#soma zero | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thatanimewriter · 1 year ago

Text

RETROUVAILLES.

➳ synopsis: v. to meet again, especially after a long time apart

➳ character/s: hayama akira, tsukasa eishi, riku dola, morinozuka takashi, lie ren, winter schnee, qrow branwen, midoriya izuku, todoroki shouto, jirou kyoka, shinsou hitoshi, togata mirio, dedue molinaro, felix fraldarius, shamir nevrand, vi, ekko, dan heng, blade, gepard landau, fushiguro megumi, zen'in maki, nanami kento + any of your faves

➳ warnings: fantasy!au (character is a knight, you are the royal they serve), medieval shit, major character death, descriptions of blood, descriptions of injury, childhood friends to almost lovers, accidental murder lol, intentional murder, reader described as beautiful, hurt/no comfort, angst, gn!reader (as always)

➳ word count: 2k

➳ notes: the thing got graded finally, so you can now have it. sorry for any hurt feelings (not really, that was the whole point of the story-). character list is just some characters i DO write for that i think work for this story. also this won't be tagged properly, but it's fine

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧�� 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 / 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 / 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

to them, the weight of their golden armour is equal to that of guilt and grief. the castle they swore to protect is a permanent reminder of their shortcomings, though they never expected to return so soon. their metal-clad figure decorates the deteriorating structure in flecks of fragmented sunshine along the sandstone hallways. the kaleidoscope of light is no longer disrupted by the servants’ shadows. instead, the faux sun lurks on the walls as they drag their feet along the floor. the scraping of metal along stone replaces the low murmurs of maids and the light footsteps of staff as they flitted around the castle. the echo is deafening, and they realise they despise silence. it isn’t true silence with the clanking of their armour, but it makes them painfully aware that they are a survivor. the rattling of metal causes them to be uncomfortably conscious of their isolated existence. glancing through ajar doors that line the walls, they longs for a semblance of home, yet they are met by blood-stained tile and mangled corpses littering the floor in unappealing heaps of sunken cheeks and open wounds.

anita yasmine rosie luka penny william-

they step around them, gaze flickering to each of the faces paralysed by a still heart and wishes to lay with them, to feel the sticky black blood seep through their clothes and be held by the icy arms of death. they steel themselves against the pungent scent of rotting flesh, waving off the flies lingering around their head but failing to break through the helmet that conceals their shame and anguish.

the squeal of rusty hinges makes them close his eyes as they shakily exhale. their eyes flutter open at the quiet groan of the floorboards, and their breath hitches in their throat. it is as if colour returns to their vision, and they are several years younger, free of the faint crow’s feet stemming from the corners of their eyes and the dull ache in their chest.

it’s… the same. but you're not here.

silk sheets lay neatly atop the mattress, and the pillows remain meticulously arranged. they think if they sleep under the covers, they might smell your floral perfume on the pillowcases. they don’t entertain that idea. the sunlight filters through the translucent curtains, highlighting the blanket of dust that settles on the furniture and floor. the room hasn’t changed much since childhood; though it was sporadic, they were permitted inside. nonetheless, it was timeless. throughout all the phases of your life, it still felt like you.

they eye the vanity, clear of clutter but filled with nostalgia. the hairbrush is likely unusable – at least not without lacing dust and bugs through one’s hair – but it looked the same as when they originally gifted it. strands of hair weave between the bristles, and they wonder if their own locks are hidden away in the forest of DNA.

the maids would have cleaned the hairbrush since I was a child.

they don’t touch anything; they knows what is tucked away in the drawers and boxes. there is one thing they allows themselves to taint with their touch. they pry a brick from the wall, reaching into the pocket of secrecy they’d made with you. a matted velvet box graces their armoured fingertips. they don’t feel the texture, but the box size is familiar. they carefully pluck it from the treasure trove of memories and broken promises, sliding the brick back into place. gently unclasping the box, they smile softly at the two rings that lay side by side.

“one day, i’ll marry you!” they proclaim as you sit on the floor of your balcony. you giggle at their proposal and inquire about the rings you would wear if you married. “rings?” “you have to give me a ring to tell everyone that we’re getting married.” their little shoulders slump, and a pout forms on their lips. they sheepishly scuff their foot along the ground and tries to ignore the tears in their eyes. “...i don’t have one.” you sigh but give them a hopeful look. “but eventually you will?” they quickly brighten and grin through their tears as they lift their head to look at you. “yes! it’s gonna be like no other ring in the whole kingdom!”

they pocket the box and glance at the balcony. they kneel and bow their head, resting their right hand on their heart. when they rise, they look at the room before gently closing the door behind them as if you has retired for the night, and they don’t want to wake you. a practised method that hasn’t entirely left their bones.

as they descend the stairs to the ballroom, they nearly smile at the memory of the ball before the tragedy that befell the castle. they don't let it break through the perfectly crafted mask of neutrality. not when the ballroom floor is occupied by more lifeless bodies and darkened blood smears. they look to their side, wishing they could relive the memory of the ball and hoping they can look into your eyes as they escort you down the stairs, hoping you can share one last dance.

