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bnhaisliterallymylife · 3 years ago

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Creatures of the Forest

I haven’t written anything on here in months, and to be honest I should be working on my novel rather than this. But, I’m a whore for EraserMic and can’t resist the temptation. Plus, I have a weakness for Monster AU’s, so I’m going to have fun with this.

Also heads up, I did not proofread, and story details might be a little muddy. I am tired and horny, and I will now go to bed.

Word Count: 5,242 (Kill me.)

Pairing(s): Jinn!Shouta x Female Reader x Siren!Hizashi

Warnings: 18+, dub-con, fingering, double-penetration, anal sex, vaginal sex, creampie, and probably more filth.

Premise: You just wanted to have some time yourself, and considering how cheap the cabin was you couldn’t pass up the chance at a countryside getaway. And they couldn’t pass up a chance of you.

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The cabin is not what you expected, but nonetheless you just felt glad at the chance to get away from the city for awhile. Your job has been stressing you out for months, and your family is no better. You booked out this one bedroom wood cabin from the 1970s for the next two weeks, a vacation away from technology and far, far away from the thoughts that kept you from yourself.

When you first arrived you checked out the whole cabin only to find cobwebs and dust covering nearly every surface, and the appliances were horrifically outdated. So, you decided to spend your time cleaning it up a little so you didn’t feel like a spider was going to crawl into your mouth in the middle of the night. Good thing, too, because you managed to find a fiddleback in its nest just under the bed. Now, you might hate spiders, but you’re by no means a killer.

“Work with me here, otherwise one of us is gonna get hurt.” You carefully manage to put a plastic cup over the agitated spider, and using a piece of paper you’re able to carefully take it outside. You don’t want to leave it near the cabin, and you don’t want to leave it out in the open field - what if a bird got to it? You have no choice but to trek out past the lovely field of wildflowers to the dark forest that lay just beyond it.

The trees tower over you as the sun begins to set in the distance. You’re not that far away from the cabin, but hearing the branches rustle against each other as the wind blows a warm summer breeze across your skin sends goosebumps over your body. It would be best to quickly release the spider and get out of there.

You go over to the nearest tree at the very edge of the forest and take the cup away from the paper. There the spider sits, rearing back as a threat, but its dramatics do nothing to you.

“You’re not so scary out in the open, are you?”

“He could probably say the same to you.”

You drop the paper and cup, whipping your head around to find the source of the melodic voice that had spoken to you, but no one is there.

“Over here, little bird.”

Your gaze falls back towards the forest, and just a few feet in front of you is a man with long, golden blonde hair that cascades down to his waist. He’s tall, probably six feet if you had to guess, and he’s wearing a tank top and jean shorts that show off his toned body almost too well. Then there’s his eyes, a green so bright that it contrasts the darkness of the forest.

“What are you doing here?” This land is supposed to be private, or at least that’s what the listing said.

“Sorry! I forget my manners sometimes. I’m one of the owners, you’re Y/N right?” Oh, one of the owners! You remember now, the listing mentioned that the owners of the property lived elsewhere on the land and might come by to check in on things.

“Yeah. You know, the cabin could have used a cleaning. When’s the last time you had anyone else here?”

“Somethin’ like five or so years. You like it though?”

“It’s... Cozy.” The sun seems to be disappearing much faster now. “Minus the spider.”

“Unfortunately we can’t do much about nature, little bird.” You want to ask him not to call you that, but you don’t want to be rude. The cabin is pretty cheap and you’d hate to cut this trip short because of a nickname. “But, if ya want my husband can come spray the cabin for pests tomorrow. I could bring by some food, too.”

“Oh, no thanks. I think it was just the one anyways.” The point of this whole trip is for you to get some alone time, and inviting this admittedly alluring man and his husband over would go against that.

“If you’re sure...” He trails off, glancing towards the spider that is now climbing quickly up the side of the tree. “If you do change your mind though, let us know! We don’t like pests around here, either.” You chuckle a little at that, but by now you’re already starting to back away from the forest to head back towards the cabin.

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir!” You call back, now intent on getting across this field as quickly as possible. But, his next words feel like they’re a whisper in your ear, making you jerk your head back towards the forest. My name is Hizashi, little bird.

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After unpacking that night you found yourself exhausted from the long travel to the cabin. After checking that all of the windows and doors were locked securely, you went to bed thinking about the blonde in the woods and the plans that you had for the next day. Your eyes closed with those thoughts mingling together as you fell into a seemingly deep sleep, unaware of the eyes that watched you from just outside of the bedroom window.

“She’s even better than I imagined...”

“You shouldn’t have gone to her today, it’s too soon.”

“If we wait too long then we’ll lose our chance! Let’s take her now, she wants to be far away, so we’ll take her far away.”

“We need time, and permission.”

“Well, I know how to get one of those things.”

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As the sun peeks through the bedroom window you attempt, and fail to stifle a groan. It might have been a good idea to bring curtains with you, but you suppose that it’s part of the woodsy experience. You sit up and stretch your arms high above your head, unaware of the creature slithering across the floor until you put your feet down and hear a hiss. Immediately you pull your feet back onto the bed with a high-pitched scream. The rattlesnake coils itself up and sets its eyes directly on you, only a few feet away from the bed.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” You mutter to yourself as you reach for your cellphone on the side table. Unfortunately for you, the snake leaps forward and takes a snap towards your arm, eliciting another screech from you and making you back yourself against the far corner of the bed. “Go to the woods, you thought, it’ll be a great experience!” You mock yourself, now looking for anything nearby that you could use as a weapon. You could toss the blanket over it and try to make a run for it, but what you miss or what if it still managed to get you?

“Y/N!” You hear Hizashi just outside the cabin.

“We heard a scream, is everything alright!?” Another voice joins him, likely his husband.

“N-No! There’s a snake in here!” You glance towards the window to see it cracked open. Didn’t you lock it last night? “I can’t get past it!” You hear some banging at the front door, but shouldn’t they have a key? Or maybe they didn’t want to just walk in? “The window to the room is open! Hurry!” How close is the nearest hospital if you get bit? How long would it take you to die?

When you see two figures come around to the bedroom window you feel like you could weep in relief, but they hesitate.

“Is it okay for us to come in? How close is the snake?” The dark-haired man asks, and in your panic you don’t even question the absurdity of the first question.

“I-It’s close to me, you can come in. Be careful though.” You’re much quieter now, thinking that maybe your yelling only made the creature on your floor angrier. Hizashi’s husband only then pushes the window further open, sticking one leg inside to stabilize himself before coming all the way in. The snake is too focused on you to notice the new intruder.

“Y/N, my name is Shouta, and I need you to follow my instructions. Can you do that for me?” His voice is low and smooth, it calms you instantly.

“O-Okay.”

“Good girl. Pick up the blanket from your bed very slowly, try not to make any sudden movements - he’s more scared of you than you are of him.” You highly doubt that, but nonetheless you lean down very slowly while Shouta sneaks around the back of the snake to grab the blanket. “Very good girl.” Your face flushes at the almost sensual compliment. “Now, throw it onto the snake. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.” His reassurance calls you to action, tossing the thin blanket onto the snake. It hisses and wildly whips around under the blanket until Shouta manages to scoop up the blanket like a bag and tie it off. Just like that, your ordeal is over.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay now Y/N, Shou’s got the big bad snake.” Hizashi is suddenly by your side in an instant. When did he come through the window? His hand is on yours as he gently guides your shaky body off of the bed.

“I don’t even know how that thing got in, I-I locked every door and window last night! I double checked everything, I cleaned yesterday, I just don’t...” Why was the window open? Did she maybe get up last night and open it? It did get pretty hot last night... Quite suddenly, you’re extremely aware of how bare you feel in your cute light blue cotton shorts and black sports bra. You hadn’t even thought of it during your state of panic.

“I’m going to take this guy outside and let him go. Hizashi brought a dish over for you to try, if you want the company.” The two of them don’t seem to mind your half-dressed state, but you do.

“Sure, um, do you mind stepping out for a few minutes though.” You release Hizashi’s hand and grab the sheet from the bed to cover yourself. They understand pretty quickly, but both men didn’t mind it. If anything they want to see more of your soft, beautiful skin.

“Sorry ‘bout that beautiful! We’ll give ya some space!” With that, both men are leaving your presence and you feel like you can breathe a sigh of relief. What just happened? It feels like it all happened at once, but you can’t say that you aren’t relieved by their excellent timing. You decide to slip on some normal jean shorts and a faded AC/DC tee-shirt you got a few years back.

When you step out of the bedroom you can see Hizashi already bustling around the kitchen, humming in a way that made you feel warm little fuzzies on the inside. Shouta is sitting at the dining room table with his dark eyes shut. You take a moment to silently admire Hizashi’s husband. He’s more filled out than the lithe blonde, and while his black wavy hair is long, it’s only a few inches past his shoulders. And then she notices the deep scar just under his right eye.

“See something you like?” Your face once again turns red when you realize his eyes have opened and he’s looking directly at you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare-”

“It’s alright. It’s the scar, right?” When he says this, Hizashi stops his cooking momentarily to look back at you and his husband.

“Oh, no! I don’t mind scars, scars can be sexy!” Why did you have to say that? An amused smirk slides across Shouta’s lips when you say this. Hizashi, meanwhile, lets out a chuckle that makes the air around you feel too light.

“Well of course scars are sexy! Why don’t you tell little bird how you got that scar?” As he says this you come to sit at the table. You may as well indulge them, they did come to your rescue after all.

“It’s not that interesting.” Shouta waves it off, but he can tell that you’re interested. “Unless you want to hear about it?”

“It’s not like I have anything else to do.” You shrug, and with that you get to spend the rest of your morning with the two men.

Apparently, Shouta had a run in with a man trespassing on the land and got a knife pulled on him. He said it wasn’t that interesting, but the way he told it captivated your interest. The guy was probably a hunter, or a thief, but they never found out. The local deputy came to get the guy after the confrontation, and that was that. They continued to talk with you long after breakfast had finished and you all had eaten, asking you about your interests, your passions, the reason why you came out here. You don’t know why, but when they ask you these questions you answer without a second thought. You think that it’s because no one has ever bothered to listen to you for this long, and the couple makes you feel as if you belong here, like you’re a person who deserves to be cherished. Originally you came here to be alone, but when you’re with them you feel something that you never felt back home. You just can’t quite describe it. Hours pass, and it’s well past noon when the two men decide to take their leave.

“If you see anymore snakes-”

“-Or if you just want our company-”

“-just give us a call on the landline.” Shouta finishes for the two of them as they walk out the front door.

“Sure thing, thanks again. I don’t know what I would have done if you two hadn’t come over.”

“Probably woulda sat there, desperately waiting for your prince charming to come save you. Good thing you already have two of us.” Hizashi’s joke manages to get a little giggle out of you.

“You’re cheesy.” Shouta grumbles, though you could see a small smile on his face as well. “Come on, let’s leave Y/N alone.” You watch the two of them walk not down the dirt road that you drove on to get here, but back through the forest that encircles the cabin.

Once the couple is gone, it’s like you snap back to reality. This morning was crazy, and you got lucky, but you swore that you locked that window shut last night. Deciding that perhaps it was better to enjoy the rest of your day than continue to obsess over the snake incident, you take a sketch book and go out back to draw the pretty flowers in the field.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night feels even hotter than the day, making it near impossible for you to cover up in any way. Long ago you stripped yourself bare, sprawling yourself on top of the covers with a sheen of sweat covering your body. If you didn’t feel the cool air struggling to reach you from the vents, then you would almost think the AC is broken. Currently, you’re half asleep in an almost dreamlike state. That’s when you hear a soft whisper.

“What is your wish?”

You turn on your side, letting out unintelligible mumbles. A more soothing, honeyed voice joins the first.

“What do you desire, little bird?”

That voice sends tingles all through your body, setting every nerve on fire. It compels you to answer.

“I want...” You mumbles, eyes half open and glazed over as you give your answer. “I want... Release...” You want to feel all of your stresses disappear as if they never existed.

“I’ll give you release, kitten.”

The voice no longer sounds far away, which snaps you out of that sleepy haze and once again makes you aware of your surroundings.Your eyes adjust to the darkness to find yourself no longer in the cabin, but surrounded by looming vertical objects... Trees?

“Shhh, don’t panic, we’re here.” There’s that voice again, the one that makes orgasmic waves pulse through your eardrums. It soothes any worries that you currently have as two hands come up to your shoulders and gently lay you onto the soft ground.

They prepared this place just for you. The cabin had been a front from the very beginning, a way to lure you away from bustling city life so they could give you what you wanted - release. You didn’t know it, but you had met Shouta months before this at a little bakery just down the street from your work. You had been complaining on the phone about your new boss and how stressed you were because of your obligations, and you wished that someone would take you away from your own life. Unknowingly, you had called upon the closest Jinn in the area, and he had already taken notice of you.

“Be gentle with her, it could be her first time.”

“It’s definitely not. But don’t worry, I took care of the ex months ago.”

You can vaguely hear the conversation of the two men looming over you, but you do not react. On the inside you feel fear, vulnerability, and confusion. You can’t quite make out the figures above you, but you recognize the voices; your hosts, Shouta and Hizashi. You just can’t comprehend why they are doing this. Earlier today they were fine, sure they were getting a little too close and asking too many questions, but you wouldn’t say they invaded your space... Or did they?

“Took care of?”

“Nothing like that, he wished for a job in France, so I got him the job in France... But, he might not like that job very much.” You can hear the smirk in his voice even if you can’t see it. “It was necessary.”

“Agreed.” The hands that had pushed you back onto the pillowy moss are now moving down your sides, just barely brushing over the sides of your breasts. You barely register the sigh of pleasure that leaves your lips at the tantalizing contact.

“Zashi...”

“What? Isn’t this what we wanted?”

“We need permission.”

“We have permission! You heard the wish!”

“It was vague. I want details.” Suddenly, you can feel another set of hands gently massaging your bare feet, then moving up your smooth legs to part them at the thighs. The exposure makes you whimper, though there’s little you can do beyond that. “Release your influence, Hizashi.”

“But if we do that-”

“Release her. I want to hear her.” With what sounds like a huff of frustration from the blonde, that hazy feeling that had come over you suddenly dissipates. Your vision becomes more clear along with the two entities above you.

Hizashi has moves your arms so they’re now pinned above your head, preventing you from covering your bare breasts from their view. Shouta still has your legs spread on either side of you, but he doesn’t move any further. You meet his eyes, eyes that had been onyx earlier in the day but now glow an eerie shade of red.

“Months ago you wished to be taken away from your life. Do you remember that, Y/N?” You can’t focus on Shouta’s voice, all you can focus on is your current situation. Tings sting the edges of your eyes, and your throat starts to close up.

“P-Please...”

“She’s not going to respond like this, Shou.”

“She will, be patient. Y/N, I need you to look at me.” His voice is stern. Even though you want to look away, you once again meet his gaze. “What do you wish for now?”

“Let m-me go!” That’s your first thought, but then you feel one of Shouta’s hands creeping further up your thigh, his fingers just barely brushing over your outer lips.

“Do you mean that?” You nod your head frantically, and unbeknownst to you Shouta’s partner is giving him an incredulous look. “So, you want to go back to that stressful life in the city? You want your asshole boss to walk all over you, making you feel like you’re the scum of the earth? You want your parents to treat you like you mean nothing?” He emphasizes the final word with a hiss, and this seems to get to you. Your sniffling briefly ceases, though you’re still tugging against the tight hold of both of the men as if you could escape.

“What are you?”

“A Jinn, kitten. Do you know what a Jinn is?” You nod you head - you’re aware of the mythology behind beings like him, but how does he exist? They’re fictional! “Months ago I heard your desperate plea, and ever since then I’ve been eager to give you want you want... For a price.” His thumb brushes over your clit briefly, making your body stiffen.

“F-For sex?”

“For partnership. To be with me, to be with Hizashi, to be with both of us. It does get lonely out here.”

“And I can’t leave.” Hizashi pipes in with a sad smile. “I’m a Siren tied permanently to this forest. Remember the story about the man with a knife? He was going to hurt this place, so we had no choice. Once this place is gone, so am I.” His thumbs rub soothing circles into your skin.

“You don’t need me though, I don’t need your wishes or whatever! I want to...” You wish that you could say that you want to go home, but do you? Despite your current circumstances, you found yourself considering this deal.

“If you’re here, then Hizashi won’t be alone. I can go out for supplies without worrying about him.”

“And if you’re here, you won’t have to deal with those pesky worries you had before little bird. You get to have fun, be free, be loved by us.” But why you? Why did they want to take you?

“Because you’re special, Y/N. Because out of everyone in that city, you were the one who wanted to escape the most, who cared but wasn’t cared for. You deserve us.” Shouta drives his point home here, but he hopes that it will be enough. After all, he would prefer your consent, but it’s not entirely needed here.

“Okay.” You whisper. After all, what’s really waiting for you back home? Misery and paperwork, that’s what.

“Okay what?”

“You need to be more specific, Y/N.” You take a deep, shuddering breath before you speak again.

“I-I want release, I don’t want to go home anymore.”

“And in exchange?” Shouta pushes, his eyes glowing as he stares into yours.

“In e-exchange, I’ll stay here. I��ll be your... Partner.”

That seems to be all that they need from you, because in the next moment the two men above you are no longer clothed. You squeak and shut your eyes - it’s not the first time you’ve seen a naked man, but usually they don’t just pop out in front of you like that!

“You’re little noises are so cute.” Hizashi uses one of his knees to keep your wrists pinned above your head so his hands could get to work. While your eyes are still closed you feel his soft fingers run across your neck and past your collarbone, headed straight for your breasts. But just before they can get there, a pair of lips smash to yours. Shouta’s tongue flicks out at your bottom lip, beckoning you to allow him inside. Just at that moment, Hizashi’s fingers find your pert nipples, giving each of them a tiny pinch. This causes you to moan, and Shouta takes the chance to slide his tongue into your mouth to get a taste.

You can feel Shouta’s thick erection against your cunt, twitching in anticipation. It has been awhile since you’ve had another man, and you have to admit that the thought of being railed by these very good looking men wasn’t so bad. You start to becoming lightheaded from the kiss and constant ministrations of your sensitive nipples when Shouta finally pulls away from the kiss to let you breathe.

“Good girl.” He brings his thumb up to wipe away some of the saliva from around your lips. “We’ll put this to more use later. For now, I want to see you cum.” In what feels like two seconds Shouta is suddenly between your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulders so he could get a good view of your waiting, wet pussy. He blows cool air over your sensitive little nub, making it quiver and throb in anticipation. Meanwhile, Hizashi finally leans down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the little bug while his fingers continue to tug and pinch the other. Your head sits in the blonde’s lap, his cock mere inches away from your face.

“Do you want to suck me, little bird?” As he says this in that low, melodic voice of his, Shouta flicks his tongue over your clit, making your writhe under them.

“Careful, she almost came.”

“Is my voice too much for you?” You can only pant in response, letting out a soft moan when Shouta flicks his tongue over your little nub again.

“Answer him, or we’ll make this last.”

“Y-Yes... It’s... I makes me feel good.” His voice makes you feel like you could orgasm in seconds.

“And do you want to suck daddy’s cock?” The way he words it makes you whine, but you nonetheless give him an answer.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes... Daddy.” The instant that you finish that sentence, Shouta’s mouth latches onto your clit, sucking on it so harshly that you can feel your head spin. Hizashi repositions himself so he’s kneeling right over your face, running his fingers through your hair as he guides your lips to his tip. You take his tip into your mouth and suck it softly, eliciting a groan from the man that gets sent straight to your groin.

