. 

Because that had been what it had felt like, stuck on the floor of the library, half-naked, invaded, and ruined.  She had wanted to die, and, if not permitted death, she wanted pain to be inflicted on him, and on everyone. It had been that moment the dark cloud came to her, summoned by her wish.  Magic was always at its most powerful when it was like that—stripped down to a wish.

Yes, she was blissful—born again, new, she felt. She’d fought a hunter and won. Her family, somehow, was close. Were there others like Astoria here? She’d find them too. This had changed Selene. A new witch rose in her place. 

Selene picked her way through the rubble and into the dining room. There was the hunter—looking crispy. 

She had not meant to do it.  She’d not meant to do any of this. She looked around, blank-faced, at the crumbling house. She was very calm. She could fix this up, she thought, once her magic had fully returned. She went out to the lawn. From outside, somehow, the house seemed to fall in tone with the town even more now.  

Selene turned to trees then and though she saw something amidst the tall pillars. Maybe a wolf. Maybe a vampire. Maybe some demon-dragon. Who the fuck knew?

And with that, Selene began to laugh. “Welcome to Ashbourne,” she said to herself, and her laugher grew and grew.

[cranialgames]

AtSP: Branch Timeline

I wrote this around the time chapters 75-ish were being posted of After the Shadows Pass, and it contains major spoilers for the goings-on in that fic.

None of this is particularly canon for the AtSP universe, and I’m posting with @mightylauren‘s blessing because she’s a star C:

Be warned: it’s angsty Ereloy, it’s kind of long, and it’s very unedited.

Extra notes beneath the cut because spoilers but basically this takes place in a timeline where Elof survives the battle with Dervahl. Elof surviving meant that, somehow, Erend barely made it out of the battle with his life, and Aloy spends the pregnancy effectively alone.

Enjoy??

==========

It took an amazing amount of willpower to get her to Teb’s door that morning.

Dressed in just her sleeping tunic, leggings and boots, she drew the attention of most of the braves she passed by. She held her head down to try and hide her flaming red cheeks, scowling at the ground, walking as fast as she could without running.

Thankfully, she was only waiting a few moments before Teb answered the door, his raised eyebrows drawing together in confusion when he saw who it was.

“Everything okay? You were hitting the door pretty hard, there.”

“Can I come in?”

“Uh, sure,” Teb said, and he stood back to allow her into his home, following her movements the whole time. He caught sight of the bundle of cloth in her arms, “I take it this isn't a social visit?”

“No,” Aloy replied, not quite meeting his eyes, “I need help.”

“What's wrong? Has something happened?” Teb asked immediately, panic edging his voice. Aloy held the bundle out to him, and honest fear flashed in his eyes.

“Nothing fits me anymore,” Aloy admitted.

Teb visibly relaxed almost straight away, and laughed in disbelief. “Is that all?”

“Please don't laugh at me,” Aloy murmured. The walk through the village had been humiliating enough; she didn't need her best friend laughing at her, too. “Can you let these out?”

Teb squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. Aloy had to force herself to not cringe away, but it was still better than being laughed at.

“Sure I can,” he said, “sit by the fire and warm up, and I'll get my things.”

Aloy gave him a wavering smile and did as he'd asked, wrapping herself up in one of the blankets stacked by the fireside. Realising that her clothes truly didn't fit her that morning had been a hard brew to swallow, and it was a relief to get some breathing room to process it.

“Actually, Aloy, I have a confession to make.” Teb said when he reappeared. She looked at him curiously, and he deposited a folded tunic in her lap, “I've been waiting for this to happen.”

Aloy unfolded the tunic. It was in much the same design as her old one. Teb encouraged her to try it on, which she did, and she found it gaping in the belly area.

“Teb, this is lovely,” she said, “but it's kind of loose.”

“Here,” he said, reaching for her. She lifted her arm to let him touch her sides and fasten some ties he'd put there, seemingly for that exact purpose. The top tightened to a perfect fit across her tummy, and she gave him an impressed nod.

“Better?”

“Much,” she replied, pleased.

“I have to ask…” Teb started after a moment, “did you not see this coming?”

-----

Aloy stared down at the beautiful hand-carved crib with awe. It had been made skilfully, the wood sanded and varnished to a smooth shine, the Oseram runes carved into its surface glistening as their edges caught the light.

