#seeing death as a mercy for both himself and every good person in a sea of evil

[pepplemint]

Summary of reading the Trigun Manga so far:

Reading Vash's backstory: wow this boy is traumatized

Reading Knives backstory: wow this boy is traumatized

Reading Wolfwood's backstory: wow this boy is traumatized

Reading Legato's backstory: wow this boy is traumatized

[vacantgodling]

📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂 (20) >:D

LMAOOOOOOO it’s a good thing i’m doing tcol you’re about to get so many fjdjrjrjr

as a reminder the format:

name (+ meaning) / age + pronouns / guild class / a random fun fact about them

📂 CAMERON (crooked nose) BLISS

34 & she/her

she is the right hand in charge of the Aegean Guild of Explorers but she has very little power in comparison to Madja. she is trained as a SCOUT

fun fact: despite growing up in the largest seafaring town on the main continent cameron can’t swim and has a slight phobia of water. her nose is also slightly crooked but it just makes her cuter 😤

📂 JIHI (mercy) ARTHEA

39 & he/him

he is madja’s “personal assistant” (to put kindly) but was trained as a SCOUT

fun fact: most scouts don’t use magic but being from snake’s canyon has given him an unusual affinity for lumine and he’s able to cloak himself in shadows — virtually vanishing in front of the naked eye. he also can juggle and has impeccable balance lol

📂 MIONA (derivative of the goddess MUINENS) WINFREY

33 & she/her

she manages the treasury of the Aegean Guild of Explorers but was trained as a scout

fun fact: as most from diisai she has what we would know as a scottish accent. it’s the mildest of all the diisaian characters because she’s from the capital mordiga and she used to travel a lot back and forth over the eastern sea with her father when she was young. her favorite food is buttered honey cakes and she spends ridiculous amounts of money on them lmao

📂 FELICITY (happiness) EVERGREEN

34 & she/her

she manages the stock and supply of the Aegean Guild of Explorers and is always hunting for good deals. she has no official training but is very good at throwing things and running away 💀

fun fact: felicity and cameron are childhood friends, both growing up in kost. she is the opposite of cameron and lives and breathes for the water and she used to carry cameron on her back in the ocean so they could collect seashells together. she loves to travel also and wants to see every inch of terrae in her lifetime if she can!

📂 MUKUL (bud/blossom) BRIO

34 & he/him

he’s the guild advisor for the Aegean Guild of Explorers and is a KNIGHT of the crown

fun fact: mukul really only became a knight for the steady paycheck and his actual passion and love is for baking. he bakes a lot of sweets for miona in his spare time and if he wasn’t concerned about his parents expectations he would’ve opened up his own bakery

📂 ALTAIR (the flyer) NOCTURNE

38 & he/him

alchemist

fun fact: altair is absolutely directionally challenged he could and has gotten lost in his own house before. he also seems extremely haughty but he’s actually not he assumes most people are more competent than he is and values learning from others. he just expresses it funny.

📂 CHARISSA (grace/kindness) GOODWYN

36 & she/her

protector

fun fact: she is absolutely competitive as fuck for literally no reason at all but ONLY if it is something completely meaningless. like chugging competitions or randomly decided races or who can pick the most apples just silly shit like that. despite being from hytröth also she seriously hates being cold and is terrible at dealing with it.

📂 ELODIA (foreign riches) PESANTE

34 (at time of death—not a spoiler only cuz she’s dead at the story’s start cough) & she/her

medic

fun fact: she is directionally challenged like altair but her sense of direction is uncanny when she’s in the labyrinth it’s very paradoxical. she also can’t hold her liquor and usually has charissa finish all her drinks for her lol

📂 HELIX (spiral) CARMINE

37 & he/they

ranger (archers basically) and also uses magic

fun fact: helix sleep walks quite often and talks in his sleep rather loudly. even if you hit him he’s a deep sleeper and doesn’t wake up until he’s ready to lol.

📂 SAITH (seven) PRALINE

29 & he/him

a page but is training under sir keevan to become a knight :3. he also, unlike many knights, uses magic.

fun fact: saith is the youngest son of a noble ish family from kingsburrow, the seventh in a long line of sons to be exact. he’s ambidextrous also and switches up how he wields his sword and shield to throw opponents off. he’s a very good dancer but gets embarrassed about it.

📂 SIR KEEVAN (hollow) GUERRA

35 & he/him

a knight

fun fact: though many assume so keevan does not come from a well off or noble family as many knights do, however he did have a distant uncle who left him his estate when he passed away which is how he was able to pursue knighthood. he also speaks very formally and rarely curses.

📂 LADY ILLIANA (derivative of the goddess IIARAN meaning shining bright) AEGOS

35 & she/her

does not have any formal training but is skilled in combat. her training would be closest to a knight’s because she’s nobility.

fun fact: illiana has never met her father — he didn’t pass away until she was 17, however he was never home for reasons she never knew and was mainly raised by her mother. she actually really enjoys fighting but acts like she doesn’t for appearances sake but her short temper (esp around piper) leads to fighting a lot of the time fnfnf

📂 <UN (one)> DION (of heaven and earth) UNDERSHIELD

29 & he/him

protector

fun fact: dion is the eldest of the undershield clan and changed his name from un (meaning one) to dion when he left home. whenever he’s visited or when his parents write they still call him un but he dislikes it. he was also the first person to create offensive spells for protectors though it’s seen taboo to do so.

📂 ERIK (mighty ruler) SOORI

31 & he/him

ranger

fun fact: another of the diisai gang and he has the strongest scottish esque accent of all of them being from the country. erik is also EXTREMELY superstitious; along with the deities everyone knows and worships, indigenous diisian folklore is very prevalent in the country lowlands where erik grew up (and miona and papa who have knowledge of these superstitions tend to lightly tease him). he usually jokes that he was born unlucky bc springtime in diisian folklore is an unlucky time of the year.

📂 MIKI (princess of fruit) KAGANOFF

37 & she/her

bard

fun fact: idk if it’s fun but she slept with her husband (jace’s) best friend and had a by him. she came to lathsbury to kinda. save their relationship. in a more fun vibe she is extremely fond of fruit and because they’re more abundant in lathsbury than her homeland of kiskkaddon she eats as many as she can.

📂 JACE (healer) KAGANOFF

41 & he/him

MBA (he uses magic & wields a trident actually)

fun fact: he’s a very skilled craftsman and musician but he doesn’t show off his talents often. his favorite sport is sand hunting; back in kiskkaddon you take a trident and hunt for game amid the rolling sand dunes and valleys as many prey hide out in the sand. it’s why he’s so skilled at using the unusual weapon.

📂 EREBOS (darkness) VERDINE

22 & he/him

illuminator (hexer)

fun fact: he is one of the only pale terraneans who is alive/in the story and this is because terraneans are only pale when they’re dead. he “died” for thirty minutes when he was a young child and went white as a sheet however the local medic in his area was able to resuscitate him, however he never really regained his color. most people give him a wide berth bc it’s like seeing a walking corpse to them.

📂 DARAN (derivative of MIZDARR) “PAPA” ISAI

54 & he/him

not guild trained, he’s a civilian that runs a pub! maybe there is some magic involved in it but who knows 👀

fun fact: the third to round out the diisian trio with a lovely accent to go with it. he’s been brewing beer and wines since he was a child and learned the trade from his father. his bar’s location around town also always seems to change and usually you can only find it if you need it

📂 MADJA (splendid/noble one) FANDEL

age unknown but appears 50-ish & she/her

the current head of the Aegean Guild of Explorers but her qualifications are murky at best

fun fact: she’s never lost any bet of physical prowess and loves to get drunk and challenge people to arm wrestling or full wrestling competitions in her spare time. she’s covered in scars and is usually smiling but it feels… off. she and kalifia are twins and she’s the elder

📂 KALIFIA (successor) FANDEL

age unknown but appears 50-ish & she/her

she is a skilled fighter but not guild certified. she usually frequents papa’s bar

fun fact: the younger twin between herself and madja she is also extremely strong and covered in scars. what she does during the day is a mystery, however she seems to have a fondness for flowers and presses them often in a variety of journals

[hetchdrive]

i literally wrote meren to complement astarion but i'm still like wow, meren and astarion really complement each other and i'm fucked up about it.

like.

you're a trans elf from a culture that threw you away because of it. you clawed your way out of the underdark, both womb and grave, and wandered this bleak, bright land until you managed to numb yourself to it.

until you managed to find something in the world above worth holding onto, until you found music. you're a brilliant mimic, all of your kind are, a mockingbird, sharp, clever, your teeth flashing in your dark grin. people are drawn to you for the same reasons you repel them-- you're unusual, exotic, you look like you might be dangerous.

you travel, a man without a country, because you can never go home. your fans are many but your friends are few, because a drow who sings of the sea of the starless night and the mushroom forests and the glittering city of menzoberranzan with the kind of heartache you sing them may fascinate and is good for a show and maybe for a night but never in the morning, never when they have to reckon with all of you. the kind of stories you weave, full of beauty and danger and the terror of walking on the edge of a knife melt in the sun and leave you behind, just someone getting older alone. out on the water without a point of reference on the horizon, that's what it's like to be the only person who is like you. no stars to steer a ship by.

you're not good, but you can do a decent approximation of it for a time. enough so that you're never entirely unwelcome anywhere, even as you don't truly fit.

and then you wake up on a mind flayer ship and you somehow escape. and for the first time in a very long time you're afraid. it's like being thrust back in time-- you're unsure of your own mind, and your body may betray you at any moment, and the message pounding through your veins is to run. but the woman you'd rescued on the ship is lying up the beach from you, and you pull yourself together because you can't let her see your fear. even with centuries between you and the underdark you know it is death to let a woman see your fear.

and then you meet him. and it's like looking into a broken mirror. the parasite lets you see into him, the streets of Baldur's Gate through the eyes of someone both predator and prey, and his fear sings to your own. his body is coursing adrenaline, too, pushing him to raise a knife. when you say you might have done the same if your roles were reversed, he relaxes minutely, though his eyes remain hard and calculating.

and the rest of your party sees you as this hero, somehow, because of a series of choices that in hindsight don't seem like choices at all, just the natural reaction to events unfolding. but he doesn't. he is full of resentment, he hurls bitterness at you, your kindness, your mercy, it's a waste of time and resources. and you don't react because you've been there, you were him, once, blinded by the sun and the world around you full of people who want to help each other. who don't see every vulnerability as something to exploit.

and he is mask under mask under mask, and when you look at him, really look, you have to keep yourself from reeling back, because it's like holding up two mirrors. he reminds you that you are mask under mask under mask, reminds you that the decisions you're making are arbitrary, that it's the others, gale and karlach and wyll and shadowheart more and more every day that make your actions good. they see goodness in you, and you let them believe it is there, but he points out that you just traded goblin lives for tiefling. he knows something about you that the others don't, just as you know something about him that the others don't.

and as your adventure progresses and he peels back layers of himself like he's reopening a wound, something that's barely scabbed over, you draw him to you, because how can you not? how can you not when you've been where he is, alone in a world that does not hate him in the way the world he left had done, but which instead burns with worse indifference. of course he's drawn to the idea of taking the power his master had set out to create. power, after all, is freedom. you grew up part of one of the great houses of menzoberranzan, you understand this. so when he doesn't, you recognize it as the turning point it is, the moment where he's decided it's no longer worth it to avoid being hurt if that avoidance also means he is alone.

he resigns himself to returning to the shadows, to the half-life he'd lived before the parasites, before your little family formed. but as the others go their separate ways, you go after him. because, after years and years and years, you've finally grown strong enough to admit that what you want is to go home. you saved the world, took down a cult and the corrupt political system within Baldur's Gate, and after that the idea of facing the inter-house scheming of menzoberranzan seems like child's play. and he, oh, the two of you would be brilliant there, with his manipulation and the way you can talk your way out of any problem and his political acumen and your knowledge of the social structure of the city that made you. he would be radiant down below. together you could remake the city of your birth into a place worthy of the songs you sing.

there is a whole world waiting hidden away from the sun, and if he will let you, you cannot wait to show it to him.

listening to the phantom of the opera soundtrack because i guess i wanted to cause myself multiple layers of psychic damage instead of going to sleep. i somehow forgot about the song Masquerade and that whole layer of theme.

[parkersbliss]

Fourteen | K. Brekker

pairing: kaz brekker x female reader

warnings: blood, death, angst, torture(?), crooked kingdom spoilers

wc; 2.5K

synopsis: some things are better left unsaid. you learned that the hard way.

prompts: 003: I’ll never love you 010: I just want the pain to stop 017: “Just tell me that you love me! Please…”

a/n: I uh… sorry in advance? I just read a heartbreaking story before this so now there’s this

Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

—

Decisions, decisions.

They weren’t easy to make, but they had to be.

It was one or nothing.

Make a choice, or you get neither.

Perhaps, not making a choice is better in this case, but you already know what the decision is.

It’s clear in your mind, and though you don’t want it to be, you’re not naive.

The world was cruel. It didn’t care for mercy.

Mercy was a luxury in Ketterdam. It was a luxury no one could afford.

Most things were unaffordable in Ketterdam, but you stayed anyway. You could leave, could’ve. Past tense. It was too late now.

And yet, you didn’t.

You stayed for the boy in the coat with a troubled past. You stayed for the hope.

Of course, you paid the price now. Mercy was expensive enough, but hope… hope simply didn’t exist. Surviving Ketterdam was a matter of kill or be killed, which is not an exaggeration. Knives are at your throat every day, and if you don’t make the choice to grab them and put them in the enemy's eyes, then you don’t survive to see the next blood bath.

For some people, that might be a relief, but others had unfinished business. The people in Ketterdam were driven by two things: money and revenge.

Both sweet and hard to retrieve, but to some, it was worth it. Every casualty was worth it if it meant getting what they wanted.

“Be ruthless, and don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do.”

Even now, you could still hear his voice in your head. At the time, it was good advice. You hadn’t expected it to be used against you.

“You should have no attachment to anything, and especially anyone. You have to be willing to let them go.”

That should’ve been the first sign. You had regarded his words with a grain of salt. You didn’t realize the meaning behind them because you thought he could learn to grow out of it. He didn’t really mean that.

Everyone says things they don’t mean in an attempt to seem stronger.

Everyone was lying.

Lies, lies, lies.

Oh, how everyone lied.

Just like how Kaz lied. He did that a lot, but never in a way that would hurt any of his crows. At least, you had thought.

“It’s a simple plan,” Kaz said, laying out the blueprints on the table. “Jesper, you will come in from this entrance, Inej and (Y/N), the roof, and I will come through the back.”

It was just the three of you.

Matthias… you didn’t speak of him. It was too sensitive of a topic. Well, it had been for Nina, at least, but then she left to return home to Ravka.

And there wasn’t a need to not speak of it, but you had all gotten used to it. Some things were better left unsaid.

Wylan was out on business, though he didn’t speak of what. Inej was often gone to traversing the seas. When she returned home, Kaz always planned the biggest heists. She was the best one here.

Jesper was still Jesper, young as ever, but that’s the plus of being Grisha. Most days, he was with Wylan, salvaging what time they had left.

Though it was plenty.

Which left you with Kaz a lot of the time. It wasn’t a bad thing, but spending too much time with someone is dangerous.

But you were drawn to him like that of a moth to the flame. Maybe it was an effort to try and fix his broken parts because you couldn’t fix your own.

You would learn soon enough Kaz didn’t want to be fixed. There was only one person that could do that.

It wasn’t you.

It never would be.

“What about the guards?” Jesper inquired, leaning against the polished wood.

“Two shots is all you’ll need. He doesn’t keep it heavily guarded,” Kaz replied.

“What if there are more?” You asked. “I doubt Black doesn’t have a few personal.”

Kaz glances at you, raising an eyebrow. “There won’t be more,” he spat. “Don’t question me.”

You wince at his tone, mumbling a sorry under your breath and letting your gaze slide to your boots.

“Jesper takes out the guards, I’ll take out any extra, and Inej and (Y/N) will head straight for the safe room. Then, Jesper will stand guard while I keep Black at bay with a deal he can’t refuse. Inej will pull the fire alarm, and then we run.”

“Will we have enough time between here and the exit?” Inej asked, using her finger to trace the space between the safe room and the central doorway. “I don’t think it’ll work, Kaz. You won’t have enough time.”

Kaz doesn’t lash out at her. His eyes linger on her face, drawing all the features he already knows in his mind. He’d memorized them before she left so that he could see her in his dreams. He did not want to forget her.

“You’re right,” He said softly, like a hushed whisper between them. An intimate moment that you shouldn’t be a witness to. “Is there a window nearby?”

“There’s one here.”

“Can you get out that way?”

You don’t bother to call him out when he only asks Inej when it’s the two of you that need to escape.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll count in my head. You have exactly 130 seconds to get in and out.”

“Understood.”

Kaz nods, satisfied, and rolls up the blueprints and tucks them under his arm. “Be here at midnight, sharp. I’m looking at you, Jesper.”

The said boy winks, “Wouldn’t miss it, boss.”

“You would,” Inej quipped.

“Well, guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Jesper.”

“Fine. Midnight sharp.”

Kaz exits the room after that, Inej trailing after him and Jesper swings his revolvers around, instantly drawn to a gambling crowd.

That would occupy him until midnight.

You stand at the empty table, feeling just that. It was lonely.

What used to be six felt more like three, someday two. If you were lucky, four.

“Kaz,” You muttered. “When was the last time you slept?”

He shrugs. “Am I supposed to keep track?”

“Yes.”

He exhales, gripping his desk before meeting your eyes. His face softens. “I don’t know.”

“Kaz-”

He holds a hand up. “I know, I know. Coffee isn’t sufficient enough to keep me awake.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “If you know, why do you still do it?”

“It’s addictive,” he hums.

“Addiction is bad.”

“Is it?” Kaz inquired, grabbing a stack of Kruge off his desk and flipping through it. “Addiction drives us all. It’s the root of every being.”

“So what?” You snorted. “Your addiction is coffee?”

Kaz falls back into his leather seat. “Greed is my addiction. I supposed coffee as well. What’s yours?”

“You,” You breathe out. The answer had slipped from your lips with such ease. You didn't even notice.

Kaz freezes, his pen staggers in the middle of a signature.

“To be like you,” You add for good measure.

“That’s impossible.”

“So is living off coffee.”

“Then it seems we are both at an impasse.”

“It would seem so.”

Kaz’s gaze lingers on you, making your heart pound madly in your chest. “Then let’s come to an agreement.”

“What do you propose?”

“I will attempt to get a good night’s sleep if you try to be yourself.” He sticks his hand out for you to shake. You grab it, making sure it’s quick, but when you try to pull back, Kaz grips it and pulls you towards him.

“And for the record, you are my addiction as well.”

“Me?”

“To be more like you.”

He lets go after that, and you’re unsure if he’s mocking you or if he’s serious.

“Have a goodnight, (Y/N).”

“You too, Kaz.”

Jesper isn’t late. He makes it on time. Courtesy of Kaz grabbing the collar of his shirt and dragging him away from the gambler’s table.

“Do we need to review?” Kaz asked.

You all shake your heads.

“Good because I wasn’t going to.”

Kaz turns sharply on his heels and walks into the Ketterdam night. It’s no different from the day, in fact, the night is more lively. It was better for thieves and mischief. The shadows were in their favor here. The people part for the basted of the barrel; it’s common knowledge to them. They don’t think twice about it; they just move.

It makes for a quick walk to the Mercher’s house.

Jesper takes the front, Kaz the back, and Inej throws you a rope to get onto the roof. Her footsteps are silent as she looks for a way in. She finds a latch on one of the windows and calls you over.

You were always better at picking locks than her. She was better on her feet, and though Kaz tried to teach her, he had gotten fair luckier with you.

In a few clicks, the latch pops open and Inej dives in. You wait for her to clear it before dropping in. You’re not as stealthy as the wraith.

Inej was one of a kind.

You land with a soft thump, both of you waiting five seconds before making any kind of movement. Inej cracks open the door, a stream of light filling the room.

It’s empty. There's nothing except cold, bare walls and a plush rug in the center.

It doesn’t appear to be in use.

Oddly enough, it looks like it’s waiting for someone or something.

Inej taps your shoulder, using your head to gesture to the hallway. You follow after her, staying pressed up against the walls just in case.

But there’s no one; the house is eerily quiet. There are no servants, no guards, and no wife or children. You didn’t know much about Black, other than the fact that he was a wealthy merchant. He mostly kept to himself. Sometimes you’d see him at The Crow Club. He was a cold and calculated man, every move he made was planned out ten in advance.

You could tell by the way he played his cards.

“It should be right about here,” Inej said, opening the door.

At the same thing you can hear Kaz’s voice, slight panic evident. “What did you-,”

As you open the door, your legs are being kicked in, and you drop to the floor next to Inej. Two guards from behind you are quick to bound your hands together as you both push against them.

Black tuts, laughing at the fear on Kaz’s face.

Poor Jesper was knocked out on the floor at his feet.

“Did you really think you could outsmart me?” Black asked, “The power is getting to your head.”

Kaz doesn’t say anything, but his nostrils flare in anger.

“Take them,” Black dismissed, clearly speaking to the guards. “Put… Brekker in a room with the girl, not the Suli one. And put the Zemeni boy and her together.”

The guards nod, roughly seizing you all. Inej shouts in protest, trying to hit them, but she’s unsuccessful.

Kaz grunts when they lay his hands on him, but he obeys because he knows it’ll be worse if he doesn’t. They throw you and Kaz into the room you dropped into earlier. They put you back to back, and you know it’s for Kaz because he hisses every time your hand's brush.

You try not to move as much as possible because it pains you each time you hear it.

Black strolls in a moment later, leaning against the door. He wears a satisfied smirk when you and Kaz glare at him.

“Confess.”

“What?” Kaz said with a snarl.

