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y-rhywbeth2 · 2 months ago

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Elves: Philosophy and Religion

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. There's a lot of lore; I don't know everything. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest. etc]

Physiology and quirks | Names & Clans and Houses || Pan-Cultural things: Social life | Time and 'Growing Up an Elf' | Homes | Language | Art | Entertainment | Technology || Elven 'Subraces' still a wip || Philosophy and Religion & Pantheons || Half-elves | [WIP]

• Overview: the variety found in elven religion/s. • Key spiritual philosophies that define elvendom: the Road of Life, Elamshin, and Laraelever • Creation Myths • Reincarnation and dying/Transcendence • Funerals • Holidays • Gods: a very brief overview of the very lengthy amount of nonsense about the four pantheons involved with elves which will be covered seperately (the Seldarine, the Dark Seldarine, the Seelie Court and the Asathalfinare)

Elven religion on Toril is diverse. The different subraces of elves have their own traditions and understanding of the Seldarine, the Seelie Court and the adjacent outer circle of sylvan gods, and the Dark Seldarine, and within those larger umbrellas different individual cultures may also vary.

While the elven faiths are split into the pantheons of the Seldarine and the ‘Dark Seldarine’ after the exile of Lolth, Eilistraee and Vhaeraun, dark elves and surface elves are not restricted to one pantheon vs the other. With two exceptions - Shevarash and Fenmarel - the Seldarine answers the prayers of drow worshippers and accepts them as priests (even if their mortal cousins do not), and gods of the Dark Seldarine do accept and sometimes reach out to elves who are amenable to their nature (even if most drow would call this heresy).

While it’s claimed that the drow are exiled from Arvandor, there are a few things that suggest things are more flexible than that. Firstly there's the individual drow who worship the Seldarine and Eilistraeeans who go to Arvandor after death (Eilistraee having a realm on Arvandor for this putpose), and secondly that surface elves can, through their own actions, fall out of grace and fall under Lolth’s sway without realising it. It’s also been put forth that this applies to the reincarnation cycle, as an elf’s spirit may shift between Corellon and Lolth’s sphere of influence by their actions: a drow may go to Arvandor and be reincarnated outside of Lolth's clutes, an evil surface elf who defies the Seldarine may be born again in Lolth's web.

Lolth hungers to be worshipped on the surface and often walks the streets of human cities (likely in disguise). She particularly delights in corrupting more elves, whispering in the ears of the desperate, ambitious and those lost to pain and grief – some of whom deliberately seek her out despite the great taboo of doing so.

Vhaeraun seeks to do away with the divisions of the Crown War and reunite the Tel’Quessir under his worship, which includes stealing surface elves out from under his old pantheon where and when he can.

Eilistraee doesn’t deliberately seek surface elven worship, or any form of worship since she invests all her energy into pulling the drow out of Lolth's grip, but she welcomes all into her faith regardless of origin. Due to her welcoming nature and outcast status she also tends to be popular with half-elves who face prejudice or persecution, especially bards.

Ghaunadaur will happily accept worshippers and future sacrifices from anyone – he’s patron god of gelatinous cubes, he’s not picky.

Kiaransalee, goddess of undeath and vengeance, has attempted to demand fealty from surface elves in the past.

Selvetarm is indifferent to his worshippers, so probably neither objects to surface elven worship nor cares if they don't worship him.

Key Philosophies:

A larger bent of religious philosophy drawing strongly on Sehanine Moonbow’s dogma, and particularly strong on Evermeet, lends itself to the concept of enlightenment and unity with the gods:

The Road of Life is a philosophy that the long life of elves is a winding path of many stages, at the end of which, if walked correctly, the elf with understand the many mysteries of elven life and the world and be presented with a choice to either ascend permanently to Arvandor and join the Seldarine or to return to Toril and guide the People as a bodhisattva-esque figure, denying yourself eternal reward in order to shepherd others towards it. Thus far there is only one elf known to have achieved this stage, Queen Amlaruil of Evermeet, who chose the latter. She recently disappeared during the Spellplague era and nobody knows what’s up with that so far.

Each road walked is unique, with many branching paths that appear when a choice can be made (some of which loop back to an earlier part of the road which need to be walked again) and many different cultural and religious opinions exist on how the road is supposed to be walked; whether its something you build for yourself by experiencing it and the journey itself is the point, or if there's a true route hidden amongst all the twists and turns that one must find and walk to reach enlightenment.

What exactly is beyond Transcendence at the end of the Road isn't explained, which is presumably why you need to spend a lifetime getting enlightened to understand it.

But by and large elves live by a combination of individuality and community: 'We are on this shared path together, but at the same time all of us are finding our own way.' Everyone's road is unique to them, and The People must support each other as a whole in order to provide the structure for an individual to walk their path.

Throughout the journey the elf develops themselves, exploring the world and their identity and their faith. Introspection and reflection on the nature of reality and divinity (and the elven place around it) develops throughout one’s life.

The first stage applies to young elves, and focuses on individualism; Exploration, chasing impulses and curiosities and travelling as they find their footing, grow to understand the world they live in, the gods they come from, and establishing an identity.

The second is a maturation stage, where the elf settles and begins to look towards their community and the People as a whole. At this stage elves have had many decades to grow and experience things and get to know themselves and are ready to commit to some field of development, dedicating themselves to their art or career (this is the point where one joins the priesthood or military, becomes a politician, or devotes their lives to study or art, etc). Either their attention turns outwards as they begin to consider the world, the gods and The People and their spiritual growth extends around and amongst them - or their full attention is devoted to one specific interest, which will consume them obsessively for the rest of their lives as they explore every part of it (don't start an elf on their special interest unless you genuinely want to be there for days while they gush over the minutia in full detail).

At the penultimate stage, when an elf finally hits old age (700+), the road takes a turn for the mystical. A ring of light – Sehanine’s titular moonbow – appears around the irises of the elf, signalling to them and those around them that they will soon be recalled to Arvandor. Their reveries begin to fill with visions and communion with the goddess of death, a process known as Transcendence, preparing them for what’s to come and presenting them with experiences that are said to be indescribable to one who hasn’t experienced them. Gradually they begin to slip into visions even during their waking hours as they slip away from the physical world. This is the time when an elf looks back at the winding threads they wove of their life and are to use it to place together ‘an understanding of elven nature and its relation to the universe,’ as the Seldarine begin to recall them to Arvandor.

As an elf dies they enter communion with the Seldarine, their awareness spreading throughout the Weave and encompassing the spirits of all elves on Toril, then into the minds of the Elders; those elves who have passed into Arvandor before them. The dying elf becomes one in communion with the Seldarine, magic and the People. The wisest are said presented with the choice to join the Seldarine or to remain in the mortal realm as a guide.

Many elves simply walk away into the woods or mountains and are never heard from again; elves outside of Evermeet usually find themselves compelled to travel to the Isle.

Sometimes elves physically fade out of existence as they die, rather than leaving a body, and Eilistraeean drow are also described doing this (Eilistraee calls her followers to her much as Sehanine calls to surface elves, where she dances alongside them until both fade into the moonlight (the Last Dance)).

Sometimes the spirit simply departs the flesh and leaves an empty shell behind which will be disposed off according to their culture.

An elf who dies to disease or violence does not experience Transcendence, and there's a strong chance their soul will be destroyed by the act of dying. In cases where it doesn't the soul is trapped, and a priest of Sehanine is tasked with seeking them and undergoing the Transcendence on their behalf to guide them to Arvandor.

(‘Wait, what about the Fugue Plane?’ Yes. Welcome, or perhaps 'welcome back,' to the land of The Writers Never Agree on Jack Shit. According to some sources the Fugue only applies to humans (and even then, only Faerûnian humans), and according to others elves will be going to the Fugue to face Kelemvor's judgement too. Up to you.)

On the other hand there's Elamshin, the Will of Lolth (or simply 'Destiny'). All strive for Lolth's approval; those who have it continue to live and are granted power and wealth; those who lose it suffer and perish. Chaos incarnate, how one gains and maintains this favour is not clear and one must be sharp and attentive and always ready to adapt to survive. When one cannot adapt, one has stagnated and must give way to the new growth. By living in chaos one is an adaptable and stronger being, and by better serving Lolth such the Spider Queen and her followers will overthrow the false traitor gods and rule the world, as is their right.

The rest of the Dark Seldarine do not seem to have any overarching philosophy like Elamshin or the Road of Life - Eilistraee seeks to forge a new path; Vhaeraun's church is a resistance movement more than a faith; etc.

The People are innately and spiritually a part of the Weave of Magic that saturates all of Toril and the Natural Balance, the later of which they have a druid-like relationship with. As they are part of other elves and their gods, they are one and a whole with the tapestry of magic and nature. The health of these things is the health of the People.

‘The Home of the Heart,’ a rough translation of the word Laraelever, the forest ‘as it should be,’ when one is living in balance with the natural cycles of the world and not burning it down or harming it out of carelessness and greed. The term can also be applied to things that are in line with this harmony, such as elven furniture and architecture grown from living trees or grown into shape and then harvested at the end of its lifespan instead of killing the tree for its wood on ones own terms. The individual shouldn't come at the cost of, nor impose harmfully on the lives of others.

Lolthites, Selvetarmites, Kiaransaleen and Ghaunadaurans don’t give a flying fuck about this, notably. Not sure about Vhaeraunites, but since he's trying to get the drow back to their pre-Descent lives it's possible something along these lines is in there... then again he does have a holy day that's just him giving the middle finger to the value the Seldarine places on nature, so maybe not.

Creation myths:

The most common creation myth is of course the variant where Corellon was injured in combat with the orc god Gruumsh, and the droplets of his blood became the first elves (some also add that another god – usually Sehanine or Angharradh – wept at his injury, and the mingling of blood and tears gave rise to the elves).

Some claim that Corellon created these first elves in his image by using magic to weave them physical forms from sunbeams (gold elves), moonlight (moon), the forests (green), the clouds (avariel), the seas (aquatic), and shadows (dark elves).

‘Myths discussing the natural origins of the Fair Folk are closely tied to the ability of many members of the Seldarine to assume nonelven, natural forms far greater in size than is common for their avatars.’

Reincarnation:

While lore from both the original AD&D and 5e supports elven reincarnation, and a specific form of reincarnation exists in being reincarnated into a fey guardian to take on a life of duty to nature and elvendom, a reincarnation cycle is not a universal belief amongst the Tel’Quessir.

Some do not believe in it. Of those who do, it’s believed that an elf may reincarnate as animals, plants or fey and not just elves, and this is not necessarily viewed as a punishment or reward in the fashion of karmic-like consequences. Sometimes it's even a desired outcome. Corellon and Sehanine work together to guide elves towards perfection in the cycles of life and death, Corellon watching over them and protecting them in life and creation, before handing them to Sehanine’s care in death. As the deity of transcendence, she presents elves with guides and puzzles to solve – in life, and presumably in death - as they find their way towards their final stage.

Some believe that reincarnation is only a rare occurrence that only happens as a punishment, when an elf commits a great wrong and is sent back by the Seldarine to atone before they can enter Arvandor. Others say that it’s a sign that an elf has unfinished business – usually some duty to kin and clan – and they have returned in order to complete it.

An order of rangers in the service of Sehanine (the Sentinels of the Moonbow) serves as a sort of animal wellfare group, that protects animals under the reasoning that they may be 'the reincarnated spirits of elves of ages past and that may once again assume elven form.'

Undeath - mormhaor, 'corrupted death' - is a state despised by elven faith as a breakage in the natural cycles of the universe that damages or destroys the soul of the victim. They are trapped in an abominable state, torn away from the people and unable to achieve transcendence or walk the Road. Elves tend to handle undeath badly. The acceptible alternatives; baelnorn liches and Reverend Ones (elven wraiths) are the product of white necromancy, powered by positive energy and deliberately created with the aid of the Seldarine; to become such is to make a great sacrifice and a duty to the defence and preservation of one's people or clan, postponing one's own reward to care for others. It's not an enjoyable or desirable state and it's not one entered into lightly. While their sacrifice is respected, even these undead make living elves uncomfortable

The story of Corellon’s exiling of elven souls from Arvandor due to Lolth’s manipulations, which has been introduced in 5e, clashes with previously given Realmslore* (wherein elves had already settled the Prime Material Plane in mortal forms before Araushnee’s banishment, and Corellon takes a static gender for her, not mortal elves), so while the story may exist on Toril, it’s not the mainstream version most elves believe in.

(*It's been stated in canon that depictions of deities outside of realmslore do not affect the versions of them within it, nor vice versa. A deity’s realmspace aspect is something of an independent being.

‘Once [an immigrant] deity is accepted into the pantheons of Toril, there is no difference between [native Torilian and pan-DnD gods], since each immigrant deity has a local aspect, independent of other world-based aspects he or she might possess. For example, although Labelas Enoreth and Clangeddin Silverbeard battled each other during the Time of Troubles on the isle of Ruathym, any enmity stemming from that clash does not extend to other worlds. Likewise, Lolth in some other world differs from Lolth in Faerûn’ - Faiths and Pantheons )

Funerals:

“Behold, there in the West There I see my comrades and my lovers, my childhood friends, those who have gone before me and those still to come. There I see them in the tall oaks, high in the limbs where the golden sun lights their faces. “They are calling my name. They are calling my name. They are calling me West, and there I am going.” - The elven Prayer for the Dead

Funerary customs vary greatly not only by subrace and nation but by specific communities - and each funeral is greatly customised according to the nature of the deceased.

Sun elves build elaborate tombs that also double as troves of history and lore that descendants can access; green elves bury their dead beneath or within trees, as do most copper elves. Some cremate their dead. Some elven cultures see a body as nothing but a cast off husk of no value now that the spirit has departed. Moon elves, as ever, vary greatly. Evereskans and some moon elves go for tombs, in the rest of the world some families draw more from their sylvan ancestry and go in for tree burials, others might use the customs of human settlements, etc.

I can't find anything specific on dark elven customs. Eilistraeeans have them, I assume Vhaeraunites do too. Ghaunadaurans die via self-sacrifice and get eaten. I'm pretty sure Kiransaleen and Lolthites believe in recycling via necromancy (or occasionally cannibalism, in Lolth's case). Being used to build an animate ossuary for Kiaransalee's temple also looks to be on the table. With Lolth in particular it's going to depend on which Lolthite sect you're in.

Holidays:

Not counting the impromptu revels Hanali's priests throw, Lolth's regular sacrifices, the various holy rites observed in Sehanine's name (focused on lunar cycles and phenomenon, which can occur once per decade, century or millennium), and so forth.

Cinnelas'Cor: 'The Day of Corellon's Peace' (everybody except most drow) and The Melding of the Three (moon elves) Elven new year, except it's held once every 'four snows' or 'pyesigeni' in elven (also known as Aeloulaeva), which is four years to a human.

Massive archery competitions are sponsored by the church of Solonor Thelandira, and considering these are elves one imagines that there's an incredible amount of getting drunk, dancing, flirting, and acting like idiots involved.

For moon elves this is also the holiday where they celebrate the birth of Angharradh and the peace and safety she brings.

Lateu'quor: Communion of the Crescent Moon Occurring once a month during the crescent moon phase, a celebration of creativity where elves gather in nearby glades and offer up a work of art to Corellon (a song, dance, piece of music, poetry, fine art, textiles, weapons, whatever you make)... while also dancing and partying, because elves. The creations are placed on display or preserved by Corellon's priests at his shrines and temples. Exceptional masterpieces are taken to Arvandor to be enjoyed by the elven spirits currently there. Occasionally Corellon personally blesses the revel with a spontaneous magical effect, which may involve him gifting his own work of art to the mortal elves in return.

The Secrets of the Heart Revels in honour of Hanali Celanil, occurring once a month during the full moon. A 'rosy glow' manifests within participants, highlighting their 'inner beauty' that lasts for several days. Feelings of romantic love are magically enhanced in some fashion, allowing participants to evaluate their feelings and relationships. Much like Lateu'quor, offerings of artworks are made to be taken to Arvandor and admired there. Some are returned, and these are shared around to be enjoyed by everybody. It's considered a lucky day to elope, announce engagements, and to unveil new art to the public.

Lunar Hallowings Also held during nights of a clear full moon, participants enter reverie and either mediate alone or enter communion with loved ones to commune with Sehanine. Occasionally Sehanine temporarily enjoins the spirits of all elves into a 'true sharing of the minds.' Then, of course, comes the dancing and drinking that lasts until the first rays of dawn.

Followers of Lolth celebrate the full moon by holding a religious ceremony with the sacrificing of a surface elf as the central event as a deliberate insult to Sehanine.

Nights of the new moon (Vhaeraunites) For surface dwelling Vhaeraunites, the nights of the new moon are sacred, celebrated by stag hunts through dark woodlands ending in the sacrifice of its antlers and still beating heart to their god in a manner which deliberately perverts the hunting celebrations of the Seldarine.

The Budding A dance held during the spring equinox honouring Rillifane Rallathil; the natural cycles, the life given by the world around one, and the growth of new life is celebrated with the usual dancing and feasting. The weeks leading up to the celebration is marked by fasting, broken with the ritual hunt of a hart.

The Dance of Swirling Winds A dance festival held on the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, observing the changing of the seasons and venerating Aerdrie Faenya who for most elves is am agricultural deity. During the gathering there are always strong winds, and those who can't fly (via wings or magic) are granted magical flight by the goddess so that they may join the wind dance in the sky. At the end of the festivities the wind blows the participants over several miles of vistas showing natural beauty, before depositing them gently near their homes.

Midsummer Like the rest of Toril, Midsummer is a day dedicated to love. Feasting, music and dancing being the main attractions. Those with no romantic partner/s either seek them or, if they have no desire to, celebrate with friends. Partners usually wander away to find privacy towards the end of the day. Elves are usually joined in their celebrations by the local fey.

Midsummer is considered a particularly good day for marriages and betrothals.

The Transformation A holy day occurring during the autumn equinox, counterpart to the Budding. Elves seeking a major change - be this some form of spiritual rebirth, a clean break from something in their life, or anything else along those lines - gather to celebrate the promise of Rillifane and the autumn that life is an everchanging renewal: all things fade, new things grow, some old things regain their health or change.

The Graverending (Kiaransaleen) An annual rite held on midwinter eve, Kiaransalee's priestesses animate as many murder victims as they possibly can in the form of a goddess-blessed unique undead called Vengeance Hunters who will unceasingly hunt down their slayers over the course of the next 24 hour period, only stopping if destroyed or if the 24 hours ends. Once they've succeeded (or time is up) the revenants return to their graves. The vast majority of dark elves don't worship Kiaransalee, so for most drow this is just zombie assassin apocalypse day.

Midwinter: The Mystic Rites of the Luminous Cloud, also known as Ol Ahnvae Sehanine (Sehanine's Night) The elven equivalent to the Feast of the Moon, the midwinter holiday when Faerûn honours the dead. Elves assemble under the night sky and enter reverie, and are enveloped in shimmering moonlight that dissolves them and draws them into the sky. While communing, Sehanine guides the elves through visions meant to aid their spiritual development, revealing the mysteries of the Road of Life at levels appropriate to each participant's readiness. At the end of the rite the elves are returned to their physical forms in their original positions.

The Maked Lord's Embrace (Vhaeraunite) The most sacred of Vhaeraun's holy days, every follower spends 24 hours of introspection in full sensory deprivation (drow use their innate darkness and leviation spells to isolate themselves in spheres of pitch blackness, those who don't have those abilities are granted them by Vhaeraun for the day). They spend this period contemplating Vhaeraun's teachings and how they might advance the Masked Lord's cause over the coming year.

The Run (Eilistraeean) Held once a year, at an unspecified time (may be the worshipper's choice). Surface drow almost universally travel in disguise on the surface for their own safety, but on this day Eilistraeeans head into surface communities - especially amongst surface elves - and walk openly among them. Non-drow followers instead disguise themselves as drow. They are to offer charity: sharing game they've hunted with those who need it, playing music for the entertainment of the people, lending helping hands to others' tasks and so forth. During this time Eilistraeeans may not preach their faith nor attempt to gain any wealth or power for themselves - all acts must be pure charity.

The High Hunt (Eilistraeean) A night-time hunt held at the end of each season (presumably during or around Midsummer, Highharvestide, the Feast of the Moon, Midwinter and Greengrass). The priest-led hunting parties pursue a dangerous monster wielding only bladed weapons. Lay-worshippers may dress how they please, while priests forgo all forms of protection including any clothes.

The Gods:

Are getting a secondary post, because the number of them is insane. Elven religion as a whole involves four pantheons (the Seldarine (17 gods, or more, depending on who you talk to), the Seelie Court (7+), the Asathalfinare (7), and the 'Dark Seldarine' (6)), and different elven cultures have entirely different opinions on who is part of the elven pantheon and who isn't and how the pantheon works.

Suffice to say, surface elves typically worship the Seldarine, usually led by Corellon with some bickering about the fine details between cultures, and the Seelie Court - the fey gods, called 'archfey' in 4e and 5e, led by Titania. Green elven religion then goes on to incorporate a layer of animism.

Aquatic elves might pay some respect to the Seldarine as the gods of their ancestors, but primarily worship the Asathalfinare; a pantheon of deities worshipped by sea-dwelling beings led by the aquatic elven god Deep Sashelas.

The Dark Seldarine plays the role of the devil for surface elves, while for dark elves they are the only pantheon... and which member of the pantheon they worship is usually the only god in the pantheon that matters:

Dark elves vary greatly by which of the Dark Seldarine they worship. Lolth is predominant, but within her faith every drow settlement is going to differ on what Lolth's exact teachings are and how she's supposed to be worshipped, as deliberately engineered by the Spider Queen to keep chaos and conflict going.

Eilistraeeans are the least henotheistic, and the Seldarine is often worshipped alongside her. Surface elven worshippers of the Dark Maiden are uncommon and most are deeply sceptical of her and her followers, but they can be found living in some dark elven communities on the surface. While tensions between the dark elves and their cousins, and between Eilistraee and the Seldarine still exist, she does have one foot in Arvandor despite not technically being part of the Seldarine and speculation on whether she'll ever formally re-join them continues (although according to Word of God Eilistraee has no intention of joining any pantheon).

#Yep. I am still alive. Also busy and sick. But I'm still here #With the mountain of NEver Ending Elf Lore #Shoulda done the brain eating tentacled amphibian people lore #lore stuff #pointy eared stuff #long post

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whumpshaped · 1 year ago

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would you ever write a vampire with catholic beliefs? Who is struggling between his beliefs and his reality? 🍬🧠🍬🧠 I forgot my zip mouth emoji...Idk where it is...

so originally i wanted to write about isabella, but well, she's not a he, nor is she catholic (she's lutheran). so have this sad wet cat

tw vampire whumper/whumpee? i'm not sure what this man is- death, murder, religious themes, religious trauma, religious guilt, suicidal ideation, (self-imposed) starvation, self-blame, memory loss, abandonment, lady whumpee, noncon drugging, dehumanisation (of self)

It was cold when he awoke. The winter breeze bit into his twitchy body and made him curl up for a moment, but it paled in comparison to the ruthless hunger gnawing at his stomach.

His eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar scene, but recognising the terrain wasn't necessary for him to follow the scent of blood. It was all he could focus on, torn clothes and the cold long forgotten as he struggled to his feet and began following the trail.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

He wanted it. He needed it. He had to have it, no matter the cost.

He didn't have the presence of mind to stop and wonder about his heart that was no longer beating, nor the speed with which he was pursuing his prey. He didn't think about the fact that he could see all too well despite it being the middle of the night, he didn't even consider that normal people didn't usually hunt. Not in a town. Not like this.

He pounced on the man without hesitation. He pumped the body full of venom so he would be silent, then drank and drank and drank until–

"Holy shit," someone said quietly. Then, louder this time, "Holy shit. Vampire! There's a fucking vampire–"

He bolted before he could've heard the end of it. He didn't think about the man he left behind. He ran back to where he'd woken up, collapsing to the ground as soon as he got there. He felt exhausted, he felt... dead. More alive now that he'd had something to drink, but...

