#tried to match them all vaugely where they are in game

[kore-cryptid]

replaying oxenfree after lost signals and i wanna get all the silly little steam achievements, it made me realize theres no just Full Map of where all the goobers are so here i did it myself

[pillage-and-lute]

Thicker Than Water (Part 4)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (here) Part 5, Part 6, Part 7,  Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

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He awoke sore and badly rested, tears dried on his face.

Jaskier made it through the next day. He ate a little of the food Ciri offered him, only because when he tried to decline the first time her eyes got large and her bottom lip showed just the barest hint of a tremble. He couldn’t bear it. The dry horse bread that was usual for traveling rations crumbled in his mouth. He was so hungry, it was one of the best things he’d ever tasted. 

Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to even unsling his lute from his shoulder during their trek. His fingers itched to play, of course. He continued his story for Ciri and in his mind he played music for the background, he just couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t sell his lute in this next town, but before they reached Kaer Morhen he would have to. It would give them money, and he wouldn’t be a burden. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and continued telling Ciri the story. 

He noticed a bit before mid day that Geralt was watching him. That wasn’t out of sorts, of course. Yennefer and Ciri were watching him too, he was an excellent storyteller and the tale was enthralling. Geralt didn’t seem to be paying attention to the story though. He was staring-- glowering--brow low and furrowed, at Jaskier. 

Jaskier felt hurt lance through him and he almost staggered, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. He knew Geralt didn’t want him along, didn’t want him at all, but he couldn’t even pretend? He couldn’t go back to their relationship before? Not the warm, almost companionable silences that had been nurtured between them, but the grunts and stone faced silence of the beginning of their acquaintance.  

Jaskier breathed through the pain in his chest. Twenty years of silences, all kinds of them, stony and friendly and sleepy and painful and quietly nice. But they were back to the beginning, or worse, Geralt angry and Jaskier’s voice filling in places it didn’t belong.

“Jaskier?”

That was Ciri, and Jaskier realized that he’d actually trailed off mid-sentence. 

“Sorry little highness,” he smiled and gave a funny little bow. “I’m but a simple entertainer, a poet and a fool, sometimes my mind runs away from me.”

“Fool is right,” Yennefer snorted. It wasn’t totally unkind, but it still stung. It stung even more when Geralt, so taciturn all day, snorted with laughter at her comment. Jaskier felt his ears burn and his chest ache.

“Now, where was I?”

“The king’s son met the North Wind,” Ciri said, matching Jaskier’s steps. “And he has to beat him in a game of wit to gain knowledge of where the sorcerer’s daughter was taken, that’s what you said, but you didn’t tell us what game yet.”

At least someone treasured his words, Jaskier thought. Although they weren’t worth much, he threw one out after the other. 

Like garbage, whispered the back of his mind.

“Ah yes,” he said instead. “the North Wind sat before the king’s son, and laid out a chess set made of ice and wind.”

“How can chess pieces be made of wind?”

Jaskier smiled, Ciri asked questions at all the right places. “The North Wind wanders, he goes everywhere, blowing cold breath across The Continent. When the North Wind is present and we breath our breath can be seen.” Jaskier smiled here and added an aside, “My little sister used to call it dragon smoke. But by the same magic that gives the North Wind a body to walk the world, he can take our frozen breath and turn it cold and solid as glass.”

Jaskier let himself tell the story on autopilot. His feet ached. He’d been darning the socks he was wearing for a year or more, but he wasn’t good at it and the lumps were rubbing his toes raw. Worse than that, the soles of his boots were almost worn through. Just one more thing he’d have to buy.

He felt ashamed of himself. His boots had been going thin for a while, and instead of saving his coin and getting them repaired or just buying new ones, he’d drowned himself in drink, feeling sorry. Oh, he hadn’t known he would be making a trip up a mountain, but he needed boots regardless. No wonder Geralt had always been upset with him, he always put pleasure over sense, couldn’t even spend coin sensibly.

Couldn’t darn socks, couldn’t budget his coin, couldn’t shut up. A fool.

He stumbled on a tree root and nearly swore. Couldn’t even walk right. One of the blisters building on his foot had burst, he was sure. It was easy to tell, the pain had gone from a rubbing ache to stinging and warm. Only years of practice and performance kept him from interrupting the story.

Something must have shown on his face though, or his scent changed or whatever because Geralt was staring at him intently. That face, always so unreadable. 

Jaskier wasn’t going to give him anything else to scowl about. He kept walking, keeping the story rolling and his voice light. His bones ached. He had to stop for just a moment when a button, long past hanging loosely on his doublet, finally pulled free. He picked it up and the head rush nearly took him to the ground. He’d eaten little, slept poorly, and the only food he’d had in a long time before this was ale. He blinked the grey from his vision, trying not to let the panic show when it didn’t go away as quickly as he’d have liked.

It was okay. It was all going to be okay. They’d make it to the village by nightfall. They wouldn’t sleep there of course but he could get proper food. Maybe even slip away and catch a quick nap in a stable or hayloft or something. His whole body was buzzing with a sort of exhausted energy and his heart was pounding.

Jaskier reflected that he hadn’t been well before meeting up with Geralt and his little family. He’d been sick with drink and heartache and had not enough food then too. 

Smile through the pain.

This wasn’t even bad as performances could go. Once he’d actually broken a finger just before a set at Oxenfurt. Simple clumsiness, he’d closed his index finger in a door, but he’d played his whole set, with a perfect score from his professor.