Black holds a knife between two fingers, spinning it. “Confess something. Your deepest, darkest secret, and maybe you’ll make it out with all your limbs. The Suli girl was quick to do so, and naturally, I’m curious what you two have to offer.”

“What did she say?” Kaz asked.

“Well, maybe if yours is just as good, I’ll tell you.”

“What if it’s not interesting?”

Black pretends to think about it for a moment before throwing the knife at you. You scream when it lands itself in your leg.

Kaz flinches, hard, screwing his eyes shut.

“That,” Black taunts. “So, confession time.”

When neither of you says anything, he grabs another knife. It’s only then that you notice their Inej’s. He had at least twelve more.

“I-,” Kaz starts, but he chokes on his words. They never make it out of his mouth and Black raises his dagger.

“I’m in love with Kaz,” You blurt.

The said boy stiffens against you.

Black lowers his dagger. “Now that is juicy.”

“I’ve been in love with him since we were fourteen," You whisper, letting your head fall. It was good to get it off your chest, but you'd prefer to not have a knife sticking out of you when doing so.

“Brekker?” Black inquired. “Reply?”

Kaz doesn’t say anything.

Black rolls his eyes, tossing another knife at you, and a muffled sob leaves your lips.

“I’ll keep going.”

“Kaz, say something, pl-”

Another one, this time your stomach. You cry out, thankful that at least they’re keeping the blood from rushing out.

“These things are so fun,” Black said. “Where ever did she get them?”

More knives are thrown your way each minute Kaz doesn’t say anything. You feel like a pin doll, except alive and with knives sticking out of you.

Many knives because Kaz couldn’t open his damn mouth.

“I just want the pain to stop,” You sob, unknowingly letting your head fall on his shoulder. You’re exhausted, your body is exhausted as it fights the intrusion. It’s a losing battle. “Kaz, please.”

“I can’t.”

“Just tell me that you love me, please!” You’re begging at this point. You just want to hear those words, even when you know they aren’t true. You knew they weren’t true the moment the third knife landed itself.

“Give the girl what she wants, Brekker. Or the other one gets it.”

“I’ll never love you,” Kaz said, milliseconds after Black had threatened Inej. Somehow, that hurts more than the fourteen knives sticking out of you.

“Don’t touch her,” Kaz shouts when Black backs out of the room.

“You love her, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

Black smiles. “Well, today is your lucky day. That was her confession as well. Since you two are so cute together, I’ll let you leave. All limbs intact.”

“What?” Kaz asked.

Black walks over to you, grabbing the knife from your stomach and pulling it out roughly as you cry.

“Oh yes,” He said, “You two - three - I forgot about the Zemeni boy,” He cuts Kaz’s ties. He’s quick to be on his feet and away from the contact.

“You can leave, you can live out the rest of your lives happily.”

“Three?”

Blood rushes from your open wound. He had nicked an artery when drawing it out. You were somehow thankful for that because at least death came quicker.

It came in fourteen agonizing seconds.

It came knowing that Kaz never loved you. He never cared. And he would sacrifice anything and anyone for Inej.

You were just the first.

Addiction will kill you. You just proved it right.

“My bad,” Black apologizes. “You and the Suli girl can love each other for as long as the saints may deem, but just know, you made that choice.”

“I didn’t choose anything.”

“You did, Brekker. I’ll leave the guilty conscience to you, Dirtyhands.”

The name stings Kaz more than it usually did.

“You chose Inej,” Black said simply. “And you’ll pay the price. And do send me an invite to the wedding.”

Black is gone before Kaz can do anything, and when he looks to you.

You’re already dead.

And he wonders what the lasts words you heard were.

If it was up to him, he would’ve said: I love you too.

— END —

🏷 Kaz taglist: @kaqua

want to be added? click here!

[carryonthroughtheages]

Hello everyone!

Another year of Carry On Through The Ages is over and done! We have emotions and exhaustion, but we're so happy that this year had the hype and excitement that it did.

Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, to all of the AMAZING creators who spent the last several months working away at their historical content!

Thank you also to the hard-working mods: @bazzybelle, @giishu, @palimpsessed, and @xivz . This fest would not have been as successful as it has been without you!

We encourage everyone to look under the page break for all the fics and art. They're all fantastic!

Here is the link to the AO3 Collection: Carry On Through The Ages 2021!

Thank you all, and until next year! 🧡🧡🧡

MONDAY:

1) sun on the sea (T) - @trenchcoat-moth : AO3 // Tumblr

Tensions run high in England, and Malcolm decides it's for the best he sends Baz to live with Fiona, where he'll be safer.

That is, until Baz's ship is attacked.

2) The Words I Long To Say (M) - @bazzybelle : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon Snow was dead.

Baz Pitch was sure of it. Simon had gone away seven years ago to fight a war in the jungle and he hadn't come home.

So, when Simon shows up in Baz's club, investigating a string of brutal murders, all Baz wants to do is hold him close and never let him go.

But these aren't the same boys from 1960 and Baz has a lot of processing to do before he's ready to believe in Simon again.

3) we are slaves to gods, whatever gods are (M) - @wellbelesbian : AO3 // Tumblr

I don’t fully understand what plagues him, but I know it’s bad, and I know it goes deeper than guilt. He didn’t want to kill his father, not really, but we were instructed to do so by Apollo. Cleanse the house of its sins, dispose of a murderer to set things right. It was only right that I join him; he was avenging my mother as much as his. Clearly, Apollo didn’t seem to consider that such an act would make Simon a murderer in his father’s place. It seems I got off fine, but as far as Simon is concerned, the vengeful spirits that once spun and danced on the roof of the palace now hunt him down, determined not to stop until he rids the world of himself.

4) World War II Era Art - @stardustasincocaine : Tumblr

TUESDAY:

1) the art of loving you (E) - @one-more-offbeat-anthem : AO3 // Tumblr

1955. London. Young love.

Forbidden love.

A year ago, starving artist Simon Snow met Baz Pitch, son of a wealthy art patron, at a party, and their days (and nights) together have been a wonderful secret.

But Simon is tired of being a secret and knows it's time for things to end.

(Baz has other ideas.)

2) Reliquary of an Arsonist (T) - @tea-brigade : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon Snow grew up a ward of Watford Abbey, but when his magic manifested in an explosive accident as a child, he became the Abbey’s anchorite—never to leave Watford’s walls, for his own protection. That is, until Abbot David sends him on an important errand…

Basilton Pitch paints portraits for his patron, Lord Grimm. But he’s never forgotten the magic he learned from his mother—nor the men who condemned her to death as a heretic. When Simon arrives and offers Baz a commission from Watford Abbey, he sees his chance to avenge his mother once and for all...and he’s willing to burn down everything in his path to that end.

But it was no coincidence that pulled these two unlikely souls together. Something more sinister is underway at Watford Abbey, and only Simon and Baz can uncover the truth before everything goes up in flames.

3) Westward Son (E) - @aristocratic-otter : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon and Baz have found each other again, but there's nowhere in Brooklyn or Virginia where they can safely be together. So now, they venture the hazards and struggles of the Oregon trail, to perhaps find a little homestead in Oregon of their own.

4) A Way Out (T) - @lying-on-the-sofa : AO3

I frown at him..“You don’t know me.”

He offers his hand. “Simon.”

Simon. I feel the name around in my mind and assign it to his face. Simon. I don’t shake his hand. They’ve still got my arms pinned. “Basilton.”

Simon nods at me. “Now we know each other. Let him go.” Very casually, he takes his other hand from behind his back. A sword, flashing. He leans on it and smiles invitingly. “Let him go.”

This time, they listen.

--

Simon Snow has been trained for years to become a tribute—one of the fighters Athens sends every ninth year into the Minotaur’s labyrinth. He wants to know the way out, if only for Penny’s sake. Luckily for him, Prince Basilton of Crete also wants a way out—off the island, where no one will know he’s the half-brother of the Minotaur.

Unluckily for both of them, they don’t exactly form the most agreeable pair.

WEDNESDAY

1) long is the road the leads me home (G) - @wellbelesbian : AO3 (Version 1) (Version 2) // Tumblr

Baz has a rather unremarkable life, and he's fine with that. Running his late mother's beloved inn with his temperamental aunt, estranged from his father and step-siblings, he's successfully convinced himself that he's better off without attachments.

Then Simon barrels into his life, guns blazing and rapier drawn, and Baz is swept up in dramatic plot he never bargained for.

Worse still, he finds he quite likes the thrill.

2) New Romantics (T) - @ninemagicks : AO3 // Tumblr

Basilton Pitch, twenty-two years old and a famed poet of the Romantic era, has fled to the countryside. In Mummers House, the fabled haunt of literary greats, he sulks himself into oblivion and awaits a sad, disappointing end to his brief years of brilliance. The cause of his downfall? None other than Simon Snow, the so-called “bad boy of English poetry”, breaker of rules and eternal thorn in his side. Baz hopes that Mummers House might mean an escape from London, from Snow and his increasingly virulent popularity... but the rain that comes has other ideas.

3) thnétos (T) - @snowybank : AO3 // Tumblr

thnétos: subject to death, mortal

a retelling of Apollo and Hyacinthus

4) A Medieval AU art piece - @thewriterxj : Tumblr

THURSDAY

1) From Eden (E) - @orange-peony : AO3 // Tumblr

I wonder if his skin is warm or cold to the touch. I tell myself it’s simple curiosity, that I’m an artist and capturing things on paper or canvas is my way to make sense of the world. That drawing him feels so natural, so I should just follow my instincts. Ebb used to say it all the time. Follow your heart. It knows where you’re supposed to go.

I wish I could. I wish I had enough money and freedom to just draw what I want. To paint him in his unattainable beauty. To draw him the way I want to. Naked and vulnerable, raw. Without frills and expensive suits.

Just Baz on paper, my fingers tracing his delicate and beautiful lines with simple charcoal.

2) Slings and Eros (M) - @palimpsessed : AO3 // Tumblr

Young god of love Simonides is tasked by his father, the god of war, to bring about the ruin of a mortal prince to punish his blasphemy. However, once Simonides sees his intended victim, he begins to have misgivings. Prince Tyrannus might have offended the gods with his very existence, but all Simonides can see is how beautiful and lonely he is.

Or, a very loose interpretation of the Eros and Psyche myth.

3) I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire (M) - @knitbelove : AO3 // Tumblr

September 1940: Going back to Watford feels different this year, and not just because England is at the brink of war with Germany and Italy. Penelope seems unsettled by everything, and Agatha is distant, and Baz is … simply not here.

What if Carry On but during the Blitz?? Yeah.

4) A Fool's Oath (M) - @thewriterxj : AO3 // Tumblr

A simple soldier is invited to join the ranks of the royal guard. He and his appointed mage arrive at the royal city to find themselves at the mercy of an unmerciful court. As he struggles to find his place in this foreign environment, he also finds himself entranced by music that only he seems to hear that floats out about the city. He makes an oath to wed whoever makes such beautiful music.

Too bad that person is the crown prince.

FRIDAY

1) Stranger Tides (T) - @tea-brigade & @xivz : AO3 // Tumblr

“If some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure…” Captain Simon Snow of the Chosen One is many things—cunning, handsome, ruthless. Greedy. It’s no surprise that Snow finds a way to piss off the God of the Sea, he always manages to get himself into some type of trouble. This time, however, he’s not the only one who will suffer the consequences. Poseidon promises to not stop his pursuit until Snow and all of his men are dead.

Enter Basilton Pitch—rich, beautiful, mysterious. Suspicious. He offers the crew of the Chosen One a hefty sum to take him back to Europe from the Caribbean. And who is Captain Snow to refuse so much coin? After all, Greek gods aren’t real.

Right?

2) The wayward heir [comic] (M) - @letraspal : AO3 // Tumblr

Like a folk song, our love will be passed on. Simon Snow wants to be an artist. He used to live in Fiesole where he worked in the wool shop of his good friend Ebeneza Petty. He has now chosen to return to his native Florence in order to participate in an art contest hosted by the Pitch family, the most important bankers in all the three continents and Simon’s last chance for an art patronage. No matter how much he hates them.

But being back in Florence also brings back the memories Simon wanted to leave behind : his days as an orphan, the mystery about his mother, and once more being under the inquisitive eyes of his godfather, the new archbishop Davy. The archbishop is very same man who would never forgive him for dropping out the priesthood and ruining his secret plans against the Pitches.

The last thing Simon needed was an unbearably handsome jerk getting him into trouble on his very first day in Florence. How can focus when this man is the most annoying person he has ever met and yet his major source of inspiration.

3) Prohibition Blues (T) - @heyyyandrea : AO3

Simon Snow is a baker and aspiring playwright in Prohibition Era New York City. When he meets a handsome man at Shepherd's speakeasy who is interested in his work, he can't help but think it feels too good to be true.

4) Earth Below & Sky Above (M) - @phoxphyre : AO3 // Tumblr

In the depth of the palace of King Minos of Crete lurks a creature known as the Minotaur.

Baz, prince of Athens and chosen of the god Poseidon, has heard the stories. And now he’s volunteered to come to Crete as one of the annual tributes—to dance with the king’s bulls and fulfill his destiny. He just wants to survive the bulls, protect his people, and go home.

But what if the Minotaur isn’t a monster—but just a boy? And what if instead of slaying him, Baz fell in love with him?

A Carry On retelling of the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, set in Bronze Age Crete.

5) A 1980s AU Art piece by @stardustasincocaine : Tumblr // Instagram (Slightly NSFW)

[the-anxiety-ridden-writer]

knives on my body, blood on my hands

Chapter One: The House At The End of The Street, The Cabin Buried in the Woods

THE CLOCK HAS BARELY TICKED PAST NINE O’CLOCK when the last light flickers off. Ink black shadows swell in the thin backstreets whilst gray storm clouds obscure any light coming from the shining moon.

The old town plunges into darkness and hidden within it, a little girl revels in it. Tilts her head back and let’s the beginnings of the storm wash over her, as if the rain water that begins to seep into her very being can wash away the red that has stained her soul.

(It can’t, the blood on her hands will transcend lifetimes)

A bright clash of lightning brings her out of her thoughts. She melts into the shadows and continues on her way, making her way down the street with eerie silent footsteps.

Perhaps a lesser man would have stumbled down the street, unable to walk the burrard street without tripping over himself. But the little girl moves with a silent grace in her step, weaving around the bumps and cracks even when she can barely see the boots on her feet.

The training of her handlers, years spent in the Hydra and The Red Room overcoming her. She could walk the streets - could walk a path around the world and still carry the deadly grace and efficiency that they had beaten into given her.

Besides, the little girl was just The Asset to her handlers, Hydra’s own personal Angel Smerti. She was no man, much less one of low value.

The house at the end of the street is quiet when she enters it. The screams of the lightning hide the soft whine of the window when she opens it and the creak of the wooden floorboards when she lands on them.

The Asset squints her eyes, letting them adjust to the darkness and trail over the bookshelf lined walls. She stepped towards the oak desk, lifting one of the files scattered on the surface. She let her eyes scan the pages within before setting it down, letting the words winter soldier, car crash, two victims and serum mull over in her head before filtering it away for later, a loud clatter pulling her attention to the doorway.

A poison slick dagger is already soaring through the air and embedding itself in the figure before she can fully get a good look at them. The figure - a frail, old man with thinning white hair - stumbles back from the force of the knife, dark eyes widening in fear as the Asset stalks over to him.

She gives him quick once over, letting her eyes roam over the man as his muscles begin to tense up until he can’t move at all, until he is nothing but a mere puppet that the Asset can pull all the strings of. A puppet that the Asset can cut all the strings off of.

She carefully ignores how those last thoughts bring a small sense of dread and horror that pools in her stomach. Turn her head to the voice telling her ‘what’s one more body to add to the pile?’ And the voice asking her ‘just how monstrous have you become?’

(too much, far too much for someone her age)

The man finds his voice, previously lost in a sea of gasps and whimpers, “Please.” he begs, eyes wide, a wrinkled hand pressed to the dagger buried within his stomach.

“Please don’t ki-“ the Asset cuts him off, yanking the dagger out and shoving it into his throat. It doesn’t take long for the old man to leave these mortal planes, drifting off to be judged by an otherworldly being that can distinguish a saint and a sinner and never the between. To the otherworldly being that thinks he has any right to judge the actions of a human being trying to survive.

No, Death has never discriminated between the saints and the sinners.

‘And neither shall I’ the Asset thinks, ripping her dagger from his throat to slip back into the many holsters that cover her clothing.

She lugs the old man into the study, manhandling his body into the smooth leather chair, resting his head upon the oak desk, staining the folders with his blood. She stepped back, observing her work with a critical eye. It almost looked like the poor man had fallen asleep at his desk, if you - you know - ignore the blood.

The Asset eyed the scented candles perched atop one of the bookshelves, promptly labeled Cinnamon Sugar! Warm Spring Sunshine! and Peach! The Asset raised an eyebrow, an idea coming to mind.

An idea that would end in the echoing cries of firetruck sirens throughout the quaint street, the horrified muttering of neighbors and the ashes of an old man's study.

•☽○☾•

IT’S DAWN by the time the Asset makes her way back to where her handler—a sleazy, middle aged man that she hadn’t taken the time to remember his name—is currently based.

The sky is a disarray of colors, the sun spilling a cup of bright yellows and exotic oranges over the previously dark canvas. The Asset finds herself staring up at it, and feels a deep longing begin to stir. For the sky ran everywhere. It ran through the deepest of forests and the driest of deserts and over the endless waves of the ocean. The sky ran everywhere, demanding to be seen and heard and free and the Asset found herself envying it.

Truth be told, there used to be a fire in the Assets soul, before she was called Asset and went by the name that had been sewn into a velvet blanket by a woman that may have cared. It would burn through her veins, close to her heart and on days when her trainers would be harder on her than the rest for her heritage or when one of the girls - a pretty blond who went by Rowena - would make a cruel remark about the shape of her eyes, she’d let the fire consume her, let it burn through her and come out of her mouth, searing into them, until Rowena wept ugly tears into her hands and the trainers unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks before demanding an apology. The Asset can’t remember if the girl with her name sewn into a blanket had ever apologized, had never wanted to dwell too much on those memories.

(she hadn’t, the girl took all the pain and torture with her head held high. she refused to apologize for the fire in her soul. )

The Asset shook those thoughts away as the cabin her handler—Ivan Vanko—had holed himself up in came into sight. Just the sight of it, and the thought of facing Ivan had her straightening her posture, wiping any sign of weariness and schooling her face until there were no cracks in her porcelain mask, nothing for Ivan to dig into to expose all her thoughts.

There’s no noise when she enters, the door shutting silently behind her. She tenses, tilting her head to the side before pulling out one of her knives. Moving down the hall, she keeps her senses sharp, With no idea who she’s up against, she waits, muscles wound tight and her mouth a hard line, eyes darting around the slim hallway walls. She doesn’t have to wait long.

A hand thrusts out of the first doorway to her right, a strong pull has her flying through the air and losing the grip on her knife. Pain erupted in her shoulder but she didn't give it the time of day. Instead she rolls to her feet, springing up and throwing every ounce of her strength into the flying kick that sends her assailant slamming into the wall with a yell of pain.

The Asset lets herself breathe, if only for a second. Her eyes assess her assailant — a well dressed man with balding hair — cataloging every weakness she can find, from the way he favors his right side to the fading bruise on his right temple, while he lay recovering.

This time, when he lunged for her, she is ready.

She side steps his attack, digging her knee into his injured side, and sends a sharp elbow into his already bruised face. A loud crack echoes in the room, and when he stumbles back, a scream of pain that can only come from deep within himself, a small twisted part of her is pleased to see his nose is far from the correct position.

Adrenaline thumps through herself, a synchronized sympathy that plays in tempo with her heart. When both he and his little friend that had been waiting, watching in the shadows of the room lunge at her, she already knows who the victor of this battle will be.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is where their dance begins. Or rather, her dance begins.

She dodges his friend's attack, turning and arching her leg in the air, slamming it into assailant number two — a short woman who was barely taller than The Asset — side. It leaves her stumbling back, groaning as she falls like a corpse into the glass table in the center of the room.

The Asset grunts as strong arms encircle her, lifting her up, up, up. She grunts, moving her arm up and once again digging her elbow in his face. It connects with his eye this time, the action leaving him stumbling back, clutching his hand to his eye. The Asset doesn’t give him time to recover, doesn’t have enough sympathy, enough empathy, enough mercy in the body that has been crafted with the fists and guns and needles of the men and women who have used her, trained her, killed her.

It’s why the dagger slips so easily out of its concealed holster and into the man's chest. A cry of agony is silenced with the arc of her leg, her foot connecting with his Adam's apple. He toppled over, hands held to his chest as if he can relieve the pain that she has brought to his body.

She stared him down, the soft creak of wood under her foot echoed like screams around the room. She plants one foot on his chest, pressing down as she pulls the dagger from his chest, baring her teeth behind her ninja-esque mask as he screams.

She leaves the man there, bleeding, beaten, broken and goes to find her handler.

AN: I don’t know what this is, but it’s dumb. I’m also dumb tho and I’m thinking of adding on.

Special thanks to @unmaskedagain , @nightlychaotic and @nobodyfamousposts for introducing me to maribat. I love all of your maribat posts.

Tag list: @avengerthewarrior , @nightlychaotic

[samstree]

Hug a Witcher Day (1/3)

Jaskier writes a new song ‘Hug a Witcher Day.’ It gains insane popularity and Geralt finds himself hugged by random strangers on one day every year. He just wishes a particular bard would hug him too.

By one person’s popular demand, I present to you a touch-starved Geralt, a cheeky Jaskier and a lot of pining. 

fluff, hand holding, sharing clothes, yearning, 3k, rated G

read on AO3

It is the most ordinary morning.

The wind is picking up after last night’s rain, a common occurrence in the fall, bringing nice moisture in the air all the way from the sea. The last of the heat washed away to reveal crisp blue sky, stretching all the way to meet the mountain range.

