#simply the future isn’t worth its weight in gold | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kashimos-hajime · 5 years ago

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buried in your bones | b.b.

summary: “Promise you’ll love me always.”

WARNINGS: fluff, angst, blood, violence, swearing, drinking, magic and therefore magic haters pairing: king!bucky x queen!reader word count: 11.1k

a/n: inspired by hurricane by fleurie. i recommend listening to it for proper vibes :) written for @serpienten and @buckysknifecollection. i had the prompt king/queen au and a dialogue prompt that is bolded. sorry this took so long! am still working through some killer writer’s block :( but enjoy!

James can taste nothing but blood in his mouth as he plunges his sword through chainmail. His ears are ringing from the sound of metal singing with every slice, every clash of his sword against his opponents and his foot catches on a dead knight’s arm as he whirls around.

All around him, dirt is flying and there is the smell of smoke as he twirls out of the way of a horse with no rider. Sweat dripping through his armour, he spots a soldier pinned down and charges, running the attacker through his sword and kicking him off the tip.

The smell of shit fills his mouth as he sucks in a wet gasp, helping the soldier get up. Clapping his shoulder, James can barely hear himself over the clamour of battle raging around him.

“Are we winning?” Steve asks harshly, shrugging off his king’s hand, and James feels cold ice spear up his limb at the bitter glare his knight commander pins him down with. Steve has lost his helmet, his golden hair dark with mud and blood but his eyes burn bright. “Is this worth it for you?”

“Volley!”

The word pierces through the haze and the two men collapse to their knees, ducking their heads as arrows stab into the dirt around them, the inflamed tips snuffing out as soon as they sink into wet mud.

“I want nothing more than to retreat, but they attacked first,” is his reply. He knows it’s pathetic.

He knows he’s at war because his people crave what they think is justice, because his people hate what they don’t understand.

He had been the same once.

Straightening, James jerks back as a sword tries to cleave him in two, and Steve is lost to him in the furious chaos of battle. Parrying another blow, he shoves his shoulder into his opponent’s gut and knocks him off his feet, dark hair flying into his face as he shoves the metal through the man’s stomach. The strangled scream echoes in his ears as he pulls it out with a wet schluck.

Stumbling back, James looks up to see more of his men clad in their refined red and gold armour storming down the hill, and he whips around, watching as more soldiers in gold and white fall. He can barely discern who is on his side, who is on Asgard’s.

“Well, if it isn’t the King of Kings!”

The voice, even to this day, harsh and rich with arrogance that only comes from believing their purpose is righteous, causes a fire in James to ignite.

Turning around slowly, he sees the gleaming dark armour, the stained black leather, the stench of death following his wake. Lord Rumlow scrapes the blood off one short sword with the other and James swears he can see someone’s brains along his knuckles drenched in blood as he raises his own sword.

“Rumlow.”

“How are you, m’lord?” he drawls, that knifepoint smirk digging into his cheeks as he raises one of his swords, the tip pointing for James’ eyes. Scarlet drips from the edge and James swallows the knot in his throat. He has no illusions that if given the chance, the man will stab him through the throat slowly, sinking that blade through his flesh as he watched the light die from James’ eyes and relish in it, but he is a dog.

A dog with a master.

“Where is she?” James asks, the words tearing out of his throat as he sweeps his gaze through the dying battle. The ground is littered with the fallen and he can taste death on his tongue—bitter and cold and vile. “Where is she?”

Lord Rumlow merely laughs, harsh and sharp and poisonous. He circles James like a predator circles cornered prey, slowly making his way within sword range, and James watches those dark eyes narrow in bloody glee. “As if she’d come here for you.”

“I know she is.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s dark with fury as Lord Rumlow merely cocks his head, intrigued. “I saw her on the rise.” Hair sticks to his skin and his heart is nothing more than threads barely holding together. “Please, we can end this—”

“You still love her.” It is nothing but cold, brutal truth and James flinches as soon as he hears it. It exhausts him to hear those words, to know that someone like Lord Rumlow knows what he had refused to believe, to know that he’d been the fool for years.

Lord Rumlow lunges forward, bringing his short sword down upon James’ shoulder. Blocking the blow, the king falls onto his back. Metal sings in his bones as their swords drag against each other.

James manages to drive the sword into the dirt, his lungs heaving for air as he jerks his head away from the tip. A wild glint falls into the dog’s eyes as his lips curl into a vicious snarl as James tries to throw the man off. His skin is slick with mud and blood and sweat, and James can feel the heat kiss him at all sides. It’s suffocating in his armour, clouds of hot air gathering in his back, under his arms, on his face.

Brock wrenches his bassinet off and James barely has time to prepare himself for the punch before it hits. His head snaps back into the mud, nose blooming in pain as his eyes squeeze shut to prepare for another strike, but hands merely wrap around his throat.

“How dare you claim to love her? How dare you say that after what you’ve done? You’re not even fit to say her name!”

Fingers dig deeper into his throat and James gasps for air, blood slipping down his cheeks from his nostrils. Mouth gaping, he wraps his hands around Lord Rumlow’s sleeves. The cacophony falls away, the sound of everything fading as James forces his eyes open, staring into the pits of his strangler’s eyes, and his feet kick, slip through mud.

“You. It was always you,” Rumlow murmurs. “Even after all these years, she chose you time and time again with nothing to show for it. She should’ve killed you when she had the chance.”

“What did you just say to me?” James chokes out and Rumlow laughs, sharp and his teeth are bared in a sadistic grin.

“You’re in no position to threaten me, m’lord.”

“No, what— what do you mean?” Another fist to the cheek, James’ world spins as his head jerks sideways. He can hear his blood gurgling in his head, in his throat, as he digs his fingers deeper into Rumlow’s gloved hands.

“All these years and you still don’t know.”

Unworthy. Unworthy. Unworthy, Rumlow’s voice chants in James’ head.

It is all he can hear.

Black dots impede his vision as the strength drains from his body.

“She never trusted you. She could never trust you. And how could she? Your family ruined her life!”

What?

“Please, don’t—” That voice from so long ago, scratched and aching with its plea for mercy, echoes in his ears and his eyes flutter shut.

“And why would she? You won’t even fight for her honour,” Rumlow derides, a cruel laugh mutilating his words. “You don’t deserve her love. You deserve nothing!”

There’s a snap.

“Get off of him!” a voice snaps, dark with power, and the weight lifts from his chest, but it is too late.

James doesn’t recall falling into the abyss, but he knows he falls when everything goes silent.

“Prince James, let me introduce my daughter.”

That is how it starts, when he is nothing more than thirteen, reading in the garden’s hedge maze. The sun is golden, the wind smells like sugar and sweet fruits, and the sky is bluer than sapphires as he closes his book and looks up at the approaching man.

When he thinks on it years later, he thinks it is just as how all the fairytales, all fables, start.

He recognizes the man—a diplomat, lord of some powerful house.

The girl behind him, however, he doesn’t.

You’re wearing a dark red dress, your hair pulled elegantly away from your face, and you’ve the warmest eyes he’s ever seen. A fire ignites inside him, smoldering him from the inside out as you curtsy and he stands, his chair grating harshly against marble.

You smile at his flustered expression and he finds it beautiful.

“Your Highness.”

“My lady.”

“Your hedge maze was no challenge for me,” you proclaim and James laughs, tucking his book underneath his arm.

“And you’re good at puzzles?”

“The best.”

His heart no longer beats in his chest as your father explains that you’re simply here to shadow him in his diplomatic duties.

He had never worried about marrying a woman he didn’t know the name of, but now, as you cock your head and your smile grows sly at his shy grin, he knows you’ve stolen his heart the instant he laid eyes on you.

Any betrothal in his future will be for nothing because all he wants is to marry you.

It’s his seventeenth birthday and he’d spent the night before drinking smuggled whiskey and smoking rum with his friends. His head pounds now, with regret, as he tries to keep himself from falling asleep. His feast is going full swing, and he can’t quite recall ever feeling the effects of irresponsible drinking so strongly than tonight.

“Your Highness.”

You’re helping him in that regard.

“You can’t doze off, can you?”

He blinks, head jerking to you, and you smile.

“It wouldn’t be fit for a king to sleep at his own birthday feast.” Extending a hand over the table, you cock your head. “Dance with me. Perhaps then you’ll stay awake long enough to see the night to its end.” Standing, James feels blood rush through his body and he grins, placing his hand and yours and walking around the table. You tug him playfully into the center of the dance floor, the circlet gleaming in your hair.

The melodies of the band sink into his bones as he places a hand on your waist, the other interlacing with yours as he steps with the music.

“I apologize, my lady.”

“Oh, as you should.” You smile although your tone betrays it as he spins you around. Your dress floats, flares gracefully from your waist in dark green flames, matching the emerald on your sternum. A gift of his for your last birthday. “Illicit drinking without me? Honestly, it’s a crime.”

“Steve wanted to keep it a secret,” James protests as he dips you in one hand.

“Funnily enough, Lord Rogers said it was your idea.” Hoisting you back up, you send him a berating glare. “Honestly, you’ve never kept a secret from me. What’s going on, now? You’ve been ignoring me for days.”

“Nothing, bluebird,” he soothes as your hand settles on his shoulder, and a heat blossoms from your palm, through him. He could melt into your heat, the effortless hearth that stems from your very soul. His eyes settle on your confused expression, and he pulls you close, forehead knocking into yours. “I promise you. There is no secret.”

“You’re lying,” you murmur, eyes searching his. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“As are you.”

You scoff, drawing back and their noses brush as you narrow your gaze in a challenge. “You’d be surprised.” You twirl out of his reach with a parting glare, another lady taking your place and he’s surprised to see Lady Natasha smirking up at him. Taking her hand in his, he steps back into a bow while she curtsies. The music stalls for a moment as he kisses the redhead’s knuckles before it picks back up again.

“My lady.”

“She’s not very pleased, is she?” the redhead points out and James groans. “You invited her all this way and then chose to exclude her on the pre-celebration ritual.”

“Don’t tell me you’re the one who told her,” he complains, nearly stepping on Natasha’s toes but the lady quickly steps out from underneath his boot. “I’m trying to keep it all a secret. You know that.”

“I think you’re doing a terrible job of it. If you’re going to propose to her, it might be best not to act like she has the plague.”

“I haven’t!”

“Yes, you have. Don’t play the fool.” Natasha narrows her gaze, squeezing his hand painfully, and James winces. “You’ve never went a single week in the four years you’ve known her without sending her a letter and suddenly, the moment we get here, I have to listen to her complain about how you refuse to even look her in the eye and how you don’t spend any time on her, excusing it with flimsy reasons.” Shaking her head, Natasha pretends to accidentally step on James’ foot as they waltz around each other. “You’re lucky she loves you. She suspects something is wrong with you, and she’ll get it out.”

“And you didn’t tell her, did you?” James adds nervously, causing Natasha to sigh heavily, rolling her eyes. Her whole body seems to cave in with the stupidity James is apparently exuding as she sucks in a breath and tries to formulate a response not too rude for him.

“Of course not. Why would I ruin something like this for her, Your Highness?” With the last, biting word, Natasha is whisked away by a blond man with flushed cheeks and way too many drinks to be anything but a stuttering mess. James follows the redhead as she pulls Steve off the floor and sighs dejectedly, collapsing into the chair beside his best friend.

“Your birthday not all you wanted, my lord?” Steve crows as Natasha brings a goblet of wine to her mouth to hide her smile. James, with a glum smile, leans his cheek against his fist and watches you dance with another lord. He’s a bit older, one of the lords of your house, and handsome in a roguish sort of way.

Lord Rumlow, your sworn shield.

James does his best to bite his tongue when you toss your head back in a laugh and the knight grins, his obsidian eyes soft only for you.

The three friends exchange glances as you cup the knight’s cheek before slipping into the crowd just as the music ends, and James stands abruptly without a farewell to his companions. Pushing himself through the crowd, he mutters his pardons, your dress slipping between noble lords and ladies.

Breaking into the hall outside the ballroom, he doesn’t see a trace of you.

As if you’ve disappeared.

Sighing, he walks to the gardens. These halls are ones he knows well, ones he’s run through since he was nothing but a princeling escaping his nursemaid’s supposedly evil clutches. Then, as a boy after tutoring or a day out riding, and now…

He had walked you through these halls a dozen times and he still thinks you haven’t seen everything.

One place you do know, however, is the palace gardens.

The leaves are silver in the moonlight, a gentle wind rustling through the hedges as he makes his way through the hedge maze. Crickets chirp and some bird croons as he sucks in a warm summer breath. It smells heavenly, of flowers and sweet sugar, of light and clean water. He can hear the faint music from the palace, still, but the smell of hearty meats and smoke have faded to something softer, something warmer.

“James?”

Your voice pierces through the night air as he finds himself in the centre of the maze. You turn around on one of the benches to look at him, and he’s surprised by the morose expression printed onto your face.

“Are you alright?” Stepping to the bench, he sits down beside you with a frown. “Did something happen?”

“Brock was simply saying how I had to rest up tomorrow. We depart at dusk tomorrow to avoid the rebels.” You turn to him, a glumness to your face he’s not used to seeing and he takes your hands gently in his. “I’m sorry I have to leave so early. We were supposed to have the week together.”

“If the rebels are threatening the roads, it’s best you go before you can’t any longer,” he whispers, leaning forward and pressing his lips to your brow. You inhale shakily at his touch, leaning into him. “I’m sorry I can’t fix this.”

“You can’t fix everything, Bucky,” you mumble, your nose brushing against his as you pull back. James wrinkles his nose and you cup his cheek, thumb brushing underneath his eye. “I just don’t think this is a war we need to fight.”

.”These magic users are dangerous—”

“Those magic users are people,” you reply hotly, pulling back and standing. You turn away from him and James’ eyebrows knit together as he stands as well. He doesn’t reach out for you, and you wrap your arms around yourself. “They’re people who’ve been treated like beasts.” Approaching you slowly, he gently sets his hands along your shoulders and you whirl around in his grasp. Your eyes search his, and he feels something in him soften at the bleeding heart he can see in your chest.

“You know I can’t change my mother’s policies. Not after how Father died.” His throat cinches shut at the mention of the father he never knew and he turns away from your palm, looking up at the summer sky. A dark indigo canvas speckled with diamonds, it’s so vast and endless, James can’t help but wonder if his father is watching down on him.

“What happened with your father, with Steve’s father, it was one incident that somehow made everyone see people with magic like freaks. One incident was all it took.” Looking down at you again, James brushes his knuckles down your cheek. “We haven’t exactly prosecuted all of mankind for one man going on a murder spree with a knife he stole from the butcher’s shop,” you say, voice snapping like a whip as you pull away. Again, you turn away from him and James feels at a loss. Every time you turn away, he feels as if he’s splitting in two and he sighs, letting his hand fall back to his side.

“We put murderers, criminals, in jail.”

“And we’ve persecuted a whole people for the same thing.” Your shoulders fall as you let out a tremendous breath, and an emptiness in James widens at the desolate aura emanating from your very being. “I should go.”

You move towards the hedges but James walks after you. “Wait! I don’t want us to depart on these terms. I have no wish for you to leave angry at me.”

You turn slowly, your dress twisting and brushing against the dirt as you shake your head, a gentle smile upon your face.

“I’m not angry at you, James,” you assure quietly, and he believes you by the earnest glint in your eyes.

“Then, may I walk you to your room, my lady?”

You dip your head, and extend a hand for him to take. Your fingers slide easily between his, and he pauses, simply admiring your face bathed in silver light. His other hand reaches to brush against your jaw and your smile grows as you cup his jaw and pull him down.

The kiss is quiet, tender, and his eyes slide shut as your hand runs through his hair, pulling back just enough to breathe.

“Promise you’ll love me,” you whisper, words as soft as silk against his lips as he presses his brow to yours. Your eyes are still closed but his flutter open, soaking in your face as if he’ll never have enough time to memorize it. You cup his face with both hands, open your eyes and stare into his soul. A wounded ache festers in your gaze and he nods. “Promise you’ll love me always.”

Drawing back, he feels your hands tremble and brings them in his own to his lips. Mouth against your fingers, he nods again. “I promise I will always love you.” Kissing your knuckles, he does not break his gaze away as your lips curl into a tender smile. Squeezing his hands, you look younger, as if a burden has been lifted off your shoulders, and in that moment, James swears he has never seen something quite so divine.

He falls to one knee, and reaffirms his grasp on your hands before digging through his trouser pocket for the ring.

“Bucky…” you begin, bemused at his antics, but then you catch sight of the ring and your breath hitches. Eyes widening, your fingers wrap tighter around his as he brings the ring up to the moonlight. In lunar rays, it glows effervescently, winking and stunning in its shallow grooves, smooth gold, and intricately shaped hands linked together. The metal bends, caves where the fingers interlace and you let out a whispering sigh as he looks up at you.

A heat rises in his cheeks and he swallows the nerves biting at his throat. He should’ve had a drink before he came out here, but then again, he hadn’t realized this would be where—

He should’ve. This is, after all, where he first fell in love with you.

“Marry me,” he says although it’s more of a question, a request, an ask for a blessing, and your smile is brilliant as you say nothing. “It is why I have been so distant lately. I’ve been trying to find the perfect execution, but it seems my own heart has betrayed me. I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you, and although I am your prince, to be your king… Do me this honour, Y/N, and be my queen.”

“Well…” Your grin digs into your cheeks as he looks up at you, and a flood of relief fills his body as you tilt your head, just as you did the first day you met him. “No more drinking without me, then I’ll marry you,” you proclaim and he laughs as you tug him onto his feet. “Promise me that.”

Sliding the ring onto your finger, he presses a warm, bruising kiss against your lips before pulling back just far enough to whisper, “You have my word.”

And then he kisses you again.

If, four years ago, James knew marriage would be so exhausting, he would still do it again in a heartbeat.

Your laughter, after all, is the song he wakes up to every morning.

That, or the squirming body of his son trying to get between James and you.

You laugh as his son bounces between your legs, desperate for the horse to go faster than the easy walk he paces at, and James watches as you wrap an arm around his son’s waist.

“Your stallion is ready, my king.” Turning to the stable hand, he nods his thanks and mounts easily atop the white steed, gently nudging his sides into a trot to join his family at the edge of the woods. Alpine nickers his greetings to your mare as you tug on the reins with your one hand.

“A fine afternoon,” he comments, glancing over at you as Stellan wraps his chubby hands around the handle of the saddle specifically crafted for riding with a child.

“Indeed it is, your Grace,” you tease, brushing your hair out of your face. “A fine day for riding.” Your mare bumps noses with his stallion as Stellan notices his father, clapping his hands. “The prince wants his father.” Hoisting his son out from the space between your lap, you hand him over to James with a grin.

“Papa!”

Kissing his son’s cheek, James grins when his son latches onto him, arms wrapped around his father’s neck as they start their ride into the woods. James keeps a hand on Stellan, careful not to let him fall or squirm too much.

His twenty-first year has been blessed with peace, and James can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. The rebels have been squashed into their hiding holes, and the kingdom prospers with long summers and short winters.

And his family…

He looks at you and something inside him melts. Your lips are puckered in a whistle and you repeat the bird songs chirping through the trees while the guard rides behind you, and he glances back to see Steve talking to Lady Natasha.

What joke did she tell him this time? He wonders, amused when Steve blushes at whatever Natasha said. Always flustered by whatever the bold redhead says. I hope nothing too under the skirts.

“Eyes forward, my king,” you call and he turns forward again to see you up ahead, head tilted to look over your shoulder. “We do have a clearing to reach before midday.”

“Mama?” Squirming in his arms, Stellan wriggles his way back between his father’s thighs and grabs the wooden handle of the saddle. Bouncing excitedly, the boy leans forward. “Go!” James nudges Alpine into a trot to catch up to his wife as his guard splits apart in the woods, no doubt interested in a day off simply relaxing without any drills on a sunny day like this. He’s sure some would head off to the lake for a swim while others participated in a hunt.

“Are you coming, Rogers?” a voice crows within the trees, and James grins when he hears Anthony’s squire, Peter, exclaim in pain when he hits his head on a low-hanging tree branch. “Your lady can come, too!”

“She’s not my lady, Tony!” Steve calls back as James catches up to where you’ve stopped and he pulls his reins lightly to stall as well. Glimpsing Steve’s red face, James smirks when the blond turns to Natasha. “I mean, you are my lady, my lady.”

“Aren’t you the charmer?” Natasha says dryly as the two approach the royals. Their steeds’ ears twitch and Natasha scratches her horse’s ear as you grin. “My king. My queen.”

“You do realize you are free to take the day off. We haven’t had the time to do so in ages,” you tell them kindly, your eyes darting from the lady to the lord. “Not since James has been crowned king, I feel.” Steve cocks his head when Stellan tries to reach over to him and he picks up the prince, bouncing him in his arms. “Not since this one was born for certain. You ought to take it, the both of you.”

“Spoken like a true queen,” Natasha teases. “But I agree. Diplomacy is an exhausting sport.”

“Sport? I’m sure Rhodes wouldn’t be so inclined to call it so.”

“Rhodes needs to stop and learn to relax. It’s not that complicated.”

“He knows how to relax,” James quips. “He just doesn’t take his job so lightly unlike you, Lady Natasha.”

Natasha grins, rolling her eyes before tugging the reins of her steed towards a parting in the trees. “Well, unlike Rhodes who is no doubt racing Tony to the lake, I will take a long, leisurely stroll there. Lord Rogers, if you would accompany me?”

“Of course, my lady.” Steve transfers Stellan from his arms back into his father’s, picking up his reins before dipping his head to you. “My queen.” Always with the formalities, James muses as he grabs Steve’s hand in a hearty shake farewell. “I won’t be too far away.”

“I’m counting on it,” James replies before the blond rides after the redhead, and the royals look at each other before bursting out into laughter. “God, I wonder when he’ll ever have the courage to properly ask for her hand in marriage.”

“Knowing them both, she’ll ask first,” you reply with a wrinkle of your nose and the two of you ride off into the woods.

The destination is a clearing upon a small hill, sparkling with morning dew just beginning to dry and flowers blooming in the branches. The trees part perfectly in a path down the hill to the lake and the sun casts golden shafts through the branches, the entire clearing glimmering in its blessing. The smell of fresh wind and sweet nectar fills James’ nose as you dismount beside him, lowering Stellan gently onto the grass. You unpack your saddlebag, revealing blankets and food.

James dismounts as well, patting Alpine firmly along his neck as he grabs the flagon of wine and more food from his own saddlepack while you lay the blanket gently over the grass. Feeding an apple to Alpine, he gently rubs his steed’s nose before joining his wife and son underneath the shade of a tree.

