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sconeaon · 4 months ago

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Fairytale (Even though it hurts) preview/prologue

An angel born of the Forbidden Fruit's seeds joins the cast of the Hazbin Hotel--shenanigans, etc.

A/N: AKA as my attempt to understand Tumblr's UI! This may be crossposted to AO3 if I can be bothered?? Anyway please enjoy my first fic for this silly duck man

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

As is the case with all living things, each of the dozen seeds took its own path in life. Some chose to become trees, others curled up to rot, unsatisfied with the world—and one, just one, was taken into His hands. A creature born of the earth, of the byproduct of the Original Sin. Something so natural and yet entirely not, grown and warmed in the womb of the Garden itself as it formed slowly; so slowly.

Apple seeds—something so regular, one may forget that even the forbidden fruit bore them. A comforting normalcy in even the most horrid of things.

With time, the trees themselves contorted curiously to watch as the ground formed an unusual mound. Animals found comfort in its warmth, letting it be the safe sleeping place for their young—all who resided in the Garden trusted the Earth’s new creation, no matter what it may be. An animal of new shape, or a fourth creature of humanity; some believed it was the conscience of the Earth itself given form.

The truth revealed itself on a warm morning in a then unnamed season, under the first rays of day—the feathers of a cygnet, and yet the quivering hands of man. The creature was an angel.

“Oh, my,” it spoke, its voice echoing loud enough to scare it just a little; “it appears I am alive.”

The animals of the Garden fascinated His newest creation, as did the trees, and the sky, and all that lay beyond the horizon that it could see—the creature born from Eve’s lust for knowledge was born with insatiable curiosity and unbound intelligence, forever desperate to reach out and grab everything she was yet to understand.

This trait was familiar to Heaven, and ever so terrifying. They were certain that if the creature were to be left to its own devices, a being more unbridled than the fallen Lucifer may be unleashed; that was a future they could not let come to pass. The creature was thus held as a houseguest by the seraphim, treated as an eternal child and forever berated for simply following in the nature they had been born with. Though it hurt to be repressed so, the idea of upsetting those who kept it safe scared the creature deeply—as its curiosity applied not just to the beautiful and the untold, but the unknown and the dark.

If it were to speak out of line, would it be killed? Would it be cast out, abandoned—just like this Lucifer, the fallen creature they were compared to since their very inception?

Not being allowed to know the answers was enough to keep her in line—for the first few thousand years of creation.

You see, being born from the accursed apple seeds had given the creature an unspoken tie to the Original Sinner—to Eve—that seemed to make voices call out to her in the night.

“Are you not wracked with boredom, up in your gilded cage?” the First Woman’s voice would echo, would haunt—“they have not even given you a name, sweet creature.”

“Please, voice, define ‘boredom’,” the creature had replied.

“When you are not in danger, but are left with so little to do that your body feels as though it might eat itself alive,” Eve spoke, her voice airy, “does it not hurt, being forced to be a person you are not? Please, creature, speak.”

“You are the first to call me a ‘person’. Not once before have I been considered above the animals of Eden, not before this moment,” the creature appeared complimented, a gentle smile on its face.

“Then allow me to give you the identity they have denied you. I wish to give you a name,” Eve responded.

A name—the syllables left the First Woman like the breeze, gentle and soothing. Suddenly, the creature no longer had to define itself as a thing, as a burden.

It—she, was a person. Eve had made it so.

“I have never received a gift as kind as this, Eve. Please, allow me to repay your kindness; I will do anything you wish, lest I remain indebted for the rest of existence,” (Name) had spoken in earnest, surprised as Eve met her words with a girlish giggle.

“Oh, my sweet (Name)—every living being is given a name, from pet animals to beloved human beings. I am simply filling in where Heaven has fallen short,” Eve had tittered, “though…perhaps making some friends beyond your standing would be beneficial. I have two acquaintances who are quite enamoured with your unlikely existence.”

(Name) blinked in surprise. Friends? No, that idea had never really even crossed her mind—she had always been…alone.

Oh. Oh—she had been lonely, all of this time.

“Please, take your time with all of this, dearest. I do not wish to rush you into doing anything that might hurt you,” Eve had soothed, sensing the change in (Name)’s mood even without sharing in her space; “just know—perhaps one night, it will be someone other than myself coming to speak to you. Someone who I think will remind you deeply of yourself.”

(Name) knew who she was speaking of—the same fallen one she had been compared to incessantly since the moment of her creation. It was almost ironic that even the singular seemingly helpful force in her life couldn’t help but reach the same conclusion…

“(Name), these acquaintances truly do yearn for your presence. The words we’ve shared, the wants they’ve expressed—”

“Not that one! Uh, please stop reading that one!”

(Name)’s voice cut through the silence of the Regained Paradise library, royally scaring the shit out of the Princess of Hell.

“Haha—I know the whole thing is accessible information for all, but…I guess everyone has a selfish streak when it comes to information about themselves, huh? Hah…” (Name) fidgeted awkwardly, her nervous stumbling far removed from the graceful creature Charlie had inferred from the book’s pages.

“Oh! Oh, yes, putting it down right now—I totally just violated my own lesson about boundaries, so I guess we’re both good at breaking our own rules,” Charlie beamed, evidently attempting to brighten the awkward situation as she reached out to grab the librarian’s hands, “all of that stupid mess-up-iness aside—hi! I’ve never really met a friend of my dad’s before. Or a friend of my mom’s…or a friend of the First Woman, wow! You really make, uh, important friends, huh?”

“Uh…yeah, I guess—sorry. I can see on your face that talking to me for real is pretty jarring,” (Name) replied sheepishly, shuffling her feet, “so, uh…what exactly did you come here to talk to me about? The library isn’t exactly where you find…anyone but me, here in Hell.”

“Oh, oh—I totally should have explained that first! Okay,” Charlie paused, taking a breath in for effect before exclaiming with her whole chest, “I want to invite you to stay at my hotel! You’re all about learning stuff and growing and improving, so I think you’d be a total smash hit as…as something!”

“At ‘something’?” (Name) couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking her head, “Charlie, dearest, what has your father been telling you?”

“Nothing at all, actually! I’ve done all sorts of research on people here in Hell who could maybe help with my vision, and I stumbled onto the webpage for your library—you’re basically doing the same thing I am, but with learning, and…stuff,” Charlie explained vaguely, gesturing wildly, “I thought it would be super helpful if we combined our visions—maybe if I could find proof of redemption here, you could help me with…application! Yes, oh my gosh, yes—you could be our redemption counsellor!”

(Name) couldn’t help but splutter out a laugh, replying queryingly, “redemption counsellor? It really sounds like you just made that up.”

“I did, I totally did, but isn’t it the best idea? Ooh, this is going to be great,” Charlie practically vibrated with excitement, before cutting herself short in realisation; “I mean, if you want to? I never actually asked…”

“Storming into my library, reading what is practically my diary and then demanding I join the ranks of your not-even-proven-to-work hotel? Yes, I can see why not many people take you up on the offers you give,” (Name) replied, her eyes fiery for just long enough to make Charlie doubt herself—only to break out into bubbly laughter as she added brightly, “you’re ever so lucky that I’m one of the few people this sort of approach works on, dove.”

“Oh. Oh—oh! So you’ll do it? That’s a yes?” Charlie asked, jittery with the maybes that hung in the air.

(Name) nodded ever so gently—and Charlie erupted into cheers of excitement.

“Yes! Yes, oh my GOSH-- Ohmygosh, you will not regret this, (Name)! I have so many lesson plans and projects and ideas and concepts and—ah, this is going to be so great,” Charlie bounced around with the energy of a small electronic device of some kind—exceedingly wired to the point that (Name) could just feel it slowly infecting her, too.

“We have so many spare rooms, you can stay wherever you want to—and everyone is so nice, you’ll make friends before you even realise you’re making them!” Charlie continued to yip as she took (Name)’s hand, unconsciously dragging her out through the streets of Pentagram City with an unexpectedly vice-like grip, “and, uh…dad’s there, sometimes. I promise I didn’t read enough of the story back there to know why you know each other, but I know you were, uh…‘associated’ with both of my parents. Letting you stay at the hotel is kind of like inviting family to stay over, if I really think about it!”

The way Charlie’s tone could dip into sadness only to leap back into joy was more than a little worrying—she was playing a character, evidently, even if it was a character that shared her genuine dreams. (Name) would never be cruel enough to call what she had ‘daddy issues’, but…

“I hope I can make a good impression. I’ve heard you have quite the cast of interesting characters in this little hotel of yours,” (Name) managed to reply as coherently as possible, “that odd Alastor fellow has taken a liking to the library—forever asking me questions I don’t know the answer to, that guy.”

“Yeah, that’s in character…but it’s great that you’ve already met a member of our staff! You’re going to be colleagues from tomorrow on, so already knowing one another is helpful,” Charlie replied, tailing off into a ramble about how there was actually good in the Radio Demon’s heart, and how he’d stop being a tease if (Name) showed that she was a ‘true friend’…

The Princess’ spiel didn’t quite feel like lies, but whatever truth was in what she said was so supremely sugar-coated that attempting to dig it out would be entirely impossible. That was likely the point, though—Charlie didn’t seem like the type to see the bad in anyone who hadn’t given her explicit reason to. She was a sweet girl.

“Hey, (Name)—you don’t have to think so hard about everything I’m saying to you, you know. You’re taking a good ten-second pause between each sentence,” Charlie spoke, her quick realisation of the workings of (Name)’s mind more than a little jarring; “just talk like nobody’s watching! Or, I guess, listening?”

Her tone seemed—

“(Name), you’re still doing it! Say something without thinking about every detail of what I just said,” Charlie attempted to coach, forcing (Name) to hold her gaze, “come on. Say what it is you’re thinking, with no pause to script!”

“…is that your hotel?” was all (Name) could get out under the clauses, a shaky finger pointing at the looming building just steps from being stumbled into by the girls.

“Oh! Yeah, we’re here. Come on in and meet everyone!” Charlie exclaimed, pulling (Name) through the door with far too much friendly force, “and remember—say what’s in your heart, not what you think you should say, okay?”

This was going to be a long fucking day.

#lucifer morningstar x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel

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a-dauntless-daffodil · 1 year ago

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the more i read phantom of the opera, the more impressed i am by how well it makes me

love Christine wholly and utterly she's the lone braincell but also silly af 10/10 would haunt an opera house for her

understand WHY she can't just fuck off and leave Erik to rot even though he creeps her the hell out and makes her miserable- they DO both share a love of music and she does really feel for him as someone the world will always reject

believe Christine is has cool enough nerves to lie and trick Erik into letter her go AND start planning her escape with Raoul- to the point of even making Raoul promise to drag her away by force bc she KNOWS herself well enough to worry Erik might convince her to stay and she ALSO KNOWS he probably won't let her go next time

root for Raoul and his and Christine's BFF childhood romance please for the love of everything Raoul would you stop panicking long enough to help SAVE HER

seriously Christine is a queen, like, literally she's described as being the ruler of the opera now, but as in someone who gives sweet treats to the kids practicing dance and plays around fearlessly on the catwalks and reassures costumers when they worry about cutting into rare fabrics and knows and visits the old people tucked away in corners where they've been forgotten but she comes and listens to them for hours.

the tragedy of of how a depressed young woman found her passion again, and her place, and came into her own in such a wonderful way- all of it tainted by Erik, who sparked it into happening, who saw this in her and loves her, and is the reason she can't stay. The reason she has to run away and leave all of it behind.

understand that Raoul, the designated male love interest, isn't the reason Christine has to give up her passions and her career in opera house. It's the Phantom. Erik wants to lock her in a gilded cage, and Christine won't let it happen without a fight

#the phantom of the opera (1910)#christine daae #raoul de chagny #erik the phantom #.#why can't THIS have been on my required classics reading list in school???

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self-shipping-doll13 · 1 year ago

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3. Garden - 🕊️♟️🗡️

Spooky Selfshiptober Prompts

After the battle, I slept and ate but little, plagued in grief. Ser Duncan’s passing haunted me; I dreamt of his whiskery face eaten by maggots and rot, the stillness of his once lively eyes. Gurgling, he’d force me into the Blackwater under a fiery emerald sky.

Lady Margaery’s arrival in King’s Landing heralded a new dawn for the capital. The days filled with her amusements: riding, hawking, weaving. Margaery’s invitations shook me from my mournful gloom, so with each leisurely boat trip I recovered, watching Peaches soar overhead, untroubled and free.

The Eyrie, being situated atop a mountain peak, lacked in kennels and stables, and so I was a subpar rider compared to Margaery and her handmaidens. But today we broke off from the other ladies, trotting side-by-side in princess Myrcella’s gardens. The morning air was sweet with the fragrance of fresh autumn flowers; asters, marigolds, dahlias, petunias and roses bloomed in every colour and shade.

“You simply must tell,” Lady Margaery was insisting.

I rode a docile bay mare chosen for her gentleness, whilst hers shone healthily in radiant white-gold. Lannister Gold. A royal gift from her betrothed.

I looked away. “There’s nothing to say, my lady.”

“Ana, you give it all away with your wistful sighs - those giddy little grins of yours. You were so pale when I met you, but you’ve coloured rosy since!”

Truly? “Well, It might be due to your rosy influence.”

Margaery laughed sweetly. “No, I don’t think so.”