“It's… wow,” she breathed, tracing the parts she could easily reach with her fingertips, “did you go all the way to the Claim for this?”

Elof and Brant looked between each other momentarily.

“It's an Oseram custom,” Elof explained, slowly, hesitantly, “when a woman is pregnant, her husband builds a crib for the baby.”

“It's the first gift a child gets,” Brant continued, “we thought, y’know, your baby will be born soon; he can't go without his first gift.”

“Cap would've done the same for us.”

Aloy nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the crib. It really was beautiful, made of dark wood, the joints held together securely with shiny iron brackets. It was fairly large, probably to accommodate the baby for at least a couple of years - that, or all of Brant’s teasing had substance, and the baby really would be huge.

“It looks amazing,” Teb said, “you made it yourselves?”

“I did all of the smithing and woodcutting,” Brant said loudly, over what Elof was going to say, “Elof stood there and barked orders.”

Elof shoved him, and Brant laughed. Anehita covered her mouth with her hand, as if she was laughing, too, and leaned back into Brant’s side as Elof started to explain.

The wood they used to make it was paid for by Avad, as it turned out, and all of the Oseram runes were carved by both of them. A lot of the runes were for decoration, but a few of them - Brant pointed out which ones - represented Erend’s clan, or invoked strength and warded off diseases. They'd even managed to include the womb-shaped sigil of All-Mother, and still, all of the symbols looked like they belonged together.

“We’re not a superstitious tribe,” Elof said, “but it can't hurt, right?”

“What do you think, Aloy?” Teb prompted. Aloy hadn't taken her eyes off of the crib once during the entire conversation. She stared as if she was looking right through it.

“Yeah, it's…” she started, distractedly. She wasn't sure what she really thought. It felt like there was a knife in her gut. “I need to pee.”

Avoiding their confused looks, Aloy laboriously pushed herself up out of her chair.

“Do you need help, or…” Brant offered, his eyes on the round belly she was having to manoeuvre. He looked genuinely concerned, and it made Aloy feel queasy. Aloy raised her eyebrow at him.

“To pee? I think I'll be okay.”

Before they could say anything else to her, Aloy walked straight out of the room.

Honestly, she had intended on going to relieve herself - when you’re as pregnant as Aloy, any bladder is a full bladder. When she was out of the lodge, however, she didn’t turn, or stop; Aloy walked right to the edge of the village. The other people milling around eyed her warily when she paused before the open gates, her unwavering gaze cast out across the plains of the Embrace. Her hands itched for her bow, for a way for her to process and work through all the tumultuous things she was feeling - but if she couldn’t even get up from a chair without making a scene, she probably wasn’t in much shape to be hunting. She wove her fingers together beneath her bump, instead, and tried to breathe steadily.

Aloy hadn’t even known about the Oseram custom that Brant and Elof had described to her. Granted, they had all been preoccupied by Dervahl’s attempted invasion of the Nora lands when she had discovered that she was pregnant, but still, she felt like it was something she should have known.

“Aloy,” Teersa said, her hand at Aloy’s elbow, making Aloy jump, “will you come with me a moment.”

“That doesn't sound like a question,” Aloy commented tonelessly. Teersa fixed her with a look that left no room for further sarcasm and started back up the rise, gesturing for Aloy to follow her. Teresa's age usually meant that Aloy had to slow her pace down when they walked together, but that was another thing the pregnancy had changed. Aloy was out of breath long before Teersa was, and she had to stop and sit for a moment about halfway back up the rise.

“I wanted to speak to you about what you plan to do when the time comes,” Teersa explained, after she had chided Aloy for over-exerting herself. Aloy just tried to not feel embarrassed about being outrun by someone's great-grandmother. “Have you made preparations?”

“Well, I have a shiny new crib,” Aloy muttered. Teersa chuckled.

“I thought you might not react well to that when I saw it. Huge, cumbersome thing,” Teersa said, “I expect you have your own ideas for decorating.”

Aloy frowned up at Teersa from her seat. Honestly, it hadn't even occurred to her, between caring for herself and for Erend. “Should I?”

Teersa held her gaze for a moment. Aloy had a feeling like she was being analysed.