It grew darker, the sun just setting when they reached a field at the edge of the town. It was a large open field and, in warmer months, it was likely home to fairs and large market days. Probably in these rural areas people traveled for a week to bring their goods and livestock to this town. It didn’t matter now, mid autumn settling into late autumn. To Jaskier the town was nameless. 

They set up camp in the field. It left them exposed to being seen, but they hid themselves behind a small rise on the edge of the field, blocking them mostly from sight. Still, Geralt seemed on edge. Jaskier wasn’t sure it was about the camp. Geralt kept looking over at him with his eyebrows pressed together. Whenever he did that it formed this little crease right between his brows that Jaskier wanted to kiss away.

Jaskier bit his lip, hard, to focus on anything other than that.

The three of them sat, too tired to talk much more. Jaskier had finished most of the story and decided to leave the rest for the next day they were traveling a lot, to give Ciri something else to think about. She was definitely Calanthe’s blood. They traveled all day and she never complained, but also told them when she needed to stop, advocating for herself in no uncertain terms. It was the princess herself who interrupted his thoughts.

“You said you had a sister, do you have lots of siblings?”

“Not really,” Jaskier said, settling down on the ground and feeling his bones pop. His blisters were definitely bleeding inside his boots too. “Two older brothers, Henrik and Teodor, and I had a younger sister, Lotte.”

“Had?”

“She was sickly, always too small for her age,” Jaskier said quietly. “I learned the lute for her, at first. She liked music and was often bedridden. A fever took her when she was about your age.” Jaskier looked down at his battered boots. 

“I’m sorry,” Ciri whispered. 

“It’s allright little highness, it’s been almost thirty years now. Time flies.”

“I didn’t know you had siblings,” Geralt said. It was growly, but Geralt always used that tone.

“You never really asked.”

Dinner was a quiet affair. Jaskier ate the last of the rations in his pack, waving away Ciri’s offerings and showing her his food as proof that he had some. It didn’t really settle the hunger that had been eating him from the inside out all day, but at this point he figured he could eat a mountain and still have room for dessert.

“Tomorrow,” Geralt said gruffly once dinner was cleared away. “We don’t all enter the town as a group. Yen and Ciri go together. I go alone. Jaskier goes alone.”

Jaskier nodded, so did Ciri and Yennefer.

“If we see eachother, act as though we don’t know eachother,” Geralt said, then he turned his gaze on Jaskier. “Don’t attract too much attention.”

Jaskier bristled at getting his own private reprimand. “I’m a bard, Geralt,” he said. “How am I supposed to earn coin if I don’t play.”

Geralt grunted. “I didn’t say don’t play just no... don’t do the whole...” he gestured a vauge hand. 

“The whole...me?” Jaskier said sarcastically. He was pulling at the lion’s tail he knew, but he was in pain and tired and hungry and Geralt had no right to be so cruel.

“The whole bright colors, loud and annoying thing. Country bard, not court bard, got it?”

Loud and annoying.

“Got it,” Jaskier said, looking back down at his boots. He didn’t say that none of his clothes could have passed for courtly anymore anyway. 

They set about getting ready for bed. Ciri gave him a quick hug before she and Yennefer disappeared into their magical tent. Jaskier sat and pulled off his boots, not letting a single flicker of pain show on his face. He knew Geralt would be able to smell blood, but Geralt had gone to get water from the nearby river. He had to peel his socks off and yes, there was blood there, by now stuck into the threadbare fabric. He let himself wince then. He rinsed off the wounds but he was without bandages, so he just dried off the area and put his other pair of socks on. He only had the two pairs anyway, but at least the blisters would stay dry. 

He rolled himself into his bedroll and thought of tomorrow. At least there were no tree roots here.

The next day dawned slowly, instead of bright pinks and oranges it was a kind of runny yellow that just leeched into the sky before fading into early morning blue. Jaskier watched in admiration as Yennefer changed Geralt’s hair to short and dark, and then gave herself brown eyes and a slightly different bone structure. To look at both of them was odd, because Jaskier could see the similarities. Yennefer’s nose was changed and her cheekbones were a little different, but it was still her, and Geralt just looked like a different, although quite handsome, version of himself. Ciri was simply given mousy brown hair and some extra freckles.

Just like that, the perfect and all powerful family looked like two normal people and one witcher who was still clearly a witcher but not the white wolf. Jaskier shouldered his lute. He’d cleaned up the scruff he’d been growing into a more respectable look and with his longer hair and tatty cloak he looked like any poor traveling musician. If he’d traded the lute for a shortbow he could have looked like a woodsman, totally nondescript.

He was entering from a different direction, so as not to arouse suspicion, and so was Geralt. Jaskier began walking around, so that he could enter from the east. Yen and Ciri would walk into town the closest direction, and Geralt was entering from the west. This early, it was unlikely they would have been seen all together. 

Jaskier made his way to the eastern edge of the town and walked in, scanning the streets. If this were a farm people would be up and awake long before now, farmers wake well before dawn, but this was a town, and so few people wandered the streets. Shop keepers were just beginning to open up. Jaskier bought a couple pears, slightly overripe but cheaper because of it, off of a fruit seller and had breakfast. He tried to lock into his mind all the shops around so he could find his supplies easiest later.

His mind was resisting him though. In spite of the softer ground, Jaskier had still slept badly last night. His body ached and he wished he could find somewhere warm to lay for an hour or two. Instead he found the well. 

As wells should be, this one was right in the center of town. He set down his lute case beside it, tuned his lovely lady, and began to play.

In his very first few months after leaving Oxenfurt he had learned this trick, and used it often. If you get into a town early, play at the well. People get their water first thing in the morning and there you are.