“Fuck, just her lips are almost enough... Come on honey, you can take me deeper.” And you do, you try to relax your throat so you can take Hizashi’s cock deeper into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his base, all while Hizashi has his hands continually playing with your nipples, never letting up.

Shouta continues his work between your legs, nipping softly at your clit while bringing a finger to your entrance. He gently pushes it inside of you, giving it a few thrusts before adding a second. You adjust tremendously well. He can already feel your wet cavern clenching tightly around his fingers as he curls his digits upwards. To this you give him a sweet little cry, which only results in Shouta setting a relentless pace. He pounds those fingers into you, hitting your sensitive spot with such precision that you can hardly focus on the cock in your mouth all while sucking and swirling his expert tongue over your swollen clit until you finally clench tightly around his fingers and cry out with your first orgasm of the evening.

Hizashi slows down the thrusts into your mouth as Shouta pulls away from between your legs, slowly pulling himself out as well. For a moment you’re confused, wondering why they could pull away when they haven’t found relief yet, only to be suddenly pulled forward so you’re hovering right over Shouta’s thick length. Hizashi comes up behind you, pressing soft kisses and nipples to the soft spot on your neck - he’s going to leave plenty of marks here later.

“Do you think you can take both of us?” Shouta asks, momentarily confused you until you realize what he means.

“I’ve never done it, um, there before.”

“We can make it easy, if you let us. It’ll only feel good.” Hizashi assures you, rubbing comforting circles into your thighs.

“We want to make you feel good.” Shouta adds, both hesitating until they see you nod your head once again.

“Okay.” You still feel nervous, but you want to feel good, and so far it feels really good.

Shouta helps your ease yourself onto his dick, pressing gently into your waiting pussy while giving your already oversensitive clit little flicks from his thumb. Once he has settled deep within you, you feel Hizashi spread your ass cheeks and press a finger into you. Your face burns from slight embarrassment, but admittedly as he begins to move the saliva covered digit in and out of you, you find yourself enjoying it. You try to move whilst on top of Shouta, but he grabs your hips to keep you still.

“Wait.” He commands, smirking at your impatient whine. That whine then turns into a gasp as you feel a second finger being pressed into your rear hole, nibbling on your bottom lip as an uncomfortable burning sensation takes place of the previous pleasure.

“Relax for me, little bird.” Hizashi whispers, and like his words work magic you instantly relax and that burning sensation goes away. He pumps those a few times while your juices continue to drench Shouta’s cock, then they’re gone, replaced instead by Hizashi’s pulsating member. “Stay relaxed, and take a few breaths.” Hizashi murmurs, placing a few soft kisses to your neck as he pushes himself into you.

At first you feel that uncomfortable burning sensation once again, but then that changes to a fullness that gives you pleasure. You huff in lust as Hizashi pushes the full of his length into you, both men temporarily remaining still while you adjust. Your back is pressed flush against Hizashi’s chest, so you can feel his heartbeat rhythmically hammering against you while they both wait.

“Please...”

“Please what?” Shouta once again brushes his thumb over your swollen clit, making you whimper.

“Please, make me yours.”

As if you said the magic words, both men suddenly begin to move within you. Shouta keeps your hips stilled while rolling his own to thrust up into you, meanwhile Hizashi wraps one arm around your waist to grope your breast. You feel his teeth graze against your shoulder with enough pressure to bruise, but you don’t care, you’re in a euphoric state right now.

Shouta keeps your clit busy with his thumb while the both of them pick up their paces, the sound of sweaty skin slapping together resonating throughout the dense forest. You can feel your next orgasm already building as the two of them continue at their brutal pace, the feeling of your holes clenching around them driving them absolutely wild with lust - they’re not going to last much longer, either.

“Fuck - we love you, kitten.”

“Yesss, we love you so much little bird.” Hizashi grunts into your ear, and while you can’t say it yet, you’re sure that it won’t take but a few months before you’re saying the same words back.

All it takes is one well timed thrust against your g-spot and another flick to your clit before you’re clamping down on both men and letting out a long, strangled moan with your second orgasm. Shouta follows quickly behind you along with Hizashi, both men pressing deep within you before they spill their seeds. They stay inside of you even afterwards, letting you back in your afterglow as they both praise you, pressing kisses over your skin and telling you how great you did for them.

It’s too late for you to turn back now. You’ve made the deal, and you sealed it the second that you said yes.

#erasermic x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #hizashi yamada x reader #smut #monster au #why do i do this to myself #i really need to get on that novel #i could have done so much work by now DX #erasermic x fem!reader

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years ago

Text

Rat Race | WhumpNano Part 28

Well, this is a... Big one. That’s all I can say. Did you all figure out what’s going on with The Black Baza? If not, you’ll figure it out now!

Masterlist

Start Here

Taglist:

@tinyplan3ts

CW//Injuries, major character death, bullets, murder

Firecrest remembered.

In the office building, all those weeks ago, it had been nearly impossible to see anything at all. That was exactly how Noirceur wanted it, of course. The queen of shadows would have nothing less. Even if she didn’t know that that particular battlefield was where she would make her final stand.

In the light of her own flame, Firecrest could only just make out the scene before her. She was certain that her surroundings were absolutely in ruin. The battle had been more than destructive, leaving the ground coated in debris and shards of drywall.

It was too dark to see any of that. She could only make out one thing: the fighters.

Imperius had Noirceur pinned to the ground by her shoulders. Even with her powers, his strength, in the end, had won out.

“You have no idea the harm you’ve caused. These people were just trying to live their lives!” The superhero spat, shoving his foe even further down. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“What do I have to say for myself?” Noirceur smirked. “I won! You were too late, golden boy. Now get off of me before I make things worse for you.”

“I will escort you off of the premises and ensure that you cause no more harm as you leave.”

Firecrest couldn’t believe it. All those people, all the destruction done, and her mentor was simply going to let this supervillain go? It was ridiculous! If she was allowed to leave, then she would only be back in another month, with another scheme.

She wasn’t thinking. She didn’t control her mouth as it opened, letting out a sharp:

“No!”

“Firecrest?” Imperius turned his head in an instant, fatherly tone of concern taking over his earlier voice of threat. “What’s wrong?”

“You can’t let her go.” She hissed. “Don’t you see what she’s done?”

“Firecrest, not now. Please, not now.”

It was the same exact tone of voice, the same exact words, he used to chide her when he was busy, and she had decided to bother him.

“You can’t let her leave unpunished!”

“We don’t have anywhere to keep her-”

“Keep her?” Firecrest felt the surface of her fists glow a soft orange as her voice quaked. “Kill her. We need to kill her.”

“Firecrest!” Imperius gasped in shock. “What in the world has gotten into you? You know we don’t do that!”

Yet, Firecrest’s impetulance only grew.

“Don’t you see what she’s done?”

The heat around her hands exploded into full on flames, hiding her fists in a hellish inferno as she continued to spit:

“If you don’t, she’ll only come back! She’ll only hurt more people, and that blood will be on your hands!”

Firecrest was not angry.

She was scared.

No matter how stupid it was for a superhero’s sidekick to fear the dark, she still found herself quaking in its presence. Even if the city could handle another attack from Noirceur… She wasn’t sure that she, herself could.

Or if she could keep on her brave face. Impress her mentor. That was what really mattered, wasn’t it? And if he saw her weeping over the dark like a child…

“Just do it!”

Imperius glanced rapidly back and forth, from Firecrest to Noirceur and back again.

He’d spent so much time listening to his sidekick, so much time denying her wishes, that he had fulfilled them without so much as realizing it. He had been kneeling on her windpipe, and, so it seemed, stress had caused that knee to go down a little too far.

Imperius had only time to look back as Noirceur took her last breath. It was then that the building went dark.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Firecrest? What is he talking about?”

The fiery hero whipped around at the familiar voice. Standing at the top of the stairs, barely having made it up on her own, stood Dr. Roberts, crutches and all. Her eyes were so very wide.

“How do you know him?”

Firecrest’s gaze flicked to the doctor, before slowly returning to the Black Baza. She had been sent flying into yet another wall and every breath and heartbeat reminded her sharply of the injuries her spine had sustained.

As she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the supervillain.

“There was only one body because there was only one death.” She barely managed the words, having inhaled far too much concrete dust. “Imperius did not die. Only his heroism did. You do not deserve that name any longer, Black Baza. You don’t seem to think so, either, seeing as you have given yourself a new one.”

“What I deserve?” The furious supervillain balled his hands to fists, blazing shadow erupting from them. “What I deserve, kid? I didn’t do anything! I wasn’t the one who shouted to kill! To destroy! I wasn’t the selfish one.”

“No.” Firecrest’s voice quivered as she stumbled to her feet. “I can’t blame you for her death. What you are now, though… This is entirely your choice.”

“Have you looked at me?” He snapped. “I’m a monster!”

“No more of a monster than Noirceur was. And she had a lover.”

How Firecrest felt about the true identity of her foe, she was unsure. But, she knew that defeating him in direct combat would be a lost cause, ending with her corpse lying in a smoking pile on the floor.

There was only one thing she could do .Only one thing to get herself, and Dr. Roberts, out of this mess alive and in one piece.

She had to change this supervillain’s mind. So, she approached with an open hand.

“I’m sure you’re scared. This whole situation has been terrifying, terrifying for everyone involved, but you especially. I don’t know what this feels like for you, and I won’t claim that I do. But I know you. You trained me. You taught me everything I know.”

Hand outstretched, she managed to get within striking distance of the bewildered-looking supervillain. However, he made no move to attack.

“This isn’t what you want to be. I know that. I know you want to be a hero, and you can be one! But this isn’t the way. Revenge is only going to hurt you more.

I know you don’t want to hurt anything, so why do it? Let’s just go home, Imperius.”

The Black Baza reached out, ever so slowly, as though he did not yet know how to control his limbs. He placed his outstretched palm on hers.

“You really think the others would let me come back?”

“Of course they would. We’ve all done bad things. That’s what makes us human.”

“Even Duple?’

“Even Duple. First, though, I need you to do what you do best. I need you to help me.”

She held up her hand. The rate of spread had increased, just as Dr. Roberts had said. Now, the black covered her entire hand, leaving the appendage numb and useless.

“Did you do this?”

The Black Baza hesitated, before giving a small nod.

“Please. Undo it. Then we’ll go home, and everything will be okay again. Okay?”

Even as she could not see his facial expression, she could hear the gentle sliding of tears down his face.

“Okay.”

Once more, he reached out, placing his hand flat against hers. As though it was merely ink, the darkness of her skin was drawn away, brought back into the shadowy form of The Black Baza.

“Let’s go home, Imperius.”

“Yes. Let’s go home.”

Neither of them had noticed Dr. Roberts loading her weapon. They only realized as they pulled the trigger. The Black Baza had no time at all to react as the bullet sailed straight through his neck.

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tanadrin · 5 years ago

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I’m reading One Long Night, because the interview with Andrea Pitzer on Chris Hayes’ podcast was so interesting; and the book does not disappoint, though the subject matter is in equal measures depressing and infuriating. I want to talk about it at length when I’m through with it, but I was particularly struck today by her discussion of the Soviet gulags and how concentration camps arose in Germany, and how they marked a transition away from how concentration camps had been used before then.

The background is this: the concentration camp as we know it is only a little more than a century old. The individual kinds of violence that all inform the modern concentration camp have plenty of predecessors, some as old as time: internal deportations, native reservations, forced expulsions, detention without trial. But prior to the modern era, the characteristic feature of a concentration camp--the long-term detention of large numbers of civilians not convicted of any crime--would have been prohibitively expensive in manpower and effort. Two major technological innovations altered that calculus, Pitzer argues: the automatic gun and barbed wire. Those two devices permit a small number of guards to contain a much larger number of people; all that was needed was the will to do so.

The concentration camp as we know it was invented during Cuba’s struggle for independence; the advantages enjoyed by the rebels meant that Spain struggled to clear them out of the countryside, and the general in charge of Cuba, Arsenio Martinez Campos, noted that the only way to win the war would be to relocate basically the entire rural population of the island to Spanish-held towns to cut off the rebels’ base of support and prevent them from hiding among the rest of the population. And this he refused to do, considering it unthinkable under the rules of warfare. So Spain replaced him, and his successor, Valeriano Weyler, was all too happy to attempt what Campos would not. The resulting atrocities--including starvation and the spread of disease--were one of the things that spurred the American public to support war with Spain shortly thereafter, and while the Maine provided the immediate casus belli, Spanish conduct in Cuba was, in the public’s eyes, just as important a reason for going to war.

What is so bitterly comedic about that justification, though, is that after the war, when the U.S. found itself in possession of former Spanish colonies like Cuba and the Philippines, it found itself struggling against the very same rebels that Spain had failed to suppress; in the Philippines, the military immediately adopted tactics almost identical to the ones the Spanish had used in Cuba; and when during the Boer War in South Africa, the British likewise rounded up both Boer and black civilians in the Boer republics, it could cite the U.S.’s use of concentration camps as a justification for its own. And so on--each subsequent generation of internment drew on the precedent its predecessors had established, and if you wanted to object to (say) the policy of Germany interning all the British in the country at the start of World War I, you had to contend with the fact that they were doing nothing the British hadn’t done a few years before. (Indeed, it was the British internment of enemy aliens specifically that set off reciprocal treatment all over Europe; Pitzer relates the account of one Israel Cohen, a British man, being arrested in Germany and interned at Ruhleben, who, when the police came for him, was told ‘You have only your own Government to thank for this.’)

In fact, World War I is very important--internment of enemy civilians established not only a general precedent in favor of concentration camps in the eyes of the public, but it created the expectation that if you went into a concentration camp, you would come out again. The conditions in these camps were not good by any stretch of the imagination, but they were not as awful as the camps of Cuba, the Philippines, or South Africa, where famine and disease killed thousands. Concentration camps became decoupled from actual battlefield strategy, arising not “out of the local chaos of warfare, but instead represent[ing] a deliberate choice to inject the framework of war into society itself.’ (p. 103)

To this grim precedent, the Soviets added another innovation: the gulag was the first time concentration camps were used in peacetime particularly, and they were integrated into the Soviet state apparatus as a normal part of its justice system. And more than just the semi-punitive labor that, say, German POWs had been forced to perform during the war (and after--Germany had to release the POWs it held when WWI ended, but thousands of Germans continued to be detained long after the war), the Soviets hoped to make gulags profitable to their economy on net. Whatever their original justification, it quickly becomes clear as the labor camp is institutionalized in Soviet society that much of the behavior of the Soviet state around forced labor is shaped by the age-old impulse of conquerers to use conquered peoples to enrich themselves. After Poland was divided with Germany, thousands of Poles were shipped to the gulags and forced to work. And not only was the USSR thus inheriting the system of forced labor that Tsarist Russia had used, it was making it significantly crueler.

The premise of using labor to reeducate problematic citizens to be part of a bright Soviet future gave way to the idea that detainees themselves represented raw materials to be consumed in building that future.

In reality, Frenkel [an administrator at the Solovki camp] did not invent the tiered ration system from scratch. Likewise, the shift from idealized rehabilitation to a more permanent system maximizing forced labor may have been inevitable. Stalin appeared impressed with the possibilities of detainee labor and believed in the profitability of the Solovki endeavor (despite the fact, as Anne Applebaum has noted, that Solovki required a subsidy of 1.6 million rubles--perhaps due to graft). (p. 132)

Under the tsars in previous centuries, Polish insurgents resisting Russian rule or political prisoners convicted for offenses against the tsar were shipped off to remote Siberian katorga, working in mining or logging. Their penal labor had often been brutal, but it had come after conviction in an actual trial. Compared to penal labor under the tsars, Gulag workdays were longer and the rations shorter. A daily quota for earth mined by a single Decembrist prisoner at Nerchinsk under Tsar Nicholas I was 118 pounds; in the Soviet era, the same lone prisoner might be expected to excavate 28,800 pounds. And while tsarist courts had long sentenced political prisoners to labor camps, the Gulag was orders of magnitude larger from its very beginning. The Soviet Union had grafted the worst of Russian penal history onto the extrajudicial detention of internment, creating a vast malignant enterprise. And it would continue to grow. (p.133-34)

The scale of the gulags declines after Stalin’s death, but it never quite disappears.

Neither self-sustaining nor productive in the long run, the system required tremendous resources, and the economic burden of the camps had weighed heavily on the Soviet Union in wartime.

Still, as historian Steven Barnes has pointed out, ‘The Soviet leadership never entertained the notion of dismantling the system.’ The USSR had always had a camp system; its tendrils had grown into agriculture and industry, as well as becoming a key facet of government interactions with citizens. The Gulag was intrinsic to the state itself. (p.155)

And then there’s this passage, about the camp at Solovki, which was almost painful to read:

Prisoners heard from the radio station that [Maxim] Gorky was coming. Detainees could hardly wait for him to tell the world what was happening on Solovki: ‘Gorki will spot everything, find out everything. ... About the logging and the torture on the tree stumps, the sekirka [punishment cells], the hunger, the disease... the sentences without conviction.... The whole lot!’

Before Gorky’s visit, contingents of prisoners were hidden in the forest to lessen evidence of overcrowding. Sick patients were given new gowns to wear ... . Gorky visited the sick bay, a labor camp, and stopped in at the children’s colony that had been formed since Likhachev first encountered the urchins hiding under his bunk.

Gorky asked to speak to one boy privately and stayed with him a long time. Standing outside with the rest of the crowd, Likhachev counted forty minutes on the watch his father had given him. He recounts that Gorky emerged weeping and climbed the stairway to the punishment cell at Sekirka.

Yet when Gorky’s anxiously awaited piece on the trip came out, the section about Solovki was relegated to Part Five of the report, with the devastating conclusion that ‘camps such as “Solovki” were absolutely necessary. ... Only by this road would the state achieve in the fastest possible time one of its aims: to get rid of prisons.’

The German system, of course, did not start out as a program of genocide. It did not even necessarily start out as a program of forced labor (i.e., slavery) like in Russia. Its immediate predecessors, in fact, might be said to be the concentration camps established before the Nazis even came to power to keep Roma away from cities like Frankfurt (cf. p. 183); the Roma were subject to registry before any racial laws about Jews were passed, before the Nazis ever took power, and they were swept up along with the homeless during the Olympics to keep them out of sight of the international press (p. 187). But as the classes of political prisoners and other undesirables swelled, so did the concentration camp system.

Once war broke out, of course, the temptation to use prisoners for war industry was not resisted.

