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tokoyamisstuff · 10 months ago

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Breaking Bonds Ch. 6

Synopsis: Rabban and you have a long-due honeymoon on Lankiveil.

Warnings: Masturbation, unprotected sex A/N: I'm not good at writing smut but enjoy this lil' treat either way! 💌

"No man chooses evil for the sake of evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks."

- Mary Wollstonecraft

[Previous Chapter]

There was no going back now - you've long since passed the point of no return. And still, no matter how much time passed, you couldn't shake this nagging conscience off...

...after all, you had selfishly become enamored with a man that had - and still causes - so much misery in the entire Empire and especially your home planet.

To be fair, while the Baron alone decided about the tax height, your husband has at least greatly lifted the burden on his colonies lately, concentrating on gathering ressources instead of harassing the populace. His men were advised to tone it down, and shall a village not be able to provide the demanded amount, they'll have two more chances before there'll be consequences.

That was his way of expressing what he could otherwise never put into words.

Rabban was snoring softly besides your insomniac self, shuffling close enough to wrap his arms around you. He pressed your body against his chest from behind, a content sigh escaping his throat at the feeling of your skin against his.

"Good morning, my Countess" he purrs, nose nuzzling against your neck before tracing kisses across your collarbone. You return the favour, nails tenderly raking across his scalp. "Good morning, my Count."

Your husband's touch soon becomes more eager, groaning shamelessly as his hands wander upwards to massage your breasts, who betray you and stiffen under the touch. "Glossu, you're insatiable."

"To my defense, I've waited more than long enough" he teases, nibbling on your earlobe. His hand rested under your navel just for a brief moment before wanderin downwards. "And besides, we still have an obligation to fulfill."

Your laughter soon turned into pleased moans as well, music in your husband's ears as he slid under the covers, head settling between your spread legs with an almost predatory glint in his eyes.

"Let me wake you up properly, dear."

This whole situation still felt like a bizarre daydream - one your past self would refuse to believe to ever become reality.

A short while back you loathed this wicked man with a passion, were nothing but repulsed and petrified whenever he was near you - but right now you were yearning for his touch at every opportunity.

After that first fateful night spent together marked the beginning of something more intimate, it was also new terrain for both of you.

While you expected a cruel joke, revealing itself just when he'd gain your trust, your husband feared his feelings being used to control him for your own benefit.

Needless to say, neither of it occured.

Maybe you had completely lost your mind, but at this point you couldn't care less - at least that was what you told yourself on this important day.

Since Harkonnen troops had now completely retreated from Arrakis, until your husband would be called to battle he decided to grant you this heartfelt wish of reuniting with your family.

The image of your planet in space was a sight to behold, never ceasing to amaze you. An ice world where seasons would last for years instead of months, known among the galaxy for it's precious whale fur.

From afar, it looked almost as sacred as your father had always described it in his tales.

He was a man of unbreakable faith - at least until the death of your eldest brother on the frontlines of the resistance. Your whole family stopped practicing the religion entirely since then, except for occasional prayers in time of distraught.

After his loss, your father said that god has left this planet the moment House Harkonnen set foot on it.

Whereas you still miss him painfully, the grief strickening to this day, you were also relieved that he did not have to see you like this - his beloved daughter, giving her heart and body up to the enemy.

"Welcome home" Rabban declared as you prepared for the spaceship to land, already preparing to descend towards the planet's surface.

You seemed both aloof and apprehensive at once, so it wasn't long until Rabban offered you his hand as means to placate. "It'll be fine."

Will it be, though?

Since birth you had been among them, attended this farce of a welcome committee alongsides the other natives. It was not a voluntary decision, presence was mandatory.

You remember very well how much you wished to have the courage and throw a rock at your oppressor - but knew what deadly consequences it'd bring for you and everyone else.

Yet right now you were on the other side of the coin, and taking a good look down on yourself - skin bleached through the lack of sunlight and dressed matching to your spouse - you wondered if they'd even differ, or simply see you with the same burning hatred that you felt back then.

"Now arriving: Your beloved rulers, Count and Countess Rabban!"

Eventually you felt nauseous as the shuttle opened and you were greeted with exagerrated fake applause from the capitol, retracting your intertwined hands before anyone could see.

With the planet being currently in spring, bright sunlight hit your face, eyes needing some time to adapt after the eternity you had spent on Giedi Prime.

The Beast looked at you with a mixture of worry and irritation, brushing his fingers over your back yet again you winced away. The current situation made it impossible to bid it any more concern, but your behavior left a bitter aftertaste.

Of course he understood. While in private you could act like lovestruck fools all you want, however it was dangerous to do so in front of witnesses.

Ironic, considering you're officially a married couple.

For that very same reason he was also unable to go too easy on your - otherwise the other Harkonnen's were to notice, and such weakness would not remain unpunished.

However this tiny act of affection might also be interpretated as courtesy among two weds...

...so why did you insist to tear yourself away from him?

As the two of you strutted through the tremulous crowd, accompanied by his best soldiers, he reminisced back to easier times.

Rabban vaguely remembered that at every arrival of his you stood out ouf the crowd - at least to his eye - even long before your ways would actually cross.

Oh, how drunk he got on your fear back then, excited by the defiance he detected in your eyes nonetheless. It was as if your emotions were written right on your forehead and damn, what a feisty little quim, weren't you?

He secretly prayed that one day you'd put those thoughts into practice, commit something so imprudent that he'd have an excuse to drag you into his chambers despite your status. Implementing his own means of punishment, without ever allowing you to escape....

...in hindsight, this might've been a precursor of this strange infatuation after all. Better keep this to himself though - even he knows this isn't exactly considered romantic.

In the midst of the formation your family awaited you - or rather what's left of it. Scatters of a once great bloodline.

Rabban looks over to you, only a silken dress cascading down your body in the shivering breeze. The cold did not seem to bother you at all, in fact the soft glow bestowed you an even more divine beauty.

The serenity you were radiating was slowly crumbling however, as you came to a halt far away from your kneeling loved ones. Seeing them like this felt horribly wrong, a perfect symbolfor the harsh reality of this marriage which you desperately tried to shove back into your head.

You were hesitating, eyes darting helplessly between your husband and relatives. "What are you waiting for?" Rabban speaks in this low, authorative voice of his. "You may leave."

His approval was enough for you to drop the composure together with your remaining dignity, running towards them as you broke out into irrepressible sobbing.

A sinister look decorated Rabban's face as you collapsed into your mother's arms, a dangerous mixture of jealousy and obsession stirring in his mind. He tries to ignore it, internally fights to contain himself for your sake.

You are the stunning image of your mother, he thinks, trying to distract himself with trivial annotations. The children however - your younger siblings, as it seems - he doesn't warm up to that easily. Not really his area in general, but he'll figure out once he has brats of his own. Better not think about it too much, the pending responsibility leaves him with an odd unease.

A girl around five years of age he overhears asking why you were accompanying the 'behemoth', timidly peeking over your shoulder as you had lifted her up. "You know, I can understand every word" he retorts flatly and in perfect Lankiveili. It catched you by surprise, since the Harkonnens on your planet kept mostly to themselves. Of course, as a leader it made perfect sense to at least know the common global language.

Sometimes you forgot that your husband was in fact a sophisticated man, just wildly - intentionally - underestemated.

"Leave my sisters alone!" your younger brother, barely eleven years old, leaped in front of you, a shakily pointing a wooden toy sword at the Beast.

"I thought we got rid of all the males in the Årud bloodline..." Rabban spoke in sadistic amusement, crossing his arms as he assessed the boy. Well, your mother was pregnant back at the time and the Count was not really paying attention the following years. But you wouldn't deliberately make things worse by pointing out his disinterest for politics, knowing he already felt inadequate.

"Please, dear husband" you try to appease him, hands clasping together in a begging manner. "He's just a child. No one's questioning your rule. It's not worth it."

"When I was his age, I already partook in huntings" the Beast harrumphed, face contorting into an almost-snarl. "Killed my grandfather a few years after." He reached out for your brother, who was rooted on spot, cowering in fear...

...and just when you were about to intervene, he put his hand on the boy's head, slightly ruffling his hair. "You have a brave heart. Become a good warrior and make your family proud."

Rabban then turned to you, looking at him absolutely flabbergasted. "Just leave" he spat, waving his men over. "Got important business to take care of. You'd be no help either way."

You crack a smile, tiptoeing to peck a quick kiss on his cheek before turning around, this unexpected public affection left this mountain of a man - and frankly everyone around you - completely baffled.

"What are you looking at, you dogs?!" he shouted at his squad and their chatters ebbed out with his command. "Get. To. Work! Anyone I consider useless, I'll kill on sight."

It wasn't until Rabban and his men were actually gone to run errands for his uncle that your folk was able to breathe freely again, now truly cheering and celebrating your arrival.

You were almost considered a national hero, your marriage being considered the most noble sacrifice, ensuring the prosperity of Lankiveil.

No one dared interacting with you more than necessary, though. It was simply not worth the risk of earning the wrath of the infamous Beast.

"This detestable waste of a mother's love! Threatening a child like that. Did you see how scared your brother was?!"

"Lower your voice" you interrupted your own mother, who felt comfortable enough to verbally lash out at the Beast now that you were in your own four walls. "My husband has eyes and ears everywhere. Just- just be glad he didn't actually do anything."

"Don't tell me what to do, young lady" she scolded you harshly. "You may be our Countess now, but you must never forget-" The words die in her throat, her soft caress of your cheek having pulled your hair far enough back over our shoulder to reveal the choke mark on your neck.

A mere lovebite of some sort - he had a bruising grip, and holding back was never his forte. This is nothing compared to what he's normally capable of, but a sadist remains a sadist.

You want to back away, but your mother got a hold of your wrist, pulling up one of the sleeves only to find more bruises scattered across your arm.

During the act you rarely ever notice - in fact it was rather enjoyable - but how should you tell your mother that the most hated person on this forsaken planet kissed those minor injuries afterwards, mumbling sweet affirmations as his hands draw circles on the sore skin?

She seemed desolate, on the verge of tears and yet may have realized at this moment to better not speak against a man that was capable of practically anything.

"Mother" you assure her, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled between you licke a thick haze. "You needn't worry, I promise."

"...if we had been informed of your visit, we would've prepared festives" she croakes as she changes the topic, needs to do so in order to keep her grace. "We'll make up something right away."

Guilt was eating her alive and you knew it - the day when the Baron proposed this alliance, she had to pick between loss and loss.

As a leader, she absolutely chose correctly.

As a mother? Not so much.

All logic asides, it pained you to be reminded that she put the fate of strangers over your own. If your father was still alive, he would've rather let this planet fall into chaos than willingly lose another one of his children to the Harkonnens - if only metaphorically.

To a certain extend you sympathized with Rabban's rage- the feelings of a child abandoned by their own mother.

But then again, what's one ruined life compared to so many others, an entire civilization even?

...and do you truly consider your life to be ruined?

"Sure..." You swallow harshly, try to suppress your emotions to enjoy the scarce time you had with your loved ones. "That sounds wonderful."

Meanwhile Rabban was in the greatest hall of his mansion, slumped on the throne of your ancient monarchs - which he stole it for his private collection long ago.

He tries soothing himself through meaningless pastimes, yet materialistic luxury and fleeting pleasures did not hold the appeal they once had...

...they could not substitute your presence, at last - and without it his thoughts spiraled back to the only coping mechanism he knew: Violence, or worse.

This cannot be love, the feeling he had heard so much about yet never experienced in all his decades of life.

Why would anyone want to feel this way, being so desperate for someone else?

Sadly the attempt to drown his violent urges in expensive beverage only intensified his intrusive thoughts, dampening the little self-control he still possessed. Luckily sober him had all servants informed that he was under no context to be disturbed - otherwise not all of them would make it to sunrise alive.

Wait a second...why did he even fucking care what you'd think of him?

This was his planet, his servants, his everything! And you were his wife! Your whole purpose was to endure and obey each and every of your husband's whims, no matter how depraved!

Shit, this is the exact reason you'll always shy away from him in the end. He just can't get out if his skin - and right now it was itching for blood...

...all just because you were currently not at his side, enjoying yourself with people that were what he could never be for you.

He loathed this godamn ice block of a planet, it's people and rites and especially the fact that he could never replace or even imitate the home your heart has on here.

Now that he saw how you acted with people that you truly loved, it was all obvious to him: You had merely arranged yourself with the circumstances - but would never willingly choose him.

Rabban's frustration wandered right down to his pants, sent an even more pulsing desire straight to his cock as he remembered the ethereal way you walked besides him in that delicate sin of a dress.

Fuck, it's been an eternity singe he's done the work himself - after all, he he had countless women to pick from to tend to this need...

...but he knew damn well that unless it's you, he'd only be left unsatisfied and eventually kill them.

Your husband spread his legs on the throne, pulling back one leathern glove with his teeth while the other squeezed the hardened member swelling beneath his belt.

Growling moans he had bit back until now fell casually from his lips as he pulled his dick from it's confines, gripping the angry shaft fiercely. Swiping across the slid already leaking precum, he intended to make a quick end of it.

His eyes fell shut, head rolling back as he tried dwelling in pleasant memories of your naked form beneath him, the way you moaned his name like a sacred prayer each time you came undone.

"Shit, Y/N..." he rambled out, grunts and groans mixing with incoherent Harkonnen swear words as he eagerly stroked himself.

"Yes, my Count?"

The sudden appearance of your voice made his blood run cold, eyes snapping open only to catch your silhouette in the doorframe, calmly watching the scene unfolding before you.

His face instanty dropped into stern hostility, peering at you like he was considering murder as nerest solution to escape this humiliation.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he barks, not yet bothering to cover himself as to not admit his embarassment. "Enjoying the view, I guess."

"Bitch" he thought, contemplating to shove his cock down your throat just to make you shut up. Albeit you strode towards him keenly, a smug smile playing on your lips when his manhood twitches at your approach.

"You seem stressed, my love..." you chant oh so alluring in his ear as you lean over him, the nickname pulling at his heartstrings. "I can change that."

There was something so fundamentally wrong with doing it right here, giving yourself to an oppressor right on the throne of your people...

...maybe Rabban had already corrupted you, because that fact was exactly why it aroused you enough to discard all morality in exchange for temporary carnal pleasure.

All you knew was that right now you were in charge - and the very man that had done so much wrong was literally wax in your hands.

Irony of fate, one would say.

Your fingers teasingly ghost across his shaft and Rabban lets out a noise of both disapproval and desperation, hips bucking against your palm to find some release. "I missed you" you speak, invitingly batting your lashes.

"Stop lying" this utter wretch spat weak, tentatively, the lust in your scent feeling like being stabbed. You smile down on him in return, unimpressed by his vocal attempts to push you away.

His defense falters as you straddle his waist, kissing him with an affection like he was something precious and not in fact the most despicable person you've ever met. "I'm not lying, Glossu."

He wants to say something, anything, but his throat closes, a torn-out sob being all he manages to wring out.

Primal need takes the wheel again when you push your panties aside, folds sliding across his member in preparation and god you were so wet already, just for him.

Both of you sighed in relishment as you lowered yourself on his cock, meekly clawing into his shoulder as you adjusted to his size. Meanwhile Rabban's hands busied themselves on your ass, back, thighs, every damn inch of skin he can get while his hips chase yours.

The Beast kisses your pulse point as he pulls you impossibly close, face hidden in the crook of your neck so you won't see how he falls apart right in front of you. Yet your name keeps erupting from his lips as you ride him, not yet a plea but certainly endearing.

He holds you in an almost bonecrushing hug as you ride him, your tits spilling so scrumptiously out of your cleavage that he can't help but sink his teeth into the thin fabric, earning an ecstatic yelp in return. Soon his tongue dives into your mouth in exasperation, only ever breaking the kiss when the lack of oxygen became too hard to bear.

As the pace speeds up your husband finally brings himself to watch you grind on his crotch, the view enough to drive him over the edge. Both awe and passion wash over him in the tidal wave that was his orgasm, so much pulsing inside of you it borders on obscene.

Even long after overstimulation followed his peak, he couldn't stop the jackknife-like thrusts into your sensitive cunt as your high chased right after his.

Who wouldve thought that sex filled with laughter instead of cries could be this...enjoyable?

An odd tranquility sets above the two of you, remaining in the position for a while before either of you dared to move.

"Convinced now?" you ask between short, ragged breaths, heart fluttering while his practically beat like a drum.

"Dunno" he hums playfully, sweaty foreheads stuck together as he mirrowed your smile. "We might have to repeat this a few times, just to be sure."

Both of you broke our in boisterous laughter and you nudge his side, chuckling some sweet nonsense about him being insufferable.

"SERVANT" You almost fell down from the seat by surprise, and Rabban yelled for no one in particular once again. Panicking, you wanted to pop off his softening member and hide - yet your husband had other plans, still holding you tight.

"Nah -ah -ah" he gurred with a shiteating grin on his face as he felt his pride returning. "We don't want you to waste a single drop of my precious seed, don't we?"

Asshole. He really was incorrigible at times...

Gladly your dress had fallen down to your hips, far enough to cover your priavtes yet not enough to hide the peculiar embrace the two of you still shared.

"A partnership is no fight for dominance, you know?" you whisper as a maidservant entered - an elderly Lankiveilan woman looking down in unease. You wanted to be swallowed by the earth right then, being seen defiled by the enemy in front of one of your own people.

Oh, you just knew he was enjoying showing off what was rightfully his, didn't he?

"Just playful banter" he promised, hands still lazily roaming your body. "Run us a bath" he orders, "Then get lost. And leave some new attire at the door."

The servant nods and commits her work in silence, shooting you one last, pitying look before she disappeared as fast as she came. Rabban insisted on carrying you to the magnificent bathroom, sinking into the relaxing scented water and pulling you to his chest once again as he began to ponder.

For once he got what he wanted without taking it by force - you returned to him out of your own free will...

...and what an amazing feeling that was.

By Harkonnen logic, he should be terrified of the effect you have on him, put a stop to it immediately - all of what happened was considered pathetic weakness in his culture, nothing more than a flaw.

But damn it, he wouldn't trade it for the world.

"What are you brooding about?" you ask, fingertips tracing the several scars on his chest. "Why are you really here? Surely you did not just come for...this."

You snort in amusement, joking "I thought I'd look after my husband, before he gets bored and blows something up."

The Beast grinned at your words, allowing himself some sort of vulnerability as he seeks your reassurance. "I thought you'd seek the comfort of your old home."

His words made you furrow your brows in confusion, almost offended by his assumption. "This is my home now" you answer firmly, pressing a wet kiss to his knuckles. "You are."

The answer pleases him as it seems, pulling you in for another kiss, limbs tangled with each other in an inescapable embrace.

"Perhaps you want to accompany me tonight?" Your husband had helped you out of the now cold water, having stayed there until your discomfort became greater than the joy of closeness. "The people of the capitol will hold a small festival."

Rabban seemed bewildered, insulted even at the suggestion. "Why should I bother with those savages? This is beneath me." You roll your eyes at the man, not wanting to hear that belittlement for your culture coming from people who hunt others for sports.

Quickly towel-drying your hair before slipping into traditional clothes rather than the one he had picked out for you, he swallows the frustration of this separation through your different styles.

"Maybe because your wife is one of those 'savages', and so are you. You're half Lankiveili, hell, you even carry one of our names!" you correct him, pointing an index finger directly at his face just for him to gently slap it away. "You've been born and raised here, not on Giedi Prime."

"So?" he retorts matter-of-factly, glaring at you. "A dog born in a stable still doesn't nicker." You almost facepalmed, unnerved by his blatant stubbornness. "But you can't deny your blood. Your mother-"

"Was a Bene Gesserit, first and foremost." Rabban interrupted you, tired with the discussion already though he elaborates. "Their children are nothing more to them than means to an end."

There was a subtle hint of disappointment in his voice, one you could very well resonate with. "But- I mean, you weren't useful to her, right? Hence the younger brother."

Wow. That sounded way less insulting in your head - and you were sure had anyone else but you pointed this out, they'd been six foot under already.

"Thanks for the reminder that I'm inferior to my brother in every way" he gritted, not seeing the point of this useless conversation. You looked at him sympathically, cupping his face with both hands but he turned away in anger. "N-No, I didn't mean it like that. I-"

Well, things can't get any worse than this. Might as well speak your mind. "Bene Gesserit are ordered to kill genetically undesirable children immediately after birth..."

You see him clench and unclench his fists, but take his hand and intertwine your fingers with his. "...and yet you're here. What do you think that means? She loved you dearly, I'm sure of it."

He twirls you into his arms, effectively shutting you up with a breathtaking kiss. Your lips searched his again as soon as he pulled away, yet he already went for the door.

"Alright alright, I'm feeling generous today. We'll go. Just don't complain if I ruin the mood."

That very same evening, your husband participated in the festival with you - well, more or less. He mainly remained on the sidelines, following you like a shadow and eyes shooting daggers at everyone looking at you for too long.

His soldiers he had warded off to another place, so they'd leave your people alone for tonight - and als that there wouldn't be any witnesses to his tameness.

This whole parade reminded him of a rather unpleasant part of his childhood, what it means to be born in between two worlds and fully belonging to neither.

Many years ago his mother, Emmi Rabban, had dragged him to such an event in an attempt to make her son embrace his heritage.

People would look at him with revulsion and hostility - a natural reaction, considering his Harkonen outerior, even though he was a mere child back then. He used to tell himself the mantra that being feared something to be proud of, more reliable than some feeble goodwill.

Ultimatively, when one of the other children started throwing rocks at young Rabban, he saw red...

...and like so often, only when his anger subsided and he returned to his senses, the adults were able to pull him away from the bloody heap he had beaten the other into.

It was not the first time his mother had looked at him that way: Shame, disappointment, fear of her child and what he was capable of. Regret of having kept him alive, if your theory was true.

This core memory only strenghtened his taunting disconnection and self-loathing.

After that day, Rabban's mother had stopped bringing him anywhere public at all. Kept him trapped at home as often as possible, like a feral animal restrained by a cage.

And yet here he was again, watching you enjoy yourself as you sang and danced in the streets, never breaking eye-contact and gifting him the sweetest of smiles. Whenever you returned to his side, you clung to his arm and babbled about whatever, not minding what your precious subjects or even your own family might think of you...

...kissing him so openly, so deeply, as if you were proud to be his wife, despite everything.

Maybe this planet wasn't that bad, all things considered.

"You know, you could stay here. Until I secured Arrakis for your arrival, I mean" he promised solemny later that night, as you warmed each other under the sheets. "And I'll take you to Lankiveil as often as I can."

Rabban's offer made you stirr in your almost-slumber, witnessing his pale face glow more lively under the chimney's embers. "Why would you do that for me?"

The question caught him off guard, fumbling with his words. "Don't mock me, woman. This is the first time I felt something like this. Its...difficult for me, to say the least."

"Well, I'm grateful for the offer" you mumble sleepily, guiding his hands to rest on your hip. "But my place is at my husband's side."

After this long and eventful day it was no wonder you couldn't stay up for much longer, the security your husband's hug provided guiding you into a sweet slumber.

Rabban lets out a shaky breath, unable to fathom how he deserved feeling such bliss. He covers you with the blanket, waits until your breathing pattern indicates you're fast asleep until he dares speaking his mind.

"I love you, Y/N" he whispers, feeling a profound sense of happiness encase him after confessing this - mostly to himself.

[Next Chapter]

#dune #dune part two #glossu rabban #beast rabban #glossu rabban / reader #beast rabban / reader #self insert #writing #rape tw

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writerofthewinds · 2 years ago

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Long ago, the world was consumed by evil. The gods had abandoned it, leaving behind a realm of darkness and despair. The people were lost and afraid, and they cried out for someone to save them. But no one answered their call.

Amidst this chaos, there was a young man named Kael. Kael had always felt a deep sense of purpose, a burning desire to protect the innocent and vanquish evil. So, he dedicated his life to training in secret. He learned every martial art, every weapon, and every magic spell. He pushed his body and mind to their limits, driven by a fierce determination to become the hero the world so desperately needed.

Years passed, and Kael emerged from his training a force to be reckoned with. He was faster, stronger, and more skilled than anyone else. With unwavering confidence and a heart full of courage, he set out to defeat the evil that had consumed the world.

At first, Kael's quest seemed impossible. The darkness was everywhere, seeping into the very fabric of the world. It corrupted people's hearts and turned them against each other. It manifested as twisted creatures and powerful demons, each one more fearsome than the last. But Kael was undaunted. He fought tirelessly, never giving up, even when he was outnumbered or outmatched.

Slowly but surely, Kael began to make progress. He defeated the creatures of darkness, one by one. He helped people rebuild their shattered lives and find hope in the midst of despair. He inspired them to stand up against evil, to fight for what was right. And before long, the tides began to turn. Evil was on the retreat, and Kael's legend grew.

Eventually, Kael stood at the forefront of a massive army, ready to take on the most powerful demon of all. The battle was fierce, and many died. But Kael never faltered. He fought with all his might, using every skill he had honed over the years. And finally, with a powerful blow, he struck down the demon, banishing the darkness from the world forever.

The people cheered, and Kael was hailed as a hero. He was crowned the new leader of the world, and the people looked to him for guidance and protection. Kael had succeeded where the gods had failed, and he had done it all on his own.

But as the years passed, Kael began to notice a change. The gods had returned, and they demanded service and prayer from the people. They had abandoned the world when it needed them most, yet now they acted as if they were owed something. Kael was outraged. He had fought and bled to save the world, and now these gods wanted to swoop in and take credit for it?

Kael refused to bow down to the gods. He saw them for what they truly were: selfish beings who only cared about their own power and influence. He rallied the people to resist the gods' demands, to stand up for themselves and their newfound freedom. And so, a new era began. One where the people were free from the tyranny of gods and could shape their own destiny.

Kael lived a long and fulfilling life, always fighting for what he believed was right. He was remembered as a hero, a symbol of hope and courage in a world that had once been consumed by darkness. And even though the gods may have come back, they would never have the power to control the world again. Because Kael had shown that anything was possible with sheer strength and determination.

Evil was so rampant even the gods left. But a hero trained in secret. With sheer strength and determination, he single-handedly rid the world of all evil and was crowned the new leader. Now flourishing, the gods have come back with demands of service and prayer. That was a big mistake.

#writerofthewinds #writing #story prompt #story prompts

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galixywolfdragon · 8 months ago

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I don’t usually post my writings but I worked hard on this story for a DND project thought I would throw it here if you have any crit would love to hear it

Captains log #368

The sea is calm as usual no storms have been seen as of yet. Rations are running somewhat low course has been altered to stop at an allied port. The crews morale is high the frequent game nights and music has seemed to motivate them to work harder, individual meetings will happen next week. Only one crew member has stood out, my first mate. She is asking about my origin, it’s possible our conversation last Tuesday piqued her interest.

I know you read my logs Reia so the rest of this log is for you. It’s natural for you to be curious about your captans past after all the past often predicts the future so I’ll tell you, but I ask you not to share this entry with the rest of the crew, this story stays between us. Now where to start, I had been serving the gods for as far back as I can remember. I’m sure there was a time before and I remember a little of it mostly a bright light and a lot of pain as if my body was ripped apart. But the thought is fuzzy and I feel ill when I try to remember to far back. I served as a general servant for the god of language but I was quite low in her court so I always got stuck with the dirty work. But it was always fulfilling getting a little pat on the head if I did a good job. On one of my missions I was sent to a human port city to investigate some stolen cargo to assure it had no forbidden knowledge inside. When I was disguised as an ant investigating a crate it was suddenly sealed and loaded onto a ship when I tried to escape I discovered I was stuck, I even turned into my human form to try and pry the lid open but I was too weak. I thought of transforming into something bigger but there would be complications with possibly getting mixed into the box so I decided to sit and wait for help.

I sat in that box for three days since I require neither food nor water I was alright, every waking hour I threw out prayers to my goddess. But the days came and went with no sign nor acknowledgment from her so when I heard a sailor come below deck I screamed at the top of my lungs for help. Luckily he heard my pathetic cries for help and called his crew mates to help me from the box. Unluckily I had been loaded onto a pirate vessel. They arrested me and brought me before the captain she was incredibly intimidating, she held an air of command that silenced all brought before her. Except me I suppose because the moment I stepped foot in her quarters I demanded that I be returned to my goddess immediately. She laughed at me ( I am surprised she didn’t slap me for my rude behavior ) and said “First off, I am the captan of this vessel and I do not take orders from a lowly stowaway like yourself. Second this ship don’t fly, sorry kid your “goddess” will have to retrieve you herself” I tried to say something but she interrupted me “Kid you had better not complain, compared to how we usually treat stowaways your getting the royal package” I had the gall to ask what she meant and she nonchalantly replied “well we usually hang them and send their corpse overboard but I don’t think the gods would be very pleased if I killed off one of their creatures.” “Then what are you gonna do with me?” I asked stupidly “simple you are now a cabin boy I’ll see to it that one of my crew teaches you how to do the work” “A cabin boy?” I stuttered “it’ll be good for you, better then being fed to the fish” before I left she called “oh yeah and you can call me Captain Poinya!”

That’s all I have time to write for now Reia I I’ll write more later, but for right now I need to hit the hay.

Date xxxx time 23:00

- Captain Arc of the Heavens Scale

#oc #original character #story #dnd campaign #pirates #arggggg #jinnie

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joz-yyh · 11 months ago

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Rust - Ch. 9

SUMMARY: Junia lets slip something she shouldn’t. Will the bounty hunter be able to trust it’s just a misunderstanding? No Beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (for blood / violence / swearing)

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant

WORD COUNT: 6,904

READ ON Ao3: Here!!

A/N: Another FLASHBACK chapter!! Takes place around Ch. 4 (after the warrens boss fight).

I took a break from this story to work on my DDZine2023 submissions, which is out now! Go take a look at the official site if you haven't already! 👏 🎉🎉🎉

▪️ All my pieces are Here , Here , Here , Here and "Here"!! (Be advised some of them are NSFW)

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The bounty hunter stomps down the nave with gruff purpose in mind, wisps of incense and candle smoke pulled along in shambled cloaks, chasing him in his haste.