It’s an ordinary morning, except everyone is staring at Geralt.

The inn is not busy this early in the morning, but a few patrons have risen for the first meal of the day. As the witcher sits down at a table, the atmosphere changes instantly. The conversation hushes and eyes start turning in his direction. Some are even giggling with their friends upon seeing him.

Although, there’s no malice, no fear, or disdain.

Only amusement.

It won’t be the first time that a crowd finds a witcher to be a curious sight. Although it is unusual for a town of this scale to have never seen one of them before.

So Geralt pays no mind. He only wants to finish his porridge in peace. His stomach has been rumbling since he missed dinner last night. The hunt took way longer than he anticipated, and by the time he returned, the inn had long since stopped serving. Although the maid—a young girl no more than sixteen—promised to give him an extra portion at breakfast.

Even she’s staring too.

The girl takes a look at Geralt’s finished bowl and hurries to fetch another from the kitchen. She carries the porridge and an extra loaf of rye bread to his table with a smile that gradually lights up her whole face.

Geralt nods as she puts them down, confused at the good mood of this whole establishment.

His confusion grows when she doesn’t leave. Instead, the girl lingers a moment, as if working up her courage, before bending down to circle her arms around Geralt.

He has to fight every instinct in his body to stay still and let her hug him. Her arms are squeezing gently, not the too-tight kink. Her curled locks are all over his face. When she pulls back, her round cheeks are flushed like a beet, the grin now carrying a hint of embarrassment.

“Why—”

“Thank you, master witcher!” she exclaims chirpily.

“What for?” he frowns.

“For getting rid of the fiend, of course!” She’s almost taking offense at the question. “Right before today, no less.”

“What’s so special about today?”

“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. Do you not know?”

Well…no. The passage of time registers too vaguely when he’s traveling alone from one town to another. The contract last night was no different from the last five.

Geralt doesn’t want to think about how monotonous the path is without a companion, or he’ll have to admit to himself that he’s missing the bard and his ridiculous songs and too-loud playing. He won’t do it, even in the safety of his own mind.

Still, her answer doesn’t explain anything.

“The day before Saovine!” she must be seeing his silence as an encouragement to continue. “It’s Hug a Witcher Day!”

Geralt drops the spoon into the porridge. Biting back a curse in a child’s company, he fumbles to fish it out.

“Hug a—what?”

“It’s how the song goes! Hug a witcher and thank him for the work he’s done. All the monster-killing in the past year!” Her smile turns to a tiny frown. “And you, sir, just killed that fiend for us last night. As the lyrics say, it’s only right that I hug you!”

“It was…my job. And why does it have to be Saovine?”

“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. It’s the last holiday before witchers rest for the winter. It’s only right to thank them now.” she proclaims proudly. “Have you really not heard ‘Hug a Witcher’?”

Should he have? Before asking the next question, Geralt has an inkling that he already knows the answer.

“Whose song is it?”

“Who else? Your bard of course. Master Jaskier the bard!”

The words your bard somehow lands on a soft spot in Geralt’s chest.

Although Jaskier hasn’t traveled with him for months. Geralt doesn’t pay attention to the bard’s new hits because they will eventually reach his ears anyway. Jaskier can never pass an opportunity to serenade him with every new composition when they are alone by a campfire, looking for the witcher’s personal reviews no matter how well-received by the public they appear to be.

“Hmm.” Geralt calculates the distance between where he is and Oxenfurt. This ‘Hug a Witcher’ song, in fact, is spreading faster than any of Jaskier’s famous ballads.

A hug can’t be worse than being tossed coins, right?

 *

It keeps happening for the rest of the day.

First, it’s the stable hand. Geralt is just trying to load his pack onto Roach when the young lad comes in. He doesn’t try to hug Geralt, only giving him a polite nod.

“Thank you. For your work, sir,” the lad says, before helping Geralt saddle the mare. “Like the song says, eh? Thank a witcher so no monster will plague you in the coming year.”

And then, it’s a few small children. A flock of them suddenly come out of nowhere and just… cling to his legs.

“Thank you master wiiiiitcheeeeer!” They shout in unison and drag the last few syllables longer and longer. And then the group disperses just as quickly as they gathered, giggling and running off to an alley.

All except one.

The smallest one stays at his feet, looking up and staring at him.

“Hug!” the boy stretches out his short arms.

Geralt blinks.

The boy stares, eyes wide and expectant.

So Geralt has no choice but to bend down and let the boy wrap those short arms around his neck.

“You’re welc—"

It’s over in a second and the child is rejoining his friends, who are now peaking their heads out of the corner of the alley. Excited squeals erupt among them.

Geralt feels the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

When he gets to the market, a few shop owners are smiling so brightly and offering discounts. Roach gets a horseshoe and an apple for free within the first hour. The silversmith shouts out thanks before jogging up to him and pulls him in for a bear hug.

“Hug a witcher for luck,” she says.

“No, it’s for good harvests!” an old man corrects her.

They keep coming.

But everyone has a different reason and it makes Geralt wonder how many versions Jaskier has for this one song. Or, he dreads to think, how long it is.

“Hug a witcher and death will avoid your door.”

“Hug a witcher for a merciful winter.”

“Hug a witcher for good rain!”

“Thank you, master witcher.”

“Thanks, sir, for your service!”

 *

“Geralt! You need to control your bard!”

Lambert growls as he slams into the heavy wooden door of Kaer Morhen keep, stamping his foot to shake off the snow.

Turning another page of the book, Geralt refuses to look at his younger brother when he’s in a grouchy mood.

“What did he do?” he asks nonchalantly.

“You know—" Lambert grits his teeth. “—what he did.”

The youngest wolf sits down, crowding Geralt’s space, his cloak still wet from the storm outside. Geralt raises an eyebrow but stays on the book. He is not going to make it easier for his brother.

After seconds of silence, Lambert finally gives in. “His song!”

“You can’t possibly be mad about Hug a Witcher.” Eskel walks in and also sits at the table, the sewing kit and a ripped shirt in hand. “It’s a good one.”

“I’m a witcher! They saw me and tried to hug me!”

“So?”

Like Geralt, Eskel only fuels the youngest wolf’s exasperation. He even starts to thread the needle, completely unfazed.

“So?” Lambert pulls off his cloak and the water splashes all over Geralt’s book. “For a whole day, people tried to touch me. A whole day, Geralt! All thanks to your bard and his blasted song! I couldn’t even get out of town without those folks jumping on me.”

“And? I don’t know about you, but I appreciate some showing of gratitude. Thank your bard for me, will you?” Eskel nudges at Geralt.

“Hmm.”

“I don’t care,” Lambert continues, pointing a finger at Geralt. “Tell the bard to stop this nonsense, or I will stop him myself and he won’t be as pretty afterwards.”

Geralt finally dogears the page and faces his brother’s tantrum. He wonders if the crease between his eyebrows is tight enough to crack a walnut—it might be fun to try one day. “Or you can just not let them,” he deadpans.

“What?”

“You are a witcher, the best one among us—according to yourself.” Geralt tilts his head, squinting. “Are you telling me you couldn’t fend off some villagers who were only trying to give you a squeeze?”

Lambert’s face stills, his index finger hanging in the air. In front of Geralt’s unblinking eyes, his face turns redder and redder.

“Urgh,” with an annoyed wave, Lambert storms off the same way he stormed in, all the while muttering all kinds of colorful curses.

Geralt purses his lips as to not let out a too-obviously laugh, but at the corner of his eyes, he notices Eskel shaking his head in amusement.

“All jokes aside, I liked the song.”

Geralt shrugs.

“Jaskier knows how to make them go around.”

“No, I like the day that came with the song. Just about a decade ago, people barely thanked us for a job well done, but now? Lambert is a prick, but I don’t mind having a pat on the back after spending a whole year on the path. Don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” He shrugs again.

Eskel has put down his needlework and is observing him intently. Both of his brothers are so weird about this, Geralt reckons, but on opposite sides of weird. Maybe that’ll be the bard’s review when they meet in the spring.

“Maybe you are indifferent because your bard already knows to appreciate you, wolf. Being your barker and all. Was he thrilled to see the rest of the world catch on?”

Geralt frowns while opening the book again, not sure where this is going.

“Jaskier wasn’t with me during Saovine.”

“No?” Eskel is moving into his space too. Urgh, the two of them. “You bard got the whole continent to hug you, but he wasn’t there to give you one himself?”

“No.”

A sudden surge of irritation rises, but Geralt isn’t sure why. All he wants to do is read the damn book without his brothers nagging him about how terrible or how amazing this ridiculous day is.

“Hmm.” Eskel mirrors his hum. Every time the older witcher does this is because he’s trying to figure out something, and Geralt has no intention of finding out.

“I’ll read elsewhere.” With a loud snap of the book, Geralt leaves the room in a few quick strides.

He has a feeling that this lousy mood might stick with him for a while yet. At least until he can leave Eskel’s inexplicable prodding and Lambert’s grumpy ass behind.

*

“I know you don’t like the touchy mushy stuff, Geralt. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they would actually hug you all day long!”

Jaskier looks so contrite that his hands are reined in from his full-body gestures, and that’s how Geralt knows the guilt is genuine. His fingers are fidgeting with the hemline of his winter doublet and his hands, exposed in the chill, are turning red.

It’s still quite early in the spring, since Geralt has come to find the bard in Oxenfurt as soon as the ground thawed. A cold spell is hitting the town pretty hard, although Jaskier is sure that it’ll be the last one before green returns to this town.

It doesn’t help that snow has been steadily falling and melting at the same time during their stroll around campus. The bard shivers a little.

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, taking off his own scarf and wrapping it around Jaskier’s neck.

“It is not! Once again, I have been so focused on my professional achievements and forgotten about the impact those songs have on you. All of you.”

Jaskier helps Geralt adjust the scarf so it covers all of his neck and the lower half of his face. It’s made of the warmest yarn Vesemir keeps at Kaer Morhen, but the plain color is a stark contrast against the delicate design of the bard’s fur-lined doublet. In comparison, Geralt’s scarf looks too coarse to be there, but Jaskier seems content enough to bury his face into the material, letting out a soft sigh.

His hands still look cold, so Geralt removes his gloves as well.

“Eskel likes it. The song and the day.”

Those words seem to lighten Jaskier’s mood. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly.

“Really? He likes Hug a Witcher day?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The bard flexes his stiff hands before sliding into the leather gloves. They fit surprisingly well with Jaskier’s long fingers, only a bit loose on the wrists, so Geralt makes sure to fasten the cords. He then holds both Jaskier’s hands between his palms, just to warm them up a little.

Can’t let a lutenist complain about frostbite on his fingers.

“Says it’s nice to be appreciated for all the hard work he’s done. The hugs aren’t bad either,” Geralt explains. “Eskel never minded them anyway.”

“And you?” Despite his slight apprehension, Jaskier’s eyes are filled with careful hope. “Do you mind them?”

With a final squeeze, Geralt lets go.

“I told you it’s fine.”

“You don’t have to say it to make me feel better, my dear. I know how you don’t like people touching you,” the bard says, reaching out to brush off some snowflakes on Geralt’s shoulder with a gloved hand.

Geralt frowns, looks down to Jaskier’s casual touch on his shoulder, and then back to his concerned blue eyes.

Why on earth does Jaskier think he hates touches? The bard himself touches him all the time, at least in the past couple of years. Not at the beginning though, when they were barely friends and Geralt told him to fuck off all the time and not to feed Roach treats and—

And when Geralt punched him in the gut just to drive him away.

He’s seen Jaskier hug so many people, countless flings, long-term lovers, his parents, cousins, even other bards. He’s seen Jaskier hug Essi just this morning while being teased by her relentlessly about something Geralt didn’t understand. Must have been an inside joke.

But never him.

Jaskier never hugs him.

The realization sinks Geralt’s heart somehow. The cold wind suddenly cuts a lot more brutally on his bare neck and hands.

He doesn’t mind a little nip when Jaskier is the more sensitive one, being human and all. But at this moment, with the bard all bundled up in a soft doublet with those feathery puffs on his shoulders, he looks like he can give great hugs.

Jaskier looks so…huggable.

Geralt wonders what it would be like to take Jaskier in his arms and squish him over those thick, airy clothes. He wonders if he can bury his nose into his scarf—now it would smell like a mixture of Jaskier’s floral scent and the wood ash that always lingers around Geralt’s person. He would pull away to see Jaskier’s cheeks painted pink in the cold air and snow melting on his long lashes—

“You are just saying it, aren’t you? I have deeply offended you.” Jaskier interrupts those wandering thoughts because he has taken the silence as anger. His expression can only be described as crestfallen. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be too mad. I cannot lose my best friend. I simply cannot take it, Geralt! I will die of a broken heart!”

The plea is so dramatic that Geralt lets out a chuckle.

“Will you relax?” he pats Jaskier on his puffy sleeve. “I’m not mad, little poet. It truly is fine. Some children hugging me on the leg is not the end of the world.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Somehow, Geralt knows that if Jaskier decides to also give him a hug that day, it won’t be the worst thing either. Hug a witcher to thank him, it’s the bard’s own words. He’s protected Jaskier from angry spouses so many times it will definitely warrant a hug, right?

“Good, then.” Jaskier lowers his face into the scarf again, pretending to hide from a draft, but Geralt can see the faint smile around the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad your brothers also enjoyed my contribution to what will become the next official holiday.”

“Oh no, that’s just Eskel. You should avoid Lambert this year.” Geralt grimaces. “Maybe the next few years too.”

Jaskier is taken aback but recovers quickly.

“Well, I’ve got you to protect me from his wrath, my friend who’s not angry with me.” The smile, this time, is genuine and brightens up Jaskier’s whole being. His arms stretch out in a pose once more. “Where shall we go when spring comes? You know, when it really comes.”

Jaskier grimaces at the sky as if judging it for the untimely harsh weather blocking their way.

“Hmm.”

Geralt is in no hurry to determine the where of their journey this year, but the when of it…

A sudden ache in his chest tells him that maybe he should stick with Jaskier until Saovine.

Or at least the day before.

---

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

No One I’d Rather Die For - fic

Characters: Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne Summary: In canon, Damian blamed himself for Dick getting shot, despite not being there. So...what if he was? A/N: I’m struggling with some personal stuff and needed to cry, so now y’all have to as well. I never actually read when Dick got shot so this is based on the panel that came up when I image-searched it. How this became from Dick’s pov I have no clue. It was supposed to be from Damian’s, oops. Uh....warning death and gory-ish descriptions.

~~

It was raining in Gotham. And that wasn’t new. But that’s all Dick could think about. All he could focus on.

That, and one other thing.

Damian wasn’t supposed to be here.

Damian wasn’t supposed to be in the city. He was out. With the Titans, with Jon, with Maya, whatever. He was out of Gotham.

He was out of Gotham.

And it was just a normal case. He and Bruce standing on the GCPD roof with Gordon, talking over the evidence and suspects. Bruce and Jim were frowning. Dick was trying to cheer them up with a stupid joke. They were just about to wrap up for the night. Go back home. Relax. Move on to tomorrow.

Damian was not. Supposed. To. Be. There.

He was talking, in the middle of a joke. Something about the fucking Napkin Man.

Then, there was a distant pop!, the flash a shadow to his left, the thump of something hitting the roof, and liquid hitting his boot.

He blinked in an involuntary flinch, and Bruce screamed.

Screamed.

Bruce didn’t emote as Batman. Batman was calm, collected, always. Or angry. Angry and punching, the only sounds he emitted then were war cries.

And war cries weren’t screams. They weren’t agonizing shrieks.

Dick looked towards his mentor, followed his line of sight, even as Bruce lurched forward and collapsed to his knees.

His gut, his heart, his entire soul dropped into a black hole. Everything came together at once.

The pop was a gunshot. The shadow was Robin – Damian – dropping into action from his perch. The thump was Damian collapsing after being hit. The liquid on his boot was blood.

Damian had jumped in to stop a bullet. But who was the bullet for? This roof was in the center of various other taller buildings, they were practically sitting ducks. Damian had seen the threat, assessed the situation, and timed his movement.

Dread began creeping through his veins.

Gordon was furthest from the ledge, behind them both. Bruce half hidden in shadow, not a good angle to get a shot at, if the shooter wanted a one-and-done assassination.

A lump started forming in his throat as he too fell to his knees, quickly gathered Damian into his arms.

Damian had jumped to his left. To Nightwing’s left.

The bullet was for Nightwing. Someone had just tried to kill him.

And Damian saved him. Damian just saved his life.

(Again.)

The deduction, this mental investigation, took all of two seconds. If this wasn’t turning out to be the worst moment of his life, he would have been proud of himself.

“No, no, no…” Bruce was whispering, as Dick watched the blood pour over Damian’s chest, across his black-gloved fingers. Faintly, Dick registered Jim calling for an ambulance and a city lockdown. “Son…!”

The hole was in Damian’s throat, right through the center, just above his uniform collar. It pulsed with every attempted heartbeat. Blood leaked in waves. His eyes were already fluttering behind his mask.

Had he jumped too soon? Did he mean for it to hit him in the chest, or where his armor would have protected him better?

Did it even fucking matter at this point?

“You’ll be fine.” Bruce was practically pleading, hands hovering over Damian’s body like he didn’t know what to do with them. “You’ll be fine, son. I promise.”

Damian had the audacity to try to smirk.

“It’s okay.” Damian wheezed. The blood flowed harder. His head lolled into the crook of Dick’s elbow as he looked up at him. “You’re…you’re okay, so it’s…it’s all okay…”

God, Dick wanted to throw up. The lump in his throat threatened to rise like bile, and he coughed himself into a fit of tears. He tried to put his hand over the hole, put pressure on the wound, for a moment couldn’t find it in the flood of blood, but already his brain was telling him the truth. The truth he couldn’t bear to hear.

Damian was dying.

He had seconds. He’d be gone before any help could arrive. He’d take his final breaths right here, in Dick’s arms.

“Damian.” Bruce murmured, cupping his hand along Damian’s cheek. Damian could only move his tired eyes to look at him, kept his head nestled against Dick’s chest. “Damian, son, please don’t leave me. Please.”

“Ssssorry.” Damian offered instead. “But…” He closed his eyes, gave a light sigh, tried to open them again. “You’ll still have Grayson.”

Dick wailed. Like that made it better. Like Dick was the one who needed protected at all costs, not this child. Not this precious little boy who took their lives by storm, and they were all so much better for it.

“…It was KGBeast. Your old enemy.” Damian slurred. He closed his eyes again. “Don’t know why he’s afterrrrr…Nightwing, but…it’s a start…f-for your investigation…”

Batman – Bruce, now. Bruce wearing a stupid mask – gently shushed him, shaking his head as tears poured down his face. It appeared the truth had hit him now too, and there was no more time to beg the gods or universe around them for mercy.

He kept one hand on Damian’s face, and took the boy’s hand with the other. And Dick was grateful – Bruce didn’t try to take him. Didn’t try to pull him away from Dick’s arms. Just shifted closer so Damian was comfortably balanced between them.

He leaned down, pressed a gentle kiss to Damian’s forehead. “I love you, Damian. I love you more than I thought I could ever love another human being.”

Damian let himself smile at that, forcing his eyes open one more time. “I love you too, Father. Thank you for…for…” A pause, for a watery cough. Dick tightened his grip on his shoulder as Damian slumped a little. “…everything.”

Bruce couldn’t speak. Just shook his head. Damian closed his eyes again, and Dick knew, he knew, that he would never see those sea foam green irises again.

The bullet hole sputtered blood, and Damian hummed, “…Grayson.”

“Oh, kiddo.” Dick sobbed, pushing Damian’s hair back with his own bloodied hands. “My sweet little kiddo.”

“I’m glad I met you.” Damian whispered. “You’re…the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“No, that’s you.” Dick countered. “That’s you to all of us.”

Bruce nodded in agreement and squeezed Damian’s hand. Damian snorted a laugh.

“I love you, Damian.” He said quietly, finding himself still aware of Gordon nearby. But did it matter? Would Jim tell anyone that Robin’s name was Damian? Would he put the pieces together? Probably not. And right now, who cared if he did. “I love you so much, and I…I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”

“…Keep saving the world.” Damian sighed matter-of-factly. “…Duh.”

“Duh.” Dick repeated with his own laugh. Even Bruce allowed himself a small smile. Dick glanced up at him, and Bruce returned the look. After a moment, he nodded once. Dick nodded back, and looked back at Damian. He swallowed that lump, kept carding his fingers through Damian’s hair, and watched as Bruce stroked his cheek. “…Go to sleep, D. We’ll take it from here.”

“…I love you, Richard.”

“I know, kiddo. And I’m so grateful for that.” Dick smiled. “…It’s okay, Damian. Get your rest. You deserve it.”

Damian attempted to nod, but the movement didn’t look right. He took another inhale, held it, and let out a long, slow sigh.

And he was gone.

Damian was dead.

Bruce immediately doubled over his body, sobbing against Damian’s forehead. Dick could only keep a tight hold on Damian’s body, wondering if he would ever be able to let go as he looked up into the sky.

It was raining in Gotham. And that wasn’t new. But now it seemed like there was a reason to it. Now it seemed that as his tears fell harder, so did the rain, washing away Damian’s blood as the city mourned with him.

[serendipitous-posts]

Sacrifice you for nothing

Tubbo and Ranboo get a history lesson

title from Ain’t No Crying by Derivakat

"Damn" Tubbo says, staring up at the ceiling. "That chandelier really is fighting you every step of the way, huh?"

"And it's winning" Ranboo adds.

Foolish, hanging from the ceiling as he fixes the corner piece, glares down at him. "It is not winning" he hisses "I won't let it win." That declaration would have been a lot more solid had he not squeaked as the chandelier rocked dangerously.

If that fell and broke he would actually lose it.

Tubbo has no mercy for him. "You must hate that chandelier right now" he mocks "must be your least favourite thing in the world."