By late 1941, the camps had grown dense and squalid from the flood of detainees arriving from abroad, yet the war placed still more demands on the camps. ... a complex network of labor projects emerged, spread across thousands of sites. Every camp and subcamp used prisoner labor in some fashion. Prisoners working for the I.G. Farben rubber plant lived in a dedicated compound at Auschwitz. Fur linings in the coats of the SS came from hutches of rabbits under the administration of prisoners at Dachau. At Neuengamme, detainees were set to work clearing rubble from the bombed roads and buildings outside Hamburg. ... Both Nazis and Soviets went to war on the backs of their concentration camp prisoners. Forced-labor Gulag efficiency expert Naftaly Frenkel had suggested the system be optimized to get the most out of prisoners in their first three months, after which they were disposable. He would have been ideally placed to appreciate that before the end of the war, average life expectancy at Neuengamme concentration camp had dropped to twelve weeks. (p. 200-201)

What is perhaps the most bitter flourish on the German concentration camp system is that there was a very real possibility it could have been entirely avoided. Pitzer argues that even after the death of Hindenberg and Hitler’s adoption of the title Fuehrer, there was a very real possibility that the Nazi regime might have proceeded along (still cruel, still inhumane, still racist) legalistic lines, keeping continuity with German law, rather than relying on extrajudicial terror. Himmler’s desire to strengthen his position within the government and the purge of Rohm and the SA led to him expanding the concentration camp system further; and this was what ensured that, when the systematic, wholesale extermination of the Jews was decided upon, there was a preexisting infrastructure in place to facilitate it. (see p. 178-179) In the early years, local prosecutors actively sought to arrest and try sadistic guards, and the notion that the concentration camps were sites of abuse or torture was hotly contested.

In his first months as commandant at Dachau, Theodor Eicke flew into a rage, haranguing prisoners about the vicious rumors in the community about conditions there. Reminding them that detainees had already been killed for spreading word about the camp--including Dr. Katz, who had helped so many prisoners--Eicke threatened that more could be executed at any point. He seemed especially offended by any suggested comparison to Soviet tactics. ‘There are no atrocities and there is no Cheka cellar in Dachau!’ he insisted. ‘Anybody whipped deserves to be whipped.’

Even the Nazis, one supposes, would balk at being compared to the Nazis.

Special mention goes to two people in this section of the book: Margarete Buber-Neumann, a German communist who fled to Russia and, who along with her husband, was arrested and thrown into the gulag. She survived; her husband did not--but survived only to be handed over to the Nazis after the invasion of Poland, as part of a prisoner exchange, whereupon she was shipped to a Nazi concentration camp. She survived the war, at least, and seven years total of internment; she lived until 1989.

Hans Beimler was a Communist elected three times to the Reichstag, the last in May of 1933. He was arrested in April and imprisoned in Dachau, where he was repeatedly beaten and humiliated and encouraged to kill himself. Nighttime beatings and the murder of his cellmates (some of whom were friends of his) made him resolve to escape, since he figured it would be better to be shot trying to break out than to be murdered and have it staged to look like a suicide.

[A] friend who was a prisoner outside the bunker managed to slip him a tool to unscrew the grate over his window and tin snips to help manage the barbed wire. Later reports claimed he strangled a storm trooper and took his clothing, but Beimler simply crawled out of his high window, taking a board with him. He navigated three layers of barbed wire--the middle one electrified--using the wood for insulation, and climbed onto the six-foot wall surrounding the camp’s exterior. Waiting there a moment to make sure he had not been seen, he jumped down the other side and made his way to Munich.

The next morning, Steinbrenner arrived to find an empty cell. Frantic searches were made, prisoners were interrogated. For some time, guardhouse staff remained certain Beimler was hiding somewhere on the grounds. Dogs were used to search, and a hundred-mark reward was posted in the local paper Amper-Bote. But Beimler remained in hiding until he could safely get to Berlin and cross the border to the east.

Once out of the country, he mailed a postcard to Dachau telling the camp commanders to kiss his ass. Some three months after his escape, he was sitting in Moscow writing a searing indictment of Nazi atrocities. It was printed in three languages and circled the globe. (p. 173-174)

It’s important to observe that no system of mass detention ever sets out with the cruelty that (sooner or later) inevitably manifests in mind. From reconcentracion in Cuba to the Nazi crimes, there is never a single point of no return for the countries involved, nor a single moment of moral clarity where the architects of these policies are forced to confront what they are creating. It is always possible for those responsible to hide behind precedent, behind political rhetoric, behind expedient to justify to the rest of the world as to why their camps are not only right but necessary, to argue away any evidence for the gravity of these sins as ‘a few bad apples’ or ‘an unfortunate excess.’

And the corollary to this is that you will never get one moment you can point to and say to the people around you, “Look! There it is! That’s the moral event horizon, and they just crossed it. You can’t possibly support them now.” Because there will always be a way for people to rationalize their support of such policies. I suspect the only antidote, individual or collective, is an ironclad moral will that rejects the dehumanization of others outright--and to fight like hell to shut such evils down when they first begin to appear.

This all has obvious relevance to the present political moment--that’s why Pitzer was on Hayes’ podcast, that’s why I wanted to read this book to begin with. I don’t think that, outside genuine, self-described neo-Nazis, even in the darkest imagination of the most reflexively prejudiced Trump supporter, the desire for Soviet or Nazi-style gulags exists, I really don’t. But things can always get worse. The cruelties build on themselves incrementially--and the only way to prevent that, to actually make sure that kind of thing can’t happen here (or anything like it--there is, after all, plenty of evil that is not outright genocide) is to refuse to permit the creation of the institutions that are its necessary predecessors.

#andrea pitzer #one long night #cw for:#torture #nazis #concentration camps #gulags #the holocaust

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pumpkinsadlatte · 5 years ago

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Where Are You?

I’m posting today’s @nutsandvoltsweek fic at 1:30AM when I have to be up at 6:15AM end me. But I’m travelling, and wanted alllll day for this to get reactions, so! Have this.

Angst is my favorite : D And I want to note that I had this idea first when I received the prompt list, before the v7 finale. Which explains the premise.

crossposted on ao3!

He’s not sure how long he’s been running through the shin-deep snow, the smell of Ironwood’s pet’s blood still fresh in his mind (and in his nose, really, the blood itself is still drying on his hands -- what he hasn’t already licked off of them, anyhow!), and the adrenaline still rushing through his veins, but he sees the rendez-vous in the distance. He’s nearly there!

( copper and fear and death and the unhinged despair of ironwood’s little bird! the sweetness of his anguished scream still ringing in his ears! he had almost sworn that he could still feel his own poison coursing through qrow branwen’s liquor-thinned blood! )

The rendez-vous point is a Schnee stockyard. Raw dust is stored here on its way to be processed, but it isn’t a mine. There’s plenty of structures and stacks of crates containing carefully-packed, raw dust to cover behind, and there’s of course vehicles to steal or hide in, even a few unlocked buildings! It’s perfect! A bit of a gift from Jacques Schnee himself , allegedly.

( spineless sniveling insect that he is )

Tyrian had joked, when Arthur had told him about their meeting place, that they should perhaps consider sending Mr. Schnee a lovely thank-you card for his generosity. Arthur hadn’t laughed, not really. That was fine, he’d just gone to sleep on the sofa instead after that. And taken the comforter with him, of course.

Speaking of comforters…

( too cold )

He’s cold . It’s freezing out here. Well, he really should’ve worn his coat, but it just got in the way sometimes while he was hunting. Or it was just something to be grabbed and manipulated against him: no thank you. And besides, he won’t be out here much longer, he’s sure of it. He rounds a corner, ducking into a cluster of loaded crates in varyingly-sized stacks. It’s good enough cover from the wind, and he’s got a rather good view of the empty space around him.

But Arthur’s tracking signal hasn’t shown up on his scroll’s radar yet. He’s not on the property.

( he’s coming )

No problem, he’ll just wait for him, that’s fine. And, of course, maybe he’ll do a little bragging about being the first one to the rendez-vous point when the good doctor finally shows up: he finds it funny that for once he’s early and Arthur’s late to something. It’s never a bad time to brag! Especially not when their plans are going so well !

( he’s not coming )

Of course he’s coming. Don’t be absurd.

“Oh dear doctor~” the hunter chimes into the wind, or, rather, into his comm. line, once he brings his scroll up and opens the line for use. He lounges across the top of a crate after brushing a good half a foot of snow from the top of it, letting his tail dangle off the side and looking not unlike a teenager on the phone with a school friend, or a little crush . “Did you let me get here first? I’m touched ! How sweet of you!”

Dead air from the other end of the line.

“… helloooo~?”

Nothing.

Seconds pass. Minutes. More minutes than he feels should pass without at least a check-in of some kind.

( he’s coming )

Tyrian frowns briefly, but decides on a different approach. He drizzles a pout over his next words, idly twisting a loose lock of brown hair around one clawed finger as he calls out over the communication line again. “Hmm~ This is so rude. You know, I haven’t eaten any apples today, doctor, why are you staying away from me~?”

Not even a groan. That’s fine, his partner is probably just still busy with Amity: he’s sure it’s quite a project if the good doctor can’t even check in with him.

( he’ll be here soon )

And so, he waits. Stays spread out on top of the crate while he does, turning over onto his stomach and letting his feet kick back and forth a little in the air behind him. It’s getting steadily lighter, he notices now. The sun’s rising. Well, it’s fitting that this new dawn will bring with it a world where Ironwood’s losing friends and chess pieces and sanity , he’s sure, at an alarming rate, anyway. How long has he been sitting here?

( too long )

“Rrrrrrrgh... where are you?” Tyrian finally growls as he leaps up into a predatory crouch on top of his crate, tail whipping back and forth in irritation behind him as he spits, frustrated, into his earpiece. “If we’re late She’ll be furious .”

Still nothing.

( he’s coming )

The hunter sighs, but then giggles a little to himself as he drops back down to sit on the very edge of the crate. Amity must be putting up quite a fight ! Or maybe there was still security at the tower, and Ironwood had tricked them. Perhaps left a few measly soldiers there to slow Arthur down, oh maybe his other attack dogs . After all, Qrow Branwen and his little friend had been a surprise when he’d shown up to take out Robyn Hill.

( no, it can’t be the other little mongrels, he definitely saw them in mantle )

Oh, but it’s fine. It’s fine! This is just fine! Arthur can handle himself! He can certainly handle a few of Ironwood’s little toys ! He’s done it before! There’s nothing to worry about!

He’s not sure how long he continues to sit there, kicking his feet above the snowy ground and flicking his tail and brushing off snow and waiting for the doctor to answer, before the sky dims again, not as if it’s been a full day already, but as if it’s… blocked. Tyrian looks up in slight confusion, before gold eyes pop wide at the shadow above. He can’t really make it out clearly, of course, but the familiar, heavy, intoxicating sense of death and destruction and despair that the shadow brings, why, it can only be…

( G O D D E S S )

“… oh, She’s here! I see Her!” Tyrian cheers giddily into his earpiece, regarding the massive shadow. He cackles into the arctic air as he hops down off of his crate and looks in wonder up at the sky.

( B L E S S E D )

He crumples in the snow, overwhelmed with the sight, hitting his knees hard against the layer of either ice or permafrost beneath it, letting his aura flicker out briefly in his emotional state. He can feel himself starting to weep, feels the tears of pure, unbridled joy running down his cheeks as he regards, as best he can with limited vision, the breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful sight above him. “… oh, She’s glorious! ”

( glorious! positively magnificent! indescribable and unrivaled in sheer, suffocating, overwhelming beauty! atlas is unworthy to witness Her! they should be grateful that She permits it! ironwood should be thankful to die by Her hand! )

But even despite his own laughter, despite the tears he feels freezing to his face in the arctic air, the wind howling in his ears and the distant cries of his Queen’s creatures high above the tundra, high above even the floating city, he notices one thing.

( “little deathstalker” )

He still can’t hear his partner’s voice. Surely he can see this from Amity. He must be able to see this, mustn’t he?

“… Arthur?”

( he’s not coming )

But… there’s been nothing on the other end of the line. Nothing at all. No quiet, amused chuckling. No hissed curses for him to shut up, I’m trying to concentrate . No distress calls, or emergency signals. There’s… been nothing.

Not a word.

( he’s not coming )

“… do you hear me?”

Tyrian’s laughter finally quiets down, and his smile starts to fall as the realization hits him, hard and cold like the arctic air. He’s heard nothing . Gotten no texts, no calls…

( he’s not coming )

Something isn’t right with this. He has a bad feeling. He never has bad feelings, but this is a bad feeling. He should be overjoyed! He should be positively euphoric in the presence of their Goddess.

But where is

( smiling over a cup of tea, watching the doctor work tirelessly on his new tail, staying perfectly still as the doctor fits metal plates over brown chitin, peering feverishly up at his caretaker while his body fights a horrid infection, whispered promises and sweet words and lingering kisses exchanged in the blood red glow of dawn at the castle… )

“… Arthur?”

( hands and tongues and nails and teeth drawn over every part of his body -- and of his partner’s, bites and marks dark against his own skin and even darker against the doctor’s, Hazel looking away from them like he doesn’t notice and Cinder curling her lip in unacknowledged disgust …)

The tears keep flowing, but he doesn’t know if they’re for joy or sorrow now. Nor is he really certain whether he’s actually addressing the other end of the communication line anymore.

( not coming not coming not coming not coming not coming not )

“… where are you…”

#nutsandvoltsweek #nutsandvoltsweek2020 #Arthur Watts #Tyrian Callows #nuts and volts #nuts and volts week #pumpkin writes #angst #Salem's in here ig

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hanalwayssolo · 6 years ago

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Unspoken Definites

A/N: It is I, baptizing my new fictional husband with a one-shot. This is largely inspired by this light novel and a conversation that has spiraled into shenanigans with @blindedstarlight!

ETA: [Link on AO3]

“You have got to be kidding me.” You cup the phone between your ear and shoulder, glancing at the digital clock sitting at your desk. Three a.m. it glares mockingly as half the sheaf of test papers from your class remain ungraded. “You’re telling me, Yamada, that Aizawa is drunk?”

“Yes, and I’m not pulling your leg or anythiiiing!” Yamada cries, and the shrill static makes you wince away from your phone. Judging by the sound of his voice, you’re pretty sure he has also had a few too many. Somewhere in the background, you can hear a wild medley of raucous singing and screaming. “He went overboard with the drinks! Again! You have to go down here,” he pleads. “I need serious backup—“

“I’m in the middle of grading essays,” you say curtly. “All Might’s there, isn’t he? He should be more than enough.”

“He already left! Urgent business!”

“How about Kayama?”

“Midnight’s already wasted as fuck, my friend!”

“Then Sekijiro should—“

“Vlad King’s weeping at the bar counter!”

“And the others?”

“Either passed out or butchering another stupid pop song!”

“Fucking hell.” You sigh. A burst of maniacal laughter echoes from the other line, but is immediately drowned out by a chorus of off-key singing.

When the majority of the UA faculty decided earlier today to go karaoke as a grand culmination of a tiring work week, you had been wise enough to say no. You said no not because of the obvious workload you still had on your plate, nor was it because you didn’t feel like going out. It mostly had to do with the fact that you were precisely avoiding this kind of situation.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Because the fact of the matter is, the only situation you’re avoiding, if you were to be completely honest, is one that would ultimately involve seeing Aizawa.

“Look—“ Yamada clears his throat, the tone of his voice suddenly serious— “I don’t know what happened between you guys, but please? Make an exception? Just for tonight?”

A strained pause. Frankly, though you are more inclined to deny this absurd request, it’s not everyday you get to hear a pro-hero like Present Mic asking for help—let alone relying on a Quirkless teacher like you from the Department of Management to get this group of drunk heroes out of their shitty situation. But you have to hand it to him for taking you by surprise; he may seem like an excitable airhead most of the time, but for him to decipher the meaning of your hesitation with tact and thoughtfulness is, quite admittedly, the last thing you expected from him.

After careful consideration, you find yourself saying, “Fine.” You let out a defeated exhale. “You owe me big time here, Mic. I’ll be right over.”

The bar-slash-karaoke joint—Cantina, it is called, all decked out in flashing neon lights in the middle of Tatooine District—is already closing up shop by the time you arrive: a scrawny looking manager is barking orders on the phone, waiters busily cleaning tables, a couple of bartenders mopping up the vomit off the rainbow-striped linoleum floor. The stench of cigarettes is nauseating. There seems to be no other customers left. Most of the booths have been vacated, save for the last one down the hazy, fluorescent-lit hallway where a familiar voice belting out a rock song bellows like a cry for help.

You press onward. As soon as you open the door, it feels like you have stumbled upon an unsettling scene with the pro-heroes, all in their corporate attire and at the peak of their inebriation: Present Mic on the small dais, serenading an already sleeping Midnight; Cementoss snoring the night away over at the couch; Vlad King chugging on another whiskey bottle while in tears; Thirteen swimming on spilled vodka; and Eraserhead casually sitting on the corner, having a conversation with his empty mug of beer.

Yamada drops the microphone the moment he sees you by the doorway.

“You’re here!” He hurtles toward you and wraps you in a hug. He smells strongly of sweat and alcohol. “Thank fuck! Now we can go home! Please tell me you brought a car.”

You shrug his arms off of you. “No, Mic, I walked all the way from our UA dorms to get here.”

“Are you serious—“

“Of course I have a fucking car with me,” you sneer. “You know, I’m actually surprised to see that you’re the last man standing.”

Yamada grins proudly. “Well, I know I don’t look like it but I am actually really responsible and kind and amazing—“

“Okay, don’t push it.”

“Oh, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Now I’ll help these idiots out. You take Shouta with you.”

“Uh, hold up—“ you raise a hand in protest, and you briefly scan the mess of a room— “how about I take Kayama with me while you take the rest of the guys? Aizawa can walk by himself.”

“You kidding me?” Yamada shakes his head. “Look at him. I know that’s his everyday bitch face but that bitch face of his is dead drunk. He’s been giving out compliments to everyone before you got here.”

You quirk a suspicious brow. “Really?”

“Yeah. Check this out.” He turns to Aizawa and says, “Yo Eraser, you think I can beat All Might as the top hero?”

Aizawa looks up at Yamada with a sluggish smile. “You can do anything, Mic. You’ve always been the best.” Then, he turns to you and his red-rimmed eyes widen. “Hi. You’re very beautiful.”

You blink. “Yup. He’s drunk.”

“See?” Yamada laughs. “But drunk words are sober thoughts, no? Besides—“ he nudges you by the elbow— “he’s been talking about you nonstop all night.”

You say nothing. The withering glare you cast in Yamada’s direction is more than enough for his cheeky grin to falter.

“Okay, fine, I get it!” He raises both hands in surrender. “None of my business! Let’s get outta here!”

The walk from the karaoke booth to your car becomes one effortful affair. Knowing he does not possess the physicality to carry his peers, Yamada wakes both Ishiyama and Sekijiro up by screeching on their ears. A questionably rude way to use his Quirk to wake someone up, but considering the situation at hand, courtesies be damned, you suppose. How Yamada manages to pacify their immediate irritation is beyond you; how he even manages to command them to carry both Kayama and Thirteen is much more bewildering at best.

Meanwhile, you pull Aizawa on his feet, sling his arm around over your shoulder, your one arm around his waist. He may possess such a lanky appearance, but he sure is heavy. And made out of sturdy materials. You know this. You know this because you have seen everything he is hiding beneath his usual ragged attire after many sleepless nights in his bed—

Not the time for that, self.

As you drag him out into the parking lot, he tries to lean his head on yours, but you shake him off. Still, despite your unreasonable annoyance, you find yourself looking up at him. A stray lock of his hair has fallen away from his sloppily tied half bun and over his face. You reach for it and tuck it behind his ear, and he looks at you as if it is the first time he is seeing you with a nameless awe and wonder. He smiles. Not his wry and mocking smile, the one he offers to his most aggressive students to teach them a lesson or two. Certainly not that. The smile he gives you is so foreign on his face, so exceptionally rare that your heart misses a beat.

Not the fucking time for this—

“You’re… so short,” he says with a hiccup. His breath reeks of alcohol, but his shirt smells strangely of fresh laundry.

