#the 'bound by a thread of fate' to 'can't even say your name because that's too intimate' pipeline

[casiavium]

love how ghiralink can range from they are deeply in love with each other (obvious to everyone but them) but won't even consider holding hands in public to actively trying to kill each other while saying some of the most romantic shit you've ever heard. In the same fanfic even

[ad-hawkeye]

Alkaid's Destiny's Call Endings

A transcript of each ending can be found below.

ASTRONOMER ENDING

Ever since he was a child, Alkaid has always harbored a profound fascination with the heavens above. Gazing into the sky, he could sense the endlessness of the world beyond the curtain of the sky.

When he grew up, he bought a small telescope, which shortened the distance between him and the sky. Through it, he could see beautiful stars traveling along mysterious tracks in space.

Eventually, Alkaid's unwavering passion led him down the path of becoming an astronomer. Countless complexities created a cascade of numbers, constructing a ladder that propelled him toward the stars.

There, he watched the birth and death of the stars as if he was watching the blossoming and withering of a flower.

FLORIST ENDING

After reaching the age of 18, Alkaid became the owner of a flower shop. He named his store "Aurora," a name he held dear, even though its profound significance remained a secret, intertwined with the threads of destiny.

He looks after the white roses, lilies, and daisies in his floral shop. He treats these delicate flowers as cherished companions, joyfully passing them into the hands of those who appreciate them properly.

"Do you have 319 white roses in stock?"*

"I'm afraid we don't at the moment. But you can leave your contact details and I'll call you to pick them up in three days."

"Okay. Thank you." The girl nods and leaves her contact information.

Alkaid takes the note and repeats her name under his breath - "Can I call you... Miss [MC Name]?

*March 19th is Alkaid's birthday.

TRAVEL PHOTOGRAPHER ENDING

Alkaid has visited countless places.

To him, the world contains both perils and marvels. In his eyes, the allure of a place grows exponentially with its danger and inaccessibility.

Fearless and resolute, Alkaid willingly embraces risk to experience the world on a personal level. He captures these extraordinary locations through the lens of his camera, cherishing them as souvenirs.

The sight of snow-capped mountains always leaves him awestruck. As Alkaid sets up his equipment, a girl walks into his camera frame. With a canvas in her hand, she trips over and falls down in the snow.

"It's too dangerous to traverse this mountain on your own," Alkaid says as he runs over to help the girl.

RACE CAR DRIVER ENDING

As the race car reaches its maximum speed, a whirlwind ensues. The boundary between life and death is so close, and fate can be heard screaming.

Alkaid can't say for sure why he fell in love with this feeling. It only lasts for an instant, but still leaves him in deep fascination.

When the car reaches the finish line, Alkaid's soul finally finds solace. Mr. McGrath, the "Best Driver of the Year", smiles gently as he received a starry candy bouquet.

"Congratulations, Alkaid!"

Alkaid looks at the girl. Again, he feels the thrilling sensation he'd just experienced. But this time, it faintly whirls around his heart.

He asks the girl, "May I have your name?"

"My name is [MC Name]," she replies.

PSYCHOLOGIST ENDING

Alkaid first became interested in psychology because he wanted to understand himself and other human beings.

Later on, he discovered that the world is a vast ocean where everyone is surrounded by water. People affect and are affected by each other. There is no shame in misfortune and feeling emotions. Reconciliation is a long process. Emotions, just like many things in the world, are contagious.

Although, ever since he became a psychologist, Alkaid thinks he's adapted very well.

"Next, please."

PILOT ENDING

Countless choices in life often originate from fortuitous encounters. Yet, this choices often carry a sense of destiny.

Planes mimic the graceful flight of birds as they ascend into the heavens. Bound by the pull of gravity, they persistently strive to soar higher and higher.

Whenever he soars into the sky and glides over the horizon, and whenever he sees a glimpse of the glow at the end of the world, Alkaid is reminded of one afternoon from many years ago.

Through torrents of rain and storms, he unfurls his wings, determined to fly into the heavens and safeguard the land beneath him.

[nightraiderwrites]

Grief, and other ways of loving

Summary:

“Is that why you look at me like that?”

Cleo props herself up on her elbow and turns to him. “Like what?” Scott rolls over to face them. “Like you’re grieving. Or lost. Like you loved me.”

[The Coven, on the empty spaces in their chests]

Tws: Unreality, mentions of blood, passing out

Word count: 6018

Read on ao3

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Sometimes, Scott thinks, the Time Witch looks like she's grieving. Maybe grieving isn’t quite the right word, but he’s not sure there’s a better one in his language. They just look… lost. The Time Witch, he realizes, looks like she's waiting for something to happen. Waiting for a stray gust of wind to tip her house of cards.

He notices it first when they twist their hands around their staff, nervous, but not quite sure what to do about it. She looks dead, inside and out, and he can see the strings attached to her joints. Unlike the living, their strings are loose, not tied around her wrists, but unlike regular zombies, he can't tug on them. He can touch them, sure, but pulling on them is like trying to hold up the sky. Very difficult, and guaranteed to break his back. Whoever brought Cleo back was either a very powerful necromancer or at the very least, a deity. They look ready to run, or blast him into oblivion.

Scott is wary of them, at first. She looks like someone with no one to lose. 

The grief becomes clear when the flowers come in. A few weeks after they meet, he spots sunflowers peeking from her hat, and black dahlias around her wrists. (He only knows what they are because- well, because he liked them.) 

“Nice flowers,” he tells her when they meet up. And then- a split second facial expression, something that shouldn’t be able to be achieved with rotting facial muscles -and it’s gone. “Thanks,” she replies, somewhat choked. 

Whatever it was, grief or loss, or longing for something fate destines for doom, he doesn’t know. The only thing he knows is that there is a person in front of him, and they’re hurting in so many ways, some of them the same as him. Milo… Milo would want him to help her. Even though this is a competition, and he really, really, needs to win, he’ll help her.

Cleo, he realizes, likes patterns. The castle she lives in is full of them. Interlocking gears decorate her walls, and her cups and utensils and- it’s everywhere. Its name, Cleo tells him, is Kairos. Greek, for the right moment. There are clocks all over the walls, as expected of the Time Witch, he guesses, but still- a little overkill. They tick in sync, and it’s so, so loud. And annoying. He supposes it’s a comfort, to be surrounded with such familiarity. 