“Where is he,” the brute demands, disturbing the quiet chimes of the Abbey's transept.

“Hmm,” the vestal hums, too absorbed in her prayers.

She takes a moment to finish her last meditation, her clasped hands unfolding, blessing the holy flame with an, “amen.”

Tardif endures this, watching as the woman of faith rises from the altar, rearranging the crease in her skirts.

What could bring a secular man like Tardif so willingly into her home? Junia can only guess.

“If it's Damian you're looking for, I am afraid he's not here,” she says, turning to greet her guest, soft features a sage to ease the disappointing news.

The brute grunts in irritation, sorely inconvenienced. Stubbornly, he shifts his weight, crossing his arms, expecting the vestal to retrieve his quarry while he waits for her to return, but Junia won't deny him the reward of fulfilling such a task himself.

“You'll find him in the square, handing out what charity we can spare to those in need. We usually take turns, but he was in quite the audacious mood.”

Tardif grunts again, digesting this, suddenly strapped of what to do.

Junia chuckles to herself, noting how much the brooding man had changed over these few short weeks.

It was a subtle thing, only those who knew him well enough would catch it's presence, but it has grown more noticeable over time.

She wonders if he's noticed it himself.

“If I may be so bold, it's wonderful to see how close you two have become.”

“We ain’t close,” asserts the bounty hunter, needing to intimidate such thoughts from her mind, his tone carrying an extra scourge of gravel.

“Yes, yes of course not,” she teases, having read enough romantic tales to perceive affectionate love tokens for what they truly are.

“Have somethin’ fer 'em,” he amends, rubbing at the snag of fabric at his neck, gaze aimed opposite hers.

“Truly,” she remarks, a distant epiphany forming behind her brown eyes, “the Light works in mysterious ways.”

The axeman unfolds his body, regarding her as if she's ill. “Wot are ye goin’ on ‘bout, now?”

“You are a good man, Tardif. A good man with a lonely, bleeding heart.”

It is said confidently, with such uncharacteristic aplomb that she mistakes his stunned silence as a cause to continue.

“When I told Damian of this, I became tortured by my own words, begging the holy flame to take them back, but I see now that it was always meant to be.”

“Wot did ye say to me?”

He doesn't like what revelation has ignited within him, not at all. The mercenary is bristling with anger, the mask of the cold hearted killer back in place as if it had never left.

“Who are ye to decide wot I am,” Tardif barks, his booming voice sending a rain of chills down her spine.

“N-no one,” the damsel squeaks, stepping back as he steps forward, but there is nowhere for her to run.

“Been stuck in here fer too long, missy,” the bounty hunter growls, making her feel smaller than she already does, “Forgotten wot it's like out there, risking life and limb. Maybe, ye need a reminder.”

So panicked by this side of him, the woman trips, draped upon a small landing of steps with a terrified shriek. The frightened maiden leans away, staring up at his menacing form looming above her, a bringer of sadistic nightmares, darkness snuffing out what innocence remains around them.

“Please, I meant no harm,” the vestal pleads, clutching a hand to her armored chest, the other outstretched to drive him away, “Have mercy.”

He chuckles morbidly, the funniest joke he's ever heard.

“There's cruelty in kindness, mercy in death, but not fer ye, no matter how hard ye try.”

For a moment, Junia fears he will wring the life from her, the threat hanging between them like a strung gally noose, but it seems not even Tardif will commit such damning acts inside a church, so close to the Light’s all-seeing eye.

He hasn’t laid a single finger on her, but she feels choked as if he had, the man turning his back on her pathetic sniveling, her own sins punishment enough.

“Wait! What are you going to do? Please! Whatever it is, I beg you not to!”

He stops, midstep, rescinding his retreat. For one long breath, he grounds himself,

a difficult task considering how much he shakes, consumed with unbridled malice. He twists his gaze, just enough to pierce her with the razor edge of his leer.

“Best take a vow of silence,” he suggests, a deadly conclusion, warning her not to interfere, “You've lost the right to speak to me.”

The vestal can do nothing but watch, wallow in tears as he storms off, showing himself out.

“What have I done,” she sobs, heavy with sorrow, clutching her weeping face in her hands.

—-----

Tardif pulls down his cowl for the sole purpose of spitting on the cracked steps, a part of him wanting to steal a keg of gunpowder, throw a match, set the entire building aflame because he resented the church’s existence now more than ever before.

The only desire that proves to be more critical than arson is too settle the score with Damian, pull the truth from him, pay him back for all bullshit.

The brute finds him easily enough, holed up in the square, just as the vestal said he would be.

Impoverished beggars are huddled around him, his hood sticking out from above the rest, poised in the center, rationing out what stock remains of the stale bread and cheese.

“This famine will not last forever,” the flagellant tells them, offering comforting words to those that need to hear them most, a vagabond himself, “Know better things are coming, see it in this kindness we share. May it bless you all.”

Tardif doesn't wait, he strides forward, disrupting the scene, offering his scourge to the pinnacle of benevolence.

The group senses his approach, as one would an evil spirit, dispersing from his path, an empty stomach better to contend with than the bounty hunter’s foreboding appearance.

"There ye fuckin’ are," Tardif sneers, marching up to the flagellant with swift vengence.

Usually, the bounty hunter wouldn't show himself unless it was to visit the tavern, conduct some shady business transaction, but today he's making a special exception.

Damian turns, unsuspecting and curious as to what penchant has incurred the brute's wrath this time.

"Ah, Tardif,” his quarry cheers, "What brings you here?"

If the bounty hunter had to describe the emotion boiling up inside him it would be rage, blind rage.

“Kickin’ yer bloody ass!”

With a practiced hand, the mercenary slips on his lesser used repertoire of brass knuckles, a slight pivotal motion, barely discernible, a glint of metal that bides into an explosive doctrine, decking the flagellant hard enough to wipe the smile clean off his face.

The garish impact sends the masochist staggering backwards, a flurry of blood drops gushing into the air as he trips into the broken fountain behind him.

With a poignant splash, the priest falls on his hands, landing face first, trickles of red beads already tainting the algae-infested well of water and cracked stone around him.

The spectacle draws some attention, the surrounding townsfolk gawking, but the bounty hunter couldn't care less if they watch, he's more than happy to beat them to a pulp too if they dare get in his way.

With an ardent step, Tardif climbs into the stagnant pool after him, despises how much it soaks his boots, but he's willing to withstand the sensation if it means retrieving his prey, crippling him faster.

He drags the sorry priest up by the handle of his collar, stares piercingly at the trenchant guise of teeth because he wants Damian to see it in his eyes, just how deep his hatred goes.

The priest can't speak, the mercenary making him incapable of it as he swings at him again and again, one fist to fasten him in place while the other reduces the holy man to splatters of gore.

By the time the brute breaks from his heated rampage, his gloves are warm with scarlet pimpernels, his chest panting heavy with exertion.

Damian is absolutely throbbing, body pulsing, his head a swirling abyss, a delirious censure born from repeated blows to the face.

"Wow,” he sputters, barely recognizable, a macabre painting of shredded lips, busted nose and black eyes. "You’re incredible.”

Tardif scoffs at the praise, fights off any pride coalescing in his chest because this glorified dreck of a man deserved nothing less than his disgust, another enemy to be cut down.

“What inspired this,” the flagellant purrs, or tries to, praising the Light for this blessing of blood.

"Junia told me everythin’," the bounty hunter snarls, cords of muscle ripe with tension.

At this revelation, Damian gives him that infuriating head tilt, confusion born from a concussion maybe, but Tardif doesn't want to give him that excuse.

"Don't fuckin’ give me that look," the mercenary barks, snarling behind his mask.

"What did miss Junia say to you,” Damian asks, his breath suddenly weak, body limp.

"Teh! Has the flagellant forgotten his sacred mission already?"

At this taunt, Damian's grin falters, his expression turning serious. "What are you talking about?"

“Maybe, ye should ask her,” the bounty hunter snorts, “Then, I can finally be cured of my loneliness .”

Just how far was the flagellant willing to go to bring him comfort? Were all their interactions forced, nothing more than a disillusioned missionary taking pity on a condemned nonbeliever?

Tardif grows all the more enraged by this outcome, silently fuming beneath his mantle of steel, shaking with the strain.

"Do you really not understand,” Damian implores, realizing that the bounty hunter wasn't pretending, that this was different from their usual spars of dialogue.

He reaches for the leather bound fingers cinched around his neck, clasping gloved hands inside his, recreating the past, he and Tardift amidst the weald, wearing halos of poison.

“Did you not feel it too?”

That’s right, this religious zealot thought he could bless him in a foolish demonstration of the Light’s power. Is it glorified magic flowing through him now or something else?

“Tardif,” the flagellant presses, his hand raking down the other’s arm, clinging to it, nails prying under his skin as they always do, “tell me, did you not feel it too?”

It takes him a long moment to answer, staring somewhere just off in the distance.

“Wots it matter?"

"You did, didn’t you? I know you did.”

The bounty hunter doesn't like how sure of himself the priest sounds, that his memory isn't more contentious from getting his skull bashed in.

“Heh, nice try, but I ain't fallin' for anymore of yer lies .”

He lets the masochist crumple to the ground, releasing him with another splash of polluted water.

Any gratification he'd gleaned from this clash of disputes had run its course, shifting now to jaded disinterest.

"Do you think I could fake how I look at you,” Damian propounds, deadpan with the thought.

"Ha! Dunno, yer pretty good at fakin’ looks with the houndmaster too.”

Damian frowns at the insinuation.

"What do you mean?”

"Ye two looked awfully cozy together," the brute spits, crossing his arms, recalling their mushy visit at the sanitarium.

"We're friends," the flagellant says, confused at how it could be misconstrued as anything more than that.

"That's some ‘ friendship ’ ye got, huh?"

First, Damian must come to terms with the fact that Tardif, as cold and distant as he is, had been watching him, more closely and more often than he could have ever imagined, even when he thought he wasn't looking.

Then, he must realize the bounty hunter is treading dangerously close to the bitter omens of jealousy, that it's fueling his accusations, bending the narrative, dealing defaming blows to his character.

"Tardif, I will not entertain this," the flagellant growls, “If you truly believe there is nothing between us, why are you so angry if I hold affection for another? Could it be that you were hoping for more?"

Tardif feels his muscles stiffen, his whole body rigid with how close to the truth that strikes.

Still on his knees, Damian sloshes closer, uncoordinated thanks to his beating, but clings to the ridges of Tardif's belt like the destitute bum he is.

“Tell me,” he implores, searching everywhere for a sign, to reach the huntsman's eyes that still refuse to meet his, “were you hoping for more?”

"Get back ," Tardif barks, trying to push him off, bogged with sluice.

" No ,” Damian protests, holding on as tightly as his current condition can muster. “Look into my eyes, see that what I tell you is true.”

Tardif doesn’t want to fall for his tricks again, but eventually, he can't stop himself, reaching out to see if the man would flinch, expecting Damian to pull away the moment he touches the sanctity of his hood.

It's a wonder the raggedy fabric wasn't knocked off during their quarrel, but it's pulled down now, the full extent of his face visible, the flagellant giving him naught a reason to doubt his sincerity.

The bounty hunter remembers those eyes, of what such vitriolic elation does to him.

Once again, his rational mind warns him not to touch, but his gloved hand has already gripped the ashen priest's jaw, inspecting the strength of his resolve within a tourniquet grip.

"I should end ye,” Tardif sneers, narrowing his gaze. He trails lower, squeezing at the flagellant’s bulging neck, wanting to crush it under his fist.

“I would follow you, even then,” Damian vows, undeterred by his threat, willing to fulfill it, walk forever by his side.

The bounty hunter shouldn't be surprised by that answer, the uncanny flagellant had a fascination with death, had aptly chosen him to reap his soul, but it does pose another question.

" Why ? Ain't ye got better saints to follow than me?"

The priest drags his deviant hand up, over the man's armor, where his heart resides. He can hear the blood pumping beneath, making Damian’s ears ring in delight.

“Such a passionate heart. It rivals that of my own devotion.”

Some of his answer is expected, some of it not. There have been others who have been drawn to his strength, his notoriety, wanting to harness these talents for themselves, use him, possess him for the discreet service he provides.

If the offer was sweet enough, he'd hurt people just for the money, simply because they asked, enjoy it himself to some degree, but was he able to give this man the attachment he seeks, would it last?

The mercenary must be lost, stuck inside his own head because the priest is speaking in lieu of silence.

“It is in the blood you spill, you speak through it, as do I. It calls to me. Have I not mentioned this to you before?”

He might have. The bounty hunter doesn't quite recall. He's grown accustomed to toning out any prayers or inspirational speeches.

What Tardif does remember is the true nature of what he came here to do, before the vestal threw a snag into everything, learned of an ugly half truth.

He unlatches the extra yards of rope tied to his belt, a replica of his grappling hook, fashioned in good faith of an ornery student, shoving it into Damian’s possession.

“To think I was goin' to give ye this .”

It takes the holy man a moment to realize the gravity of what's been thrusted upon him. Not just a mere weapon, nor a gift, this was something deeper, more grand than both.

“My escort in exchange for your expertise.”

The brazen proposal he made back then, the bounty hunter had been carefully considering it all this time, his intentions resounding just as clearly as the words themselves, if actions could speak.

His eyes are wide, showing the true depth of their rouge, marveled by the gravity of this momentous occasion, holding the coarse braids of rope in his hand as he would the beloved spikes of his flail.

“Tardif–”

“ Shut up .”

Surprisingly, the priest obeys, a trained pup at the heel of it's master command, enough that an interlude sets in, the huntsman needing it to think, rework his plans.

“Be at the trainin’ ground at sunset tomorrow.”

"What for–"

"Just do it ."

With those words, the bounty hunter pushes him off, tossing the verbose miscreant away and Damian doesn't fight the force of separation this time.

Tardif is grateful for it, stalking away before he can falter more than he already has, needing to be alone, go somewhere no one can find him.

When he’s far into the cover of branches, shrouded by the black obscurity of the woods, he releases his aggression, punching a nearby tree, the blow landing with a wet squelch.

His knuckles are tingling, the blood on his gloves a constant reminder of the man that digs into him, an irritating abrasion of blasted bark.

—--

Light is he drunk , drunker than he ever thought he could be. What time was it? Wasn’t he supposed to be somewhere?

This impromptu midnight stroll might jog his memory, the sloshed mercenary stumbling into some inconveniently placed barrels, and a wall, making a ruckus throughout Hamlet’s residential district.

At least it was dark so no one could tell his antics apart from a meddlesome stray cat, most decent people still tucked away in bed to notice he's making a nuisance of himself like the flagellant – oh, hell – the flagellant.

That's what he forgot.

Surely, he wouldn't still be at the training grounds would he?

With this wayward thought in mind, Tardif makes it his next destination, plodding towards the town border.

His bets were set on a deserted lot (moreso he wouldn't have to own up to the guilt) and at first glance, this assumption holds true, barren to a lesser trained eye, but an oddity exists, one that he cannot ignore.

There, illuminated by the moon, was a body, lying cold and motionless across the ground.

The bounty hunter steps closer to investigate, finding Damian huddling for warmth, ice collecting on his outer extremities and God, knowing him, he was still wet from the fountain yesterday, adding to the sting.

Tardif suddenly feels like an asshole, but for as impaired as his conscience might be, the savage brute spares him no sympathy.

With a sharp jab of his bootheel, he kicks the flagellant awake.

“Wot the hell are ye still doin’ here," the bounty hunter gripes, his prey unfurling, waking up from a crisp hibernation.

"I-I did not w-want to risk leaving t-this spot until I s-saw y-you," the flagellant's teeth are chattering, his voice mostly a shiver, rubbing at the ghostly milkwhite of his arms.

“Can ye move?”

“I admit, m-most of me has gone n-numb so I don’t know how w-well I will be to train."

Tardif can see the jittery fog of his breath, a pattern of frost crystals collecting most prominently on the masochist’s threadbare clothes and collar, mimicking the deathly blue of his veins.

Dumbass is lucky he didn't die out here, in an open-field, in the middle of the night, at the height of winter.

Despite what many may think, Tardif isn't completely heartless. He simply keeps his heart entombed, hidden away from feeling, the vile excuse for a body part exposing him to weakness, another unfortunate experience he's having right now.

With a grunt, he stomps over to one of the practice dummies, yanking off the haggard blanket from the assembly of sticks and rope, shaking it free of snow.

Damian is stumped throughout all of it, even as the brute returns to his side, draping the fabric around the tremble of his bare shoulders.

“Let’s get ye inside.”

“But–”

“Yer not fit fer it," he growls, not accepting any criticism on the matter, "Need to warm yerself first.”

The insufferable lunatic was far too cold and Tardif needs to get his temperature up before the hypothermia sets in (though, it might already be too late for that).

As if booze wasn’t already at the stem of his problems, Tardif remembers his bottomless stash of whiskey, a possible remedy to this kerfuffle.

Taking the metallic flask from his belt, Tardif offers its mitigating contents to his companion.

“Drink this.”

The flagellant is skeptical, smelling the notorious odor that emanates from around the brim, knows what devilry lies inside. His face recoils in distaste, dedicated to sobriety even in his sad state, and the bounty hunter doesn't know whether to be impressed or express his pity.

Damian may have contemplated the thought, but ultimately, he turns his head away, “I ... I can't."

“Don't give me that shite. Even ye churchy lot are allowed wine, aren't ye? Now drink. It'll get ye warm.”

The silver casing is shoved against his mouth, liquid amber splashing against his purple lips, making them burn.

“Better not see ye waste a single drop,” Tardif growls, holding the flask precariously until the whiskey spills into the priest’s mouth, less than a shot glass' worth.

“More,” the mercenary barks, urging the flask at him yet again.

Damian looks helpless, having already fulfilled his demands, but the moment he tries to argue he's assaulted, alcohol poured down his throat until he's nearly choking on it.

The holy man is panting from the ordeal, licking and wiping at his mouth, hating the taste while the brute grunts his approval, putting the contraband back amongst his belt.

“Alright, that's enough,” the bounty hunter says, grabbing a pale arm, wrapping it around the mulberry cloth of his neck, the other around his waist, caring for the enrobed miscreant like a wounded soldier.

Even in all his layers of armor, he can still feel the cold on him and for a brief moment, Tardif thinks about how quickly he could warm the masochist if he was stripped of it, heat for heat, skin on skin.

No, is he crazy? Don't think of that.

"Tardif, where are we going,” asks his near frozen companion, clinging to him like salvation itself, adding his weight, not wanting to move from his kingdom of frost and snow.

He almost sounds scared, or at least the closest he's come to it, but the bounty hunter allows none of this, jerking him forward, towards the fires of town.

The flagellant steps are wonky, mostly dragging against the ground, his poorly bound limbs most likely rife with frostbite.

“Wait,” Tardif says, stopping to unwind their threaded limbs.

The holy man is still unsteady on his feet, the bounty hunter finding his scarred hands and placing them upon his shoulder plates, “Here hold onto me.”

“What’s –”

“Just shut up and do it.”

The mercenary leans down, his companion following his movements in a bumbling display, clenching inward around his cowl to keep from doubling over.

Tardif gasps at the cold, seeping in through the thin barrier between them, keeping to his task, legs sinking further, bent into a crouch.

Closer to the ground, he removes his gloves, laying them aside, needing the effectiveness of direct body heat as he takes up one of the flagellants' feet, blowing his hot breath against it.

“You waste your time,” the flagellant grouses, though if Tardif heard his voice right, it sounds like he’s heating up a bit, at least in the face.

“Pray ye don’t lose a toe or worse,” the brute grumbles, looking over worrisome chillbanes.

“It is of no consequence if I do.”

“Hn funny, I don't remember askin' ye a question.”

He swears the rigid inhale, exhale that follows is just Damian huffing at him, strapped of words.

Tardif sets the worrisome appendage on his clothed thigh to rest, thinking again of what solace he can offer.

His hands reach up, to his own cowl, ripping it free from the pins that secure it in place, his disguise reduced to the sheer mantle of his helmet alone.

It's a difficult maneuver, especially with the flagellant occupying the same space, clinging to his exposed flesh just as soon as it's available to him, substituting it with chill, but Tardif is not about to deny him.

Beath turned ragged, heavy, a reaction easily enough blamed on the change in conditions, the bounty hunter acts quickly.

While it still carries the ghost of his warmth, he rips the fabric into two long strips, wrapping one half around the sole of the flagellant’s foot, working his way up, repeating the process on the other, until both are swaddled in makeshift shoes.

“There,” he says, returning to his standing height, arranging his companion to mimic their prior position, acting as a crutch.

"Now walk."

Tardif sabotages his first step, hefting the priest a bit closer than he has to, Damian scoffing at him in response.

His cowl may be gone, now serving a higher purpose, but that doesn’t dissuade the smirk that follows, noting how the flagellant’s once destitute stride has improved.

"Really Tardif, this isn't necessary," the flagellants gripes, attempting to untangle their limbs, run from the very abbey he calls home.

“Don't even think ‘bout it,” the brute warns, reinstating his hold, ready to wrestle him into submission if he has to. He's tied the flagellant up before, he will do so again if provoked.

The bounty hunter raps against the entrance with the side of his fist, doesn't have the patience to wait, about to give a more insistent knock when he hears the doors unlatch, Junia's sweet, but concerned face poking out from behind the wood.

“Damian,” the vestal exclaims, her expression devastated by the severity of his condition.

“Make sure he stays warm,” is all the barbaric messenger has to say before he shoves the frosted meat carcass into her care.

The rigid girl has some muscle on her, one would have to carry around an oversized bible and mace, but the bounty hunter had thrown him hard, her arms barely able to catch his cumbersome weight without toppling over.

The priest hides his face in the alcove of her shoulder, a flicker of comfort and he’s cold, so cold.

“Forgive me, Miss Junia,” the holy man whispers, a stifled sob, “for bringing this misfortune upon you.”

Gathering himself, the priest trudges away, an aimless specter that sways on his feet, bound for the penance hall.

“Tardif, what's going on," the vestal pleads, desperate to know more, regardless of what explicit threats he’s made to her in the past, "Has something happened between you?”

“Obvious, ain’t it? The lout can’t take care of himself.”

Junia knew better than to believe that. Not even Damian’s routine recklessness could achieve contusions this haggard without collaborative effort.

The ruffian turns to leave, making his way down the stairs, and as fearful as Junia might be of the same grisly fate happening to her, the vestal hones her courage, knowing she must speak her peace.

“Wait,” Junia calls in pursuit, pulling him back, “this is about what I said, isn't it?”

The mercenary hurls a disparaging snort her way. “‘Course not. Why would I care for wot a lonely vestal says?”

“He ... he was the one to ask me about you,” the nun cries, voice booming, loud as a belltower's gong, the woman realizing this herself.

She continues, huddled in temperance, weary of others who might heed her summons.

“From the beginning, he was searching for a reason to get close to you, to know you. I was the one who gave him a reason. If you wish to be angry at someone, be angry with me."

The brute pauses, digesting this, wearing the same unmoving expression even as the hooded maiden looks at him with an endless spring of tearful eyes and hot puffs of resolution.

“Said so before,” he scoffs, reiterating his previous warning, “stay out of people's business."

"I …” the vestal trails off, clinging to the door, about to collapse without it, “Please, it’s cold. Won’t you come in?"

“Think I’ll pass,” the bounty hunter waves off, this parlay not worth the effort anymore.

“If you will not stay, then think about what I said. Please , Tardif,” she begs him, gloves desperately clawing for purchase she cannot gain.

"Thought ‘nough ‘bout wot ye said,” he concludes, walking away into the night, leaving her to sink onto her knees in ruinous guilt.

—-----

Light , is Tardif hung over. He didn't even think he could get this hungover anymore.

He finds a few experimental pharmaceuticals stashed away in his belt, courtesy of Paracelsus’ lab. He really should make a point of visiting them again soon, his stock was running low.

He sucks on one of the pills, its undisclosed ingredients fuzzing under his tongue, relief already on it’s way.

It’s dark again, the only time he feels like coming out these days, heading for the practice field, hoping that a few rudimentary exercises will screw his head on straight.

He hasn’t slept, unable to escape the frantic appeals ruminating inside his head, persistent despite how much he dismissed them, chased them away, hell-bent on changing his mind.

He concentrates on the crunch of snow under his feet, counting his steps, assessing how the crust of ice breaks only to hear a distressing noise coming from up ahead. Ready for anything, the bounty hunter switches to a crouch, sneaking closer, about to run off whoever dared encroach upon his turf.

"I fear I will never get this right," mutters a familiar voice, flubbing yet another throw.

The bounty hunter doesn’t expect to find the flagellant of all people, assumed he would have locked himself up in the penance hall for an innumerable amount of days.

At a loss, the brute stalls, watching, waiting for an action to take.

It’s been awhile since he last saw the morbid priest throw and Tardif is just a little impressed by this string of improvement, Damian missing the next three consecutive blows one after the other.

"At least it's goin’ in the right direction now," Tardif snorts, giving away the element of surprise, alerting his student of his presence.

Stupid move. He should’ve stayed quiet.

The flagellant jumps, unawares, gripping the rope as if caught red handed. "Tardif, I – how long have you been standing there?”

No use hiding now. The masked man pushes off the tree he's been leaning against, slipping free of shadow and into the clearing, an action that might have looked intimidating if he didn’t stumble in his approach, his body still carrying the late night fatigue of too much hootch.

"Long enough to know a holy man shouldn't curse,” he taunts, cowl hopefully covering his mirth to sound more like a chiding remark, but then he remembers it is still missing, that the flagellant still wearing the scraps around his feet.

"Do not tell miss Junia," the priest implores, voice quiet, bowing his head in shame, “she doesn’t know I am here.”

"Heh, best ye hit the target then,” the brute taunts, ”or else yer gunna have somethin’ to worry ‘bout.”

If his performance (or lack of one) held any indication, Damian is almost positive he'll fail those odds. He can already picture the dear vestal reprimanding him, a solid bonk from her mace to follow if she's feeling exceptionally feisty.

"Remember what I told ye,” Tardif starts, reiterating old pointers, “legs apart, wind it up before ye release.”

The flagellant takes a deep breath, following his mentor's advice.

The bounty hunter doesn’t rush him, quietly anticipating his next throw, the grappling hook hitting it’s mark, both stunned and overjoyed by the fortuitous result.

"Tardif, look,” he cheers, his shredded face managing a rough caricature of a smile, “Did you see? I hit it!"

The brute fights off the urge to return it, still without the obscurity of his cowl, flattening his lips, nodding emotionlessly. He offers no praise, his attention focused solely on coaching.

"Now, try to curve yer throw, lasso the target."

Damian nods with renewed purpose, reeling in the lead to attempt his next assignment. He applies the same tactics as before, recalling his mentor’s prior adjustments.

He launches another propulsion, the tossed rope looking as though it will hold in every instance, but much to the flagellant’s growing disappointment, it unwinds itself, swinging limply across the bast of the scarecrow’s dowels.

"Hrm," the bounty hunter grunts, hiding his laugh, "maybe another 100 reps and ye'll get it.”

What can he say, the other's try-hard failures have put him in a good mood, enough that he's already stepping forward to retrieve the lead, wrapping it up in neat loops as he goes along.

Task complete, he hands the grappling hook back to Damian, the flagellant receiving it with covert hesitance. There’s no need for apologies, but the urge is there, propelled if only to ease the pain the bounty hunter had endured, emotional turmoil he was responsible for.

"Tardif, I … I wanted to say I am s–,"

"Save yer breath,” the burly man grunts, his tone of a more teasing attribute as he continues, “Maybe if ye improve, I'll forgive ye."

"That a promise,” Damian asks, his sinuous grin returning, gripping the rope more securely.

"It's all I am givin’ so that's all yer gettin’,” is his stern reply, a siphon to the jovial air between them.

The experimental drugs he’d taken choose now to make him dizzy, his shoulders heavy, hands clutching, needing Damian to steady him.

“Are you alright?”

Tardif shakes his head, the vertigo passing as quickly as it came. The worrywart of a flagellant still gives him a mopey lip, but the bounty hunter prefers to ignore the slip ever happened.

Under the guise of instruction, the brute trails around, stalking the flagellant from all angles. He doesn't need to accommodate for much, Damian has mastered the stance well enough, but he still yanks at his garish waistline until it reaches perfection. Many moons ago, he’d touched him just like this, more about antagonizing a deranged masochist for nostalgia’s sake than anything else.

“Keep yer arm taunt, but yer wrist loose. Think of the rope as an extension of yerself, a third arm. Or fourth, in yer case, if ye count the flail.”

To illustrate this, he grabs a bandaged wrist, spins it in his grip, simulating the proper motion.

The priest chuckles, envisioning such a creature, “four arms, now wouldn’t that be a sight?”

“Two of mine wit’ two of yers,” Tardif grunts, sliding up behind him more, mimicking their parts, “We’ll try one together.”

Why does he want to touch so much? Not necessarily flesh, but any part of him, collar, cowl, robe, whatever he can get his hands on.

Damian swallows, preparing himself for the task, nods when he’s ready.

“First, wind it up.”

The lead is twirling above, gaining momentum while Tardif remains intoxicated by how close they are.

“Good, now keep her eyes on target, concentrate on where yer blow will land. Let yer body move wit’ the rope, steer it wit’ yer fingers.”

“Now,” Damian asks.

“Now,” Tardif agrees.

The rope is thrown, a beautiful cast, wrapping around the dummy’s neck, ensnaring it in a few terse rotations, affixed.

“That's it,” Tardif encourages, masking his pride, “now pull it back, keep yer grip on it tight. Don't let it get away.”

His lips are hot against Damian’s neck, blowing every breath against it, hands cinched around his waist and wrist, echoing his tactics.

Damian’s not thinking of their lesson anymore, he’s looking deeper, beyond it, under it, knowing there is a chance for his affections to be returned, taking a bold leap, balancing on a precipice of cliffrock.

“Tardif…” the flagellant says, a huskily shudder, ”must I still hold onto the rope?”