You grimace. If he hadn’t been this hammered, you would have kicked him right in the shin. “Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”

He lets out a small laugh. “But you’re also soft and warm.”

A cold breeze drifts but your cheeks are warmer than ever. “Um, thanks?”

“And you smell really nice.”

“Right.”

With everyone squeezing themselves together in the backseat, dozing off and snoring in chorus, the rest of the drive heading back to the UA premises is almost preposterous in its silence. It is already five-thirty in the morning, and a hint of dawn is spreading like a rosy veil throughout the highway. Over the horizon, the city lights are unblinking witnesses to this misadventure. However, in the passenger seat, Aizawa is wide awake and spends the whole ride staring out the window.

As much as you want to start a conversation, a large part of you decides against it. Or, more accurately, your wounded pride is adamant to keep your mouth shut. The last time you spoke, he was sober and you demanded to define this nameless relationship the two of you had been tiptoeing for months. There should be a line—nay, a Great Wall of China—between being friends and lovers, but whatever boundaries that stood have already been demolished with all the secret dates, the secret gifts, the secret nights tangled up in your sheets.

Was any of it real? It all felt real to you, at the very least. No one would have suspected Aizawa to be capable of such generosity; he is quiet, reserved, extremely private. But within the four corners of his strict privacy, there is an abundance in his affections, a side of him you rarely see with the way he is with others. A side of him you wish you could keep to yourself.

But you suppose that doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t look like whatever this nebulous affair between the two of you mattered to him, anyway. He made that very clear when he walked out of your door just like that. You wish he had said something cruel to hurt your feelings instead. At least that is a pain you can bear better rather than him not saying anything at all.

“Everything okay?”

You almost miss the turn to Heights Alliance when Aizawa speaks up. No, not everything is a much more honest answer, but he is looking at you with tired eyes that you doubt if he could catch you lying through your teeth. Instead, you spare him a glance and with high-pitch brightness, you say, “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

After dropping the others off in their respective buildings—which, to your relief, is relatively easier compared from the struggle back in Cantina—you decide to accompany Aizawa back to his room. He is still a bit woozy, that’s obvious enough; he stops along the way to talk to the rose shrubs and tulips out on the lawn, calling them his students which, despite its sheer hilarity, makes the climb to the front steps of his dorm a monumental challenge.

“Wait—“ Aizawa untangles himself from you as you enter the building— “let me talk to Midoriya for a sec.”

You watch him unsteadily ambling his way to the potted plants by the entrance. “Huh, Midoriya isn’t here. Everyone is still asleep—“

“You should stop getting yourself injured,” he says to no one in particular. “Recovery Girl can’t keep healing you all the time.”

“Shouta, you’re talking to a cactus. C’mon.”

He turns to you with an impish grin. “Hi. You’re pretty. I like you.”

You groan in both exasperation and exhaustion. The lord is truly testing my patience. As you haul him back up, he holds your hand and presses a kiss on the back of your hand.

“My god, it makes me sick how you’re weirdly affectionate when you’re drunk. Who would’ve thought that a fuckton of drinks would warm up your cold-hearted ass?” you say, heaving his whole body by your side. “Now let’s go before one of the kids wake up—“

“Um, Sensei?”

A low voice that neither belongs to you or Aizawa startles you into a sudden panic. You turn, and you see a tall, muscular boy with glasses and in his pajamas staring at you as if he had seen a ghost. Then he looks at Aizawa. His face pales.

Fuck.

“Is… Sensei alright?” the boy worrily croaks. “And does he—you two are—“

“You’re Iida, right?” you ask carefully. You look around the living room and exhale a breath of relief to find that he is the only student in the room.

The boy nods. “Do you need, um, help—“

“No, we’re fine,” you answer quickly. “Can I ask you for something, though?”

Iida nods again, vigorously this time. “Yes, of course!”

“You never saw or heard anything. Is that understood?” There is a silent threat in your voice that makes Iida squirm in discomfort.

“Yes, uh—understood!” He salutes nervously. You spare him a small pat on the back as you shuffle past him, onto the stairs, and into Aizawa’s room.

The afternoon sun drags Aizawa awake in a throbbing daze. His head hurts as if he had been beaten with a thousand pinpricks, his mouth too coppery for his taste. The stream of sunlight filtering through his windows paints his barren room in a thin veil of gold that at first glance, he thinks he is somewhere else entirely. But there is no mistaking that this is really his room: the soulless furnishing of a simple bed, a desk, and a worn-out couch, and the startling emptiness of his space is easy enough to recognize as his own. Still, it does not make any sense. How did he manage to get here? As far as he can remember, he was at the Cantina with All Might and...

Holy shit.

A sharp panic jolts him out of the sheets. He looks down on his hands, his body. Okay. Thank god he is fully clothed. No injuries, too. As he ties his hair back into a pony, he scans the room for something out of the ordinary, something to jog his memory of last night. Nothing seems to be out of place until his attention falls to a figure lying on his couch.

Aizawa rubs his eyes. He is unsure if the sight of you sleeping on his couch is a product of his hangover, but the faint sound of your breaths only proves it otherwise.

As far as he is concerned, the last person he could ever expect to be in the same room as him is you, not after he left so callously after that last argument without saying another word. He knows you deserve better than the way he has treated you. He knows you deserve better than him. You have been patient enough to thaw his cold indifference, brave enough to see past through his sharp edges. He is not easy to like, but you made him believe that he is worth the time. And in the short time he has spent with you, he finds himself wanting more, and the more he tries to make sense out of it, the less he understands this gnawing, aching feeling that never fails to leave him gasping for air.

He walks over to you, sits on the edge of the couch. For a moment, he watches you sleep. He finds solitude in your peaceful face, in the tender rhythm of your breathing. You shift a little. And when he hears his name leave on your lips, his breath stops for a second. An unnameable feeling spreads over him with the warmth of a forest fire, with the ferocity of a storm.

God, you’re so beautiful.

Not a little longer and he sees you stir. When you open your eyes, the first that you see is him.

“Hi,” he says with a small smile.

You sit right up in a panic. “Hi. Fuck—I’m sorry.” You fix your hair and wipe the drool on the side of your mouth. “I, um—I hope you didn’t mind that I crashed here to sleep.”

He shrugs. “It’s okay. Yamada called you to pick us all up, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. And sorry for the trouble.” He reaches for the back of his neck, looks away. Then, he asks: “I didn’t happen to do something stupid last night, did I?”

You laugh. “I don’t think you’d really want to know.” In a sudden hurry that startles him, you get up and begin to gather your things. “Anyway, there’s a bottle of painkillers in the bathroom, in case you still have your headaches. And please eat something decent. I should get going—“

“Wait.” The word leaves him sharply that it slices throughout the room.

You stare at him, eyes searching and urging for him to continue.

“I…” He falters. With a heavy breath, he braves through the silence and says, “I was hoping if you could stay.”

You purse your lips, shaking your head. “You know, since we’re here, I think it’s about time that we stop this… whatever this thing we have.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m tired of this. Besides, for a Quirkless like me, I’ll only be a liability to a pro-hero like you—“

“You were never a liability to me.”

“Then what am I to you?”

“The fucking love of my life.”

In long, steady strides, he closes the space between the two of you and he takes your face in his hands. He lifts your head and lets his lips graze your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose, as if this is the only way for him to memorize the warmth of your skin on his.

“May I?” he whispers under his breath. “I’m sorry if my breath stinks—“

“Just kiss me, you asshole.”

He smiles. And in this scorching tenderness, he presses his mouth on yours, kissing you as if this is the only time he has left, as if you are the only rational and logical thing that could ever matter in this life or the next.

#my hero academia #mha #boku no hero academia #bnha #bnha fanfiction #my writing #aizawa shouta #eraserhead #aizawa x reader #WHY IS EVERYTHING I TOUCH TURNS TO SLIGHTLY ANGSTY LMAO

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salmankhanholics · 5 years ago

Text

★ EXCLUSIVE: When SALMAN KHAN got EMOTIONAL on Tara Sharma’s celebrity show and opened up on his Being Human, his childhood and many more things!

Dec 16, 2019

After four successful seasons, Tara Sharma Saluja is back with The Tara Sharma Show. And the fifth begins from this Sunday on Star World on December 22, at 11:30 AM with a big bang – featuring none other than Salman Khan, who is caught in those rare, candid moments with his guard down. It will also appear on her The Tara Sharma Show on YouTube channel. The show doesn’t boast of gossip but as Tara (who started the show nine years ago) says it’s about chatting on topical issues with a view to bringing about positive change. Talking about why they chose Salman, who incidentally comes for the first time on the show, Tara says, “We decided to start with a bang hence we have Salman on the opening day. Every episode is so different and moving that we thought that as the show is a mix of lightness, being meaningful and humour we should do it with a big bang. Each and every guest is incredible. With Salman there were quite a lot of laughter and light moments besides the emotional ones which were extremely moving.

He spoke about some of childhood memories to how he started his acting career, how he was trying to impress a girl – so there are lots of sweet anecdotes. But there were moments he got emotional too, especially while talking about the Being Human Foundation and people who seek help. You can see that Salman has a very big heart. He was speaking about what he has seen in terms of the Being Human Foundation and that there are lots of things that are not easy to bear and makes us heart weep. He said, ‘you just have to go out of our houses and see so many people who need help.’

The family show talks about bringing in positive change. “Salman appears for the first time on TTSS. He was a wonderful guest who spoke about his own childhood and what he is doing with the Being Human Foundation. He is doing a lot when it comes to special needs and interacting with kids. Children today are much more aware about empathy and if we can create a more empathetic world we can all make a difference – like Aamir Khan said on my show last season, ‘Everyone can make a difference, however big or small or famous or not.’ I believe the bigger the celeb the more awareness can be spread.”

Tara was thrilled beyond words when Salman agreed to appear on the TTSS. “I told Salman that he has been human to me. I work really hard to make an honest show and when people Salman’s stature agreed to appear on it, I really feel grateful. You have to watch the show to know why he agreed to come on it but he was really gracious and has a wonderful team. We also shared some anecdotes in the show. When we were kids one of my closest friends was a big fan of Salman and we had gone to meet him when he was shooting in Film City in Mumbai as fans and he was as gracious then as he is today. He remembered every bit of our fan meeting.”

Behind that brawn, muscles and six-pack abs, Salman is intelligent and has a sharp memory, Tara notes. “My husband and co-producer of the show, Roopak’s father was an Indian ambassador in Budapest at a time when Salman had gone there to shoot. They knew each other then. Before Roopak had his production company, he did a role in Salman’s movie and they got to know each other better so Salman reminisced about that too. There are lots of little anecdotes but most importantly he also did it because the whole premise is bringing about positive change and spreading awareness on things like inclusion which we all know that he does through the Being Human Foundation and that he is quite humble about it. He doesn’t really talk much about it so it was great to have him on the show. He also spoke about his own childhood and told kids to stay out of trouble, and how he was a naughty kid.”

Tara says that Salman’s positivity radiated from him. “It’s a beautiful way that Salman has again connected so well and naturally as will the children watching the show. I am sure they will find him inspiring. When you hear about what and how he’s achieved his fame and success, it’s inspiring. With Salman we talked a lot about his childhood, his hits, his career… All my guests despite being huge celebrities are so humble and grounded and those are great lessons for anybody who is looking at achievers. He gave tips like – ‘everybody works hard but you should work hard in the right direction and stay out of trouble.’

The actress-producer admits that beginning with Salman Khan’s show this Sunday, the show will see a shift in perception. “It started nine years ago as my diary as a mum but now I am more aware of what issues are affecting society and topics that are important to touch upon. The first few seasons were in the context of parents and now though, the crux is still family issues, on a wider scale, my choice of guests are also relevant to the theme because this season is all about inspirational people who are using their celebrity status to bring about positive change and spread larger messages and create awareness about causes that impact families in some way.”

#salman khan #tex6 news #the Tara Sharma show #tara sharma

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nilim · 6 years ago

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First kiss! Scanlan or Nott idk, whichever one you wanna do more, though i might be too late to send prompts.

So, the concept of Scanlan’s first kiss was a premise that immediately intrigued me because I never really thought about it before. Because, well… he’s Scanlan. Sometimes it feels like he materialized into Exandria fully sexualized. But he didn’t, of course. So it was fun exploring that more innocent part of his history. A character study and coming of age story, if you will.

Also, this story was inspired by Sam’s throw-away line that ‘kissing a half-elf man’ was ‘teenage years, baby.’

Warning: This thing is LONG. 11k.

Enjoy.

—

A passing cart splashed through a large puddle, sloshing water across Scanlan’s boots as he ducked out of its way. The lasts remnants of a passing rainstorm were giving way to blue skies and the city’s streets were gleaming; mist steaming off the cobblestones as they warmed up in the sunlight. Scanlan ignored the new stains to his boots, his focus entirely on the balding, well-dressed gentleman walking on the opposite sidewalk.

Making his way through the crowds, the man seemed somewhat harried trying to hurry his wife along. Decked out in a long, green coat, the plump woman was entirely too wrapped up in her own little world to notice her husband’s frustration. She wore a soft, kind smile and had ooh-ed and ah-ed at every window display, market-stall and stray cat the couple had come across for at least half a block. Scanlan knew this, because they were the reason he was crossing the street in the first place.

As man and gnome approached each other, Scanlan ducked low and removed his frayed, purple beret with a practiced flourish.

“Spare a coin, mister?” He asked, his voice pitched slightly higher to help create the impression of youthful naivety. The man gave him a quick a look - an expression Scanlan was sure he only spared for things he normally found underneath his boots - and angrily pushed past him.

“Out of my way, boy.”

Scanlan quickly stepped aside, ducking even lower while clutching his beret to his chest. “Sorry, sir!”

His voice apologetic, he adopted a mournful expression. Like that of a kicked puppy. He waited a beat and then - right on cue - looked up, locking eyes with the woman trailing behind her husband. Scanlan could feel actual tears brimming in the corners of his eyes.

He was pretty proud of himself.

“Oh, Harold. He looks hungry. Can we not spare a few coins?” The woman said, turning towards her husband with a worried look. The man looked back, flustered.

“Agnes…”

Scanlan could see they were about to get into an argument, so he interjected;

“That’s okay, miss! It’s entirely my fault, I can see you are in quite the hurry and I should never have b-bothered such nice people.” He wiped at the corners of his eyes with the long, dirty sleeve of his tunic. “I’m sure I don’t know what I was thinking…”

He made as if to leave, but before stepping off the pavement he turned back towards the woman.

“Please don’t worry about me, miss. I’m quite sure I will be able to find some leftover bread behind the bakery tomorrow. The baker sometimes throws away perfectly good loaves, you see, only partially moulded!”

A subtle expression of horror flickered across the woman’s face and she cast a look at her husband, who was staring daggers at Scanlan. The gnome’s expression of solemn sincerity didn’t waver under this scrutiny.

“Agnes, please-” The husband began, trying to get his wife moving again. The large woman could not be budged, letting go of her husband’s hand as she started digging for her purse.

“No. That’s it, Harold. I will not have this… child eat rotten foods and starve in a gutter somewhere!” She produced her purse and started counting out coins, her husband’s eyes boggling at the amount. A vein popped in his forehead.

Fidgeting with his beret, Scanlan stared down at his feet, afraid any look he might give the man might infuriate him further. Such things could tip the precarious situation into an entirely different direction.

“Here you go.” The woman said, her voice soft and caring as she held out her hand. Scanlan held up his beret, still avoiding eye-contact.

“You’re too kind, miss. Thank you very much-” As he felt the coins being deposited, he caught the flash of a golden sun on one of the woman’s rings. Without missing a beat, he added; “-Pelor’s blessing be upon you both!”

The man made a soft, disgusted noise. Maybe that last comment had been a bit much, Scanlan admitted. But he wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

Bowing, he stepped off the pavement and spun around to hurry back across the street. Clutching his beret to his chest, he weaved through the crowd of people on the other sidewalk. He walked past a couple of blacksmiths before ducking into a shaded alleyway. As the sounds of the city fell away, he found a hiding spot behind a couple of stacked beer barrels. Finally feeling secure, he opened his hands and looked at his prize.

There was gold in there. More than one coin.

Scanlan’s heart hammered inside his chest. There was enough here to pay for at least a week worth of lodging at the Silver Heron. It was a lot more than he had expected.

Eyeing his spoils in wonderment, his reverie was interrupted by a long, low whistle behind him. He froze.

“That’s a nice sum you got.” A girl’s voice whispered in his ear. Recognizing the voice, Scanlan felt relief wash over him. He quickly pocketed the money before turning around with a forced smile.

“I do my best.” He replied, eyeing the girl leaning over his shoulder. A human child, she was a couple of years younger than him, probably around 13-14 years old. She was crouching low on one of the barrels, wearing a ragged grey dress and green stockings. She had in all likelihood dropped down from one of the roofs above and snuck up on him, quiet as a mouse. Which was why it was her nickname.

“You know Aron is going to beat the shit out of you if he finds out you’ve been scamming on his turf.” She pointed out, dangling her legs off the large oak barrel, using a dirty fingernail to pick out something between her teeth.

“True…,” Scanlan eyed her briefly, then rummaged in his pockets and flipped her a silvered coin. Eyes sharp as a hawk, the girl snatched the coin from the air before it had got a chance to complete its arc. “Which is why… he’s not going to find out now, is he?”

“Hm.” She pocketed the coin and silently watched him as he fixed his beret. Scanlan wiped some dirt from his tunic and looked down at his feet. Not much to be done about his boots, for now.

“You off to that silly tavern of yours, then?” She asked as he started moving towards the street. He deemed the question not worthy of an answer, until she called after him; “I don’t know why you like that place so much.”

Scanlan stopped and let out a heavy sigh. “I like it, because there’s music.”

“Lots of places got music.”

Scanlan grit his teeth. “No… Many places have an idiot with a flute making some noise.”

He thought about the Silver Heron. The tall, leaded windows. The pipe-smoke filled hallways lit up with silver sconces. The shining, oak bannisters of the second-floor balcony, which looked out onto the crowded barroom below. The diverse cast of patrons - drinking, laughing - all listening to the single minstrell, alone up on the narrow crescent-shaped stage. He turned towards the girl, smiling:

“This place has got music, Mouse.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

—

The small barroom was rowdy, every inch of the tavern packed with people enjoying an evening of drinks and entertainment. Dodging between individuals thrice his size, Scanlan had to do his best not to get squashed or trampled by throngs of people trying to get another beer at the bar. His head was spinning with sounds and songs and, music.

Earlier in the evening he had found a tiny spot up on the balcony, his small frame making it easy to watch through the carved wooden posts supporting the balustrade. He had spent the better part of three hours watching assorted musicians take center stage down below. A beautiful black-haired woman had sang a mournful song of tragedy and lost love in the Dunrock Mountains while Scanlan observed young men weep; a young Half-elf man had played a long ballad of an old sailor lost on the Ozmit sea, weaving words so playfully Scanlan had felt like he was there among the waves; and three dwarven brothers had played joyful, traditional dwarven tunes which had gotten half the patrons up and dancing.

Thirsty, Scanlan had left his spot to acquire some drinks while down below a young lady with a fiddle had started up a cheerful melody. Halfway down the stairs he spotted his chance when a large tray carried by a sturdy barmaid bounced past him just within arm’s reach. Reaching past the bannisters, he swiped a large tankard of ale while throwing down a few coppers on her tray in payment. Shouldering his way back upstairs he protected his drink from the careless elbows and staggering legs of drunk patrons. As he was about to set down the tankard on the floor to retake his spot, a large meaty hand shot out and grabbed his right arm, jerking him backwards.