but you're not here…

they raise their arms, supporting the memory of everything they long to return to, and waltz. there is no music, yet their timing is precise, and despite having no dance partner, their form persists. they ponder the events of the tragedy as they glide along the bloody floor and skirt around the dozens of corpses, each bearing a face they'd seen a million times and maybe even a little more.

they can almost feel the weight of the spear they carried that day as they dance. they could hear your deafening scream as you were pulled into the crossfire. the sound follows them into their unconscious, a horrifying alarm. they never forgot the ache in their heart as their spear pierced through you. a human shield is a cowardly move in their mind, but the culprit had succeeded if the goal was to leave them with insurmountable guilt.

they come to a halt, bowing to the ghost of you. recalling your morning together beneath the gazebo, they gravitate to the imaginary scent of tea and pastries. the winter sun doesn’t fully reach them through the armour, and they attempt to resist the welcoming rays of warmth that beckon them to stay longer. they sit on the concrete bench they had called dibs on when they were twelve, ignoring the dull pain in their chest. slowly, they remove their armour. the metal feels warm despite the thin layer of ice along the lake the gazebo resided by.

the metal plates rest neatly on the bench, and they shiver at the fresh, cool air that tickles their skin. they sigh and roll their shoulders free of lingering tension, allowing themselves a moment of tranquility. their eyes – drops of sunshine that had fallen from the heavens according to you – scanned the garden that built their childhood and adolescence. the twitch of their fingers goes unnoticed as they reminisce about their training to become a knight. the tightness in their throat is unacknowledged when they see the statue of you standing tall, proud and beautiful atop a marble pedestal. they wonder if the sculptor had taken a cast of you rather than building beauty with a reference. they clench their fist, imagining your fingers laced between theirs. they've memorised the sensation, embedding it into their brain each time your hands embraced over the years. flicking the box open, they let the rings fall into the palm of their hand.

“like no other in the kingdom”. heh… what an understatement.

they chuckle at their craftsmanship. it is what is expected when an eight-year-old finds wire to make a ring. they observe the jagged circle – if you could even call it that – and the haphazardly hidden wire ends that made them feel like an ant had bitten them. it was irritating beneath their little armoured hand, often coated in a thin layer of sweat, but now they crave the sharp sting that fades to a dull ache. perhaps the discomfort has travelled from their calloused and scarred skin to their weary bones and heavy heart.

they mindlessly hum a tune from their childhood as they unwind the wires, straightening them as best they can. their nimble fingers falter as their vision blurs, but they intertwine the wire into a band of love as the soft melody cracks and fades away. in their tunic, they shed responsibility and don youth while they recraft the rings as if they could rewrite history. the art of creating jewellery didn’t embed itself in their flesh and bones like combat did, despite their parents teaching them before they left the village.

a cold wind kisses their skin, and they wet their lips, gazing at their workshopped rings with a smile you claimed could warm even the most hostile souls. they rise with a newfound energy, standing before the ethereal marble effigy. their breath crystallises as they stare into the stony eyes of the statue, slipping a halo onto their ring finger. they don’t dare to tear their gaze away and finds their vision joining the misty gardens again. a short apology escapes them as they climb onto the plinth, slide the accompanying token onto your marble finger, and lay a chaste kiss on your icy forehead. they dismount the pedestal at the sound of shouting and is struck with a familiar paralysing experience. they can hear their pulse in their eardrums over the voices, and their limbs itch with the desire to escape.

no. i stay.

the faces that emerge from the tall grass aren’t familiar, but the old, blood-stained uniform brings ease. they don’t hear what the intruders declare over their heartbeat, but they focus on the sword shared between the looters. a sudden movement breaks their concentration, followed by a new ache in their abdomen, and they are acutely aware of the sword skewering their organs and poking through their tunic. the sturdy marble pedestal makes an ugly screech against the metal before meeting their back. they hiss when it’s pulled from its temporary sheath, dripping with red and shreds of tissue. the blood that coats the blade slides down the statue’s base, gathering in their hair and absorbing into their shirt. as they slump against the surface, they let their eyes flutter shut, and they faintly hear the footsteps of the intruders grow distant.

they frown as they lay on the lawn, ripping dry skin from their lips with their teeth. “can i ask you a question?” “you just did,” you respond with an ounce of playfulness. “what if i fail?” you turn to face them with narrow eyes as if you dared them to elaborate. “what if i can’t protect you?” you stare for a moment as you debate your answer. they gaze into your eyes and look for a hint of uncertainty but is met with their insecurities as they reflect their image. you flash a gentle smile and pick a blade of grass from their messy mop of hair. “i’ll see you soon, won’t i?”

a final smile tugs at their lips, and they exhale, weakly lifting their hand to look at the ring that failed to shine in the sliver of sunset light. the warmth disappears beneath the horizon, permitting the stars to adorn the navy skies, and their hand falls to the ground.

see you soon. i missed you. in our next life, maybe…