~

“Why are you competing?” Scott asks one day, while they’re standing around waiting for the potion to finish brewing. They exhale, and tap absent-mindedly on the abacus on her waist. The clocks tick in the background.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Someone from your past?”

"Yeah. Something like that.”

“Why can’t you go back in time?”

“Doesn’t work like that. Time likes patterns and he’s just a thread in its tapestry.”

She says that phrase a lot. Time likes patterns. They use it to explain why they live in a castle, and why they keep an abacus on her hip, and why there’s a constant ticking sound when they hang out together. Time likes patterns. Cleo uses the term when she blinks across a field, blowing monsters up left and right. Time likes patterns. He learns it’s very difficult to change the timeline in such a large way, because it’s fighting against the laws of the universe, against reality itself.

Cleo is very powerful. It’s very apparent from the spells she’s bound to her staff, and her control over time. They blink across a cave they’re exploring, blowing monsters up with ease. She’s so smart and controlled, while he’s still struggling to keep his zombies summoned for more than five minutes. And it’s apparently still not enough to bring him back, whoever he is. If Cleo cannot bring her loved one back, then Scott most certainly cannot.

It's almost a dance, he realizes. Her measured breaths before a blink up the steps, the sway of their staff before an explosion, it’s all steps to a dance. He wonders how many times she’s had to go through these motions before it became thoughtless, how many practiced explosions before it became muscle memory. He wonders if they had a teacher, or if it was simply infinite time at their fingertips, that allows them to be so powerful.

~

They try to explain time to him, one night as they lay under the stars. There was no real reason for them to be hanging out; The Water Witch had retreated and The Fire Frost Witch had disappeared. There was no real reason for them to be hanging out, except loneliness. Cleo tries to explain to him the concept of time. 

“It’s not linear.”

“Really? I thought it would be.”

“It’s really not. It’s more like- ok, so picture a tree.”

“Yep. Ok. Tree pictured.”

“Ha, ha. Right, so say the seed the tree originated from is the original timeline.”

“Original timeline?”

“Yeah. Pay attention. Anyway, when the seed grows, it spreads into shoots, right? Those are parallel timelines.”

“What? Parallel timelines?”

“Yeah. Like our timeline, but it could be either totally different, or only a singular detail changes, stuff like that. And Time Witches are born with the blessing -or curse- of experiencing some of those.”

“Like, all of them? How does that work?”

“We dream, Scott. And there are- there all these stupid voices in my head, from all the other Cleos across the multiverse.”

“So- wait, there are universes out there where we aren’t witches? We never met?”

“I’ve explained this bit before, Scott. Time likes patterns. It’s too unnatural for it to deviate from the pattern. We meet in almost every universe I’ve dreamed so far.”

“Is that why you look at me like that?”

Cleo props herself up on her elbow and turns to him. “Like what?” Scott rolls over to face them. “Like you’re grieving. Or lost. Like you loved me.” 

They look stricken, and Scott feels like he made a mistake. Oh well. “Nevermind,” he says quickly. He moves to get up, but he feels a cold hand on his forearm. 

“I did. I do. I will,” they say. “I can’t tell you much, but I can tell you that.” There’s still a look in her eyes, a secret she’s hiding. 

“Is that why you don’t like Pris, then? She betrayed you in another life?” he asks. She bites her lip. “No. She- she’s an anomaly. Or a replacement, for someone who should be here. She doesn’t- it’s not the correct thread for this pattern.” He nods, then lays back down.

“What about El, then?”

“What about her?”

“Is she an anomaly too?”

“Nope. She’s, ah, she’s connected to your thread.”

“My thread?”

“Yes, Scott. I’ve explained this bit already.” “I’m not sure you have.”

“Fine. Fine! Everyone has threads. In the great big mess that is the multiverse, it’s easier for the universe to pull people together who already have threads connected. Sometimes, those threads are frayed, so the times you cross each other are less than others.”

“So- me and Eloise-”

“Yeah. But there’s this other guy, whose thread with you is gold. That means he’s a constant, by the way.”

“Ha, ha. I figured”

“He should be here, in this universe, and yet. He’s not.”

“Ah.”

“Maybe he died already. He normally does.”

“Can I- what’s his name?”

“I’m- I don’t know if it’s wise to tell you.”

“Sure. Fine.”

~

Scott and Eloise go to Kairos for a coven meeting, but when they turn up, they find a bespectacled man on Cleo’s couch. He is, for some reason, transparent and upside down. Rainbow checkmarks form a halo around his head, which Scott takes as a sign this man is not human, and a deity of some sort.

“Um. Hello,” Eloise says. His head is starting to ache, a dull throb in the base of his skull. Scott yells up the stairs. “Cleo! Why do you have a god in your living room?”

“Howdy!,” the god says. “I’m Joe Hills, live from- actually, I’m not in Nashville Tennessee, I’m in Kairos, Witchcraft smp, which is approximately four timelines away from where I’m meant to be.” Cleo chooses this moment to walk down her stairs. 

“Joe! Stop giving the rest of my coven illegal information.” 

The man- Joe -looks offended. He rights himself on her couch. “Howdy Cleo! It’s technically not illegal to give this information if they can’t comprehend it!” 

Cleo just sighs and waves Scott and Eloise to the kitchen. “Nevermind him,” Cleo tells them. “He’s just upset that I missed Wednesday night crafts.” He glances over at Eloise, who looks like she’s going to pass out. 

“You have a god. In your living room.”

“Yeah. I do. He’s here sometimes, although he’s technically not supposed to exist on this timeline.”

“I- what? He’s what?”

“Ah, hell. I wasn’t supposed to say that. Sometimes I forget how much you’re supposed to know.”

“Wh- ok. You know what? I don’t want to know.”

Cleo shrugs, and moves to put the kettle on. Scott takes his regular spot on the counter and Eloise all but collapses onto one of the dining table chairs.

“Anyway,” Scott starts. “I wanted to begin this meeting with talking about bringing in a potential new member to the coven.” Cleo hums as she pours water into the cups that've been laid out. “Lauren right? The Sand Witch?” Joe pipes up from the living room. “I’d like a sandwich.” Electricity crackles around Scott’s ears.

“No, Joe.”