Unbuckling his belt, he rests his sword against the trunk before sinking to his knees beside you. You’re already leaning back on an arm, watching as Stellan chases a butterfly across the huge clearing and James kisses your temple, easing against the tree. You immediately lean against him, your head against his chest, and he tilts his head back to feel the breeze along his neck.

“This is wonderful,” you sigh, your hand on his chest. “Four years of nothing but non-stop madness and now we have a day to simply breathe..”

“Three years of being king, four of being a father. I don’t think I’ve ever been so exhausted,” he agrees. “Father always made it seem so effortless.”

“Well, that’s how fathers are,” you tease, glancing up at him. He looks down with a slight frown and you reach up to tap his nose. “You’ve been nothing but a perfect father to Stellan. You ought to slip before he thinks you’re some god.”

“Would that be too bad?” His nose wrinkles and you chuckle, pecking his lips before sitting upright. Stellan wanders back towards his parents, his chubby fist holding blades of grass and he tosses it at James before crawling into his mother’s lap. “He seems to be his mother’s son, anyway.”

“As he should,” you fire back, lifting Stellan up in your hands and throwing him up a few times. His high-pitched giggles cause James to smile as he leans down, brushes hair away from your forehead and kisses your brow. Tilting your chin up to snag his lips into another brief kiss, you settle your son against your chest and roll over.

“Mama, walk,” Stellan orders, and you look down at your son. “Go walk.”

“Your son’s already giving me orders,” you comment pointedly, sitting up as Stellan gets to his feet and James smirks, beginning to unpack the food.

“I think he’s more like you in that regard,” James fires back mischievously and you lightly smack his shoulder as their son grabs your hand and tugs you away. Pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, you allow yourself to be lead into the forest while James carefully sets up the wine, the food. Taking a bite out of a bit of cheese, he heads to the horses who’ve been roaming the clearing and sighs.

He must cherish this day. Tomorrow, it’ll be nothing but more meetings with diplomats, advisors, and other engagements regarding the bandits along their border.

Magic still spikes fear in the hearts of his people, despite how hard you’ve tried to dissuade the notion that magic is dangerous. It’s been your one goal since you’ve been crowned his queen, a movement that has made you…

Made you controversial, to say the least.

It has definitely put you into disfavour with his mother, but James doesn’t care.

He knows your heart is in the right place, even if he himself is still afraid. There is that bravery with you, that makes him want to be brave, too, but his father...

He will never forget the sight of his dead father.

Stroking Alpine’s snout, he feels the stallion lip at his pockets, searching for treats as your mare nickers, coming over with ears perked up in interest. Turning to the mare, he grins when she snorts against his cheek.

Grinning, he simply lets the horses nudge him every which way, threads his fingers through their manes. With a deep breath, he lets the day wash over him. He closes his eyes and presses his brow against Alpine’s.

In the distance, he can hear Natasha shouting at Anthony, Steve’s loud, bright laughter.

No matter what happens, he wouldn’t change being a king for anything if it meant ruling with these people beside him.

“Wolf! Wolf! It’s the White Wolf!”

Peter’s petrified warning shout echoes through the forest and James jerks towards his voice, eyes widening. The White Wolf?

His blood freezes in his veins. The White Wolf had been lurking through their woods for the past years, a white beast larger than horses and hungrier than ten wolves that only came out at night. With blood red eyes and claws that could eviscerate through steel armour, the White Wolf is nothing short of a monster.

Never has he heard of it roaming during the day.

Until now.

“Peter!”

“Where’s the king?”

Alpine lets out a loud neigh, stomping his foot against the soft dirt as the sound of swords and steel clashing and James grabs his belt from the tree, cinching it tight around his waist as Steve appears in the parting of the trees. His thoughts immediately race towards you and Stellan, alone in the woods, and his heart leaps to his throat as he turns to Steve.

“She went out with Stellan for a walk,” James barks, brushing past Steve roughly. Behind him is the rest of his guard, stumbling up the hills in various states of undress, but they stop as soon as they catch sight of him. Ice seeps into his veins and he ignores the thought of you mauled to pieces, a tiny body beside yours. “Find your queen!”

“Yes, my king!”

Drawing their swords, the knights split off in coordinated groups, disappearing in seconds. Steve and James pair off and sprint into the woods. His blood is racing through his body, his feet flying through the grass as he hears the loud roar of the bear.

Shouting your name, shouting Stellan’s, his lungs feel like they’re about to burst as the crashing river comes into view. The sound of the white rapids, thunderous as waves crash against rock, echoes in James’ skull as he sweeps his eyes for a glimpse of you.

There’s the dark brown of wood everywhere, the same shade as Stellan’s leather vest, and his vocal cords burn as he screams over the sounds of the rapids.

“James?” He can hear his name in the distance and then there is a flash of white smudged with green and he can see Stellan bursting through the bushes on the other side of the river, followed by you. Steve raises his hand as you scoop up your son, and James rushes to the chaotic riverside. Frigid water splashes at his boots and a chill shoots up his spine. “What is it?”

“We need to head back. The Wolf is awake.”

Eyes widening, you disappear back into the woods after a quick nod, and James turns to Steve with a grimace before they start to sprint down the river.

The only place to cross is by the lake where the river is calmer.

All he wants is to hold you in his arms.

The river calms as the trees begin to thin out once they reach the crystalline lake and Steve breaks through first just as something bursts through the bushes. Stellan’s cheeks are streaked with tears and as soon as he catches sight of his father, he runs towards you, and you tear out after him, your clothes stained with dirt and leaves, your hair a mess.

What follows is a massive beast, lunging out of the trees for you. It’s nothing but a flash of white fur and red eyes, claws gleaming in the sunlight. Drawing his sword, Steve runs into its path, bowled over with a painful clash just as James unsheathes his sword. You pick up Stellan and run up the hill, and as soon as James makes sure you’re on your way to safety, he joins Steve in the battle. The Wolf drags its claws through steel, and Steve lets out a scream, struggling to wrench its paw off of him just as James charges at the thing, running his blade through the pelt but it seems to glance off easily.

No mark stains the pelt and it swipes out a ferocious paw, knocking James aside as Steve struggles weakly, blood beginning to seep into the soil beneath. Scarlet rivulets gleam in the sunlight as James blinks his vision clear, digging his sword tip in an attempt to stand again. Terror tries to lock his limbs, but he tries to fight the swelling in his chest as he reaffirms his grip on the sword and runs at the beast once again.

The Wolf’s lips pulled back in a snarl, it leaves Steve motionless just as James tries to stab at its shoulder and it pulls back, tail thrashing. Blood drips from its maw and as James stares into the eyes of death, he wonders what he’ll see on the other side.

Hopefully, nothing.

Realistically, this will not be a painless death.

He raises his sword, and steadies his breath, sweat gathering in the hollow of his back, the seam that has stitched itself into his ribs just beginning to heal. Lungs heaving for air, he feels light-headed, near dizzy with adrenaline.

The Wolf lunges and James tries to jump out of the way too late. It catches him by the waist, drags him through the mud and his sword goes flying as teeth sink into his thigh. Grunting, he smashes his fist into the mutt’s muzzle to no avail, desperate to contain the scream trying to rip through his chest.

Black dots swarm his vision and his whole body is in flames as he raises his other leg, kicking the Wolf in the eye but it is not phased.

At least, not until something blasts it off of him.

Gasping for air, he pushes himself up and away from the Wolf that lies in a crumpled heap by the lake shore and then there is another pulse of energy, a cage of gold forming around the beast before hands hoist him up underneath his arms and drag him away.

“Are you alright?” He can hear your voice, sharp in his ear, and he turns to see you, eyes focused on the Wolf struggling to escape its prison. His whole body is aching buried deep in his bones and blooming like flowers in summer, and blood soaks through his trousers as you pull him behind a rock, dropping into a crouch beside him. “James?”

“What was that?” he whispers harshly, hand wrapping around your wrist, and your gaze jerks towards him jarringly. There is a light he does not recognize, focused, precised, glimmering in your eyes. You pull your wrist out of his grasp, turning to his oozing wound. Grabbing his hands, you push it atop the puncture, and James’ breath hitches at the warm, tingling sensation festering in his leg.

“I need to pull Steve to safety. Put pressure on that and do not move. You’ll only bleed more.” Without another word, you turn and make a lifting gesture with your hands. James cranes his head to watch a warm, golden corona surround Steve’s body and he is dragged towards them, leaving a trail of blood-soaked grass. The Wolf growls, lunges and bites, the sizzling of its energy cage filling the silence along with the clanking of Steve’s armour just as the blond is caught in your hands.

Pulling him around the rock cover, you hoist Steve up against the stone and run a glowing hand across the hemorrhaging body. Your fingers, tense and locked, seem to tremble as the blood stops flowing, and James’ eyes nearly pop out of his skull as he watches the eviscerated remains of his best friend begin to stitch together.

Turning to his own leg, he lifts his blood-red palms to see it already nearly closed, and his heart constricts as he covers it again and lets his head fall back to the stone.

Magic.

There’s the sound of branches breaking and James’ eyes snap open. Sweat pours at your brow just as he turns to look at you, and you barely flash him a smile before something snaps again and your attention is torn away.

Immediately, the stitching effect disappears and James cradles Steve’s head in his, brushes blood away from his cheek as a sharp howl pierces the air. The summer heat is thick against his cheeks as you trade blow for blow with the Wolf.

He wants nothing more than to step in beside you, but with every flash of gold, every bright burst of energy, he feels the fear he felt when he was nothing more than a child locking his legs, paralyzing his body.

Magic.

Pure, powerful magic lights up the air and he can smell it, smoke and starlight, on his tongue.

The Wolf lunges and you toss it into the lake. You send a shockwave rippling towards the hound and it merely jumps over and pins you to the ground. Its claw gouges into your chest and your scream is earth-shattering as you kick it off of you with a powerful blast from your legs. Rolling onto your hands and knees, James can see blood drip slowly down your chest, into the grass as your tattered dress blows in the gentle wind.

You seem to stare into death’s jaws, and then…

You smile.

The Wolf’s claws dig into the dirt, and then it is sprinting at you in full force just as you force yourself onto your feet.

Your name tears through his chest just as the Wolf tackles you into the lake and there is a small flash before a loud crash of water and he turns to Steve to make sure he’s still alive before stumbling to his feet to watch, and in the lake, two beasts thrash in the cold water. Jaws snap, claws drag through flesh, and he watches as a magnificent bird beats its wings, sending a rippling gale of wind through the lake. The water recedes onto the shore as fire flares and the Wolf whines in pain as talons sink into its back.

An awe fills his entire body as the gorgeous phoenix flaps its wings and takes flight, dropping the Wolf onto the shore once again and landing with delicate precision. It warbles, a gentle sound, and shakes out its feathers, droplets of silky water flying everywhere. Each quill is red-orange, near golden, and its talons glimmer with golden scales.

James’ mouth drops open as it croons at the Wolf who merely cowers in its presence. Another whimper escapes the white dog, its red eyes fading to brown and James, entranced, watches as the phoenix, wings extended, begins to sing.

A sense of melancholy seeps into his soul as the Wolf lowers its chin to its paws and the phoenix coos, the crest on its head swaying and catching the true sunlight. They shine like cut amber as its golden eyes narrow.

Then, there is another, softer glow as the phoenix buries its beak in the fur of the Wolf, and James turns away, shielding his eyes from what seems like the sun. Falling beside Steve, he looks at his best friend.

“Steve?” he murmurs, and murky blue eyes meet his just as you appear again. Magic still oozes around you like oil in the sea, and he can smell magic again, but warmer this time—like a hearth burns inside his soul. Around your shoulders is an arm attached to a young woman he doesn’t recognize in a white dress.

“Are you alright?” you ask, slowly lowering the woman to the ground as well. Reaching, you cup Steve’s face that is beginning to regain its colour, and James watches gold light up the blood beneath his skin where you touch.

Don’t touch him, he wants to say, but Steve only wakes up at the contact, eyes widening ever more so slightly.

“Y/N,” Steve rasps and your hand retreats just as you turn to the woman that’s barely stirring. James watches as you lay a hand carefully on her arm, and she raises her head groggily. Her eyes are muddy, dazed, but then they roll back and she slumps forward and Steve jerks away from the hair brushing against his hand, shuffling back against James who wraps an arm around Steve. “I thought death held me for certain.”

“It almost did, old friend,” James replies, eyes wandering to you. “And the Wolf?”

“She needs time to recover,” you reply, delicately brushing hair away from the girl’s face and James’ eyebrows rise in shock.

His whole body is wracked with fatigue, but his mouth drops open when he gets a glimpse of the necklace hanging around the girl’s neck. “I remember her. Seven years ago, House Starr reported their daughter was missing to Mother. They never found her.”

“At least not until now. I need to bring her to healers,” you say, standing and lifting the girl with surprising ease. James struggles to his feet, pulling Steve up, and your eyes soften at him as you try to smile, but the blood, the still-fading glint in your eyes, sends chills through his body.

Magic…

“We’ll need to speak later.” You dip your head in farewell before walking to the lakeshore, and Steve groans, his entire body deadweight against James’ shoulder and the king grunts, doing his best to keep him standing.

“Bluebird, wait—”

You glance at him over his shoulder, and there is a sorrowful sweetness resting in your face, a tenderness in your smile, a grief in your gaze.

Then, a golden sparks carve a line into the air, sizzling against the grass as it carves a portal into this reality. You turn forward and walk through.

It closes before he can follow.

His mind is cluttered, his ears full of beeswax, and he doesn’t know what is real.

Steve had been rushed to the hospital wing to be swarmed by doctors, the other knights anxious yet relieved to see both the king and their knight commander alive and safe.

He doesn’t miss the fact that Rumlow is not among those men.

In fact, he is missing, and not a single soul has heard from him.

Buried in his bones is an ache James cannot ignore. His chest feels like it’s splitting open, his ribs snapped, and as he stares at his reflection in the cheval mirror, he swallows the hard lump in his throat.

The teeth marks are already closed, scarring over yet there’s still a residual pulse of pain when he prods at it.

He doesn’t know whether or not to be enraged, relieved.

All he knows is emptiness.

“Are you alright?” Startled, James drops his pant leg and turns around to see you standing there, eyes wide and a tentative smile upon your lips. His breath catches in your throat and his eyes immediately go to his hands that you clasp before you. “James?”

“What are you doing here?” he asks, feather soft and you walk closer, your footsteps light. “Where is the Wolf?”

“Lady Ava is fine. I’ve brought her to some healers on the border of Asgard and Midgard. It was some curse inflicted upon her as a child. Parental mishap, it seems but she’ll be fine with time,” you inform quietly, your gaze dipping to your hands as you twist the ring, the ring he had given you, around your finger. “Is Steve…”

“He’s alive,” he replies stiffly, brushing past you and you turn around with him, lips twisted into a worried frown. “Thank you,” he adds quietly, genuinely. His mind is a whirlwind, his heart racing in his ears, and he can’t help the sensation that seizes his chest, the awareness of where your hands move. “Without you, he would’ve died.”

“Steve is family.” Walking up behind him, James can feel you come close. His entire body tenses, and he faces the wall, eyes slip shut. Bright blasts of gold ignite in his mind, followed by a ravaged village he had seen on his tour of his kingdom. At the hands of magic.

Hands of your kind.

He forces the next words out between gritted teeth, the words coming out flat, stoic.

“Go, before someone tells the truth about you.”

“James, you can’t possibly—” You touch his shoulder and James flinches away, whirling around to face you. Your eyes widen at the reaction, and you withdraw your hand back, stumbling to the wall. “You’re afraid of me.”

“You’re magic,” he whispers, voice wavering and you swallow audibly. Your hand shakes through the air as you retract it to your chest, and he watches the pulsing wound along your collarbone slowly stitch itself together, the flesh leaving no mark. Magic. “Of course I’m afraid of you.”

“James—”

“And Stellan,” he cuts you off cleanly, trying his best not to shake when your eyes widen, wet with tears. You blink and they fall, crystalline in the low light. You’re shaking, your entire body trembling as the two of you stand on opposite sides of the small room. “Is he…”

“Magic?” you finish for him and your voice is void of life, defeated. Your hands drop to your sides and you seem to stand straighter under his gaze as you stare at him. “After all this time, you’re still afraid of magic. You won’t even let me explain.” Your expression crumbles and you turn your face away, rubbing at the tears tracking down your face. An incredulous, sharp exhale fills the silence and James feels something inside him split open.

“Would you? Explain, that is.”

His heart wilts, his lungs collapse. His ribs seem to ache as you wipe at your face, the soft sounds of your uneven breathing filling the silence. He can feel your gaze, hot and desolate and aching against his cheek as he closes his eyes.

All he can see is his father’s splayed body, the blood soaking through the mud.

“You keep this secret from me, and expect me to trust you with the truth?”

“James…” you whisper softly, and his gaze jerks to yours jarringly. Your glassy eyes seem to stare right through him and he swallows through the bruising in his throat as he tries to hold back his own tears. “Please—”

“How could you not tell me?” he croaks, and you inhale, a shuddering, sharp thing. His chest is cracked open, his limbs are numb yet every bone in his body is solid lead. “How could you keep this from me?”

“Because I know you.”

Your words are empty in the summer air.

There is a moment of silence as everything James knows shatters around him. If he listens close enough, he can hear the shards of it colliding with the stone beneath his feet, breaking into uncountable pieces.

“Go,” he says softly, and he can’t bear to look at the devastation his words cause. “I’ll say you died in the attack, so you have enough time to leave the kingdom. Take Stellan and do not return.”

“James, no. He’s your son. Please, don’t—”

“I said, go!” The loudness of his voice shocks him and he flinches back into the wall at the eerie quiet that follows.

There is the only sound of uneven breathing, the cacophony of hearts breaking, and you step forward, the fabric of your tattered dress brushing against the floor. He can see your shadow in the candlelight, reaching for him, before you jerk back and he closes his eyes, burning tears dripping down his cheeks.

The door groans when you push it open, as if the castle is reluctant to let you leave, but then it opens and you slip out.

The door closes shut with a soft, yet thunderous boom.

“The King is awake!”

James’ head blisters with pain, and it only intensifies at the voice as he blinks his eyes open. The ceiling of his room is not unfamiliar, neither is the mattress he’s beginning to wear uneven beneath his back.

All these years and he never could sleep on your side of the bed.

“James!” Doors open and hands rush to help him sit up, and he groans, eyes squeezing shut when his head sways. His whole world slants and the taste of vomit burns at his throat as he slowly opens his eyes again, and he catches sight of Natasha’s red hair. The bright light streaming into his room makes his head pulse and he turns away, hand rising like it’s dragging through molasses.

“The light,” he rasps, and Natasha, who holds him by the elbows, turns to whomever is with her.

Darkness falls in his room.

“James.” Steve. “Are you alright?”

“What… how am I here?” His tongue is thick in his mouth, dry and raw, and his vocal cords twinge at his voice.

“Rumlow almost killed you,” Steve begins quietly as more people enter the room. “We lost men, but won the battle once they surrendered.”

“Surrendered?” Frowning, James’ brow wrinkles and he feels something split open with a stinging sensation digging into his skull. He hisses out, reaching to touch it but Natasha guides his hand away. “Fuck. Where—”

“In the dungeons. Waiting for you whenever you’re ready.” Natasha’s voice is soothing to the thumping in his skull.

“Help me stand.”

“Wait. Give yourself a few moments to regain your bearings,” Steve murmurs but James shakes his head despite how terribly it increases the agony chipping into his head.

“No—”

“James.”

“If she’s there, I need to see her.” Letting go of Natasha’s hand, he swings his legs off the bed and leans forward, hands clutching onto the edge of his bed.

“James.”

“What?” he barks, head snapping to Steve and Natasha who look at each other with an apprehension. “Steve…” Something drags at his gut and his eyes widen in fear. Ice sluices through his chest. The silence becomes suffocating and with every passing second, he feels the world darken in on him.

No. No, no, no, no—

“She’s not there.”

“Where is she?”

“James, sit down.”

The ice melts into magma, and he thrashes off Natasha’s gentle hand.

“Where is she?”

Peter’s cabin is small, but warmly furbished for a squire. He lets them in before excusing himself to the castle, and James feels like he’s chained to a solid steel ball by the ankle. His limbs are wrought with bruises, and his head sways with every step as Natasha and Steve help him in.

He can see you through the open door to Peter’s room, and his breath stops in his chest.

Your body is hunched over a bed, a blanket draped over your shoulders as the sun washes over your body. You don’t stir at the entrance of the trio and James lets out the breath, the string lancing through his body snipped when you don’t immediately move. You’re dressed in oversized clothes, trousers and a linen shirt hanging off your shoulders. Your hair is slick with oil, and he can smell the poultices that must’ve been slathered onto any wounds from where he walks slowly deeper into the room, his fingers deep in Natasha’s and Steve’s arms.

“Steve,” Natasha murmurs, and she brings James’ hand to Steve before approaching the bed slowly. Steve leads James to a couch by the small hearth but James’ eyes don’t stray from Natasha as the redhead approaches your sleeping form. He cranes his head to watch through the doorway, and his blood rushes to his head, dizzying.

“Why is she here?” James whispers, voice fleeting just as Natasha lays a hand on your shoulder and you jerk up, a soft blue corona flaring around your being and Natasha raises her hands, walking around the bed. Narrowing his gaze, James tries to decipher who lays there as you stand on unsteady feet, rub at your face.

“How long have I been asleep?” you ask quietly and the sound of your voice, deeper, mature, strikes James, pulls him apart at the seams. Standing on unsteady feet, his legs knock into a table as he rushes towards the bedroom despite Steve’s attempts to grab him, and he stumbles to the door frame, his head spinning.

His vision blurs, and his head feels like it’s bashed in, but he doesn’t miss the colour of your eyes, the way your head turns to look over your shoulder.

Lightning strikes his core when your gaze fixes on his. There’s so much about you that is the same since the last time he’s seen you. Thirteen years and you’ve only grown more beautiful, more graceful. The little wrinkle in your brow as you look at him, the tightness in your lips as you frown.

“James.”

Even the way you say his name is the same.

What isn’t, though, is the fear.

He knows what fear looks like on your face, the way it floods your eyes, the way it can’t show on the rest of you because you are a queen and untouchable, but for it to be directed at him…

His head is heavier than bricks on his shoulders as you back up until your legs touch the bed, and your arms are spread.

Is this how he looked at you all those years ago? As if he holds a knife to his throat and digs the blade deeper with every second?

“What is he doing here?” you ask, scratchy and you clear your throat, not tearing your gaze away from him for a second. James stays by the door, a cold hand wrapped around his ankle, keeping him there no matter how much he wants to move.

“I don’t want to hurt you—”

“Oh, you’ve done plenty.” Your voice, pure fire, sears through his chest as you narrow your gaze. “Go.”

