#the autumn of the world... before it succumbs to winter (the pale).....

[57sfinest]

autumn and memory in disco elysium

[kohakuarisaka]

Untamed (chapter 4 of 5)

Takami Keigo x (fem!)Reader

[ SUMMARY ] Every year, without fail, Hawks went into a rut: when autumn began, and then again in early spring. He would honker down up north in a secluded cabin. For the first time, he brought you with him.

[ WARNINGS ] R18+ for graphic sexual content and language. Non-canon compliant: Hawks’ quirk does not work like this. Reader is a hero that works at Hawks agency. Pre-existing relationship. Reader is a female with female genitalia. Feral behavior. Rutting. Biting. Spanking. Slight BDSM. Consensual sex. Wing kink. Oral sex. Romantic relationship.

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

[ My BNHA Fanfic Masterlist ] ~ [ Also on my AO3 ]

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Hawks had gone on an early morning flight the following day, before you had stirred from sleep, leaving you alone in the cabin for the first time.

He was reaching the apex of his rut. The cabin was beginning to feel like the inside of an oven. That was great for keeping his mate warm, but not so great for him in his current state, where he felt like he was roasting alive.

Outside, the winds were cold, almost punishingly so. Under normal conditions, he would have been wrapped up in his fur coat. However, now, he was wearing a loose T-shirt more suited for summer, baggy cargo pants and military boots.

He took off into the sky, soaring at great speeds that would make him near impossible to see with the naked eye, assuming anyone was actually around to spot him in the first place.

He'd soar up high, then let himself descend in a tumbling spiral, then catch his fall above the trees and rocket between the branches, sometimes letting the bottoms of his boots skim the trees to shake the snow off.

He always loved the feeling of the wind through his feathers; but, the sensation was more intense during his rut. While pain receptors didn't exist in his feathers in the same manner as his flesh and bones, he could still process feeling.

During his rut, feeling was intensified in his wings. He almost thought he could breathe the air through his feathers. Perhaps, it was why he felt so unbearably warm, why your touch had reduced him to a blabbering animal.

It was difficult to resist the desire to bring you with him on his flights, to hold you against his chest and feel your body clinging to him while he descended.

It was exciting to think about what kind of noises you would make. He hoped that you would find it exhilarating. He wanted to feel your heartbeat thundering away from the rush, to see red tinting your cheeks and tears in your eyes.

Instead, Hawks floated alone and let the late winter air bite away at his skin while the winds brushed along his feathers. It was soothing more so than chilling. Despite how unfitting his clothes was for the weather, not even the tips of his fingers felt cold.

The winter breeze had relaxed him, but not for long. Despite the obvious chill in the air, Hawks was still sporting a painful erection. He avoided touching it, knowing full well that masturbation was pointless. Enduring this alone for years taught him that it would likely only irritate him further.

You were here, you were safe, you were his, you wanted to be here, you wanted him. Your scent was all over the nest and his bite mark was a heavy eyesore on your throat. There wasn't another human for miles. But, despite the obvious fact that there was no reason for him to feel uneasy, his nature wouldn't allow him to rest.

His rational side wanted to let you relax, to give you some reprieve from him, from what he did to you and intended to do again. The beast, however, clawing under his skin, wanted to have you again.

Hawks flew some, and then some more, letting time slip away, until he was agitated to the point that his hands were digging into his outer thighs, nails threatening to rip his clothes.

Snow began to fall on his way back to the cabin, and the gentle wind hurled it to and fro. He could feel the soft droplets fluttering against his skin. The snow felt cold, of course, but he didn't really process it. All he could think about was getting back to you.

When he crossed the threshold, it was like entering another world. The outside whistled with the harsh wind and kicked snow inside, suddenly silenced when he slammed the door. He felt the sudden security of being in his nest, enclosed, private, safe, where it smelt like freshly cut logs and you.

As Hawks stepped into the living room, he realized that you had migrated away from the bed, likely due to the cold. You had brought some blankets and pillows over and haphazardly arranged them in front of the fireplace. You had even dug a rolled-up futon out of the supply closet to pile the bedding on top of. He had forgotten that was even in there.

His boots thumped against the wood floor as he walked, catching your attention. You peered up at him, your eyes failing to mask your excitement at his return.

At a glance, Hawks could see that you had showered while he was away. Your hair was clean, just a tiny bit damp at the ends. As he got closer, he could faintly catch a whiff of the well water that fed into to the cabin lingering on your skin.

It was only natural that you would want to clean off after what he had done to you the past couple days. Hawks was well aware of that and was trying to remain calm about the whole situation; but, the truth was, he was annoyed by your actions.

You had washed him away.

Of course, that could easily be remedied.

Hawks advanced towards you, mindful to not step on the blankets with his boots, to not dirty the nest you made. He lowered onto his haunches first, taking in the sight of you, the sight of the bedding you had arranged without him. You had slipped on one of his shirts and a pair of shorts, not suitable for the weather, but suitable for him. Like this, your body was very accessible, that much was certain.

"I made breakfast, if you're hungry?" you offered, clearly not at all perturbed by his looming and staring. He didn't look annoyed, but oddly intrigued, maybe even flattered by your behavior.

"You have snow in your hair," you observed, smiling at the sight of pale white crystals caught in his blonde locks. You leaned up and reached for him, carefully tousling his hair to shake the snow free.

He waited until you were done preening him and suddenly jerked forward, pushing you onto your back with his torso. He followed with you, knees pinning you beneath him, one falling between your thighs.

When you peered up at him, unperturbed by his behavior, Hawks' gold eyes narrowed and his fangs bared. A sound that you didn't know he was capable of making snarled from behind his teeth and echoed around the room.

It was a growl, not like anything you had heard from a dog, or any animal, really. You didn't know that he could make noises like that. It seemed unfitting for the calm, polite hero that you knew so well. Then again, he had warned you about this.

Maybe, this whole experience was doing something to you, changing you; or, more likely, he was helping you discover things about yourself you never knew existed.

The growl didn't frighten you at all. It made you tremble with excitement, made your skin prickle with goosebumps and heart flutter, made wetness pool between your legs.

Spurred on by him, maybe wanting to rattle the beast's cage a little, you decided to be daring. You lifted a leg, pressed your foot against his chest, and pushed against him. Of course, he didn't budge at all. He was much stronger than you normally, and especially unwavering in this state of mind.

"Take off your clothes," you requested, trying your damn best to sound powerful, unyielding. You sounded firm, sure, but you didn't sound as strong as you wanted to, maybe not strong enough to coerce a beast.

Yet, Hawks' gaze softened, surprising you. He had told you he wanted you to be yourself, to not succumb to his every emotion. It kept him grounded, reminded him that you were here of your own free will, because you wanted to be. Your demand sobered him.

"Whatever you want," he uttered, sultry and low, and it made you tremble with excited goosebumps.

He leaned back, rising to his feet, and began shucking off his clothes in record time. His boots hit the floor noisily before he fumbled with his belt, having it barely undone before it was dragged down his hips by his pants.

He wasn't wearing underwear, you realized, as he shucked his pants off his feet. He lifted his arms and tugged his shirt over his head. The fabric hit the floor and, rather than throwing himself on top of you, Hawks remained standing.

His wings were spread out behind him, crimson feathers bright and imposing. His gold eyes were vibrant, staring you down like a predator seconds away from laying claim to its prey.

However, it didn't go unnoticed to you that he was standing there to allow you to appraise him, as if you had never laid eyes upon his nudity before.

Despite the cold, he had a faint sheen of sweat that was glistening in the light coming from the fireplace, outlining taut abdominal muscles. He hadn't eaten much since his arrival, and that much was obvious by the exaggerated tightness around his core, muscles more enhanced than you had ever seen before.

It felt almost shameful to stare at his crotch, but it was damn near impossible to not admire the heavy cock between his thighs. It was a sight to behold, just like the rest of him. The trail of pale blonde pubes leading from beneath his belly button was practically begging you to stare.

Still, you dragged your gaze back up at his face, where he looked surprisingly anxious, as if there a chance in hell you would tell him no. Sometimes, it was astonishing to think that someone so beautiful could have an ounce of self-doubt. But, he did. Even if he managed to hide it well, you could always spot it, the fear of not being good enough.

"Keigo," you uttered, voice sounding weak over the sound of the crackling fireplace.

Your arms lifted, hands reaching out for him, beckoning him into an embrace. You blinked and suddenly, he was on top of you, torso ushering you back into the sheets while his hands clawed at your shorts, dragging them down your legs.

Hawks panted into your neck, nails biting at the fleshy meat of your thighs as he tried to will himself to calm down. He was being nonsensical. You had been together for a while now. He had fucked you in every position he could possibly think of, held you at night when he could and kissed your mouth like you were his.

Because you were. Yet, despite all that, he felt so pleased that you still chose him, again.

When your hands slid over his shoulders and felt the burning heat of his skin, you felt a tinge of guilt at his state. Deliriously, you wanted to take care of him, to be able to give him everything he needed.

One hand cradling the back of his neck, you pulled him up until his face came into view and you kissed at the corner of his mouth. Encouraged, he followed, tilting his head to capture your lips in a proper kiss.

You felt his shoulders relax as his body slid atop yours, legs tangled and torsos coming together. His hands released your thighs, opting to slide up your sides, beneath your shirt and along the expansion of your ribs, where the pads of his fingers traced the outlines of your bones.

Despite the insistent, throbbing erection trapped against your thigh, burning hot like forged iron, his kisses were gentle, ushering your mouth open to accept his tongue. He kissed you like he had forgotten what your mouth tasted like, tongue slotting over yours eagerly, moaning into the kiss senselessly.

After sometime, you pushed back against his chest until he finally got the message and pulled back from your lips. You tried not to laugh at the childishly irritated scowl on his face, his expression silently reprimanding you for stopping him.

"Lay down," you urged. "I wanna touch you."

"Don't need any more teasing, babe," he protested weakly.

Still, despite his protest, you nudged him pleadingly. Hawks groaned like you had struck him, but complied and began rolling over, bringing you above him.

You watched his wings flex and fan out comfortably beneath him, spread out across the sheets like twin, elegant blankets, mindful of the fireplace. He propped his back up with some pillows, giving him just enough leverage to lean up a little, but not quite in a seated position.

As Hawks got situated, you tweaked one of his nipples between your fingers. He yelped at the touch, shoulders twitching and wings shuddering faintly beneath him. Your hand was ripped away by a grip at the wrist; but, you couldn't hold back a smile as he glared up at you.

That glare disappeared off his face when you started wiggling down his lap. Of course he knew what was coming, especially when you cupped his weeping cock and tenderly lifted it off his abdomen. Yet, excitement clawed up his spine as if he was sincerely surprised.

He hardly registered your tongue lapping at the swollen tip, where he was sticky with precum. He did, however, painfully so, notice when you sank down, enveloping his length in your hot mouth.

For a moment, you just held him against your tongue, reveling in the salty taste and moaning when you felt him throb. You slid up to the tip, failing to notice how tense the rest of him was, back arched and staring down at you intensely, muscles tight from head to toe. When you sank back down, tightening your mouth around his shaft, Hawks cried out suddenly.

His loudness startled you more so than the sudden gush of his seed. His hands grabbed at the bedding. In the corner of your eye, you could see his feathers shuddering beneath him.

Hawks' cock throbbed with each spurt, heavy where it rested against your lax tongue. He was deep enough that his seed spilled right down your throat. You relaxed and swallowed it carefully, cheeks tinted red as Hawks whined above you.

When he came down from his high, he was still impossibly hard, throbbing against your tongue as if he hadn't come at all. You began bobbing your head, excited at the thought of getting him to come again. However, his hands suddenly flew up, grabbed at your cheeks and pulled you off.

You hadn't expected that, resulting in a wet pop and a string of saliva dangling between your drooping bottom lip and his member. Hawks stared for a moment, almost in disbelief at the sight, like something taken straight out of a porno, and not reality.

"God, you look so fucking naughty," he snarled, dragging your face in towards his, forcing you to arch over him. "Dirty fucking girl, aren't you?"

His tongue lapped against your bottom lip, catching your dripping saliva, before entering your mouth without preamble. The wet organ thrashed around senselessly, enjoying the taste of himself on your mouth. After a few seconds, he pulled back with a growl and dragged your shirt up, forcing your arms above your head to free you from the garment.

"Keigo, let me-" you whined.

"Be good," he silenced you in a gentle, albeit commanding, voice.

The world flipped when he spun you back around and your back hit the bedding. His wings fanned out above the two of you, beat against the air once, and flexed, plumes spread out majestically.

"I wanna touch you more," you protested, fingers weaving through his hair with dangerous intent. You gently dug the pads of your fingers into his scalp and watched his head lull from the pleasure, eyes fluttering shut.

"That's not being good," Hawks commented with a groan, making no immediate movement to stop you.

"I wasn't done," you retorted, leaning up to drag your cheek against the stubble on his jaw. You couldn't hold back a shudder at the sensation, soft yet rough hair dragging against your skin.

"Fuck," the winged hero growled, eyes opening to take you in with a faint glare.

Your felt a wandering hand smack gently against your inner thigh, forcing your legs to spread to give him space to settle between them. A digit suddenly grazed your slit, circling your entrance to gather wetness before slipping inside.

It was almost laughable to think he had gone out into the snow to cool off; yet, the heat of your core was tantalizing, so inviting that the touch alone threatened to undo him. You were already slippery and when he effortlessly sought out your sweet spot, you mewled.

Hawks groaned like you had wounded him, the sound practically vibrating from his throat and traveling through him onto you. He tilted his head to nibble at your jaw, breath hot enough to burn your skin where he exhaled against you.

"You're ready for me," Hawks commented lowly, driving his finger inside until his knuckles brushed your folds. "Did you like the taste of my cock that much? -my cum? Feel this - fuck. You're begging for it."

"You're begging for it," you retorted softly, hands carefully untangling from his hair and sliding down to cup his face. You pulled him back, away from your neck, so you could look into his eyes.

"Yeah," he agreed in a low sigh, forehead bumping against yours just a little too roughly. "Want you so fucking bad."

"How bad?" you hummed encouragingly, hiking your legs up on his waist to pull him in.

His finger slipped free, hands shifting to slide over your hips, dragging you into a place more to his liking, pinned beneath him, where you were helpless to much more than squirm. You hiked your legs up on his hips, groaning when he humped at your core, causing his cock to drag against your folds.

"Kinda hurts, if I'm being honest," Hawks groaned out lowly.

"I'll take care of you," you promised, blinking slowly as you stared back at his vibrant gold eyes.

"Yeah?" he uttered weakly. "I can just-"

His tip prodded at your entrance and Hawks cut off, moaning in a wounded manner that had your head spinning. You had seen him get pent-up and frustrated before, after week long missions and months apart; but, he never sounded quite like this.

"Yes," you whispered back harshly.

With a shift of his hips, he was suddenly buried inside you. The sudden intrusion wasn't as startling as the loud noise that escaped Hawks. He shuddered above you, crying out, wings flexing and beating the air, driving him down against you.

"Oh, fuck, Keigo," you whined, realizing he had finished the moment he slipped inside.

His cock throbbed as if to remind you that he wasn't done yet. There was a wet squelch as he slipped out and rammed back inside, nearly drowned out by a guttural, "f-fuck", that he breathed against your neck.

He thrusted a few times, rough rolls of his hips, forcing your walls to accommodate his girth. You couldn't hold back a weak groan. As prepared as you might have been, it was inevitable that there would always be some strain to take him.

Hawks must have assumed that he was taking you too hard, for he slowed down, uttering a weak, "s-sorry."

Yet, the dissatisfaction from his slow pace was far worse than the slight ache when he took it too fast. You didn't want it slow and soft. The last couple days had you wound up, prepared for the promised, carnal passion. You wanted him to fuck you like his life depended on it.

"No," you hissed out, trying to angle your hips up to bring him in harder, fast. "God - no - Keigo, harder-"

With a faint growl, he obeyed that command, the sudden hard roll of the hips forcing you to break off into a loud cry.

"Babe, I'm gonna lose it if you talk like that," he warned, words throaty and rough where they breathed against your skin.

You worked one hand into his hair while the other grabbed at his back, nails biting deliciously into his skin, holding him close, forcing your bodies together.

"I want you to," you uttered between broken moans that he forced out of you with his cock.

Hawks uttered your name lowly, a clear warning.

"God, Keigo, just-" you growled, wiggling around helplessly beneath him. He shifted his weight, holding you down with a growl, as if you were dare trying to escape him.

It was exciting, and had you babbling at him wantonly, "you're so f-fucking sexy and I - I want it. Want you to just - f-fuck me like - ahh, Keigo, your mate."

His arms suddenly wound beneath you and hoisted you off the floor. You cried out, clinging to him in a startle at the sudden verticality. Hawks leaned upright, on his knees in front of the fireplace, holding you up, pressed against his chest, hands gripping your meaty hips to hold you at the perfect angle to fuck up into you.

"My mate? -fuck when you say things like that, makes me fucking - ghhh - fu-uck - you want me to fuck you? Yeah?" he babbled on, whispering harshly right into your ear.

It was a little too close, a little too loud, and left a ringing sensation in your head. Yet, you didn't want to shy away, especially not when he started growling. Clinging to him desperately, you could feel his back muscles shifting as his wings flapped with enough force to knock some logs off the stand.

His head tilted back and took in the sight of your face. Your eyes were struggling to remain open, lips parted lewdly, cheeks tinted a brilliant shade of red.

"You look amazing," he whispered, hot breath fanning over your face. "Fucked stupid on my cock, where you belong."

You moaned lowly, head lulling against his shoulder. You felt his lips press a kiss against your temple and he continued uttering into your hair.

"Gonna fill my pretty mate with cum. Is that what she wants?" he whispered, low and sweet, sultry and downright vulgar. You didn't answer; but, he felt your nails bite into his shoulders, heard your breath briefly catch in your throat.

"Yeah, she does," he agreed, breaking off into a pleased hum.

The wet, fleshy sounds drowned out the noise of the fireplace, accompanied by your helpless mewling and Hawks disgruntled moans and grunts. You were so close like this, held up by his strong grip, chest to chest.

You sought out the strength to peer up and catch a glimpse of his wings shuddering, flexing out from his back either for balance or unconsciously, you couldn't determine. You tore one of your hands from his shoulder and dragged your fingers through his plumes, along the growth until you met his back.

Hawks cried out in a sharp roar. His pace increased exponentially as he rode out his orgasm, wheezing and panting into the space beside your head. That white-hot pleasure overtook you at some point, forcing a startled scream from your throat.

He kept going and going, only slowing down when he was certain you were finished. Suddenly, he slipped out, and the emptiness had you whimpering, head spinning and body aching.

Your back hit the bedding and then your front when Hawks rolled you over. Focused on the ache between your thighs, you barely processed the rustling of the bedding, until Hawks shoved some pillows beneath your abdomen to slightly elevate your lower half.

He propped himself up on his hands and knees, fingers splayed out across the bedsheets on either side of your torso. You felt the tops of his thighs slide against the backs of yours, cock heavy and wet against your core.

The realization of what he was about to do seemed to slap him in the face at that moment, for Hawks suddenly stopped, freezing up behind you.

"Fuck, I need you," he uttered, voice hoarse and low. "Please - please, can I keep going? -still so fucking hard."

You almost didn't recognize the sound of his voice, hoarse and desperate; but, then, his wings beat against the air, sharply reminding you that this was Takami Keigo.

Your cheek was pressed against one of the pillows, arms splayed out above your head, and you realized faintly that you must have been quite the sight, spread out lewdly for him, back curved, ass in the air, presenting to him like a bitch in heat.

There was no sense of obligation spurring your unity; or, if there was, it was an afterthought. All you felt was desire, longing for more, aching to be filled, trembling and void of any coherent thought beyond Hawks.

You could feel his throbbing cock at your entrance, his knees pushing yours apart, his arms trembling on either side of you. He was hovering some odd few inches; yet, he was panting so heavily, you could feel it fanning over your back.

"Keigo," you whispered weakly. "Don't stop."

Your scream drowned out the inhuman growl that escaped him as he shoved his hips forward, sheathing himself inside your velvety heat, as deep as he could possibly go, trying to push his hips further forward as if it wasn't enough.

Hawks fucked you wildly, huffing out sharp breaths mingled with pleasured moans. It didn't take long for him to reposition his hands, one settling on your waist while the other fisted in the bedsheets above your head. He arched over you possessively, wings beating the air to drive him forward. As unnecessary as it was, you couldn't deny the way it stoked the fire inside you.

Before you could even think to ask, one of his feathers wiggled between your thighs, nuzzling against your pearl where it flicked and twirled, pinching at the bud with just enough friction to be pleasurable, but not too hard to be painful.

"Keigo!" you cried out, hands gripping the sheets with enough force to nearly tear them.

"Say my name," tumbled from his lips, like a broken baritone. "Yeah - fuck - my name - say my name. Gonna - ahh - stuff you with my c- ahh - fuck, you feel so good - so good," he babbled on, leaving your head spinning.

He was fucking into you at the perfect angle, ensuring his cock reached your sweet spot with each and every thrust. At some point, coherent thoughts died. Nothing existed beyond the bed sheets, the fireplace, the cabin. All you could think about was the sweet scent lingering on the sheets beneath you and the explosive pleasure Hawks was forcing through your body.

He came again at some point; but, you could hardly tell. Everything was already sopping wet, seed dripping from your cunt and down your thighs, as well his. The sounds he made never ceased, inhuman groans deep in his throat that mingled with each hurried inhale and exhale, in harmony with his thrusts.

His dominant hand slid down your spine, carefully curling at the back of your neck to hold you down. As mindless as it might have appeared, you were acutely aware that he wasn't holding all his weight down.

You were familiar with the power he held, the brute strength hidden beneath his charming and silly demeanor. He could hurt you very easily if he wanted to; but, he never did. Even in this state, his self-control was mind boggling, pinning you with just the right amount of pressure to keep you still, but not enough to cause any discomfort.

'Keigo' fell from your lips, again and again, as if it was the only word you knew. Above you, Hawks seemed to be in the very state he had been worried about, that he had warned you about: blinded by the pleasure of your core, lost to the desires overwhelming his every thought for days.