He lifted a hand and pressed it against his chest. Nothing. Of course, this should've been more than expected, having drained that poor man dry–

Oh dear. He'd likely killed someone.

His mind was reeling. He couldn't remember a thing from before waking up, but the past few minutes had already thrown him for a loop on their own. He was dead, a dead man walking, and he'd just killed someone. And another human had even seen him do it!

He tried to take a couple of deep breaths to ground himself, but the taste of blood in his mouth negated any effort he put in. He was a monster. He was a murderer. He was going to be hunted and killed.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The scent of blood clung to him like a ghost, and he desperately wished for a warm shower to get it off. Alas, he had nothing but the clothes on his back and a discarded coat on the ground. He should at least look through that to see whether he could piece together who he used to be. He didn't even... remember his own name.

And where was his sire? The bloodthirsty monster who turned him into one of them? Had they not even waited for him to wake up? Had they not cared at all about the life they'd ruined?

Touching the coat brought back memories of his last minutes, the way the vampire had slipped it off his shoulders and threw it on the ground. He remembered being dazed and helpless, baring his neck for the demon to feast on. At the time, it seemed like the most important thing in the world, to be able to feed them.

He looked through the pockets and found an ID for Jude Flanagan, born 1998. The picture was... him? He gingerly touched his own face, as though his fingers could ever work as well as a mirror. Was he really the Jude on the card?

He was. His fingers brushed against the cloth of an eye patch, the same one the man on the photo was wearing. More memories flooded his mind: his mother calling him, his father yelling for him from downstairs, the priest scolding him.

Priest?

He found a Bible in the next pocket, a small one. He dropped it out of fear, afraid it would burn his hands like silver, but nothing happened. The book seemed harmless, apart from the implications it brought along.

He used to be a man of God.

"N-no... No, no, no, no. You were supposed to protect me," he choked out, picking up the Bible again. "How could You let this happen? How– how could a vampire– why would You let a vampire..."

No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.

"I killed a man!" Jude cried. "First You deny me Heaven, and now– the temptation was all I had! I couldn't control it! I didn't see a way out!"

He curled up with the book in hand, sobbing like he was the one to be pitied. Like he was the victim and not the murderer, like he was deserving of any kind of sympathy.

"I didn't see a way," he repeated brokenly. "I didn't... I don't... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... Please, forgive me..."

Jude never quite managed to get used to the hunger. Nor the isolation.

The abandoned shack he'd found was good for shelter, but it was not a luxury abode, and the little money he managed to scrape together every other evening while disguising himself as a human beggar was not enough for much. The coat had become his most prized possession along with all the treasures it held: the Bible, the rosary, and the wallet with all the documents.

He bought new things, too. Some soap so he could wash himself well enough in the river, some candles to combat the suffocating darkness. Every little thing was precious, bought with the goodwill of humans who didn't care to look too hard at the creature they were giving their change to.

Jude could've charmed them. He could've tricked someone into inviting him inside, and he could've enthralled them to let him stay. He could've lived a more comfortable life, with a soft bed, a clean bathtub, and a belly always full of the warmest blood.

But he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to take any of it.

He'd thought about getting a stake and finishing the job his sire had started. He wanted so badly to be put out of his misery, to be greeted with kindness and compassion at the pearly gates before being allowed in — but he didn't deserve that either. His life wasn't his own to take, and nor was his unlife. God would make that decision when He saw fit, and until then, Jude could do nothing but atone.

He took no blood from humans. He lived on the blood of pests and small woodland creatures; roadkill sometimes, when he got lucky. He hated killing anything, but at least it was allowed, or... or he hoped it was.

Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground.

God had given the creatures to the humans, not the wretched monsters of the night. He could only hope and pray that his past humanity was something to be taken into consideration.

He was kneeling on the floor with his elbows resting on his borrowed bed, hands clasped together in prayer, when he caught the scent. A human. Was this the night he would finally be purged from the Earth? Or was the human the real owner of his makeshift home?

His stomach rumbled as the scent got stronger and stronger. His mouth was watering despite his best efforts to keep a level head, and he buried his face in the covers, trying to tune it out.

Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.

Jude was shaking by the time the human reached the door of his temporary dwelling. He stayed on his knees and listened to the sounds of the lock being picked, preparing himself for the blessing that would be his permanent death.

If only he hadn't been starving. If only the human hadn't smelled so good.

But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.

He lunged like a wild animal as soon as the door was pushed open. His fangs sank into the poor woman's neck easily, and she let out a groan as the venom took hold. Blood, so much blood, fresh, delicious, rich, so much better than the squirrels and rats–

Jude pulled back with a start, eyes wide with terror. No, no, no, not again, not again. He wiped his mouth and even his tongue with the back of his hand, trying to get rid of the proof of his sin. The woman was still alive, letting out soft sounds of satisfaction as she lay there.

Her neck was still bleeding. He ought to close the wounds.

Jude licked his lips, then took a step backwards. No, he wouldn't lick her. Hadn't he done enough damage? He could– he could find something to bandage her with–

In truth, he didn't trust himself. There was no telling whether he'd have the self-control to stop for a second time, were he to get that close to her neck again.

"Don't you want a little more?" she asked, pushing herself into a sitting position. "I'm still bleeding so much... You don't want to waste it, do you?"

There was a mask covering the lower half of her face, and judging from that and the all black attire, she must've been a hunter. This woman could've staked him. God had given him an out, and he'd let himself be blinded by his selfish hunger.

"I'm s-sorry," Jude stammered, quickly rummaging through all his belogings to find at least a band-aid. "I'll, I'll help you– I'll patch you up, I just need a moment–"

"Can't you lick the wounds closed?" She got to her feet and ventured further into the cabin, grabbing onto the back of his shirt to steady herself and making him flinch. "There's so much blood... Is the flavour not to your liking?"

Jude spun around, and found himself trapped between the wall and his victim. She pulled her mask down and gave him a smile, eyes sparkling with unabashed want.

"You don't want this," he choked out. The smell was so strong. She was so close. She was offering, if only because of the venom, but she was offering nonetheless.

"Oh, but I do. I want it so badly."

Jude stopped breathing entirely, closing his eyes for a moment to think. "What's your name?"

"Pia Gravenor, Master."

"D-don't call me that, please."

"I can call you whatever you want, sir, if you just spare me one more bite..." Jude's eyes snapped open when she grabbed his hand and guided it to the wound, pressing his fingers against her skin slick with blood. "The bleeding isn't stopping anyway..."

He swallowed hard, and her smile widened. She was so desperate for just a bit more venom. He could give that to her, and close the wound after. He could take just one more sip. Just one more.

He was leaning in before he could fully process that he was doing it, lapping up the spilled blood trickling down her neck. She ran her fingers through his hair and kept him there, murmuring soft reassurances and pleas for him to bite again.

Please, forgive me. I'm so hungry. I've been hungry for so long.

Let me have a full meal, just this once.

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honourablejester · 6 months ago

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Some of my favourite bits from the landmarks/setting of Heart: The City Beneath:

The starting layer, Derelictus, was originally intended to be the massive central station for the cursed Vermissian train network, but it was never connected to the system, so it remained intact when shit went tits up and everything else got metaphysical. It’s a mini-city, the City Between, that’s arranged on the four massive vertical platform levels of a train station.

I fucking love the Vermissian stations in general: there’s the one precariously arranged around massive crystal stalactites that continuously threaten to fall and crush the station, there’s the flooded one with broken pumps and intact vending machines, there’s the one that’s a terrifying amusement park, there’s the one with glass floors suspended precariously over an artificial lake containing a captive sea monster, there’s the one that’s an eerie fake city where there’s nothing unique, all the tiles, streets, shops, etc are the same one tiled over and over again, and then there’s the crown jewel, Terminus, the metaphysical turntable station where the turntable can be rotated dimensionally to hook up to every single possible line. I love the Vermissian. I adore this mad train network so much.

There’s a grove full of aggressive drug dealer druids who supply the Cities Above and Beneath, and one of the suggested quests you can get is from a burly naked druid who has to get a shipment of hallucinogenic mushrooms to a Vermissian Sage, but he can’t be having with that technological hellscape nonsense, so he hires you to ship it for him.

There are seven temples to the Moon Beneath, one central one and six subsidiary ones each devoted to one of the six Damnic Virtues. My favourite is Athane, Temple of Sagacity, which has developed into an endless debating floor because the priests have come to believe that something catastrophic will happen if the debate ever ends, so one of them always has to be standing and lecturing on something. They are desperately grateful if literally anyone else would be willing to stay a while and hold the floor on any subject for long enough for them to get a break.

In the Tunnels of Wet Filth, where the sewers from the City Above flow down to and where the ground is covered in liquid filth, there’s a doctor named Aster who advertises his ‘purgatives’ that can cure you of any illness. Since witchdom is a blood-borne disease in this universe, you can meet a witch who would like to be rid of it, and asks you to escort her up there. The thing is, apparently his advertising is absolutely not false, as she actually can just hyurk up her magic after his purgatives. So, like. He lives in a literal cesspit that can curse you with eternal stench to enter, but he is absolutely not lying about his product?

There’s a mobile predatory library stalking around tiers 2 and 3 of the Heart with a dragon-larvae at its heart hungering for knowledge. The librarians are all mind-controlled slaves, and that is absolutely a fate that can happen to you, if you spend too long or take too much damage in there. But it has an absolutely staggering collection, and if you’re looking for answers, it genuinely is the place to go.

The headquarters of the Hounds, the cursed remnants of a massacred army sent to conquer the Heart, is the Bunker, a central command structure in the heart of a web of trenches and razorwire, because the Hounds are basically WWI vets cursed to immortality by an ancient sentient hellscape. I’m going to give you one of the potential quests here verbatim from the book, because it’s fantastic: “A one-eyed quartermaster hires you (D10, Haven) to carry a single bottle of rotgut whiskey to the Bunker so the commanders of the 33rd have something to drink. Can you make it there and keep the bottle intact?” Followed by: “That quartermaster shouldn’t have paid you up front, and you drank the whiskey without ever going to the Bunker. Now you’re being hunted by thirsty and unpleasantly sober immortal soldiers. How are you going to make amends?” Rule one: do not deprive immortal traumatised vets of their alcohol, what’s wrong with you?

The Ghastling Plain down in tier 3 is a sea of ash underneath a perpetually burning ceiling-sky, where people live in stilt houses and ‘fish’ for eyeless lizards and strange land-squid in the ash beneath, or sail on skiffs across the surface of the ash. It’s desolate and beautiful.

There is another mobile rogue library called Papilous, this one extra-dimensional, where dream moths suck secrets like nectar out of people’s ears and librarians gently brush the thought-pollen from the moths into books. It’s actually Silent Hill, in that there is a benevolent and a malevolent version of Papillon, nested inside each other, and one can cross between them by accident. The inhabitants of either version do not believe that the other exists.

There are eight extra-dimensional Heavens you can access (especially if you’re a Deadwalker), and my favourite is the Source, which the gnolls of one of the surface nations discovered through their mechano-occult investigations, and from which they draw the energy that powers their machinery. It’s a great mechanical labyrinth of electrum and gold that courses with energy, including lethal surges of it, and is defended by constructs that prevent mortals from messing with the circuitry, as Expedition 23 found out to the tune of a single survivor. The gnolls have been sending living expeditions into it from the ziggurant in their capital city in the south, but delvers in the Heart can also make their way in. The twain can meet, which I find amusing: two different blasphemous mortal expeditions into a heaven meeting accidentally in the middle.

One the subject of what happens if you die while already illicitly in an afterlife, the book has this fantastic note: “Short answer: we don’t know. Make it up. No-one’s supposed to get into heaven while they’re alive, let alone get stabbed in the gut and bleed out there, so metaphysics tends to handle it on a case-by-case basis.” Which, you know. Fair.

This is such a gnarly setting. I deeply enjoy it. Especially the trains. I just. I really, really love the trains?

#ttrpgs #heart the city beneath #worldbuilding #setting #such a cool setting #very darkest dungeon meets sunless sea #i love it

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devcurz · 1 year ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ( . . . )

NAME . . . 𝗑𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖼𝗈 AGE . . . 𝟣𝟫 - 𝟤𝟦 IDENTITY . . . 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 , 𝖼𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 ( 𝗌𝗁𝖾 + 𝗁𝖾𝗋 ) SPECIES . . . 𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 OCCUPATION . . . 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 + 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗋��𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗌𝖾 LANGUAGES . . . 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁 , 𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗂𝖼 , 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗈 , 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇 , 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗇 FACECLAIM . . . 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗈𝖻𝖾𝖾 ( 𝖻𝖾𝖺 𝗄𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂 )

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ( . . . )

&̳ . . . born or created ? no one ever could deduct her true origins . like most children she was birthed by a mother , a numbing chill coating the air , disinfectant stinging nasal cavities , fluorescence shining spotlight on the arrival . shattering screams reverberated off walls as she enters the world slick with glorious pain . doctors are beyond baffled , concerned even , a sound never leaves her convincing the medical professionals she was born wrong . she was . a nurse gasps in horror + faints on linoleum , other's approach to assist to see infant gnawing on own umbilical cord . &̳ . . . parental figures knew something was wrong , their precious daughter had an affinity for flesh . constantly she was supervised , playdates were declined , family pets were piling up beneath backyard soil + dollhouse was littered with bones . religion was thrusted upon her in a desperate plea for divine to intervene + fix their child . alas she laughed in the faces of numerous priests , gnawed off the fingers of an archbishop + underwent many exorcisms that failed . &̳ . . . adolescent years came with changes , puberty almost destroyed what familial bond remained . hunger grew to new extremes that couldn't be tamed nor eased for long . tw suicide , on a crisp spring morning she discover's the bodies , notes aren't addressed to her instead the local church . of course she reads them , anger + grief overwhelm , she blacks out eventually coming to three hours later to find corpses peeled clean . .

&̳ . . . with bodies buried she orchestrates reasoning for their absence + then packs her things . new york city is no place for a teenage girl , anyone that dare tries her ends up having carotid bitten into . ximena profits off her musical talents + forms a remarkably popular band . idolisation ensues ; making access to meat she so craves much easier . a cult like following begins in fanbase + amongst bandmates .

#dossier .

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venalier · 2 years ago

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Cuts You Up [Griss & Caeldori]

twistedisciple:

Of course she did. Griss wants to say that the question was rhetorical, that he could smell the overpreparedness powdered over anxiety like a wolf could fear, and ordinarily would have stayed out of her business, but his face does it for him. He's already bored, and already wondering why he was sent out here at all when the volunteer seemed born to instruct (or boss, maybe that was it), but he guesses it beats doing nothing. He peers at her from the corner of his eye, watches her recite the schedule partly to the other students but mostly to him, and grins at the way she seems to challenge him to find a flaw in it. Oh, he could do that. Maybe they could have some fun after all. "Not too exciting, are you?" Griss shrugs his shoulders and stalks a half-circle behind Caeldori to the rack of wooden swords and other supplies waiting at the edge of the makeshift arena. "They didn't need to come out here at the crack of dawn just to choke on a textbook. Could've done that in their rooms. He picks up one of the weapons and tests its weight. No metal blades, and no heft to the wood either. What was the point if they couldn't feel the real thing? The priests that had taught him magic hadn't let him cut his teeth on impotent tomes. They'd made him stand in flames and gales and lightning to taste the elements firsthand. "But fine, start with warmups," he concedes. He'd need some time to fix this anyway. No one moves. Griss snaps his head toward the silent audience. "She already put you to sleep? Get moving!" And whether its the sudden rise of his rumbling voice, the turbulent curtain of fury that's fallen over his face, or the ferocity in his eyes, the dozen or so students nearly trip over themselves to pair off and stretch. As the last of them drop to the ground, a strange sort of serenity steals across Griss' expression. He flips the wooden sword to tap against his right shoulder and turns to Caeldori again. "So you're from Hoshido. Wanna show me that sword technique? You know, to compare notes 'n all."

had they been that desperate for substituting faculty? or was this man a reforming bandit under supervision of the church, and this class section his first test of responsibility? caeldori hadn't calculated for having to watch the instructor today too, but it's exactly what she does, furrowed brow tracking the bare-chested man as he stalks in a lazy circle towards the training implements and appears to deem them unworthy.

it's just her luck, really. or maybe, put another way, there was a chance they'd done this knowing that she'd be in charge. was that arrogant of her to hope for? she'd certainly proven herself capable of handling misfits in the past.

whoever this was intended to be a test for, or if it was intended to be at all, she watches as he whips the rest of the class into action as barbarically as he'd greeted her. it works, sure, but the look on his face as he watches them scramble to avoid his fury unsettles her. ( something about it... doesn't seem like just the average bandit. ) as if sensing her scrutiny, he turns on her next with a now deceptively placid look she knows better than to trust. " ... all right. there's a beginning part that i should do to honor the blade and the teacher, but in the interest of time, i can skip that for now."

one hand settles on the weapon at her hip, just under the guard. even apparently satisfied, there's a hunger in the way he eyes her that she can't trace — is it how he always looks? the energy about him feels a little different from a moment ago when he'd seemed almost bored listening to her recount the itinerary.

she'll worry about it after. all her focus has to be on a demonstration if she wants to give a good one.

"please step back. the training weapons are wood, but i was taught using a blunted sword, so that's what i'll be using. it's not sharp, but it could still hurt if you're in the way." acknowledging and ignoring the few pairs of eyes that've drifted in their direction upon sensing something about to happen, caeldori brings her other hand to the iaito's bound hilt and takes a preemptive step back before settling her stance and shifting her focus to her breathing. years of instruction, the aroma of the particular kind of grass and loam that surrounded the village of her deeprealm — impressions of it filter back in behind her senses like fine mist. her grip tightens, and she begins the first of the kata.

#twistedisciple #╰ ･ thread ✱ ∶ cuts you up.#╰ ･ griss ✱ ∶ forgive me father¸ for i have dreamed a dream where blindfold and bandage were one.#╰ ･ sword point ✱ ∶ perfection in the blood¸ twilight in the heart.#feel free to fasttrack through the demo to whenever hehe

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you-can-certainly-try · 2 years ago

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Time to introduce the party members of our Curse of Strahd campaign! Affectionately nicknamed The Strahdy Boys.

Kiran Lawful Good Human Life Cleric Kiran was born as the first light of dawn broke over the city of Waterdeep. After a daring escape from the ruthless master that impregnated her, Kiran’s mother went into labor in an alleyway, and her desperate prayer to Lathander brought two priests to her aid. In gratitude, Kiran was dedicated to Lathander, and raised at the Spires of the Morning. His reputation as a Chosen One made it difficult to connect with his peers, but with an affinity for healing magic and a love for children and new life, he diligently walked the path of a Life Cleric, fully believing he was saved for a holy purpose. Though only eighteen, Kiran understands the world is not a perfect place, and dedicates himself to bringing an undimmable light of hope and unwavering faith to the darkest corners. He is a curious mixture of youthfulness and conviction, and truly believes that, though it may be hard won, good will always triumph over evil in the end.

Percival Galadon Neutral Good Damphir Way of Shadows Monk As a young man, Percival spent more time pursuing life’s many pleasures than involving himself in the responsibilities of his family’s noble station. On such a night, their estate was beset by vampires. He returned too late to fight alongside them, and his untimely return nearly resulted in his death at the hands of the monsters. An old priest began a ritual to save him, but was killed before he could finish it, inadvertently leaving Percival afflicted with the curse of vampirism. Plagued by the terrifying hunger and haunted by the death of his family, he roamed the wilds like an animal until some dying spark of humanity drove him to seek an end to his curse and die rather than persist in undeath. He took up the mantle of dark vigilante and hunted bandits to slake both his thirst and his guilt, all the while searching for a cure and fearing he would never find one. Trapped between death and life, Percival’s outlook is understandably cynical. Pessimistic snark is his favored coping mechanism, while his authority issues and sharp survival instinct make him a natural foil to any party leader with high ideals and altruistic goals. He makes up for it with his clever and decisive fighting style, twisting his vampiric powers to more beneficial ends, and offering his undying loyalty to those he calls his friends.

Lady Maria La Marck, House of Thurn and Taxis Neutral Good Human Swashbuckler Rogue Maria was born into the noble la Marck family of The House of Thurn and Taxis. Named for the founding brothers, this house is well known in certain circles for the ability to wield their very blood as a terrible weapon. The brothers used a dark ritual to bind a portion of an ancient being's power to their bloodline in order to assist the bloodhunters in thwarting an eldritch calamity. While Lady Maria honors the long-standing family agreement to continue to aid the blood hunters in times of need, she has rejected the use of her innate blood arts and forged her own path in life. Her aid comes in the form of a steady hand and a skilled blade rather than the dark power lurking within her, proving her worth as a dedicated warrior in her own right. With a strategic mind and iron will, Lady Maria can appear cold or even ruthless. But beneath her unflinching surface is a fiercely compassionate heart and steely determination to meet the dark, twisted things of the world without mercy.

Albert Kilgore Chaotic Fearful Human Wolf's Blood Rogue (homebrew) Albert lived a simple life as a toymaker until his village was attacked by werewolves. Though he managed to construct a makeshift weapon to defend himself, a band of blood hunters arrived too late to help the villagers drive the monsters off. Half the village was lost, including Albert’s toy shop. The hunters continued after the fleeing werewolves, while a certain Lady Maria la Marck, who had assisted the Hunters, remained to guide the survivors to a neighboring town for safety. It didn’t take long after reaching the town for Albert to realize he had suffered an injury during the attack that infected him with lycanthropy. Afraid to put his fellow villagers at risk as well as to admit to the affliction, Albert set out to find the only person he could think of who might help him: Lady Maria. Plagued with near paralyzing fear, Albert struggles to make decisions for himself. But what he lacks in agency he makes up for in ferocity, as he deals with the objects of his terror by annihilating them entirely. He is still a simple man at heart, and even in dark times seeks to bring small joys to those around him.

#Art credit Mike Daarken Lim #The Strahdy Boys #Curse of Strahd #d&d

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kettlequills · 3 years ago

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how the dragon chases his tail

Miraak the Dragon Priest was not always a man haunting the halls of Apocrypha. Once, he was a little boy, and he had a terrible choice to make. On A03 here. For TESFest21, prompt: change.

CW: brief self harm, indoctrination, mention of castration, explicit references to violence and character death. Also, the Dragon Cult.

The boy that would be Miraak thrusts out his chest in pride when he sings. (He has another name, then, one that tastes of sweet snow and young summers. But that name is never written in any book and fades even from its bearer under the press of centuries, so the boy he shall be.)

He is only young, but he knows he is the best singer in the cult choir, probably in the whole temple. The priest that directs the children always gives the boy solos and arranges the whole choir to compliment his voice. Not every child born in the village below gains the chance to serve out their due to the temple so quickly, and the boy is very sensible of the good fortune his lovely singing wins him.

He is devastated, therefore, when his voice cracks halfway through a pure high note that should be easy.

“It is natural – quite normal, a maturation process, of sorts,” Frinaar says hurriedly. Frinaar is an absently devoted man, but he lives for his choir pleasing the ear of his dragon master. (In five years, this love will not save him when his master grows bored and rends him chest to groin with one swipe. His organs will fall soft and pink from his belly, and he will be dead before he hits the ground.)

But for now, the priest cranes his head around the corners before he takes them, ushering the boy along with sweeps of his voluminous, incense-stained robes, like he is quite afraid of anyone with less than perfect control over their voice to be found in the temple. “Quite normal – only so unfortunate – right before our master should return – so unfortunate. The display will not be the same without the lead and that understudy…”

Frinaar clucks his tongue, ringing praise for the boy’s young rival, Jyric. (Older, and jealous of the boy’s special treatment by the priests, Jyric is resentful and bitter. He will not mourn the fate he hears the boy earns for himself, when the boy is a man. But he will not long outlive it either, for he will be seized with a terrible wasting disease that will take the strength from his bones, and abandoned by his kin, will succumb to it in shivering fever alone.)

“Master may be displeased – so many of the choristers eaten, at recent, and…” He pauses, sweeps down to look at the boy beneath one bushy brow. “You do not think – you do not think that you could delay it? Your voice breaking?” he asks hopefully.

