#that line always make me wonder why Caithe was so hesitant

[carrinth]

Why is it unwise, Caithe?? WHY. 👀💦

I remember when I first heard this line and proceeded to freak my baby sapling mind out thinking Trahearne was going to be a Big Deal.

I mean he was, but man, let me tell you, getting those levels to advance the story was spent in a state of pure anxiety. XD XD XD

[commanders-sole-braincell]

This is what dying feels like: Blood beneath your fingers and seeping into the ground, painting the very earth red as wails echo over and over until it’s madness in your head. This is what dying feels like: Faces blurring in and out of your vision like ghosts, and you’re falling- you’ve been falling for a long while now, you realize.

(Don’t die, don’t die, you can’t die on us Commander, you can’t, no, no, no, no. There are hands on your chest and between your shoulders and a fluttering touch on your brow, and your cheeks are wet- but it’s not your own tears that drip down your face.)

This is what dying feels like, you realize, and-

(You feel someone cup your face, raindrops blurring your vision, and you know these people, you realize, and they’re asking you something, asking you to hold on, and their fear is for you, not of. You’ve forgotten what that felt like. You’re glad to have had it one last time.)

-you don’t think you’re scared anymore.

(Stay with us, someone says, but you’re already gone.) —- You watch the stars begin to dim in the distance and wonder if anyone has been sent after you to put you down like a mad dog. You wonder if it’s anyone you know- you wonder if you’re brave enough to spare them the misery.

(Scarlet, they had called you, and it hurts no less thinking back on it now.)

(You’ve tried, and tried, and tried, to show them you would never- but maybe they’re right. Maybe Tyria doesn’t need a Commander. Maybe it never did. Maybe they’ve always been scared of you, and you’ve only just known, too wrapped up in trying to help and always just making things worse.)

There’s a dagger in your hands and you know what the right thing to do is, you do, but you’re scared. It’s cowardly and weak when you know you have to do this, when you’ve crossed a line you once swore never to cross, but you catch your reflection on the blade and feel your breath catch. You’re scared. Another way you could never be enough.

(Maybe they’ll forgive you, if you do this. Maybe you can make them all smile one more time before this is over.)

Your hands can’t stop trembling around the hilt of your blade. There’s no Balthazar here to kill you- you have to do this yourself. It’s your responsibility.

(You’re scared, so scared, you’ve died once before and you hated it, but you think of your mentor, and Trahearne, and a thousand lives lost, and it- it doesn’t chase away the fear, not completely, but it’s enough.)

You think you might have heard someone scream, somewhere behind you, but everything’s already gone red. —- What have you done?

You stumble back, dizzy and nauseous and surrounded, and you can’t think. There’s a body in front of you (alive, breathing, but what if-) crumpled in a heap at your feet.

(There’d been a sword coming for your throat and you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, but you could still move. You moved, and: Of course you won. Is it something to be proud of though? You once swore to protect Tyria in this very square.)

The crowd murmurs around you like an earthquake, and you feel their stares burn into your back like an invisible brand. Monster, Corrupt, Cruel, every word that slips from their mouth digging into your flesh and leaving scars.

It was self defense, you try and say, but you’re not that good a liar. The man is alive, but you could have killed him- you didn’t pull your punch as much as you could have, as much as you should have.

(When your blow had connected you had felt it: Satisfaction, just for a moment.)

The knowledge has you undone, and you’re running: You feel your skin crawl from the weight of your sins.

(You deserve this.) —- “Hey! Commander!”

There’s a man standing on the other side of the Square, and you notice the way he’s standing, all board shoulders and wide stances. He looks angry. He looks determined and terrified. (Of you, your head whispers. It’s of you.)

The crowd’s frozen now, traffic slowing to a bare trickle. No one moves. No one breathes, as he approaches you. You can see the look on their faces in the corner of your eyes: They think you’ll hurt him. They believe it.

The man is still walking. You notice the moment he takes a sword out and smiles, grim, and something in your chest stutters to a stop. —- There’s a poster with your face nailed onto the door of the tavern, scratched out hard enough to go through the paper. There’s graffiti scrawled on the walls in a thousand different hands, looping cursive proclaiming you a villain, a threat, a Commander looking for your own war.

(You would never, you would never- You would never start a war, subject someone to the fate of a soldier. There’s battle and war, and you know the difference- you know the price heroes have to pay as intimately as you know your own body. You could never do that to someone else, have them waking up screaming most nights with the memory of death etched behind their eyelids.)

Canach grabs your arm and turns you around, away from the half burned down tavern and the shards of bloody wood on the floor, and there’s something in the way that he looks at you that has you turning away. “Commander- Maybe you should go for a little walk. Clear your head.”