A few young women with yokes and buckets smiled at him and he nodded in return. The day brightened a little further as the sun crept above the buildings and more people came to gather in the town square. They weren’t there to hear Jaskier, not at first, most of them came for water, or to chat with neighbors, or discuss business. Many of them gathered around him though. 

Coins clattered into the case. Mostly coppers, but in a little town like this that was quite normal. 

“As sweet Polly Oliver lay musing in bed, A sudden strange fancy came into her head. "Nor father nor mother shall make me false prove, I'll 'list as a soldier, and follow my love,” he sang.

“So early next morning she softly arose, And dressed herself up in her dead brother's clothes. She cut her hair close, and she stained her face brown, And went for a soldier to fair Rinde Town.”

Sweet Polly Oliver was one of his favorites, a simple country song about a girl and her lover in wartime. This town was far enough north that with luck Nilfgaard wouldn’t attack, but the anxiety threatened. 

Jaskier gave a good performance, perhaps not his best, but he was tired and cold and the flagstones beneath his feet were very hard. He danced about, playing sweet folk songs and jigs and reels, delighting in the people who swept up and danced along. Still, though, he felt his feet bleeding inside his boots. He played from just after dawn until perhaps an hour after noon before bowing away and taking his coin. 

He’d done better than he’d expected, but there wasn’t nearly enough coin for all the things he’d need for Kaer Morhen, and extra food to help Geralt and Ciri. He’d buy what he needed now, and they’d stop again in Ard Carraigh before the keep. He’d sell his lute there, it was a large city, and he’d get a good price. The thought still made him ache, though. 

It wasn’t just his emotions causing him pain, he realised. The aches he’d been experiencing were in his chest lately, and both physical and emotional. He just needed more rest. 

Jaskier slipped through back alleys and bent streets. He’d seen a stable on his way into town. He stepped in quietly, startling a stable hand, no more than a boy, who’d been quietly talking to a horse.

“You’re the bard,” he said. “Saw you in the square jus’ this morning.”

“That’s right,” Jaskier said, bowing a little. “I’m afraid I’ll be moving on this evening and--”

“And you want to have a kip in the stables,” said the boy. “Yeah lots o’ musicians and peddlers do that. Rule is though, I got to get a coin off ‘em first as payment. I’m sorry, but I get a beating if’n I don’t.”

“No worries,” Jaskier said, he’d expected as much. He handed the boy two copper coins. “There’s pay, won’t have you getting beaten for my sake, the second coin is to wake me in two hours.”

The boy gave him a lopsided grin. “You got it sir, thanks.”

Jaskier snuggled up in the hay loft. He’d often done it, it was pretty common, if you couldn’t buy a stay at an inn or especially if you just needed a ‘kip’ as the boy had said, during the day. He’d slept in haystacks once in a while on the road too. They were sort of comfortable and surprisingly warm and, best of all, robbers didn’t get you if you kept yourself mostly under the hay.

The scent of hay and oats and horses lulled him to sleep.

He dreamed about haystacks. For some reason Roach was in the haystack with him. Geralt and Ciri too, even Yennefer. It was a crowded haystack indeed, and it grew smaller and smaller until Jaskier had to leave it and sleep on the ground so that the others weren’t squished.

He awoke to the stable boy nudging him.

“Pardon me mister,” he said. “But it’s been two hours.”

Jaskier thanked him and brushed off his clothes. 

The shops were doing a good trade this afternoon and he’d be sure to be a face in the crowd. He bought a small cooking pot and plenty of ground oats and barley for porridge at one shop. They were light to carry and owner packaged them nicely, first in one cheap, cloth drawstring bag, and then in another such bag, but with the drawstring on a different side, so he was unlikely to lose food. 

In another stall he bought plenty of nuts, walnuts were cheap here and would keep well. Good for traveling and they had protein. Some dried jerky, dried peas, and dried lentils finished his food shopping, and also most of his coin.

It was three days to Ard Carraigh, another week to trek up to the keep. The food would sustain him for that long, and they’d probably just pool their food to make sure everyone was fed. Still, he wasn’t being a burden, not too much. 

He couldn’t afford new boots, gloves, or a cloak right now, but with the last of his coin he bought a new pair of thick, warm socks, a small roll of bandages, and a couple pieces of candied ginger in a little paper twist. He tucked them all away and left the town, disappearing back to the field and their little camp well before the sun set. 

Jaskier’s heart sunk to see that he was the last to arrive. Everything was packed up, they couldn’t risk staying in the same place two nights in a row. Geralt grunted at him, but didn’t unleash any thoughts on Jaskier being a burden, so he counted himself lucky. 

He hung his head a little at having delayed their parting and trekked after the perfect little family, his pack much heavier than it had been. Ciri slid her hand into his and they walked on in silence. The hand was nice though.

In an odd way, it hurt, too. He wasn’t part of the family, so he didn’t really deserve this, but it was painfully good to have just a taste of being wanted. 

What would happen, he wondered, when the winter was over. He was a danger to Geralt and Ciri if Nilfgaard found him. He wasn’t wanted by Geralt at all. Jaskier was reminded once again that it would be so much easier for Geralt to kill him, or for Yennefer to wipe his memory. Maybe he could fake his death to get Nilfgaard of his trail.

“Jaskier?” Ciri asked. “How did you become a bard?”

Jaskier looked down at her, maudlin thoughts interuppted. “Oh, well, it’s not as though you have to register, you just become one. Walking into an inn and saying ‘let me play for you pretty please I need food’ is a good start.”

“No,” Ciri giggled. “I meant, you said you learned the lute for your sister, but you write your own music and stuff too.”

