#so i think drawing dry tree branches for two evenings straight would be much louder than actually saying anything

[mercisnm]

'How like a winter hath my absence been from thee...'

A warm spring sunrise over English countryside landscape, featuring two lovely ladies out for an early morning stroll.

While @clydethistles Regency-period-Jane-Austen-inspired AU (Austen AU for short) Affections And Adorations did not feature any scene at sunrise, the moment I saw this photo of English countryside my mind was immediately overcome with the need to see Tissaia and Yennefer from Clyde's story over that backdrop. I can use buzzwords like mutual pining and it's about the yearning to describe the story but then it would be undermining for such a lovely work, and undoubtedly one of my favourite fics of all time. I am forever in awe at the research and thoughtfulness Clyde put into crafting it, be it either in form of the details about everyday life from the time period or of the language of the narration and conversation, be it either manifested as the graceful incorporation of Austen-esque storytelling elements and archetypes or as our author's very own endeavour to write a heart-wrenching queer love story realistic for and true to its historical period setting.

The point is: the fic was completed quite recently and you should read it, or catch up with it if you haven't, you definitely should, thank me later.

Bonus: the lines, before I throw colours all over it like an excitable raccoon on crack:

[ivegotbreadinmypants]

16 normal witcher au , 1 , 34

Geralt/Jaskier—Angst

Prompt list post—

AU: 16 - Supernatural AU

Trope: 1 - Friends to Lovers

Prompt: 34 - “I don’t even know why we’re doing this.”

A/N: Oh lord, this ended up being so long lmao. I got pretty damn inspired by this prompt and my brain got carried away. But I swear, not every prompt is going to be as long or angsty as this one. This one—oof

Word Count: 3317

Warning: Angst, light self-loathing on Geralt’s side.

By the time they leave the tavern, the village has been swallowed by darkness, the sky an inky black. The innkeeper who gave them their contract didn’t spare details, possibly the result of the air of fear emanating from everyone in the village.

People wander into the woods in the middle of the night, usually after days of complaining of horrific dreams; it’s brought everyone on edge, eyes full of distrusting hope when they see the Witcher and the bard enter the tavern.

They’ve crossed the blood-stained meadows and are already skirting the edge of the forest when Jaskier asks, “What is it? The creature?”

The poor bard nearly slips on an unseen rock, giving a startled yelp that disturbs the rows of crows resting on branches above them. Geralt turns around, a nasty glare in his glowing amber eyes. Jaskier used to think they were beautiful.

“Shut up,” the Witcher grits out, continuing down the path without waiting for the bard. A deep frown covers Jaskier’s face, eyes dull, but only for a second, because he doesn’t want—

Jaskier straightens up and forges on, ignoring the hollow beating of his heart.

When Geralt approached him two months ago—a full year after it—Jaskier had thought things would change, that everything would be different and being with Geralt doesn’t have to mean having his heart squeezed and broken as if it were a nailed to a wheel—the cycle repeating over and over.

He thought everything would go back to the way it was, but better, after the Witcher had willingly apologised—after the man had opened his heart and let every hurt pour out in full view for the bard. He’d been wrong.

Geralt is still as well-guarded as he was, even after they shared a painfully tender moment when he gave his apology. It’s like Geralt wants to erase the memory of that having happened.

At first, Jaskier thought it was down to Geralt still not used to being generally open with his feelings—that the man needs a little more time to adjust to their slightly different dynamic. But as time passed, as the scathing remarks and dry barks from the White Wolf never once relented, Jaskier had a slow dreadful realization. Geralt isn’t going to change.

And it’s only a matter of time before it—Jaskier’s heart skips a tormenting beat—happens again.

Jaskier doesn’t want to be here when his whole world inevitably burns down to ashes again.

He trails after Geralt a little ways, giving them both space—space that Jaskier despises now because he knows no matter how much land there is between the two of them, Jaskier will always feel like there’s galaxies of space separating them.

He feels like a husk, an empty shell of who he used to be, and it’s getting worse the longer he lingers and waits for his heart to be shattered in the hands of the man he used to trust with his life.

He has to leave. It’s hurting him in ways he can’t even see, can’t even fathom. He can’t see the extent of his grisly scars because they’ve been woven into his skin for so long he’s forgotten.

Twenty-two years and counting.

Jaskier bites on his lip, pressing hard until it tears through. Copper tinges his tongue and he wonders how much longer will he not feel the pain. Everything is so numb it hurts.

Geralt stops, sniffs the air.

The bard inwardly sighs, an ire-stricken face of one Witcher popping into his head. He doesn’t have to meet Geralt’s eyes to feel the vexation.

“Jaskier, what the fuck?”

This time, Jaskier sighs out loud, “What, Geralt? It’s nothing.”

Geralt spins on his heel, a twitch in his eyebrow when he notices the space between the two of them, and crosses the threshold to enter Jaskier’s space.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Just bit my lip on accident,” Jaskier mutters, quiet and meek and nothing like him.

Geralt doesn’t need Witcher senses to know something is wrong, because even he cocks his head a little to the side, a curious look to his otherwise irritated gaze.

Jaskier looks up, drawing his eyes to meet amber ones. He’s struck with the thought this may be the last time he’ll ever see them.

His voice is soft. “I don’t even know why we’re doing this.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, some of the hated ire vanishing. “To finish the contract. The alp.”

Jaskier’s lips stretch into half a smile, but it’s hollow and dimmed. His words are defeated, softer now. “That’s not what I mean, Geralt.”

The Witcher loses some of his confused fog, something acute and sharp in his eyes replacing it.

“Jaskier,” there’s the smallest pressing tone in his voice. The bard only breathes out, a cheap imitation of a chuckle, a little too quick for it to be a normal conversation; even then, it sounds flat.

There isn’t even a shadow of anger in Jaskier’s body, all of the fiery feelings snuffed out over hours, days and months of waiting for Geralt to change. But there’s a deep sadness painted on every surface within, delicate and unwavering, never leaving.

Jaskier’s blue eyes bore into Geralt’s, words easing out of his mouth. “I can’t keep doing this.”

The sharpness in golden honey hardens, the gruffness accentuated, “Jaskier.”

Jaskier takes a step back—avoiding his touch—when the Witcher reaches out, as if he wanted to shake sense into the bard. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier sees something in Geralt crack.

The poet—but is he one anymore? He hasn’t written anything in so long—shakes his head, standing taller. “I’m leaving, Geralt.”

There’s a sharp inhale, the leather of his armor creaking when he reels back, the line of Geralt’s jaw hardening under the moonlight, as if he was struck.

Jaskier dimly realizes this may actually hurt Geralt.

But he forges on, blue eyes unrelenting in the darkness, “I’m leaving.”

“No,” Geralt bites out, his upper lip curling.

Something in Jaskier sparks, blazing hot for a split second. “What do you want? C’mon Geralt, what do you really want? You tell me to go away and when I do, you come running back. Then when I say I’m leaving, you don’t allow me to.”

His words aren’t as cutting as he wants them to be, but it gets the point across.

Geralt stares, the Adam’s apple of his throat bobbing.

“I have to leave, Geralt. I have to go.”

Then his eyes go unfocused, staring past Jaskier, the line of his shoulders going straight as a rod.

Jaskier opens his mouth, but Geralt puts a hand up, tilting his head a bit.

The heat comes back roaring within Jaskier, “How dare—”

“Shh.” Geralt comes closer, his eyes now searching the line of trees surrounding them. Jaskier narrows his eyes, but then the anger in him dies out quickly when he hears it too. Crunching grass. Footsteps.

“Must have smelled your blood,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier pushes Geralt, “Go.”

But Geralt doesn’t budge, his hand snapping out to grab onto Jaskier’s wrist, his full attention now on the bard. Not for the first time, Jaskier feels trapped under golden eyes, but instead of anger or exasperation greeting him, there’s pained desperation.

“Stay,” Geralt says, as if leaving was out of the question. Jaskier takes another step back, shaking his head, but he’s held in place by Geralt’s grip on his wrist. “No, Geralt, you don’t understand. I have to.”

“No, I understand, Jaskier. I do. But, please, fuck—please,” Jaskier flinches at the sound of a twig snapping. She’s getting closer.

Geralt’s tightened fingers bring him back, cornflowers on gold. A battered heart meeting desperation.

There’s nothing fake about it, only the most earnest desolation swimming in amber honey.

“Stay.”

Tightened fingers go lax, turning around Jaskier’s wrist so Geralt’s thumb can skim over his pumping pulse. The touch is gentle, delicate and scared.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, not even twitching at the sound of louder footsteps, and tugs lightly on the bard, bringing the speechless man a little closer. They’re breathing the same air, almost nose-to-nose, and Geralt only has eyes for him.

“Don’t leave.”

Jaskier can feel something else in him spark, brighter than anything.

The sound of a shriek is what breaks Geralt out of his trance, but the haunted urgency doesn’t leave. He turns around and there she is—

Naked, blood-soaked, red-headed. The alp.

Geralt turns back to Jaskier and somehow, the anguish in his face is worse.

Jaskier can’t stop the rushed words escaping him, “I won’t.”

Geralt opens his mouth, but Jaskier places his hand over his lips, speaking faster now, “At the inn. I promise.”

Then Jaskier nudges him, nodding to the impatient vampire awaiting the Witcher. Geralt only spares the smallest of nods, and spins on his heel, brandishing his silver sword.

Jaskier doesn’t waste a moment, turning in the other direction and sprinting away from the action.

For a moment, Jaskier wants to run away. To leave.

——

The fight is rushed, over relatively quick. Maybe it’s because of the Black Blood coursing through his veins, or maybe it’s because of the relentless fear rushing through his body—piercing his heart and haunting his mind.

He cuts the head off of the alp and heads off to the tavern. He storms through the rotting wooden door—with the urgency of a man scared of losing the most important thing to him—and drops the head on the bar, staring at the barkeep with blackened eyes and blood-splattered armor.

The man is quick to toss the bag of coin his way, and when Geralt catches the bag, he turns away to rush out, not wasting time to speak a word. He steps towards the inn—the smallest of tension leaking out of his shoulders when he scents the pine and cedar and sea-salt at the threshold of the inn.