“Let’s get inside and talk in private,” she said instead. Aloy huffed, and heaved herself up from her impromptu seat.

-----

Anehita’s hands were cool on Aloy’s belly, which was warmed from the many layers she kept herself wrapped up in, as she firmly felt her way across the bump.

“Good,” she said softly, “baby's facing the right way, now.”

“He's kicking me right in the ribs,” Aloy complained, making a face, and Anehita laughed good-naturedly.

“It’ll hurt a lot less when you're giving birth, trust me.”

Aloy settled back in the examining cot, uncomfortable with the baby pressing on her bladder and her lungs and her back all at once - but what else was new? She had been pregnant for almost the full nine months, and uncomfortable for probably eight of them.

Anehita hummed a lilting tune under her breath as she worked, measuring the size of the bump with her fingers. The baby stopped kicking for a few seconds, and Aloy's belly stretched oddly as he squirmed, not giving her much of a respite before he started to kick again.

“He's an active one, isn't he?” Anehita said, shaking her head with a fond smile and starting her measurements over again.

“This is nothing. I'm pretty sure he does somersaults in there every night just to keep me awake.”

Anehita frowned slightly despite her smile, her head tilting as she worked.

“Try getting up and swaying your body like you're rocking him, if you're having trouble sleeping,” she suggested, “it'll help him settle.”

“I'll do that,” Aloy murmured. Truthfully, she had been accidentally napping so much during the day, she wouldn't be surprised if that was what was really screwing up her sleep pattern. It probably would help if her baby didn't spend all night rolling around in her tummy, though.

When she finished, Anehita helped Aloy get back up into a sitting position. Usually, Aloy would reject the help, but she had gotten so big that even the most simple of tasks now took extra manoeuvring. The more difficult things - like propping Erend's head up to feed him, or lifting his heavy arms and legs to work the muscles so they didn't atrophy, or sitting up in a sagging examination cot - had had to be delegated away from her.

“Not long now, anyway,” Anehita said comfortingly, and Aloy choked on the lump in her throat. It really wasn't long until she was due to give birth, and every tiny little hope that she clung on to was soon going to wither and die. Before she could stop it, she thought of herself, alone and in pain, fighting desperately to bring their baby into the world alive and healthy, while the baby's own father lay in his not-dead-but-not-alive state, unable to help or support her. A part of her felt bitter and angry, like it was Erend's fault that he hadn't woken in months, even though his injuries had healed. Mostly, though, she felt scared and anxious; everyone had thought that Erend would have woken by now, but as the time crept closer and closer like an evening shadow, stretching out to engulf her, Aloy could no longer ignore the fact that Erend might not wake up in time for the birth.

Aloy could no longer ignore the fact that Erend might not wake up at all.

Anehita moved suddenly, leaning forward in her chair to wrap her arms around Aloy’s shoulders, pulling her close. There was an awful noise, a shuddering gasp full of grief and anger and fear, and it wasn't until Anehita pressed Aloy’s damp face into her shoulder that she realised the noise had come from inside herself. Aloy held on to Anehita like a lifeline, her agonised sobbing muffled into her friend's collar, as Anehita whispered soothingly to her, brushing her hair away from her face. Once Aloy started crying, she didn't feel like she would ever stop - every worry that plagued her when she was alone, every bad memory, and every nightmare came rushing to the forefront all at once. It was almost too much, she was bursting at the seams with the weight of the baby already, and now that everything was spilling out of her, it was like a never-ending circle of pain and grief. She had built a dam up inside herself, used it to prop her up and keep her going despite the pain she was in, and now that dam was breaking down. Aloy was breaking down, and she didn't know if it would ever end.

Eventually, she did tire herself out. Her desperate wailing quieted down to wet, hiccupping gasps, and Anehita’s soft humming started to soothe her. Vaguely, she wondered if Anehita knew she was gently rocking Aloy from side to side, just as she had told Aloy to do for her baby when he was also struggling to settle. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she sagged against her friend, exhausted.

Anehita asked her quietly if she wanted to sleep for a while. Already halfway there, all Aloy could do was nod, and Anehita helped her lie back on her side in the cot. Aloy's eyes fell shut, and as she drifted, she felt heavy, warm blankets drape over her, the weight of them making her feel supported and safe.