The bounty hunter snickers at such a juvenile question, “Wot else would ye need yer hands fer?”

His chest is beating so loud, lungs suffocating inside his ribcage, no matter how shallow, how deep his intakes of air, the same rhythm repeated against his back, unsure of whose heart is whose.

“This,” Damian gasps, his palm traveling in increments, folding over the back of leather-bound knuckles, “You .”

His scarred fingers clench, squeezing around the others digits tightly, fearing the bounty hunter might pull away, but Tardif squeezes back, intertwining their grips.

Both men are panting, a contest to see who can squeeze the other’s hand the hardest until they're shaking with the strain. Damian loosens his hold first, enticing the bounty hunter’s lower, closer to the ties at his waist.

“Here .”

“There you are!”

Startled, the two men remain perfectly still, hoping to blend into their surroundings, fool their company with a shoddy attempt at camouflage.

“Took forever to find you,” Paracelsus pants, scaling the hill, physical exertions not their strong suit.The plague doctor pauses a moment, leaning on their haunches, catching their breath, “You're hard to find when you're not in the penance hall.”

Shocked at being found in such a position, Damian moves his hand back up, trying to seperate them, but Tardif halts his movements, their clasped hands precariously resting on his torso, making him burn red.

“Whadya want,” Tardif barks, their subterfuge out-sleuthed, “Can't ye see we're practicin’?”

“Ha, I couldn't care less what you're doing,” the plague doctor shoots back, “All I know is that blood bags over there was chosen for an expedition at the cove and the heiress is giving me all the mutant fish guts I could want just to tell him.”

“Overachiever. Teacher’s pet,” Tardif scoffs.

“I have my aspirations,” the scholar says, sticking their nose up, crossing their arms, “and a nose for science!”

“Teh! Yeah, ye do,” The brute bullies, a joke aimed at the exceptional curvature of their mask.

“Ooooo, you are so lucky I left my grenades at home,” the plague doctor boils, sensitive to comments about their sophisticated profile, “Not that you wouldn’t use Damian as a shield anyway, but I needed the extra space for all the coin I am getting paid.”

Tardif growls, knowing that the scholar brought up the topic of money just to spite him.

“Thank you, Paracelsus,” Damian cuts in, hoping to de-escalate their argument, “Tell the heiress I will be there.”

The doc swats their blithe hands at him, “ You can tell her. Already wasted enough time coming here, not about to waste more. I have experiments waiting,” the eccentric doctor raises their pointer finger, a sign of eureka easily mistaken for flipping the bird.

“Good luck with that,” Tardif glowers, a snide remark made much too low for Paracelsus to hear.

“I must go,” Damian says, softly, reluctantly.

He turns to remind Tardif of this, the mercenary still positioned behind him, clinging now as the brute had done, their tender moment interrupted yet again.

“And tell the cheapskate bounty hunter to keep his fingers off my drugs,” the plague doctor hollers, their unseeable figure crying out from the valley below, “That's right, I know it was you!”

“Get off it,” Tardif shouts back, making his companions' ears ring with deafening volume.

“I have ways of keeping you out, you know,” counsels the distant Paracelsus, but the bounty hunter never turns down a challenge.

“Ha! Ye can try!”

The antagonistic voice doesn't return, their feud postponed, assuming the plague doctor had finally gone and Tardif grunts in finality, the victor of this dispute.

“What wonderful friendship you have,” Damian’s laughs, admiring the complexities of their pact.

Tardif lingers, letting the man’s boisterous vibrations rumble through him.

“They're convenient ,” the brute corrects, irrevocably blunt, “They make stuff, I test it.”

“Of course, you must always have another trick up your sleeve,” Damian concurs, finally pulling away and Tardif instantly misses the head rest.

“Shall I bring you back a souvenir,” the holy man teases, grateful to behold Tardif’s full-form, the exceptional beauty of his eyes, the unshaven scruff of his chin, “a ‘thank you’ for teaching me?”

Despite the many riches he could ask for, pearls galore, gold aplenty, the only thing that comes to mind is something much more irreplaceable.

“Just come back wit’ this,” the bounty hunter says, entrusting the flagellant with his gift once more, “the practice will do you good.”

“Tardif, I – ,” he sighs, finding it best to keep things simple, “– thank you.”

He finishes with a smile, looking forward to their reunion, though he hasn’t even left town yet, “I will return with many tales for my teacher.”

“Ye better. Haven't finished yer lessons yet.”

“No, I have not.”

Scarred hands touch over his gloves, wanting to penetrate the thin layer that separates their flesh, holding it as if there were no barriers, raw delight in his scarlet eyes, “I will remember what you've taught me.”

“I'll know if ye don't.”

“Of this, I have no doubt,” the flagellant smirks, offering one final solace before he pulls away, letting slip the bounty hunter’s fingers from his own.

#my writing #bountyhunter/flagellant #darkest dungeon #dd bounty hunter #dd flagellant #tarmian #bhf #bhxf #dd damian #dd tardif #darkest dungeon bounty hunter #darkest dungeon flagellant #bounty hunter #flagellant #flaghunter #rust

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windvexer · 3 years ago

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id actually really like you talking about practice when youre low energy/someone struggling with mental illness. it can be hard to keep my relationships with spirits since i suffer from depression. and raising energy/getting into alternate/heightened headspace is troublesome due to that. any good tips, beside stuff like "stir your tea three times and say depression has no power over me and tadaaah youre actually a witch" or something dumb like that??? :0

This post may have helpful information for you: Ok, so you want to practice every day?

I am not really the best practitioner to ask about practicing while depressed. I used to suffer from mental illness, but I've been without it for long enough now that I'm speaking from the outside looking in. But I have a few ideas floating around.

In general:

Gods and spirits do not experience time the same way we do. It is not fair to you or to them to assume such. A month without communication may seem like an eternity to you, but can be a blink to them.

Have you ever had a friend where you guys just don't talk that much for weeks or months at a time, but whenever you start chatting its as if you never left off? It's the same concept.

If your spirits are telling you, "we won't love you any more unless you torture yourself over communicating with us as much as possible," get rid of them and make new spirit friends.

And if they're not saying that -- let yourself off the hook. You should be a proud and wild fish swimming free in the ocean, your path shouldn't make you feel trapped against unattainable standards.

There are some spiritual relationships which can be very intense and the spirit does demand high levels of communication - these would be laid out to you. If this wasn't created as an expectation for you, no need to project false needs onto spirits.

Definitely do not promise to return to communicate again at a set time. "I promise I'll be back soon" is usually a promise made out of guilt and stress, which is only going to compound guilt and stress if we can't follow through.

Try building a shrine to your spirits in a place where you can regularly see it.

Do not:

Make promises that you'll leave offerings or communicate at X intervals

Leave disposable offerings that you have to clean up in short order

Avoid making promises to spirits but still pressure yourself to try and attain certain communication/offering goals, as if there is somehow an internalized golden standard which you believe you are always supposed to strive to fulfill even though it's making your life worse and harming your path and spirituality.

Look at the shrine. Talk to it. Interact with it when you feel like it. Too brain-drained to even say hello? Then don't say hello.

Did you find a neat rock? Do you have some change in your pocket? Fancy some incense? Leave these things on the shrine as a gift.

Here is the offering ritual:

"Hi everyone, I have this and I want to give it to you." *place on shrine*

It sounds like you are attempting direct psychic communication with your spirits. That is draining and perhaps not suitable for casual encounters.

Try using a tarot deck, pendulum, runes, or other tools.

Also - just talk to them. Literally just talk to them. Do it internally if you like. This may also be called prayer, if you can untangle it from connotations of worship.

Do not:

Make yourself jump through hoops before you're "allowed" to interact with the shrine or your spirits. "Before I leave this offering I need to do a counted breath exercise so I can see how the spirits feel about the offering--" nope. None of that.

Discount the power of one-way communication - you just talking/praying to them without using tools or psychism to hear anything back.

Believe that your spirits are powerless in your life or don't care about you unless you constantly open yourself up to two-way communication

Believe that you must achieve certain physical standards before the spirits want to be with you or help you.

Definitely do:

Ask the spirits for help whenever you need it.

Understand that the spirits like hearing from you and listening to you even if you can't hear them back at that time.

Closely examine your path or practice for areas where you, A) want to practice something specific, but B) require yourself to undergo extra techniques or ritual steps before you're allowed to begin, so therefore C) often do not end up practicing, or only end up practicing unrelated techniques you didn't really want to do to begin with.

The following posts may be of help to you:

List of low-spoons spells and magic activities

Ask: Modifying practice to be less draining

Lowest spoons candle dedications

So I’m feeling a little down

#low spoons #answered #spirits #communication

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travellingarmy · 4 years ago

Text

║Childe║Changed

Requested from Wattpad.

Female reader as requested.

Word count: 4.1k

---

Liyue is a prosperous city that attracts many and all sorts of people from business-related work to thieves who wish to earn extra cash. Everyone goes to Liyue with something on their mind that they hope to find in the city. There's even you- a normal person and a vision user- who came to Liyue all the way from Qingce village to look for a job. Everyone in Liyue all came with different reasons, but was all tied to Liyue.

Originally, your goal was to make enough money for a lifetime and then return to the mountains and help the elderly care for the fields and other needed work. That's just how your character was, but then an unforeseen event occurred and now you were in Liyue for a person.

"(Y/N), can you go pick up a batch of qingxin flower near Qingyun Peak? I'd ask Qiqi, but I sent her already to look for another herb." Baizhu enters the back room where you were sorting out the herbs in alphabetical order. "Sure, Dr. Baizhu. I'll do it right after I'm done these," you said.

"Thank you, (Y/N). Sorry for troubling you. I would go if I was fit for such exhausting travels, but you know how weak my body is," he said and you nod in understanding. He was the great doctor, but can't even heal his own illness. You didn't care about that as it wasn't your business and depart for the pharmacy when you were done at the back.

Looking at the sky above you and the position of the sun, you could tell that you will return late at night even when you run. You left from the sight of the city with only a satchel for the flowers. It was dangerous, yes, but you can fully protect yourself just as Qiqi can with her petite stature.

You were exhausted even before seeing a qingxin flower, but you did not stop. If you did, you'd have to camp the night out in the wilderness and that was something you were never fond of. Right now, you could tell that it was somewhere 3-4 in the afternoon- soon to be evening- and you departed from Liyue around 10 in the morning. "Please, Geo Lord, let me find these flowers soon," you say a quick prayer before stepping foot in the mountain area.

As if Rex Lapis had heard your little prayer, you found enough to satisfy Baizhu for two weeks at least, but the time it took was too long and by the time you decided it was enough, it was seven at night. You cried when you thought about how long it took just to reach the outer edge of Jeuyun Karst. "No! I am not camping out here!" you say out loud and determinedly made your way down the mountains- a bit slower when descending- and use what little energy you had with your determination to push dismiss your aching feet.

However, it seems that Rex Lapis didn't allow your travel back to be safe as you were soon facing a Lawachurl. "For the love of..!" Your sword appeared on your right hand and made sure that the satchel was sealed shut before engaging to fight the beast.

The beast, although bigger and most likely stronger than you, had a slower reaction time and decided to use that as an advantage so you dodge its fists and jump when he smashes the ground, but then, a sudden jolt of pain shot through your whole body when a stone came at you. You dodged it by a hair's length but collapsed soon afterwards. "My damn feet..!" Your body- especially your legs- was exhausted from the nonstop walk which made your reflexes a bit slower.

The lawachurl made it's slow approach towards you with its towering stature. You thought of a quick escape, but you just needed your body to co-operate with you. "Come on. Move!" You were pushing your exhausted legs past its limits, but knew it was your end when it raised its two arms that was to crush your smaller frame.

Your body suddenly jolts with energy and you found yourself suspended in air. You took this chance and use your vision to enhance your sword and bash the lawachurl's head open. It cried out as you jump away from it and watch as it disintegrated like any other wretched beast. You were left panting and scratched up, but you were happy that none of the flowers had fallen out.

"Ho~ What's a beauty doing out here so late at night?" A voice suddenly made its way to your ears and turned to your right, your sword blocking your body. The owner of the voice suddenly appeared before you and clashed his make-shift weapon with yours in an instant. "Oh? You've got quick reflexes even when you're exhausted. I should praise you for that."

"What are you doing?" you say through gritted teeth and push your sword. Then to your relief, the person jumps back a couple metres away, their weapon disappearing, and you sighed as you collapsed on the ground, your sword disappearing. "Haha, sorry to scare you. I was passing by and saw that a beauty was in a pickle," they said. "I was deciding whether or not if I should help you out, but you already took care of it." They shrug and puts their hands on their waist and grins at you.

You look at the person before you with a cautious gaze. They were male with ginger hair, blue eyes, and foreign clothing, and by the looks of it, he was somewhere near your age. "So, you're saying that you saw me, but didn't bother on helping me right away?"

The male looks at you and shrugs again. "I was going to help you since you're cute, but like I said- you already took care of it."

"And if I wasn't cute, you'd just leave me here to die!?" You were exhausted, but still manage to pull the look of disbelief. You waited for a reply, but instead, got a change of topic. "Anyway, what are you doing here so far from safety?" he asks and made his way towards you, his weapon out of sight as to not make you alert.

"None of your business," was all you could say in your exhausted state. "Ouch, no need to be so cold," the male says, though not even trying to mask hurt. You were tired of talking to the irritatingly brunette and wanted to return to the pharmacy. Slowly, you pushed yourself off the ground and took a step slowly. But, your body failed in fulfilling that and you fell forward and into the arms of the man, his hands holding your arms out of reflex. "Oh, don't tell me you've fallen for me now--" He stopped his teasing when he noticed that you were out cold. "Ah, what am I going to do?"

When you awoke, you found yourself facing a ceiling and feel the the comfort of a soft pillow and mattress and a warm blanket covering your body. You slowly sat up, hissing at the soreness and pain that washed over your body with a now conscious mind. The first thing you notice when looking at your hands and arms was that they were bandaged up and even feel a bandage on your left cheek.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty. It's about time you woke up," an irritating voice comes and greet you and chuckles. You recalled the fight with the lawachurl and the brunette who suddenly jumped out of nowhere and pick a fight with you. You turn your head to the right and see the same brunette at a small table, sipping his drink. The sun shone from behind him which made him look as if he was glowing. Now that it was daytime, you can properly see his face and was almost taken aback by how charming he looked.

He could see how your irises expanded at the sight of him which made him smirk. "Oh? You suddenly interested in me now?" he teasingly say and you suddenly broke out from the trance you were in just now. "Don't joke around with me," you said, remembering to what you has awoke to. "Anyway, where did you bring me?"

"Straight to the question with such a demanding tone. That's quite new to me," the brunette says. "Anyway, you can call me Childe, but I rather you call me babe." He chuckles which really upset you and you didn't mask to hide your frown. "I don't care who you are. I want to know where I am."

He looks at you and sighs. "Man, you're going to be a difficult one, aren't you? We are at Wangshu Inn," he finally answers. "I don't know where you live so I brought you here and bandaged you up. On that note, you should thank me."

You looked at your hands and then at the brunette who rested his cheek on the back of his hands and a leg crossing over the other, grinning cheekily at you. "Thank you." You got up, your body still aching from the fight. You see that you were still fully clothed and you mentally sighed out of relief before snatching your satchel on the nightstand beside the bed and leaving the room and soon the inn.

"(Y/N), I was worried when you didn't return last night and was about to send Qiqi to help you," Baizhu greets you at the pharmacy. "Qiqi was worried," Qiqi greets as well, wrapping her arms around your legs as a mean for a hug.

"Sorry, Doctor Baizhu. I had ran into some trouble and was tired to walk back last night," you said. "Oh, and I gathered a lot of qingxin flower for you." You took off the satchel off your shoulders and handed it to the doctor. "Hope these are enough."

"I'm sure it is. Thank you, (Y/N)," he said and puts the satchel full of qingxin flowers on the counter. "Alright, why don't you go ahead and rest for two days to heal your wounds? He looks over at your bandaged arms and face. You were grateful and thanked him before leaving the pharmacy.

The second day, your body wasn't hurting as much, but your wounds were still wrapped up in bandages which you changed when you got home. You found yourself lacking of food so you were out early in the morning on grocery shopping. "Ham.. Eggs.. Milk.." you read your list loud enough just for you to hear. But, since your eyes were glued onto the thin sheet of paper, you didn't notice a person suddenly appear before you and block your way before bumping into their chest.

"Ah, my apologies. I wasn't looking ahead," you say and rub your nose. "Hoh~ Well, what do you know? I thought you looked familiar and I was correct. Seems like we meet again." The all too familiar voice spoke above you, making you freeze up on the spot.

Slowly, you raise your head and see none other than the male from two days ago. "Is it just me or are we possibly fated to be together? Do you remember my name?" he asks, a grin forms on his charming face. "I'm afraid I don't," you said half-heartedly and excused yourself before brushing shoulders with him as you walk away. But, he grabs your elbow and stops you from walking any further. You look over your shoulders and give him the 'what gives' kind of look. "Well, since you forgot, I'll remind you again; my name is Childe," he says and leans close to your face. His eyes were a deep blue even under the light and felt as if you were drowning under water, where the water was an alluring colour of a pretty, deep blue. You were mesmerized, but notice that there was more to what the little pond you had found in his ocean eyes which made you much alert. Childe notice the fiery flames in your eyes suddenly on guard and he chuckles before straightening up.

"So, what's your name?" he asks. "I'm sorry, but I don't believe we're on the comfortable terms to know each other's names, sir," you stated. Your words are constructed to be polite, but your tone says otherwise. "Aw, you're going to play it the hard way with your saviour?" He forces a pout that was definitely not going to make you feel guilty so you stood there just staring at the brunette. He laughs and puts a hand on his hip. "Very well, I will do whatever I can to make you tell me your name."

You were about to turn your head and walk away, when a voice rang out across the streets. "Master Childe~" A high-pitched, flirtatious voice calls his name, drawing you both behind him. By the way they dressed, you could immediately tell that the female before you two was one of the many scums that could be found in large cities and that being said, you know exactly what kind of person the man whom called himself Childe is like.

"Master Childe, I've found you~ Did you know how sad I was when you didn't show up for two days?" The female clung onto the male's arm, completely dismissing your presence. Now that he was distracted, you took this chance to slip away from him and do your grocery shopping.

However, just because you slipped away today, didn't mean you slipped away forever or that you can do it the next time, and with that in mind, Childe was seen hanging around you- well, more like pestering you. But, with time, you soon came to accept the fact that the man wouldn't stop any time soon and told him your name and exchange words with him.

Of course, you had your doubts and had your guard up around him, seeing as he had a scum following him around almost daily, but you soon realize that you could see past the one part of him that didn't make up even one percent of him.

In months, you felt something in your chest that you know was wrong, but you couldn't help it as it dealt with him.

"Hey, (Y/N), wanna go on a little date for dinner?" Childe asks, approaching you out on the streets. When he said 'date' you know that it wasn't an actual date; it was a thing he said meaning to buy you lunch or dinner as a friend.

"You'll have to wait for an hour for me to get off work," you said, making your way up the steps of the pharmacy. "That's not long at all, apropos to getting your name, that is. I can wait," he said and gives you one of his dorky grin. You shooed him away and he did just that, off to reserve a seat for the two of you.

The hour felt long and made you impatient that it even shows. Baizhu looks over at you and smirks, knowing the reason had to be related to the young man he had been seeing occupying most of your time and mind. "(Y/N), since your shift is close to an end, why don't I let you go now? It makes no difference and Qiqi is here to help out if needed," Baizhu said, seeing as you face light up. "Really? Thank you so much Doctor!" you cheer, not even hiding the fact that you were indeed impatient to see Childe. You made haste around the counter and leave the pharmacy.

"Where is (Y/N)?" Qiqi asks, coming out from the back of the building, holding some sort of plant. "She just left, Qiqi," Baizhu answers and see that Qiqi became sad and pouted. "Qiqi was going to ask her if she'd search for the cocogoat with Qiqi.." Baizhu chuckles and put a hand on top of the little girl's head. "Sorry, Qiqi, but she's on a date."

"A date? What do you mean?" With that, Baizhu was now occupied trying to explain to the best he could as to what a date meant in the said case.

Just a few metres in front of you, you see Childe's back towards you as he chatted with a Liyue local. You were about to call out his name when a girl suddenly steps into view, blocking you from getting close to Childe. "So, you're the one hanging around Master Childe, huh?" was the first thing she said and looks at you up and down in disgust. "I don't get it. I mean, you don't even got the parts to be Master Childe's best."

Oh dear.. You know the girl all too well as she was the one you saw running to Childe and throwing herself at him. Childe has many more of the scums around him, but this one was around him the most. You bet that she brawled with the other scums because she wants Childe all to herself- well, his money.

"Hey, look, I'm going to be really nice here and tell you politely to leave Master Childe alone. He doesn't have time to loiter around someone who's body is of no use," she says and gives you a wicked grin, putting a hand on her hip to show dominance. You were unfazed and gave her a blank expression. "I'm sorry, but who are you to decide who I can and can not hang out with?" you ask.

"Hah, don't get on my bad list, girlie. Just so you know Master Childe slept with me the most," she states proudly. The words did hurt you, but it didn't make you cave into a cowardice. You kind of guessed he has slept with many women, considering how he had scums all over him. "Okay, I get that you're a scum, but you haven't answered my question."

You could see that the girl was already breaking and you couldn't help but snicker at how easy she was. "Listen here, I bet you haven't even gotten a taste of what Master Childe can do, considering how small your breast is," she laughs, looking at your average ones. "And I bet once he's gotten a taste of you, he'd be done and leave you."

You honestly didn't know where this conversation was going, but you stayed calm and hear her. "Oh? Then, tell me how I should please him to make him stay with me for- let's say.. Forever?" You cross your arms, still not letting her get to you.

"Psh, you think he'd stay with you even if I tell you?" She was hysterical, her face twisting to make her look like a witch. "Look, I'm sorry, but I really don't have time to talk to you. Have a good day," you said. You were about to brush shoulders with her when she grabbed hold of your arm and weakily throws you back. "Hey, you're not going anywhere until I know you're not going to hang around him."

"Sorry, but I can't comply to your wishes as it was your 'Master Childe' that came onto me," you state, grinning with your own wicked grin.

The girl snaps and lunges herself at you, but before she could even lay her long nails at you, you pulled out your sword and point it at her throat, just mere millimetres to lunging it in. Your face was still cool as ice, but the girl's mocking face turned to horror. "Listen, scum, I don't have time for idle chit chat as I have a date with your Master Childe," you said and lean to her ears so that only she could hear what you had to say next. "I don't care who you are, what you are to him, and I know that you can't even touch me so you best behave before my patience runs out and I plunge this sword at your pretty face. I'm being nice here and have pretty high patience so you best run along now."

The girl nodded frantically and runs past you. You turn around and watch as the girl disappears from sight. "Maybe you should call me Master," a voice whispers, feeling their breath tickling your ears. You turn around and was faced with the grinning ginger. "That is not going to happen."

"Maybe some day." He shrugs, which you immediately said no to. "Haha, but you said this was a date so that's a step close, no?" Your face flushed, forgetting that he was close by and had heard what you said to the girl. "Gah, I was just trying to let that girl feel mad," you said.

"Oh? You sure you don't want to call this a date?" he asks, giving you that glimmering eye look. "You can call it whatever as long as I get a free meal," you say and brush past him.

"Well, I know another way for you to get a free meal, but I wouldn't call it a date," he snickers and your lightly dusted face heated up quickly, knowing what he meant. "Shut up!"

"What? I was saying that we can always hunt," he lies, acting innocent to frame your impurity. "If you're not going to take me on that 'date', then I'm going back to the pharmacy," you said. He chuckles and fall in step with you, leading you the an expensive restaurant.

After the meal, you two were walking along the docks in silence, the ocean in the background was shimmering and wondered if it was a million noctilicious jade instead of pure water.

"So, what did you talk about with that girl from earlier?" Childe suddenly asks in a light tone. Your mind suddenly thought back to the event that had occurred with the girl and what she said about Childe sleeping with her. You wanted to ask, but you felt as if it wasn't right since it was his life and you didn't even know how to approach such question. "I'm sure you already know," you said.

"No, I don't so do enlighten me, since it was about me," he says. Then, you thought that it was the perfect time to add what you wanted to ask and took the chance. "Eh, nothing much. She kept on bragging how you slept with her multiple times though," you managed to slip in and shrug, playing it cool.

"Woah, woah, woah! She said that!?" Childe stops on his tracks and you turn to look at him. "That girl.. I swear that I haven't slept with her, or anyone for that matter!" Childe says, seeing his eyes look almost quite desperate to reassure you.

Your heart felt lighter, but decided to go on with the teasing. "Oh, really?" He nods almost instantly and you had to conceal your laughter. "Well, she said how you good you tasted and how well you did in bed to the point that I believed in it," you said, covering your mouth with a hand to hide your devilish smirk.

"You don't believe me?" he asks. "Nope," you said, not giving in to his saddened eyes. Then, almost in an instant, Childe walks closer to you and grabs your shoulders harshly. "Hey, what are you--" Your lips were sealed with his own. His lips was soft which caused a spark to jolt within you and making your legs almost became like jelly, giving in to the kiss.

Your hands were on his chest as he wraps an arm around your waist and the other on the back of your head. His tongue easily slipped past your lips and was now in a battle with yours, but that battle had ended sooner than you wished for when he pulls back and found the both of you panting. "I swear to you, (Y/N), that I didn't sleep with her," he says in a low voice.

To his surprise, you laughed. "I was just teasing around with you. Of course, I believe you," you said and smiled. The brunette stare at you in disbelief and when your laughter died down, you were kind of worried if you made a mistake in doing that. Then, he brings his lips back to yours with much more tenderness and you wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you.

He pulls away again to your disappointment. "You are the only one I'd ever sleep with," he says, his wrap around your waist becoming tighter. "Then you better ditch those other girls or you're sleeping with no one," you joked before bringing him for another kiss, this time being longer.

---

#childe x reader #genshin impact #female reader #genshin #genshin impact oneshots #genshin childe #x reader #childe oneshot

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anncanta · 4 years ago

Text

Natural obligations

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing

Relationship: Dracula/Agatha

Rating: Mature

Warnings: None

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Or read below

Nuns always have a lot of work. This is part of obedience and the normal routine of the monastery, apart from the fact that physical labor helps to focus and pacify the spirit.

Agatha never particularly liked physical labor. She had enough lessons in the laboratory, after which on some days in the evening she was completely exhausted. Still, rules are rules, and at least three times a week she had to help in the kitchen, fetch water, or weed beet beds.

Perhaps that is why a long sleep on a wide and soft, albeit unfamiliar bed seemed to her more a blessing than a cause for alarm.

Until once again slipping out of the delightful slumber, Agatha remembered that there were no such beds in the monastery, and in spacious rooms with walls of rough stone, like the one in which the bed was, the sisters kept cheese.

Agatha sat up jerkily in bed and stared in front of her.

‘Can't sleep?’ Sharply turning her head, she almost buried her nose in the one sitting next to her.

‘What are you doing here?’ Agatha asked from dark, attentive eyes studying her. She tried to concentrate, but consciousness seemed to... splash inside her head, unyielding and nimble, like a slippery fish.

‘I’m here in some way at home,’ Dracula replied calmly. ‘What do you remember?’ he said curiously.

Agatha frowned.

‘The monastery. And prayer. You appeared during a common prayer. I remember Jonathan... Mina... Mina let him in. And the wolves. Yes, I remember wolves.’ She paused, not entirely sure that she had correctly reconstructed the events – or their sequence. ‘And then you said... You promised that I…’

She looked up at him thoughtfully.

‘You took me out of there,’ she stated grimly. ‘It seemed to you not enough to drink me without a trace, and you took me…’

‘...so to speak, in the flesh,’ Dracula nodded in agreement. ‘Don't you like it here?’ He added, sweeping around the room with a gesture.

She didn't answer. Glancing around again, she looked at Dracula. He was sitting so close that she could see the fine lines on his pale face.

‘What do you want?’ Agatha asked.

Dracula shrugged vaguely.

‘Talk.’

...

The bed was incredibly comfortable after all. Over the years she lived in the monastery, Agatha managed to forget about such luxury. She slept comfortably as if plunged into a thick sea of clouds – and she dreamed of clouds. Huge, white, embracing with fluffy waves. Occasionally unfamiliar shadows flickered behind them and voices were heard. But more often in the middle of a dream, Dracula suddenly appeared, and the desire to sleep went somewhere in the background. This was not so much surprising as it raised questions, as well as the fact that, no matter how hard she tried, Agatha could not remember to see at least once where he actually came from.

‘Why do I never see you walk through the door?’ she once asked the Count. ‘I think you are giving me some herbs… Maybe opiates,’ she suggested. ‘But I’m not sleeping anymore when you come. Or rather…’ she paused, feeling that she was confused. Looking at Dracula, she added angrily: ‘You don’t turn into a fog, in fact.’

Dracula smiled at her with that tinge of secular courtesy, which, as she had time to learn, meant that she should not wait for an answer, and Agatha, with a sigh, spoke of something else.

In this, however, there was nothing new – many times Agatha tried, directly or by hints, to find out from him where she was, what was happening, and what she should expect from him – all in vain. Dracula did not react at all, or he gave out something mocking – so much that it became clear that the topic touched upon by Agatha was taboo.

And, it seems, – the only one.

On the first evening after her... awakening, Dracula said he wanted to talk – and they talked. A lot – about books, music, about people and their habits, about what happened in the world before and what is happening now. They gossiped like seasoned gossips and conducted scientific debates, compared impressions of what they read, and discussed how life had changed.

Agatha was never silent, and conversations, moreover, helped her to organize her thoughts and understand herself better. If she lacked something in the monastery, then the interlocutor who could hear, answer, challenge her judgment, or confirm it.

The sisters were not her helpers here – they were kind and caring, treating each other... well, treating each other like sisters, they preferred prayers to disputes and discussions – even if it was about Holy Scripture. So Agatha was desperately bored with them.