I fell silent. Bizarrely, my first thoughts were of laughing grey-green eyes; the taste of fresh mint, sharp as hidden daggers. Lord Baelish is my friend.

“But how do you know?” I challenged her, flustered.

“A woman’s intuition, of course,” she sang. Rubbish.

I hesitated. It would be shameful of me to be cowed by a younger girl, but this one was marrying a king.

“So, is it our Loras? You can trust me, don’t fret!”

“Not Ser Loras.” Who’d never love a woman anyway. “That’s impossible. A Kingsguard can hold no titles or lands, and take no wives.” And she knows this.

“How austere.” Margaery didn’t sound too offended. “Or… did my older brother charm you instead?”

Renly’s ghost. “Garlan already has a wife,” I pointed out, feeling weary now. “And it’s not him, either.”

“Yes, dear Leonette Fossaway,” she tutted, as if to scold herself. “Pardon me, I’ll say no more of it.”

She kept her word for a time. We passed underneath an orchard, vibrant, gilded leaves stirring free and floating down from their twisted white branches.

Margaery’s brown eyes shone in the dappled light. “But I do have another older brother, you know.”

Oh, here we go. “His name is Willas. Not so comely as Loras, perhaps, but kind, and gentle. You’d be a good match. Just think, we’d become sisters!”

Tired, I smiled. Ignoring the fact that Highgarden is a hundred leagues from King’s Landing; and you’ll soon be queen. Margaery was a sly schemer on her own, but I knew it was Olenna Tyrell’s will she was acting upon; a prickly old harridan they called the Queen of Thorns - for her sharp wit. The Tyrells are very ambitious. If they unite east and south, Their golden rosegardens will grow tall and beautiful.

I gave a light spur and broke into a canter, forcing Margaery to hurry up to keep pace. It was not a direct refusal, but it was enough to hint at one.

“You’re too shy, Ana.“ Margaery laughed again. “It is only us blushing maidens. Who is there to fear?

A Spider, perfumed and powdered. “Gossip.”

#🕊️♟️🗡️#I (s/i) usually like margaery #but it wouldn’t be the game of thrones if everyone wasn’t trying to use you for their own ends #including my own love oof haha #Spooky Selfshiptober Prompts

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grimmwulf-a · 2 years ago

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hi so i’m expanding belos’ mindscape and there’s nothing you can do to stop me :swirling_hearts: . giving him four distinct 'levels', though the latter blend in much more smoothly than the first two.

‘THE HUNTING’ - the first major hint to his past - a huge sprawling forest outside with the palace in the distance. all of the trees are petrified with some clearly destroyed, rotting and seeping a pitch black tar. the sky is pitch black as well, lacking any cloud coverage and seems to end just above the tree line. the closer you get to the palace, the denser the ground fog starts to get. there’s zero noticeable wildlife, the whole forest eerily silent. the ground is covered with crunchy + dusty leaf litter, all hiding multitudes of hunting traps throughout it, all of them being incredibly heavy-duty / far more powerful than necessary for hunting wild game. the trap placement gets denser the closer you are to the palace as well.

‘THE CAPTURING’ - the upper palace [nearly identical to the show, entered via stair steps + huge doors from outside]. the gilded hallways have many old paintings detailing belos’ proclaimed history that start off clean, proper, and incredibly grandiose but get more and more disturbed, unsettled, warped, and/or damaged the deeper you go in. fairly short section, hallway ends in a false wall with paper that tears easily to reveal a stairwell down into the third level.

‘THE BLEEDING’ - the lower palace. it’s vast, containing a multitude of rooms and wings; a library full of unreadable books [all the pages are blacked out or torn up], a laboratory and attached torture room [lots of past dissections of the grimwalkers manifesting this way; most dead but some were alive. there’s a heavy sensation of a haunting]. the hallway walls are dirty, poorly painted, and deeply gouged with claw marks. as you go deeper, the air gets more and more musty / smelling heavily of molded soil before they narrow into some very cramped catacombs that eventually open up again after a small maze. these catacombs have obscured and unmarked tombs.

‘THE BUTCHERING’ - the meat cathedral, the fourth and final place. upon opening the chained doors that lead here, you enter a room that is miserably warm and wet. the ground is covered in a viscous film with some variable ‘give’ in places. the walls grow more and more rancid the closer they are to the throne and towering back wall and move as if breathing, yet its clear they’re unstable and sickened breaths. the whole place smells diseased, like an unfiltered hospital waiting room crammed with bodies. it’s a wide open room with giant ‘stained glass’ windows covering the back wall that are really just thinly stretched membranes covering a vague source of light. a throne sits in the center, the only piece that’s still untouched by the growing meat film - all other fixtures either have a thin membrane covering / growing over / or stretched around them - or are wholly meat and bone themselves, well past the point of no return.

if the stained glass windows are torn, the dagger phillip used to murder his brother is revealed to be the source of light.

#belos [ hc ]#// if you die in the mindscape you die in real life!!! and this would be an absolutely SHIT place to die honestly #when im not freezing my ass off i desperately want to at least draw the meat stained glass windows bc the imagery is so prominent in my hea #*head

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projectorpheus · 2 years ago

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FENRIR ⋅𖥔⋅ 33, M ⋅𖥔⋅ SCAVENGING

You were made in gold, displayed to dazzle and inspire all that dared to bask in your wonder. Body carved by fortitude and blade, you understood the codes recited under your tongue, obeyed as justice, practiced as law. A protégée sold as the poster child for perfection; the favor in which you were bestowed from S Corp rested atop your head, a thorn of nettles mistaken for a crown. The heir of the underground who only had to walk the road dictated by perfection to retain your glory. A radiance that blinded, one would've thought you were Apollo and yet - once you touched the almighty sun; you felt the clip of the thorns and feathers sending you to your demise, your fate to be worse than Icarus's fall.

The unraveling began the moment you defied what was destined before you. No more of the underground would you keep when there was so much more to what laid above - or so you thought. Your new habitat aboveground was a choice made with the hopes of reconfiguring a hierarchy determined by partition. Beliefs of unwavering devotion and adoration would surely rally change - a world remade better. Progress would be championed under your image, after all — you were always the most beloved. AND YET — THEY CULLED THE LIMBS OF THE DEFIANT. Alone you stood in an atmosphere that demanded nutrients in carnage. You learned quickly that, like anything anything mortal, made of flesh and sewn by veins - you can be replaced.

Gone were the days of ease and righteousness. In this new cruel world, you scavenged and slaughtered to survive. The vicious nature in which you were forced to don determined those who awoke tomorrow and who was left to rot, graves unmarked. Atrocities plagued those left to fend for this Hell. There is no end to this nightmare; not so long as you remained on this plane of existence. And yet despite the brutal methods of inexorable violence, the thrums of virtue still rattle in your bones. For every kill that is made, you haunt yourself with the ghosts of the deceased — OH HOW DEARLY DOES THE BEAST DESIRE TO BE GOOD.

DYNAMICS

VOSTOK ⋅𖥔⋅ I WILL BE THE ONE TO MAKE YOU CRAWL / IF ONLY

Call it privilege, call it pride. When you forfeited your right as S Corp heir, you were sure there would be a power vacuum in your wake, collapsing the very pyramid of power that holds the foundation for their corrupt world. How would you have known that another head would forcibly spawn as soon as you severed yours? HOW WOULD YOU HAVE KNOWN THAT HE WOULD MUCH WORSE THAN THE BEAST YOU HAVE BEEN RAISED TO EMBODY? His victories are spoken only in fearful whispers aboveground. The way he has so skillfully manipulated his way into your group of loved ones, taking advantage of the weaknesses you cleaved open in your absence. You can't help but clench your fists. Question: Is in indignation for the justice of the world — or fury that he has taken what is rightfully yours?

NIX ⋅𖥔⋅ WHAT KEEPS ME? IS IT DEVOTION OR ADDICTION?

Friendship is too delicate a word in this world, but you've tried your best to mend the injuries of the past. Once overlooked, they became a key ally after you both arrived aboveground. They are ruthless where you are forgiving; a serrated knife's edge to your sentimentality. But haven't you known since your shared childhood? Play with knives and one day, it will be you, sitting alone on cold concrete, surrounded by a pool of your own blood with no one to blame but yourself.

VOYAGER ⋅𖥔⋅ READ BETWEEN THE LINES THEN MEET ME IN THE SILENCE IF YOU CAN

You have met him more times than you care to count — his incessant buzzing, chirping S Corp propaganda to those underground with too much time on their hands and guilt eating at their souls. You know he is nothing more than a chess piece in a game wherein the world can only lose. Still, you can't absolve him of the blame — not when he treats life and death like a hobby; like a game he can choose leave when he's clocked enough hours, returning to his gilded sanctuary. He fancies himself a tool, so you will indulge him in this; gain his trust and use his platform for your own means. After all, you were born a king; no crown is needed.

TAKEN BY HONEY ⋅𖥔⋅ MENA MASSOUD

#fenrir.#closed.

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l-w-meyer · 9 months ago

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Guilt is heavy on my lips-

The things they've said, the things they've done.

Haunted by actions I cannot, will not take back

Actions that captured his heart and soul even though I never asked for it, never wanted it

never wanted him

Haunted by promises, gilded like gold but rotting inside

hollow, empty, broken

Promises I shouldn't keep, wouldn't keep

couldn't keep

promises he broke as much as I did.

Consequences are heavy on my tongue-

The weight of my words as I worry and wonder

will they break you? will they heal you?

I hold your soul in my palm and it burns me

you burn me

as much as I burn you

We set ourselves on fire to keep the other warm,

but the ash that's left in the end heals no wounds.

Fear is heavy in my hands-

My fingers are stiff, numb, immobile

I try to clasp you hand but I can't feel you

can't feel anything

The more I try to grasp the more everything slips

The more you fall,

and I fall with you.

#an old poem but a good one #poetry #words #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #writing #poems on tumblr #poem #poets on tumblr #original poem

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journalofsorts2 · 2 years ago

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i made a playlist with a bunch of songs that make me like genuinely cry, like a lot of different media definitely makes me sad or like genuinely effects me, but it takes a lot to actually produce tears from my eyes, and to produce enough that they genuinely roll down my face. and so now i'm going to list each song and try to explain why it makes me cry (if i even know)

Never Love an Anchor - The Crane Wives, mommy issues, daddy issues, parental issues, yeah thats about it

The Moon Will Sing - The Crane Wives, i don't really know for this one, maybe it's the similarity to never love an anchor that does it, idk

In a Week (feat. Karen Cowley) - Hozier, i've already explained it before but that one really really sad fic that made me cry for days that had a animatic to go along with it and that animatic was to this song, and also it's just a sad song in general but it makes me want to rot away

Gilded Lily - Cults, i really relate to the lyrics, i repeated 'haven't i given enough' really fucking struck home for me like idk life seems so pointless but i keep trying and i keep having to try even harder and i just want it all to be done, so this one also makes me cry

Answering Machine - Ruby Haunt, this one doesn't even have any lyrics but idk man, it just like strikes something in me, i also played this on repeat while writing some of my more sad and serious posts on here so maybe it's because i cried writing some of those that this song makes me feel like crying again

September Sparky Deathcap - Reno, um okay this one's kinda silly but it was playing in the background of a bluey edit for one of the saddest episodes (camping) and it just really struck me and now i can't listen to it without getting sad

welcome and goodbye - Dream, Ivory, i don't actually know the reason for this one, maybe it's the tune, it's definitely not the lyrics because i can barely make them out most of the time, but idk this one just makes me really sad

Scott Street -Penelope Bridgers, idk for this one too, sad song go brr i guess idk man

Would That I - Hozier, of course another hozier song ended up on here, i've already talked about this one making me sad before too, but i think it's because it reminds me of in a week and it evokes that same specific emotion that in a week does and that makes me sad ig

Soldier, Poet, King - The Oh Hellos, okay so i've actually been a super big fan of this song for a long time, i think it was actually my most played song in 2020 or 2021 idk, but it just makes me really sad and makes me think of past happiness and like it just makes me wanna cry

Is There a Place I Can Go - Trudy and the Romance, this one reminds me of the type of songs my mom used to play in the shitty car stereo when i was little and we would go grocery shopping together and it just makes me want to curl up in a little ball and be hugged and like i miss being loved

Young - Vacations, this one's kinda cliche but who cares, it's been in my sad song playlists for years now and i've cried with it in the background and idk it just makes me want to melt into the floor and lose consciousness

Constellations - Duster, this one's also kinda cliche but it's also been in like every sad song playlist i've ever had and idk it just calms me down and the tears i cry to it are calm, quiet tears because this is a calm, quiet song

Heart to Heart - Mac DeMarco, this one's the hopeless romantic in me, cause like i just want to be loved so much and i just want someone to love me and that's the feelings and ideas that this song brings out in me

When It's Cold I'd Like to Die - Moby, Mimi Goese, this one is just like i'm tired of trying, living is so exhausting, when life gets hard all i want to do is lay in some grass and fade away, like just, idk when it's cold i'd like to die man, life is too much effort to be this miserable

Romantic Homicide -d4vd, this is another cliche sorry, yes i did find it from tiktok, who cares, but another hopeless romantic song, i just want to be loved, why is that so hard. i also relate this song to losing my old self and my old friends and stuff idk