“Y/N—”

“I said, leave.” Although no magic flares at your fingertips, there is a shift in the way the light plays in your eyes and James’ throat closes up at the way your eyes glisten. “Don’t you think your family has done enough?”

“You’re my family.”

“No, I wasn’t,” you whisper. Natasha’s head is bowed, but her eyes still watch the scene with an uncanny glint. Even if she is your friend, she will no doubt step between you and him. Catching the woman’s gaze, James tilts his head towards the door. Eyes widening, the red lady dips her head and slowly makes her way between them, her gaze slowly dragging across James’ expression but he remains solely focused on you.

Your eyes do not stray from him either.

Walking in slowly, he closes the door behind him and his eyes flicker to the figure in the bed. Their face is cloaked in shadow, but he can see dark hair illuminated by the candle. Eyes narrowing, he tries to discern who it is.

Perhaps it is Rumlow, and he has made a tremendous error.

“Why are you here?” you whisper tightly between clenched teeth, and his eyes snap back to yours. “It’s been thirteen years and you’ve fixed nothing.”

“I didn’t know Asgard was ruled by you,” he begins. “I didn’t know until I saw you on the rise. If I had known—”

“What? Would you have attempted peace? Or would you have tried to conquer us again like your father did?” Your expression is wracked with agony as he steps closer, and you inhale softly, shakily. “Stay away from me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Stay away—”

“Bluebird—”

“Do not think me so soft that I will listen to you because you call me that.” Your words become thin, choked. “I gave you my terms, and you didn’t choose peace, just as your father did.”

“Your people are hostile.”

“And yours murdered mine. King Thor died two moons ago and the only suspect is a Midgardian” Her words hang coldly before him and he pauses in the middle of the room. “As his successor, it was only natural to want justice.”

“Why you? Why not anyone else in his court?”

“Because I was not just Midgard’s queen,” you say, finally pulling your gaze away to sit down on the edge of the mattress and turning to the figure on the bed. You touch their face, but do not tilt them to the light. “Your father tried to conquer Asgard when I was young, four or five. I was playing with my brother in the streets, my mother watching over us. I didn’t know what was happening until we heard the screams.”

James hears the tiny, trembling breath in your throat as you run your hand down the figure’s cheek.

“It was too late before we knew to run. My mother took my brother and ran, and I did my best to follow, but they just kept running after us until we separated.” Your voice goes quieter, glass-like. “I found their bodies, my mother’s hunched over Loki’s as she tried to protect him. I can still see their blood, taste it in my mouth. It felt like the entire city burned before allied Jotunheim forces arrived and chased your people out of our land.”

“Y/N—”

Your gaze finally turns to him, and he does not recognize the pitifully small girl in them, the shivering, broken girl in the rain and smoke staring back at him. “They ran through the streets like rats. I could hear them shouting in fear as they froze to death, and I thought I was going to die, too, until Brock found me. He was… he was the knight commander’s squire, and he told me I had to run.”

“So he knew all this time.”

“Of course he did. He was sworn to protect me,” you murmur, and the way your voice flips makes James’ eyebrows rise.

“He loved you, you know?”

“I know he wanted revenge. I know he wanted me to kill you at every turn. I don’t know if he could have ever picked me over the other,” you whisper, eyes drifting and finding his again. Your eyes have softened with an unspoken agony, and the candlelight plays with your face, making you simultaneously younger and older all at once. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Your silence is his answer and, this time, when he comes closer, his hand against the wall, you don’t protest.

“I’m sorry.” He cranes to catch a glimpse of the face, and sees a younger face, at rest yet ashen with death. Eyebrows knitting together, he looks to you again and it’s breathtaking the way you gaze at him. Effortlessly in anguish, terrible in your grace. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“James—”

“Forgive me.” Pushing off the wall, he falls to his knees before you and bows his head, heat rushing to his face. Head submerged in his own shame, he can feel his shoulders shake before the tears come and his throat clots as he plants his hands into the ground. “Forgive me.” A worm in his gut wriggles its way up his throat and he feels sick to his stomach as he keens over, presses his brow to the wood. “I never meant this. I don’t know—where? How did we get here, bluebird? How?”

“James.” Your voice, strong yet tender, commands you to look up at him, and his face is kissed by cold wind as he wipes at his tears. “Come sit beside me.” Raising to unsteady feet, he collapses beside you and your arm immediately wraps around his shoulders, your other hand brushing hair away from his slick cheeks, his tear-stained eyes. “You know how we got here.” Your thumb brushes over his lip and a sense of warmth fills his hollow being. Thirteen years without your warmth, and now, he drowns in it.

Your hand flattens against his cheek and guides your gaze as you twist to reveal the face on the bed. With your free hand, you tilt the boy’s face towards him.

His entire body freezes as the boy murmurs, eyebrows knitting together and turning away.

“Stellan…” Standing, he rushes around to the other side of the bed to get a better look of him, and reaches with trembling hands toward his son’s face. A large cut is drawn into his stem and disappears beneath his shirt, and a rage fills his soul. He’ll kill the man who tried to kill his son. “My son—”

Who looks just like him in nature, the same jaw and nose.

“—has grown into a man,” you say, and James wrenches his gaze to you. A sweet sorrow resides in your face as you smile. Holding Stellan’s face in his hands, James entire body alights with energy, with a breathless wonder. “And knows his father enough to save his life.” You thumb over Stellan’s cheek, your fingers barely brushing James’, golden magic spiralling beneath your hand like branching ivy, and the boy mumbles under his breath, turns to the warmth. He fights the instinct to flinch, and simply lets your magic caress his knuckles. It tickles, then melts like warm chocolate against him. “And he got a sword stem to stern for it.”

“He killed Rumlow?” James looks to you, his hands drawing away from his son’s face, and the warmth is chased away.

“It was instant. Brock felt no pain. It was all I could do to save Stellan,” you say, struggling to keep your voice even. “I don’t want us to fight, anymore, James. Bucky,” you correct yourself with a small smile, and his heart pangs as you reach for his hand across the bed. No one has called him that in years. “But if this is what happens when our people mingle, perhaps it’s best we stay apart.”

“I don’t want that,” he whispers, taking your hand and you study him with knitted eyebrows. “I don’t want to be apart from you for another moment.”

“Then, promise me you’ll fix this.” Your voice, barely a whisper and shaking, is strung with a strength he knows you have, and he looks to you, a queen all on your own.

You have never needed him, but he needs you. Your hand in his tells him as much as you weave your fingers carefully with his, and he wants to hold you tight, hold his son again.

Thirteen years have left him cold, nothing more than a skeleton in a flesh prison.

“I promise.”

At his words, your expression seems to ease, and then a shyer, girlish smile curls at your lips.

“And promise you’ll love me always.”

“I promise.”

725 notes · View notes

anthony-kate · 5 years ago

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***Magnus and Alec are husbands. Yes, this needed to be said because CAN YOU BELIEVE? :’) But also, yes, it’s really been that long since the latest Malec fic rec. I’m sorry. It’s... yeah. Although if you also miss Malec every second of every day, reading fanfics at least helps a little.

I tried to collect a nice mix again so I hope you will enjoy this 9th (!!!) edition of my Malec fanfic rec posts. As usual, I enjoy making them and rec’ing you fics but these posts take a looooot of time so please, please, please reblog, like and spread the word so that I see you enjoy these and these posts are helpful. It motivates to do a new one in the future if y’all are interested. Thank you

And now, have fun discovering, reading, and loving those Malec fics. And leave a kudo and comment for those authors while you’re on it. We all love appreciation and need validation. :)***

previous Malec fic recs: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

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42 NORTH 71 WEST by @lecrit [ M | AU | 62.1k | complete ]

Alec sometimes wonders why he ever decided to pursue a career in politics. Magnus sometimes questions whether pursuing his dream of becoming an actor was worth it.

Those two facts are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

THE SHOW MUST GO ON by @unrestrainedlyexcessive [ E | AU | 21.3k | complete ]

Alec pulls up to the gold intercom positioned at the enormous front gates. Like everything owned by the obscenely wealthy, they’re proportioned for both for giants and giant egos.

He’d hoped this would be easier, less gut-churning work than protecting diplomats and foreign dignitaries, some guilty of truly terrible things, but being a bodyguard for a coddled popstar who can’t even be bothered with basic safety isn’t his idea of a good time.

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Magnus is a popstar and Alec is his reluctant bodyguard. The bodyguard au in epistolary form. Image-heavy.

HIGHER THAN THE BIG TREES by @carmenlire [ E | AU | 242k | complete ]

Alec loves his job. He’s been touring since he was sixteen. He’s stayed in dozens of countries over the years, learned enough of their languages to get a beer in his hand and a man in his bed. The road is as much his home as the townhouse on the Upper West Side. He’s as comfortable in cheap hotel rooms with scratchy linens and glaring lights as he is in his penthouse that overlooks Central Park with its silk sheets and the constant hum of the city that never sleeps. Alec works hard and that hard work has paid off. He just finished his latest sold-out world tour and by all rights, he should be on top of the world. But the mental pressure of celebrity is getting to Alec and he doesn't trust his footing. He's stuck where most people would kill to be and he just wants to know what his next move should be. Enter Magnus Bane. A history professor at Columbia University, Magnus is content with his friends, his classes, and the occasional warm body in his bed. But he's been feeling stagnant, looking for the next chapter in his life to begin. If only he knew what Alec would bring his way.

THE SECRET OF THE SECRET SANTA by @notcrypticbutcoy [ T | AU | 12.7k | complete ]

As busy doctors with busy schedules, Magnus and Alec have danced around their feelings for each other for years, much to the chagrin of their friends. This Christmas, Simon decides it’s time for an intervention-in the form of a shamelessly rigged secret santa.

Or: In which Simon rigs the secret santa, Magnus and Alec flirt over nerdy doctor things, and are both a little bit oblivious.

RUMOR HAS IT by @lecrit [ M | AU | 12.9k | complete ]

Magnus widens his eyes at him, silently asking him to just give him this one. Alec simply curves one of his stupidly perfect eyebrows in response, a simple gesture that carries the weight of a call for challenge. “Looks like you’re gonna have to postpone your wedding for now,” Maia giggles next to him. Magnus huffs, flexing his jaw. “Oh, it’s on, Lightwood,” he mouths at him.

Or the one where Alec and Magnus are both after the same guy, but end up falling for each other instead.

CIGARETTE by j__writes [ T | AU | 3.1k | complete ]

His relationship with Magnus Bane had been nothing short of frustrating.

Frustrating in the worst of ways. Frustrating in the best of ways.

ABSOLUTELY ABYSMAL by @aemiliafawn [ E | 4.8k | complete ]

The first time Alec sees Magnus wearing lipstick he wants to do filthy things to him. Magnus isn't exactly opposed to this.

A ROYAL AFFAIR by j__writes [ M | AU | 38.8k | complete ]

Prince meets professor and it's love at first sight. Lucky (or maybe unlucky) for him, the beautiful professor doesn't know his boyfriend's a prince.

HEAVEN IS A TASTE ON EARTH by @alittlebriton [ T | AU | 20.7k | complete ]

Making a birthday cake for the renowned chef Magnus Bane is a hard enough task – made harder still by the fact his girlfriend doesn’t seem to know Magnus’ likes or dislikes at all. Alec Lightwood, maker of some of the finest cakes in Brooklyn, is up to the challenge, even if he can’t take his eyes off the birthday boy. But as Alec and Magnus grow closer, could it be that the missing ingredient is true love?

LOVE & OTHER DRUGS by @la-muerta [ E | AU | 2k | complete | Semi-Charmed Kind Of Life #1 ]

Rising rockstar Magnus Bane’s life is all about sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll - it's an old cliché, but sometimes the clichés are true. And Alec Lightwood, a bassist from another band, is a drug Magnus can't get enough of - even if he knows that like any drug, he's sinking deeper with every hit he takes, and that this is killing him slowly and painfully.

Because this is just about sex, and Alexander doesn't love him back.

OUR LOVE IS A HARSH CHORD by @la-muerta [ E | AU | 21.9k | complete | Semi-Charmed Kind Of Life #2 ]

Magnus lives in two worlds: one of blinding stage lights and the thunder of the adoring crowd stomping its feet to the rhythm of his music; and one of the darkness offstage, a blur of lonely hotel rooms, one-night stands, drugs, and the sting of whiskey.

Magnus lives in two worlds, both of them stark, bleak, empty - until Alec Lightwood comes along, and everything falls apart.

MELTING MOLTEN by @raininginadelaide [ E | 4k | complete ]

The training scene in the show was their second attempt. The first time, Alec showed even less restraint.

SUPPORT SYSTEM by @bytheangell [ T | AU | 122.8k | complete | Support System #1 ]

When Alec's favorite show gets cancelled and he takes to messaging customer service repeatedly to show his support, he doesn't expect to connect so well with the support representative he keeps getting paired off with.

PAGING DR. LIGHTWOOD-BANE by @carmenlire [ not rated | AU | 4.4k | complete ]

Alec scowls. “I’m not on rotation this weekend-- I’m not even on call-- and we decided to make the most out of it.”

“We,” Maia asks, brows inching towards her hair line. “Who’s we?”

“My husband and I,” he mutters and he rolls his eyes as it's like a bomb’s been detonated in the middle of the table.

Simon screeches, “What,” and even Jace and Isabelle are looking at him with wide eyes.

“You’re married?”

Or, the one where everybody finds out

TRUTH OR DARE? by @atowncalledmalec [ E | AU | 4.5k | complete ]

Two small-town cops, partners, Alec Lightwood and Magnus Bane, have somehow pulled desk duty on the graveyard shift. Bored out of their minds and finding a lie detector machine, the chance of winning a $50 bet and being able to ask the questions they've always wanted to ask is too good of an opportunity to pass up. Alec gets a little more than he bargained for though when the machine betrays him at every turn. And so does Magnus.

EVERYTHING I DIDN’T KNOW I WANTED FOR CHRISTMAS by @la-muerta [ T | AU | 4.5k | complete ]

Alec got his Christmas shopping done months ago - but he should have known that Jace would mess it all up for him. Now he's out braving the crowds on Christmas Eve trying to find a toy that's sold out everywhere for his son, and as it turns out, he's not the only desperate single father out there who will stop at nothing to get his hands on that last toy in the shops.

CERTAIN PERKS by quill_and_ink [ E | 5.5k | complete ]

"You never have to prove yourself to me."

Shadowhunters are being murdered and mutilated. The Clave is getting desperate to find the culprit, but Alec has to believe there's another way. He won't let this end his relationship with Magnus - he refuses to accept that, and he'll do whatever he can to protect them.

Based on the dialogue and actions from "Shadowhunters" Episode 2x13: "Those of Demon Blood"

THE TRUTH UNTOLD by @carmenlire [ not rated | 4.4k | complete ]

Magnus closes his eyes and leans into the feelings that wrap around him. They’re two of the most powerful men in the New York shadow world. It makes his chest ache sometimes, the knowledge that they may never be able to take their relationship public, that he won’t ever be able to kiss Alec on a sunny day in the city, that they can’t hold hands as they walk through Central Park, that whenever they do see each other in public it’s always in an official capacity and they’re relegated to formal greetings while their eyes try to say everything they can’t.

He’d still take this over not having Alec, though. That Magnus knows without a doubt.

ANYTHING YOU SAY by @milominderbindered [ M | AU | 117k | complete ]

Detective Alec Lightwood likes his job. He likes the order of it, likes helping people, likes that he gets to work with Jace and that Izzy is always right downstairs in the morgue too. He's wanted to be a cop ever since he was a kid, just like his parents before him, and now he's living that dream. His life should be perfect.

There's just one problem. Their precinct has just gotten a new forensic expert -- Magnus Bane.

And honestly, he's so cute that Alec's kind of losing his mind.

EMISSARY OF SIN by @insiemes [ M | AU | 97.6k | complete ]

Alec Lightwood, the Clave's top protection agent, is called upon to guard the life of his mortal enemy - one of the world's most notorious hitmen, Magnus Bane.

SHOOT TO KISS by @dantes-wombat [ M | 5k | complete ]

As far as dates go, this one's a bit more weapons-centered than Magnus expected - but also a lot sexier.

IF YOU’VE GOT THE MONEY, I’VE GOT THE TIME by j__writes [ T | AU | 73.4k | complete ]

Alec has made plenty of questionable choices, as Izzy likes to so kindly remind him. Asking Magnus to be his fake boyfriend and then offering to pay him? That, right there, he doesn’t know what the fuck he was thinking. And he wasn’t. But Magnus is really nice and really fucking hot, and if Alec gets to pretend to be his boyfriend then… win - win, right?

ANONYMOROUS by @superficialpeasant [ E | AU | 10.6k | complete ]

When one of Clary’s art exhibition performers drops out last minute, Alec steps in to help. Unfortunately that also means he’ll be having sex with a stranger in public.

DATE NIGHT by @unrestrainedlyexcessive [ G | 562 | complete ]

“Look, it’s no big deal,” Alec says. “The angles in pool are just like archery. I have a natural advantage.”

“Pretty sure I beat you the first time we played,” Magnus says, taking a sip of his martini. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so relaxed, so at home in a relationship.

That is, until Alec started winning.

HARDER THAN THE LIQUOR I POUR by @carmenlire [ not rated | AU | 6.5k | complete ]

The bartender considers him for a moment before holding out the hand that was over his just a second before. “I’m Magnus, bartender extraordinaire. While I certainly wouldn’t mind calling you pretty boy for the rest of the evening, I think it only fair that you share your name, too. Don’t you?”

Slowly, Alec reaches out and grasps Magnus’s hand in a poor imitation of a handshake. He meets Magnus’s eyes and knows they both know that this is a mere prelude for what’s to come.

“Alec,” he says slowly and watches as Magnus’s smile deepens.

“Well, Alec, my shift ends in an hour. Wait for me?”

CREAM by @ohfreckle [ E | 3.4k | complete ]

Sometimes Magnus likes to wear panties.

“Are you kidding? You look amazing!” Alec wishes he were more eloquent, that he could miraculously find the words and praise to express how fucking hot Magnus is with his little panties on.

SAY IT by @ilovealeclightwood [ E | 4k | complete ]

“I want you,” Magnus pressed his lips to Alec’s neck, the sensation of his lips against the deflect rune making Alec shudder again.

“To admit,” Magnus continued, pausing to run his tongue over the length of the rune, sending sparks of pleasure through Alec and making him try to jerk his hips up again.

“That I was right.” Magnus pulled away from his neck to look down at him and it took a second for what he meant to click with Alec.

---

Or, Magnus and Alec solve petty arguments in a sensable, responsible manner

ALL NIGHT (OR A HUNDRED YEARS) by @hourglassmermaid [ T | 4.3k | complete ]

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Raphael,” Magnus chastises. “You know I take care of my friends.”

Friends. The word stings more than kuri venom; it lingers far longer than any demon attack ever could. It lingers in Alec’s mind when he’s tossing and turning at night imagining what they could have been if Alec hadn’t been such a coward all those years ago. It lingers in his heart whenever they’re alone, and Alec swears he sees a glimmer of those feelings Magnus must have buried long ago. And it lingers in his soul whenever they work together as allies, as leaders, as partners, because they really are compatible in all the ways that count.

But none of that matters, because they’re just friends.

---

Alec and Magnus are colleagues — maybe even friends. Definitely allies. Alec's content, with his life, his career, and even his (lack of) relationships, but sometimes when Magnus sits beside him, Alec may or may not cease to function. It's okay; he's okay.

I SAW PAPA KISSING SANTA CLAUS by j__writes [ G | AU | 3.3k | complete ]

“I heard a noise and so I snuck out. He didn’t see me but I saw him. I saw Santa and then I saw Papa and he kissed Santa, Raf.”

LIKE NOBODY ELSE by @carmenlire [ not rated | AU | 3.7k | complete ]

Simon’s been Alec’s assistant for the past three years. Alec was a hard ass, no doubt about it. He had exacting standards, a perpetually sardonic expression, and Simon had literally never seen the man smile.

Lightwood had exploded onto the scene ten years ago and in that time, he’s made a name for himself that no one else could rival. He might not be well liked but everyone-- even his enemies-- respected Lightwood.

Or, Simon is Alec's secretary and doesn't realize just how little he knows about his boss until he solves a mystery.

SEXY SNAPSHOTS by @tobythewise [ E | AU | 2.8k | complete ]

“Anything interesting on there?” Alec asks, a teasing note in his voice as he nods at the camera. “Anything sexy?" “Not at the moment.” Magnus raises his brow. “Wanna change that?” OR The one where Magnus and Alec explore what it's like to have sexy times while snapping sexy pictures of each other.

PUNDAMENTALS OF OFFICE RIVALRY by @bytheangell [ T | AU | 3.8k | complete ]

When Magnus and Alexander get off on the wrong foot at the start of their internship, Magnus takes it upon himself to annoy Alec at every turn.

WORSE THINGS THAN BEING IN LOVE by @aemiliafawn [ E | 4.6k | complete ]

Their wedding was everything they had ever dared to dream of. But perhaps their wedding night was just as special.

CRYPTIDS OF BROOKLYN by @alexanderlightweight [ M | AU | 2.3k | complete ]

For all the rather redundant and overused jokes made about lawyers and sharks, never was such a comparison or joke made concerning Alec Lightwood, as there was one glaring difference between the two ruthless predators.

Sharks smiled, Alec Lightwood didn’t.

ZERO COMPLAINTS by @aemiliafawn [ E | 3.3k | complete ]

Usually when someone wakes Magnus up before sunrise they'd have to face his wrath – however since Alec decides to make it actually worthwhile for the exhausted warlock, Magnus finds he doesn't mind making an exception just once.

HAHA JUST KIDDING... UNLESS? by @carmenlire [ not rated | AU | 2.5k | complete ]

"You know Magnus wouldn’t joke about boning his best friend just to do it. You mean too much to him and we all know how gone you’ve been over Magnus since, like, eighth grade.”

Alec sighs and it feels like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “I can’t get my hopes up, Jace. I’ve been in love with him for years but he doesn’t feel the same way.”

Groaning like they’ve gone around the block about this a thousand times-- because they have-- Jace facepalms. “How many times do I have to tell you-- Magnus feels what you feel but you’re both too stupid to get past your own hang-ups to talk about it.”

TAKE IT EASY by @la-muerta [ E | AU | 18.2k | complete ]

Alec signs up for a session with a professional male dominant, just a one-time thing to satisfy his curiosity. It most definitely doesn't end up being just a one-time thing.

THE LONELY HEARTS HOTLINE by @unrestrainedlyexcessive [ E | AU | 40.6k | complete ]

“Hey there,” Alec says in the lowest, sexiest voice he can manage. It sounds vaguely disinterested but some people get off on that.