Dracula was a demanding and stubborn conversationalist. Smart, attentive, keen, and passionate. He never interrupted and listened to the end of everything she said, thoughtfully studying, looking at it for a long time – and returning it back, sometimes deployed in a completely different angle, and it was... yes, it was exciting, she admitted.

On his next visit, Agatha woke up from a gaze.

Sighing, she turned onto her back.

‘How much time has passed? Since you brought me here.’

‘Three and a half weeks.’

Agatha nodded.

‘Aren't you afraid to make me getting sick of you?’ she asked in a surge of unexpected insolence.

She asked – and immediately regretted it. But the anger did not fall on her, as did the resentment and anger. He laughed.

‘Agatha,’ he said, leaning over and looking into her eyes. ‘How... predictable? you are. How naive in your fierce intransigence. You are so confident in yourself – and in the fact that this intransigence protects you from the manifestations of ‘sinful weakness’. Such as, for example, the ability to feel something for me besides... um... righteous anger. Your tenacity and resilience are truly amazing.’ He paused, smiling. ‘But if I wanted, do not hesitate... yes, if I wanted, I would make you... scream.’

‘I don’t doubt that,’ Agatha said grumpily. She sat up and shifted, making herself comfortable. The pillows spread to the sides and flattened, becoming thin and hard. ‘On the contrary, I find it strange that you took so long...’ she trailed off, choosing the word, ‘for so long delayed with this.’

She bent down to straighten a naughty pillow, and a lock of hair fell over her eyes. Removing them, Agatha looked at Dracula.

He stared at her intently and steadily.

‘Not in that sense.’

The words sounded soft, but something in them made her flinch and – for some reason – to touch the blanket with which Agatha was covered to the waist.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked in a secular tone.

Dracula leaned back, leaning against the low table by the bed. On the table was a glass filled to the brim with wine. Agatha didn’t remember this table had been here before. However, she was not too interested in the furnishings of the room.

‘Have you forgotten in your monastery why they scream in bed?’

‘We don't have much time in our monastery for idle reflections,’ snapped Agatha. ‘Are you serious?’ she did not believe.

‘Quite serious,’ he smiled.

Agatha was silent for a while.

‘Do you really think...’

‘I don’t think so, Agatha, I’m sure.’

She sat for a minute in confusion.

Anger came to the rescue.

‘You will never be able to!’

‘Let's check it?’

What is wrong in this room, Agatha thought. A window would be... Or two. She shifted.

‘Not worth it. I do not participate in disputes about... axioms.’

Now he smiled with the expression that Agatha remembered from their first meeting at the gate of the monastery.

Delight. Disbelief in his luck. Joy.

And in exactly the same gesture as then, he threw back his head and ran his fingers from the corners of his mouth to his chin.

‘Agatha, do you think that for three hundred and eighty-six of my sexually mature years there are secrets of women's pleasures that are unknown to me?’

Agatha chased away the memory.

‘I'm not talking about the secrets of women's pleasures,’ she winced. ‘Your aristocrat's bag, full of information about ladies' charms, has nothing to do with it. It will not help,’ Agatha said condescendingly, ‘in the area where it is a question of a body subject to a higher authority.’

‘Divine?’

‘No. The power of reason.’

He laughed.

‘You are a heretic, Agatha. A century ago, you would have ended your life in the square, and respectable ladies dressed in caps like you would have thrown logs into your fire.’

Agatha snorted.

‘Go away from the topic?’

‘No way,’ Dracula assured. ‘Bet?’ asked after a second.

‘Terms?’

He burst out laughing again.

‘Agatha, I see you are seriously bored. I will not forgive myself for this. The terms...’ noticing her angry look, he continued. A thoughtful expression returned to his eyes. ‘The terms. Let's say this: you allow you to be touched – as I want and as much as I consider... sufficient to prove the theorem, about which we argued. You are completely free in your reactions: growl and hiss, whisper, shower me with the last words. Moan – as loudly as you like. You can't scream.’

‘Moan?’ Agatha squinted. ‘Are you so arrogant?’

He chuckled.

‘I give you a chance.’

Agatha looked at him for a minute.

‘Fine,’ she said slowly. ‘Excellent, accepted. And here are my conditions: you do everything you can to make me scream with pleasure, and if you do not succeed... three times, you lose.’

Dracula raised an eyebrow.

‘Three times? Three times, Agatha?’

‘I give you a chance.’

‘I agree,’ his smile became so soft and sly that Agatha felt a desire to immediately cancel everything.’

‘What will you put?’

She thought about it. And really, what? How can a prisoner pay for a loss? Besides her own humiliation, of course, she thought with annoyance.

‘And you?’ Agatha always found it easier to attack than defense.

He pretended not to notice the pause.

‘I'll let you go,’ he said. ‘If you can’t scream even once, I’ll let you go. And I will fulfill any of your wishes. Of those that I can do, of course,’ he added mockingly.

Agatha frowned in disbelief.

‘Really?’ asked.

‘I give you my word.’

‘Okay.’ She rubbed her forehead absently. ‘What if...’

‘And if I win, then you will go with me to London. Openly, in full view, and voluntarily.’

‘Why do you need me in London?’

Dracula smiled.

‘Don't specify,’ Agatha said. ‘I won't need it. You won't win.’

‘We'll see,’ he is not threatening, she noticed. And doesn't scaring her. He just states.

She took a breath.

‘Well, good. Agree. You win – I will go with you. But that does not mean that I will stop trying to frustrate your... plans.’

‘In no case,’ the corners of Dracula's lips twitched slightly.

Agatha nodded.

‘Then... Since we agreed... on the rules... and on the terms...’ she hesitated. ‘When do you propose?..’

‘Now.’

Agatha stirred and adjusted the pillows again. Now they seemed too soft. She literally felt herself drowning in them.

‘Now?’ she asked politely. It won't do that way, she thought. She must look at him.

Dracula's eyes were completely blank.

‘Do you have any objections?’ he asked.

‘No, not the slightest.’ Tugging at the edge of the blanket, Agatha absentmindedly stroked it.

From the other side, a man's hand lay on the snow-white fabric.

Throwing back the covers in one motion, Dracula bent down, touching the long monk's skirt.

Agatha's gaze darted to his palm, which was lost in the blue folds. She did not feel it through the clothes, she only saw how it adheres to the fabric, completely, with the entire surface.

‘Tell me, have you done this before?’ now the voice of Dracula sounded very close.

‘What?’ Agatha asked, shuddering.

‘Have you ever done this before?’ repeated Dracula; his hand was still resting serenely on the crumpled skirt.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Interesting.’

‘I’m a nun,’ Agatha said dryly.

‘I remember,’ the hand came to life and grabbed the tight hem, lifting it. ‘But you had a life before the monastery?’ Dracula looked into her eyes. ‘Heart dramas, suitors?’

Agatha shook her head.

‘Me... I was the youngest daughter,’ she said. ‘The fourth after three brothers. And no dowry.’

‘There was only one way – to the monastery,’ grasping the hem with both hands, Dracula pulled up her skirt to her knees. ‘At thirteen?’

‘At fourteen.’

He nodded.

‘Understand. Well, what about you yourself?’

Agatha stared at him blankly.

‘What... me myself?’

‘Agatha,’ he smiled. ‘Haven't you ever tried to find out what it feels like?’ He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘Didn't you touch yourself, didn't indulge in forbidden games? Haven`t you ever... tasted yourself?’

Agatha turned away in dismay. She remembered her conversation with Jonathan Harker. How stubbornly she asked him about everything! How persistently she sought an answer, wanting to know if he had... a special interaction with the Count. How she convinced poor Jonathan that there was nothing terrible in his desires for Mina left in London and in his fervent dreams.

‘I've never done that,’ she said dully. ‘Even in a dream. Never. I lied to him.’

‘Lied to whom?’ asked Dracula.

‘Jonathan.’ She lowered her head and looked at her legs sticking out from under her skirt.

‘Did you introduce yourself to him as the queen of lecherous women?’

Her indignant gaze met with such frankly cheerful that Agatha could not find anything to answer.

‘Do you think it will give an allowance to you?’

‘An allowance?’ she blinked.

‘Everything unfamiliar scares at first,’ Dracula bowed his head. ‘You certainly won't be able to win an argument, but fear will allow you to hold out for a while and not give up victory in the first battle.’

Having said this, he ran his fingers of both hands over Agatha's thighs, spreading her legs – unceremoniously and quickly.

The first touch pretended a tickling – a quick, almost fleeting, and high – just beyond the edge of the trembling belly. Fingers went over the hollows of the triangle connecting the thighs, leisurely stroking one, the other, covered it entirely.

Pressing her back into the pillow, Agatha instinctively closed her legs – and groaned with pleasure that stitched her body. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dracula smiled – and moved his palm, pressing the base on...

‘Jesus,’ Agatha whispered.

Releasing his hand, Dracula once again ran it over Agatha's stomach from top to bottom, and, playing with the curls of hair in a secluded place, again – with his fingers – repeated the movement that shocked her so much.

‘It’s not forbidden to hiss, or growl, or emit lecherous moans,’ he reminded, leaning over to her ear. Gently stroking her with his thumb, with the middle finger he penetrated where it was humid and cramped, and immediately slipped out, leaving Agatha to shudder and breathe heavily.

‘You will come with me to London, Agatha,’ he said, lightly running over the open petals. ‘The bet was concluded without witnesses, and I, of course, will not claim the winnings in court,’ touching the above, he continued, accompanied by her sharp sigh. His fingers moved gently, and faster and faster. ‘If I am not mistaken, this is called ‘natural obligations’. Nobody will punish you for breaking them. But since the days of Ancient Rome, it has been known that arguing with natural obligations is like denying the very nature of things.’

He touched her again, softly and affectionately, and, trembling, Agatha with a powerless groan buried in his shoulder.

‘I win,’ after a couple of moments she breathed out barely audibly.

‘Oh dear,’ Dracula whispered. ‘This is just the first time.’

***

The dream turned into clear water. Crystal, a little prickly, light, and cool. Washing the boundaries of consciousness and completely filling it. Agatha tried to catch memories floating in the water, scattering to the sides and escaping like the wreckage of a raft or a sunken ship. Memories, thoughts, and feelings, about which, not just to the amazed Jonathan, she would not dare to tell the Mother Superior even.

‘And completely in vain,’ she opened her eyes and looked at Dracula looking at her. ‘You were talking in your sleep,’ he added, sinking to the edge of the bed. ‘Memories are worth sharing. Why else are they needed?’

‘Memories of defeat make the armies lose heart,’ Agatha muttered. She tilted her head, listening to herself. ‘What did you give do me after all... Henbane or mint decoction?’

‘Stop guessing,’ smiled Dracula. ‘You cannot solve this problem by enumerating options. Look for other ways.’

Agatha nodded.

‘I will certainly find it. You've been gone for a long time,’ she said, after a pause. And she immediately added in response to his questioning look: ‘In my position, it is difficult to keep track of time, but I tend to believe my feelings. And they say you haven't shown up for days.’

‘I thought you would want to rest,’ Dracula chuckled. ‘I'm glad I was wrong,’ he said, walking his hand over the blanket, and suddenly turning around, climbed onto her bed.

Sitting on the bed, he was directly opposite Agatha, and for a while silently looked at her.

‘You have changed,’ he said quietly. ‘You have changed so much since you came here.’

Agatha straightened and lifted her chin.

‘Winning the first round does not mean winning the game.’

‘Did I talk about what happened at our last meeting?’ Dracula was surprised.

‘Didn`t you?’

He turned around again and, stretching his legs forward, sat down next to Agatha, leaning back on the pillows.

‘Some victories only inflame... the imagination,’ he said, looking in front of him, smiling. ‘Aren`t they?’

‘How do I know?’ snapped Agatha. Turning away from Dracula, she stared at her hand on top of the blanket. Her knuckles twitched. ‘I can only...’

She didn’t finish. Dracula grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, placing her between his own legs and forcing her to lean back on him.

‘Okay, what do you want?’ whispered in her ear.

Agatha tried to push, but he just pressed closer.

‘I’m all at your disposal,’ Dracula purred, almost touching her auricle with his lips.

Agatha shuddered.

‘I can't... I can't say it,’ she said. ‘I...’

A quiet laugh made her grimace.

‘I didn't mean...’ Agatha muttered, realizing that she had betrayed herself.

‘You're curious,’ he laughed again. ‘And you love experiments too much to miss the opportunity to learn something new.’

‘Even if this is some kind of lewdness?’ Agatha snorted.

‘Why not?’ He ran his hand over her thigh and suddenly bent her leg and pulled it aside. ‘I suggested you set the conditions for the experiment,’ he said, penetrating under her skirt with his other hand, ‘so go ahead.’

His hand touched the hot skin, stroked the inner side of her thigh. Agatha groaned softly. In response, he wiggled his fingers, but instead of touching her where it was most desirable, he grabbed her bent leg and pulled gently, forcing her to open up more.

Leaning back, Agatha groaned loudly.

‘Where should I touch you?’ asked the persistent lips that tormented her ear.

Agatha shook her head.

‘I do not...’

‘Tell me,’ the rapid pulse in her temples seemed like a drumbeat, ‘tell me this out loud.’

Agatha shivered.

‘I want… I want… down,’ she whispered, feeling her cheeks flush. ‘Down... longer. And then...’

‘Then?’ touching her with a finger, he fulfills the request. Agatha breathes fast.

‘Then a little higher...’ another one joins the first finger, they caress her slowly and – oh, quite a bit – harder than last time. Agatha groans, gasping for breath. ‘Slightly higher...’ she asks ‘...higher. Above. Faster... And further... to the end.’

With the last words, choking on the exhale, she realizes that she won only because the pleasure was too strong.

***

When he appeared again, Agatha was awake.

‘You look tired,’ she said, watching him settle into the bed with the same calm casualness.

‘A lot of important things to do,’ Dracula replied absently.

Agatha ran her hand over the blanket.

‘I thought you’re not coming again,’ she said.

‘Why?’

She examined the folds of the graceful canopy.

‘I don`t know. To me...’

‘Was I with you unnecessarily...’

‘...modest,’ Agatha finished, smiling at the mocking sparkle in his eyes. ‘Of course not,’ she added in response to an unasked question. ‘I was just thinking... But no, it doesn't matter.’

Agatha turned away and fell silent.

They sat like that for a long time, and the further, the more awkward the silence became.

‘Agatha,’ Dracula said finally. Agatha shuddered and looked at him. ‘Agatha, I think I should...’

His face seemed tense and unusually determined.

‘Agatha, you...’

‘We haven't finished the game.’

She herself did not know what made her say this. She looked at Dracula, looking at her with a mixture of doubt and surprise. Without looking, felt the blanket, she threw it back – calmly and without challenge.

‘Okay,’ Dracula said and repeated as if waking up from a dream. ‘Okay.’

He sat a little longer in his place, and then, climbing onto the bed, moved closer to Agatha and reached for her skirt.

Agatha pulled back.

‘We haven't finished the game,’ she said again, looking Dracula in the eye. ‘And I want to reach the end.’ With that, she unbuttoned her collar and pulled the dress from her shoulders.

Dracula looked at her closely.

‘You’ll lose,’ he said quietly.

‘I know.’

...

The echo was long, rolling, and sweet.

‘If they could hear you, they would come and grab you as the main culprit of all problems and troublemaker.’

Agatha smiled.

‘Fortunately, they can't.’

Dracula raised an eyebrow.

‘Who can't?’

‘Oh, for God's sake,’ Agatha snorted.

They were silent for a second, looking at each other.

‘How long?..’ he asked carefully.

Agatha narrowed her eyes as she considered.

‘I think that... yes, perhaps. I think it was when you offered me... all this. The glass,’ seeing that he does not understand, she added. ‘The glass on... yes, on the table. I remembered that you don't drink wine.’

‘And you were not scared?’ He raised himself and ran his hand along her neck as if wanting to hear her pulse beating.

‘Of course, I was scared!’ Agatha responded indignantly. ‘You eat people!’

‘Actually, I don`t.’

Agatha looked incredulous.

‘And what, for a long time?’ she said.

‘Since we bet.’

She frowned.

‘But how are you then...’

‘Seagulls. Large fish. There was an albatross two days ago.’

She was silent for several minutes.

‘I was going to…’ she said slowly. ‘My winnings. I was going to ask you...’

‘I guessed.’

She tried to hold on. She did her best. But that was beyond her strength.

‘So, to London?’ she asked, finished laughing.

He smiled.

‘So, to London.’

#dracula 2020 #bbc dracula #count dracula #agatha van helsing #dragatha #drama #geth #romance

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ladyfawkes · 5 years ago

Text

A Eugene and Dark Queen Reunion - Eugene Appreciation Week | Day 3 - Angst

Meanwhile, back in Gothel’s tower..... Rapunzel was desperately trying the healing incantation even though her magical hair was now gone. But Eugene couldn’t allow her the chance. Already too much had been taken from Rapunzel during her life and he wasn’t going to take any more from her. Not even to save himself….especially not to save himself. Eugene summoned his last tiny bit of strength with Herculean effort. “Rapunzel,” he insisted, pulling her face to him. He had to tell her. “What?” she whispered at last. The effort cost him dearly, left him gasping. “You were my new dream,” he breathed, as Rapunzel laughed through her tears with bittersweet joy. Whatever the price, it was worth it to Eugene just so he could hear the sound along with her next words. “And you were mine,” she replied with loving sorrow, fervently wishing she could just hold Eugene here in this moment with her forever. At least…..at least she could put a smile on his face before he slipped away for good. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Eugene was swiftly awoken and bidden to stand by a mysterious brunette with long flowing hair. She quietly stood next to him, dressed in an elegant white gown, and looked up at him serenely. He briefly wondered if she were an angel before reminding himself he didn’t believe in such nonsense.

He couldn't really pay much attention to her at first....as upon standing, he had turned around and was jolted by what he saw. Eugene’s gaze was instantly glued to the scene playing out before him. It turned out he was still in the tower. Rapunzel, now clearly resigned, despondently finished the healing chant he had so stoutly refused her and wept openly over his dead body.

"Oh no....." Eugene fell to his incorporeal knees in anguish. “No!” Eugene had thought dying would be the saddest thing to happen to him. Yet he’d been sorely mistaken. "Rapunzel, I...."

"She can't hear you, son," the brunette said softly. She came up behind him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I can promise you, however, she will not be sad for much longer." At the moment, Eugene felt anything but reassured.

"Who....who are you?" demanded Eugene of this...this interloper, in spite of himself. For the moment, he just wished to be alone with Rapunzel and their shared grief. The mystery woman seemed to have sensed Eugene’s reluctance to her presence and carefully moved away a few paces. She now stood opposite him on the other side of Rapunzel as she cradled Eugene's body.

"Well, I did call you 'son' for a reason, you know," said the woman, with an impish twinkle in her eye. "Wuh--" Eugene nearly choked on his own tongue as he stood up in a rush, trying to get the words out, finally settling upon, "--Mother?" He gaped at her, openly searching for any signs of his own features within hers.

"That is one of my many titles, yes," replied the regal lady, smiling enigmatically in front of him, “and my personal favorite.” All at once he noticed she was wearing a black tiara with purple jewels. It seemed all the more stark against her crisp white dress. Eugene’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Alas, there is no time to discuss them all, though. You need to go very soon."

"What?" Eugene protested. "Go? But didn't I just get here? Wherever here is? How can it be that I already have to leave again?" "Observe," said his mother, gesturing to his prone self on the floor. A tiny starburst of golden sparks showered his cheek where Rapunzel's solitary tear had fallen, only to travel further down toward the mortal wound in Eugene's side. As they watched, the garish gash began mending itself closed amidst a thunderclap of bright spiraling magical tendrils that grew to encompass the entire tower. "What is happening?" Eugene cried over the thunderous roar of healing magic, shielding his vision against its brightness. "I should think that much would be obvious," his mother replied with what was now characteristic vagueness, once again wearing her Mona Lisa smile. Eugene groaned in exasperation and he found himself getting mildly annoyed with her cryptic amusement. It even reminded the young man a little bit of....himself. So that's where I get it! he marveled as realization dawned. "This time, the Sun Drop chose you, Eugene," his mother was looking him right in the eye now. "Chose me?" Eugene echoed skeptically, his eyebrows knitting together. "Why ever would it choose me? It's Rapunzel who's into this whole 'destiny' business." His mother laughed throatily and it mesmerized him; he was completely enchanted by the sight and sound. "Come here, Gene." He was utterly taken by her use of his diminutive name as he walked around to meet her. He almost couldn't ask. It seemed too surreal. An orphan wouldn't dare to hope....but he gestured to her tiara. "Are you...." She slipped an arm sideways around his waist, pulling her to him. He couldn’t help but notice how tall she was as she replied, "Yes, I was royalty when I was alive, which means you have royal blood too. And as long as you keep putting your faith in and keep choosing this young woman, you will find all of the answers you've sought about your family -- past, present, and future. And sooner rather than much later. However, I fear right now it’s time we take our leave of one another." "Now?? But--but I have so many questions!" Eugene pleaded. His mother put a quieting finger to his lips and patiently said, "In due time, dear son of mine. The only thing I want you to have on your mind during this present time is you….and her.” She reached up and lightly tapped his forehead three times and bade him into her loving embrace. Still somewhat unsure of her, he accepted, eventually melting into her arms as she stroked the back of his hair. She hummed an old German lullaby, the same way a young mother would soothe her small child. Hot tears sprang to Eugene’s eyes, completely unbidden. Just how could this song sound so familiar?? his mind cast-about wildly. He was both amazed and bewildered, yet he felt far too overwhelmed to speak.

Eugene felt himself fade out into soft white nothingness while in his mother's warm embrace. Then before he knew it, Eugene’s eyes were fluttering open again, as if he'd briefly fallen asleep and taken an unintentional nap somewhere. Immediately, his mind filled with thoughts of….

"Rapunzel?" he said breathlessly. Back! He really was back within his own body! Mentally, Eugene checked himself over.....he could breathe easily again. No more aching stab wound in his side. He remembered passing out…. Somehow Rapunzel had actually done it!! “Eugene??” gasped Rapunzel hopefully above him. Her hands reflexively held him closer. The way she whispered his name sounded like a little prayer. His eyesight was gradually returning, as he blinked and saw the blurry figure above him coalesce into his newest dream.

"Have I ever told you that I've got a thing for brunettes?" he kidded breathlessly, to let his love know that he was indeed all there for real.

"EUGENE!!" cried Rapunzel in exultation, throwing her arms so joyously about his neck that she nearly pulled him back to the floor with her. He caught her in a one-armed embrace, holding her as tightly to him as he dared. Never before had such a remarkable woman loved him so fiercely. Eugene had scarcely dreamt it was possible. A lilting voice filled his mind, But if something's not impossible, it's not worth doing... he dismissed it as his own fleeting thoughts playing tricks on him....until the same lilting voice confirmed outright his next thoughts: Yes, you really are just that lucky to have Rapunzel. And yes -- you will remember our little meeting here when the time is right.

Then Rapunzel grasped the sides of Eugene’s doublet in both of her fists and literally took his breath away with the ferocity of their first kiss. Eugene enthusiastically responded in kind. And although Eugene never completely forgot his memories of the very brief encounter with his mother, in light of recent pressing events, those memories completely faded to the back of Eugene’s mind as if it were a dream. For the greater part of two years, he was pretty certain he had hallucinated them anyway. That is, until this very moment.....

When after he sees this portrait....

And a light of familiarity appears to dawn in his eyes.

It has always been my theory (well, I s’pose it’s wish fulfillment now -- since all the series episodes have been broadcast) that even all of Eugene’s old wanted posters wouldn’t have been enough to convince him to turn away from Rapunzel. It had to be something more....something huge. If Eugene had a visual confirmation of who his mother is prior to seeing this portrait because he’d recently already seen her during the 1-minute-40-second interval that he was dead in the tower.....then I postulate that this is why Eugene was convinced to go against Rapunzel, if even for a few hours.

#Eugene appreciation week #eugene fitzherbert #dark queen #eugene and dark queen reunion #eugene and mother reunited #tangled the series #rapunzel's tangled adventure #fanfiction #fan theory #rta fan theory #fitzmama

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loruleanheart · 4 years ago

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Desired Fate, Chapter 2

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Zelda, Princess of Hyrule, moved about her bedchambers. It was a vast room with grey stonework walls and old furniture that had been in the royal family for generations. One corner held a grand writing desk where she often carried out her research into ancient relics late into the night. Affixed to the wall above were her most treasured research notes.

The princess was dressed for bed, her thick golden hair in a protective side braid, but she wasn’t feeling too tired, her nerves shot by the day’s earlier events. It was the first moment of rest she’d had all day. She had been constantly in the presence of Impa and the knight her father had assigned as her guard. The knight, who she’d learned was named Link, was odd. He barely spoke a word, yet Zelda couldn't disregard that he had saved her that day when a large Guardian that had been unearthed at the Breach of Demise had activated somehow without warning. This, along with the increasing number of monsters throughout the kingdom made their trip to the Royal Tech Lab an arduous one.

Zelda turned over many thoughts in her mind. How the little Guardian that seemed so attached to her had traveled from a Hyrule of ruin. Her father had seemed so vexed by the Guardian’s appearance, although Zelda was not surprised that he would try to discern whether the Guardian could be trusted. The little one did feel somehow familiar in a vague way…. Not to mention, it brought with it a look into the future of the destruction the Calamity would bring.

A heaviness was descending upon the princess. Impa’s sister, Purah had managed to extract visual data from the little Guardian’s memory - true to life images that showed what the future would hold. Zelda had taken a cursory look through a few images but had quickly become overwhelmed. This was the destruction that would befall Hyrule should she not be able to harness her divine power. But, perhaps the pictures might also hold clues on how the Calamity could be averted.

She powered on the Sheikah Slate, wanting to give the visual data a more thorough analysis before turning in for the night. She scrolled through the horrific images of destruction, this time not having others around whom she had to put on a brave, composed face for. As much as she loathed wallowing in self-pity, she had at least managed not to break down earlier in front of the others. The princess had sensed the understanding of her plight in Impa’s voice earlier as they looked through the images together.

Not only was Hyrule Castle pictured, but the destruction seemed to be widespread. Akkala Citadel... Fort Hateno…. The Divine Beasts…. All in ruin or corrupted somehow, and the fate of the entire kingdom and its people were bearing down on her.

I will not allow this to come to pass… I’ll do everything I can to stop this… But without the power, how will it ever be enough?

Despair and dread were starting to set in as it often did more and more over the years. She’d already tried everything she could up until now, and still, the power that should have come so naturally seemed to be impossible to find within herself. And the longer her power remained dormant, the more frustrated and cold her father grew. Zelda shut her eyes, holding her hand over her face, trying to calm herself, but it was too late as the tears she’d been holding back for hours broke forth. She quietly sobbed, hoping to not alert the attention of any of her attendants who might hear her cries. She scrolled to the next image and then there was not a location or a Divine Beast, but a picture of a strange man and she went silent. Her green eyes moved over the image. There on the Sheikah Slate was a hooded man in a tattered purple robe, but she could tell he was very handsome, even if not by typical Hylian standards. She couldn’t help but stop and stare. He was very pale and had dark, collarbone length hair. There was a long braid that hung in front of his left eye and was tucked behind his ear, and another that was decorated with gold beads.

He wore a gold circlet and a thick gold collar that draped over his shoulders that reminded her of jewelry worn by Gerudo royalty, although this man clearly wasn’t Gerudo. No male had been born to that tribe in ages. There was an oddity about the circlet though, in that the red stone had what appeared to be a stylized yellow iris painted on it - sort of symbolizing a third eye.

Who was this mysterious man? He must have been on the slate for a reason. The slate’s screen went black, and she realized she’d zoned out. Her mind was flooded with so many questions and speculations. Could someone like him really be out there, somewhere? He looked more like he belonged in some distant past foreign to her. Were they destined to meet? Should she seek him out? She didn’t know, nor did she know how to raise the subject to anyone else. Her father, dear sweet Hylia, her father…. Would almost certainly chastise for wasting her time with images discovered on Sheikah technology which had been banned up until the recent past instead of dedicating every waking moment in prayer to unlock her dormant power. But to Zelda, this felt as crucial as researching relics, perhaps even more so. And then it occurred to Zelda who she could confide in - Urbosa. Based on the jewelry the man wore, maybe she might know something.

And just like that, the heaviness that had pushed her to the edges of despair had lifted, even if only a little bit. Zelda laid the slate on her nightstand before climbing into her stately canopy bed. She found she was able to drift off with relative ease, all things considered. Tomorrow, she was sure, would be another demanding day, and she was eager for the respite sleep would bring.

In her dream that night was a woman in a resplendent white dress, and Zelda sensed she was connected with her. Was this Hylia, the goddess whose blood was said to run through her veins? The goddess smiled to herself in a dreamy way, absorbed in her song as her fingers moved along the strings of a small harp. The goddesses appeared to be singing as her lips moved silently, Zelda not being able to hear her words. Perhaps it was a lullaby. Zelda wished she could hear the goddess’s song. The goddess seemed so passionate about…. something, but all she could do was watch and hope this dream to be a harbinger of good things to come.

oOo

His harbinger turned and left, having imparted to his disciple how it had come to be and how it planned to counter what its “twin” from a ruined Hyrule had set out to do. It was fate that Ganon’s hatred had followed that Guardian through time to possess the one from this era.

And now, Calamity Ganon’s will can be fulfilled in this time as well… The Prophet of Doom thought. This was all a part of Lord Ganon’s plan to annihilate his enemies completely, leaving no room for victory, even in a separate path in time.

That Guardian by the princess’s side had the means to set this path on a different course, and the prophet knew he couldn’t let some meddlesome piece of junk alter fate’s rightful course. He would subdue the princess and her newfound ally. The thought of destroying the Guardian had already crossed his mind, even before Lord Ganon’s new directive. Now he just had to make those two degenerate, banana-eating goons do his and Lord Ganon’s bidding.