Groaning from her spot face down on the dining table, Eloise wraps her hands around her mug. “I don’t mind. It’ll be like a me situation, right? You’ll take her in and teach her.” She lifts her head up to take a sip of tea before putting it back down. Her nose wrinkles. Scott takes a sip. English Breakfast. Nice.

“Technically, Scott will teach her,” Cleo muses, drinking their tea slowly. He watches the liquid slip into her stomach. “Because he’s sponsored her.” Scott thinks about his stolen tombs and failed spells, and wonders what it would have been like to have a proper teacher. Certainly, it would have been nice to have someone guide him.

A suspicious thud from the living room halts further conversation. Eloise groans again. “Joe?” Cleo calls. There’s pressure building in Scott’s eardrums. He wonders why Cleo isn’t affected. 

Cleo places her cup down, and walks to the living room. Scott thinks maybe she might be using a time spell to move, because he feels sluggish, and his knees shake as he tries to stand up. He glances over at Eloise, whose head is tipped back and her hat is on the floor. A steady stream of blood draws a line from her nose.

“Joe?” Cleo calls again. “I remember,” Joe says, and oh, his voice is so terrible but so brilliant at the same time. It’s the words in his stolen spellbooks and it’s Milo braiding flowers in his hair, and it’s Maxwell gathering more for his hair and and it’s fresh bread with baby hand prints and it’s a first kiss in a field of lilies and it’s running from house to house and it’s hot coco in front of a fire and it’s family and it’s desperation and 

it’s a hobbit hole in a mountain, and poppies in golden hair and the smell of war and fire and stolen kisses, then it’s a house that keeps being lit on fire and a partner blessed by the moon and a magic mountain, the terror of betrayal a fire and victory, and

it’s proposing in the ocean and it’s finding a missing twin after she left and it’s fighting a demon and it’s a brother and twin gods and it’s trading and laughter and tragedy, but it’s also an agreement, a collaboration, then it’s an explosion and golden deer antlers and ice, snow and a home in the mountains and a forgotten brother and a forgotten sister and it’s withering away in a friend’s arms and a shattered crystal and a missing wife and brother in law and-

it’s the world ending and it’s flying away on wings unused for half a year and running to a dimension so cold and unforgiving and it’s the weight of the egg in a pocket as the void reaches upwards and the feeling of being together, even in the end and a ship on a doomed mission and it’s two broken promises and it’s a swirling portal and it’s fear and terror and horror and it’s walking through hell and it’s sitting in the empty for four months and it’s drifting through space and it’s staying behind and it’s finding your way home and

the love that encompasses all of it. 

Joe’s voice is a million stories at once, and Scott is brought to his knees by the weight of it.

“I remember,” Joe says again, and Eloise slumps to the floor with dull thud but neither Joe or Cleo pay her attention, because Joe is glowing neon green, his halo of check marks swirling violently around his head. There are majestic white wings on his back and the white at sign on his chest is blinding. “Joe,” Cleo starts. “Joe, what the hell are you talking about? I thought you couldn’t remember why you were in this timeline?”

It feels like there’s a mountain on top of Scott. This is Joe’s true voice, no longer held back by careful respect for mortals. “I came to warn you, Cleo. You and your friend Scott. The multiverse is upset at what you’re both trying to achieve.” And Scott might not be able to breathe, he might not be able to think straight (not that he does anything straight) but he’s pretty sure what Joe is trying to say is that the universe doesn’t want either of them to bring their respective people back. 

Cleo clenches her jaw. “You know I can’t do that Joe. Every- every other version of me gets him back! Why can’t I?” Scott is inclined to agree, thinking back to their conversation under the stars. He tastes iron on his tongue, and reaches upward to his nose. His hand comes away red. 

“Please,” Joe pleads. It’s a little silly, seeing a god plead with a mortal. The weight of his words brings Scott lower, until he’s kneeling on the floor. To his left, the blood from Eloise’s nose has slowly spread across the floor, and it’s starting to leak from her ears. 

Neither of the figures before him notice. “It’s not fair, Joe. How come, in every universe, I get to come back? In every universe, I get to come back in a rotting, dead body, and he does in every universe except this one. It’s not fair!” 

It might be Scott’s blurry vision, but he thinks Cleo is crying. They beat their fists into Joe’s chest, and he wraps her in his arms. “You’re my best friend, Cleo. In every universe. I can’t watch you hurl yourself into doom again without doing anything. I did that last time, when- I can’t do it again.” 

Scott’s definitely going to pass out. He wonders faintly whether Eloise is already dead, or if he’s hallucinating the miniscule rise and fall of her chest. He wonders when he hit the floor.

“And,” Joe adds, stroking Cleo’s fiery mane. “You have other people to live for, other than him. You live in a castle built by his hands, and you have a coven who love and respect you very much. I don’t know much, Cleo” -he puts his hands on her shoulders- “but I know they’re worth keeping. There’s a story y’all are going to write together, and you need to let him go to see it.” Joe might be crying too, or Scott is imagining the rain glitter trailing down his cheeks. 

Huh. Gods can weep. It feels surprisingly human.

“I can’t do that, Joe,” Cleo says. “I can’t leave him behind.” Scott’s eyelids are so heavy, so maybe he imagines the rush of air, and the sudden lift off pressure on his chest and being rolled gently on his back. Somewhere, in the distance, he thinks he hears Joe apologize, and maybe Cleo shouting his name, and maybe he gets lifted into kind arms. But it doesn’t really matter, because his head lolls sideways and he drifts off into unconsciousness. 

~

The space beside him is cold. He knows Milo gets up early to bake bread, but it seems Maxwell got up with him. Scott tugs the covers around him, but he can’t get back to sleep, so he gets up. 

It’s chilly this morning. Winter is on its way, but Autumn’s golden touch is still cradling the world outside. Scott wraps his robes around him as he makes his way down the hall to their kitchen. He can’t smell any coffee brewing, or bread baking, but it’s probably because his nose is a bit blocked. The cold weather tends to do that.

The floorboards creak under his steps. He should really get that fixed. Anyway. Anyway.

He enters the kitchen. Maxwell is coloring something on the island countertop, sitting on one of their stools. Milo has his back to him, kneading some bread. Scott sneaks behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and burying his nose in his neck. 