What Are We Gonna Do Now - Indigo De Souza, idk man something about her voice, something about that statement, something about the dramatic pick up, something about all of it, i just want to know what to do with my life, i just want to be enough, i just want to not have my life have been for nothing, i want to be loved, i want to love

little person - Matt Maltese, this one has also been on like every single one of my sad song playlists and i don't have enough fingers to count how many times i've played this song while lying in my bed in the dark, trying to muffle my cries so my sister doesn't hear me and ask what's wrong because im not even entirely sure what's wrong

Vas - jagger finn, this one's another cliche, yes i get most of my music from tiktok, but it just idk, i've seen too many videos that made me want to end it all that had this song playing in the background, too many slideshows with the saddest quotes known to man and this is in the background

rises the moon - Liana Flores, this one i didn't get from tiktok! it blew up on there like a year after i found it. anyways this one was the first song on my main sad songs playlist and so usually i was already crying by the time it was on, and like it reminds me how i'm always gonna lose my friends in the end and like i've cried over the fact that i have like no friends to this song too many times

ゆめうつつ - Lamp, i'm pretty sure those are the right characters, anyway i have absolutely no clue what the words in this song mean but the way it's sung is just so comforting and it's like 'oh this what happy sounds like' and it just sounds like it's just out of reach and i'm so close to being happy but i can't and idk man

this list made me realize i cry too much, but yeah that's the whole playlist, my playlist are usually only an hour anyways and this is pretty much all the songs that have made me like genuinely cry, it's not a very long list. idk whatever, i'm too sad man

#journalofsorts rants

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raytm · 3 months ago

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Suguru had been a withered & decaying thing since the death of the riko amanai, each curse swallowed around ossified in his throat, clung to the slick walls of his oesophagus & began to burgeon into something gruesome. It was a revelation in finality, depicted in the darkness of a body - bag closed out of respect, respect — for who ? Then, an inexorable plunge into despair, so steep that as he fell, graceless & blighted by anguish, it peeled away all that made him virtuous. Like the rind of a fruit, each layer stripped from flesh exposing the writhing, rotting insides & Satoru far too ascended from that squalor to extend a hand to heave him free from the endless, stygian sea. It wasn’t his responsibility to extricate Suguru, he hadn’t reached out in the first place. To cast his gaze back upon it now, inured to their sins, he could not bring himself to feel even a slither of remorse. Still, the limpid, seething blue of Satoru’s eyes divulged such an immense sadness, all of those violent waves crashing into one another, enough to evoke a hollow, repentant sound from between his pursed lips, akin to laughter. As if it were an echo to days foregone was he not petulant, imploring Suguru to return to him had little to do with the good that could come from it & more to do with a selfish, consuming longing. It would eat at them both until their flesh was whittled away to blanched bones & a haunting legacy, the carrion birds perched on their gilded thrones would only look on in contempt for them. There was never going to be a different outcome, so he will take all of the mercies afforded to him, this one of carnality, as if it’s all he could ever need.

Perhaps he had also been pretending, adorned in the skins of a revered & benevolent leader, all of his cruelty concealed with remedies for the inane requests of the masses. He could not mantle himself in that facade & convince the one person who knew him wholly that it was the truth. Even if his reflection wore the carved smile of a wicked deity & his dark eyes became cavernous, Satoru Gojo would see the fractures of the young, determined sorcerer he once was. He had buried that self, with his own two hands dealt his execution, yet, even if he could no longer see, those penetrating eyes would call him again to the surface. What a cruel thing he was.

The ire that had churned within Satoru had waned, the violent intensity of his fingers boring into Suguru’s shoulders, his teeth sinking into supple skin, had become docile. In the aftermath of that euphoric, receding high it felt like they could have, for just a moment, breached that distance that stretched before him. Satoru’s arms confine him, hands leaving impressions on the pillows & in that moment, hovering over the heretic, he is painted in resplendence, even within that wan, yellow light he was the only god within these four, hallowed walls. Suguru should have realized long ago, he would never reach Satoru Gojo again. Dark eyes caress him, down to the mouth wet & kiss - bitten, listening with an attentiveness no loathed follower would ever earn. ❝ There’s no turning back from this path, since the beginning I’ve know that.❞ With their foreheads touching, Satoru’s mouth caresses his with each subsequent utterance, it felt divine, how blasphemous. Each kiss was all the repentance he would ever give. He wondered if Satoru could taste the revolting traces of curses upon his tongue. ❝ I’ll wait for you, for that day. ❞ His executioner hewn from the bones of his beloved, what a fate theirs was. ❝ Don’t keep me waiting for too long, Satoru.❞

ㅤㅤㅤ𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 them, satoru had revisited everything that led up to this moment with every ounce of his intellect, combed over each change - narrowing in on where it all went wrong, and sinking his teeth into the tragedy with the raw screams of a man who had failed. gojo satoru did not admit failure - and he knew he could drive himself into the grave with the 'what ifs' and 'i should haves.' but it was a failure - it had all been a horrible, rotten failure. from the moment toji fushiguro had sunk that cursed tool into his neck, to the moment suguru turned his back on him in front of a kentucky fried chicken - it had all gone so wrong. and even then, it had still taken the sorcerer time - too much time - to realize that if he'd been with suguru, if they'd just leaned on each other a little more... if he had just seen the signs...

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤsatoru sighs.

ㅤㅤㅤhere, ensconced in the warmth of one another's bodies, satoru can let the madness ebb away, let six eyes close and infinity drop to nothingness because he liked to pretend - liked to pretend it never happened. in a perfect world, suguru would still be allied with the school - perhaps instruct, just like him. in a perfect world, this wouldn't be a random hotel room - but their apartment, their own bed - made up of the softest sheets. suguru would bring satoru home his favorite sweet snacks, satoru would still brush his hair in the mornings, and they would work as a perfectly synchronized unit, unfettered by the blood of innocents and the opinions born from it. but this was no perfect world, and satoru could only pretend for perhaps a day at a time - before reality set back in and the distance between them grew greater.

ㅤㅤㅤhe leans into the softness of his hand - receptive, in their glowing aftermath. when they'd first started the physical nature of this... situation, satoru had been all teeth and growls, taking out his frustration with suguru's betrayal in making their couplings as occasionally rough as possible. but as time drifted by, satoru found himself willing to bend in the ways he'd always wanted to - to instead sheath his claws and enjoy the sins between them as opposed to reap both punishment and reward upon suguru's flesh. thus they would end up like this, the world's strongest sorcerer leaning into the simplest of touches, his arrestive blue eyes filled not with power... but something he dare not voice. not anymore. neither of them deserved it.

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ what would i do? ❞ he muses, but doesn't answer just yet. instead, both hands place themselves upon the pillow beside spilled dark hair - and he hauls himself upwards, naked frame then propped up by his elbows. their faces are closer now - so he can see the darkness of the other's eyes, the kiss-stained rim of his lips. ❝ i... ❞ bite covered throat bobs, tongue darting across his lips, ❝ maybe once. maybe once in the past, i would have left just to try to stop you. ❞ their foreheads drop together. ❝ but we're too far gone now, suguru. you know that, right? ❞ it's soft, agonizing, the way his mouth caresses so slowly against the curse eater's own, almost as if in apology, and his next whispered words are a promise: ❝ one day, i'll have to kill you instead. ❞ // @raytm ( con't )

#thinking about seeing the word kentucky fried chicken #typed out made me lose my damn mind #𓆪✶˖· 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒖 𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒐. ﹙ ͥ ͨ ﹚#amourem

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tomwambsmilk · 2 years ago

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One thing Succession does brilliantly is the way it hints at cruises being only one of many scandals, many of which were far worse, while simultaneously hinting that almost everyone knows more than they let on. Gerri and Roman know the pipeline was sending girls out West. Connor knows that no one was allowed in the pool with Mo, and “it was a different time back then”. Kendall signed off on NDA payments. I think the only person who maybe doesn’t actually know more than they let on is Shiv - she does seem surprised when Tom tells her the bad thing in Cruises had to do with “institutionalized sexual abuse”.

On top of that, the list of crimes covered up Tom pats out for Greg is extensive. It includes murder. I also think at some point there is an implication by someone that at least one woman was murdered, possibly by Mo, presumably because she threatened to expose him. (IIRC it’s hinted at when the inner circle is discussing the article). But by the time we get to the Congressional hearings and the magazine article being published - well, now it’s a story about a few women being groped, a couple being solicited for sex. They have one witness - not even a victim, but a witness. And even then, it turns out Gil is actually more interested in going after ATN than holding cruises accountable. No one actually cares about the victims, beyond how it can advance their agenda.

Then we also get the list of scandals on the plane in 3.01. The Tiananmen Accommodations, Sally Ann, the tabloid suicides, Argentina. Laird saying (jokingly?) that he’s burned villages for Logan. Cruises is far from the only scandal to publicly rock Waystar, and if the others played out like cruises - with only the tip of the iceberg even being what goes public - well.

I think the question “what if a good person ran Waystar?” is interesting because I think it raises another question - “CAN a good person run Waystar?” And at the end of the day… I think the answer is no. Corruption and evil is baked so thoroughly into the walls of Waystar that I think if a good person did try to run it, either the company would crumble or the person would. I don’t think you can root out the rot without everything coming down; absolute best case scenario is to simply cover it up and not do it in the future. CEO is a fundamentally morally compromised position, and anyone who thinks differently is deluding themselves

#this is a bit rambling #the gilded rot haunts me

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lovetaled-a · 3 years ago

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✧*. ◟ @ringwrath, witch king.

not even the air is spared from the winter he brings with him. it smells foreign and feels foreign, of a different magic than his own; but few things remain unaffected by the terrible chill in the space around him — unforgiving and quick does it freeze all it touches; blackening all under his gaunt, bone-white palm and draining it of warmth. but his hands touch nothing, remaining gloved and adorned by light armor of what glitters as silver but is harder than it. the same metal is found in the mask concealing his face.

aye, and he reveals that too — or at least what he presents for a face — as his hands reach up to remove the heavy hood of his white cloak, and he lets the unfamiliar warm light of early spring reflect off its flawless surface.

the mask is expressionless and frozen in a mildly pleasant expression. it hides a face given to him by his beloved master; one dead and rotten and wreathed in the pallor of something that should have died long ago. white and silver upon his form are but a mockery of good and light, hiding the evil stirring [ silent, patient, ever-present ] beneath bright robes and glittering metal.

“ i cannot show you my likeness even if i wished to, ” the voice behind the mask speaks; deceptively pleasant in tone yet still bearing a hint of the haunting roughness he carries with him. he pointedly ignores the first question. “ as it is not my own magic that made me appear the way i do — it is a curse that cannot be lifted by my hands, or anyone else’s … perhaps not even by he who cast it. ” [ there is a truth in those lies, though he does not know it. ] even despite his own cold, his master’s fire burns in a part of his black heart forever. “ you have my gratitude for no longer aiming your arrow at me, for i carry no weapon of my own. ”

and indeed; does he truly need one?

the spring coalesces around them, a whirlwind of earth at its purest iteration. it tosses about the grasses and carries away pollen like a dusted hearth, but the cries of those the bloodstone queen would rule reach the ears of the successor ( each blade, a voice its own, whispers of more than this silver-gilded stranger’s intrusion; of broken silence and corruption like rot and carrion on the wind. and the trees too have spoken in their turns, reaching the ears of the huntress though the creaking in their roots, and she knows them to be stifled by a great fear, the age old sentinels of the spring court, twisted wood to which all passing things owe reverence. ) she scents ash upon the wind, this too, a flavor that burns together with the sweetness of flowers. yet despite the hastening devastation of the other’s presence, the springmaid is yet intrigued by what must come of two antithetical forces meeting together: one young as a sapling, the other perhaps older than the ice that sinks deeper in the ground with each season, with the hunger that comes for all in the end.

must one always inevitably take their fall, to discover what exists to oppose them�� ?

eyes of loam green witness the shroud fall away, pale and pure as diaphanous cloth the mortals used to bury their most sacred dead. strange to adorn oneself as though mortality were elegant in its own way ——— but in her recollection dances living brides that wear the same or similar garb, the habit of adorning themselves with flowers of soft snow and veils like mist. what symbolism does the stranger carry with them, rife and palpable ? demise, the wilting of all things slowly over time. the blackening of the earth, an unfathomable trail of carnage.

❛❛ it must be dangerous magic, ❜❜ speaks a songbird’s voice to the snake in the garden, ❛❛ if not even its maker might control it. ❜❜ things are not so old here as newmade and as undying in their newness, and even the most ancient corners of her wood are not so darkly corrupted: not even the portal to the otherworld so stains the thirsting ground. ❛❛ i have not yet relinquished the arrow entirely. ❜❜ lips like full waxing crescents press together. upon her mount, a mare red as the blood that flows through the stones of villages and colors the wine of victorious battle, she does not seem to tremble, even through the upset of balance tremors through her with each wary word. ❛❛ i am curious to know how you made way into the wood. it is not simply found, you understand. ❜❜

#ringwrath #〈 ✧*. ◝ ferelith. ◟ interactions.#sorry i took forever to move this over skjgdkdgjdg !#hopefully this makes up for it

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rebrandedbard · 4 years ago

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The Music Box (1/3)

A porcelain figure on a music box sits alone in an abandoned attic until one day he is granted the gift of life. He strikes out on a quest of self discovery, giving himself the name Jaskier, and learns about what it means to be living. As he goes about playing his music, he hopes one day to find the one who made him, and learn why destiny should give him a soul and wait so long after to grant him the blessing of life.