At some point, he hunched over even further, hardly thrusting properly anymore and just rutting into you, and you felt his lips touch the space between your shoulder blades.

It was hardly a kiss and you realized vaguely that he was drooling a little before you felt the sting of his teeth. Hawks gnawed a path up your back, leaving behind pink, blossoming bruises, before digging his teeth into your shoulder. It wasn't as strong as the last bite, a brief sting before the pain was lost to the pleasure.

He growled into your skin, whole body quaking with sharp tremors, signaling that he had reached orgasm again. You had lost sense of your own awhile ago, always ablaze in white hot pleasure. The mere touch of his hand along your skin, every shift of his hips, the union of your sexes, had you vibrating.

You lost track of how long that went on, how long Hawks kept going, mouth latched onto your skin, slobbering and whimpering into your flesh, while his hips rolled against yours, pinning you between the floor and his unwavering form.

Everything felt too good for you to process how tired you had become, brought to the brink of exhaustion, glistening with sweat from head to toe, kept awake only by his invasion of your body, the drag of his cock along your velvety walls.

Eventually, Hawks began to slow. He carefully removed his teeth from your shoulder and gave a few more thrusts, letting out a low whine that you could guess was one last, final orgasm.

His feather departed your slippery folds, leaving you aching and spent, and he remained buried as deep as he possibly could, hips pressed tightly against yours.

Hawks nuzzled his face into the back of your neck, panting wildly, and you felt what you could only describe as vibrations rumbling from his chest, so violently that it had you shaking beneath him. It was almost alarming, but the tremors steadily waned as his breathing relaxed.

Carefully, Hawks turned you onto your side, shoved the pillow beneath you away, and curled into the space between you, pressed tightly against your back, skin touching in every spot that was possible. His wings stretched out behind him, past the boundary of the bedding and spread out across the floor, lax like the rest of him.

Hawks adjusted your legs carefully, stretching them out with his own until they were comfortably laying side by side, all whilst ensuring his cock remained lodged inside you. The strain wasn't unpleasant; rather, you were surprised by how good it felt.

"Keigo?" you uttered weakly, voice so low, you were surprised he even heard you.

You felt his lips kiss at your throat and a hand settle over your tummy, fingers splayed. He uttered your own name back, as if reassuring, before his fingers moved around, sliding up and down your side soothingly.

You willed your eyes to open and watched the flames inside the hearth dance briefly before your gaze darkened and you drifted off to sleep, lulled by the sounds of the storm brewing outside and Hawks breathing softly behind you.

He didn't join you in the abyss, but watched over you cautiously, as if you could possibly be in any danger. The storm outside wasn't particularly worrisome, but it made it impossible for him to pick up sounds beyond the boundary of the cabin.

If you had turned to look upon his face, you would have seen his pupils miniscule, gold iris vibrant and wild. There was no chance that anyone would possibly disturb you, and his sensible self would have known that; but, as he was now, rut peaked and beast sufficiently satisfied, Hawks couldn't be told otherwise.

An arm drooped loosely over your waist, holding you close, and he listened to the soothing beats of your heart as you drifted into a peaceful slumber.

[belit0]

Commission for @GlitterBomba!

Part 2 of this!! I don't feel it's as angsty as it should be, but for some reason, my creativity wanted it that way? It's been a long time since I've last written, and this was definitely a challenge... First part was produced way too long ago, so it was also challenging to connect with what I felt when I wrote it! But here it is, and I hope you like it, GlitterBomba. Thanks for trusting me!

My Ko-fi page~ Buy me a coffee if anyone wants part 3 ❤（っ＾▿＾）

It took you days to awaken from your deep sleep, days which became weeks, and weeks transformed into months. There was no hope for your life among the healers, but the tenacity and insistence of those elders who saved you forced them to continue providing methods and energy, herbs, talismans to keep you breathing.

Impossible to explain how that mortal blow did not steal your last breath, not when the perpetrator was the greatest tyrant in the current world, the monster everyone learned to fear and flee from. In the small place where you are kept hidden, rumor has it the treacherous one repented as soon as his hand affected your body, causing you not to succumb immediately.

It wasn’t until after he vanished, shrouded in lightning and hatred, when one of Ashura’s subordinates came upon the scene of your sad fate. A pool of blood acting as a bed over a pale body, devoid of any warmth and life. Everyone was quick to write you off for dead after such an event, and only when one of the village elders took your pulse did he find your incredible attempt to resist despite all odds.

Keeping you along with the new leader and his people would not be a good idea. Not when you barely escaped with your life from the beast. In case he came back and besieged his younger brother, it would be better if he didn’t find you there. That man proved to have an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

Tempting fate once is more than enough.

That led a group of elderly men, those who defended your slight pulse when everyone thought you were dead, to ask Ashura’s permission before disappearing and taking you to a safe place, making use of some of the village healers to ensure your health. 8 men of different ages vanish with you, swearing on their lives to do everything possible for you to open your eyes again.

Winters turned into warm seasons, and autumn leaves were waning. Two whole years quickly go by before your consciousness returns. The world is different. You understand through your guardians that life passed with you as a ghostly presence, a bedridden legend they fought all this time to preserve.

No one mentions what happened to you, though. No one names him.

To everyone’s surprise, you don’t really ask about the village; you don’t ask about your birthplace and your home. You don’t ask... about him.

Your healers discover you memory was damaged after exhaustive examinations beyond your comprehension. Theories why this happened are various in your little home; some argue the loss of blood hurt your brain, others believe the trauma of that betrayal forced you to block it all out, and there are those who think maybe you ignored the past on purpose.

Still, there is an unspoken rule forbidding the mention of what happened, of the village, of those two brothers. After experiencing hell, what would be the benefit of forcibly bringing you back to that horrible past? In this remote place, you have the chance to start from scratch, and your rescuers believe it is the least you deserve.

Little by little, you gradually learn everything all over again. Your own name, your age, information about those around you. You ask with animosity about everything you don’t understand, and the only thing there is reluctance to answer is when you want to know about who you were before... this.

Healers get the problem off their shoulders, rushing you to ask such questions to the older people. They shoo you out of their humble hut with nervousness and red faces, panic in their eyes.

Seniors sigh as they stare into nothingness, sadness and nostalgia, painting their countenances with something you cannot grasp. Some even drop a couple of tears to the rhythm of a depressing whisper, ��oh poor child...”

The scene makes you feel so guilty you end up consoling them, assuring it’ s not a big deal and you don’t need to be told. That your life in this small place with them is all you need to be happy, past or no past.

Regardless, it is the scar monstrously painting your stomach which makes you uneasy. While tracing the edges of that sensitive skin with your fingertips, you feel its reason for existence is on the tip of your tongue. As if reminders of what happened to you are lingering there, buried in your head, but creeping closer to your memory every time you look at your navel.

What happened? What terrible thing could have left such an enormous mark on your skin, but not in your head?

It’s frustrating.

Eventually, curiosity to explore beyond your own narrow world peaks. It’s quite natural, considering four older men and four medicine buffs rarely make for an interesting group of company. Older men drink tea most of the day, when they’re not napping in the sun, of course. The rest read rigorously and debate among themselves about their newly gained knowledge.

Getting permission is a complicated task. They are terribly afraid of your departure, scared of your fate, frightened of what dangers you might encounter.

But how to keep you there forever, when you have seen the vivid movement the closest town has?

Perhaps it was your rescuers’ mistake for allowing you to go exploring within the boundaries they considered safe, yet you inevitably discovered such a place, so close and yet so far away, so full of people and... life. Persons of all ages walking from one side to the other, food you never saw before displayed in various stalls, children playing with each other, unaware of the surrounding universe. Everything looks completely natural, as if folks are used to this kind of lifestyle since long ago, and you wonder if you ever lived in a similar environment.

Just what hides in your past?

After insistence and great pleas against the overprotection imparted on you, they understand it is simply hopeless to make you give up your idea unless they expose all those shocking events, unless they explain from what kind of danger it is necessary for you to hide, from whom it is imperative you escape.

No one knew anymore about that demon after his disappearance the same day, and it is uncertain where he is. Whether he is hiding or far from your current home, it is unknown to anyone, and it would invoke bad luck if your guardians expected you to meet him face to face once you get away from them.

Preparation of weeks and many directions, you finally depart from your unnoticed hideout in the world, leaving behind anxious seniors and worried healers.

It was agreed you could explore for a couple of months, but your eventual return is a binding closure on the deal you reluctantly struck. Each new destination brings with it new discoveries, tastes, experiences. You always find charitable souls willing to help when you are short of food, water or shelter, people who offer to give directions when you get disoriented, people who share stories with you on lonely, nostalgic nights.

With each step you take in the outside world, less you understand what your guardians are afraid of. Everyone is well meaning, and no one seeks to take advantage of your innocence. It is incomprehensible why this was denied to you for so long, and every time you think of your precious little home, an emptiness grows in your heart.

Weeks slowly pass, and having experienced so much in such a short time, you find the need to recount it to those you consider your family. As initially agreed, it may be time to return, to prove the world is not as terrible as they feared.

A few miles from homeland, just as you feel you are walking the grounds of your family again, you stop at a stream to get a drink of water, determined not to slow down until you reach your destination. It is too much of a thrill to witness those 8 insane people bickering and arguing. You absentmindedly smile as you rinse your face.

In your distraction, you cannot hear footsteps approaching at your back. It’s not like you would have detected them if you were paying attention either, for the person stalking you is deliberately careful, calculating.

Turning, your face affects directly into a solid mass of muscle, sending you tumbling down the riverbank again. Any woman would have assumed the worst when connecting glances with a man who invades her personal space unannounced, but from your mouth comes a concerned “Are you okay?”

The man, who is watching you as if a ghost were sitting next to you in the water and you were unaware of it, bleeds. Profusely, indeed. Both of his hands are deeply cut, distinct wounds on his palms dripping thickly to the ground.

There is no answer to your question, and the man’s countenance is difficult to decipher. His eyes glow a red which fades too quickly to analyze, his complexion is completely pale and unhealthy, his hair points in all directions, forming a long brown tangle which you deduce has not been combed for some time. For moments, it is as if there are words trying to pierce his lips, but the stupor of the individual continues.

“Your hands... we really should take care of them, shouldn’t we? Aiya, let this humble one help you heal.”

There is no reaction as you stand up and take him by the arm, guiding him to a large rock away from the water and helping him to sit up. His gaze is still completely fixed on your face, searching for something you’ re oblivious to. His mouth opens and closes rapidly, agitated breaths accompanied by sounds resembling syllables.

“Look at this mess alone... sir, you should be cautious walking along the bed of these waters. They are treacherous, hm?”

Ripping off one of your sleeves, previously dampened when you fell into the water, you use the cloth to clean his wounds. There’s not much you can do here, out in the open and in these conditions, but judging by the man’s appearance, he was probably recently attacked. When you mention your little home a few miles away, the man doesn’t refuse or accept.  

Still, when you head back to the road, you find the fellow following you from behind, head down and staring at the ground. In his hands he tightly clenches the cloth of your sleeve, and blood stains the fabric completely at this point. You talk about the healers in your place, and how they can help him get better, but no matter how much you try, the man never responds. You ponder whether, perhaps, the situation he experienced before he ran into you may have been intense, and you attribute his perturbation to that.

After walking without pause all afternoon, your silent companion always keeping your own pace, your destination appears in front of you. From afar, you can see the elders sitting on the engawa of their cottage, sharing tea and quietly waiting for dusk. All is silent, and your announcement of arrival is the only thing disturbing the atmosphere.

Your arms wave vigorously to catch the attention of those you regard as family, a splendorous smile planted on your face, walking at an increased speed to catch up with them. An extended curtsey bow is given before them, and only after raising your head you dare to give them all a group hug, false formality forgotten as much as your guest.

The man slowly approaches this scene and analyzes the faces of those present as the embrace takes place. Had you not been turning your back on him, you may have noticed the change in his countenance, coldness creeping over his features from one moment to the next. None of the elders noticed his noiseless presence, not even having sensed it to begin with, and it is not until one of them finishes smiling and opens his eyes to come face to face with their worst fear.

Suddenly the hug is interrupted when this old man lets out a shriek, trying to back away and losing his balance. You follow his line of sight while turning, and find that innocent-looking stranger again, disoriented. There are screams all around you. Seniors are horrified and collapse on the floor next to each other, completely surrendered to the gaze of the demon fixed on them.

“Don’t behave like that! It would appear it wasn’t you guys who taught me manners... I’m so sorry, sir, they’re not used to dealing with travelers, let alone wounded ones... if you’d be so kind as to follow me?”

Throwing a withering glance at the group of elders, you direct your guest to the house the healers occupy. True, your little family is not used to encountering men in the state this very one is in, but you never expected such an exaggeration. A bit of unkempt hair and blood, pale skin, and they’re all screaming on the floor?

The reaction of the healers is not much different, and after reprimanding them for behaving so shamefully, you get them to treat the man’s hands. Leaving them alone so as not to disturb the setting, you make your way to the third and final cottage, your own. Since the other houses occupy four people each, it would be problematic to ask them to accommodate your own guest, and you take your time assembling an extra bed, improvising with blankets.

Nighttime is delightfully quiet, and as the door opens without warning, you greet the individual with a smile. Elders have taken the trouble to bring food for both you and him, announcing neither they nor the healers were in the mood to share dinner together.

The man’s hands are bandaged, his palms completely covered, and his thumbs trapped in the wrappings. He looks uncomfortable, and it shows in his inability to do anything on his own. His chopsticks are impossible to hold as he kneels on the floor and tries to eat, and after many urgings from you, he nods silently and almost imperceptibly, allowing you to help him.

“You see... you’re here, eating my food, under my roof, safe and comfortable... and I still don’t know your name...”

Teasing is imminent in your voice, hoping to relax him, if only a little. As he takes another bite and chews, his eyes are fixed on the table, like trying to hide from your presence.

After analyzing the end of your day alongside this presence, you assessed this man must be terribly shy, perhaps someone properly introverted. Still, observing his features, you get a strange familiarity, a feeling making you let your guard down and relax in front of him. A secret knocking at the door of your mind, demanding to burst in front of you but being invisible at the same time.

“... Uchiha...”

Without expecting an answer anymore, after several minutes, his voice surprises you. It sounds like that of someone who rarely uses it, raspy and rusty, as if it had been forgotten long ago, and not even the man himself remembers its ringing.

“Um?”

“Lord Uchiha...”

His name, you realize. Formal, a title.

Lord Uchiha continues in the same position, just like his words had been an illusion. It is impossible to keep giving him food, his attitude surly and refusing, and you wonder if he plans to spend the entire night in the same position if you allow him to.

Demandingly, you get him up and offer him your bed for the night.

He tries to take the spot you set up on the floor, and displays physical strength far beyond what you thought he had. There are firm muscles hiding under his stained white tunic, and they flex slightly every time he tries to change the course you both walk. He is probably holding back, you realize, for the way his forearm tenses. The stubbornness of this individual… as if he were someone unaccustomed to taking orders, leading rather than listening. Either way, he ends up tucked inside your room, buried under sheets and quilts so he doesn’t get cold.

You find your own resting place after closing the door and leaving your guest. There is not much room inside your small home, and yet, the greatest comforts are offered to those who really need them.

That night, a fearsome nightmare assaults your dreams. A pitch-black claw pierces your stomach from both sides, long nails tearing through skin and tissue like cloth. Blood pools at your feet, solidifying and making escape impossible. You feel your lips move in a choked scream, and a single word escapes your throat along with another red waterfall.

“... Indra...”

[sassylilnobody]

Mistress Tremaine

Summer

Extravagant silk pooled around my ankles in the most feminine fashion as I stepped from an old, well-used carriage. The smell of rusted bronze trimming danced around me in a light breeze, raising the hair on my exposed neck and rustling my pinned hair.  A footman gently held my gloved hand in attempted assistance, but I snatched it from him, suddenly irritated. Quick apologies spewed from his mouth, doing little to hearten my dampened mood.  

I walked ahead, just as I had been taught to decades ago, with my shoulders back, spine straight, and chin high. A woman, and most especially a lady, must always carry herself with a sense of dignity and poise, even when carrying the heavy burden of grief.  

Dignity and poise. The words rang throughout my head as I continued my journey up a stone walkway that led to what was supposed to be my new home. The change of scenery seemed to be of little consequence to my daughters Anastasia and Drizella. They stumbled behind me, their obnoxious laughter and snide remarks towards the working staff of the chateau bearing great indication towards their entitlement and ignorance of the world. My mouth pulled tight at the edges, my face flushing at their remarks.  

Shame flooded through my body, twisting my stomach into knots and causing my legs to stiffen. Nevertheless, my posture never wavered, even as I stepped through the threshold of the grand home. An innocent smile of a child greeted me, her head a mop of blonde curls that cascaded down her back.  

I frowned, looking to my newly wedded partner beside the girl. “You didn’t tell me you had a daughter.”  

Autumn

Screaming, I threw an empty vase against the hearth, reveling in the explosion of shattering porcelain. Fire danced in the brick flue, reacting to the moving air it was meant to breathe. The contrast between the two scenes was almost laughable, but my rage was brighter than a forest succumbed to orange flames. Yes, fire could be gentle and warm, but it was also capable of unleashing chaos.  

Ella, the only piece of my late husband I had left, stared around the doorway to what was now my bedroom. Her mourning soul reflected my own, her eyes being the only ones to truly understand my anguish.  

“Is there anything I can do to help you through this?” she asked, her voice hoarse from what had to be crying. She was very quiet and couldn’t meet my eye.  

Rationally, I knew that she needed someone to cry on just as much as I did. Her father and my husband, a man whom we’d both loved with all we had, was suddenly and viciously ripped from us without so much as a goodbye. Despite this, my voice spoke of its own accord.  

“Get out.” I didn’t look up from my place on the floor, but I knew she was hurt by the words. Softly, she walked away. Her steps seemed hesitant at first, but as she moved, they gradually became heavier. As the sound faded away, I knew that she had to be running.  

The rest of my body sunk to the floor, dignity having been long forgotten. I curled around myself, choking on tears. Everything shook, making it hard to breathe. Devastating, convulsing sobs push their way from my mouth before I could think to stifle them, my heart pouring every piece of wretched, grief-stricken emotion I’ve ever felt out into the world.  

Poets often speak of pain and tragedy, but never do they explain how one is meant to pick themselves up after they fall. I suppose the descent is often easier to express, for great heroes die like stars. But what they don’t talk about is what you’re supposed to do when you’ve been stabbed through the heart, but survive the steel scraping the organ. What do you do when you’re expected to get back up?  

Winter  

I found myself slipping farther and farther from sanity as time passed. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. It all passed quickly I noticed, but each individual day progressed agonizingly slow. Ongoing insomnia enhanced my irritability and my body ached in the strangest of places. I soon found that socializing was beyond exhausting, so most of my time was spent in the massive chateau my husband left me, my only company being his ghost.  

Since dismissing the working members of the household, Ella was scarcely seen. She ran to and fro about the space, maintaining the house as best she could with nothing but elbow grease and her bare hands. She managed to put aside her grief while she worked, and she took demands without the slightest hint of frustration or anger.  

Somehow, her calm angered me. Ruthlessly, I commanded her to complete the most overwhelming amount of work. Whether I wanted her to scream, fight, or simply leave, I didn’t know. Day after merciless day, I howled at her. I called her the most hideous names and mocked her pain. I knew that I was being cruel, but I had lost the ability to care. Despite this, never once did she complain or show that she was upset. She would smile, and simply say, “As you wish, Madame.”  

Even the day she ran away, the only reaction she would give me was a smile. She had mounted her horse in the middle of a blizzard, tears trailing down her ash-streaked face. With bloodied hands from cleaning up broken glass and a dirt stained gown, she rode hard into the distance, crying the name she had been reduced to: Cinderella.  

Spring

The entire town was in an uproar. Seamstresses bounced around their shops, reveling in the surplus of business that had been provided by the grace of the King. Streets swarmed with bustling people, each one making haste to prepare for the upcoming event. The King had not only declared that there will be a ball held at the palace for the prince to find a suiter, but that there was an open invitation to every maiden in the kingdom.  

My girls squealed with excitement over the news, and for once, I agreed with the sentiment. If one of them, and it was a long shot that it would be, were able to snag the prince, then they would be saved from the squaller that my husband’s death had reduced us to. We would no longer be eating scraps. We could hold parties again. I just might be able to manage an estate for myself, never having to worry about my children having a roof over their heads.  

The days preceding the ball were a blur, but I can recount that they were some of the most exciting of my life. The girls finished last minute touches to their hair and gowns, and my heart welled up with pride as they descended the stairs and met with me in the parlor.  

“Oh, my beautiful babies,” I sighed, fanning my face with my hand to keep from crying. “I never thought I’d see you both dressed this extravagant again. Since your stepfather’s passing, I had begun to worry that you wouldn’t be able to live the life of luxury you deserve. I-,” my was cut off at the sight of a third body coming into the parlor.  

She held up a hand, silencing my rising questions. “It cost you nothing,” she said in a reassuring tone. “This dress used to be my mother’s. I’ve taken it up, and with it being the finest gown I own, I would very much like to wear it to the ball tonight.”  

She grinned, and for the first time in months, there was hope in her eyes. Now that I saw her, I noticed that she held herself differently then she had been. Her head was up and not once did her gaze fall to the floor. She assumed a confident posture and her complexation seemed to glow. Though the pale salmon fabric that hung from her shoulders didn’t flatter her much, it was easy to see why she was known through the town as an angel. She was truly one of the most beautiful young women I had ever seen.  

My eyes narrowed at her, gaze distrusting. “For what reason do you wish to attend the ball? Do you have hopes of meeting the prince?” I rested my hand on my hip, feeling as if I was scolding a small child. “You do know that he would never take a peasant such as yourself as a bride.”  

The girls snickered behind me. Ella’s expression wavered, but she didn’t lose her composure. “No, not at all. I was hoping to meet a... friend,” she answered shyly, blushing. “He’s an apprentice at the palace.”  

The way she spoke about him was concerning to me. Her smile was ever so slightly warmer and she her eyes drifted, almost as if she wasn’t even there anymore.  