“Oi!” Scanlan shouted, splashing ale over half his tunic. A large, middle-aged man was standing over him, a scraggly ginger beard doing a poor job at hiding his double chin and red, bulging cheeks.

“What do you think you’re doing, street rat?” He bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth. Scanlan flinched, shrinking back towards the wall.

“I paid for it!” He replied immediately, his voice not so much defiant as tinged with panic. He winced at the sound and took a second to compose himself. Looking up, he met the man’s gaze with renewed confidence. “I paid for it fair and square.”

“Hrmpf,” The man straightened up, eyeing Scanlan with a suspicious look on his face. But Scanlan’s now calm demeanour seemed to settle him down somewhat. The man crossed his arms.

“You’ve had your fun, boy. Time to go. We ain’t in the habit of entertaining every hoodlum wanting to spent an evening ogling young women.”

Scanlan put his hands on his hips, cocking his head. “But apparently this business is in the habit of throwing out paying customers willy-nilly? Seems like a bad investment.”

“Guests only.” The man rumbled, reaching out to grab Scanlan’s vest - but seeing the move coming the small gnome danced out of the way.

“Well, you’re in luck! I’m a guest,” He grinned, and quickly produced a handful of gold coins. “And I can pay.”

The man glared at the coins. “You a thieving scoundrel as well, then? We don’t take no stolen money.”

Scanlan felt a wave of annoyance flare up inside of him. “I’ve never stolen a damn thing in my entire life.” He spat back, glaring at the man.

“Oh, come on, Fabien, let the boy be. He appreciates the music, which is more than I can say for half the people here.”

Scanlan peered past the innkeeper to see who had spoken up, and noticed a youthful Half-elf leaning against the wall next to the stairs. The young man had short, curly brown hair and wore a simple blue tunic with a white vest. Scanlan recognized him by the well-worn intricately carved lute slung across his shoulder. It was one of the minstrels who had played earlier.

The young man pushed off against the wall and shrugged, giving the innkeeper with an amused look. “And he’s got a point, when are we in a habit of turning away paying guests?”

Locking his sharp green eyes with Scanlan’s, he added; “I’ll vouch for him.”

The taller man - Fabien - grunted and looked between the young Half-elf and Scanlan, conflict playing out on his face. After a long pause, he finally seemed to come to a decision and swiped Scanlan’s gold from his hands. As he turned, he gave the younger Half-elf a look. Mumbling something about it being ‘your funeral’, the man marched down the stairs.

Scanlan, surprised by the entire turn of events, leaned over the balustrade to follow where the innkeeper was going with his gold. Wading through a group of customers, the man approached the bar and had a brief conversation with a stocky, short-haired woman behind the counter. She ducked down and then offered the man a large, brass key. A room key. Scanlan grinned and turned back towards the young minstrell.

“Thanks.”

The Half-elf nodded, giving Scanlan a curious, inquisitive look. “I’ve seen you in here before, right?”

Scanlan fidgeted with his vest, giving the Half-elf an apologetic grin. “Oh no, you caught me.”

“Well, try not to enjoy yourself too hard, or you might get me in trouble.” The Half-elf said, eyes twinkling as he readjusted the lute hanging from his shoulder.

Scanlan put a hand over his heart, giving the young man a severe, solemn look. “I swear it upon my honour as a hoodlum.” He said, echoing the phrase the innkeeper had used.

The Half-elf chuckled, shaking his head as he ascended the stairs, leaving Scanlan behind to enjoy the rest of his evening.

–

Three days Scanlan spent inside a small, narrow room near the roof of the Silver Heron. Obviously a former servant’s quarters, it was right above the kitchen and smelled like a curious mixture of grease and ale at all hours. A small, round window opened up to the roof outside, limiting his view of the city - but Scanlan had discovered he could just see the top of the Market Street’s bell tower over the roof of the building across when he was lying down on his straw bed at night.

He didn’t mind the cramped quarters. There was a roof over his head, dry floorboards underneath his feet and hot food waiting for him every morning. During the day he roamed the city; singing at the corner of Garden Square for passersby, or carefully scouting out the affluent Temple district for better opportunities. At night he came back, found a seat up on the balcony, ate warm stew and drank amber ale while listening to a string of musicians play. Not all were of an equal skill level - but in Scanlan’s view all were good.

And although they had not spoken since that first night, every evening the Half-elf had played, strumming his instrument with deft fingers, weaving such finely crafted melodies. Studying him on stage, Scanlan had judged the young man to be not much older than himself. He wondered where the elf had learned to play like that at such a young age.

Counting his earnings of the day, feet dangling from the balcony, Scanlan knew he should be more careful with his spending. He could probably find much cheaper lodgings at one of the almshouses on the other side of town, squirreling away the money for a rainy day. But he never had such a windfall before… and living at the Silver Heron was nice. He wanted to stretch the days and not think about the future at all.

It was like living in a dream.

“I heard you sing today.” A familiar voice spoke up. Scanlan froze with his tankard halfway to his lips, looking up towards the source. The Half-elf, leaning next to him against the balcony, laughed when he saw Scanlan’s expression change. The gnome lowered his drink and scrambled to his feet, absentmindedly straightening out some creases in his dirty vest as he did so.

“You-” Scanlan’s voice pitched up, and he cleared his throat, “You eh, followed me?”

The young man nodded and raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

“Ehm. Thanks.” Scanlan was at a loss of words. Which is something that didn’t happen often. He gestured at the Half-elf’s lute, searching for something to say in reply. “You… play well.”

He winced.

The Half-elf seemed amused at his discomfort, folding his arms. “So, haven’t stolen anything yet then?”

Scanlan frowned. “I don’t steal things.”

“No, you sing for your supper. Like us.” The Half-elf nodded towards the stage and then, turning back, held out his hand in greeting. “I didn’t introduce myself before, it’s Edym. But most people around here just call me Ed.”

Scanlan took the offered hand and shook it. “Scanlan.”

Softening his grip, Edym clasped Scanlan’s hand with both of his and turned it palm upwards. He rubbed his thumb over the callouses on the younger man’s fingers. Taken aback, Scanlan studied Edym’s face for some insight into the young man’s thoughts. The Half-elf had a curious expression on his face.

“You play?”

Scanlan pulled back his hand, a soft pang of regret in his chest. Hesitating, he gave a sad smile. “I used to.”

“What happened?” Edym asked, frowning. Scanlan bent down to pick up his ale and took a long swig before answering. He could feel the cold liquid traveling down his throat, settling down deep down in the twisted pit of his stomach.

“Someone took my lute.” His voice only wavered slightly.

“That’s a grave offense.” Edym said, his voice sounding solemn. As Scanlan turned his head to meet the young man’s gaze, he saw understanding in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Scanlan shrugged, staring into the dark, amber liquid inside his tankard. “Not your fault. And I…” He hesitated. “I wasn’t much good anyway.”

He turned around, looking out over the room down below. An older man was playing a shawm up on the stage, but half his audience had gotten distracted. Conversations and laughs drifted up towards the balcony, mingling with the music.

“I mean, not like you.” Scanlan added.

“Well,” Edym turned to lean on the balustrade as well. “I was blessed with a good tutor.” Scanlan could feel the man’s eyes on him as a silence settled between them. Then, carefully, the young man prodded; “Who taught you?”

Scanlan bit his lip. It was not something he usually openly shared. But for some reason, here in this moment, he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “My mother used to play when I was young. I guess I picked it up from her.”

“Hm.” Edym answered, but didn’t pry any further and Scanlan felt thankful for that.

Their conversation was interrupted when their attention was drawn by muted applause from below, the man with the shawm bowing and leaving the stage. No sooner had he left when a red Tiefling woman in a long, flowy white dress appeared, slowly walking out onto the podium next. She carried with her a beautifully decorated lyre and sat down on a simple, wooden stool in the middle of the stage.

As she played her first few notes, a hush descended on the crowd.

Like magic, Scanlan thought.

—

Afterwards, lying on his bed staring up at the slanted wooden roof, Scanlan couldn’t even remember what the woman had sang about. His head was swimming with melodies and an inexplicable soulful yearning for a place beyond the city; divine nature untouched by humanoid hands.

He thought about Edym. And about their conversation.

After the performance, they had shared a drink and a few more words. Edym had let him play a few songs on his lute, although Scanlan had found it difficult to judge what the Half-elf thought of his skill level. After he had nervously returned the instrument, Edym had simply grown quiet, finished his drink and bid him goodnight.

He wondered what it was like, to live a life like his. To have people adore the stories you weave, to be able to enchant a room with the songs you spin with just the power of your words and the help of an instrument.

It seemed a far-off fantasy, at least for a street rat like him.

He fell asleep and dreamt about his mother.

–

The next day brought rain. Scanlan spent most of the morning outside, sloughing underneath the awnings of a butcher’s shop, waiting for a break in the weather so he could find a place with better foot traffic. By lunchtime, when the rain gave no signs of abating, he decided to simply call it quits and return to the inn.

Afternoons were cozy at the Silver Heron. There were two great fireplaces in the barroom below, and ample people coming and going, looking for rooms and lodging or a place to dry out their clothes while getting something warm and tasty to fill their bellies. There was even a shelf of books; all well-read and thumbed-through, some almost falling apart the seams. But they were free, and Scanlan didn’t get many chances to curl up by a fire and just read. He had learned that skill from his mother, and it was something he was thankful for every day out on the streets.

Fabien had given him some suspicious glances while cleaning the bar, perhaps half expecting him to run off with the entire collection of tomes. But all in all, the large innkeeper had eased off him somewhat, perhaps coming to accept Scanlan’s presence among his guests.

“So, now you read as well.” Edym spoke up behind him.

Scanlan looked up, surprised by the sudden appearance of the Half-elf. Catching the young man’s eyes, Scanlan found them to have an unreadable expression.

Edym leaned his lute against the large chair Scanlan had made his new home, and then shrugged off his coat, placing it on the chair beside him.

“Singing, lute playing, reading… Any other skills you are hiding?” Edym sat down opposite of him, holding a glass of mulled wine.

“Hmm, I’m a multi-layered onion of surprises.” Scanlan replied grinning, the words leaving his mouth before he could reel them in.

Edym didn’t reply, but just drank slowly from the wine. Scanlan felt fidgety under the young man’s scrutiny, remembering his reaction - or lack thereof - to his lute playing the night before. As the silence dragged on, he tried to focus on his book instead.

Edym put down his glass on the table and finally spoke up; “What’s a boy like you doing living on the streets?”

Scanlan tightened his grip on the book in his hands, nails digging into the soft leather. “I’m not a boy.” He frowned at Edym. “I’m not much younger than you.”

Edym sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not calling you a child, Scanlan. I’m asking why you’re singing on street corners for people who don’t appreciate it, spending money you don’t have on ale and lodgings at a second-rate inn in a city that doesn’t want you.”

Scanlan felt like he had been slapped in his face. Shame bubbled up inside him, making his throat itch. He sunk lower into his chair - an easy feat to accomplish as its massive form was already dwarfing him. Hiding his face in the book he was reading, his mind raced for a reply.

“Why do you care, Elf boy?”

“Hm… polite professional curiosity.” There was a slight cheeky tone to Edym’s reply, and Scanlan couldn’t help peeking over the top of his book to glower at the Half-elf. A stubborn sort of rebelliousness welled up inside of him.

“Not everyone can be so lucky to have a good paying job at a nice inn playing songs for drunks.” He scoffed, studying Edym for a reaction.

Edym frowned at him. “That’s not what I mean.”

Scanlan lowered his book, annoyed at the response. He crossed his arms and gave the musician a mirthless smile.

“Then please enlighten me, oh wise one.” Glaring at Edym, he could hear a downdraft in the fireplace behind him, spitting up embers. He ignored it, but noticed the Half-elf’s eyes briefly travel towards the fire.

“Hm.” Edym looked back at Scanlan, carefully considering him. For a brief moment it appeared he was going to answer his question, but then thought better of it. He pushed himself up out of the chair, leaning forward to grab his lute.

“Come on, I want to show you something.” He said, and gave Scanlan a quick wink before turning around and leaving towards the kitchens.

Scanlan, still sitting in his chair with his arms crossed, waited stubbornly for Edym to cross the room. That guy thought he knew everything.

As the Half-elf was about to leave his field of vision, Scanlan rolled his eyes and jumped out of the chair with an annoyed sigh.

“This better be good.”

—

The ‘something’ Edym had wanted to show him was not so much a thing as multiple someones. In the space behind the kitchen was a corridor leading to a backstage area and a large dressing room. Or perhaps ‘secret bar’ was more apt.

In the middle of the chamber was a large round table. Sitting at it there were multiple people playing cards, some of which Scanlan recognized as musicians he had seen perform before. Lit up by wall sconces and a large hearth to the right of the door, the room was cast in a warm, dancing glow. There were costumes hanging from a web of clotheslines crisscrossing the ceiling, and instruments everywhere people were sitting; Lutes, viols, flutes.

In the corner, at the beer-stained counter, a half-orc was playing a playful diddy on a fiddle. Next to him, a stocky dwarf was shouting at a barmaid, who apparently had brought him the wrong drink. Weaving between the tables, a half-naked woman was running around asking whether anyone had seen her headdress.

An older gentleman - the shawm player Scanlan recognized suddenly - stood up triumphantly from the large table and shouted “Ah-ha! Pay up, ye bastards!”. He threw down a hand of cards. Various groans from the other people at the table announced their defeat.

Standing in the doorway, Scanlan felt a slender hand upon his shoulder. Turning, he saw the Tiefling lyre-player leaning down towards him, her breathe hot against his right ear.

“I see Ed has brought us some new meat.” Her voice was soft was playful, and Scanlan felt a tingling sensation in the back of his neck.

“Ehm…” He mumbled, trying to discern the meaning of her words as she pushed past him. She sat down at the table and padded the chair next to her.

“You play, love?”

Edym stepped forward, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “Now, now. Be kind to him will you, Ariane?”

The Tiefling leaned her chin on her hand and pouted. “I’m always kind, Ed.” Sitting behind her, Scanlan could see a red-haired halfling woman catch his eye, slowly shaking her head in warning.

Edym stepped back around him and patted him on the shoulder. “Everyone, this is Scanlan! He wants to be a musician.”

Scanlan could feel his cheeks burning as everyone turned towards him. Various excited greetings flew his way, but he caught at least one cheeky; “Eh, your loss”.

In the hubbub of noise and activity, he frowned up at Edym.

“I never actually said I wanted to be a musician.” He hissed between gritted teeth, unsure about the situation.

“You didn’t have to.” Edym replied. Scanlan shook his head at him and looked around. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. He felt… vulnerable.

A large hand slapped him on his back, and one of the dwarves shoved a tall tankard of ale in his hands.

“A musician huh? You sure about that, laddie?” The dwarf grinned at him, his beard so wild and bushy some of its hairs pricked Scanlan in the side of his face. The gnome cast a helpless look at Edym as he felt himself get pulled away.

Edym just grinned at him.

—

For three hours Scanlan was guided around the room in a whirlwind of introductions and conversations, getting to know some of Edym’s colleagues a little bit more personal than he had intended to. He had learned to play at least two card games he didn’t even know existed, and had heard some interesting stories about the tavern - although none he dared to repeat among politer company. He had also discovered why shawm players were apparently the world’s best lovers.

Musicians, he decided, were not a shy bunch.

When he finally managed to extract himself from a particularly rowdy conversation - ears still burning - he quickly scanned the room. He found Edym in a corner, sitting on a bench while carefully tuning his lute. In the soft flicker of the candlelight, he was hard to spot among the revelry of his fellow colleagues. Like a moon caught in a planet’s gravity, Scanlan felt himself pulled back towards the only person he felt could save him from all this insanity.

“Are these people all playing tonight?” He asked, trying to steady his sloshing beer as he sat down next to the Half-elf. As Edym looked up from his lute, Scanlan noticed the room was spinning a little. He might have had more than a little to drink, but he couldn’t exactly remember how much since different people had kept putting new drinks in his hands before he had the chance to finish the previous one.

“Nah. Half of them come here just to hang out.” Edym replied, nodding towards an older lady applying makeup at the small table in the corner. “Some of them aren’t even musicians. Actors. Dancers.” Scanlan felt himself staring into the crowd, trying to pick out who was who. This place was ridiculous, like a secret society of artists no one knew about.

Edym played a few notes on the lute, listening and adjusting the strings. Noticing Scanlan’s puzzled look, he folded his arms and leaned on his instrument, grinning. “Fabien allows it because we bring in patrons when we play, and, well, back here we almost match his customers out there drink for drink.”

“So, you do this every night?” Scanlan said, looking at the Half-elf in astonishment. “This is… amazing.”

Edym shrugged, his grin fading. “I mean, if that’s what you want.” He turned his lute over, picking at the strings as if lost in thought. “It’s… not exactly the word I would use.”

Scanlan gave him a dumbfounded stare. “Are you kidding? You get to play your music every night for an audience who actually likes you. You get paid. You get food and a warm roof over your head.”

Edym frowned at him. “You make it sound like those are the only things in life worth pursuing.”

“Aren’t they?”

Edym leaned back against the wall, eyes narrowing as he considered the gnome next to him. “I’m not sure. But I didn’t expect you to be that easily taken in by the razzle-dazzle, Scanlan.”

He paused, and then scanned the room.

“All of this,” He gestured around, “It’s… superfluous.”

Taken aback by Edym’s attitude, Scanlan remembered the question he had asked that afternoon; what was a boy like him doing living on the streets?

Some of us don’t really have a choice, asshole.

“This might not be much to someone like you, Edym. But it is to me.” Scanlan bit back, downing the rest of his beer in one go.

“Yes, you’re having fun now. But… I don’t think this place is meant for you.” Edym said, looking at the gnome with a curious expression on his face.

Scanlan stood up abruptly, the earlier shame and anger returning. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Did Edym think he wasn’t good enough?

Edym looked at him, hesitating, but didn’t reply. Scanlan bit his lip in annoyance and turned his back on the Half-elf.

Walking away, he felt a strong desire to enjoy the heck out of all the things Edym had ever deemed superfluous.

—

The morning after brought back only wisps of memories of the night before, in addition to a pounding headache which only partially cleared up after Scanlan managed to drag himself out of bed and get some breakfast down at the bar. He didn’t see Edym that morning, and instead spent the better part of the day trying out different busking spots in the city.

He had counted his funds after breakfast, and that had sobered him right up.

The afternoon brought a chill to the weather, but he found a nice spot between two high-end tailors that seemed it might provide him with a pretty penny. By that time, however, most of the day had already been spent scouting, and when the street lamps were getting lit, Scanlan reluctantly packed up. As he made his way back to the Silver Heron, he was able to count that day’s earnings on one hand.

That evening he found himself backstage again. Most of the musicians welcomed him back with equal enthusiasm as the night before. Scanlan eased up on the ale that night, not in the least because he found that this time around, he was expected to contribute towards his own drinks.

Late in the evening he briefly caught a glimpse of Edym as he entered the dressing room to change his outfit. But just as soon as he arrived, he was gone again. Having failed to catch the Half-elf’s eye, Scanlan just leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink and thinking.