 "Nah" Foolish grips a small chunk of gold carefully in his teeth to avoid breaking it "that would be cults" he mumbles. There's a brief bit of quiet below and then;

 "Oh yeah, I heard that the Eggpire wrecked your buildings or something."

 Chandelier finally fixed (for now) Foolish drops to the floor, a fall that would have shattered anyone elses ankles but just leaves him slightly winded. "Nah" he says "I've run into cults before; one's way worse than this one."

 "Worse?!" Ranboo exclaims "worse than the parasitic chicken embryo?!"

 "Far worse" Foolish confirms body language completely relaxed despite such a dark topic

 (but outside the seas begin to froth and bubbles, rapids forming and pushing and pulling, crashing against teeth sharp rocks and punching away at the cliffs surrounding it.)

 "they seem to keep popping up wherever I go. I-

 (hate them hates them with everything he is and everything he is supposed to be divine blood in his body but he can't save them can't protect everyone can't heal everything some things can't be reversed)

 "really don't like them. They suck."

(I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so so sorry, I can take your broken pieces and stitch them back, back together and it won't be the same but it will be similar and that is all I can give you)

 (the totem in Ranboo's back pocket begins to burn)

 "I'll say" Tubbo agrees, then, with childlike curiosity and teenage macabre "which one would would you say is the worst?"

  Foolish falls still.

(the sea falls still. the totems stop burning.)

 (it is somehow worse)

 "Probably the one made for me" he says at last.

 The story goes like this; there's a village that prays to him daily. It's not that uncommon really; he's the God of the Ocean and the Undead. People pray to him for safe passage on the seas or to help them find a totem.

 But the people in this village are- to put it bluntly- really fucking annoying.

 It's not uncommon for people without totems to pray to him for hours on end, begging him to revive their loved ones, but these guys have turned it into an art form, any and all hours of the day, banging around in his head.

 And when words don't work, they turn to physical ways to show their devotion to their God. 

 Silly little mortals, trying to gain his favour with dead animals and trinkets, trying to gain his favour. He already gave them a way to cheat death, all they have to do is grab a totem. Why do they want another?

 They have all they need to survive. He painstakingly carved those totems. He will not give too much of himself.

 (lord foolish please my mother is gone i want her back lord foolish you can bring my husband back lord foolish fix this fix her i know you can)

 So he ignores the animal sacrifices and the pretty trinkets offered to him in exchange for reviving a daughter, a son, a wife, a husband. He cannot revive the long dead, he learned that a long time ago.

 The only real bearable one in the village is the child, and he doesn't even think the child knows what he is the God of, really, which is odd considering the inordinate amount of statues in the town. Whenever the child prays to Foolish, it's never about a dead loved one or the sea, it's always about what the child did that day. Foolish feels more like a diary than a God in those moments.

 And at least that's interesting

 (mister foolish i learned how to spell flower the other day f-l-o-u-u-e-r mister foolish i saw a dead cat on the side of the road the other day)

 (mister foolish are you ever lonely)

 The humans grow more and more frustrated with his complete and utter radio silence, and while he's out their festivals to him grow more and more complex, the animals growing bigger, rarer, more impressive.

 (i offer you this ender dragon egg this elytra this nether star this emerald ore this music disc)

 He's not gonna lie; the person who built that beautiful cottage had him for a solid minute.

 But he's not really paying attention to any of that; he's not the only God to have festivals and sacrifices in his name. Definitely not gonna be the last.

 (what do we have to do to bring back our loved ones?)

 He's just happy to build.

 Bargaining is a stage of grief, but so is acceptance, and they must learn to accept this.

 (except their not accepting it, the town is just growing angrier, more desperate, going bigger and bigger, hunting animals around them to extinction.)

 The first time they kill a human, he's pretty sure it's an accident. An old man, long past his time, probably just died from shock or disease.

 They put his body on the altar and offer him up to him, not to revive but as a sacrifice. He arrives, cloaked in illusions as thick as the fog around the town. He still sees Death though, watching sedately from where she's sitting on the wall, her angel beside her.

 They're gone in the next moment.

 The town never buries the old man, keeps him on the altar, and, after three days, Foolish takes him, takes him far away to an old field and buries him there.

 (the leader of the town finds the missing body and smiles. their god has accepted their gift)

 He hopes it's a one time thing

 (because what did they do to that man how could they these humans these ants small and painfully easy to kill but flocking together working together how could they turn on one of their own)

 (because what would he do then?)

 (after the man disappears from the altar, the child prays to him again, telling him the man's name, and how he once stopped the child from getting a rash from poisonous flowers. he liked violets the child tells him)

 (maybe the child really does know what he's the god of. maybe the child's just lonely.)

 He doesn't know what exactly triggered it. Maybe they saw the child trying to make conversation with a God instead of praying to one. Maybe the child, in the way all children are, said something controversial, maybe about the man who was left on the altar to rot.

 Maybe, maybe, maybe.

 He isn't there when the child is dragged out onto the streets, and dumped at the feet of the altar in front of the whole town, trembling and shaking. And the child is a child but is no fool, has seen the sacrifices has seen what has happened, and does what any scared child will do-try to run.

 And at the same time the child tried to back away, the leader swung his sword, and the whole town watched as the child screamed, eyes bloodied and slashed from the blade. 

 (he had been aiming for the neck)

 (not a fighter, that leader)

 "A life for a life!" The leader exclaimed and swung again.

 (the child collapsed on the floor and the crowd pressed in, eager to watch as they choked and gagged on the blood spilling out of their torn open throat, arms scrabbling into the ground like a beetle like a cockroach like an ant whose colony had turned on it)

 And- and then-

 And at the same time the child tried to back away and the leader swung his sword, the child had had one last panicked, desperate thought.

 (mister foolish, they're gonna kill me)

 And at the same time-

 And at the same time the leader slit the child's throat, a golden clawed hand grabbed him by his.

 "So yeah" Foolish says. "Cults are, like, the worst."

 Ranboo and Tubbo continue to stare at him. "Uh" Ranboo says, then promptly stops talking.

 "Did you . . kill them?" 

 He nods, bouncing on his feet a little. "Yeah" he smiles "good times."

 The two teenagers both look like they don't know what to do with that.

 "Well, at least they deserved it" Tubbo offers up attentively, and Ranboo nods

 "Can't believe they executed a child. Nobody deserves to die like that" Ranboo mutters and Tubbo winces beside him.

 "Y-yeah" Tubbo agrees nervously, twining his hands together "that poor kid. Hope it was peaceful."

 Foolish blinks at them. "Wait, what?" Then he replays their entire conversation and laughs.

 "Laughing at a kid's death" Ranboo notes, before turning to Tubbo "why are we letting him near Michael again."

 "No, no" Foolish waves his hands "you misunderstood me; the child didn't die."

 "You guys do remember I'm the God of Undying, right?" He raises an eyebrow at them both. "I healed the kid's neck wound right up." Ranboo just blinks at him in that slightly unsettling way that only an enderman can do.

 "I thought you didn't revive people personally."

 Foolish glances outside, past the both of them. "This was different" he says "this was-"

 (my fault my fault i turned a blind eye i could have stopped this sooner you choked and gagged and cried out for anyone to save you but in the end the motivation for your murder had to step in.)

 "-an exception."

 "Good for you!" Tubbo cheers, shooting his hands in the air vehemently "the whole stinking town is gone and you and the child lived!"

 Foolish makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Except the other towns had heard about the towns rituals. And it began to spread."

 Tubbo's hands drop. "Oh."

 "Yeah" he agrees "oh. But the worst part was the damage done to the child."

 "Let me guess" Ranboo says, dry as Egypt. "Traumatised?"

 "To put it mildly."

 (the child had turned blind eyes towards him, and when he had reached out to grasp the pudgy hand it had recoiled, the small body curling up away from him and he had burned)

 (the child hadn't seen or felt the tsunami that destroyed the entire town. but the screams- they had ears)

 "But uh" he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot "not just that. I'm the God of Undying, so I can heal other's mortal injuries."

 A long pause.

 "Their mortal injuries" he repeats.

 "Oh!" Tubbo jerks back "oh God! The child's eyes-"

 "I healed them" he says, then winces "tried to heal them" he corrects. Better. "But uh, because they weren't fatal they weren't exactly, uh, restored."

 (the mirror is broken and the cracks will show even when it's put back together and you'll never see the same way again my fault my fault i'm sorry i'm so so so sorry)

(this is all i can give you i am so sorry only child lonely child i cant take all you pain away but i promise you here and now you will be lonely no more)

"Damn." The closest Ranboo will ever get to a swear.

 "It gets worse" Foolish chirps "the other towns found out that a child had been blessed by the Totem God himself. Were very interested in what exactly this child could do."

 A long pause.

 Then. "Cults" Ranboo says faintly.

 "Cults" Foolish agrees cheerfully, thinking of a child screaming in agony with bloodstained eyes and a gashed throat as others looked on, indifferent.

 Cults Foolish thinks grimly as that same child is dragged up to be executed by the Eggpire.

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 53- Rescue

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

Grian is at the mercy of Dolios and his dark magic, but are the hermits there to save him in time? Or has the end come for the healing mage?

[Note: Hey everyone, I’m sorry for the time that was between chapters. A lot of really emotional and personal things happened over the past few months, and it just really pushed me off balance. But I really cant thank Red enough for being at my side the whole time- he’s the real hero in all of this. 

Happy Season 8!]

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

To be back in the dark, cold bowels of the dungeons, willingly returning to the chamber that Dolios forced them to play his game in, left every hermit with a strange mix of dread and remorse. Almost every hermit, except for the few that weren’t around during the championship, can remember waking up in cells, being dragged from the hard stone floor at knifepoint, and turned into pawns for Dolios to control. Promising he will kill every last one in his game, and making TFC play along. 

But they hardly linger in the very chamber where their guildmaster outwitted the Magistrate of Lairyon, rather continuing on their search for a passage to the subchamber. Scar can feel the cavity in the stone beneath their feet, but no staircase seems to lead them down. It wasn’t until Cleo summoned the ghosts of those who died here, their souls lingering, that they are pointed in the right direction. So many souls, having seen so much suffering, not just from Dolios within these walls, though many are from his doing. 

A ghost guides the hermits to a circular room, and though their voice has long faded with time, their misty hands point to the center of the room. Mumbo kneels down. “There’s machinery here. If I just…” He places his hands against the smooth stone, and without even having to think, his magic appears. Redstone seeping through the seams of the rock, reconfiguring the mechanics and forcing the spiral staircase to descend. 

Everyone, including Mumbo, is surprised by his power. He’s never had such control before in his life. But they don’t linger on this new development. Not when time is running shorter and shorter for Grian. They cause a jam in the thin staircase, twenty something hermits rushing to the subchamber. Unlike the rooms above them, the stone is rough cut, no bricks or stenciling. It looks more like a cave blown open than a carved dungeon. 

A heavy weight wraps in on the hermits. They know they’re close as the pressure increases on their bodies. They follow the struggle to breathe, the feeling of carrying stones on their back. They’ve come to know the signs of a dark crystal well- and it leads them right to not one, but three towers of corrupted gems. 

They’re massive, protruding from the ground at an angle, black spikes erupting from the earth. The air is heavy with mist, swirling in tendrils, like the very tentacles of Eurynomos, way back in the forest. The mist grasps the open air, siphoning the very life from the stone and oxygen and taking it for itself. Every so often, a pulse of darkness bursts from the corrupted crystals, with such force it causes the entire cavern to shudder, and blows back the hermits’ hair and clothes. They all duck with each explosion, but one person remains standing, reveling in the energy that's breaking free from the crystals. 

Dolios’s fingers toy with the mist, grasping the air and feeling the power. With each eruption, the black seal between him and the central crystal glows. For a second, the hermits swear they can see the mist at his back look almost...feather-like. 

“Oh my gods… Grian.” Stress’s voice is so small, so quiet, the other hermits almost don’t hear it. But their captured friend’s name on anyone’s lips is enough to catch their attention. 

He’s grey, so monochrome that it was almost impossible to pick him out among the black crystals, the grey mist, and the dark magic. Limp body and hands, eyes open but unseeing, Grian is chained to the central crystal. Once blond hair, now an ashen grey, curls and crests over Grian’s face, his chin dropped to his chest. The hermits don’t breathe until they see him do so, but it’s a horribly shallow breath. Another wave of energy rolls through the crystals, and Grian’s body loses more of its color. More of it’s life. At this point, he hardly even reacts to the tearing of his lifeforce, his magic, from his body. Fingers twitch, but even those are beginning to turn flaky, fading away into oblivion. The tips of his once blue cape become little more than mist. Even the energy, the powers of the very atoms are being torn apart. Grian was very near death- or a fate worse. 

All for Dolios, and his insatiable need for power. The low thunder of every wave is broken by Dolios’s voice. He flexes his hands, laughing to himself. “Of all the angels I’ve stolen magic from before, it has never been this strong. Even Celia had nothing against you. I feel like I could blow all of Milliara apart with a windstorm this instant! Don’t worry, little bird, your magic is in good hands.” 

Iskall and Mumbo both scuffle to their feet, surging forward. Mumbo faster than Iskall. Too fast for TFC to grab him before he’s over the boulder they hid behind. And too fast to stop even his own magic from summoning. But it wasn’t the out of control magic that the hermits have seen before. Like destroying the crystal shard on Eremita, or in the depths of the Hangman’s Playground. 

No, even though lightning filled Mumbo’s vision, and magic surged through his veins like energy through a redstone circuit, he had every wit and thought about him. For the first time, he had true, full control. Every iota of power was at his command, like a dragon spreading it’s wings for it’s first flight across the sky. 

With a flippant wave of his hand, the twin satellite crystals shatter, red bolts of lightning creasing through the darkness-bound lattice. The air is filled with glittering crystals, mist freed from the quartz and purging it of the darkness. Mumbo turns his power, his attention towards the crystal that Grian’s chained to, and presses his fingers together to destroy the last crystal. 

He’s blown off his feet, a burst of wind from nowhere sending him skidding across the floor. When Mumbo gathers his wits and looks up, finally seeing Dolios through his anger, the magistrates is wild with manic delight. “Oh, now that’s real magic. I think this little bird’s powers might become my new favorite.” The other hermits dare to step out, walking through the shattered, transparent remains of the crystals. Dolios is the only color before them, his plush robes and rich colors standing out against the swirling magic. “Ah, the whole parade is here. Come to watch your friend die? Or will you all be joining him as well?” 

Dolios turns, resting his gaze on Grian. The hermits watch in horror as their healer looks as if he’s about to blow away in the wind. Like dust in the shape of a human. His eyes are empty, no glimmer of life left. They realize they may be too late. 

But that doesn’t stop them from getting their revenge. Mumbo remains focused on the crystal his friend is trapped against, but a sharp shard of gemstone goes flying through the air, cracking Dolios upside the head. Blood pours from the wound, matting the curly brown hair that crowns Dolios. He turns, anger mixing with the mania into a dangerous concoction. But his fury doesn’t get to live long, not when Scar drives a wedge of rock into Dolios’s jaw. This time it’s the magistrate that goes skidding across the rough hewn floor. In his attempt to stand up, Dolios becomes ensnared in just about every medium of magic the hermits can offer. Vines tie him down, radioactive spikes pin his clothes and hair to the floor, a ring of hellfire erupting from the depths of the earth. 

Mumbo, however, remains focused on his best friend before him. Summoning all his magic, every ounce of effort he’s ever put forth, he sends a bolt of lightning directly to the core of the crystal that is draining Grian. The lightning strikes true, hardly even raising a hair on what remains of the sky angel, but obliterating the crystal he hangs from. From the inside out, the darkness is banished by red light, like the sun rising red on a bright, beautiful daybreak. Blinding everyone within the cave- except Mumbo. He’s not lost in the light, the power, the magic. He’s a part of it all. 

The crystal shatters, and Grian falls. Crumpled to the ground, he looks to be little more than a pile of ash and rags among the sparkling crystal shards. Like the moon adrift in the sea of stars. 

When the hermits blink away their momentary blindness, they find Mumbo is already at his friend’s side. With a few teary blinks, the last of the lightning fizzles away, and Mumbo’s voice cracks like the very gems he destroyed. “G-Grian? Grian, wake up.” 

But Grian doesn’t move. Mumbo reaches out, grabbing the angel and pulling him to the safety of the hermits. Holding him close as the others surround. Ren reaches out, placing a hand on Grian’s shoulder. He retreats immediately, when Grian’s shoulder seems to fade from existence, flaking to ash and falling apart under Ren’s pressure. “Is he….” 

No one dares speak the word. Joe scribbles down a healing poem, but the magic does nothing. Grian doesn’t breathe, his eyes don’t blink. They just stare, empty, at the cavern roof above. And he continues to fade, all color lost, becoming nothing more than dust. 

“No, nononononono.” Mumbo’s words stumble and jumble together, and he shakes and jolts Grian as if trying to rise him from a dream. “Grian, don’t leave us! We need you!” 

Still nothing. 

Mumbo’s shoulders slump. A weight heavier than any dark crystal hangs over the hermits as Grian’s limp form lays in Mumbo’s arms before them. Tears threaten to spill from Mumbo’s eyes. Grian was his first real friend, the one who saved him all those years ago. And he couldn’t return the favor now. It was Grian that offered him kindness, offered him friendship. Grian who gave Mumbo a true family, a real home, who trained with him even when all seemed hopeless, and drank with him when nights were bright. It was because of Grian that Mumbo has a father in TFC, friends all around him. And now? 

Now his best friend was dead in his arms. Fading from existence, his magic and life stolen by a monster in magistrate’s clothes. Mumbo tips his head, breath stuttering as tears fall freely. Like a stream after a storm, rivers of salt water across his cheeks, cresting his jaw and running across the valley of his throat. Some droplets are caught in his mustache, others stain the collar of his outfit. All the hermits openly cry, even Doc. Memories flood alongside the tears, bowed heads over their fallen comrade as Mumbo holds his fallen friend tight.

One tear falls straight down, landing with a wet plop on Grian’s eyelid. Water, the lifeblood of Lairyon, slowly drips into Grian’s own vacant eyes. And from the ashen grey, empty gaze, a single vein of blue appears within his iris. 

Like a river, the blue flows freely, spilling across Giran’s sky blue eyes. Filling the empty grey valley with fresh blue water. And from the blue, like the sun reflecting off the see, a glimmer appears. 

Iskall noticed the color returning first. The pink of Grian’s face, sunlight colored hair beginning to renourish with color. Bringing Grian slowly back from death’s doorstep. He slaps Mumbo on the shoulder, his own breath gasping. Words struggling to break free from the nuclear wizard’s mouth, rather just random noises escaping his lips. 

It’s enough to get Mumbo’s attention, as well as every other hermit. Through teary eyes, they see the color spread. The red of Grian’s robes, the blue of his cape. The translucent, flaking form becomes solid and tangible again. 

And then Grian breathes. So shallow and soft, it’s almost impossible to see. But to the hermits, it might as well be an earth breaking tremble. Eyes blink, and parted lips move. A whisper of a voice breaks free from death’s grip. “Mumbo? Iskall? Guys?”

Grian can’t sing, but the words from him might as well be a chorus of angels. He was alive. Whether it was pure luck, the gift of life that water carries, or simply the friendship the hermits hold, something brought Grian back from the brink. 

Only one thing can break the joy. And that one thing has to open his mouth. From across the room, Dolios writhes in his bonds, snering. “Oh that’s just touching, isn’t it? If I can’t have it all, then I might as well kill every last one of you.” 

Doc realizes what’s happening first, but Dolios is just out of reach. A bout of strength that can only be attributed to previously stolen magic, Dolios tears apart the vines and breaks apart the crossed spears of iskallium. He stands, brushing off leaves and radioactive dust from his robes and tugging on his ponytail. When he opens his eyes, a crooked, crazed grin creases the leader’s normally charismatic face. “Do you really think such weak power can hold me down?” 

Wels reacts just in time to shield the hermits from the arc of magic that aimed for the group. Dolios doesn’t let up on his barrage, and the magical barrier begins to crack and contort against the dark energy. No hermit can step out from behind the shield without risking certain death. 

A wild, cackling laughter echoes off the cavern. “What will you roaches do without your precious angel now? Who will save you now?”

Wels’s barrier breaks. And Dolios attacks.

[invisibleinorange]

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Bridgerton Rating: T Warnings: Presumed Character Death, Suicidal Ideation  Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington,  Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington(besties),  Bridgerton Family Dynamics, Simon Hastings/Daphne Bridgerton Characters: Colin Bridgerton,  Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Featherington,  Benedict Bridgerton Additional Tags:  Bridgerton, Polin Summary:  Unexpected bad news arrives for the Bridgerton Family (and friends) regarding Colin's travels. This will be a series that is set after "The Duke and I" or season one of the show. It is a companion piece to "Goodbyes". (#I’mHereToKillYouAllWithFeels)

---

Anthony and Benedict had expected a lot of different reactions from their younger sister, dead silence was not one of them.

They stood there though watching as she read the letter, complete and utter disbelief and confusion clear on her face.

Eloise Bridgerton was certain that Penelope Featherington told her everything.  Sure, Colin had always been nice to Penelope but so were the rest of her brothers.

If there had been something out of the ordinary, she would have picked up on it.  If one of her brothers was taking more notice or spending more time with her, she would certainly picked up on it.

Colin had barely broken off his engagement to Marina before he departed.  Why would he have been so concerned about Pen?

This whole thing felt ludicrous and the only rational explanation was that this was some cruel prank.  Sure, she knew that Penelope was incredible but her brothers were all idiots.   As much as she might have loved to have her best friend have become a sister, she’d never seen it as the remotest of possibilities.

Reading the letter, she felt almost guilty for having never given Penelope enough credit for being capable to grab the attention of one of her brothers.

After a long moment she raised a hand as if to tell her brothers to not even say a word.  She was going to get to the bottom of this.