“Morning, Petal,” he murmurs. “Lily!” Milo laughs. “You’re going to make me mess up this batch!” He feels a tug on his arm. Maxwell is at his elbow, holding up a drawing of a lily of the valley. “Papa!” he signs. “Look what I drew!” Scott takes the drawing and leaves Milo to his bread. “Wow!” he signs back. “It looks so good!” And it does. Maxwell is only six, but already displays an amazing talent for art. There are art supplies all over the house, from paint in the living room to clay in the kitchen.

“Do you want pancakes for breakfast, Maxwell?” he signs. He giggles, and puts the paper on the countertop behind him. “Only if you let me pour syrup all over them.” Scott giggles too, and lifts him up to sit on the counter. 

He reaches up to the cabinets to grab the sugar, and steals the flour off Milo. He bumps their hips together, and Milo sticks his tongue out. Maxwell already has a bowl in his lap, somehow. “Two cups of flour,” Scott signs. They take the cup and carefully fill and level it out. Maxwell takes a pinch and flicks it on his father, before giggling. Scott gasps, and takes a pinch to flick back, laughing hard.

“What are you two giggling about, hmm? Plotting a syrupy mess?” Milo turns around in time to catch Maxwell throwing some flour on Scott. They both freeze, eyes widening. Time pauses as Milo takes in the flour in both of their hairs, and all over the countertop. His lips part in a wide grin as he reaches into the bowl and throws flour on the both of them. Maxwell squeals and spreads a handful of white powder across his parents, then grabs a bowl to shield himself. 

This is perfect. Scott could stay here forever.

He hears a clang, then the rim of the bowl spinning on the floor. Milo and Maxwell are frozen in place, grins slipping away. It’s suddenly so much colder. “Lily?” Scott says, reaching for his hand. It’s freezing. He can see his breath in front of him. 

“Scott.” It’s terrible, how his voice breaks a dam in Scott’s chest. It’s terrible, how his words echo into the empty recesses of his mind. It’s terrible, how he wants it to never end. “Scott.” He reaches a hand to cup Scott’s cheek. Scott leans into the touch. 

“I’m dead.” 

“You are. I miss you.”

“I miss you too. I’m dead, though. Your heart still beats.”

“It does. I’m not sure it’s worth it without you. I’m struggling to find a different reason to keep living.”

“I love you. I love you so, so much.”

“I-” Scott feels like sobbing “-I love you too. My heart will keep beating. I’m working to get your one beating as well.”

“If you feel like you need to, go ahead. I can’t stop you. You just need to remember-” he presses a cold palm against Scott’s heart “-you have other people to live for. There are other people you can love.”

“Alright. I miss you.”

~

He sits up with a gasp, and immediately regrets it. There’s definitely something broken in his chest. Ouch. What the hell happened? He glances around the room. It appears to be one of the many rooms in Kairos’ infinite halls, decorated with gears and flowers. Scott staggers out of the very comfortable bed, and to the door that leads out to the corridor. He glances left and sees Cleo making their way down the hall. “Hey,” he says. They give him a tired grin, and hurry over to help him down the hall. “Hey,” they reply. Joe is nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” he asks, as they make their way down stairs. Cleo helps him sit at a chair, because his legs are still jelly, and he valiantly ignores the way her grip trembles when he asks. 

“I made a mistake,” she says. “I shouldn’t have let you and El come over when he was here.” He reaches across the table to place his hand of theirs. “You couldn’t have known.” She grits her teeth. “I could’ve! I have infinite wisdom across the multiverse, and these ridiculous Other-Cleos in my head, so I should have known. I should have known.” They clench their fist. “And now El is still passed out, your internal organs are terribly damaged, and my ribs have cracks which are going to take weeks to repair.”

Scott glances down at her exposed bones. Hairline fractures stem out from her sternum in a web-like shape. The most serious fractures appear to come from her heart. He reaches a hand towards it. “May I?” he asks. They nod, and he presses a hand on her chest and pushes the bones to heal, to bind together, like if he was raising a skeleton. Slowly, the fractures melt away, and Scott’s head feels like it’s going to explode. He brings his hand to his temple and tries to rub the pain away. 

“Oh-” they say, getting up. “You probably shouldn’t do magic for a while. I’ll make you some tea to get your mana back.” They make their way to the kitchen and grab a tea bag from their cupboards. The box they grab it from says Green Tea. It is definitely not green. He notices them put a pinch of dried berries in a cup before she puts the kettle on.

“Who did you see?” they ask abruptly. Scott startles. “While you were passed out,” they clarify. He swallows. His throat is sore. “My husband,” he says. “And my son.” They nod. “I saw my good friend, the first time,” they say. “It never gets easier. Joe doesn’t really know the meaning of limits. He doesn’t get missing someone, because as far as he’s concerned, no one ever dies. If their story never dies, neither do they.” She smiles ruefully at him. It comes out a little more like a grimace. 

They bring a cup over to him. “I think mortality is a foreign concept to a god,” Scott says, wrapping his hands around the mug. “Perhaps,” she says. Another one of her minute expressions flashes across her face. Scott tries to interpret what it means. He winces. His head hurts.

“Stay the night,” Cleo says. “Or maybe the next couple of days. Just so I can keep an eye on you.” They get up. “I’m going to check on Eloise. There’s fish in the furnace if you’re hungry.”

Scott is left in the dining room, a cup of tea cooling in his hands and a feeling that might be grief or something entirely new.

~

“-nobody?” Scott stops his hand before it touches the door. He was going to knock and ask what Eloise wanted for dinner, but Cleo’s voice had rung out instead. They’re probably talking about something private. He is kind of curious though, so he stands there awkwardly and prays no one catches him eavesdropping. Eloise coughs. “I’ve always been alone, you know? Just me, my magic and my cameras.”

”So that’s the deal with the floating cameras?” Cleo asks. “Ehm,” he hears Eloise reply. “I don’t actually know where they came from, erm, they just float around. I think it's a part of my illusion magic. The people enjoy them though.”

Interesting. Who are the people? There isn’t really anyone else in this area, or this world that Scott is aware of. “Who are the people?” Cleo asks. “You know,” Eloise replies. “The people.” A pause. “No,” Cleo says. “I don’t know the people.” Eloise coughs. And coughs again. Scott hears Cleo pass a cup to her, and El’s murmured thanks. 

“We’re telling a story,” she explains, voice hoarse. “All of this is a story. And in order for a story to be told…” Scott’s hands still from where they’ve been fiddling with his robe. “...there needs to be an audience,” Cleo finishes inside. 