Aloy slept, her body curled around the still-growing life in her womb, dreaming of the day that Erend would finally hold their baby in his arms.

-----

Teb eyed her warily.

“Dialogue,” Aloy said, rocking back and forth.

“Dialogue,” Teb said, “what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” Aloy asked, still swaying on the spot. Teb gestured at her, and she understood, “Anehita said I should try moving like I'm rocking him if I want him to settle down and sleep,”

“Okay,” Teb said at length, laughing, “so why do you look like you really need to pee?”

Aloy stopped, and stared at him witheringly. He threw a pillow up to her and, clumsily, she caught it.

“Use that,” he suggested, “pretend it's your baby.”

“It's more feathery than my baby's going to be. I hope,” she commented dryly, but cradled it against her shoulder all the same. It was soft, and probably much lighter than a baby, and much less wriggly, but if she closed her eyes, the illusion worked. Aloy swayed on the spot, rocking gently back and forth like a boat on a lulling river. Eventually, the baby - the real one - quieted down, and the rolling feeling in her stomach lessened. She sighed contentedly.

“You're going to be an amazing mother,” Teb said, his voice miles away from her.

-----

{+}

Aloy relaxed into the chair, pausing her story for a moment. She noticed that the kicking and squirming inside her tummy had settled down, and she smiled at Erend.

“Hmm, he must be sleeping. Guess it's just you and me,” she said. With her thumb, she stroked the back of Erend’s hand, a content smile on her face.

“I can't wait for you to meet each other,” she said fondly, her eyes drifting to the fire that flickered and danced in the hearth. Her earlier conversation with Anehita sprung back to mind, as much as she tried to push it away, and the tears started to fall before she even felt them brewing. She felt stupid all of a sudden, talking to a man that was half-dead as if he could answer her, as if she was doing anything more than just fooling herself into believing that everything would end up okay.

“Can you even hear me?” she whispered, her eyes sore and her voice cracking at the edges. Beneath his hand, she felt another fluttering nudge, and she was so surprised that she smiled and laughed wetly. Erend wasn't answering, but she wasn't alone.

“I know baby, I'm okay,” she promised, in a soothing tone, “I'll stop crying; go back to sleep.”

A few moments passed, and she wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks, and sniffed hard, encouraging herself to relax again. She stroked the back of Erend's hand with hers, and when she felt the movement again, she froze.

Aloy sat up straight and stared down at where Erend lay sleeping. She threw away the blanket that was covering her, keeping the autumn chill at bay, and gasped.

Resting on her belly, Erend's fingers twitched.

------

“Are you sure you're okay? Your pupils are huge.”

“I'm fine,” Erend said in a distant voice, his eyes fixed on her tummy.

“Teersa says that if you're feeling up to it, we should take a walk around the village,” Aloy said. She looked down in surprise at the feeling of Erend's hand on her belly, fingers spread, following the rounded curve upwards. She sighed, and gloomily added, “I know. I'm the size of a Thunderjaw.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. She frowned slightly; she had expected him to do as everyone else had done, and wave off her self-consciousness and reassure her that every pregnant woman was beautiful, or full of life, or something else puke-inducing.

“You're out of it, aren't you?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly, “I'm so turned on.”

Aloy tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed. She was well aware of how much she resembled an upside-down Bellowback, and Erend found that attractive? “Really?”

“Steel to my soul.”

“Well,” Aloy said, dumbstruck, and grinning bemusedly, “walk around the village first, and then we’ll see what happens.”

Erend didn't respond straight away, his eyes still glued to her middle. Aloy shifted from one foot to the other, and ended up perching on the edge of the bed.

“It must be a shock to wake up to this all of a sudden,” she commented.

“Not really,” Erend replied. His eyes flicked up to hers, and his pupils were finally constricting, but he was still drawing lazy circles on her belly, and she felt the baby start to wake up. Aloy tilted her head again, confused, and he elaborated, “I was out, but… I was drifting for a lot of it. Some days I was more aware than others.”

“The healer said that if I talked, you might be able to hear it.” Aloy said, a question in her tone. Erend nodded thoughtfully.

“I definitely heard some stuff,” he replied, “no idea how much of it actually happened. I knew a lot of time was passing- didn't know how much, but I heard Brant and Elof telling you about the crib, so I knew that months had gone by, at least.