The prophet was elated that he could now receive such clear directives and revelations from Lord Ganon. Had he not met with the harbinger, he would truly be on his own. The harbinger was proof to potential allies that he had indeed been chosen and could know the will of Calamity Ganon, not just interpret it through the constellations or prophetic dreams. Gaining the trust of the Yiga Clan didn’t feel like much, but things were coming together. The Calamity would return and reign down its hatred on Hyrule, and the kingdom would come to its end, at long last.

oOo

“I have selected the candidates for the Divine Beasts. Zora grace, Princess Mipha; Goron vigilance, Daruk; Rito confidence, Revali; and Gerudo spirit, Chief Urbosa. You will go meet with each and explain their role to pilot their respective Divine Beast.” King Rhoam’s voice carried through the main foyer from his place on the balcony.

Zelda looked up at her father and responded. “Yes, I suspected as much… I will meet with Chief Urbosa first. I am... looking forward to seeing her again.”

Rhoam nodded. “Understood. It has been some time since your last meeting with her.” The king’s voice held a respectful tone, perhaps thinking of his late queen who had been close friends with the Gerudo chief. His gaze moved to the little Guardian, and his voice became cold. Zelda stiffened as the words left his mouth. “And? You’re taking this relic with you, I presume?” Rhoam narrowed his eyes at the small Guardian that was currently hiding behind his daughter.

Zelda could sense an admonishment incoming, yet she managed an explanation. “Yes. After talking to Purah and Robbie, we thought it would be best.”

Rhoam took a seat on his throne, considering this. The Guardian moved out from behind her as if emboldened by her voice. “I will remind you once again. Above all else, your duty is of the utmost importance. Are we clear?” Rhoam said, sternly.

For the briefest moment, Zelda thought of the hooded man she’d seen on the Sheikah Slate. “Yes, we are clear. I understand... And I will honor my duty.”

It wasn’t a lie, per se…. Zelda thought. After all I’ve been through, who can say what honoring my duty looks like. Prayer hasn’t worked. I’ve spent over a decade dedicating myself to prayer. If I could just focus my attention elsewhere, perhaps the power will find me in a way nobody could foresee.

Zelda, Link, and Impa departed the castle with the new Guardian in tow. The Princess breathed a soft sigh of frustration as she felt her father’s eyes boring into her, which didn’t go unnoticed by Impa and Link. And in time, the three were laughing and bonding over the little Guardian that acted as if it were a knight in the princess’s service.

#Age of Calamity #Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity #Astor #fanfiction #Mostly Zelda centric chapter here #Zelast

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life-observed · 4 years ago

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The Moral Peril of Meritocracy

Our individualistic culture inflames the ego and numbs the spirit. Failure teaches us who we are.

April 6, 2019

David Brooks

By David Brooks

Mr. Brooks is an Opinion columnist. This essay is adapted from his forthcoming book, “The Second Mountain: The Quest for a Moral Life.”

Many of the people I admire lead lives that have a two-mountain shape. They got out of school, began their career, started a family and identified the mountain they thought they were meant to climb — I’m going to be an entrepreneur, a doctor, a cop. They did the things society encourages us to do, like make a mark, become successful, buy a home, raise a family, pursue happiness.

People on the first mountain spend a lot of time on reputation management. They ask: What do people think of me? Where do I rank? They’re trying to win the victories the ego enjoys.

These hustling years are also powerfully shaped by our individualistic and meritocratic culture. People operate under this assumption: I can make myself happy. If I achieve excellence, lose more weight, follow this self-improvement technique, fulfillment will follow.

But in the lives of the people I’m talking about — the ones I really admire — something happened that interrupted the linear existence they had imagined for themselves. Something happened that exposed the problem with living according to individualistic, meritocratic values.

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Some of them achieved success and found it unsatisfying. They figured there must be more to life, some higher purpose. Others failed. They lost their job or endured some scandal. Suddenly they were falling, not climbing, and their whole identity was in peril. Yet another group of people got hit sideways by something that wasn’t part of the original plan. They had a cancer scare or suffered the loss of a child. These tragedies made the first-mountain victories seem, well, not so important.

Life had thrown them into the valley, as it throws most of us into the valley at one point or another. They were suffering and adrift.

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Some people are broken by this kind of pain and grief. They seem to get smaller and more afraid, and never recover. They get angry, resentful and tribal.

But other people are broken open. The theologian Paul Tillich wrote that suffering upends the normal patterns of life and reminds you that you are not who you thought you were. The basement of your soul is much deeper than you knew. Some people look into the hidden depths of themselves and they realize that success won’t fill those spaces. Only a spiritual life and unconditional love from family and friends will do. They realize how lucky they are. They are down in the valley, but their health is O.K.; they’re not financially destroyed; they’re about to be dragged on an adventure that will leave them transformed.

They realize that while our educational system generally prepares us for climbing this or that mountain, your life is actually defined by how you make use of your moment of greatest adversity.

So how does moral renewal happen? How do you move from a life based on bad values to a life based on better ones?

First, there has to be a period of solitude, in the wilderness, where self-reflection can occur.

“What happens when a ‘gifted child’ findshimself in a wilderness where he’s stripped away of any way of proving his worth?” Belden Lane asks in “Backpacking With the Saints.” What happens where there is no audience, nothing he can achieve? He crumbles. The ego dissolves. “Only then is he able to be loved.”

That’s the key point here. The self-centered voice of the ego has to be quieted before a person is capable of freely giving and receiving love.

Then there is contact with the heart and soul — through prayer, meditation, writing, whatever it is that puts you in contact with your deepest desires.

“In the deeps are the violence and terror of which psychology has warned us,” Annie Dillard writes in “Teaching a Stone to Talk.” “But if you ride these monsters deeper down, if you drop with them farther over the world’s rim, you find what our sciences cannot locate or name, the substrate, the ocean or matrix or ether which buoys the rest, which gives goodness its power for good, and evil its power for evil, the unified field: our complex and inexplicable caring for each other.”

In the wilderness the desire for esteem is stripped away and bigger desires are made visible: the desires of the heart (to live in loving connection with others) and the desires of the soul (the yearning to serve some transcendent ideal and to be sanctified by that service).

When people are broken open in this way, they are more sensitive to the pains and joys of the world. They realize: Oh, that first mountain wasn’t my mountain. I am ready for a larger journey.

Some people radically change their lives at this point. They quit corporate jobs and teach elementary school. They dedicate themselves to some social or political cause. I know a woman whose son committed suicide. She says that the scared, self-conscious woman she used to be died with him. She found her voice and helps families in crisis. I recently met a guy who used to be a banker. That failed to satisfy, and now he helps men coming out of prison. I once corresponded with a man from Australia who lost his wife, a tragedy that occasioned a period of reflection. He wrote, “I feel almost guilty about how significant my own growth has been as a result of my wife’s death.”

Perhaps most of the people who have emerged from a setback stay in their same jobs, with their same lives, but they are different. It’s not about self anymore; it’s about relation, it’s about the giving yourself away. Their joy is in seeing others shine.

In their book “Practical Wisdom,” Barry Schwartz and Kenneth Sharpe tell the story of a hospital janitor named Luke. In Luke’s hospital there was a young man who’d gotten into a fight and was now in a permanent coma. The young man’s father sat with him every day in silent vigil, and every day Luke cleaned the room. But one day the father was out for a smoke when Luke cleaned it.

Later that afternoon, the father found Luke and snapped at him for not cleaning the room. The first-mountain response is to see your job as cleaning rooms. Luke could have snapped back: I did clean the room. You were out smoking. The second-mountain response is to see your job as serving patients and their families. In that case you’d go back in the room and clean it again, so that the father could have the comfort of seeing you do it. And that’s what Luke did.

If the first mountain is about building up the ego and defining the self, the second is about shedding the ego and dissolving the self. If the first mountain is about acquisition, the second mountain is about contribution.

On the first mountain, personal freedom is celebrated — keeping your options open, absence of restraint. But the perfectly free life is the unattached and unremembered life. Freedom is not an ocean you want to swim in; it is a river you want to cross so that you can plant yourself on the other side.

So the person on the second mountain is making commitments. People who have made a commitment to a town, a person, an institution or a cause have cast their lot and burned the bridges behind them. They have made a promise without expecting a return. They are all in.

I can now usually recognize first- and second-mountain people. The former have an ultimate allegiance to self; the latter have an ultimate allegiance to some commitment. I can recognize first- and second-mountain organizations too. In some organizations, people are there to serve their individual self-interests — draw a salary. But other organizations demand that you surrender to a shared cause and so change your very identity. You become a Marine, a Morehouse Man.

I’ve been describing moral renewal in personal terms, but of course whole societies and cultures can swap bad values for better ones. I think we all realize that the hatred, fragmentation and disconnection in our society is not just a political problem. It stems from some moral and spiritual crisis.

We don’t treat one another well. And the truth is that 60 years of a hyper-individualistic first-mountain culture have weakened the bonds between people. They’ve dissolved the shared moral cultures that used to restrain capitalism and the meritocracy.

Over the past few decades the individual, the self, has been at the center. The second-mountain people are leading us toward a culture that puts relationships at the center. They ask us to measure our lives by the quality of our attachments, to see that life is a qualitative endeavor, not a quantitative one. They ask us to see others at their full depths, and not just as a stereotype, and to have the courage to lead with vulnerability. These second-mountain people are leading us into a new culture. Culture change happens when a small group of people find a better way to live and the rest of us copy them. These second-mountain people have found it.

Their moral revolution points us toward a different goal. On the first mountain we shoot for happiness, but on the second mountain we are rewarded with joy. What’s the difference? Happiness involves a victory for the self. It happens as we move toward our goals. You get a promotion. You have a delicious meal.

Joy involves the transcendence of self. When you’re on the second mountain, you realize we aim too low. We compete to get near a little sunlamp, but if we lived differently, we could feel the glow of real sunshine. On the second mountain you see that happiness is good, but joy is better.

#meritocracy #David brooks #spirit #individual #ego #community #love #success #failure #self #culture #happiness #joy

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carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

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Left you all on a cliffhanger last time, so let’s just jump right in! Previous part of the POTC AU here, the whole tag is here, and Jules Farrier is @cursebreakerfarrier’s! Let’s go! <3

x~x~x~x

It took a moment for Orion to recover from Carewyn’s “confession.” It took a little longer still before he felt brave enough to make any movement toward her, though he still found himself oddly uncertain of how to proceed. For, believe it or not, the dashing pirate Orion Amari had never been in love with anyone else, nor did he have much instinct of how best to express affection. He’d encountered plenty of pirates who were “ladies’ men” in Tortuga and the like, of course -- but not only did Orion find they often gave off unpleasant vibes, but he knew for a fact that not one of them could have ever caught the eye of someone like Carewyn Cromwell.

And so Orion found himself hesitating, his hand resting just over Carewyn’s shoulder just shy of her cheek, as he watched her face for her reaction. Carewyn fortunately picked up on Orion’s shyness immediately, and she inclined her head in a muted, encouraging nod as she brought her own hand up to lightly trail over his cheek. The gentleness of the gesture made a shudder ripple through Orion’s shoulders, and he soon found himself mirroring her, smoothing a piece of her bangs from her eyes with his pointer and middle fingers. Her lips spread into a smile as she leaned in, her hand securing itself on his jawline, and placed a chaste kiss to his lips.

That kiss lasted three seconds.

The warmth of her lips on top of his seemed to fill Orion with a wonderful lightness, as if he were coming up off the ground -- and when it ended, there was a strange feeling of withdrawal. It felt like he’d gotten only a small taste of some sugary sweet, and it just wasn’t enough to satisfy him.

And so, almost as soon as she’d pulled away, Orion found himself bringing both hands up to her cheeks, cradling it as he slowly leaned in and kissed her again.

That kiss lasted fifteen seconds.

When they broke apart again, both of them were smiling. Carewyn leaned her forehead against his, and for a moment, all they could do was hold each other, reveling in this bizarre new feeling of closeness. It was so warm and fulfilling, and yet peaceful and soothing at the same time. Orion was more off-balance than ever and yet...all seemed right with the world.

As happy as the moment was, however, they both knew it couldn’t last. Carewyn was the one who woke up from the dream first.

“...What do we do now?” she murmured.

Orion’s face became much more somber seeing the sad glint in Carewyn’s gaze as it fell away. He considered her carefully, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.

“...I don’t know,” he said at last, very softly.

His eyes trailed over her face even though she still couldn’t look up at him.

“...I know I cannot ask you to come with me. You could never be a pirate, Carewyn Cromwell. Your spirit’s free as one, but your heart is too noble. Too heroic and selfless...”

His gaze softened sadly.

“And as long as your family -- your found family as well as your brother -- is out on the high seas...I know you would never abandon the position that gives you the power to protect them. ...Nor could I ever ask that of you.”

Carewyn met Orion’s eyes again. Her blue eyes were rippling to the brim with emotion, raging and turbulent as the sea itself.

“And I can’t ask you to stay with me,” she said. “As long as the East India Trading Company is obsessed with hunting down and killing all pirates...it would never be safe for you in Port Royal...or near me.”

She leaned her forehead against his again, closing her eyes.

Orion wished he knew how best to comfort her. Tentatively he secured his arms around her and brought up a hand to cradle the back of her head, the way he’d seen a woman hold her beau’s head while kissing him goodbye at the dock, when he was a boy.

“The world does indeed seem to be against us,” he said softly, “but the world in itself is not meant to be static. It, and fate, is constantly moving. Fate brought us together once, long ago...and it also demanded we separate. It brought us back together, and then we had to separate once more. Like the sun chases the moon...they do see each other every morning at dawn and every night at dusk...even if they must be apart so much of the time.”

Orion adjusted slightly so that he could look Carewyn in the face more easily.

“...Even if we must do that pattern several more times over,” he whispered, “I would cherish every time we met in the sky again, even if it’s only fleetingly.”

Carewyn looked up at him, her eyes full of pain. The movement made their lips suddenly only a hair’s width apart.

“You’d be all right with just that?” she asked.

He could feel her breath against his lips. It was enough to make his heart rate spike, and he had to take a stabilizing breath before answering.

“It seems to me that this...is something that most people could go their whole life never knowing for a moment. With that perspective...those precious moments where we could cross paths would be a gift, not an injustice.”

Carewyn frowned. “I understand, but...in this world we’re in, we should not want to collide at all. I’d have to arrest you, and we’d have to fight. There’s only so much we can pretend...so much I can pretend.”

She closed her eyes again, but this time, she didn’t just look sad -- she looked focused. When she opened her eyes again, it was full of a new kind of fire.

“If the world is meant to change...then I’ll make sure it does,” she said firmly. “I’ll fight for a world where you don’t have to run, and I don’t have to lie -- where Bill, Charlie, and Jules don’t have to be criminals just because they were determined to save my life. Where the Navy protects its citizens more than the East India Trading Company’s bottom line. ...Where people aren’t automatically branded criminals with no chance of reprieve or proper justice.”

Orion considered Carewyn for a moment, his expression rather unreadable. Carewyn’s confidence flickered ever-so-slightly.

“...You don’t believe me?”

Orion’s lips spread into a full, soft smile.

“I learned when I was still a boy trying to argue against eating and staying the night in a stranger’s house never to doubt the convictions of Carewyn Cromwell.”

Carewyn’s eyes softened as her lips also spread into a very small, warm smile. Then she leaned in to close the gap between their mouths once more.

That kiss lasted only a second, but there were about five more of them in rapid succession, a little longer and deeper each time.

The following day, the Artemis found a deserted island on one of the rum runners’ routes where they could drop Carewyn off. The crew was a bit disappointed to see her go -- sure, she was a bit too paragon to be a pirate, but she was a capable sailor and her singing voice was pleasant to listen to. Most importantly of all, they could all sense how much their Captain had taken to her and hated the thought of him being unhappy without her.

Carewyn and Skye exchanged a respectful handshake and farewells. McNully shook Carewyn’s hand too, but both she and he ended up using both hands in the end -- Carewyn lamented that she wouldn’t be able to work with such a talented tactician back with the Navy. Then Orion escorted Carewyn ashore on his own, the crew staying behind so that they could exchange their proper farewells.

Both of them stayed very stoic for most of the hand-off. Orion could only give Carewyn a jug of water and a pistol with one shot, as per the rules of marooning, as much as he’d also wished he could give her a bottle of rum and some food for the next few days she’d no doubt be on the island, waiting for someone to pick her up. But as Carewyn pointed out, she wouldn’t die of thirst in that time, and she honestly shouldn’t look in great shape when she was recovered anyway. And so, reluctantly, Orion turned to go.

He’d made it about twenty paces when he paused, looking back at Carewyn on the beach. She was standing in true Commodore fashion, with her arms behind her back and her posture perfectly straight, and yet despite her brave expression, he could see the sadness in her eyes she tried so desperately to hide.

It was in that moment that Orion did something completely off-balance and impulsive. In an instant, he’d barreled back across the beach at the run and, when he reached Carewyn, he threw an arm around her, pulled her in, and kissed her. It was deeper than any of their other kisses had been, with both of them holding onto each other’s back and head and touching each other’s faces as they tried desperately to communicate the depth of their feelings in that tragically short time they were allowed.

That kiss felt like it went on for days...and yet it still wasn’t long enough.

Part of Carewyn wanted to just grab Orion and never let go of him again -- to shield him from anyone and anything who tried to harm him...but she knew she couldn’t hope to protect him from the entire world. And so, very reluctantly, she and Orion separated, and Orion returned to the Artemis. Carewyn watched the pirate ship sail out of sight, her heart full of every prayer she could think of to ensure his safety.

Within two days, Carewyn had been found by a merchant ship, and within the week, she was back in Port Royal. Percy had been beyond relieved to hear of her safe return, though it broke Carewyn’s heart to lie about what had gone down with Bill, Charlie, and Jules. McNully had decided it’d be best if Carewyn claimed that she and the two eldest Weasleys had had a huge falling-out when she’d heard what they’d done (rather like Percy had) and that they’d been the ones to maroon her, rather than Orion. It would give a good explanation about why she was in such good shape, since even if Bill and Charlie were now criminals, they were still “his brothers,” but it would also make them seem rather heartless, to maroon their own brother on some barren island supposedly with no chance of rescue. When Carewyn met Governor Farrier again, however, she refused to say that Bill was holding Jules prisoner, as he’d originally presumed.

“She took the Revenge and rechristened it as her own flagship,” said Carewyn solemnly. “I’m afraid Miss Farrier -- pardon, Juliette Weasley is as much a pirate as my brothers are.”

What she did not add was that she believed that was “not at all.”

In the time Carewyn was gone, Percy had been promoted to Captain of his own ship, the Clearwater. He was incredibly proud of it -- as happy as Carewyn was for Percy, it proved difficult at points for her not to get a little irritated about how much he was puffing his chest out in the new fancier blue and white uniform he’d been given. He also couldn’t stop talking about the man who had “suggested” he be promoted, after meeting him.

“Lord Beckett really has his finger on the pulse of things,” said Percy one day as he walked with Carewyn around the newly repaired wall of the fort together. “He was thoroughly dismayed when he’d heard you’d been captured -- he’d actually wanted to meet you when you first got promoted, he’s heard all about you...”

‘Lucky me,’ Carewyn couldn’t help but think. The memory of Orion telling her about his time on Beckett’s slave ship rippled over her mind again, and it made her feel a bit ill.

“...Said your ingenuity would be a valuable asset. Lord Beckett is a businessman first and foremost, you see, so he tends to see people in regards to how useful they are...”

“‘Useful?’” Carewyn couldn’t help but repeat, raising her eyebrows primly. “Seems like a harsh way to judge people -- I reckon everyone has their own strengths and weaknesses.”

“Well, yes,” acknowledged Percy, “but again, he is a businessman. One has to make calculated risks, in that kind of a position. And his judgements seem rather sound -- he even mentioned having a woman on his payroll, helping him track down pirates.”

He shot Carewyn a rather meaningful look. She could surmise what he was thinking -- if Cutler Beckett allowed women to work for him, perhaps Carewyn could too and not have to hide her gender anymore. Being sure to hide her disgust at the thought of working for the man who had branded Orion a pirate, she gave a light shake of the head.

“As much as I respect the man for his inclusivity...I am a Navy officer, and I take pride in fighting for the crown.”

‘More than I ever would fighting for a private citizen whose moral code seems to be distinctly self-aggrandizing.’

She placed a gentle hand on Percy’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.

“...And really...what I want first and foremost is to look after my home and my family -- namely, you. I feel a soldier is better equipped to do that than a pirate hunter.”

Percy smiled slightly, clearly touched by her caring, but he tried to stay serious.

“...Well, that’s a noble thought, Carey,” he mumbled, “but I daresay Lord Beckett would be a bit disappointed.”

“Most assuredly.”

Carewyn turned around, startled.

A man only about two inches taller than her had arrived up on the wall of the fort. He wore a white powdered wig under a black velvet tricorn hat and a gold-embroidered vest with his suit, and his face on first glance gave Carewyn the distinct impression that this was a tiny man who fancied himself to be a lot bigger than he actually was. Carewyn herself had always been on the small side, but she made up for it with her confidence, strong moral code, and work ethic -- this man seemed to be the sort to puff himself up through very different means.

“Lord Beckett!” said Percy, startled.

“Captain Percy Weasley, good to see you,” said Beckett in a breezy tone that indicated to Carewyn he didn’t truly believe the sentiment at all. His eyes had fallen on Carewyn, narrowing slightly as he gave a rather stony smile. “Commodore Carey Weasley -- we meet at last.”

#potc au #au #pirates of the caribbean #orion amari #carewyn cromwell #my art #percy weasley #my writing #my fanfiction #looks like it's time for some dead man's chest plottage!#again I'm not going to include EVERYTHING from the other pirate films #I'll mostly just steal some ideas from the second and third and sew them together into a second story arc #basically think of this part as the end of act one #drawing kisses is hard #and now I've done three of them in a row!#first bill/jules then duncan/jacob and now carewyn/orion #how oh how will you ever be together my sweet carion...?#first things first let's feed cutler beckett to the kraken #then we can deal with rakepick and that whole deal with davy-jones!finn >>;#also yeah I see all of the other officers wearing gentlemanly shoes and hose with their breeches like norrington and such do in the films #carey however wears black boots not unlike the pirates do #in universe it's because carewyn has very narrow feet that are hard to fit and it's easier to stuff boots than it is gentleman shoes #but meta-wise is this visual short-hand? totally #also tall boots are awesome

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noragami-ru-manga · 5 years ago

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Magatsukami. On Yato’s attitude towards his job

I might be a little late for the party with this kind of analysis (I mean, magatsukami who? we only know Yatogami-sama, the god of fortune). Still, have fun with this one *throws another lengthy-ass post at you*

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It probably won’t come as a surprise to anyone that my favorite character in Noragami is the noragami himself. I mean, what did you expect? Yato is an excellent protagonist who holds the narrative focus really well and whose character development is interesting to observe. A lot of things can be and have been written about him, his relationships with Father / Nora /Hiyori / Yukine / Kazuma / Ebisu / etc. What I want to examine is his attitude towards his calling of a magatsukami, or god of calamity, throughout his known life.

Past

I think it makes sense to start from the beginning, i.e. from Yato’s childhood, when his job was nothing but a game to him. Father created him to “cull the heard” and named him Yaboku. He knew what Father’s wish was from the start, even before he got Hiiro as his instrument. Naturally, there’s nothing to say about Yato’s attitude towards his role as a magatsukami at this point – little Yaboku probably doesn’t even know the term. Here, Father is teaching him how to be a god – in his opinion, anyway.

Rule #1: gods can do whatever they want. Father teaches by example: Yaboku can come and take anything on display in the market without paying for it; since no one can see him, no one will notice anything missing, and if they do, they won’t know who stole from them. A nice little lesson, isn’t it?

Rule #2: gods must fulfill human wishes. Father means his own wish, of course, but divine instincts show through, so Yaboku regards any request as a wish/prayer – like when his victims beg for their lives, for example. Except Father’s wish (or Yaboku’s own wish to make his father happy) is stronger, so those prayers go unanswered.

That’s how Yaboku starts fulfilling his role thinking of it as merely a game. What’s curious is that he seems to have had doubts about Father’s wish before the very first “game”:

But even if he’s had those doubts before, they are completely gone when Father praises him. After that Yaboku hasn’t given much thought to what he’s doing, cause the more ears he brings home, the more Father praises him, and what else can a child dream of? And as a child he also asks his innocent questions that make your skin crawl – e.g., how come there was another human inside the belly of a woman he “played” with?

That’s how it was before a nameless shinki stumbled upon Yaboku – a shinki whom he named Sakura and who started calling him Yato by mistake. Sakura starts teaching Yato right away, probably without even stopping to think where he got those disturbing habits in the first place. It’s understandable though since she hasn’t been a shinki for that long. Sakura doesn’t know much about the Far shore, including things that are crucial to her survival – like how the water from a spring can heal her blight; it’s unlikely that the thought of a god having a parent who’s raised him to be way he was would have crossed her mind. But she has some very strong views of good and evil, and she starts conveying them to Yato as well, and with a nice and clear reasoning at that. Sakura doesn’t tell him that stealing is wrong “because she said so” – she explains that taking others’ belongings and disrupting the established rules of human interactions by doing so will lead to driving other people away and being left all alone. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have time to teach Yato the value of human life before he takes her to “play” with him instead of Hiiro.

Of course, Sakura is shocked that Yato’s used her to just up and kill an unsuspecting man, so she stings him and runs away. However, she comes back after her conversation with Tsuyu regarding the nature of the gods and keeps teaching Yato to love and have sympathy for humans. Nevertheless, the incident with the man who was dragged by his horse shows just how much Father’s lessons are engraved in Yato’s brain. The first thing to come to his mind is to slay the horse; luckily, Sakura is fast enough to tell him that he’s supposed to cut the rope, so the man is saved and Yato gets his first show of gratitude from a living human (Father doesn’t really count). From this point on, Yato is not as keen to go and “play” with Hiiro, but he doesn’t abandon his games completely because he still wants to be praised by Father.

So Yato keeps “playing” with Hiiro while also helping out humans with Sakura. It’s the beginning of recurring future situations when Yato will have other shinki whom he won’t use to fulfill Father’s requests and simply disappear for a while to do his job as a magatsukami instead.

It’s pretty obvious that Yato has never got over Sakura’s death – he prefers the name she’s given him, and he also gives his new shinki a part of her human name. But there’s something else to consider. When Sakura explains to Yato what shrines are for, she asks him to be respectful towards any and every wish, and he remembers that.

It’s the same thing he tells to Rabo in “The clash of the gods of calamity”. It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly this extra takes place, considering the only historical reference here is the Toshima clan, which existed in 8-15th centuries, and there’s no way I can determine the time period by people’s clothes. Knowing that Yato was born in 10th century doesn’t help much cause it means that the events of “The clash of the gods of calamity” could take place anytime between 10th and 15th century.

Anyway, for a small extra like this, quite a lot of things actually happen in “The clash…”. Yato is seemingly working on his own now. For the usual payment of five yen he is asked to avenge a girl who was robbed and killed by a female thug from her own village. He and Hiiro come upon some ayakashi-possessed bandits while looking for that woman. They try to kill Yato but fail cause he kills them first, without hesitation or regret.

By the way, the “clash” of the gods of calamity isn’t that much of a clash, really – Yato and Rabo simultaneously slay the last gang member and that’s how they get to know each other. Well, sometimes that happens.

I find the next scene very interesting though. Rabo is pouring wine to Yato’s cup, not knowing that the latter has never drunk the stuff before since Father thinks he’s too young for that. As soon as Yato hears Rabo saying that if his father forbids then he really shouldn’t be drinking, he chugs down the entire bottle. It shows how Yato is already trying to defy his father, even if it is with small acts like that since he’s unable to do much else. And Hiiro calling him Yato and not Yaboku proves that at this point Yato is refusing to go by the name his father has given him and uses the one Sakura’s made up instead. And as they say, drunkenness reveals what soberness conceals; so when Rabo expresses the thought that Yato’s impressive battle skills could attract the attention of samurai, Yato says the same thing Sakura said before, adding a little more of his (or rather, his father’s) thoughts to it.

And yes, Yato actually finds the woman he was tasked to kill by the victim’s brother, and brought back a kimono. After all, the brother’s wish not so much about killing that thug as. It was about bringing back the kimono that was stolen from his sister’s dead body so that she may rest in peace. The drunken confession and the situation with kimono show that Yato, who was torn between Father and Sakura as a child, has learnt to compromise. He will be doing what his father demands of him and fulfill his role of a magatsukami because Sakura asked him to treat every wish with respect.

We don’t know what Yato had been doing for the next 300-800 years. Chronologically, the next event in his life we know of is the slaughter of the Ma clan, which happened sometime 200 years prior to the events of the manga. By that time, nasty rumors about him have been going around on the Far shore.

How true the rumors of Yato’s avarice were is hard to judge. Apart from the Bubble era, when his customers would pay him in thousands of yens, he is shown to only ever take 5 yen per wish. Granted, he’s had some side jobs as well since saving up for his shrine by granting wishes only is pretty much impossible. He’s tried to become a pop-idol, has sold rhinoceros beetles and Bishamon doujins, but even in those cases his prices, apparently, would always fall to 5 yen in the end (or maybe that’s the price he’s wanted to have and simply used the old marketing ploy of fake discounts).

Or maybe what Kazuma refers to as avarice is Yato taking the money for the prayers in person and for every one of them. After all, renowned gods have a different approach to granting wishes. They can’t possibly respond to every single prayer left at their shrines, so there’s probably no clear proportion to the number of prayers heard and granted in their case. People simply pray to them and hope that one day their wish comes true and the gods try to grant those wishes whenever they can, but unlike Yato, they don’t actually appear in front of their believers.

Anyway, when Kazuma pleads him to slay the Ma clan, who are turning turning into ayakashi en mass, Yato does ask whether he can actually pay for his prayer. But when Kazuma answers that he’d rather return his name to his mistress than become a nora, Yato agrees to grant his wish without down payment.