He skips steps when he climbs the stairs, following the awfully familiar scent like a dog following a treat. He fears the scent is old, because it’s the same room they got the previous night, and that Jaskier is long gone—run away like he said he would.

But he opens the door and the scent overwhelms him, drowning him in painful relief and dread.

Now that the danger has passed, he’ll have to face something worse than an alp.

Jaskier is sitting upon the bed, staring out the window with an air of melancholy that smells like cold soot—like a campfire that died overnight. The man turns to face him and it’s Geralt’s turn to feel trapped. He realizes all of the bard’s belongings are packed, right next to the man in question.

“I admit. I was thinking of—”

“Leaving,” Geralt finishes, his throat closing against his will. Jaskier nods, taking a soft breath that punches Geralt’s out of his chest.

Jaskier’s brows furrow, “The potion hasn’t run its course?”

He must be seeing the inky blackness of Geralt’s eyes, the deathly grey veins spanning over his sallow skin.

“Yes. I wanted to—” Geralt swallows hard, glancing to the floor, changing his words, “I didn’t want to be too slow.”

“So… you just ran over here?” Jaskier asks, slow, as if he’s scared of the implication. Geralt nods, jerky and awkward. He steps away from the doorway and glances at Jaskier, asking permission.

Jaskier looks between him and the door, something warring within his eyes, but something must have won because he ducks his head and quietly says, “Close it.”

Geralt inhales shakily and shuts the door behind him. He takes the first step towards the bed, knowing how horrible he must look in candlelight—bloody, pale, and spellbound by one thing and one thing only.

Jaskier looks away and that—

The small crack in Geralt splinters.

Geralt grits his teeth and steps away from the bed, settling down next to the fireplace, away from the bard. Everything feels precarious, like glass, like everything is balancing on one point and Geralt—God, he will do anything in his power to stop it from tipping over.

Jaskier sits there, waiting. Geralt knows he doesn’t have much time. There’s nothing right now that’s in his favour, except for the fact Jaskier is still here.

God, he’s still here.

Waiting, expecting something more—something that Geralt should have given him a long time ago.

Waiting.

Even after everything.

Geralt knows he’s so fucking selfish, asking him to stay when the bard should have left the moment he met the Witcher in Posada.

Asking him to stay when he almost got him killed, his throat torn to shreds.

Asking him to stay when he has the fucking gall to say the infuriating bard isn’t his best friend—his only friend.

Asking him to stay when he shut Jaskier out, letting an invitation to his open heart and a trip to the coast fall on deaf ears.

Asking him to stay when he said the only thing he knows will break the bard, blaming every shitshow he gets himself into on the poor man.

Begging him to stay when he has no fucking right to even look at those cornflower eyes.

Geralt is the first to break the deserved silence, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier doesn’t even look up. “For what? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“For everything.” Geralt’s tongue thickens in his mouth. “Everything I let you go through. Everything I did to you.”

Jaskier is quick to shake his head, “Geralt, you didn’t do anything to me—”

“Yes. I did.” Geralt looks down. “When was the last time you wrote a song?”

It’s silent. It’s enough of an answer for the Witcher.

“Jaskier.” His tone is almost begging, hoping the man will meet his eyes. And he does, but the look in those eyes he loves with every fibre of his being is stricken, teary and hurt. “I know you’re hurting yourself the longer you’re with me. I can see it.”

Jaskier’s breath becomes shaky.

“Jaskier. You can leave—I’ll let you leave. I will.” Geralt is wishing to every djinn out there that he won’t.

He licks his lips and hopes his heart doesn’t pop out of his chest from how hard it’s thumping in his ribcage. “If you listen to what I’m going to say.”

Jaskier nods his head, patient and still looking the saddest Geralt has ever fucking seen him.

Geralt locks his gaze onto Jaskier, pouring every bit of his heart into his eyes.

“Jaskier—”

Geralt clenches his fists.

“I love you.”

A beat.

Nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, his teeth grinding as his heart spills out from his sleeve and onto the carpet in front of him.

The sound torn from Jaskier’s mouth is harsh, cutting and so fucking grating it twists something in Geralt.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, right?” Jaskier rocks backwards on the bed, a cold laugh bubbling in his throat. But when he faces Geralt again, his face is splotchy, eyes red and tears glistening in warm candlelight—looking heartbroken.

“You can’t—Geralt,” his name sounds raw and wobbly out of the bard’s mouth, “You can’t fucking say that. You can’t.”

Geralt’s jaw is hardened when he grits out, “But it’s true.”

“How long?” Jaskier snaps.

Geralt straightens up, meeting his gaze. “Cintra. The bathtub.”

Jaskier’s gaze cuts deep, splaying him open, and Geralt can’t keep the eye contact, looking away.

“Right after I said I didn’t…” Geralt furrows his brows, “need anyone.”

“I realized what I said was wrong. But I didn’t want—I couldn’t take it back.”

Jaskier looks even sadder, something dark swirling in those bright irises. They used to remind Geralt of the sea, full of life and depth. Now, all he sees is dull, glassy eyes.

“Geralt—”

“I know I can’t apologize for everything overnight,” he blurts, something in him pushing him forward to pull through, “I know I can’t. But I want to try. Fuck, I want to try. For as long as it takes.”

It’s like steel forging within him, giving him the strength to yank out the last bit of brutal honesty. His words are a rumble, like thunder in a storm, “Because I don’t want to travel the Continent without you by my side.”

Jaskier is silent, parsing Geralt with his beautiful eyes.

The longer the quiet stretches, the more his hope dwindles in his chest, fluttering down into nothing.

“Promise me.”

“Anything,” Geralt is quick to say. It pulls a twitch of the lips from the bard.

“Promise me you’ll try. You can hurt me with your words and I’ll bite back—I swear to all the Gods, Geralt—I’ll fucking bite back.” Jaskier narrows his eyes, breathing out slowly. “But I’ll forgive you because I know you’re trying.”

Jaskier digs his fingers into the blankets, “So you have to promise me you’ll try. Otherwise I’ll leave. I’ll leave and I’ll never go out of my way to look for your stupid face again.”

“I promise, Jask,” he mutters, the words so deafening over the quiet crackling of the fire behind him.

“I-I’ll never sing your stupid songs, I’ll never speak of you again, I—” his voice cracks, a sob echoes and Geralt snaps up, his heart breaking at the sight of Jaskier crying, “—I won’t have to pretend like every insult of yours doesn’t make me question if everything is real—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt snaps and oh Gods, Jaskier fucking whimpers and fuck—

Geralt can’t stop himself from jumping to his feet and rushing over to Jaskier, picking up the man and plopping him into his lap as he sits on the bed, despite the bard’s protests.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles. The second his hand starts running through Jaskier’s brown hair, the bard quietens, his hands gripping onto Geralt’s armor as if it were an anchor.

They settle like that, Jaskier’s heart-breaking sobs muffled by Geralt’s blood-stained armor, his strong arms curled protectively around the bard.

But Jaskier wiggles out of his hold after a long moment, and braces his thighs around Geralt’s hips and—

He kisses Geralt.

The Witcher isn’t one to waste time, quick to reciprocate in movement and emotion.

It’s both everything and nothing that Geralt had imagined it to be. He never thought it would be salty with tears, or that they’re both so hurt and raw and open in a way Geralt never is. But it fills the gaping hole in his chest just like he thought it would, warm and tantalizing and soothing like a balm.

Everything isn’t going to be fixed overnight, they both know that. Everything is on the line for the two of them; the bard has his whole heart, soul and mind devoted to this; Geralt doesn’t want to lose the only thing that matters to him.

So, Geralt has to try. Wants to try. To fix every little tear and scar between the two of them. It may take days, months, years—Geralt doesn’t care. He’d spend his whole fucking life trying to make it up to the bard if he must.

But he has to start somewhere. And so he starts honesty in every action.

Geralt pulls away for a moment and grumbles on Jaskier’s lips, “In the forest, you said, ‘you don’t know why you’re doing this’.”

Jaskier nods, confused. Geralt’s arm tightens its hold on the other man’s waist, pulling them flushed, and the Witcher mumbles, “I’ll give you my answer. Because I want to touch you so much—”

Geralt’s nose trails the line of Jaskier’s throat, teeth grazing his collarbone, reveling in how the man in his arms shivers. “—it fucking burns.”

And he must say, it’s already looking up.

[mardi-nah]

Strange Folk

A short little something.

Photos taken from Pinterest.

Tags: fae, prince of fae, fairie king, true names, forest, night, secrets, magic, m/m, sfw

My mother liked to tell anyone who would listen that I was a “mellowed out” oddball, as if boasting that I was Off at one point—or trying to assume credit for putting me back On, which was too ridiculous to consider.

“He’s always been so quiet,” she’d muse, “So imaginative. He’s never had many friends, but at least he has friends that exist, now!”

It seemed a little cruel to me that she chose to write me off without researching the subject for herself, but I had resigned myself to that particular quirk of hers long ago.  

When I was a young boy, I liked to sit outside on the edge of Yellow’s Meadow and weave together flower crowns and baskets. A steep ditch neatly spliced the edge from the rest of the meadow, so a thin ribbon of land was sandwiched between the trench and the Dark Wood.  

I particularly liked the edge because the other children never dared to approach it themselves; they wouldn’t so much as call out to me, should I jump the ditch. It was my favorite place in the whole wide world.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t all the children that would abandon me to the edge. Certainly, all of my classmates and neighbors left me well enough alone, but every third day a child or three would skip out of the shadows of the Dark Wood and throw themselves at me until I was forced to relent.

Those kids weren’t like the others—they were cruel, but never mean. They never lied, but they kept hoards of secrets they liked to hold over me, taunt me with, as if it made me lesser to not know them. By unspoken mutual agreement, we never traded names, and I stubbornly refused to give them any importance by giving into curiosity and asking why the were in the Wood.

Some were more pleasant than others. I made a point not to ask them anything, either.

They weren’t really my friends, I don’t think, but I did (involuntarily) spend more time with them than any other children my age. Mom never did believe me when I complained about them.