“You had both better hope that I don’t have cause to leave Gregory my only brother when I return,” she muttered and then with was gone, leaving the safety of the drawing room toward the one person who could answer any of the questions she had.

--

The reason Penelope Featherington could get away with more than most was because no one actually ever paid her much attention. No one cared what she did honestly and that was why it was so easy to keep herself shut away in her bedroom, convince herself that it would be so much easier for everyone involved if she just disappeared.

There were certain things that she had to get in order though.  She had forced herself to sneak in the night to allow Lady Whistledown to honor Colin but after that, she’d begun to get her affairs in order.

She had every intention of it being the last thing that she ever sent to print. She intended to have the secret die with her so that those she loved could at least keep some self-respect.

There were other letters that she had debated putting together too but somehow the words that were the most important were the most impossible to put together.  Her family wouldn’t even put on a show of missing her. The only person left who might actually miss her was Eloise.

She kept plenty of things from her over the years though and perhaps, it was for the best if she never knew.  

The saddest part of it all was that her mother never learned.  The necessary toxins were still easily accessible in the home.  Penelope had listened when Marina had detailed what all she’d consumed.  Surely, if that could nearly kill her if she doubled it, it would actually do the job. If it didn’t work, she was pretty sure she would just throw herself into the sea.

Her normally healthy pink skin was pale, her hands trembled as she wrapped her hand around the deceptively sweet smelling cup of tea. She raised it to her lips, prepared to take a sip.

Her plan was interrupted by the door opening with a slam.

The look on her face must have said it all because all 167.6 centimeters of Eloise Bridgerton came at her with a horrified force, knocking the cup out of her hands letting it shatter and spill against the floor.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” the brunette bellowed.

It was enough the send Penelope crumbling into the ground, curling into herself.  She was shattering and a part of her felt selfish for this all. She no longer had the strength to lie though.

“I want to join him,” she sobbed.

Eloise was completely taken aback but she still descended to her own knees, wrapping her arms around the red-head trying her to best to calm the storm.  She didn’t have to understand any of this to understand that there wasn’t a chance in Hell of her letting Penelope actually harm herself.

“You will not,” she ordered. “I won’t let you.”

“This is all my fault,” Penelope cried.

Eloise didn’t see a possible scenario where that could be true. The letter that her brother had written was still clearly imprinted in her mind along with the millions of questions that followed.

She was starting to think her brothers might have been right to share it.

A loud sigh escaped her lips and she forced her friend to look her in the face.

“My brother would not want this no matter what happened between the two of you,” she said resolutely, knowing that without a shadow a doubt.  

It was Penelope’s turn for confusion to show across her features.

“Nothing happened between me and your brother.”

Eloise couldn’t help but wonder if this was one of those situations where someone protested too much. Sure, she’d clearly missed something but her eyes were wide open now and she just wanted to know the truth.

“Then why did he write to you?” she couldn’t help but ask.

If Penelope could have turned paler in that moment, she was pretty sure that she would have.  Eloise wasn’t sure if she swooned, she’d have been able to keep her up right.

“He … wrote … me?” she asked.

Eloise nodded.

“Before he left,” she said. “It just doesn’t make sense to me because you’ve never given me any inclination that you had any passing fancy for any of my brothers and – I know I’ve been busy with my investigation but surely, I would have noticed something.  Surely, if you were this in love with my brother, you would have told me.”

She didn’t say it because it was of no relevance now that Colin was gone but she was a bit hurt with the thought that she wouldn’t have been told. As much as it might have been weird, there was no one she would have rather had become a sister. In many ways, she’d always felt as if they were sisters.

Her words shamed Penelope.

“I didn’t tell you because he wouldn’t have felt the same. I’m not like you and your sisters. I don’t have Lords and Dukes fighting over my hand. The only men who ever dance with me at balls do so out of pity.  Yes, I … believe I loved your brother but he never would have loved me. Maybe he didn’t marry Marina but there would be another next season or the next.”

Eloise’s loyalties were completely and utterly torn. Did she defend her brother’s character? Did she argue her best friend’s virtues?

“ You’re incredible, Pen.  Maybe the men and the Ton are idiots but that doesn’t change the fact you are one of the smartest, kindest and most loyal people that I’ve ever know. Even if I am furious at you for not telling me all of this, I’ll keep telling you as much.”

There was a pause, the folded letter retrieved from where she’d stashed it in her haste to get there to investigate.

She extended it toward her friend after a long moment of thought.

“I was going to say my brother was daft but apparently you both are when it comes to romance. I’m sorry that he’ll never be able to tell you as much himself.”

--

My Dear Pen, Everyone in my family has a bit of a label to them. I love them all dearly. It’s sometimes a big heavy trying to live up to their accomplishments. Being clever has always been my method of disguising my discomfort in my own skin at times. If you are reading this, I was a coward who couldn’t be man enough to utter the very words that have taken to plaguing my every waking hour. When I am with you, you disarm me.  I am in awe of you to the point that it terrifies me. I’m not completely sure that you recognize how magnificent you truly are. I know that you think that no one takes notice of you but I do.  You’re also my sister’s most beloved friend and as such I may have taken for granted the fact you would always be there. I know that I have acted beastly in recent weeks, throwing myself head first at an ill-fated engagement with little consideration for your own circumstances, ignoring you when you sought to warn me and taking our friendship for granted. I cannot apologize to you enough. I am completely and utterly undeserving of the repeated forgiveness you have bestowed upon me. I had hoped I might throw myself at you for your mercy once more. I know that you are facing bigger issues than my own selfish need of your company though. I understand now that this is why you spurned my request at the ball.  I was wounded when you took leave of me but struggle to find sleep, I knew just how foolish I might have been to think that you would even want to spend the night dancing and talking with a rake like me. You have always deserved the attention of a man not a boy. You deserve someone who would  put you above his own boyish whims. You deserve to be cherished always. By the time I return from Greece, someone else will have seen how magnificent you really are. Perhaps one day, I will grow into the man that you have always had faith that I could be and when I approach you won’t feel need to take leave of me. I will never be as good as Anthony or Benedict but if when we can meet again you so  much as deem me worthy of friendship, I will not take such opportunity for granted.

Your most humble friend, Colin

[andorerso]

I have a rebelcaptain prompt for you if you wish to take it: Pirates (You can use it any way you want, feks the gang dresses up as a pirate crew, or that they are pirates)

Thanks so much for the prompt! I wasn’t gonna write anything for Halloween but it really inspired me. I'm really not a pirate person though, so I don't have a lot of knowledge about... pirate stuff, I guess. Basically, I just based the setting on my memories of playing Assassin's Creed: Black Flag. Italics are flashbacks, the rest is present day. Hope you enjoy and happy Halloween, guys! :)

She’s close, after all this time, she’s finally close to finding the goblet. She can taste it in the air, in the saltiness of the water; something is coming, something is changing.

Bodhi says, as he’s been saying for years, that she should forget about it. Move on and pillage other ships like normal pirates do. But how could she? She’s spent the last nine years looking for Captain Skywalker’s chest and she can’t give up before the finish line. No matter how dangerous it gets.

Bodhi, bless his heart, is just a little superstitious. Most pirates are, to be honest.

“It’s haunted,” he often warns her.

“I’ve heard,” Jyn responds every time.

It doesn’t scare her. She’s haunted too, has been her whole life, and she’s managed just fine so far. A few more ghosts won’t bother her. It’s the absence of them that might.

Jyn stands barefoot in the sand at sunrise, watching the waves crash against the bank. The early morning sun paints everything in a lovely shade of pink and gold, its warm rays like gentle fingertips across her skin, the soft breeze caressing her body. Nothing exists but her and the water – and memories long-gone of a life she never truly got to live.

She’s buried them all at sea, and times like these are when she feels most connected to her dead, each of them waiting below the surface. She feels almost as if they’re calling out to her from the deep, asking her to join them.

She couldn’t, not yet, but when the time was right, she would walk into the sea and disappear for good. Let the waves claim her body, let her become a part of them forever. It’s a peaceful thought. She’s always belonged to the sea, and she belongs with the rest of them, the ones that the water has already claimed for itself. It’s home to her, and home is calling her back.

For now, she settles for the sunrise. Just take a moment and watch the sunrise, a voice whispers in her ear, in her memories. Just come watch the sunrise with me, Jyn. Come on and be with me. You’ll have time for sparring later.

Jyn lets out a quiet breath and kneels next to the bank, her fingers grazing the water as if touching skin she’s once worshipped, as if reaching for a lover she’s once had. It’s a connection between them, this water. A link to him, a link to the past, a link between her and wherever he is now. Somewhere peaceful, she hopes.

A soft but sad smile tugs at her lips. “This one’s for you, my love.”

Jyn sits in a seedy tavern in Havana, eyeing Captain Andor with suspicion and a glare that screams, ‘try me and see what I can do.’ She has a hand on her knife in her pocket, the other lazily resting on the pistol in her holster. It’s an open warning, almost a challenge, but Captain Andor doesn’t rise to the bait.

If anything, he seems unbothered. Almost frustratingly calm.

Jyn would think that’s foolish or cocky, or perhaps he’s underestimating her simply because she’s a woman; but somehow, she doesn’t believe this is the case. There’s something about him that’s genuine. It’s not cockiness, she thinks, it’s confidence – and his confidence is earned.

He’s a dangerous man if the stories are true, but she’s a dangerous woman herself. If they could learn to trust each other, there would be no one better to find the hidden treasure of Captain Skywalker than the two of them.

The trust part, she’s not good with. But although she’s not sure yet what to make of the man in front of her, she’s willing to see if it works out in her favor.

“The goblet is haunted,” he comments lazily, though he doesn’t sound like he believes it. Jyn raises an eyebrow.

“I’ve heard.” Her tone is dismissive.

“According to legend, it brings back the dead you’ve lost,” he continues. “You find it and it gives them back to you.” A wry smile twists on his lips. “But then they will drag you down to hell with them.”

Jyn holds back a bitter laugh. How many times has she heard that story? How many times has her father conveniently forgot about the last part? How many times has she been left at strange ports with strange people while he went on his wild adventures to find the goblet that would bring back her dead mother? Her father had been a man of science once, but the loss of his wife weighed heavily on him, and sinister voices whispering in his ear convinced him that finding the goblet was a way to make their family whole again.

In truth, Orson Krennic was probably just a money-hungry, cruel, and bored aristocrat who had nothing better to do than manipulate vulnerable men into doing the dirty work for him. Jyn resents both him and her father for that.

No, she doesn’t want the goblet to bring back dead people from the grave. She doesn’t believe in those childish stories anymore. She wants the goblet to sell it.

And she wants it to prove that she could do it. Do what her father couldn’t. Finish what he started.

But she isn’t about to share that with Captain Andor.

“It’s a golden goblet with ruby stones. It’s just money.” She pauses, shrugging her shoulders. “And the legends make it easier to sell. What naïve and wealthy widow wouldn’t want a relic that brings back their beloved spouse?”

Captain Andor’s lips quirk up, barely noticeable. “If you leave out the part about being dragged to hell.”

Jyn finally lets go of her pistol and reaches for the jug of beer on the table. “I find that part,” she begins, her tone conversational, “is very easy to forget.”

This is the one.

Jyn knows in her heart that she’s found it. The island is unmarked on any maps, and the entrance to the cave is underwater, hidden by seaweed and algae. Her lungs burn when she breaks surface, gasping for breath as she pulls herself up to the cave floor.

This is the one.

It sings in her veins, pulses through her body. She’s going to find it, finally, the goblet, the treasure – everything she’s been looking for in the past nine years.

“It’s haunted,” Bodhi’s voice echoes in her mind.

Jyn stands, undeterred, and marches forward to the heart of the cave.

She hopes it is.

Jyn glares menacingly at the cruel-faced guard as he opens her cage and walks towards her. Her hands might be shackled but she has a mean kick, and if he tries anything –

To her surprise, the man reaches for the chains behind her and unlocks her hands. They clatter to the floor with a loud noise, but Jyn continues glaring at the guard in suspicion.

“You’re free to go,” he grunts.

“What?” She doesn’t trust this one bit.

Where’s the catch? Henry ‘Scar Face’ Whitlock is not known for his mercy. She stole his goods, blew up one of his (smaller) ships, and stabbed three of his crew members. One of them bled out. Another lost an arm.

She expected to be hanged or quartered for it – made an example, for certain.

He can’t just be letting her go now. It has to be a trap.

But what would he gain from such a lie?

“Move,” the guard says and gives her an unnecessarily forceful shove that sends her flying against the walls of the cage. If it wasn’t for the small chance that she was about to walk out of here scot-free, she would have kicked his legs out for that.

But if she’s really free… could it be true?

As she gets up and uncertainly walks up to the main deck, she half expects to be stabbed in the back. It’s just too easy – but she can’t figure out why they would trick her like this when they could just tie stones to her feet and throw her overboard. It’s only when she sees Cassian waiting for her next to Captain Whitlock that the situation begins to dawn on her.

He’s saved her somehow. Of course he has.

For a wild second, she thinks he traded himself for her – he would be entirely capable of it, but where’s the profit in that for Whitlock? He has no grudge against Cassian, only against her, and she can’t see why he would accept such a deal unless he realized that Cassian’s death would be a greater punishment than her own.

But she’s not that transparent yet. She thinks.

She hopes.

Then Whitlock gives her a foul grimace that says he would still very much kill her if he could, and gestures, with some reluctance, towards the ramp leading to the harbor.

“Get out of my sight, Erso. And don’t fuck with me or my crew again, or even your captain won’t be able to save you next time.”

Jyn doesn’t say anything until they reach the shore safely, burning with a thousand questions. A part of her still expects them to be ambushed at the last minute, but Whitlock and his crew watch in silence as they walk off the ramp and disappear into the night. How Cassian managed to pull it off is beyond her, but if anyone could, it would be him.

When they’re an appropriate distance away, Jyn can’t hold herself back anymore. She stops and rounds on Cassian, eyes wide and demanding.

“What did you give him?” she asks because if she’s sure of one thing, it’s that Whitlock didn’t just let her go for free.

Cassian lets out a quiet sigh and shrugs. His eyes, glowing in the soft light of the moon, won’t quite meet hers. There’s something strange about him. Like he’s trying desperately to underplay it.

Which doesn’t bode well for them. Jyn’s heart lurches – what the hell did he do?

“I gave him my ship,” Cassian admits quietly. For a moment, Jyn hears nothing but the song of the cicadas as she tries to process this information.

“You gave him your ship?” she echoes, breathless and eyes wide.

“Yes,” he confirms, very even, very steady.

“Cassian,” she begins, her words slow as if she was talking to a child, “captains need a ship. We need a ship. Where are we going to get a new one? We don’t have that kind of money! What about the crew? Kay is going to kill you –”

“Jyn, he had you,” he cuts her off, his tone leaving no room for argument. As if that trumped everything else. Jyn blinks at him in shock, half delirious with – with –

“You’re crazy,” she breathes in awe. She can’t take her eyes off him. Nobody has ever…

Nobody has felt – nobody has done –

Nobody has made her feel like this before. Like she matters. Like she’s loved.

“You treated your ship for me?” she asks, half laughing, hardly daring to believe it.

Cassian shrugs again, but there’s a smile on his lips, a smile just for her. It’s small and kind and full of devotion.

“It’s just a ship. What kind of captain would I be if I let my first mate die?”

“You’re crazy,” she laughs again, and that same second, impulsively, springs forward to kiss him. It’s been a long time coming, she thinks as Cassian kisses her back without hesitation, his hands tangling in her hair. Two years of working together, two years of building a relationship that couldn’t be betrayed, couldn’t be replaced. Jyn doesn’t remember a time that his presence didn’t leave her breathless, that a soft comforting touch on her shoulder didn’t make her long for more. Maybe in those first few days, in the beginning – but quickly, very quickly, he became everything to her, and she could never go on without him.

It’s been a long time coming, yes. And now she’s going to enjoy it.

It doesn’t bring her peace.

She didn’t think it would. But she thought it would give her satisfaction, at least. Look, Krennic, I got your little treasure. Look, Papa, I finished what you started. Look, Cassian, I did this for you. For us.

But it’s just… underwhelming. She can’t even bring herself to sell it. It would be worth more than the rest of the treasure combined, but she stares at it in her cabin during the night and she can’t sell it.

What use is it? Nothing would bring them back, bring him back. The money she’d get from the goblet, it’d just feel tainted, wrong. Blood money.

Maybe she’s irrationally attached but who can blame her? Her father spent half his life looking for the damned thing until a storm swallowed his ship whole and he was never heard from again. His obsession with the goblet had killed him and Jyn had hated it then, hated it more than ever, but still, she’d become similarly obsessed. Just to prove something.

And then it brought her Cassian. It gave her something after it took so much. The years they spent looking for it together, that was her treasure.

And now that he’s gone, she can’t relinquish it. If she does, what else is left of them? Only her memories – and memories rot.

Jyn sighs under her breath, sitting at a corner table of an inn with Bodhi, drumming her fingers on the wood as she stares out of her head. What is she meant to do now?

Bodhi watches her in silence for several minutes and Jyn is distantly aware that he seems contemplative, but she’s too lost in her own head to question it. Eventually, he lifts a hand to still her fingers.

“Liana,” he begins, and Jyn’s eyes snap to his. Bodhi is a good man and she trusts him more than she trusts anyone else, but even he doesn’t know her real name. It’s just easier this way – Jyn Erso dropped off the face of the earth five years ago, and she had to stay gone. But she thinks Bodhi has always known it’s not her true name, and he doesn’t mind. “Have you noticed anything weird since?”

She rolls her eyes and begins drumming her fingers again. “Don’t start, Bodhi. I’m not haunted.”

“I’m just asking. You should really sell it.”

She knows why he’s saying that. The legends, of course. Whoever is in possession of the goblet will be dragged to hell by their dead loved ones. Well, she’s been the proud owner for a few days now and she’s seen no signs of ghosts and no signs of hellfire. But if any is yet to come, Jyn is sure it’ll be entertaining.

“I can’t.”

“Isn’t that why you wanted it?”

“Yes,” she says, then stops. “No.”

“I don’t understand you sometimes.”

Jyn snorts, looking away. “I don’t understand me sometimes.”

And that should be the end of it. Jyn with her goblet and her money and the lack of purpose in her life now.

But fate has a different plan for her. And maybe she is fucking haunted.

Because when her gaze sweeps over the tavern, she swears she sees a familiar face push through the crowd and disappear out into the night.

Jyn stares at the door for long a time, frozen in place, her heartbeat running wild in her chest. The white noise in her head blocks out everything else. She thinks Bodhi might be calling her name, asking if she’s okay, but she can’t answer, can’t even turn her head to look at him. She stands on trembling legs, her body carrying her towards the doors – and then she’s running, taking off in the direction that she saw him heading.

The streets are dark and deserted. Only the sound of waves and the singing of cicadas break the silence. She looks around wildly, looking for a retreating shadow in the night or perhaps the sound of footsteps nearby, but there’s nothing. Nothing but the wind and her loudly beating heart.

She couldn’t have… did she imagine it? Perhaps she had too much to drink, Bodhi stuffing her head with his nonsense, but she could have sworn…

Jyn shakes her head, trying to let the fresh air clear her hazy mind of these childish thoughts. Bodhi is panting behind her, calling her name, her fake name, and Jyn finally turns to look at him, seeing his wide eyes filled with worry.

“Are you okay?”

Jyn gives a sharp nod, trying to ignore the wild beating of her heart. Better not to plague Bodhi with her hallucinations, he’s worried enough about her as it is. No need to fuel the fire.

“Just thought I saw someone who owes me some money,” she lies, ignoring the skeptical look he gives her. “It’s not a big deal.”

It can’t be.

She would be very cross with Cassian if he was really here to drag her to hell.

Cassian’s fingers are soft on her cheek, stroking her skin, carding through her hair. Her own hand rests on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady under her palm. They’ve been silent for minutes but she hasn’t stopped looking at him, couldn’t stop touching him. She’s never felt intimacy like this before. Like someone could look at you, see your soul, see all the darkness and pain that you hide inside, and still choose to stay. Still decide that you’re worth the trouble.

She’s naked in front of him in more ways than one and she’s never thought it would feel so wonderful. So freeing.

Cassian has taught her a lot more than just love.

“Did you think we’d end up here when we first met?” she wonders, her tone quiet, matching the tranquility between them. Cassian chuckles.

“I thought you’d kill me in my sleep one day.”

She scoffs at that. “You didn’t seem afraid.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Hmpf. So ready to throw yourself at death’s door. You know, I actually thought you might have traded yourself for me.”

“I would have,” he admits, honest as always. “If that’s what it took. But not unless there’s no other choice.” His eyes bore into hers, dark and deep and almost frightening in its intensity. Her heart beats a little faster at the sight. “I don’t want to leave you behind.”

She swallows. “Please don’t.”

Cassian strokes her cheek, a gentle smile on his lips.

“I love you.”

It’s not a promise but it’s enough. Jyn beams back at him.

“I love you too.”

Who cares about the stupid goblet as long as she has him?

Jyn wakes to the sound of music in the middle of the night. For a second, her mind is pleasantly blank, merely enjoying the soft melody filtering through the window of her room.

Then she thinks:

Cassian. Cassian used to play like that.

And then:

Cassian is gone.

Blinking herself awake, Jyn sits up in bed. Her eyes dart around the room she’s rented for the night but nothing seems amiss. Her hand hovers above the lantern on the nightstand but a strange irrational part of her doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. She blames Bodhi for that.

His words, and Cassian’s, ring in her mind.

It’s haunted.

You find it and it gives them back to you. But then they will drag you down to hell with them.

Thinking about the sighting of Cassian from earlier, she gets out of bed and ambles to the window. The curtains are drawn and her fingers hover above the fabric, hesitant, somehow, to withdraw them. She’s trembling.

Jyn takes a deep breath and pulls back the curtains.