If you really think about it, Yato didn’t have anything to gain from this particular job. Suppose Kazuma keeps his word and pays later, so what? He’s a shinki, not a living human; is there any point in granting the wish of someone who can’t help Yato spread his name among the living? The way I see it, Yato shouldn’t care whether other gods or their shinki know about him, as for him the only thing that matters is to be remembered by humans. It’s also not a job from his Father that he wouldn’t have the guts to turn down. And yet Yato takes the request anyway without even telling Kazuma how much he’ll have to pay. Maybe he thinks that Kazuma can figure out on his own that the price is 5 yen; or maybe he doesn’t intend to get the money at all.

The thing that caught my eye in the scene where Yato slays the Ma clan is his reaction to their deaths. He starts cutting them as usual but then stops and doesn’t want to continue, so Hiiro has to persuade him to keep going.

This whole situation is probably an unwelcome reminder that he had to mercy kill Sakura, who also turned into an ayakashi. I actually find it curious how Yato seems to make a distinction between shinki and humans. If we go back to his childhood again, he used to kill humans without giving much thought to the fact that dying kind of hurts. But he instantly recognized that Sakura was a shinki and helped her wash away her blight for no apparent reason. In other words, he knew what compassion was (which Tsuyu also noted when Yato came looking for Sakura to Sugawara-no-Michizane’s shrine) but he only felt it for shinki, not humans. Sakura was the one who made him extend that compassion to humans, too (I’m starting to think that this post should be renamed into “1000 and 1 reason why Sakura is awesome and deserves more love”). What I’m saying here is that maybe, apart from being reminded about Sakura’s fate, Yato is unwilling to kill Bishamon’s shinki because he’s started to value human lives less than shinki’s once again. After all, killing people is his job , and he has to do that a lot. Sakura may have taught him compassion towards humans, but at this point she’s been dead for the second time for like 800 years or so. Yato may have relearnt to not feel sympathy towards humans who he had to kill in order to grant other peoples’ wishes. Killing shinki deliberately, on the other hand, is not something he usually does, unless it’s in a fight with another god.

Anyway, Yato does finish the job and slays every shinki of the Ma clan but one, earning himself both a mortal enemy and his first friend.

Four years later Kazuma seeks out Yato to repay his debt, which only increases my suspicions that Yato had no intention of ever taking the money for killing Bishamon’s shinki. He even fails to recall who Kazuma is and needs to be reminded. Naturally, Kazuma has to ask why Yato, who was rumored to delight in murders, decided to help him. Yato’s answer is curt: Kazuma made a wish, he granted it, end of story. Later, when Yukine asks the same question, Yato responds with “because I wanted to”. I think that he says that automatically to protect Kazuma, who also acknowledges at one point that Yato could have admitted that he he’d killed the Ma clan because he was asked to but opted to silently run from Bishamon instead. It’s obvious that Yato doesn’t tell the whole truth on both occasions. It’s possible that he decided to grant Kazuma’s wish because he’d admired Bishamon since he was a kid and even was somewhat jealous of her power, so he wanted to help. But his main reason had to be Kazuma’s loyalty to Bishamon. Even back then Yato couldn’t keep his shinki from leaving him, and Hiiro has never belonged to him fully – not only was she a nora, out of all her masters she served Father first.

The last episode from Yato’s past before the events of the manga worth examining is meeting Daikoku and Kofuku. It happens around 1900’s; Daikoku is turning into an ayakashi because he’s got mad at Kofuku for releasing their surrogate son shinki Daigo, thinking that it would be better that way. Kazuma refers him to Yato saying that the latter can cut anything, even separate memories from their owner. Yato, who happens to have only a regular knife, not a shinki, pretends to do just that. The circumstances of their meeting are interesting to me cause they solidify a certain trend. It’s ironic that Yato’s job as a magatsukami gave him his first healthy relationships – first his unlikely friendship with Kazuma, who then introduced him do Daikoku (and through him with Kofuku) when Daikoku also sought help from the god of calamity.

In short, here’s a picture of Yato’s attitude towards his job as a magatsukami before the main plot of the manga. In his childhood, he was a god of calamity for a specific person and thought of his calling as a game and a way to please his father. Then Sakura made him reevaluate his views of his responsibilities as a god. The time Yato’d spent with her was not enough to change him completely, but the foundation was made. We don’t know for sure if he started granting other people’s wishes on Father’s order or if it was his own decision to do what Sakura told him, that he needed to answer any prayer no matter what it was. But if the story with the kimono is indicative of what sort of work he’s been doing, then it means that, for centuries now, Yato has taken to granting wishes that had to do with punishing criminals. Maybe the reason he didn’t pity his victims was because they weren’t all that innocent themselves.

Present

Yato is introduced as a “delivery god” in the beginning of the manga. The fact that he is actually a magatsukami won’t be revealed until chapter 27, To be fair, Kofuku does mention that he is, in fact, a warrior god, so he’s killed people, but Daikoku corrects her and says that he doesn’t do that anymore. However, in the very first chapter, when Yato learns that his client Mutsumi’s trouble is bullying, he offers to resort to violence.

Judging by Tomone’s reaction, she doesn’t take him seriously even when Yato says that slaying is the only thing he’s good at and proceeds to ask Mutsumi to list the people whose heads he needs to take. As far as she knows, Yato keeps saying things like that but actually slays ayakashi, not people. Would he really have killed students to sort a problem like that? Considering that later chapters show him only going after criminals, I think not. It’s just that old habits die hard, I guess.

Chapters 27-28 show in detail what kind of jobs Yato does as a magatsukami. Both of these he gets from Father through Nora. What’s interesting (especially compared to the anime) is that he agreed on the first one on his own – he wanted it to be his last job with Hiiro before stopping to grant these kinds of wishes completely. It’s a prayer from a woman who thinks that her daughter’s murderer’s punishment is not strict enough. Contract killing is a pricy thing, so the woman offers Yato a wad of cash that he refuses to take and only accepts his usual 5 yen.

Yato could have taken the entire bundle, which would have solved his financial problems for some time at least. Or he could have chosen any sum other than 5 yen to symbolically detach this job from the requests he takes as a delivery god – but he didn’t. He refuses to accept the whole wad because the life of that criminal has no value to him, but he takes his 5 yen because, for him personally, this wish has the same worth as any other.

The second job is a serial killer who supposedly killed four people and buried them in his garden without ever being caught by the police. This time Yato does not speak with the client directly, so he asks Hiiro if the information is 100% accurate. I personally wouldn’t trust her on that, but apparently Yato finds her words – that the one who’s asked to kill the murderer was his own mother – convincing enough. Except this case turns out to be more difficult that the first. The target has a son, whose mother, according to Hiiro, was the guy’s last victim. Yato decides to go through with the task, but first he locks up the boy in the next room. And again, it’s not clear whether he even gets paid for this job since it turns out that the client is long dead and the second part of her wish was for Yato to find a place where her grandson could live in peace. The difference in Yato’s behavior in this situation and “The clash of the gods of calamity” is significant. He felt no remorse in “The clash...” when he was killing those thugs. Here though, he is hesitant at first, just like with Bishamon’s shinki, because he doesn’t want to leave a child fatherless. He only makes his decision when Hiiro implies that the kid is also in danger. And Yato still tries to at least not traumatize the boy by killing his father right in front of him.

And now we’re at the point which was mentioned in the beginning of this post. In Yomi, Ebisu asks Yato why he exists and Yato replies that his job is necessary because the Heavens fail at doing theirs. There’s evidence to that: just before this exchange Ebisu says it himself, that he’s heard Yato’s name in some oral traditions, and Hiiro earlier called the kind of work Yato does “the Yatogami miracle”. So Yato the god of calamity actually has (or at least had) followers other than Father, it’s delivery god Yato that doesn’t. Father and Hiiro also do anything in their power to persuade Yato that people need his job. Of course, he doesn’t like that he has to be kept prisoner to fulfill his functions. He seemingly only agrees to do what he’s told because it’s the best course of action for him at the moment and goes berserk when he realizes that Hiyori might forget him if he doesn’t go back soon. Nevertheless, Father and Hiiro’s manipulations combined with genuine gratitude from those who need “the Yatogami miracle” have an impact on him, which is evident in his answer to Ebisu.

Whether Yato likes it or not, his words about the cracks in Heavenly justice (or more specifically, “the holes in Heaven’s net”, which is supposed to catch all evil-doers) mirror Father’s opinion of the Heavens. Father’s plan to simply kill people and thus diminish the number of those who believe in gods seems to be really flawed to me. So maybe he understood that, too, and chose a different approach. I’ve written earlier that we don’t know if Yato started granting other people’s wishes on Father’s orders or Sakura’s request. But I can imagine that it was part of Father’s plan. Originally Yato was forbidden from even talking to strangers. However, having noticed that he was changing because of Sakura, Father might have started to teach Yato to answer prayers of revenge/restoring justice – to show him how often gods don’t respond to people’s wishes before it’s too late and the only thing that’s left is revenge. Yato may not have given a lot of consideration to that, thinking that he was doing what any god should be doing – answering prayers to continue his existence. But the number of wishes like those only grew, and so the idea that he really was a “necessary evil”, as Father puts it, became more and more ingrained in his mind.

Another important aspect of Yato’s attitude towards his job as a magatsukami is that, in a way, he has an addiction to it. The last time he returned to this field of work he was literally kidnapped and held hostage. But he’s never actively tried leaving Father and Nora before.

There are multiple reasons why Yato wouldn’t leave until he was told he was free to go. Firstly, he simply didn’t have anywhere to go. Sure, we’ve been shown that his previous shinki weren’t completely unconcerned about him – after all, they would come to Kofuku looking for him. However, since no shinki other than Yukine (except Hiiro) stayed with him for longer than a year, he probably wouldn’t have much commitment towards them. (The official translators actually raised an interesting question in their blog; at least, I never thought much about it before. As we know, it’s established that there are lots of gods who are born from small wishes and don’t exist for long but still manage to name a shinki or two. Kunimi’s first master was like that – he was a doll-like god with his own miniature shrine, born from a game. This wasn’t enough when the children who made him up stopped believing in him. When that god disappeared, the name he gave to Kunimi did not, so as long as Kunimi has a master, he will always be a nora. Here’s the question: how many of Yato’s shinki thought that he simply stopped existing and went looking for another master? Kofuku says that sometimes Yato would go missing for years, so the shinki who got the -Ne name not long before he’d return to Father (you know, the ones that would come to Kofuku) were either eaten by ayakashi or found another master and became forever noras).

Secondly, Father and Nora provided him with food and protection from “wild” ayakashi, so Yato didn’t need to think of places to spend the night. After all, he wasn’t always so lucky as to find a large shrine with a roof like Tenjin’s; sometimes he would sleep besides statues of Buddha.

Thirdly, he couldn’t go against his father’s wishes. Even though he’s had other believers (how else his name would appear in those oral traditions Ebisu was talking about?) he is convinced that Father is his lifeline. When Hiyori saw Yato’s reaction to those who commit suicide, she thought he hated them because they throw away the lives that shinki would love to have lived. That is true, but it’s not the only reason. Unlike renowned gods, Yato is in the position of someone who could die any moment. Unlike humans though, he wouldn’t have a second chance as a shinki, or go to the afterworld where he already is – he would simply stop existing and no one would ever remember that he was there. To him there’s no difference between gods who don’t appreciate their immortal lives or suicidal people – from his point of view, they all willingly give up on something that he’s working so hard to gain.

And if he wanted to keep that something, he had to work as a god of calamity.

Fourthly, no matter how different Father’s and Sakura’s lessons and approaches were, the one thing Yato’s learnt from them both is that he needs to grant any wish. Not because someone has to do the dirty work when the Heavens are idle, not because they support his existence as a god – it’s something he has to do because it’s the right thing to do. It’s ingrained in his mind. Even the actual plot of Noragami starts when Yato decides to grant Hiyori’s wish, even though she’s never finished her sentence, and takes her 5 yen on his own initiative.

And we also shouldn’t forget that, even though it doesn’t concern him anymore, up to recently Yato still wanted Father’s praise. Father doesn’t say a single nice thing to him now, but that’s not how it’s been before.

On the other hand, Father keeps newspaper clippings of mysterious deaths caused by “the Yatogami miracle” the same way normal parents have keepsakes made by their children. Except that doesn’t make Yato happy at all.

Finally, Yato reveals one more important reason to Yukine after he’s released Nora and decided to become a god of fortune.

On the surface, Yato seems to be quite full of himself. When he does something impressive or, alternatively, other characters question his competence, he responds with “how long do you think I’ve been a god?” Yet none of the hundreds, maybe even thousands of other jobs he’s done would give him recognition comparable to his work as a god of calamity. Sure, people would sometimes give him beer or food as a tip for his “delivery god” jobs. But Rabo told him that his battle skills could win him glory among samurai. People would offer much larger sums of money for contract killing than for cleaning bathrooms or looking for missing pets, even if Yato wouldn’t take them. The more he killed, the more praise he would get from his Father.

I think this quote from FMA describes his situation perfectly:

Yato keeps saying that the only thing he’s really good at is slaying. No wander he would want to keep doing something he thinks is his strong side. Getting praise and gratitude from others is important, but every person has the need in self-actualization. His job as a magatsukami has been giving him exactly that – not just the chance to know that hi’s good at what he’s doing, but to see it with his own eyes. Kazuma may not have been too far off course when he said that Yato delighted in atrocities: even when he would occasionally have doubts in what he was doing (like killing Bishamon’s shinki or the serial killer who had a son), some part of him must have felt that satisfaction and pride of a job well done.

In short, Yato’s attitude towards his job as a magatsukami is very ambiguous. It would give him protection from his enemies (ayakashi), food and shelter, the absence of which may not be lethal but is still notable. It would also deprive him of the possibility to have autonomy in his actions, to move around freely and decide anything in his life. It would bind him to Father, the man whose magnificent child rearing methods are the reason Yato’s mental state alternates between that of a thousand-year-old god, a bratty child, or a rebelling teen. It’s also led him to Kazuma, Kofuku and Daikoku and later Ebisu, and each of these encounters has brought something good to his uneasy life. It would always remind him that killing is the only thing he’s good at while showing just how good he is.

Future?

Yato found his will to stop doing the job of a god of calamity when Ebisu showed him that making others happy doesn’t always mean granting others’ wishes. He saw that a god can have their own will, like Ebisu having his own wish to decrease the number of disasters in the human world by controlling ayakashi. He released Hiiro after being unable to do that for a thousand years. Whether he knew that a god doesn’t get to name a shinki they have once released is unknown, but what’s done is done – he will never “play” with Hiiro again.

However, “god of calamity” is not a mere description of his previous functions. A god’s “profession” is also their nature. Kofuku can cause a pandemonium by the sheer force of her aura alone. Ebisu, a god of fortune, is tremendously lucky (well, safe for being falsely accused and executed he is a pretty lucky god). The problem Yato currently faces is that when he was working as a magatsukami he didn’t think twice about how his actions would affect other people. But now he can’t get rid of the thought that even if he isn’t a divine assassin anymore, his nature as a god of calamity hasn’t changed, so he is the reason of all the bad things happening to the people closest to him.

Hiyori says to Yato that he’s been her god of fortune for a while. That’s nice and all, but all the problems that Hiyori’s classmates list have been caused by Yato directly or indirectly. The accident? If Hiyori hadn’t tried to save him from the bus, the accident wouldn’t have happened and she wouldn’t have become a half-ayakashi. The call girl accusations? Yato was the one possessing Hiyori’s body and giving his visit cards to anyone he could find. And the fact that he calls himself a “delivery god” even in original Japanese only exacerbates the matter. In Japan, house calling a prostitute is referred to as “health delivery”, so the reaction to his visit cards is understandable. And though the hospital incident has been staged by Father, he’s done that because he got mad at Hiyori for trying to lead Yaboku astray from his true path of a god of calamity. That’s quite the food for thought. Moreover, even though Yukine and Hiyori go out of their way to make Yato a god of fortune, even though he tries his hardest to achieve that, he can’t get away from being reminded of who he used to be.

To make Yato a god of fortune, Yukine suggests that he keeps doing what he’s been doing, only with a different goal in mind – slaying ayakashi, not humans, and do all that without being asked. But if his methods haven’t changeв, is there a chance that we’ll still see magatsukami!Yato again? I’m NOT saying that this is how the story will end, because it would completely undermine the message of this series. However, when Bishamon nearly killed Father, it was Yukine who decided to strike her when he saw Yato passing out; it was his hafuri power that sundered the Heavens. But Yato also felt something in that moment– something he hasn’t felt for a long time.

So… who knows?

P.S. if you have a Yato overdose from this post, please don’t blame me

#noragami #noragami manga #Yato #magatsukami yato #noragami meta

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mythologyfolklore · 4 years ago

Text

Deal with a Prince of Hell

(A/N: Maybe a warning beforehand, because this contains a short physical description of the abrahamic God and in other ways might be offensive towards religious people. It’s not meant to be, but just a heads-up. I don’t want religious discourse on my work, because this is a fanfic. There is also murder and violence, just to reinforce that.)

In spite of being a warrior, Archangel Michael was actually extremely slow to anger.

He was courageous and strong, but also long-suffering and merciful.

To hold his hand over mankind, dispel fear and despair, give strength to the brave and fight the forces of darkness, that was his work assigned by the Lord God Almighty.

Anger was blinding and deluding. A feeling unbecoming of the Leader of all Angels.

When he exacted the Wrath of God, it wasn't his own.

However, there were times, when he did feel wrathful, though it was extremely rare.

Today had been a normal day, until Michael had summoned the other Archangels for a meeting to discuss the tasks for the next month.

None of the Archangels had ever failed to follow the summoning.

So Michael felt uneasy, when only Gabriel, Uriel and (to his great surprise) Azrael attended.

“Where is Raphael?”, he demanded to know.

The Archangels exchanged uncomfortable glances and Azrael was frowning ominously.

Raphael – sweet, dutiful and soothing little Raphael – was missing.

“We don't know where he is”, Gabriel admitted worriedly.

Oh no …

Suddenly there was a light tap on the door.

Michael went to open it, only to come face to face with Raphael. His alarm bells went off as soon as he saw how eerily wan the younger Archangel was.

“Sorry I'm late”, Raphael gasped, “I …” And proceeded to collapse into Michael's arms.

“Raphael!”, the other Archangels cried and ran up to them.

Gabriel blanched, when he caught sight something; from a hole right below the wings, a golden liquid was trickling down Raphael's back. “Ichor! Oh Lord Almighty, he's wounded!”

Michael followed his sibling's glance and felt a light sickness pool in his stomach. But he forced himself to calm down and ordered Uriel to take off his red coat and spread it on the floor.

Carefully the warrior Archangel put his brother down onto the cloak, so he could inspect the wound.

Now, that he had a closer look, Michael frowned: “This is demonic work. Likely caused by a flaming sword forged from Hellfire.”

“Hellfire!”, Uriel cried, “Hellfire is lethal for angels!”

“He's not going to die”, Azrael spoke calmly, “He came here just in time. Step aside, Michael, and leave this to me.”

It was ironic that Azrael, Angel of Death, vessel of the great Destroyer herself, She who brought mortal souls to rest, would be the one to save Raphael's life, but she put her hand onto the wound and within seconds the demonic essence left Raphael's corporation, manifesting as a black flame in Azrael's hand, before vanishing. She had obliterated the Hellfire, like it never had existed in the first place.

“Now you can heal him, Michael; you're almost as adept in the healing arts as he is.”

Michael followed the instruction. A prayer to God later the wound closed, as if by itself.

“Now we need to take Raphael to his quarters”, Azrael said to the others, “He may be healed now, but he still needs to rest for a few days. It speaks for his strength, that he survived this wound and made it all the way back to Heaven. We'll ask who did this, when he wakes up.”

Michael picked the unconscious Raphael up and carried him, while the others followed closely behind him, debating about who the culprit was.

“Only a Prince of Hell could have done this!”, Uriel hissed. “I bet it was Asmodeus! Ze is his greatest opponent, hates him with a passion and also is extremely cunning and powerful, so who else-?”

“You're losing that bet”, Azrael interrupted her sibling. “Had Asmodeus managed to wound Raphael like this, ze would never have passed up on the chance of destroying him. And neither would the other Princes. No. It must have been a lower ranking demon, who could go undetected more easily. They ambushed Raphael when he was distracted, that's the only explanation for how they could literally stab him in the back. Probably they were too scared of our retribution to finish him off. So they skedaddled and hoped that Raphael would succumb to his wound and be destroyed.”

“We will ask Raphael later”, Michael repeated Azrael's words from earlier, before this could grow into a heated debate.

“And once we know”, Uriel insisted, “We will get the culprit's sorry ass and smite them so hard that other demons won't dare to even whisper our names for many centuries to come!”

“To exact judgement and retribution is the right of the Most High alone”, Michael scolded, “We are his tools and messengers and in no position to judge, question or act without the will of the Lord. Now compose yourself.”

Uriel saw their error and nodded. “Still, it sickens me to the core”, they mumbled, “The thought that someone could hurt him like this – and a lowly demon at that!”

Michael didn't admit, that he felt the same way, but Gabriel obviously did. Azrael on the other hand remained as calm and neutral as ever, as could be expected from the vessel of none other than Death herself.

“I shall take my leave now”, she said, “You three take care of your sibling. I will report to the Almighty, that one of His Archangels has been hurt.”

Azrael spread her black wings and flew away, bearing her ever present scythe.

When Raphael awoke, he heard low whispering.

At first his sight was quite blurry, but soon he could make out glimpses of yellow, blue and red.

A soft moan alerted his visitors, that he was awake.

“Raphael! Oh praise to the Lord!” The voice of Gabriel.

Now the younger Archangel's sight cleared and he recognised Michael, Gabriel and Uriel.

“You really scared us back there”, Gabriel chided.

Raphael blushed with shame and glanced aside. “I'm sorry”, he whispered.

The other Archangels exchanged frowning glances.

“Sorry for what?”, Gabriel asked confusedly, “You're the one who got stabbed, what do you have to apologise for?!”

“I failed!”, Raphael choked. “I failed as an Archangel! What good am I, if a low-ranking demon can take me by surprise and literally stab me in the back?! Being so weak, that's what I'm sorry for!”

“Raphael, listen to me”, Michael spoke and sat by his sibling's bedside. “You're not weak. You're one of the most valuable assets Heaven has."

“Valuable asset!”, Raphael echoed, “An Archangel shouldn't have been defeated so easily!”

“Who is saying anything about defeat?”, Michael retorted. “You'll be fine within a week and we will handle the rest. Everything will be alright.”

“But …”

“No. You are the one through whom God heals¹. You're the Archangel of healing, because you were always meant to heal wounds of body and soul, to dispel pain and sorrow – you're a healer, not a warrior. Never once have you failed to fulfil that purpose. Yet you also never failed to overcome the most powerful of demons. I mean, would you say that Asmodeus and Azazel are small fry?”

Raphael chuckled: “No.”

Asmodeus and Azazel were anything but 'small fry', as Michael had so eloquently put it.

Asmodeus, a former Seraph and now Prince of Lust, had always been extremely powerful and highly intelligent.

Azazel, although not quite as powerful, was extremely manipulative and seductive.

They were both very strong in their own right and neither had ever gone down without a fight. Even though Azazel was now bound in a special part of Hell. Asmodeus on the other hand had been bound several times, but the Prince of Lust was too strong to be chained permanently (at least by any other than the Almighty).

Michael went on: “The reason that little demon could wound you, was because he's a low-rank demon. You have been known to vanquish powerful Archdemons and those are the foes you're used to. There was no way you could have predicted, that one little weasel could even dare to assault you, while you're minding your own business.”

“Exactly”, Uriel now spoke up, “And you're still strong and mighty; most other angels would have died from such a wound, before managing to return to Heaven to get treatment, but you! You dragged yourself all the way back up through the many spheres! Speaking of which, how did you do it?”

Raphael smiled: “Honestly? I don't know. Probably pure obstinacy and the Will of God.”

The other Archangels chuckled.

Michael grinned: “There's the Raphael I know: the smiling sweetheart, who spreads healing warmth wherever he goes, whom Our Father, us angels and the humans love.”

“Even with my sentimentality?”, Raphael laughed.

“God made you this way”, Michael pointed out. “It would go against His Will to not love you the way you are.”

Just as he had finished his sentence, the door opened.

Raphael's eyes widened, when the Angel of Death came into the room.

“Greetings, Azrael”, he addressed her. “I faintly remember you being there, before I passed out.”

Azrael nodded affirmatively.

Raphael observed how uneasy the others grew around her. As the vessel of Death herself, Azrael just had that effect on others, though she didn't mean to. But he, in his function as a healer, had faced her way too often to still feel the same unease.

“Welcome back, Archangel Raphael”, she said and closed the door behind her. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit woozy”, Raphael admitted.

“That's no wonder”, Azrael remarked. “The demonic essence was inside your body for a whole week, before I removed and destroyed it, so Michael could heal the damage.”

“I see. Thank you for your help, then.”

“You're welcome. Will you tell us what exactly happened?”

The younger Archangel groaned: “I was leaving my pharmacy for my earthly home, when someone ripped my bag off of my arm. As I pursued the thief, I recognised him to be a demon in disguise. I chased after him into a dark alley, where – oh so predictably – I was assaulted by a group of about thirty demons. They came at me with flaming blades, Hellfire and such. I smote about thirteen of them, before one got lucky with a throwing knife, right between my wings. The pain was maddening – I think I destroyed three more demons in my fury. The rest scrammed. I needed a whole week to drag myself all the way back up here, because of the Hellfire poisoning. And that's it.”

“Do you think Asmodeus could have ordered a hit on you?”, Uriel pried.

Raphael shook his head. “No, ze wouldn't have allowed that. Ze wants to kill me zirself, ze says that all the time. While they were definitely from the Second Circle, this was an unsanctioned assault. Maybe they wanted to please their Prince by presenting zir my head on a silver plate or something. That's never gonna happen.” He chuckled: “Ze'll be furious, when ze finds out.”

The other Archangels nodded.

“Thank you, that narrows it down a little”, Gabriel stated, before turning to Azrael: “You have spoken to the Almighty. What does He say?”

“This: Raphael is to rest for another week, then resume his duties as always. Fret no longer, Raphael, for God loves you, who never failed to be humble and kind to all. As for you three”, she turned to the other Archangels, “Hold your temper, all of you. The Creator has given me the name of the culprits. And He too wishes for justice to be served.”

“By us?”, asked Uriel hopefully.

To everyone's surprise, Azrael shook her head. “No. The exacter of the Lord's justice shall be the one, who has claimed Raphael for zir own.”

“But that's Asmodeus!”, Raphael exclaimed.

The others stared at him.

“What does 'claimed Raphael as zir own' even mean?”, Michael questioned.

Before the Archangel in question could answer, Gabriel clarified: “It means that Asmodeus has called dibs on killing him. No one but zir is allowed to lay hand on Raphael, because ze wants to have the satisfaction of revenge all to zirself. Beelzebub has a similar thing going on with me.”

“Charming”, Michael deadpanned. “To choose you as their revenge kills to be. Maybe I should ask Lucifer, if he has a similar attitude towards me. Anyway, what were you going to say, Azrael?”

Azrael told him that Asmodeus didn't know yet what had happened. “So the Lord wants one of you to go down to the Second Circle of Hell and persuade zir (persuade! Not threaten or force!) to unleash zir wrath on those who did it – and only one of you”, she added, when the Archangels grew excited.

She and Raphael rolled their eyes in annoyance, when the other Archangels began to argue amongst each other.

“I will go”, Michael stated, “I'm the leader of Heaven's host and it's my responsibility.”

“But I am more eloquent than you!”, Gabriel argued, “If anyone can persuade Asmodeus, it's me!”

“Please, Gabriel! As if you could even get as far as to Asmodeus' circle! The closest thing you ever got to fighting was to turn the Nephilim against each other before the Great Flood! But I guard the Gates of Hell”, Uriel pointed out. “I know the place and its inhabitants! I should be the one to go!”

“Enough!”, Raphael snapped, startling everyone.

“I want none of you three to go! Gabriel is too clueless about the ways of Hell, Uriel is too undiplomatic and you, Michael, don't know Asmodeus at all! Azrael, can't you go? You're calm, level-headed, eloquent and the vessel of Death herself! You would be perfect …”

“I have no time for these things, Raphael”, Azrael declined. “Nor is it my job. Michael is the strongest and the hardest to impress. If anyone other than you can interact with the Prince of Lust, it's him.”

Raphael nodded, but he still felt uneasy.

Azrael handed Michael a list of names and a warrant directly from God, then saw herself out.

“Michael, can I speak to you alone?”, Raphael requested.

Michael glared at the other two and they left.

Once alone, the warrior Archangel hugged his sibling and cradled him in his arms.

“Don't worry so much, Raphael”, he cooed. “Ze can't be worse than Lucifer, can ze?”

“It's not that”, Raphael sighed. “I know you can fight zir, but this isn't about battle or fighting. This is about wit and diplomacy. Asmodeus isn't like Lucifer.”

“Enlighten me then”, Michael requested, while stroking the Healer's curly hair. “The more I know, the better.”

Raphael leaned into the soothing hand (the hand that had defeated Lucifer himself) and described his nemesis' character: “Ze became the Prince of Lust after killing the original one. Ze is exceedingly volatile, unscrupulous and cruel, yet just as seductive as someone in zir position should be: charming and silver-tongued, like zir brother Lucifer. That's all they have in common, however. Asmodeus isn't like Lucifer, ze learns from zir mistakes. Ze is intelligent, pragmatic, calculating and extremely manipulative. No one can get under one's skin quite like Asmodeus can – speaking from experience. If you have a weakness or a pressure point, ze will find it and take advantage of it. Ze is really curious too, so if something piques zir interest … well, you get the idea. That's about it. Just … take care of yourself down there, Michael.”

“Hey there”, the warrior Archangel chuckled, “If I didn't know better, I'd say you have no faith in me!”