“Oh, well, anyone can write music if they have an instrument and a good enough memory,” Jaskier said. “Indeed, many of the greatest bards had little education at all, I, however, studied at Oxenfurt.”

“Did you like it?”

“Sometimes. It was school, and some parts were dull but I learned much.”

“I heard some of the maids giggling once about a young scholar who’d come to stay with us,” Ciri said, matter of factly. “He was always in the library and was kind of snooty with me when I asked questions, but the maids were saying he certainly had a lot of ‘carnal knowledge’. Did you study that too?”

Jaskier was choking on thin air. 

“I, um, no it was more of a hobby,” Jaskier said before his head could catch up with his mouth. “Little Highness, I suspect you weren’t supposed to hear that conversation, and no, I studied the seven liberal arts.”

“So it was about sex, I was never sure,” Ciri said.

Jaskier coughed awkwardly. “Yes, princess.”

“It’s okay, I know about that stuff, Grandmother explained it.”

Jaskier let out a breath, at least he wouldn’t have to be the one to explain anything to her. 

“When you went to school were you scared to leave your family?” Ciri asked.

“No, pet, I was excited to go,” he wasn’t about to get into all his trauma with her, she had enough of her own, poor thing. “I couldn’t wait to learn about music and poetry.”

“Grandmother said all poets were silly romantics and dreamers, but I think that sounds nice. Do you have a moose?”

“A what?”

“I read it in a book, a moose, somebody you love and you write about it.”

“Oh, that’s one of the trickier words Ciri, it’s said ‘muse’, and yes, I had one or two.”

“Only one or two? In the book the poet had hundreds,” Ciri sounded almost disappointed. 

“I only ever needed one,” Jaskier said quietly. “One that mattered anyway.”

“And your Countess still left you,” Geralt said, rather coldly. He was doing his annoyed face and Jaskier could have kicked himself. He’d been talking too much. The reminder that the Countess de Stael had left him too hurt, but Jaskier wasn’t going to risk Geralt’s ire to say that she wasn’t the muse he was talking about. That was maybe something he should keep to himself.

“Do muses often leave?” Ciri asked, wide eyed. “If somebody was writing me poetry I wouldn’t want to.”

“No, usually the poet does the leaving,” Jaskier said. “After his muse asks him to go. There’s a shelf life on a bard, you know. We only have so many stories and songs before we’re used up and no one wants us around anymore. That’s when we move along.”

“I’ll hear your stories again and again,” Ciri said. “I won’t ask you to go.”

Jaskier’s heart curled up and whimpered inside his chest. He’d have to go sooner or later, he’d have to leave her. Geralt would get sick of him, too sick to bear even for Ciri’s sake. Or Jaskier would just have to leave of his own volition, lest he shovel shit into her life too.

If he could give her life one blessing...

“This’ll do for a campsite,” Geralt said. It was a tiny, clear area. Jaskier almost groaned. It was surrounded by oak trees, with dropped acorns that would dig into his bedroll and mottle his back with bruises come morning. He’d had a good rest in town, though, so another bad night of sleep wouldn’t be too bad, he told himself.

The others had eaten in town. Jaskier said he had too, so he wouldn’t waste rations. He had plenty, but strangely, he wasn’t so hungry lately. Anyway, always best to save.

He pulled off his boots and  his freshly bloodied socks. Ew. Ciri retired to the magic tent early, exhausted from their long days of walking. Jaskier listened to Yennefer and Geralt talk.

“We’ll need lots of supplies in Ard Carraigh,” Geralt was saying.

“We don’t have any money,” Yennefer replied. 

Jaskier had his back to them as he cleaned the wounds on his feet, but he could picture grave expressions. 

“We’ll get some, I’ll do a quick contract there, something. We’ll need a cart and pony to get Ciri up The Killer, it’s too much for her, it’s too hard for some witchers even.”

“That’ll cost,” Yennefer said. “But you’re right. I wish I could portal us but--”

“Tracking, exactly. There’s always plenty of contracts in cities, it’ll be fine.”

Jaskier looked at the blisters on his foot, they’d opened more with his long performance that day. It was no matter, he wound the bandages around them and put on his new, thick socks. At least his feet would be warm. 

Not too warm, though. He spotted a hole in the bottom of his boot that he hadn’t noticed before.

And they needed lots of money for Ard Carraigh. No matter. He knew how to get some.

He pretended his eyes filled with tears from the pain of blisters, not from heartache, as he pushed his feet back into his boots and opened the lute case. He pulled out his beautiful girl. He wouldn’t play her, it would annoy Geralt. He’d always hated Jaskier’s music, although he hated to hear Jaskier sing even more. 

Pie with no filling.

Jaskier wished he could play her, though. It was going to break his heart to part with her, and he didn’t think he’d ever played another instrument as fine. If he could, he’d play her every second until he had to sell her. 

Probably for the best, though, if he was going to fake his death. She was distinctive.

He brushed a hand over the beautiful wood work on her front. There was a little bit of linseed oil left, and he poured it on the rag he kept in the case and began to work over his girl lovingly. His eyes teared up again, but he fought it back. He would have smashed his lute if it meant helping Ciri. And Geralt.

Jaskier longed for Geralt to forgive him, to take him back and let him stay by his side, but he’d meant what he’d said, bards have a shelf life, and Jaskier’s time was up. 

He wished Geralt would at least speak with him, though. His heart was aching. In a completely different sense, so was his chest.

“Play us a tune, bard,” Yennefer said.

Jaskier turned around. Yen and Geralt were sitting beside eachother, close together. She looked so beautiful in her fine cloak that Jaskier wondered how he ever thought he could catch Geralt’s eye when beings like her existed.