(Are you afraid of me too? You almost ask, but you don’t think you want to know his answer.)

You catch your reflection in a mirror and you don’t look like yourself, don’t feel like yourself, and probably never will again- but you nod anyway, because it seems like something The Commander would do. —- You feel something nudge against your hand and it’s a mug of ale, warm and steaming in the winter chill. You look up to meet the Bartender’s gaze, an old man who looks at you with no fear in his eyes.

“It’s on the house, Commander.” He says, and he doesn’t spit your title like a slur, or say it with fear usually only reserved for monsters that hide under beds. He says it with sympathy, says it with respect.

(How long has it been, since you’ve heard someone say your title like that?)

“Don’t let them get to you.” He says again. It takes a while for you to realize that your cheeks are wet. —- It takes Rytlock’s hand on your shoulder before you can breathe again, but it’s not enough- there’s fear and lightning crackling in your chest, your breaths fast and heavy and choked. You lean against the warmth on your shoulder and cling onto it like a lifeline, try to ease the tension out of your hands.

The radio in Taimi’s hands crackle again, like an open hearth fire. “The Commander is a threat! A dragon minion!” A voice says. “They need to be rid of!”

(You know this announcer, you’ve met them before, a plucky Norn that asked for your autograph and asked you questions over his hologram. You can’t reconcile this voice with the one that offered you candy, and asked about your day, and thanked you for everything you’ve done with a sincerity that made your heart hurt. People change and you know this, but it still makes you feel cold. Maybe you’re the one that’s changed after all.)

“Ignore it.” Taimi says fiercely. You don’t think you can. —- “How long?”

Marjory gazes at you, and you wonder how you look to her. You wonder if you look wild with emotion, charged and ready to implode. “How long?” She repeats.

“How long had they been-“ scared of me, terrified, hating me- “Worried?” You settle for instead, when the words stick in your throat like barbs. Marjory’s eyes are sad, and almost pitying. You feel like you could scream.

“Long enough.” A pause, thick and stretching a little too long. “How did you find out?”

(You found out when your server had fallen, and you had offered them a hand- you found out when they had flinched away like you’d raised a fist. You found out when someone threw a rock at your head as you walked through Divinity’s Reach, and parents pulled their children close when you passed. You found out when you realized you cannot remember the last time you made a stranger smile.)

“It’s not important.” You say, and you’ve never thought yourself a good liar before. —- Your forehead is bleeding, and your hand comes away dipped in crimson. There’s a sizeable rock on the ground by your foot.

You look around, trying to look for the culprit- except-

Everyone leans away from you, wrings their hands and shoulders past with muttered apologies and chalky faces. Not a single person will meet your eyes.

(What?)

“What?” You whisper in confusion. No one answers.

(The wound on your head bleeds freely: Drip, drip, drip.) —- Returning to Tyria feels like coming home, after everything that’s happened. You breathe in the smell of salt on the wind and relish the breeze in your hair. It loosens something within you. No other place can make you smile the way home does.

You wonder how everyone is doing. You wonder if anything’s happened while you were gone.

(You wonder why Logan and Caithe keeps exchanging furtive glances when they think you aren’t looking- you wonder why they look so pale.) —- “Do you have to go Commander?”

You smile and swing the charr cub onto your shoulders, grinning at the way the child gives a happy squeal. “I do- but I’ll come back to tyria soon. So don’t worry, okay?”

You hadn’t expected his many people to come see you off, and most of them strangers beside- it never fails to make you get all choked up, as they send you off with farewells and many safe returns. (This- this makes it all worth it. All of it.)

“Okay!” The cub replies. You can feel their hands playing with your hair, and laugh. —- “And what,” The announcer pauses, smiling over his hologram. “Do you plan to do next?”

You don’t hesitate. (This is what you are now, this is what you do- Tyria needs you to fight for it, always and forever. It’s not as big of a sacrifice as you expected, not with the smiles and warm faces you leave behind with every life you save.)

“Protect Tyria of course.” You say, and it’s the truth. —- Always remember that the crowd that applauds your coronation is the same crowd that will applaud your beheading. People like a show. -Terry Pratchett

Me, procrastinating on my writing by finishing another writing: COULDNT HELP IT THO THIS AU WAS JUST TOO GOOD NOT TO WRITE ABOUT-Awakened Anon

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

OMG ANON?! THIS IS MAGNIFICENT??!!! YOU BROKE ME WITH THIS ONE BUT ALSO THANK YOU??? the little ways Dragons Watch try to protect them, the old bartender, sobbing? The fact they just wanted to make people happy??

@tyrias-library we got another good read here!!