Cassian sits on a bench on the street, his eyes trained on his banjo. Jyn gasps in shock and reels back from the window like she’s been burned. He seems… so real. Sitting there, his fingers flying over the instrument, playing some slow, sorrowful melody that tugs at her heartstrings. A song of lost love.

He’s come for her after all.

Frozen on the spot, her breathing harsh and gasping, all she can do is watch as he plays his banjo. He never takes off his eyes the instrument and he doesn’t seem to notice her. Her room is on the second floor so she has a perfect view of him sitting outside, illuminated by the moonlight, while she remains shrouded in the darkness of her room.

But if he’s come for her… surely, he knows she’s here.

Jyn’s legs give out, and she sits under her window, pressing herself tightly against the wall to just… listen. She listens to his song. Listens to the melody, haunting and beautiful, like he is himself. Every sound, every note pulls at her heartstrings. A song for the lost and the dead.

And Jyn sobs. For him and for herself, for her parents, for everyone she’s ever lost. She sobs, quiet and gasping, until she has no more tears left, lulled back to sleep on the floor by the melancholy tune that Cassian’s ghost is playing.

Cassian comes to her in a dream. It’s a familiar one; one she’s seen many times before, and one she will see many times more. He’s not dead and not alive – he’s a revenant and he’s hers, just for tonight, until dawn breaks and morning takes him away.

But he’s different this time. Sturdier, steadier. Buzzing with a kind of unquiet energy that she’s not used to. Like he’s waiting for something. Jyn doesn’t want to mention it, their stolen moments together too precious to tarnish, but it weighs her mind with questions.

When their time comes and he gets up and heads to the door, she reaches after him. She does this on every occasion, tries to convince him to stay, tries to forcibly, physically make him stay – but her words are different this time, her desperation becoming an inferno, and his response is a mystery.

“Cassian,” she calls out to him, struggling to sit up and catch his arm. He’s already at the doorway, between life and death, between her and the sea, looking back at her and hesitating. “Don’t go. How could I live in a world where you don’t?”

He takes a step through the door, where nothing but the empty awaits him and gives her the strangest of smiles. “It’s almost time, my love. Almost time.”

“I think I’m haunted,” Jyn admits to Bodhi the next day, and he gives her a hard look. She thinks it’s the tone of her voice, sad and defeated, that stops him from telling her “I told you so.”

“What happened?” he asks instead, and Jyn shrugs, eyes downcast, looking at the mug on the table, the tea untouched and growing cold.

“I saw… someone,” Jyn admits slowly, pausing before she adds, “Him.”

Bodhi never had the chance to know Cassian. She met him after Cassian was already… gone. He knows a little about him; she’s admitted to having a dead lover in her weaker drunken moments, but she’s never talked about him much. Jyn always has preferred to live in denial, and Bodhi knows better than to ask.

Still, she knows with the way she says it, the way she gives him a meaningful look, that he knows who she’s talking about.

“I think he’s come for me.” She pauses, a bitter laugh escaping her mouth. “It makes sense. The goblet always was our adventure. It’s how we met, you know.”

The look Bodhi gives her is a mix of pity and worry. Jyn is uncomfortable with both, even though she knows he means well. Luckily, he doesn’t try to say anything stupidly comforting like “I’m sorry” or “it’s all going to be okay” because he knows her better than that, and he knows she might punch him in the mouth for it.

Instead, he looks her in the eye and tells her, “You should really get rid of it, Li. Before it’s too late.”

Jyn nods. She knows he’s right.

But some part of her is not ready to let go yet.

It takes less than an hour for everything to change.

Jyn wakes up that day like usual in the captain’s cabin she now she shares with Cassian and goes to sleep that night in a holding cage of a navy ship, alone in the world once again.

Krennic has a personal grudge. And so does she. So naturally, she can’t resist the opportunity to raid his ship, steal his cargo, and leave him wounded and nursing a broken ego.

In hindsight, she should have killed him then. But she thought the humiliation would be a more suitable punishment.

Six months later, he comes back with a vengeance and a small navy fleet, blowing a hole through their ship with his cannonballs. They fight valiantly when his crew boards their slowly sinking ship, but it’s a lost cause – Jyn knows it’s a lost cause, Cassian knows it’s a lost cause, and Krennic, especially, knows it’s a lost cause. He seems very pleased with himself too, and Jyn would punch the smirk right off his stupid smug face if her hands weren’t bound behind her back by one of his henchmen.

“Well, well, well. Didn’t think I’d catch up to you, did you?” Orson Krennic asks, strutting in front of her like a peacock, hands clasped behind his back. Jyn spits in his face.

Krennic blinks once, twice, before he slowly wipes at his eyes with a headkerchief he produces from his breast pocket. The backhanded slap he gives her stings, sending her sprawling to the floor.

“You touch her again,” Cassian growls, straining against the guards holding him back, “and I’ll break every bone in your hand one by one.”

The glance Krennic gives him is dismissive, like Cassian isn’t even worth the time to look at. He gestures to the guards next to Jyn who haul her back to her feet. She stands proud, chin high, glaring at him even as her hands are tied behind her back. His ring has left a mark but she’ll be damned if she’ll let him humble her.

“Very feisty, aren’t you? I wonder if you’ll keep the same attitude once I have you locked away in Wobani for life.”

Jyn doesn’t react outwardly but her heart beats faster. Wobani is infamous for its cruelty and inhumane methods. Nobody leaves, not unless they’re dead. Only the worst of the worst, the most dangerous criminals end up there.

She supposes she belongs among them.

Another gesture from Krennic and the guards haul her towards the railing to transport her to Krennic’s ship. Stardust is slowly sinking and she knows it’s the least of her worries, as most of her crewmates lay dead at her feet, as Kay lays dead at her feet, but her heart aches at the sight. They’ve bought this ship together, Cassian and she, after he gave away his old one to Whitlock. It’s theirs. And it hurts to see it go down.

“What about him?” asks one of the guards holding Cassian.

“Leave him,” Krennic answers easily, a sick sort of smugness in his voice. “Let him go down with his ship, as all good captains do.”

“No!” Jyn shouts, struggling against her captors harder. She shouldn’t give away her weakness – she knows, she knows she shouldn’t give him ammunition – but Krennic has made up his mind anyway, so what difference does it make?

Too upset to think rationally, she begs him. “Don’t do this. He’s worth a lot more to you alive. He has a bounty on his head higher than mine.”

“I don’t need the money, you silly little girl,” he tells her, dismissive. “I just want you put away for good.”

“No!”

Jyn continues struggling as she’s dragged away, followed by Krennic and his guards. She watches the men holding Cassian tie him to the mainmast, making sure he can’t escape, before joining the rest of them. Krennic’s ship pulls farther away and Stardust sinks lower and lower into the ocean, but her gaze never leaves Cassian as long as she still sees him.

His eyes are regretful, apologetic. He looks resigned to his fate, a man who’s more concerned about leaving his lover behind than dying. Jyn knows he remembers their conversation in bed just as much as she does.

I don’t want to leave you behind.

Please don’t.

She watches until she can’t see him anymore, until he’s just a dot on a faraway slowly sinking ship. And Krennic, perhaps to drive the nail home, fires once again.

Stardust goes up in flames, pieces of wood scattering into the ocean, the mainmast falling with a loud splash. It takes a second and it’s all gone.

Jyn wails until she no longer has a voice. That night, a part of her too is gone.

She can’t bring herself to sell it so she settles for a compromise. She’s going to return it to the cave where it belongs, let some other poor clown find it if they can. It was never meant to be hers, never meant to be anyone’s, perhaps, but everyone has to learn from their own mistakes.

It should be fine, except the cave is gone. Which is ridiculous because she found it not even five days ago and it was here, she could have sworn the entrance was here, but somehow, she got lost or confused and disoriented, and the damn cave is gone. She dives underwater looking for the entrance several times, resurfacing periodically to catch her breath. All the while, the goblet weighs heavily in her hand, almost like –

It’s a stupid thought, but it’s almost like it’s trying to drag her down. Down into the deep where Cassian awaits her. And the more time that passes, the more she feels like this was a bad idea. She should have told Bodhi where she went, she should have brought him with her – she should just go back and sell the damn thing, but when she looks around, all she can see is water and water and more water. When did those dark clouds roll in? How could she have not noticed a storm approaching?

As soon as she realizes what’s happening, it’s like the sea comes alive around her. Jyn knows she’s in trouble. The waves toss her around like a ragdoll as she fights to stay above water. It keeps pulling her under, spraying saltwater in her eyes and mouth as she gasps for air and moves her limbs desperately to try and find land. She’s an excellent swimmer, but nobody can win against a storm.

She’s not sure how long she fights against the waves, but she’s getting exhausted. Her legs feel heavy, and it’s harder every time to push back to the surface when she goes under. The goblet weighs her down – distantly, she realizes she’s still holding it but she can’t make her fingers let go. Her strength is fading and still, her fingers remain locked tightly around its hilt like they have been welded together.

Then she hears it. Jyn! A voice calling her name, loud and desperate, a voice that sounds like…

Cassian. He finally called out to her.

She sees him in the distance before she goes under, blurry like a mirage. She knows why he’s here. It’d be so easy to join him, she realizes as the water engulfs her again. So easy to let go. Maybe it’s time, she thinks, and her fingers finally loosen around the goblet.

I’m coming, my love.

And just as she’s about to sink down into the deep, a hand seizes hers and drags her up, above the surface where she gasps and takes in large gulping breaths, coughing up water from her throat. Her lungs burn and her head feels dizzy, her vision blurry and darkening. But she can still make out Cassian’s face above her, staring at her with what seems like worry and relief at the same time.

“Are you here to take me with you?” she breathes, half resigned to her fate. She doesn’t hear his answer, if there is one, and she falls under with the comfort that at least her last moments were spent in the embrace of Cassian.

Jyn spends four months at Wobani before she and a couple of inmates manage to escape during a riot. The news spread quickly, causing unrest across every island from there to Havana. Nobody escapes Wobani, but they do and that doesn’t sit right with anyone. The people are scared, the authorities under pressure; there’s a massive search on every port across the Caribbean Sea. It means Jyn Erso must disappear. For good.

She takes on the name of Kestrel Dawn and returns to the place where she’s last seen Cassian alive. It’s the only thing she can think to do – he’s gone, Stardust is gone, Kay is gone, and the only person left alive who knows that a man named Cassian Andor once existed is her. It’s not enough, but as she stands on the beach at sunrise and places a bouquet of wildflowers on the water, she feels it counts for something.

It’s there, somewhere in the sea, that he lies at the bottom, waiting for her. As she looks out at the never-ending body of water, she feels a calm wash over her. He’s one with the sea now, everywhere, all around her, always with her.

The waves lap at her bare feet, the tide rising higher and more insistent. She feels like it’s trying to tell her something, trying to call her home.

She smiles, taking a deep breath. “Not yet, my love. Not yet.”

Jyn wakes up in her cabin and for a moment, all is normal. It takes a second to remember the storm, her losing battle against the waves, and… Cassian.

She sits up slowly, and Bodhi is suddenly by her side, pulling the blanket higher up her body like a worried mother hen.

“Thank god you’re awake! How are you feeling? You gave us quite the scare, Li,” he says all in one breath, and barely stops before adding. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”

“I…” She squints, still a bit disoriented, staring off into space as memories slowly trickle in. She turns her head towards Bodhi, a realization sitting on her tongue. “I think he saved me.” Tears fill her eyes, too emotional to hide them. “He wasn’t here to take me with him, he was here to save me.”

She believed the legends, she’d given into thinking that he was here to drag her down. Appropriate revenge for a man who had been sacrificed like that for no good reason at all.

But that wasn’t Cassian, it couldn’t be. He’d never harm her, and he didn’t – not even in death. He wasn’t her grim reaper, he was her guardian angel.

“Liana,” Bodhi begins slowly, then awkwardly trails off. She can tell he’s not quite sure how to say what he wants to say.

“What?”

“I did save you,” says a voice from the doorway, and she knows who it belongs to even before she turns her head. Heartbeat in her throat, she lifts her head towards him, slowly, half-afraid that she’s not going to find anyone standing there.

But there he is. Leaning against the doorframe in all his glory, brown leather pants, and a loosely tied white shirt hanging from his frame, dark strands of hair curling against his neck. It’s longer than in her memories, and he’s thinner, too – too thin.

But he doesn’t seem so ghostly in the daylight, with the sun behind his back, and Bodhi looking at him too. He seems quite real, in fact. A gasp is stuck in her throat, her mouth dry at the sight of him. How is it possible…

When her gaze finally meets his, he seems just as shaken, awed, disbelieving. Jyn sits up fully, unable to look away as she methodically moves her legs off the bed. His eyes are misty and his hands are trembling a bit – but god, the way he looks at her… it’s the look of a man finding shelter in the middle of a storm.

He used to look at her like that in their private moments – when he was inside her, when they were in bed basking in the afterglow, when she cut down enemies with a single swipe of her sword before he even lifted his pistol.

It’s that look, more than anything, that convinces her this is real.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” she says at last, the only thing she can think to say. How are you not dead? Where were you?

“I’ll leave you two be,” Bodhi says. Shamefully, she’s forgotten he’s even in the room. He squeezes her shoulder in comfort before he goes, and she watches him give Cassian a small but encouraging smile as he passes him.

Once he’s gone, Cassian clears his throat. His gaze finally drops, the loss of its intensity making her chest tighten.

“I did save you,” he repeats, his voice rough with emotion. “I saw someone in the water. I didn’t realize it was you until… I was looking for the goblet.”

“I don’t understand,” Jyn gasps, shocked at how high her own voice sounds. She can’t swallow around the ball lodged in her throat.

“I’m not a ghost. I’m not dead, I never was.”

He still hasn’t moved from the doorway, almost like he’s too afraid to come closer. Jyn’s hand tightens around the bed frame.

“I saw the ship sink.”

“It did. And I almost drowned,” Cassian admits, his voice strained. The small laugh he lets out is humorless. “I don’t know how I survived, I really don’t. I guess I was just lucky that those idiots didn’t tie my hands well enough and I was able to break free before the last cannon hit the ship. I don’t remember much after that. I grabbed a plank floating in the water, just trying to hold on. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever make it to land, I must have been out there for days. I was trying so hard not to give up… for you. I had to make it back to you. But I was getting so tired. Eventually, I just…”

He shrugs, a small defeated gesture. His eyes drop to the floor, his shoulders hunched. He looks guilty, ashamed, and Jyn wants to get up, gather him in her arms and never let go, but she has to hear the rest of his story.

“I was washed ashore the next day, barely alive. It was a small remote island, no cities, no villages, no ships. No one lived there. I had no way back home. I was stranded there... for five years.”

He lifts his head up, and the despair she finds in his eyes almost has her doubling over.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again,” he admits, small and heart-wrenching. Jyn closes her eyes, letting her tears run down her face and onto her lap.

“And then?” she croaks, her voice trembling.

“A merchant ship came by about three months ago. They took me back, brought me to Havana. I tried to look for you. I heard you escaped Wobani, but I couldn’t… well, there were no more mentions of Jyn Erso after that. No word of you for five years. I figured you had gone into hiding but I didn’t know how to find you. All I could think to do was… find the goblet.”

A sad smile plays on his lips, his eyes glassy.

“But you found it first. And I found you.”

Jyn takes in a shuddering breath, her whole body trembling.

“It’s gone. I think I let go of it in the water.”

“Good,” he breathes. His eyes find hers again, looking for a sign, an answer. When Jyn gives it to him, inclining her head just so, he cuts across the room in long strides and kneels in front of her. His tear-stained cheeks now match hers.

Tentatively, he takes hold of her hands, and a small desperate sound escapes her mouth at the touch. Her eyes flutter shut when his other hand reaches up to cup her cheek, trembling as she presses her face against his palm.

“Jyn,” he begins, voice hoarse. She can hear the fear in his tone. “Do you still…”

“I do,” she breathes without opening her eyes, without waiting to hear his question. “I do still. I do.”

She tugs on his hand to pull him up, and he goes willingly, his mouth finding hers like it was five years ago and they hadn’t been broken by the world and its cruelty yet. She clings to him desperately, clutching at the collar of his shirt, fingers slipping into his hair, trying to pull him closer as much as she can. The only thing that matters is that every part of her is touching every part of him.

She breaks away, the sound on her lips a strange mix between a laugh and a sob. His lips find her forehead instead and she buries her face in his chest, tears still in her eyes, but listening to his heartbeat steady under her hand.

There’s so much to talk about. So much to catch up on. It feels like a fever dream – she’s afraid to wake up and realize it hadn’t been real. But Cassian holds her tighter, and she knows that in his arms, nothing can hurt her.

They’re finally home.

[written-on-the-trees]

Yungblud Fan Fiction - Protego

Prompt: Wizard (meaning it’s the Hogwarts AU nobody asked for)

Word-count: 1625 words

Warnings: none

Description: It's hard being a muggle-born wizard at Hogwarts at the moment, since the school's been taken over by pureblood-supremicists, but Dom's determined to do his best to carry on as normal. Thankfully, he has help.

Dom looked both ways before exiting the Hufflepuff common room.

 Hogwarts wasn’t as safe as it used to be. Inside his house’s common room, he wasn’t in any danger; Hufflepuffs were inclusive by nature, but the rest of the school? Not so much. The place was being run by bloody Death Eaters, and even if Snape had ‘officially’ ordered that no students were to be targeted for unnecessary punishment, the Carrows had decided that people muggle-born - or a mud-blood, as they constantly spat at people who weren’t from wizarding families - was enough reason for a punishment to be ‘necessary’.

 And Dom was muggle-born.

 Muggle-born, and rapidly becoming aware that nowhere other than the Hufflepuff common room and dorms were safe. If it wasn’t the Carrows, it was the children of the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters, and if it wasn’t either of those two, then it was whichever student was looking to get on the Carrows’ good sides by throwing a bit of abuse at students who couldn’t (or weren’t allowed to) fight back. Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, it didn’t matter - generally it was only Hufflepuffs that could be trusted, and even with some of them, Dom wouldn’t want to be around without his other housemates, just in case. There were exceptions to every rule, after all.

   Including the idea that most Gryffindors held that all Slytherins were on the side of the Carrows and the Dark Lord.

   “Good morning, Harrison.”

   Turning round, Dom smiled when he saw who’d spoken out to him.

 He was always happy to see Delphine Prewett. She was Slytherin’s star student, the embodiment of everything they wanted a witch to be. Powerful, smart and sly, beautiful and elegant, and - perhaps most importantly to the people who decided what the embodiment of a Slytherin witch was - a Pureblood. She was popular, got top marks in all her classes, was an immediate choice to be made a Prefect in her fifth year, and had been Slytherin’s Quidditch Captain until she stepped down to be Hogwarts Head Girl at the beginning of this year.

 When Delphine walked through the halls, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. When she spoke, rooms went quiet. When she made up her mind, no-one tried to change it.

 And she’d decided that she liked him.

 She was the best the school had to offer, and she had decided that she liked him.

 Dom had gotten so fucking lucky.

 With Delphine around, no-one challenged him over his blood status

   “Hi, Delphie.”

 Delphine didn’t smile at the nickname, but she allowed it, and that alone told Dom she liked it - because if she didn’t, she wouldn’t hesitate to let him know: “I thought we could walk to breakfast together.”

 “That’d be great - maybe we could talk about the charms homework? I think I’ve got a good idea but I wanted to see what you thought…”

   As always, Delphine was more than happy to listen to Dom ramble about his potions essay. He was no slouch when it came to any of his classes, but he had a tendency to go on tangents. Talking about what he was going to write down - and letting someone tell him when he was getting off topic - was really helpful. Delphine listened patiently as they sat at the Hufflepuff table, buttering slices of toast for both of them while Dom went through how he thought he was going to lay his essay out, writing notes on a scrap of paper about what was he was keeping, what he wasn’t keeping, and any additions Delphine thought might get him some extra marks.

 Of course, because of what Hogwarts was like this year, the peace and quiet didn’t last long.

 Helena Rookwood, a Ravenclaw student with a Death Eater father, appeared right behind Dom, sneering at him when he turned to look at her, and glaring at Delphine in a mixture of confusion and derision.

   “Why are you sitting over here, Prewett? And more importantly, why are you sitting with that?”

 Delphine looked up at Helena with a cold expression: “I beg your pardon?”

 Most people would’ve recognised the icy tone Delphine was using as one of warning and backed down, but although she had the thirst for knowledge that seemed to characterise Ravenclaws, Helena seemed to struggle with retaining important knowledge like what happened when witches like Delphine lost their temper: “Harrison’s a mudblood - and a Hufflepuff mudblood at that. Why on earth would you waste your time sitting with him.”

 “I don’t define a person’s worth on things like their house or incidental traits like blood status. After all, you are Ravenclaw and a pureblood,” Delphine sneered: “yet you are completely worthless.”

   Helena seemed taken aback, her mouth hanging open like a fish. Dom was struck with the urge to tell her she was not a codfish, but he knew better than to antagonise her right now. Delphine was basically untouchable - so if Helena was going to lash out, she was going to lash out at Dom. And given her quick temper, it was pretty likely she was going to end up trying to get back at him for what Delphine had said. Dom didn’t need to upset her any more than she already had been.

 As it was, Helena spluttered and glared, slowly went red in the face, but Delphine didn’t take mercy on her by dismissing her. She remained in her seat, looking at Helena with a raised eyebrow, waiting for either to respond or slink away in defeat. But Helena did neither.

 Dom grew increasingly nervous as the silence dragged on. With Amycus Carrow watching on with narrowed eyes from his position at the teacher’s table, Dom didn’t dare draw his wand. He was lucky that it hadn’t been taken away by the Ministry yet - if it got confiscated by Amycus, he’d never get it back. Even if Helena drew hers first, Dom would be punished for dueling if he fought back…meaning he’d be relying on Delphine to defend him.