Alt - Jaskier used to be a figure on a music box before wishing to be real.

(wc: 3232)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Music drifted into the attic, soft and mellow, rambunctious and spirited, earnest and poor. Children’s poems and great ballads of adventure and love lit up the forgotten corners, clearing the shadows from them if only for a moment. At such times, the emptiness and forgetting and damp disappeared. The cobwebs became gossamer curtains. The dust was nearly like snow. For the length of a bar or two, there was life in the abandoned place.

How long ago had it begun, the little porcelain figure wondered? When the music played in the world beyond, his little heart stirred to life and reached out longingly to be a part of it. When did he first have a heart to stir? He thought it must have been long ago, a century or two. It was impossible to tell the passing of the years.

He thought it must have been then, when the little boy turned the key on the box for the first time. The little boy had stared up at the figure in wonder as it sprang to life, spinning round on the lid of the box. Tinkling music, sharp and sweet and sure poured out from inside, enchanting. The little boy asked someone, an old man he thought, if the figure might be a faery in disguise, and if he’d had wings the figure would have fluttered them with joy. He would like to be a faery. He thought he might have seen them in some of the far markets, their eyes shining brighter than they ought. If he were a faery, he might dance or play. But no. He could only ever turn, and only ever in one direction, never singing or dancing. Never playing.

As the years passed and he was exchanged in colorful paper wrappings from hand to hand to hand, he’d grown tired of his song. Always the same notes over and over, without even words. He envied the harp. He hated the violin. The flute mocked him, for they had no such limitations. And oh, how he might shed tears to listen to the people singing! How could any one instrument play so many songs? He could not cry, and he had no voice—why should he have a heart to ache and break for such things at all?

But now, alone in the barren waste of things packed away and left to rot, he wished he might have the company of his song again. He’d been in the attic so long, he’d forgotten the very last of the notes, and there was none to wind his key. Even if he had no music, he might at least be allowed to turn. It was not true dancing, but he could pretend. He did not know why he was allowed such a blessing as to pretend or to feel, but he tried so very hard to use it.

Outside, it was coming on evening. A nightingale perched somewhere nearby, singing its song. Hateful pest! He wanted to rip the heart from his chest and push the broken pieces back together, but his hands would always remain poised. One lifted above his head, and one so tauntingly to his chest. His mouth would always be open to sing, and he could never utter a sound. And here came the nightingale once more to mock him, singing pretty verses and trilling in the fading light.

Once, long ago, a nightingale had flown in the open window to nest among the abandoned rafters. It sang and sang as it built its nest, and there were two. How dare anything come to this place, throwing freedom and music and love in his face, flying and parading around him! He wished they might have the mercy to fly low and knock him from his perch. If he might fall and break, perhaps he might then die and be rid of his longing.

It was a joke. Perhaps he’d watched a faery too closely and it had cursed him for it. He would always live with longing, never dying. For the sin of seeing too clearly, someone in Faerie had cursed him with unfulfillment. He was only a toy, just a simple, decorative knick-knack. He must always look wherever he was turned. He could not help staring.

The night came, bringing darkness with it. He was afraid of the dark, for it was so much quieter when the sun went down, and he knew he was truly alone. He was grateful for clear nights when the moon and stars offered their comfort. Though he was surely faded by exposure to the light, his clothes turned white and grey by the dust, he was the more fortunate for being left uncovered, allowed to see through the small attic window into the heavens. It was his spotlight, bathing him in a single ray of warmth when the sun was high, a pale beam of silver light when the moon rose. It asked him to perform and fill the room with life, and he wished to comply.

The house had long been empty, no audience to perform for. He wondered what had happened to the family. Had they moved on? Had they died? The corner of the roof sagged from years of heavy snow, and the beams creaked in the wind. He wished the house might have ghosts at the very least, but it was depressingly without haunt. There had once been rich furnishings beneath the dost cloths, he remembered. The attic was quite expansive. Maybe the family had been comprised of peers, turned out during some great revolution. He thought of such romantic stories often to pass the time, and it made it difficult to remember. Surely he would have heard the fuss of fighting below. He fancied the rebels would have tried to burn the house down and that only the attic was spared the flames. He would like some looter to come scavenging in his lonely domain. Perhaps then he might be taken and sold, then he might at least see something new of the world. Even the patch of sky outside his window had become too familiar.

Then, there came something new. A brilliant streak of light across the sky. His heart leapt at the sight and he knew if for what it was. A shooting star.

His left hand always reaching, for once in his life he felt it was with purpose. He wished to tangle his right hand in his shirt, for his heart ached with a terrible hope. He reached with his left, beseeching, for once he’d been owned by a little girl who wished on such stars, and he knew the most earnest came true in stories.

He wished. Oh, how he wished!

Living. I want to be living!

He wanted to leave this place. He wanted to sing and play all those instruments that taunted him before, show them who truly knew the depth of music. Who knew music better than the figure on a music box? He wished to taste those songs on his own tongue which the people sang and hummed and whistled! He wanted to frolic! To dance! He wanted to just once—only once!— turn counter-clockwise.

The star disappeared before his eyes and he waited, staring up at the place where it had been. And he waited. In the deafening silence, his heart began to beat painfully in his chest and he willed the star to return. He outstretched arm trembled and he wished to call it back. The attic blurred, tears prickling his eyes. He sobbed, knowing the star would not return, and brought his knuckles to his eyes, wiping away the hot tears as they began to fall.

He stopped.

He slowly tilted his head down and looked at his hands. They glistened in the moonlight, wet with tears. They’d moved. He moved them again and found he could. Quickly, he looked at his feet and saw not a box, but the bare floor below him. His heart beat again—it was beating! What a wonder!—and he laughed, felt the smile on his lips for the first time. He wobbled as he attempted his first step and fell onto the arm of one of the old chairs. Giddy with joy, drunk on this sudden euphoria, he ripped the dust clothes and threw them into the air. At long last, he could move! He danced around the room, exploring all that he could never dream to touch or feel beneath his fingers. In an old chest, he found beautiful festival costumes. He threw off his old tatters and dressed in them. How long had he envied the birds for their changing plumage? Or humans for their ever-changing clothes?

He found a mirror and stood awhile, watching himself so full of life. He smiled, frowned, scowled, and made a hundred funny faces. “Hello!” he said, then he tumbled back from his reflection, startled by his own voice. He’d heard something like it in his own mind, but it had never been anything so loud or concrete. Very quietly, he whispered, “Hello,” again, peeking up at the edge of the mirror from his knees. Shyly, he waved back at himself.

On shaking legs, he stood again. He made a courtly bow. He’d been on the mantle once of a great room in some manor, and he’d seen many a bow and curtsey. It was clumsy at first; he did not yet know how to move properly, but his heart was full to bursting for joy. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said, and his words were almost steady. “And what is your name, good gentleman?”

Here his fun came to a halt, for he had no answer.

“Oh. I … who will name me?” he asked. He had no mother or father. He did not even know who had made him and his box.

His box!

He turned round, searching for it. How odd a thing it was to be able to look from this new perspective. And there it was, where it had always been, sitting on the old end table among the clutter. He picked it up, turning it over and over. On the bottom there was writing, but he could not read. He’d never had the chance to see it, though he’d known it sat beneath this feet. It was carved and painted with wildflowers, gilded on the edges. There was some chipping here and there, and the color had faded, but he could not help loving it, for it had so long been a part of himself.

The mechanical bits clicked as he wound the key. He bit back a sob as the music poured out once more. It had been so long. The notes came to him at once, though they stuck now and then, and he could remember how they’d sounded once so very long ago. The little platform on top turned round and round, empty. He turned, spinning very slowly in the opposite direction as he clutched it to his chest. When the spring had wound down, he wiped his eyes and leapt to his feet. He scrambled to the window and threw it wide, reaching out into the night sky.

“Thank you!” he called. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

One day he would find the words with which to express his gratitude. He swore he would put his heart and soul into such an expression of thankfulness, and he would bless the sight of the generous stars until his dying day! Could he die? Did he eat? There was so much to discover!

He finished his exploration of the attic and collected a bag and change of clothes. Belongings. He had belongings now. There was something grand about owning things. He carefully wrapped his box in a bit of cloth and put it into his bag. When the sun rose in the morning, he’d be off on a journey. Very soon, he’d be part of the world. What song would be the first to greet him? Through the window, he’d seen the beginnings of spring. A seasonal ballad, he hoped.

He explored the rest of the house, going from room to room to examine this strange place that had been his home, so detached from what he’d known. It was a grand house, full of once-fine furniture, walls covered with portraits and intricately patterned and peeling wallpaper. He bent to feel the carpets, excited to touch everything he came upon. He discovered a velvet couch, a silk table runner. He ran his finger along the rods of a carved banister, listening to the gentle thump as he did. In another room there was a lamp with a beaded shade that clicked wonderfully and jingled when disturbed. When he realized the short heel of his boots made a clomping sound, he began to tap them as he walked, skipping now and then until his feet had carried him to the most wonderful discovery of all.

It was a music room. There was a great harp in the center of the room, standing under an old chandelier. He eagerly stroked its strings, only to find it horrendously out of tune. Still, he played to hear the sound. One by one he explored the various instruments. It was not such a vast collection, but it was more than he’d ever seen, and he was filled with the sudden desire to take one for himself. But which? He would play them all until he might make his choice.

The pipe was too shrill for his ears, still so sensitive to such noise. He liked the drum well enough, but it made no more than one or two sounds beneath his beating hands. He’d enjoyed the harp, but it was far too bit to carry. Then, tucked in the far corner, he found a lute. He plucked experimentally at its strings and knew he had found his instrument.

He pulled the strap over his shoulder, his heart aflutter. A great mirror lined the wall and he turned in it, admiring himself. Yes, from here he would make something of this new life! With this gift, he would give something wonderful to the world! He would give music that which none had ever known, and all the Continent would sing his songs!

When the sun rose, he stepped out of the lifeless house and into the wider world. Things were beginning to stir, birds rising, wind waking. Even the flowers seemed to turn up their heads to look as he passed. An hour’s walk saw him in a bustling hamlet, men and women going about their morning work. He scurried up to the first person in reach, tapping the man’s shoulder.

“Excuse me—good morning. What is this place called?” he asked.

“Lettenhove,” the man replied, eyeing the brightly-dressed traveller.

“And what,” he asked, “is that house there beyond the fields?”

“The old Pankratz estate, but you won’t find any work there, bard. The last viscount was taken by pox several years ago. The nearest courts are in Falla.”

Bard! Might that be his name, he wondered? Before beginning his great quest, he must find himself a name. He remembered the writing on the bottom of his box. Would it be some name?

“Can you read, sir?” he asked. “Or might you point me in the direction of one who can?”

The man sniffed and stood straighter. “I can read,” he said gruffly. “Trying to make fun?”

The bard shook his head apologetically. “No, never! I have something that needs reading, and I cannot make it out. Would you help me?”

The man looked at the bard’s flashy clothes doubtfully. Such colorful songbirds were surely educated in reading and writing. Though he quite clearly felt he was being made part of some joke, he held out his hand and asked to see the bit of writing.

The bard unwrapped the music box and handed it to him with delicate care. “The, uh, writing is too small. I’ve lost my spectacles,” he excused, feeling a fool. He’d never been taught to read, but he knew there were some who read with spectacles on their noses.

The man looked more friendly at that. “Well, it’s a poem,” he said, observing the writing on bottom.

“Will you read it to me?”

With a shrug, the man recited the short verse:

With the turning of the year

Little friends shall gather near

In the Spring they shall appear

The lovely yellow bloom, jaskier

The man hummed and said, rather importantly, “The rhyme is good, but the spelling of the last word doesn’t match the pattern. It doesn’t rhyme to the eye.” He smiled and stroked his chin, looking very clever.

“What’s a jaskier?” the bard asked. It was a lovely word, he thought.

“It’s … ” the man looked around, then he stooped down to pick a flower from the grass by the road. “It’s this. Do they call them something different where you come from?”

The bard reached for the flower as it was offered to him and made no reply. He did not know where he was from. He decided it might as well be here.

As he turned the music box in hand, the man admired the flowers on the sides. “Ah, here they are as well. It’s a very pretty thing. May I have a listen?”

The bard nodded and the man wound the music box, listening to the tune. At last the bard could hear words in the notes. When the song finished, the man returned the box and the bard wrapped it once more, tucking it in his bag.

“Thank you,” the bard said.

“Julian!” someone called. The man turned over his shoulder as the caller waved him over. “Julian, move your sorry ass along! We’ve got deliveries to make, you lazy bastard!”

“Stop your whining, Alfred, you old cow! If you didn’t walk so slow, I could make the deliveries in half time!” He turned back to the bard and patted his arm jovially. “Well then, that’s my time run out on me. If you’re still around this afternoon, you ought to play for us at the pub,” he suggested.

“Thank you, but I’ve got to be going. I have a delivery of my own to make,” said Jaskier Julian Alfred Pankratz. He’d found a name, found several in fact—spares, just in case he might lose one—and now he had a new quest in mind. “I’ve got to deliver this music box to its owner.”