Eloise coughs again. “You do know the people,” she remarks . “I have a friend,” Cleo murmurs. “El, what happens when the story is over? What happens when there’s no one left to watch?” He grips his robes so hard his knuckles turn white. “When it’s over, we’ll keep going. Tell another story.” She pauses. “As long as there is someone to tell it, as long as there is someone to listen, the story will never end.”

There’s no more sounds on the other side of the door, except coughing that eventually dies away. Scott places his hand on the door knob and turns it, opening to reveal Cleo pulling the sheets up on a sleeping Eloise. He spots a floating camera facing out the window.

“Hi,” he whispers. El’s face is so pale. There’s a handkerchief soaked with blood on the bedside table. “Hey,” Cleo whispers back. They sit down in the chair next to the bed and leans back, exhausted. “I don’t know she was so affected,” she tells Scott. 

He thinks about her rotting skin, and he thinks about his still heart, and he doesn’t know, but he has a theory. He kneels beside her chair, and puts his hand on top of hers. “I think, maybe, she’s a little more alive than us,” he confesses.  

They glance sharply up at him. Slowly, they reach a hand up to his temple, and brushes his hair to the side. He knows what she sees, because he sees it in the mirror every morning. The skin at his hairline is turning green, his eyes are slowly losing his color, and his face is becoming paler and paler everyday.

“Oh,” she says. “Yeah,” Scott agrees.

~

Eloise keeps smiling. Scott’s not against that; he’s a pretty cheerful guy himself. But she keeps glancing up from her soup and smiling, which is pretty weird. (He’s not sure he can judge. He lives in a goth version of his dead husband’s dream house, and survived a god using his true voice. This is pretty normal, all things considered.) Anyway. Anyway. She keeps smiling.

He frowns in her general direction. “What?” she grins. “You’re smiling,” Scott says. “It’s weird.” She scoffs. Cleo takes a quick sip of water. “It’s just smiling, Scott,” Eloise replies. He waves his hand around. “It’s weird.” She sticks her tongue out at him. He kicks her under the table. She kicks him back.

“Children,” Cleo says, brandishing her fork. “No fighting at the dining table, please.” Eloise goes bright red, and Scott can feel similar heat rising in his cheeks. “Sorry Cleo,” he says. “Sorry Cleo,” El echoes, burying her grin in a spoonful of soup.

Cleo smirks, bringing her bowl up to drink the rest of her soup. “I had a sudden sense of deja vu just then,” they say. “Must be a Time Witch thing,” Scott replies, lifting his bowl to do the same. “Maybe,” they say. “Maybe.”

“Thank you, by the way,” Eloise half-whispers. “For eating with me.” She smiles shyly down at her bowl. “It’s been a long time since I’ve shared a meal with anyone.” Scott stares down at his empty bowl, and his pale hands either side of it. He can’t remember the last time he had a warm meal with anyone either.

Cleo reaches over and places their hand over hers. “Of course. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I ate something that wasn’t just toast.” A tear plops into Scott’s bowl. He scrubs his face. “Aw, Scott,” Cleo says. More tears flow out of his eyes. They come around the table and tenderly wrap their arms around him.

“Thank you,” he whispers, in a quiet, watery voice. “Thank you for sharing this meal with me.” Eloise comes around too, and Scott is buried under two powerful witches and feels very, very warm.

~

Scott is baking bread. It’s not something he does often, or well, but Cleo had run out within a week of feeding three times the normal amount of people in their castle, so really, he’s doing them all a favor.

Cleo and Eloise are outside, practicing hex casting on some poor rocks. The occasional explosions rattle the windows, but for the most part, he’s mostly left alone.

He’s got water warming up on the furnace behind him, and yeast and sugar carefully measured out in a bowl. Carefully, he tests the water with his finger, and pours it slowly on the sugar and yeast. Scott covers it with a tea plate, before turning to measure out the flour and salt in a separate bowl.

Five minutes for the yeast, he remembers Milo saying. It should be foamed up with a solid cover when it’s activated. Don’t heat the water too much! Otherwise it’ll kill the yeast. Scott lifts the plate off the bowl, and frowns. The liquid in the bowl is brown, and the only hint of foam are the miniscule bubbles around the edge. The water was too warm. He’s killed the yeast.

He tries again. Yeast, sugar. Water that is barely warmer than his hand. Cover it with a tea plate. Check it again. It’s still flat, with no foam forming on top. Scott stares at it. He’s killed it again. This time, he doesn’t think it’s the water. No, he thinks it’s-

The door slams open. “Hi Scott!” Eloise yells as she bursts through the door. He yelps, dropping the dead yeast mixture on the floor. “Watcha doin’?” Scott grabs a cloth and soaks the concoction on the floor. “Cleaning up the botched yeast mixture. I’m trying to make bread,” he grumbles. 

“Oh,” El says, crouching down. “Can I help?” Scott blinks at her. “Sure,” he says at last. “Can you measure out the yeast and sugar? Two tablespoons of each.” Cleo walks in as he finishes mopping the last of the failed batch.

“Cleo!” he shouts. “Just in time. Come and warm up some water.” She starts protesting as he takes their hand and shoves a pot of cool water in it. “Scott! I’m holding my-” her broom drops to the floor with a clatter, and Scott just giggles cheekily.

They let it sit for five minutes (Scott suspects Cleo sped time up a little bit, if only to change her robes from the dusty ones they’re currently wearing) and when they take the lid off, Scott is delighted to see the soft shell of foam rising.

“What next, Scott?” El asks. “Yes, oh Great Baker Scott,” Cleo adds. “What next?” He flicks some flour onto their hat. They squawk indignantly, dusting it off. Cleo sniffs, and places it on the table behind him. “Now,” Scott says. “Pass that bowl of flour…”

~

(Later, Scott will win the title of Supreme. He’ll stand in a circle and sacrifice his power to bring back a man with a scratchy beard and baker’s hands. The crown will lie abandoned on the ground. 

Later, Scott will bring Milo around to his house. He’ll pick Maxwell up from where he’s been living with Scott’s brother in the mountains far away. They’ll bake bread and cook pancakes and Maxwell will grow up to be the most amazing artist the world has ever seen. 