One would think that after all these years, I would have forgiven her for not believing me, but thirteen years later, there I was, at her funeral and thinking about all the times she implied I was mad.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Ms. Walker from across the street weeped, her black eyes large and gushing. Her wrinkled mouth wobbled. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, Brooke. You’ve always been like a son to me.”

Aww. Not necessary, but—nice. “Thank you, Ms. Walker,” I replied, trying for a small smile.

She patted my shoulder with a leathery brown hand and limped off, letting the next person make their amends.

“I’m sorry for your loss …”

It is cruel how we deign to place the left behind loved ones at the forefront of never ending apologies and tears from other people. Every “sorry” made my jaw clench a little tighter, every sniffle made me want to snap for everyone to shut up, and hearing the priest speak on the righteousness of my very unreligious, flighty mother made me want to get up and leave. I’m not really sure how I managed to stay in my seat and not scream, but I did.

The wake was in St. Peter’s Graveyard—Mom’s favorite. I didn’t know if it was altogether normal to have a favorite graveyard, but St. Peter’s was steadily being infiltrated by the looming trees of the Dark Wood, giving it a mystical, alive feeling that Mom adored. Some days I thought she harped on my supposed insanity simply because she was jealous, but in the end, I don’t suppose it mattered.

It seemed unbelievable that the weather would comply, that clouds would ring out rain like oversized sponges for my mother’s funeral, but there we were, water slicking down our collars and our hair pressed to our faces and necks under the barrage of rain. No one had thought to set up a covering or shelter for this, so the priest stammered a few quick words and we hauled Mom’s casket into the ground as quickly as we could before the hole flooded.  

When I looked up, squinting into the gray of streaking water and chilled to my bones, I thought I saw people standing in the Dark Wood, pale faces almost indistinguishable in the harsh weather. But when I wiped my face and looked again, they were gone.

~

I don’t know why I didn’t go straight home.

My suit was soaked, stiff and stuck to my skin uncomfortably, jacket tied around my shoulders to avoid dying of heatstroke. Likely, the suit was ruined. I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation with the store I rented it from.

The forest was dark, but it wasn’t quiet: crickets were screaming into the night, owls and birds calling to each other on black-coated branches, mosquitos buzzing around my ears. My pant legs were probably covered in critters as I shuffled through tall grass and underbrush, but I couldn’t make myself care. Moonlight attempted to break through the ceiling of foliage, and just barely succeeded, tinting the air with its ghostly light and dying before it could touch the ground. The shadows between the trees were tar-thick and full of cobwebs.

I wasn’t sure where I was going; I just had the thought to get away. My house was some distant point behind me, but I couldn’t go back. As soon as I had arrived at home, I felt choked by it, by its familiarity and silence and the unspoken judgement of its invisible eyes. I couldn’t do it.

The forest around me vibrated with life. I walked further into it, welcoming it, ducking my head into its noise and dark and smell. I didn’t know where I was going. I could have passed into the Dark Wood for all I knew, but I couldn’t find it in me to worry.

The trees around me shook, leaves and branches bouncing in a nonexistent wind. I could feel and hear the underbrush shiver, and the buzzing around my ears grew more and more pronounced until I was forced to pause, frowning.

“He’s coming,” the forest whispered, all of it together. “He’s coming.”

Are they talking about me? I wondered. I glanced around, but I couldn’t see or hear anyone else.

“He’s coming.” Nature’s voice picked up a little, slightly louder, much more urgent. “He’s coming!”

“Who?” I asked the air.  

“He’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming.”

The hair’s on the back of my neck stood at attention. I spun around again, but still, it was only me in the woods. “Who are you talking about? There’s no one there.”

“He’s here.”

Everything became deafeningly quiet all at once. The birds stopped cawing; the crickets stopped singing; bugs stopped buzzing. Trees and underbrush and grass stilled, and I couldn’t even hear the crunch of leaves and twigs when I took a step forward. And another. And another.

My scalp prickled.

“You,” a voice flowed through a dark to match his voice: velvety and deep, soft and terrifying. I wheeled around to find the silhouette of a man across from me. “I saw you put your mother into the ground.”

The man took another step forward, and I instinctively stepped back. He was a man, but he also quite obviously wasn’t—his skin was so pale it was almost translucent, his body long and lean, his eyes too large and completely black. A long, spindly pair of antlers grew out from thick white hair, dyed a light blue in the scant moonlight. His clothes were long and the earthly tones of the forest around us: a moss green overcoat with billowing sleeves that drooped almost to the ground, light brown trousers that did not cover his bare, dirty feet, a dark shirt that appeared too baggy for him. A diadem of silver branches wrapped around the crown of his head, impossible to pull off with his antlers.  

I didn’t know what to say. My voice failed me.

He took another step forward, watching me. And then another. Another. “Your loss is great today.”

“I wasn’t close to my mother.” It was the truth, hoarse as it was coming out of my mouth. I licked my suddenly dry lips, feeling self-conscious.

“And yet, you come to my forest stinking with despair.”

I decided not to comment on the “stinking” bit. “Who are you?”

The strange man tilted his head, as if confused by my ignorance. “Some call me sovereign. Some call my name. You called me ‘you’ when we played together.”

“Played … ?” My mind was working furiously to remember a kid with antlers, but none came up. There was a boy who would skip out of the Dark Wood with others with him, always, and he had this man’s white hair and black eyes, but was he this man? I couldn’t tell; it was too long ago, and I was horrible with faces.

He was so much closer to me now. When did he cross so much distance? “Do you remember? Do you remember me?”

“I …” my voice died in my throat, so I cleared it and tried again. “Maybe. I’m still not sure why you’ve come to me.”

“Come to you?” I had clearly offended him. He took another step forward and I took one back, flinching as my back hit a tree. “No. You came to my forest tonight. You have come to me.”

“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.” My pulse was thrumming in my ears, breath catching. I needed to run. But where? I could barely see anything.

The man drifted closer, and it was only then did I realize how much taller he was than me. He loomed over me, making me feel small and helpless—and I wasn’t a small guy. My heart beat a staccato against my ribs.

He opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off, terrified of what he was going to say next. “I don’t have anything to offer you. I’m useless.”

A laugh bubbled out of his throat, beautiful as the gurgling of a creek. He reached out and took a lock of my hair between two long fingers, black eyes glittering inky. “You used to draw such nice pictures when we were young. I always wanted them afterwards.” His eyes flickered to my captured hair as he smoothed his fingers over it. “Everything you do has always been so beautiful to me.”

There was something there in his face that I hadn’t caught before. A strange thing, almost like hunger, but not quite. A fierce want, perhaps.

Ms. Walker once told us a story of fae stealing away young mortals to keep for themselves. I had no doubt that this was about to happen to me, if I didn’t run.

“What do you want?” My voice came out quieter than I meant, practically a whisper.

“Give me your name, and I will let you leave.”

“And if I don’t?” I mumbled.

He was so close now. When did he get this close to me? His black eyes fell to my mouth and went hooded, and then he was leaning into me, gorgeous and otherworldly, the smell of midnight and pine trees on his skin. I felt his breath on my lips and tasted honeysuckle.  

“Brooke!” I gasped, pressing back into the tree. “It’s Brooke.”

He smiled then, an oddly cold thing. “Brooke,” he murmured, slow, like he was enjoying the way the word flowed over his tongue. A shudder rattled down my spine. His black eyes found mine again as he straightened, my breath flooding back with the space. “Fitting.”

I was trembling, but I couldn’t make myself stop. A chill had seeped into my bones without his warmth nearby, and the smell of pine was still in my nose, haunting me. “Can I go now?”

“You may,” he smiled again, “Brooke.”

Another shiver racked me. Dread pooled in my gut, the feeling of something wrong twisting my stomach into knots, but it was too late to do anything about it now. I peeled myself off the tree, and still shaking, hurried away, back to where I thought my house was.

“I will see you again,” the fae called after me, “Brooke.”

I had definitely made a mistake. 

[cetrece]

Title: The Ritual - Prologue

Words: 1,8k

Summary: Anna, the woodsman’s daughter, finds herself in a desperate situation because she can not find out anybody who clarifies her own story, how she was born, how her parents met, and what happened to her mother's death. So the girl clings to the only one who may be able to give her the information she begs for: the terrible Beast of the Unknown.

Author’s note: finally. After three years with comings and goings, turns to the head and many, many shitty drawings, I can share with you this piece of the story based on the end of the series Over the Garden Wall. I only share the prologue because I have not written more yet oops but all the parts are already planned, for now, enjoy this little start!

                                 >> SPANISH VERSION <<

> IMPORTANT CLARIFICATIONS <

> This story was created in 2015 to explain some mysteries that the show itself already answer in the comics to date. By this, I mean that this story is outside of the canon of the comics (so that Anna never spoke to her 'ghost mother', etc.) and that it explores a different universe and answers, starting from the end of the series, to those that have given us the comics.

> My mother tongue is Spanish (more specifically Castilian) and I will only translate this story into English. I do it myself as best I can, but if English is your mother tongue and you find errors or catastrophic mistakes, please do not hesitate to send me a message telling me; I would like the content to be as appropriate as possible for the good transmission of this story!

The forest had never been a safe place for anyone. She knew it well, but that night did not seem to matter. She had always felt protected among those wooden guardians, as if they were wrapping her up from the world. While she was passing through their side, she felt how her heart quickens with each step, and the hand that held the ax began to sweat.

There were still remnants of the fight with her father on her cheeks, in the form of salt traces. What time was it going? The thirteenth? The fourteenth time that week? She had to change her strategy if she wanted to receive answers, no matter how drastic or illusory the change was.

After drying the last tear of that night, she realized that as much as she insisted, the answers would never come from her father. She did not know if it hurt too much to talk about it, or if he was hiding something important, or both. The only thing she knew was that, whatever it was, it had to do with her own existence and it was something serious. Very serious.

Could not help it, she was very nervous, but she couldn't find the exact reason.

The first reason could well have been fear: she had to seek and confront a creature that was the protagonist, in addition to the worst crimes, of most of the warnings she had received since learning to walk. But she knew that it could not be fear.