“Did you need the address read?” the man asked.

“No, thank you,” Jaskier replied. “But if you might point me in the direction of the nearest market, I’d be much obliged.”

“Thataway. Happy travels.”

“The very happiest!” Jaskier exclaimed.

And he was off in the pointed direction, a spring in his step, and an old song in his heart made new. He hummed as he went, then whistled. And at last, the market in sight, he began to sing the little verse aloud. A spectator tossed a coin into his hat as he stopped to bow to her on his way, sweeping his hat politely from his head. His very first wage, his very first song, his very first morning out in the world!

“Oh, destiny,” he sighed. “At long last, you are a loving thing.”

#witcher #the witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #fairytale au #my fic #the music box fic

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mdzsgildedfate · 4 years ago

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Gilded Fate - Chapter 8

Reincarnation AU [Chapter 8/?] Characters: Xue Yang, Xiao Xingchen, Song Lan, Lan Sizhui, Lan Jingyi, Jin Ling, Original Characters. Pairings: Xue Yang/Xiao Xingchen, Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen, Lan Sizhui/Lan Jingyi, Xue Yang/OC

Sometime during his sleep, the faces of ghosts were replaced with that of Xiao XIngchen. His white robes enveloped Xinyi like a pair of wings, shielding him from the restless spirits advancing on him. The darkness took over and the dreams disappeared completely. When something finally roused him from his sleep, Xinyi muddled through a fog of confusion to remember where he was, who’s body he was curled around, who’s hand was stroking his hair-

“Mm…” The light from the window was blinding. “MingYue…?”

No… Not MingYue… This is… Xiao Xingchen?

He looked up at the radiant face, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes with his spare hand. Xingchen simply looked back at him with a blank expression, waiting for Xinyi to speak first. He still felt exhausted, wondering if it’d be okay for him to lay his head back down against Xingchen’s chest and go back to sleep.

“What time is it?”

“Noon. They’ll be serving lunch soon.”

“Mm…” Xinyi put his head back down. “I’m not hungry.”

Xingchen pulled himself free from the other’s grasp and sat up, looking down at him expectantly. Xinyi opened one eye and peeked up at him, frowning at Xingchen’s resolute expression.

“Fine.”

“Hm… Your clothes are still wet.” Xingchen said, running his hands along the damp fabric.

“Oh well. Guess there’s nothing we can do.” Xinyi slumped back against the bed.

“Stand up.” The man pulled open his trunk again, pulling out a set of plain, grey robes. “Put these on.”

Xinyi sighed, pouting slightly as he stood up and took the robes. Xingchen helped tie them in place and then led him out the door, down the hall towards the courtyard. Looking down at his new attire, he wondered where Xingchen got such drab looking robes. The Daozhang only wore white robes, with occasional black accents- he couldn’t imagine the man wearing any other colour.

Reaching the courtyard, it looked like everyone had already gathered for lunch. Most of the low tables had been filled by students, the two Lan Jiaoshou were seated together near Song Lan, and Jin Ling was off to the side with his dog. As always, MingYue was sitting near Jin Ling, but as soon as she saw Xinyi, she stood and began approaching him. Xingchen veered off to join Song Lan, leaving Xinyi to face MingYue alone. Every muscle in his body tensed.

“Xinyi, I-”

Before she could get a word out, Xinyi stuck his hands out in front of him and bowed to her, not daring to look at her face.

“MingYue. I’m sorry for what happened earlier. I don’t know what came over me, but it won’t happen again.” Xinyi straightened up, eyes still stuck to the ground. “I promise I won’t make trouble for you again… I- Uh… Are you… okay?”

MingYue reached out and took his hand, urging him to look up at her. She had a sweet, reassuring smile on her face that almost made his heart skip a beat.

“A-Xin. I appreciate your apology, but I’m the one that’s been making trouble for you. This is your trip after all, I’m only here as a guest. I shouldn’t have bothered you.” She let go of his hand and gave a small bow in return. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m okay.”

A small smile twitched at his lips, but instantly fell when he saw her neck. “Ah- MingYue, your neck-”

“It’s fine, I promise.” MingYue’s smile widened, though her eyes were turned up with concern. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m just worried about you. I’ve never seen you so upset, is everything okay?”

Xinyi’s heart hurt, feeling another wave of shame seeing her more concerned for him than for herself. “I’m fine, it’s nothing to worry-”

“A-Yue!” Jin Ling’s sharp tone cut through the courtyard as he approached them. “Come away from him, go sit down and eat!”

Xinyi took a step back. A-Yue?

MingYue gave him one last concerned look and scurried back to her table. Jin Ling followed behind her, looking at Xinyi with disdain. Xinyi gulped and turned away, spotting an open table between Chen and QianHua to take refuge at. He put his face in his hands for a moment, thinking again about how badly he just wanted to go back to sleep and not think about MingYue or her weird, uptight friend, or how Smiling Ghost was watching him from the stairs again.

“A-Xin, are you okay? You disappeared for so long, where were you?” Chen asked as soon as he sat down.

Xinyi looked over at him, his mood dropping even more at Chen’s expression. “I’m fine. Xingchen took me to his room and made me take a nap.”

Chen’s jaw dropped slightly, looking just a little horrified. “He made you sleep in his bed??”

Xinyi cracked a smile. “How do you always make things sound so much worse than they are?”

“It doesn’t help that you’re not wearing your own clothes.” QianHua mused, snickering at them.

“Huh? Oh, right.” Xinyi looked down at what he was wearing again. “I fell in the river earlier. My clothes were still wet, so Xingchen lent me these.”

Chen looked away, mumbling under his breath. “I didn’t realize you two were so familiar…”

Xinyi quirked an eyebrow at him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re jealous.”

“I was just worried about you!” Chen straightened back up, taking his glasses off to clean them angrily. “You were so mad, it took four people to hold you back! And then you just disappeared for three hours and no one knew where you were! Why didn’t you come to us for help?”

Another wave of shame. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Chen sighed and put his glasses back on. “I’m sorry too. I just… was scared.”

“I’m sorry too.” QianHua yawned.

They both looked at him. “For what?”

QianHua shrugged. “I just wanted to be included.”

~X~

The clouds forming in the sky had provided a welcome shade from the sun during lunch. After spending the morning hiking through the mountains, spelunking through caves, and handling rotting corpses, it felt nice to relax and have a meal with MingYue and Gongzhu. As much as he disapproved of MingYue approaching Xinyi like that, Jin Ling had to admit she seemed in better spirits now. Plus, Xinyi looked even more dejected, so maybe it wasn’t so bad.

“Hey. A-Yue.”

“Hm?”

“Did you do that on purpose?”

MingYue looked up from where she sat with Gongzhu. “Did I do what on purpose?”

Jin Ling pointed at Xinyi with his chopsticks. “He looks miserable now. Did you apologize just to guilt him?”

“What? Of course not!” Her tone was indignant, but the faintest hint of a smile played on her lips. “And why are you saying my name like that so much suddenly?”

“Saying it how?” Jin Ling asked, turning his gaze back to his meal.

“A-Yue~.” She said, mocking Jin Ling’s tone.

“I didn’t-!”

Before Jin Ling had a chance to defend himself, Song Lan and Sizhui rose from their seats and were calling everyone’s attention their way. Sizhui had set up his guqin on his table and was now plucking at the strings, making sure it was still in tune. The idle chatter and clanking of dishware slowly died down as everyone turned their attention to the men. Song Lan glanced back at Sizhui, who gave a small nod, and addressed the students.

“For today’s lesson, I’d like to talk briefly about a forgotten culture. Your textbooks and history classes will not teach you about these groups of people, but Xiao Xingchen and myself have spent a long time maintaining the remnants of this time.”

Jin Ling looked at them curiously. Save for the immortals currently present, and the few hidden away in seclusion, there wasn’t a soul alive who knew about the existence of cultivators. He hadn’t even come across the descendants of cultivation clans in at least a few centuries, so what was the point in leading a lesson about them?

“Many thousands of years ago, there was a widespread spiritual practice called Cultivation. These spiritual workers belonged to clans who were devoted to protecting commonfolk from restless spirits, demons, and other dark forces.” Song Lan spoke in a steady tone, slowly pacing back and forth in front of the students. “These clans were well respected and held a great deal of political power in the regions they presided over. If you recall from the tour of the temple, the tapestries you saw depicted those regions.”

“Cultivators trained their whole lives to deal with the evil beings haunting their lands and were also highly skilled warriors. The standard spiritual tool was their sword, though many of the gentry clans also specialized in a specific technique. For example, instead of swords, the Nie clan carried heavy blades as their signature technique. Another techniqueincluded the use of musical instruments, such as the guqin.”

Song Lan paused, looking over at Sizhui. The man was gracefully plucking out a calm rhythm, quietly enough that Song Lan could be heard over him. With his attention turned to the music, Jin Ling realized the song being played was Cleansing. He followed the flow of spiritual energy to where Xinyi was sitting, looking more relaxed than he had at the start of the meal.

“Other common tools included paper talismans, sigils, arrays, nets, and pouches. Spiritual tools were items infused with positive qi, spiritual Yang energy..” Song Lan continued, turning back to face the students. “The use of these tools depended on the presence of a cultivated golden core, the part of the body that stores and controls spiritual energy-”

Jin Ling’s focus waned, feeling bored at the memory of lectures he had to sit through as a junior disciple. He propped an elbow up on his table and leaned his cheek onto his hand, letting his eyes wander over the students. Expecting to see bored expressions, Jin Ling was surprised to see how many were hanging on Song Lan’s every word. Three students sitting closest to Jin Ling and MingYue seemed to be engaged in discussion about the lecture, talking with bemused expressions. He turned his attention to them, unable to resist the urge to eavesdrop.

“-seems kind of strange.”

“I thought this stuff was all made up.”

“Yeah, like, fairy tales the Wang family invented to hype up their collection.”

“Is this the same story? I thought it seemed familiar…”

Jin Ling furrowed his eyebrows. This wasn’t the first time he’d overheard the people here mention some mysterious Wang Family Collection, but he’d never suspected it had anything to do with cultivation. He glanced at MingYue, wondering what the chances were that his companion just happened to be the ex-girlfriend of a member of the Wang family, who just happened to be a reincarnated cultivator.

He frowned. He hated convoluted things like this.

“MingYue.”

“Hm?”

“I keep hearing people mention the Wang Collection- What is that?”

She blinked a couple of times before cracking into hushed laughter. “Were you living under a rock before I met you?”

He frowned harder.

MingYue scooted closer to Jin Ling so she could speak without disrupting Song Lan’s lecture. “The Wangs are a really wealthy family in Beijing known for collecting antiques. It’s actually a really impressive collection, but some of the pieces are famously controversial because they reference historical events that didn’t happen.”

“What kind of pieces?”

“The majority of pieces are heavy swords, but there’s also a lot of old books about ghosts and magic, strange flags, amulets, random trinkets, sculptures. Kind of like what Song Lan Daozhang is talking about, actually.” MingYue looked back at the Daozhang curiously. “Honestly, even when we were dating, I thought it was nonsense, but I guess not…”

“Hmph… Don’t dwell on it.” Jin Ling retorted, turning his attention back to the lecture.

Two mysteries is more than enough, I’ll think about that one later…

~X~

By the time Song Lan concluded his lecture, the clouds had thickened into a dark sheet stretching across the sky and the smell of rain hung densely in the air. For the rest of the evening, the lecture continued to ruminate in Xinyi’s mind, providing a welcome distraction from Smiling Ghost and the two new spirits that now served as an ever-present audience. Still, they weren’t as bad as the bloodied ghosts that appeared the first night, so ignoring them was becoming easier.

By dinner time, the rain was coming down hard, creating small streams that rushed across the stonework of the courtyard. Everyone gathered in the main hall for the final meal of the day, the room quickly filling with the sounds of excited anthropology students discussing the existence of a forgotten study of spiritualism. Xinyi sat between Chen and QianHua like always, this time placed towards the head of the table where the Daozhang and Jiaoshou sat together.

A few yards past Jingyi Jiaoshou, Smiling Ghost stood in the corner, her watchful gaze occasionally scanning over the other students before returning to Xinyi. He stared back at her, tapping his finger on the table while he thought.

Why does she just stare at me like that?

What does she want?

She’s dressed so nice… Not fucked up or covered in blood like the others...

Don’t you have anything better to do? Or am I really so handsome that you can’t take your eyes off me?

She turned her head slightly, eyes still on him, and smiled wider. He shuddered and looked away.

Tap tap...Tap tap…

He looked over at the two farther down. The older of the two was a middle aged woman with an open throat and the younger was a boy, no older than ten, with a wound through his chest.

Tap… Tap tap… Tap tap tap…

He jumped slightly. How long had Song Lan been staring at him? And what was that expression? Their eyes met for a moment, both looking equally confused and startled, before Song Lan quickly looked away. Xinyi put his chopsticks down and excused himself from the table, feeling sick to death of being stared at.

Going back to his room alone, Xinyi slumped onto his bed. At least for the time being, no ghosts appeared here and no disembodied whispers filled his ears. The only sound came from the rain outside, which quickly became white noise. He breathed a sigh of relief at the rare moment of silence, realizing just how badly he needed it. With the rest of the thoughts pushed from his head, Xinyi remembered for the first time since probably ten that morning that his notebook was still missing.