Later, they’ll take in Lauren, and she’ll be part of the family. She’ll enjoy pranking Scott so much, and she’ll have a home. Her flowing peanut butter and jelly hair will be so popular with Maxwell, though he is no longer five, he loves the novelty nevertheless.

Later, they’ll own a house on a beach, close to a village, and far away from the eight towers around a scuffed center. Lauren will learn she likes to drink Jasmine tea and Maxwell will learn he likes to paint with Jasmine tea, and Milo will learn he likes to have a loaf of fresh Jasmine bread for their visitors. Their spare rooms upstairs are hardly ever empty.

Later, Cleo will stand in a circle of sigils and give up her time magic. They’ll drink the poison potion and eat the apple, and scream so, so loud. Their skin will turn from rotting green to a paler, alive shade, and their eyes will shine like emeralds with tears. She will cry, because her head is finally, finally, quiet. 

Later, they’ll take a bouquet of flowers to a grave so old, the name carved into the stone has been weathered away. She’ll cry, apologize, and leave the flowers there. Cleo will open a flower shop, and make a living selling and repairing clocks. 

Later, instead of painting sigils and carving hexes, they’ll spend their spare time painting sunsets and carving statues. Instead of spending time trying to pull the strings of the universe, they’ll pull the strings of a loom they are teaching their nephew-by-coven to use. Her apartment above the flower shop is always open to her family.

Later, Eloise will start her gameshow. It rockets in popularity, soaring to number one in the charts. She enjoys the enormous amounts of attention it gets her, viewer counts leaping to first, and the Witch Products sponsorships. Even at the Witch Awards, she was asked to present the prizes.

Later, there will be a place set for her at the table for dinner every night. She’ll try every food under the sun, and bring home her absolute favorites. Even though she’s not good at it, she loves trying to help Milo cook new dishes, whenever she comes home for supper.

Later, she will have a room that belongs to her, in a house that is always open to her, and a family that loves her. She won’t have an empty cavity in her chest where love should be, because she’s filled her life with enough people who care to fill the hole.

But all this happens later, in a future Scott cannot see. The branches of time never make themselves known to him, and he never sees what could have happened.

All this happens later, when the grief is not so fresh. All this happens later, when they know how to work as a group, to love like a family. All this happens later, in a future hidden from even the Witch of Time.

In this moment, on this spot in the branch, they stay in a castle where the air is thick with time and a god begged his friend to save herself. In this moment, on their spot in the branch, Scott bakes bread for breakfast with dying yeast, and Cleo teaches Eloise hexcasting and Eloise teaches them both how to care.)

(Somewhere, beyond the page, beyond the screen, beyond the fourth wall, a man with neon green glasses smiles.)

¤¤¤¤¤

Howdy! Thank y'all for reading!

This has been a monster project, the longest thing I've written as of today. Just over six thousand words!

Anyway, this is my notice that I will be participating in the Guess the Author event. Can you guess which one is mine?

As always, reblogs and comments are appreciated!

See you next time, folks.

[pestilentbrood]

Very Brief Clans Overview

Figured I should have a sooort of explanation post so people don't get too lost regarding lore things, especially because I hope to actually draw out more Lore Important Things at some point or another hehe.

This is just a quick breakdown of each clan in development so far. The titles of each will have a link to their tag on my blog if you'd like to view posts pertaining to That Clan!

Starting, of course, with:

The Incompetence

Nestled in a gorge along the Scarred Wastelands' shores, the Incompetence is a ragtag bunch of losers led by an arrogant fae named Patience. Said fae is hellbent on the idea of Fate, claiming he is the universe's specialiest boy of all time, and any that follow him are special as well. The dragons who come here do so under the assumption they are not fit to survive in the Wastelands' treacherous landscape. They are the weak, old, and battered. Surely they are not meant to see another day in this cruel existence, and they will die solemn, bitter, and alone. ...But due to some miracle, they've all gone on to live peacefully here. Together. Alive.

Perhaps there is something to our wacky leader's obsession with Fate...

[many more clans below!]

The Loyalty

And these are the antagonists.

The Loyalty is an old clan with a history spanning back centuries. Born out of nothing but unadulterated respect and servitude to the Plaguebringer, the Loyalty is a ruthless place that has only worsened over time, and any who disrespect them will meet the cruelest of punishments.

While originally a respectable bunch, the lot has grown merciless over the past few decades, with worse and worse dragons taking the mantle of leader. Our current leader is Cletus, a vindictive aberration dead set on making the Loyalty as vicious as possible.

All I'm saying is, steer clear of the Wyrmwound. There are beasts under there.

Wandering Threads

The Threads are a traveling group of veilspun led by Nootka. The swarm acts as one massive family, both literally and metaphorically (because nearly everyone involved is part of a big polygamous relationship), and honestly they're just having a great time.

Well, like, save for one horrible encounter with the Loyalty that happened recently. But don't worry about it.

Shadows of Doubt

You wanna commit thievery and have it go so wrong we start replacing our blood with liquid gold? Well come on over to the Foxfire Brambles and join us Shadows! ...Uh. I mean. Actually, don't worry about the liquid gold blood thing. Only Penumbra did that. Gloom, the other leader, is very normal in comparison. And disregard the infestation of bug fae. We're pretty normal here.

We just like to commit theft for these two silly siblings. Don't even worry about it.

Acolytes of the Arcanist

A mad-scientist prophet in the Starwood Strand has decided that the Arcanist's goals of reaching the heavens and controlling the universe sound really great, actually! Why don't we do that together? Through the limitless bounds of science, we will reach the stars and own them ourselves.

And won't you join us? The stars in your wings shine so... beautifully... :)

[REDACTED]

Everyone in this clan is canonically dead by the present day. All you need to know about it is that we tried so hard, and got so far. But in the end, it didn't even matter. Arcane and Light just can't get along for more than two minutes.

(we started a civil war not clickbait gone wrong. etc.)

The Adherence

Nolan is NOT the leader of the Adherence. I just don't have the leader(s) yet. So for now he's representing this place. Which is fitting enough, honestly.

The Adherence is a city of pearlcatchers that is currently flourishing somewhere in the Sunbeam Ruins. Don't ask me where, exactly. I just know it's in there. They run a very strict society where only light-inborn pearlcatchers can garner any amount of respect. Should you be born of a different flight, or worse, a different breed... You may come in, but you'll get a lot of scorn for it.