The second was pure adrenaline: she had slipped away from home at night. She had escaped now and again, but never at night. Obviously her father did not know anything, otherwise, he would have locked her until the following summer. But she knew that it could not be adrenaline either.

So, what tormented her? She wiped the sweat from her hands, and found the key.

It was hope. The hope that, finally someone, even that creature, would give her the answers she was looking for.

She put aside her thoughts and returned to the present. The night was clear, there were not many clouds that covered the crescent moon and she could walk carefully without the help of light. Of course, if her plan worked, she would soon find the light of a lantern.

She remained alert for a good distance, but she began to tire. She had been walking in the depths of the Forest of the Unknown for a while now, and if so much warning was true, she should have already seen the glow of a pair of multicolored eyes, or the brightness of the sinister lantern, or the moan of the wind between the hollows of the famous Edelwood trees. She stopped short and laughed.

She really was so desperate to fulfill her wish that she had clung to the most childish legends she knew. How silly she felt. Hopefully silly.

Even so, it was still late, and there was no sign that the Sun was going to come up soon, so she decided to walk a little longer, just to make sure that the legends were legends.

She returned to her thoughts as she walked straight to the center of the forest, thinking about this and that, without noticing a whistle that passed behind her. A branch creaked and she stopped dead. She raised the ax and put on guard. She saw absolutely nothing, and after a few seconds, she snorted, thinking that her imagination was playing tricks on her.

She continued walking as before, but did not put the ax down. Another crunch surprised her, closer and louder. This time she did not have time to turn around. She felt a chill on her back the moment she saw her own shadow in front of her. Something shone from behind. She grabbed her ax harder.

"Good evening, Anna ..." A deep and cavernous voice whispered in her ear.

She turned at once, ready to face the famous Beast in the flesh. A powerful light blinded her and made her fall backward, landing the ax next to her. She groped blindly, and as soon as she regained her vision, she made an attempt to defend herself, but it was really ridiculous.

"How do you know my name? S-Show yourself!"

She managed to compose herself and focused on the dark shadow that rose in front of her.

He surpassed her in height by two heads, wore the skin of a poor animal as a cloak, and his head was crowned by a pair of antlers that nothing had to envy from the adult stags. Anna was amazed. The Beast, the tyrant lord of the forest, was standing, curious, in front of her. She took a deep breath, and looked away from his bright, somehow hypnotic eyes, to concentrate on what she was going to say.

"I asked you a question” She cleared her throat, feeling her mouth dry “... how do you know my name?"

The Beast narrowed his eyes and lift the lantern, paying close attention to Anna's figure. The girl brandished the ax ahead, preventing the creature from getting close.

"In the same way that you know mine” He answered “Didn't your father warn you that you must not go out at night? Didn't warn you the crows, the wolves, the turtles?” He fixed his eyes on Anna's “Maybe... are you lost, fawn?"

Anna could not see his mouth (she didn't know if he even had one), but she would swear he smiled. That last question completely awoke Anna's warning signals and made her react.

"I didn't come to be part of your forest, nor to ask you for directions” Her tone became firmer, which seemed to lightly disgust the Beast “I came for another reason”

There was silence between the two. For the first time, Anna hesitated a moment about doing what she was about to do. The Beast was impatient.

“Speak up, girl! The night is young and I can not wait for you to get lost on your way home to claim you…”

Anna skipped a beat.

"Alright, alright! I come ... I come to see you. I need something you have"

"And to what do I owe the honor that you came expressly to claim something that is mine?"

"No, no, just the opposite!” Anna clarified her request “You have something that should be mine and yet, it has never been given to me…”

Anna took a deep breath and lowered the ax.

"...I humbly ask you to tell me my story"

The Beast remained still. He narrowed his eyes again and came close to look at her.

"How could I possibly know your story, Anna?" He whispered.

"You know my name" She answered "You know the name of all the creatures of this forest, and I know you were here long before I arrived. So, I ask you to tell me what happened before me, how my parents met..." She made a pause "...and how was my mother"

The lantern made popping sounds from time to time, burning the oil of some noble tree.

"Should not your father have given you that information?" He was uncomfortable, but Anna wasn't tired.

"If he had given it to me, I would not be asking you for it"

"And still, that old woodsman wouldn't have told you it all..." He sighed as he said it.

Anna's eyes shone expectantly, as if they were predicting what was coming now.

"Assuming that, indeed, I know the story you are asking me for, you are aware of the price in exchange, right?" He moved a little away from her and analyzed the girl again, circling around her "You would be a big Edelwood tree, and I'm sure you would give a lot of oil for this old lantern..."

Anna swallowed, pointing at the creature with the ax.

"Do you know my story then or not, Beast?" Her legs were shaking.

"Yes. I know it well, fawn" Anna's heart stopped for a second. Suddenly, he planted himself in front of her, the ax stuck to what should be his chest, intimidating the girl "Do you accept to turn into an Edelwood tree in return, then?"

Anna came out of her amazement. She had to keep a cool head, but she could not help it. There were her answers, in the form of a horrifying and manipulative shadow. But could she really trust him? How to know that he would not lie and turn her into a tree right there? She had no choice. No one, not even her father despite her insistence, nor any other person would offer her the slightest clue of her story. The girl thought very seriously how to formulate her answer. She knew that promises were very powerful if they were well formulated.

"I'll accept if you tell me the whole truth without omitting any detail, and I'll only offer myself to the forest if it's truly my story, fine?"

"You have my word, Anna; we don't have volunteers so often, anyway" he put his hand to his chest "I have yours?"

Anna lifted her hand without hesitation, reaching out to the Beast.

"Yes, I accept the deal"

The Beast looked at her hand for a moment. Anna continued with her hand suspended in the air when the Beast opened the lantern and approached the entrance to the girl's fingers. She did not tremble for a second. The Beast inserted Anna's hand inside the lantern to seal the deal.

That she wouldn't have trembled did not change that she was scared to death. Anna thought that with a handshake was enough, and then that she would burn her entire hand at once, but when she took it out, it was intact, and she had only noticed a slight heat, which now did not seem to go away.

"The story you ask is not a short story," Said the Beast, closing the lantern "I will tell it in five evenings. For five nights, you will come here, at this hour, and I will tell you one part. If you do not show up, I will understand that you have lost interest and the next time we see each other you will be transformed into a tree in the act; remember” He fixed his big eyes on her for the last time "that you have made me a promise”

"I'll remember, do not worry about that" the girl said.

Anna turned to find the light of dawn. The sun would come out soon, and she should go home immediately. The figure of the Beast was brought even more into the thicket of the forest, ready to leave already.

"Well, well... I'll see you here tomorrow... or maybe not" The Beast disappeared into the trees as fast as he has appeared.

Anna stood there, alone. She looked at her hand for a moment and started her way back.

What the hell had she done?

[general-loki]

Title: Cracked Mirror

Series: Tales of Vesperia

Characters: Raven, Yuri Lowell, Damuron Atomais 

Rating: T+

Warnings: One shot, Angst, Character Exploration, Self-harm (Vaguely???)

Summary:  The Brave Vesperia crew gets pulled into helping hunt down an unusual monster spotted outside Dahngrest. Reports alone are enough to draw Raven back into some unpleasant memories-ones he would rather not have out in the air. As they set out to search he finds himself unable to hold back and opens up to Yuri about his experience and the anxiety weighing on him. Their moment doesn't last as the beast attacks in the dark and leaves Raven stranded away from the rest of the group in a far worse state.

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Rain spattered irregularly against the canvas of the tent—everything already damp, rendering it almost pointless. What was the point of even setting up camp in this shape? He honestly wasn't sure he could recall. Everything felt fuzzy and heavy. A mist of moisture hovered over his skin, a little warm from the excessive heat of his body. Had he really gotten that feverish? It seemed so cold.

It scared the hell out of him.

A corpse doesn't get a fever, a voice echoed at him from somewhere in the haze. It felt like white scrawl over a pitch surface—a message on the back of his eyes, across his skull.

His eyelids tore open and his gaze found the upper crease of the tent, either side of it sagging in the weight of the rain. Supplies crowded his right and at his left was a small space—just enough for one person to sit aside him. It looked like someone had been at some point. At the moment the spot was unoccupied, but he didn't start to guess who might have filled it. Figuring out where the hell he was and what happened probably was more important.

He raised his right hand a little, the limb feeling both hollow and heavy at the same time. A bandage was tightly wrapped around his forearm near his elbow, but he could suss out plenty enough pain in relation to whatever wound had been there. He imagined someone had patched him up.

A memory surfaced in the middle of his check, one that called him by a different name and yanked him back ages. He felt it in flashes of sensation across his skin at first, nails digging into flesh at his chest, freezing cold. That hollow sensation. Unparalleled horror—the manifestation of that monster's eyes still boring into his psyche deeper than its attack gored through his chest. Both the wake up and the attack happened together in his memory—maybe because he had nothing in between—he'd been dead from A to B.

Nothing would clear, his own voice choked and muffled until the sound of the door slamming open, Alexei rushing through to stop him, to say something. What was it?

The Raven physically in the tent, remembering the end of Damuron couldn't keep it straight. The outline of the commandant was so crisp on the edge of his mind, but what had he said?

Somewhere in the mess he recalled Alexei's hands so firmly grasped to the switch. Couldn't he have been more tense? Couldn't he have been terrified? When exactly did that all numb out?

Raven pushed himself up with his left arm, hunched over and tried to put himself back in the tent. His skin felt clammy, exposed to the air now that he'd risen from the blankets some. That was preferred to getting lost in his own head again. He'd tried so hard to cast everything behind him too—why now?

Two slow breaths: In and out, in and out.

There were more important things to work out first. Avoiding everything else tended to work better for him. But the looseness of his thoughts made him wonder if he hit his head. It was possible. It didn't feel like any memories were really missing—he just had to focus more. Striping everything back so far did him no favors. With a couple more slow breaths he had it.