“That's not it, it's just …”

“Trust me and the Lord”, Michael told him and kissed his forehead. “You rest and get better, after you've been through in the past week. I'll be fine, Raphael. Don't forget who I am and always have been.”

Raphael felt his face flush.

Michael said his due praises and prayers, before descending to the bottom of Creation.

When he came to its gates, he encountered Abaddon, the Angel of the Abyss².

“Are you substituting for Uriel?”, he inquired. “Last time I checked, you were responsible for keeping an eye on the Watchers.”

“I am substituting for Uriel”, Abaddon confirmed. “I'll return to the Abyss I come from, when they return. And what are you doing here, Leader of Heaven's Army?”

“Business”, Michael clipped and presented his permit.

The Angel of the Abyss nodded and opened the Gate to the Vestibule of Hell.

“Watch your back down there, Archangel”, he warned, “The damned madly crave the Light of God. And the demons have been particularly antsy lately.”

“I know”, Michael nodded. Then he entered this place, where he, for all fighting and smiting of demons, had never been to before.

In the Vestibule, he encountered the souls of those who had been too cowardly to choose between Good and Evil and now were plagued by all kinds of vermin. The fog there was so thick, that he needed a bit to find the Gate to the First Circle, but he did and found himself in Limbo.³

The virtuous nonbelievers fell on their knees and oohed and aahed at the sight of the Archangel. Their longing glances didn't escape Michael.

As he drew near to the Second Circle, he encountered Belphegor, the Prince of Sloth, who was ruling over both the Vestibule and the First Circle and apparently inspecting his territory.

When Belphegor saw Michael, he groaned: “Nooo, not one of you Clouddancers! I just finished my walk! Oh Satan, I thought my day couldn't get any worse!”

The Archangel was way too agitated to tolerate this nonsense, grabbed the Archdemon by the robe and lifted him up.

“One more comment like that”, Michael snarled, “And Astaroth will have your position to herself again! Now, tell me how I get to the Gate of the Second Circle!”

“Th-thi-this way!”, Belphegor squeaked.

“Coward”, Michael grumbled in revulsion, but let the other go and continued his quest.

When he came to the Second Circle at last, the demons trembled at the sight of him.

“Open the Gates!”, he commanded. “I'm not here to smite anyone, but I will, if you provoke me.”

They scrambled to fulfil the Archangel's demand, though the very emanation of his sheer power almost forced them onto their knees.

“Thank you. Now scram.”

As soon as he entered the Circle, he was assaulted by icy, hurricane force winds and unfolded his enormous six wings to shield himself.

After just a few metres, he was approached by a tall, elegant demon.

“We need to see your permit to enter here”, she spoke boldly, though the Archangel could tell she was uncomfortable.

Michael showed her the divine warrant and looked her over, as the demon scanned the text.

This was not one of the fallen angels, but it was a second generation demon – likely one of Asmodeus' own children.

“Take me to your Prince”, he ordered.

The Incubus⁴ looked up from the paper with subdued irritation. “While I know who you are, you can't give me orders around here, Archangel. It doesn't matter who you are in Heaven, here in Hell we work by different rules.”

For a second Michael felt a little awkward, as well as really aggravated at the disrespect. But the demon did have a point. Though to Michael's defence, he had never actually been obliged to be polite to a demon before (what with him being a soldier and all).

“I'm sorry, my bad. Would you please be so courteous as to lead me to Prince Asmodeus to do my assigned business with zir?”

The Incubus smiled suavely: “Better. Follow me.”

While they crossed through the Second Circle, Michael had to dodge a few damned souls, who were blown about like leaves in the icy storm. He shuddered at their anguished wails and screams.

Soon they reached a black palace (how cliché).

“My fath- zir Highness's office is right above the throne room, in the centre of the palace. But this place is a mace, so getting there will take a while”, the Incubus informed him and Michael nodded.

The Archangel could feel the influence of Asmodeus grow stronger the nearer they drew; a baleful presence with a heavy pressure and a weird heat, tickling him and trying to get under his skin.

By the time they reached the door to Asmodeus' office, it had grown physically uncomfortable. Raphael had warned him, that the Prince's aura acted on its own, that it spread far and affected everyone within vicinity – just like Lucifer's and Satan's. The pulsating emanations gave Michael a faint nausea.

His guide knocked twice and from the inside a gentle, androgynous voice answered: “Enter”.

The Incubus went in first and informed the other person of Michael's arrival.

“Well, show him in then”, the voice commanded, slightly impatient.

The demon came back out and gestured for the Archangel to go inside.

Asmodeus was sitting behind zir desk surrounded by considerable stacks of paper.

Ze was … honestly, Michael wasn't sure, what he had expected the Prince of Lust to look like.

But one thing was for sure, he had not expected a creature with three different heads (a bull's, a ram's and a slightly distorted human visage), floating purple hair and claws almost as long as the bony fingers they belonged to.

Still, he had to pull himself together. After all, a monstrous appearance was no reason to be rude.

“Hello, Asmodeus”, he greeted zir.

“Michael”, ze returned (zir smooth, seductive and feminine voice contrasting zir appearance).

The Archdemon's glowing red eyes (all of them) wandered over the Archangel's armour and weapons.

“I come in peace”, Michael assured zir.

“Sure, that's why you're armed to the teeth”, Asmodeus remarked sarcastically.

“Well, sorry for considering that coming here would be dangerous”, he retorted. “Also, could you please change your appearance? I don't know which of your heads to talk to and it's mildly irritating.”

The Prince of Lust snickered, but did him the courtesy. One snap of zir clawed fingers later and Michael was facing an attractive, well-endowed blonde woman with unnaturally turquoise eyes wearing a burgundy business suit.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You're welcome, but if this puts you off, however do you talk to the Cherubim?”

That made him feel incredibly awkward, because with the Cherubim he often had the exact same problem.

“Well, let's forget about that. So, Michael …” Ze leaned back in zir chair, “… what brings you to my humble abode? If this is about Ornias again, I already told Uriel – wait, what happened to your hair?!”

Michael had taken off his helmet, revealing that the right half of his head was shorn.

“Just a little prank by Gabriel”, he muttered.

Asmodeus chortled: “Nice hair style, Archangel. Very … rebellious!”

“Hilarious”, he grumbled. “Anyway, I have come, because of this.”

He threw his warrant and a list onto the table.

Asmodeus read the warrant and arched an eyebrow. “You received your permit to come here directly from God?”

“Of course.”

The Prince of Lust nodded and added zir signature and seal to confirm that Michael had shown up. Pure formality.

“Still, that doesn't explain why you're here”, ze said. “Only that it's extremely important. Then again, I could tell the moment you entered my Circle – and yes, I could feel it”, ze added, “My aura spreads throughout the entire Second Circle of Hell. Now, what is so urgent that God sends you of all angels to come here to consult me?”

Michael decided to cut to the chase: “Archangel Raphael has been assaulted by a large group of demons.”

“And? How is that any of my business?”

That response caught him off guard. “Well … uhh …”

Asmodeus sighed: “Michael, I'm the Prince of Lust. Punishing violence or assault is not my job, unless it's of sexual nature. If you want punishment for violence against the divine, go to the Seventh Circle.”

Michael frowned: “That's where blasphemous souls get punished. I just told you, that the attack was committed by demons – demons from your Circle”, he added pointedly. “So I'm afraid this is your business. Speaking of which, you wouldn't happen to have known about it?”

Zir turquoise eyes grew hard. “Michael, if you're accusing me of sanctioning or even ordering a hit on Raphael, you're wrong. I know better than to assume that a bunch of mook demons would get the job done. If I actually wanted Raphael to die, I would finish him off myself.”

“God may grant, that you'll never accomplish that!”, Michael growled.

“Whatever”, the Archdemon brushed him off. “Bottom line is, I have nothing to do with it. I didn't even know, until you told me. When was that incident?”

“A week ago. Raphael needed a whole week to get back to Heaven, because of the injuries-”

“Wait a minute! Did I hear that right, they actually managed to wound him?! How???”

Michael inhaled sharply, before explaining: “It was a group of about thirty demons, namely those on the list. One of them got lucky and managed to literally stab him in the back.”

“Oho!”, Asmodeus exclaimed. “But he is alive, isn't he?”

“Yes, but he almost almost died.”

“Good. He deserves to suffer for a change.”

Michael wasn't sure what offended him more, zir indifferent demeanour or zir words.

“No, Raphael does not deserve that!”, he spat. “These demons assaulted him out of nowhere and wounded him gravely. They are your subjects and if you won't punish them, I will! And I'm not as nice as Raphael!”

For a second Asmodeus' expression froze.

Then zir left eye began to twitch and the temperature in the room dropped so rapidly, that the Archangel suppressed a shudder.

“Nice?”, ze echoed and Michael realised, that he had dropped a brick.

Asmodeus dropped the businesslike facade and jumped up.

“Nice!”, ze hissed, “That little bastard flung me into Hell so hard, that I now have a permanent limp! Chained me to the bottom of the Red Sea for almost a thousand years, full knowing that I was hydrophobic! And why? Because I had been doing my job and in the process grew attached to Sarah! Alright, so I did kill her first seven husbands, but what of it? They had it coming!”⁵

Michael held his spear a little tighter, but stated calmly: “I will not argue with you about your phobias or the fate of humans I never knew. It's none of my business.”

“I'm not done yet! There was that one time he threatened to chain me to the deepest bottom of the Mariana Trench, which is almost eleven kilometres under water! And then there is Asasel. All he did was teach humans about warfare and metalwork … and didn't Raphael imprison him in Dudael, under a pile of rocks, so that he may never see the sun again? Wow, what a nice and sweet little Archangel! Don't you just want to hug him! You're not a Fallen! You have never been on the receiving end of his so-called niceness! I don't care, if he was acting on God's orders, that doesn't make it hurt any less! By Satan, I can't wait for the day, when that little Archangel suffers – suffers by my hand! If I die afterwards, then so be it! I will get my revenge, if it's the last thing I do!”

Wow.

Seemed like Asmodeus had just waited to say that to someone's face.

Michael wasn't sure what to do with that.

With Lucifer he had it easier. Sure, when the two met, there would always be taunting on Lucifer's part, but then they would duke it out, no further talk, no questions asked. It was that simple.

But this …

Asmodeus seemed to notice his plight, for ze snorted: “You've never been talked to like that before, have you?”

“No”, Michael admitted.

“Thought as much.”

Then to his surprise, ze resumed zir detached smile. “Do forgive my outburst. My general mood hasn't been the best today. What were you saying?”

“Oh yeah – God has asked me (via Azrael) to come here and ask you this: that you exact your own justice on those, who-”

“And if I refuse?”

Now Michael was the angry one. “You would dare to go against the orders of the Most High?!”

Asmodeus chuckled: “Of course, that's how I fell! I was sick of being a slave and blindly following orders and the Fall, terrible as it was, freed me. I owe God nothing more, nor do I have anything to say to Him. As for my dear nemesis Raphael … if I'm on speaking terms with him, it's because he treats me with the due respect. That doesn't mean I owe him anything.”

The Archangel forced himself to take a few deep breaths, before he made another blunder. Still he couldn't help but pinch his nose in frustration.

“Asmodeus … why can't you just cooperate?”

“Michael, I fear you don't understand. Some of the demons on this list are my dear children. Through God's will a hundred of my children with Lilith die each day, just because they are hers.⁶ It's only natural, that I love those who survive just the more. Besides, Raphael didn't go down without a fight, did he? The list says that he smote sixteen of his attackers (among them seven of my children), of which there were thirty-one. If my darlings didn't know not to mess with an Archangel before, they do now. But I love my children (all 2,191,493 of them) and I will not lay a hand on any of them, nor will I allow any of you to, just because your silly little Archangel failed to watch his back.”

Those words made Michael relax just a little: for all his fierceness, he was first and foremost a being of divine love. Asmodeus' care for zir children was something he could understand and work with.

“You don't have to.”

“Come again?”

Michael clarified: “Not all of the surviving demons are your children, right? You can make an example on those who aren't. Like you said, if the rest of them didn't know not to mess with my siblings before, they do now. That would just reinforce it.”

While the Archdemon considered that, zir mood seemed to improve to the point of the room temperature becoming more comfortable.

That encouraged Michael to continue: “Besides, you would also do yourself a favour.”

Asmodeus raised a questioning brow. “Explain yourself.”

So the Archangel did: “You have staked a claim on Raphael, that he would be yours to kill.”

“That's correct.”

“Well, then what would stop you – one of the most evil and powerful demons of Hell – from asserting your claim by punishing those who dare to touch what you perceive as yours? Without your permission or even knowledge, no less!”

The Prince grinned deviously. “Why, you sly Archangel! How unscrupulous to use my pride and possessiveness to your advantage!” A snicker. “But you're not getting me that easily.”

“That much is clear. What are your conditions?” Michael couldn't believe he was asking this.

The Prince of Lust shrugged casually and named zir conditions: that ze would be allowed to come to Heaven for a bit and pay Raphael a sick visit.

That didn't sound like much, but this was a Prince of Hell demanding access to Heaven, the holiest place in creation. The warrior Archangel really wasn't comfortable with the prospect of an Archdemon prancing around in Heaven. However, if he wanted this to get anywhere, he couldn't flat out refuse.

“I think I can arrange that”, he accommodated zir, “No promises though.”

“That's all I need to hear”, Asmodeus grinned with the confidence of someone who knew they had already won.

Michael nodded. “Right. If I manage to get approval from our Father, I will send you a permit via postage. Just … try to look less demonic, when you show up.”

The Archdemon laughed: “That's fine with me!”

The Archangel nodded affirmatively. “Good. I will take my leave then.”

Asmodeus nodded and gave him back his permit. “Shall I say hello to your ex-boyfriend?”

Michael tilted his head. “My ex-boyfriend …?”

“You mean Lucifer wasn't your boyfriend back then?”

The Archangel stood up and headed for the door. “He wasn't.”

“Strange”, the Prince of Lust remarked. “I was under the impression, that you loved each other.”

Michael hesitated.

The problem was that Asmodeus wasn't wrong. But ze wasn't completely right either: they had never been a couple, but they had been in love. After Lucifer's betrayal, however …

“That was aeons ago. We never hooked up.”

“Oh. My bad. Then again, it's no surprise with his personality.”

“Not that fond of him, then? Raphael said you complain about him all the time.”

Ze pressed zir lips together. “As dutiful and obliged to him as I am, Lucifer is … difficult to work with. Any more questions?”

“Actually, yes: Raphael told me you gained your position by killing your predecessor.”

“That I did.” Asmodeus smiled broadly and with relish, revealing razor sharp teeth. “And it was exhilarating! Then again, if the original Prince of Lust calls you a chimaera and you tear him apart in mid-air …”

“Oh my God.”

“That's exactly what Raphael said. Now go home, Michael. I will handle this affair from here. I assume you know where the exit is. Anything else?"

“Only one more thing: say hi to Luci-fuck next time you see him.”

The Prince of Lust gawked at the Archangel in disbelief. “Did you just …?!”

Then ze cackled hysterically: “Ohhhohoho! Michael! I'm shocked! You – ahahahaha! Luci-f-ahahaha! Ohohoho, this is priceless! Such language from you! Oh, I can't wait to see his face! This is fantastic! Can you say it again?”

Michael smirked: “What, Luci-fuck?”

That had the Archdemon laugh so hard that ze almost fell from zir chair.

“Goodbye, Asmodeus”, the Archangel chuckled, left and closed the office door behind himself.

As he left Hell and said goodbye to Abaddon, Michael felt so much lighter than he had before.

He sent a prayer to the All-merciful, before returning to Heaven and report the results of his mission to His Face.

You couldn't speak to God without going through Metatron first.

But Michael just got to greet the Scribe, before the latter pointed to the massive silver archway behind himself.

“Our Lord is already expecting you, Archangel Michael.”

“Right”, Michael mumbled and walked through the archway.

Stepping through the archway into the Throne Room of God was always an experience. One had to walk through what seemed like a planetarium rather than a hallway for minutes, before actually getting to … another archway, this one of gold.

Michael hesitated to cross this one.

Then the most beautiful of voices called to him: “Michael … come in, my child.”

Now he entered.

The light that assaulted his eyes would have blinded any other being than an Archangel or Seraph.

The Throne Room of God looked differently every time Michael came here. Sometimes it didn't even look like a throne room at all. Just like now: instead of on a throne, the Almighty was sitting in a worn-out armchair, among endless piles of books and scrolls, behind an ebony table. But instead of by a fire, the room was illuminated by God's blinding light.

Like the clearest echo, the singing of the Seraphim choir sounded through space.

“Lord God Almighty”, Michael greeted the Creator and fell onto his knees.

“Hello, my child. Come here”, the Almighty beckoned and pointed to the smaller seat on the other side of the table. “Have a seat.”

The Archangel did so, keeping his glance lowered in reverence.

Being so close to God, to feel His unlimited power was overwhelming, even for the most powerful and high-ranking angels.

“You can look me in the face, you know”, the Most High spoke with a hint of amusement. “My light has never blinded you and it never will.”

Michael would never understand, how he could look the Lord into the eyes without being reduced to a bawling mess, like most other angels. Those eyes, all-knowing and infinite like the entity they belonged to. And they were sparkling with merriment.

“My dear child, you're always so tense, when you come here”, He chided Michael.

The Archangel couldn't help but smile. “Well, I can hardly waltz in here Lucifer style and act like I'm not speaking to an omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent entity, who created literally everything in existence now, can I?”

God laughed quietly: “No, Michael. You know better than that. But here and now, I will be your father. Have some cocoa, my child. And tell me, how your mission went.”

Michael felt a little embarrassed, but he recounted everything that had happened.

“I nearly messed it up”, he admitted sheepishly. “Most humans are more diplomatic than I was back there, not to mention Gabriel. I will never be as good at this as he is.”

The Almighty smiled: “You're not meant to be 'as good at this as Gabriel'. You're meant to be as good as you. And for the first time you did well. You rectified your slip-ups, listened to zir point of view, tried to understand it and offered a solution. You used your kindness and zir pride to come to a mutual agreement. This situation required initiative and you took it, like the sensible person you are. There is no reason for embarrassment.”

But the Archangel still wasn't convinced. “I promised zir to arrange a visit. Here in Heaven. Without speaking to you first, my Lord.”

“Alright, maybe that was a little cheeky”, God chuckled. “Remember for the next time not to make promises too soon. Asmodeus knows that I can't say no now, even though you only promised zir to try. But it's forgiven, Michael. Let zir visit Heaven. And don't worry about conduct. Asmodeus may be one of the most evil people in Hell, but ze has a desire for self-preservation. Besides, that little pun of yours just put you into zir good graces – and yes, even Archdemons have those!” God laughed. “I must say, this is the pettiest I have ever seen you! I will never get that pun out of my head!”

Michael smiled lopsidedly: “You don't get anything out of your head, King of Kings. Speaking of which … what about the demons? Do they remember Heaven?”

“Not all of them. But Lucifer, Beelzebub, Astaroth and Asmodeus remember everything, unlike the rest of my fallen children. It was for the best, that the rest shouldn't remember what they lost. Or that most of my children here shouldn't remember the bonds and love they once shared and the pain of losing their beloved fellow angels to pride and betrayal.”

Michael felt his heart crack.

“He … Lucifer remembers?”

God nodded. And for the first time those infinite eyes became sad. “Yes. Everything. He and the other three were the first to fall and the oldest of my children. Therefore I didn't erase their memories.”

Michael knew that he shouldn't ask further, but he couldn't help himself: “Do they … do they remember love?”

“They do. They try to forget, except for Asmodeus, but they do.”

Michael felt a particular spectre of the Lord's warmth caress his head: the healing love, which God once had given a shape in the form of Archangel Raphael.

“You are allowed to grief, my child”, the Most High told him gently. “Don't keep it all to yourself. You have been strong for far too long now, Michael. You will never be able to let go, if you don't allow yourself to break. Sometimes you need to have the courage to be weak and vulnerable, in order to gain new strength.”

Those words broke him.

For the first time in aeons the mighty Archangel Michael wept.

“You looked changed”, Raphael remarked, when Michael came to check on him later. “Refreshed. Almost reborn.”

Michael smiled at him and Raphael knew that he was right.

“I do feel like it”, the warrior Archangel confirmed and hugged the smaller Archangel tightly. “Hey, can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course, Michael.”

“I think I can finally let go.”

Raphael understood and smiled gently. “I'm glad.”

He himself didn't remember much from before the Great War and that was probably for the better. But he knew that Michael did, that it always had pained him, that he had never been able to break the chains of the past.

“I loved him so much, Raphael. It was already painful to put my devotion to the Most High before my feelings for him and reject him. And then he betrayed our Father and Heaven … all this time I have carried this ache in my heart, building walls about myself and never talking about it. But when I talked to the Most High earlier, He told me that it's okay to hurt. He let me open up and it felt so good. I now know that Lucifer remembers me and what we once had, that he will never forgive me for choosing my duties and love for God over him and it will always hurt, but the certainty helps me, just a little.”

“You cried in front of God?”

“Yes.”

Raphael's smile widened: just when everyone began to suspect that the Most High was a detached, indifferent and distant creator, He reminded them all, that He was merciful, that He was there and that He loved His children, every single one.

“Other than your mission and Lucifer, what else did you two talk about?”, he asked curiously.

Michael laughed and let go of his sibling. “Nuh-uh!”, he scolded playfully. “Not telling! That is a matter between the Almighty and me.”

“Come oooon!”, Raphael whined. “I wanna know!”

But the older Archangel remained firm. “No, Raphael. I will not reveal what the Almighty revealed to me without His permission. Next time He summons you, ask Him yourself, you curious little angel.”

Raphael huffed, but nodded.

Of course Michael was right. Still he couldn't help but be curious.

“At least tell me about your meeting with Asmodeus! I'm dying to know how that went!”

Michael laughed sheepishly: “Well, I dropped a few bricks, but I think ze and I came to a solution we can both be content with.”

Raphael listened curiously to his older sibling's account of the meeting and laughed heartily at the sassy remarks the two had exchanged.

“By the way”, Michael finished awkwardly, “You might get a special visitor very soon.”

The smaller Archangel's eyes narrowed. “Michael … what did you do?”

Ten seconds later, all of Heaven could hear someone screaming …

“WHAAAAAAAAT???”

In the Second Circle of Hell meanwhile, both the resident demons as well as the dead souls had not missed the rapid weather swings that had occurred, while the Archangel had been speaking to their Prince: from the normal storm, to a hailstorm unlike any seen on Earth, then back to hurricane force winds and then suddenly to almost mild winter weather, before a sudden temperature drop made everyone shiver and the ground freeze.

“Damn, Zir Highness sure is having a lot of mood swings today!”, an Incubus (the one, who had guided the Archangel Michael) noted and rubbed her clawed hands, until her body adjusted to the sudden temperature drop.

“Well, ze should stop, because I'm feeling dizzy!”, one of the older demons whined. “All these temperature swings make my circulatory system go haywire!”

“Demons don't get circulatory complaints!”, another scoffed. “Stop being such a pansy! This is literally Hell, we've been putting up with the weather around here for millennia and you're whining about circulatory complaints?!”

“Exactly!”, the Incubus agreed. “There are other things to worry about! Like what Zir Highness will do, when ze finds out about your hit on Raphael! Motherfucking Archangel Raphael, the guy who vanquished so many powerful demons, our Prince included! So what made you believe that you could take him down, huh?!”

The first Fallen glared: “Shut your trap, you second generation demon!”

The Incubus narrowed her eyes. “Careful. Were my father to hear about your conduct towards me, ze would not be pleased.”

Just as she had finished her sentence, one of the Prince's heralds came running.

“Orders from the Prince!”, he announced, “All demons of the Second Circle are to gather in the assembly hall at eleven am!”

All demons within hearing range dropped whatever they were doing and hurried to follow the summoning.

Within half an hour all demons in the circle had gathered in the hall and were chatting anxiously.

What could their Prince want?

Punctually at eleven am, the usher announced with a booming voice: “The King of the Second Circle, Archdemon of Lust, Prince of Hell, member of the Unholy Council of Seven, advisor of the King of Hell himself, Leader of Hell's army, Zir Highness Asmodeus!”

Everyone stood in reverence, as the Prince rode in on zir monstrous, winged lion.

“Hail Satan! Hail Satan!”, the millions of demons declared with one voice, as Asmodeus waved graciously. The Prince of Lust was sporting zir human form; voluptuous blonde with cherry lips and bright turquoise eyes.

That in itself wasn't bad.

But ze was also wearing zir robe of shadows beneath zir princely regalia. The room temperature was so low, that hoar frost was covering the walls and everyone quivered. The vibe the Prince was giving off was so sinister, that it made the lesser demons physically sick.

The message was clear: Asmodeus was furious.

Someone was going to die.

The Prince allowed a herald to help zir off zir terrible steed and slowly limped to zir own seat. A Succubus hurried to put a microphone right in front of their father's throne.

Asmodeus nodded towards zir child.

“Sit down”, ze spoke into the microphone and everybody sat. Then ze announced: “The following demons shall come hither before my throne.” And read out a list of names.

The demons in question obeyed, trembling even harder than the rest.

Their superior gave them a frigid glance, before ze bent forward and addressed zir subjects in a weirdly level tone.

“Creatures of the Second Circle of Hell. I have summoned you, because something has occurred, that was both surprising … and impertinent.”

There were murmurs all about and the tension grew thicker.

“Early this morning”, Asmodeus continued, “I had a visitor: the Archangel Michael. He came all the way to my office, because of an interesting incident. One that involved the demons kneeling in front of me and a few more: the wounding of the Archangel Raphael.”

Another murmur went through the crowd.

“It has been brought to my attention, that a group of thirty-one demons launched an ambush attack on the Archangel. And that one of them managed to wound him with a flaming throwing knife. As you all can see”, Asmodeus pointed at the demons in front of zir, “Only fifteen of them are kneeling before my throne. The other sixteen have been destroyed by Raphael, unsurprisingly.”

The murmuring died down and was replaced by subdued silence.

Only now ze addressed the demons before zir directly: “You fifteen are charged with indirect murder of fellow demons, unsanctioned assault and defiance of my authority. How do you plead?”

No one was surprised, when they pleaded not guilty.

Asmodeus made the biggest eye roll ever, before continuing: “I admit, the news caught me off-guard. Especially the fact, that it happened over a week ago and no one cared to inform me, until that cursed Archangel Michael waltzed into my office, armed to the teeth. Which displeases me more than a little. Now tell me”, Asmodeus turned to the demons before zir, “Who of you had the notion, that launching a surprise attack on an Archangel without my sanction or even knowledge would be a good idea?”

The demon on the far right put their arm up, shaking like a leaf.

Asmodeus tilted zir head in surprise. “You? You are the instigator?”

The demon cowered under his superior's killer stare.

“So you convinced thirty demons, that attacking a motherfucking Archangel was a brilliant plan? Impressive, I must say. But also inane. Surely you must have known, how suicidal such an endeavour would be. And he did destroy half of your gang, didn't he?”

Asmodeus' glowing eyes narrowed.

“Your little stunt cost the lives of seven of my children, as well as nine of your siblings. And to top it off, you dared to touch something that belongs to me. All of Hell knows, that I have staked a claim on the little Archangel and I have never taken kindly to anyone touching what's mine. And you didn't even get the job done: Raphael lives. He survived and told his siblings everything. Now the entirety of Heaven knows, which practically forces me to make you face the consequences! But I won't punish you all the same. Children, step back.”

Three of the demons did as told, leaving twelve demons kneeling in front of Asmodeus' throne.

“For their lèse majesté, indirect murder of fellow demons, unsanctioned assault and disobedience, I sentence the twelve demons in front of me to-”

“What will it be?”, the instigator scoffed. “An eternity in Abaddon's Pit?”

The Prince chuckled frostily: “This fate would await you, had you not pulled ten of my children into this. I lose a hundred of them to the forces of Heaven each day and no thanks to you now I have to mourn seven more. As it is, the Pit would be way too merciful. No. You will be devoured … by my shadows.”

The tendrils on the Archdemon's shadow robe extended and spread all over the ground. Everyone screamed in fear and scrambled onto their seats for a modicum of safety.

The Prince laughed, obviously enjoying the mass panic.

With deliberate slowness ze stood up and limped down the stairs to be at the demons' eye level. With a diabolic sneer ze let zir shadow slowly surround the convicts.

“Any last words?”

The demon to the far left lifted their hand.

“Yes?”

“Your Highness, may I take off my winter coat? It's brand new, I'd hate for it to get ruined.”

The Archdemon nodded.

“Too kind”, the lesser demon thanked zir (not without irony) and stripped out of their coat.

“Indeed so”, Asmodeus agreed and took the garment. “I must admit the dignity you face your gruesome execution with is admirable. Not that this is going to save you.”

With that, the Prince's shadow fully engulfed and consumed the lesser demon completely. They didn't even scream, as they died.

The audience groaned as one, shaken at the sight.

And Asmodeus had been kind; seeing as that demon had been granted a quick death as a nod to their bravery.

The other eleven on the other hand screamed hysterically and huddled together in mortal terror. Several of them fell onto their knees, wringing their hands.

“NO!!! MERCY!!!”

Asmodeus scoffed: “Mercy? Here in Hell? Have you forgot that this is a place of punishment?”

“N-no, but-”

“Unbelievable! You went against my orders and have the nerve to beg me for mercy? Disgusting.”

“Y-your Royal Highness! D-don't do this! We didn't mean – we only wanted to-”

“Wanted to do what?”, Asmodeus cut them off. “Serve to your Prince the head of zir nemesis on a silver plate? In the hope, that you would gain my favour and be rewarded? Congratulations, you accomplished the opposite.”

The second one was torn apart and consumed with far more brutality than the first and blood spilled everywhere like in a splatter movie.

Not just a few witnesses screamed in horror.

The ten condemned remaining scrambled together even closer. They tried to run, alone the Archdemon's will held them where they were.

Asmodeus on the other hand seemed to be downright delighted by their terror.

“Is there anything else you might want to say, before I destroy the rest of you?”

A short demon managed to stand back up and screamed at zir: “WE ONLY WANTED TO PROVE OUR LOYALTY!”