“Hi,” the voice says.

“Ready to have some fun?”

The voice makes a small, sad noise.

“Or not?” Alec tries hastily. He gets paid regardless of what they're talking about. “We can just chat for a while.”

“What’s your name,” the voice says finally.

“Uh, Chad,” Alec says. He was drunk when he picked his name, just as he was drunk when he answered the job wanted ad. He should have picked something sexy like Tristan, but he’s forever Chad now, the douchiest phone sex operator in history. He balances his bowl of macaroni carefully on his stomach and sneaks a quick bite.

“You don’t sound like a Chad,” the voice says doubtfully.

“Why the hell not?” Alec says before he can stop himself, mouth full of pasta.

“--are you eating?”

“No,” Alec lies and swallows.

---

Alec is a bored phone sex operator. Bafflingly, Magnus just wants to talk about music.

BRIGHT LIGHTS, SMALL TOWN by @lecrit [ E | AU | 104.3k | complete | To Build A Home #1 ]

When Magnus gets to Nashville, Indiana to handle his late mother's will, he doesn't expect to be forced to stay there for six months. Six months away from New York and lost in the wildness of the countryside.

It quickly appears that he is going to go through six months of living hell.

The fact that he hates the local veterinarian on sight isn't helping.

BRIGHT LIGHTS, SMALL TOWN: EXTRAS by @lecrit [ E | AU | 12.6k | complete | To Build A Home #2 ]

A combination of extras for Bright Lights, Small Town.

EARTH’S MIGHTIEST HEROES by @lecrit [ M | AU | 141.9k | complete | Avengers Assemble #3 ]

The thing is… Their plans have a history of not going accordingly so when they finally do, maybe they build a confidence a bit too quickly. Breaking Magnus out turns out to be indeed a formality. Selling the ruby, too. So what could possibly go wrong now?

In which our team of misfits has to deal with the consequences of messing with a dangerous man and again, everything goes according to plan. Or not.

COLOR ME BLUE by @carmenlire [ not rated | AU | 18.8k | complete ]

Christmas is his favorite time of the year but Alec has barely had time to buy presents let alone enjoy the holiday season. December seems to have lasted the blink of an eye and Alec's shoulders hunch as he realizes morosely that most of this year is a blur of emergencies and rounds and consultations.

His gaze snags on a bakery display as he walks past. The window is dressed with multicolored lights and garland wrapping around the edges. The display case is full and Alec’s mouth waters just at the sight.

Without conscious thought, Alec is reaching for the door to Bane's Bakery, eager to see if the interior is just as whimsical and welcoming as the outside.

#malec #malec fic #malec fic rec #malec fanfic #shadowhunters #fic rec #fanfic #otp: look what i have waiting for me

1K notes · View notes

chaseatinydream · 4 years ago

Text

pirate king (38) || atz

It’s cold here.

The second you step into the tunnel before you, the stone wall rises behind you once more, plunging you and your captain into darkness, the only light that reaches you is at what you presume to be the end of the tunnel. It’s far dryer than you expected for the lair of a sea witch, but you’re definitely not complaining.

Hongjoong takes your hand and moves in front of you, armed with his cutlass. You think about drawing yours as well, but wielding a blade with your non-dominant hand is probably going to do more damage than any actual help, so you refrain from doing so.

Every step you take sends echoes bouncing eerily off the walls around you, so you hold on tighter to your captain’s hand and stick to his side, shying away from the walls. Hongjoong’s grip on your hand is firm and warm, pulling you with him as the two of you finally reach the end of the cave and step into the light.

To your surprise, you’re not in a cave anymore.

It’s a beach.

After joining a pirate crew, you had been on the sea for most of your time since awakening. And when you hadn’t, you had often been at docks or beaches, and yes, you would like to say you had seen many beautiful beaches in your short “life” here so far.

But this beach is like none other you’ve seen before.

Tall, jagged cliffs rise around you like fingers stretching for the grey, stormy sky above you. No water touches your skin yet, but you can taste it in the air you breathe that a torrential downpour is on the brink of falling. The white, foaming sea ploughs forward and would have crashed down upon the beach you are on if it weren’t for the rocky reef barriers breaking them apart, sea spray flying into the air.

“I hope this is symbolism for something bad coming in the near future.” You mutter grimly, but before your captain can reply, there’s someone standing before you.

You don’t know how she got here. One second she wasn’t there and one second she simply was, looking completely calm and unruffled as if she had been there the whole time and you two merely hadn’t noticed her.

You nearly leap out of your skin in fright, Hongjoong handling this surprise a lot better than you are. He pulls you behind him in one smooth motion, tip of his cutlass pointed right towards the woman.

“Who are you?”

The first thought that registers in your mind is that she’s beautiful.

No, beautiful is actually too tame of a word to describe her. When the fortune teller on Tortuga had spoken of a sea witch, you had expected for someone that looked much like her, an old hag draped in rags with occult symbols and beads, perhaps missing several teeth and smelling like she hadn’t known a bar of soap her whole life. But you’re almost guilty that you thought about her that way, because this woman is completely different from what you expected.

Her lovely, slender figure is adorned in a sheer golden dress that brushes the sand behind her and flies with the wind like a bird in the sky, woven from a material that for some reason you recognise even though you’ve never seen it before. Sea silk, you realise in shock, a textile so valuable it is actually worth more than its weight in gold.

In stark contrast to her gown, her hair is a midnight black, flowing over her shoulders in waves and plunging down her back to her waist like a inky waterfall, the strands gently brushing soft, petal lips.

Then you meet her eyes.

People say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that statement holds true, then the woman before you must have an eternal one, because her eyes are a bottomless blue that remind you of the deepest, most mysterious depths of the ocean. There doesn’t seem to be an end to the infinite wisdom and grace of her, and when you look at her, face to face, she merely gives you a gentle smile.

When she moves, something abruptly slams into your mind that she isn’t a statue and is, in fact, a living, breathing human being. The smile she presents you with is bright enough to turn a man blind, and you feel as if your eyes have just been blessed by the mere sight of her. She opens her mouth to speak.

“Welcome, Choi Chin Hae.”

You don’t even realise you’re gaping at her until Hongjoong lifts one hand to shut your mouth, which closes with an audible clop. He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by her, however, his sword still focused on the woman with an unwavering hand.

“I asked, who are you?”

The woman merely shows a teasing smile and quirks a brow at him playfully, as if she’s part of a little secret that he’s not included in.

“You would battle all manner of sea storms and sirens to reach this island, yet not know what you are searching for?” She shakes her head, as if disappointed. “Even if you have your suspicions on who I am, I know full well who you are, Kim Hongjoong.”

Every word she speak reverberates with power and now that you hear her voice for the second time, it sends shivers down your spine. You don’t know how to describe it, but her voice sounds like waves sweeping against the shore in the early morning light. You can feel a powerful pulse around her, a billion times more intense than your master’s, like invisible riptides in the air around her.

Your captain’s eye narrows. “You’re the sea witch?” You can hear the confusion in his voice and the woman nods, each simple action effortlessly graceful and elegant as a dancer.

“That is what most call me, yes.” She gazes towards you with those fathomless blue eyes. “But the name my mistress bestowed upon me is Eldoris.”

Eldoris. Even her name sounds beautiful.

“Well then, Lady Eldoris,” Hongjoong’s tone is carefully polite, but his grip on the sword is still tight. “Would you mind if you answered a few of our questions?”

Eldoris’ smile widens to show pearly white teeth. “I will answer all the questions you have for me to the best of my ability.”

There’s something tugging inside you that’s warning you that everything has been too easy up till now and your captain obviously feels it too, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Instead, he merely glances at you, encouraging you to move forward and ask what you want to know.

For a moment you just stand there as the two of them look at you expectantly. Even though up till this point your mind was overflowing with questions, now that you’re face to face with the prospect of getting real answers, your mind suddenly stutters to a stop, completely blank.

So much had happened. There is so much you want to know. Where are you to begin?

“First,” You start off with the simplest question you can think of, “What do you know about me?”

The sea witch tilts her head to the side as she searches your face intently, eyes skimming your features in a way that makes you a little uneasy.

“A month ago, you awoke in a prison cell in the town of Raguza wearing the coat of a Royal Navy officer.” She begins softly, her gaze holding yours captive as she lays out your story since awakening. “You were sentenced to death by hanging, but managed to escape when there was a raid on the town by the pirate band ATEEZ. You hid on the ship when it sailed away, and from there on became part of the crew.”

You know you’re supposed to be shocked by how she knows all of this, but you’ve been through a lot, from learning about the fact you’re actually a golem to how Seonghwa’s family actually were pirates. The novelty of having near unbelievable feats being dropped on you had kind of worn off after a while.

You swallow nervously as you begin to probe a little deeper. “Then do you know about what I am?”

At this she pauses, as if thinking about how to phrase her words very carefully in a way that would be the most accurate. The wind sweeps around her, tossing her dark hair into into the air as she answers your question. “I am aware that you are considered to be, in part, a golem of clay that has only existed for a moon.”

Your breath catches in your throat. It really is as the fortune teller had told you back on Tortuga. You had made a deal with the woman before you, a sea witch, to gain this body that you have.

As if sensing the turmoil within you, Hongjoong takes your hand in his gently, squeezing tight to let you know he’s still there.

His comfort gives you the courage you need to ask the question you need answered. You take a deep breath and finally spill what you’ve been intending to ask her this whole time.

“Did you… make me?”

There’s a long silence as the sea witch stands opposite you on the beach, her eyes filled with secrets as she meets your desperate gaze. Then she nods her head very slowly, as if this time she’s trying to be deliberately vague.

“I did make your body.” Eldoris speaks softly as she looks you over with an intense gaze. A chilling shiver wraps around your throat and dances down your spine, you feel as if someone has just walked right across your grave. She’s studying you like how a potter would study her work, her eyes tracing every inch of your body.

Hongjoong’s fingers tighten around yours.

You force down the unease and meet the sea witch in the eye the best you can.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘make my body’? The fortune teller I visited told me she had never seen a vessel crafted so beautifully.” You don’t mean to sound like you’re flattering yourself, but it is what she said, at least. You want to know how exactly you’re different from other golems, why the fortune teller had been able to tell you that you were unique in an instant.

Eldoris’ deep blue eyes narrow slightly. “I built your body from the clay found along the rocks worn away by the sea that have bathed in moonlight for aeons, before the mortals came into existence. With my own hands I crafted you, a feat unheard of by any other magician. To animate golems, a magic slip is placed in their mouths by their creators to represent the breath of life of the Creator. They then move, act upon their master’s wishes, but you see, Chin Hae… there’s one thing that sets you apart from all other golems.”

You find yourself unconsciously leaning forward, desperate to know what she has to say next. As far as you know, there is no slip of paper in your mouth. What makes you different?

“You have a heart.”

The very heart she’s speaking about stops in your chest for a second, as if aware that the witch before you is speaking about it. You remember the starry night on the beach, watching the clay of your fingers run with the tide until the mysterious man with eyes as green as the earth had plunged a knife into your chest, placing it inside.

A clay heart.

The moment the heart had been put in your body, clay had become skin and flesh, where there had once been nothing but earth, blood flowed through your veins. You felt the wind and water of the sea with your own fingers, felt air rush into your lungs with each breath you took. For the first time in your life, you felt a heartbeat thud in your chest.

But how?

How was that man able to turn mere clay into… this?

“Powerful magic.” Eldoris says, her voice drifting to you over the wind. You’re startled into shock when you realised she can read your mind with a single glance at your face. “Powerful, ancient magic that I could never even dream about.”

A hysterical snort escapes you. All this talk about arcane and magic and ancient beings is really starting to scare you, goosebumps crawling up your skin. “I suppose not all golems also have this friendly green eyed man to turn their clay into skin?” You shake your head at your own joke, but when the sea witch answers you, her voice is perfectly serious, solemn, even.

“No. Only you.”

You’re stunned with disbelief. What would this supposedly immensely powerful being want with a mere clay golem like you? Why would he bother giving you a heart? And why would he say that everything is going according to plan?

Are you… a pawn in some scheme of his?

But that feeling of desperately reaching out for him comes back to you. Even though you couldn’t recognise his face, part of you seems to remember him, you just know somehow that you trusted him with everything you were.

Then something strikes you as odd.

If golems were merely animated beings of clay, without conscience or heart, then how did you have memories even before the heart was put into your chest?

Your eyes fly wide open in shock all of a sudden.

“Eldoris…” You ask desperately, too anxious to bother addressing her respectfully. Something about it doesn’t feel right to you, anyway. “Before my body was created… was I someone else?”

Her expression doesn’t change in the slightest, but you can somehow see the genuine surprise that flashes across her face. Beside you, you can hear Hongjoong draw in a surprised breath.

“Chin Hae-”

“Yes.”

That one single word leaves her lips with so much surety, as if she needs you to understand that you were someone before this all. Shock shoots through your entire body. It’s not that you had no memories, on the other hand, your memories must have been erased somehow. You were someone.

Her eyes don’t leave yours, beseeching, as if willing you to know something that you don’t.

“Then do you know who I was, how I got into this body, why I have no memories?”

Suddenly, Eldoris’ eyes darken at your words. Her voice drops to something more grave, her tone almost warning, but you don’t realise it in your impatience to get the answers you’ve been waiting for since your awakening.

“I do.” She answers, but her words are grim.

Finally. Your identity and memories are finally in your reach now.

“Can you tell me?” You almost breath, desperate for your answers. You’re finally at the end of your journey now, you can finally discover who you once were and put an end to all of this agony within you.

Eldoris meets your anguished gaze with a calm one of her own, folding her hands elegantly before her and opening her mouth to speak once more.

The word that leaves her lips is unbelievably simple, yet more infinitely complex than you can comprehend.

“No.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #jongho #san #mingi #wooyoung #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; fanfiction #w; pirate king

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cowperviolet · 3 years ago

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For Gods and Gold - mega excerpt

'No one will disturb us here', Mathilde vander Welde says, shutting the door of the library behind her. Her sister’s distraction tactic worked perfectly.

‘‘I hope so, juvrow vander Welde’, Jochem Meier, who came in with her, comments. ‘Otherwise they’ll accuse you of both forfeiting your virtue here with me and of being heartless enough to discuss business on the day of you father’s funeral’.

As often, it’s impossible to say whether his remark is meant as a joke or a serious warning. Mathilde decides in favor of a warning whose absurdity she may laugh about, but whose crux she better heed.

‘This is most like to be the last moment when we can discuss matters in any privacy to speak of’, she says, the terra cotta panels of red and white bright under her feet. ‘As soon as tomorrow’s sun is up, every minute of my life is going to be devoured by my new well-wishers’.

That, and the walls of her house are going to grow many curious ears. She doesn’t spell it out because he understands it, and understands that she does. This is one of the reasons she values his counsel so: his quiet quickness of mind, otherwise veiled of necessity in the presence of those whose fortunes are bigger and lineages purer.

‘What was it you wished to discuss, juvrow vander Welde?’ Jochem Meier asks patiently. His attire, despite the occasion, reflects the same studious understatement as his tone: the black tunic of a minor merchant, the unadorned fingers, the high collar at his neck.

‘I wished to discuss the project of Shashtre, and its future’.

‘It was my understanding that the project is completed. The Armizi dynasty has gained their throne back, thanks to your esteemed father’s generous loan. The only thing left to do seems to be to wring a reduction in tariffs or a monopoly on pepper from Alessandro Armizi before the festive incense clouds his mind too much’.

‘I propose a different strategy, and I need to know if you are going to support it’.

‘I am a man with a stained family name and three wool workshops, juvrow vander Welde. I cannot imagine my support, humble as it is, would matter to you much’, he says drily.

Mathilde sighs inwardly – so, he has probably guessed what it is she thought up. Still, the only way she has now is to soldier on.

‘Father has already made us kingmakers. To use it for a pepper monopoly would be like using Ilerdian silk to wipe these floors. This a chance of a century. I am not going to pass it up’.

‘A chance to do what?’

‘To gain Alessandro Armizi’s trust enough to become, in essence, his own treasurers, the shapers of his kingdom. His court is young. He needs trusted people around him, even if some of them are going to be foreigners. No one on Ilerdian peninsula would be shocked at the notion of a foreigner in such a role, in truth – some states there even choose men from other principalities on purpose, to have someone free from the local factions’.

‘Men from other principalities on the same peninsula; from the states that are heirs to the same broken empire. Not those they perceive to be Northern barbarians’.

Mathilde kneels unceremoniously by a reading seat and narrows her eyes, making out the letters on the book list; ah, the candlelight here is so much dimmer…

Jochem Meier is looking at her almost suspiciously, as if from the pile of heavy, chained tomes she could spring upon him a curse.

She cannot even blame him. Her father had been a known, well-studied figure to him – to everyone - for decades; she, his heiress, is a yet-untested thing, wild as quicksilver.

‘There is so much more at stake’, she whispers, opening a leather volume, wishing her fingertips could become light feathers, unable to harm the treasure beneath. ‘If I succeed – if we succeed – who is to say what we cannot achieve? We could reach Alessandro’s uncle the Great Mowbed, help him manage his affairs. Bankers to the Holy Throne. It doesn’t sound too bad, does it?’ Mathilde smiles radiantly, the way she knows she is prone to when she gets overexcited.

‘The Great Mowbed, the Priest of Priests, His Truthfulness’, Jochem Meier muses, stepping closer to Mathilde and looking over her shoulder. ‘So many hallowed titles, but such a precarious position in the world. I suppose few would question his spiritual authority, but when it comes to the worldly leadership…’

‘He is the master of the capital of the former empire. That doesn’t seem to be the kind of worldly leadership to complain about’. Mathilde opens a page at random - she doesn’t have to seek out a particular illustration; every miniature is exquisite – two armies fight on the field of pale blue snow. One side is stiff in long, luminous chain-mail, the other’s armour is covered by flowing robes of porphyry.

‘Just look at it’, she whispers. ‘Isn’t it worth its weight in gold? It was a stroke of luck that my grandfather managed to find it. This was a part of the series of manuscripts commissioned for the last emperor in Janab – can you imagine? They were stolen, lost, dispersed throughout the peninsula during the wars afterwards. And this one surfaced in Esfan just when grandfather was there bargaining for a saffron consignment – we didn’t have a permanent company there yet. We’ve got the second and the fifth tome here, too, but they are of a later production’.

‘If you are trying to seduce me into supporting your enterprise by dazzling me with the glories of Ilerdian land, I’m afraid it isn’t working, juvrow vander Welde’.

Ah, but Mathilde can hear his voice growing softer.

I am not stupid, she thinks. I know that Janab is long since hollowed out, a place of magnificent ruins. I know that there had been princes holding Great Mowbeds hostage, and even more young dynasties tumbling down. But I want to take this risk. I cannot stop, cannot slink back to the cozy fireside. It is simply not my nature.

‘Think about the recent assassination attempt’, Meier murmurs just above her ear. ‘Can you imagine if it succeeded? With the Armizi Great Mowbed dead, his nephew in Shashtre won’t reign for a day’.

‘But it didn’t succeed. Besides, I thought your version was that the Great Mowbed simply cooked up this story because he wanted to cull the dastwars from the oldest families’.

'My version was that he merely used the situation to cull the mighty old guard in the Circle of Dastwars. It was too big a great stroke of luck, that all five conspirators belonged to it. I never said the actual knives in the dark weren’t genuine’.

The armies are meeting in battle – a graceful, orderly battle of a miniature. Even as the horseman in bright chain-mail slashes across the thighs of a porphyry-clad enemy, one’s attention is drawn more to the fluid lines than to the flowing blood.

‘I have not just called you here to receive your blessing’, Mathilde says, trying her best to keep the exhaustion and the nerves out of her voice. ‘I called you here because I want to entrust a lion’s share of this enterprise to you’. She turns around to face him and whispers: ‘I want you to go to Shashtre as the ambassador of the Republic of Gronsveld’.

This time, Meier does not reply. Finally, he is listening, looking down at her intently.

‘I want you to go’, Mathilde continues, ‘and to represent our interest and the Armizi court as well as the Republic’s. But, most of all, I want you to look out for any dangers to his rule or his life, and inform us about it’.

‘Or deal with them on site, should the situation allow, I take it’.

‘There is no one else, even among people who were loyal to my father, whom I could have trusted to be capable enough to manage it’.

There is also no one else who could be seduced by such a blatant promise of social climbing. The men and women who gathered in her father’s parlour to drink hippocras and discuss the price of fustian have long since climbed the ladder of power – indeed, their great-grandparents did – and would be likely to view such an offer as a dangerous distraction rather than an honour.

Jochem Meier is a different story.

Mathilde continues to smile. She is supposedly asking it of him as favour, not offering it as a gift - she doesn’t want to be seen as someone who secures people’s acquiescence with bribery, least of all by herself.

‘It’s a dangerous favour to ask’, he murmurs, his eyes keen.

Very well.

‘I promise to cover the costs of your embassy if the Chancery would fail to do so’.

‘Which it inevitably will. There only remains a minor question on whether the Council will vote to grant me the embassy’.

She had secured his help. Mathilde lets out a cautious breath.

‘This year’s Council is full of father’s old allies’.

‘They all have their own interests, Mathilde’.

A flush lights up her cheeks.

‘I wonder’, Mathilde says as levelly and lightly as she can, ‘if you used to call my father Walter’.

‘Forgive me, juvrow vander Welde’. A small, servile smile – the smile he could always put on like a cloak – is back on his lips. ‘Doubtless the mourning has addled my brain. That, and the rapture over the honour you’ve promised me’.

Promised. Not given.

Mathilde silently chastises herself for the outburst. The last thing she needs now is alienating her allies. But his slip of a tongue felt like he clutched her already broken arm. So many people, friends and enemies alike, are circling around her now, pillorying her with their stares, whispering about her uncommon youth – at twenty-one, they have all been dutifully gathering experience in the far-flung branches of their families’ banks and firms, not standing at the helm. One thing they are all sure about – some with pity, some with glee, but sure nonetheless – is that she is an easy prey, a lamb to the slaughter. Something much, much lesser than her father.

Her father. For the first time in the evening, the pain of loss clutching at her throat is threatening to overwhelm her and spill over into tears. Her father could have died a hundred times from a conspirator's blade, a rival's poison. But what toppled him was a simple kidney stone.

The surgery went splendidly; the physician priests were, as ever, proud of their ancient expertise. Their prowess made sure the process was quick; their draught eased the patient's suffering. But they had no power over the fevers that could follow, bringing swelling and delirium and deadly, morbid heat.

In death, he had been garbed as ostentatiously as he had rarely been in life, his shoulders swathed in a cape of cloth of gold embroidered with horses. The same animals were engraved on his brooches; the ends were bent - no living man will unclasp or wear them again. One cannot be too careful when seeking Aetrele's goodwill. In life, he prayed to her to ease the passage of his ships over the stormy waters. In death, her fabled horses should aid his final journey, carry him to the pale shores swiftly and soundly.