* * *

It was a little bit by chance. They'd caught word of something awful in the woods—lingering too close to Dahngrest's barrier at times, but it was terrible enough to scare off even some of the toughest of the guild members—especially considering some of them had been lost trying to locate and kill this thing. Ten thousand other things were going on, but somehow the Brave Vesperia crew had been initiated into taking this on—no one seemed willing to just leave things as they were. Especially after they'd heard whispers in town about what the hell this thing could be. Whatever kind of beast it was, it tended to move at night, its body hidden among trees—impossible to tell exactly how big it was—save for a pair of huge bright eyes set into a deep dark body. The description alone had given Raven a deep chill. It reminded him of something else—something he worked hard to try and forget.

He wasn't going to tell these kids no however. They had their minds set on it, so a lot of good it would've done anyway. He complained, but went along with it. Of course the moment he did the rain only seemed to get worse than usual in the forest. They'd been able to find some traces of something bigger passing through, but only a few snapped branches and nothing really solid on the ground. It was awful work and night was fast approaching. Getting caught in the dark with that thing was not what anyone wanted and an argument split the team on what they should do. If it only came out at night, what choice was there?

Darkness fell over a makeshift camp, a single fire kept cautiously over some cover they were able to put together, most of the group huddled there, or under thick trees to try and keep dry. Raven displayed the best of himself, trying to joke and bring the group up, but the wet and cold kept them fairly suppressed. He couldn't blame any of them.

They picked turns to take resting uneasily in the tents. Raven doubted anyone slept much. He took watch himself—unable to really settle his nerves. After all these years he'd have thought nothing would bother him quite this much. Then again, he couldn't imagine himself throwing his life away anymore either. The thought left him more uneasy. He had the distinct feeling that Yuri sensed his unease. The two sat adjacent of each other at the low fire, both still wet from a patrol of the perimeter.

The dark look in Yuri's eyes, shielded only partially by damp hair, was unbearable.

They couldn't say nothing forever. It was a matter of who tested the waters first.

“Something's bothering you, right?” Yuri said, only half asking it. He'd already worked it out—the question was more of a formality.

Raven let out a small sigh. “It ain't anything you gotta worry about. Can't an old man have a couple thoughts in his head?” he said with an attempt to joke about it. Maybe it wasn't clear enough he was joking because Yuri answered anyway.

“If it stops you from fighting whenever this thing springs on us, maybe you don't need to have it in your head.”

For a second Raven took a offense, but found that feeling fizzling out pretty quickly. He had a point. If this thing was as bad as the guild members said, it would probably tear them apart if they took it lightly.  A piece of Raven's thoughts latched onto the monster of his memories—each second it getting closer and larger in his mind's eye. He wrenched his wandering away, the tug a desperate one just to stay in the conversation.

“What people were sayin' reminded me of a much worse monster. There's no way this thing is that bad, but I keep getting' distracted,” he admitted, feeling naked for it.

“How are you sure it's not the same?”

“It was bigger. Nastier. It would've already leveled Dahngrest so I'm pretty sure about this one.”

Yuri's eyes widened, disbelieving it for a moment. They'd journeyed this long and Yuri must have seen nearly everything at this point—how was he surprised anymore? Raven mulled that over, but he didn't for long as Yuri voiced his thoughts.

“You fought something like that? That kinda thing exists?”

A breath. Words could be yanked out next.

“Yeah, you don't want anything to do with it. Trust me. It was huge, so dark it blended in with the night sky and its eyes...” he trailed off, unable to bring himself to finish. All he could think about was that gaze turned on him.

He felt sick.

Yuri's expression shifted and his hands holding opposite arms tightened. The sickness in the pit of Raven's stomach must have translated over his face as Yuri seemed more tense too. Being this exposed put him at risk, Raven knew it, but he knew he could trust Yuri. No matter what, Yuri was steady and yet he ached to say nothing instead. To just keep carrying this awful thing in that empty chasm and the back of his mind until the day his body finally gave out. Whenever it would.

Yuri changed his posture, resting one elbow to one knee, his head in his hand. He looked a bit calmer this way. Something about it put Raven more at peace. Not calm, but a hair better than before.

“Sounds like this is different. But either way, we'll be careful and take care of it.”

“If it is something like that can we agree to retreat?”

Yuri looked surprised all over again. Raven didn't repeat himself however, letting Yuri figure it out if he could. It seemed he understood the words, but maybe not the “why.” It wasn't often Raven let himself get this somber. Even after everything, even after leaving Schwann behind, he still tried to be as “Raven” as possible. This was something else.

The thought pained Raven where his heart once was.

Yuri answered a little louder, firmer, surer. “If it's something we can't beat, we'll pull back.”

Silence filled the space between them momentarily—only the sounds of rain falling more softly now accompanied them. Eventually Raven found his voice and spoke a low “thanks” Yuri's way.

There was only another short moment of quiet before Yuri pushed it.

“What did that thing do? Can you tell me that much?”

Raven hesitated. It wasn't that he couldn't, it was that he didn't want to. He knit his fingers together, his shoulders tense as his gaze fixed on the fire between them. “It did whatever the hell it wanted. It could blast craters into the earth just as easily as it could target one person precisely. Hell, I couldn't even start with a strategy for something like this. It...” He stalled himself out again, the picture clear in his mind all over again. He thought about last he saw of Casey's figure and burned inside.

Yuri kept quiet a little longer, his eyes searching Raven’s face, but perhaps not finding what he wanted. He glanced away, his own thoughts likely somewhere else. “We'll be on guard,” he offered shortly. Maybe he sensed it was best not to pry any deeper.

The open wound in Raven's ghost of a heart ached, a heavy pain situated level with his chest and burning on top of the chill of fear and rain over his skin. It had been ten years, but ignoring it for that long left it just as raw, like he'd irritated it more than let it heal at all. A twinge dug in beneath the skin and Raven felt his hand reach for the blastia lodged in his chest. So clearly he could recall the pain of the gaping hole the space had once been. A part of him wanted to confirm nothing was back there, that the memory was as real as it felt, but wrenching the blastia out might hurt just as much. He wasn't willing to risk that experience a second time.

Shivers occupied Raven's skin as he waited and kept watch on the area around the small camp. Yuri did much of the same, his thoughts likely on what the old man had said. He remained steady and as sure as ever, but Raven knew he'd taken the words to heart. He wouldn't put them at that much risk. Or rather, Raven knew he himself wouldn't let Yuri do it.

They kept talking to a minimum for the couple hours of their shift. When the hours passed and it came time to switch out for two others something caught Yuri's attention. Raven perked up as well and the pair took their stretching and preparing outside of the small cover and fire. A softer rain misted over their skin and clothes—not as terrible and heavy as it had been earlier, but still enough to keep them chilled.

The pair followed what Yuri had heard, not running out but certainly moving fast to keep up. They soon  stalled when something passed through one tree overhead to another. Raven notched an arrow to his bow and fired into the motion as Yuri drew his blade. Both caught the sound of the arrow making contact with something much fleshier sounding than a tree.

A sinking feel hung at the ends of Raven's limbs, his fingers feeling clumsy.

Through the leaves and rain he spotted it: A pair of eyes like two pale suns stared him down, each swirling with a kind of alien intensity deep within.

His whole body tensed, his blood rushing through his veins.

A corner of his mind fixed Casey's figure in front of his eyes again, her bow ready like his now was. As figures they mirrored each other. He felt words on his lips, but all he could do was fire on this beast. In the funhouse mirror he looked out into the creature grew bigger and bigger—his vision no mind for the strange tendril-like limbs this beast now had—no care for the thinner, smaller figure now clear between branches. Raven couldn't see it anymore.

Yuri shouted something but received no response. Regardless he'd gotten himself deeper into combat, slicing through swinging tendrils to protect the both of them as arrows flew near and around the eyes of the monster—hitting and merely being sucked into the mass. It wasn't making a difference and the both of them realized it very shortly. Yuri knew the sounds of battle and his shouts would have their team joining them to help soon, but a real danger still hung over the two of them until then. This was no condition he could call a retreat in.

Raven looked Yuri's way long enough to see him struggling to keep up with the pace of this monster. In just a flash he was flooded with thoughts of Yuri, the way people rallied around him, the way the knights did Casey. That sick feeling made him choke. He couldn't risk this again.

A tendril whipped past both of their coverage, winding right Raven's way. Reflexively he tried to block his face with his arm and weapon. The pair kept the limb from driving directly into his core, instead taking a slice across his forearm. Besides just striking, the tendrils were sharp and blade-like at the ends. This close shave with death made his vision spin. Yuri was still just trying to fight off the barrage. What else could he do? His left arm hung at his side, blood running down his skin still wet from the ongoing rain.

His right hand grasped at the damp cloth over the blastia lodged in his chest. His fingers struggled to keep holding onto the claws of the blastia as power built up within it. A shaking, empty feeling carved out his hands, one managing to grasp his weapon despite it, his heels dug into the muddy earth. An abnormal light swarmed out from his chest making him an immediate target for the monster amorphous in the trees. It lashed out, but it's tendrils were met with a burst of power from the earth, the light spreading out and then up into its hiding place among the trees. The burst called from Raven's blastia gored holes into the beast, globs of darkness falling into the slicked earth—a monstrous cry of pain just before the sickly splats hit the ground.

Enough of the beast remained in the branches to stay up despite what it lost, but Raven was not faring much better. Once the light around him faded his chest remained glowing, heaving with hard breaths for air. This wasn't the first time he'd done this. It didn't change the way his limbs felt weak and brittle. He had to stay up and conscious—more than anything he knew he needed to hold out.

Yuri slid in front of him—a blur in his vision as the younger man cut down a desperate tendril lashing out. From there he pushed forward and up toward the trees. As he did magic poured in with a rush of muddy footfalls in a chorus as his back. Maybe it would be fine. It had to be.

He felt his knees go out, a rush of air, but no memory of hitting the floor.

* * *

Raven regathered himself in the tent, his thoughts and memories of events pretty clear again. He let out a long sigh. They must have lived if they got him to this tent. Although without anyone around, it was hard to guess what other damage had been done.

He felt around and hunted down his shirt, starting to pull it back on carefully around his wound and with a mind for how unsteady his fingers felt holding anything. He really couldn't afford doing this too many times, could he?