“Edym doesn’t seem to spend as much time here as some of you.” He pointed out, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“Hm.” The older halfling woman - Ronda - replied, not looking up from her hand of cards. As no further comment seemed forthcoming, Scanlan pushed a little harder.

“So… what’s his story anyway?”

Ronda cast him a look, scratching her pointed chin. “Ed? He just shows up, he plays, he goes.”

Scanlan frowned at her. “And… where does he go?”

“Who cares!” Shouted the shawm-player - Bret - from the other side of the table, aggressively putting down a handful of cards and fixing him with an expectant look. Scanlan, distracted, had entirely forgotten which game they were playing. He picked a random card from his hand and put it down. Ronda started picking up his cards from the table, shaking her head at him.

“Nobody knows. That boy’s got a restless soul.” Ronda said and started counting out money for Bret, who had somehow won the round. As she counted, her sharp brown eyes fixed Scanlan’s with a piercing look. “There ain’t ever come anything good from ‘aving a restless soul. We have it good here, and you should remember that, boy.”

“… Okay.” Scanlan replied, slightly unsettled. A hush descended on the table, and Scanlan felt like he was missing something. But Ronda’s tone of voice had suggested that any further conversation would proof fruitless, so he just slowly took a sip from his drink instead.

A restless soul? What was that supposed to mean.

Frustrated that he had not gotten any wiser from the conversation, he spent the next few minutes impatiently finishing his hand before excusing himself from the table. He could feel Ronda’s eyes on his back as he dodged another encounter with the dwarven brothers who were calling out to him from another table. Instead, he made his way to the door and back out into the tavern proper.

Back among the normal patrons, he elbowed his way through the busy barroom, looking for a sign of Edym. Moving past a large Dragonborn, he thought he spotted the young Half-elf pass by on the other side, but when Scanlan turned around there was nobody.

A drunken young man stumbled into him, using Scanlan’s head to catch his balance. Scanlan cursed under his breath, pushing the man’s hands off him. Catching his beret from falling off his head, he sighed and gave up his search, shouldering through the crowd to make his way upstairs. When he found his usual hiding spot along the balcony still empty, he sat down for a better vantage point over the room.

If he was completely honest with himself, he knew that although the backstage area was interesting, the actual magic was out here. Even if he was being used as a elbow rest by some of the patrons. It was the atmosphere. Electric.

He spent a few moments soaking in the sights and sounds. Invisible. Alone. Like a rat among the rafters, waiting.

It wasn’t long before the current musician finished his set and, just as Scanlan had expected, Edym appeared to the side of the stage, quickly bouncing up the wooden steps of the platform to take over. His hair was a curly mess and he had on a different outfit this time; darker with more muted colours. Sitting down, it instantly made his lute stand out against the firelight, blazing red, while he himself almost blended in with the background.

Not waiting for the audience to settle down, Edym’s fingers danced across the strings of his lute, launching into a polyphonic fantasia. As the Half-elf slowly increased the tempo, he started singing, and it wasn’t long before Scanlan begrudgingly found himself lost in the young man’s voice.

To him it seemed like Edym applied verses to a song like paint to a canvas, conjuring up a tale about the cradle of creation and the founding of the Dawn City, Vasselheim. His poetry made the city sound like an unreal, divine place, far removed from the view of mere mortal men.

It might as well be, Scanlan thought, staring at his dirty boots dangling from the balcony. He was quite sure he’d never get the chance to see it.

Sitting on the ledge, he pondered the Half-elf down below. Edym had a commanding sort of presence on stage, like he had grown more mature before their very eyes. He was clearly one of the more talented musicians up on that stage every night - and the audience knew it, too, hanging onto his every word.

He had called this place a second-rate inn, Scanlan remembered. If life at the Silver Heron was such a burden to him, why was he still here? It seemed like a perfect fairy tale to Scanlan, but… something gnawed at him.

Superfluous.

Distracted, he almost didn’t notice when the Half-elf bowed and took his leave, Scanlan kept sitting at the ledge and observed the people down below. Like a spell broken, he noticed all the different, small sounds rushing back into the room. Interrupted conversation restarting, laughing, the sounds of glasses. A younger human girl with a dulcimer appeared on stage; the last musician of the night.

Her music proved a simple distraction as Scanlan remained, thoughts churning.

The hour eventually growing late, the crowd was thinning, with the majority of those staying behind either mostly drunk or preoccupied with pursuing more carnal interests. It was like watching a play, where none of the audience realized they were actually the actors.

Fabien loudly announced last call, and Scanlan finished his drink and got up to head to bed.

—

Trailing his hand along the wooden panelling of the corridor towards to his room, he wondered how long before he would have to spend a night out in the rain again, if he didn’t start saving money soon. A week?

A few days?

Turning the corner, he had come upon the narrow door to his room, and he started fumbling for his key.

There was a polite cough.

Turning to look, Scanlan found Edym standing behind him, holding a key out towards him. Scanlan froze with his hands in his pockets, before dropping them by his side and leaning back against his door, suspiciously eyeing the young man opposite him.

“So, I guess I’m not the thieving one around here after all.” He said, his voice careful.

Edym arched an eyebrow. “You dropped it.”

“Uh-huh.” Scanlan answered, not convinced. He stepped forward and snatched the key from Edym’s hand. The Half-elf crossed his arms, cocking his head in amusement.

“Look, Scanlan-” He started, but Scanlan interrupted;

“Here it comes.” He said, turning towards the door.

“- I just wanted to apologize.” Edym finished, and Scanlan halted, the key halfway in the lock.

“Oh.”

“I think I might have misspoken before.” Edym started, sounding slightly unsure of himself. “I didn’t mean to imply that this place wasn’t meant for someone like you, but that… you don’t really belong in a place like this.”

“If you’re trying to apologize, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.” Scanlan muttered.

Edym smiled regretfully, an expression that made him look suddenly young. “All I’m saying is… you can aim for more than just this tavern, Scanlan. There’s a whole world out there.”

“Oh, I’m well aware! ”Scanlan replied, still not budging. “But sometimes I wonder whether you are.”

A restless soul, he thought.

“You’ve been stuck here too long, you can only see the bad.”

“And you can only see the good.” Edym shot back, his voice rising slightly. “I want to show you how-”

“I don’t need your help, Edym.” Scanlan cut him off. Like hell he was going to get lectured to by a rich elf boy who didn’t understand the value of having a roof over your head. He unlocked his door and stepped inside. “But if you hate this place so bad, nothing is stopping you from leaving.”

Edym’s face fell. “You misunderstand.”

Scanlan shook his head, trying to gauge the other man. “I think I understand plenty.”

The Half-elf was silent, frowning at him. A moment passed.

Scanlan sighed and closed the door.

—

That night he dreamt of far off places. Dark ships sailing in the night, and a land filled with sun and sands.

—

The next day was dark and dreary, clouds blocking out the sunlight and casting the whole city in a semi-darkness. But the rain stayed away and - considering his low funds - Scanlan was eager to try out his newly discovered spot. The morning started off well, and he soon found his money pouch clinking with coins. During lunch hour he took a brief break to buy a hot sausage bun from a vendor down the street from him.

Holding the wrapped bun in both hands, the heat of it managed to warm his hands as he walked back towards his spot. Drawing near still chewing his lunch, he froze when he noticed two boys standing where he had set up shop. They wore ragged, green coats and chequered caps.

Aron’s boys.

He swallowed, eyes darting to the streets left and right of him. It didn’t seem like they had spotted him yet, so he decided a hasty retreat would serve in his best interest. He turned around and immediately bounced into a large boy standing directly behind him. Scanlan fell back, dropping his lunch as he tried to catch himself.

“Hey Scanlan.” The boy before him rumbled. He was tall, had a mess of black hair and wore the same chequered cap as the other two kids. Scanlan tried to scramble to his feet, but was instead pulled up by his vest. The kid was at least thrice his size.

“Word reached us you’ve been living in that fancy little tavern you like so much.” The boy said, grinning. He had at least two teeth missing. Scanlan clutched at the boy’s fingers, trying to release himself from the strong grip.

“Imagine our surprise, seeing as last time we ran into you, you didn’t have the money to pay us.”

Scanlan struggled with the boy’s grip, his vest choking him. “Yes, well. Sometimes people get unexpectedly lucky, Aron.” He offered, grimacing.

“Nahh,” Aron said, “You having that kind of money can only mean one of two things. Either you’ve been stealing, or…” He waved his left arm in a slow, wide arc, gesturing towards the buildings surrounding them. “You’ve been busking on my turf.”

Scanlan watched as the kid plucked his coin purse from his belt. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. Aron held the gnome closer to his face and weighed the purse in his other hand, his grin widening. “That’s a lot of coin, my boy.”

A sudden wave of anger rolled over Scanlan. Being this close to the taller boy’s face, instinct overtook him. As he flashed Aron a vicious smile, he leaned back into the kid’s grip and kicked forward with both of his feet.

“I’m not your boy, dillweed!” He shouted.

To his satisfaction, he could feel something crunch underneath his boots. Aron cried out in anger, his grip on Scanlan’s vest lessening. Scanlan pried of the remaining fingers on his vest and managed to release himself. Falling back, the wind was knocked out of him when he made contact with the ground. His heart hammered in his chest, and he started crawling backwards. He briefly noticed the pedestrians around them giving them a wide berth, but before he had a chance to get up, a large hand reached out gripped his left arm like a vice. Scanlan was unceremoniously hoisted up in the air for a second time, but this time he could feel the bones in his arm being crushed.

“Last time I broke your stupid, little instrument. But this time I think I’ll break your pretty little face!” Aron bellowed. Before Scanlan could throw up his arms in protection, a large fist flew at him from the side and stars exploded inside his skull.

The world was spinning and pain radiated from the right side of Scanlan’s face. He barely registered rearing back for another hit. Panicked, Scanlan grabbed onto Aron’s left hand and bit down, hard. Hot blood welled up beneath his teeth. Howling in pain, Aron released him again, but this time Scanlan hit the ground running.

His right eye stinging like the nine hells, he stumbled away from his attacker half-blinded. There were throngs of people now, some having stopped to watch, and he ducked behind a couple of older women on the sidewalk. Head throbbing, his focus was on the alleyway he had spotted earlier, hoping he could at least use his size to an advantage and make his pursuers lose him among the crowd. Sprinting into the alley, his heart sank when he heard Aron’s shouting “Get him, you idiots!” not far behind. He might have miscalculated.

Vision swimming, heart pumping, Scanlan started a uncoordinated scramble up a pile of crates blocking the end of the alley. Perhaps if he got high enough, he could reach the roof of the building behind it, and then… well, he’d plan for his next move when he’d get there.

As he heaved himself up the final crate, he felt someone grab his leg from behind. Blind panic setting in, he started kicking back to prevent himself from getting dragged back down. Boot making contact, he heard someone grunt behind him and the hand released its grip.

Scanlan quickly got to his feet and turned around. Looking down he could see all three thugs below him now. Great, it’s a party.

Aron was looking at him with a furious look on his face; blood was streaming from a clearly broken nose, and his hand had a nasty bite mark. One of his lackies was already trying to climb back up the crates, having partially fallen down due to Scanlan’s struggle.

A slow, vicious grin appeared on Aron’s face as he watched Scanlan’s panicked look. “Give it up, gnome. If you make us come get you, things won’t be pretty.”

As he saw Aron’s shit-eating grin, a sudden hot rage filled Scanlan’s chest. He couldn’t stand the guy, or his stupid face. He heaved himself up tall, a surge of adrenaline spreading through his body. It was like a well of electricity building up inside of him, making his fingers tingle with nervous energy. He pointed down at the thugs below and took a deep breath.

“Listen up, assholes. Don’t even think of climbing up here. If any of you lay a finger on me, a broken nose will be the least of your problems. The city guard will need help scraping your ugly mugs of the street, because when I climb down these crates, I’m personally going to kill every last motherfucking one of you!” Scanlan yelled, his voice vibrating with pent up rage. As he heard his words bounce back to him, he scrunched his eyes shut, his head dizzying with pain and anger. His voice seemed impossibly loud to him in that moment, reverberating through the alleyway like a thousand shouts - but maybe that was just a concussion speaking.

When finally the echoes died down, he expected laughter. But silence followed.

He carefully opened up his left eye. Through a blurry haze, he could only just make out the retreating backs of all three thugs as they rounded the corner at the other end of the alley.

Hesitating, Scanlan just stood there. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do now. Slowly, his knees buckled underneath him and he sat down on the crate in a confused daze. Seconds passed.

“Wow.” Said a female voice above him, and he recognized it as Mouse. Somehow, he was not surprised. He realized she had just witnessed him cuss out Aron and his gang. An amused smile flickered across his face.

The young girl carefully emerged from behind a chimney up on the roof and looked down at the gnome from above. “I mean, wow!”

“…Yeah.” He replied slowly, staring down at his hands. Sitting there, his body felt tingly and heavy, like he expended all his energy on that one final, rage-fuelled tirade. Or maybe it was just all the adrenaline leaving him.

“You really sent them running.” Mouse said, crouching down near the gutter directly above him.

“I guess so.” Scanlan said, rubbing his aching right eye, trying to clear his vision. He unsteadily got back to his feet.

“They’ll probably be back, though.”

He looked up the gutter above him, judging the distance. He was in no hurry to climb down and follow Aron and his goons out of the alley, so he had to think of alternative exits. He flexed his fingers, bent his knees, reached up and… jumped. His hands found purchase on the slimy edges of the gutter, but his feet scrambled uselessly against the rocky wall. A couple of seconds passed as he dangled.

He coughed politely.

“You want some help?” Mouse asked, watching him from the same spot, not having moved.

“That would be swell.”

—

It was late. Very late. Scanlan didn’t know how late, and he didn’t care. He stumbled from the backstage bar, almost collapsing into the corridor. Steadying himself against the opposite wall, he noticed a portrait of a stern looking lady looking down at him. He pushed himself upright and waved a finger in her face.

“At least you don’t have to, eh… pay rent.” He slurred. He wished he didn’t have to pay rent either. That would make his life a whole lot easier.

“Scanlan?”

He whipped around. It was Edym. He was wearing a long woollen coat, and had his lute slung over his shoulder, like he had just come from outside. Or was leaving. Scanlan noticed the Half-elf was frowning at him.

“Hey, Elf boy.” Scanlan grinned. Then he hesitated. “Wait, I’m still annoyed at you.”

“You’re drunk.” It wasn’t a question, but Edym’s voice wasn’t admonishing either.

Scanlan twirled around, waving at the door he had just come from. “Well, you would be too if you had shown up for my goodbye party!” He laughed. When Edym’s eyebrow arched up, the gnome sighed. “Tonight’s the last night.”

He clumsily turned out his empty pockets, to signify his lack of funds. “So, I guess you got your wish after all, no more Scanlan at the Silver Heron.”

Edym’s lips curled up in a half smile, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny, it turning out that way.”

Scanlan rolled his eyes at him. “I see you still can’t help being an asshole.”

He tried to push past the Half-elf, but Edym stepped out of the way unexpectedly, making Scanlan stumble. Edym shot out a hand to steady him, but Scanlan quickly brushed him off.

“I still don’t need your help.” He mumbled, feeling a weird mixture of annoyance and shame. But Edym wasn’t listening. He reached out again and Scanlan felt the Half-elf’s soft fingers on his face. He could see surprise flash in Edym’s eyes as he turned the gnome’s chin towards him. Scanlan realized the right side of his face must look a mess by now; he could feel the bruising underneath his eye, and the swollen, broken skin on his cheekbone.

“What happened?”

Scanlan slapped away Edym’s hand and turned his back towards him, staring down the corridor. He swayed in place, something preventing him from simply walking away.

“Like you said, Edym. There’s a whole world out there.” Scanlan laughed humourlessly. “But not everyone wants a hoodlum like me in it.”

Edym was quiet, but Scanlan felt the Half-elf’s hand settle on his shoulder. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t-”

“You don’t need my help, I know. But… humour me.” Edym interjected. “Please.”

When Scanlan turned to cast a glance at him, he caught a concerned, apologetic look on the Half-elf’s face. He didn’t seem so arrogant then. Maybe just somebody who had trouble finding the right words to say.

Which was ironic, for a poet.

For some reason it convinced Scanlan.

“Well, please has always been the magic word.” He replied. A smile flickered across Edym’s face.

–

Edym guided him up the stairs, no easy feat as Scanlan realized he had a little more to drink than he had intended. But it was his goodbye party, after all, and the other musicians had given him a proper farewell. They walked past his room, around a corner, and up another stairs Scanlan hadn’t explored before. This must be the attic, he thought. Edym left him standing in the narrow corridor as he opened a heavy, oak door at the end of the stairs.

The chamber beyond wasn’t large, although compared to Scanlan’s room everything seemed spacious. There were two long, leaded windows on the opposite wall, and a slanted roof on both sides of the room. There was a simple bed to the left of the door, with a large wooden chest at the end. A small, narrow desk was on the other side, with a shelf above it containing many different jars and pots. There were papers on the desk, and many kinds of maps and other drawings pinned to the wooden roof boards all around the room.

Scanlan stared at it all while he was guided to sit on the bed by Edym, who promptly turned around and lit a small oil lamp on the window sill. In the soft, orange glow, Scanlan could see the details of one of the drawings above the bed. A dragon, casting flames on a forest below. In the margins of the paper, there seemed to be a few lines of song verse scribbled in careful, black lettering;

In peril the knight did careful treadBold Ayla, her end in stone was setIt came upon her like a veil of dread With flaming tongues of gold and red

Edym closed the door and then started rummaging through the jars on the shelf, looking for something.

“Did you draw these?” Scanlan asked in awe.

“No.” Edym replied. Walking towards the foot of the bed, clutching one of the jars, he cast a look at the page Scanlan was studying. “Well, some… Most are from books.”

The Half-elf knelt down and opened the chest, searching through its contents. He pulled out a piece of cloth and tore it in half. Scanlan was distracted, taking in some of the maps and other drawings hanging above him. It wasn’t what he had expected to find in Edym’s room.

“Are they Inspiration? For songs?”

“Well, yes. But it’s… more than that.”

A restless soul, Scanlan thought. There was more to Edym than met the eye.

Edym removed a lid of one of the jars and used his fingers to smear some of the white, thick ointment on the cloth he had prepared. He looked up and carefully put a hand on Scanlan’s chin, moving the gnome’s face towards the light. Scanlan wrinkled his nose as the strong herb-like smell wafted over him.

“Hold still.” Edym said, and Scanlan closed his eyes. The Half-elf started applying the salve around his injured eye, obviously careful about not pressing the bruised skin too hard. The substance was cold and oily, but felt surprisingly soothing against his skin. Scanlan frowned.

“Your hands are soft.”

Edym let out a soft laugh while continuing his work. “Thanks?”

Scanlan opened his left eye. “It’s not a compliment. It’s just… I had expected different from a lute player.”

Edym’s smile lingered on his face, eyebrows raised. “Hmm. What can I say, I’m blessed by my Elven heritage.”

Scanlan closed his eyes again, snorting. “That sounds like horseshit.”

“Ah, well.” Edym finished his work, wiping off the excess. “Keep that on there for the next hour or so, it will dry up but help with the swelling and bruising.” He turned around and Scanlan peeked at him. Edym seemed different in his room. Like he had let his guard down. He watched the Half-elf return the jar to the shelf, and smirked when the young man almost knocked over a few books on the desk. Maybe he was not the only one who had something to drink.