Mathilde bites her nails into her palms. She’ll weep later, with her sister for company. Right now, she must be her usual self – bright and hunt-ready.

‘Your father used to complain that men in his employ only bother to use double-entry bookkeeping if he is there to threaten them with a metaphorical stick’, Jochem Meier notes. ‘His allies on the Council are only different insomuch that they wear better cloaks’.

‘What are you suggesting?’ Mathilde can guess what he is getting at, but wants to hear it from his lips nonetheless.

‘There is going to be an out-of-time election for meester vander Welde’s vacated place on this year’s Council. I am suggesting that it would be a good use of your time to make sure you are elected to it’.

‘I am too young. They don’t welcome anyone below the age of twenty-five at least on the Council’.

‘They would have no choice if your name is to be drawn from the leather purses. The rule of the chance is the rule of gods, and the rule of gods is sacred’.

Mathilde is not a pure ewe of spring to be ignorant of the grease that kept the Republic’s wheels running. She knows how his father made sure the Council was stacked with his sympathizers this year, and she knows how much it costs to make the keepers of the purses add a certain name thrice, or even read aloud a different name than that on the piece of paper they’ve drawn. Desperate circumstances needed desperate measures.

Still, there is that, and then there is brazenly violating the law and hoping that whatever aura of sanctity still clung to the proceedings would help.

‘I don’t want to start my leadership like this’, Mathilde says. The cold of the onsetting winter is drawing in from the great library windows, and pricking her skin into goosebumps.

‘It’s better than starting it with a defeat’, Jochem Meier responds pragmatically.

Few candles are burning here, and the friezes running along the walls are shrouded in murk. They are depicting the labours and the joys of every season – a simple, understandable topic, requiring no reading and no fine eye to enjoy. They have been commissioned by her grandfather in the days when this room was a bedchamber, not a library; the figures are stylized as dolls of clay, and their colours are cheap hues of the earth.

Behind Mathilde’s back, the first tome of the Song of Emperors in breathing with gold.

This is what her father wanted when involving himself in these great campaigns down in the Ilerdian south, she knows; more than money, more than lucrative contracts. He wanted to bring back home the beauty and the knowledge of the empire that had been great when his homeland was still slumbering in savagery.

Desperate circumstances, Mathilde decides, sometimes need desperate measures indeed.

#writing #amwriting a novel #amwriting lgbt #amwriting fantasy #amwriting novel #amwriting #writeblr #lgbt writers #writeblr community #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #creative writing #original writing #writing community #for gods and gold

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shythesheep · 4 years ago

Text

The silvertounged fool and his golden hearted king Chapter 2

content warning: Violence and slavery.

Kanen had kept Merlin bound for hours, the boy had not been quiet and small whimpers of restrained loss had been coming from him since the beginning of the trip. In an attempt to quiet the child, Kanen had yelled and cussed at him, but it had only worsened it. He had then let one of his men, Janus, tend to the boy. The man was big, had battle scars littered all over his face, and long dark hair that was tied in a ponytail. If anything, the man looked scary, intimidating even to the likes of Kanen. Non the less, Janus was the most loyal of them all and he had children of his own, so his brutish heart felt for the youngling in their midst. The child had been reluctant to take comfort from a stranger, who had mere days ago ripped him from his mother’s love and everything that he had.

Kanen scoffed as Janus cleaned Merlins face for mud and sweat with a wet cloth before helping the boy to drink and eat some stale bread.

“Don’t give him too much, we don’t want him to end up spoiled before we sell him”

“None is spoiled by the merest of kindness Kanen.” The man rumbles before ruffling Merlin’s dark locks. Kanen huffs, but doesn’t say more, even he knows when to stop, at least when it comes to Janus.

“Get him back on the horse. We’ll need to ride again if we wish to get a deal done while Cenred is still residing in Essetir.”

“Ah yes, the young king.”

“He is a rather fickle man to find, with all the wars he is battling, it is a miracle that he hasn’t lost the kingdom yet.”

“He has the war gods looking over him.”

“More like sorcerers.” Says Kanen and pulls himself unto his stallion, the others have also gotten up on their steeds, except for Janus who had to help Merlin into the saddle before himself.

Without all the dirt and the cloth bag over his head, Merlin seems less like a spoil of war and more like a child riding with his father. Kanen cringes at the sight, the boy looks so much as his own, and the fate that he is going to be subjected to is not anything Kanen would let his own be victim for. He meets Janus’s steel gaze and nods. The silent agreement between them is clear. It’s too late now, and if anything, the boy won’t suffer starvation, as he would have had he stayed in Ealdor.

“Better just get it over with.” Mumbles Kanen to himself and kicks the horse into a quick paced trot.

v•v•v

Merlin is sore. His hands are red from the cold, his legs feel heavy from all the riding and his movement being restricted by the ropes. All the nicer of the men, the one he is sitting with, has readjusted the ropes, so they aren’t as tight as they were in the beginning, and at night the man had also removed the once on his legs. The man’s actions are confusing to him.

In the distance Merlin can see tall walls of grey bricks and he sits up straighter in the saddle to better be able to see it. Nothing of the likes of it has he ever seen in Ealdor. The wall is at least 3 horses tall, from what Merlin can see. Kanen sees Merlin’s open mouth and wide eyes and laughs at the boy’s wonder.

“It is the works of the last king of Essetir, Cenred’s father.” Says Janus, his voice is low, and Merlin can feel it rumble of the man’s chest on his back. “It has stood for over three decades, countless of foreign soldier have lost their lives at the roots of that wall.” He says this with a tender smile. “I know so, because I was once a guard, standing at the top of said wall. I still hear the screams of those poor sods.”

“You killed people?”

“Yes, as a young soldier it is expected of you, I’m no innocent man boy. You should know so much.”

Merlin simply nods, his small head still not capable to comprehend the concept of killing. Death isn’t something he is unfamiliar with. Many children of Ealdor has died as well as adults. His mother always thanked the gods when Merlin miraculously got healthy after a bad wave of fever spreading through the villages. For some reason he always got lucky, never staying sick for long. Much unlike the other children and the elders.

When they are close to the wall, Merlin can see that he was far from right at his estimation of its height. It is now clear to him that it is at least five horses tall. He gets dizzy as he gazes up at it when they ride through the big iron barred gates.

People move just barely out of the way as the horses walk through the streets. Janus and the others step down and guides the horses on foot, only Merlin is left in a saddle. His eyes are round and flicker through the masses of people, the sounds of chatter and the smells from the market is overwhelming. He spots an angry donkey that whines loud enough to make him cringe, and as the angry owners small whip hits the donkey he winches as had he been hit himself. He makes eyecontact with the donkey, and a feeling of warmth overtakes him, he reaches out with his bound hands, his eyes glow and as he wished the rope holding the donkey falls looslsy to the ground. The donkey kicks out with its hind legs and throws a thankful nod towards Merlin as it runs in a frenzy through. The streets. Merlin laughs but stops as he is ripped down from the horse and his shoulders are being shaken harshly.

“Boy! Never do that again or gods help me you’ll get a pounding worse than any you’ve had before.” Hisses Kanen, spit flies from his mouth and on to the Merlin. His eyes wide and his mouth open in shock.

“I- I ju-“

“no, never do it again. You are worth a lot but not so much that I’ll let you do reckless stuff like that, that can potentially make me lose money.” Kanen shakes his shoulder again. “Never do it again, understood?”

“Yes.” Merlin mumbles and without another word he is lifted back onto the horse. For the remainder of the ride, he stays quiet and with his head hanging low. His shoulders sore and his childish soul bruised. Silently he doesn’t regret his actions, but like magic his feelings shall stay hidden inside his mind.

v•v•v

“The king will see you now.” A prudish old man in dark clothes and a funny looking hat bows for them and guides them through the dark halls of the castle. Tapestries filled with the king’s banner, that has the motif of a dark horse, litters the halls. Painting it in a blue color. It is Kanen himself that pushes Merlin through these halls, as the others weren’t allowed entrance. Merlin can feel the nervouse energy radiating from Kanen, and it only intensifies the longer they walk. Merlin himself is calm as ever, his mind still trying to catch up on all that has happened in the last span of days. The only thing his child mind seems to be able to focus on is his empty stomach and how he’d wish his mother were here.

“Wait here.” The prudish man with the funny hat, opens a dark oak door and goes behind it, leaving Kanen alone with Merlin. Kanen quickly crouches down and grabs Merlin’s chin to make the boy look him directly in the eyes.

“Listen to me boy, be quiet in there unless spoken to and when spoken to say my lord in the end of your sentences. I have no idea of what manners your heinous mother has taught you, but you better show the king respect if you want to keep that head of yours.”

“King Cenred bids them welcome in his halls.” The prudish man is back, with his silly hat and all. He opens the door wide and lets Kanen and Merlin step into the giant hall. The first thing Merlin notices is all the torches and the lone figure sitting straight on the dark throne. The man has a slight stubble, and a few scars that is partially hidden behind his long dark hair that shadows his face.

“What have you brought me Kanen?”

“A sorcerer my lord.”

The king laughs and smirks arrogantly as he points at Merlin.

“That looks like a mere boy to me, nothing of the likes of a sorcerer.”

“He has magic, my lord, strong magic for someone so young, he needs no spells or charms to make things do as he wish.”

“Really?” the king’s posture changes, and he leans forward looking more interested in Merlin now. “Why demonstrate your powers for me little sorcerer.” Merlin bites his thumb and looks up at Kanen, and when he doesn’t catch the man’s gaze, he looks to the floor and shuffles with his feet.

“mnot allowed.” He mumbles. “my lord.”

“Why yes, you’re allowed. Your king commands you to show your powers.” The king’s tone isn’t unkind, but there is weight unknown to Merlin behind those words. Whatever he chooses to do, Merlin knows that it will decide his future.

“Come on boy.” Hisses Kanen, low enough so the king won’t hear it. Merlin closes his eyes and lets his inner eyes see the butterflies of the forest from Ealdor. He sees their blue wings flicker in the air as the birds chirp around them. The sun is making them glister in its rays of light. He opens his eyes, and the gold overtakes the blue of his iris, blue butterflies sprout from his open palms as rosebuds and they fly out into the dark room.

A loud laughter fills the quiet hall. The king claps his hands loudly and slowly. His face having been overtaken by a gleeful smile.

“Kanen, Kanen. What a sorcerer you have gotten me.”

#bbc merlin #merlin fandom #merlin fanfic #merlin #arthur #merthur #whump fic #emotional whump #fantasy

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roseandreason · 4 years ago

Text

University and Job Satisfaction

University, at the age of 17/18 did anybody else have the next two phrases mentioned to them in one way or another when exploring the options of university:

‘You are privileged to be able to go, you should make the most of the opportunity, a lot of others don’t get the chance’

Or my personal favourite

‘ If you don’t go to university you will be a failure and never achieve anything in your life’

In mine and my husbands case, we heard both of these and in my case, from multiple people, so I thought, we can’t be the only ones!

I wanted to explore the idea of university and the expectation of us knowing exactly what we want to do and how we are going to achieve it, but also, the flip side of that…….I don’t know, and thats ok!

Growing up it becomes a regular question you are expected to have an answer for ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’

‘I want to be a professional footballer’

‘I want to be an astronaut’

Everyone had big dreams……except me, or so I thought!

In my case, minus about 2 years in high school when briefly I thought I wanted to be a teacher, all I ever really wanted to be, was a mum, thats right, all I wanted to do was have kids and be a typical housewife (I can hear feminists screaming all over the world right now) but whether it was that I watched too much Disney growing up (FYI there is no such thing as too much Disney) or that I am just a hugely maternal person, this was my dream, but not one I voiced, because that job role unfortunately does not fit into the highly respected and well paid list we are provided to choose from from such a young age.

Honestly the only reason I think I said teacher was because everyone around me seemed to know what they wanted to do when we became grown ups, even if none of us truly knew what being a grown up meant (don’t grow up kids, its a trap) and a teacher was one of the paths I was presented as an option on ‘your ideal job’ quiz we had to do in year 7/8.

When it came to starting to look at universities (because it quickly became clear not going wasn’t an option for me) I did what I knew, I copied my older sister, because if it worked for her then it would probably work for me right?? I applied to the university of Portsmouth to study Geological hazards. Now Those who know me well, probably at reading this have either laughed out loud or just sat gaping at what they just read, because Geology and me, are not your typical duo you would expect, I hear you! I loved learning about volcanos, earthquakes and any natural hazards, I found them fascinating, and you were told to choose a subject you enjoyed, so TADA! Did I want a career in this subject, absolutely bloody not, and once I arrived at university and they told me the study of Natural hazards would only be 6 months of the 3 year course, the alarm bells were ringing loud and clear!

So long story short, I went to university in September 2010, and I hated every single second. Let me be honest in saying that there were a lot of things going against me but If I ignore those and just concentrate on the ‘university’ side of things itself, not for me, I hated the course (shocker) I hated not being near my boyfriend, friends and family, and I hated that I had not been strong enough to say ‘This isn’t for me’ sooner. So I came home Christmas 2010, and never went back, to this day it is one of the best decisions I ever made.

Remember me saying I’m a Norfolk girl through and through? Exhibit A my friend.

So, here I am 11 years later, a university drop out….

As soon as I returned home I started applying for Jobs, as someone who had been working in a local pub since 14/15, I was far from work shy, and I was desperate to prove everyone wrong that said ‘I had wasted an opportunity’ In February 2011, I attended an interview for Beaverbrooks the jewellers after seeing an advert in the window and thinking ‘Selling jewellery, I can do that!’ I got the job and I started working there in April 2011, I have now been there 10 years, progressed to Assistant manager, grown as a person and learnt so much. I work for the most incredible company who truly value and look out for their colleagues, and the girls I have worked with through the years have become some of my closest friends.

So job satisfaction, how many times have I heard ‘you just work in retail’ or ‘you just stand around waiting for someone to come buy something’ (insert eye roll here please) Often in jobs we judge or are judged on the job role ‘Status’ or by the amount we earn. Not, what I believe we should be judged on, job satisfaction and happiness.

The reason I believe this is because, no I didn’t complete university, I don’t have a degree, I don’t have a job title that most people will go ‘wow thats amazing’ BUT, I love my job, I love being a part of peoples lives, I love helping my team grow and progress, and in my eyes, happiness is worth its weight in gold, I would much rather earn less and be happy then earn more and be miserable. Thats just me!

University isn’t for everyone, I just wish more people were told this sooner so they could make the decision for themselves and be supported in that decision.

Not everyone knows what they want to do until they are older and thats ok! It wasn’t until the age of 25 I started exploring the option of becoming a midwife. Now I see you nodding, thats a career that made sense to me, natural maternal instinct, love helping people, epiphany moment! My Mum, and my biggest inspiration, went to university once me and my sisters were old enough to look after ourselves (not true, I text her everyday) and went on to become a community Matron working for the NHS, what a woman! This is a path I see myself following in the future, and that excites me!

All I am trying to say is do what makes you happy, life is simply too short. We spend most of our lives at work, do something you enjoy.

Belle X

Song suggestion: ’Surprise Yourself’ Jack Garrett

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post-itpenny · 4 years ago

Text

Your Nature

Continuing with the story.... Peregrine’s idea of help is to hit things.

Hard

Maggie, Juno, and Vespers took the news about Circe and Ash… surprisingly well. Or as well as they could.

In a way it delighted Maggie and Vespers that their respective families had always had a slight connection. It was just a shame the connection was something so rotten as Keir and his descendants.

That being said all three surprisingly agreed with Peregrine that simply trying to ignore them would not solve the problem. Maggie even making a point to use her vision to sort out at least ten possible future timelines.

All of them ending with Magpie failing. Each one worse than the last.

Magpie needed advice.

It was Maggie again to suggest who to turn to. However summoning the elder was not an easy feat and Magpie could not just leave the planet while her shield was up. So she followed the instructions given carefully. Writing a note and placing it down on a table under a dish cover, then purposefully forgetting it. Considering how exhausted she was this was surprisingly easy. Meaning when Magpie dragged herself down for breakfast the next morning she nearly jumped out of her skin to find Lethe sitting at her dining room table.

The elder held up a folded piece of paper, “got your note. How can I help?”

So the fairies made tea and Magpie told her story. Reluctantly recounting what the siblings did to her as a child and what she had done with the shield now.

Lethe was patient, not saying a word as she sipped her tea and listened. On occasion Magpie could catch a glimpse of gold eyes or sharp teeth in the shadow of the elder’s hood and not for the first time she wondered how they were related.

When she finished Magpie slumped back in her chair. She was so, so tired and the thought of wanting to go back to bed so soon after waking up made her tear up.

There was the softest touch of fabric, Magpie looking up to find Lethe reaching out with long gloved fingers to touch Magpie’s cheek. There came a soft pop like a static shock and at once Magpie felt more awake and energized than she had in well over a week.

“Better?” Lethe questioned.

Magpie gave a small nod, not quite sure what had happened.

Lethe stood up, beginning to slowly pace the room.

“All things need comforting from time to time. But all things from time to time also need advice. Do you want mine?”

“Yes please.”

Lethe looked at her, “you do know the obvious solution.”

“...Yes.”

“Then why have you not killed them already?”

Magpie frowned, “well I… I don’t…”

Lethe shook her head, “this is your first opposition as an elder, but even if you didn’t have the title you’re easily strong enough to be rid of them for good. You’re not a frightened and unprepared child anymore Magpie, you are far stronger than they could ever hope to be and you know it. Kier was a horrid thing and nearly every creature with an ounce of his lineage is just as twisted. They act entitled and are quick to bully others. Even the ones who don’t have Keir’s gifts.”

“They aren’t really your family.” Lethe continued. “The bloodlines are separated enough, don’t feel any obligation on that front to show leniency.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then why is it difficult?”

Magpie looked away in annoyance. “You know don’t you? That’s what you do isn’t it?”

Lethe regarded the younger deadlight for a moment before sighing. “It's a noble desire, wanting to find a better solution than death. However you and I both know they are here to antagonize and will challenge you if they can.”

“Why would they?”

“You’re hiding behind a wall Magpie, you’re taking the cowards way out and they know it.”

“It may be cowardly to them but I just…. I don’t want to be that kind of person.”

Magpie gripped the hem of her skirt, biting her bottom lip. “I can’t make people behave how I want them to-“

“But you could.”

“But I won't.” Magpie insisted. “I don’t want to be that kind of person.”

Lethe sat down beside Magpie, taking her hand. “You’re far kinder than Blackwood…. kinder than I… but kindness for an elder has a fine line. You have an added responsibility to care for your family. You are not the elder of a kind thing, your dominion is creation.”

“But I think my job isn’t just to make things.” Magpie insisted, “that’s incredibly boring and nothing special really. Anyone can just make things.”

As if to prove her point Magpie snapped her fingers and a coffee mug appeared. “I made a mug, something that can be made in any factory or at the hands of any potter. Anyone can make anything with enough practice.”

The elder seemed almost stunned. Then, to Magpie’s great surprise-

Lethe started laughing.

It was a rather nice laugh, but the way the shadows seemed to warp at the sound made it a little unnerving. After a few minutes Lethe seemed to regain her composure. “You possess the power to will whatever you want into existence- planets, forests, cities, stars. You can make it and destroy it at a whim, that power literally at your fingertips. But you don’t see it as special?”

“Yes.”

“Then what is your job beyond just creation?”

Magpie smiled warmly, “to inspire others to create. It’s a beautiful and kind thing to do, something I’m truly proud of.”

Lethe watched Magpie as she spoke, the younger deadlight being sincere in what she said. “It is a kind thing, I could agree it is the most beautiful of your responsibilities… but think of the title more as who you are than just a job, you are your title as a rule. To create means to also destroy, is not destruction a creation in its own right? It is a part of your nature, it is the nature of one of our kind and very select few elders are exempt from this. You have little choice in this-“

“But-“

“And consider this,” Lethe insisted. “If they best you then one of them will take your place as an elder. It will put everything you hold dear at risk. You have a responsibility and that responsibility calls for you to get rid of them.”

Magpie glared at the ground, eyes glassy with tears that she held back. Lethe sighed again as she stood up to leave. “You’re very different Magpie, it’s a good thing. But you are the same as Blackwood in one thing- you both hate being told what’s good for you.”

Magpie rubbed her eyes, “no… but we both hate being told what to do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peregrine had no problem with wanting to be rid of Ash and Circe. He had only not acted sooner in an attempt to respect his sister’s wishes.

But this was getting ridiculous, and if Magpie was too afraid to act then he would.

He growled at the thought of those two getting near his children, his granddaughter. And if he could do at least one thing to care for his family it was this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a small asteroid caught in the orbit of the Earth. It was barren and cold and Ash hated it. But he stayed because the view was worth it.

Not the planet, the little backwater ball that floated through such a boring solar system was tacky in his opinion. But the light shimmer that surrounded it was hilarious.

Behind him Circe giggled as the shimmer flickered again, it had been doing that more and more as the days passed.

“Little freak’s getting tired I bet.” Circe snickered.

Originally they came after hearing about what had happened to the old fool Blackwood because the idea of harassing Magpie sounded like fun. They were bored and Circe suggested the visit, maybe even coerce her into helping with what they had originally came together Kestral for so many years before. But the moment the shield over the planet went up a bigger plan took shape. Magpie was scared of them- as she should be in the sibling’s opinion- and it was honestly hilarious.

There was an aura, someone approaching and fast.

Ash snickered “well, well, well, look whose coming to-“

WHAM!

Peregrine sucker punched Ash, sending him flying back at least a hundred yards.

He turned to Circe, cracking his knuckles.

Circe rolled her eyes at her brother, barely dodging Peregrine’s swing at her. He hit a wall of rock instead, a jagged crack ripping through it in an explosion of dust.

At once a wave of power slammed into Peregrine’s mind. He felt as if something was trying to crush his very being. He couldn’t breathe, gasping for air as he struggled to stand and push past the feeling. He knew it wasn’t real, he could breathe, there was no weight. Peregrine imagined a wall around his head and pushed out.

The feeling left, Circe stumbling back as is something shoved her. Peregrine charged, slamming down his fist onto her.

The ground split, Circe sent plummeting down in an explosion of rock. Ash came running only for Peregrine to turn around and kick him in the chest, sending Ash flying back again.

Peregrine turned back around at the sound of Circe crawling back out of the ground. Only to find a hand pressed against his face.

Peregrine froze. Circe grinning as she watched the struggle in his eyes. Peregrine grimacing as he reached up to try and shove her hand away.

Then stopped.