Sitting up, he noticed someone had brought his bag back to the room for him and left it at the head of his bed. He grabbed it and pulled it over, hoping the notebook had someone found its way back inside. Even though the weight already gave him his answer, he still opened the bag and felt around inside. Sighing, he tossed the disappointing thing aside and slumped back, staring up at the ceiling.

So much for a year and a half long project… It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just a transcription… but all my notes in it too!

A lot of those pages took forever to decipher… Whoever wrote the original had the handwriting of a kid and talked in riddles half the time…

Xinyi fished his phone out of the twisted bedsheets and turned it on, opening to the pictures he’d taken of the original book. At least he could remember the notes he’d made about the most recent pages, but for everything else, he’d have to start over completely.

Whatever. It wasn’t important anyways.

By the time Chen and QianHua came back from dinner, Xinyi was already starting to doze off. The sound of movement in the room jolted him awake, immediately sitting up and looking around for the source of noise. Once he realized who had come in, he relaxed and laid back down. He murmured a few initial replies to the two when they entered, but felt too exhausted to stay up and chat with them. When the lamp was extinguished earlier than usual, Xinyi said a silent thanks to Chen, knowing he was the one to have mercy on him. Now enveloped in darkness as well as the silence, sleep overtook Xinyi quickly.

Before long, the first nightmare was manifesting behind his eyelids. Fog surrounded him, obstructing most of his vision. Some figure seemed to be moving around him, darting past his peripheral vision. Behind him, the sound of tapping was filling him with horrible anxiety. He lashed out, JiangZai in his hand, desperately trying to silence the source of the noise.

Give it back… Please… Give it back!

His eyes searched the fog wildly, looking for his lost item and swinging his sword at the tapping. Some object came hurtling towards him, appearing only about a yard in front of him before spearing through him. Unbearable pain shot through his shoulder, sending him reeling and crashing to his knees. Looking down, he could see the arm that had held JiangZai, severed and limp on the ground. The tapping had ceased and was now replaced with the sounds of solid footsteps approaching him headon.

With his remaining hand, he reached into his shirt and pulled out the fan he’d painted. Opening it, his eyes scanned over the mountain scenery, thinking it seemed a great deal more realistic than he remembered. Another pain shot through his chest and he looked up at the white figure towering over him- a man with glassy skin like jade, an icy expression, and an utterly regal air to him. Slowly, his vision turned down to see the blade sticking through the middle of his sternum.

Blood sputtered from his mouth, staining the blade red. Further up, the white robes were turning red as well, sprouting poppy flowers all the way up to the open throat of the figure in front of him. The cold expression was replaced with a face that glowed in the moonlight, obscured by a pair of bloodied bandages around the eyes. All at once, a feeling of sheer horror rushed over him, turning into desperate wails of grief in his throat.

All he could do to stop from screaming was to stuff the side of his wrist into his mouth and bite down. The pain in his shoulder and chest still screamed as though the wounds received in the dream were real. He’d slept so well earlier, why couldn’t Xingchen have just let him sleep longer? His eyes opened at the thought. He had slept earlier. Actually slept! Pulling himself to his feet, and pointedly ignoring whatever figure was crouching in the corner, Xinyi slipped out into the hall in search of Xiao Xingchen’s room.

...If only he’d paid even an ounce of attention to which turns they had taken to get there.

All the halls in this temple look exactly the same, especially at night, and there was no way he was risking opening random doors. If there was anything worse than going back to sleep on his own, it was accidentally opening the wrong door. If he happened upon Song Lan, he might actually kill him, and if he happened upon a girls’ room, he’d be branded a pervert for the rest of his school life. Xinyi shuddered. Finding Xingchen’s room wasn’t worth the risk, especially when it wasn’t guaranteed the Daozhang wouldn’t be just as offended by being barged in on.

Fuck it. There was nothing to be done and standing around feeling sorry for himself was just giving the restless spirits a chance to catch up to him. The whispers were already starting to stir up again, Xinyi wasn’t about to wait to see what else showed up. After what he did to MingYue, not sleeping wasn’t an option. Sleeping with Xiao Xingchen was not an option. With how many nightmares he had, sleeping alone was also not an option. So all that left was...

Xinyi cursed himself and this whole damn situation, back inside his own room now, staring down at the two figures of his sleeping friends. How was he supposed to explain to either one of him why he, a twenty year old man, was trying to crawl into their bed in the middle of the night? Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep breath, and decided Chen was the safer option. He knelt beside him, his heart pounding in his ears, and slowly lifted the blanket to lay beside the sleeping man.

“Mm… Hm?” Chen roused almost at once. “Xinyi?”

Xinyi tensed. “...sorry… can- can I sleep here? Just tonight?”

Chen lifted his head slightly, squinting through the darkness. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Y-...yeah…”

Without another word, Chen moved over to make room for Xinyi. He breathed out a small sigh of relief and slipped under the covers next to him. For one blessed moment, the whispers disappeared and all of the muscles in Xinyi’s body relaxed. Maybe this wasn’t so bad… Chen was warm and he wasn’t afraid to drape an arm over Xinyi, inviting him in closer. The slow rhythm of breathing was comforting, a steady movement and sound he could focus on instead of-

“Xue… Yang…”

Fuck. Please no.

“Xue… Yang…”

No Xue Yang here. Please leave.

Against better judgement, Xinyi opened one eye to peer around the room. In the dark, it was hard to make out anything completely, but there was no mistaking it. There was a shadow in front of the door, darker than the rest of the room. Without meaning to, Xinyi brought his hands up to Chen’s chest, grasping the front of his shirt.

“How pathetic…”

The figure moved forward, coming close enough for Xinyi to see the details of its face. The thing was covered in cuts, hundreds of them at least, with blood covering every inch of its form. The sight was enough to send Xinyi burrowing into Chen’s chest, praying it would go away if he couldn’t see it.

“Ah- A-Xin?”

“Xue Yang!”

Xinyi inched closer to Chen, feeling his forehead press against the man’s cheek. Other whispers were joining in with the voice of the mutilated ghost, sending shivers throughout Xinyi’s body.

Please go away… please go away… please go away.

“How pathetic you’ve become!”

Please go away… please go away…

“You think you’re suffering?”

Please stop… Make it stop…

“A-Xin, what’s wrong?” Chen put a hand on Xinyi’s cheek, tilting his face up to look at him.

Crouching just behind Chen now, the mutilated ghost glared down on Xinyi, hands stretched out like he was about to grab him. Xinyi’s eyes widened, his body frozen in fear.

“A-Xin… Look at me.” Chen’s voice was barely audible over the deafening whispers. “Whatever you see behind me, look away.”

Xinyi tightened his grasp on Chen’s shirt and forced himself to meet his eyes.

“You think you’re suffering, Xue Yang?!”

Please… Anything to make this stop…

“This doesn’t come CLOSE to suffering!”

I’ll do anything… just make this stop!

Lips brushed against his, so lightly he almost didn’t feel it at first. Xinyi squeezed his eyes shut again and tilted his head forward, leaning into the touch. Chen kissed him again, harder this time, putting an arm around Xinyi’s waist and pulling him close. With the whispers quieting ever so slightly, Xinyi relaxed his grip on Chen’s shirt and brought his hands up to hook around the man’s neck.

Locked against each other, Xinyi felt a tongue brush lightly against his lip. He opened his mouth and returned the touch, feeling a tense warmth growing in his stomach. At once, Chen pressed hard into the kiss, sending his tongue deep into Xinyi’s mouth with a faint moan. Their positions shifted slowly with every kiss, with Chen now practically on top of him, one hand grasping at the thigh Xinyi had curled against him. At his hip, he could feel Chen’s growing erection pushing against him.

Xinyi brought a hand down to Chen’s lower back, gently rolling his hips up. Another soft moan left Chen’s mouth, adding to the heat in XInyi’s stomach. Chen slipped his fingers under the waistband of Xinyi’s pants, slowly inching further down, only to freeze dead in its tracks at the sound of QianHua shifting in his sleep. They both paused, listening for the man’s snores, praying they hadn’t been caught.

After a moment, the snore came and they both relaxed. Chen retracted his hand and rolled back against the bed. The whispers had disappeared, but Xinyi couldn’t help but sit up slightly to peer around the room, just to be sure they’d truly left. When he saw no out-of-place shadows, he laid back against Chen, resting his head in the crook of his neck and draped an arm across his chest.

#mdzs #mdzs fic #the untamed #the untamed fic #xue yang #xuexiao #songxiao #xiao xingchen #song lan #junior disciples #jin ling #lan sizhui #lan jingyi

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kewltie · 4 years ago

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Izuku knows lost. Intimately and keenly, knows what it's like to be cut so deeply, this throbbing ache that would dull with time but doesn't ever truly go away. This wound that is left out in the open to fester and scab over; he carry these scars with him wherever he goes but he'd never been the one to leave it on others. To be the one people would mourn over—a living ghost of a future Midoriya Izuku.

Four years from Izuku’s own timeline, the League of Villains will triumph over the heroes and seven years from that he’ll break all his friends’ heart and left them with nothing but fond memories and a burnt corpse. He'll die crudely, tragically, and young on a pyre in front of thousands of people as an example: this is what we do to your best and brightest; this will be you soon.

Izuku is only nineteen years old and he is uneasily familiarized with death as much as he’s accustomed to the cadence of his own heartbeat, but then he's not in a war with a totalitarian regime and more than a decade older, fighting alongside his friends as veterans of an urban warfare where the casualties climbed exponentially whenever they don their mask and step out onto the battlefield. This is his future, this bleak existent of fighting and endless battles, and all the lives that will be lost in order to secure a world free of AFO's tyrannical grip, but he won't be able to take part of that. He was there in the beginning, but he won't have the privilege to see it through the end.

His life was snuffed out so easily and quickly that it isn't fair to his friends to have their past smacked them right in their face by not only the arrival of an Izuku who hadn't died in front of them but his future hasn't come to pass yet. Izuku is sorry that his sudden arrival in their future timeline doesn’t bring them any comfort or a balm to heal the hole in their heart that their Izuku's death had left behind, but it's not like he wish to know how he'll die before his time and this will become of his world. Of his friends.

They're his classmates, comrades, who he had fought side by side with but even as he recognizes his friends in their weathered hands, scarred face, broad shoulders, and wary stance, they're different now. War isn't kind, less so for those who step foot on the battlefield every day.

Tenya walks with a limp. Half of Shouto's body was a disfigured in a blast. Ochako's hand was replaced with prostatic. Kirishima's right arm is stuck in his quirk form. Ashido's skin is rippled with scars from torture. It's hell.

Izuku can't begin to wrap his head around to what they had experience—survived—to just live another day, but it's the way they carefully dance around his arrival into their future that makes it hundred times more unbearable. As soon as they realized who he was, they stuffed him away in one of their most secured safehouse in an underground bunker. He gets a rotating set of guardians who watched over him every waking minute.

He knows it's all for his safety, but it's a gilded cage nonetheless.

There is always someone with him at all time and it's the face of people he recognizes. Sometimes it's Ochako and her weary smiles, other times it's Shouto and his quiet relief, or Koda and his comforting hands, and then there's Yaoyorozu and her calming presence.

They all seem to deal with him in certain ways that leave him thankful if a bit confused, but none as troubling and agonizing as Bakugou, whose silence stare leaves Izuku's breathless and nervous under his intense scrutiny. He doesn't speak much. Or at all when he stay over. Barely even acknowledging Izuku's existence next to him even though the space is small and Izuku is the only other breathing soul in sight. He treats Izuku like a nonentity; his expression is so carefully blank that it's like bumping his shoulders against an impenetrable mountain.

It doesn't feel like his Katsuki, this quiet shadow of his former shelf, but sometimes, when Izuku looks back and catches him just right before his walls of cool indifference go back right up Izuku can see the raw pain in his eyes like Izuku is an open wound he'd never heal from. Izuku is not blind nor is he a fool. Whatever passes between Izuku and his Katsuki in his own timeline is nothing comparable to the weight of this future Katsuki’s stare and the barbed wire of his feelings toward a dead version of himself. That isn’t indifference. Not even close.

There is real regret. It’s a sword edge hangs precariously between them, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Reminding them of their folly—the Izuku who will let himself be killed before his time, and the Katsuki who could do nothing but watched as he died. It would be easier, comforting even, if Bakugou had resented him for it, to call out his future’s self weakness that had ultimately led to his death and the shattered heart of all their friends.

Izuku would have preferred that to this—to see him mourn over Izuku’s ghost while Izuku stands before him.

Were they close friends in this timeline? Lovers? Or perhaps something else entirely? Is that why Bakugou wears his pain like the black veil of a grieving widow. Izuku thinks of his future and the him that had caused all of this, and how callous of him to leave this all behind. How could he ever thought of leaving this man who cares so deeply about him that the wound Midoriya left behind is deeper than any deep seeded scars on Bakugou?

Izuku doesn't know the whole story, just snatches and pieces from the loose lips of his guardians who carefully filtered info coming in and out of Izuku's ears. It's for his safety and future they had insisted but he can read between the lines. They don't trust him. Not completely. Not that Izuku blame them. This isn't his fight yet. He's just an interloper into their world just like the day he'd found himself right in the middle of a warzone and the sight that greeted him was hell. A living breathing hell of dead bodies and fallen concretes and debris.