 He had no doubt that she could - probably better than he could defend himself - but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous. He waited for something to happen, but the two girls just watched each other over the top of his head, waiting for the other to make their move. The stand-off seemed to drag out forever…

 …but then Helena drew her wand.

   “Confri- ”

 “Protgeo!”

   Delphine rose to her feet - but didn’t draw her wand. She didn’t need to.

   I didn’t know she was so good with wandless magic.

   The shield charm was so strong it sent Helena stumbling backwards before she fell onto her arse.

 Delphine stood, leaning forwards to brace her hands on the table so she could look down her nose at where the other girl was sprawled inelegantly on the floor, her eyes watering as she looked back up at Delphine and tried not cry.

   “Are you finished?” Delphine sneered, not taking it easy on Helena - despite having already beaten her.

 “Why are you standing up for him? He’s a mudblood!” Helena wailed.

 “And you’re a bigoted cu- ”

 “Is everything okay here?”

   All three of them turned to look at Alecto Carrow. The short, stocky woman was glaring down at Helena, her face wearing its usual pinched expression.

 Helena didn’t wait to be told to get to her feet; all the students knew better than to let either of the Carrows see you down, in case they decided to kick you while they were…literally or figuratively. Even the students who believed in the same rhetoric as they did weren’t safe, especially from Alecto. She liked hurting people, and she didn’t care who her victims were as long as she was infliction pain.

 Dom and Helena ducked their heads, but Delphine looked the other woman straight in the eye as she spoke.

   “Yes, thank you Professor Carrow.”

 “Make sure that it is, Prewett. As Head Girl, there are eyes on you.” Alecto warned: “Make sure you do not disappoint them.”

   With that, she strode away, shooing Helena away as she went.

 Everyone who had been trying to subtly watch without being caught went back to eating their breakfast. Delphine returned to her seat, but for the first time since they’d become friends in their third year, Dom saw her look shaken. Understandable; the ‘eyes’ on Delphine were the eyes of the Death Eaters interested in recruiting her…but Dom didn’t like it. There wasn’t a lot he could do (to speak out against the Death Eaters, even where they thought they couldn’t hear you, was a sure way to end up in trouble…or worse) but he reached out to take her hand and squeeze it reassuringly.

 She returned his comforting smile with a strained one of her own, before taking a deep breath to center herself, and the confident expression of Delphine Prewett was back in place. If he hadn’t been looking just a second ago, he wouldn’t have known it was a mask…as it was, he went along with it. She was just doing what all of them were doing it: faking it until they could make it a reality.

   “Well, we’d better get to class. The Head Girl can’t be late, after all.” she smirked.

 Dom followed her out, waiting until they were halfway up the stairs to Transfiguration: “I’ve got your back, Delphie. They can’t have you if you don’t want them to.”

 It might seem nonsensical to some…but Delphine understood, she always did: “Thanks, Dom. I’ve got yours too.”

 “I know.” Dom grinned: “And you look fuckin’ amazin’ doin’ it.”

 Delphine smiled: “I know.”

   This time, her smile was a lot more genuine.

[katsidhe]

Fic: vladimir and estragon are dead [15.19 coda]

AO3

Summary: what plea, what surrender, will a bored God possibly accept at this late hour?

The world is empty.

They drive across a landscape that is only a little more desolate than it always has been. This is their end and their beginning, this is where their roads always lead: to highways with no cars for miles, empty backwaters and ghost towns. This time it’s only slightly more literal. The fulcrum of the universe shifts and tilts with them; the center of mass of the earth moves devastatingly, tenderly.

Sam waits for the gutting claustrophobia to kick in, and finds that he can’t make the feeling truly latch on. Maybe it’s because it’s always been here, curled up in his heart like a parasite. It’s not that Sam isn’t used to the idea of a prison larger than a planet, creation as a dark and empty pit, company laughably limited. He finds his mind instead attempting to flit over more practical concerns. When will the electrical grid fail? How many fires have already started, set by unattended stoves, how many cities are burning? How long until every light winks out, until darkness and silence returns to swallow the trappings of civilization?

Cas is dead, and he has died so many times, they’re all dead, they’ve all died so many times, but the pain still squeezes his heart, catches him under the collarbone like a knife. It hurts moving, breathing. But the losses Sam carries mean nothing compared to the weight of what he has personally managed to erase. His stubborn spite, his fetid desire to carve out a life for himself and his tiny family, his rebelliousness managed to get the fucking multiverse killed. Sam has never been to Asia, but now four billion people who lived there are gone. It is absurd to mourn. It is absurd to exist.

Sam won’t allow himself to feel the grief but he will permit the guilt to cripple him. What does it matter if he’s crippled? What does any of it matter? His defiance led to this: a blank page. An empty canvas.

When they reach the Bunker, the stars are bright above. It is the impossible, cold glory of a vast aquarium, viewed from the inside.

They drink together in the quiet. More accurately, they attempt to. Dean gamely downs pull after pull of whiskey. Sam tries. The first shot has him retching, spitting like it’s battery acid. He vomits on the library floor.

Dean laughs meanly, says, “I can drink for both of us.”

Sam looks up and meets his eyes and feels his face twist into a rictus laugh too. He finishes being sick and he doesn’t clean up, doesn’t bother. Cleaning, like many things, is not a concept.

It doesn’t feel like the world has ended down here, even though Sam knows it has. Could be any other day, miles and miles from civilization, insulated underground behind wards that keep out anything short of a god (or anything without the keys). This hole in the ground doesn’t feel vaster or emptier than it normally does. The wider world has never existed in this space; this is the center of the entire universe, just the two of them.

Dean passes out at some point, and Sam lays his head down too. He strips down to one layer, tosses his overshirts at a chair, kicks off his shoes, then his socks. He runs his fingers over the smooth grain of the table, over and over and over. He feels the worst kind of drunk, dizzy and lightheaded with a pounding headache. He should drink some water. He should eat some food. He won’t, though. Who’s depending on him now? For what purpose should his body be fueled? What power, fair or foul, mundane or magical, ought to keep his bones from collapsing in on themselves, into bloody withered dust?

“How do you summon God?” Dean asks muzzily, when he blinks awake again under the golden fluorescent light.

”Maybe the amulet,“ Sam offers. He’s been picturing it mutely all night, turning it over and over in his head, with the weight of heavy responsibility.

It’s dragged out of hiding. The brass is not just warm to the touch, it’s searingly hot. It burns Sam’s fingers when he tries to take it out of the box: even the barest brush of the cord makes him flinch away. Dean wraps his shirt around his hands and tries, and swears. The heat is not diminished one degree. Eventually Sam just takes the entire memory box, upends it messily on the library counter, uses a broken pencil to fish out the amulet and dump it in the metal bowl, among the herbs and the roots and the bones of a small furred creature.

By silent agreement they take everything outside, blinking in the bright dawn chill, leaving Jack to his miserable sleep. Sam is still barefoot. The sharp gravel opens tiny wounds. Shoes seem a pointless inconvenience, some petty barrier between himself and the world, and for what? What can reach him now?

It’s the strongest summoning spell Sam knows. Enochian and Sumerian, to call like to like, to invoke heavenly power. A sigil Rowena taught him, that inscribes itself in purple flame.

He chants quietly in the stillness. The amulet flares in blinding white light, but as the brilliance dampens Sam can make it out when it melts, when it dwindles into pointless black sludge. Dean touches the bowl briefly. Sam feels nothing.

Not that it matters. He knows Chuck can hear them. He prays, too, with belief and desperation he hasn’t felt in years. He gets on his knees, and after a moment, Dean joins him. It makes Sam’s heart twist.

They pray to a God who is not absent. The spot in his shoulder where Sam shot God and himself aches sharply. God wants him to suffer, he knows. He understands where they live now, in a wasteland with something that hates them. This is familiar territory. They are Chuck’s entertainment, his bulwark against a devastating darkness.

Nothing and nobody shows. Sam shifts from his knees into a full-body prostration, doesn’t look to see if Dean does the same. Instead, he buries his face in the dirt. Tears still won’t come. It’s not  that he’s numb. He’s just had too much practice, that’s all. Please, he prays, please, he is so sorry, he will bear any humiliation, any torment, he will bear any trial, please, for mercy—

A thought, a message, or a memory. Will you, Sam? Will you? What will you do for me? Will you cut out your heart for me, hold it in your hand, will you eat it?

And Sam knows this isn’t enough. Of course not, their mere surrender is never what Chuck wanted. Sam knows what Chuck wants, right? He’s lived it long enough. Chuck wants to watch.

“Dean,” Sam says. He sits up and brushes dirt from his face. Dean is already standing. Staring up at the risen sun. He’s holding his knife. He’s figured it out too.

“I know,” Dean says.

Still on his knees, Sam looks at the knife. “We have to make it good,” he says. “Not too fast, right?”

Dean stares down at him in horrific fury. There are tears in his eyes. “This is fucked.”

Sam smiles like a flinch, just at the corners of his mouth. “Not like we haven’t been here before,” he says. “It’s okay.”

Dean comes a step closer. Close enough. Hit me, Dean, Sam thinks, Sam urges. He wants it with his whole being, invites it. The whole universe sings with the cosmic rightness of it. The new sun wants this to happen, the sky the Kansas fields the deep blue sea God in his Heaven and the Devil in his Hell, every molecule, every uncounted star and every grain of sand wants this. Sam wants this, with sublime intensity.

Sam wants to say the words to summon Dean’s wrath, but in this moment he can’t remember them. Maybe just being is enough. It should be. Maybe just kneeling here in the dew-damp grass will be enough, to fan the sense-memories. It is for Sam. He can feel the tears coming, for the first time since the world ended.

Dean’s face forces itself into something like a snarl. It’s ugly. “I’m not torturing you, asshole,” he says.

Sam shrugs, with one shoulder. His other hurts with an abominable, shooting pain. “Gut wound?” he suggests. This time he does smile.

Dean scoffs. “You do me first,” he says. He takes Sam’s arm and drags him upright. He paws at his belt, brings out his gun, and presses it into Sam’s hands.

Sam doesn’t fumble on the slide, on the grip. His fingers check the weapon and click off the safely with automatic efficiency. He nods loosely. He understands. This too is the sacrifice demanded, and neither of them may shirk their parts.

“At the same time, then,” Sam says.

Dean scrubs his hand over his face. He nods.

“Chuck!” Dean screams. “Chuck, this is for you! You’d better fucking FIX THIS! Bring them back, bring them all back. Here’s your goddamn ending.”

He looks at Sam, and Sam looks at him. Sam puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, to keep them both upright. Dean grips his arm with painful intensity. When the knife slides into Sam’s abdomen, and twists in a burst of breathless star-bright agony, some puzzle piece of the universe slots into alignment. When Sam’s fingers bury the muzzle between their bodies and pull the trigger, crimson relief overtakes him in a flood.

Their breath releases in a gasp. For long, impossible moments they remain upright, swaying, foreheads pressed together. Sam wants to clutch instinctively at the fatal wound, but that would mean releasing the gun or releasing his grip on Dean’s shoulder, both absurd impossibilities. Dean’s hand is cold on his arm but so warm in the mess of his stomach.

An eternity later they stagger apart. Sam watches fascinated as his breath mists in the dawn air.  He gasps again as the knife slides out and drops, as the gun drops next to it. Now finally his fingers are permitted to explore the bloody gape of his torso. His searching eyes meet Dean’s, similarly poleaxed. Now his brother’s face has relaxed into half a grin, high on gory oblivion.

“Together,” Dean breathes, on a trickle of blood. “Hah.”

Sam nods. They’re both sinking inwards, gravity dragging them down. Where will they go, he wonders, with Death’s death, God’s spite, the world’s emptiness. Somewhere either better or worse than here, he decides, and it doesn’t matter which.

“Picturesque enough?” Dean spits at the sky. His smile is broadening. His eyes are red. He’s hungover, or actually, still drunk, Sam thinks. Blurry with misery. Sam is only drunk on guilt.

The sun climbs higher. Sam breathes in bloody panting gasps and watches red mud form around them. He and Dean aren’t touching anymore, and somehow that too feels right. He can listen and watch Dean curled into himself and dying out of the corner of his half-slitted eye. The heat of the new day builds, skimming over them like the brush of a giant hand. The pain in his shoulder splits him through, worse than the pain in his gut. When he coughs, the world itself shudders.

The blood pools in grass and dirt, forming little eddies and ponds. Like an ecosystem, Sam thinks. He tries to imagine a new world springing up from where he and Dean are soaking into the soil—fresh life, a microcosm of new biota. It’s all he wants. But the only image he can picture is the slick of black oil sheen at dusty gas stations, the unnatural rainbow opalescence of toxic reflections, a poison where nothing at all can grow. He doesn’t pray for meaning, but he wishes he were allowed to. Like in the Cage, it carries the sick certainty that the only God that can hear him is one that certainly means him ill.

Between one blink and the next, Chuck is standing on the grass, loafers brushing the pooled blood. “Hey, guys,” he says. He’s smiling, only very faintly.

“Bring them back,” rasps Dean. He’s nearly gone. They’re both nearly gone. “We did what you wanted.”

Chuck doesn’t respond. Doesn’t do anything like pull up a lawn chair, either, like Sam might have expected—just stands and stares with perfect inhuman attention.

Sam doesn’t feel it when Dean dies, but he knows it happened. When Sam dies, God is still watching over him.

Chuck is smiling when Sam gasps back to life, when he hears Dean gagging a few feet away. Sam recognizes the expression, because he’s seen it before, in a dim and bloody tunnel, in a different universe.

[powerwordsleep]

Sasuke Retsuden (Unoffical English Translation)

Prologue

Here’s the next installment! Enjoy~

DISCLAIMER: This is not an official translation and was not made for profit or distribution. This translation was fan-made and done for purely enjoyment and translation practice purposes. I do not own the rights to NARUTO or any of the related materials.

CONTENT WARNING FOR GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND GORE.

Prologue | Chapter 2

Chapter 1

With his fangs still in the man’s body, Menō landed without making a sound. He suddenly opened his mouth and dropped the man he held in his mouth to the ground.

“...Ugh…”

He tried to crawl away, but Menō kicked him, sending him sprawling. He stabbed the claws on his foot into the man’s shoulders and started dragging him away slowly. He finally stopped when he reached the middle of the yard then opened his mouth, dripping red with blood, and took a bite out of the man’s right shoulder.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” The man shrieked, his body contorting in pain.

Menō ripped at his flesh, and the blood dripping from the wound mixed with the steady stream pouring from his stomach, quickly forming a puddle of red on the earth. Making a fast meal out of the man’s head and chest would be enjoyable. Menō instead flipped the man’s body around and started to eat the shallow flesh of his hips. He pulled at the thin fibers of muscle, and the man cried out, his face pressed into the ground, sand filling his mouth.

Menō took his time tasting the man’s flesh and blood. He had purposefully dragged the deserter’s body to the middle of the courtyard where the other prisoners could witness his meal. It was a warning—this is what will become of you if you try to run.

“Eugh! I’m still alive! Please!”

The other prisoners watched from a distance, a grimace on their faces and pickaxes resting on their shoulders. Menō teared at the flesh like he was playing with it. When he finally got to the organs and the drip drip drip of blood could be heard from afar, the man’s scream faded out until they could no longer be heard.

“Well, that’s about it for Nogema. Quickly, back to your stations.” At the sound of the low voice from behind them, all the prisoners froze at once.

A slender man wearing silver-rimmed glasses slowly emerged from the building.

The director of the Tartar Astronomy Research Institute. Zansur. The person in charge of this place and Menō’s master.

“If you don’t move quickly Menō will make you his dessert.”

Although Zansur’s voice was light, there was an underlying intimidation to it; the prisoners paled at his joke. From within the sea of prisoners scattering to their various work stations, Sasuke observed Menō in secret.

Menō swung his large, long tail, using it to keep balance as he bent over, his head lost in the soft flesh and blood in the belly of the corpse. The hard skin covering his head was stained red with blood, the yellow pupil of his eyes shining brightly.

A carnivorous prison guard who faithfully obeyed Zansur—that was Menō.

A huge, bipedal lizard covered in thick skin, with nail-shaped fangs and sharp claws. When standing he was 80 centimeters in height, but if you measured from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, he was no less than two meters. What’s terrifying was the strength of his legs. Sprouting from under his torso are two horrible, spring-like legs that can move ten meters in a single leap.

This place was not a prison. The patrols did not keep watch over the prisoners 24 hours a day like guards should. There were no locks on their living quarters nor on any of the buildings' entrances. Nevertheless, the prisoners living here followed the rules obediently—because of Menō.

As long as there was Menō, who watched over the grounds authoritatively and showed no mercy in eating those who break the rules alive, then rarely would there be anyone who would dare try to escape.

***********

The prisoners’ job at the Astronomy Research Institute was mainly digging up dirt. Using farming tools, they were tasked with scraping up the frost covered soil. If they came across a large rock or hard clumps of earth, they had to carefully dig it up and remove it. And repeat.

It seemed that the work was necessary in order to build the foundation for a giant telescope, but the longtime prisoners said that for close to a year they’ve been forced to do this work endlessly.

“Ugh, it’s cold.”

Working next to him was Jiji, who was currently standing with his pickaxe resting against his hip, furiously rubbing his hands together. The mornings were particularly cold. The temperatures were low enough to freeze snot before it fell from their noses to the ground.

“Aren’t you cold, Sasuke?”

“Yes.” He answered honestly. Sasuke rubbed his hand against the handle of his pickaxe and warmed them up with the friction. He was used to working under harsh conditions, but cold is cold.

“Ugh, I hate it here... Why did they build the Astronomy Research Institute in such a cold place? The snow already melted a while ago. At this rate I’m going to end up freezing to death. Well, actually, after seeing that guy get eaten this morning, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to freeze to death in my sleep.”

Did Jiji ever get tired of this monotonous work? He certainly never tired of speaking.

Jiji was a fellow prisoner and Sasuke’s cellmate. He was locked up on charges of stealing food because he had none. His sentence was a minimum of six months. Since they were about the same age and both in good physical condition, they were assigned to the same work division and were often paired together.

Jiji rubbed his reddened nose and then suddenly let out a yelp.

“Shit, I hurt myself. Ah, but this is lucky! Now I can go to the doctor’s office.”

“What’s so great about the doctor’s office?”

“Didn’t you hear? There’s a newly arrived lady doctor. Word on the street is she’s beautiful and kind.”

He chuckled and added, “And she’s single. No significant other.”

This caused Sasuke to look up from his work. “How do you know she’s single?”

“Because she isn’t wearing a ring.”

A ring?

Jiji noticed the blank look on Sasuke’s face and continued. “Oh yeah, you’re not from around here. It’s Redaku custom for people to exchange rings when they get married. If you wear a ring on the second to last finger of your left hand, that means you’re married. That lady doctor isn’t wearing a ring, so—ah, shit. The patrols.”

Noticing the approaching guards, Jiji cut his explanation short. He picked up his pickaxe, the blade worn and chipped, and set about diligently hammering away at earth, as was his duty. The patrols came up to watch this, swinging around their batons while walking by, scowling at Jiji. They did not, however, try to meet Sasuke’s eyes. They were afraid of him. Once the guards continued on their way, Jiji discarded his tool once more and let out the pent up breath he’d be holding.

“Ugh. Fuck this shit, I hate it here.”

Sasuke shared the sentiment. He let out a sigh and turned to look behind him. The Tartar Astronomy Research Institute sat quietly atop a desolate mountain range. Built 1,000 meters above sea level, it was a fierce stone prison. It is said that the Rokudō Sennin himself stayed at this place. He was supposed to have collected documents here. That was the reason Sasuke came here.

Naruto was suffering from an illness back in the Land of Fire. Sasuke was here to gather the documents the Rokudō Sennin collected for Naruto. That was his sole purpose. Being unable to do anything else at such a time was frustrating. Right now Naruto’s illness was getting worse with each passing second—

“What’s wrong with you? You’re making a scary face.” Jiji’s voice cut through his thoughts. His cellmate’s eyes stared curiously at him from beneath the shadow of his bangs.

“It’s nothing.”

“Really? You had a really serious look on your face.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sasuke dexterously picked up his pickaxe with his arm, signaling the end of the conversation.

***********

After dinner Sasuke returned to his cell. As his hand touched the iron bars, he was greeted by a cut-off scream.

“AA—”

There in the middle of the cell, a gangly and petite man was lying prostrate on the floor. It was one of Sasuke’s three cellmates, Penzira. Jiji sat opposite him, legs crossed. Between the two men was a bowl with dice rolling around inside it.

“Jiji, you bastard! It’s snake eyes!”

“Heh, my bad. I’ll just take that cig, then.” Jiji snickered and pulled the cigarette on the floor towards him. It seemed that they were playing Cee-lo.

Although many prisoners become obsessed with gambling in a life of imprisonment without other forms of entertainment, Penzira has been an addict since well before. He loved playing dirty and doing underhanded tricks, but a series of successive losses earned him a pile of debt, and he got caught in multiple false marriage scams in attempts to pay it off. He had a minimum one year sentence.

Penzira noticed Sasuke. “Ah, Sasuke. Come play Cee-lo with us!” He shook the dice in the bowl incessantly.

“I’ll pass.”

“What’s up with you? So unpleasant.” Penzira frowned in disappointment and then turned his attention to the corner of the room. “Ganno! What’re you doing? Stop drawing pictures or whatever and get over here already!” He called out to Ganno, the third cellmate.

In the corner of the room squatting like a chicken on its eggs was Ganno, his back to Penzira. “Now’s no good.” He replied curtly.

Ganno, in his late sixties, was the oldest man in the cell. He was painting the loose skin on the nape of his skin completely red with paint.

“Are you still doing that? Aren’t you tired of it yet?”

“Don’t talk to me. I’ve almost completed an important part.”