I, myself, knew the feeling well. The butterflies, the tenderness, the excitement. Both the men I married, I loved with all that my heart could give. The first had been the sort of romance you read about in books; children slowly falling for each other. We were happy. The second was entirely different. I didn’t care for him at first, only sought the protection he could give. It wasn’t until I got to know and understand him that I started to fall. To think he only had to die for me to realize it.  

There was no such thing as forever and the sooner she realized this, the better. The good men always die young and all that are left are heathens that are desperate enough to attack children to experience the vast pleasures of the flesh. With that aside, her diminished social status would never allow her to marry any respectable man, let alone an apprentice at the palace. She had once been the heir to a thriving estate and her dowry would have been bountiful enough to pass blessings on to her family for generations. Since the passing of her father, she had been reduced to nothing more than a servant girl.  

My head rose, mind finally reaching a conclusion. “How can you expect to be seen at such a gathering dressed in rags? You are hardly fit to be seen in a brothel, let alone the palace.”

Ella drew back, visibly struck by my words. I was instantly flushed with shame, but some small, sickening part of me reveled in the reaction she gave. Never had she shown to be anything other than busy or content. I had gotten through her skin and the feat was delicious to me.  

“You are little more than a slave. You are nothing and let me make myself clear: you will not go to the ball.”  

Summer

I opened the grand front doors of the chateau, curtsying so low my knees brush the floor. “Your Grace, Captain,” I greet the bodies before me, a frown threatening to crack my stoic expression. Two men step into the lively abode at my invitation, one of which reaching into a bag at his side, slowly pulling out a rolled sheet of parchment.  

The man cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his military uniform in what looked to be exhaustion. “I’m sure you’ve heard this spiel before; news travels fast in this town. While it seems to be a moot point, I am required to read you the King’s official proclamation.”  

The Duke behind him smiled, feigning an heir of slight acquaintance towards me. I quickly reciprocated the gesture, waiting for the Captain to continue.

“By penalty of death, as a subject of His Majesty King Kristopher the Second, you are hereby mandated to present yourself, as well as any and all other maidens residing in the estate (placement on the social hierarchy notwithstanding) to an elected member of His royal court. Should the original holder of the abandoned glass slipper collected by the King (on this night, three moons prior to this initial declaration) be found, King Kristopher the Second shall forthwith marry her, should she be willing.” The Captain paused, looking up at me from the creased paper he read from. “Do you understand the order that has been given to you?”

 I nodded, already preparing to call out for my girls. We had known that this day would come, and we had prepared accordingly. After all the universe had put not only me through, but my daughters as well, this had to be a gift. This was the last chance the girls had to prove that one of them could win the heart of the King, or else they would have to turn to other means to survive.  

My eyes drifted towards the Duke, who still smiled at me, and my stomach dropped. I would do what I must to keep my children from the streets but doing so would surely kill me. He and I became very well acquainted after the ball, though whether that was a good or bad thing, I was still debating. Our social circles overlapped so naturally we knew who each other were, but not by any means were we friends. During the ball, I had more to drink than I should have, which led to me stumbling down the right hall at the right time. I overheard some things that could have been damaging to his reputation, as well as the then-prince, and as compensation for my discretion, he vowed he would help get my family back on their feet. Of course, this meant that I must marry him, as well as offer my daughters to men of his choosing.

This was a last resort. First, I must try to trick the Captain into believing that either Drizella or Anastasia were the princess from the ball. If I could manage to do that, then everything would be alright.  

I called my girls from their bedroom, staring daggers into them. We had spoken about maintaining a certain level equanimity before the Duke and Captain, knowing that they would be asked to try on the glass slipper. They tried to carry themselves with dignity, but one could see the stress they felt about the situation. They knew how high the stakes were and would do anything to make this plan work.  

They both greeted the men politely, going about trying on the slipper with little to no comment. It did not fit Drizella, for the slipper was too large. She looked up at me defeated, most likely hoping to find some semblance of comfort. I tried to be encouraging, but my tension must have been visible. She looked down, trying not to cry, and excused herself from the room.  

Anastasia was met with a similar reaction when we found the slipper to be too small for her feet. This struck me as extremely odd, considering the girls has always had the same size feet, even as children. Drizella was technically older, but the two had almost synched up perfectly when it came to their development.      

After pleasantries were exchanged and goodbyes said, I walked the men to the door. My heart stopped and the contents of my stomach went cold. The Duke scrutinized me as he went to leave, a guise that I’ve never been able to unsee, even decades later. A smile unlike any warm expression I had ever seen cracked his perfectly constructed face. Dread creeped through me, almost crippling me with nausea.  

A kind voice broke through the haze, though in the moment, I struggled to focus on what he said. “What?” I asked.  

“I said,” he replied patiently, “are there any other maidens in your home? Perhaps a maid or servant that hasn’t been accounted for?”

I once again looked towards the Duke. I knew very well that Ella was locked in the attic. I was also aware that she was the girl that the King had danced with at the ball. The girl he had every intention of marrying.  

The Duke also knew this.  

I answered the Captain, never taking my eyes from the Duke, “No sir. I’m afraid I had to dismiss the household when my late husband died.”  

As if on cue, soft singing rang from above us. Without a word, the Captain pushed back into the house, searching for the owner of the voice. I remember the house breaking out into a flurry of chaos, though beyond that point, I can’t remember many details. When Ella was found, she was taken into a different room for a private audience with the Captain, and I remember the doors being closed.

Due to my shock, I barely registered anything else happening before Ella spoke to me. She stopped at the door, hesitating before turning towards my spot on the stairs. Her eyes were glazed over, but I saw nothing but empathy and understanding on her face.  

“I forgive you,” she said. She waited for a moment, possibly for a response, then left.  

There was so much that I wanted to say to her, but I couldn’t find the words. Regret, sorrow, mourning, grief, tenderness, maternity. All of it hit me at once, knocking me to my knees. The Captain followed behind her, leaving me with only the Duke. Both Drizella and Anastasia hid somewhere else in the house, and I prayed that at least one of them walked by. Of course, they didn’t.  

He walked towards me, a sick look on his face. I let out a sob, overcome with dizziness. Ella. My Cinderella. My mind repeated her name. For years after my union with the Duke, I would see her face in everything I did. Her joy, her understanding, her forgiveness.  

Despite my soul willing it to be so, I never saw her again. 

_____________________________________________________________

Sorry for the long post, but this was an essay I wrote for my Creative Writing course last semester, and I got really high marks for it. I’ve been thinking about writing a full-length extended version of it, but we shall see. Hope someone gets something out of it :) 

[masshirohebi-moved]

▨

Send a symbol for your muse to gently touch mine by:▨ : rubbing their back to calm them down when they’re upset// @kxshikoiAcross pebble scattered floors, beneath high rising pillars of delicate rock, statues made of rare stone. Ornamental dragons with gaping mouths and blazing eyes, lined with the subtle touches of gold and silver. The trees in the estate are all full of life, budding with warm colours, yellows, reds, oranges. Petals and leaves alike drift down in a gentle motion, lining the floor like a carpet, painting the outside courtyard in lavish hues to brighten up the already impressive estate home. Breathtaking architecture however, does not serve to dispel the dark feeling that hangs heavily in the serpents chest.They have made it to their twenty second birthday, with the constant watch and guidance of their father. And he had never faltered in that duty from the moment he picked them up fifteen years ago. When they were a child who didn’t quite understand why autumn came around to paint the leaves with death, who didn’t understand why they ought to go to sleep at earlier times than the adults, or why people had to fight wars at all, when talking things out like they did during their arguments on the playground worked so well. But even at the young age of seven years old, they had always known one thing, that no matter how frightening and nonsensical the world was, their father would be there with the hint of a warm smile, and the touch of a reassuring hand. And somehow, nothing else mattered.The days of childhood are over however, and the more pressing conversations of being an adult have come around. Slender arms hug pale blue folders to their chest, the contents of which make the paper envelopes feel far heavier in their hold. Golden eyes remain blank, but not empty. Their thoughts, which are starkly many, masked as they meander through the pretty estate. Their father is ill, the doctors can not seem to figure out why. With the vipers own knowledge on the subject, they had neglected their duties as a shinobi and taken up daily residence in laboratories and hospitals. Still, they can not find traces of disease, poison or any kind of foul play by the hand of an enemy or the weak human form.They know only one thing; the condition is terminal.And it is with that sullen thought that they cross from the laboratory that night, having stayed well after hours, to go back and nurse their father however they can. To ease the symptoms of discomfort, even if he is too resilient and proud to show the full extent of it. But the atmosphere is a clear summers day, with showy colours and stunning designs. And the young shinobi can not help but feel bitter about even that.- That the world dares to be beautiful in this slowly developing tragedy.

They enter their house quietly, for if their father is asleep, they do not wish to wake him. Rest proves the only way to keep him a little bit less agonized these days. But the sound of movement in the house indicates that he has not found it in himself to sleep even now, though they are pleased to see him in bed at the very least. They wonder briefly, if that was by choice, or if his body has been so traitorous as to force him there.“How are you feeling, Otousan?” they ask softly, their figure between the frames of the open door, they linger there a moment. Footsteps as quiet as a cats lead them to his side, where they catch all the small signs of him falling helplessly in to this illnesses grip. Losing the battle - they’ve never seen him lose a battle. They seat themself on the beds edge, a slender hand rising to his forehead, inspecting his temperature. It’s cold, as if death has already started to leave a mark. Seeing this, they offer him a light smile, stoning themself as much as they can. It won’t do him any good knowing his child suffers as much as him with this new circumstance.“I’ll make you some tea, and fetch an extra blanket,” they say, moving to the small candle arrangement they had placed near his bedside. A small breath of fire is all it takes to set each one alight. The ambiance of the small flames aiding in some warmth for while they make him a winters drink. Even if it is summer. They remind themself of this too, a melancholy thought that can not help creeping in. They return a few minutes later with the warm drink, cooled down to a drinkable temperature with some colder water. They place it beside his bed for him to take when he is ready. In their hands next are two small tablets, something they created themself that has proven to stave off the deterioration of his condition. It is not enough. A porcelain hand extends itself for him to take the medication, but that would prove to shake their world one final time. When they watch his hand aim for their own only to miss. When he knocks in to them and almost sends the tablets falling to the bedsheets. His sight has never been good, this they know. However such things did not hinder a sensor of his caliber, for who needed vision when he saw the world on a far more intimate level.His inability to even trace the distance of their hand… it terrifies them. They flash a forced smile, hoping that doing so will make their voice sound less rattled and more at ease. They take his wrist gently to turn it over, so they can place the tablets in to his palm directly, “here, I’ll pass you the tea as well,” they say, and they wait for him to take the medication before they hand it over. But although his eyes are failing him, theirs are capturing every detail in clarity. He’s lost weight, muscle even, his snowy white hair that had always put the moon itself to shame now casts itself a slightly duller hue, his eyes are not sharp and calculating, just tired. And his perfect form, his flawless posture… he now appears less formidable, the slight shake to his body.So they abandon their duty for the moment, when they feel their own chest constrict itself, when they find they can no longer breathe. They offer a small ‘I’ll be back’ before exiting the room. Trying to gain some distance to compose themself, but the silence in the home, the emptiness, it only makes them less resilient than before. They had seen death, they had lost their birth parents, their friends, their comrades. They had worked on war grounds, in hospitals. Yet nothing could prepare them for the possibility of his death. No, when all had been lost to them, it had been Tobirama who had brought them back from the brink of hopelessness. He had been the one to save them, to set them free of any chains they bore after war brought tragedies.And while they would usually feel far too childish to succumb to emotions, far too unfit for a shinobi of their rank, they do not find any strength to stop the choke from shaking their figure. As they find a seat upon the couch, for they can not support their own weight, face buried in their hands. The same couch he sat down with them on with various ninjutsu books, where he taught them endless theory. The same couch where he so often allowed them to curl up beside him and fall asleep, only for him to carry them to bed a little while later. The same couch he’d sometimes sit upon to do work, where he was to be undisturbed, though that rule never seemed to apply when the child arrived home and bombarded him with questions and attention.Their form jolts at the unexpected touch, so sensitive to even the most gentle pressure upon their back. Too wounded by the worlds decision to harm their father to put up any resilience to outside stimuli. But when golden eyes flash up from beneath a curtain of midnight hair, they are met by that same hint of a warm smile, by that same reassuring touch. Tobirama shouldn’t be out of bed, they wonder if he has the strength to be here at all. No doubt however, that not even the illness that threatens his death could stop him from trying to find his child when they need him. Even if he is the one who should be needing them.“You’re dying.”The words are half caught in their throat, half choked out, the brilliant gold of their eyes tainted by the streaks of tears threatening to fall. Their hands have fallen to their lap, where nails dig in to the fabrics of their clothes, pricking at their own skin through the layers. They can not feel that sting however, for it is the first time they have ever voiced these inevitable words. The first time they have allowed themself to properly imagine that this could be a reality. Their entire figure shakes, so much so that his shaking becomes less obvious. They can not help but succumb to their emotions that much more when they feel his hand soothingly run up and down their back. They can not help but swear it upon their own life, that if the gods existence was the cure, they would find it. Turning to face him, slender arms slip around his shoulders, drawing themself closer to his broader form. And now, their fingers coil in to the fabrics of his clothes, clinging, as their face buries briefly in to his chest. As if somehow this embrace would prevent death from touching him.But all the same, selfishness ensnares them mid tragedy. Selfishly making this about them, about their inability to lose their parent. That they may be so audacious as to ask this of a suffering man. The most cruel thing to request of all, the most sinister promise to demand of a father who would do anything in his power to protect his child. “Please don’t leave me.”

[bikmui-a]

Constants (despite the seasons)

 Nothing is ever constant. Even the land one day will change Bit by bit, until the day one looks up And recognises nothing. Not even the sky.

 Winter

The year began as every year before did – with the longest, coldest night of the year, and honouring one’s loved ones as one always should. Talon, however, had no one left to revere. He was hatched from a pearl egg with neither parents nor guardians, and over his thousands of years, had watched those he trusted leave him, whether by choice or force.

Kayn, on the other hand, was trained long ago by a master by the name of Zed, and this year, Talon would join his beloved on his journey to the mortal realm to honour his master, as he was now Talon’s father-in-law, and the closest thing he imagined he ever would have to a true father.

Talon had no abundance of love for the mortal realm – while it was the place he first met his beloved, and where he learnt, with time, that one must always have respect for oneself and those around oneself in equal measure, it nonetheless was not his home. No, his home was in the divine realm, in a palace amongst the clouds, where always the waterfalls fell. It could never hold a candle to the home he had spent millennia growing up in, dancing beneath the waterfall and picking lotus seeds in the summer, even if it served as a home for him once, and as a place where he truly grew.

It was Kayn’s home, and the place where they first met, and thus held… some place in his heart.

They welcomed the new year over a hot pot – with meat and vegetables aplenty, and when they stayed up all night, it was not only to speak of all the things the other had missed, but also to wish one’s elders good health and longevity.

Kayn missed the mortal realm terribly, and so Talon promised to stay with him too – not out of a sense of duty to the one he loved, but because he wished to see him happy too. Talon had servants in the palace who could take care of the affairs in the immortal realm, and there were messengers who always could relay the most pertinent of information, but Kayn had only one parent, and he deserved to be cherished as such.

In the dead of winter came the blossoming of the plum trees. How wonderful they were, elegant and delicate in their multitudes against the starkness of winter and the soft, sweet scent that coloured the world despite it all. They looked so terribly delicate, as if their petals might fall to the ground with even the gentlest of breezes.

Nonetheless, they were one of the gentlemen of flowers, born in the coldness of winter and symbolic of persistence and dauntlessness. Talon smiled at that thought, for it described much of Kayn’s personality. While perhaps he saw himself as weak and unable, particularly when his dark moods overtook him, always there was proof of his strength in everything he dedicated himself to.

Once, perhaps, he may have been a child, lost with no hope of surviving, yet he had picked up those shards of himself and fashioned himself into a weapon, following the path of a dark cultivation in order to protect his master and his land from foreign invaders. Once, perhaps, he was a child with no means of defending himself, but he had since then stubbornly made himself into someone to be respected and feared, even, if one were on the wrong side of all he considered important.

To Talon, it was deeply admirable indeed.

Spring

It was in spring that Talon’s cycle finally came to a close, and five-hundred years culminated in a desire to mate with the one to whom he had promised himself. It was a natural desire of the body, he knew, but nonetheless found himself overwhelmed and deeply mortified by how his body took from him any and all control he once had as instead it succumbed to the basal, carnal part of him he oft wished to ignore altogether.

Kayn held him then, and instead smiled softly and reassured him they would be fine – after all, had they not planned that one day, they would have a brood of their own? A clutch of eggs, born of a human whose scent of darkness pervaded everything he wore and did, and a once-disgraced dragon king, thrown from the heavens and returned with the humility that once was demanded of him… What a pair they made indeed.

His husband was oh-so-patient with him as he gathered all the silks he could find and made for himself a nest in which he curled up, heaving with sickness as it approached, yet not quite ready for the touch he required. Kayn was a fool, then, and had taken a moment to commune with his master, so terribly far away, yet so very close indeed with the magics he had cultivated over time. Feverish and so terribly ill with desire, Talon had instead done all he could with the shadows Kayn left in his wake, obedient and somehow cognisant of their master’s mate’s needs.

It was with great surprise that they discovered he had fallen pregnant, and that in the coming months, he would swell with eggs until finally his body was ready to have their clutch. He was exhausted, of course – worn out by days of mating, and his pride wounded by his beloved’s absence, but blue limbs held him closely and gently, and Kayn whispered soft words and promises to take care of him and his brood, and perhaps it was not so bad after all…

As the days passed, the orchids bloomed, gentle flowers with gentle scent and beautiful petals in pale shades.  Talon delighted in their soft scent, and picked a few to display beside his bed, so always he could wake up to their delightful, sweet scent and their humble, noble form – so fragile in their beauty.

They reminded him terribly of Kayn, for he, too, had his sweet moments where it seemed as if he could harm not even a fly. It was in these moments that Talon truly felt his heart soar, and the blood rush to his face and colour his cheeks, for never had he dreamt he one day would find someone to treat him so gently one could almost imagine he were not a man, not a king, not a dragon, but a sculpture of the daintiest material, susceptible even to the slightest breath.

As he held Talon and promised all would be fine, it felt as if he were promising him the truth and nothing more.

Summer

Summer brought upon her soft blue wings the day Talon’s clutch hatched, warmed for months by his body curled about their pearlescent shells.  Their brood was numerous indeed, as all dragon broods were, and Talon delighted in how they loved to nestle up to him, tiny bodies no longer than a finger’s length curled up as closely as they could to his warmth. He delighted too in how they loved to climb over cloth and skin both to nestle in Kayn’s hair, curled up atop his crown to gently snore.

He laughed at how Kayn doted on their children, holding them to human standards of helplessness and neediness when truly, dragon children were able to hunt and move soon after hatching. It was quite a challenge indeed to convince him they needed no looking after, save ensuring they ate and drank enough to ensure their growth, for they were cognisant of the world around them already and could survive on their own.

Talon fed them meat chewed up until it was soft and easily swallowed, but Kayn recoiled from the idea, and instead made them meat tenderised in broth – it was much less intimate and much less… unhygienic, in his opinion, and while Talon agreed, he would not besmirch how children had always been fed for the sake of such things. After all, it required time and preparation, and he did not always have such a luxury as he took care of so large a brood.

The dragons grew quickly, as all hatchlings did, and soon, they were no longer the length of a finger, but the length of an arm, with snapping jaws and bright eyes and an affinity for the water inherited from their father. It was time finally to show them to the water, and as Talon watched them splash and play in the babbling creeks as he once had, he smiled and rested his head upon Kayn’s shoulder, his fingers seeking out Kayn’s so he might entwine them together.

All around them were bamboo forests, bright and strong and green, shading them with long, sharp leaves and feeling very much like home as he reminisced upon how he once had chopped one down and fashioned the very flute that now rested by his side, tucked into his waist skirt. It was a beautiful, simple thing; lacquered elegance and a charm of red string hanging off its length.

He sat up and played it for them all now – a beautiful tune, lively as their children as they swam in the water.

Bamboo was the flower of summer, and to Talon, it was easy to find parts of Kayn in them, too. With their hollow stems, they were thought of as tolerant and open-minded – a trait of Kayn’s he had quickly become acquainted to, as he accepted him for the vengeful marauder of southern villages he once was, and instead asked if he was willing to change the person he had become. With their flexibility and strength came the belief that they symbolised flexibility – yielding, yet never breaking in the face of trouble.

Talon snuck a glance at Kayn and pressed a kiss to his cheek then. Oh, how wonderful he found his husband, having come back time and time again despite all that he had faced. He was strong, of course – one could never dream of denying that – yet always, he sprung back from all that life threw his way, as if always, he was destined to succeed.

Just as always, the bamboo was destined to bend but not snap.

Autumn

As the moon swelled, it soon would be time to celebrate the last of the harvests, with food and wine and – perhaps Talon’s favourite aspect of the festival – mooncakes. He was taught long ago to make them, with dough surrounding lotus paste and a salted egg yolk to represent the fullness of the moon, pressed into a wooden mould to be baked until they were beautifully brown and cooked.

It was a tradition of the palace, as all the servants gathered to make them with him, so there would be plenty for them all, their families, and many left over as gifts and offerings for the festival to come.

Talon giggled as he taught Kayn to use a scale to measure the dough, and a few of their children – not quite old enough to help out, yet loving to watch the organised chaos and sweet pastries that came of it – sat upon a chair nearby, shouting out helpful suggestions: ‘more!’ and ‘less, Fùqin!’ They, too, loved to watch as Talon snuck bites of salted yolk and spoonfuls of lotus paste, shouting out in indignation and laughing as the servants berated him for doing to.

Talon pouted then, for he had never been told off like so.

In the courtyard was an altar, with fruits as offerings to the dieties, and soy beans and flowers for the Jade Rabbit, who resided upon the moon. Talon never was one for worship, as he had lived within the realm of the immortals all his life, and as such never saw such a need, but this year was like no other at all, and he felt that – for the first time in his life – he was grateful for something indeed.