Rita had insisted on looking at the blastia the second they had a moment to do so after they all knew about it, but even she seemed at loss. There was no removing it—of course—but everything else about it was strange. It wasn't pulling in aer at least. What it did when he pushed it this hard however? That he couldn't say and he knew would probably earn him a good verbal thrashing from Rita and the rest. Whatever the blastia could take, his body probably couldn't. Or maybe it was the other way around. It was all kind of one and the same now either way.

He got his shirt buttoned up without too much strife and nearly got to sitting up a bit more to find the rest of his belongings when the flap at the front of the tent shifted. Raven froze as he saw a set of fingers curl in from outside, that hand eventually brushing the opening of the tent aside so they could lower themselves within. At first Raven couldn't focus on them too clearly. Someone younger. Dark hair a mess on their head. He had a tired grin when he sat himself down at Raven's side, pressingly close.

The blue of the uniform flooded his vision and after a harder blink, everything became more clear. In the way that he could see it—none of it made any sense. He must have hit his head.

A long lost reflection gave Raven an almost apologetic smile, like something held close to his heart for an age. It was an expression Raven knew intimately, in the way his face used to remember the sensation in his face for such a look—before it became even more jaded and tired. His company seemed exhausted, paler even. The guest turned one hand up, a gesture as he started to talk—his speech a reflection of talk in a town that no longer existed.

“It's been awhile,” Damuron said. He shifted to sit a little more comfortably, the young man clearly real enough to unsettle things around him. “It looks like you overdid it.”

Raven opened his mouth but no words came out.

Was this Hell?

Damuron tilted his head when he didn't get an answer.

“You could at least say something.”

Raven parted his lips, trying to speak once more. “Yeah, I...It was too much, wasn't it? It's over just like that, huh?”

Damuron shrugged one shoulder. “You'd give up and say you're dead after lasting this long?”

“I don't know. Am I? Not necessarily in a rush to the grave but you're here. Where else would I be?”

The younger man looked himself over once before turning that gaze on Raven to do the same. “We both seem to be here. And since we are, wouldn't that mean the opposite's more likely?”

Somehow, it made some lick of logical sense, but maybe it took already being in this mess to have that sort of mindframe. Raven didn't rush to agree with him; however, there was too much else to work out. The younger mirror of himself was someone he'd not thought of in a long time. That he had to frame it in such a way perhaps was a part of that. Raven was never Damuron, he was never even close to him. At least, not until that moment, where Raven had no choice but to consider them both at the same time.

“If you're here then...what do you want from me? I don't got anything to give,” Raven eventually spoke, unwilling to really argue that issue anymore.

“You said goodbye to Schwann, didn't you? Am I out too?”

Raven tiredly turned his eyes on Damuron, until then mostly too unnerved to look at him very properly. His expression was terribly hard to read, but somehow he seemed just as tired. Exhausted and strung out as Raven was himself.  

“It’s not exactly like that anymore. It’s complicated. At this point if I can just be Raven, live that way, I’d be alright,” he attempted to explain, not really knowing his own answer well.

“Will you forget everything else?”

“Definitely not on purpose.”

It has felt like long enough that maybe he should be given the freedom to forget it all. A relief in that shape would have been welcome in a way. But as things were, no matter how much he called himself an old man, his memory stayed burning and fresh in his head. The accuracy with which the worst of it haunted his body was piercing. Why could he keep remembering the day they all died so clearly? Hadn’t he earned some reprieve?

If given the option maybe he would forget it on purpose.

Damuron rested a bit more forward, that much closer to Raven now. He spoke lower too. “You’ll have to live to even have the chance to forget all of us.” He shifted back once more, his gaze aside like he was recalling something. “The memory of our unit lives and dies with you. Whenever it’s time to go.”

“I know, I know. I never wanted that in the first place. But I wouldn’t wish this on any of them either,” Raven answered, feeling his shoulders fall.

“It’s so awful to have lived?”

Raven failed to reply very soon this time. Was that really the issue? Somewhere in the jumble it had gotten all tangled up. Threading through it all felt impossible. All he could do was pull one string at a time and hope he didn’t unravel something beyond what he could handle alone.

“No, it’s...fine. To have met those kids and all the rest made me do something. Well mostly I didn’t do jack to help them until now so I can’t say I’ve paid my dues or anything. I just… don’t think I wanna lie down and die yet.”

The smile on Damuron’s face stayed just as exhausted and yet retained a little life still. The hand in his lap bunched up the familiar blue uniform, his shoulders a stiff.

“Yeah, there you go, old man. Keep living.”

“For Casey,” Raven finished for him, knowing his own answer.

“We were never gonna be anything better. That’s all you can do,” Damuron said, his tone uneven, voice bound to crack with emotion but never quite getting there.

Raven paused for a moment, feeling heavy again. Looking at Damuron made him almost queasy, so he made a conscious effort not to. It wasn’t exactly a normal conversation; maybe normal conventions were unnecessary.

“I thought for a minute I could do more. Be better,” Raven found himself muttering.

Damuron tensed up further, his brow furrowed. “There’s no point. We have to carry this forever. It never gets any lighter. Everyone. All the corpses you keep stepping over. What happens when the new friends you made start to drop first?”

“They won’t,” Raven answered after a second of hesitation. That second was long enough to seed doubt deep into the bottom of his stomach. He wanted to hurl.

“They’re good too, aren’t they? Eventually someone will take a blow they don’t stand up from and then…” Damuron didn’t finish right away, instead giving Raven a cold look—all that life from a moment ago lost. “Just like the brigade. Casey. Even Alexei. They stop getting back up after awhile...but never after you.”

“I never asked to be the one left,” Raven blurted out at him, voice raised and now tense himself.

“You’ll just have to keep taking them along with you, won’t you? Me too. When you’re dead, so many of them will be lost forever. And you too. Eventually, everyone will forget you too,” Damuron murmured quieter still, but with a shiver in his voice and a tongue as sharp as a knife.

“Then what the hell does it matter? If that’s it, that’s it! I just don’t wanna outlive all those kids. I don’t care if they forget me,” Raven snapped back him. His head felt like it was spinning already, but so much worse so when he was suddenly up against the ground, his head hitting first and fairly hard.

The clenching feeling at his throat pulled all of his focus back forward. His eyes strained and soon glimpsed the figure of Damuron, his body half over Raven’s, his arms extended down to the gloved hands now clasped around his neck. Raven struggled with both hands grabbing back at Damuron’s arms but armor and a deathly grip protected him. A wild look possessed Damuron’s gaze even as he clenched his teeth and clearly fought with himself. It only took a moment of their eyes meeting like this for tears to well up in Damuron’s.

“I don’t want to be forgotten..! I never wanted any of this! If we have to...if it has to be like this…!” Damuron sputtered out, any of his cracking facade of calm shattering to everything that had been stressed to the breaking point.

At this angle Raven couldn’t avoid himself. He could see the short life of an idiot noble tossed to the military to be rid of—a burden to his family and everyone around him. It was too much for one stupid kid. He never had it in him to be a decent knight. In the end every other knight still protected him down to the very last one. Irresponsibility shifted from habit to the only way he could survive. Follow Alexei without thought. Do whatever the Don needed. Drink out of his mind. Anything to run away even a second longer.

Raven clawed at Damuron’s hands and sleeves, trying anything to free himself even as his lungs screamed. On a remaining breath he tried to call Damuron’s name. That was enough to make the younger man stall, his fingers relaxing slightly. The tiny motion gave Raven enough room to breathe, even if it wasn’t by very much. He gasped in place, his hands withering loosely at Damuron’s wrists.

The look on young knight’s face melted down to nothing but horror and despair. His shoulders slumped and slowly his hands loosened the rest of the way, hanging loosely at his sides. He never sat back, instead remaining over Raven, frozen there as he was in time.

Raven sat up cautiously, one hand held at his own collar as he tried to pull himself back together. A part of him took it all in stride. Like he should have anticipated this much. Pieces of him knew, he understood it in the irrational sort of way things made sense in a dream. Logic had no home in him anymore and it no longer drove where this conversation headed.

“I’ve been dead-alive all this time. The whole while it was easiest to be Schwann. I took orders from Alexei, led the knights without any frills… Talked to who I was asked to. Killed who I was asked to. Spent all that just as dead as if I’d died on that mountain,” Raven spoke, eventually gaining Damuron’s attention which had calmed some.

The elder ran one hand through his hair, feeling the weight of those years on the back of his neck as he spoke of them. “Being Raven though...at first was so difficult, but became so easy over time. I wonder if Raven wasn’t always some part of Damuron too. He never deserved all that, did he?” he said, only glancing to the younger of the two once he was done.

Damuron’s shoulders shook for a second before a few tears fell free and his arm raised to hide behind it.

“I never could really kill you in the end. Schwann was easy, but stayin’ with the guilds so long gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long while. All those comrades stickin’ it out through the worst of it… the Don trusting a rat like me. It wasn’t the brigade again, but Raven felt a little freer, like he did back in those days. I...we needed that.”

Raven watched the young knight for a moment longer as his features relaxed bit by slow bit as he spoke. The horror in his eyes faded for the same tired look he’d had before. There was never a point where that exhaustion seemed like it would really stop for good. It haunted his body and clearly his mind, but it could be eased for a time.

“I’m sorry Raven never exactly turned out to be worth much. A crappy old man, no fine knight or lord at all, but I hope you’ll accept him. Some part of you’s still here. Maybe you could have been a better knight, or really, anything else, but this is the best I got. I can’t live any other way anymore. And it’s too soon to quit.”

His voice fell lower before he went on. “Something terrible could still happen. It could all hurt as much as the first time. I still don’t wanna give up. Even if I’m alone at the end again. Whatever’s left of all of us are gonna just have to witness the end one more time. When that’s it, we’ll know if it was satisfying or not.”

“If it isn’t…?”

“I’ll be surprised,” Raven admitted at the prompting.

Damuron remained in a stunned sort of silence for a long moment. He leaned back into how he’d been sitting before, his expression almost blank the whole time. It reminded him a lot of the way it had felt when he’d awoken for the first time with the blastia in his heart and everything beyond belief. The grief still weighed on his body every day and yet he forgot it all here and there. It wasn’t with the cold sort of force he’d calculated with Schwann, but rather that his own soul ached with the relief of forgiveness. It could all end, eventually. Eventually that haunt would release from his soul entirely the day he passed again, but for now he could chase out the spectre with the light his new companions flashed out over him.