“You know,” he said. “It’s late and I wouldn’t want to bother Ciri.”

“Tent’s soundproof,” Yennefer said, waving her hand. 

“I mean, really,” Jaskier protested weakly. Disobeying Yennefer’s request/command was like bathing your brain in lava, but Geralt was looking angry again. Some would say there wasn’t much change from Geralt’s normal expression, but Jaskier knew his face better than he knew his own. Something had made Geralt angry or upset. The only possible answer was Jaskier. It was always Jaskier. 

“Play us a song, bard,” Yennefer said. “You’ve been so quiet other than stories, I’d almost think you were a doppler, Melitele knows no one could have taught you to shut up.”

Jaskier swallowed the lump in his throat.

He began, slowly, to pick out a gently tune on his lute. It was a song about winter and home, and he knew the lyrics well. Yennefer had only asked him to play, so he would. His music was at least less offensive than his voice.

He reveled in the feel of his lute beneath his fingers, letting the feeling wash over him, committing it to memory.

When he was finished Yennefer said, “I suppose your voice was tired from your performance, I heard in the town how the bard had played such a long set.”

Jaskier smiled grimly back at her. “Just earning my keep.”

He went to bed, feeling the cold seep into his bones.

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Tag List!

@frywen-babbles @mordoriscalling @thedarkestangel1 @kerfufflezz  @live-long-and-trek-on @holymotherwolf @gryffinqueen

@samukai @charlies-dragon  I can’t seem to tag, but they’re on the list

[dyke-remy]

Remy has been gone for 30 days!

This is just a random piece of writing from the Pact AU bc I suddenly felt inspired (Remus uses h3/h1m pronouns) 

The sounds of goblins being murdered that came from Remus’ mobile game nearly drowned out the constant chatting from Patton, h1s dad, and Rowan, h1s sister.

It wasn’t that h3 didn’t want to spend time with them (In that case h3 would have just left h1s cocoon nest on the couch a long time ago). It was that those nostalgic buffons were looking through photo albums from when h3 and Ro were younger. H3 would rather not get dysphoric as fuck from looking at photos.

“Kiddo Kiddo” Patton repeatedly patted h1s shoulder to get h1s attention “Look”

H3 turned off h1s phone and leaned closer. It was just a picture of h1m standing on one side of glass pointing at a dead and stuffed up tarantula on the other side of it. H3 was holding a fox plushie and had horrible long hair and clothes that didn’t belong on h1m.

“Unless the next picture is me dissecting that tarantula I don’t get why I needed to look at that”

Patton let out a chuckle while his smile changed into more of a confused expression “Don’t you remember?”

Remus looked back at the picture, looked back on the fox’s dead eyes. H3 tried to remember where h3 was or what h3 was doing when it was taken. Tried to remember anything. Nothing. There was not a single thing h3 could remember.

“Nah. No memories here”

Rowan knocked at h1s head “Jeez you had a secret lobotomy or something? We were 13 you should remember if you’re not brain dead. Especially after you were so annoyingly excited about that trip. Ugh you went on about the prison and the animal exhibit for literal weeks before it”

“Hun don’t call your brother annoying. That’s rude” Patton corrected.

“We went on a trip when I was 13?”

Rowan and Patton both looked at h1m as if h1s brain had dropped out of h1s mouth. “Yes kiddo. To San fransico. The picture was taken in a museum”

“I told you all that hair dye would go into your brain” Rowan added “Soon you’ll forget the difference between left and right....again”

Remus glanced between the picture and the window. There was a tightness on h1s chest. The fox plushie was staring at h1m. H3 should be able to remember something. Anything at all from when h3 was 13. H3 was only 16. H3 didn’t even know what h3 did on h1s birthday that year. It was all just blurry darkness.

“Aww kiddo I thought the picture would cheer you up. You’ve been so grumpy lately. Hormones and all that I’m guessing” He pulled his son closer in some sort of half hug.

There was something on the other side of the window. Remus could feel it. Maybe it was a someone. Maybe it was the fox.

“What happened to the fox plushie?” H3 asked. “I know I had it since I was like 5 but I can’t remember where it went. It was just there and then- then not!”

Patton put on a smile to comfort h1m “You ripped it’s head off. I found you with it destroyed around you. There was stuffing everywhere. Such a mess!”

H3 had a headache from trying to remember. “I don’t....I don’t”

“It was for the best. Your sleep was so terrible for like a year before you destroyed it. You would wake up screaming and crying and stuff”

Rowan placed the photo album onto her dad’s lap and pointed at one of the pictures because she’d gotten tired of the conversation “Look it’s from my first cheerleading practice!” 

The conversation continued on while Remus sat still and tried to patch together h1s memories. This happened every time h3 remembered h3 couldn’t remember. There was a huge gap from right before h1s 13th birthday to half way through h3 was 14.

Well actually that was a lie. H3 couldn’t remember anything from school. Couldn’t remember being with h1s family. Couldn’t remember creating any of h1s old drawings or stories. But h3 could remember blurry vauge hints at why h3 couldn’t remember.

H3 couldn’t remember if the eyes had been brown or green. The only thing h3 could clearly remember was red hair.

Remus stood up and left the room. There was a nauseous feeling in the pit of h1s stomach. It felt like an octopus was crawling up h1s throat and it’s ink was filling up h1s body until h3 couldn’t talk. Couldn’t breathe.

H3 slammed the door to h1s room shut before crawling down under the blanket on h1s bed to hide. H3 took out h1s phone to check for a new message from Fox Logan. Nothing new.