The incense sticks felt terribly delicate in his hand as he lit them, fragrant smoke wafting off into the night sky as he knelt before the altar and lowered his head solemnly. First, he apologised for besmirching the gods so, and begged forgiveness for his pride. Then came his true wishes – that Kayn would remain in good health and stay beside him for all of time, and that their children all would grow happy and healthy and go on to live long and joyous lives.

He had no wishes for himself, for living now felt as if it were a wish come true – he was beloved by someone he deeply respected, had a family now, and needed never fear again the gossip of servants nor the usurpers from beyond his castle’s walls. No, from himself, there was only thanks to the gods for their kindness and generosity, and a promise to never squander what they had given him.

Later that night, as they prepared to sleep, Talon poured both Kayn and himself chrysanthemum tea, and as he watched the blossoms float in the water, he was struck with the realisation it was the flower of autumn. Blooming in the autumn and foretelling winter, it was a noble flower which symbolised having the strength of virtue to withstand adversary, wherever it may come.

As he cuddled up to Kayn, then, he found himself thinking that perhaps, beside Kayn, they truly could withstand anything at all. After all, Kayn was a deeply moral man, finding it within himself to protect those who deserved it and wishing only to harm those who did others wrong, and from him, Talon himself learnt humility and the morality he once had thought of only as a cage to contain higher creatures such as himself.

Yes. Just as the chrysanthemum withstood the oncoming winter, they, too, could brave all.

Even so, one always hopes That certain things will remain constant – Love, life, and all that one holds dear. Remain constant, please, For the loss would break one’s heart.

[enambris]

Story Night - The Little Princess and the Old Crone

The transcript of Enambris’ uplifting tale to end a crowded story night, a reminder that we will all Triumph against the Faceless. @the-faceless-ffxiv

“For tonight's final tale, I will be telling another old story from long ago. One I grew up with, that can be traced back to Old Coerthas and the hundred clans." As she speaks, the lights in the room once more dim, flickering lights borne from her sternum bursting into falling starstuff and settling around the room, the image flickering to that of a deep forest filled with faerie-lights flickering between distant trees, the lounge transformed into a meadow clearing deep in the dark woods.

As she speaks, a musical humming under-currents her tone, motes of aether used to paint the room as a backdrop to the fantastical tale. In the clearing, like a pop-up storybook, a little cottage blooms covered in thick ivy, little honeycombs clinging to its flora-flush walls, and a waterwheel pulled to rotate by a lovely, crystal brook that weaves through the forest.

"Once, a very long time ago, there was a dark forest that bordered the edge of a little kingdom. In that forest, there was a cottage, and in that cottage lived an old crone, who all knew to be very wise, and very powerful. The people of the little kingdom knew her to be true, when her words told tale of prophecy, and so those strong and brave enough to venture into the dark woods would seek her wisdom and council."

The forest, around the little cottage, flickers with little red lights, eyes that peer into the clearing through the gloom. Time appears to shift, summer hues giving way to painted autumn leaves, which fall to make way for blankets of pure white snow.

"The little kingdom had enemies, and so they built their walls high. The king and his wife were getting on in years, and he had no heir. The king knew that if no heir came to claim the throne, the witch who made her home in the deadlands to the south would try to ruin the little kingdom."

Walls spring up around the distant kingdom as the scene slowly shifts, the sun high above the tallest tower.

"One day, the king decided to seek out the witch. He beseeched the old crone help he and his wife have a child. The witch agreed - on the condition that once the child saw their first winter, they would be raised instead by the Witch until the child came of age. The king was heart-broken, but seeing no alternative, conceded."

Imagery shifts, the streets and buildings inside the little kingdom coming into view. High walls and spires decorated in beautiful colors, trumpets sounding and criers on every street corner, proclaiming the birth of an heir.

"Within one year, the queen gave birth to a beautiful little girl, as radiant as the sun and as gentle as the moon. 'An heir! An heir has been born!' shouted the criers. The bells rang! The kingdom celebrated! Singing and joy ruled the land. But the joyous occasion would not be joyous long, as two days later, the Queen succumbed to her labor, and for her the kingdom mourned."

The wind shifts, catching the flags and banners, and as they turn over upon themselves their colors fade into black. Angry black clouds cover the sky, and rains wash over the kingdom.

"When the child saw her first nameday, the king once more mourned, as the old crone came to take her away. 'Your word, good king, will save your kingdom,' she told him. With no other choice, the king conceded, and the little princess was taken to live with the old crone in the woods."

The scenery shifts in a prismatic whirl of color, the kingdom shrinking and expanding into the little cottage as though ink had bled from page to page. The seasons play out in vibrant light, spring blooms replaced by warm summer sunshine, which gives way to crisp autumn leaves and snow. The cycle repeats once, twice, thrice, ever changing. When it finally settles, crisp autumn reigns.

"The old crone cared for the little princess as if she was her own, but she was strict, and her lessons to the girl were long and difficult. She taught her much about the world, she taught her to be unafraid of the animals, and how to live in harmony with the land. She guided her to make her body strong as iron, and said to her every day, 'If your heart is always true, you will weather any storm'. And so, in secret, the little princess grew up."

"The years passed, and before long, the king became lonely. He searched long and hard to find a companion to share his time and love with, and finally, he found her. The king remarried, the fairest woman in the land, but she was vain, cruel to his servants, and cold to his people. But the king was blinded by his love, and so was blinded to her wickedness. His people protested, but the king could not hear them, deafened by her sweet voice."The visage of a woman shimmers into view beside a forlorn king, her beauty illuminating the room with lovely silks and gemtones. The clouds leer closer to the little kingdom, and the rain falls ever harder.

"And so, under the council of the new Queen, the little kingdom slowly declined, for she was greedy and unkind, and with it, so too did the poor king's health. He became old, and sickly. His shoulders hunched, and his hands shook. He began to forget, and a mist settled over his eyes. They called the king Mad, for he raved of seeing butterflies where there were none, and sang lyrics to songs that he could not recall how he came to know them."

The king's form slowly shrivels. His hair grays, the colors drain from his eyes and his skin. He hobbles to his throne, as if a puppet on a marionette. "Finally, the new queen, lovely and wicked as she was, declared that the king was too unwell to lead his people."

The Queen slides the poor king from focus, and he becomes but dust and motes of light that flutter to reshape the room. It fills slowly with people, the common folk of the little kingdom, butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. They watch the queen with terrified rapture.

"She proclaimed that, should no heir come within three days, the throne would then fall to her. On the first day, no one came forward. Nor the second day. Finally, on the third day, as the queen sat within her throne room, the old crone came, and with her, the king's daughter who had been whisked away so long ago. Appalled, the Queen denied the old crone. 'This cannot be the king's daughter', she said. 'What proof have you that she may rule this land?'"

"The old crone smiled. 'She will prove herself to the people,' she said. 'Assign her three labors, and if they are completed, the crown is hers.' The queen knew of the old crone, and knew to refuse her would be unwise, for the old crone was powerful, and so the queen agreed. 'She must dwell seven days within the dark forest without food nor water,' she commanded."

Before the audience, the little princess stands, her visage as radiant as the sun, and gentle as the moon. She stands tall, proud, undaunted.

"At that, the old crone smiled. 'It will be done,' she said, and so the little princess turned and left. She was escorted deep into the forest, and blindfolded so she could not remember which way was home, for the Queen did not want her to return. The queen's men traveled to the deepest and darkest place they could find, and left the little princess alone in the dark woods, among the monsters and beasts."

Images of the forest overtake the room in a whirl of shadow, thick, pale mist blanketing the floor.

"Each day passed, and the people of the small kingdom lost a little more hope each day, but the old crone only smiled, telling any who asked, 'Wait and see'. Then, on the seventh day, the little princess returned amidst a flock of songbirds, alive and unharmed. The queen was outraged, but she could say naught, and so instead she issued the next labor. 'She must face the Great Wolf, and end its bloody campaign in the farmlands within seven days,' she commanded."

"Again, the old crone smiled. 'It will be done,' she said, and so the little princess turned and left. She was escorted to the mouth of the Great Wolf's cave, and left there with only a knife to defend herself, for the Queen wished the Wolf to devour her."

"Each day passed, and again the people of the small kingdom lost a little more hope each day, but the old crone only smiled, telling any who asked, 'Wait and see'. Then, on the seventh day, the little princess returned astride the tamed Wolf's back, alive and unharmed. The queen was incensed, but still she could say naught, and so instead she issued the final labor. 'She must pull forth the blessed sword from the tomb of the Fell Drake within seven days,' she commanded."

"For the third and final time, the old crone smiled. 'It will be done,' she said, and so the little princess turned and left. This time, the Queen was sure she had won. The Fell Drake was a wicked creature, corrupted by the hate of men and the shadows between the bones of the earth. She was escorted to the Fell Drake's lair without a weapon, and left her alone to face the Drake."

"Each day passed, and once more the people of the small kingdom lost a little more hope each day, but the old crone only smiled, telling any who asked, 'Wait and see'. This time, the Queen knew she had won, for on the dawn of the seventh day, the little princess had not returned. She stood from her throne, and pointed in glee at the old crone. 'Your princess has failed!' she declared, and before all she revealed her true self."

Before their eyes, the queen transforms. She grows taller, her muscles expand, her eyes gleam. Gnashing teeth form a pale white crescent cheshire smile through clouds of thick black smoke.

"Her hair become snowy, and her eyes great and yellow. Her skin like the night sky, her feet cloven and her crown horned: the witch of the deadlands, with black veils and fingers of writhing snakes. 'This kingdom is mine!' she declared. As the people began to wail in protest and in fear, the doors of the throne room threw open and a voice rose above the chorus. 'Hold! For no errand was failed!' said the old crone, and all turned to see the little princess, standing in the doorway."

The door flies open, and in spills brilliant sunlight, and from it the witch shies away. "In her left hand, a blade, as fierce and hot as the sun, as luminous and swift as the moon. In her right, the Fell Drake's head, and she threw it at the witch's feet. 'Leave my kingdom,' the little princess said, her voice carrying the power of the sun, the grace of the moon. 'Or it shall be your head upon the floor.' The witch laughed."

"Without another word, the little princess charged at the witch, her blessed sword in-hand. The people cried out in fear as they watched on, unable to move for the power of every blow. 'Help her!' they cried out. But still, the old crone only smiled, telling them only, 'Wait and see.'"

Bursts of brilliant light flash and crackle, reds and blues and golds flickering and fading, the throne room filling with black smoke and white light.

"Then, with a final mighty swing, the little princess struck down the witch, sundering her in the middle of the throne room. The witch wailed, her screams pierced the skies, and she was gone. The little princess turned to face her people, and for her they cheered." Bursts of color flare into the air, fireworks and sparklers and streamers.

The image fades to pale silver, the little princess standing before the people and taking her throne. "The next day she was crowned Queen, and she became the wisest, and the noblest queen ever to bless the kingdom."

"The end."

[fractempyreal]

wraps a hand around his throat. claws digging into the skin while leaning forward with a low snarl.

        THEY ARE THE HANDS OF A DEFILED SOUL ,  corrupt in its creation ,  corrupt BEFORE THE MOMENT THEY’RE DRAGGED INTO THE WORLD ,  screaming   &   ravenous .  How dare he believe that he has of enough worth to lay a hand on him ,  to coil fingers around throat   &   threaten to take life harbored within his body through the mere act of DENYING HIM BREATH .  Yet the Darkslayer remains eerily calm even with the dark rivulets of blood that begin to trickle down warm skin ,  disappearing beneath the collar of his coat .  ALL OF IT IS A DISPLAY OF DOMINANCE ,  a desire to see him succumb to his grasp ,  to hear him GASP   &   WATCH HIM WRITHE ——————– 

                                           ❛   For as often as you make claims to be a KING——–    ❜

        HOW INFURIATING IT MUST BE TO SEE NONE OF IT .   To watch as the Devil grips the arrancar’s wrist ,  fingers taking on appearance of those DIPPED IN INK ,  gradually darkening before Grimmjow’s eyes as chitin overtakes the softness of flesh .  Nails growing into talons ,  SINKING DEEPLY INTO SKIN WITH NO WORD .  The breath that spills past his lips is long———– drawn out ————– entire frame LEANING FORWARD INTO HIS GRASP .  A silent dare for him to continue with suffocating pressure ,  to crush his throat in final act .  Which of them would come out on top ,  with faces nearing one another with BLAZING CONFLAGRATION met with  SEARING ICE .  Air shifts between them then ,  where underlying threat of death   &   obvious display of power is suddenly pulled from beneath feet of the hollow .  What once was a normal ,  firm grip wrapped around wrist ,  turns into something ABSOLUTELY BONE–CRUSHING .  Twisting violently  (  FEELING AS TALONS BRIEFLY SINK EVEN DEEPER INTO THROAT ;  SINK DEEPER INTO JUGULAR  )  to tear away the IRON GRIP ON HIM .  

        A FOUNTAIN OF RED CASCADES DOWN OPEN THROAT ;  raw flesh stretching ,  kitting together slowly before their eyes as he pulls away taloned hand SOAKED THROUGH WITH RUBY LIFE .  Fighting power with power ————–  only a show of what it was that coils underneath skin that now releases slow tendrils of absolute puissance to renew what was once broken .  There is nothing more but a RAGGED BREATH ON A RAGGED TONGUE  once he relents powerful grip on Grimmjow’s wrist ,  drawing the sanguine droplets towards his lips ,  tongue slipping past barrier to drag along the BLACK TALONS  that had replaced human hands .  ROTTEN BLOOD , ROTTEN SOUL ,  brought to lips   &   tongue ,  tasting him .  Eyes flash a darker hue ,  the pale iciness giving way to something more sinister  (  GLOWING A VIBRANT GREEN  ) . 

                    ❛    ——— Was that all you had to show for it ?    ❜

        THE DEVIL’S BLOOD CRIES OUT TO HIM ,  obvious in the way that lines crease his brow ,  darkening expression on his face as he’s is allowed to stand ———–  TO WATCH as the Devil laves THE VERY BLOOD HE DREW PRIOR ,  from his claws .  It’s enough ;  it’s more than enough to see that he teeters on the precipice   &   SEND HIM PLUMMETING OVER .  The rush ,  the flash of speed displayed when he’s shoved backwards   &   up against a wall .  Rumbling hum dwells within cavity of chest ,  Vergil’s eyes sweeping over the face of the man before him BEFORE IT DISAPPEARS ,  pressing against the knitting wounds on his throat .  PUSH  &  PULL ,  PUSH  &  PULL .  A hissing breath breaks free from his lips  (  TIGHTLY CONTAINED BEFORE LIPS  &   TEETH SCRAPE ALONG WEEPING WOUND  ) ,  long drag of tongue only serving to coat it with his blood ,  staining blanched bone with the sanguine shades of blood .  Ruby coated claws RISE   &   SINK INTO HAIR ,  pulling sharply with gritted teeth paired with that spine–chilling flash dancing within his gaze . 

        TEETH BEGIN PRESSING AGAINST OPEN THROAT ,  warning that there was MORE that the arrancar had in mind  (  UNFORTUNATELY THE DEVIL BARS HIM FROM CONTINUING  ) ,  made to pause by the devils hand cupping the side of his throat ,  THUMB PRESSING INTO SOFT UNDERSIDE OF JAW ,  claw steadily applying pressure before pricking the flesh there to draw blood .  The act earns him a rough tongue RASPING OVER FEVERISH WOUND   &   rattling growl that would bring even the fiercest demon to cower .  

        BUT HE IS MORE THAN THEY WILL EVER BE .  He lets it be known by the tightening grip on Grimmjow’s shoulder ,  a surge of domineering power WASHING OVER THEM  as he pulls the rug out from under the man who believed he had been gaining the upper hand  (  &   ONLY BECAUSE HE ALLOWED HIM TO  ) .  SWITCHING THEIR POSITIONS ,  hard  ‘  THUNK  ’  as heavy body falls back against the wall ,  his other hand wrapping around Grimmjow’s wrist ,  PINNING IT TO THE WALL BESIDE HIS HEAD .  The Darkslayer’s lips part as the surface of ice in gaze CRACKS ,  a feral light spilling through the gaps as teeth gleam in the harsh artificial lights in the room  (  TOO SHARP ,  MENACING ,  HINTING OF THE DESIRE TO DESCEND TOWARDS EXPOSED THROAT  ) .  Shuddering breath leaves him ,  chin lifting higher as the final tears of lesions seal up with no trace left behind save the blood ,  most of which had been CLEANED by the arrancar .  There’s a sound that leaves him that sounds like laughter ,  YET IT IS HAUNTING ;  MIRTHLESS IN ITS NATURE ,  as head sinks lower along with pale lashes falling halfway across his eyes .

        LIPS  &  MASK FRAGMENT ARE PAINTED RED WITH HIS BLOOD ,  while Devil’s lips take on soft cerise hue ,  breaths intermingling with one another TO TASTE THE SWEETNESS ON ONE ANOTHER’S BREATHS .  There’s something unsettling in the smile that begins to creep along the lips of the Darkslayer as intense gaze only NARROWS FURTHER upon the face of the arrancar as he gradually closes the distance between them .  His voice is a whisper ;   the first frosts of winter moving in at the end of autumn ————

                                             ❛    —————– Did you enjoy the taste ?    ❜

                       @destructivour

[onesparrow]

no language left to say it

Cullen Rutherford/Ariadne Lavellan, 2.2k words, rated M, also on AO3 Set a handful of days after the final battle against Corypheus; their last morning of solitude before they have to go back to their duties. Inspired by this lovely gif set. 

There are are mornings where he wakes up before her, not because he’s been shaken awake out of nightmares, but for no reason other than that the Fade has decided it is done with him. When this happens, he’ll take a moment to enjoy the feeling of her curled around him. How her arm is slung loosely across his waist. Her breath against his neck. All reminders that he is here, not elsewhere. All reminders that he is safe. Cullen will bask in this feeling as he awakes, but then he’ll roll over as slowly and gently as he can in order not to wake her, just so he can lay in the morning sun and stare for a while.

This is one of those mornings. His heart feels too big for his chest, threatening to crack his ribs as he looks at her. He prays, in that moment, more feeling than thought, an overwhelming wave of thankfulness that the Maker brought him this. That the Maker let him keep it. That he continuously brings her back to him in one piece, so that he can watch the early morning light from the open balcony doors spill across the bed and onto her skin. These moments are his favorites, where he gets to take her in. Her face, relaxed in sleep. The thin scar that runs through her eyebrow and across her cheekbone that wasn’t there when they met. The larger scar along her jawline that was. Her hair, a mess of tangled curls that falls around her shoulders, glowing a bright auburn in the morning sun.

(It brings to mind a memory, of her pinning him into the grass after an impromptu sparring session in a neighbouring valley. She’s laughing, the sun positioned perfectly behind her head to light her hair up in a halo. He’s staring up at her, smiling down at him with her slightly crooked teeth, and is suddenly overwhelmed in the knowledge that he’d do anything she asked of him. That he’d drop everything and run away with her right now if she wanted him to. There has never been a moment in which he’s wanted to tell her that he loves her more than that one, when she’s laughing and momentarily carefree, lit up by the sun.

He didn’t tell her. Not then. Not yet.

He laughed along with her, pulled her down to kiss him instead of succumbing to the thundering urge to let his feelings come tumbling out.

He still hasn’t told her.)

He can’t help but reach out, hesitating for a few heartbeats before brushing away the few curls that had escaped her braid during the night. The movement reveals a sharp cheekbone, and he barely brushes a thumb across it, reaching instead for her neck. He runs his fingertips across her throat and to her shoulders, trailing along the jagged scars there. Those he traces over a few times, movements slow and featherlight. Reminds himself not of how fragile she is, but of how well she heals. How she always come back to him. That he treats her gently not because he’s afraid that she’ll break, but because she is the most precious thing he’s ever had a chance to hold. It seems too presumptuous, for him to believe that he’d ever have the power to break her, to even put a crack in her skin. To him she seems made of steel, able to weather anything the world throws at her.

(Here he is wrong; even steel can rust. More importantly; it can melt, under high enough heat. To her, he burns like the sun; he has already changed her more than Ariadne ever thought was possible. In time, he too will know this. In time, he will even believe it. He will learn that she isn’t the one that is holding the broken pieces of him together. That he’s doing that himself. She is the balm over the wounds, helps keep the pain away while he does the same for her. They will learn that they are stronger, together, but can still stand on their own. It has harder for Ari to learn the first thing. It is harder for Cullen to learn the second.)

From her shoulder he traces further down her arm. Her skin is a few shades darker than that of her shoulders, dusted more liberally with freckles, tanned from all her time in the desert. She dislikes having her arms covered, and it shows. His hands are so pale in comparison, hidden away inside gloves or indoors all day, porcelain against her copper. Reminds him of how in the time that they’ve known each other, she’s spent more time away from him than with him. He’s thankful that she’s here now.

(He spends a lot of time thinking about how she looks like autumn, all warm reds and browns with eyes the colour of the overcast sky. A smile that can be the warmth of the last days of summer or the sharp threat of winter.)

When he reaches her elbow he turns back, lets his fingers drift up her bicep and up to the slope of her shoulder. From here he deviates from his former path, tracing along the sharp angles of her collarbones, following the line of them to her other shoulder and back. He’s so focused on their progress that his fingers have trailed back over to the shoulder they started on before he realises that something has changed. He glances up to see storm blue eyes staring back at him, clear enough to show that she’s been awake for a while. His hand stills. They stare at each other for a moment, until she blinks slowly, quirking her lip up in a small smile, ducking her head down slightly as she gets comfortable. At that he returns to running his fingertips across her shoulder, drawing slow figure eights on her shoulder, no less gentle than before.

She reaches out and puts her hand on his chest, where she lets it rest for a few beats. She follows his heartbeat up to his throat, keep her palm against his pulse for a moment, before coming up to cup his jaw. Her thumb runs across the weeks worth of scruff he’d grown, too busy to shave. Cullen can’t help but let out a content hum, tilting his head further into her hand. She laughs softly, but doesn’t stop the motion. His eyes drift shut, still running his fingers across her shoulders. A few minutes later, she stops in order to brush his hair, curly in its natural state, off of his forehead. He blinks his eyes open at her and smiles. The hand in his hair tightens just long enough to pull him closer, relaxing its grip when he’s close enough to kiss.