[sapphyrelily]

ember

Inspired by Benjamin Francis Leftwich’s Kicking Roses

You kneel, touching the ground, eyes scanning the foliage. Picking up the lightest scattering of pollen, where others wouldn’t notice anything.

“Korra, come.”

Your fern hound steps up beside you, touching her nose to the tracks, sniffing for clues. She looks up, meets your eyes, and lopes off in the direction of Rata Sum. You get to your feet, brush your hands off, and follow.

It’s been several months since you started tracking this person, and you are no closer to finding him as when you set off. You miss his meetings with the Nightmare Court by a day, maybe two. The tracks are never fresh enough for you to decide who to go after, but you know that you’ll always choose to chase after him.

No matter which of the Court meets with and tries to subvert him, he will resist, as he always does.

But still you wonder: why does he allow them to keep speaking with him? Why does he tempt their lies?

Why does he leave a trail of desolation in his wake after each meeting?

You thought at first, that every and anything invited his wrath. But as the weeks passed, so did the destruction narrow down, until it was mostly unwanted, poisonous things that he left behind.

A devourer carcass in Ascalon. Several centaurs throughout Kryta. Many icebrood, during the brief stint in the Shiverpeak mountains. Drakes and krait and giant spiders, Risen and many others during his time in the Maguuma Forest. From just one creature to scores left behind, you can only wonder if he was trying to send a message to someone.

For you know him, and you know he can avoid all these creatures if he wanted to. It feels as if he was purposely seeking them out, looking for something to vent his anger on.

He never had been good at controlling himself.

Korra barks from up ahead, sticking her nose into a patch of bush. You jog up to her, part the leaves with the end of your bow.

A scrap of black cloth hangs on the edge of a twig, and your lips twitch up.

He knows you’re tracking him, but he isn’t telling you to stay away. Maybe he knows, that you didn’t come of your own accord, that you were sent by someone else. Someone bigger, with greater authority. With greater worry.

“Can I count on you to bring him home, my child?”

“Yes, Mother. Of course.”

…maybe at first, it was just a mission to bring him home, because it is terrible every time the Nightmare Court manages to corrupt a Dreamer. But now, after months of tracking, after months of tracing his steps and speaking to the people he has spoken to – now, you begin to see what he’s thinking of. Just a little.

(You see, maybe, that he’s as lost as you are.)

(Being lost isn’t the same as rejecting the Dream. There are many kinds of lost.)

(You hope you’ll find him, before the Nightmare Court can finally convince him.)

(Because one may mistake a type of loss for another, and give in at the faintest whiff of hope.)

-----

You think you recall a faint memory of him – it feels like a dream, because you remember it in a haze. Yet, you are sure it is not, for when you awoke your limbs were heavy and there was an almost unnoticeable scratch just under your wrist guard. Korra seemed equally out of it that day, and you could guess – a far-fetched guess – that he had come to meet you, that he had drugged you to speak to you.

“Stop following me.”

You raise a hand – you try to, but it doesn’t move, it is too heavy. You want to sleep, you are so tired…

Slim hands grip your face, the copper glow of his luminescence lighting the hazel eyes gazing into yours, making them glow eerily. “Eita, please. Go home.”

“Pale Tree… Sent me… Take you… Home.”

He shakes his head, releasing you, backing away. Draws a black mask over the lower half of his face, reaching for a vial at his hip. “I can’t. Not yet. The Court thinks they have me, but I want to infiltrate deeper first, root them out, kill one of their superiors.”

“Don’t… Dangerous…”

You think he might have smiled, but his eyes are sad. “I’m one of the best thieves next to Caithe, but she’s always busy. Faolain knows her. No one else will do it.”

“Please…”

“Go home, Eita. I think the Pale Mother knows what I’m doing.”

“Ken– Kenjirou…”

The other shakes his head, bending to trickle some of the liquid in the vial past your lips. “I won’t wait. It has to be done.”

And then he is gone.

You still can’t remember if it is a dream or a memory. But it feels like it happened not too long ago, and you wonder – if it is a memory, how much longer would you have to wait before he stops evading you, or he gets caught?

You don’t like entertaining that second thought.

-----

You are half in a daze as you move to your next location, the darkness hanging over Mount Maelstrom getting to you. There’s loud barking ahead, and you force yourself to snap out of it, hurrying towards where Korra stands, hackles raised.

A dagger smeared with drying sap lies abandoned on a patch of grass. There is no evidence of a fight, no scorched or flattened grass, nothing to show what has happened. You reach towards it, but hesitate, muttering a short spell over it instead. A slight yellow glow rises from the dagger, leading away from it, disappearing into the forest.

“Korra, track.”