The Damuron he had tried to kill when he relinquished himself to Alexei while lost in a pit of despair remained at his side and threaded together with Raven more than he’d really realized. Maybe the fresh recognition was enough: the Damuron physically at his side seemed to calm further, his eyes focusing once more on the tent and the things around them.

“It’s not perfect is it?”

Raven shook his head at this question. “Never will be. Fundamentally, down to the very core, everything is wrong with this. But even as a living-dead, I still have some things left I can do. Things I want. I can have that for a little while, can’t I? It’s alright if it all ends terribly again.”

“Is that really fine?”

“Yeah. I have the chance to change things this time. And even if I fail, I think I gotta at least try,” Raven worked out, resting back on one arm. Damuron’s posture said enough about whether he would try anything else. The younger of the two looked drained of that energy--his intensity melting away out of his hands and shoulders. The man himself looked about ready to waste away into the floor.

“Is that okay with you?” Raven asked after a moment of silence.

“I don’t know. Nothing seems like the right answer anymore. I don’t want to lose anyone else like that... What would she have said if I just gave up everything now?” Damuron answered quietly. His eyes drifted downward and stayed there.

“She probably would have yelled at you pretty good.”

“And I’d deserve it.”

Raven found himself smiling a little, but could hardly describe why. “Probably. We might never make up for this many mistakes, but it’s not enough reason to totally quit. Besides, I think some people already forgave us for all that.”

Damuron looked up, the movement itself almost seemed too heavy for the poor man. “They did…?”

“At least I already forgave you. And all those kids out there, they let my stupid choices go after one good slapping around. Deserved that too, but it’s behind us. Everything is. I’m pretty ready to go forward for a while instead of hanging around.”

“What’s forward? Do you know?” the young knight asked.

“Not exactly. It’s not set in stone, but I want to keep helping these kids. Help the guilds. Maybe I can bear a little of what the Don left now. Do somethin’. It’ll be dicey here and there but I’m lookin’ forward to it,” Raven said. As seconds passed he felt himself more at ease—maybe because Damuron too had relaxed his body and his expression.

“There are somethings I can’t let go,” Damuron said after a moment’s pause. He glanced aside, like he needed that much space to think.

“I’ll remember what you said. You just remember who you’re asking. But you know...sorry. For messing this up so bad so far,” Raven answered before Damuron could go on. He had enough of a feeling about all this anyway. He’d made himself deathly clear earlier.

The air felt unsteady between, like a ripple on either exhale.

Damuron’s voice sounded dry when he broke the silence. “I’ll forgive you this time. Don’t do it again.”

Raven let himself laugh a little. It was easier to crack through his nerves that way. “Yeah, I heard ya’. I’ll be careful. Learned the hard way and all that.”

This time when Damuron smiled it was more honest. It still was tired and worn, but there was something different about it—something lighter. His whole body appeared that way now, like he were so light he were less solid almost. Somehow, it didn’t make Raven worry and yet he still offered his hand out as an anchor of support.

Damuron’s eyes fell on the hand offered to him and slowly, as if testingly, he placed his hand in Raven’s. For a second their hands grasped firmly, fingers weaving together to keep the other close. It was the last thing Raven felt before the world turned upside down.

His eyes opened suddenly and he felt a gasp leave his mouth on an inhale he didn’t recall. It took another few breaths for his mind to put things together. He was still in the tent, but this time alone. Gingerly, he sat himself up, still partially undressed, a touch damp. The rain outside had softened to a light misting and it felt a little warmer too. Raven checked his hands, the blastia at his chest, then ran a hand through his hair. Maybe it would have been smart to let the others know he was okay. For now he lingered on what he witnessed. Whatever it was, it was real enough.

He’d said all that, he might really have to hold himself to it. Normally that sort of thought would have weighed him down, but this time it felt right. Maybe it would feel good to be out of this mess he’d dropped himself into all those years ago. Adventuring around with those kids certainly seemed like a good start for him.

That was when it hit him like a blunt edge to his stomach.

He scrambled to pick himself up and put his layers back on, fast to tuck his knife back into his belt. He wasn’t sure where his bow was, but he could find that as he went. Raven clambered out of the tent, nearly into a deep puddle a short distance out from the flap and called out Yuri’s name.

The camp was silent.

“Jeez, old man. It’s too early to be yelling like that,” came a familiar voice from the trees on Raven’s left. He turned toward the source and found Yuri himself, looking just fine minus a few bandages.

A mountain of anxiety melted away out of Raven’s chest. “How am I supposed to know what hour it is?”

Yuri made that face he always did when he was being a smartass, thumbing up at the sky. Raven’s gaze inevitably wandered up, seeing just a hint of sun starting to peer through the clouds and forest but not very much.

“Check for yourself.”

Raven gave him a tired look. “I coulda died and this is how you tell me hello.”

“I don’t see a ghost. And I won’t next time. Assuming there’s even a next time. You know Rita’s gonna give you a hell of a lecture.”

It wasn’t the first thing he wanted to consider or even the last. “I know, I know. She’ll tear me a new one.”

It took Raven a second to notice, but Yuri grinned and stepped closer to Raven’s side. Gently, he put one hand on the old man’s shoulder, the touch light yet sure—reassuring in a way.

“Thanks for the save back there. I owe you one,” Yuri said in a lowered voice, taking up that more serious tone he didn’t use as often. The honesty in it felt rooted in this spot and this moment.

Despite the seriousness of it, Raven felt a little flutter. He gave the young man a smile, an earnest one for once. “Don’t worry about it. We’re both alright, that’s all that matters.”

Yuri smiled back at him. “Always.”

A pause let the roots sink deeply into the earth there.

It was just enough time for Yuri give him a troublesome grin instead, his tone more playfully. “Want to help clean up camp before any of them wake up and tell us we should be resting?”

It was stupid. Of course they should be resting, but this was somehow the more natural answer.

“When you put it like that I kinda have to, don’t I?”

“You wouldn’t leave me to it all alone, would you?”

That sealed it. Raven laughed, agreed to do it in the end, and picked himself up to follow Yuri’s lead.

[edenfalling]

Ooh! Homestuck, Dirk, Roxy, cuddle. It's the post-Sburb world, and there are too many people all the time, and only Dirk and Roxy want to flee screaming to a (pair of) faraway mountains. Bring back the blissful solitude of the post-apocalypse.

Notcompliant with the credits snapchats, because reasons. :) [2,700 words] 

---------------------------------------------Some Little Talk aWhile of Me and Thee--------------------------------------------- 

The stupid part is, up until that one moment, Roxy washaving a really good night. All her friends (except Dirk, who hung grimly onthrough dinner and absconded immediately thereafter) together in one room, enoughdinner for everyone to eat their fill and then dessert on top of that, thepleasant ache of an honest day's work building the infrastructure of their newworld... yeah. A good night. 

Except the thing is, as much as she needs people -- and sheneeds people a lot, needs that feedback loop of attention paid and returned --there's a big difference between hanging out online and hanging out with adozen people jammed together in a single room. And she hasn't been gettingalone time during the days either, always busy working with a crew ofcarapacians (who at least are quiet) and consorts (who are emphatically not). 

Roxy doesn't notice the slow buildup of stress, but she canpinpoint exactly when the night tips from I-can-manage to oh-god-make-it-stop. 

She's been kibitzing on the edges of Rose, John, and Jane'smeal planning session (defusing any baby disagreements before they grow intoanything serious), keeping half an ear on the Pictionary session Callie,Kanaya, and Terezi have going in the far corner, and watching Jade gleefullyannihilate Dave and Karkat at Mario Kart. It's maybe a little bit much to betracking all at once, but the satisfaction outweighs the strain until Davethrows a piece of popcorn at Jade, who teleports it into the tangle of Karkat'shair, who draws breath in preparation for an inside-voice-what-inside-voicerant, and Roxy is abruptly and completely done.Zip, zilch, finito, cutlery shop's closed up and all the merchandise is gone. 

She shoves herself up from the warm and squashy armchair shestaked out as her private territory back when they first built this grouphouse, and says to nobody in particular: "I'm gonna go check on Dirk, it'sbeen a while since he noped out and I want to make sure he hasn't broken his neckor started a robot apocalypse in his sleep." 

Rose and Jane break off their debate over the relativemerits of fish tacos and sushi to give her a pair of sharp glances. John justlooks adorkably confused. 

Roxy dredges up a smile from her last reserves of sociability. 

It must not be very convincing, because Rose frowns andtenses like she's going to ask if Roxy needs any help, or maybe even stand upand give her a hug. Her concern is like a warm mug of hot chocolate, but thething about warm mugs of hot chocolate is they're awesome on a frigid winterday after messing around in the snow for a couple hours, but this specific timeand place are more like a metaphorical scorching summer day when you're alreadysugared out and anything sweet makes you want to gag. In other words, amomdaughter's loving attention is nice in theory, but it's not conducive tonoping the fuck out of the room, not to mention if anyone touches her rightnow, Roxy might actually break down and scream. 

Fortunately, Jane rescues her. 

She does something to Rose -- elbows her? kicks her underthe coffee table? hard to say -- and while Rose is busy trying to regather hertrain of thought, Jane grins at Roxy, somehow managing to make the expressionboth obviously fake and equally obviously made of 24-carat solid goldsincerity. 

"That sounds like an excellent plan!" she says."When you find him, tell him that Jade needs to run the latest plans forthe electricity grid past him, particularly the battery storage systems forevening the solar and wind outputs. I think the files are in the civilengineering dropbox account, so he shouldn't need to ask her for anything untilhe's finished reviewing and annotating them." 

Roxy nods. 

"Well, what are you waiting for? Scram!" Janemakes little shooing motions with her hands. 

Rose, apparently catching on to Roxy's actual state of mind,smiles benevolently and waves goodbye. "Au revoir," she says in herperpetually dry tone. "If anyone asks where you are, I'll tell them I sentyou to give daddy dearest my love, perhaps in the form of seagull pie." 