(It’s nothing like the days before. It isn’t rough or hurried, a mess of teeth and nails being dragged across skin. It is not a desperate confirmation that they are both still here, still breathing.

It wasn’t easy for either of them to accept any of this to be reality, that they are alive and mostly in one piece. That Ariadne killed a creature claiming to be a god. That she showed up after the battle drenched in blood that wasn’t her own, exhausted and bruised, but alive.

Cullen had spent the next few nights whispering desperate prayers into her skin. Prayers to the Maker are pressed against her throat. Urgent pleas to the Dalish gods against her sternum. Appeals to the old gods with his lips pressed against the scar on her stomach. Ducks his head lower to wordlessly beg Ariadne herself, until he has her shaking apart. He hands out benedictions to anyone who will listen. Places them against both of her knees and thighs. One to each of her ribs. To her breasts, her ears, her palms. He prays for her safety. For her to be real. For the war to be over. For them to make it through.

He’s unsure of who he prayed to the most, and cares little for the blasphemy of it. How sacrilegious could it have been, praying to foreign gods and idols, if she’s here with him now, alive? It did not feel like blasphemy. It did not feel holy. The Maker may have sent her, but she has always kept him grounded too much to be anything but real.)

This time, their kisses are slow and gentle. Her hand runs through his hair, softly scratching against his scalp, tugs gently at the curls at the base of his skull, a request to be nearer. He complies, pressing closer, dropping his hand to her sternum. His fingers continue to draw lazy patterns across her skin, skimming along her collarbones, circling around the outer edge of her breast before arcing back. She hums low in her throat, a content noise. He keeps repeating the motion, as languid as their kisses. They’ve spent the last few days rushing, and he wants to take his time with her. For the first time in days, it feels like they don’t need to rush.

Slowly, he pulls away. She chases his lips, for a moment, before letting him trail kisses across her cheekbones, over to her ear, pressing a kiss behind it. Cullen smiles against her skin when he feels her breath hitch, chuckles softly when a gentle nip to the pointed end of her ear makes her pull on his hair. He follows the same path across to the other side of her face, stopping to press a kiss to each scar he comes across. He tips her head back so he can reach the scar under her jaw, follows the slope of her shoulder to the set of four jagged marks there, no longer an angry red but far from the point where they’ll start to fade. Leisurely moves back to the hollow of her throat, across her collarbones, down her sternum. He brackets her ribcage with his hands, thumbs brushing the bottom curve of her breasts as he glances up at her.

Ari looks down at him with dark eyes, shifts so she can hook one leg around his hip and pull him closer. He complies, the open mouthed kisses he’s slowly pressing to her breasts making her sigh and tighten her leg against his hip, pulling him closer. She lets him take his time, until the grip on his hair is just on the side of rough and they’re both aching for more.

She laces their fingers together, scratching the nails on her free hand lightly down the back of his neck as he groans quietly, forehead pressed against her shoulder. They stay still for a moment, even though his muscles are shaking in order to stay still. She takes pity on them both, rocks her hips up sharply, drawing soft moans from both of them. Their movements are still unhurried, nothing like the days before, and she pulls him up to kiss him again. Cullen thinks this might be the most tender she’s ever been with him, the most tender they’ve ever been with each other.

(He hasn’t told her that he loves her yet. It didn’t seem right, to tell her as she walked off to almost certain death, even when he thought keeping that information to himself might kill him. He thinks she knew, regardless of what he didn’t say. He thinks she knows now, and wonders if she loves him back. He wants to be hers.)

There’s only so long they can keep things slow, and soon their leisurely pace isn’t enough for either of them. Ari is trembling underneath him, arching her back as she tries to pull him even closer, and rolls her hips sharply up into his, taking control of their pace. Her legs tighten around his hips, and she breathes out a short phrase in Dalish that he can’t understand as she comes undone, clutching at his back. He’s not far behind, gasping her name against her throat, and they both collapse back into the bed. She can feel his heartbeat pounding, can feel hers doing the same thing.

Once they’ve caught their breath she brushes the curls back off of his forehead, other hand tucked under her head. Cullen hums softly at the feeling, eyes sliding shut as she continues the motion. When he blinks them back open a few minutes later, she’s looking at him with an expression he can’t quite pinpoint. His forehead wrinkles in confusion, but before he has a chance to ask she kisses his forehead, his nose, his scar, and his lips in turn, cupping his face so she can run her thumb along his temple in a soothing gesture. She smiles softly, then pulls him over so he’s resting his head on her chest, arms wrapped around her while she runs her fingers through his hair. She hums, content, when he twines their legs together and runs his fingers gently up and down her spine.

Cullen shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch the sun rise any further, so he can bask in the web of tenderness they’ve spun for a little longer. He knows they have to go back to their duties today, but for now he is content to pretend that they only belong to each other.

Tomorrow, he thinks, rubbing his thumb along the sharp edge of her hipbone with his free hand. Tomorrow he’ll tell her he loves her. So she knows for certain.

[i-am-very-very-tired]

‘What makes me so sad about Lee’s killing himself is that there are so few people with that kind of talent mixed with that fury of originality. Now we have one less of the few who are amazing. Why did he have to go and do that?” wondered Sam Taylor-Wood, the British artist. She was throwing out the big question that has consumed the fashion world since the suicide of her buddy and sometime subject Alexander McQueen, the 40-year-old designer, known to his friends by his given first name, Lee. His body—a physique that he’d worried over and tried to sculpt at the gym—was found at 10:30 a.m., February 11, hanging in his wardrobe, by his housekeeper in the apartment he’d been renting in London’s Mayfair, a far cry (and six or so miles) from the working-class East End neighborhood where he’d grown up. The tragedy was compounded in that it came just a week after the death of his beloved mother, Joyce, who at 75 had succumbed to an undisclosed illness. But even though McQueen’s brutal act of self-annihilation ultimately did not surprise those who knew him best, and were aware of his dark moods and inner agonies, plenty about his death didn’t add up.

After all, he’d been busy preparing for his autumn-winter ready-to-wear show in the days just before the tragedy. He’d been tweeting and texting his nearest and dearest, and apart from his obvious sadness about his mum, there wasn’t anything particularly unusual about his actions or his messages. In retrospect, some of his pals say they see portents in how loving his greetings were, but even they caution that they may be reading too much into this. The photographer Steven Klein, who was close to the designer for years, found him to be in good shape at the lunch they had in London at Christmas. “He was very together, in great form,” says Klein. “We made plans to do several new projects together.”

McQueen had even put in a surprise appearance at a dinner for Tom Ford, given by *Vanity Fair’*s editor, Graydon Carter, at Harry’s Bar in London on February 1. McQueen, who lived nearby, popped in uninvited; he sat at the bar, had a drink, chatted with Ford, and split. Ford had initiated the purchase of a majority stake in McQueen’s label in 2000 when Ford was the guiding force at the Gucci Group, owned by the French luxury-brands company PPR, and thus was McQueen’s old boss. So there was plenty of symbolism in this encounter. But then again, symbolism is everywhere in this story, as it was in the presentations of McQueen’s collections.

At their best, these shows were feats of magic, drama, and the sheer beauty of high fashion. McQueen was a traditionalist and an avant-gardist both. He liked to provoke with his ideas and shock with his ability to create unforgettable, original, sometimes extremist, often breathtaking clothes. He designed for both sexes, and in between, but soared highest with the women. His signatures were strong shoulders, strong tailoring, and a love of the corset. His collections were so specific, so true to himself, and so visceral that they are easy to remember. It helps, too, that they earned nicknames nearly as evocative as the clothes themselves—“the Shipwreck Collection” (spring-summer 2003), “the Chess Collection” (spring-summer 2005), “the Hitchcock Collection” (autumn-winter 2005). Among the most memorable was the now iconic “Highland Rape Collection,” from autumn-winter 1995 (one of his earliest shows, when he was starting out with his then-shoestring label), which mixed flesh-baring see-through material with eruptions of tartan, the clashes and juxtapositions intended as condemnation of England’s historic bullying of Scotland. (The folklore: one model hit the catwalk with a visibly dangling tampon string. To this day McQueen’s intimates aren’t sure whether that was accidental or intentional.) The rawness may have been polished as time went on, but it never went away. “The They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? Collection” (spring-summer 2004) was presented as if in a Depression-era dance-hall, a marathon where the models had to dance till they dropped in dresses that started out as perfect specimens and ended up in tatters. “The Wolves Collection” (autumn-winter 2002) was shown at the Conciergerie, in Paris, where Marie Antoinette had been held before she was sent to the guillotine. The opening model came out in a lavender hooded leather cape, walking a couple of trained wolves on leashes. (I think I only imagined their howling.) McQueen was the king of metaphor.

The immediate reaction to his death reinforced the notion that his wasn’t just another name on a label. Beyond the front-page stories and worldwide headlines, beyond the reports of his clothes’ selling out in department stores, there were Diana-like tributes. Students, artists, and fans left farewell notes and bunches of flowers outside his boutiques in London, Milan, Los Angeles, and New York, all of which were shuttered after the news broke. (The designer Diane von Furstenberg was spotted adding a bouquet to the ones that had already been dropped off at his shop on 14th Street in New York’s Meatpacking District.) McQueen’s death also coincided with the opening of New York Fashion Week, and there were nods to him in a number of the shows, including the beautifully elegiac opening of the Marc Jacobs presentation. No question: Alexander McQueen had become a name for the ages, the James Dean of fashion.

To call someone an artist in this milieu is tricky, because that can connote pretense, a rarefied air, a certain self-conscious preciousness—all things that were not true of McQueen. But fashion has produced genuine artists, designers with deeply iconoclastic visions such as Charles James and the painter and sculptor Lucio Fontana, who made clothes and jewelry for a short while. Although McQueen was very much a fashion person, working with a fashion vocabulary, his clothes and presentations had a true art streak. He even behaved like an old-fashioned artist, never letting the fact that he worked for giant, powerful fashion corporations—first for LVMH, where he was installed in 1996 as the designer of Givenchy, and then for PPR—curb his creativity or freedom. This wasn’t someone who’d suck up to the bosses or important editors or celebrities. Elton John, who befriended the designer and respected his talent, says, “McQueen was never anybody’s boy. He was never going to bow down and kiss ass to anyone, which made him rare in that world.” He was freakish in terms of his natural abilities too. Mark Lee, the highly respected former president of Gucci and Yves Saint Laurent (also owned by PPR), remembers, “Besides his eccentric vision, he really knew how to make and cut clothes. All the seamstresses, technicians, and product-development people who were around from the Gucci Group would talk about it all the time. He would just take a bolt of fabric and, in front of their eyes, would cut the pattern for his clothes. People said it was like watching Edward Scissorhands. There are not many designers around who can do that.” Similarly, McQueen often displayed a fearless, tour-de-force way with materials. There was nothing too fine or too common for him: neoprene, plastic, crocodile, paper, rose petals, antique lace, lamé … there was no stopping him. The finale of his autumn-winter 2006 collection, a pale-gray organza spiral ruffle dress, worn by Kate Moss, was as dreamy as it gets. That was highbrow McQueen; for lowbrow, look to his witty “bumster” pants from 1993—a feat of anatomical engineering described by one aficionada as “as low as you could go without having your trousers fall right down.”

McQueen used to call himself an East End bloke, which was code for saying he was not born into the world of caviar, champagne, and fine cloth. On a couple of occasions I had what he called “a proper English lunch” with him (I remember picking out the kidney in my steak-and-kidney pie), and each time he wanted to discuss the painter Francis Bacon. The combinations of gruesomeness and beauty, of raw flesh, homoerotic desire, and highly sophisticated execution that Bacon brought to his painting are not so far away from the concerns and approaches of McQueen’s work. There are personal parallels, too. I think of Bacon’s predilection for sex with men who were streetwise and of his finding refuge in the old London gay subculture. I think of the fact that his lover took his own life in 1971, on the eve of the opening of Bacon’s big retrospective in Paris, at the Grand Palais. (Camping it up, Bacon is supposed to have said, “Oh my dear, she’s gone and committed Susan-cide.”) For McQueen, too, a vociferously open gay man, there was an unforgettable combination of tough and fragile that was intrinsic to his emotional makeup. By all accounts, the designer’s childhood, growing up in the 1970s and early 80s, was like something out of Billy Elliot. His dad, Ronald, a taxi driver, reportedly had plans for his youngest child to become an electrician. (The designer had three sisters and two brothers.) McQueen, though, had fashion dreams, and as if that didn’t already make him a misfit in his environment, he had to put up with early torture about his sexuality; in his later life he often spoke about having been taunted with the nickname “McQueer” when he was young. Throughout, his mother was his shield, his advocate, the parent who eventually turned up at his shows, believing in his talent and adoring him unconditionally. Their bond was unbreachable from beginning to end.

McQueen’s formal education and professional rise are now part of fashion lore: the old-school tailoring training on Savile Row, where, as he later admitted and denied in equal measure, he had scrawled a punk-style slur—i am a cunt—inside the lining of a jacket being made for Prince Charles; the graduate fashion-school training at Central Saint Martins College; the meteoric trajectory of his career as a designer, which saw him going from overnight sensation after his last student collection to taking the reins for his bumpy five-year tenure at Givenchy, to finally having a house of his own, as Virginia Woolf might say, and really stretching his wings as a designer, to the sad, sad end.

The search for an answer as to why McQueen decided he’d had enough is really a struggle to find meaning in an act of nihilism. But as an old friend of his said to me, McQueen’s life was like an onion, and you have to peel away the layers to get to the center; it’s a process that can sting and bring tears. There was the loneliness, no doubt made all the more visceral by his mother’s death. Despite the surrogate family that McQueen created with a tiny clutch of fiercely close and protective friends—including Shaun Leane, the jewelry designer; Philip Treacy, the milliner; Daphne Guinness, the heiress, editor, and most daring dresser in fashion; Annabelle Neilson, a sort of sidekick; and Sam Gainsbury, who produced nearly all of McQueen’s shows—he had no long-term Mr. It. People remember how he’d say he was unlucky in love: he’d had a failed marriage to George Forsyth (Kate Moss was a bridesmaid at the 2000 wedding), and in the last years he seems to have had on-and-off liaisons with men, some of whom he met online. (Word is there was at least one porn star, a so-called Mr. Stag. There was also an older East End gangster he had a longer romance with.) Then there was his well-known history with drugs, especially cocaine. He was open about his substance abuse, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the autopsy told the same story when the results are released.

But it is my belief that all these traits were symptoms of something else. McQueen loved and collected art, and it is no coincidence that one of his favorite photographers was Joel-Peter Witkin, whose bleached and scratched images of masked figures, transsexuals, hermaphrodites, and corpses occupy a sometimes grim, sometimes joyous netherworld. The more one talks to those who knew McQueen, on and off the record, the deeper one goes, the clearer it becomes that what friends refer to as his “darkness” is where the truth of his death lies. Virginia Woolf and her struggle with depression is a kind of specter here. Sam Taylor-Wood says, “Lee would just sometimes go into this void, and we’d wait for him to resurface.”

He was not the only one in his circle to have terrible bouts with deep depression. Isabella Blow, his over-the-top, born-to-the-manor-but-without-a-pot-to-piss-in pal, who had an unlimited clothing allowance at his company and was often credited with discovering McQueen when he was in art school, also committed suicide, with weed poison, on her third attempt.

When Blow died, in May 2007, McQueen dedicated his next show to her, but some say he was angry at her for taking her own life. The rub is that he leaves behind a similar sense of frustration. There was a suicide note—what McQueen wrote hasn’t yet been disclosed—but it’s likely no one will ever know his whole story. Some have speculated that he may have felt he was done in fashion, sure of his legacy, and that his suicide was a kind of deliberate statement to that effect. Or was it something more uncontrollable? Sam Gainsbury says, “I appreciate that some people who were close to him think it was purposeful. But I think Lee got to a really dark place and could not get out of it. It was in that instance on that night. On another day maybe he would have gone to sleep and gotten out of it.”

People have commented on how, as the years went on, McQueen would disappear with lightning speed after his shows, rather than sticking around for the ritual backstage congratulations. “It always made me think of J. D. Salinger,” says Kerry Youmans, one of McQueen’s publicists. His suicide is perhaps the ultimate version of that impulse to withdraw. But PPR has announced that the McQueen business will continue. Fashion insiders have raised their carefully shaped eyebrows at the notion of replacing someone with so strong and individual a voice. McQueen’s friends remember his infectious laugh, and I wonder, could he be out there somewhere laughing now—maybe at the prospect of what will surely be a hard, hard search to fill his shoes? Or maybe in happiness that the line will go on?

I’m reminded of a show that McQueen did for autumn-winter 2007. It was known colloquially as “the Witches Collection” and was inspired by the fact that his mother, a genealogist, had discovered a relative who’d been a victim of the Salem witch trials. Like so many of McQueen’s presentations, this one had a high element of performance art to it—and a theme of death. The venue was very dark, people had difficulty finding their seats, the show started very late, it was raining outside, and there was an all-around bad mood in the air. Editors, who normally worshipped at McQueen’s feet, were yelling, “Who the fuck does he think he is? How dare he keep us all waiting like this?” The way people feel today, they’d be happy to wait for a much longer time to see one of his spectacles again, and they’d probably pay almost anything for his clothes.

[moonsandstar-s]

The Final Warning - Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVII - Shackled to Silver 

Summary:  As the year draws to a close, peace has finally dawned. The time for unity has arrived. In the Vytal festival, it is time for heroes to rise, bringing glory to their kingdoms. But as autumn dies, the first winds of winter blow over Remnant, chilling the hearts of the people; breathing doubt into their souls. Long-buried secrets will triumph, and every action will have a consequence. Ruby must reconcile herself with her own fate. Weiss struggles to escape her legacy. Blake cannot erase memories. Yang’s search leads her into more peril than ever— but none of them can outrun fate. Shadows turn on shadows, and bonds shatter as they are tested to the limit. For in dividing them, they will fall and burn; at the eye of the storm, no peace lasts forever. In the end and beginning of time, there is a place where the sun never rises, and the dead delight to teach the living. A great danger is rising from the darkness. It’s time to take sides. The final warning is coming. The first chill of winter is the most deadly; it is the chill that kills more than any other. The first betrayal is the most damaging; it is the act that shatters bonds of love and trust, crushing even the strongest heart, tearing teams apart. AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7745314/chapters/22506284 Ruby 

She was drifting alone in darkness, completely alone, save for the faintest golden light shimmering far, far ahead of her. She could remember nothing, not even her name, just that she was… here. Alone. Unbound. Wherever this was, this aimless place, in the peaceful, undulating dark that did not ask anything of her. She just existed, untethered and floating, allowing oblivion to rock her to peace.

But the golden light ahead of her beckoned suddenly, calling her name, forcing her to pause and put her thoughts into actual being. She wasn’t supposed to be here! She was needed elsewhere, and she knew it dimly. She was needed back in the world of light… no, that wasn’t right. She was needed awake. She had a name. She had a body. She was— she was—

The thought escaped her, leaving her frustrated and weak, and she sank back into the calming shadows. Who was she? Why did she need to leave her warm, sheltered darkness?

The light shimmered brighter, as if irritated at such a question. Urgency flooded her, pushing away the engulfing shadows. She knew she had go back, but… the call of the darkness was seductive, promising nothing but inky oblivion. That sounded like a welcome relief, after what had happened. She remembered pain, a pain so intense that it had nearly torn her body to shreds. And she could remember grief so great that it had shattered her heart. She didn’t want to feel that again. She didn’t want to risk that pain.

The faintest shadow of agony fell across her awareness as she looked at the golden light, making her recoil. She wasn’t willing to experience the grief that consciousness brought, and she knew that being in the light could bring hurt. Being awake and aware of yourself could hurt, because you opened yourself up to emotions, and those could be violent and agonizing. Inside and out, in the mind and on the body. She just wanted to succumb to this peaceful, warm blackness.  

But it beckoned more insistently, refusing to take no for an answer. She had to go back to the light. Had to go back to being alive. I am Ruby Rose, she thought.

Shrinking inwardly, she reached for the light, bright whiteness enveloping her, her head pulsing with an agonizing pressure, and she

burst back into consciousness like shooting up from the depths of the ocean to the surface, light dazzling her eyes, a throbbing, dull pain spreading through her body as she blinked once, twice, and her surroundings swam into sharp focus.

Fairy lights. Scarlet pillows. Quilted sheets. Sunlight streaming through the window onto golden floorboards. Her head feeling as though someone had driven a railroad spike through it. A dusty mirror, reflecting a pale, wan girl with chunks of scarlet, dark hair going every which way. A messy bookshelf lined with Grimm figurines. A chair across from her with a figure, slumped over in fitful sleep. And her mouth, tasting as though something had crawled within it and died.

The latter was the thing to kick her back into full wakefulness, and she opened her mouth once or twice experimentally, grimacing at the taste. At the movement, the pain in her head became more insistent, pushing at the edges of her skull and making her eyes throb, vision going double for a moment. A bright pang of white— no, silver— crossed the edges of her vision, and she let out a tiny groan of pain. It was this that made the figure across from her, sleeping in the chair, jolt upright as if he had been touched with a taser.

“Dad?” she whispered.

“You’re awake!” he yelped, and she shrank back with a flinch.

“Not so loud, please…”

“Right, right, of course. I’m sorry.” He half-fell, half-jumped out of his chair, going to his knees by her side, and looking at her with wide, worried blue eyes. “I just… I can’t believe you’re awake. I was…” She noticed his eyes suddenly fill with tears. “I was so worried, Rubes. We all were.”

She smiled weakly as he gently pushed the hair out from her eyes, his hands infinitely gentle. “I’m okay, Dad.” She studied him, drinking in the unique comfort that only a parent’s presence could bring. The last time she’d seen Tai, he had been bringing them— her whole team— back from Patch, and they had been laughing and talking after leaving Summer’s grave. She’d never imagined reuniting under these circumstances, and tears welled in her eyes, brimming over and streaking silently down her cheeks.

He let out a choked laugh and wiped them away. “Only you would say you were okay after taking a brush with death. Scratch that— not a brush, you smacked right into death, punched it, and came out okay.”