“Fire and spit,” he cursed softly, shaking his head, “four of our best friends in one room, and none of them could tell you were hurting.”

Aloy swallowed the lump in her throat. Her hand tightened over his, and he stroked her knuckles with his thumb. “It must've been hard for you, too.”

“It was,” he said plainly. Mother, how she had missed his directness. “I couldn’t see you, or tell you that I was here, and that I was listening. I couldn’t hold you when you needed me, no matter how much I wanted to. But, there was one thing.”

“What was that?” She asked. His eyes dropped back to her middle.

“I knew what this felt like,” he murmured, his fingers spread on her tummy. He could probably feel the hiccuping and the squirming going on inside her almost as well as she could, and she felt relief flooding her; all of her efforts hadn't been for nothing. Her hope - her belief - that he could feel the baby moving and that it might help him wake up hadn't been foolish.

“Are you okay?” Erend asked. Aloy wiped the tears from her cheeks and gave him a wobbly smile, and his brow wrinkled, “you look exhausted.”

Part of her wanted to be offended, but the other part knew he was just being sincere, and having someone care about her without it making her feel stifled and crowded felt like a miracle.

“I've been exhausted for about three months, sweetie,” she said dryly.

On wobbly limbs, Erend shifted himself to the side. “Lie with me,” he said, too gentle to be an order.

“What about our walk?”

“The village isn't going anywhere,” he replied. She couldn't really argue with that; now that he had pointed it out, she felt far too tired for a walk anyway. Aloy arranged herself beside him, her back to his chest, and his arm wrapped securely around her. He pressed his lips to her neck and her shoulder, and then pressed his nose in behind her ear.

“Sleep,” he said, soothingly, “I'm here; I've got you.”

Aloy couldn't help it. She cried again, for the third time that day. The difference was that this time, Erend was the one to console her, with comforting words and a body that was still strong despite being unused for months. The rest that Aloy got that afternoon, squeezed into a tiny bed with the rain hammering on the roof and her mate breathing steadily behind her, was the best she had had since before Dervahl had been camped out on their doorstep.

-------

“How was work, sweetie?” Aloy asked from the doorway. Erend had his back to her while he worked the laces on his boots.

“Long, and hot,” Erend grumbled, finally getting his boots off and dropping them to the floor with a loud clunk, “kids and petty crime, mostly. How about you? How was your-”

He turned to face her and his sentence stopped head in its tracks. His eyes followed the lines of her body up from the floor, as slow as molasses, lingering on the roundness of her belly and the swell of her breasts. She felt her body react under the heat of his gaze and she shifted, the silk of her wrap slipping across her skin as she did. It barely covered her, clinging everywhere, and she could plainly see the effect it was having on him. His eyes were wide as a Watcher’s, and his mouth practically hung open. It looked like his brain had completely short-circuited.

Aloy fought her self-satisfied grin off of her face and tilted her head coyly at him.

“Upstairs?” She suggested. Erend nodded dumbly.

---

It was late. The moon was high in the sky and the city was quiet, for the most part, while it's inhabitants slept.

Well, most of the inhabitants.

“Aloy,” Erend said quietly, nudging her, “don't fall asleep just yet.”

Aloy was in bed, propped up against the headboard, dozing lightly. In her arms was their week-old baby, who was somehow managing to nurse and wriggle around at the same time. Erend supported him with his hand under the baby's back, using the other to give Aloy's shoulder a gentle shake.

“Come on, moonflower, wake up.”

Aloy stirred, her eyes falling open as fast as they had shut. “Sorry,” she mumbled slowly, “can you take over?”

Erend glanced down at their son, who was still latched onto her nipple.

“Uh, don't think I can, actually,”

Aloy had already dozed off again. Her arms slackened and the baby started to fuss, and when it became clear that Aloy was dead to the world until she had gotten some more sleep, Erend eased the baby away from her.

“I know, I know,” he hushed as his son squirmed, his tiny fists waving in the air and his eyes scrunched up. Erend settled the baby against his shoulder, and the baby's tiny pink mouth opened wide, ready to start bawling. In a practised move, Erend quickly guided his son’s little fist into his mouth, giving him something to suck on instead. “Let's let mom sleep a while.”