“There would've been other ways of doing that”, Asmodeus informed them amiably. “But as it is, the only thing you proved is your folly-”

“I DON'T WANT TO DIE!”

“So?”

“WE THOUGHT IT WOULD PLEASE YOU!”

As their dying screams tore through the air and gore splattered everywhere, the Archdemon's cherry lips twisted upward. On zir beautiful human face it looked even more terrifying than on zir grotesque demonic visage.

Asmodeus smiled.

“You misjudged me, I'm afraid.”

“Now that this is done”, the Prince of Lust purred sweetly. “I think I got my point across. I never want to see such insubordination again, do you all hear me?”

The audience nodded collectively.

One by one they came down from their chairs, as their Prince's shadow retracted and returned to being the fringes on zir black robe.

“Good. Now to you, my children. Come here.”

The three obeyed hesitantly.

Asmodeus felt just a little sorry for terrifying zir children so, but drastic times required drastic measures.

“As your loving father, I will spare you this gruesome fate”, ze soothed them.

The Succubi sighed in relief.

“However”, ze continued sternly and they tensed up again, “That doesn't change the fact, that you have been very irresponsible by getting involved in this. So often I have warned you against the Archangels. They are way out of your league. Only a Prince of Hell like myself can hold their own against them. Yet you tried to mess with one anyway and seven of your siblings paid the price. That was foolish and I thought I raised you better than that. I am heavily disappointed in you.”

They lowered their heads.

“Now that you have seen your siblings die and just witnessed the brutal execution of my fellow Fallen, you will live with your survivor's guilt. You're grounded for the next two hundred years. In the meantime you will be cleaning the stables, including that of my dragon-lion Lyssa⁷. You will also be feeding her. That's your punishment. And mind you, next time I won't be so generous anymore.”

They stared at their father in horror.

Normally Lyssa was fed normal meat like any other lion, but once Asmodeus had fed two demons from the Third Circle to her, because of some disrespect.

It had put zir at odds with Beelzebub for a while, but they had reconciled quickly.

Both of them were vicious, when it came to punishing the slightest signs of rebellion; they'd destroy first and ask questions later. After all, you couldn't be a Prince of Hell, if you weren't a special kind of ruthless.

Asmodeus sighed, shook zir head and miracled cleaning supplies out of thin-air. “Now clean up this mess, you three. And then you will make a shroud for your fallen siblings. I do hope you have learned your lesson.”

Michael, ever the protective sibling, was anxious about the sanctioned, but very much unwelcome sickbed visit Raphael was going to receive soon.

Sure, God had assured him that Asmodeus would not harm Raphael and he had full trust in the Almighty, but he couldn't help it!

He wasn't the only one; in fact Uriel and Gabriel seemed to be even more nervous about it.

Uriel had been incensed at the news and had nearly thrown hands with him. Not that they would've stood a chance against the warrior Archangel, but Michael wasn't one to look for a fight.

Finally the three were pulled aside by Azrael.

“How much longer do you intend to skulk around Raphael's quarters?”, she confronted them.

“Well, how can you be so calm about it?”, Uriel snapped. “This is about Asmodeus, a motherfucking Prince of Hell-”

“Language!”, Michael scolded.

Uriel glared at him and went on: “-Raphael's oldest nemesis, coming to Heaven, the most hallowed place in Creation, and you're telling us to settle down?!”

“The Most High sanctioned it”, Azrael returned calmly. “You're fools to worry, when our Father agreed to let zir come here.”

“But-”

“Do not question God's decisions.”

The warning glance in the older Archangel's silvery eyes silenced Uriel instantly.

Azrael was paragon of patience, always calm and never rash, accustomed to waiting and able to tolerate almost anything without even arching a brow. But where the Almighty's decisions were questioned, she was quick to warn her fellow angels from treading onto potentially dangerous paths.

The Angel of Death sighed: “We have nothing to fear from Asmodeus. Not here in Heaven. The holiness of this place will take a toll on zir, so ze will seek to leave as soon ze's said zir say.”

Uriel nodded and humbly lowered their head. “Of course, you're right. I need to calm down. Raphael can take care of himself, even in his recovery and Asmodeus isn't stupid enough to attack him here. There just is something about their relationship, that unsettles me.”

“Well, our relationship is pretty unsettling!”, a voice snickered. “But that's what makes it fun!”

The Archangels whirled around to look at the newcomer and their eyes widened in shock.

Asmodeus smirked: “Hello, everyone. Michael told me to try and look 'less demonic', when I showed up. So I did! Do you like my getup?”

The Prince of Lust was clad all in white, the long golden hair in a loose plait. Ze almost looked like an innocent young woman. Only the blackened, fractured halo and the sly look in zir bright turquoise eyes gave zir away. And the walking cane, obviously; it was practically one of the Archdemon's signature features.

Asmodeus arched an eyebrow. “What, won't you say hello? Do angels these days think they're too good for basic politeness?”

“Hello, Asmodeus”, Uriel said coolly.

The demon smiled amiably: “That's more like it! So good to see you all again! How long has it been? Michael's recent visit not counted, several millennia?”

The Archangels exchanged uncomfortable glances. Such genial conduct from a Prince of Hell was … jarring. To say the least.

But then the Archdemon squinted. “Wait … Azrael, is that you?! Why, I almost didn't recognise you! So you're the new Angel of Death?”

Azrael nodded. “Yes. Death chose me to be her vessel, after her old one fell.”

“I can see that, honey, look at you! I simply can't believe how tall you've gotten! And you're an Archangel! Nothing like the tiny, snow white Cherub, whose wings just wouldn't grow!”

Michael cleared his throat: “I don't want to be rude, but didn't you say you wanted to visit Raphael?”

Asmodeus laughed: “Of course! But I just couldn't resist catching up with God's little helper¹! My, how she has changed! Unlike you three. You haven't changed at all”, ze added pointedly. “And neither has Heaven, apparently. It's just as cold, white and sterile as I remember. No wonder the silly little Archangel prefers to spend time on Earth. Speaking of him, where were his quarters again? My memory is a bit blurry on that part and I couldn't find a site map.”

Gabriel gave zir directions.

Asmodeus smiled suavely: “Thank you.”

Then ze limped off to Raphael's rooms.

The other Archangels, save Azrael hatefully glared after the demon.

“Fucking arsehole!”, Uriel hissed.

“Language!”, Michael scolded.

“But it's true!”, they enraged themselves. “'Silly little Archangel'?! And reminding Azrael of the handicap she used to have! If this wasn't a holy place I would break zir spine! I will not stand for this behaviour!”

“Yes, you will, Uriel”, Michael ordered harshly and grabbed them by the arm, before they could run after the demon. “You will keep your temper and you will be friendly and prudent, like the Archangel of Wisdom you're supposed to be. Do you hear me?”

Suddenly he realised just what he was doing and let go.

“Oh – oh good Lord God Almighty, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me, I didn't mean – I'm sorry, Uriel.”

Uriel rubbed their arm (it would probably bruise later) and averted their gaze. But the pain in their eyes hadn't gone unnoticed by the other Archangels.

Gabriel glowered at Michael, while Azrael shook her head in disappointment.

Michael sighed and hugged the white-haired Archangel. “Look, I'm sorry. I really am. That was cruel of me to say and do and I only shamed myself there.”

“Sure did!”, Gabriel grumbled and was promptly elbowed by Azrael.

“Mistakes have been made”, the Angel of Death spoke, “This one won't happen again.”

“Certainly not”, Michael promised.

Uriel still didn't say anything, but they did hug him back.

The warrior Archangel smiled, having all the answer he needed.

Azrael cleared her throat: “Now that this is settled, how about we put it behind us and I treat you all to a snack? Personally, I need a white chocolate moccha or something else that contains gross amounts of caffeine and sugar.”⁸

Raphael heard steps outside his bedroom, put his book down and sat up in his bed, waiting.

Asmodeus didn't even knock before ze entered the room.

The Archangel had to make a double take at how modestly the Prince of Lust was dressed.

“Hello, Raphael”, Asmodeus purred sensually, fully knowing how much Raphael hated it, when ze talked like that.

“Hi. Nice outfit”, he commented. “Loose plait and flowers in your hair? Long white skirt and blouse with frills? I'm impressed, you almost look cute.”

“And you look almost weak!”, Asmodeus retorted. “I've never seen you this fragile! If the cause had been me, I would be absolutely delighted.”

“What do you want?”, Raphael spat. “How did you get here and can you even walk around here? The consecrated ground should be burning your feet and Heaven is too high up for demons to reach these days!”

Asmodeus shrugged: “These shoes are human-made. This way it only stings a little. As for how I got this far up, I hijacked a rocket.”

“Asmodeus!”

“A ride, Raphael! I got a ride!”, the demon groaned in annoyance. “Yerachmiel picked me up from earth. Are you satisfied now?”

“No. Again, why are you here?”

The Archdemon frowned: “Why so hostile, my beloved nemesis? I just want to make a sickbed visit to my revered adversary!”

Raphael's eyes narrowed. “No, you want to feast your eyes on seeing me vulnerable for once in your life.”

“That too!”, Asmodeus tittered. “But not just.”

Then, without even asking for permission, ze crossed the room and sat on the edge on the other's bed.

“I didn't allow you to invade my personal space.”

“I'm the Prince of Lust, silly little Archangel. Whatever makes you believe, that I give a damn about personal space?”

The Archangel was about to further sit up, but Asmodeus placed a hand on his chest.

“Now, now! Aren't you supposed to rest?”

“That's hardly possible with you around.”

The Prince of Lust snickered. Then zir grin slowly morphed into a leer, that made Raphael's flesh crawl.

“Look at you, Raphael. Bed-ridden and still weakened from an incident that was over a week ago. Absolutely fantastic. If being here in Heaven wasn't taking such a toll on me, I could sit here and revel in this sight all day.”

“But you can't. Lucky me.”

“Not so lucky”, Asmodeus contradicted. “You're at my mercy, more than you could ever care to admit.”

“Oh, I think I could”, Raphael replied. “I am in fact aware of how defenceless I am right now. I'm just not afraid of you.”

“Hmmm … maybe you should be”, the Archdemon mused.

Raphael gasped, when he felt the hand on his chest heat up. Then it wandered upwards, to his neck.

He choked, when those manicured fingers wrapped around his throat, painfully hot and threatening to suffocate him. He could feel the Hellfire crawling under Asmodeus' corporeal skin and the razor sharp claws beneath zir finger tips, more than ready to be unleashed onto their victim.

“I could kill you, Raphael”, ze purred. “Right here. Right now. Have my revenge and destroy you, just like I have always dreamed. I can feel just how weak you still are. One blow and your siblings would return to find your charred, lifeless shell, your soul completely destroyed.”

Raphael grinned lopsidedly: “But you won't.”

Asmodeus snickered: “You're right, my fondly loathed. I won't.”

Still the Archangel was grateful, when the demon finally let go.

“Let me see your back”, the Prince demanded.

Raphael frowned at zir peremptory tone, but let his sleeping gown slide off the shoulders.

He suppressed a shudder, when he felt Asmodeus' hand running down his spine and stopping right where he had been stabbed recently.

“I see, they left a scar”, ze observed. “Must have been quite a potent weapon.”

“I think it was”, the Archangel mumbled. “I needed almost a whole week to drag myself back to Heaven.”

“I'm surprised you even lived that long”, Asmodeus noted. “Azrael and Michael didn't manage to remove all of it, did they? Some of it is still in there. If I don't remove the rest, it will kill you sooner or later. Like a slow poison.”

This time he did tremble.

Because this thought did frighten him.

And trying to conceal it was futile; demons could sense fear.

Thankfully, Asmodeus didn't comment on it.

Suddenly the Prince applied a little pressure on the scar, making the Archangel gasp.

“I will drain the last bit of unholy essence out of you now. So brace yourself”, ze breathed into his ear. “Because this is going to hurt. A lot.”

Raphael gulped heavily and did as told.

But even the warning couldn't have prepared him for the sudden, searing hot pain in his back. It was similar to when he had been stabbed, but even more intense than that – it felt like the Archdemon's claws were digging into his flesh!

When ze brushed over a particularly sensitive spot, he screamed in agony.

Asmodeus snickered into his ear and the Archangel felt anger well up in his chest; of course that bastard was enjoying this! Surely ze was taking zir time to make him suffer as much as possible!

After a while, he finally felt something being drained out of him and for a moment it hurt even worse.

Then, before Raphael knew it, the pain was gone and he collapsed into Asmodeus' arms, trembling and gasping for breath.

“There, there”, the Prince cooed and embraced him from behind with one arm. “All better already. That wasn't so bad now, was it?”

“Not so bad?!”, he gasped. “It was worse than when I got stabbed! What in Heaven did you do, sink your claws into my corporation and dig around in my flesh?!”

The Archdemon chuckled: “Felt like it, didn't it? But no, my dearly detested. Exorcising Hellfire is just that painful – at least for humans and angels. But worry not, it's inside of me, where it belongs.”

“You drew this out”, Raphael accused zir. “And revelled in my agony, like the sadist you are.”

Asmodeus smirked diabolically: “And you deserved every second of it. Oh don't make that face, Archangel”, ze added, when Raphael glowered up at zir. “Need I remind you of all the things you did to me in the past? And now you have smitten seven of my children. Their stunt was the epitome of stupid, but that's not the point. The point is, no one has more right to make you suffer than myself.”

Raphael wound himself out of zir arms and readjusted his sleeping gown.

“Why do you always act like getting tormented by you is a privilege?!”, he demanded to know.

The Archdemon chuckled: “Oh, I have many reasons! I'm a Prince of Hell, making people suffer is fun and most of all … you belong to me.”

Raphael's eyes grew hard. “I'm not your property, Asmodeus.”

“Oh, you keep telling yourself that, silly little Archangel! But I have claimed you and there is nothing you can do about it. If anyone but me dares to lay hand on you, I will let them see the worst side of me. My wife knows this, the other Princes know this and thanks to what I did to the culprits, the rest of Hell now knows too.”

Oh no.

“Asmodeus … what did you do to the survivors?”

“Oh, I killed them!”, ze said cheerfully. “They got ripped apart in mid-air and consumed by my shadows! Except for my surviving children, naturally – they just got manual labour and house arrest. And the entirety of my Circle witnessed it! After all, I had to make an example on the demons who dared to act against my orders. Oh, you should have seen it! More than three million demons, completely horrified, scrambling onto their chairs to get away from my shadow, blood and goo everywhere-”

“Please stop. I neither need nor want to hear the gory details.”

The Prince pouted. “You're such a killjoy!”

“There is nothing joyous in what you do.”

“Okay, rude! Ah, whatever, I still have a lot to tell you. And I want you to listen, because this is important.”

Before the Archangel could reply, Asmodeus' hand returned to his throat – what was that with zir sick obsession of choking people?!

“Just to make this clear”, ze snarled, “Now that I have saved your life, you're in my debt. So you better prepare for the day, when I'll collect it. For a Healer, you get into far more trouble than is good for you. Still, I want the entirety of Hell, Heaven and Earth to know, that it is solely my privilege to tempt, hurt or even kill you. You're mine, Raphael. Always have been, always will be. Whether you like it or not. And you should be grateful, because that also means you're under my protection. Still you better not get into such a situation again, because if I have to save your pathetic arse one more time, I will torment you to the point where you'll beg for death. Do you understand?”

The Archangel managed a little nod.

The Prince of Lust smiled – “Splendid!” – and let go.

Raphael coughed and gripped his own neck.

“Why the H-e-double-hockey-sticks do you always do this?!”, he rasped.

Asmodeus tilted zir head. “Why, whatever do you mean, my beloved nemesis?”

“Act like you're the only one who has some beef with me! Like you have a monopoly on being my enemy!”

Objectify me, others would have said, but Raphael knew Asmodeus too well. Ze was prideful and condescending and zir behaviour towards him often came across as objectifying, but he knew that the demon had a twisted, undefinable kind of respect for him that ze didn't have for any other angel or human. Even though Asmodeus' possessiveness towards him (that ze didn't exhibit over anyone else, not even zir wife and lover) was a more than dubious honour.

Asmodeus snickered: “Well, I wouldn't say I have a monopoly on being your enemy, but I definitely have one on being your nemesis. Azazel could escape his prison and I would still rip him to shreds, should he even attempt to harm you.”

“Wow, how very charming!”, the Archangel replied sarcastically, “Thank you! I'm touched!”

The Archdemon snorted. “Oh, you silly little Archangel! I love your sarcasm, it's just so … unangelic!”

Raphael scowled: “Leave, Asmodeus. Since you obviously have nothing more of importance to say, I will no longer put up with your taunting.”

Asmodeus chuckled: “As you wish. Not that I would've lingered much longer anyway. As I said before, being here in Heaven is pretty tough on me.”

Oh, praise to the Almighty!

“Oh, before I forget!”, ze cried and produced something from zir pocket. “I think this belongs to you?”

He blanched, when the Prince of Hell handed him a silver locket.

“How did you get your hands on this?!”, he croaked.

“One of your attackers snatched it, when they scrammed”, the Archdemon explained. “My children handed it over to me.”

The Archangel opened the locket to see, if anything was missing. But nothing was.

“The medallion of Yehudiel. The one she gifted to you, when you two got engaged.”

“How do you kn-”

“I'm surprised you still have it”, Asmodeus remarked. “After all this time.”

He clutched it to his chest, as he stared at the demon. “Asmodeus … what happened to her?”

“I don't know.”

It was a lie.

Tense silence fell over the two.

Eventually the Prince of Lust decided to show a little mercy. “Yehudiel is dead, silly little Archangel. That's all you need to know.”

So she had fallen.

Raphael wanted to ask zir, if ze knew who she was now, but Asmodeus clearly had no intention of answering that question. So he took it for now.

“Right … should you come across her, please say hello from me.”

Ze nodded. “I can do that.”

How strangely graceful.

The Prince of Lust stood with some effort and limped towards the door.

“Anyway … I will be on my way now. It was fun, my dearly detested. Say hi to your siblings from me, when you see them later.”

“Shall I say hi to Father from you too?”

For a moment Asmodeus lingered in the door frame.

“Do whatever you please. It doesn't matter to me. Goodbye, Raphael.”

Then ze was gone.

With owlish eyes Lilith watched her husband pace up and down the room.

Asmodeus had been doing this for hours, venting zir frustration about zir nemesis and about how “unimaginably dense” he was.

Zir anger was causing a hurricane to rage in their Circle, so powerful it was leaking through to the bordering Circles. This had to be a new record – Asmodeus was notorious for affecting the weather in the Second Circle with zir moods and the angrier ze was, the colder and stormier it got. This power was only second to Beelzebub's; the right hand of Lucifer himself was renowned for zir weather aspect.

She was tempted to tell zir to calm down and stop rambling about Archangel Raphael, but she knew that ze needed to get it off zir chest.

Asmodeus was too proud to do this often, too proud to even talk about zir earlier existence. It would have come off as nostalgic and sentimental and Lilith knew that her husband was anything but.

“That idiot is driving me insane!”, Asmodeus fumed. “I mean, come on! I served him the truth on a silver plate! Nobody else, except for maybe the Almighty, even knew about the relationship between Raphael and Yehudiel, let alone that they wanted to get married and gave each other a locket as token!”

Of course Lilith knew that.

She also knew that ze possessed a medallion similar to the one ze had returned to the Archangel. It was the only remnant of zir earlier existence that ze had kept. (Which was a bit odd, because she knew that her husband had long moved on – ze had never been one to dwell in the past, ze was living for the moment. It was one of the things she loved about zir.)

And she knew, that her spouse had been tempted to keep the piece of jewellery, after their children had handed it over to zir.

“He remembers that – I know he does! The shock on his face about me knowing this said it all! And he still didn't get it?! How the fuck did he not get it?! How can one possibly be that dense?! This is a new level of dumbassery! Even a human would have figured it out!”

Lilith coughed softly.

Sure, she had renounced her humanity all these millennia ago, but that didn't change the fact, that at some point she had possessed it. Beelzebub still called her a “being of clay”, when ze felt particularly jealous; ze and Asmodeus were lovers in a way, yet it was her Asmodeus had chosen to marry. Sometimes the Prince of Gluttony was still sour about it.

Her cough made her spouse stop dead in zir tracks.

“Do forgive me, my queen”, ze apologised. “That human remark was uncalled for.”

Lilith nodded gracefully.

Asmodeus tore at zir purple hair. “It's just … gha! How much more obvious could I possibly be?!”

“Maybe he does get it, deep down. Maybe he doesn't want to see the truth: that his fiancée has turned into one of the most vicious demons of Hell”, Lilith theorised, “I mean, if you suddenly turned back into an angel, I would flip my shit too. Probably be in denial as well. Because that wouldn't be the person I fell for and married. It wouldn't be you.”

Asmodeus smiled lopsidedly. “You're right, it wouldn't. While I remember everything, I can hardly believe, that I ever was pure-hearted, kind and beautiful. Not after more than six thousand years of being … this.”

Ze pointed at zirself.

Lilith tilted her head.

The King of Demons, as ze was also known, really wasn't beautiful by human, angelic or even demonic standards, at least not in zir current form.

Ze had three heads; one a black ram, one a black bull and a human one. The moon pale human face, a strange combination between beauty and hideous distortion: Asmodeus had very sharp cheek bones, purple lips, floating purple hair, razor sharp fangs and glacial turquoise eyes, that glowed red, when ze was passionate, enraged or upset. The Archdemon's androgynous body was covered in fluffy, black plumage and ze had the legs and feet of a bird of prey, lethal talons included. Not to mention the snake tale and the black hands with their long, clawed fingers. Then there were zir gigantic six wings, black-feathered with a pinkish hue and covered in eyeballs.

And this was just one of zir many shapes – some were even more frightening.

To Lilith her spouse was the most beautiful thing in the world, no matter what ze looked like.

She fluttered up (she just was so tiny next to zir) and gave zir a peck on the human-like cheek.

A light pink dusted Asmodeus' cheeks and ze giggled stupidly.

Cute.

Within seconds she found herself wrapped into zir wings and arms and they were cuddling.

“To me you're perfect, my husband”, she cooed, “No matter what you look like.”

“Oh, how I adore you so, my queen”, ze purred, “My soulmate, my perfect equal, best of all women and of all man- and demon-kind. You, who always let me be free and who is so perfectly suited for me. You, who won the heart of the Morningstar and still chose me.”

“My dear king”, she hooted quietly, “You, who could choose anyone as zir wife and wed a being of clay, who divorced two husbands. My very special person, who never treated me as anything less than zir equal, never asked me to submit to you and never laid chains on me.”

She took her human face to kiss her spouse on the lips.

Asmodeus kissed back with passion.

What followed was passionate lovemaking between two immensely powerful demons.

Meanwhile the demons and the dead sinners of the Second Circle noticed another rapid weather change, this time for the better.

“Ah, our Prince and his queen are fucking again”, one of the Fallen noted.

“Oh thank Satan!”, another sighed. “If anyone can soothe zir Highness's temper, it's Queen Lilith!”

“Let's hope this will last”, a Succubus remarked, “Father has been in such a measly mood lately, ze really needs to calm down and cheer up.”

“Whoa!”, Asmodeus gasped afterwards. “Six thousand years and still no one can sate my lust and make me see stars like you can!”

Lilith giggled: “Ditto, my dear!”

They lay like this for a bit longer, before the Prince of Lust noticed a cunning gleam in zir wife's owlish eyes.

“What are you plotting, my queen?”, ze smirked.

“Oh, I just had an idea!”, she tittered. “I think you should tell him flat-out the truth.”

Asmodeus caught on, but groaned: “Uuugh, way to bring Raphael into the afterglow, Lilith!”

“No, no, hear me out! Reveal yourself to him! Show him your fallen form! Don't you want to see the despair on his face, when he discovers, that his beloved fiancée is now his worst enemy?”

Oh.

Oh!

Ze beamed at her: “You're right! This would be … oh, so fantastic! The perfect revenge! Oh, the very thought turns me on again!”

The infanticidal owl demon cackled: “Alright, round ninety-nine it is!”

“Hell yeah!!”

After another day of bed rest, Raphael was finally allowed to resume his duties.

The other Archangels had been surprised, when he had given them the details of his nemesis' visit.

“So that's why the Almighty allowed Asmodeus to visit you!”, Uriel cried out, “I can't believe that didn't occur to me!”

“I told you all, God had a good reason to let this happen!”, Azrael proclaimed proudly, “But as usual you had to freak out, before thinking stuff over.”

Uriel rolled their eyes: “Yes, yes, I admit it, I overreacted and you were right about everything. Happy now?”

The Archangel of Death nodded in satisfaction. “Very.”

“Still kinda ironic, though”, Gabriel mused. “That Asmodeus would be the one to save Raphael's life. I mean, everybody knows that ze wants to murder him really, really hard.”

Raphael smiled lopsidedly: “That's true. But killing me here would have been suicidal. And Asmodeus loves zir life.”

“Speaking of zir”, Michael spoke up, “Do you happen to know, who ze used to be?”

Raphael shook his head. “No. And honestly, I never thought I needed that knowledge. But ever since ze gave me back my fiancée's gift, I'm starting to think … maybe I do need to know.”

Suddenly he had an idea.

“You guys remember everything or at least know, right? Can't you tell me?”

Everyone looked first at Michael, who shifted uncomfortably.

Then at Gabriel, who promptly turned away.

Azrael shrugged, even though she clearly knew.

It was Uriel, who gave in, but instead of answering his question, they just asked: “Raphael, why don't you just ask Asmodeus zirself?”

The Archangel of Healing huffed in exasperation: “I've already tried that several times, ze doesn't want to tell me anything! Ze didn't even give me a clear answer, when I asked zir what happened to Yehudiel!”

The other Archangels pricked up their ears.

“What did Asmodeus say?”, Michael wanted to know.

“'Yehudiel is dead, silly little Archangel. That's all you need to know.'”, Raphael parroted Asmodeus' sultry voice. “Gha! I hate how ze is always so flirty and forward, yet when it comes to zir past, ze always gets vague and elusive! I just have to mention it and ze gets either cagey or angry! The only thing I know about zir, is that ze was a Seraph and that ze was always close to Lucifer!”

The Healer sighed and flopped back onto his chair. “I'm sick of all this secrecy! I want to know the truth! Is that too much to ask?!”

The other Archangels exchanged even more awkward glances.

Finally Uriel took some pity on their sibling and pat his shoulder. “You know, Raphael … I think you should try one more time. Confront zir and this time be adamant about it. Don't let zir leave, before ze has told you everything. No matter how many temper tantrums ze throws, put your foot down. You're self-assertive, you can do that.”

Raphael beamed at the hoary Archangel: “You're right, Uriel! That's what I'll do!”

His mind was made up.

This time he wouldn't let Asmodeus get away, before ze had told him everything.

Because that wily arsehole had answers and Raphael wanted them.

---

1) Raphael literally means "God heals" in Hebrew. 2) Abaddon means "Destruction" in Hebrew and is the name of a place in the underworld, where the damned are punished. It's the bottomless pit, where Satan and his followers will be incarcerated following Armageddon, but it's also the name of the angel in charge of it, hence the epithet "Angel of the Abyss". He's said to be in charge of an army of monstrous-looking locusts. Sources vary on who exactly that angel is. I headcanon, that God created an angel from the abyss, named him after the place and gave him the key to watch over it. 3) Limbo is traditionally the place, where "virtuous heathens" would go, people who had lived a virtuous life or just had died with no other guilt than not having been baptised. Some people believed that unbaptised children would also go there, but this view was contested even from the early Middle Ages, on account of them being innocent babies. The Catholic Church established a few decades ago, that unbaptised children have a place in Paradise. In fact, the very concept of the Limbo was never included into the official canon, but obviously it has always been an influencial and popular idea, ever since it was first conceived. 4) If you're stumbling over the Incubus being a female, the reason is that incubus derives from the Latin word "incubare" ("to lie on"). So, despite the tradition that Incubi are always male, it would technically be more accurate to say they're always tops, regardless of gender. In kind, Succubi are always bottoms, when you go by that logic, since "succumbere" means "to lie beneath" in Latin. 5) In the Book of Tobit, Asmodeus plagues a girl named Sarah and kills her first seven husbands, before they can sleep with her. It's never stated, why ze does this. In the Testament of Solomon, Asmodeus tells Solomon that this is part of zir job. But it could also be that ze's obsessed with Sarah or acts as some kind of guard and kills the husbands, because they feel more lust than love for her (I think it's the obsession thing, as well as the job). Ze is later driven away by Tobias under the instructions of Archangel Raphael. Raphael pursues Asmodeus down to Egypt, binds zir and in some versions either imprisons zir in the Red Sea or strangles zir. 6) Lilith was Adam's first companion, but she dumped him, grew wings and flew away, refusing to submit to him. God sent three angels, who asked her to return to Eden, but she refused and furthermore declared, that she would become a demon, who harms babies. So God was like "Well, if you're gonna be like that, fine, but you'll lose 100 of your own children each day." And Lilith was like "Fine." (As ridiculous as this sounds, this is canon! The Alphabet of Ben-Sira also says, that she is driven away from babies by the names of the angels, who spoke to her) 7) The Dictionnaire Infernal by Collin de Plancy states, that Asmodeus rides a lion with the wings and neck of a dragon. I decided to name her Lyssa, after the ancient Greek personification of furious anger, as another nod to Asmodeus' wrathful aspect. 8) Azrael means "Help from God/God helps" in Hebrew. 9) I've been inspired to this by the fact that I've stumbled over several entities of death/destruction in modern media, who have a fondness for human food. So my version of the Angel of Death loves sweet, hot beverages. God allows His angels to treat themselves once in a while, as long as it's not too self-indulgent. Bonus: I will not apologise for the "Luci-fuck" pun. :P

#abrahamic religious lore #Archangel Michael #Archangel Raphael #Archangel Uriel #Archangel Gabriel #Archangel Azrael #asmodeus #belphegor #lilith #God #tw: religious themes #tw: violence #tw: gore #nsft

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