Unless you're an imperial. Then you're out of luck. Except for this really nice, not at all suspicious guy named Nolan who is offering you a peaceful sanctuary if you'll just follow him this way.

Excessive Library Damage

Ok, that's not the name of the clan. It just doesn't really have a name. Not yet.

Anyway, this is a crew of Aethers that crash-landed into the Wastelands, managing to break right through the surface of Sornieth's soil and into an ancient, abandoned library. Likely filled to the brim with incredible history of Sornieth that has been long since forgotten. And countless priceless artifacts.

...Oh. Nevermind. Oh, it's... it's all gone.

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

SMALL GROUPS WHO AREN'T REALLY FULL-FLEDGED CLANS (YET, IN SOME CASES) BUT ARE STILL WORTH MENTIONING:

Twisted Waters

A pirate dies. Then she un-dies. It turns out the eldritch creature in the ocean, who is interested primarily in spiting her husband, has chosen this pirate to become queen of an underwater kingdom. And that pirate MUST get EVERYONE in the kingdom to love the eldritch beast unconditionally.

Because while the Tidelord may have abandoned you, Twist never will <3

Snow Shower Town

There's like multiple different plots happening here. But what's important is that this is MOSTLY based in a small town within the Icefields, wherein a bunch of dragons of varying flights are chilling and hanging out while trying not to die in the regular blizzards.

Also there's like. An ice witch nearby, but you can ignore her, she's totally not important.

William's Day Out

AHH. The Horrors...

William is a normal guy. The haunted baby is a normal baby. Lutka is a normal guy. The four siblings are all normal. Don't worry about it. STAY FAR AWAY FROM THE WISPWILLOW GROVE. I mean what who said that

Girl's Night

Hey, what happens in girls night stays in girls night, okay?

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

EXTRAS

Out in the Worldedge Wetlands there's a very sad old man and an old woman who goes "take better care of yourself, old man" and he goes "no i'm depressed." There are vaguely understood nature clan(s?) nearby.

I have in mind a group of Coatls who live in the shadow territory somewhere, but it's VERY loosely defined.

Freaky undead thing hanging out in the rubble of the Hewn City is freaky and undead (NOT an emperor this time)

There's a wanted criminal wandering around in the wastelands but you can ignore him. The person who matters is the Woman he has convinced to join his cause and has since begun eating people

And that's all for now! check back for inevitably 1 million updates.

[reginrokkr]

Itty bitty rant under cut about the last AQ + mentions of Furina's miscellany under cut to prevent your eyes from spoilers!

✦ It isn't anything new to keep seeing details about what Dain says, but during my gameplay of the AQ I felt the chills of how foreboding he can be the most (even more so than in Yelan's miscellany, where the mfer was literally foreboding what was bound to happen in the Interlude AQ with all the mess within the bed of the Chasm). For reference, I'll quote verbatim something he says in the Fontaine section of the Travail trailer:

The God of Justice lives for the spectacle of the courtroom, seeking to judge all other gods. But even she knows not to make an enemy of the divine.

At a simple glance, this could be simply interpreted as Dain knowing about her persona thriving for the dramatics as part of what people expect of a god as well as one of the final quotes she says at the end of her introduction as the following Hydro Archon in Fontaine (this too makes me rise a brow like hello, you were alive 500 years ago too sir and pretty lost looking for your destiny, so how in the world). It's the second part of his quote in the trailer that gave me chills the most, and it's because considering how impenetrable Furina's resolve is to go on with her role to cover Focalors's plan to deceive the Heavenly Principles, just how intimate that moment inside the mysterious box of a house in Poisson with the Traveler was, that he would quote verbatim not to make an enemy of the divine. I already thought that the fact that he knows about what Morax did considering that he's keeping the secret under wraps for nearly everyone except for those he wants was big enough, but seeing this playing out in the AQ with Furina as well left a huge impression in me.

✧ Related to the previous point, this time about Furina's miscellany. Since I watched it before playing the AQ, what he had to say felt kind of underwhelming to me considering the ticking lore bomb he is no matter if in miscellanies or the quests he participates. But man, once again, him and his freakin' foreboding words had me rolling on the floor. Specially what concerns that moment in the mirror and also the special attention he paid about talking about how actors operate and not only describing what she's been doing, but also foreboding that she wouldn't just see "herself" in the mirror and that he was wondering what (cryptid mfer :|).

✦ In a more serious tone, I have to revisit all the screens I did of the conversation with Nicole and Mona. Specially the latter with the Visionary talk. Even though Skirk mentioned someone else by a different name (unless Dain is known by that name also, which I highly doubt unless we see more people knowing him and remembering him other than the first Pari), I think that the Travail trailer in itself could check the boxes as Dain being one and no different than a prophet even though most likely than not he doesn't consider him so. It's also pretty intriguing to me that not only he was once lost in terms of his own destiny and he can foresee things to happen in the future (referencing Travail again, that would make it close to four years since Traveler's journey started, potentially more as things continue to follow the course of what he said there + his foreboding speeches in various miscellanies), but the fact that he's seeking to reject this world (probably the order of the Seven) with a "power from beyond" and also the fact that he seems to be tied as a guardian to one final door to re-weave all threads of fate. Considering how cruel fate can be, specially after playing this AQ and seeing things like "what Celestia wants, Celestia gets", I think these points are huge for him and I seriously can't wait to see more.

✧ Following the mention of the previous point, the allusion to a "power from beyond" Skirk made as that upping the likelihood of defeating Narwhal (despite how strong Neuvillette is, let's not forget that he's a being of the Light Realm and dragons, as well as everyone else too, are highly vulnerable to the defilement / abyssal energy / Forbidden Knowledge so I think that there is a special merit to him too if he were to fight the Narwhal on his own and not with the Traveler + there is also the fact that Childe has been fighting it before) and that this would deserve a token of recognition from her. Granted that Dain is a user of this power, it's interesting to see that someone like her in terms of strength and even knowledge would see him as an equal.

I probably have more to say but this is what came to me the earliest to talk about that is more related to Dain one way or another. I'll make more posts in the future as it goes.

[tiedyexuxi]

between the lines. [part one of two.]

yooha x fem!reader.

a/n: my dislike of the Taehee bias in-game makes itself pretty prevalent here, so if you don't like some mild Taehee bashing then don't read. The second part will be NSFW. ♡ Enjoy!