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ccntrcl · 4 years ago

Text

------ ------ ------ “They’re pretty aren’t they.”

It’s a sudden remark. A statement rather than a question really. A change of topic— just because. The constant back and forth banter had turned just a bit dull; bland. Not worth another moment's attention & so crimson hues abandoned them rather swiftly. instead, focusing upon the view coated in white outside. Cold bony fingers refuse to withdraw from the warmth emanating from the teacup clutched gently between her palms, settled delicately pon her dress. And really... It’s not a lie. The birds perched on the fragile branches of the tree rotting away alongside her; the cruel passage of time drags them all regardless of circumstances— were indeed pretty. Pretty & well... He must’ve picked up on her meaning, hadn’t he? yup her brother was always perceptive, though dense in some regards. But she doesn’t doubt that he knows what they mean. He must- it’s clear in his behavior. these are the types of topics his mind doesn’t shy away from; innocence never turns a blind eye --- --- always so eager to drown in guilt & a sense of duties. ( somedays she - almost - lets him . )

Somedays she feels cruel, and somedays she felt kindness tinge her fingertips; as though all she touches transforms into glittering gold & of course— be preserved in eternity. but they never do... it’s a foolish notion to hold & dream about; nothing could be everlasting --- change is inevitable & so, they soon corrode & darken & CRUMBLE INTO DUST. Forever forgotten, only to be remembered by her: if she bothers too that is. & so she continues. there’s a sick satisfaction in probing, in pushing him--- a glimpse into his future for what shall remain once she has been returned to where she came from; an evil voyeuristic plea resonates within her mind. a small ‘lemme see’ ‘lemme see’ that follows & echos with the urge to bully him--- it’s just harmless fun, right? ahh --- aha. perhaps she’s being a tad bit too cruel. but that does nothing to deter her as more harmless words continue to spill from parted lips; venom was never present within them... it’s the receptor's interpretation & reaction that it all hangs upon. “Do you believe them to be worth all the admiration & praise they receive?”

& Today she feels cruel.

The poems they wrote, the songs they sang about freedom and some false childish daydream of escaping fate — laced with hopes of a higher purpose. The world always operates in such a blind manner; refusing to acknowledge what’s in front & forever casting their eyes towards the suns of tomorrow. Neglecting the today & now for the sake of weakly bound together morals; what was the point of something better when they had ‘now’ thats deteriorating right in front of them. but... that part of humanity & the people was beautiful too. a conviction strong enough too actually change something or blindly await its demise. well, she was simply musing... it’s not exactly good to generalize now, is it? no. it limits the mind too much. “ you know what I believe ---? ” a sing-song voice rings out answering her own question, not at all expecting or awaiting him to respond; the extended silences measured by her impatient temperament was answer enough... besides it was something akin to a rhetorical question anyway.

( briefly, does she wonder if it’s her cynicism’s silent acceptance that leads her to torment her kin or some long-forgotten cord that begs to strike a nerve & unsettle ------ aha. whatever it may be, she doesn’t actually enjoy glaze that paints over his hues. perhaps it was time to stop this now--- ! )

“ I think --- them to be rather trite. ” & it was the truth. not an attempt to console his ever consuming guilt... she’s honest when she speaks to him; a coil of sympathy churns within her stomach... really she shouldn’t bully him now. he’ll have the next 20 - 30 years where he --- her kind, soft - hearted dear brother, whom she cherishes so deeply will be forced to swallow that guilt of having killed her. she doesn’t fault him for this; for their circumstances. he isn’t at fault --- it was simply chance... meant to happen. haa. & they called her cursed ------ he too, suffers the weight of this burden & will be dragged into the abyss once all his chains have been transferred to his successor, and another child of ill - omen was sent back to it. ; & so, the cycle never ends! “ I believe... that they are no more different than you & me. ” free they may be. but they, too are bound by the cruel fruit of fate. “ they’re just like us don’t you think? --- ah, my tea’s gone cold... perhaps it’s best if we go & prepare a new batch, don’t you think? ” fickle mind already made up , she clutches his sleeve & drags him away from the window sill; from the misary & weight that begs to drag him & hang on him for the rest of his days--- & so, for as long as she’s here: she won’t let him drown.

#testing.#testing 123

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distant-rose · 5 years ago

Note

I just read the last chapter of Once and a Future Thing and it was amazing! I was wondering if you could maybe tell us or write about Beth's adjustment to the world and the rest of her family's reactions? Thanks so much for your awesome writing! I always love when you update Little Pirates and I always enjoy your other stories!

Notes: Okay, I owe you the biggest apology. This has literally been in my inbox for half a year? I honestly don’t remember when this entered my inbox but I know it was a long time, so long that whoever sent this probably forgot all about it. I wouldn’t be surprised. Anyway, I hope you can forgive me for how long this fucking took. I was inspired to work on the Jim and Beth reunion by @clockadile and I knew that I couldn’t work on it or post something new OAFT-related without doing this. Now, I don’t really have Beth adjusting to life in Storybrooke, so much as her family’s reactions to her return, namely Harrison’s because he is legitimately the sanest and most well-adjusted member of the Jones family, and I say that objectively. He is. So, I felt his POV might be best for this chapter or coda or whatever. Anyway, a special thanks to @shireness-says and @optomisticgirl for allowing me to spam them with this nonsense. I hope you enjoy it. There’s a bit of Arabic in it, but it’s translated at the bottom.Summary: Beth’s quest for vengeance against her boyfriend’s killer goes a bit haywire when she and her former best friend Jim Hawkins are sent into thirty years into the past. Now, they must figure out how to find a way back to the future without wrecking the first meeting between Beth’s parents, Emma Swan and Killian Jones. Rating: T+Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Epilogue | Coda IWord Count: 4,300+

–

The large clock on the wall said 6:30am and years ago that would have meant that it was way too early for him to be up, but Harrison Jones didn’t sleep anymore. Time had simply muddled together and all that mattered was that he got at least one cup of coffee on the hour or his brain was going to ooze out of his ears. He wasn’t quite what he was going to die from first – his heart exploding or exhaustion.

His fingers tap impatiently against the kitchen counter as he stared down the ancient machine gurgling to life. He never liked coffee, in fact he hated the very taste of it, but it become so integral to his daily functions that he no longer gagged at the bitter taste.

Feeling agitated, he began rummaging sluggishly through the cabinets in search of the sugar. When he found the container in the back of the spice shelf completely empty, he threw it against the wall while muttering dark curses under his breath. He knew exactly who was behind this crime against humanity. No one had a bigger sweet tooth than Wes and he had a tendency of finishing off products without replacing them.

He hoped his younger brother’s wifi wasn’t working this morning. The asshole deserved it.

Bitter and disappointed, he put as much cream into his coffee as he could. Taking a seat at the breakfast table, he picked up his kindle and began reading the last few chapters of his Ken Follet novel. The house was quiet at the moment and he was going to enjoy it while it lasted. As long as he had been alive, the Swan-Jones house had been one prone to chaos and any lull of silence was worth its weight in gold.

“Holy Christ, Harrison, you still live here? At twenty-seven? Jesus.”

The coffee mug slipped from his fingers, missing the table by a fraction of a hair and falling to the floor with a loud crash. Pieces of ceramic glass shattered as they made contact with the hard tile, scattering everywhere.

Harrison barely registered it.

He was too busy staring at a ghost.

She looked so much older and impossibly thinner than the last time he saw her, but there was no mistaking the green of those eyes and that riot mess of untamed dark hair. His sister, whom he hadn’t seen in three years, was standing in the doorway in a probably the most dramatic pirate gear that he had ever seen.

“خرة,” he breathed out in disbelief.

“What did you just swear at me?”

“In Arabic, yes,” he responded faintly.

“I’ve never been prouder of you,” she laughed merrily, tossing her hair over her shoulder. He continued to gape at her, unable to process what exactly was happening.

“I swear. Always have. I’m not a saint, despite what you all think.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father move past his sister as if everything was normal and ordinary. Without even commenting on the broken mug at Harrison’s feet, Killian Jones made a beeline for the coffee machine and made himself a cup. He offered no comment on the fact his long-lost daughter was standing in his kitchen.

“Are you going to just gawk at me like an idiot or are you going to say something?” His sister asked somewhat impatiently, crossing her arms in front of her chest and arching her eyebrow at him mockingly.

“You’re alive?”

“Did you think I was dead?” She snorted in amusement at the question, but Harrison didn’t find anything about this to be funny.

“Well, yes.”

“Well, considering I’m standing right in front of you. I can assure you, I’m alive.”

“Considering how sleep deprived I am, I was convinced you were a hallucination.”

She scoffed at him, stepping forward. She rose up on the tips of her toes and poked him between the eyebrows like she used to do back when they were kids; back when she was trying to get his attention away from his guitar. It was annoying then and Harrison found it even more annoying now.

“I can’t believe you thought I was dead. I’m insulted.”

“Well, I haven’t heard from you in three fucking years, Beth. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“That’s…fair…I guess,” she replied. She took a step backwards, shifting on her feet uncomfortably. The move reminded him of when they were younger. She always did that whenever she was caught doing something she shouldn’t.

Simpler times.

Her eyes shifted back towards their father who was still leaning across the cabinets, watching them both with tired eyes. She seemed to be silently pleading with him.

“Don’t look at me,” he said to her as he took a sip of his coffee. “This is your hole to dig out of, not mine.”

“Thanks Dad,” she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“No problem, minnow. I told you this wasn’t going to be easy.”

“Yeah, you got that right.”

“Well, honestly, Beth, what did you expect?” Harrison replied, raising to his height and crossing his arms in front of his chest, anger fueling him faster than caffeine could ever have. “I hate to be repetitive, but it can’t be ignored. It’s been three years. Three fucking years. No phone call. No note. No nothing. You just vanished. As if it was nothing. As if we were nothing.”

“I understand why you’re mad. Look, I get it —"

“No, Beth. You don’t get it,” he interrupted, nostrils flaring in anger.

She flinched at his words, but he having a hard time feeling sympathetic. Her disappearance had nearly torn them all apart. He still remembered the sound of their mother crying in the back room of the police station, the amount of times he had to walk their father back to the house because he had drunk himself into a stupor on the docks waiting for her to come back and how they had put Ned through counseling because he thought it was all his fault. He could see Wes in his mind’s eye running himself ragged trying to find the right locator spell and how he had torn through her room trying to find a single strand of hair to use. He could still recall the nights of he stared blankly at sheets of paper, unable to write music because his mind kept drifting back to her and the maelstrom of emotion she had left inside of him. His knuckles were still scarred for the times he had tried to beat his self-loathing and anger into a punching bag until it broke, and sand spilt onto the floor of his basement. She owed him at least seven bags.

“You don’t get it,” he repeated. “And you don’t get to say that because you weren’t here and that isn’t okay. This entire family almost crumbled when you left. Ned almost failed out his senior year and almost didn’t get into college.”

“Ned’s in college?” She whispered in disbelief.

“Yeah. He’s in his second year and if you were here, you would have known that!”

“That’s not fair, Har.”

“No. What’s not fair is that we’re still picking up the pieces that you left behind and now you think that can be just swept under the rug.”

“Harrison.” Their father straightened himself up, giving him a warning look. “Enough.”

“Are you kidding me right now? I know she’s your favorite but this is ridiculous! She broke our hearts! She broke your heart, Dad! You drank yourself into the bottom of a bottle waiting for her to come back! You’re just going to let bygones be bygones?”

“I don’t have favorites, Har.”

“Bullshit. Look me in the eye and tell me if I pulled the fucking nonsense she did that you wouldn’t punch me in the face if I dare showed my face afterwards.”

A muscle in Killian’s jaw ticked and there was a dangerous look in his eyes, but Harrison stopped being scared of his father the minute he was taller than him.

“Don’t go putting words into my mouth, lad. I never said any of that. There is a time to address things. And that time isn’t now. Right now, let’s focus on the fact that your sister is home.”

Harrison worried at his jaw, glaring at him. He took three steps forward, away from his sister and crowded into his father’s personal space. Any other man would have shrunken away from a fight with a man of Harrison’s stature, but not Killian Jones. He met his son’s gaze with his own furious blue eyes, straightening his shoulders and refusing to backdown. For a brief moment, Harrison thought his father might actually punch him.

“Good morning everyone.”

The tension in the room was immediately cut by the appearance of Nasira. She gave them all a tired smile as she walked into the kitchen, their three-month old son cradled in her arms. Harrison immediately turned his back on his father and ignored the choked noises Beth was making in the background. His focus was on the love of his life and his infant son.

“هلتتصرفبنفسك?” She asked him, raising her eyebrows at him as she rose up on her toes to kiss his chin. He was making an effort not to be insulted by her insinuations about his behavior.

“دائما.”

She gave him a look like she didn’t quite believe his reassurances but didn’t say anything to him as she adjusted her hold on their son and turning to address his sister.

“Hey Beth. It’s been awhile. When did you get in?”

All three Joneses jolted at Nas’s nonchalance. Her tone held no underlaying sarcasm or anger. It was a friendly, casual remark, as if she were talking to someone that she had seen almost every day of her life. Killian nearly spat out his coffee while Beth stared at her, clearly shaken by the question.

“She got in this morning,” Harrison answered tersely, scowling still.

“توقف,” Nas responded, striking Harrison across the abdomen in reproach. She then turned her attention back to Beth and smiled at her. “Your brother can be an ass.”

“I’m well aware,” Beth managed to croak out, still looking a bit uneasy. “You’re too good for him.”

“Absolutely not. I can be an ass too. We’re just the perfect amount of ass for each other,” Nas responded with a laugh. “But how have you been?”

“Busy. But you seem to have been busy as well…” She gestured to the child in Nas’s arms.

“Yeah, yeah, I definitely have,” Nas beamed. “Between him and his brother, I’ve been very busy.”

“B-brother?” Beth’s eyes went wide. “You have more than one?”

“Yep! I had Sam nearly three years ago. He was a bit of a surprise, but we loved him so much that we decided to have another. We’ve had Kam for three months now and he seems pretty good, so I think we’re gonna keep him.”

“You have babies.” Beth looked like she was one second away from having a panic attack.

“Yep!” Nas responded brightly, deliberately ignoring his sister’s obvious discomfort. “They’re great. I would ten out of ten recommend.”

“I don’t think that’s in the cards for me.”

“Nas, my love, my jewel,” Harrison spoke up, giving Nas a tight smile. “I’m so glad you’re happy and proud of our children, but I feel the need to point out to everyone, because clearly seems you’ve all forgotten, but Beth has been out of our lives for three years. She left us. For three years. Without a word.”

“Harrison, my love, my sweet, gentle, understanding man,” she responded, giving him the same time smile and now speaking a sugary tone that belayed a message that was more steely than sweet. “I’m so glad that you’re happy for my happiness, but I feel the need to remind you that this is Storybrooke. We deal with all sorts of things from time-traveling witches, cursed gems, megalomaniacs and not to mention brothers who try to pull political coups to try and steal your kingdom. This family drama? It’s honestly just a blimp on the radar. We’re getting married. Your sister is going to be in the wedding party. I’m not having the groom feuding with his sister.”

“You guys seriously aren’t married yet?” Beth asked in disbelief.

“No,” they answered at the same time, Harrison sounding angry while Nas was wistful.

Beth immediately turned to their father. Killian merely shrugged his shoulders at her and sipped his coffee.

“I don’t know why you keep looking at me for answers. You’re all adults. I have no control over your decisions.“

“We just haven’t found the right time,” Nas replied, giving a placating smile.

It was then that Kam started crying and Nas began making shushing noises, bouncing him up and down in hopes of calming him. Harrison envied his infant son’s ability to be so free with how he felt. He wanted to scream too.

Harrison opened his mouth to make a comment but was stopped when the front door opened loudly, and a very familiar voice called out.

“Good morning Vietnam!” Wes shouted merrily, making his way towards the kitchen. Harrison winced at the volume, afraid that his brother was going to wake his still sleeping three-year old and their mother.

Wes seemed to be in good cheer, chuckling to himself as he swaggered in. He was dressed in a black leather jacket and the tightest pair of pants that Harrison had ever seen. The smell of cigarettes immediately filled the kitchen and it was quite clear that he had come to the house straight from closing up the bar.

The smirk died the second Wes’s eyes land on their sister. For a brief moment, the entire room was silent, save for the tail end of Kam’s whimpering. No one spoke as Wes stared at Beth. Their eyes met for exactly five seconds. Harrison counted them.

“Nope,” Wes said quietly, shaking his head and turning on his heel.

“Wes!” Beth shouted, stepping forward to run after him.

He stopped at the sound of her voice. He turned again to face them, his face pinched with concern. He tilted his head and took a tentative step towards her.

“Guys,” he said slowly, still staring at their sister. “Don’t get mad at me, but I think I might be a little high from getting hotboxed all night at the Hole…because I’m legit seeing Beth right now and there’s no way that could possibly be happening right now.”

Beth scoffed, rolling her eyes at him.

“Good to see you haven’t changed a bit.”

“She’s snarking me right now. Fake Beth is snarking me, guys.”

“Fake Beth is Real Beth and she’s five seconds from punching you in the face.”

“And now, she’s threatening me!”

“We know,” Nas snorted. “She’s real and we can hear her and so help me, Westley Jones, if you’re high around my children, I will castrate you with a rusty spoon.”

“Oh,” Wes blinked dumbly before turning to look at their father. “Dad, I’m going to need your flask, because…damn.”

“Sorry, it’s empty,” Killian responded, not looking up from his coffee. It was very clear to everyone in the room that he was lying.

“Okay,” Wes responded, drawing a shaky breath before heading towards the sink. "This calls for drastic measures.”

He bent down and took out the emergency bottle of rum that they kept behind the dog treats. He uncorked it and placed it down on the counter before grabbing a clean glass from the drying rack. He contemplated it for about three seconds before placing the glass back down and deciding to drink straight from the bottle. He took a long drag from it before turning to address them.

“Okay, good,” he said, smacking his lips. “Good. Now I can deal with this.”

“Are you going to share that?” Beth asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely not. You owe me at least ten years of alcohol.”

“I was gone for only three!”

“Yeah, three years plus the seven extra years I’m going to spend talking about this in therapy. Welcome home, sis.”

“You’re an ass.”

“So are you,” he replied, taking another sip. “It runs in the family.”

“Why am I not surprised that you’re taking this so casually?” Harrison snapped, feeling irritated.

“Well, to be honest, I’m still not convinced I’m not hallucinating right now and it seems kinda silly to argue with a hallucination.”

“Trust me, I thought she was a hallucination too, but I got past that pretty quickly.”

“Yeah, well, you’re more well adjusted than me. I’m a little mad at my subconscious right. I mean, seriously? My sister? Why couldn’t my hallucinations be more hot? Kate Hudson? Sienna Miller? Giselle? Something I could actually enjoy seeing?”

Beth moved forward and hit Wes across the shoulder. He let out a yelp of pain, massaging his shoulder and glaring at her.

“See? Not a hallucination.”

“God, I forgot how vicious you are.”

“You’ve gotten soft without me.”

“Well, it’s not like I have any good sparing partners. The last time Harrison and I fought, he picked me up and tossed me over the fence like I was Benny Booth.”

“Benny Booth?” Nas asked, frowning in confusion.

“The asshole who nearly knocked up our sister. Harrison threw him over a fence, except he didn’t quite clear it and Moe French had a fence with an ass shaped cut out for like three weeks,” Wes explained with a quirk of his lips.

“He didn’t nearly knock me up,” Beth scowled.

“Henry bought you a pregnancy test. He nearly knocked you up,” Wes volleyed back at her.

At that comment, their father spat out his coffee and began to cough profusely. Harrison gave him a healthy whack on the back.

“He did not!”

“He did!”

“He. Did. Not.”

“Yes. He. Did. Your eggo was almost preggo.”

“Ugh! Stop talking! To think I actually missed you!”

“You actually missed us? Wow, maybe you’re the one whose gone soft.”

“Beth?”

Their mother was standing halfway down the stairs, staring at her daughter the same way Harrison and Wes had previously – like she was looking at a ghost. Beth returned her gaze with one of her. This time she didn’t look self-assured, however. She looked on the verge of tears.

“M-mo-mom?”

“Beth? Is that you? Is that my daughter?”

Emma didn’t wait for an answer. She raced down the stairs, nearly tripping over the final step. The stumble seemed to wake something inside of Beth because she finally regained her senses and was scrambling past Wes to meet her. Their mother grabbed onto their sister’s arms and yanked her almost violently forward. Beth fell into her arms and a loud, almost inhuman sob sounded through the entire kitchen as the two embraced each other, rocking side-to-side in a forceful but erratic sway.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Beth’s voice was muffled by Emma’s shoulder, but Harrison could still hear her words as she kept repeating them like a broken record.

“You’re home” was their mother’s mantra. He could tell by the waver in her voice that Emma was also crying.

Harrison couldn’t stand it.

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He couldn’t handle this any longer. If he stayed, he was going to break something. His father and Wes’s easy acceptance of Beth had been hard enough to swallow but seeing their mother tearful and happy to see the daughter that had abandoned them was just too much.

Nas seemed to sense this.

“هلانتبخير?” she asked, looking at him in concern.

“Can you give me the baby?” he asked in a barely measured tone. “I’m thinking he could use some air.”

Nas studied his face for a moment, frowning. He briefly thought she might not comply with his request, but she gave him a curt nod and handed over their son without a word. Kam was whimpered loudly, clearly unhappy with being given over to his father.

“Thank you,” he murmured, bending down to kiss her cheek before making his escape.

While everyone was focused on the reunion between mother and daughter, Harrison made his escape with his son in his arms. He went out the back door and leaned against the deck railing, staring out into the backyard at the old rusted swing set. It had been a long time since anyone had used those swings and he tried to think of the last time Lucy had used them.

It was equally surreal and frightening to think that his own children would soon be old enough to use them.

“Do me a favor, bud, and don’t grow up too fast,” he murmured to the infant.

Kam stared up at him crankily but waving his arm in displeasure and hitting him across the nose. Harrison jolted at the unexpected contact, rearing his head back away from his son. He adjusted his hold so he could massage his injured nose. He felt equal parts proud and embarrassed about getting whacked in the face by a mere infant. It was almost comical.

“You might have more Jones in you than we realized,“ he mused aloud, trying to appease his unhappy son.

“Which is a bit shocking considering he’s your kid and you’re a helluva lot more Charming than you are Jones,” a voice called out.

Beth.

She was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her chest and looking at him with pensive expression.

“Aren’t you supposed to be chatting with Mom?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow at her.

“You know when you do that, you look disturbingly like Dad. Like really disturbingly like Dad. I didn’t really see it when we were kids, but I can see what everyone was saying now. You look a lot like him.”