“Yes,” the boy cries at once, desperate for any chance, and his voice cracks.

Frinaar winces. “Get gone.” He brushes the boy vaguely towards the temple doors, muttering to himself. “I knew that we should fix them when we get them, then this would not happen! Or only permit girlchildren, but it’s ‘ah, Frinaar, how will our village grow, if you prevent our boys from becoming fathers and our girls becoming mothers?’ Well, I should like to see how our village will grow when the choristers are all off and the master is displeased!”

Disappearing in a whirl of mumbling and swishing robes, Frinaar leaves the boy to it. For a moment, the boy stands there, hoping against hope that there is some mistake, and that Frinaar will come back to fetch him.

The iron doors, carved with beautiful depictions of the dragons the temple serves, remain stubbornly closed. And the boy that would be Miraak is brave, and he is strong, but he is only a boy, and he is suffering the bitterest disappointment of his life.

He bursts into tears, and the shame of it is enough to send him to his knees.

Sat on the steps, knobbly knees drawn up to his forehead, he cries silently with the experience of any child who has lived every night of his life since his sixth winter in a crowded dormitory. He is lucky, he knows, because the boy has family in the village. A mother, and siblings; he sees them sometimes when the temple children are allowed to go down to the village to celebrate festivals. They are good people. His mother will be coming to get him.

Not everyone has a mother to fetch them when their temple years are served. Some go to beg for an apprenticeship, a trade, or remain at the temple to join the ranks of warriors destined to guard the temple and barrows beyond. But the boy does not feel like it is luck now.

Anything that takes him further from the temple and all that he has come to know feels like a curse.

Eventually, though, he runs out of tears and instead dips his fingers in the snow, rubbing the cold water under his eyes to reduce the swelling. This too, he has practiced, how to look as if he has not just been crying. He straightens his spine and assumes a bored posture, like he has never been more confident and calm in his life. He is aware, after all, of the slits cut into the walls of the temple, for the guards to see approaching intruders on the temple steps where he sits.

This is how his mother sees him, when she, huffing, reaches the top of the temple steps. She glances around, a little uncertainly, her smile tentative. (Her name is Sinawen, but the boy will not remember it all, when he is a man looking back through muddled memories. So, we will call her Sina, because her story is sad enough without the grief of eroded memory. She will burn in agony for the crimes of her son, having outlived all of her children save one, whose fate is murky to her on her deathbed, but whose suffering is assured.)

“My son?” Sina says, and calls him by that name, that name that the boy would forget.

“Mother,” he says back, determinedly keeping his voice at a low, even tone, and her whole face crinkles into a sunbeam of joy.

“My boy!” she says, and rushes towards him, and quite before the boy can do anything at all he is enfolded into a huge hairy hug. She smells like peppermint and the winter trees she tends in their beds of snow and ice for the village. (It is important work. It is why she has only had to give one child to the temple, her lastborn, who takes most after his long-distant father.)

The boy that would be Miraak hangs there in his mother’s arms and wishes that the ground would swallow him up on the spot. He hopes his rival Jyric has not found a slit to watch through, and laugh at the boy being coddled by his mother like a child. Humiliation makes rosy apples of his cheeks, and he pushes at her.

(He is a child, still. How quickly do they wish for what they do not understand. Does he know that this will be the last time he gets such an embrace, steeped in a mother’s love, uncomplicated and clear as ice? Of course he doesn’t.)

She releases him, used to the pride of the young, but she holds his hand when they go down the temple steps, and he lets her. Her black claws are like his, though the boy’s are clipped short so he will not tear the papers he works with, and when he looks up he sees her cloud of hair swaying in the breeze, salt-flecked cream, and this is the image he will hold of her in his heart, looking off towards the home the boy had been born in with a smile on her lips and tear-tracks on her cheeks.

(Would it change anything, if he did know?)

“I am so glad you are coming home, my son,” she says, “We have all missed you.”

The boy says nothing at all at this, because there is a flicker of shame in his heart. Of all the children in the dormitory, he has been the quickest to scorn the homesick, the swiftest to pledge every thought in his mind to devouring whatever scraps of knowledge the priests have seen fit to grant their charges. He has not thought of coming back, in that vague way of inexperience, thought then that this heady time of learning would last forever.

(He will learn, unfortunately, that there can be too much of such a good thing.)

The village is not far from the temple, and Sina’s home not far from the village, nestled between cold white stands of frosty trees. A small shrine waits off the path, devoted to the owl-god Jhunal and the whale-god Stuhn, warding against demons drawn by the misty woods. It is well tended, but the boy still spots, hidden on the bark of a tree, a watchful carved eye that does not seem like it belongs with the rest of the shrine.

The boy does not think anything of it.

(Do you?)

“Better things than that temple out there,” says the boy’s eldest brother, after they have eaten, and the misery on the boy’s face can no longer be attributed to hunger. He is wild and tangle-haired, spends his whole life to date out in the snows, and still feels constrained.

(His name is Terren, and he will not survive a chance stumble into a bear trap, not far from the hunter’s path he had strayed from. A summer from this day, he will be a frozen corpse, found only the following spring when a lost hound tracks the wrong kill. The boy will remember him unnamed, as only as his shredded blue face, gnawed by animals, exposed bone pointing to the sky, and forget their relation, any sense of why this face hurts more than any other he has seen.)

(It will be the kindest fate those with this boy’s blood meet.)

“Yes!” pipes his second sibling, Minwen, a sister whose quick fingers at the distaff has won her valued approval, whose bright eyes look at the temple on the hill that swallows her brother with as much trepidation as curiosity. (She will die choking, and her quick fingers will not be enough to stem the blood warm and wet that will gush from her cut throat. The boy’s memory of her kindness will be taken from him, and of her all he will recall is blood-soaked snow and deep dragon-laughter.) “You could learn magic, at home with us.”

“That’s stupid,” the boy snaps. His voice cracks and he sinks his head into his arms. “I’m supposed to be there now. I’m the best singer they have. I, ” he adds, venomously, thinking of Jyric, “ never lose the beat.”

It is true. The boy has a sense of timing that is as innate as it is perfect.

(Any skill can be a torment, when cultivated by the right gardener.)

“When you are a man,” his mother offers, quietly, mouth pinched around the edges, “couldn’t you go back?”

“They don’t need any more apprentices,” the boy says glumly. “They have too many. Frinaar always complains. And that’s years, and years away. I’d rather die.”

His siblings exchange glances. A depressing silence has settled over the table. The boy takes this as his due, too young to realise his selfishness.

(I would love to tell you that he learns.)

Sina sighs. “It may not be what you want, my son, but we are very happy to have you home.”

(But you know better, don't you?)

The boy’s brother Terren scoffs, a little, muttering something about ungratefulness. Minwen next to him elbows him sharply in the ribs, hissing “Think of mother!”

(Please do think of her. Sinawen’s suffering will be eaten by her god. Someone could at least remember she existed. Eventually, her son won’t.)

The boy says nothing, grinding his forehead into the wood of the table. He is consumed in his own misery, everything he has worked for in his young life ripped away from him. It isn’t fair, he thinks jealously. He doesn’t want to be a wood-grower like his mother, or a spinner, or a scout, or to join the everlasting battle against the beasts and bandits beyond the bounds of the village that has taken his father from the guards.

(It isn’t about what the boy wants.)

He wants… he wants the feeling he gets, when he is tasked to sweep the courtyard and lingers close to the wall where the master roosts, eyes running over dragon-words scratched with dragon-claws. The feeling that swells, hot and bright, when he sees dragons overhead, chasing each other’s tails and immense in their majesty. The power that he feels, somewhere just out of reach, when he sings out strong and brave and the whole of the choir rises up around him like a voice of thunder. He feels – he feels alone, in the warmth of his mother’s house, the people that are his family all around him.

He feels alone when he squeezes a carefully-rescued scale no one misses in his hand, so hard that it draws blood. And something in him looks at the blood that wells around his skin, warm and red, and is disappointed that it doesn’t burn like acid dragonblood. He feels alone then, too. But it is a different aloneness, something that feels like a secret whispered in a language he doesn’t know. Set apart, instead of left behind.

But, the boy thinks mulishly, he could learn another language. He can’t fill the gap that has grown after years away.

(See how proud and foolish he is! Can you imagine yet how much the boy will regret this?)

Dinner is eaten quickly, and Terren is out the door to roam the stands of ice-trees, trail hard claws over the bark. Minwen braids her mane around her fox-ears with ribbons. And his mother draws the boy outside, and takes him to stand beneath the tree with the watchful eye. Sina goes to her knees in the snow and holds her son’s face. Her eyes are deep and warm, crinkled with laugh lines at the edges.

“You have the look of your father,” she tells him, “And his spirit, apparently.” She clucks her tongue. “He was insistent that we go to a temple village, for the winged ones. I see Kyne in his hawk-eyes like yours.”

(Do you think that Kyne cares?)

The boy is watching the sky, not paying attention. Something in him is itching. “You’re not supposed to say that,” he says. “You’re supposed to call them masters.”

“When the priests can grow wood from ice alone, they can correct how I speak,” Sinawen says firmly. “You are not in the temple, any longer. I can teach you my art. How often did they even let you out? You were not made for stone tombs, my son.”

“I am a priest,” says the boy.

“There are other gods,” Sina says, but his mother’s reply is drowned by the sweep of mighty wings overhead. Sina grabs her son as he lurches towards the temple, eyes tracing the shimmering, bluer-than-blue shape, the joyful roar of frost. It shakes his bones. He knows, without knowing, that the dragon is greeting its roost, crowing its mastery over the mortals that serve it.

Something in the boy that will be Miraak aches to roar back.

His mother’s amulet brushes his cheek, freed from the neckline of her shirt. It is carved of a single emerald, one eye half-hidden between two branching leaves. The eye looks at him steadily. (How soon a seed is planted.)

The boy tugs impatiently against his mother’s arms.

“I need to go,” he says, “I need –”

He is aware of a distant, enormous sensation, somewhere in the place that knows without looking at the sun where the planets are, and how long it has been since he last looked. He is aware that something about this is important, terribly important, as if the world itself is waiting, waiting to see what he will do.

Sina’s shoulders slump. (She has her own choice to make here. How she will pray that she did not.)

“May the Woodland Man reveal the answers you seek,” his mother says, face buried in the loose tumble of the boy’s hair, “and when you are satisfied, She-Wolf guide you home.”

(The boy will not remember this, but the eye of the gods opens on him.)

Her arms loosen, just a little, and the boy tears himself free. He races up the path nimble as a mountain goat without a backward glance. The enormous feeling only grows stronger as the boy runs, until it begins to feel like he is being crushed under the soulful, silent weight of monumental purpose. He gasps for breath, but doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop even as he flies up the vast stone steps and into the thick iron doors. They creak open, only a little, and the boy throws the entire impatient weight of his child body against them again, and again, causing hollow booms to reverberate through the temple.

(This temple will not even survive as a ruin. Its rocks will be torn apart, its iron doors melted down, its servants slaughtered. Nothing lasts forever. Bormahu-that-is-Alduin is always hungry.)

“Who dares – You?” It is Frinaar who pulls the temple doors open, his face furrowing angrily into confusion, but the boy does not stop.

He bowls past Frinaar, following the inexorable drumbeat of his soul, hardly knowing where he is going but not needing to as his feet follow the halls he has lived half his young life traversing. Frinaar is shouting behind him, at first loudly, then with increasing urgency, his robes flapping like dragon wings.

Dragon wings. The boy sees them again, white as snowfall against the curve of the sky, and pivots on his foot, crashing out the door into the open courtyard where the dragon of the temple holds reign.

The singing breaks off as the boy bursts in, and sudden silence drops sharp as a death-knell. Snow swirls about his eyes, but the boy can still see the great icy-blue form of a dragon crouching on the Wall that commemorates its greatness, a vast treasure of gold and gems spread out beneath its shading wings. The tribute of the temple.

(How many fingers bled and bellies cramped for a master’s vanity this year? How little things change.)

The boy has interrupted the ceremony.

The dragon roars. “Why have you stopped?”

Its voice is huge and rumbling, shaking the boy’s bones. (I won’t tell its name. The fate of this dragon is whispered in soft horror even amongst its scaled, cold-hearted brethren. There are some things simply too brutal to record, some fights too desperate to be remembered in the mind. The boy’s body will remember, though, and he will carry the scars of this dragon to his grave.)

The choir looks at each other. (None of them will make it out alive.) The boy can see Jyric, moon-faced and trembling, staring at him like he is a daedra. (Maybe he is.) The dragon swings its great head and catches sight of the boy, a lone figure at the door. It leaps and lands with a crash that shakes the earth.

(Is Bormahu-that-is-Akatosh even looking?)

“Fool!” the dragon cries, “This is my temple! You will find no nest here!”

The boy says nothing, seized in the grip of enormity. A choice is happening, vast and terrible, and he can feel it resounding down into his earbones, blocking out the dragon’s threat.

(Is it his? Was any of it ever his choice at all?)

Its head rears back as it draws in breath, and the choir scatters, diving nimbly out the way. The boy watches numbly, mind screaming to follow their suit as they have all practiced, but his body is still and firm. It knows, with granite certainty, that the boy can withstand the dragon’s Shout.

“IIZ!” The dragon roars, and ice barrels towards him. It strikes with the weight of a warhammer, and the boy staggers. But he remains standing, instinctively protecting his face with his arms. His hair is crusted into crystals, and ice cracks down his arms when he lowers them. They burn, distantly, with horrible pain.

(Did it always have to end this way?)

The dragon looks bewildered that the boy is not dead. The choir rustles as they slowly raise their heads. A shocked murmur runs through the courtyard. Some have frozen solid, unmoving lumps that quickly become dusted with the light snowfall, those that were huddling too close to the boy where he stands, garlanded with frost like a princeling at the epicentre of the blast.

“I have to be here,” the boy says, “I-“ He struggles, wordless, for a way to convey the inexorable exhortations of his soul. “Take me with you. Burn me – claw me – but let me with you!”

(We can’t stop this. It’s already happened.)

He thinks of Sinawen, her hand tugging his, as if nothing is more natural in the world. The strange pull – it has to be like what he has seen in his brother and sister. In the other children, who weep for their families, when the boy pretends he does not. He thinks of the words of his mother, how easily she folds him into her, as if there has been a place for him all this time, as if she has been waiting for him.

The boy cries, helplessly, unable to name what he is feeling, the strange and intense kinship he feels to the dragon, the unbearable sense of loss when he thinks of that scar around that family table where a boy with a name like summer snows had once lived. Claw to claw, ice to ice, eye to sky. Is it love?

(Maybe it even is, then. Is a boy a son because of flesh, or spirit? What about a boy whose heart is kissed by the dreadful Wheel of the Creator-Destroyer of Time? This boy has always had the look of his Bormah. He has the hunger, too.)

The dragon pulls its head back again, but not to Shout, the boy knows, does not know how he knows. For a moment, there is no sound but the snow, soft as sighs on his shoulders. And then the dragon laughs, low and gravelly.

“Geh,” says the dragon. “Would that all took you as a guide for their service.”

(Oh, they will. The boy will learn how little choice matters, will learn how to take it from his masters. He will teach this lesson on a firm Voice, and when they listen, and when they see, they will remember, because the boy is the son of his father, and there is no choice in orderly, eternal grind of the doom-driven.)

The dragon lowers its head, amused, to regard the boy with one gleaming blue eye. Deep in its chest, it makes a strange clicking sound, ticking like a Dwemer time-piece. Then it snorts, and turns its great scaly body. Making for a tunnel cut into the cliff, its tail sweeps carelessly, nearly bowling over a dumbstruck Frinaar.

“Come along, Miraak mal-sonaaki,” says the dragon, not looking back.

(What is will, fate, if not another prison? This is a farce.)

The boy hesitates for a moment, and then realises all at once that the dragon means him. He blinks, feels a small smile stretch his lips, wreathed in the warm glow of burgeoning confidence.

(The mask this name gives him will become as part of him as his skin. It’s too late now. Fate has decreed that this boy’s hope must die to win his service.)

Miraak runs after his master and feels each step ring with the hollow promise of fate. And though nothing simple has changed, for he is back in the temple and everything is right in his young world, he knows, blood-and-soul deep, that nothing is ever going to be the same again.

(The gods are watching. Do you think they laugh?)

Gloss:

Bormahu - Our father. Dovahzul that when used by dragons means Akatosh, father of dragons. Also the Creator (Akatosh) and Destroyer (Alduin) of Time.

Woodland Man - Hermaeus Mora.

She-Wolf - Mara. God of love, handmaid to Kyne.

Hawk-eyed Kyne - God of storms and sky. Compared to Kynareth.

Whale god Stuhn - Warrior god of ransom, brother of Tsun. Compared to Stendar.

Owl-god Jhunal - God of wisdom, runes and mathematics. Compared to Julianos.

Frinaar - Eager Servant.

Miraak - Allegiance Guide.

Mal - little or small.

Sonaaki - my priest.

Iiz - Ice.

#inkwrites #tesfest21 #prompt:change #miraak #skyrim #ok this is genuinely very terrible #but here you go anyway #enjoy i guess sksks #my fic how the dragon chases his tail

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yandere-sins · 4 years ago

Text

It’s tough to be a god

Summary: “Disturbed, that's what you were. Disturbed by the people acting as if you weren't a living being anymore. No matter their love or devotion, no one wanted to see you for what you were, they just wanted to see the illusion they had of you as their god.”

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Rating: Explicit Characters: Reader (AFAB), Multiple unnamed characters (Villagers) Word-Count: 3615

Warnings: Blood, Non-Con, Yandere, Mistreatment, Mishandling, Gore, Degradation, Mentioning of Starvation

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a/n: Yay, I finished it! Yes, it was inspired by same-named song, though, as this is no happy-go-lucky story, it isn’t as chipper. Please proceed with caution reading this, and I’d love to hear what you thought, so please let me know! ♥ Enjoy!

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Chapter I

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't remember their face. Neither the shape of their nose nor the color of their eyes still remained in your brain. You didn't remember if they had big ears or long fingers, and you couldn't recall the name they had before they became 'It'. After twenty years of them gone, how could you possibly remember someone you maybe never truly looked at in the first place?

If you believed the tales, they had been a beautiful, young man. He didn't come from your village, wasn't born here, and never grew old in the huge walls of the palace the people only build for him. They used the last of their gold to make him a home, last of their silk to make robes for him, and they fed him the last of their corn. All of that, and much more, they sacrificed, just so he'd become what they desperately needed him to be.

A god.

Your people wanted nothing more than a deity that would reign over them. Who would make the harvests great, the rivers clean, and the people healthy. Considering that a couple dozens of those families had nothing to their own before their god arrived, it wasn't a surprise that they'd be seeking divine help to even make it through the day. You hadn't been born back then, but you knew first hand how hard it must have been for them.

This… god, he helped them. He made it rain, and he gave them instructions. In return, they kneeled at his feet every day, praising him, telling him about their sorrow and worries. He listened to them, helped them find a way to restart their lives and to become better than what they were before. The villagers settled on mud and barren land, and your town rose from the ground as if he had snipped his fingers to build it in a little under a night. Never again had your village known hunger or despair. There hadn't been a day that anyone suffered, no illness that managed to spread and destroy their happiness. It was pure bliss, and it was all thanks to their god.

Yes, you didn't remember him. At least, not entirely. Strangely enough, you remembered a time where he held you in his arms. And you knew it was him. You felt safe and sound as he hushed you, rocking you lightly, blessing you with his presence. No other feeling could compare to the one as you laid there, still a baby, just a few days old. You still heard his voice call your name, a sweet ringing sound, and the only other thing you could remember of this god.

But never would you be able to hear the sound again, as he vanished when you were only two years old. He vanished, and no one ever saw him again. And with him, everything that was good and well, disappeared too, leaving your village in ruin and dirt. You were a mere toddler then, you couldn't possibly have known anything about the world yet. But still, his voice haunted you in your sleep, when at two years old, you heard his scared whispers as you laid in bed, your parents thinking you were asleep.

"I need to leave."

"It's not safe."

"We need to go. All of us."

"Don't let them take the child away--"

Your memories got ripped off by the sound of a loud gong, the echo vibrating in your head. It was the usual signal, every day, at the end of every mass, every important event. To say it was making you sick, was an understatement. With always the same sound - and you heard it so much - you couldn't help but want to cry with how loud and obnoxious it was to you by now, years of its nuisance clogging your ears.

Even after all this time wearing them, the chains around your wrists and ankles were still too heavy, cutting into your flesh. The weights on the other ends were solid, placed in little molds on the ground so they wouldn't move. No matter the struggle, nor the strength you managed to bring up would even sway them. If not a strong warrior came, or the high priest with the keys, you wouldn't get out of them. They kept you in place on the throne; kept you seated well. You may have stopped the struggles months ago outwardly, but at the first chance of being free, you would have run, and everyone knew that.

Accompanied by the gushing 'Ah' and 'Oh' of the people kneeling before you, you lifted your gaze. Usually, your head hung low, the crown on top of your hair was of solid gold and as heavy as a stone crushing down into your skull. But you had to resist the urge to curl up even more into yourself, knowing this midday-mass was the only time you would be able to see your mother.

Scanning the area, you felt sick to the stomach as everyone looked at you. If you said only a word, they'd be drooling at your feet, eager for more. You were their everything. The cities most valued thing. All day long, you were on their minds, even if they weren't attending your holy presence. Even then, they would praise you at any given moment while they were living their lives peacefully, away from you. But to mass time, everyone was attending, no exceptions, no matter the age or gender. They hoped you'd bless them with your gaze, that their attention would gain your favor. Yet, you had no favors left to give them.

Finally, you spotted her. Your mother was a beauty, no one could ever come closer to how pretty she was. She had been a priestess to the god way before you were born because of her highly regarded wit and cleverness. And she had been in favor with everyone, because she was so forgiving and beautiful, like a rare, strong flower blooming between all the weeds that the village offered.

Even now, bruised and famished to her bones, to you, she was still the prettiest woman in the village. You were well aware that she wouldn't last much longer, but her attendance and the small smile she'd give back to you as you looked at her, gave you the tiniest sparks of hope. They were the only things worth living for anymore.

Oh, what had you pleaded and kissed the feet of the priests that they'd forgive her for trying to break you out? Take those chains off of you, and run with you? What all had you done to make them soften her sentence? Never in your life would you have endured the embarrassment and pain to be mishandled by these people if it wasn't for her. But, in the end, they never followed through with your wishes.

Wasn't it weird to deny their deity's wishes? It was almost like they wanted her to slowly wither away just so they wouldn't have to deal with a mother that wanted her child to be happy and free from the burden that had been shoved onto it. As if they knew that what they did was wrong, and yet, they didn't care as long as they had a god to worship, and NO ONE would take that away from them. Not even the god's own mother. If only she could have at least lived alongside you, that was your dearest wish.

You had just turned 20 when your life was turned around. Undoubtedly, ever since the god left your village, it had been rough for everyone involved. He had abandoned everyone - you and your mother included. The land turned barren once more, the rivers dried out, sickness spread quickly. It had been 18 long years of barely making it through the day, but living off of carrots and water that you fetched every day from miles away, you two had made it somehow, no matter how hard and endless the days seemed.

That was until you cut yourself in the hand while working on the fields.

And from your blood, which fell to the ground, a flower rose, red like blood and big as your hand. And another, and another, just as long as your blood dripped into the ground. On your twentieth birthday, a long, painful life laid behind you, but no more. You discovered why the god talked about leaving when you were merely two years old, in a matter of hours, which you wished you had never have to experience.

Because not only you discovered your 'power', but everyone in the village did. Someone on the field next to you ran to get the next best priest they could find, and he inspected you right then and there, his robes sullied by the earth he had to cross to get to you. You remembered the look on his face, the hitch in his voice before he fell to his knees, bowed his head to you, and so did everyone else under his shouts of submission.