“I know it.” She groaned and settled back against the mound of pillows propping her up. “I feel awful.”

“Anybody would,” he said, looking guarded all of a sudden, “after what happened to you.”

She blinked, casting back in her mind’s eye for the memories of the Fall of Beacon. She remembered watching Penny die, jumping off the side of the airship, hopping onto Torchwick’s, killing him and Neo, seeing how Fox and Neon had died, Yang lying unconscious in the courtyard, kissing Weiss, streaking up the side of the Tower, and then nothing at all, except a dull, static-sort of buzz.

One event stuck out in her mind more than the others, and she felt cold under all the sheets. She looked away from her father, hoping he attributed the sudden flush in her cheeks to fever, or something. She could think about Weiss, and what had happened, later. Another, far more urgent question, pressed on her mind. “Dad… is Yang… is she okay? Is she here?”

His gaze darkened. “She’s… back here, yes. One of your friends was with her on the airship— Sun, I think— and helped her back home, a couple hours after the battle ended. She’s… alive, and conscious, but in what mental state, I… I can’t say. I do know that she’s furious at… at everything, Ruby, and rightly so, with the whole ‘leaving-without-a-word’ thing, since that reopens some old wounds… but you know that already.” It was one of the first times Ruby could recall him voluntarily bringing up Raven, and she absorbed it in a silent, stunned state. They never talked about Yang’s mom. Their family was screwed-up in its own special way, but the family they had now— her, Yang, Tai, and Qrow— was what they held close, and they didn’t bring up the things that had happened in the past. Except, it seemed, now things were all different. Nothing was the same when the world had been spun on its axis, and her reality was twisted into pieces. “Ruby,” Taiyang coaxed, his tone soft with worry, “say something.”

“Why isn’t she in here?” Ruby wavered. “This is our room, we— we share it, and I… is she…?”

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of her bed. “She asked to be in the guest room,” he murmured. “She won’t talk to me… won’t talk to anyone about what happened to her. She hasn’t spoken in days.”

Ruby’s world spun, and she swayed, feeling her father reach over to steady her. “Oh no,” she mumbled. “Oh, Yang.”

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Taiyang said. “She’s… it’s pretty bad. I’ve… I’ve never seen her like this before.”

“How is she?”

“Angry,” he said, a muscle flickering in his clenched jaw. She got the feeling he was angry— not at his daughters, but at the world itself, really. Angry that he hadn’t been able to save either of the women he loved, and now, he hadn’t been able to protect either of their daughters. “Closed-off. She won’t let anyone go near her. She’s been sitting alone in her room for the past three days.”

Ruby’s eyes bugged out. “I’ve been out that long?”

He nodded. “Three days in which I got absolutely no sleep, I’ll have you know. Not a wink of it.” He gave her a wavering smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But you’re awake now, which is… more than I’d hoped for, I’ll admit. I love you, Ruby. I was so scared you wouldn’t be the same when you woke, but I’m glad to see you’re fine.”

“And you said Sun brought Yang back here,” Ruby said, fighting off a wave of exhaustion that surged up inside of her. She was determined not to succumb to the seductive promise of rest until she knew what had happened while she was unconscious. “Where did he go?”

“He went back to explore the town around central Patch until they can get him an airship back to Mistral. He said he didn’t want to stay here, not if Yang didn’t want him to, and I don’t blame him. Things have been… tense around the house. It’s all just really— chaotic right now, Rubes. It’s the aftermath of one of the worst attacks in Remnant’s history, next to the Great War… things are going to be messy for a while.”

“Isn’t it always?”

Ruby and Taiyang both looked up as a rough voice broke into their silence. Her eyes widened, sending a fresh bolt of pain through her skull, as she saw that it was her uncle. He leaned against the doorframe, his face looking more haggard than ever, the bags under his eyes very starkly pronounced, the shadow of a beard all along his jawline. “They’re always messy,” he said again. “We should be used to it, shouldn’t we?  

He was rolling something between his hands, almost absent-mindedly; Ruby doubted if he was even aware he was doing it. With a jolt of mild surprise, she realized it she recognized it: slender, silver, emblazoned with an curlicued pattern of budding leaves: Ozpin’s cane.

“Where did you—” She began, and then broke off as she saw Qrow and Taiyang exchange a glance that she was very familiar with, having grown up under her uncle’s tutelage and her father’s guidance. Tai and Qrow had both been her parents after Summer’s passing, really, and with Qrow in and out of the house so much, they had developed a nonverbal communication that she’d quickly picked up on. She recognized that look: it was the one that said, How much do we tell her?

“What?” she said, her voice sharp. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, tucking away the cane under his cape with a furrowed look of grief, and straightening up. “Tai, you ought to go check up on Yang. I passed her room. Make sure she eats something, doesn’t matter what, as long as you get something in her. She’s looking gaunt.”

“She hasn’t been eating in days,” Taiyang said, but he obliged, lumbering to his feet. “But I’ll try to feed her. I'll see if I can get her talking. Did you talk to her?"

"She's the last person I'd want to talk to," he replied, his voice heavy, "among some others."

"You're probably right about that." Taiyang's expression shadowed. "I'll go see her."

“Be gentle. Don't press her. She’s taking everything that happened hardest.” There was an undercurrent of despair in his voice, along with an unspoken something that she could see flash in his eyes when he said ‘everything that happened’. “I’ll… talk to Ruby.”

Taiyang flashed him another look— this one was an expression Ruby often saw them exchange, one that said: be careful— before he leaned down, dropping a kiss on the top of her hair before striding out. “I’m glad you’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, the relief stark in his voice.

Of course he’s relieved, a needling voice, in the back of her mind, whispered. After Summer, he would be worried.

“I am too,” she said hoarsely.

“I’ll make you some cookies and milk,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder, before exiting, gently swinging the door shut behind him.

“Hey, little rose,” Qrow murmured, drawing her attention back to him as he walked forward and brought Taiyang’s chair around, sitting in it backward, so that his folded arms rested on the arching back of it. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone backed over me with a Bullhead, reversed it, and backed over me again,” she croaked. “I ache all over.”  

He let out a soft snort of amusement. “At least you haven’t changed after what you did,” he said, red gaze clouding over. “I was worried about that.”

“What?” she said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He blinked at her, an expression of wariness abruptly erasing the relief on his face. “Do you… what do you remember, Ruby? Tell me everything you can recall from the Fall; don’t leave anything out.”

She shivered, suddenly cold despite the mound of blankets she was buried under. “I… I remember Penny dying in the arena.” A fresh wave of grief swept over her. “I remember killing Torchwick and Neo… and that Fox and Neon died… and Yang’s arm… and— I remember Ironwood’s ship crashing in flames—”

“I wouldn’t worry about him; Ironwood’s alright,” Qrow said with a half-smile that curled crookedly on his face, “if you can believe it. His thick skin saved him. Old Metalskull’s survived worse than a ship crash, and he’s safe— back in Atlas, with the remnants of his military intact there.”

Ruby felt a pang of relief. “I remember… fighting in the courtyard.” I remember Weiss telling me she loved me, she thought privately, but he didn’t really need to know that, did he? She could think about it later, sort out how, exactly, she felt after everything that had happened. “I remember going up the side of the Tower, and… and…”

With a sudden shock, the static-cloud of fuzziness that had engulfed her mind and blocked out her memories lifted, letting them come back into her mind’s eye in full color, full pain, full sight. They flashed through her mind in quick succession, and she sank back against her pillows, assaulted by what she had forgotten and what she knew she would never, never be able to forget from this point forwards. A mixture of shame, at having forgotten, and sheer misery, swirled through her.

Cinder, her amber eyes alight in triumph. Pyrrha, an arrow protruding from her chest. The world going whiter than a star into supernova…  

“What happened, Uncle Qrow?” she demanded. “What happened to them after I—”

Qrow’s gaze lowered and slid away as he saw the look on her face, and that was all the answer Ruby needed. “They’re dead, Ruby,” he said roughly. “Both of them.”  

Hot, angry tears welled up on the rims of her eyelids. “I was too late,” she snarled, more furious at herself than anything, but her fury, she knew, was just misery and guilt by another name. “Too late to save Pyrrha. If I had just been quicker, I could have—”

“Don’t say that,” he snapped. “Don’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done to make sure everything turned out perfectly. Life doesn’t work out that way. You damn near killed yourself with what you did, Ruby, and you killed Cinder with it. She would have wrought much more havoc if unleashed after she defeated Pyrrha; you kept that from happening, kept even more of your friends from dying if Cinder hadn’t been stopped. You saved Vale, you hear me? No sacrifices on that night were in vain, thanks to you. Not your peers who died, not Pyrrha,” and here let out a pained huff of breath, fingers running across the back of the chair, “and not Ozpin.”  

“How?”

The lines on his face more strained and pronounced than ever in the pale winter sunlight, he looked up at her though his ragged hair. “You’ll have to be more specific. How ‘what’, exactly?”

“I remember seeing Cinder k—kill Pyrrha,” she said slowly, taking a shuddering breath, “but I… I can’t remember anything after that, just… the whole world going white, and my head hurting, like it was about to burst…”

“Ah,” he murmured, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Ah, so you do remember… I was hoping…”

“Hoping what?”

Silver eyes met red, deep pain reflected in both. “It’s a long story, Ruby,” he replied wearily, “a long legend, in fact, and it’s definitely not a pretty little fairytale, once you look at its implications, even if it seems nice enough at first. It’s filled with pain, and uncertainty, and it is a story that connects to you in ways you don’t know yet, ways that have been determining your future since the moment you were born— and ultimately, it’s a story I should have told you a long, long time ago.

“This is the right time, I guess, where it’s all culminated into the unavoidable. It’s a tale that you’ve known bits and pieces of throughout the span of your life, things that have been hinted at to you, but I’ll try to fill in the gaps between those bits of knowledge so it all makes sense, like a puzzle finally being completed. If you want to hear them, that is.” He frowned. “I’ll warn you: once you hear it, your old life, your old worries… those will seem miniscule. You’ll be thrust onto a path that will seem dark, and shadowed, and terrifying… but you have light to get you through it, now. Ruby, you’re strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit before. But everything changed the night Beacon fell, and whether you like it or not, we’ve got to change with it, or we won’t survive.”

“Don’t treat me like a little baby.” She glared at him, annoyed at the grating pain in his voice. “If I lived, as Dad said, ‘smacking into death’, I think I can handle a little story.”

“I see you haven’t lost any of your acid wit,” he said, rising from his chair and meandering towards the window, “that’s good. But it’s not a little story at all. And it doesn’t have a happy ending, not really. The first is a story Ozpin told me, one from a very long time ago.”  

“You and Ozpin were close, weren’t you?” she asked. “Did you— I’m sorry, Uncle Qrow. I wasn’t… I didn’t know him very well… but he reminded me of you. He reminded me of you a lot. He was kind, and he was smart. I’ll never forget him for how he encouraged me to succeed.”

“Yes,” Qrow said finally, his voice hoarse. “He wanted you to succeed, Ruby. He was proud of you, in some ways. I think he’d be proud of you now. But he died trying to stop Cinder. I don’t know when the end came for him. But I remember how he would fight like all of the Huntsmen in the world, for what he believed in. That’s how I’ll always remember him.” He stared out the window, his back to her, but she could faintly see his face in the glass, and his eyes closed in pain at her words, hands gripping the windowsill as if he were afraid to fall. Pity engulfed her at his expression. She had only ever seen Qrow look so wrecked, so torn apart by grief, one time many years ago. On the day he had brought back the news about Summer. “I was… close to him. As close as one could be to someone like that.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, uncertain of how to comfort him.

I’ve known— I knew,” he corrected himself, voice ragged, “I knew him a long, long time.” He paused, weighing his next words. “Longer than your parents, even.”

“That’s years and years you’ve known him… at least two decades, right? Is that why you have his cane? To remember?”

He turned to stare at her, his gaze hard— not quite menacing, but something in there let her know that further questions in that direction would not be welcome. “Remembering isn’t always easy,” Qrow said very quietly, “as you’ve just seen. It can be painful to remember. But we always have to learn from memories, you see, and with what’s happened… Ozpin is gone. He sacrificed himself to buy Vale time, just as your friend did. It seems we both have a responsibility: to make sure they aren’t forgotten, or that their sacrifices aren’t taken for granted.”

Ruby flinched. “Tell me the story,” she murmured.

He glanced at her thoughtfully. “When you first applied for Beacon— or rather, when you were ambushed by Torchwick and met Glynda— you met Ozpin, didn’t you? He took you and talked to you, and accepted you to Beacon. Even though you were only fifteen years old, and the strict age to enter was seventeen years old. Glynda was more dubious about it. But Ozpin was eager to let you in. So eager he overruled her immediately without a word of protest. He didn’t have a single qualm about breaking his rules like that, just for some random fifteen year old girl. Isn’t that all correct?”

“Hey, wait a second!” she burst out, sitting bolt upright and ignoring the spike of pain it induced in her head. “How could you possibly know that?”

He grinned broadly at that, the edges of his eyes crinkling. “If you had looked out the window of his office, you’d have seen a sharp-eyed crow listening in on your conversation that night. I heard everything, and I’m sure he knew I was there.”

“You used your semblance to eavesdrop on us,” she accused him, crossing her arms mutinously and sitting back. “That’s—”

“Eavesdrop is such an ugly word, don’t you think?” he mused. “I prefer gather potentially valuable information. That’s much better.”

“That’s four words, Uncle Qrow.”

“Doesn’t matter. In any case, it paid off. He knew I was there, so he laid off easy on you, and gave you entry to the school at fifteen— virtually unheard of around these parts.” He whisked around, cape swirling out behind him, and directed a piercing stare her way. “Regardless of the circumstances, do you truly believe Ozpin let you into the school— a prestigious academy; takes incredible skills to be granted entry— because you beat up a few half-trained goons with faulty guns, and ran off a cowardly thief who would have fled, regardless of whether you were there or not? Or that he let you in— you, a simple fifteen year old girl— simply because you were my niece, and I was listening in?”

“You know, I thought so at first,” she answered honestly, “but now that you’re asking me… no, I don’t think so.”

“You’re right.” He paused, running a hand over the bristles on his chin. “He wouldn’t have accepted you to Beacon, two years below the age-limit as you were, simply because you were somewhat talented with swinging around a scythe and you had a uncle who was pals with the headmaster. He’d have let you finish up at Signal, and then apply to Beacon, if that were the case. So what do you think it was?”

Deciding to let the comment about being somewhat talented slide, she narrowed her eyes in confusion at him. “I— I don’t— I don’t know why. That’s all there was that was noticeable about me, surely…?” There was a realization burning the back of her mind, malleable and unformed, and she did not want to reach for it, terrified of what it might reveal when it shaped into fully-realized form.

“The night you met him,” Qrow said darkly, “he told you something. The very first words, if you would. What were they?”

She frowned, suddenly feeling chilled, and cast back into her memory. Everything about that time was stark, tattooed in her mind forever, because it had been one of best nights of her life. She remembered the headmaster’s kindly face, Glynda looking disapproving, and then with a mild pang of satisfaction, she pulled the words out of memory’s clutch. “He said… he said I had silver eyes. I thought he… well, I don’t know. I guess he was just trying to make conversation.”

Qrow rolled his eyes. “Or because he thought you were odd-looking?”

“You have got to stop guessing my thoughts like that.”

He didn’t look amused. “He didn’t mention them for any trite reason, or because he wanted to make small talk,” Qrow informed her. “He was commenting on them to discreetly let me know that he knew who you were, and whose daughter you were, as well. Oz knew Summer Rose. She was a student there too, after all. He was also caught off-guard— now, that doesn’t happen often, let me tell you. Oz is— was— a hard man to surprise.” He swallowed, his eyes darkening with grief. “I am about to tell you a legend, Ruby, and you have to let me finish it through to its end, no matter how many questions you have. Above all, you have to believe it, every word of it. I swear by anything you hold sacred that nothing I say following these words is anything but the truth.”

“O— okay,” she stammered, startled by the sudden sharp edge of solemnity in his voice.

“You’re special, Ruby,” he said quietly, but his words sounded eerily loud in the silence that followed. “Not special in the ‘daddy-loves-his-little-angel’ sort of way. You’re special in the same way your mom was.”

She blinked at him, puzzled, but mostly— afraid. There was an expression on his face that she’d never seen before, one that mixed equal parts relief and anxiety, fear and grief.  

Qrow continued, pacing the room. “Back in the dawn of Remnant, when the world was misty and half-formed, as you know, there was Dust. Man was born from Dust, which you’re also aware of. And out of this mist that covered Remnant, four things emerged, each with a different purpose to which they would work to achieve their means: to create, to destroy, to bring forth light, and to fight back the shadows which constantly threatened Remnant.

“These were four things brimming with the energy of life when Remnant was but an infant world. Can you guess what they were, Ruby?”

“Mankind,” she said slowly, turning the words over in her mouth before she spoke them, “and… and the Faunus also count with mankind, I guess… and Dust… and the Grimm. I don’t know what the fourth is, Uncle.”

“I don’t expect you to know.” He paused, the edge of his mouth curling down in a deep frown. His words had the ring of a tale told many, many times, and she had a striking vision of Ozpin telling him this same story. “So I’ll tell you. Mankind and the Faunus were born to create, with their self-awareness, ingenuity, and endurance. The Grimm were made to destroy everything mankind created, so that humanity would never become arrogant and presume what they made was meant to last forever, and so that they would know how fragile life truly was, and what a gift it was to be able to do what they were able to do. The Grimm also were made so Hunters could come about, but that’s another story for another day. And Dust was made to bring forth light to Remnant. This is why we return to Dust when we die, so our bodies may become part of an unending cycle to light the world.”

“You said there were four,” she said. “Mankind and Faunus were intended to create, Grimm to destroy, Dust to make light, and another— one to ‘fight back the shadows that threatened’. Who was meant to do that?”

“There was a special breed of warrior, different from everything around it—  different from man, Grimm, and Dust,” he said softly. “This breed of warrior was different, you see, because it was alike everything else in some way. It owed its connections to the other three from which it had been born alongside. This special breed of warrior had the soul and mercy of mankind and Faunus— had the energy and light of Dust— and the strength and endurance of the Grimm. These warriors were the fourth thing made at the dawn of Remnant, intended to banish the shadows from the world. They were the perfect Hunter, designed to beat back the Grimm and protect that which was good.

“These warriors were all marked by one single, pointed trait: only they had them; only them, and no one else. Anybody with this trait was a warrior.” He looked at her fiercely.

She knew what he was going to say a second before he said it, and with an awful pang, she was not at all surprised as he looked directly at her, and said, “The one thing these warriors all had in common, Ruby, was that they had silver eyes.”

As if in answer, her eyes gave a pulse— not of pain, but of a sudden awareness, as if someone she loved, and had not seen in a very long time, had called her name. A warm glow suffused her body, and as if his words had unlocked something within her, she became sharply aware of several things pulsing inside of her: her soul, her mercy, her energy, her light, her strength, her endurance, and the capability she had to use it to whatever terms she wanted: to darkness, or to light.

“Oh,” she murmured, voice very quiet. "You mean... I... I'm not...?"

“It’s a lot to take in,” he said, “but it’s true. These warriors, you see, were made to kill the Grimm, as you can guess. Because Grimm were soulless creatures of malice, of darkness, drawn to negativity. The warriors were light, with souls, intended to protect mankind and the Faunus.”

“And you think I’m…?” She trailed off faintly, vaguely wiggling a hand to indicate the sheer scope of the thing, and he quirked a smile at her.

“Well, take a look in the mirror, and consider this… you killed a Grimm, larger than the likes of any regular beast, in one blow, and you shattered a woman who was able to kill two of the strongest warriors on Remnant— and you’re here, safe in bed, with the worst to happen to you being a mild headache and a three-day… well, a coma. But you’re alive.” He paused. “You’re alive, Ruby. You walked to the brink of death, and came back… and there are four other people who did not do the same. Were it not for your heritage, we would have lost you. You would be another casualty mark along with your other peers who were murdered, and we would not be having this conversation.”

“I remember it now, really,” she said. “I remember seeing what happened, and a pressure building inside my head, and then white light— it felt like fire, so cold it was hot— just bursting out of my eyes, and then I must have blacked out. I— I don’t remember anything at all after that.”

“Black out you did,” Qrow told her quietly. “I found you amid the rubble at the top of the Tower. Everything up there was shattered, and frost covered it all. The coldness of that light stopped the Grimm’s heart, and it was so devastating in itself that it killed Cinder the moment it touched her. Hell, you almost killed yourself with that blast. Unlocking the power expended so much of your energy that it exhausted all of it, and had to draw on the reserves of your spirit itself. If you’d unleashed even the slightest bit more of the power, you would be dead. I’m not telling you this to scare you, Ruby,” he added gently, forestalling her protestation as she opened her mouth, “but you have to know how big this is. And that you mustn’t underestimate it, or yourself.”  

She gaped at him, the importance of his little speech finally clicking. “So I’ve got this power,” she said, her voice slowly increasing in volume, “a huge power, one you and Dad— don’t tell me he doesn’t know; you would’ve told him right off, because my mom had it too— knew about my entire life, and neither of you thought to tell me about it?”

“Ruby—”

“You lied to me my entire life,” she hissed. “My. Entire. Life. You made me think I was someone I wasn’t, and now you’ve only told me the truth when it’s unavoidable. Who does that? What kind of a parent hides that sort of secret from their own child?”

“You aren’t my child by blood,” he said levelly, “regardless of whether I’m a parental figure to you or not. I don’t morally owe you that sort of honesty. If you asked me to prioritize your feelings, or your safety, I would prioritize your safety every time. Believe me when I say this: knowing about your power would not have helped you, Ruby. In the long run, it would have caused you far more hurt than harm. You would have been isolated, separated by the unescapable knowledge that you were fundamentally different than everyone else.”

“You lied, Qrow,” she repeated, her voice cold. “Both you, and my dad.”