The baby seemed to think about it for a moment, before starting to suck contentedly on his fist. Erend exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding; experience said it was fifty-fifty whether or not the baby had had his fill and would accept anything less than Aloy's breast.

Erend supported his son with one hand and started to nudge Aloy with the other again, coaxing her back under the covers so that she wouldn't wake with a crick in her neck. When he looked back his son was still sucking on his fist, and his eyes were wide open, staring right back.

Ever since the first time Erend had held his son, he had been completely mesmerised. For how long Aloy had been pregnant, and for how long she had been in labour, he seemed ever so small to Erend. The first time they had touched, skin to skin, the baby had wrapped his hand tight around Erend's thumb, his small fingers not even meeting. The baby had opened his wide, dark blue eyes and stared right up at him. Erend had cried.

Every time his son's wide eyes had fixed in his direction since, Erend felt himself fill with pride and love, and that night was no exception. He smiled widely.

“Hey,” he cooed, “hey buddy.”

The baby continued to suck his fist and watch Erend watch him. He inhaled through his nose, his lungs expanding all the way, and huffed it all out again in one rush. Erend's grin felt like it would split his face in half.

“Such a big breath,” he praised softly, “didn't mom do a good job making you?”

Beside him in the bed, Aloy started to stir and mumble, and Erend held perfectly still. She had been exhausted for the last month or two of her pregnancy, and the three days she had spent in labour had completely wiped her out. A week had already passed, but Erend still didn't want to disturb her more than was necessary.

“Whaddaya say we take a midnight stroll, buddy?” Erend said, climbing carefully off of the bed. The baby blinked at him a few times, which he took to mean ‘good idea, dad!’, and he started to wrap the baby up in his warmer clothes. Meridian was a hot city, but the nights still carried a chill, and Erend didn't know if they'd be gone for five minutes or fifty.

He left Aloy a quick note - they'd probably be back long before she got the chance to read it, but just in case - and carried his son out into the cool Meridian night.

Why the baby found these nightly excursions soothing and sleep-inducing was beyond him. Erend always ended up checking on the night guard and getting given more work to do in the morning, or they would come across some rowdy drunks that he had to quickly steer clear of, and the baby would sleep through it like it was nothing. Maybe it was down to how the last few days of Aloy's pregnancy had gone. She had been incredibly uncomfortable and restless, and she and Erend had made this same walk a few times to help her get to sleep. They had even done it one last time after her contractions had started, just to get things moving a little bit quicker, though that actually hadn't worked in the end.

On his shoulder, the baby yawned widely. It looked like this walk wouldn't be lasting long.

Erend took them to the nearest Vanguard posts anyway. A week of doing so had still not worn off the novelty of getting to show his son off to anyone and everyone, and he thoroughly enjoyed watching his soldiers - men and women in full armour - fuss over the baby.

As usual, he got a lot of teasing from the Vanguard due to his son not having a name, yet. The Oseram way of naming a baby immediately after birth couldn't be further from the Nora tradition of waiting six whole months. He had honestly been surprised when Aloy had told him she wanted to stick to the Nora naming conventions, at least for their first child (the implications of which had him reeling), but she hadn't elaborated on why she wanted to do it, and after having watched her labouring away for three full days, he didn't feel like he wanted to argue. Even if it did cause his men to tease him.

After a few minutes, however, the baby started to squirm and wriggle, and clumsily turn his head from side to side. Erend quickly bid the men goodnight and made a beeline back for his apartment, bouncing the baby the whole way in an effort to settle him again. He hadn't succeeded, and his son was wailing by the time he made it back to the house, his face redder than forgefire.

Aloy was already sat up in bed when he walked back into their room. Her hair was a mess, and she was clearly exhausted, but she was smiling fondly, and she reached her arms out for the baby and he felt like he was falling in love with her all over again. Reverently, he passed her his precious cargo, stealing a kiss for himself as he did so, and feeling her grin against his lips. Aloy arranged the baby across her tummy, bringing him to nurse, and immediately the crying was replaced with a suckling-snuffling noise that Erend secretly loved more than anything.

“My hero,” Erend murmured into her warm skin, as he pressed soft kisses along her jaw and nuzzled the crook of her neck.

“Someone had to do something. You were waking the whole street.”

Erend huffed. “Blame your son for not knowing how hungry he was.”