The fern hound leaps ahead of you, following the fading trail, and you scoop up the dagger, hurrying after her.

You hope you aren’t too late.

-----

Up ahead, leading into the forest. You hear the rustle as people push past the foliage, and hurry on. You don’t know if the faint traces of pollen you see are from yourself, or from the sylvari who have just gone ahead.

You don’t have to wait long for an answer – shadowy figures jump out of the bush, weapons drawn. You answer them with arrows of your own, then jump in with the dagger you scooped up from the field. It nicks one of them on the arm, and their free arm swings their weapon at you – a move you block with a sword in your other hand. You push them back, slash at them; your movements are sloppy – you’re not made for close-quarters combat.

But still you press on, trade blow for blow until you see an opening, thrust the dagger towards them. The gash is hardly deep, but still they fall, convulsing. You barely stop to watch, turning to the other attacker that Korra is holding off, slicing towards them with the dagger.

A few more strokes with sword and dagger, and they too, are on the ground. You sheathe your weapons, and forge ahead, your fern hound at your heels.

There are others who appear, and stand in your way, but this time you are ready, and barrage them with exploding arrows, running past. You do not have time to get stuck in hand-to-hand combat when your friend is in danger.

Korra leads now, her running gait longer than yours will ever be, and you almost fall on top of them – your friend, fighting a Nightmare courtier on the small path.

You back up, out of their path, and herd your fern hound back as well, but this means you can only pick up bits of their conversation as they circle each other. Kenjirou seems to be winning, but the courtier looks smug, his expression triumphant. “The Grand Duchess would be pleased to have you, dead or alive. Traitors cannot be allowed to live.”

“I was never one of you,” Kenjirou hisses, his dagger darting in, slicing a neat line across the other’s arm. “I will never be one of you.”

“Really? Don’t lie to yourself, sapling.” The courtier’s movements are slower than before, and you draw your bow, ready to fire if he gets too close. “The darkness in your heart is deep. Even the Pale Tree is able to see that.”

“No. My darkness is mine, but I will not follow Nightmare. I believe in Ventari’s teachings.”

“Your darkness will overcome. Don’t lie to yourself any longer.”

You’ve heard enough. You draw your arm back, let an arrow fly, embedding itself in the courtier’s throat. Kenjirou jumps in, plunging his dagger into the courtier’s chest cavity, drawing it back as he jumps away. He doesn’t wait for the dead sylvari to fall, but turns around, throwing the dagger at you.

You duck instinctively, hear the blade embed itself in someone behind you. You rise out of your crouch, swinging your bow around, knocking your would-be assailant off balance, draw the other dagger from your waist and stab them in the neck. Korra knocks them to the ground and jumps into the bushes, barking. Then a light touch passes you by, grabbing both daggers from the body, pushing you aside to slash at more enemies.

The enemies that you didn’t finish off in your mad dash to get to him.

You stand where you are, shooting arrows while he dashes from attacker to attacker, slashing them here and there, slicing into their weak points. Further in the bush, there are snarls and barks as your pet brings down other, unseen attackers.  Working together, you take down what seems like an entire sector of the Nightmare Court, and while your quiver grows light, Kenjirou never seems to tire.

If his daggers grow slow and dull with the ever growing layers of drying sap on them, he doesn’t mention it, and it’s not until you are back-to-back, slowly scanning the area, certain that there are no more attackers, that he drops to the ground.

You put your bow away and bend down to help him, but he grabs you first and hauls himself up.

“Why did you follow me?” It’s a haunted whisper, full of tiredness, exhaustion. You shake your head, sighing.

“Because I thought you might be in danger.”

“I don’t need your help.” He stalks away, and you follow, keeping your distance.

“What was that back there, then?” It’s a soft demand, but a demand nevertheless. You don’t understand how he could keep putting his life on the line like this.

“That was you sticking your nose somewhere it doesn’t belong.” He spins around suddenly, jabbing you in the chest. “I’m serious. Leave me be. This sector of the Court is destroyed, but hope that Faolain never gets word of this. I still have work to do.”

“Why? Why must you do it?” You don’t understand. “Is it a Wyld Hunt?”

He stills. His voice is quiet. “No. It is something I wish to do, for our fellow sylvari.”

“There are better ways. You are strong, but hearts are easily corrupted by Nightmare–”

“And that is why I must stop them!” He grabs your shoulders, shaking you. “Someone has to. Caithe can’t do it, for her heart still lies with Faolain, no matter how many times she runs.”

“There must be a reason why the Pale Mother hasn’t done anything about them. Why don’t we convene with her–”

Kenjirou shakes his head, hair flying wildly. “No. She still sees them as her children, but children who have gone astray. She will not take away their autonomy, even though they have chosen to live apart from her.”