“We did,” he said steadily, and somehow that soothed her anger more than protestation or or explanations or excuses would have. “There’s no excuse for it. We lied. And I’m sorry for it, I’m sorry that that’s how things had to go, but they did, and nothing I say or do will change that. But you know now. You know what you are. There’s no other secrets. No other hidden truths. I’ve told you everything— everything I know, everything Tai knows, everything Ozpin told me.”  

“Promise?” she whispered.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he replied, and the honesty flickering through his eyes made her believe him more than anything. Suddenly exhausted, she sank back against the pillows, before a sudden thought struck her so fast it felt like she had been brained with Magnhild.

“Where’s my team?”

“Your team,” he said hoarsely, turning around as if he’d been expecting it. An expression of guilt and sadness crossed his face as he inhaled a deep breath, cheeks hollowing out. “I… you shouldn’t worry about it right now. You need to rest, not learn more after everything I’ve just told you—”

“I’m their leader,” she said sharply. “I have a right to know. And it’s more than that. I care about them— so much, Uncle Qrow. Weiss is my partner, I— Yang’s my sister, and Blake’s one of my best friends in this whole world… I can’t not know. I need to know, whether it’s good or bad or—”

“It’s not good news, Ruby,” he whispered.

Her heart sinking, she blinked at him, and with a soft swear, he jammed his hands into his pockets and turned his back to her, unable to look her in the eye. “Vincent Schnee has legally sworn his daughter back into the manor at Atlas,” he said. “She’s gone. She can’t come back, not without breaking the law, and I don’t think that’s something she would dare to do.”

Forcing out the next words, though her heart was shattering in her chest, Ruby asked, “And Blake?”

“That Faunus boy, Sun… he says she vanished after the last of the airships took off from Beacon,” he said. “She disappeared into the wilderness beyond the Tower, and efforts to track her down have proved fruitless. No one’s seen her since.”

“But Yang,” Ruby said desperately, her voice very small, grasping at any shard of hope she could find, “Yang would have… she would have been able to track her down… their Bond… wouldn’t she? We could still…”

Qrow scrubbed his face with both hands, his tired voice emitting from between his fingers. “Yang,” he said quietly, “has shut down her Bond, and she refuses to speak to either me, or your father, about what happened to her three nights ago. Blake, for better or for worse, is gone, and unless she comes back voluntarily, I would advise you to… bid your goodbyes. Without the CCT, there’s no chance of tracking her down, and with the attitude in Vale right now, I’d say we had a better chance of flying to the moon then of reaching her.”

“How is Yang?” Ruby asked, afraid of the answer. “Dad said she’s… not okay. At all.”

“I won’t lie to you. That’s the understatement of the century.” He paused, raking a tired hand through his hair and disheveling it further. “Well, she’s finally reached her breaking point. The toll from being framed at the tournament, being abandoned by both her mother and her partner, losing her arm, losing her fighting style, losing her team, losing her whole world that she was used to all in one strike…” He shook her head. “Tai is losing sleep over it, but what can I say? It’s not unexpected. Everyone’s got a point where they just can’t bounce back. Everyone’s got a tipping point, when it’s too much, and you go over the edge. Nobody is unbreakable. Some of us just break a little more easily than others, that’s all. She’s endured so much— I’m just surprised that this is what it took to make her give up. You can try to talk to her if you want, but… be gentle. She’s not in a good state of mind right now.”  

Ruby covered her face with her hands, complete despair and failure making her stomach sink. She felt desperate to return to the darkness of oblivion, where nothing troubled her— not missing teammates or injured sisters or latent powers, but she would never do so again. This was reality, and she had to face it.  

She peered up at him through a haze of confusion, fear humming through her whole body. “Qrow…”

He blinked down at her. “Yeah?”

“I— what happens now?”

He looked bemused, and then bewildered, and then simply lost. “I don’t know, Ruby,” he said softly, shaking his head. “I… I really don’t know.”

“I want answers,” she forced out through gritted teeth. “Why Cinder attacked Beacon, why Roman did, why Pyrrha had to die— I need to know, or I’ll never make peace with it. I’ll never be able to make peace with what happened! Emerald and Cinder were my friends, and they betrayed me. I can’t be okay with that without answers and explanations, don’t you get it?”

He inclined his head. “Cinder and her crew— they claimed they were from Haven, if you remember,” he said. “I can’t hold you back anymore, you know, and I wouldn’t want to. You’ve grown. Perhaps, if it is answers you seek, that is where you might find them.” He nodded to her slightly before bowing out of the room, and his last words came in softly, just before the door clicked shut. “I’ll see you out there, Ruby.”

She laid there after he left, her entire body aching from the effects of what her incredible power had done, letting the icy chill run through her veins, numbing her from the inside out. The aftermath had finally sunken in, truly, and for all she had pretended to be okay when Taiyang and Qrow had been around, she wasn’t okay in any sense of the word. She abdicated her sense of calm, letting everything rush through her, all her pain and fear and confusion, relinquished the control and let it crash through her with the force of a tidal wave.

Two of her friends were gone, they were dead, they had been erased entirely, and part of her wished for the same. The entire Fall of Beacon and what had happened afterward had broken her down, bit by bit, piece by piece. Everything she knew was a lie. Her mother wasn’t just her mother, but the wielder of the same power that had almost destroyed Ruby atop the Tower; her sister was not the light sister she knew anymore, but someone calcified in regret; her friends were dead; her team was gone; and she had killed three people remorselessly. There was no such thing as happy endings, not even if you tried as hard as you could, not even if you made up for your wrongs, not even if you redeemed yourself. There was nothing but pain and betrayal and loss, in the end, whether it was caused by fate or destiny or some other power she could barely imagine. Everything she knew and believed had been wrong, had been shattered entirely, every attempt she had undertaken to save those she loved had been a failure seeped in lies, every choice she had made had caused things to grow worse.

There was nothing left to do. All her life, she had always had a path forward, even when things seemed terrible. When her mother had died, Ruby had seen her path as becoming a Huntress. When Yang had been framed, Ruby had known that she had to lead her team with confidence and certainty. When Beacon had begun to fall, Ruby knew she had to try and kill Torchwick. But now, she could see nothing, no options left, no path forward, nothing lying in wait except a deep, unending darkness that promised nothing but pain and fear.

There was nothing left for her here, or Beacon, or anywhere in the whole world. That was abundantly clear. Weiss was someplace Ruby could never reach her, Blake was missing entirely, and Yang was— mentally— somewhere more distant than the stars. Ruby lay there, and let memories overwhelm her, running over her head like waves, and she let the world fade away as she succumbed to the silver that had been coloring her life in ways she had never noticed before.

She creeps down the hallway on barefoot, sticky toes, the floorboards creaking slightly and bending with her weight. She flinches. It’s not far to the kitchen, and once she’s there, she can nab as many of her father’s snickerdoodle cookies as she wants, and abduct them to her and Yang’s room for them to share. Her sister won’t be mad; she’s sure of it. No one can say no to her dad’s baking. She’s just got to make it past the slightly ajar door of her parents’ bedroom—

“We won’t be able to hide it from her forever,” Taiyang’s voice says suddenly, floating out from the door. Ruby freezes in the shadows edging the hallway, pressing her back to the wall, and hopes that he won’t emerge from the room and spot her. “Summer, you know that we won’t. Qrow says it’s only a matter of time, but Ozpin says we’ve got to wait—”

“And since when, pray tell, have Qrow and Ozpin ever agreed on anything, hmm? They’re like an old married couple; they bicker all the time, and you know it. Except they lack the rings and the relationship.”

He sighs heavily, and Ruby leans forward, despite herself, curious as to what they’re talking about. She’s never heard her dad sound so tired— and, for all the world, defeated. He’s usually vibrant, always ready to play a game or tell them a story. “It’s not funny. I’ve never trusted him, but this is something I can’t help but worry about.”

“Him, or Qrow?”

“Either of them. Oz has always been… secretive, to say the least, and Qrow… sometimes I get the idea that he’s content to follow Ozpin’s lead in prioritizing ‘the greater good’ more than he is to look out for the best interests of his family and team.”

“Tai, they’re both good people, despite whatever they do. Remember that. I know you’re worried about her— believe me, I’ve been worried since the day she opened her eyes. I’ve never wanted her to endure what I have, with something she can’t help, that lures her intro trouble like moths to a flame… but really, there’s nothing we can do in the end.” Summer’s voice becomes fierce. “I won’t let my daughter’s memories be marred by us burdening her with what she can barely understand, do you hear me? She has the right to a normal childhood, just as much as Yang does, and I won’t let that be taken away from her, no matter what.”

Ruby surfaced from the memory, her heart beating loud in her chest, memories twining together and connecting and revealing her past in a new, frightening light. She had been marked out, outcast, from the moment she opened her eyes. From the moment she murdered three.

Alone, she thought. I am completely, absolutely alone now.

And so, alone in her room with the wavering winter sunlight striping across her childhood bed, Ruby finally allowed herself to cry.

[royallypsychotic]

Dior Mens And Sacai Are Teaming Up For S

Taking inspiration from the classic shapes of Dior’s signature traces within the 1970s, the Dior Oblique is good for many who crave vintage purse designs. The Dior Oblique bag reinterprets the brand’s heritage with canvas-print particulars on saddle bag and bowling bag designs. Dior baggage have been produced on the height of the It-bag era and remain timeless icons right now. His Corolle line, characterised by a drawn-in waist, an ample ankle-length skirt and rounded shoulders, remains well-known to this day. Born in 1905, Christian Dior founded a brand which revolutionised fashion within the 1950s. Having opened a gallery in 1928, which then succumbed to the disaster of 1929, Christian Dior began drawing clothes and hats as a designer, in addition to for the press. Brooklyn-based designer Brandon Blackwood speaks with L'OFFICIEL in regards to the success of the viral End Systemic Racism bag and creating a neighborhood through fashion. Jamilla Okubo, one of the youngest names contributing to the Lady Art sequence, is a recent Parsons School of Design graduate. Designed in collaboration with Kim Jones, this moveable personal case is made from the finest aluminum with leather accents and cross-body strap. NewItem appears to haven't been used and shows no indicators of put on and tear.Like NewItem is like new with very slight indicators of use. Metal floor could present slight surface scratches, but item has "like-new" sparkle and shine.Gently UsedItem has obviously been used, however no signs of serious abrasions, stains, scratches, or dents. Metal floor has superficial floor scratches.Well UsedItem has been well-loved and it reveals. Signs of damage, with medium scratches visible from a close distance. She paired it with a tangerine Versace swimsuit on a visit to Liverpool that year, and with a John Galliano for Dior slip to the Met Gala in 1996. 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Dior has created its “Lady Dior As Seen By” traveling exhibition as a means for us to view these masterpieces up shut and personal. sample of Christian Dior’s own Napoleon III chairs, with the brand spelt out in pendant charms – immediately grew to become her favourite, a lot so she wore it day and evening, and bought several Diors at Harrods upon her return to London. https://depurses.ru/dior.html There are not any different serial numbers that might be discovered on any of Christian Dior’s designer handbags. It goes with out saying that if there is a further quantity printed wherever on the bag that it's clearly a faux. Fresh from the aftermath of the Second World War, Dior’s daring debut assortment was dubbed as the “New Look” line and helped in re-establishing Paris because the world’s style capital. 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The textual content could additionally be Dior, or Christian Dior, but the font must be grey, and the black font is faux. 1) The stunning arched handles of the enduring Lady Dior purse are sturdy and keep in place when not being held. Dior wraps the handles of brand name new bags in a paper, whereas replica handles are sometimes wrapped in plastic. 1) One method to spot a faux Dior bag is to verify the stitching. The iconic Cannage quilting seen on many Dior gadgets was inspired by the Napoleon III chairs. 3）The heat stamp should be perfectly centered in the course of the leather-based tag. Unlike many trend homes, Goyard’s leather-based items are available in a spread of various colours, relying on the season and the chosen palette for the present assortment. Hence, The Goyard Tote Dupes have collated several colour combos on your bag from orange, brown, blue, black, gray and plenty of more. In doing so you ought to purchase your much-loved Goyard Dupes and the Goyard inspired bags in a colour which you can use every day. Especially the blue Oblique sample makes individuals really feel very contemporary and advanced at first glance. If you select lv old flowers is luxury, then select Dior presbyopia is excessive cold feel. Compared to replicas, genuine Book Totes have looser stitches while those of the replicas’ are too dense, too excellent. It’s most obvious with the Oblique that I assume counterfeiters will proceed to upgrade as long as Dior continues to make it, making this guide much less related soon in the future. For the past 9 years, Christian Dior has made all of its Lady Dior Cannage baggage with the interior leather tag in the identical colour and material as the skin of the purse. Just like on the genuine Lady Dior bag, the tag says “Christian Dior”, “PARIS” and “Boutique” on three rows. They cross over into so many demographics of colour, race, class, age. That made them the right vehicle for a project like this. That was something I’ve always appreciated in artwork — the means in which Keith Haring, for example, wished his work to be accessible to everyone. It deals in classic gadgets and antique collections, each new and used.Basically, we offer free delivery irrespective of the place you buy, and you can even ask us about our guarantee for top value gadgets. Basically, we provide free shipping no matter the place you buy, and you may also ask us about our guarantee for high worth items.

[ajmvisualforecasting]

Historical and Cultural References: Alexander McQueen

Alexander Mcqueen takes inspiration from a huge variety of historical cultures, art, textiles, film, make-up, film and their techniques and design processes. Every one of his runway shows were a theatrical production, tributing the design work of many eras in time. A lot of his collections referenced the dark, dismal melancholic Victorian Gothic era. When I think of the Victorian era I see dark clothing, winter, taxidermy, death, the plague and poetry. McQueen embodies this, often in his Autumn / Winter collections, using exaggerated Victorian styles silhouettes and big hats, bird feathers, dramatically white make up and skulls.

Historical - Victorian Gothic, 1800s Cultural - Edgar Alan Poe Social - sadness, death, social class Environmental - dark, decaying, victorian london streets

Following this will be pictures of how the Victorian Gothic era has inspired McQueen throughout the years and my essay on how historical art movements inspired Alexander McQueen.

There are a lot of fashion designers who are looking for uniqueness in futuristic and contemporary designs. In contrast to this, Alexander McQueen is recognised as being original and outrageous for looking back in time. This iconically British designer was passionate about art and more often than not applied historical fine art, print making, makeup and sculpture to his designs. McQueen is inspired by a huge spectrum of art and historical art movements ranging from renaissance paintings from as early as the mid 1400’s to cinema in the mid 1900’s. “Angels and Demons”, McQueen’s Autumn/Winter collection, is the very last collection he started to create before committing suicide in 2010. This collection takes great inspiration from artists from the 16th Century, using art movements such as the Renaissance and Classicism which depicts classical, religious scenes. One piece of art to mention in particular is titled The Temptation of St Anthony (1501) by Hieronymus Bosch. This triptych painting depicts the mental and spiritual torments endured by St Anthony throughout his lifetime. Each third shows unending scenes of demonic debauchery, the temptation of luxury and violence. In his Angels and Demons collection, McQueen created a few different garments inspired by the medieval artisanal textiles of the 16th century, like gloves and traditional style dresses with a modern twist of using the painting, which was digitally printed, blown up over the fabric of the garments. One garment in particular is a traditional corseted dress showing a specific scene of Saint Anthony being assisted by three others crossing a bridge, in a state of complete exhaustion, after being beaten by the devil. Here he uses deep, blood reds, earthy browns and black, portraying darkness and hell on earth. In choosing this piece of art, with its torment and darkness, it is argued that McQueen was trying to reflect his own turmoil. This unfinished collection was a way to free his mind and open up to the unending sense of suffering he was feeling at the time.

In contrast to this, he also created more garments in his Angels and Demons collection depicting another triptych by Bosch titled The Garden of Earthly Delights (1510.) These three panels show the story of Adam and Eve and the sacrament of matrimony, a dreamlike portrayal of earth, and humans succumbing to temptations in hell. Although there is still a dark undertone in the last third of this triptych, a skirt McQueen has designed portrays a scene of earth with naked women and animals playing whimsically and un-shamefully in a fountain. Here he uses a multitude of bright colours, including grassy greens, crystal-like blues and pale pinks, portraying a glimmer of hope and regeneration. The word ‘renaissance,’ in French, means ‘rebirth,’ this could be what McQueen was trying to do with his name in the fashion industry. This collection is unlike any other he had designed before. The colours he used were very different to any other of his past collections which often held colour schemes of black and grey. It is very clear that he has captured both of the paintings’ opulence and embodied that into his creations with the use of his colour scheme and the use of the paintings themselves printed onto the fabric. There is a contradiction of emotions demonstrated through the scenes depicted in this collection, from the chaos shown through The Temptation of Saint Anthony to the tranquility of The Garden of Earthly Delights, quite like the contradictions between angels and demons.   

Alexander McQueen also took inspiration from the British Arts and Crafts movement of the 19th century. William Morris’ designs were typical of the arts and crafts movement which paved the way for traditionally British looking wallpaper and fabrics, featuring repeated images of traditional English flowers in muted polychromatic colour schemes. Both McQueen and his fabric designer Simon Ungless loved the designs by William Morris and created fabric using continuous floral shapes which was the leading fabric in his Autumn / Winter 1995 collection “Highland Rape.” This collection featured torn lace dresses made in traditional Scottish textile design. The not-so-perfectly symmetrical and intricate designs by Morris were digitally printed onto sheer lace fabric, this was manipulated and ripped, representing violence and to show the intimate skin of the models. The Highland Rape collection was wildly misinterpreted by the media, denouncing McQueen as a misogynist who was glorifying rape. Whereas, in actual fact, McQueen used the torn fabrics of famous British designers in traditional Scottish textile design to signify England’s violation with Scotland.     

After McQueen’s death in 2010, the continually innovative designer shocked once again with the help of the brands current creative director, Sarah Burton. Through the grief of losing Alexander McQueen, Burton reincarnated the heritage of the man and the label, designing an Autumn/Winter 2011 collection and the wedding dress for the Duchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton. This collection took influences from the fine art paintings of the Victorian Gothic period. One painting in particular titled Critics in Costume (1880) by John Callcott Horsley. This painting skilfully portrays two women who are dressed very regally in white silk dresses, completely covered in white embellishments. One dress in particular is almost an entire copy of a dress in the painting with its pale colours but intricate design and embellishment, transcending harsh regality and soft femininity, a perfect way to style royalty on their wedding day.   

In 1996 Alexander McQueen designed a collection for Givenchy titled “Romantic Exoticism.” When referring to the collection, McQueen once said “As a designer you go through every nook and cranny to find inspiration. I get more inspiration from the personality of a region than the actual ethnic origin.” This collection’s inspiration derived from many, many different cultures around the world ranging from, Africa, China, India and Turkey. Japan’s traditional fine art was a particularly significant inspiration in the collection. Magpie on Viburnum Branch by Genga is a painting of a bird sitting on a tree branch from the historical, traditional, Japanese art movement Muromachi (1336-1573.) This painting features on the arms of a kimono McQueen designed in the Romantic Exoticism collection. The painting was embroidered onto the fabric of the arms, so when the arms were folded you could view the whole image as one. McQueen believed that “Fashion can be really racist,” so by incorporating a traditional painting to the garment, he also wanted to use elements of traditional Japanese embroidery and craftsmanship to really appreciate the craft of Japanese textiles and fine art working together to create something breathtaking.    

McQueen’s Spring/Summer 1995 collection ‘The Birds’ is a complete mix up of design, patter and colour but complies with one conjunctive theme of birds. Not only was Alexander McQueen inspired by historical fine art, he was also inspired by graphic design. Maurits Cornelis Escher created optical illusion designs based on reflection, symmetry and geometry. His drawings were very dark, scary and confusing. McQueen adapted many of Escher’s pieces, for this collection including drawings such as Day and Night, Sky and Water I and Liberation, which depicted continuous patterns of birds. These drawings were digitally manipulated onto the fabric to create a geometric houndstooth design that grew in to images of flying birds. This collection really elaborated on McQueen’s eye for art and fashion working together, creating extraordinary fabric designs with the use of graphic design.   

The Spring/Summer 1995 collection also derived inspiration from Alfred Hitchcock’s film The Birds which was created in 1963. Alfred Hitchcock was an English film director and is widely regarded as one of the most influential filmmakers in cinematic history. This film depicted a world infested with killer birds. McQueen was inspired and created a beautiful dress, which was a similar pale blue colour that Tippi Hedren wore in the film, with a typical 1960’s silhouette. To give the dress a McQueen twist, the neckline is adorned with real bird feathers and it looks like the dress is being devoured by the bird. ‘The Birds’ collection is a fantastic example of how many different art movements Alexander McQueen was inspired by.    

Through my research I have learned that every detail of McQueen’s collections, from when he was in university to after his death, yield connotations of destruction which he portrays through his love of fine art and textile design. He has purposefully explored a vast array of historical art movements and by doing so has given him the title of the world's most prolifically innovative and outlandish designers.  

[moonsandstar-s]

The Final Warning - Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVI - Nevermore (Reprise) 

Summary:  As the year draws to a close, peace has finally dawned. The time for unity has arrived. In the Vytal festival, it is time for heroes to rise, bringing glory to their kingdoms. But as autumn dies, the first winds of winter blow over Remnant, chilling the hearts of the people; breathing doubt into their souls. Long-buried secrets will triumph, and every action will have a consequence. Ruby must reconcile herself with her own fate. Weiss struggles to escape her legacy. Blake cannot erase memories. Yang’s search leads her into more peril than ever— but none of them can outrun fate. Shadows turn on shadows, and bonds shatter as they are tested to the limit. For in dividing them, they will fall and burn; at the eye of the storm, no peace lasts forever. In the end and beginning of time, there is a place where the sun never rises, and the dead delight to teach the living. A great danger is rising from the darkness. It’s time to take sides. The final warning is coming. The first chill of winter is the most deadly; it is the chill that kills more than any other. The first betrayal is the most damaging; it is the act that shatters bonds of love and trust, crushing even the strongest heart, tearing teams apart. AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7745314/chapters/22238168 Yang 

A powerful stench pervaded her consciousness. Someone’s bleeding! She surfaced to wakefulness with a slow, syrupy feeling, as if she was being yanked from a pool of mud, twisting and writhing like a fish hauled out of the water. Her surroundings swam into existence hazily, spinning and shifting and blurring. She felt like someone had twisted her inside out, dunked her into a blazing fire, and pulled her out again. Every part of her ached dully. She was moving, boarded on some aircraft, of that she was sure— she could hear muffled wind rushing past her and the whir of gears.