The priest took you away from your part of the town, without even letting you say goodbye to your mother. You wouldn't see for a long time after that, but you didn't know as you stumbled after him. Never had someone touched you so roughly, his hand on your wrist as tight as the fear of losing you was. You remembered stumbling, falling a few times, your shins cut open by little stones and branches. But where your blood touched, new life sprouted, and a path of fresh green followed you as you were taken to the holiest place your village had to offer.

He took you from the fields to the palace of gold, the old home of the god they worshipped. Never before had you seen so much gleam and glamour, only the priests being allowed to go to this place still after it was abandoned by the most holy. People were cleaning and scrubbing everything before you even arrived. They all looked at you in awe as you finally got dragged through the door, cheering and bowing to you.

They already saw something in you that you had yet to discover. Being cleaned and put in silk, you felt embarrassed by all the people watching you, giggling and merrily touching you up and down. There was no way you could have ignored the dreadful feeling as you were pushed and directed to an ancient stone table in the back of the palace, engravings carved into it in a language you didn't know. But despite your anxiety, you did what the people of your village instructed you to - the same people you were supposed to trust and bond together with.

Now, two years later, all you remember from that day was the pain. The terrible pain as they let you bleed out on top of the stone, collecting your blood and distributing it everywhere. You thought you'd die then and there, but you didn't, even though the altar was stained by your extremities. You couldn't. Gods cannot die.

Since then, you never had taken a bath alone anymore. You had been placed under constant supervision from the moment you woke up after being milked for your blood. There were eyes on you even when you slept, when you ate, when you studied ancient scrolls you couldn't even read. No one would let you slip out for even a second, let you get a breather alone on the balcony. It didn't help that you tried to run in the first few months of being announced god, tried to jump out the window to end this misery only when you realized you couldn't escape from them. It only made them more careful and suspicious of you. But despite their sideglances and whispers, they still crowned and put you in golden shackles. They put you on the throne of your people and called you 'God', and you had no opportunities to object.

Because it was who you were, a child of a god. A god.

Before that, no one had batted an eye at your dirty form, muddled by the filth of the fields, and clothed in ruined clothes. You weren't a candidate for marriage to anyone, and you were called 'stupid' and 'useless' more than thanked for the hard work you did every day. You were no one and nothing, and it had been okay. You and your mom alone had been everything your mind had been thinking about anyhow. It didn't matter if they called you a 'bastard', and it didn't bother you to be the least welcome person to any festivity. Your mother, too, was an outcast, so you two just stuck together as much as it was needed.

If you looked at yourself in the mirrors these days, you didn't see a god. You still saw the same young person that stood on the fields with their hands in the dirt to get the vegetables out of the mud. You saw the person making soup for their sickly mother. You saw yourself. But that wasn't what everyone else saw by now. They saw their god, their deity. The thing they'd have to worship, so their lives were full and splendid - that's what they saw. You had transcended the stage of being called a person, and you had to agree.

It had been forever that you felt alive too.

Some part of you must have died on the altar on that day. You were sure of it. The feeling of their knives cutting open, so you'd give them more of the precious blood that would make the land healthy again, still haunted you when you thought about it. But the next day, your body had been whole again, no bruise, no cut, no scar. And that's when they knew you had the genes of your father. Your father, the god.

You didn't even know why your mother never told you about it. Maybe, she tried to forget. Perhaps she knew what he had gone through - the same you were now. Just maybe, that was why she wanted to keep you from it as long as she could. She must have been glad that by 20, you still hadn't shown any signs, completely forgetting about it. If only she hadn't. If only she would have gone with him back when he pleaded for her to leave together. Then maybe you wouldn't have needed to end up as miserable as you were.

But it wasn't her fault, and neither was it yours.

As much as you wanted to blame your father, after being under the attentive eyes of the priesthood for two years, you couldn't find it in your heart to be angry at him anymore. At first, you had screamed and cursed him, but now you understood. If he felt the same as you did now - miserable, lonely, wishing for your death rather than your life - then you understood him. Even if you wished he had been more insistent on leaving with your mother, or at least taken you with him, who were you to judge him, feeling his sorrow more than anyone ever could?

But you didn't have the strength to ponder. You were tired from not sleeping as you were always surrounded by ten people staring at your uncomfortable form lying in bed. You were in pain from your shackles, your crown, the heavy jewelry around your neck. Jewels, laced into gold that made for nothing but a beautiful sight, even if they felt like the most expensive cut to your throat. You were embarrassed by the lack of privacy, not remembering the last time you had taken a bath anymore without dozens of hands washing you. And you lacked the nutritions, from not eating off their elegant plates full of every fruit, vegetable, and meat that you could have only dreamed of growing up. But you just couldn't bring yourself to eat any of it, knowing it was nothing but the fruit of your own blood.

Disturbed, that's what you were. Disturbed by the people acting as if you weren't a living being anymore. No matter their love or devotion, no one wanted to see you for what you were, they just wanted to see the illusion they had of you as their god. You should have been at the top of the village, but really, you were at the bottom. The producer of fertilizer for their best lives, you had to bear the pain for their sake, without anyone asking if you wanted that even.

The most disgusting thing, though, were the expectations. You were expected to bring the people good. You were expected to put all your life aside just to serve them. You were expected to put up with anything and everything if it meant to be a good god to them. But at what cost? Your life? Your humanity? Your dignity?

There was no other explanation than expectations, as to why it would be necessary for you to be strapped to a bed regularly, people undressing you, themselves, with their eyes shining in the darkness. The sights of naked skin, paired with the feeling of greedy fingers was something that would forever haunt you.

"We are not doing this for fun," they'd say. "It's an honor."

"It's nothing but necessary."

"Sacrifices must be made."

They called themselves the elite. The purest of the pure. The servants to their god.

But they were nothing but pigs. Ugly, disgusting pigs. No god would ever forgive them for the sins against you. You would never forgive them for sweating, moaning, saying your name in delight. The only time they let the formalities fall was to ask you how good you felt as they all towered over you. And suddenly, you were nothing again - no god, just the same, dirty person, as you were back on the streets. No, now you were less. You were a glorified whore, covered in white dirt, instead of the common brown one. There was no such thing as love or affection when they rammed you into the bedsheets mercilessly, despite your screams and tears.

The only joy you had was when one of them clasped their hand over your mouth, unable to stay aroused with someone wailing about wanting to go home to their mother and how much it hurt. You bit off his ring finger, without hesitation. No one knew how you did it, but divine wrath was a pretty excuse to leave you alone for the rest of the day. That priest never got his finger back, and it was your only meaningful achievement since you were theirs. Afterwards, you were treated even worse than cattle, gagged and blindfolded, turned onto your stomach so you couldn't do something like this again.

If there was anything good in your life, any hope for a god still watching over you being mistreated like this, it was never getting pregnant from the amounts of semen the left you with. That was what the priests wanted: For you to produce more god-spawn, secure the bloodline. They never wanted to go back to the dread of being without a god; in the rare case, you did run away or died. But from the first time someone had his way with you, you swore you wouldn't let them have this. You wouldn't let someone else take your place after you. This wouldn't continue with another miserable, innocent life destroyed like they had with your father's and yours.

"You can rot for all I care," you sighed longingly, the mass finally ending. It was what the villagers wanted, right? You, talking to them, letting them hear your divine voice. Collective gasps ran through rows of people, with children starting to cry when they saw their parent's horrified expressions. From your lowered gaze, you couldn't see the red heads of the priests, upset about their deity's words. But they didn't take long to make you feel their wrath. The people's wrath, even.

Everyone got ushered out of the temple as you were dragged over the floor, blood gushing from the cuffs cutting into every limb. The sound of metal filled the halls as your crown plummeted to the marble, as did your head, a terrible crack hitting your ears. They had no restrains on themselves as they carried you away, limbs cracking as the weights held you back. All despite you never resisting their demand to get you back to 'your' chambers. But no one could relieve you of the burden that was your life, no guard rushing to get the weights, not your mom having to watch her child being mishandled and bathed in its own blood, none of your handmaiden that cowered in fear of more divine punishment.

By the time you woke up again from your torture, painfully aware of the reality, the people of your village had collected at your feet once more, everyone bringing presents of food and wine, jewels, and flowers.

Thinking that all that you were going through was going to be solved by worshipping you more. By loving you in an unhealthy way, and by allowing to have their lives bound to one being, innocent of their delusions and things they swept under the rug. They did all this and more if only to gain your favor, and to have your attention on them as if you were something special.

All just for the sake of you loving them back someday as the god they wanted you to be.

#god!reader #yandere!village #yandere #yandere x reader #Yandere Tw #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #yandere x darling #lemon

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enasallavellan · 4 years ago

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Conclave Prequel: Varric’s POV

So I know I've been doing asks, but this idea popped into my head and I banged it out in around an hour.

Let me know if you have any comments (positive or constructive criticism!)

Varric paced between the barred window and the rickety stool, shivering in the cold and fear that he tried so desperately to push deep into his chest. He had originally been placed in a cell and given a mug of water, but he had used it to irritate the Seeker, “absentmindedly” tapping it on the table until it was taken away. He then leaned against the bars, complaining loudly about the lousy food (of which he had yet to be given) and his own boredom.

That had gotten him moved to a small, windowless room. It featured a table and a chair, which he used to bar the door - just for fun.

That had really pissed her off.

Now he had only a squat stool, much too small to be able to bar the door or really even sit comfortably - and the window welcomed the snow and ice into the room, with only bars to keep him from climbing out.

He shivered again.

Maybe he had taken it a bit too far.

Varric lowered himself onto the stool, wary of the creaking wood and the jolt backwards as the uneven legs settled under his weight. He pulled his coat in closer, leaning his head back against the damp wall. In an instant he snapped it back as the icy water shocked his scalp straight though his hair.

He had definitely taken it too far.

But he knew what the Seeker was doing - she was trying to weaken him, to make him as miserable and desperate for a little heat and a scrap of food. It was torture without the bruises. He supposed she thought if would be enough for him to would be willing to sell out his friend.

Never.

They had done enough to her.

Shit, this stool made his ass hurt.

He got back up, going to the barred window and looking out into the courtyard of the temple beyond. People milled around, glancing this way and that with an anxious tension. Mages, Templars, Chantry priests, and nobles of a high-enough rank that they could attend such a spectacle.

Breaths were held and eyes were wide.

The chill was getting the better of him, so he decided to go back to the the stool -

What was this?

A young girl - child or woman he couldn’t tell from the distance. She stood at the edge of one of the buildings, watching the proceedings with careful observation. She had a sweet face, eyes wide with curiosity and perhaps excitement.

One of these things does not belong.

With a final glance around, the girl pulled up a hood, concealing her pointed ears and dashed between a group of Chantry sisters, too engrossed in their own conversation to notice.

He frowned, wondering if he should mention anything to the Seeker. The girl had a pair of blades, but he didn’t think she’d be much of a danger to the Divine that was nestled among Templar guards inside. They’d take her out before she could even reach for her weapon.

This time, Varric sat on the floor, leaning against the stool in hopes of a few minutes of sleep. No-doubt the Seeker would return soon with more questions and more threats. Exhausted from the cold and hunger, he nodded off.

A flash of green and a blast of air threw him against the wall, raining rubble onto him. He felt blood running down his face - great, his nose was broken for the fiftieth time. He looked at his blood-stained fingers and stumbled up, the room spinning for an instant before stilling. Rocks and debris fell off him, clattering to the floor as he brushed himself off.

“Are you alright?”

Standing on the other side of the collapsed wall, an elf looked at him with a frown. Bald as the day he was born and with an air of arrogance, the elf picked his way through the rubble and put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Fine.” He grunted, automatically reaching to his back for his crossbow.

Oh yeah. The Seeker had his poor Bianca locked up somewhere.

He’d have to find her - surely his baby missed him.

The elf stood to one side, exposing the smoldering ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Varric didn’t know your heart could simultaneously sink to your shoes and leap to your throat.

All those people…

“Varric!”

Shit.

He turned, putting on the smarmiest smirk he could muster in his present condition. “Ah, Seeker. Am I free to go?”

She thrust his crossbow to him with four words that chilled him to the core. “The Divine is dead.”

His blood chilled - and it wasn’t from the snow.

He wasn’t the most devout of Andrastians and he had his issues with the Chantry, but this was bad. There would be an all-out, full-blown, world-tearing war.

“We’ve captured the culprit.” The Seeker’s voice quivered as she spoke, and her hands played around the hilt of her sword. “Solas - thank you for your help. I need you to tend to her.... She.... She fell from the fade.”

The elf frowned, “That’s… Unlike anything I have heard. A human though the fade?”

“An elf.” The Seeker corrected, “Dalish - she bears the tattoos on her face.”

The man knitted his brow and nodded, the information seeming to disturb him.

The Seeker’s tone changed when she turned to Varric, “And you. So many are dead, and those that live… there are demons and…” Her voice cracked, “The Most Holy…”

Varric felt a twinge of pity.

He checked his crossbow, all the gears and levers, springs and grips.

He’d give the Seeker credit, she had kept his girl safe.

Through that night he was with the soldiers, firing through the eyes of the demons that screamed their way into their world, picking them off one by one as he watched soldier after soldier fall.

He couldn’t help but wish for his friend.

Glory would have head rolling, laughing and cracking jokes all the while.

Early in the morning he was shaken awake with a rough command from the Seeker.

Smaller rifts had formed, one right after the other. Each pouring out demons that were killing the survivors en masse.

“Go with Solas.” She ordered, “The soldiers need help - hold them off until… Until we can get her here.”

As they ran, he looked to the elf, “Who is ‘her’?”

“The young woman who fell from the fade - she bears a mark.” His brow was knitted with worrying thought. “ I believe she may be able to seal them.”

He thought of the girl from before - the elf with the sweet face and cautious gaze.

Surely not.

Side by side they fought, cutting their way to the first rift with arrows and spells. They held them off, keeping each other alive and the demons at bay.

Then he saw them - the Seeker and…

The girl.

She was pale, bruised, and battered. Anger bubbled up in his chest at the sight and his gaze flickered to the Seeker.

If she had laid a single hand on that girl, he would��

Behind the tiny elf, one of the demons appeared, looming large and silent.

No.

He notched Bianca in an instant, “Duck kid!”

The girl’s face crumbled but she obeyed, throwing herself into the snow in a panic. Her form shuddered where she lay, and he thought he heard a sob.

Somebody was going to pay for this.

“Is this your attempt at humor, Seeker?” This time, he didn’t bother to keep the anger from this voice.

With a blast of fire, the final demon was reduced to ash, and with not an ounce of compassion, Solas yanked her up and shouted something over the wind. He took hold of her glowing hand and shoved it into the rift. The air around them shuddered, sucking the air from the world before blasting it all back. His own feet lifted and he tumbled down, scrambling up in a rush to get to the poor girl.

She held her hand to her chest, pulling in shuddering breaths as cried, “What did you do?”

The elf finally smiled at the trembling girl, leaning on his staff as though he had not just been so cold to her, “I did nothing. The credit is yours.”

She was shaking so terribly, denying the notion, trying to explain her lack of magic. She was all tears and racking breaths as the elf and Seeker spoke around her, as though see had disappeared. Baldy - or Chuckles, he hadn’t decided yet - finally turned to the girl, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

He had thought the girl had been pale before.

Varric clipped Bianca back on his back, forcing a smile and opening his arms as he walked to the girl, “Good to know! I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He looked her up and down, keeping the friendly facade until he cut his eyes to the Seeker.

“What did your people do to her?”

He didn’t care about the arguments, the possible lies. They might not have beat her, but they sure as hell had done something to the girl. He opted instead to turn back to her, taking care in pulling her up and keeping his voice low, “You alright? You look bad.”

She gave a nod, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

He forced another grin, taking care to push it into his eyes so they crinked, just as they would with a real smile, “In that case, Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasional unwanted tagalong.” On a whim, he winked.

And the girl smiled. Tired, weak, and uneasy, but still a smile.

“Thank you, Varric. I’m glad to have met you.”

She seemed like a sweet kid.

Back to the Seeker, he let his voice lilt, unconcerned and at ease. “Off to the Breach, Seeker?”

She didn’t like that.

Varric ignored her, looking instead like at the girl - Enasal.

He had planned on turning tail and running on his first chance, get as far away as he could. He would rendezvous with Hawke and get out before things got bad.

The Seeker and Blaldy - or Chuckles - had started talking as though she wasn’t there again.

She caught his eye again and offered another trembling smile.

He’d stick around for now.

At least until she was in safe hands.

#varric tethras #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age inquisistion #prologue #before the war #enasal lavellan #one of these things is not like the others #Solas #cassandra pentaghast #shit #annoying the seeker #annoying cassandra

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fuwafuwamedb · 4 years ago

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A Cursed G Pt 31 (Hakuno, Gilgamesh, Enkidu, Siduri)

Previous Part: 1 - HakuPOV / GilPOV, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30

___

“How long have they been gone now?”

Gilgamesh leaned back, staring towards the windows of the ziggurat. The morning meal had been long, but compared to the lunch hour, it may as well have been the blink of an eye. He hadn’t expected to spend hours without Hakuno around for him and Enkidu to entertain themselves with. The servants had pushed them away several times while preparing her to go visit his mother. He’d seen Siduri looking through some of her tablets, no doubt debating on whether or not to allow Hakuno to do much work at all.

She’d never manage to keep them away from Hakuno, but it had been amusing for a moment to watch.

Then the day had progressed. The audience chamber was as long-winded as he remembered. The lions curled up around his throne, beginning naps as a few nobles offered their daughters to him.

He didn’t want them. Never had.

What he had wanted was someone much like Enkidu: a challenge. He wanted wit and humor. He wanted steel nerves and unrelenting backbone. Someone who would bend at the mere breath he gave was useless in comparison.

The advisors today had not met Hakuno yet, but they knew that he had brought a woman into the palace. Their hands were wringing, their eyes were darting to him and the clay being nearby.

He had ordered his wedding to be arranged.

However, they did not know the woman or her lineage for this affair.

The result was simple: They doubted him.

“My king,” the latest presenter announced. “This is my daughter, from the clutches of Ishtar’s temple, I’ve retrieved her for becoming a wife to you. She’s wise, wise enough to know how to please a man and keep your bed warm. The wedding could be right before the one you are holding soon for that outsider.”

“How boring.”

Gilgamesh glanced over to Enkidu, earning a small nod.

“Take the woman back to her temple before the gods get angered. This is a waste of my time. I have no desire to waste my time on a woman that can barely show any sign of allure let alone-“

The doors were opening.

“Ah, Hakuno’s finally back,” Enkidu murmured somewhere near his seat.

The woman had quite the entrance.

The robes that she’d been adorned in were of the same colors as his own. Her necklaces shifted here and there, falling into the valley of her chest as she strolled forward. The kohl to protect her eyes seemed to do nothing more than make her features more obviously foreign.

Siduri walked at her side, holding a few tablets in hand and grinning whilst she talked to the woman quietly. Whatever distaste she had held for Hakuno was gone, replaced with a slight flush to the woman’s face and a glowing expression that would have had him questioning her had Hakuno not already become his in body.

Yet, neither Siduri nor Hakuno’s appearance were what drew a hundred eyes to stare at her in shock.

It was Hakuno’s audacity.

Hakuno marched right passed those speaking, mounting the steps before his throne and up to where he stood. She leaned up, her arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him in.

Lips pressed to his own.

He wasn’t sure what had brought this about, but…

She’s nothing if not entertaining.

Gilgamesh pulled her flush against himself, feeling the warmth of her person against him. She made a small sound, probably missed by most, before clinging to him further.

“Leave us,” Gilgamesh managed to get out.

The chamber was emptying. Siduri was ushering those out who had no business here now. The suitor was going, alongside her father. He could sense the advisors hesitating, their robes in his peripheral vision.

“Gentlemen,” Siduri greeted. “May I present Hakuno to you all? She is the woman that our king has chosen for his queen consort and the woman whom Ninsun herself has claimed as her daughter.”

He had to pull back, finding his mother’s talisman amongst the jewelry around Hakuno’s neck.

So she had liked her huh…

“Ninsun told me to call her mom,” Hakuno murmured to him.

That… was surprising.

His mother was not one to take to people. He’d expected complaints. He’d half expected to find Hakuno mounting the steps in outrage and declaring that she would win Ninsun over somehow. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. If anything, his mother would have solidified weeks of entertaining attempts to win her over.

Instead, the woman had placed a protection necklace around her and had told her to call her mom.

Perhaps his mother was aging.

Doubtful, but he could think of no other reason his mother would be so desperate to protect Hakuno that she would place such an amulet around Hakuno’s neck.

He’d need to speak to his mother later.

“She has been claimed by Ninsun?!”

The group of elders stared at her in astonishment, earning a look from Hakuno.

Once again, she was being unpredictable.

“My mother-in-law was kind enough to give me her blessing and tell me to remain close to the palace. Is there something wrong with that?”

Upfront.

It was a good way to show backbone and a good way to make those against her fall silent. However, he noted a couple holding their hands carefully. Devoted to Ishtar, they had no doubt been told to find him someone close to her.

“If she has accepted you, then that is that,” one told them simply.

The others nodded, chiming in their agreements.

“Excellent,” Hakuno smiled at them. “Then-“

At her pause, Gil glanced to her.

“Sorry, I felt a little off again.” She shook her head, her confident mask back up in full force. “Since that’s done, I’ll be working with Siduri in the offices. I’ll look forward to working with you all.”

He found himself kissed again, the woman holding his necklaces before she walked herself straight back to the doors.

…How boring.

Enkidu was hurrying after her, leaving him with Siduri now. The advisors were dispersing, no doubt to speak of what had occurred. The great king had found a woman with enough spine to temper him. It was news that no corner of Uruk would be lacking the knowledge of by nightfall.

“She heard, didn’t she?”

“She was a bit upset at hearing them call her an outsider and offer their daughter as a better choice,” Siduri confirmed. “She took one look at the guards averting their gaze from her and decided to act.”

“And what did she mean by off again?”

Siduri shook her head. “I’m not sure, but Ninsun’s priests told me that under no circumstances is she to leave the palace again. I was told to inform you to boost the defenses.”

That had been in process already, but why would his mother wish for such a thing?

She was not one for protecting loved ones. She knew better than to worry herself about others’ health. When he had been risking his life, she simply threatened Enkidu to do better. When his father had gone to war, she had waved him off with a hand and told him to come back to give her more children.

Giving Hakuno an amulet that showed her favor of her was strange.

The whole situation was strange. She wasn’t gaining anything from helping Hakuno. Why would she be…

The lions were migrating towards the doors now, their low murmurs of hunger and wishing to play in the gardens ringing in his ears.

Kitten needs to hurry up.

“Siduri,” Gilgamesh rubbed at his head. “Which one of the damn lionesses is pregnant?”

“Hmm?”

“They’re grumbling,” he complained.

“The apsu that looked at them the other week said none of them were.” Siduri glanced over to them. “I suppose I could call one again, but I don’t think they’re being any louder than usual, my king.”

Wait.

“Siduri, take Hakuno to my chambers to work.”

“What?”

He was already heading for the door, moving towards the front of the palace. “Do not, under any circumstances, allow Hakuno to leave the palace, do you understand?”

He headed down the stairs as fast as he could, his mind revolving around what this could mean. If true, then he had more beef with Ishtar. If true, he truly needed to stop the woman before she did anything further.

There was one thing his mother would defend to the death: heirs.

It was why she threatened Enkidu often. It was why she had stopped caring as much about his father’s life after he had been born. His kingdom was secure with a person to ascend to the throne. Had Ishtar not been the patron goddess, he had no doubt in his mind that his mother would have been the patron goddess.

“MOTHER!”

He threw the doors open to her temple, finding the priests falling back in surprise.

The woman adorned in blue looked up, her feet currently propped on a small pillow for a good rubbing.

“Gilgamesh, what brings you here?”

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

The small smile on her face was barely hidden by her hand. Ninsun waved her priests away, pressing her feet lightly to the floor before she stood up.

“Mo-“

“She’s very different from the women that I have seen come here to pray to be yours,” his mother replied. “She has a mind, one that has much broader knowledge than I had expected.”