Remus pulled h1s sleeve up and traced the healing scars on h1s wrist. The ones h3 matched with h1s lovely Logan. There was no better way to show love then to be hurt.

H3 just had to hold on until his birthday. Then h1s Logan would save h1m. Then it would all be over.

[inalandofmythandtimeofmagic]

Daymares

@i-am-me-i-am-sam you asked for more so here you go..

The rest of Red and White 

Prince lets his Imagination get away from him and accidently manifests the shadow versions of themselves. 

Warnings: Some violence, charecter death, ummm......some vauge suicide ideation. let me know if I missed something 

@the-prince-and-the-emo @prinxietys @prinxietyhell This is my first REAL stab at angst so tell me how i did?

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10551892/chapters/23306360

Something had happened. He didn’t know what, but something. He was doubled over in pain, his lungs burned and he couldn’t catch a breath. His heart was beating hard against rib cage, but it felt slowed. In fact it felt like the whole world had slowed down, like in one of those cheesy disaster movies. He didn’t understand, he’d been fine two seconds ago. Now he was certain he was dying. He pressed a hand to his stomach, where the most pain was coming from. It came away bloody. In a panic he raised his hoody and t-shirt up, staring in horror at the perfectly clean skin. In fact he couldn’t find where the blood was coming from, it was just there. He felt completely crippled by fear and pain, but when he heard the wail, the one so full of heartbreak and pain and panic that was undoubtedly Morality, he somehow managed to get his feet moving under him. He crashed through his door, half running half falling down the stairs. Logan was behind him, clutching to his sweatshirt for support and they rounded the corner together.

At first all he could see was Morality’s back as he knelt on the floor, wracked with heaving sobs. Anxiety felt as though he was running through mud trying to get to him. Logan reached the kneeling man first, reaching out to grab his shoulder but freezing in horror before he could. The fear of the last few moments had nothing on what he felt now as he took the last step. He knew what he would see, there was only one of them unaccounted for. He fell to his knees, tears burning down his face. The love of his life lay on the floor, face sheet white and lips stained red with blood. He eyes tracked down Prince’s body to his stomach where a sword was protruding. It’s hilt was green and twisting, patterned with an exquisite scale design. Morality had wrapped the sweater that normally hung from his shoulders around the base, it was already soaked through with blood. Anxiety could feel the pain of it, felt the weakness from the loss of blood. Worst of all, worst of all he could feel his heartbeat. No longer pounding it was weak and terrifyingly slow.

“What do we do?” Morality was asking over and over again, and each time Logan told him he didn’t know.

“Roman?” Anxiety asked grasping his pale hand and gently cradling his head in the other. Prince’s head turned towards him but it takes his eyes a moment to focus on him. Once he knew who he was his face lifted into a ghost of his usual grin.

“Hey love,”

“What happened?”

“Oh you know. My daydream got away from me a little bit.” then he laughed which dissolved into a cough as more blood speckled his mouth. “I thought” again he was interrupted by a cough.

“It's okay I don't think you should talk.”

“No I have to tell you. I wanted to vanquish my biggest villain so I conjured up my shadow self.” Prince’s voice was weak barely a whisper now, but he kept talking despite Anxiety’s attempts to shush him. “actually all of ours, I honestly thought I could defeat them. The dark versions, our shadows, really our opposites.” he looked around at the others as he said this, but then his gaze quickly returned to Anxiety and he even tried to sit up a little. “It's okay Anx you just have,” his coughing fit was much worse this time. Blood seeped from his lips and across his white shirt.

“Roman?” but Prince’s eyes were lifeless, his body still and no longer his. An inhuman cry was torn from his throat as he collapsed on his chest, fisting handfuls of of the dead boys clothing. The physical pain he had been feeling before was gone but this, this was so much worse.

The next thing he felt was Thomas pulling on him, summing him into the real world.

“No”

“Anxiety I don't know what's happening, I'm so scar..” Thomas cut himself off as he looked at his side. Anxiety knew what he was seeing, the blood, the tears, the pain. “What happened?” Thomas asked on a breathless whisper.

Anxiety's mouthed opened and closed, there were no words.

Morality had collapsed onto Logic’s chest. His sobs were a stark contrast to Logan’s blank, shocked stare. Neither of them heard the man walk up, they never even realized he was there until he pulled the sword from their friends body.

He was dressed in black, with a brilliant green sash and silver brocade. A crown crafted of black metal sat lopsided on his head. He sent them a smirk before casually sauntering out of the room.

The room was silent, painfully so. Thomas had gathered his three remaining sides in an attempt to figure out what to do, but he couldn’t think. Not a single idea came to mind, which made sense. His creativity was dead, his dreams and fantasies felt out of reach like he couldn’t quite remember what they were. Anxiety knew because he could feel it, they all could. Thomas’ desperation was sharpening their own grief. Even now tears were still falling silently from Morality’s eyes, and the only way you’ld be able to get Logic’s attention would be to throw a brick at him.

“You guys called a meeting without me?” The voice was dry and bored, it didn’t match the terror it inspired in the room. Morality let out a small sound of fright, but he stepped between Prince’s opposite and Thomas, also putting himself closest to the green and black clad man. Anxiety could see Dad tremble slightly, but his chin was lifted. Anxiety was surprised how much it comforted him and when Logic took a small step forward he followed suit. “Oh calm down, I’m no threat to you.”

“You killed our friend!” Logic shouted in outrage.

“Only so I could take his spot, I have no need or desire to kill you.”

“Take his spot?” Thomas asked but it was rough, barely a whisper, “Who are you?”