But what had happened?

There was a narrow aisle to her side, further reassuring that she was, indeed, on an airship, and she was propped up on a cushioned leather seat. Was that Sun sitting beside her?

Yes, it was. A violent bruise was blooming on his cheekbone, cracking and swelling it. But there was a strange expression on his face, an expression that was like stunned fear and sorrow and disbelief, all mixed together and magnified until he seemed like a stranger. His hands gripped his knees like he was afraid he might break apart at the seams. “Sun,” she said. Her voice sounded foreign, her tongue thick with salty blood, and her head swam. Pain throbbed through her entire body, but it felt distant, disconnected, like she was floating alone in space with stars sparkling in the distance. “What’s— where are we?”

He looked relieved, spinning around to place a hand on her knee, breathing out a muffled exhalation that she realized was a prayer of thanks. “You’re alive,” he whispered, enfolding her in a tight-gripped hug before letting go. “You’ve got Sage to thank for it; he saved your life, Yang, with his healing semblance, he gave it everything…” He trailed off, looking down at his feet with a mixture of dread and misery in his eyes. “It’s not all good news, though.”

She struggled to sit up and found she couldn’t; her body simply wouldn’t cooperate with her, so she slumped back, still trying to sort out everything internally. Her memory still felt fuzzy; her thoughts slow, like they were embedded in molasses. “Sun,” she said. “Sun, what’s happened to me? Where’s my sister? Where’s Blake?”

His eyes were shiny, shiny like lights, and it took her too long to realize that it wasn’t light in his eyes at all, it was tears. He was crying. Tears welled up in his eyes and streaked silently down his cheeks, one after the other, and Yang had never seen Sun cry before. That scared the hell out of her.  Sun didn’t cry; he was tough as nails, able to bounce back from any sadness like elastic. She struggled to sit up once more and gasped as a bolt of pain stabbed through her. He shook his head and swallowed, wiping his eyes roughly.

“No— don’t sit up, Yang, you’re bleeding…” He reached out one grimy hand, as if to touch her, before shrinking back as if he couldn’t screw up the courage to do it. Yang felt a thick sort of wetness on her face— she knew it was blood— and she raised her hand to wipe it away, only to find that nothing happened. She tried again, feeling an unfamiliar weightlessness on her right side. As a Huntress, she was familiar with her own body, where each limb was at all times, of her own balance and strength. Something felt wrong, terribly wrong. She frowned, trying to raise her hand once more, and nothing happened. She looked down at her arm.

It was gone.

Just as she drew breath to scream, with all the force of a hurricane, a gale of memories smashed back into her mind in full-color.

Blake screaming her name—

— Adam’s insane laughter bouncing off the walls—

— the flicker of red metal, a sword, slashing down in a deadly arc with light sparking off the blade; the moon itself was slicing down like a scythe—

— fire coursing through her veins, into her heart, and she was shattering—

— there’s pain and then it—

— the flash—

— “Yang, you can’t die, you can’t, I still need you—”

— flash—

— Weiss’s voice, quavering with doubt. “You’re telling me someone was able to hurt her like this? A White Fang member? The leader? Why would he—”

— flashing blurred lights and screams—

— “No, I don’t know where Ruby is. Sun says she jumped off the ship and made it to the edge of the arena—”

— exploding silver light—

—the faintest echo of her sister’s final scream—

— the flash—

— fade to black.

She was in the present now, and the slow-state of her thoughts was gone, leaving everything outlined in sharp, agonizing reality. Her injuries now throbbed with the full force of their extent— her insides were scrambled, bones bruised, numerous wounds dotting her body— and her thoughts spun too fast for her to hold on to. But there was one thought that arched in her mind and stayed there like a bullet to the brain: deadly, impossible to ignore.

“Sun,” she snarled. Her voice shook like a leaf. “Sun, where is she? Where’s Ruby? Where’s Blake?”

“Yang, please, calm down—” He reached out as if to touch her on the arm, a comforting gesture, before he saw the bloody stump and recoiled, paling.

Her voice rose to a scream. “Where are they?”

Sun’s apparent calm dissolved, exposing the true anguish he had been hiding, and he exploded, screaming right back at her. “Ruby’s gone! Nobody knows what happened to her after she went to the top of Beacon Tower! Weiss’s father went batshit crazy and took her back to Atlas! And Blake— she’s gone!” he shouted, his visage of solidarity fracturing, revealing the desperation behind it. “Yang, she’s gone! She ran— I tried my hardest but she ran— she left.” He gave a terrible sort of hiccuping noise, shaking all over. “She’s gone,” he repeated before dissolving into awful, heaving, brokenhearted tears. “Gone, gone, gone, and she’s not coming back…”

Yang blinked once, twice, as his words settled in. A deep chill flooded her veins, like she had been doused in ice-water. Darkness whirled behind her eyes, and for one terrifying moment she thought she would pass out; the thought was welcoming, almost. The darkness of oblivion would be comforting now, because the world she knew and the world she trusted as whole and unbreakable had given way under her feet, plunging her into a horrifying maelstrom of pain and fear where nothing made sense, and she was utterly, utterly alone.

And as she was left there, standing alone in the aftermath with the pieces of her life scattered all around her, she could only feel numb as reality sank in, left holding one piece of emotion and not knowing what to do with it: not sorrow, not disbelief, not anger.

She felt betrayal.

Blake is gone, she thought, but she couldn’t make herself believe it. What am I supposed to do with that? She’s— she’s gone, she left me, even after swearing she loved me, would never leave me… she left Beacon… left our team, left me… and she’s not… she’s not coming back…

“Yang,” Sun broke into her thoughts roughly, on his feet as he paced the aisle. “I mean— you have to know what happened after you…”

Her broken voice burst out of her throat, icy and furious, startling her as much as it did him as anger suddenly surged up in her stomach, hot and bitter, twisting everything up within her. “Know what?” she snarled. “I don’t want to know why she ran. Let her run! Let her go and leave us all behind! Because if she did… if she did love me, if she cared… she wouldn’t have gone! She would be here, next to you, telling me all this for herself! Don’t you get that? She didn’t give enough of a damn to stay after everything…”

His gray eyes were round with horror. “Yang, that’s not—”

“I don’t care, Sun,” she growled, turning away from him and looking out the windows of the airship. “I just don’t care.”

“Yang—”

“Leave me alone. Don’t you get that? I don’t want to know her reasons. I don’t care.”

She heard him walk to the front of the airship, his breath hitching unevenly, as if he was holding back tears still. She clenched her fist in her lap, and fought off another wave of dizzying blackness. She couldn’t succumb back to unconsciousness, not now, even if she wanted to. Rage electrifying her veins, she turned to the Bond, feeling a distant, sharp sort of grief, but it felt— taut. Strained, like a cord that had been pulled too tight. Because my other half is running away and straining it with every step she takes, fleeing like a coward, Yang thought with a cold, bitter amusement, every part of her filled with a icy detachment that she wasn’t used to. Bonds aren’t meant to withstand so much distance, are they?

Well, let’s see if it can stand some more. I’ll finish what she started.  

Summoning up every scrap of her will and anger, she reached deep within herself, feeling her Bond, the shape and emotion of it— the pain, the love, the sadness, the anger— and, with one last wrench of fury, she shut it down.

She shut it down, not breaking it, but turning it off, blocking off Blake from her thoughts, her mind, her heart— and with a last splintering sigh, the tautening cord inside of her snapped, untethering her from Blake, leaving her stranded, on her own and drifting and alone. Pain— not the screaming agony that accompanied the breaking of a Bond, as she had seen with Taiyang when Summer had died—  but pain nevertheless, flashed through her. Everything around her turned pitch-black for a heartbeat, and she knew pure terror before the world bleached back into focus. A great emptiness yawned inside of her chest, and she realized she had grown used to it, so familiar with having Blake’s emotions in tune with her own, that being separated like this felt like she had sawn off one of her limbs.

Fitting, she thought with a sense of hollow amusement, before she burst into tears.

All the anger leeched out of her, and she bent double, sobs wrenched out of her like they were being pried out with a knife. Blake, she thought. God, Blake, why did you go… why did you leave me, leave us… after everything we went through…

She realized that a sharp pain was digging into her hipbone, and, fumbling with her good arm, blinking away blurriness from her tears, she fished out her Scroll. The Screen had cracked, a spiderweb of white lines splintering out from the center, but there was a glow still emitting from it. She could hear Sun still weeping behind her, but numbness flooded her system like ice. There was one message lying there on the screen, sent seconds before the Tower crashed, one single message from Blake, three words, and they sounded like last words, more final than death itself.

Everything must go.

The wave did crash over her, then, her misery bursting its banks, and she broke, shattering, shattering over and over and over.   / / / 

Blake

After sending her letter, somewhere in the wilderness of the untamed forests of Remnant— not on a train-car as she flew away from Adam, but running— Blake Belladonna fell to her knees as a spear of agony blazed through her chest. The string tethering her to Yang snapped in two, and she curled in on herself with a scream as her body lit on fire with pain.

History repeats itself, she thought, having time for one last glimpse of Yang’s furious grief before pain overwhelmed her as the Bond shut down, and she blacked out. / / / 

Qrow

He burst through the gates of the courtyard in a full-stride sprint, his sword clattering against its sheath. Huntsmen had finally arrived in the city to help Glynda suppress the tide of Grimm, which had already begun to lessen, and he had left as soon as they arrived, hellbent on getting to Beacon.

But on his journey, half a mile away from the school, the world had gone pure silver, a bone-crushing chill sweeping over the land and receding as quickly as it came. He knew what it was in an instant, and he was up and running, even more desperately this time, before the last of the silver had faded from the air.

Ruby, he thought, his thoughts scattered. Not now. This was too soon for you to find out about your power.

He barged past clusters of worried professors and swarms of panicked citizens cramming themselves into the airships, noticing how much colder the air had gotten the minute he’d entered the courtyard, as if it had dropped several degrees. His breath smoked out in front of him, and he took a moment to scan the courtyard with the sharp eyes of a trained Huntsman, taking everything in within seconds, not even stopping to look around.

He couldn’t see his niece, nor could he see his niece’s team, or Ozpin— or the battle at all. It seemed to have subsided and stopped entirely, all the Grimm slinking away to lick their wounds. Robots lay in sparking, smoking heaps upon the ground, the bodies of slain White Fang members dotting the spaces between them. The stones were stained red, and the blood of the fallen had frozen into rusty-red puddles.

He skidded to a halt at the base of the Tower. Nothing came out of the shadows; the living had utterly abandoned this place. Scanning the place once more, he saw the shattered remains of the CCT’s transmitter, the faintest auras of green light shimmering around it, and he swore loudly, more out of fear than anger. The one thing Ozpin had been truly afraid of had transpired, because without one transmitter, none of the ones around Remnant would work. Without one, the others fell.

To be truthful, I find the limitations somewhat poetic, Ozpin had once said. Qrow closed his eyes, a pang of pain echoing in his chest.

“No time to worry about it now,” he grunted to himself, striding forward and skirting the rubble so he could crane back his head to peer at the jagged remains of the Tower’s summit.

As he did so, a jolt of shock flashed through him. The enormous wyvern - the Father of all the Grimm - lay there, curled around the top of the Tower, its red eyes closed by scaly black lids. Its tail wrapped around the Tower, coming to a pointed end near the windows of the middle, and its head was half draped across the top. That wasn’t what had frightened him, though: the entirety of the beast’s body was covered in a thick, white fur of frost and ice. Jagged icicles dripped from its skin. It was clearly dead.

Ruby lay up there, he was sure of it now; only her power could have killed the Grimm like that… but God knew what state she was in, and God knew what else lay up there.

“I’m coming, Ruby,” he growled. “Hang on just a little longer…”

He closed his eyes, backing away and steeling himself. Becoming the crow was never a painless process, but it had never hurt so much as it did now, tonight in this desolate wasteland amid the snow howling above his head, and emptiness below. He closed his eyes, imagining it, feeling the wind beneath his wings, his bones melting and reshaping, becoming smaller.

For a moment, time seemed to stall, and a burst of sheer panic shot through his veins. Why was the shift halting?

He knew why: he was too jittery, too panicked, too much of a human with all his very human emotions to devolve into a bird of prey, which only had need of one feeling: clear-minded clarity that came with unawareness of human emotion. He needed clarity— clarity to save his niece, to save Ruby, helpless at the top of the tower. He had always been filled with the need to protect her at any cost. She was Summer’s daughter, and though the day had long, long gone when he had loved her, Ruby was here. Alive. But if she was still breathing at the top of the Tower, she wouldn’t be for much longer, not after expending so much of her spirit and strength on the burst of silver light he had seen. It had spread for miles; Ozpin had once told him that the silver-eyed warriors could control their strikes, to something as small as a flash of silver, but no power was meant to be so huge. Undoubtedly, Ruby had burned out every scrap of strength she had in unlocking her power and unleashing it for that big of a radius. She wouldn’t have known what was happening at the moment of release, as the silver light took hold of her body and her mind fell unconscious, but would she remember it if— when— she woke up? He and Taiyang had kept it that way, raising her best they knew how, keeping her in the dark of her massive power, power that came from something as meaningless as the light in her eyes. Now, it seemed, the choice had been taken out of their hands by the light raging in a conflagration through her body, killing anyone at the top of the Tower, freezing the Grimm wyvern where it perched on top of the stone monolith.

And Ozpin…

They had battled in the vault, and Qrow knew it, so if Cinder had made it to the top of the tower, Ozpin was gone. Not dead, perhaps, but gone. He would have fought to the last breath. He would never have let Cinder go unless it was that, or vanish forever, his soul— disappeared.

For a moment, the thought of Ozpin gone— solemn eyes dulled forever, all those words of wisdom lost, his unmoving certainty killed— was enough to make Qrow collapse, his heart constricting as though choked off by an invisible hand. Then he took a deep breath, gripping his broadsword, his other hand balling into a fist, the veins on the back of his hand standing out in ropy knots. Clarity, he told himself, pushing everything back down, hardening his heart as he gazed at the shattered peak of the Tower, his red eyes narrowing. Control your emotions, or they will control you.

Then, all of a sudden it happened, and in a whirl of darkness and agony, the shift ate him up and spat him out in a new form, small and dark and beady-eyed. He landed on the ground, talons splayed, and then with a single-mindedness he welcomed— the thoughts of Ozpin, Ruby, even of the immediate Grimm in his vicinity all feeling very distant and far-away, as though they belonged to another person— he spread his wings and beat them experimentally. With a throaty shriek, he lifted off into the air, battling furiously against the storm as it battered him back. Beating his fluttering wings with the wind, he struggled higher, closer and closer to his destination.

He hovered over the top of the Tower, and then, he became who he was again in mid-air, all of what made him Qrow tumbling back together and hurling him out of the crow’s body. He landed roughly, smashing into a slab of stone that was smeared with blood, and he rolled to his feet with a grunt, planting his sword in the unstable ground to give him purchase.

The first thing he noticed was that the whole ground was covered in a mixture of odd, golden-colored dust and frost, layered thickly over everything. Ice hung heavy from broken slabs of cement and glass, and, frowning, he looked around. He was the only conscious thing here, standing in the ruins of Ozpin’s office, and for a moment, it was almost too much to bear. There was his desk— his chair— and he was gone forever.

Control the grief or it controls you. Repeating it to himself, he moved forward, before he realized where the dust had come from, the only thing it could be.

The Fall Maiden possessed the power to summon all the fire of autumn and use it to burn her victims to the ground. With a sudden, awful pang, he remembered the girl, Pyrrha, as he had last seen her, standing in the vault and accepting her own fate. His mind put two and two together and he shivered, staggering away from the dust and the sickening implications of it. That wasn't ash or dust. That was... that was...

He looked down and saw flecks of charred bone among the ashes, and his stomach turned, bile surging in his throat. He had already seen one student die - the boy with the bullet through his spine. Now here was another, and it was almost worst.

Forcing himself on, he walked forward, rounded a block of stone, and saw the Maiden laying there— no, not the Maiden, Cinder. Her body lay on the ground. She had been flung on her back by the sheer force of the silver light, her arms thrown out to either side of her, like an angel fallen from the sky. One of her arms was gashed up and bloody, and bruises colored her skin— Pyrrha had fought her admirably, then— and a thin film of frost coated her skin— the light from Ruby’s body had frozen everything on top of the Tower. In addition to the winter storm, it was bitterly frigid up here, and Qrow’s breath plumed out in front of him in a smoky white cloud as he crossed over the ice and broken stone to her body.

She was dead, and he could tell that, as he crouched beside her, she had died the instant the light had hit her. Her mouth was open, but no breath clouded out, and the pulse in her neck was absent. A last expression was frozen upon her face— one of pure fury, and yet, somewhere in her vacant eyes, filmed with ice, he could see a hint of fearful pain, and even regret.

He could not say he was sorry for her, not after seeing how she had brutalized Amber, but he could not suppress a pang of pity. What had led her to ally with Salem, the mother of all darkness? Desperation, perhaps, or simple ambition. Who knew where this woman’s spirit was heading? Not to the ranks of the stars, that was sure.

The Fall Maiden’s spirit must have fled her body to another host, someone random, certainly. She had died instantly— there would not have been time to think of what was happening to her or to Ruby, much less about anyone in particular. The thought almost brought him relief. With the release of Autumn’s spirit, things could go back to normal, and with Cinder dead, Ozpin’s sacrifice…

It wasn’t in vain, Oz.

Looking around, Qrow saw a faint glint of silver, and he ground his jaw together. I’ve had enough silver to last me a lifetime, he thought, before the moonlight parted a hole through the clouds and struck it fully, a shimmering, slanted beam of white.

Ozpin’s cane.

He took several hesitant steps forward before reaching down and picking it up. The faintest of emerald gleams shimmered around it— a ghostly imprint of its owner’s Aura. The second Qrow’s hands made contact, he felt something like warmth go through him, filling his veins with a calm glow— warmth, and a strange tranquility that came with knowing everything would turn out as it was supposed to in the end, no matter what happened.”

“And this was how he felt,” Qrow murmured. “This was how he felt before he died.”

For a moment, he felt like collapsing and wailing his grief to the raw, snowy sky like he was a little boy again. Swallowing, he tucked it away beneath his cape, fingers lingering on its patterned surface for a heartbeat, before he turned back to his task. He weaved through the puddles of frost, dust, and blood, leaving Cinder’s body, the wyvern’s, and Pyrrha's behind.

He came around a heavy pile of melted machinery and stone, and there she was.

Ruby Rose, silver-eyed warrior, daughter of Summer Rose, his niece, and the one who had nearly been torn apart by what was inside her, what she could not help. The one who had killed three people tonight and witnessed the death of five, and the crippling of another, who had so much to wake up to, and so much grief to confront on the path ahead of her.

Her face was turned upwards towards the moon, her scarlet-touched hair fanned out around her, like the breath of the Grimm had stirred it where it lay. Her eyes were closed, and the thinnest layer of frost covered her body, like a translucent white veil. Her arms and legs were thrown wide, like an angel that had been hurled out of the sky, and her face did not give the slightest twitch of consciousness as he stepped forward, each crackle of his foot on the frost sounding like a gunshot in the stillness. It was absolutely unmoving, and the only sign of life was her chest rising and falling ever-so-shallowly. Utter silence, broken only by the whistling tune of the wind, lay about her, a silence that felt wrong to break— almost sacred, as if even the stars and storm itself were paying heed and tribute to the monumental act of sacrifice and power born from grief that had been committed here, a vow as unbreakable as the earth.

He came forward regardless, and scooped her up in his arms. She felt so fragile, so breakable… but he knew that was as far from the truth as one could get. She had her mother’s strength and courage, and the sheer bravery that was unique to her, and her alone. She was not his daughter— there was no doubt she had Taiyang’s blood, his obstinate courage and optimism— and he wasn’t related to her, not by blood. He was a bastard, rogue, a runaway, a Huntsman who was only ever destined to be on his own, but as he stood there, with a strange feeling of protectiveness flickering his chest, he felt, for a heartbeat, what it might be like to be a father.

“I’ve got you, kiddo,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.” / / / 

Yang

She wept.

She wept for the loss of her sister, for the death of innocence. She wept for the terror and fear that had swallowed the partner she'd once known whole, the monster of nightmarish loss and unthinkable pain that had consumed Blake. She wept for Weiss's suffering and trials, for the fact that she was headed into a nightmare when freedom had been right within her grasp. She wept for the void inside her that Blake had fled from and left in her place, an emptiness that no Bond could ever hope to replace. She wept for Pyrrha and Penny, for Ozpin and Summer Rose, for Raven and her own team, and finally, for all the nameless lives lost in that terrible, hellish night.

           Everything must go.

She wept until every part of her ached, every fragment of her soul and heart was wrung out. And then she looked outside to the shell of a kingdom where she had played as a child, to the rain sweeping the broken city, to the withering earth that held no body, none at all. The storm had leeched the earth until all that remained was darkness, sunken and colorless, an alien land. The terrible night had finally passed, and a dawn that held no light was drawing near.

She thought of all she had gained and lost, all the love now turned to ashes, of her mother and sister, her father and uncle, her teammate and friends, and her first and last love.

                                            Everything must go.

She thought of them, and wept.

And then presently she was looking out the window at the drizzle of the dying night, the windshield wipers in full action, but unable to cope with her tears.

                                                                  Everything must go.

/ / / 

Pyrrha

Winter had finally arrived, and wind and snow howled around her.

She was dreaming again. Dreaming of him. The storm raged around her, drowning out Jaune’s voice. And yet her heart was easy. Somehow she knew that he would be safe, he would find shelter from the cold.

Behind her, shadows lingered and the night had fallen, but ahead of her, she knew there was a place where warm sunlight broke through the snow, and family waited. Autumn was finally over. The promise of her own destiny beckoned her forward, unending and forgiving. She was back on her own once more, alone as a Huntress, and somewhere, she could hear voices calling her name.

But this time, she knew they were welcoming her home.