“Then why must you hunt them? Leave them be!”

“Because they will hunt us first!” His eyes are wild, desperate. “Can you imagine, if one day it has to be me, who hunts you down? Who has to kill you, because you are one of the Court? You’ve seen Caithe – she can’t kill Faolain. I don’t want to be the one who kills you!”

“I will never be one of them. Never.” It’s your turn to be angry – furious. How can he think like that? “My allegiance is to the Pale Tree and to protecting the people as I must. I will take my life first if I ever come close to becoming like them.”

Kenjirou shakes his head. “You’ll never know, that’s the thing. You begin to think they are right, that their ideology is correct, and that’s when it all falls apart. You’ll never know if you are turning to Nightmare, until you think the Pale Tree and all that the Dream stands for is wrong.”

“How do you know this?” It seems a bit suspicious, to you.

“You heard the courtier. I have darkness in me. I understand what they think, but that does not mean I want to follow them.”

You do not understand, but you have other issues to press. “And is what you are doing not wrong as well?” You point out at the wilderness behind you, finger shaking. “I’ve tracked you since you left the Grove. You’ve killed so many. Sure, they are the things that threaten people, that threaten lives and livelihoods, but are you not taking a bit too much pleasure in tearing those creatures apart? I know your handiwork. As of late, the death blows seem a bit too crude, even for you.”

He folds his arms. “It’s none of your business.”

“Except that it is! We promised to watch each other’s backs, and then you went and ran off by yourself. How can I watch and guard you, when you are nowhere to be found?”

“Maybe I want out of that promise.”

“Maybe you’re just being stubborn!” Your voice is loud, so much louder than it ever has been, and while he does not look cowed, his eyes widen a little. “Are we not connected to each other? To all of the life around us? Even if you no longer want to be my brother in arms, you will still be someone I care about, and I refuse to leave you behind because you are as daft as you are!”

“Excuse you!”

“No, excuse you.” You want to hit him over the head with your bow, but you have just enough sense left to know that such an action would not be well received. “What are those parables that we are always told? Especially the one about the ember?”

“We’re plant people. Why would we have stories about embers and fire?”

“Okay, maybe a charr told this one to me. But it doesn’t matter!” You point a finger accusingly at him. “If you take an ember out from the main fire, it loses its warmth and dies. But once you add it back to the flame, it glows and gains its warmth again.

“What I’m saying, stump-head, is that we are always stronger together. You can’t fight the Nightmare Court on your own, because they’ll always throw you back – because they outnumber you, especially if you are alone. Thousands have tried the same before you, but if there’s one thing we should have learnt from all those encounters, it’s that we can’t make any progress if we don’t stand together. Is that simple enough? Is that enough for you to understand that you have been away from the fire for too long, and it is time to return to your roots?”

He is silent a long while, and in the distance, you think you hear an animal calling. Korra shifts uneasily by your side, and though you want to reach out to her for reassurance, you restrain yourself.

Finally, he stirs. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, I’ll come back to the Grove with you,” he snaps. “It’s about time I spoke to the Pale Tree anyway.”

You hope your slump isn’t too obvious. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go. All that yelling probably helped the Risen pinpoint our location.”

“Burn me. Come on.” You grab Kenjirou’s arm and start running back where you came from. “Were we that loud?”

The other snorts. “I think they could hear you on the other side of Mount Maestrom.”

“No, they couldn’t.”

“Yes, they could. Anyway, I think you need to return to the Grove more than I do.”

“What?”

“You swear like a charr. All those flame and plant metaphors together – it’s so obvious.” He snorts, running ahead. “How long did you spend tracking me through Ascalon? I wasn’t even in there for that long.”

“So maybe I found a few warbands along the way and marched with them for a bit.”

“Mmhmm? Steal anything good for me?”

“None were Iron Legion, so no.”

“None were Ash?”

“All were Blood, and they cradle their weapons to sleep.”

“You’re joking.”

“I swear by the Tree, it’s true.” You hold up your hands. “Maybe we’ll take a hike through Ascalon after we speak to the Pale Mother.”

“Deal. I want to see these warbands you befriended.”

“If they lop your head off, I’m not at fault.”

“I’ll tell them I’m your mate, they’ll respect that for a bit.”

“If they believe that, I’m actually a cabbage head.”

“You mean you’re not?”

“…I will shoot you and let Korra tear you apart.”

“You need me to make the trip back alive.” Kenjirou grins and skips out of reach. “I know all the shortcuts back to Lion’s Arch.”

“I’ll kill you after we convene with the Pale Mother.”