Edym wiped off his hands on his coat, and sat down next to Scanlan on the bed. He looked around, seemingly a little lost on what to say.

“So, singing, lute-playing, reading, drawing… healing. Any other skills you are hiding?” Scanlan asked amused, mirroring Edym’s words from a few days before.

Edym looked up sharply. Noticing Scanlan’s mischievous grin, a careful smile appeared on his face. “What can I say? I’m a multi-layered onion of surprises.”

They both laughed, and Scanlan was glad he had gone with him up to his room. It seemed an intimate sort of place, and he would never have known about it if he had let his pride take over. He felt like he might have misjudged Edym. There were indeed layers there. The realization that the Half-elf wrote most of his poetry surrounded by drawings of dragons and the Feywild made him strangely endearing.

Scanlan leaned back against the bed, eyes on the ceiling. Edym watched him read some of the texts on the pictures above. A comfortable silence settled between them. Scanlan closed his eyes, thoughts wandering.

“So… Where will you go?” He asked, breaking the quiet.

There was a brief pause.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid, Edym. I know you’re leaving.”

He opened his eyes and looked at the Half-elf sitting next to him. “That’s what you meant right? Before? About it being funny it working out this way. You meant our goodbyes coinciding.”

Edym eyed him carefully. “Yes.”

“Look, contrary to what I let on I don’t actually blame you.” Scanlan sighed. “All those things you said? They’re true.” He sat up and wrung his hands, staring at the dirt underneath his fingernails.

“This city doesn’t want me. So, if I could get out of here like you, I would too. But I wouldn’t last two seconds out there.”

Edym let out un unexpected laugh, and Scanlan gave him a quick, curious look. It was not the reaction he had expected.

“You would do a whole lot better than me.” Edym said, giving him a strange look. His eyes were soft.

Scanlan frowned, leaned forward and gestured at the bruised side of his face. “Look at this, Edym. I can’t even protect myself out on these streets. How can I last out there on the road?”

“Scanlan, I don’t know how to convey this but…” Edym sounded uncertain, hesitating. He licked his lips, then seemed to focus on Scanlan’s black eye. “First, tell me what happened.”

“I told you what happened.” Scanlan replied, raising an eyebrow. He felt like he was missing something.

“No, I mean, what really happened.” Edym insisted. Scanlan hesitated, but then decided to humour him.

“I got in a fight with a bunch of assholes. There’s this kid… He’s got an attitude problem.” He began, and he saw Edym’s eyebrows twitch.

“Sounds familiar.”

Scanlan laughed. “Not like me, asshole. He’s the kind that likes to intimidate people.” He shifted his weight, sinking back in a memory.

“He’s laid claim to one of the more affluent neighbourhoods, and he doesn’t like it when people try to earn an honest living on what he views as ‘his’ streets. So… he doesn’t like me.”

Edym grew quiet, but then asked; “Is he the one that destroyed your lute?”

“Yeah, like I said, a real dick.” Scanlan replied.

Edym nodded. “So, you got in a fight again. What happened next?”

“He punched me in the eye. I kicked him in the face and then I ran for my life.”

“You got away?” Edym asked, confused, like that was not how he expected the story to go.

“No… he and his friends came after me, cornered me in an alley and I… eh,” Scanlan hesitated, “Well, I shouted at them. Threatened them, actually. And they left me alone.”

“You… shouted at them, and they left?” An odd expression appeared on Edym’s face, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“I think they might have just thought I was more trouble than I was worth.”

“These were humans, though, right?” Edym asked, smiling. “They don’t sound like the sort to just run away from one measly gnome.”

“Well, who knows why they left,” Scanlan replied, growing more suspicious at Edym’s tone of voice. Like he was not understanding a joke. “Maybe they thought it was more fun to let me stew in my panic- What are you grinning at?”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Edym said, and Scanlan felt a wave of annoyance flare up in him again. Or maybe it was all the alcohol.

“You’re being an asshole again.” He pointed out and stood up, frustrated. The room started spinning and he grabbed for Edym’s shoulder. The Half-elf reached out and helped steady him.

Edym shook his head. “Gods, Scanlan. I might be an asshole, but you’re a damn idiot.”

“Well, thanks, I guess.” Scanlan said, releasing his grip from Edym’s shoulder, confused. “Very enlightening.”

Before he could move away, Edym held onto his shoulders, soft green eyes focusing intently on his. “Wait… I’m about to tell you something that’s going to change your life.”

There was a pause, and Scanlan could see a sudden hesitation appear on Edym’s face. The Half-elf looked away, frowning.

“Well, shit.”

“Wha-”

The next question was erased from Scanlan’s mind when Edym suddenly leaned forward and kissed him, hard. Scanlan blinked, the sudden move blindsiding him. He felt his cheeks flush with heat, his eye throbbing. His fingers pressed against Edym’s chest, he could feel the soft thrum of the Half-elf’s heart below the fabric of his shirt. Holding his breath, Scanlan closed his eyes, his world spinning to a single point. Soft lips. The taste of mulled wine.

When Edym finally pulled back, Scanlan slowly opened his eyes and just stared. The Half-elf gave him an embarrassed, soft smile.

“Sorry, that’s not actually what I wanted to say. Although… I have been wanting to do that.”

“Uh…” Scanlan’s brain drew a blank. The kiss had been unexpected. But… nice.

Only inches from each other, Edym grinned at him, his hot breath on the Scanlan’s face. It smelled sweet. “The thing I wanted to say, Scanlan… is you’re magic.” Edym whispered excitedly. “Your music. Your words. They have power you don’t even understand.”

A confused daze settled on Scanlan as he carefully sat back down. A few moments passed, and Edym’s expression changed to one of worry.

“Scanlan? I hope I’ve not upset you.”

“You mean, like… metaphorically, right?” Scanlan said, staring at Edym. “I mean, with that kiss and all…”

Edym laughed at him. “No, you idiot! You’re magic! Literally!”

Scanlan just fell in a deeper confusion.

“Your music,” Edym began, searching Scanlan’s face for comprehension, “it casts spells on people. You didn’t just threaten those bullies, you scared the ever-living hell out of them by enchanting their minds.”

Edym’s voice had a soft awe to it, which would have sounded endearing at any other moment. But right now, Scanlan was just trying to find the logic in what Edym was telling him.

The Half-elf watched him closely. “You’ve been doing it for a while.”

Scanlan frowned. He probably had too much to drink for this. Hesitating, he finally only uttered a single word; “Spells?”

“Yes.” Edym smiled, “You must have an extraordinary strong magic ability if you’ve been casting them without a spell focus. For someone like you it’s usually a musical instrument. That’s how I first noticed it.” He had a mischievous look on his face. “I mean, granted, you’re charming when you sing. But when you played my lute, it was… something else.”

“When you mean someone like me…?” Scanlan said, coming to his senses.

Magic. Him? It seemed like a strange dream.

“A bard. And I don’t mean like those you see play down in the tavern either.” Edym gripped Scanlan’s hands. “A proper bard, like the books talk about.”

Holding hands, Scanlan could feel the heat radiating from Edym’s soft fingers. He watched the awe in the Half-elf’s eyes. A slow, wicked smile appeared on Scanlan’s face.

“It’s kinda cute how excited you get about all this book and magic stuff.”

Edym shook his head with a soft smile. “The point is, you don’t have to be afraid of anything out there, Scanlan.” He cast the gnome a fond look. “I mean, with some-”

Edym was cut off when Scanlan leaned forward and kissed him again. If felt like the right thing to do.

If only for tonight.

—

That night he dreamt of a great battle above the cradle of creation, a city full of shouting people, and a brave Half-elf boy going on a journey into the unexplored.

—

Scanlan awoke in his room. The bright sun shone through the small window above his footboard, light hitting his eyes. As consciousness crept up on him, the last remnants of a dream left a bittersweet memory. He stared up at the ceiling above, empty of any drawings. When he turned on his side, he noticed the well-worn, intricately carved lute leaning against the wall next to his door.

He closed his eyes, unexpectedly moved by the sight.

When he got up later, he found Edym gone. He had already known. Nobody could tell him where the Half-elf went. None of the musicians knew. He had a restless soul, they told him.

You couldn’t expect someone like that to stick around.

But he found a note inside the lute, later, while playing it for the first time in a field of celandines just outside the city gates.

When he opened it, it showed lines in carefully written ink, like a verse to a song:

Into the unknown the bard did careful treadBold Scanlan’s faith no longer setThough many words are left unsaid I know of him one day books be read

END

#Critical role #scanlan shorthalt #scanlan #critfic #fanfic #I love my bard boy

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sampagnereads · 6 years ago

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The seventh round of TomeTopple is right around the corner - seriously, it starts tomorrow - and so I thought that now would be the perfect time to post my tbr for it! This is my first time participating in this readathon, even though I’ve wished to do so multiple times in the past, and I couldn’t be anymore excited about it! Basically, the only rule of this readathon is to read books over 500 pages, and though there are challenges, I decided to ignore them and instead try to read as many tomes as possible! Mostly, because I couldn’t complete two of the challenges, and it frustrated me, so. Yes. Anyway! Here’s TomeTopple’s Twitter account, and below the cut, you can find all the books I’m planning on reading during this round of the readathon!

Wundersmith: The Calling of Morrigan Crow, by Jessica Townsend.

This 544 pages long middle grade fantasy book is one of my most anticipated books of the year, and I’m finally going to get my hands on it this evening, hence why it’s perfect for me to be reading it during this readathon! This is the second book in the Nevermoor series, so I can’t exactly tell you about its summary without spoiling things. Instead, I’ll be describing the first book to you! Okay, so. Nevermoor follows the story of Morrigan Crow, who was born on a certain day that makes her a cursed child. Basically, what this means is that everything bad that happens in her town and around her is blamed on her, and that she’s supposed to die on her eleventh birthday (I think, but my memory for these things is not the best, so). So, yes. Right before she’s meant to die, this mysterious man called Jupiter North appears and whisks her away to this fantastical city called Nevermoor. To stay there and avoid death, though, she needs to participate in some trials to become part of an elite society. Whilst I would not compare it to Harry Potter because the books are completely different, it gave me the same kinds of vibes I got from HP the first time I read it, and like... That means a lot. Basically, I adored Nevermoor, and I absolutely can’t wait to get to Wundersmith.

Strange the Dreamer, by Laini Taylor.

Quick confession time: I was supposed to have finished this 536 pages long book by October 31st for a book club I’m part of. A book club I started. And yet? Yet, I’m only 30 pages into it. Good thing is, that means I have over 500 pages left, and that I don’t feel bad for reading it during TomeTopple even though I’ve already started it. Thing is, I need to finish this book. I need to be a good book club host. Also? This book is hard to summarize, so I’ll do my best. Basically, from what I understand, Strange the Dreamer follows Lazlo Strange, a librarian (my future job yeehaw!) who’s always been fascinated by this city whose name has been forgotten, and who has seemingly disappeared. For years, people have only been able to recall the word ‘Weep’ when trying to remember its name, and yeah. And I’m pretty sure Lazlo gets a chance to go there, and! Yes, that’s pretty much all I know. Still, I’m very, very excited to read it. I read Daughter of Smoke and Bone by the same author and disliked the story but LOVED the writing style, so... To read another story by her? A story I’m almost certain I’ll love? To say that I’m pumped would be an understatement.

Bridge of Clay, by Markus Zusak.

This 537 pages long book is the one I’ll be prioritizing least out of the three, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less excited about it. All I know about this book is that it follows a family made up of five brothers down in Australia. I’m going to be 100% honest with you here, the main reason I’m excited about this book is because I loved Thunderbirds, which follows five brothers, growing up, and when I heard the premise of this book I literally froze out of shock. Like, yes please. I don’t need to know anything else, I just want to delve into these family dynamics like, yesterday. Plus, I read the first chapter, well prologue, for a try the first chapter thingy, and I ADORED it. The writing’s so... Weird, and that’s totally up my alley. It’s not regular, it’s a bit confusing, and it reminded me a bit of a surrealist painting I saw once in a museum. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but that’s how I felt, so... Such is life.

#tbr #tome topple #sam's tbrs #booklr

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igivezerohoots · 7 years ago

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Till we meet again - Grayson Dolan Imagine (AU) - Final Part

A/N: War is not a joke and should never be treated as such. Numerous people die and lose their loved ones every minute of every day due to living in the cruel circumstances war causes. The countries and chronology are merely fictional. The sole intent of this piece of writing is to show how cruel war is and how love can sometimes be the only thing we have left at such harsh times. Having said that, I poured my entire heart while making this, so I hope you enjoy it.

Summary: It is the year of 2032. The entirety of almost the whole globe has been engulfed by the cruel reign of war. One of the nations that hasn't yet succumbed, one of the most formerly successful and rich countries, is Inopia. The downsides of war have been ruling over the country for the last years. Grayson and Y/n have lived the consequences of warfare in their homeland; poverty, dehydration, famine and ruthless crime. Their biggest fear is for the war to arrive to Inopia, as well. The two stick together despite difficulties, injuries or fights. But, when the cloud of war slowly begins infecting their own country, too, and Grayson's biggest secret comes to light, they wonder if there is anything that can be done for them just to be happy. But, how can they live happily if they are apart? Continuation: It is the year of 2037. War has truck Inopia, as well. After meeting an old friend and being tormented under the cruel circumstances of war, it is questionable whether Y/n can be truly happy. What will happen when she learns the news that devastate her heart? Can there really be a happy end?

You really thought it was him when the door slowly creaked open and revealed him. He looked at you with the same beautiful eyes, parted his rosy lips in confusion and let his eyebrows furrow slightly at your presence. Through the tides of your constant tears, you had stood up, taking him all in. You had missed him so much, so dearly; yet here he was, three weeks later, appearing before you. All those cold, restless nights that passed by, all the pain you had undergone; it would all finally dissolve like sugar mingling with hot chocolate.

Within his left palm he held his suitcase, his clothes tattered and his formerly slim stature frighteningly skinny. The hair sprouting from his head was dark and wild, disheveled. There was dirt and sweat upon his glistening complexion, and his facial hair had grown much more than you remembered. But, then you saw it. You looked within his hazel eyes again, watching with wonder as bewilderment and recognition became one. But those eyes were different, those eyes were thin and harsh. Your trembling jaw had dropped open when realization struck you.

"Y/n?" His low voice called, a voice familiar, which you had heard many times before. Of course. How could you forget him? How could you forget a person that changed your life so significantly? Your sadness was momentarily numbed, a broken smile capturing your lips; an expression feeling outlandish to your muscles.

"Ethan."

"It'll be okay," You heard his voice tell you softly. You gazed within Ethan's sympathetic eyes, nodding hesitantly. Your heart was fraught with fear. His hand firmly held yours, squeezing it in order to calm you and himself down. You heard his shuddering inhale of breath, felt the terror coursing through his body.

Children are clutching to their mothers' embrace, couples, young and old, hold each other, orphans and widows and widowers are holding hands with strangers, afraid for their lives. A baby sleeping within its mom's comforting hold; nothing could prepare the poor thing for what was about to happen. Nothing could prepare anyone for what was about to happen. Even though you had lived it countless of times, even though you had broken down from the sheer horror, you still couldn't get used to it. How could you? How could anyone?

The air is so thin and sparse that you can hardly breathe, and it makes your lungs suddenly pulse for oxygen, feeling strangled. You so badly want to make light of the situation; to make yourself and everyone feel better. But you can't. Those people, they are all so scared. How could anyone be happy within a bomb shelter?

The air raid siren is still going off; such a dreadful sound to all the citizens' ears. The planes are incoming. No one knows where they will attack. You hold Ethan's hand tighter, feeling your heart pound your eardrums. Your eyes are ceaselessly shifting, the little hairs upon your skin standing straight and your knees wobbling. You take one final look at Ethan, who has his eyes closed. His face is drained of all color, his brows slanted nervously and his breathing unsteady. You want to comfort him and to take his fear away, yet you aren't at a better state either.

And then it happens.

You have briefly any time to hear the whistle of the first bomb before hell is revived. The desperate cries and screams filling the room have your mind in shreds. You clamored, too, at the first strike, yet now you are whimpering feebly, hiding your face in Ethan's arm. The lights of the underground room flicker erratically and a few people begin weeping helplessly; the shrill cries of the little baby make your heart clench. The mere sounds of the horrid happenings outdoors have your stomach constricting painfully. Ethan gently pulls you in his embrace when he hears your mewling; all you try to focus on is his irregular heartbeat.

Most of the lethal strikes are far away, but one lands upon a nearby building, blasting and splitting ears and leaving hell on its wake. The sound of fire and the muffled screaming of people who didn't manage to hide in time is the only thing that can be heard. Glass shattering, explosions arising, the terrifying noise of planes that hiss through the air. They are heading away from where you are, however. Thankfully.

You have hardly any sense of time. It seems like it has been years of your standing here, yet after some time, the door to light opens. It is finally over. You pull away from Ethan, still dazzled and trembling. The people slowly begin exiting the shelter, and you follow after them with your heart in your throat. You can only hope that your home is okay and still intact. Your eyes hurt as they see the light of day, widen when they come face to face with the chaos put upon the land. The fire is taller than the sky, the remnants of the demolished buildings aflame and turned to ashes. You can slightly make out the corpses beneath the dense cinders and look away, feeling nauseous. This could have been you. This could have been Ethan. This... this could have been Grayson.

You stood very lucky, this time. It seems like the majority of the destruction was aimed toward the southern regions of the country, far away from where you are, while damage has also been inflicted upon the near cities; you are lucky to have escaped from absolute demolition. One thing that you are worried about is that the army will begin demanding for soldiers from the northern parts of Inopia. You dread the thought of Ethan going to war; you can't lose another like this. What if, God forbid, anything happens and he soon has to leave, too? You don't know what you will do. You can't stand the thought of being all alone again.

"Ethan, you okay?" You ask softly, looking back at him. His head elevates and the slight filbert hue within his irises quiver when he locks eyes with you. They look cloudy, sleepless and sad. You know Ethan has been thinking again. Of the war, of you, of his brother, of his very well-being. He is scared to fight. Sometimes, Ethan can hardly defeat his own demons; what makes people think that he would be capable in the disarray of war?

"I'm fine," He responds hastily, nodding his head and faking a smile. "Let's just go home, okay?"

As the people slowly scatter around, seeking for their homes, Ethan and you begin your own journey to your house. That small space seems to make you remember so many pleasant memories. It was where Ethan first took you when you met, where you came to know Grayson, where you have dwelled for the past seven years of your life. It seems surprising just how different your life would be if you had never met Ethan in the first place.

You recall that he was working as a volunteer in the HHP organization, offering a safe haven to the homeless, feeding orphans and handing out blankets to the poor. He always looked like a troubled young man, with a bright, gentle smile and a kind heart. You met him on that night when all the others had snuggled within their nooks and fallen asleep, yet slumber simply couldn't reach your swollen eyes. He had come to check on the sleeping innocents, with a lamp that emitted a faint, yellow glow hanging from his hand. He evidently noticed your sitting up next to the window, and he presumed to talk to you further. It didn't take long for you to make friends with him. He was always so admirable, so willing to put himself at risk for the sake of the ones he strove to protect.