“Is she?”

His mother moved forth, stepping before him and lifting his face to look up at hers. The woman was unnaturally tall, unerringly attractive. It was little wonder his father had picked her, but all he could see was just another pretty face when he looked to her.

“Mother,” he tried again.

“I used a bit of power to see into her open mind,” she told him. “Morning sickness, a heavier chest, a more pronounced hunger; I saw her morning and understood the meaning. You’ve done well, far better than the gods had told me you would manage.”

He felt his knees give way, his eyes staring up into those so much like his own.

“You were such a pretty thing. Do you know how deep that love of hers goes?” His mother laughed, kneeling down to keep that close contact. “I felt it, like a golden chain around my heart. If anyone hurt you, she would go wild. If anyone took you, her heart would break into pieces. You’re so deep into her spirit now that forgetting you would mean forgetting all of herself. She would be no more than an empty vessel.”

Such nonsense. There was no such thing as an adoration that deep.

“Do you not believe me? How would she react if those advisors of yours brought another woman for you?”

They already had.

Gilgamesh stared at the woman, his mind blanking at the memory.

“You are so simple,” his mother cooed, brushing at his hair. “So very simple. This will be so entertaining. I want the barrier around the palace increased. Do not let her leave the palace. Marriage ceremonies can be on the palace steps. In fact, it may help to let all see her.”

What did he even do with heirs?

There would be noise and crying and-

What was he supposed to do with an heir?!

“You should make an offering for Ishtar,” his mother murmured.

“No…”

“Take it to her temple and give it to the priests.”

He couldn’t do that.

Ishtar had tried to put Hakuno in her deathbed. She had left the woman lying uselessly in a public toilet and had assumed that she herself could still claim him.

When he had rejected her, she’d turned him into a beast and thrown him into another world.

“She is still the patron goddess,” his mother reminded him. “Fortify your defenses and make an offering. If not for you, then for her.”

He wouldn’t.

The gods did not dictate who would do what and when. They held no control, considering that he had brought Hakuno back and he had helped to aid her healing with his own strength and that of Enkidu’s. He wasn’t going to let Ishtar know that his child was coming.

“Gilgamesh-“

“I need to return to Hakuno.”

His mother earned her hug, her kisses for being of his own blood. He laughed with her for a moment as she recommended names, but he pulled himself from her temple.

His feet felt numb.

He, himself, felt numb. The world around him was alive and bustling. His people were waving and he had to force himself to give waves here and there as he went, but he didn’t stop.

For once, he ascended back into the ziggurat and followed the path he had taken a good few hundred women back to his chambers. He opened the door to his room, finding Hakuno cuddled on the bed with a half dozen of his lions.

Kitten.

“Gil!” Enkidu grinned as they motioned over to Hakuno. “I think the lions have found a new favorite. They’ve been cuddling Hakuno.”

“Enkidu, leave us for a moment.”

Hakuno looked up, frowning.

“Enkidu-“

“I’m going,” the being pat his shoulder. “I need to take some of these tablets to Siduri anyway. Hakuno can’t read all of them yet and was needing my help to translate them to her language, but it may be faster to just let Siduri handle them for now.”

“She’ll learn in the next few months.”

Enkidu nodded, heading from the room.

“What’s wrong?” Hakuno asked.

He moved forward, watching that frown growing. The woman’s eyes were searching his face, her body sitting up a little more.

“Gil-“

“Did you know?”

“Know?”

“About this?” He motioned at her, earning a heavy sigh and a hand running through her hair.

“I didn’t know that the lions would like me at all, but I’ve never necessarily been bad with animals. I tend to just leave them be, but your lions are the cuddliest cats- other than you.”

“I’m not talking about the lions.”

“You just pointed at them.”

“I was not pointing at the lions.”

Hakuno glanced down before she shook her head. “Then I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gil. What’s going on-“

“The baby.”

“Baby?”

“Yes, the one you have growing in you.”

Hakuno stared at him. Those brown eyes were wide and that scowl was stronger than ever.

She hadn’t known.

The woman had no idea that she had been- which meant he was the first out of the two of them to figure it out.

“There’s no way I’m pregnant. There would be obvious signs. I’d be missing cycles…” She paused, shaking her head after a second. “plus the whole time jump would mess up my counting so I’m sure I’m not-“

“The lions cuddle you and say kitten.”

“The lions are overly friendly.”

“They ate a man the day before I disappeared.”

Hakuno glanced at the lions a moment before looking to him skeptically.

“Shall we go down to the city to see? I’m sure there’s a criminal deserving down there.”

“Gil, I’m not pregnant. I’d be gaining a stomach.”

“It’s early. These things take months to fully develop.”

“Who told you that I was?”

“My mother did.”

Hakuno groaned, pulling one of the lions closer. “She may just be wishful thinking-“

“She’s a goddess, Hakuno.”

“Gilgamesh, we slept together only a couple times. I haven’t-“

He yanked her to him, tired of this.

The woman would figure it out sooner or later. She would understand the meaning of her morning illness and she would realize what she had done. She had to take responsibility now. Claiming him so forthright, allowing herself to welcome so much of him into her life and then daring to spawn another generation.

“Gil-“

He pulled back to breathe a moment before he was climbing onto the bed, kissing her again.

She didn’t resist. No, she held him just as tight as ever, her legs seeming to part just for him. The lions were grumbling, moving from the bed, leaving him to have her for himself. He could hear the mutterings, but right now he wanted to entertain himself.

“You fool,” he growled, laughing softly. “You fell in love with me.”

“You know this already,” she complained.

He did, but he wanted to hear it again. The way his mother had described it had been all too great. Would she really lose all of herself at the loss of him? Was she truly that smitten?

“Gil, am I pregnant or are you just trying to make it so?”

His laugh grew louder, his forehead pressing to hers.

She was clinging to him, with him not holding her at all.

“I have only seen children in the kingdom. I don’t know about rearing them. I’ve helped my lions give birth, but my knowledge of people doing so…”

“What about Ishtar?”

“I’ll deal with her.”

“Gil-“

He stole her lips away, watching her wane. His mother had been right. It was foolish to argue when she always was. And that, combined with his good fortune, led him to this.

Hakuno was already looking at him with darkened eyes. Her arms were pulling him in further. The plain fool, claiming a king in this manner.

She was lucky she was so entertaining.

She was lucky that she could pull such interesting expressions when she looked to him.

She was lucky that she could manage to stir such strong responses from him when she touched and held him in her arms.

She was so incredibly lucky, he thought as he pulled those robes down her body and bore her naked person to his eyes. He all but purred as she shivered beneath him. His tongue ran right up from her navel, sending his name escaping her lips once again.

“The tablets,” Hakuno tried to remind him. “There’s work-“

“No one will expect them today.” Gilgamesh pulled his robes from his person, tossing them off the bed as he looked down at the woman beneath him. “I’ll make you loud enough that it will be obvious where the rest of my day will be spent.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Her shouts were louder than ever in his chambers. He held her hips and sent her over the edge so much that the flush to her cheeks would probably be permanent. Those lips rained down upon him, fighting desire with desire.

No one came for them.

It was very clear why.

#drabble #drabbles

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notapaladin · 4 years ago

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and this faith is gettin’ heavy (but you know it carries me) - redux

Because I was thinking about this fic and realized it could be BETTER with even MORE angst, pining, love connected to physical hunger, and uh...connective tissue I thought really hard about but didn’t actually write at the time.

Also on AO3, as usual

Acatl grimaced as he stepped from the coolness of his home into the day’s bright, punishing sunlight. Today was the day the army was due to return from their campaign in Mixtec lands, and so he was forced to don his skull mask and owl-trimmed cloak on a day that was far too hot for it. Not for the first time, he was thankful that priests of Lord Death weren’t required to paint their faces and bodies for special occasions; the thought of anything else touching his skin made him shudder.

He’d barely made it out of his courtyard when Acamapichtli strode up to him, face grave underneath his blue and black paint. “Ah, Acatl. I’m glad I could catch you.”

“Come to tell me that the army is at our gates again?” They would never be friends, he and Acamapichtli, but they had achieved something like a truce in the year since the plague. Still, Acatl couldn’t help but be on his guard. There was something...off about the expression on the other man’s face, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. He’d borne the same look when delivering the news of a death to a grieving family. Ah. A loss, then.

He’d expected Acamapichtli to spread his hands, a wordless statement of there having been nothing he could have done. He didn’t expect him to take a deep breath and slide his sightless eyes away. “I have. The runners all say it is a great victory; Tizoc-tzin has brought back several hundred prisoners.”

It should have pleased him. Instead, a cold chill slid down his spine. “What are you not telling me? I’ve no time for games.”

Acamapichtli let out a long sigh. “There were losses. A flood swept across the plain, carrying away several of our best warriors. Among them...the Master of the House of Darts. They looked—I’m assured that they looked!—but his body was not found.”

No. No. No. A yawning chasm cracked open beneath his ribs. He knew he was still breathing, but he couldn’t feel the air in his lungs. Even as he wanted, desperately, to grab Acamapichtli by the shoulders and shake him, to scream at him for being a liar, he knew the man was telling the truth. That his face and mannerisms, the careful movements of a man who knew he brought horrible news, showed his words to be honest. That Teomitl—who had left four months before with a kiss for Mihmatini and an affectionate clasp for Acatl’s arm—would not return.

It took real effort to focus on Acamapichtli’s next words. The man’s eyes were full of a horrible sympathy, and he wanted to scream. “I thought you should know in advance. Before—before they arrived.”

“Thank you,” he forced out through numb lips.

Acamapichtli turned away. “...I’m sorry, Acatl.”

After a long, long moment, he made himself start walking again. There was the rest of the army to greet, after all. Even if Teomitl wouldn’t be among them.

Even if he’d never return from war again.

Greeting the army was a ceremony, one he usually took some joy in—it had meant that Teomitl would be home, would be safe, and his sister would be happy. Now it passed in a blue, and he registered absolutely none of it. Someone must have already given the news to Mihmatini when he arrived; she was an utterly silent presence at his side, face pale and lips thin. She wouldn’t cry in public, but he saw the way her eyes glimmered when she blinked. He knew he should offer her comfort, but he couldn’t bring himself to lay a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. If he touched her, if he felt the fabric of her cloak beneath his hand, that meant it was real.

It couldn’t be real. Jade Skirt was Teomitl’s patron goddess, She wouldn’t let him simply drown. But there was an empty space to Tizoc’s left where Teomitl should have been, and no sign of his white-and-red regalia. Acatl’s eyes burned as he blinked.

Tizoc was still speaking, but Acatl heard none of his words. It was all too still, too quiet; everything was muffled, as though he was hearing it through water. If there was justice, came the first spinning thought, every wall would be crumbling. No...if there was justice, Teomitl would be...

He drew in a long breath, feeling chilled to the bone even as he sweated under his cloak. Now that his mind had chosen to rouse itself, its eye was relentless. He barely saw the plaza around him, packed with proud warriors and colorful nobles; it was too easy to imagine a far-flung province to the south, a jungle thick with trees and blood. A river bursting its banks, carrying Teomitl straight into his enemies’ arms. They would capture him, of course; he was a valiant fighter and he’d taken very well to the magic of living blood, but even he couldn’t hold off an army alone.

And once they had him, they would sacrifice him.

Somewhere behind the army, Acatl knew, were lines of captured warriors whose hearts would be removed to feed the Sun, whose bodies would be flung down the Temple steps to feed the beasts in the House of Animals, whose heads would hang on the skull-rack. It was necessary, and their deaths would serve a greater purpose. He’d seen it thousands of times. There was no use mourning them. It was simply the way nearly all captured warriors went.

It was what Teomitl would want. An honorable death on the sacrifice stone. It was better to die than to be a slave all your life. But at least he would have a life—all unbidden, the alternative rose clear in Acatl’s mind. Teomitl, face whitened with chalk. Teomitl, laying down on the stone. Teomitl, teeth clenched, meeting his death with open eyes. Teomitl’s blood on the priests’ hands.

Nausea rose hot and bitter in his throat, and he shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. In for a count of three, out for a count of five. Repeat. It didn’t hurt to breathe, but he felt as if it should. He felt as if everything should hurt. He felt a sudden, vicious urge to draw thorns through his earlobes until the pain erased all thoughts, but he made his hands still. If he started, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop.

Still, it seemed to take an eternity for the speeches and the dances to be over and done with. By the time they finished, he was light-headed with the strain of remaining upright, and Mihmatini had slipped a hand into his elbow. Even that single point of contact burned through his veins. They still hadn’t spoken. He wondered if she, too, couldn’t quite find her own voice under the screaming chasm of grief.

And then, after all that, when all he yearned for was to go home and lay down until the world felt right again—maybe until the Sixth Sun rose, that would probably be enough time—there was a banquet, and he was forced to attend.

Of course there’s a banquet, he thought dully. This is a victory, after all. Tizoc had wasted no time in promoting a new Master of the House of Darts to replace his fallen brother, with many empty platitudes about how Teomitl would surely be missed and how he’d not want them to linger in their grief, but to move on and keep earning glory for the Mexica. Moctezuma, his replacement, was seventeen and haughty; where Teomitl’s arrogance had begun to settle into firm, well-considered authority and the flames of his impatience had burnt down to embers, Moctezuma’s gaze swept the room and visibly dismissed everyone in it as not worth his concern. It reminded Acatl horribly of Quenami.

Mihmatini sat on the same mat she always did, but now there was a space beside her like a missing tooth. She still wore her hair in the twisted horn-braids of married women, and against all rules of mourning she had painted her face with the blue of the Duality. Underneath it, her face was set in an emotionless mask. She did not eat.

Neither did Acatl. He wasn’t sure he could stomach food. So instead his gaze flickered around the room, unable to settle, and he gradually realized that he and Mihmatini weren’t alone in the crowd. The assembled lords and warriors should have been celebrating, but there was a subdued air that hung over every stilted laugh and negligent bite of fine food. Neighbors avoided each other’s eyes; Neutemoc, sitting with his fellow Jaguar Warriors, was staring at his empty plate as though it held the secrets of the heavens. He looked well, until Acatl saw the expression on his face. It was a mirror of his own.

At least his fellow High Priests didn’t try to engage him in conversation, for which he was grateful. Acamapichtli kept glancing at him almost warily, but he hadn’t voiced any more empty platitudes—and when Quenami had opened his mouth to say something, he’d taken the unprecedented step of leaning around Acatl and glaring him into silence.

If they’d been friends, Acatl would have been touched; as it was, it made a burning ember of rage lodge itself in his throat. Don’t you pity me. Don’t you dare pity me. He ground his teeth until his jaw hurt, clenched his fists until his nails cut into his palms, and didn’t speak. If he spoke, he would scream.

Somehow, he held it together until after the final course had been cleared away. He rose jerkily to his feet, legs trembling, and fixed his mind firmly on getting home in one piece.

Quenami’s voice stopped him in the next hallway. “Ah, Acatl. A lovely banquet, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t turn around. “Mn.” Go away.

Quenami didn’t. In fact he took a step closer, as though they were friends, as though he’d never tried to have Acatl killed. His voice was like a mosquito in his ear. “You must not be feeling well; you hardly touched your food. Some might see that as an insult. I’m sure Tizoc-tzin would.”

“Mm.”

“Or is it worry over Teomitl that’s affecting you? You shouldn’t fret so, Acatl. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not dead after all; there are plenty of cenotes in the southlands, and a determined man could easily hide out there for the rest of his life. He probably just took the coward’s way out, sick of his responsibilities—“

He whirled around, sucking in a breath that scorched his lungs. It was the last thing he felt before he let Mictlan’s chill spill through his veins and overflow. His suddenly-numb skin loosened on his neck; his fingers burned with the cold that came only from the underworld. He knew that his skin was black glass, his muscles smoke, his bones moonlight on ice, his eyes burning voids. All around him was the howling lament of the dead, the stench of decay and the dry, acrid scent of dust and dry bones. When he spoke, his voice echoed like a bell rung in a tomb.

“Silence.”

You do not call him a coward. You do not even speak his name. I could have your tongue for that. He stepped forward, gaze locked with Quenami’s. It would be easy, too. He could do it without even blinking—could take his tongue for slander, his eyes for that sneering gaze, could reach inside his skin and debone him like a turkey—all it would take would be a single wrong word—

Quenami recoiled, jaw going slack in terror. Silently—blessedly, mercifully, infuriatingly silently—he turned on his heel and left.

Acatl took one breath, two, and let the magic drain out of his shaking limbs. He hadn’t meant to do that. It should probably have sickened him that he’d nearly misused Lord Death’s power like that, especially on a man who ought to have been his superior and ally, but instead all he felt was a vicious sort of stymied rage—a jaguar missing a leap and coming up with nothing but air between his claws. He wanted to scream. He wanted blood under his nails, the shifting crack of breaking bones under his knuckles. He wanted to hurt something.

He made it to the next courtyard, blessedly empty of party guests, and collapsed on the nearest bench like a dead man. His stomach ached. I could have killed him. Gods, I wanted to kill him. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life. All because...all because he said his name...

“...Acatl?”

Mihmatini’s voice, admirably controlled. He made himself lift his head and answer. “In here.”

She padded into the courtyard and took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, skirt swishing around her feet as she walked. Gold ornaments had been sewn into its hem, and he wondered if they’d been gifts from Teomitl. “I saw Quenami running like all the beasts of the underworld were on his tail. What did you do?”

Nothing. But that would have been a lie, and he refused to do that to his own flesh and blood. “...He said…” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “He said that Teomitl might have deserted. He dared to say that—” The idea choked him, and he couldn’t finish the words. That Teomitl was a coward. That he would run from his responsibilities, from his destiny, at the first opportunity…

She tensed immediately, eyes going cold in a way that suggested Quenami had better be a very fast runner indeed. “He would never. You know that.”

Air seemed to be coming a bit easier now. “I do. But…”

Of course, she pounced on his hesitation. “But?”

I want him so badly to not be dead. “Nothing.”

Mihmatini was silent for a while, wringing her hands together. Finally, she spoke. “He would never have deserted. But...Acatl…”

“What?”

“I don’t know if he’s dead.” She set a hand on her chest. “The magic that connects us—I can still feel it in here. It’s faint, really faint, but it’s there. He might…” She took a breath, and tears welled up in her eyes. “He might still be alive.”

Alive. The word was a conch shell in his head, sounding to wake the dawn. For an instant, he let himself imagine it. Teomitl alive, maybe in hiding, maybe trying to find his way home to them.

Maybe held captive by the Mixteca, until such time as they can tear out his heart. He closed his eyes, shutting out everything but the sound of his own breathing. It didn’t help. He hated how pathetic his own voice sounded as he asked, “You think so?”

“It’s—” She scrubbed ineffectually at her eyes with the back of a hand. “It’s possible. Isn’t it?”

“...I suppose.” He took a breath. “I think it’s time for me to get some sleep. I’ll...see you tomorrow.”

He knew he wouldn’t sleep—knew, in fact, that he’d be lucky if he even managed to close his eyes—but he needed to get home. He refused to disgrace himself by weeping in public.

The first dream came a week later.

He’d managed to avoid them until then; he’d thrown himself headlong into his work, not stopping until he was so tired that his “sleep” was really more like “passing out.” But it seemed his body could adapt to the conditions he subjected it to much easier than he’d thought, because he woke with tears on his face and the scraps of a nightmare scattering in the dawn light. There had been blood and screaming and a ravaged and horrible face staring into his that somehow he’d known. He did his best to put it from his mind, and for a day he thought he’d succeeded.

The next night was worse.

He was walking through a jungle made of shadows, trees shedding gray dust from their leaves as he passed under them. There was no birdsong, no rippling of distant waters or crunching of underbrush, and he knew deep in his soul that nothing was alive here anymore. Not even himself. Though his legs ached and his lungs burned, it was pain that felt like it was happening to someone else. His gut held, not the stretched desiccation of Mictlan, but a nasty twisting feeling of wrongness; part of him wanted to be sick, but he couldn’t stop. Ahead of him, someone was making their way through the undergrowth, and it was a stride he’d know anywhere.

Teomitl. He thought he called out to him, but no sound escaped his mouth even though his throat hurt as though he’d been screaming. He tried again. Teomitl! This time, he managed a tiny squeak, something even an owl wouldn’t have heard.

Teomitl didn’t slow down, but somehow the distance between them shortened. Now Acatl could make out the tattered remains of his feather suit, singed and bloodstained until it was more red than white, and the way his bare feet had been cut to ribbons. He still wasn’t looking behind him. It was like Acatl wasn’t there at all. Ahead of them, the trees were thinning out.

And then they were on a flat plain strewn with corpses, bright crimson blood the only color Acatl could see. Teomitl was standing still in front of him as water slowly seeped out of the ground, covering his feet and lapping gently at his ankles. There were thin threads of red in it.

“Teomitl,” he said, and this time his voice obeyed him.

Teomitl turned to him, smiling as though he’d just noticed he was there. His chest was a red ruin, the bones of his ribcage snapped wide open to pull out his beating heart. A tiny ahuizotl curled in the space where it had been.

He took one step back. Another.

Teomitl’s smile grew sad, and he reached for him with a bloody hand. “Acatl, I’m sorry.”

He awoke suddenly and all at once, curling in on himself with a ragged sob. It was still dark out; the sun hadn’t made its appearance yet. There was no one to see when he shook himself to pieces around the space in his heart. It was a dream, he told himself sternly. Just a dream. My soul is only wandering through my own grief. It doesn’t mean anything.

But then it returned the next night, and the next. While the details differed—sometimes Teomitl was swimming a river that suddenly turned to blood and dissolved his flesh, sometimes one of his own ahuizotls turned into a jaguar and sprang for his face—the end was always the same. Teomitl dead and still walking, reaching for him with an apology on his lips. Sometimes it even lingered after he woke, clinging stubbornly such that, just for a moment, he thought Teomitl was truly by his side and had a moment’s joy before reality reasserted itself and he remembered with gutwrenching pain that he was alone. Those ones were the worst.

He started timing his treks across the Sacred Precinct to avoid the Great Temple’s sacrifices to Huitzilopochtli. Sleep grew more and more difficult to achieve, and even when he caught a few hours’ rest it never seemed to help. He even thought, fleetingly, of asking the priests of Patecatl if anything they had would be useful, only to dismiss it the next day. He would survive this. It wasn’t worth baring his soul to anyone else’s prying eyes or clumsy but well-meaning words.

Still, when one of Neutemoc’s slaves came to his door asking whether he would come to dinner at his house that night, he didn’t waste time in accepting. Dinner with Neutemoc’s family had become...normal. He needed normal, even if it still felt like walking on broken glass.

Up until the second course was served, he even thought he’d get it. Neutemoc had been nearly silent when he’d arrived, but he’d unbent enough to start a conversation about his daughters’ studies. Necalli and Mazatl were more subdued than they normally were, but they’d heard what happened to their newest uncle-by-marriage and were no doubt mourning in their own ways. Mihmatini’s face was as pale and set as white jade, but as the meal wore on he thought he saw her smile.

“More fish?”

Neutemoc’s voice was too careful for his liking, but he nodded. Fish was duly set onto his plate, and he ate without really tasting it. He only managed a few bites before he set it aside.

Mihmatini picked at her own dish, and Neutemoc frowned at her. “You’re not hungry?”

She shook her head.

Silence descended again, but It didn’t reign for long before Neutemoc said, “Acatl. Any interesting cases lately?” With a quick glance at his children, he added, “That we can talk about in front of the kids?”

“Aww, Dad...”

Neutemoc gave his eldest the same look his father had once given him. “When you go off to war, Necalli, I will let you listen to all the awful details.”

It was almost enough to make Acatl smile. “Well,” he began, “we’ve been trying to figure out what’s been strangling merchants in the featherworkers’ district…”

Laying out the facts of a suspicious death or two was always calming. He could forget the ache in his heart, even if only briefly. But even when he was done, when he’d started to relax, Neutemoc was still talking to him as though he expected to see his younger brother shatter any minute. The slaves, too, were unusually solicitous of him—rushing to fill up his cup, to heap delicacies on his plate. At any other time he might have suspected the whole thing to be a bribe or an awkward apology; now, he just felt uneasy.