Jane rolls her eyes. John snickers and sticks out his tonguein mostly mock-disgust. 

"Thanks, guys," Roxy manages to say, and flees. 

--------------- 

After a indeterminate period of time trying not tohyperventilate in her en suite bathroom, she sits cross-legged on her bed andwonders if she ought to make good on her escape excuse. 

Dirk's even worse with large groups than Roxy is and doesn'tmake any attempt to pretend otherwise, but he's still human (no matter how muchhe sometimes dislikes that fact) and even the most introverted human is, atbase, a social animal. And not all contact has to be as overwhelming as groupevents. 

Roxy pulls out her phone, briefly contemplates calling him,then tosses that plan right the fuck out the window. Voices are bullshit. Textis their mutual mother tongue, and she'd bet at least half a baby universe Dirkisn't up for vocalizing right now. 

-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified[TT] -- 

TG: the thing nobody ever tells you about other people ishow fuckin NOISY they areTG: amiright?TG: i never thought id say this, but i miss ourpost-apocalyptic disaster zoneTG: not like, the looming threat of the batterwitch n shit,but the quietTG: maybe even some of the survivalist stuffTG: rose and the crockerberts gave me the weirdest look wheni said we should make seagull pie for our next movie night extravaganzaTG: there is GOOD EATING on seagullsTG: and they make a nice change from fish you know?TG: i thought id finally gotten away from descaling fishwhen we ditched sea hitlers water hellscape, but nopeTG: here we are back to fish for every meal that doesnt comestraight from our alchemiters and dwindling stocks of gristTG: (its ok you dont have to talk back if you dont want to)TG: (i just wanted to bitch to someone who gets it)TT: It's cool.TT: I know exactlywhat you mean about the quiet.TT: If you're game toendure the ultra minimum of human contact, i.e., breathing within the samecubic meter of air, I'm on the roof by the south chimney.TT: If not, I can seethe dock and it's currently unoccupied.TT: Assuming this isa day when the incessant susurrus of waves will invoke positive memories ratherthan negative ones, that could make a decent temporary retreat.TG: awww, ur a sweetie, sitting watch over our friends likea depressed gargoyleTG: on due consideration im ok with breathing your grosspre-breathed airTG: maybe if we get really daring we can work up to touchingpinky fingers!TG: le gaspTT: Scandalous. What will the neighbors say?TT: But I'm down forperversion if you are, Ms. Lalonde.TG: k hang onto your panties, im coming up 

-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified[TT] -- 

--------------- 

Roxy scrambles over the edge of the roof (she could justfly, of course, but where's the fun in that?) to find Dirk not just near thesouth chimney but actually curled up in the angle where it meets the solartiles, using the heat radiating from the bricks to counter the early autumnchill. He has his shades off in deference to the darkness, but his eyes are closedinstead of aimed up toward the frankly gorgeous light of the pink and whitemoons, both approaching full tonight. 

Roxy flops back against the dark tiles of the roof, armsspread wide, and watches the moons flirt with thin veils of cloud. Her friends'voices drift out of the open windows downstairs, but distance and the ambientsounds of wind and wave blur them into a companionable sort of white noise. Theconsorts' various weekend parties are louder, but further away; noticeable onlywhen a line or two of song finds a favorable breeze or a new branch tossed on abonfire sends a gust of sparks above the trees and roofs of the slowly growingtown. 

The carapacians' celebrations, of course, make no sound. 

She and Dirk breathe in companionable silence for nearly anhour, while the white moon travels fifteen degrees toward zenith and the pinkmoon nearly twenty degrees in the same direction, edging toward partialeclipse. Roxy's still kind of giddy over the orbital mechanics of a three-bodysystem, and the difference two moons make in the rhythm of the tides. It couldtake years to work the changes into her bones. 

She has years tospend on things like that. She spent her whole childhood isolated and trappedunder an incessant, shadowy weight. Now it's gone. She's free. She's not aloneanymore. 

It would be nice if she were better at coping with thatchange. 

Beside her, Dirk sighs, pulls his legs up to his chest, andrests his face between his knees. Something's gone cockeyed in his head again,and if nobody interrupts him he'll just debate himself into knots and grandiose'for your own good' bullshit stunts. 

And hey, an hour of silence isn't enough to get Roxyanywhere near ready to face a crowd, but it's more than enough to talk to heroldest friend. 

"The dumbest thing," she says, jumping straight inbecause what's the sense in wasting mouth noises on irrelevancies, "isthat weekend movie nights aren't even party-parties,nothing loud or crazy intense. It's just all our best friends hanging out oncomfy sofas playing goofy sleepover games, but stupid me got so wound up I hadto run screaming into the night. Otherwise I would've lost my shit at them overfish tacos and a popcorn fight, and that's just wrong with a capital R." 

"Capital W," Dirk mutters, uncurling slightly andtilting his head until a sliver of orange iris is visible over the edge of hisright knee. 

"Pedant," Roxy says, rather than draw attention tohis temporary lack of shades. "I just keep thinking, it shouldn't bug meso much. You've got a perfect excuse to flip out at extended socialinteractions, mister raised-by-robots. I actually had real live neighbors. Ishould be over this by now." 

Dirk shrugs, which looks incredibly doofy when he's allcurled up like a pill bug. "As people keep telling me, brains aren'tparticularly logical organs. Besides, there's a pretty big difference betweensign language and a dozen plus people with actual vocal cords, some of whomhave a tragically shaky grasp of appropriate volume control." 

"Ha. Yeah. Still." 

"Still," Dirk agrees. 

Roxy spreads her arms wide, staring up at the moons and theas-yet-unnamed constellations of their new universe, galaxy, solar system.Their new sun's a little brighter than Sol used to be -- a little smaller inthe sky, a little more pure-white than yellow-white -- and more like Alternia'ssun in its position vis-à-vis galactic center, which makes for some amazinglydense and brilliant starscapes. And she's saying this as a person who grew upwith no artificial light to blank out old Earth's night skies. 

"Humans made the trolls' signs into constellationswithout any outside influence, just the shape of the universe orsomething," she muses. "I wonder if it's cheating to design ourconstellations ourselves." 

Dirk shrugs again, a faint movement of shadow against darkershadow in the corner of her vision. "All our sessions were fucked from thestart; we had to cheat just to get out alive. What's a little more cheatingcompared to that? Ethical qualms aside, I'm pretty sure this planet isn't goingto be the focus of any future Sburb sessions. That dubious honor goes to the billionsof native planets kicking around this universe. If anyone's getting gentlymanipulated into using three-eyed cats and purple horrorterrors as part oftheir star myths, it's all those statistically inevitable aliens out there inthe wild black yonder." 

"I bet their myths kick ass," Roxy says. 

"I believe that's more or less implicit in thedefinition of the word. I'm not sure what they'll make of a hat or an LPrecord, though," Dirk says. 

This time it's Roxy's turn to shrug. "Old-schoolD&D monsters, maybe? Or no, ten gets you one they'll go with crows andseagulls instead." She pauses, reconsiders. "Then again, Terezi'ssymbol is basically a giant lab tool with a shit-ton of cultural baggage, andKarkat's is kind of like, handcuffs, right? Maybe hats wind up as a symbol ofintellect and general badassery -- oh! or artificial life, like Frosty theSnowman's magic hat, 'cause of your robots and puppets thing -- and recordssymbolize creativity and art and stuff." 

"Hats as a symbol of hubris and overreach, morelikely," Dirk mutters. 

Roxy wriggles sideways until she's just close enough toflick the fingertips of her left hand against the side of his shoe. "Knockit off, dumbass. Nobody gets to badmouth my best friend -- not even my bestfriend." 

Dirk unburies his face and meets Roxy's eyes straight on,one eyebrow raised. "I was under the impression that that title belongedto either Jane or Calliope. When did I inherit the position, and why was I notpreviously informed of this change in status? Are you sure you're followingfriend protocol correctly?" 

Roxy flicks his shoe again. "Friendship is a bigcategory! You're all, like, different instantiations of the concept of 'bestfriend' -- Callie's my squee and kissing partner, Janey's my partner in crime,Rosie's my sister, Jake's my goofing off friend, Dave's my surrealism feedbackdude, John's my maybe-kinda-sorta other kissing partner, and so on and soforth. You, Dirk Strider, are theperson who knows me best in two and a half entire fucking universes. Okay?You're the one who knows what it's like. If I ever run off to be a hermit on amountaintop, I want you to come be a hermit on the mountain next door. We cansend heliograph messages back and forth, or learn how to yodel and shit, andonce a month we'll get together and have a wild and crazy hermit party, justthe two of us. That's the kind of best friend you are for me." 

Dirk is silent for a long moment. Then he unwraps his righthand from his legs and lets it drop downward until his fingertips are justbrushing the soft, ticklish (completely un-carapacian) skin of Roxy's leftwrist, right over the veins carrying blood back to her heart. 

"All that, back at you," he says. 

Roxy blinks back a sudden rush of tears, and laces theirfingers together. Dirk lets her. 

"Jade has some electric grid plans for you to lookover," she says after a minute. "You can do that anywhere,right?" 

"Yeah," Dirk says. 

"Then come seagull hunting with me tomorrow. Just the twoof us, out on the water. Like old times. I have a harpoon gun I've been wantingto try out, and we can tell anyone who complains that we're taking soundingsand stuff for potential tidal generators. Hell, we can even actually do that.But I miss you. I keep getting tangled up in everyone else and losing sight ofus." 

Dirk squeezes her fingers. From him, it's as good as a hug. 

"Yeah," he says. "It's a plan." 

Roxy looks up at the night sky rather than try to put heremotions into words. There's a patch that looks a bit like a cat with wings, ifshe squints and takes some heavy artistic license. She holds up her phone inher right hand and adjusts the camera settings until she can snap a usefulpicture. She'll photoshop the constellation in later tonight and show it toDirk tomorrow: their friendship, immortalized in stars. 

"Cool," she says. 

They watch the pink moon overtake the white one in silence,fingers still entwined, the same air pumping in and out of their lungs. 

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

End of Fic 

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

It's still a little disjointed, I think, but whatever. Iwin. \o/