There was a war and Izuku was definitely not where, or when, he was supposed to be. All around him were fights and quirks going off in the distance and Izuku had never felt more alone or an outlier. A trespasser into his very own dark future.

And in the midst of all of that chaos, a hand roughly grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him in a brutalizing hug. Then, he was staring into the unflinching glare of an older Bakugou Katsuki with an eye patch and a deep diagonal scar cutting through his left eye and down to his other cheek.

Words didn’t need to transpire between them for Izuku to understand. This wasn’t his world. This wasn't his Katsuki but his heart had ached all the same for the pain wrought all over the man's face at the sight of him and the way he held Izuku in his grip; forceful, desperate, and unyielding like he was afraid Izuku would disappear on him with a whiff of the wind. In the startling chaos of that moment, there was no real clarity for him, but the tragedy all around him was made fleshed by the man holding him in his arms.

"S-sorry," slipped from Izuku's lips.

He didn't know what he was apologizing for just as long he can get rid of that grief stricken look on this man's face. No matter what world he was in or what version of Katsuki he encounters, he never wants to be the reason for the hurt on Katsuki. As long as there exist an Izuku in the world, no Katsuki would ever bear such burden alone. So he leaned into the embrace with arms folded over the broad figure. Bakugou stiffened against him, but slowly and surely he let himself be drown in Izuku’s hold like a parched man devoid of a single drop of water for a very long time.

It was the only time Bakugou had allowed Izuku to touch him, because after that he was swept away and into the bunker of the rebellion. Told the devastating truth of this world as he stared at the familiar yet unfamiliar faces of his friends who had seemingly grown up without him.

"How long?" he had asked.

"Sixteen years," Tenya revealed, achingly grave.

He paused, considering the statement and the haunted expression carved onto their face. "And how long since I died?"

Solemn silence descended upon them, no one was willing to give him a proper answer.

"Five years." Bakugou was the one who finally broke the silence. Izuku turned to him and he was met with a brick wall. Eye cold and unflinching, standing in the stark contrast of the concern looks of all those around him. "You were burned on a pyre five years ago."

Izuku winced, but held his ground even with the confirmation of his imminent death in the future. "I see." He attempted a smile. "I guess this mean I have my work cut out for me when I get back to my timeline." Not even letting himself ponder the fact that he might not be able to go back at all.

No, he has to go back to fix this. To prevent the League from winning, prevent his friends and so many innocent lives lost, and to prevent Katsuki from becoming this empty husk of a man, whose grief had long hallowed him out and gutted him dry.

He can't fix the future not yet since he's trapped here, but perhaps he can do something to alleviate Bakugou's pain. He can’t stand to see him continue to silently suffer like this, to carry this sword-like grief within him, the wound slowly rotting and eating away at him like a parasite. More than wanting to go back and save this dark future from coming to pass, he wants desperately to reach out and save this man before him now.

“Would it help if you didn’t have to look at me?” Izuku asks one day when Bakugou is stuck on guard duty with him again, cocking his head curiously at the sullen man sitting across from him.

"How am I going to protect you if I can't see you?" Bakugou grunts. "Your face doesn’t bother me.”

Izuku frowns. That a lie but he lets it go this time. "The bunker is well guarded.” Having been unconscious when he was brought here, he doesn't know where it's located and how to even get out, but he knows it's underground at least and there's only ever one permanent occupancy. It’s him.

His guardian rotates in and out, but Izuku always remain the same. Here and waiting. For what he doesn't know, but their overprotectiveness is as suffocating as the walls of this bunker. "What are you even afraid of?" That he’ll get hurt? That he’ll die like the Izuku of this timeline?

Bakugou's hand clenches on the table. His shoulders tense and his jaw locks tight. He's quiet for a moment before finally, he says, "Everything." It's just one word but it's devastating.

Izuku's heart clenches. He desperately wants to reach over and hold Bakugou's hand, but there's an impregnable wall between them.

"I'm a hero.” He shakes his head. “I can hold my own. Let me out so I can help you. Please."

Bakugou laughs, his voice quivering like brittle glass. “We don’t need heroes. Those died a long time ago with my Deku. What we need are soldiers, people who would fight because they got everything to lose.”

"And I can fight," he insists heatedly. He'd trained under All Might and UA for this. If there's nothing else he can do, he can fight at least. He can't stand doing nothing especially when every time Katsuki and his friends leave he doesn't know if it'll be the last time he'll see them.

“This isn’t your war,” Bakugou says, low and quiet and steely firm against the brewing tempest behind his only remaining eye. It’s the calm before the storm.

“But it will be in a couple of more years for me, right?" Izuku retorts, standing his ground. "If this is to be my future then I want to be able to fight for it.”

“I'm not going let you get kill on my watch,” he snaps, eye cold and furious, but his right hand pressed against the surface of the table is shaking with the slightest of tremor. “I just can’t. I already lost you once and I refuse to do it again.”

Izuku's eyes round with shock, mouth slipping open but no sounds come out. I'm not him, are the first words he thinks, but he kills it. Squashed it under the fear that he even spoke such words to this man before him, it would break him because Bakugou is barely hanging on a thread as it is.

Grief can even make the strongest of people crumble. This man has been mourning a ghost for five years and he still wears his grief like a looming black shroud over him; it's in his voice, the despair that never leaves and in his face, the barren emptiness of it.

Izuku abruptly stands up, wanting to rush over and drag Bakugou up in his arms like the first time they had met, but Bakugou is powder keg about to explode. A walking snare that would snap at him if he make the wrong move. Agitation bleeds from him, and this is minefield Izuku has to tread carefully.

So instead, he reaches over to Bakugou’s trembling hand on the table and holds it down. "I'm sorry. So, so sorry," he murmurs, desperate and urgent.

Bakugou tries to pushes him off, growling furiously, "Don't fucking touch me!" He’s strong. Undeniably so, but Izuku is persistent and bullheaded. He drags his other hand over and places on top of his own and Bakugou’s. Two hands just to hold Bakugou’s down. Neither use their quirk, but he’s barely able to keep Bakugou from sprinting out of his seat and right out here.

"Please," Izuku begs, and putting as much force as he can to keep Bakugou there in his grip. He drags Bakugou’s hand up on his elbow. "I'm sorry!" His apology less about himself but for all the sorry that Midoriya couldn't say. Bakugou is a man of impressive height and size, grown into this hulking figure, but the fight leaves him the instant their fingers wind together, his two hands clasping around Bakugou’s own between them; it’s a mockery of a prayer, but it’s a plead all the same. "I won’t go anywhere, okay?”

And just like that Bakugou heaves a long sigh, shoulders slumping and eye stare heatedly where their hands are bound together. "Don't do anything stupid," he beseeches softly, his hand still shaking in Izuku’s grip . God, Izuku had caused this. Will cause this. This is and will be his fault. "Just stay quietly where you are and let us find a way to send you back to your own timeline."

Izuku tightens his hold on Katsuki, like he can bear all of Bakugou's weight with this touch alone. "I’ll be good," he vows. Staying quietly by the sideline isn’t in him, but he can try if it help alleviate Bakugou’s fear and anxiety.

Bakugou knocks his head back suddenly and laughs, a bitter and hallow sound with his free hand clutching his forehead. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You already fucking done it once and I won’t be fooled again.”

Izuku opens his mouth to argue, but finds himself unable to do it. A liar and oathbreaker, his future self had made of him and that’s one more crime Izuku has against Midoriya. The first of many to come. He got a big shoe to fill and mistakes to clean up, but first he’ll hold on to this man and make sure he doesn’t fall apart right before Izuku’s eyes. This is the least he can do after Midoriya had already done his best to ruin this man.

#bakudeku #dark future au #fic snippet

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98prilla · 4 years ago

Text

To The Dead

AO3

TW Past abuse, past murder, past violence.

...

It was Janus who finally found him. They’d been searching the house for nearly a week, trying to find where the spirit had gone, knowing he wouldn’t have gone far, was probably discombobulated and confused and afraid. But there were so many places to hide, so many places for shadows to coil unnoticed, and not even Remus, who had the most free range of any of them, had caught hide nor hair of him.

He’d been wandering, tugging endlessly at his gloves, when something caught his attention. A small movement, a small sound, a small flicker of something in the darkness of the basement, a small shadow of movement behind the radiator.

“virgil?” He asked quietly, approaching slowly, trying not to scare the spirit with his presence. The shadow flickered darker, consolidating into a dark ball of void. He was having trouble maintaining a more physical form, not surprising, given how new he was to the astral plain of existence. “oh, darling. It’s alright, love. I’m here to help.” He murmured, crouching down a few feet from the radiator, not encroaching on the spirit’s space, trying to keep him from fleeing.

“Who… who are you?” The voice was echoing and strange, like several speaking at once, speaking in a thousand different whispers that echoed outwards in a chorus.

“My name is Janus Perkins. I died in 1925. My spirit decided to linger here. I was a singer. A performer of the gilded age. This is where I died, well, this property. This house wasn’t here then. It was apartments, then. They got torn down not long after my death, well, murder. It was rather high profile at the time, singing starlet, murdered by jealous lover. Tried to frame it as a suicide, but he wasn’t all that smart, and left a ton of evidence. Still can’t decide who’s stupider, him for killing me, or me for loving him in the first place.” He pulled at his gloves once more, making sure they covered the deep slashes across his wrists.

“oh. I’m… sorry.” He looked up sharply, Virgil’s voice coming out less echoing and more normal. His form had solidified somewhat, as well, the dark ball of void was gone, and now he was more of a solid, wavering shadow in the shape of his human form, though his details were still vague. He huffed, smiling smally.

“it’s alright. I’ve come to terms with it, now.”

“th-then why are you still h-here?” He paused at that question, thinking hard for a moment.

“I’ve pondered that myself for years, now. I suppose I’m just not ready to go. I don’t want to leave the others.”

“others?” The echo was back in Virgil’s voice, his form rippling slightly, fear destabilizing him, and Janus winced.

“yes. I… there’s five of us, total. We were all worried about you, darling. We… I’m sorry. Whatever made you choose this, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked, and he was surprised as suddenly Virgil was in his arms, form solid, shadows just barely dancing around his edges.

“I j-just…I c-couldn’t… I couldn’t do it anymore… it a-all h-urt too much, I… no one c-ares anyway, no one… there’s no p-point…” He gathered Virgil into his arms, stroking his hair, Virgil’s face buried against him as he sobbed, clinging to his clothing.

“Oh, lovely. Oh darling, I know. You’re not alone, though. Not now. Not ever. We were trying so hard, so hard, to get you to hear us, to feel us. We always tried to support you, get through to you. We’re here for you, darling.” He cradled Virgil close, rocking gently as his sobs started calming.

“I’m n-not sorry. I sh-ould be sorry, I should r-regret it, I’m s-such a horrible p-erson, who d-doesn’t regret k-illing themselves?”

“Someone who was badly, deeply hurt. It doesn’t make you bad, it doesn’t make you evil or wrong. You still deserve kindness, you still deserve love, you still deserve support.” He broke a little, at the soft shake of Virgil’s head. “the others have been looking for you. We all have. We want to help you.”

“I’ll ruin it. I r-ruin everything. I d-don’t w-want to get inv-olved. I sh-ould just h-hide down h-here forever, r-rot away until e-veryone forgets I exist.”

“why don’t you let them be the judge of that? Let them decide whether you’re worth knowing or not.”

“they’ll leave. Everyone always does.” He sounded exhausted, and despite them being spirits and apparitions, they did still need rest. Moving and speaking still expended energy, though they didn’t sleep, really. More of a deep, trance like state. And the newest spirit’s fear and sorrow had drained him dry.

“I won’t. May I stay?” He asked softly, teasing a hand through Virgil’s hair once more. He felt Virgil shrug weakly. That was good enough for him. “alright, love. Take a rest. You need one.” He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Virgil’s head, feeling him melt against him as he slipped into sleep.

He took a deep breath in and out, before slipping them through the astral plain, back to their living room, in the spirit plain.

It was odd, how the space worked. It shifted, based on their needs, it overlaid the physical location of the house, but sat slightly to left of it, in the realm of reality. They could still feel and sense what was going on in the physical location of the house, were still attached to it, but it was easier to manifest in this space, possible to interact with it. They could summon things to be used, hence Roman’s own sketchbooks and drawings scattered on the living room coffee table. They more physical of beings here, it didn’t expend so much energy, being here.

Immediately, he settled on the couch, wrapping a blanket around the still shaking Virgil, resting his head atop his, relaxing slightly.

“Janus? Where-“ He shushed Roman quietly but aggressively, freezing as Virgil shifted against him, before settling back down.

“I found him. He’s resting at the moment, but…” he trailed off, looking up at Roman, a frown on his lips. “he’s so damaged, Roman.”

“he must be. To do what he did… he must be.” Roman replied softly, sitting down beside Janus, just barely able to see a tuft of hair sticking up from under the blankets.

“I wish we could have done something. I wish we could have stopped him. It feels so… useless, sweeping in after the fact. Like the world’s shittiest consolation prize. Oh, you’ve died, but you get all the support you could ever want, now that it’s too late.” His voice was sarcastic and bitter, and Roman sighed.

“I know. I know, Jan. But it’s something, at least… at least he has someone here, already.” Roman said, and Janus winced. He’d forgotten, Roman was the first to haunt the property. Not the first or only to die there, but the first to haunt it.