“The Wardens will catch you.”

“I will–”

Kenjirou snorts and runs back by your side, knocking you gently with his shoulder, cutting you off. His demeanour is suddenly a lot more serious, and your mood plateaus, waiting for what he has to say.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “For coming to get me.”

You nudge him back and grab his wrist, slowing both of you down. Korra stops and lopes back when she notices you are not following, and sits to wait.

“I will always come for you,” you promise. “Whether or not the Pale Mother ordered me to come, I would have come anyway.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not.” You offer a crooked grin. “We’ve always been brothers in arms, but I hope to expand that meaning a little more, at some point.”

“…what are you saying?” His eyes are hooded, but you can see him biting his lip.

You take a deep breath, months of worrying finally culminating to this point. “Would you like to be introduced to the charr warbands as my mate? For real.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are wide, mouth slightly open. “I was joking.”

“I am not.”

He shakes his head a little, but you see the smile he tries to hide, see the sudden flash as his copper luminescence darkens a tinge. He looks up, lips trying to remain flat and still. “If we get to Lion’s Arch alive, I’ll let you introduce me to the Pale Tree as your mate.”

You can’t stop your grin; your heart is suddenly buoyant, and you feel like you could take on an army of Risen. Instead, you tug him closer and lean forward to kiss his forehead.

“Deal.”

[commanders-sole-braincell]

The Commander’s eyes fairly shone in the dark, two glittering orbs that drew you in and offered you no escape. Not that you wanted to, in the end, even as they pull you towards their bed. Their hands were calloused from years of battle and more than a little scarred, but their grip was anything but rough as they cupped your face. Their hands were achingly gentle, and it was all for you.

When they leaned in, you surrendered- to the warmth that they offered, the promise of being saved.

—-

“What.”

Trahearne stares at the book he’s holding with something akin to despair lighting up his grooves and settling between his ribs like poison. A THRILLING ADVENTURE OF RESCUE AND ROMANCE: MEET THE COMMANDER. It read. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE- YOUR CHOICE DECIDES THE ENDING! It read.

A deep breath, and another, and he averts his eyes from the risque cover in front of him, orange creeping up his skin and settling around his cheeks. This is- bewildering. Ridiculous. And also very embarrassing, seeing his good friend put in this position. He hopes they won’t find out- they have had enough on their shoulders lately.

(He also hopes no one catches him standing here- the last thing he needs is more teasing from Caithe. He shoves the book back onto the shelves with more force than necessary and beats a hasty retreat, face burning.)

—-

He felt his heart thrum in his ears, a low static whine that drove him to wrap his arms around The Commander without even realizing it. It took him a few beats to realize exactly what he was spooning, in this beat down inn that only had one bed for them.

Instinctively, he drew back, praying the Commander was asleep- but then there was fingers wrapping around his, guiding them to their chest and squeezing tightly. They spoke then, words dripping with the bare bones of both an order and a plea.

“No- It’s okay. Just… stay like this, Canach.”

He knew that he should say no. He should pull out of that grip, both unerringly strong and pitifully hesitant, and turn away. He had reasons he should. The Commander was a beacon of light and hope, all strength and power. He was just their bodyguard, he was a former fugitive, he was as sharp and prickly as they came- he couldn’t possibly make them happy.

But the night was cold and The Commander radiated warmth like they were made of it- surely they could lend him some of that warmth, just for a little while?

—-

He stares at the words blurring together in his field of vision before looking up at Countess Anise, who looks like she’s having too much fun at his expense. “People actually write these? Stories about me and the Commander getting together?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” He tries to imagine falling in love with the Commander, and his mind stalls in protest at the idea of being in an intimate relationship with them. He then tries to imagine being in the scenario he just read about and almost retches. They might as well be his younger sibling, some days- he has as much chance of falling in love with them as he has crushing on the Firstborns, which is no chance at all.

“Please, they’ll read everything we do as romantic. It’s the price we have to pay for being in the public eye.” She pats the stack of books she has piled on her mahogany table, and he’s somehow not surprised that she reads about herself and The Commander dating, even if it’s far from the truth. “At least it’s entertaining.”

There’s a small idea beginning to form in the back of his head. It’s a ridiculous idea. A horrible idea. He’s practically inviting grief into his life and telling it to wipe its feet at his door.

“Say we make it more entertaining for us?”

—-

The soulmark on his fur burned whenever he spotted them, curling wings and blazing fire. He loved them, and it burned him- smoke in his breath, coal in his chest. In the future he would stare at a burnt body and wonder if he was responsible, wonder if his mark had been of tragedy after all. But right now he was standing next to The Commander and feeling sparks fly between them, claws flexing, and wondered about nothing at all.