When the meal was done, he declined Neutemoc’s offer of a pipe and got to his feet. “I think I’ll get some air.”

The courtyard outside was empty. He lifted his eyes to the heavens, charting the path of the four hundred stars above. Ceyaxochitl’s death hadn’t hit him anywhere near as hard as this, but gods, he thought he could recover if only the people around him stopped coddling him. Everywhere he went there were sympathetic glances and soft words, and even the priests of his own temple were stepping gingerly around him. As though he needed to be treated like...like...

Like a new widow. Like Mihmatini. He sat down hard, feeling like his legs had been cut out from under him. Air seemed to be in short supply, and the gulf in his chest yawned wide.

But I’m not. I care for Teomitl, of course, but it’s not like that. It’s not—

He thought about Teomitl sacrificed as a war captive or drowned in a river far from home, and nearly choked at the fist of grief that tightened around his heart. No. He shook his head as though that would clear it. He wouldn’t want me to grieve over him. He wouldn’t want me to think of him dead, drowned, sacrificed—he’d want me to remember him happy. I can do that much for him, at least.

He could. It was easy. He closed his eyes and remembered.

Remembered the smile that lit up rooms and outshone the Sun, the one that could pull an answering burst of happiness out of the depths of his soul. Remembered the way Teomitl had laughed and rolled around the floor with Mazatl, the way he’d helped Ollin to walk holding onto his hands, the way he sparred with Necalli and asked about Ohtli’s lessons in the calmecac, and how all of those moment strung together like pearls on a string into something that made Acatl’s heart warm as well. Remembered impatient haggling in the marketplace, haphazard rowing on the lake, strong arms flexing such that he couldn’t look away, the touch of a warm hand lingering even after Teomitl had withdrawn—

He remembered how it had felt, in that space between dreams and waking, where he’d thought Teomitl was by his side even in Mictlan. Where, for the span of a heartbeat, he’d been happy.

There was a sound—a soft, miserable whine. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from his own throat, that he’d drawn his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them. That he was shaking again, and had been for some time. As nausea oozed up in his throat, he regretted having eaten.

It was like that, after all.

And he’d realized too late. Even if he’d ever been able to do anything about it—which he never would anyway, the man was married to his sister—there was no chance of it now, because Teomitl was gone.

He forced his burning eyes to stay open. If he blinked, if he let his eyes close even for an instant, the tears would fall.

Approaching footsteps made him raise his head. Mihmatini was walking quietly and carefully towards him, as though she didn’t want to disturb him. As though I’m fragile. You too, Mihmatini?

“Ah. There you are.” Even her voice was soft.

He uncurled himself and arranged his limbs into a more dignified position, keeping his fists clenched to stop his hands from trembling. At least when he finally blinked, his eyes were dry. “Hm.”

She sat next to him, not touching. There was something calming about her company, but gods, he prayed she couldn’t see the thoughts written on his face. She stretched out a hand and he thought she’d lay it soothingly on his shoulder, but instead she traced a meaningless pattern in the dirt. “...It’s hard, isn’t it?”

His dry throat made a clicking noise when he swallowed. “It is.”

“At least we’re both in the same boat,” she murmured.

The words refused to make sense in his head at first—but then they did, and he reared back and stared at her. No. I’ve only just realized it myself, she can’t have...she can’t be thinking that I—! “I beg your pardon?”

Her voice lowered even further, so that he had to strain to hear her. There was a faint, sad smile on her face. “You love him just the same as I do, don’t you?”

He drew a long breath. He knew what he should say, what the right and proper words would be. No, like a son. Or like my brother. But he couldn’t lie to her, not even to spare what was left of her broken heart, and so what came out instead was, “Yes. Gods, yes.” Hate me for it. Tell me I have no right to love him, that you’re the one who has his heart. Tell me I’m a fool.

She lifted her head, and her faint smile grew to something bright and brittle. “Good.”

Good?! He blinked uselessly at her, gaping like a fish before he could find his voice again. “You—you approve?”

“You’re my favorite brother,” she said simply. “And...well.”

She fell silent, her smile fading until it vanished entirely. He waited. Finally, in a much softer voice, she continued, “If you love him, there’s no harm in telling you what he swore me to secrecy over.”

Dread gripped him. Of course Teomitl was entitled to his secrets, but he couldn’t imagine what would be so horrible that Mihmatini wouldn’t tell him. At least, not while he lived. He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “...What?”

She blinked rapidly, fingers going still. She’d traced something that looked, from a certain angle, like a flower glyph. “...He...he loved you, too.”

No.

But Mihmatini was still talking. “He didn’t want me to tell you; he was sure you’d scorn him. But he loved you the same way he loved me...gods, probably more than he loved me.”

It was the last straw. His nails bit into his palms hard enough to draw blood, and he barely recognized his own voice as rage filled it. “Why are you telling me this?!”

Mihmatini took a shuddering breath; he realized she was fighting tears, and had been since she’d spilled Teomitl’s heart to the night air. “In case he comes back. If he does...no, when he does...you should tell him how you feel.”

He rose on shaking legs. “I think I need to be alone.”

Without really seeing his surroundings, he walked until he came to the canal outside the house. The family’s boats were tied up outside, bobbing gently on the water. When he sat down, the stone under him was cold; the water he dipped his fingers in was colder still. Neither revived him. Neither was as cold as the pit cracking open in his gut. Mictlan was worse, true, but all the inexorable pains of Mictlan were dull aches compared to this.

In case he comes back. In case he comes back. I love him—I am in love, that’s what this pain is—and I will never see him again in this world. Mihmatini says he loves me too, and it doesn’t matter, because his bones lie somewhere in the jungle and his flesh feeds the crows and I will never get to tell him.

Between one breath and another, the tears came. They spilled hot and salty down his face; he let them, shoulders shaking, because he no longer had the strength to stop them. And nobody would come to offer unwanted sympathy, anyway. Mihmatini had her own grief, and the hurrying footsteps he’d grown so used to hearing would never run after him again.

Eventually, when he was spent, he wiped his face and left. It was time to go home.

The rest of the month ground on slowly, and his dreams began to change.

At first they were minor changes—the blood was less vibrant, the forests and plains brighter. Teomitl bled less. Acatl woke without feeling as though the inside of his chest had been hollowed out and replaced with ash. And if that was all, he might have simply thought he was beginning to deal with his sorrow. Such things happened, after all. Eventually the knives scraping away at his chest would lose their edges, and he would face a life without Teomitl’s sunny smile.

But there was more than just a lessening of pain. He dreamed of a sunsoaked forest in the south, and woke feeling like a lizard basking on a rock, warm in a way he couldn’t blame on the heat of the rainy season. He dreamed that Teomitl was fording a fast-flowing river—one that did not turn to blood this time—and when dawn broke his legs were soaked up to the shins. That got him to visit a healing priest; he knew when he was out of his depth, and if his soul was wandering too far in his nightmares then he wanted to be sure it would come back to him by dawn. But the priest was as befuddled as he was, and only told him to call again if he woke in pain or with unexplained wounds.

Unexplained wounds? he thought bitterly. You mean, like the one where half my heart’s been torn from my chest? But he knew better than to say that out loud; his feelings for Teomitl were none of this man’s business. So he thanked him and left, paying a fistful of cacao beans for the consultation, and tried not to think about it until the next time he slept and the dreams returned.

And they were dreams now, and not nightmares. While he slept his soul seemed content to follow Teomitl’s solitary travels through the very outskirts of the Empire, and he no longer had to see him torn apart by monsters or smiling ruinously with bloody teeth. Teomitl barely bled at all now, and his wounds were only the normal ones a man might get from traversing hostile terrain alone—a scraped knee here, a bound-up cut there. He sang to himself as he walked, though the words slipped through Acatl’s mind like water. Once Acatl stood just over his shoulder at a smoky campfire while he roasted fish in the ashes, and his heart ached as he watched him cry.

“Acatl-tzin,” he whispered into his folded knees. “Acatl, I should have told you.”

“Should have told me what?” he tried to ask, but before he could form the words he woke up. There were tears in his own eyes.

It’s only because I miss him, he told himself. This is grief, that’s all. But there was the smell of smoke clinging to his skin, and a single damp leaf was stuck to the bottom of his bare foot. It hadn’t rained in Tenochtitlan last night. He stared at it for a long time.

Each night went on in the same vein. He would clean his teeth, lay down on his mat, and drift off to sleep—and in his dreams, there would be Teomitl, hale and whole and walking onwards. Despite himself, Acatl started to wake with a faint stirring of hope. Maybe Teomitl really had only been separated from the army. Maybe he truly was on his way home. And maybe I’m delusional, came the inevitable bitter thought when he’d finished his morning rituals. It had become much harder to listen to.

It was almost a surprise when he dreamed about a city he knew. It was a small but bustling place about half a day’s walk from Tenochtitlan, and as he walked through the streets he realized that the torches had been lit for a funeral. He could hear the chants ahead of him. There was a darker shape in the shadows which spilled down the dusty road, and he knew the man’s stride like he knew his own.

“Teomitl!” He hadn’t been mute in his dreams for a while now.

Teomitl didn’t turn. He never turned. But he stopped, and by the way his head tilted Acatl just knew he was smiling. Wordlessly, he pointed at the courtyard ahead.

A funeral pyre had been lit, and it was so like the rituals he presided over that he felt a distinct sense of deja vu. There was the priest singing a hymn to Lord Death; there were the weeping family members of the deceased. There were the marigolds and the other offerings, brilliant in the gloom.

“That could have been me,” Teomitl said, and Acatl heard his voice as though he was standing next to him in the waking world instead of only in a dream. “But it’s not yet, and it won’t be for a good long while. So you don’t need to fear for me. I keep my promises.”

They’d never touched before. But this time Teomitl turned to face him, and the hand he held out was free of blood entirely. Slowly, giving him time to pull away, Teomitl pressed his palm to his. Their fingers laced together, warm and strong and almost real.

“Teomitl,” he said helplessly.

“Acatl.” Teomitl’s smile was like the sun. “I’m sorry I made you worry, but I’ll be home soon.”

And then he woke up, the dream shredded apart by the blasts of the conch-shell horns that heralded the dawn. For a long moment, he stared blankly up at the ceiling. He could still feel Teomitl’s hand in his; each little scar and callus felt etched on his skin. He lives. The slow certainty of it welled up in him like blood. He lives, and he is coming back.

He rose and made his devotions before dressing, but now his hands shook with something that was no longer grief. As soon as he left for his temple, he could feel the change In the air. Scraps of excited conversation whirled past him, but he couldn’t focus long enough to pick any out. He concentrated on breathing steadily and walking with the dignity befitting a High Priest. He would not sprint for the temple, would not grab the nearest housewife or warrior or priest and demand answers. They would come soon enough.

They came in the form of Ezamahual, rushing out of the temple complex to meet him. “Acatl-tzin! Acatl-tzin, there is wonderful news!”

Briefly, he thought he should have worn the hated regalia. “What news?”

Ezamahual’s words tumbled out in a headlong rush, almost too fast to follow. “The Master of the House of Darts—Teomitl-tzin—he’s returned! Our warriors met him at the city gates!”

Even though he’d half expected it—even though the recurring dreams, his soul journeying through the night at Teomitl’s side, had kept alive the flickering flame of hope that now burned within him—he still briefly felt like fainting. He clenched his fists, the pain of his nails in his palms keeping him upright. “You’re sure?”

Ezamahual nodded enthusiastically. “The Revered Speaker has reinstated him to his old position, and there’s talk of a banquet at the palace to celebrate his safe return. I think he’s at the Duality House now, though—they’re like an anthill over there.”

Right. He exhaled slowly, forcing down joy and disappointment alike. Of course Teomitl would want to see his wife first above all, to reassure her that he was well, and of course he had no right to intrude. Nor would he even if he did—Mihmatini deserved her husband back in her life, deserved all the joy she would wring from it. The things she’d told him didn’t—couldn’t—matter in the face of their union. “I see. I suppose we’ll learn more later. Come—tell me if there’s been any new developments in those strangling cases.”

Ezamahual looked briefly baffled, but then he nodded. “Of course, Acatl-tzin. It’s like this…”

The latest crop of mysterious deaths turned out to be quite straightforward in the end, once they tracked down their newest lead and had him sing like a bird. He nodded at the appropriate times, sent out a double team of priests after the perpetrators, and had it very nearly wrapped up by lunch. He was settling down with the account ledgers to mark payment of two gold-filled quills to the priests of Mixcoatl for their aid when he heard footsteps outside.

Familiar footsteps.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the tightness in his chest eased. But he didn’t have a chance to revel in it, because he knew the voice calling his name.

“Acatl? Acatl!”

He dropped the ledgers and his pen, getting ink all over his fingers. As the entrance curtain was flung aside in a cacophony of copper bells, he scrambled to his feet. Had he been tired and listless before? It seemed like it was a thousand years ago now. He thought he might weep for the sheer relief of hearing that beloved voice again. “Gods—Teomitl—”

He had a confused impression of gold jewelry and feather ornaments, but then Teomitl was flinging himself into his arms and the only thing that sunk into his mind was warmth. There were strong arms wrapped around him and a head pressed against his temple, and Teomitl’s voice shook as he breathed, “Duality, I missed you so much.”

Slowly, he raised his shaking hands and set them at Teomitl’s shoulderblades. He could feel his racing heart, feel the way he sucked in each breath as though trying not to sob. It was overwhelming; his eyes burned as he fought to blink back his own tears. He couldn’t speak. If he opened his mouth, he knew he’d lose the battle—and there were no words for this, anyway.

Teomitl abruptly released him, turning his face away. His voice was a soft, ragged thing, and his expression was a careful blank. “Forgive me. I was...Mihmatini said you’d be glad to see me. I wanted to look less like I’d been dragged over the mountains backwards, first.”

He swallowed several times until he thought he could risk a response, even as his eyes drank in the sight of Teomitl in front of him. He looks the same, he thought. His skin had been further darkened by the sun, there were new scars looping across his arms and legs, and someone had talked him into a fortune in gold and jade with quetzal feathers tied into his hair, but he had the same face and body and sweet, sweet voice. “It’s—there’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad you’ve returned.”

“They told me everyone thought I was dead.” Teomitl bit his lip. “Except for Mihmatini. And you.”

He steered his mind firmly away from the shoals of crushing grief that still lurked under the joy of seeing Teomitl before him. He is here, and hale, and whole, just as I dreamed. I have nothing to weep over. “I knew you weren’t. You wouldn’t let something like a flood stop you.”

There was the first glimmer of a smile tugging at Teomitl’s lips. “You have such faith in me, Acatl.”

“You’re well deserving of it,” he replied. And I love you, and even in dreams I could not think of any other path than your survival. That, he refused to say.

Especially because Teomitl still wasn’t looking at him.

They stood in agonizing silence, and he couldn’t bring himself to break it. Teomitl was so close, still within arms’ range; if he was brave enough, he could reach out and pull him back into his arms. Could bury his face in his hair and crush the fabric of his cloak in his hands and tell him—what? It didn’t matter what Mihmatini had said to him. There was simply no space for him in the life Teomitl deserved, nothing beyond that Acatl already occupied. He wouldn’t burden him with useless feelings.

But then Teomitl shook himself like an ahuizotl and turned back to him, holding his gaze. “Do you want to know what got me home, Acatl? What sustained me?”

Mutely, he nodded. He still didn’t trust his voice.

“You.”

He felt like he’d been gutted. “I...Teomitl…”

Whatever Teomitl saw in his face made his eyes soften. He took a step forward, hands coming up to—gently, so gently—rest on Acatl’s waist, and Acatl let him. “I thought about you. I—Southern Hummingbird blind me, I dreamed about you. Every night! I made myself a promise while I was out there, in the event I ever saw you again. Scorn me for it all you’d like, but I’m going to keep it now.”

Oh, Teomitl. I could never scorn you. They were very, very close now, and Teomitl’s gaze had fallen to his parted lips. His mouth went dry.

And then Teomitl kissed him.

It started out soft and gentle, lips barely tracing Acatl’s own. Asking permission, he thought with an absurd spike of giddiness—and so, leaning in a little shyly, he gave it.

Teomitl wasted no time. The kiss grew harder, fingers digging into Acatl’s skin as he hauled their bodies together. They were pressed together from chest to hip but it still wasn’t enough, they weren’t close enough; blood roaring in his ears, he wrapped his arms around Teomitl’s back and clung tightly. His mouth opened with a breathy little whine stolen immediately by Teomitl’s invading tongue, and when he dared to do the same, Teomitl made a noise like a jaguar and let go of his waist in favor of clawing at the back of his cloak, grabbing fistfuls of fabric along with strands of his hair. It pulled too hard, but he didn’t care. The pain meant it was real, that this was really happening.

Teomitl only drew away to breathe, “Gods—I love you—” before claiming his mouth again, as though he couldn’t bear to be apart.

Acatl twisted in his arms, knowing he was making a probably incoherent and definitely embarrassing noise, but shame wasn’t an emotion he was capable of at the moment. He loves me. By the Duality, he loves me. “I didn’t think—Mihmatini told me, but I didn’t think…”

Teomitl jerked back, brow furrowed. “Wait. Mihmatini told you?!”

His grip on the back of Teomitl’s cloak tightened at the memory. “She was trying to reassure me, I think. I’d just told her...well.” He couldn’t say it, even with Teomitl in his arms, and settled for uncurling one fist and running his hand up the back of Teomitl’s neck in lieu of words.

He was rewarded with a shiver, and the near-panic in Teomitl’s eyes ebbed into something soft. “What did you tell her, Acatl?”

He’d asked. He’d asked, and Acatl had always been honest with him. He’d be honest now, even if it made his heart race and his hands tremble. “That I love you.”

Teomitl made a desperate noise and kissed him again. There was no gentleness now; he kissed like a man possessed, hungry as a jaguar, and Acatl buried a hand in his hair to make sure he didn’t stop. Teeth caught at his lower lip, and he moaned out loud. This seemed to spur Teomitl on, because his mouth left Acatl’s to nip at his throat instead; the first sting of teeth sent a wave of arousal through him so strong it nearly swamped him. “Ah—!”

Teomitl soothed the skin with a delicate kiss that didn’t help at all, and then he returned his focus to Acath’s mouth. This time he was gentle, a careful little caress that gave Acatl just enough brainpower back to realize that he’d probably been a bit loud. Which is Teomitl’s fault, anyway, so he can’t complain. “Mmm…”

Even when they eventually pulled apart, they clung to each other for a long while. Acatl stroked up and down Teomitl’s spine, tracing each bump of vertebrae and the trembling muscles of his back. Teomitl dropped his head onto Acatl’s shoulder, breathing slow and deep. He’d twined locks of long hair through his fingers, gently running his fingers through the strands. Acatl had to close his eyes, overwhelmed. The stone beneath my feet is real. Teomitl’s skin under my hands is real. This—this is real. He is in my arms, and he loves me.

“I don’t want to let you go,” Teomitl whispered. “I never want to let you out of my sight again.”

Neither do I. He tilted his head, nosing at the nearest and fluffiest bit of Teomitl’s hair, and let out a long sigh. “You’ll have to eventually.” Even though he hated the thought, he couldn’t help but smile. “You’re the Master of the House of Darts, aren’t you? You have an army to help lead. Wars to wage. Glory to bring to the Empire.”

“Hrmph.” The arms around him tightened in wordless refusal.

He smiled against Teomitl’s hair, and realized as he did so that the unraveling tension in his core had left a void behind. A void that rumbled—loudly—to be filled. His face burned as he murmured, “But first, why don’t we see about lunch?”

Teomitl made an undignified snorting noise. “I have been gone a long time. You’re remembering to eat for once.”

It was the first time since the army’s return that he could remember feeling hungry. He decided not to mention that. To his regret, however, lunch meant that they had to be seen in public, which meant they both had to actually let go of each other. Reluctantly, he began the process of disentangling them; after a significant period of hesitation, Teomitl deigned to help. Even when they were no longer wrapped in each other’s arms, though, he stared at Acatl as though he couldn’t get enough of the sight.

And since Acatl was doing the same thing, cataloging the precise shade of Teomitl’s brown eyes and the exact path each visible scar took, he couldn’t blame him. I might have gone my whole life without this. What an idiot I was.

It took longer than Acatl liked for he and Teomitl to be properly alone again. It wasn’t until they were finally ensconced in a small receiving room with a plate of fried newts to share and strict orders not to be disturbed that he could do more than look, but just when he was getting up the nerve to maybe hold Teomitl’s hand his beloved leaned in and kissed him. It was chaste, but it still made him blush.

Teomitl was smiling when he drew back. “I missed doing that.”

“It hasn’t even been half an hour,” he muttered. “You’re insatiable.” But there was no heat to it, and he found his hand resting at Teomitl’s waist. The skin under his palm was just so warm. He’d felt cold bones and grave dust for too long.

An eyebrow went up in stunning imitation of Mihmatini. “And I’ve waited years for even one kiss, Acatl. There’s a backlog to get through, you know.”

The blush had just started to fade, but now it returned with a vengeance. “Years?”

“Mm-hmm.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed. “I’d like to make up for lost time, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He swallowed hard. He’d wanted to know how Teomitl had survived, how he’d managed to make it all the way back home—the unreal fragments he’d witnessed each night had not been informative—but his questions suddenly didn’t seem that important anymore. “...I would not.”

And so their mouths met. Teomitl’s idea of making up for lost time was long and hungry; Acatl’s lips parted for his tongue almost before he knew what he was doing, and that was still a little strange but far from unwelcome. Especially when Teomitl drew back, mouth wet and red, to catch his lower lip between his teeth in another one of those stinging little nips that made his blood sing. A breathy noise escaped him, but this time Teomitl didn’t soothe it.

No, this time he lowered his mouth to Acatl’s neck and did it again. It was light and delicate, unlikely to leave marks, but Teomitl’s teeth were sharp enough that he felt each one in a burst of light behind his closed eyelids. He had to bury one hand in Teomitl’s hair and wrap the other around his waist just to keep himself upright; he couldn’t entirely muffle his own gasps. “Ahh—gods—”

Teomitl hummed, low and wordless, and slid a hand down his stomach. Acatl’s fevered blood roared in his ears, and all of a sudden it was almost too much. “Teomitl.”

Teomitl lifted his head, eyes bright. “Mm?”

“You.” He sucked in a breath, willing his heartrate to slow down. “You can’t keep doing that here.”

“You don’t like it?” Teomitl grinned at him. “Or do you like it too much, Acatl?”

If by some miracle all the rest of it hadn’t already made him blush, hearing Teomitl purr his name like that would definitely have done the trick. He had to turn his face away. “You know damned well it’s the latter. We both have our duties; we can’t very well take the rest of the day off to…” Flustered, he gestured between them.

“Hrmph,” Teomitl said, and kissed him again. This time it was slow and sweet and came with warm arms sliding around him, and he lingered in it for long, long minutes.

By the time they finally remembered their food, it was stone cold. They ate it anyway; Acatl couldn’t bring himself to care about such a mundane thing as cold food when Teomitl was leaning against him as they ate, with one arm still slung loosely around his waist. Not to mention that he was ravenous after all; he’d heard of love making you too nervous to eat, but loving Teomitl seemed to be different. Having him in his arms, knowing he wasn’t going to leave, knowing he would always be in his heart—it made him feel safe, and so he could enjoy his meal in peace.

When the afternoon light started to turn gold, they reluctantly got to their feet. They stood without touching for a moment that was just long enough to be awkward, and then Teomitl pulled him into a fierce hug. Acatl knew it was coming this time; he marveled at how they just seemed to fit together, with one hand buried in Teomitl’s hair and the other pressed flat between his shoulderblades to feel the steady beat of his heart.

Teomitl took a long, slow breath. “Lunch wasn’t long enough.”

“It wasn’t,” he agreed softly. “But there will be others. Many others.” With Teomitl by his side, he didn’t think he’d ever skip a meal again.