“So I’ve been told,” he responded, eyebrow lifting even higher on his forehead. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

“I am,” she nodded.

“You know, when people ask questions, they kinda expect a response.”

“Those people should get used to disappointment.”

“They already have.”

Beth flinched, staring down at her feet and biting her lip.

“Look, I know you hate me, but —”

“Beth, I don’t hate you,” he cut her off. “I honestly wish I did. Things would be easier then. If I hated you, I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t have lost sleep worrying about you for the last three years. I wouldn’t have cried. I wouldn’t have let Nas stall the wedding for you.”

“Nas stalled the wedding? What!” She looked horrified.

“She accepted my proposal and refused to plan the wedding without you,” Harrison responded, trying to keep his voice even. “She said if you weren’t there, I would regret it for the rest of my life.”

“I’m sorry…”

“You can be sorry. I’m glad to hear it in fact, but that doesn’t mean I have to forgive you…”

“I know,” she sighed. “I know. And I don’t blame you.”

“I love you. You’re my sister and you’re always going to be my sister, and someday I’ll probably forgive you, but I can’t today. Not today. There’s been too much pain, Beth. I can’t just forget that. I can’t look at you without thinking about how Dad destroyed his liver over you, how Mom threatened the Dark One to find you and how they tracked to track you for years despite the fact you obviously bought protection spells against that. I can’t just forget that Ned went to actually depression and almost stopped playing baseball, which he loves more than life itself. Henry worried himself sick enough he had ulcers. And Wes? Wes was so focused on finding you, he forgot to shower and Gideon begged me to come over and literally force him away from his research. I can’t just get past that. I’m not like that them, I can’t forgive and forget like that. I know you guys like to call me perfect and if I was, I could forgive you, but I can’t.”

“Oh, Harrison, they haven’t forgiven me,” she laughed bitterly. “No one is letting me off the hook. They’re just in shock right now. Like you said, I’ve been gone for three years. Once that shock fades away, the anger will be there. Just you wait.”

“That anger is justified.”

“I know that,” she snapped, hot angry tears spilled down her cheeks. “Lord knows, I know that. I know I deserve it. I half expected to be disowned upon arrival.”

“We don’t do that.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” she replied, wiping her cheeks and turning away from him. “I’ve come to except the worst.”

“Expect the worst but hope for the best.”

“Hope is a very dangerous thing. Nothing worse than false hope.”

“Dangerous, but powerful. A little hope can go a long way, Beth. You’ve proved that, yourself.“

"You really are a Charming. You legit sound like Grandma.”

“I know you’re trying to mock me but I’m being serious,” Harrison replied, slightly frustrated. “The thing about hope is that…it can drive you, but it can’t take you all the way there. You have to put the work in too…No one is going to forgive you unless you actually try. Don’t just say you’re sorry. Show us you’re sorry. Until you put your money where your mouth is, nothing is going to get accomplished. I can’t forgive you until I see it.”

“That’s what Dad said…That the path to forgiveness…I need to put the work in.”

“He would know better than anyone else,” Harrison said gently. “And I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge.”

“Never,” she responded fiercely, eyes flashing with determined. And for the first time since he saw her, Harrison felt a flash of warmth. He had missed her fire.

“Good.”

He pushed himself away from the railing, tightening his hold on Kam as he did so. He made his way towards the doorway, his sister watching him warily. He bent forward and placed a brief kiss on her cheek.

“Nice to see you, Beth.”

“Nice to see you too, Har.”

–

خرة - shitهلتتصرفبنفسك - are you behaving yourself?دائما - alwaysتوقف - stopهلانتبخير - Are you okay?

#cs ff #cs fanfic #cs fanfiction #cs au #little pirates #little pirates fic #my fic #my shit #a once and future thing #beth jones #harrison jones #wes jones #nasira sultana #kam jones

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davidmann95 · 5 years ago

Note

Thoughts on this week's comics?

Once & Future #1: On the final day of my local comic book store’s operation (don’t worry, I’ve I think found a new place close to where I work) they finally got the sixth and last printing of this baby, and what an odd comic. I absolutely dig it, but just in terms of pacing and the rhythms of the dialogue, this feels much more to me like a Morrison joint than Gillen? Maybe it’s just because I associate Dan Mora with Klaus. Anyway, I’m late to the party on this one but yeah, it’s good.

No One Left To Fight #4: It hasn’t been as good as the first issue got me to hope, and I don’t think it’s going to change that with apparently just one issue left, but this is still solid and definitely worth a look once it drops in trade for DBZ fans.

DIE #8: Gillen’s always been a guy who works best for me on reread, but between this and Peter Cannon he’s working overtime lately to jump a few notches even further upward in my estimation. And I cannot believe a monthly comic, even one with breaks built in, can look this gorgeous.

Marvel Comics #1001: God what a shitshow! I repeatedly referred to Marvel Comics #1000 as nothing short of a minor miracle, and I’ll stand by that. But while that was an exceptional if by no means perfect realization of its intent as a celebration of Marvel’s history, this is a truly shameless dumping ground, with only two teasing story-lite bookending Ewing pages to lure in chumps like me. I think there’s something like 3-4 notably at least *okay* other stories in here, with everything else ranging from empty calories to bizarre to total crap. Worst I’ve spent about dropping my money on a book in some time.

Fantastic Four #15: I’ll admit to being a little perplexed about the strength of the negative reaction to the title right now. I’d be the first to admit it’s a complete embarrassment in the context of being the Richards families’ grand return, but it’s perfectly fine superhero comics, even if I’ll likely drop it after this arc.

Absolute Carnage: Immortal Hulk #1: The gold standard of event tie-ins - it fits well with the event, with the main book (even if Ewing’s assured nothing plotwise here is going to feed back into the main title...though honestly, I’m a touch skeptical depending on how Absolute Carnage proper goes, I could see something in here playing out in Immortal while requiring fairly minimal explanation), and it hits us with an extra little dose of seeing how the current status quo plays with Marvel at large since it’s typically in isolation without diluting the flavor of either side. A+.

Bizarre Adventures #1: Actually really good but it should be a federal crime that the initial solicit promised a Chris Onstad story and this didn’t deliver, without even at least some sort of formal apology.

Daredevil #12: Oh, Willie. WhatEVER are we going to do with you?

House of X #6: Okay, I’ve tried to avoid blanket “anyone who doesn’t like these books just doesn’t GET IT, MAN” statements, but I haven’t been subtle in finding a lot of the criticisms of how the X-Men are changing up how they operate/express themselves as a minority metaphor...charged. I’ve already had reason recently to think I was being too broad even with that though, but with this issue? The idea that Professor X was psychically manipulating people into going along with this seemed like a dumb, boring as shit way of reckoning with the new status quo, but maybe that merits a rethink, because holy shit. Anyway this is still fire and I can’t believe I give a fuck about the X-Men now, one issue left until this run properly starts. Jesus.

The Immortal Hulk #24: I’ll admit I’ve been finding the conclusion of the General Fortean story merely excellent rather than mind-blowingly transcendent recently, and while I wasn’t disappointed I was ready for things to properly kick back into high gear. THAT IS CERTAINLY NOT A PROBLEM ANYMORE, TRUE BELIEVERS.

Batman #80: I’m still down for it, both this bit in isolation as the triumphant comeback lead in to the finale, and the run as a whole. And while I think he’s been doing his best work in a VERY long time recently and I’m glad to see he’ll be joining Tynion, I’m glad Daniel is taking a backseat to Mann, Romita Jr., and soon Janin for concluding City of Bane, given it’s now also the ending of King’s time on Batman proper even if he’s still finishing his story elsewhere.

Lois Lane #4: It’s extremely weird that this is a Renee Montoya book co-starring Lois Lane but if Greg Rucka wants to write a Gotham Central/52 followup I’m not gonna...question it.

Legion of Super-Heroes: Millennium #2: DANG! Taken as a whole with the first issue given it clearly should have been a big one-shot, this is easily the best thing Bendis has done since the DC jump outside the Superman books, and I’m properly pumped for Legion now. Jeff Dekal and Ryan Sook in particular take my breath away once apiece in here.

The Green Lantern #12: With the season finale on the stands, I’d say it’s now more than fair to call Green Lantern Morrison’s weakest superhero output of the 21st century. Which doesn’t mean it’s not a hoot, it’s still Morrison, but again, I’ve yet to see anything at all that convinces me Morrison isn’t doing this on autopilot in-between his TV commitments. Admittedly Morrison on autopilot has its own unique charms, just spraying odd archetypal superhero concepts and sci-fi jargon at you to fill up space; this feels like one of his ad-hoc superhero teams such as the Status Quorum or the Cometeers or one of the throwaway Multiversity Earth ideas slouching to a sort of independent pseudo-life and throwing off neat ideas like an isotope bursting radiation, not fully-formed but perhaps in its own way all the more beautifully off-kilter and primally iconic in the process. Not enough to make up for the absence of him actually trying, you understand, but certainly unique and still an experience I enjoy every month. Please god though, don’t let this and Wonder Woman: Earth One Vol. 3 whenever that happens be his last major superhero works. One last Justice League story, Arkham Asylum 2 like he said, Superman Squad, something.

Doom Patrol: Weight of the Worlds #4: Venom exists in the DCU and it’s an evil speedo, this is objectively a perfect comic book. I liked the original Way run a lot even if I could never remember what was going on, but I’m stunned with every issue what a level-up this second volume has been, at least for my money.

Justice League #33: I think the book’s sagging a bit at the moment, since Justice/Doom War is clearly a feint for whatever the real finale is going to be in 2020 and I don’t think Snyder/Tynion work quite as well as an apparently full-on writing team as they do when simply trading off issues and letting their individual strengths shine. Still the best straight-take capeshit on the stands though, make no mistake.

Young Justice #9: If Namoi was the return of the Bendis who tried writing sincere stuff near the end of his time at Marvel but was too burned out at that point to make it work anymore, this is the Avengers guy who’s freewheeling and kinda screwing around where he should be getting to brass tacks but still has his moments. I might end up dropping this book, but it’s still at least got me through the end of this arc.

DCeased #5: This book’s been disappointing me more than a bit the last couple issues given how good it SHOULD be with how much it plays into Tom Taylor’s greatest strengths. The ending on this one, however? Is one I’m going to remember forever, and Trevor Hairsine sells the absolute hell out of it. Propelled to my favorite of the week just on the back of that.

#Week's Comics #House of X #Jonathan Hickman #X Men #Grant Morrison #Opinion

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southboundhq · 5 years ago

Photo

MEET NADJA,

FULL NAME › Nadja Nuan Feng AGE › twenty nine GENDER › Cis female (She/Her/Hers) FROM › Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada RESIDENCE › Stagecoach Apartments (Outskirts) OCCUPATION › Bartender at the Coyote’s Howl Bar, Projectionist at the Moonlite Drive-In Theater NOW PLAYING › Lexicon Devil by the Germs

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warnings: death, murder, gore, sex mention, assault, implied racism, violence, drug mention

▓ ▌now playing : good thing – fine young cannibals

it’s a whirlwind romance, so the journal of nadja’s father would tell of it when her mother finally lets her read it. megan robbie spends her year abroad at tianjin university, hoping to make a new start for her life after the death of her parents. she has no siblings to lean on for support and the once strong childhood and college friendships that had promised permanence and fortitude had failed–crumbling under the weight of complicated grief. megan finds the exchange program that will take her as far away from victoria, bc as possible. northern china connects her somewhat distantly to her mother’s mother, a woman she barely sees in her own features and hardly remembers from her own childhood. megan finds herself falling in love with the coastal metropolis.

guoqiang feng plays guitar and spends his sunny college days reading in the quad. he has long hair and wears oversized sunglasses that megan thinks only he could pull off. they take their first trip during break with some friends down to sanya on hainan island and between the romance of the salty beach air and the hum of anchor beer have the new couple swimming in the saccharine haze of young love. they don’t wait until graduation to get married.

the wedding is a tasteful, small event where everyone remarks on the glow of megan’s soft face, as it shines like the moon–even brighter than the soft cream of her delicate lace dress that floats away from her body in an a-line cut just below the knee. when guoqiang sees her the whole world melts away. in her dark hair, she wears a modern filigree comb and lets her hair cascade over her shoulders in gentle waves. they have never been completely traditional.

no one seems to notice the small changes in megan’s body beneath her bridal garb. it is not long before the wedding that baby nuan grows in her belly–just now the size of a peach pit–kicking with the thunderous force of athena banging around in her father’s head. she is guoqiang’s daughter through and through. when she is born, it is a difficult birth and megan thinks that surely all this pain is worth it. she doesn’t see her baby for hours as she hemorrhages blood and the fundal massage the nurses perform to train her uterus to do what it was engineered to after birth is excruciating. there is nothing she wants more than to be a mother, she thinks, and when she holds nuan in her arms for the first time, she knows she cannot return to work and there is nothing left for her back home in british columbia.

they name the small girl for guoqiang’s feisty mother and megan gives her the english counterpart of nadja and the middle name of her own later mother. in megan’s arms, nuan can never seem to find peace and is quieted only long enough to eat before howling for her father. megan feng cannot understand what she has done wrong, but is comforted by the soft tutting of her husband as he quiets their precocious baby girl, insisting that she is just a fussy child and only seemed preferred him because he was so often at work.

college had worked out well for guoqiang and soon he was working for future tv in tianjin. the train rides home extended his time away as did the occasional afterwork dinner or meeting leaving megan and nadja to themselves for the most part during the week. if distance made the heart grow fonder, time made the heart grow sweeter. megan was full of yearning and though she cherished her time with the fussy, mischievous toddler it soon became not enough. she yearned for stimulating conversation and found herself nose deep in any literature she could get her hands on–eager to discuss the stories with guoqiang as he entered the house late at night with slumped shoulders.

▓ ▌now playing : bela lugosi’s dead – bauhaus

the time comes where guoqiang feng is bestowed with the good fortune of moving up in the company. despite being dead tired everyday, he considers himself lucky even as the dust continues to build on his baby blue fender stratocaster. once relegated to the work week, guoqiang’s long hours continue on long business trips throughout the country. the time apart does not shatter their foundation, but it does take its toll on the young couple. unwilling to let megan and nuan come second to anything, guoqiang makes some important changes.

on most nights, guoqiang starts skipping the afterwork cocktails–coming back home from with a little more energy than before. he starts to plan a family vacation to sanya to revitalize the marriage and get some much needed rest and relaxation. megan takes the news to heart and enthusiastically begins planning their itinerary. there is a new glimmer to the feng household and even nadja seems to be less fussy–toddling around with a smiling face. she takes steps on her own and starts to speak; her first word is ‘cat.’ the fengs get a cat. nadja can hardly remember life in tianjin, but nearly every moment of her childhood includes that cat she cannot name. the gossamer wings of nostalgia obscure so many things.

the fengs are as shocked as the rest of the world when news hits of sarin gas in nagano. it’s a stark juxtaposition when held up against guoqiang’s busy work days in tianjin or megan and nadja playful days in the coastal city of tianjin. the fengs have never been to japan aside from guoqiang’s rare trips to tokyo for business. when guoqiang doesn’t return to his hotel room in tokyo on time from the train to make his night call with his family a year later, it’s the furthest thing in the world from megan’s mind. she’s certain–despite nuan mounting tantrums–that he simply stayed out too late with colleagues following an impromptu dinner. when he never makes it home, megan wonders if she should count herself lucky or unlucky that nadja does not have the words to ask the deeper questions–not yet.

as spring approaches, ushering in the reminders of trips to sanya, megan feng holds nuan firmly in her arms in a dark room. they are all that is left. everything reminds megan of him. guoqiang’s ghost is inescapable and he is present in everything she does. guoqiang’s mother nuan comes to mourn her son, but stays to help a mother and child heal. it’s too much for one woman to carry alone, but despite their grief the two mothers make a go of it together.

▓ ▌now playing : burn – the cure

every grain of sand in bohai bay carries a piece of guoqiang in it. megan cannot breathe in her husband’s shadow and, despite the love she has for her home, she knows it is time to make a new life. the goodbyes are painful, but after she is accepted to study at the university of british columbia she knows that fate has chosen a new path for her. she is blessed to leave with her daughter in tow. the cat with a forgotten name stays with nuan’s nainai in her modest house by the sea. it will be a long time before little nuan looks upon her face again.

nuan starts kindergarten in vancouver, british columbia and struggles behind her classmates. back home she was touted as gifted, if not just a little too busy, but here she feels behind. by elementary school she is taking the bus and walking home to the apartment herself while megan finishes her degree. so many kids struggle with the name nuan, even though it is the simplest thing on her own tongue. she doesn’t get to choose between nuan and nadja; it is a choice made for her by her mother and the rest of the people she comes across. it isn’t perfect, but nadja will look back later upon this time with palpable longing; it’s the only time she remembers feeling happy with her mother because, as she’ll learn in an encroaching reading assignment–nothing gold can stay.

where nadja struggles, megan thrives. majoring in literature, she puts her love of reading to good use. it doesn’t even matter that she has to start seemingly from scratch when all of her credits don’t transfer over. three years into her bachelor’s and she meets professor preston clarke and is immediately enamored by his lecture style. he is, for all intents and purposes, the quintessential cool guy professor. they meet during his office hours and discuss poetry over coffee. the romance doesn’t cross the line until graduate school, when she becomes his teaching assistant. to protect his reputation she drops out of the program and applies for a teaching program instead. megan and nadja move into his tasteful craftsman in english bay. every time preston calls her ‘naddy’ instead of nuan or nadja she bristles; she knows this man has no business playing her father.

▓ ▌now playing : lexicon devil – the germs

as nadja grows so do her problems in school. the letters seem to dance off the page like fall leaves and she is unable to sit still to focus like the other kids. the more nadja struggles, the more megan and preston push her. it only deepens the divide between them. the only balm for her anger is the occasional stretches of the year when nainai visits. it is the only time nadja freely speaks chinese in the household where her mother coddles her monolingual partner. when nainai is there, nadja does not break her toys or rip apart preston’s coffee table books–she runs into the arms of her grandmother and finds the comfort of her father. with grandma feng in the house, the tensions seem to lessen.

there’s an anger in her that is burning, stirring–embers glow now and soon they will be flames. she is talented at finding trouble. she hates her stepfather because he acts like he understands her mother and pretends he understands her. he is holden caulfield. he is jack kerouac. he is a thousand and one tired perspectives. he understands nothing. resentment mounts like bile in her throat and it coats every acrid word she speaks to her mother for choosing a man like him–for choosing that same man every time over everyone and everything else.

it’s the music that nadja channels this anger into. she spends her afternoons skateboarding of messing around on her dad’s old stratocaster. she paints her lips black and clings to anything that turns to corners of her mother’s lips downard in disapproval. nadja tells herself it’s her mother’s choice, this rebellion. it’s the choice she made when she plucked her small daughter from her father’s home and forced her into the hostile canadian soil. in that soil, megan feng becomes meg clarke. she blossoms and grows, building a home in old grief to runaway from new loss. nadja refuses the surname and stands her ground; she will not forfeit her father’s name.

▓ ▌now playing : oh bondage ! up yours ! – xray spex

freshman year brings a new sense of freedom to nadja life. skipping class to smoke cigarettes and crush beer cans under the bridge beats the annoyed sighs of teachers who think ‘nadja feng just doesn’t apply herself.’ when she runs out of cash for smokes or weed at the end of the school day, nadja skates over to the university to bum a few dollars off her stepdad. she’s done it half a dozen times this month alone and there’s nothing to suggest this day will go any differently. as she approaches his office, she zips up the black hoodie she’s altered with dental floss to cover the band shirt beneath as a small act of appeasement.

instead of finding him alone, drinking scotch and contemplating the loneliness his mediocre life affords him, nadja finds him with his hand on the thigh of another bright-eyed literature major–his position as a professor adding an attraction to him that would otherwise go overlooked. she turns sharply on the heel of her black doc martens, storming out to the parking lot to the tenured professor’s coveted parking spot. the silver sedan glistens in the spring sunshine. it’s so close to the anniversary of her father’s death, which has come and gone unmarked yet again in preston clarke’s household. april showers bring may flowers, but in the parking lot it is raining safety glass as she smashes out the windows of the sedan with the trucks of her skateboard. the clarkes have always seemed to be more interested in the status of parenthood rather than the labor love takes. it feels good to break something he loves.

when preston finds out he insists that nainai’s summer visit be cancelled and megan feels pressured to oblige; she has always only wanted harmony between preston and nadja and it seems farther away than ever. the punishment does not serve to temper her into a well-honed tool. nadja anger is a wolf lapping its own blood off the blade of a knife; the meal satiates her, but it is she who is hemorrhaging. she runs away several times before it sticks–never speaking to her mom and stepdad again when she finally manages to get out.

couch surfing with friends and surviving somewhere between traincar and tall boys of steel reserve, she joins a series of moderately popular local punk bands–unable to commit to anything for too long. it builds up her reputation in vancouver’s punk community, however, and soon she has the family she’s always wanted–a large group of friends. nadja casts off her old identity. she is finding her footing in brand new velvet burgundy docs–a kickdown from some drunk girl at a show. they’re a little too big, but with a couple pairs of wool socks, she can hardly tell the difference.

▓ ▌now playing : i love livin’ in the city – fear

by twenty-one, things have picked up for nadja. the girl has split her time between working at smoke shops and alternative cafes long enough to have obtained her ged and now she works the front door at a popular punk bar. at an average heigh tof 5′6″ the fast-talking, loud mouthed runaway has other ways to cut even the tallest men to half her size. her temper gets her into trouble, but her charisma and work ethic keep her employed.

without her parents’ finances, it becomes more and more difficult for nadja to see her grandmother and their visits are relegated predominantly to weekly skype conversations. nainai works with her granddaughter to keep up her mandarin and the girl dreams of returning home and spending the weekdays working in tianjin only to return to the calm beach town where her grandmother still lives in the house she was born in. it seems like a pipe dream, but it is one both women hold onto. it is the only dream either one has left. grandma feng no longer has any reason to speak to her once beloved daughter in law either, but there is no spite. she knows that nadja’s mother cannot bear to have the thorns of guoqiang’s death in her paws for a lifetime. grief is complicated, but better understood by those who’ve lived long enough to see enough of it.

after a few years, nadja becomes lead bartender, but the money just isn’t rolling in. the bar threatens to close and nadja begins taking night classes and setting money away in the hopes that a business degree will legitimize her enough for a business loan so she can buy the place herself. it cements her in bc, but with enough money she could at least afford to bring her grandmother out to see her on occasion. it’s not a homecoming, sure, but perhaps it is a homemaking.