They smiled on him. His mark on them shone- Bright and bold strokes complementing the edge of their smile. He didn’t know what he did to deserve this, honestly. He wasn’t sure he cared.

“Come on Rytlock.” They called out, hand outstretched. He didn’t hesitate to take it, the sun shining overhead painting their soulmarks gold and red.

—-

“Holy shit.”

The words drop from Rytlock’s mouth before he can register it. He’s too busy staring at the familiar face staring up at him from glossy pages, all smooth skin and half lidded gazes and provocative poses. Sometime between the first time he met The Commander and the hundredth time they needed saving from some shenanigans or another they were ruined for him, but damn. 

He flips through the book. It’s mostly a trashy story about The Commander (You know, your boss, some part of his mind whispers accusingly. He throws it aside with a strength he usually only reserves for Logan or Canach.) but there are more than a few pictures. One in particular sears itself in his head: The Commander, emerging from a waterfall, eyes smoldering under the curtain of water, dripping wet and their muscles straining as they tipped their head back with a sigh, exposing the nape of their neck-

Alright Rytlock, time out.

This wasn’t what he had expected to see when he walked into the store today. He should probably stop.

He shelves the book, almost reluctantly, and turns his gaze down the corridor. There is nothing but romance novels about The Commander. He continues down the aisle with trepidation, but curiosity keeps him going. He has to know. He can’t see himself sleeping tonight until he does.

And there it is- It’s him. On a cover. It’s a badly drawn recreation of The Commander wearing his stolen shirt last month as they did with everyone, except this time he’s standing by their side with his arms around them like he has never heard of the concept of personal space. “Wild Heart” The book reads. It’s a hardcover.

He stares and takes this all in for a few seconds. He has to wait to truly grasp the magnitude of what he is seeing. He stands there and then he turns around so quickly Sohothin almost catches the shelves aflame, steps echoing like gunshots as he walks. He has books to hunt down.

(On the other side of the world, Logan whistles through his teeth as he fans himself with the pages he had just been flipping through, trying to will away the blush on his face through sheer determination alone. Damn, he wasn’t even offended about being written as a swooning knight in distress- not when they had a scene that would probably make even Eir reach for iced water.)

—

TODAY YOUR BARTENDER IS: 

HELLA FUCKING GAY

DESPERATELY SINGLE

FOR YOUR DRINK TODAY, I RECOMMEND:

 YOU GIVE ME YOUR NUMBER.

There was a little stick figure doodled on the left hand corner, and the sight of it made Kasmeer smile that adorable smile of hers, her head pillowed on Marjory’s shoulder. It’ was a surprisingly cute message for what looked to be the entrance of a seedy tavern, and from the rapidly forming line the message was well received. Marjory almost found herself intrigued. Almost.

At least, that was what she thought until she pushed open the door and actually saw the bartender, juggling three mugs of ale as if it was nothing. They winked at her and Kasmeer’s direction, their arms coming to a stop as they slid the mugs to the customers and leaned against the counter without missing a beat, showcasing legs that seemed to go on forever.

“Welcome!” They greeted, the crinkles by the corners of their eyes like stars. She suddenly felt uncomfortably warm. Judging by Kasmeer’s own blush, it wasn’t just her.

—

“We should tell them.”

“Mmhm.” She hums, an easy noncommittal sound. She’s thinking a little too hard of pages 305 and 306, paragraphs 150 to 156. Beside her, Kas makes a frustrated noise at the back of her throat as she stubbornly keeps her eyes on the wall instead of looking at the book in her hands. “Of course, you’re right cupcake.”

“Jory.”

“Okay okay, you’re definitely right- But The Commander’s gone for a few days right? What’s the harm in finishing this book waiting for them to come back? It’s pretty good, subject matter aside.” Kasmeer looks redder than an angry hylek. It says something about the two of them that the sight brings not only hilarity but fondness, smooth and sweet like chocolate. “Besides, I heard that we appear in this one.”

“…Fine! Give me some space.”

—

“No, no no- You can’t die on me okay?” He pleaded, keeping his hands on their wound. There was so much blood, painting the ground red. There shouldn’t be this much blood. He didn’t think they had it in them.

The Commander’s eyes was darkening by the second, their lips moving soundlessly. It made a lump build in his throat, and he redoubled his efforts to close the wound, uncaring of the sound of battle happening somewhere in the distance. He didn’t care- not about his grudge, not about the Ice Dragon, not about anything. All he could see was the one person who had tried to always be there for him bleeding out between his fingers.

They were so, so cold.

“Please,” he whispered, bowing his head. A miracle. Anything. “I’m sorry for everything- you were right. I was acting like a Dolyak’s rear, I’m sorry, please.”