He’d died far away, miles away, fighting for the North, against slavery and oppression, despite originally being from the south. He’d always hated it there, hated coming from a rich family, hated that their wealth was built on the abuse and imprisonment and torture of a people, a culture. He’d done what he could for them, but it wasn’t near enough. So, when the war broke out, he fled North. He joined the union army. He fought for the people who had basically raised him, the nurses, the nannies, the maids, the harvesters, that died, were killed, were sold, he fought to his last breath to try and make right any ounce of the wrongs his family had committed.

And then his spirit had found its way back home. Where the same people who had been slaves were now being exploited as ‘workers’. Gods, he’d wreaked havoc on that old house. He’d had so much rage, it had exploded outwards, slamming doors, moving shadows, nightmares that crept into everyone’s minds, that’s what had drawn Remus there and eventually forced his family to flee the property, selling it cheap to whomever would buy it, because it was cursed.

Remus had taught him so much, about being a ghost, though he wasn’t actually a ghost himself. He wasn’t a human whom had died and lingered, he was a being formed from the chaos of the universe, a trickster spirit, of a kind, enjoying and reveling in the confused misery and chaos of others.

Remus had still taught him about being a ghost. How to reign in his anger, to let some of it go, to contain himself so he stopped being the roiling, raging ball of light he’d become and remembered that he’d once been human to begin with. He helped absorb some of his negativity, some of his darkness, helped even him out to sustainable levels. They’d become close, quickly. But it had been a few long, lonely decades, before Remus. He’d been alone. And it had very nearly drove him entirely mad. He’s not sure how Remus had dragged him back from the abyss he’d been teetering at the edge of, but he had, and he’d never stopped being grateful for it.

“Roman-“

“I know, Jan. It’s fine.” Roman’s smile was tight and forced, but the sincerity in his voice wasn’t.

Logan had died in a car crash, a professor in the 1950s. He hadn’t elaborated much more than that, had never found it necessary to. The details of his life were unimportant, now that he was dead.

And Patton…

Patton felt for Virgil more than anyone.

Because Patton had been a victim of suicide, as well.

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razieltwelve · 5 years ago

Text

The Desert Rose (RWBY AU Snippet)

Note: This goes with Dragon and The Queen of Winter.

X X X

In the Old Days before the sky broke and the Grimm came and all the gods fled, Vacuo was the jewel of the world. It was a kingdom of verdant forests and clear rivers, a place where each harvest was more bountiful than the last. Lumbering tree-folk tended to ancient groves, and fields of flowers in full bloom filled the world with scent and colour.

And then the Grimm came.

For a time, the magic of the dragon kings of old kept them at bay, but the dragons were all gone, and their magic was fading. Like a blighted tide washing against a gilded shore, the Grimm turned Vacuo from a place of wonder into a place of desolation and despair.

The thriving forests withered and died, and the tree-folk and their ancient groves rotted and fell. The rich soil was turned to desert sand, and where clear, swift rivers had once flowed, only parched, bare earth remained. The people were scattered to the winds, left to wander the ruins of their fallen kingdom until there were none living who could remember the sight or smell of flowers in full bloom.

X X X

Ruby dreamed of the scent of flowers and the feel of thick grass beneath her claws. She dreamed of thriving orchards and towering trees as old as the heavens. She dreamed of wings wide enough to shelter a kingdom and fire that brought life as well as death.

But she also dreamed of a desert with no end and of footprints in the sand vanishing into the distance, walking toward a horizon they could never reach.

X X X

When Ruby was five, she dreamed of the desert and of how two sets of footprints in the sand became one. She asked her mother about the dream, and her mother smiled and held her hand very tightly as they fought to walk along the top of a sand dune against the tearing wind.

“It’s because when you are weak, dear Ruby, I will carry you.”

“Because you’re my mother?” Ruby asked.

And Summer’s smile was bright enough to hide how thin she was and how the shadow of old pain so often haunted her eyes. “Yes, because I am your mother, and you are my Ruby.”

The sand swirled around them, and Ruby looked off into the distance. There was nothing but more sand and the dead, rotting ruins of titan trees that had once dared to reach for the sky.

X X X

When Ruby was six, her mother had to carry her on her back. Food had been even harder to come by than usual, and the oases they’d come to rely on had all run dry. At night, the baying of the Grimm grew closer than ever, and Ruby clung to her mother and dreamed of cool streams of pure water and seeds buried deep beneath the blighted sands.

The next day, they joined a growing group of wanderers.

X X X

When Ruby was nine, she dreamed that two sets of footsteps in the sand were joined by many others, and she asked her mother what it meant.

“Look around you,” Summer said as she gestured at the makeshift camp they were in. “Vacuo was mighty once, a place of life and light and joy. Only the desert remains, but Vacuo’s people have not forgotten. That is why we stay here. One day, yes, one day, the dragons will come back, and Vacuo will bloom once more. We are the ones who have never stopped believing.” She held Ruby close. “They say the dragons of old could see the future in their dreams. My father told me once that the blood of dragons flows through our veins, thin though it may be.” She smiled, and her smile was lovely yet bitter. “Perhaps that is why your father and I were drawn together.”

“My father?” Ruby whispered. Her mother did not like to speak of him.

“Yes. He too was supposed to carry the blood of dragons within him, but I could not stay with him. No matter how far I went, I could feel this place calling me back.” Summer closed her eyes, and Ruby could almost hear the whisper of words on the desert wind. “I am meant to be here and so are you, Ruby.”

There were many wanderers in their group, and they moved from place to place, following the ever-dwindling water and tending to their flocks of hardy sheep and tough cattle. And though the desert was bitterly cold at night and searingly hot during the day, those were happy times for Ruby. She and her mother were no longer alone, and there were even other children to play with.

During the day, Ruby would learn from anyone who could teach her. Whether it was how to use a sword or a spear or how to weave and tend livestock, she learned it all. And at night, when the wind howled and sand tore at anything it could reach, she would huddle with the wise old men and women and learn of the Old Days and the magic that still lingered in their blood.

“The dragons are all dead,” the old men and women would say. “But they gave us one last gift. Our magic, such as it is, may only be a shadow of theirs, but it has kept us alive this long.”

With that precious magic, they could find water and grow rare herbs in carefully tended pots. The greatest amongst them could even heal wounds and bring life to withered plants, but there were none who could face the blight that spread the desert ever further.

X X X

When Ruby was twelve, she dreamed of that endless desert and the footprints vanishing into the distance. Instead of many sets of footprints, there were only two again. She did not ask her mother about the dream. She had no time. When she woke, it was to panicked screams and the bestial roars of the Grimm.

“Ruby!” her mother cried. “We have to run!”

All around them, the people Ruby had come to know were dying. The wise old men and women were cut down, and the children alongside them. The warriors fought, but they were so badly outnumbered and outmatched. For a moment, Ruby thought of joining them. She could fight, and would it be so bad to die here in defence of those she’d come to love?

But before she could take a step forward, one of the old women stumbled toward her. She was bleeding from a dozen wounds, and her eyes were wild with fear and panic. She grabbed Ruby’s arm and shoved her back.

“Go with your mother, Ruby!” the old woman yelled. “There is nothing more you can do here. Live! Live and remember us! Live and remember all that we have taught you!”

And so Ruby and her mother ran, and though Ruby looked back often, she never saw anyone behind them. For years, she had grown used to seeing other footprints in the sand. Now, like before, she could only see hers and her mother’s.

She would have wept, but she remembered the words of one of the old wise women.

“Save your tears,” the woman had told her. “The dead have no use for them and the living need more than some weeping girl.”

X X X

When Ruby was fourteen, just shy of fifteen, she dreamed of a desert that stretched from horizon to horizon. She saw footprints in the sand, but only one set.

She did not ask her mother about the dream. She already knew what it meant. They had wandered alone since the group had been destroyed. Water and food grew ever harder to find, and her mother always made sure she ate and drank first. Little by little, day by day, Ruby watched her mother wither as Vacuo had withered.

“It is a mother’s joy to look after her child,” Summer murmured, late one night, so thin that Ruby could have lifted her with ease. “As my father did for me, I now do for you. Everything has a price, but I pay it willingly.”

The next morning, Summer could no longer stand. She was too weak.

So Ruby tied her mother onto her back and carried as her mother had once carried her.

Ruby refused to believe in destiny.

Perhaps her dreams showed her the future, but prophecy, the old wise men and women had taught her, was fraught with peril. Ruby had only seen one set of footprints, so she had put her mother on her back. Others, she knew, would have seen one set of footprints and left her mother behind.

X X X

When Ruby was fifteen, she dreamed of a desert without end, but no matter how hard she looked, she could find no footprints in the sand.

For a month, Ruby tended to her mother. She tried to make it work. Oh, how she tried, but there was so little water and so little food. Her stomach ached and her head spun, and there was a part of her that thought of simply leaving her mother behind. One might be able to survive where two could not.

But she did not.

How many times had her mother eaten or drunk less, so she could have more? How many times had her mother carried Ruby on her back, so she could live? The Grimm had taken Vacuo. The Grimm had taken their group. But Ruby would not let them take her mother too.

The end came when they were caught in a sandstorm. As the howling wind and the tearing sand enveloped them, Ruby held her mother and closed her eyes. She thought of flowers in full bloom and a paradise she’d never seen. She whispered the prayer her mother had taught her and waited for the end to come.

X X X

My scales are blood And my eyes are the moon My teeth are swords And my claws are spears My blood waters the earth And my breath brings life I was a dragon once And I will be a dragon again

X X X

Ruby Rose died, and the desert bloomed.

X X X

The whispers spread through the desert as quickly as the wind. The Old City, the fallen capital of Vacuo, had been cleansed of Grimm. The great evil that had lingered there for centuries had been put to flight and then destroyed. But even more astounding was what had happened to the desert.

Around the Old City, there was no desert. The fallen buildings and battered walls were covered in vines. Thick grass carpeted the ground, and towering trees soared toward the sky. The long-dried riverbeds burst their banks with clear, cool water, and the flooded plains were covered in thick, rich soil.

Hoping against all hope, the scattered people of Vacuo made their way to the Old City, and there atop the ruins of the palace, they saw a dragon with scales as red as blood and eyes like the moon.

“Be welcome,” a woman said from beside the dragon, a woman with eyes of the same silver. “For a dragon has come again, and Vacuo blooms once more.”

And from the forest that had sprung up around the Old City came the thunder of titan footsteps. The tree-folk had all fallen to the Grimm, but they had hidden seeds deep within the earth, far below the blighted sands. The dragon’s awakening had called them from the soil, and the tree shepherds walked the world once more.

The people rejoiced and moved into the city. And with each day that passed, the greenery spread. The Grimm came, but they were driven back with great loss. Each breath of the dragon burned the Grimm to ash, yet its silver flame did not burn the people or the harm the plants. Instead, its breath birthed trees and shrubs, and where the dragon walked, the shifting sands gave way to groves and orchards.

One day, people came clad in the symbols of Vacuo’s nobility from the Old Days. They came before the dragon and knelt.

“We are the descents of the Old Guard,” the old man at their head said. “We served the last of the kings of Vacuo, and before he bade us to flee rather than die needlessly against Grimm we could not defeat, he gave us something. We were told to hide it and keep it safe until one worthy of it appeared.”

The old man brought forth a crown of withered branches and dead flowers and held it to up to the dragon.

“They called this the Crown of Roses, for always did flowers bloom in the Old Days before Vacuo fell and the Grimm came. But it withered as Vacuo withered. Even so, we would offer it to you now, for it was the crown of the kings and queens of old.”

The dragon changed and became a girl with dark hair and silver eyes. She was garbed in a red mantle, and each time her bare feet touched the earth, flowers bloomed and the trees swayed and reached toward her. She took the withered crown, and the old, dead branches turned green once more, and the dead flowers became roses as red as her mantle.

“It has been an age since the people of Vacuo have had a king or a queen,” the old man said. “But we are yours to rule if you wish it.”

And Ruby, with eyes older than they should be, thought back to the dream she’d had before she became a dragon, to the desert without footprints in the sand. “I dreamed once of a desert without end, and no matter how hard I looked, I could find no footprints in the sand. I thought it meant the end of all things, but I was wrong.” She settled the crown upon her head, and though she wore the shape of a girl, the soul of a dragon blazed forth from within her. “There were no footprints in the sand because why should a dragon’s people walk when she can carry them through the skies on her back?” She smiled. “I will be your queen if that is your wish.”

It was, and her people called her the Desert Rose. Of all the flowers that bloomed when she walked, it was the roses that were the most beautiful, and the scent of them reminded people of a dream long lost but found at last.

X X X

Author’s Notes

Ruby is a very different sort of dragon from Yang. If Yang is the fury of the dawn made manifest, then Ruby is the breath of spring, the promise of a better tomorrow, made real. Thematically, she is also the opposite of Weiss. Where Weiss goes, winter follows. Frost and ice are her weapons. Where Ruby goes, life follows. Her silver fire can heal and bring life as easily as it can kill. The footprints motif in this chapter is based on the famous poem.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

You can find my original fiction on Amazon here. In fact, I’ve just released a new story, Attempted Adventuring. If you like humour, action, and adventure, be sure to check it out.

#rwby #fanfiction #ruby rose

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