PART ONE. [SFW]

YOUR PINKIE DIDN'T ache for Taehee anymore. It took you a while to realize it, being around him as often as you were, of course; you never attributed the shift because where Yooha was, Taehee was somewhere nearby always monopolizing your attention from even the smallest of things.

You had, at first, liked the monopolization. It was something to keep your mind off of your mom, off of the situation you had landed yourself in by some foolish childish promise you had made that you barely even remembered. It was a distraction--Taehee was a distraction.

So whenever Yooha was jealous or hurt over the eldest goblin, you didn't notice. You were so wrapped up in Taehee, and Hansol and Biho, that somehow, he fell to the wayside despite most of your days being spent with him at shoots or meetings. So close, and yet the distance between the both of you was so far that you only noticed it when it was a gaping chasm filled with cold shoulders, stiff silences, and not-quite-sincere smiles.

And then, slowly, like petals upon fresh grass, your fondness for Taehee started to wither. Or rather, the fate that had tied you to him had started to fade completely and Yooha was becoming an unusually common centerpiece in your thoughts and dreams. Dreams that not even Biho could stop, evidenced by the peculiar look on his face every time you woke up in the morning for breakfast.

You barely even noticed when you stopped rubbing your pinkie in his presence. You were sure he noticed, looking back on it, blue eyes noticing as you shoved your hands in your short pockets more often, or twisting them behind your back as you spoke, but never in that anxious, almost nervous habit that helped the ache in your finger and your nerves. He never said anything about it, but his actions spoke for him; he watched you more closely, after that, seeing which goblin it was that made your finger hurt and not him.

It was none of them, as it turned out.

Over the past weeks or so that you had been coming to terms with your lack of fondness for Taehee, Yooha had been a ghost--at home, at least. He would engage in light banter with you at work when you crossed paths, would do the shoots with you whenever your managers choreographed them in, but past that, you never saw him. You would catch glimpses of him here and there: a tuft of silver hair vanishing into his room; a tail waving as he spoke to Hansol; his blue shirt fluttering in the breeze as he left the cafe you had just sat down in...

Even though you could have called his name and forced him to come to you, you didn't. You hesitated instead, knowing deep down that if he was avoiding you, it had to be because of something you did--you had gone out of your way just to catch those small glimpses of him. He was hard to find when he didn't want to be, and when it was you, it was... painful.

The dull throb in your finger, late at night, reminded you of it. It even kept you awake, sometimes. But you couldn't resist it.

It was why you were awake, now, at two in the morning. The goblins all were asleep; you had checked. Yooha was conspicuously absent, likely doing anything but coming home, and usually that meant he was busy with work of some kind.

But you couldn't wait. This had been eating at you since you had noticed it.

"Yooha."

There was the familiar rush of cool, calming magic. And then he was there, a warm weight resting against your back in your bed, arm closing around your waist to hold you there.

He was quiet, for a moment, silently pondering. You could almost hear the gears whirring inside his head. And then, carefully, he lowered his head down to your pillow. He waited for you to push him away, evident by the way he tensed up, but you didn't--you didn't have the heart to fight him off anymore.

Not with your fate tied to him so thoroughly that not even a goblin could break it.

"You called?" Yooha kept his voice to a whisper, wary of Taehee's keen hearing, but you detected the edge in his tone. He was still... off. Angry, perhaps.

"I did." You reached down and linked his fingers with yours. There was a quiet little inhale of surprise right next to your ear. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" You wished you could roll over and look at him. "Calling me here?"

There was a bitter thread in his voice. You could read between the lines: 'Calling me here... and not Taehee.'

His jealousy for the goblin ran deep, almost as deep as his feelings for you, you would wager. At first his feelings had been nothing more than something to irritate Taehee with, you knew that now. But it had turned into something genuine somewhere along the line. Sometime when your thread had moved down the list.

Sometime when you had, somehow, started feeling the same.

"No." You took a deep, shaky breath. "I... I'm sorry for not telling you that... that my thread of fate has moved to you."

He was so silent that for a moment you thought he had left, if his fingers still weren't laced with yours. Then, so quiet that his whisper was a breath against your shoulder, he said,"I know."

"You knew?"

"I can see it. It's faint, but it's there. I honestly didn't think you would notice it."

Again, more reading between the lines: 'Because you were so wrapped up in Tahee'.

"Why didn't you...?"

"Say anything?" He laughed and you couldn't help the goosebumps that erupted over your skin. "Taehee would have killed me ten times over if I did. You would have let him. So I distanced myself."

"I wouldn't have," you argued.

"You would have, you know you would." Yooha's nose drew a line down the bare flesh of your throat. His lips followed, barely a brush of air. "You would have let self sacrificing, sad, guilty Taehee tear me to ribbons and you wouldn't have made a sound."

"Don't make assumptions for me."

"They're not assumptions when they're true, [Name]."

Your name. Not 'master'; your actual name. And his voice was hard, sharp, laced with an edge meant to cut, to hurt, to maim. And once upon a time, he might have been right; you might have let Taehee get rid of him, once, but now it was different. It had changed.

Your feelings had changed.

"Yooha." You turned over to face him, almost shocked when your nose brushed his. You were so close that you could see the individual flecks of iridescent silver in his eyes. He could see you far better than you could see him with those fox eyes, an unusual green reflection in them from the moonlight. "That's not true."

"Sure it isn't." His fingers tightened against yours. "What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"I can't keep doing this with you." Yooha's eyes were practically slits. "I can't keep wanting your love, watching you fawn over Taehee, and completely reject me as an option. You won't even accept me as a friend. Just someone who lives here, happens to be bound to you, and comes when called."

You could read between the lines there, too: 'Like your pet.'

"You don't have to." You watched his eyes widen slightly as you reached up to gently brush strands of hair from his face, as soft as his fur. His tails paused in their rioting behind him, frozen in time. "Not anymore."

"You're lying." His tone said he wanted to believe.

"No, I'm not." And with nothing else to say, you kissed him.

His lips were impossibly soft, softer than you had imagined. When you pulled away, his eyes were wide, pupils blown out to cover his iris. Before you could even try to speak, he was dragging you on top of him and crushing your body to his like his life depended on it. You settled into him, two pieces of a puzzle fit perfectly together, and when your lips met again, your finger burned as if someone had set it on fire.

And then, blissful numbness.