Despite the hint of dismissal—yes, he loved the man with all his heart, but they did both have other things to do—Teomitl made no move to let go of him. In fact, he squeezed a little tighter, turning to bury his face in Acatl’s hair. “Mrghh...”

He wanted to laugh, and had to bite the inside of his cheek to quell the urge. He made do with stroking Teomitl’s hair—gods, it was so soft—and taking a deliberate step back so that Teomitl had to release him or be pulled off-balance. Now Teomitl was glaring at him, but nothing would stop the slow upwell of joy in his veins. “Go on,” he murmured. “I’ll see you at the banquet tonight.” He hated formal banquets as a general rule, but he knew he’d enjoy this one. The food would no longer taste like ashes in his mouth.

Teomitl’s eyes were fierce as an eagle’s. “And afterwards? Will I see you afterwards, Acatl?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t an answer he even needed to think about, not with the way Teomitl’s lips parted in wonder. For the rest of my life. Whenever you want, for the rest of my life, I’ll be there.

Teomitl didn’t reach for him—he seemed to be deliberately holding himself still, tension ringing through his body like a drawn bowstring—but he looked like he wanted to. He looked like he wanted to yank Acatl back into his arms and finish what they’d started earlier, and the thought was exhilarating. “My chambers in the palace? They’re closest.”

Acatl flushed, shaking his head. That was a risk he refused to take. “My house. I’ll—I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” There was a wild, radiant smile.

He smiled back.

Though he honestly hated the idea of separation too, he knew it would be alright. Teomitl had promised, after all.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #mihmatini #quenami #paladin writes stuff

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solautumn · 4 years ago

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8. [ Bastion ]

“Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.” ― Shel Silverstein

A lot had happened between the initial wave of Scourge invasions, and Solarian struggled to make sense of it all. The shadow magic within him was experiencing an awakening of the likes he’d never felt before, and news quickly spread that the veil between the mortal realm and that of the beyond had been breached. Mawsworn appeared and plucked faction leaders and vanished. Those who remained made a stand in Ice Crown and found a way through the veil, through the Maw of death itself, and a way had been opened back home.

The afterlife realms of the Shadowlands were in danger. Their anima-- the essence of mortal souls resulting from their experiences and actions in life-- were being poured directly into the Maw instead of going to the realms in which they rightfully belonged. Treachery and deceit abounded, and where once a perfect harmony existed to grant souls rest in infinite afterlives, now there was only despair as they plummeted to eternal suffering.

It was a lot for a young priest to process. Worse yet came when his beloved Sandellis was deployed with a troop of Illidari to the realm of Maldraxxus. What was supposed to be an in and out mission turned into a blood bath. Solarian wasn’t privy to all the details, but the troop returned with injuries and short a few men. Solarian trekked out to Orgrimmar to find the lists of the deceased and missing, and found Sandellis Emberstrider among the missing. His heart dropped to his stomach, and he felt sick. Weeks of waiting and trying not to think of the worst were useless. He was missing, and left behind someplace he couldn’t follow. Solarian felt helpless at first, staring at the list through misty eyes, as others shoved him aside to get to the same lists. The shadows within him surged as he rubbed the mist from his eyes and clenched his lower jaw.

How could they leave him? How could they lose him? He’s NOT dead. You have to find him.

Mortals were never meant to cross beyond the veil. In fact, many of those who had gone would not come back. Solarian refused to believe that Sandellis would be one of those who were doomed to perish there. He would go into the depths of whatever hell to drag him back out, but as he stood there shoved aside, he knew he couldn’t do it alone.

Solarian took a few days to get ready, leaving his work at the Dalaran hospital to cross the portal into Oribos, which was bustling full of people. Mortal people. Once there, those mortals who entered were given a choice to align with one of four covenants. The Necrolords of Maldraxxus were militant, unyielding and ruthless. Above all, they valued strength and power, testing those to a melee of survival of the fittest. Solarian would be eaten alive. The vampiric Venthyr of Revendreth were eternal punishers of irredeemable souls. Despite his growing hunger for justice, he didn’t want to risk becoming lost in a lust for blood and retribution against those deemed unworthy. The Night Fae of Ardenweald were servants of powerful nature souls as they went through the autumnal and winter stages of eternal rest, but were under the threat of Drust invasion. Solarian could see himself there, but it was the Kyrian who caught his attention the most.

Known on Azeroth by few as spirit healers, the Kyrian lived lives of eternal service, serving as angelic guides that ferried lost souls from the land of the living to the Arbiter in Oribos who would send them off to their rightful place in the afterlife. They were ordered and purposeful, and valued humility, righteousness, virtue, and above all service. While there were nuances Solarian still couldn’t wrap his head around as well as much to learn yet, he could build rapport with them and gain access to other parts of the Shadowlands with the help he needed.

Bastion was unlike any place he’d ever seen before. The skies were ever blue with portals to other realms and rushing conduits of cloud-like energy from where the Kyrians swooped across the skies. He wondered what it would be like to have wings, to fly as they did and see infinite realms of existence. Water ran clearer than any he’d ever seen, and brimmed with life. The golden grass the color of his hair glimmered in the sun, softer than any grass he’d ever seen on Azeroth, and tall with plants and groves sprawling beautifully across the landscape. Animals grazed freely, and he was ever mesmerized by the swift runners with their singular gleaming horns proudly pointed skyward. Everything was very much alive. It was temperate, sunny, and perfect. So perfect that he struggled with the idea of this being only temporary.

I’m not supposed to be here. But I want to be.

It was enough to almost make him forget about the desperate need to find his beloved. This was, after all, where souls came to shed their mortal burdens to be reborn as proud Kyrians. But he was no such thing.

He was even assigned a steward on a daily basis. The fluffy owl-like beings came in all sizes. Some days, his steward was taller and broader than him, other days, his steward as no bigger than a gnome. As he understood it, they were beings born from Death’s magic, and served the Kyrians as aides, fixer-uppers of machinery, and general companions.

There was no true night time in Bastion, but a comfortable shade would blanket the land on occasion, and during that time, he would lay down to sleep. Despite the quiet desperation he felt to find Sandellis, Solarian had to be patient. It would not do to rush things and get himself lost or worse. So he began by doing what he did best, healing those that needed it in places of rest, aiding in the collection of herbs. Cataloging their uses and making use of them. It had only been a few days when he was studying the delicate Death Blossom with its petals like wings. If picked incorrectly, the bloom’s essence would wither away.

That’s when he heard the priestess Emilia reach out to him through his mind, just as she had back home. It was a welcome surprise to find someone he knew, someone who could help. There was no training session to be had, but the reassurance that he wasn’t alone, and that she could help him try to locate Sandellis felt like he had been walking in the right direction after all.

Here, he could hear his shadows more clearly. He could pay attention to the whispers that yet lingered within him. Solarian needed to remain alert. He needed to continue building rapport, and taking advantage of this opportunity to learn about the Kyrian history, how they located and ferried souls, and how they trained. He would work with his assigned steward, tag along with trainees as they ventured out beyond Bastion and learn as much as he could about the other realms and build rapport with them, too. Perhaps it would even do him good to work on his physical strength and meditate to find his center again. Learning how to properly use a weapon wouldn’t be such a bad idea, if he could lift one.

🌱🌱🌱

#My writing #Solarian Autumnsong #c: Sandellis #c: Emilia #WRA RP #WRA Horde #WRA Horde RP #Wow Rp #Kind of a quick update to where he's at and what he's doing ICly!#still figuring stuff out but I'm feeling good #I love this expac so far!!#Will he stay Kyrian? Will he switch covenants? Stay tuned to find out!

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enevi · 5 years ago

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Shirogane no Oka, Kuro no Tsuki - Volume One

Welcome to Tai Kingdom where terror and hunger reign. The winter is coming and this time many more than before may not survive the cold season for granaries are empty and outsiders are not welcome anywhere. The country is dying slow and painful death.

Enshi was born in Jou Province and married at eighteen. Had two children. Three years ago her hometown, like many other places, was burned down for harboring the fugitive and many did not survive. Among them was her husband. Survivors were taken in for the winter by the neighboring village but later they had to fend for themselves. So the young widow left with two children to roam the country in hope to find a new place to call home. Last winter she lost her four year old daughter to the cold and hunger and couldn't even bury the girl herself because the frozen ground was too hard to dig into. The one to help her was the man named Kouryou, the wanderer like herself.

It was almost one year ago and now the three of them: Kouryou, Enshi and her three year old son, Ritsu are roaming the Ten County in Kou Province formerly known for many beautiful temples. Most of them were destroyed for going against the new government, the most famous of them being Zui'un Temple, burned down for questioning the mysterious disappearance of their liege.

As the night is falling three weary travelers try to find a place to stay in for the night in the small village of Touka, along the county highway but are driven away by the young shepherd as many villages close their gates for the outsiders not wanting extra mouths to feed. Disappointed but relatively calm the wanderers go on to find the place good enough to camp.

Then in the nearby forest they are suddenly attacked by unknown assailants. Kouryou tells Enshi to run and starts to fight the attackers. She does but slips in the dark and almost falls down the cliff just to be saved by the young man hiding there. Meanwhile the mysterious woman with a flying beast comes to Kouryou's aid and together they are able to win the fight but not for long as the shepherd lurking in the dark takes the young man hostage trying to save his fallen comrades.

Unexpectedly it turns out that Kouryou knows their savior and it's General Risai, meaning that the one being threatened is Taiki, the Kingdom's missing kirin. Enshi is shocked that her companion not only is used to fighting but just a few years ago was part of the Royal Army. Also, the young shepherd's name is Kyoshi and he's one of the surviving priests that were taken in by Touka's residents after Zui'un Temple massacre. Later it is explained that Enshi and Kouryou were mistakenly attacked because one of the villagers saw two people of flying beasts and they panicked thinking that the government officials discovered survivors whereabouts and were trying to silence the alleged spies.

Misunderstanding cleared up everyone goes back to the village to rest and talk about everything that happened till now. Kouryou and Kyoshi find out how Risai and Taiki returned to Tai and made to the one provincial palace but as it was too tightly guarded they never made it inside and had to look for the place to get under the Sea of Clouds. Then Risai remembered about the abandoned mountain in Kou Province and so they came here trying to make it to the part of Bun Province where Gyousou was last seen. In turn Kouryou tells them about his last meeting with the King in the city of Rin'u and how he disappeared after he and twenty five of his personal guards left his troops to do 'something' and never met with the troops that were later going the same way. And how he and his superior decided to go dark after getting Risai's message about Asen's betrayal and then getting order to pursue her as the alleged regicide. They made their arrangements but somewhere along the way their communication network broke and Kouryou was left to roam the countryside without any information about his allies. Kyoshi also tells his story about the escape and coming to the Touka village. And how Zui'un survivors never have stopped believing and praying for the safe return of their rightful lieges as the government under Asen's rule almost destroyed the country that is barely hanging on. Their hope doesn't wane even when Taiki admits to having no kirin powers as his horn was cut off, basically being powerless and defenseless. He also tells them that the easiest way to deal with the problem is to kill him as it will result in Gyousou's death (wherever he is) and the birth of the new Tai kirin. Of course no one wants to hear that and everyone assures Taiki that his return alone is miracle itself and will give people the hope they desperately need.

After planning their next steps and getting enough rest Taiki and Risai leave Touka for Bun Province accompanied by their flying beast (Hi'en and unnamed suugu) and Kouryou and Kyoshi. Just before their departure Enshi and Ritsu come to say good-bye to Kouryou. She know she's supposed to be happy because after years of roaming around the country they finally found new place to live, but deep down she grieves the loss of the companion and protector whom she came to love so dearly during their journey.

***

Meanwhile somewhere in the hidden cellar in Bun Province the orphaned boy takes care of the man who tried to but couldn't save the boy's father from wandering youma and after man's death took the poor lad in. Thus the boy became his son. His warrior. Now the man lies ill, barely conscious and always singing the old and creepy song about the tragic fate of the foot soldier, whose ultimate fate is to be left to crows after dying on the battlefield.

As Taiki and his companions travel to Rin'u they meet their guide Houto, whose everyday job is to deliver special medicine made by Temple priests and other goods to every citizen in need. Thanks to his wide connections the group can travel undercover and doesn't have to worry about places to sleep. As they make their way to Bun Province Risai and Taiki come face to face with the dire state their homeland fell into and how hopeless their own situation seems to be. Asen rules with iron fist and every resistance no matter how small is punished by death. The people abandoned by their ruler struggle every day just trying to survive and have no time to worry about the king said to be death, let alone thinking about rising against the new government.

One morning as Risai prepares to leave the city of Sekijou, she discovers that Taiki is gone. Confused and terrified she confronts Kyoshi who tells her that kirin woke him just before the sunrise and announced that he has no time and that Heaven is telling him 'to go'. Doesn't know where to, but feels that it's his duty to obey the will of Gods. And that the others have to continue to search for any clues about Gyousou's whereabouts. Taiki had wanted to go alone knowing Risai would never let him go but Kyoshi begged him to at least let Kouryou accompany him as a guard. Kirin agreed and together they left. At first Risai feels hurt and betrayed but then admits that Taiki was right, because even as knows that the kirin is all grown up, in her heart he still is a child she remembers him to be. And that she has to make peace with the thought that a the envoy of Gods sometimes he has to do the things that others don't understand. But then she starts to worry as Taiki left behind the travel pass (passport?) provided by Youko and has no way to prove his false identity.

After a few days of silent treatment Kouryou works up the courage to finally confront Taiki about their destination as they're clearly heading toward the capital city of Kouki. And that's not a good place to be. As they rest in the inn after dinner kirin finally admits that the story about the 'will of Heaven' was I lie and yes, Taiki wants not only to go to Kouki but to gain access to Hakkei Palace. And he plans to tell a lie. Lie about Asen being the new King of Tai to regain his position as King's Advisor and use his influence to aid struggling subjects before the winter comes. Taiki also warns Kouryou that the only way to stop him is to tie him up because if left alone he would just mount his suugu and go without his guard, so Kouryou surrenders and so the next day they leave for the capital. When his companion asks how are they suppose to get in, to which Taiki answers "through the Front Gate". Which tells a lot as there are five city gates and the main one is reserved only for the King and his kirin. And so they do.

As they get arrested and are escorted by the guards Kouryou notices that surprisingly the city hasn't change a lot during his long absence but he still feels that something's not right. His suspicions get confirmed when they do get into the palace but are placed in a prison cell-like room but slightly better furnished. At first Taiki is calm and reassures Kouryou that he expected this kind of treatment as no one sane would just believe just like that that suspicious black-haired lad is the kirin himself. But after a few days of no information he starts to worry. And when they finally convince the servant taking care of them (man named Heichuu) to tell them something they find out that situation in the Palace is much more complicated than any of them suspected.

First of all, Asen is not running the show and nowadays he spends his time holed up deep within the Inner Palace and rarely shows up. And that in practice the real person in power is chousai Chouun (former Minister of Spring) and his comrades. What's more strange is the fact that no one among the servants knows anything as it's not clear who gives what orders, which are frequently contradicting and so on. The good example being Heichuu himself - getting suddenly transferred and being told to 'take care of the person claiming to be Saiho' with no further instructions.

As Heichuu describes it "everything is divided and the Court lost its unity". Which comes as no surprise as we see how worked up the courtiers became after Taiki's arrival. No one knows how to check the validity of the visitor's claim as most of the people who knew him before his disappearance are no longer part of the Palace staff. Finally after the long search they find one person - servant named Shouwa, who was one of the maids taking care of Saiho. And after meeting with Taiki she confirms that indeed the young man is the missing kirin of Tai. Unfortunately, the council suspects that either Taiki himself is lying or someone tries to use him against Asen, thus they make no effort to inform him about his new 'position'.

***

As courtiers are debating what to do the young girl named Yari sends courier bird to someone and then walks up to the man sitting in stable in front of the stall which Keito - Gyousou's mount is in. The man turns out to be Ganchou who was presumed to be missing. There she informs him about Taiki's return and the revelation he brought with him. Ganchou is shocked and doesn't want to believe it but at the same fears the worst - that the rightful King is really dead.

The others wondering about the current situation are two of Asen's subordinates - Kisen and Hinken. The former was always proud to be the General's man and is worried that Asen withdrawing from others' company is his way of saying that they failed him. Also he always thought that it was Asen who was meant to be the King. Hinken being sort of older brother figure tries to console him.

***

When Risai and her companions finally make it to the Rin'u they head over to the local temple where the priest already knows the purpose of their visit, so they make it their temporary base. At least in the beginning, because it turns out that formerly renowned and beautiful temple transformed into the refugee camp housing the large numbers of people with no place to go. And as any sort of gathering is strictly forbidden the head priest doesn't want to invite unwanted attention from the province officials, therefore he warns Risai about proceeding cautiously because the safety of the people depending on them is temple's main priority. So the group finds the other place to stay as not to be associated with the Temple just in case something went wrong. And in spite of warnings, the young priest who was appointed as their guide, Kiitsu, starts bringing over them some of the refugees that may know something about King's disappearance. As it turns out he's right, because one of them, the young man, tells them the story of his and his brother pursue to see the marching army during the uprising in the Bun Province that took place six years ago.

As the men climbed the rocks at night to get to the place with a good view they lost their way and accidentally saw Gyousou riding the narrow mountain pass with his guards only for the guards to come back some time later but in less numbers, some of them clearly wounded and with no King in sight. After hearing man's story Risai and other debate about going after their only the only evidence of Gyousou's presence - the bloodstained belt that was supposedly dropped in the vicinity of Mt. Kan'you where precious gemstones could once be found before the source ran dry...

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#twelve kingdoms #juuni kokuki #juuni kokki #shirogane no oka #kuro no tsuki #fuyumi ono #novel #summary #taiki #risai #tai kingdom #gyousou #asen #十二国記 #白銀の墟玄の月 #小野不由美

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easnuppa · 5 years ago

Text

Secret feelings

Chapter 7

Rosita, Abe and their six year old son, Matt, were crammed up together in the backseat of a car. The two men up front were clearly a couple, one had dark curly hair and the other had blonde hair and was more on the skinny side than his partner. They had learned their names, Aaron and Eric. Rosita went through the information Aaron had given them about the community they belonged to, Alexandria. Aaron had spotted them as Rosita, Abe and Matt had taken shelter from a nasty storm in an old run down barn, the next day when the weather had calmed, they came outside to find water bottles and protein bars laying right outside. Uncertain, but desperate of hunger, they had taken it, that was when Aaron had let himself be known. He had sat down with them and talked about this group he belonged to, that had built up a community called Alexandria, and it was not just that, Aarons group also was in contact with other communities. One called the kingdom, Oceanside and then the Hilltop. Their leaders were close friends with their leader at Alexandria, all the leaders originated from the same group. Aaron had looked at their little boy, Matt and invited them to come to Alexandria, to talk with their leader and maybe join their group, but Abe had declined in his usual matter, telling the man that he rather be starving then getting his nuts nailed to a community again.

It was not until Rosita heard Aaron talk to his partner over the walkie talkie when a name was mentioned and Rosita’s attention was piqued. Aaron had mentioned that their leaders name was Rick. Rosita almost desperate to hear more of the man, was bubbling over with questions. She searched her mind from all the stories Savannah had told her about their old group, and Rosita had asked Aaron if Rick's last name was Grimes. This had made the man halt and look at her, his eyes squinted as he searched her own, how the hell did they know what Rickˋs last name was? Then Rosita had explained about the cult they had escaped from two months ago, and their closest friends there had talked about their old group, she had named a few of the other people Savannah had mentioned and Aaron had confirmed that yes, Carol was the wife of the king of Kingdom, Maggie and Glenn did run the Hilltop. Rosita had nudged Abe and told him that they had to come to Alexandria to talk with this Rick guy. And now they were parked outside of the big metal gates of Alexandria, waiting for the gates to open. As the gates opened and the car slowly rolled in, Rosita gasped. Never had she seen something as beautiful as this. Rows and rows with big houses, well attended lawns, a huge church in the middle of it all. It was almost like they had been transferred into the past. They were led out of the car by Aaron and Eric and shown over to the church, there they were told to take a seat while the leaders of Alexandria were summoned.

Rosita recognized two of the leaders as they stepped in from how Savannah had described them. Rick the tall lean man with curly brown hair, light blue eyes, a posture that reminded of a cowboy from the old west. The woman, dark skin, with dreadlocks, the katana was missing though. They looked at them with stern eyes, then the woman, she knew as Michonne turned to Aaron and Eric, as two more black men and a woman entered, one dressed in all black, the other big and bear like, the woman small framed, those must be the siblings, Tyreese and Sasha, the man dressed in all black she did not recognize.

"Thought we told you two that we were not recruiting anyone else right now," Michonne whispered angrily to Aaron and Eric. Rosita watched as Aaron gave Michonne a quick smile to calm her down.

"We know, but I think you all should hear what they know, that is why we brought them here," they all turned towards them and Rosita, gutsy as she had always been, stepped forward.

"I’m Rosita Espinoza, this is my partner Abraham Ford, and this is our son Matt,” she then turned to the cowboy looking man, "you must be Rick Grimes," she continued to the two women, "I would guess you are Michonne, and you Sasha, and that is youˋre brother Tyreese," the woman called Sasha gasped and took a threatening step towards Rosita, her eyes was shooting daggers.

"How do you know us? " Abe pushed Rosita protectively behind him, but Rick walked in between the woman and Abe.

"Who are you and why do you know anything about us?" Rick asked Abe. Before Abe had the chance to start one of his rants, Rosita stepped up to Rick once again,

"We escaped from a cult that calls themselves the Haven, we have been held there for almost seven years now, people were brought in from time to time, some lasted others were killed, but three years in two people were brought in, a man and a woman. We got close to them, since the man started working with my Abe here, and the woman I took a liking to straight away. As we grew closer they started telling us stories about their old group," she paused to take a breath, ''I think they are friends of yours, members of your old group" she waited to see a reaction. The women gasped, everyone except the priest, Aaron and Eric where standing watching. She saw the leader, Rick had tears in his eyes.

"What where their names? " his voice had a desperate ring to it, Rosita smiled up at him.

"Daryl and Savannah," the man's hands were now on her shoulders, shaking her slightly.

"Are they still alive? Are they still at the Haven?" Rositaˋs smile grew wider.

"Yes they are alive, at least the last time we saw them, that was about two months ago, when they helped us escape the Haven. They have lived there with us for nearly four years, " she heard the woman called Michonne choke back a sob, then the big hurly guy called Tyreese caught Rositaˋs attention.

"How do we get to this Haven place?" Abe shook his head.

"It’s dangerous, it’s a closed off highly religious cult, people that come in through the gates never leave. But because of Daryl, we were able to escape, and that's a good thing cause they were going to execute Rosita," the group stood there stunned, all eyes on her. She rested her hands on her hips and glared up at Abe.

"I told you not say shit like that in front of Matt," Abe actually looked remorseful down at their son that was laying half asleep on the bench behind them.

"We promised both Daryl and Savannah to continue to look for their old group when we got out, and maybe try to gather people to rescue them, but it has to happen soon. Savannah is sick and needs better medical care then what the drunk bastard of a dr at the Haven can give her," Rick turned towards Aaron.

"Send a message to both Hilltop and the kingdom. Glenn, Maggie and Carol need to know about this, they were all close to both Daryl and Savannah, we need to come up with a plan to rescue them, and we need all three communities to help," Aaron and Eric both nodded, understanding the urgency. They hurried out of the church as Rick turned back to Rosita.

"I thank you for this information, Daryl is like a brother to me, and Savannah is special to us all too, you are welcome to stay here in Alexandria if you like, a house will be given to you," Rositaˋs lips parted in a warm smile, her eyes beamed up at the cowboy like man.

"Savannah told me you had a good heart, we will accept the offer. It’s not safe to travel around with children, I am sure you know, since Savannah told me you have two kids of your own," Rick nodded and smiled back.

"Gabriel, show them where they can live, we will wait until the others come, and then we will discuss what to do," he then turned to Abe, "if you can write down everything you know about the security, draw a layout of the area and everything else you know is of importance about the Haven, and then bring it to the meeting when the others are here, I would really appreciate it," Abe nodded.