When the terrorist attack struck the massive building maintaining the lives of hundreds of people, including your own, dousing the infrastructure with flames and taking countless lives, Ethan had helped you. He took you out of the flaming premises and led you to his home, where he offered food, shelter and company. You had seen Grayson a few times before, yet really took him in that eventful night. He fed you, clad you and kept you company while Ethan was out within the chaos, trying to save the lives of anyone he could. You were still very cautious around Ethan's twin, not really familiarized with being around him alone. But he was so polite and courteous, keeping you with him and keeping your mind off your terror. You had stayed up all night, talking and getting to know each other better. At that moment, you knew you and Grayson would get along well.

The twins were happy and optimistic as one could be, until Ethan had to move away; the amount of time he would be absent undetermined. Grayson was wrecked, having been made to say goodbye to one of the people he cared about the most. You had been there when he told you he was so lonely, sleeping alone on his bed and turning around and seeing that no one was in the room with him. That he couldn't bear the silence and isolation, that the house felt menacing as if the walls would give away and devour him whole. You were there to cure his wounded soul, you were there to hold him when he cried like a helpless child. Every night you would visit him until he was asleep, so that he wouldn't be lonely. Yet, one night, you fell asleep together, curled around each other in the same bed. Since then, you have been living under the roof of that little house.

You can almost see its silhouette as you approach, and before it is a person you recognize. She was dressed in all blue, and she was banging at the door, frantically exclaiming. You can easily recognize the uniform she is robed with; the pulled back hair, the flat, ivory shoes. Blonde strands of hair are cascading from her ponytail. She seems to be scared out of her mind; as if a serial killer is pursuing her with an axe in hand. Her nervous, green eyes glimmer with a wave of relief when she spots you, raising her hand in the air and waving at you in order to get your attention. You are able to identify her quickly; it's your friend, Judy, from the hospital.

"Y/n!" She frantically calls, rushing to your side and taking a hold of your shoulders. What is happening? Why is she so agitated? You try to seek for the answer within her eyes, but the only thing you can make out is panic. "Y/n, I know it isn't your shift today, but we need you at the hospital! The wounded are so many; we need any help we can get! Please," She momentarily pauses, breathing heavily and striving in vain to calm herself. "We need your help, please, after what happened in Oxovy, hundreds are coming in injured."

The bombing in Oxovy was a terrible happening. The terrorist attack took its toll even if soldiers had managed to evacuate many. Thousands of those who belonged to the army, all those men-at-arms, they all had families that they left behind. They all had a mother to cry for their life, a father to rip apart the newspaper, searching for his son's name among the numerous names of those who had lost their lives. They all had to leave a love behind them and serve for their country's sake. The temple that was blown up burst into ash, killing hundreds. The casualties and injuries were so many that they sent the soldiers to Inopia as well, to the first hospitals available. The thing that scared you wasn't that, however.

You hurriedly follow Judy, showing an apologetic look to Ethan as you take your leave. This is going to be a long day.

Ethan turns around in bed, sobbing vocally and moaning against his wet palms. The entirety of his shaky body rocks violently, making his throbbing lungs clamp in protest, trying to grasp any bit of oxygen they can. His spine is curved inward, his knees nuzzled close to his stomach as he continues weakly mewling, muffling his loud, broken cries within his clammy pillow. Ethan screams against the cotton material, seizing it in both hands and ripping it in half, pouring the feathery contents upon the mattress. He hollers and punches at his bed, his fists tightly shut as if they were hinged bear traps. He can't see anything; all he can concentrate on is getting all this pent-up rage out; God, how, how can Ethan make himself forget, how can he make himself forget all this pain--

Before his father left, he had told Ethan to be a strong big brother. He told his son to take care of his baby brother and stick with him at all costs; because that's how they always operated, how they always lived. They operated better together, they lived better together-- always walked through the storms hand in hand, together.

Dad had told 25-year old Ethan to be a strong person; not to bend when things were at their worst and the war came, not to cry when he saw the names of the dead in the paper. How many friends had Ethan lost, how many names had he seen upon that godforsaken, crumpled paper? Dad had told him, but Ethan never listened. He would always display his weakness, he would always shed tears and feel so depressed that he was left numb inside.

Ethan always was the outcast.

And now he starts laughing; starts laughing despite his muddy tears. He has gone from the state of being able to feel nothing to feeling too much at the same time. His little heart is ready to pop from the pressure. Snot and drool drip from his cheeks, and Ethan can't breathe. And then it is all over, just as it had started.

There is silence as Ethan feels the cold tears upon his lashes, his head throbbing from the coercion and stress. His hands grip his duvet as he slowly cries, trying to find any comfort he can find. But he gets none. His knuckles hurt from the deathly grasp.

The newspaper of the day is a mussed mess upon the floor, crinkled and full with creases.

At the bottom of the second page, there are small, black letters. They are coated in saltwater.

The name 'Grayson Dolan' is written underneath the casualties' headline, along with all the others who died at the Oxovy attack.

Work was certainly a hectic migraine today. You hardly had any time to cool your head. You asked for it however. Being a nurse was never presented as an easy profession, and never will. The amount of blood and torn flesh you came face to face with today cannot even be counted on both hands. Yet, at last, this stressful day is finally over. The sun has long gone to sleep, and it is time you went to rest, as well.

Some of your friends happen to be in the nurses' room, chatting and talking with no pause. Evidently, their topic is the incident in Oxovy, as they continue to ramble on about patients, families, and the difficulty of people having lost their loved ones there. Thank God, you didn't have to worry about anything of the sort.

"Did you hear? Leslie killed herself," says Natalie, raising a bout of gasps with her words. She nods her head, adding, "Her boyfriend, Neil, was serving as a soldier and the explosion in Oxovy killed him. Poor girl couldn't handle the heartbreak and shot herself, yesterday night."

You feel your heart clench. How can people go so easily? You would work with Leslie almost daily. Only yesterday morning, you were both laughing at a joke you had cracked. And now the poor girl is gone. You close your eyes, sighing softly. At least she is out of this hell.

"I heard her mom found her today morning; she woke up the neighbors with her screamin'! Leslie's room was like a murder scene; I heard she put the gun to her mouth and her brains--"

Splattered across the wall like minced meat.

"Natalie," You call cautiously, giving her a knowing look. Natalie closes her mouth and folds her hands together, looking down at her knees and blushing in embarrassment. You shake your head slightly, in disapproval. "We shouldn't talk about Leslie like this. The woman is gone and there is nothing we can do about it; May her soul rest in peace. No need to get all in detail, Nat. Okay?"

Natalie bashfully nods her head, avoiding your gaze; suddenly acting like a child that has been scolded for voicing mean comments. "Right. I'm sorry."

You feel a little weird as the rest of the girls glance at you, then away. What is going on with them today? Why are they acting so unlike themselves? Perhaps it is because of the stress and rushing today, all these wounds and blood, Leslie's passing. Yes, that must be it.

But still, you can tell something is off.

"Goodnight, girls. Take care of yourselves." You try, showing a small smile, attempting to lighten the heavy mood set upon the little room. "I'll see ya when I see ya."

The nurses mutter all their goodbyes as you slowly shut the door. The nape of your neck hurts terribly; so do your legs from standing upright all day long. The only thing you crave for is to go home, to take off these bloody shoes and rest your fatigued form. You feel guilty for leaving Ethan on his own for so long; you know he hates being lonely, even though he doesn't say it. Doesn't everyone hate being lonely? You've been gone the entire day today and, if you are honest with yourself, you miss his company too.

As you slowly walk down the steps of the exit, you hear a feminine voice yell your name and the sound of feet running. You turn on your heel, gazing over your shoulder and taking in the panting form of your friend, Allison. She is still dressed in the nurse's outfit, and her short, dark hair stick to the sides of her face upon a blend of tears and sweat. Her brown eyes stare at you with desperation and you cock your head to the side, your features holding nothing but concern.

"What is it, Ally?" You question softly, feeling your skin crawl when her wide eyes keep staring within your own. She's clutching something in her hands, and from what you can tell, it is some sort of paper. You raise a brow, and take a step back feeling slightly uneasy being in her presence.

"Y/n," She hiccups, her voice catching in the depths of her throat as her tears start brimming at the edge of her waterline. She pushes the paper to your chest, her lashes gluing together when she shuts her eyes, chutes of water coursing down her flushed cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to be the one to tell you, Y/n, but the others wouldn't and I couldn't--" She pauses, pressing her lips together, her little hands gripping your tense shoulders. You clutch the item to your sternum, bewildered as to why Allison's demeanor is so strange.

"I just.. When I heard about Leslie, I got scared. I don't want the same to happen to you, too!" She cries, her arms shuddering as she whimpers and blubbers incoherently. She looks up at you, her eyes glassy and congested with guilt. "Y/n. Grayson, he's... He's dead! He was in the explosion in Oxovy! He was there with Leslie's boyfriend, Y/n..."

Your body freezes, staying still like a glistening piece of ice. You shake your head, waiting for her to tell you she is fucking with you. You wait with a hammering heart, but she only shakes her head, scurrying back into the hospital. Your hand feebly reaches out to her, but in a matter of a few seconds, she is already out of sight. Your eyes continuously shift as you try to take in what just happened to you. You look down at the rumpled newspaper, your fingers desperately delving through the paper, until...there they are. The names.

You run your eyes over each name more than three times, not even aware of the light rain slowly starting to fall upon the land. And each time you pass it over, it is still the same. There, on the third column, two lines from the end.

Grayson Dolan.

You check for the date over and over again. It is today's newspaper. April 5th 2037.

You turn a page, surprised to see that there is a whole article about him. "Grayson Dolan, former YouTube star and the teenage sensation of the previous generations, has tragically died in Oxovy. Dolan was serving as a soldier when the attack struck. Eyewitnesses say he was dangerously close to the explosion while trying to save his friend, Neil O'Brien. Neither of the bodies have been found, and it seems like the fire left no trail of them behind."

The sound of the wind gently whistling fills your ears, brushing back your hair and crumpling the paper you are holding within your shaky hands. The rain slowly increases its potency, falling upon you and dampening your clothing. You feel empty. Lost. You can hardly react as you stare in the void, the color within your iris quivering along with your slumped shoulders. You always knew there would be a possibility of him losing his life. But now that it has happened, you can hardly believe it. You can't even cry from the shock.

There is that feeling of dense cement lying against your spine and ribcage as you walk home. You feel absolutely horrid. You have the massive urge to start sobbing, but nothing comes out. You feel numb inside. You know that in a while, it will all go away and you will be wailing helplessly.

The rain becomes worse as the air gradually picks up. It seems as if the elements of nature are battling together, battering your poor body. You can hardly see through the congested rain; partly from the fog, partly from the rainwater lying thick upon your lashes. Or, perhaps, that is just the tears of frustration beginning to build up. Your eyes start spewing liquid, stemming from anger, exasperation and from the utter sorrow slowly gorging you alive. You are detached. You are fraught with emotions, yet empty at the same time. You want to spread your limbs across the alley, want to sob into the aggression of the rain until you die from the cold. But, most importantly, you are tired. You are so tired.

When you reach the threshold of your home, body hunched and aquiver and leaning against the timbered door, your fingers delve against the material, thin layers gathering underneath the rims of your nails. You rest your soaring head against the door, your shirt clammy and gluing to your wet skin. You can briefly make out the sound of laughter from within the household. A hint of confusion spores within your very core; Ethan surely has learned the news, he certainly has knowledge of his twin's passing. Yet, he's laughing. It makes your face fume with heat, your heart to flutter at the audacity he has. How can he be laughing?!

You furiously reach for your keys and open the door, unsure of what exactly you are mad at. Are you irritated because you are drenched to the bones, or for Ethan's obnoxious laughter? Perhaps, you are disappointed with yourself for letting Grayson go to war and die.

As you shut the door, you are well aware of the presence of a person beside Ethan. Your eyes stare with spite at the stranger seated on your bed, a hand of soup clasped within his palm. Your ears completely neglect Ethan's greeting, your fists clenching dangerously by the sides of your body. Now he brings the homeless in your home, too? Suddenly, his philanthropic side is coming out?

The man on your bed is swathed in a blanket, his face scarred and his left arm missing. The moment you go to open your mouth and make a fuss about it, it quickly shuts on its own again. The stranger looks at you with an unreadable expression; his right eye is white and blurry, resembling that of a dead fish. The flesh-colored scar that has tainted his skin begins from his forehead, continuing down, hazardously close to his eye, and finally concluding at the side of his mouth. Your body shrinks back at the look he gives you, your eyes wide with disbelief.

"What.." You try, but your discourse halts instantly.

He sets his soup aside, his mouth turning dry with stress. He gives you a sympathetic smile, his lashes batting slowly.

And Grayson looks like he hasn't changed a bit since his leave.

You had thought of this moment so many times before. You had told yourself that if you ever saw him again, you'd run up to him, hug him so tight your arms hurt. That you'd make him feel loved and wanted, like he always should have been treated. Yet, now, it seems so different from what you had expected. The only thing you can do is stare in pure shock, feeling the water tremble within your eyes and the clench of your fists loosen. Your shoulders drop, your lips parted as you watch him stand up. Neither of you say a word.

Grayson wants to comfort, wants to hug, but he doesn't know whether he should or not anymore. He didn't know what he was thinking before. This woman before him had grown up, she had gotten older, she had gotten different. Her face hadn't altered at all, however. Those eyes were the same that would look at him when they lied down together, the ones that would crinkle in delight whenever she would laugh and smile. Those lips were the same he had kissed before taking his leave. And Grayson doesn't know what to do; he can see the tears collecting within those pearly orbs and wants to touch her, to hold her-- goddamn it Grayson wants to hold her but he puts out his hand instead.

And you look down at his hand, view his nervous gaze as he waits for you to shake it. He is waiting for you to shake his hand. You sway your head vigorously, approaching him and pushing his extended arm away. Your head rests against his chest as your trembling arms enfold his torso. Your body immediately relaxes, a warmth basking between your lungs as you hold him, fingers tightly grasping at the edge of his blouse. Grayson is taken aback, and he looks down at you, feeling the gentle tremor of your body. And just as he thought the feelings he harbored for you were starting to fade, they become more alive than ever. God, how much had he missed you. You can't see it, but a silent tear escapes his eye, gently rolling to the mound of his cheek and a smile decorates his lips.

And you couldn't let yourself get too carried away, you couldn't show your feelings like this. All this time you hadn't been with him seemed painful and so slow, yet now that he is here, it seems like no time went by at all. There was this strong desire that whispered at you to cup his face and kiss him. It's okay, however. You are the happiest you have ever been, having him back with you. It feels as if a weight from your shoulders has been lifted, like the rock boulder around your heart has been detached.

You could have spent all night talking with him, reminiscing and sharing stories; sharing those five years you lost from each other's lives. The way he lost his arm, the reason behind the scarring upon his complexion; you want to know it all. Yet, most importantly, you need him to explain how he is alive when the paper's sayings reveal otherwise. But, you simply couldn't torment him with a bunch of questions, at least not tonight. You can only imagine how tired and restless the poor soul must be. You offered your bed so he could rest for the night, told him to take some sleep. And yet...

"Y/n?"

You raise your head to the source of the quiet whisper, your heart almost melting when you look at Grayson, his good eye gazing at your standing form. You watch as the blurry moonlight shining from outside lathers the side of his face, making the rosy skin seem bluish and pallid.

"Gray," You say, and the name feels alien upon your tongue, a sharp pang burning your innards at how soft the nickname sounds, "Why aren't you asleep?"

"I just.. I can't sleep. Why aren't you?" I need you. Do you need me just as much?

You give a small smile, sitting at the side of the mattress and refraining from looking down at him. "I guess sleep can't really reach me either." I need you too. "Having you here is... overwhelming." Something I could never stop thinking of.

There is a moment of silence, and there is the urge to gaze at him yet again; you can sense his eyes, that are pinned on you, and it makes you want to squirm like a fish out of the water. You could have never imagined yourself here yet again, taking care of Grayson, being so close to him. And yet, being afraid to touch him.

"We've both changed, haven't we?" You can hear the sad smile as he speaks. You look down at your knees, fingers fiddling with the brim of your blouse as you try to answer.

"Not particularly," You hate how quiet and gentle your voice sounds, "Only as one can change. I haven't really changed. I'm just older." You emit a giggle, attempting to lighten the heavy, downcast mood hanging thick in the room.

Your heart pounds like a maniac, your breathing become slow and heavy as you try to calm yourself. Why are you so flustered? You need to calm down. "Gray.. the newspapers say you are dead." You croak, voice devoid of all life. "Are you really alive? Or am I just going crazy? I don't know what to believe anymore."

"I'm very much alive. It really is surprising how I managed to escape from the bomb's radius. It's a miracle." Grayson responds, his eyes now gazing toward the ceiling. The memories still haunt his fragile, human brain. "If I was a second too late, we wouldn't be talking right now. I'm lucky I got away with only missing an arm and an eye. Others lost their lives." He closes his eyes, his chest quivering momentarily when he inhales. "They turned into ash, Y/n. They couldn't even find their bodies. My friend, Neil, was one of them. I tried to help him, I really did.. But it simply was too late for him." A sad smile overcomes Grayson's parched lips. "He would never stop telling me about his girlfriend. He had a picture of her, always on his chest pocket. He wasn't scared of death or pain. He just didn't want to leave her behind."

You listen quietly, your left arm baring gooseflesh when Grayson gently touches the knuckles of your hand. You still keep your gaze focused elsewhere. "And I could only think of you, you know. I wondered a lot of times how cruel I was to leave you behind like that. The one thing I didn't want was for you to be sad. Yet I caused you so much pain, didn't I? It was painful to leave you behind, Y/n. It was painful to leave both of you behind. Because, a part of me was missing. I missed it all, I missed Ethan so much and I..." He gulps, his throat dry as he speaks. "I missed you so much. It was ridiculous how much I thought about you. I couldn't get you out of my mind. I could only wonder if you were alright."

His fingers lock with yours, his eyes tightly shut as he tightly grips your hand; lashes adorned with the slick of his tears. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Gray, don't. There's nothing to be sorry for. You did what you thought was right, and that's okay." You turn your head and look at him, using your thumb to gently brush a tear that trailed down his temple. "I missed you, too, Gray. It'll be okay. I'm here with you."

"I-I.." He tries bashfully, but you hush him, caressing the side you his face and pressing an impulsive kiss upon his lips. It is light and fleeting, makes his body stiffen beneath an affection which he isn't accustomed to. Suddenly, he was glad Ethan had been called to work because something happened; he'd be too ashamed to act like this before his brother.

You pull away softly, smiling at the scarlet color of his cheeks. There is a moment of quietude as Grayson slightly grazes your cheekbone with the back of his hand, sighing calmly.

"I never stopped." His voice comes out stark, unfaltering as he gazes within your eyes. You put your hand over his own, gazing at him through the slits of your eyes. You can feel the words seep within your mind, carve themselves deep within your heart. He doesn't need to say anything else. This is one of the rarest moments of your life, that deep connection you have with a person, the understatement you have for each other, as if your hearts are beating like one. You can feel Grayson's joy, his sadness, his guilt and fear. But it is all soothed. It is all alright.

I never stopped loving you.

"Me neither."

Grayson smiles feebly. "I'm glad I'm back home." The squeeze on your hand confirms it. Grayson is back. He is okay, and you will make sure it stays that way. You hope that something more will develop between you; you can feel it as you rest your head against his chest and close your fatigued eyes. You're not children anymore. And even if you were, this isn't a world for children. But there is this feeling within your very soul that tells you that you can finally be happy, that everything will be okay. And it will.

For now.

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