It was one month ago that Ganno suddenly exclaimed, “I’ve found something great!” while out during his work shift, and returned to the cell with his pockets stuffed with red and brown rocks. Starting the next day Ganno would smash the rocks together, every morning and evening, not caring how raw his hands became. Over the course of five days the rocks were all crushed. Next he peeled off the skin from the soles of his feet. Then, he asked his friends in charge of the kitchen if he could borrow an open stove, and he used it before and after every meal for two hours; in total, he boiled the skin for close to 30 hours. Those around Ganno questioned his sanity when they saw the blood soaked bandages wrapped around his feet, but the man himself looked perfectly happy.

A broth of melted skin and a reddish brown powder made from painstakingly crushed rocks.

It was the day Sasuke arrived that Ganno finally had these two materials. While the others went to hurriedly greet the newcomer, Ganno began to mix both ingredients on top of pine leaves. Sasuke was struck breathless as he saw his cellmate completely absorbed in a task he didn’t understand.

The dull, reddish brown powder increased in viscosity when mixed with the both, and it transformed into a glossier color. After kneading the mixture for a few minutes, he completed the Kamain’s rock paint. It was a vivid red like Japanese plums. Every night since then Ganno has enjoyed painting, using pine leaves as a brush and his toenails as a canvas.

“Anyway, I’ll get rid of it before the inventory check next week.” Jiji was exasperated by this response and turned his back on the diligently working man, telling him the nail art didn’t suit him. “That’s why I’m hurrying. I’m already on my pinky finger,” replied Ganno. His voice was always cheerful.

A minimum sentence of 17 years in prison for treason against the nation. Ganno claimed his crime was painting a portrait for an aristocrat who opposed the Prime Minister. His father was also a painter, but he became obsessed and always had a paintbrush in hand, neither liking nor disliking what he painted.

A drawing that took one week to paint, done with a brush that took three weeks to make. Sasuke didn’t quite understand why Ganno would want to complete something that he would have to get rid of in a week, but any entertainment was important here.

The prisoners share what is basically a six-mat tatami room among four people. In such a confined space, adults breaking out in a fight was natural; beating each other until they were bloody and senseless was an everyday occurrence. In such an environment, Sasuke’s cell was comparatively peaceful. They weren’t exactly friendly, but so far no problems had arisen.

Ganno was absorbed in his art, and both Jiji and Penzira were upset at their dice rolls. Sasuke was gazing absentmindedly at the moon until it was time for lights out. This was what usually went on in the cell each evening.

“Yo, Sasuke, you should play too!”

“We’ll let you have the first go.” After each turn Jiji and Penzira would invite the lonesome Sasuke to play.

“No thanks,” came his short reply. He heard a faint noise and turned his gaze to the window that faced out into the courtyard. The white, illuminating light of the moon was blocked for a moment by a shadow. It was probably Menō out in the grounds. There was something about Menō that bothered Sasuke. If he were to do some research, now would be the perfect time.

“I’ve changed my mind.” Sasuke stood up and seated himself across from Penzira. “I’m your opponent now.”

“What, really? Hell yeah!”

“I don’t have cigarettes, so can I bet on something else?” Sasuke asked, reaching into his pocket and pretending to pull something out. He focused his chakra into his fingers, and using a simple Earth Style jutsu, activated the elements in the soil, arranging the atoms until they smoothed out and crystallized.

Rolling around in his palm was a red stone. It was a large ruby about the size of a cherry.

“Huh? Is that a jewel? Is that real?”

“No way, it can’t be. It’s probably glass or something.”

Jiji and Penzira inspected the jewel closely. Sasuke neither confirmed nor denied, but the jewel in his hand was certainly physically the real deal. Unfortunately, it was man-made.

“A pretty glass jewel, huh… we could take it and then melt it down in a fire and smoke it. That would be fun, yeah?”

“You don’t have any cigarettes left to bet on, I took everything you had last game. Bet on your meal duty.”

Sasuke picked up the bowl. “We don’t need cigarettes, and you don’t need to swap your meal duties. Instead, I want you to do me a favor.”

“A favor?”

“I’ll explain afterwards.” He placed the bowl on the tatami and grabbed three dice. He faced Penzira and asked, “What’s the best roll?”

“Of course you don’t know the rules. It’s snake eyes. You gotta get three digits.”

“Alright then, I’ll roll that.”

Jiji and Penzira looked at him. Even Ganno stopped working on his hand in order to watch Sasuke.

Sasuke channeled his chakra to his closed fist. The moment he rolled the dice, an imperceptible force guided them. With a clatter, the wooden dice rolled around inside the bowl.

“Seriously…”

Seeing three red dots lined up, Penzira’s mouth fell open. Like Sasuke had said, he, of course, rolled snake eyes. While Jiji and Genno were also sitting there stunned, Sasuke leisurely stood up.

“Looks like I win.”

“Rolling snake eyes right after saying you will—there ain’t luck like that. That was cheating!” Jiji smacked Penzira on the shoulder, ignoring his whine of protest.

“I told you to give up!”

When gambling with prisoners, cheating was a common occurrence. The unspoken rule here was if you don’t catch someone in the act of cheating, then it doesn’t count.

“You promised me a favor, Penzira.”

“... I can’t do anything too difficult.”

“Relax, it’s not bad.” Sasuke said and stood, heading for the door. “I’m going for a walk. When the patrols come around, cover for me.”

Penzira thought he was joking and laughed, but when he noticed Sasuke’s serious expression he followed after him, flustered. During the downtime before bed, you were free to do as you liked as long you stayed in the cells. The second you stepped foot out of your cell, you were breaking the rules.

“This is crazy! It’ll be obvious that someone is missing, how am I supposed to cover for you?”

“Stuff my futon.”

“Oh, we’ll just deceive the guards, is that it? They’re not children!” Penzira followed him out the door, complaining all the while.

“Sasuke!” Jiji called after him through the iron bars. “You get it, right? If you’re caught breaking the rules, you’ll be sent to receive punishment before you can offer up any excuses. If it’s Menō who finds you, he’ll eat you alive, no questions asked.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Sasuke replied calmly.

“That’s not the issue...” Penzira moaned.

***********

Within the grounds of the Tartar Astronomy Research Institute, there were two buildings located on the east and west end of the courtyard. Located on the west end was the multi-purpose building that housed the prisoners, which looked like it had been hastily put together with some branches that had been lying around. Opposite that, on the east end, was the headquarters of the institute.

Prisoners were forbidden from entering this building, but Sasuke held no such reservations as he boldly walked through the front door.

When he took his first step into the entryway, he was greeted by thick, fur-lined carpet. The headquarters was a completely different world from the barracks. It had been renovated since the Tartar era, and now was a magnificent brick building that resembled a royal palace. There seemed to be four stories above ground, and based on this country’s architectural standards, it was fairly large.

While the prisoners were forced to cry themselves to sleep on hard stone floors wrapped up in their thin futons, here the hallways, stairwells, and of course the rooms themselves were lined wall to wall with plush carpet. Thanks to the stucco-lined brick exterior, the building was naturally free from any cold drafts, and the guards’ rooms all had large fireplaces with which to heat their quarters. The difference was like walking on a cloud, compared to the barracks which would sometimes have icicles hanging inside the rooms during the snowy season.

As he walked through the corridors of the building, Sasuke would hide himself in rooms and attach himself to the ceiling whenever he heard the guards approaching on their patrols. But he purposely wasn’t masking his chakra presence, because of that giant lizard—it was to alert Menō. Since he couldn’t use words with his reptilian opponent, he planned on manipulating him with genjutsu to see if he could obtain any new information that way.

Menō surpassed other reptiles in terms of reflexes, speed, and power. No matter how you looked at it, Menō was a summon. Since he obeyed Zansur’s every command, there was a high chance that he was the one who gave Menō his powers. Originally, this country had no shinobi, but he’d heard that the Prime Minister had gathered rogue ninja here for a war.

It was likely that Zansur was a shinobi and he had summoned Menō using Kuchiyose, and now the two were connected via his chakra.

But a summon was not supposed to last this long. Menō was constantly stalking around the institute, morning and evening, keeping watch over the prisoners. That would mean Zansur was using Kuchiyose for at least 20 hours each day. That was way too long. Did Zansur have chakra reserves that large? Or perhaps the basic structure of this Kuchiyose technique was different from those passed down in the Land of Fire—

Tap tap. From down the corridor came the sound of nails hitting the floor.

Sasuke came to a halt, and met a pair of yellow eyes floating in the dark. Sidling out of the darkness came of the form of Menō.

“So you came.”

Sasuke raised his eyelids and focused his chakra to his eyes.

The Sharingan.

A red eye with three spinning black pinwheels met Menō’s gaze. He instantly activated his doujutsu, and dragged Menō into a genjutsu—or he intended to.

Whoosh!

Menō vaulted off the floor and leaped towards Sasuke. Sharp claws raked at Sasuke from the side and managed to cut off a lock of Sasuke’s hair.

Did the genjutsu not work?

Sasuke fended off the attack from Menō, and backed up until he hit the wall, then came to a stop. Winding up like a spring, Menō gathered strength in his legs before leaping forward, closing the distance between him and Sasuke in an instant. The pair of yellow eyes met his once again, but it had the same result. The genjutsu didn’t work.

As Menō thrust a fist towards him, Sasuke suddenly ducked down beneath his chest. He shoved him with the palm of his hand while his leg swept Menō’s feet out from under him. The sound of the floor cracking could be heard under Menō’s now prone form, and Sasuke ceased his attack. Leaving behind traces of a fight for the director and others to discover was dangerous. It made no sense, especially after all the trouble he went through to come here undetected.

Sasuke used the brief moment of reprieve to put some distance between them, when Menō’s eyes suddenly snapped open. Using his long tail like a whip, he threw himself at Sasuke and landed directly behind him. Sasuke barely dodged the hit, one that could’ve cost him his life.

He’s fast!

Sasuke used a Water Style jutsu to create a make-shift kunai out of ice, and wielding it, slashed at the sharp claws that were honing in on him then severed them from their fingertips. Without flinching, Menō continued his advance, and Sasuke continued slashing his way up the lizard’s torso.

“Gyah!” Menō let out a high-pitched scream and landed roughly on the ground. Yellow fluid poured out from a large, open wound in his stomach.

Oops.

Sasuke regretted the move instantly, but it was too late.

Menō staggered, then rushed to jump out a nearby window. When he came to the wall he smashed into it, toppling part of it over, and lept down into the courtyard below. He made a run for it at full speed, the yellow liquid drenching his body as it continued to spill out from his wound.

Sasuke bit his lip and dropped his gaze down to the palm of his hand, where a terrible sensation lingered. That last attack he landed with his kunai went deep. It was very likely a fatal wound.

***********

However—

The next day as Sasuke was looking out into the courtyard from his usual seat in the cafeteria, he spotted a familiar long tail swaying to and fro, and his eyes widened in shock.

You’re being foolish. It can’t be.

As if feeling his eyes on him, Menō faced Sasuke and met his gaze. However, as though he had no memory of the events from the night before, he huffed and quickly turned away.

Menō is alive.

Although he had suffered lasting damage, his body showed no signs of injury. Sasuke had no idea what this could mean. It was like he needed to get his eyes checked.

“So you’re the one who raised a hand against Menō. Number 487.” A voice abruptly came from behind him.

Zansur.

Sasuke had been waiting to initiate direct contact with him, but if he had revealed himself, then there was no point in hiding now. Besides, there were some things he wanted to ask him as well.

Sasuke activated his Sharingan as he turned around to face him. His eyes bled into red, and three pinwheels spun in his iris as he met Zansur’s gaze.

In the next moment—Sasuke sucked in a breath.

He only noticed it for the first time with his Sharingan. Behind the silver-rimmed frames of Zansur’s glasses were glass eyes.

“Your eyes…”

“Yes, yes, very good,” Zansur squinted at him, and the corner of his mouth lifted up in a smirk as he laughed. “You’re very keen. Every day my underlings can barely look at me, so no one else has noticed.”

Zansur reached out his arm and touched the windowsill behind Sasuke. His eyes moved naturally, and seemed to have good vision no matter where he looked. However, no matter how many times Sasuke checked to confirm, Zansur’s left and right eyes were definitely made of pure glass.

Zansur leaned in close and whispered in Sasuke’s ear. “It seems that you can use some ninjutsu… I’ll remember that.” The fake eye on the left made one full revolution in his eye socket, moving as if it were a living creature.

“It’ll take more than one measly ninja to take Menō away from me.”

[kbstories]

Ontological

on·to·log·i·cal (adj.) Existing as such; metaphysical.

Eustass Kidd and Killer, during and afterwards.

(Or: Alliances are made. Killer and Zoro take care of some unfinished business.)

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Aftermath of Violence (and SMILE), Worst Gen Reunion Pre-Party

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. No additional warnings apply. Read Chapter 4 here.

***

The Kidd Pirates arrive as one: Kidd up front, grim-faced and radiating Haki, with Killer to his right and Heat to his left and Wire trailing behind, eyes on their backs. Ahead, a handful of houses cluster around the slow trickle of a stream and cherry trees that dot the ground in gentle patterns. Everything about it whispers sweet promises of harmony, of a place to rest their weary heads and heal wounds barely starting to scar.

Kidd doesn’t trust any of it one fucking bit.

People are gathered in a loose group, conversations hushed and hard to make out from afar. A Marine’s wet dream, really, with how many bounties Kidd recognizes at a glance – or their worst nightmare, given Monkey D. Luffy is one of them.

That straw-hatted head turns and keeps turning into an angle that would snap any neck not made of rubber. A smile, bright with surprise.

“Oh? Spikey! And Spikey’s friend!”

Completely unaffected by the wave of tangible will Kidd pushes on them all, and after days of sharing a prison cell it just makes Kidd’s mouth tug into a grin. “Strawhat.”

(Through his mask Killer mutters, “Spikey’s friend”, like he’s contemplating if he likes it or not. Not that Strawhat would change a thing about it either way.)

Both Strawhat’s and Trafalgar’s crews are there, at least partially. Kidd spots the polar bear and those two idiots staring right at him – one of which jumps to his feet and runs inside – while that blonde guy with the kicks and Zoro flank their captain with little subtlety.

So they’re alive after all. Seems like Strawhat is not the only one capable of surviving an encounter with Kaido.

Still, Kidd isn’t here for handshakes and kisses. This is business and the way Strawhat’s expression turns a little pensive proves the brat has some braincells rattling in the attic, dusty as it must be up there.

“Where’s Trafalgar? We gotta talk.”

Strawhat just groans. “Another meeting? It’s lunch time! Sanji, you promised lunch.”

“That I did”, says Blondie around a mouthful of smoke. He nods at Kidd, curly brow raised. “You. Spikey. Any of you got a problem with eel? We’re having unagi.”

One more annoying than the other. Heat oohs behind Kidd, however, quiet enough it stays between them. That una-stuff must be good, then.

Kidd gives Killer a look; Killer tilts his head. Your choice. Kidd sighs.

“Fine, whatever. Hurry it up, we’re not staying.”

“Hey!”, the bear pipes up from the sidelines. The very moment Kidd’s eyes land on him, his frowned ferocity turns bashful and he looks to his feet, ears folded. “Sorry, um. I think we should wait for Captain.”

Strawhat makes an indistinct noise around the something-on-a-skewer he just shoved in his mouth. Once done, he uses the stick to point in Kidd’s general direction. “Nah, they’re okay. Right, Spikey?”

Before Kidd can utter the fuck you already on his lips, the swordsman to Strawhat’s right hums. “Luffy”, Zoro murmurs in that serious voice of his, one that demands to be heard without much effort. “Bepo’s right.”

And his gaze is focused on Killer, not Kidd, an arm casually coming to rest on his swords – there’s a similar tension in the way Killer holds himself, on his guard despite the lack of aggression in the air. (Breathing shallowly like he does when he’s trying to maintain the little control he has these days, like it’s better to go without altogether than laugh in company like this.)

Kidd glares. The metal around him starts to tremble.

“Eustass.”

Only one person says his name like that. The snarl on Kidd’s lips doesn’t go anywhere, especially with the indifferent glance Trafalgar Law acknowledges him with as he steps out of the shadows. All disgruntled like Kidd disturbed his beauty sleep or crashed a particularly boring match of chess or… any other thing a guy with that long a stick up his ass might do in his downtime.

 Eugh, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

“Trafalgar. Sure took your sweet time.”

The guy’s eyes narrow a little; Kidd smirks. The gears are already in motion under that ridiculously fluffy hat of his and well, Kidd did promise Killer he’d be civil. For the most part.

“You’re the one trespassing.” Trafalgar’s voice is all smooth disdain, no nonsense. “What do you want?”

Straight to the point. There are some qualities to be appreciated about him, arrogant prick or not. Kidd spits on the ground.

“Alright, listen up. Strawhat, you too.”

Strawhat actually does, giving him a curious look over the bowl of sauce-drenched rice he’s currently tearing into. Lunch time, right. Trafalgar merely blinks, unimpressed.

Rolling his shoulders, Kidd lets himself feel the ache of metal on scars, familiar, anchoring him in his body. The presence of his crew around him settles his senses, solid and always there in the periphery.

For days he’s breathed around the wrath in his lungs, spoken every word with the thrumming of his pulse in his throat. When Kidd smiles, it’s with lips red as blood and teeth bared like fangs.

There was a decision to make, and Kidd has made it.

“That war of yours? We want in.”

*

Later, much later, Kidd turns his back and Killer follows.

Heat and Wire are long gone, sent back to let the others know and prepare the Punk for battle. There’s much to be done still and little time to do it – Kidd thinks of the hell that will rain upon those who dared cross them and knows it will be worth it. This time, there will be no retreat. No mercy. Whatever the outcome, be it victory or death, it will be painted in shades of red.

Tomorrow, they sail for Onigashima.

Killer is next to him until he isn’t. Kidd blinks, stops, glances over his shoulder to see Killer's hand fall to the swords at his side.

“You.”

Amidst the sprawling fields between them and the hideout stands Zoro. The wind makes the grass surge like waves; it touches upon a face that has lost the guise of civility to reveal the demon underneath. This isn’t happening, shoots through Kidd’s mind, not again, and he growls as Haki gathers within him, ready to burst–

“Wait.”

Killer’s hand is on his chest, big and strong over the war drum of Kidd’s heart. “Wait”, Killer repeats and the calm of his voice cracks apart on a chuckle. Kidd’s gaze moves from the tension in Killer’s arm to Zoro’s eye and the recognition that sparks there.

Kidd remembers: Cuts across Killer’s chest, overlapping, all three of them deep and guaranteed to scar. Killer’s tightlipped silence over who did it, who hurt him–

“Come closer and I’ll tear you apart”, a venomous hiss more than strained with how hard Kidd’s jaw is clenched but he listens to Killer, always has when Killer’s this serious about something.

All Zoro does is stare at Killer’s mask, a gaze sharp enough to pierce layers of paint and welded metal. He says: “Those swords aren’t yours to wield. You should give them back.”

Killer huffs out an amused breath and for once, it’s genuine. “It can’t be helped. Someone took my scythes.”

An amusement that Zoro seems to share with the slightest uptilt of his mouth, “Is that so”, idle yet the threat in his stance goes nowhere. “What was it again? ‘Don’t talk down to the shogun’… or something along those lines.”

Killer’s fingers clench where they’re tangled in Kidd’s shirt. Zoro looks from that up to Kidd, smile growing all the more lethal.

“You didn’t tell him?”

Worded like a question when it’s not even close to one, and Kidd tries not to bristle, he really does. As if Zoro knows shit about anything, about them, about the living nightmare Killer’s been stuck in since–

Half a step and Killer shifts between them, sword half-way out of its sheath. Hisses, “Leave him out of this”, and Killer laughs despite the anger begging to be heard in there somewhere.

“Orochi means nothing to me. Nothing. He’ll die a dog’s death just like the rest of them.”

Kidd might not get what the hell they’re going on about but there’s real hurt in it, too, and suddenly all he wants is for Zoro to laugh. To mock Killer so Kidd can make good on the promise he gave his partner the day they went to sea and slaughter him like all the bastards that came before him.

Then… Zoro hums and that aura is gone, snuffed out with a blink and a scratch to bright green hair. “I kept the scythes, y’know. Would be a waste not to let them taste a fair battle.”

Killer doesn’t relax as much as he exhales a tired sigh. His sword is sheathed; a moment later his hold on Kidd drops and Kidd almost stumbles, only now realizing how hard he was pushing against the immovable line of Killer’s arm.

With steady hands, Killer unties the two shortswords from his waist and crosses the distance to hand them over. “A bit far to go for some stolen blades”, Killer tells him, an edge of annoyance there that Zoro shrugs off casually.

Kidd watches the interaction with narrow-eyed focus, waiting for the step out of line that never comes. Zoro meets his gaze only briefly, the eyebrow over his blind eye twitching upwards. As cocky and infuriating as his captain, Kidd’s mouth opens before he can stop himself.

“Try a stunt like that again and you’re dead, Pirate Hunter.”

The swordsman smirks, “I’ll take my chances”, before he turns to leave. Damn-near strolling back to his crew with a jaw-cracking yawn, and Kidd grinds his teeth and lets him.

Fucking Strawhats. 

Yet Killer is still staring after him, still hesitating. “The girl”, he calls after Zoro. “The one who laughed. Is she alive?”

Zoro stops, glances over his shoulder, a little puzzled. “Toko? Yeah, she’s safe.” A pause. “They executed her father. A good man.”

Killer’s head lowers. “What a shame”, he agrees, too quiet for the other to understand him. Zoro walks on and so does Killer, a step or two ahead before he tilts his mask at Kidd, waiting.

“You coming, Captain?”

Kidd banishes all thoughts of their rivals – allies, for now – out of his head and joins Killer.

And Kidd stays close, perhaps too close; their hands brush every few steps. With a fond huff, Killer’s fingers hook around Kidd’s and doesn't let go all the way to the Punk.

>>Chapter 4.