Savannah sat propped up in a chair, a blanket neatly folded over her legs. She was resting her now boney hands on her bulging belly, a little over four years had past since they came to the Haven, any hopes of ever getting out of this place had evaporated as soon as she found out she was pregnant for the third time. She could feel deep in her soul that this pregnancy would be her last. It was draining her, she knew there was something wrong. She looked out the window where Daryl was chopping wood for the winter, their two boys Dean and Caleb helping him, Dean was the spitting image of Daryl. His younger brother Caleb, that was exactly 11 months younger than Dean, had Darylˋs sky blue eyes, but her blonde hair, and where Dean was tough and strong willed like his dad, Caleb was more of a gentle soul, very attached to Savannah. She had at first, when the boy had taken longer to start walking or talking, been concerned it would bother Daryl, who seemed so proud of Dean who had the Dixon guts, but Daryl had a soft spot for both his boys, his concerns of not turning into a good father for their kids was ridiculous, the boys could not have gotten a better father than Daryl. He always brought them with him if they wanted too, he always bragged about how good little helpers they where when he had taken them out to the new building site. The gap in her and Daryl's friendship had been mended as soon as Dean had been born, now their friendship was stronger then ever, and her love for Daryl only seemed to grow each day, but still she had never gotten herself to tell him how much she really loved him, she knew if she did and her feelings where unanswered it would kill her, but then again, she was slowly fading away with this pregnancy. She knew that this time she wasn't going to survive, she had not told Daryl of her fears, she always put on a brave mask. She knew their kids were in good hands with Daryl and that he would raise them to be good people. A tear slipped down her cheek and she brushed it away.

"Is there anything I can get for you Mrs. Dixon?" she heard the woman that the Haven was planning on replacing her with ask. She turned her head slightly towards the redhead and shook her head.

"No thank you Vicky, Iˋm fine right here," the council had when the pregnancy had started to cause trouble decided that Vicky were to move in with them, to learn Savannahˋs way to run the household. The council had explained to Savannah that the kids needed a mother to take care of things, and Daryl was still young enough to produce more children, so if Savannah did not survive, Vicky were to take her place as Daryl's wife and mother of his kids. Daryl did not know, she had begged the council not to inform him of this new idea, she knew how much time Daryl needed to let new people in. She had told Daryl, that since she was pregnant, the council had appointed them a maid and that Vicky was going to live with them and help out in the house while she was pregnant. Daryl had reluctantly agreed. It was killing her though to see how Vicky was flirting with Daryl, and how far she went to please him, more then once she had been tempted to put Vicky back in her place both physically and orally, but she did not want to spend her last months yelling and screaming like a raving lunatic in front of her two boys, She wanted her boys to remember their mother like the stoic fair woman she had always been. And she did not want to cause Daryl any future problems after she had past.

Sometimes she had the feeling that Vicky was trying to hurry up the process of her dying, so she always kept a watchful eye at all the food preparation. She knew the younger woman had set her eyes on Daryl the first time she met him, and she could understand why, afterall the same thing had happened to her back at the prison, and in her own way she had stolen Daryl from his true love, Beth. She saw Vicky walk out to their front door and call her boys in for dinner, Savannah glanced out and saw how Daryl scooped Caleb up in his strong arms and grabbed Deans hand as they walked towards their home. She wiped her cheeks when she heard Daryl's heavy footsteps enter the cabin.

"Go give yer mama a kiss and wash up before dinner, boys," he heard Daryl say in his low husky rumbling voice that still gave her goosebumps all over. Small feet came running towards her and soon enough she was enveloped by small arms, small butterfly kisses all over her face as she leaned down to give both her boys a kiss on their cheeks. A heartfelt laughter bubbled up from her chest, she ruffled their hair.

"How is it possible, Dean, that you always look like you have been wading in mud whenever you have been outside, while Caleb looks like he had just had his bath?" her question was directed to her oldest boy, but her humor filled eyes went up and met Darylˋs sky blue eyes. He shrugged and gave her one of his small heart fluttering smiles of his.

"That's the redneck blood shining through, princess," he said, she snorted from his nickname for her, never had she understood why he constantly called her a princess, she was so far from one. She watched as her youngest boy turned towards his daddy with an offended look in his so blue eyes.

"But daddy, I’m a redneck too, I don't get dirty, like mama said," she giggled from Calebs light voice and his still babyway of talking, Daryl scooped Caleb up in his arms again and started tickling him, and she watched how the little boy was giggling and squirming in Daryl's arms.

"Ya sure are, kid, be happy ya looks so much like yer mama and nothing like yer uglyass uncle Merle," Savannah had many nights been laying in bed listening to Daryl tell their boys stories about all the crazy things him and his brother had done when they were little. Daryl was good at telling stories, and she knew Daryl made up Merle to be a hero in all the stories, and not the man chauvinistic prick their uncle really was when he was alive.

"Now go wash up boys, supper is gettin cold," she heard Daryl say and he ushered the boys into the bathroom.

Daryl watched Savannah where she was at last sleeping peacefully next to him, her bulging belly looked so misplaced on her now so thin frame. Never had he seen Savanna so skinny and pale, it was like the fears he had during her pregnancy with Dean had come true this time, he knew life was seeping out of her body the closer she came to birth. He leaned down and placed a kiss on her cool forehead, when he leaned back his eyes where lingering on her pink plump lips. How he wished he could kiss those lips, her lips looked so soft and he bet she tasted just as sweet as she looked. He had been tempted so many times as they laid in bed together to actually lean in and kiss her good night, but he always chicken out. She only saw him as a friend, one thing was that she had to sleep with him, but he would never force a kiss on her, that should come willingly. He got out of the bed and pulled on his shirt and jeans, and grabbed his heavy worn boots in his hand and silently moved out of the bedroom. He peeked his head into the half open door of his boys bedroom, both his boys were sleeping soundly, god they were perfect, never had he pictured himself a father, but now he could not picture his life without them in it, or Savannah. He walked into the livingroom and his eyes landed on the young redhead sleeping on the couch, he rolled his eyes. It was annoying to have that little skank sleeping on his couch, always walking around in those small skimpy outfits, showing off skin. More then once had she given him suggestive looks across the dinner table, he could not believe the nerve the woman had, behaving in such a rude manner in front of his family. He knew Savannah was trying to get them all to accept Vickey, but his boys were clever, they saw right through the games Vickey was trying to play. He was gonna make sure that her ass was outta his house as soon as the new kid was born and Savannah was back to her old self.

He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and pulled on his boots, then he silently walked over to the front door, he badly needed a smoke that he had traded from one of the new people that had just arrived. He cringed as the door creaked on its hinges when he opened it, he looked worriedly over his shoulder to see if the skank had woken from the sound, but the selfish little bitch was still sleeping. He exhaled relieved and hurried outside, he rounded the corner to the back of the cabin where no one would see him from the hotel or the gates, he had just lit his cigarette and took a deep drag from it when his eyes landed on a loan figure leaning against his cabin wall. It was dark so he could not make out who of the guards it was, maybe it was the same guard he had picked a fight with to cause a distraction so that Abe, Rosita and their kid could slip out the gate and into freedom a few months back. Maybe now he was back to finish him off as he had made an ass out of the guard in front of everyone. But as Daryl studied the man standing there in the dark, it was something familiar with him, he took a few steps closer, and the man turned towards him.

"Rick?" the name just slipped out of him, suddenly he was pulled into a strong bear hug.

"Been looking for ya for almost five years brother," he heard Ricks familiar voice whisper, he could hardly believe what was happening. He pushed Rick off of him, his hands still on who had become his brother during this hellish worldˋs shoulders.

"Rick, whatˋcha doin here?" The man flashed him a humor filled grin.

"Here to rescue your ass, brother," Daryl took another drag from his cigarette and shook his head.

"How did ya find us?" Rick snatched the cigarette out of his hands, dropped it on the ground and crunched it under his worn boots.

"Your friends, Rosita and Abe found us, weˋre here to bring you guys home, Savannahˋs still here right?" a worried glimmer in Ricks light blue eyes, Daryl nodded.

"Inside sleepin," finally his silent prayerˋs had been answered, as time passed since he had helped Abe and Rosita escape he had almost given up on them finding help.

"Alright, go in and wake her up, weˋre leaving as soon as possible, we have surrounded the area, but so far they haven't suspected any foul play, but Rosita told us that there were a lot of kids here, so I don't want to start a war," Daryl nodded and nudged Rick to follow him inside.

"Need alil help," Rick nodded and followed after Daryl into the house. Rickˋs eyes landed on the woman sleeping on the couch, and his brows furrowed quizzically, but Daryl just grabbed a few sheets that he ripped apart.

"Gotta tie this bitch up and gag her, or else sheˋs gonna squeal like a lil snitch," Daryl roughly woke Vicky up and Rick helped him tie and gag her up, before he threw her squirming body over his shoulder. He opened one of the closets and shoved the fiery redhead inside, before he used the last sheet to tie together the closet door.

"Fuckin’ good riddance," he grumbled and led the way into his boys bedroom. He squatted down between their twin beds and shook them awake. Dean rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed looking confused at him before his blue eyes landed on Rick who was standing stunned in the middle of the room.

"Whatˋs goin’ on, daddy?" Daryl put his finger over his lips, signalizing for his boys to be quiet.

"This here is my friend Rick, yaˋll remember me and mama talkin’ about him and the others?" both boys nodded seriously, two pairs of eyes landing on Rick who was still in shock, “He really does look like the cowboy from the books mama reads to us," Caleb chimed in and Daryl murmured his agreeance, he turned to grab the boys clothes.

"Alright boys, now ya gonna get dressed, then ya wait out in the living room with yer uncle Rick right, I'm gonna go fetch yer mama," both boys started pulling off their pjs as Daryl was about to walk past Rick, when Rick grabbed his arm.

"You got kids?" Daryl felt his cheeks and ears heat up, he started to chew on his thumb and nodded bashfully.

"Who’s their mother?" Daryl stared at the floor.

"Savannah, gonna go git ˋer now, watch the boys," Rick nodded but before he let go of his arm he leaned in.

"You have some serious explaining to do, brother," Daryl just gave him a curt nod and disappeared down the hall and into the bedroom. He crawled into bed and carefully shook Savannah awake.

"Wake up princess," he whispered and Savannah shot up as fast as her weak body and big belly would allow her.

"Are the boys alright? Did something happen?" Daryl rounded the bed and helped Savannah up.

"The boys are fine, weˋre gettin outta here," he pulled out some of Savannahˋs clothes and helped her get dressed. It was starting to get cold and Daryl guessed they were about a month away off christmas.

"How are we getting out Daryl?" Daryl lifted her up in his arms, he knew Savannah had trouble walking.

"Looks like Abe and Rosita came through for us, there's a surprise out in the living room for ya," he watched Savannahˋs reaction when her gray orbs landed on Rick as they walked out of the hall. He carefully placed Savannahˋs too skinny form down in one of the chairs and Rick was by her side in an instant, hugging her.

"Rick," she breathed and Daryl could see tears welling up in her beautiful eyes, thank god this time there were happy tears, and not the sad ones that had filled her eyes to many times the last months. Savannah thought she could hide the truth from him, but he knew, he knew all too well what was going on in that pretty head of hers. Savannah held on to Rick tightly while she refused to let go of him as she cried silently into his shoulder, Rick looked up at him with confused, quizzical eyes, then he pulled back and looked at Savannah again, Ricks eyes landed on her bulging belly.

"Youˋre pregnant," he stated the obvious and Savannah let out a hiccup of a laugh.

"Yeah, I feel ready to pop," she said and laid her boney hand on her belly lovingly, Rick nodded. Daryl turned to his boys.

"Alright boys, I need to carry yer mama, so yaˋll follow uncle Ricks lead," his voice was stern and left no room for discussions. He knew how worked up Caleb could get around people he didn’t know. But luckily Dean came through and grabbed his younger brotherˋs hand in one hand and Rickˋs hand in the other. Daryl picked up Savannah again and followed Rick out the door, he felt how Savannahˋs head lulled tiredly against his shoulder. Hopefully Rick had not come too late to save her. They were led over to a cart that was hooked up to a couple of horses, they were shielded from any prying eyes from the guards standing at the gates, Tyreeseˋs big frame came into view and Daryl gave the big man a nod as the man he had befriended at the prison helped him lift Savannah up in the cart. He saw the surprise in Savannahˋs eyes and she hugged Tyreese quickly before the big man leaned down and lifted Dean up in the cart.

"Now don't you look like your father," the big man said with laughter in his whisper, Daryl watched how his little boy puffed his chest out proudly.

"Mama says itˋs the redneck blood," and both Tyreese and Rick couldn't help the laughter that slipped out. Rick picked up Caleb and handed him over to Daryl who had now climbed up in the cart as well. They all scooted together when a tarp was pulled over their head, and not long after the cart started moving. Savannah leaned heavily on his shoulder while he had Caleb on his lap and Dean on his other side. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut and waited when they reached the gates. He heard the gates being opened and the horses started pulling the cart through, it seemed like they had passed through without problems, but suddenly the cart came to a halt, and the tarp was ripped open and Daryl knew that this was too good to be true, but then three well known faces jumped into the cart followed by a man he did not know. One by one they where hugged by Carol, Michonne and Sasha. The unfamiliar man gave them a nod and ruffled his boys heads before they sat down on the opposite side of the cart. Carol grinned at Daryl as the cart started moving.

"What?" he growled at his bestfriends stupid grin, Carol giggled.

"Never in a million years had I ever thought I would get the opportunity to call you a daddy, Daryl," he snorted, but Michonne burst out into laughter.

"Yeah it is somewhat of a disturbing thought that we now will have more crazy pissed off rednecks to look after," both Sasha and Carol giggled, Daryl glared at them.

"Oh lighten up pookie, we are just teasing, now introduce us to your boys," and Daryl gave his two boys a little nudge.

"Show the ladies some Dixon manners, boys," both Dean and Caleb crawled over to the other side and sat in front of the people they had heard so many stories about. Dean was first, he reached out his hand to Carol first then the others.

"My name is Dean Dixon, ma’am," Caleb followed right after, wiping his nose while he shyly looked up at the woman in front of him through his long blonde bangs, trying to mimic his older brother.

"I’m Caleb Dixon, ma’am," Daryl could see how the three fierce woman he knew so well melted from how adorable his boys where.

"Oh gawd, pookie, no one could ever doubt who their parents are, that's for sure," Daryl could not help but feel the pride swell in his chest. Caleb pulled on Carols shirt.

"What’s a pookie, ma’am?" Carol giggled and looked at Daryl with a wide grin before she looked into Calebˋs so deep blue eyes.

"Your grumpy daddy is a pookie," his youngest son looked back at him and his brows furrowed slightly.

"Daddy ain’t grumpy around mama, so he ain’t gonna be a pookie if mama gets to live," Daryl saw how Caleb crawled over to Savannahˋs sleeping frame and nuzzled into her side. When he looked up, all four of them stared at Savannah.

"How far along is she?" Sasha asked her brows furrowed worriedly.

"She’s ready to pop any day now," he said with a heavy sigh.

"She’s so skinny," Michonne commented and Daryl nodded.

"I know, no matter how much she eats it don't seem like ˋer body can get what it needs," Carol frowned.

"I know how you always have had a thing for her, Daryl, but your boys seems pretty close in age. Putting her through three pregnancies so close to each other without proper medical care, thatˋs a bit extreme, to keep a girl yours," Daryl knew the people he considered his family would never understand, he had seen the same look he now saw in Carol, Michonne and Sashaˋs eyes. He already felt guilty for all the hardship he had put Savannah through and he swore that if she would live that he would never put her through anything again. He would keep his distance to her, leave her be and let her have a good life without almost killing her like he had done now. He just shook his head to the woman in front of him, Dean got up on his knees and directed a pair of angry eyes at the woman in front of them.

"It ain’t daddy’s fault, mama is his princess, its the bad men back home, they force daddy to do bad things toˋer," Daryl pulled his oldest son back, and glared down at his son.

"Ya hush yer mouth, boy," he could see the heat crawl up in his oldest boyˋs face as he stared bashfully down on the floor on the cart, the little boy nodded and sat back down. He knew how his oldest hated to be reprimanded, he reminded him so much of himself when he was a kid. Only difference he might have had to raise his voice to both of his boys from time to time, but he had never raised a hand at them. The rest of the trip they were all quiet.

A week prior:

It was early morning when the people from Hilltop and the Kingdom arrived. Rick had barely gotten himself a cup of hot coffee and kissed Michonne and their kids good morning, before his door busted open and Maggie, Glenn and Beth walked in. Rick nodded towards the coffee maker and silently asked if they wanted a cup. Maggie nodded and he handed her a cup.

"Did you bring little Hershal?" Rick wondered and Glenn shook his head.

"Left him back at Hilltop with Jesus," Rick nodded, then looked at Maggie's stern face, being the leader of Hilltop had made the young woman in front of him grow, it really suited her. He directed them into the dining room where he knew he could fit all the leaders, he gestured for them all to have a seat, just as the front door was opened once again and Carol and her new husband Ezikiel walked in. He waved them over and into the dining room, after placing a peck on Carols cheek and shaking Ezikiels hand. He stood by the end of the table and looked over his old group members, the quarry, farm and prison survivors. His heart swelled in his chest, he bared so much love for the people he considered his family, and now hopefully they would be complete.

"I guess you all are wondering why you have all been summoned," they all nodded and Glenn wrapped his arm around his wifeˋs shoulder as he leaned in.

"Eric said it was urgent," Rick nodded.

"It has come to my knowledge that two people of our group have been localised in a community called The Haven," they all frowned and looked at each other confused.

"Is someone missing from Alexandria?" Ezikiel asked concerned and Rick shook his head.

"No, I’m talking about two from our original group, Daryl and Savannah," Carol gasped and stared at Rick, "it is true, they are both alive and being held hostage in a cult called The Haven" he turned his head towards Michonne and gestured for her to bring in Rosita and Abe. The two came and stood next to Rick, explaining how they had become to know Daryl and Savannah, they went through the list Rick had asked them to make about the Haven. When they were done the room fell in silence, then Ezikiel rose from his chair and in his usual theatrical manner, hit his chest and spoke with a loud and clear voice.

"I know how much these two people mean to my wife. Rick you have the support of the Kingdom, tell me what you need and we will provide," Rick nodded and smiled in gratitude and watched how Ezikiel placed a loving hand on Carols shoulder, which she squeezed and kissed in return, smiling lovingly up at her new husband. Glenn also got up from his chair.

"Hilltop will help as well, we have good fighters," then he looked at Rick, "should we notify Tara at Oceanside?" and Rick shook his head.

"Tara has enough on her hands as it is right now, it's not easy to be appointed the new leader when half the group is against her," Glenn nodded, "no, I think we have all the strength we need with Alexandria, Hilltop and the Kingdom fighting together," Rick placed the map that Abe and Rosita had been working on in the middle of the table.

"I think we should disguise ourselves as merchants, there to trade supplies, we do not want them thinking we are ready to join their craziness," they all nodded, they spent the rest of the day going through every aspect of the plan, listening to Rosita explain the layouts of the insides of the community, who to talk with, what guards to look out for.

It had taken them almost a week to prepare, but now they were setting out to rescue the two that had been missing from their family for a little over five years. They had divided themselves into three groups, the Hilltop and the Kingdom fighters where going to surround the community, take out any possible threats. Then a small group from Alexandria were gonna pretend they were merchants, there to make a deal about trading. They had decided that it was too dangerous to bring either Rosita or Abe, since they could easily be recognized and blow the mission, so they were left behind at Alexandria with their little son. Abe had drawn a very detailed map of the road to the Haven, they all had gotten copies of the drawing so everything was in order. Rick was a little surprised over the short distance between the Haven and Alexandria, it had stunned him that the forest in between Alexandria and Hilltop were hiding this sick cult community. It was only half a day ride by horse, how many times have they roamed these woods without knowing this was right under their noses?

It was mid day when Tyreese slowed the horses to a halt outside the gates of the Haven. He knew his people were hiding in the forest surrounding the Haven, still his nerves were on edge.

"State youˋre business, stranger," was called out to them from a tower over the main gate, and Rick spotted a man holding a very familiar crossbow, aiming at his head. Ricks blood started to boil from anger, at least it was proof that his brother was there.

"We are traveling merchants, I'm here to strike a deal with the leaders of this community," Rick called up to the man, the man pointed at the cart.

"What you got under that tarp?" Rick jumped down and pulled the tarp aside, showing crates full of fruits, vegetables and other supplies they had scraped together from all three of their homes. Aaron and Eric were leading the second cart behind them.

"This cart is full of food," the guard shook his head.

"We grow our own food, not interested," Rick pointed to the cart that Aaron and Eric was sitting on.

"What about weapons and ammunition?" Rick called up at the guard, it was easy to see that Rick had his full attention. He walked around to the back of Aarons cart and pulled the tarp aside, and showed up a semi automatic gun. The guard turned and whistled at someone at the ground, then the gates were opened, and Tyreese and Aaron led the horses inside. The space was a little cramped on the inside, the hotel towering the middle took up a lot of space, so Tyreese had to round the hotel and park the cart in front of the cabins at the back of the hotel. When Aaron parked his cart in front of the hotel, drawing all the attention from all the guards. Rick stood back patiently while the cult leaders were summoned. The guard from the tower came out of the main doors of the hotels and walked straight up to Rick.

"Leave any weapons, your men and follow me, they will see you now," Rick nodded, and gave Aaron a silent message to put the rest of their plan out into action. Rick handed Eric his python strapped to his belt and followed the guard inside. He was lead three floors up and into a big suite where three people were seated in the living room, logs burning in the hearth, and the room was toasty warm. The three people got up from their seats and Rick reached out his hand and introduced himself to the two women and man in front of him, he was asked to take a seat and so he did.

Eric jumped down from the cart and nodding to Aaron, who had also jumped down to tend to the horses borrowed from the kingdom. Eric rounded the hotel and walked over to where Tyreese where standing petting the horses attached to his cart. He gave Tyreese a curt nod before he opened the tarp further and let the four people hiding behind the crates of fruits out.

"Alright, you all know what to do, Rick is already inside to talk with the leaders," they all nodded and disappeared in all directions, Eric then climbed up into the cart and rearranged the crates so more people could get room to hide before he jumped down and fastened the tarp again.

"I’m gonna go locate the cabin," he told Tyreese who nodded and slipped Eric a gun he hid in his waistband of his cargo pants and pulled his jacket over. His eyes traced the rows of cabins that laid near the banks of the lake, beautiful he thought to himself, but looks could definitely be deceiving. He strolled down the rows of cabins as he came to the cabin with a big number 5 painted on the front door. He stood leaned into a cabin watching it for a while, but nothing happened, then his hearing picked up a sound coming from the back, he quickly walked across the dirt road separating the rows of cabins and slipped behind the corner. There he noticed a man chopping wood, and two small boys running around picking up the splinters that fell on the ground. Eric heard the mans grunts every time the axe in his hands hit the huge logs. He saw the muscles on the man's arms where bulging, the man had shaggy looking brown hair who now looked damp from sweat, the man was wearing a plaid shirt, with the arms ripped off and loose jeans. Yes that man definitely fit the description he had gotten from Rick, but the kids where a new detail. Eric studied the two little boys, one dark haired, and one light blonde, both badly in need of a haircut, just like the man chopping wood. Eric let his eyes roam the backyard of the cabin, but there was no woman that Eric could see. They were informed that the woman called Savannah was sick, had she already passed? Were they too late? Eric had seen enough to inform Rick where to go later on, he rounded the corner when a red haired young woman stepped out on the porch and called on Daryl and the two boys. He frowned to himself, then he returned to Tyreese, where he shared the details he had found out and they waited for night to come.

@of-storms-and-sadness

@jodiereedus22

#angst #slowburn #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #fluff/smut #daryl dixon #daryl dixon/female oc #daryl x oc #daryl fanfiction

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