“Why I’m Conformity. You know, social norm, I’m here to help you by making sure you do exactly what society expects of you. Don't worry kid, with me you’ll have an office job, a wife, and 2.5 kids in no time. No more pushing boundaries, believe me kid, sacrificing your individuality for a place in society is noble.”

Anxiety bristled at the word that had for so long been reserved for Prince, even more so when he saw the acceptance wash over Thomas’ face. No. It couldn’t happen, they couldn’t let this, this thing, become a part of Thomas’ personality. Roman’s last words echoed through his head, It's okay Anx you just have, to what? Have to what?

Thomas dismissed them, it hurt to see him this way. Anxiety was drowning in guilt and grief when he remembered all the times he had wished Thomas was more “Normal”, he wished he could take back all the times he had shot down Prince’s ideas. He would do anything to take it back.

He was now curled tightly against Morality’s side as they sat on his bed and watched Logan pace.

“We could kill him.” Anxiety had had the thought before, but he was very surprised to hear it coming from Morality’s mouth. Logic nodded, considering this for a moment.

“We could, we know it’s possible now. What we don’t know is what would happen to Thomas, could he function with just the three of us? Would it leave a vacuum to be filled by something else? Something worse?”

The what if game. It’s what Anxiety did, pretty much his whole job. Before the grief had drowned everything else out, but Logic’s words sparked a maelstrom of what ifs.

“There’s something else you have to consider,” They jumped at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. Standing in the doorway was someone who looked unsettlingly like Dad. Were Morality wore a light blue polo this man wore an orange one with the collar popped. A purple version of Dad’s sweater was tied round his waist and in place of Dad’s glasses were a pair of retro shades. “Conformity wasn’t the only one your precious Prince brought to life.”

“Indeed not.” Another stepped up behind him and it was obvious this was supposed to be Logic’s opposite. The sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows and his deep orange tie pulled loose. “I’m Instinct, this is Chaos.” He said pointing back to Morality’s dopple. Speaking of Morality, Anx could no longer feel him pressed against his side.

Chaos let out a maniacal laugh as he spotted Morality before Anx did. Dad was standing tall with a bow drawn and pointed right at his opposite. Instinct put a hand on Chaos’ shoulder and they both disappeared as Morality’s arrow sunk into the doorway where they had been standing.

Anxiety gave him a shocked look and he simply shrugged. “Left over from my summer camp days. Now boys, if you have any sort of weapons I suggest you get them now.”

“I don’t have any weapons.” Logan said, appalled.

“But you know how to make poison right?”

“Um,” Logan swallowed as if he didn’t quite like where this was headed, “Yes.”

“Perfect, I’ve got a dart gun I saved from Thomas’ childhood, you can lace the darts and use that to protect yourself.” Logic looked horrified, but who knew Dad would be so good in a crisis. It almost made Anx smirk. Almost. “What about you Anxiety?”

“Me, I don’t “ Morality gave him a hard look, “I have a revolver.”

“What! Why?” Logan asked, with each new revelation the logical trait had gone paler and paler, to the point that Anx was very much worried about him. He could feel the panic floating around his own edges, he began counting things trying to stay calm enough to function. Anxiety didn’t answer the question, instead he hurried to his room to fetch the gun he had hidden there.

The week had been miserable. The three sides were inseparable, glued together by grief, fear and paranoia. They had buried Roman, Thomas had thrown away his film equipment and had several job interviews lined up. They had only run into Conformity a few times, who didn’t seem to care for them one way or the other, with the exception of Morality, who had tried to shoot him several times. Logan was still skeptical of the idea, but Anx didn’t think Logan would agree to killing anything. It still surprised him, but maybe it made sense. Logan was the one who binged nature documentaries and spent hours pondering on the mysteries of life and creation, he could see why destroying one of those mysteries would be distressing to him. More often than not the blow gun hung limply from Logan’s fingers, unlikely to ever be used. As for his own revolver, well he’d never had the courage to pull the trigger before so why should he now. Anxiety had tried to lighten the mood by reminding Dad that Thomas was a lover not a fighter. Morality had not appreciated the stab at humor and solemnly replied that Thomas was a survivor.

They had not seen Instinct but they had heard Chaos. His laugh echoed through the house always just beyond reach. They had spotted him as he flung arrows at them with a twisting purple copy of Dad’s bow. It made Anxiety nervous, if Conformity had a sword like Roman’s and Chaos had a bow like Morality, then did Instinct have a set of Incredibly lethal darts? Almost more importantly, why hadn’t they seen his own opposite?

They were standing in the small kitchen, Logan and Anxiety attempting to quickly make food as Morality stood guard, arrow already notched. Brought by his own hunger, Conformity also tried to enter the kitchen and was blocked by Morality once again trying to murder him. The darker prince easily dodged Morality’s amateur archery, but apparently it was the straw that broke the camel's back and Conformity drew his sword with a snarl. Anxiety felt his stomach drop as Logan took a step back, face ashen with horror. Acting on sheer reflex, Anxiety caught Conformity’s wrist before he could swing his sword down on Dad. Conformity snarled again struggling to push Anxiety off him even as he drew his revolver, pressing the barrel into the other's gut.

Everyone’s attention was fixed. No one saw Instinct slip into the room. No one saw the dart that hit Logic’s neck. No one saw his face turn ash grey as he slowly sunk to the floor. In fact the only reasons they knew anything was wrong was the dizzy and nauseous feeling that swept over them and Logan weakly calling Dad’s name.

Morality spun around, letting loose an arrow the same moment Anxiety made himself squeeze the trigger. He stood in trembling shock, the sound ringing in his ears as Conformity slowly dissolved into a mass of grey smoke.