“Don’t die.”

—

Taimi feeds the fire she’s making with another book, tamping down the wave of nausea she feels whenever she sees The Commander’s face looking at her from the cover. They’re like a parent to her, and the vast amounts of disgust they feel with each paper they drop into the flames is unsurpassable. 

She takes great vindictive pleasure in burning the one with Braham on the cover, almost retching at the idea of… them, together. In the biological sense. Ew. He’s like her big brother, pretty much is in all the ways that matter. She does not want to see him kissing someone. Especially that specific someone.

She throws another book into the fire.

—

“I killed Balthazar.” They said, keeping Grenth’s gaze. They stood out in the darkness of the mists, a single living soul amidst a thousand lost. “You- owe me for that. All of you do.” They continued, their measured steps stirring up dust.

He had to admit, this was an interesting turn of events. He watched them try to mask their desperation and finally spoke. “And so too did Balthazar kill you,” He reminded them. They didn’t flinch. “You escaped death once. You cannot ask me to extend the same blind eye to another.”

The Commander’s shoulders drew back, and they took a deep breath, uncaring of the frost that claimed the very air. The sight intrigued him more than it should. It had been a long time since he had met a living being that did not flinch at the sight of him. “Then I’ll pay it, any price. I’ll do so willingly.”

“You will not.” He said, and for the first time he stood. “But you will pay it nevertheless.”

—

They wonder why the Dragon’s Watch looks so pale. Rytlock’s face is curled up into a snarl, teeth on full display, Canach lips pursued where he stands. There shouldn’t be anything threatening here in Lion’s Arch, but they put a hand on their weapon and begin to advance all the same.

“Commander!” They hear a familiar voice; It’s Logan, a smile on his face as he comes to a stop before them. “Glad you could come. Would you mind coming with me for a moment?”

They look behind them- Their guild seems to have calmed down. From this angle they can’t see what it is that has had them so upset, but it looks to have been resolved. With that in mind, they give Logan a nod and allow themselves to be pulled along.

(They watch The Commander go, led away by Logan, and sigh in poorly concealed relief. A human passes by, dressed as a very familiar Sylvari, complete with the distinctive markings and orange glow. Another passes by- red hair, tall build, armored. Another: A flaming sword and a menacing look. They’re nothing but costumes, actors and fans honoring those they admire and ridiculing those they hate, but that doesn’t make it any better- to be surrounded by constant reminders of those they had lost.)

(The Commander must never find out.)

—

“I have to save everyone.” They said, and you could see their hands shake. You wondered how long it had been since they rested. “I can’t stop. I can’t rest.”

You thought about how much they’ve done for you, for Tyria- the days you felt like giving up, but knowing someone was out there risking themselves day after day, for you, and you just couldn’t do that to them. You tried to put it into words. You tried to tell them how much they were loved, and beloved, by you and everyone- how much it mattered. How sometimes when the days seemed bleak and life bleaker you could remember what they did, see them helping injured refugees and fighting for the weak, how it gave so many people the strength to carry on.

You weren’t good with words though, you never were. So you hugged them, the way you always wished you could.

(Author’s Note: Commander, if you’re reading this- Thank you so much.)

—

They put their head in their hands, laughing softly- laughter that soon turns to choked sobs, shoulders shaking, an ensnared bird beating its wings in their chest. There’s a mountain of emotions pressing onto their back, the ink on the pages smearing with their tears.

They never expected- they never asked for this. They were The Commander because someone had to do it, and it might as well be them. They’ve saved so many lives it’s blurred together, and somewhere down the line everything else got left behind.

They never asked for anything- They never asked to be sent this parcel, and this trashy book written about them, with that author’s note on the bottom and its sincere words of thanks. The idea that they’ve saved people, just by existing… Just by living- It’s a heavy burden, but something in their chest unwinds as saltwater drips down their cheeks like twin waterfalls.

(They think about showing this book to their friends, laughing about how it made them sound surrounded by those they love most. They think about taking a few days leave, leaving everything to others for a while. They think about going home, and listening to familiar sounds and smells. They think about visiting those that had fallen, flowers and offerings in their arms and no ghosts dogging their footsteps.)

“Thank you.” They whisper, and the pages rustle like laughter in the wind.

—————-

Awakening anon how’d you get me to nearly hurt myself from laughter then have me having to go dry my eyes after crying??? How’d you do that what sorcery??

Also omg the AU’S (they had to share a SINGLE BED, SOULMATE AU and the BARTENDER AU, I’m FERAL) I also never considered the emotional impact of cosplays/remembering the dead in such a way and OOF