▓ ▌now playing : ever fallen in love – the buzzcocks

like her mother and father before her, nadja falls in love with a boy playing guitar–spitting his own blood on the crowd of the bar like gasoline. kurt is tall and lanky with a padlock securing a chain around his throat. his long, dark hair frames his freckled face so delicately for someone with such an obtrusive frame. it’s not long before the spiteful bartender and the guitarist who lives in his van and calls himself ‘freegan’ to justify dumpster diving cheese pizzas are inseparable. he moves in quickly to her place, more or less because he doesn’t have a stable place to leave his shit when he’s on tour.

it suits her just fine when he’s away playing shows or laying down tracks on a seven inch. the bands slays and kurt and nadja have fun together. they get drunk on forties in train yards and cemeteries. they drive out to the beach and fuck in his van before tagging up the concrete retaining walls of a beachfront housing development. it seems like they might spend the rest of their lives smoking weed and cigarettes on the porch, scarfing down breakfast burritos at three am, and marathoning eighties horror movies like each time is the first time. nadja doesn’t know if she believes in love, but she thinks that maybe this is close enough. her skype calls to grandma feng become spotty in these first few months. it is the thing she will live to regret the most.

nadja becomes lax under the spell of love. coursework does not go unfinished, but she lets kurt hangout sometimes in the bar when she’s closing. eventually, her boss concedes to hire him on as a dishwasher and–though he complains about wanting a better position–he shows up to work most days more or less on time with a fresh cigarette behind his ear and an easy grin. he closes up some nights with nadja or the other bartender–a menacing looking american girl named natasha that bites her nails when she thinks no one is looking and always smells like damp patchouli and sweat.

on a moonless night in december, not long after their one year anniversary, nadja arrives to the community college to see that class is cancelled. excited to return early to the bar and surprise kurt with some burgers and garlic fries, she is crushed to find him in the arms of natasha. the pair are showered in burgers and nadja catches one of them with an empty bottle she isn’t sure she truly means to make contact with. the sound of shattered glass has always been a lullaby to an angry girl.

she’s not even all the way back to her apartment before she gets the call. nadja feng is fucking firedand kurt has given her the blame for the money he’s been skimming from the place on the sly. they’re debating on whether or not to press charges. nadja sells all of kurt’s second-rate band equipment to a pawn shop along with the things that don’t mean enough to carry on her back. she buys a plane ticket to tianjin by way of los angeles that day. with christmas lurking around the corner, it’s the best bang for her buck. nadja leaves her house keys on the empty floor. fuck leases and fuck kurt stevens.

▓ ▌now playing : spellbound – siouxsie and the banshees

the corrosive memories of kurt and natasha’s tryst are far from nadja’s mind as she finishes the skype call with her grandmother giving her the good news. understandably, grandma feng is concerned about the impulsive decision, but she knows her granddaughter well enough. even a girl as rash as a summer forest fire sometimes makes the right choice. they have dreamed of reuniting for so long, it is hard to take the news with anything but a tearful smile. nadja hears it in her voice–it colors every word. for the first time in nadja’s young life she thinks: i’m coming home.

the drive is a long one, but nadja is worried about the possibility of being forced to stay in bc due to assault charges. she can drive down the west coast and breathe in the salty air. she can eat clam strips and throw bread to seagulls in some seaside diner while she watches the tumultuous waves of the oregon coast thrash violently against the rocky shore. maybe it’ll be therapeutic, she thinks, to be one small person along a great, dark sea. a few days more. a few days and she’ll be back in tianjin and maybe she and nainai can get a new cat together. maybe the waves that beat the sands of dongjiang bay beach are softer and kinder than those in the pacific northwest.

it’s a lonely ride down and after three days of reflection and solitude, nadja feels like crawling out of her own skin. it’s too much peace for a girl born of chaos. perhaps it’s self-destruction or maybe it’s idle boredom, but when she sees the young crust punk couple hitchiking on the side of the road, she thinks fuck it, at least it’s something new and pulls over for them. they’re on the way to yuma city and she agrees to drop them off on her way to lax. they seem fine enough. she doesn’t even mind the little blue heeler they have with them, even though she’s a dyed in the wool cat person. the track marks don’t go unnoticed, but it’s nothing new to a veteran of the punk scene and nadja feng can handle anything.

▓ ▌now playing : dead end justice – the runaways

after a day on the road, the trio and their small dog throw down a few bucks to sleep in one of the cabins at a kampground of america. it’s not so bad, but the puppy whines all night and pees on the floor once in the early hours of the morning. nadja lies awake on the top bunk and she can hear the pair talking below her. wes speaking in his dopey voice, hardly whispering and maya shushing him in harsh whispers. nadja eeps her movements to the minimum and her eyes closed after she hears them pause for several moments when she readjusts. she’s certain she can smell maya’s breath for a moment as she hears the bed creak and feels a steely finger in her ribs. keeping her breaths steady, she plays opossum.

it becomes clear to her, once the bed creaks and maya starts talking again that they mean to rip her off. maya even asks wes is he’s ever wondered what it would feel like to kill somebody. nadja’s seen the way he looks at her; he’d die for her. he’d kill for her. boy, have they fucked with the wrong girl, nadja thinks darkly. covers pulled up to her chin. there’s a butterfly knife in her pocket and the shape of it has left an impression on the skin of her thigh. slowly she reaches for it and works to silently unfold it, clutching it to her chest beneath the covers when she’s through. they’re gonna pay. she’s never thought herself a killer, but she’s been a fighter since she was in her mother’s belly. let them try it, she thinks. and they do.

lying in wait, knowing it was coming doesn’t prepare her for what it will truly be like. there’s a fist in her face before she can speak, with the harsh instructions to get up. sucker punched and it’s not even four am yet. helluvah night. the punch stuns her, but she means to be ready. as wes pulls the covers from her bed, she spring on maya like a cat–butterfly knife, formerly a novelty, an aesthetic–arching blood across the cabin walls. maya has to be first, because she’s meanest. the shock will stun wes long enough for her to turn on him even though he’s bigger. somewhere in the darkness, their small dog yelps and paws at the door.

maya is easily overtaken. nadja has the element of surprise and a few inches on her. she wonders what it says about her that she can dispatch a shitty person so easily. it’s not like highlander; she doesn’t gain mystical powers when she sticks maya in the neck with that cheap butterfly knife. all she gets is blood. wes, on the other hand, he’s harder once he realizes his life is on the line. easily, he has half a foot and thirty pounds on her and he gives almost as good as he gets. nadja swallows a molar and take a hit so hard her ears ring, but she doesn’t stop. her whole life has been filled with a rage that she has let out in metered doses. tonight she lets it all out; tonight she knows she can never go back to vancouver, but she can still go home. she doesn’t stop until the dog barks at her loudly to go outside and she wonders if he didn’t trust them either.

they’d named him something stupid, like chaos or dogmeat. he wasn’t a fucking fallout canine companion even if they fancied themselves raiders. heroin and the open road, punk rock and a boxcar–she knows how romantic it all can seem. they probably thought they were mad max or negan. in the end they were just assholes. nadja feng is a cat person, but she can’t just leave this poor dog in the cabin with all that blood. he’s barely more than a puppy. nadja doesn’t know what the fuck to do with a dog, but … he is kind of cute. his blue-grey fur reminds her of an old man’s beard–a little old grandpa–and so the name, while never meant to be permanent, sticks. and so does grandpa, it seems, as he never leaves her side. they’ll have to head east, farther from the scene of the crime and buy a plane ticket from somewhere like phoenix. she chides herself as she wonders how much it costs to ship a dog to tianjin and decides fuck it, it doesn’t really matter. their friendship was baptized in blood, she and the dog belong together.

▓ ▌now playing : there is a light that never goes out – the smiths

the open road at night in the desert has an eerie quality to it and nadja is running from ghosts. phantoms who catch her easiest when she is sleeping, grandpa curled under her arm, in the back seat of her beat up muscle car. she’s never seen a place quiet like this and maybe it’d even be beautiful if she wasn’t alone–lady macbeth on the run. at least the dog’s good company, he doesn’t seem to care what she’s done and long as she feeds him. there’s something kind of nice about the newness of unconditional love.

she doesn’t call her grandmother to tell her about the change in flight plans, not yet anyway. once nainai’s voice sound on the other end, she knows she’ll burst into tears. she doesn’t deserve a grandmother like that, but she knows that an old woman can’t care for herself forever. she can at least give her that. if she can’t give her fat grandchildren and a fancy house on the beach, she can at least be there for her–if only she could find the highway.

driving and coffee, it seems like that’s all she’s known as she focuses on getting to phoenix as fast as possible. inhumanely fast, impossibly fast. it can be an alibi or an escape. there’s no way anyone’s going to believe she was the victim when they see wes’ body. too angry for too long–she’s really fucked it up this time. she doesn’t even google news reports, not wanting to know what might be waiting for her when she finally makes it to the airport and fuck, she can still not find the main highway, but there’s hope in the form of some no horse shithole named boot hill. ahead of schedule from driving like a bat out of hell, maybe she can rest for one night. maybe her demons can’t find her in this place. it’s almost a mirage–the oasis in the desert of cartoon, she thinks. who would ever think to find her in a place like this? the don’t even have a starbucks here, let alone a prison.

before she knows it, it’s been four months. nainai was understanding when she said she’d run into some bad luck and was staying in this small town. she’s just laying low of course, and she promises her grandmother everyday that she’ll be out to phoenix to catch her flight before she knows it. maybe nainai even believes it, because she says ��my friends in la tell me there was a murder along the freeway there, be careful, sweet girl’ and nadja cringes, because she is not a sweet girl. she’s a killer and a prisoner and only one of those truths is she fully aware of in boot hill.

❝ the only thing i remember from my childhood is when you are scared, make yourself tall. i’m the tallest girl alive. i’m the tallest knife. no throat can hold me. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Chloe Bennet AUTHOR › Lucia

#chloe bennet #rp #rpg #bio rp #semi appless rp #{ all. }#{ local. }#{ f. }#{ over twenty. }#{ lucia. }#death tw #murder tw #violence tw #racism implied tw #assault tw

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fistsoflightning · 5 years ago

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unending character meme // zaya qestir

RULES: repost, don’t reblog! tag, and good luck!

TAGGED BY: tagged in spirit by @to-the-voiceless

TAGGING: any and all who want to do it but haven’t actually been tagged by anyone!

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Zaya Qestir

NICKNAME: none, really.

AGE: 29 by the end of Stormblood. 30-ish by the end of SHB? Haven’t figured out the time distortion thing.

BIRTHDAY: 17th of the 4th Umbral Moon (8/17)

ETHNIC GROUP: Au’ra; Xaelan

NATIONALITY: Nomad? From the Azim Steppe’s Reunion, if that helps.

LANGUAGE / S: Eorzean Sign Language, Xaelan (crude/unpracticed); understands most languages through use of the Echo

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Demiromantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: dating Thancred Waters??? unsure of status during post-SHB but getting there.

HOME TOWN /AREA: Reunion, Azim Steppe

CURRENT HOME: A shared room in the Rising Stones or a shared house in the Mist; depends on where they are at the time of night.

PROFESSION: jeweler, weaver, gladiator of the coliseum, bard teacher (appointed reluctantly by Sanson after many a problem with Guydelot’s schedule), adventurer and warrior of light

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Straight and somewhat below shoulder length. Most of their hair is black, but slowly changes to blue and white at the tips.

EYES: Dark blue; navy color? Light blue limbal rings that glow in the dark, too.

FACE: Sharp jawline accented by their scales, often covered with some royal blue facepaint similar to Arenvald’s own.

LIPS: Often chapped, but otherwise normal.

COMPLEXION: Ashen brown? Hard to describe bc of weird lighting everywhere they go.

BLEMISHES: None

SCARS: There’s a lot, and I might make a scar map at some point??? Major ones happen to be their legs and their left arm; the legs from Ifrit and the arm from Elidibus in Zenos’s body in 4.5

TATTOOS: None, no matter how much people think the facepaint is one.

HEIGHT: Taller than the average Au’ra, about 5’4

WEIGHT: about 135 pounds

BUILD: Muscular, especially due to their main fighting style requiring muscle literally everywhere. Fistfighting for money is no small feat.

FEATURES: Their scales are an odd color (think black and blue borealis dice, but as scales), and their horns definitely look a bit… ragged. Watching them fight will give the odd realization that lightning sparks in cobalt blue come off of them sometimes.

ALLERGIES: Some undetermined fish allergy. Higiri fed them some assorted sushi once and never did again, so the Scions (and themselves) have no clue what fish they need to avoid.

USUAL HAIRSTYLE: Tied into a loose ponytail at the back. Sanson often comments how they share a hairstyle, but it’s simply from need of clear vision when moving around for monk skills and attacks.

USUAL FACE LOOK: Stoic as all hell. Not used to making full-on facial expressions outside of conversation, so normally looks bored.

USUAL CLOTHING: Tabards, cyclas, or generally something with flowy fabric that doesn’t restrain movement all that much. Metal boots and gauntlets/knuckles are also common, but not always.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR / S: being the last one standing, change, losing their younger siblings/younger friends, spiders, breaking a promise with their mother.

ASPIRATION / S: To have a proper adventure, and to inspire others to live their fullest lives.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Devoted, comforting, slightly protective, carefree

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Easily angered, impulsive, emotional, stubborn

MBTI: ISFP-T (Adventurer)

ZODIAC: Leo, apparently? Sort of fits, if you look at it closely.

TEMPERAMENT: Some crazy blend between phlegmatic and choleric? Generally carefree and easygoing with friends and willing to spend a lot of patience on them, but unrelenting and downright frightening in serious situations, especially when involving Garlemald.

SOUL TYPE / S: Server/Caregiver

ANIMALS: Birds and dogs.

VICE HABIT / S: Drinking, although the Echo does prevent it from having any effect whatsoever, so its more of a taste thing? Tends to sleep a lot when stressed, and often spends their leftover money on gemstones for their shared collection.

FAITH: Polytheistic; the Twelve and Nhaama are gods they generally believe in.

GHOSTS?: Yes, mainly because they’ve seen one.

AFTERLIFE?: Yes.

REINCARNATION?: Probably, with how they’re sure they’ve seen someone who was supposed to be dead before

ALIENS?: before becoming Warrior of Light, it would be no, but with the revelation of Elidibus on the moon and Midgardsormr and OMEGA‌‌ (ALIEN‌ ROBOT????) they aren’t so sure anymore.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Does not care enough even though they are staunch friends with Nanamo. Didn’t care enough to try and challenge Oktai for the seat of Qestiri Khatun, certainly doesn’t care enough to take a political stance in Eorzea.

EDUCATION LEVEL: Barely any; just enough to read letters written in Eorzean and faintly Ishgardian (courtesy of Alphinaud and Haurchefant).

FAMILY.

FATHER: there was one, once, but he’d rather he be forgotten in pursuit of a happier future. Zaya remembers him as Baatar, but they don’t remember if that was actually his name.

MOTHERS: Erhi, Odgerel.

SIBLINGS: Oktai (older brother), Taban (older sister), Sarnai (sister), Delger and Tuya (fraternal twins)

EXTENDED FAMILY: any of the Scions (former or current) or their fellow Warriors of Light, if we’re talking found family. House Fortemps, Aymeric, Estinien, Sanson, Guydelot, Sidurgu, Rielle, and all of the Qestiri tribe are up there too, but you know, that’s kind of a lot of gifts to be sending around during Starlight. (zaya totally sends them all gifts anyways.)

NAME MEANING /S: Zaya means fate in Mongolian, which all of the other Xaelan names seem to be based on. Their previous name, Dzoldzaya, meant light of fate.

HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: Recorded history on the Azim Steppe is easily lost, but if asking around the different tribes, one could learn about a rather prominent Qestiri warrior whose image is painted in some of the caverns nearby where much of important, unforgettable Xaelan history is recorded by the Gharl, swathed in blue cloth. In the days of Amaurot, there was one standout Amaurotine who shared a love for lightning and birds…

FAVORITES.

BOOK: They don’t know enough Eorzean to read a full book, not even a children’s book. The Echo doesn’t help with reading. Urianger has read a book of myths and legends that turned out to be true to them, however, and that has been their favorite for a while. They’ve been considering asking him to read more for them, but that’s been placed on hold after the events of the First and following Mt. Gulg.

DEITY: Nhaama, or Rhalgr, if talking to someone who thinks ‘what’s a Nhaama’ when they mention her.

HOLIDAY: Starlight Celebration. Something about the festive mood always makes them happy.

MONTH: August (4th Umbral Moon)

SEASON: Summer

PLACE: On the Source, Reunion in the Azim Steppe just because interacting with other tribes is rather fun. On the First, Il Mheg all the way!

WEATHER: Clear nights where they can trace the constellations, but it isn’t too cold to need a blanket.

SOUND / S: Excited chatter, harp, singing, small hammers clinking against metal.

SCENT /S: Rain, fresh wood, the air in Gridania, light perfume, Syhrwyda’s food.

TASTE /S: Snurbleberry, honey, most Doman seafood, buuz.

FEEL /S: Soft and smooth fabrics, cold metal, the grip of someone’s hand around theirs, wind blowing through their hair on a warm day.

ANIMAL /S: Yol, chocobo (birds!).

NUMBER: 17, for their nameday and the first year they spent in Eorzea

COLORS: Cobalt blue and indigo, pale gold, soot black.

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Extremely good when working with cloth or metal; even more so when tinkering little trinkets. Interestingly enough, very good at playing flute and harp without much practice. Expert at pulling a person’s true emotions out with simply body language.

BAD AT: Sneaking around/stealth. Do not, under any circumstance, give them a job involving secrecy or stealth unless you want it to fail. Speaking/reading is also pretty horrible, due to how they were raised. Also bad at taking change or lies well.

TURN-ONS: Loyalty, bravery despite all odds, kindness and love even when it would be easier to be otherwise, being able to understand other beliefs, and a love of freedom or new experiences

TURN OFFS: Lying to their face knowingly, extreme greed, lack of self-worth, anger for no good reason

HOBBIES: making music with Guydelot and Sanson, attempting to keep a journal, idle tinkering, dancing, gardening

TROPES: Good is Not Soft, Hope Bringer, Magnetic Hero, Omniglot, The Power of Friendship, The Quiet One, Silent Snarker, Dark is Not Evil, Five Stages of Grief, Horrifying Hero, Magic Music, Warrior Poet, Dance Battler, Warrior Monk, Determinator, Pintsized Powerhouse, Pragmatic Hero (don’t let me stay on TV‌tropes pls)

QUOTES: have a snippet of some writing?

Scrawled onto a piece of paper underneath his arm in Thancred’s handwriting and marked with Zaya’s name reads, “Your words, no matter how I react, do not change how I love you all.”

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1: If you could write your character your way in their own movie, what would it be called, what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?

A1: Honestly, I think there would be two movies that could include Zaya; some comedy musical revolving around Zaya’s bard lifestyle while placing their active lifestyle in the background (called “A Bard Knock Life” bc i think puns are cool) or an action drama framed around Zaya and the Scions living some sort of high fantasy/DND type adventure bc I love that stuff called “The Unbroken Thread”. (THAT‌ QUEST‌ NAME STILL GETS‌ ME)

Q2: What would their soundtrack/score sound like?

A2: Something featuring a flute, probably. I got attached to Zaya playing the flute being a former flute player myself. (I only wish the oboe performance sound bank clicked with me a little more…)

Q3: Why did you start writing this character?

A3: Originally, Zaya wasn’t meant to exist. I was literally planning on just creating A’dewah, Syhrwyda, and maybe Lumelle and Elwin in different roles. Then the Au’ra came out; I‌ used my free Fantasia from the sub rewards just to be an Au’ra (I was a miqo’te before; shh, i was still babu who liked cats) and suddenly Zaya started being formed as Menphina Jewel. Before I knew it, that Menphina Jewel grew a whole backstory and a new name and new friends (Azim Steppe arc of Stormblood MSQ? Final nail in the coffin.) that slowly took over the previous two Warriors as the focus of my attention. I wasn’t even supposed to keep playing FFXIV‌ past HW, dude. I had like a million other things to be doing at the time, but here I am, lying in my grave 3 years later still attached.

Q4: What first attracted you to this character?

A4: They’re (mostly) mute. I really wanted to explore what it’s like to not be able to talk and only converse in body language, but then I discovered that might be a problem, so my interest in sign language collided with Zaya’s backstory. It also helps me work out a personality without them sounding/looking too much like what I think is Basic Story ProtagTM like I tend to do on accident (see A’dewah and Valdis’s dialogue sometimes.)

Q5: Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5: They can’t really speak. Funny how the thing I like most is also the thing I hate most. It’s very frustrating when I want them to convey something and then they can’t without using actual words and a voice because I haven’t got a clue on how to convey that through body language. How in the world do you convey ‘I feel like I’m doing arcanist calculations when you speak’ in nonverbal language??? I have no damn idea and every attempt looks like I meant something else.

Q6: What do you have in common with your muse?

A6: The snark, man. I have friends constantly commenting on how I’ve made a burn without me realizing I’ve done so, and it’s hilarious. The love for music also carried over big time, especially after discovering how fun the bard NPCs were to write and how they’d fit into Zaya’s relationship web. (they’re totally the more comedic side, but I love Guydelot and Sanson anyways.)

Q7: How does your muse feel about you?

A7: No clue, dude. Maybe thinks I’m boring? I don’t tend to want to drastically change things or look for new adventures; the biggest leap I’ve taken in two years is probably changing to a reed instrument from flute, and even then I don’t have to change key when‌ I read music, so it’s not that big a deal.

Q8: What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with?

A8: Urianger and Lyse, maybe? I like the exploration of repairing relationships after something that might have ended another, weaker bond. It’s also kinda fun trying to see how Zaya would react; they’re a lot more rash than I am in real life, and that’s honestly saying something. Alisaie and Alphinaud, however, are the most fun just because I know what I’m doing when I write them, and it’s funny to see how Zaya reacts (or has a lack of reaction) to their dynamic. Guydelot and Sanson fall into another category of ‘dear god I simultaneously love and hate these two’, while Thancred, Y’shtola, Urianger, Syhrwyda, Duscha, and Ryne fall into some sort of strong found family vibes that just get me everytime I think about it

Q9: What gives you inspiration to write your muse?

A9:…Doing job quests or side story quests or even MSQ I haven’t caught up on yet. Watch as I slowly rewrite as many MSQ‌ and job quest scenes as I can in any of my Warrior of Light’s viewpoints. (currently chiseling away at some backstory/before they were Warriors stories after reading too deep into the race/subrace text and lore keep an eye out LOL-)

Q10: How long did this take you to complete?

A10: A day or two; don’t remember when I began. It was probably when I was procrastinating on homework, though. I didn’t post it until a week later whoops.

#ffxiv #ffxiv character meme #zaya qestir #whee i wrote a bit much #oh well #zaya cm #tales from the blue

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