“Check on Logan!” Morality screamed as he chases after the trait he had only nicked. Slowly he turned to look at Logan who lay completely still, skin looking grey. Shakily Anxiety knelt next to him, Logan’s skin was already cold and it was painfully apparent that the other was already dead. He had felt it happen. Anxiety couldn’t breath, all he could hear was the gunshot over and over, tears obscured his vision. He was so lost in his own pain that he jumped nearly three feet in the air when Logan sat up with a gasp. He stared at the other for one frantic heartbeat before he launched himself at Logic, wrapping his arms tight around his neck and tackling him back to the ground.

“You're alive! How are you alive?” he sobbed into the other's neck.

“I got him,” Morality said breathlessly from the kitchen doorway. He was staring wide eyed at Logan. Almost as if he couldn’t believe it. Anxiety helped Logic to stand and Morality reached out and wrapped him in the gentlest hug, as if afraid the slightest touch would shatter him.

“Wait, If killing Instinct brought you back, then when I killed Conformity…” They all shared one horrified look with each other before they were running, sprinting, to the woods behind Roman’s mind palace.

They raced to the spot where the bridge crossed the small stream and Anxiety slid to his knees under the willow where they had buried Prince. “Where here.” he tried to shout as he began to dig out the still freshly turned soil but his voice was rough, barely a shaky whisper.

“We are here, we’re going to get you out.” Morality said loudly and there was an answering thud.Desperately the three dug as fast as they could, ignoring their bloody fingertips. Prince was diggin from his side, Anxiety found his hand first. He pulled on Prince’s arm as the other two tried to clear the earth around. Soon, though not as soon as Anxiety would have liked, Roman was laying in his arm gasping. Anxiety peppered his dirty face with kisses, refusing to let him go even as the others reached out for their own reassurance that their friend was alive and well.

“Took you long enough.” Prince finally heaved once he had caught his breath. Hysterical laughter bubbled up out of his throat and if it weren’t for Logan being the voice of reason he may not have ever moved again.

Back home they deposited Prince on his bed and Logan collapsed next to him. They exhausted pair were immediately asleep.

“I’m going to patch them up, roman really did a number on his hands when he broke through his coffin. While I’m doing that I need you to check on Thomas.”

His stomach dropped at the thought of being away from Prince even an instant, he shook his head violently.

“Anxiety, I need you to do this right now. I’d really like to stop Prince’s bleeding but I can’t do that if I have to go check on Thomas. Take a few breaths then go.”

Slowly Anxiety worked his way through one of the breathing exercises, materializing in Thomas’ room, looking around in puzzlement. He finally spotted him, he had pressed himself into a corner and drawn his knees up to his chest. Anxiety could hear him muttering and realized he was grounding, trying hard to stave off an attack. Slowly he sat down in front of him, gently placing one hand on his knee and waiting for Thomas to make eye contact with him.

“What’s happening?” He finally asked in a teary whisper.

“All good things, believe it or not.” Anxiety tried for his usual level of of confident sarcasm, Thomas gave him a look that said he definitely did not believe him. “I’m serious we’ve got prince back, I’m sure you felt that. We only lost logic for like a second. Now we know that these daymares can be defeated.” Although Chaos is still running around and we haven’t seen mine. He thought to himself. Well not really to himself as Thomas’ eyes widened and his heartbeat picked back up.

“Um...it’s been a crazy day. And I think sleep is the answer.”

“You always think sleep is the answer.” Thomas snorted, but he stood up and climbed under the covers.

“Well this time I’m right. Were so close to out of this mess.” He said trying hard not give shape to any of the doubts he felt.

“Anxiety?”

“Yes?”

“I threw out all my film equipment.” The poor kid sounded so heartbroken that Anxiety felt kinda bad when he let out a snort.

“Sorry,” He said to Thomas’ wounded look. “ Like we would let you do that, Dad saved that stuff as soon as your back was turned.”

Thomas smiled and settled into is bed.

“I’m gonna go cuz I know you don’t really sleep when I’m around. “ Thomas tried to protest but the exhausted boy was already mostly asleep. Anxiety smiled at him and slipped back into Thomas’ mind. Once inside he quickly made his way to his room, wanting to change and wash the blood and dirt from his hands, he probably should have done that before he saw Thomas. Oh well.

No in clean clothes he walked out of the bathroom and back into his own and was surprised to find someone sitting cross legged on his floor. He wore the same outfit as Anxiety but in blinding white. He smiled easily up at Anxiety and twirled Anxiety’s revolver between his fingers. He cursed himself for leaving it on the bed with his dirty clothes.

“Sit down.” The other man said, and his voice was so serene that Anx found himself doing as he was asked. Once he was seated, a mirror image of his opposite, the white clad man lay the revolver on the floor between them, as well as a gleaming white copy of it.

“Who are you?” He finally worked up the nerve to ask, “Why haven’t you killed me already?”

“Oh Anxiety, I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to take care of Thomas. You could call me,” He paused for a moment as if looking for the right word. “Hope.”

“Hope?”

“Yes, if you are Thomas’ doubt, his fears, his sense of mortality than i am the opposite. I am pure unadulterated self-confidence, hope and sense of invincibility. Can you imagine Thomas’ life with Morality, Prince Logic and me? Can’t you see how much happier he’d be? I could be a Savior for him”

Anxiety could see it, Thomas facing every situation with hope and self assurance. Taking risks and getting full nights sleep. Prince had said it, he dreamed up their opposites. Not necessarily evil versions of themselves, just opposites. Slowly Hope slid his beautiful white gun towards him. Anxiety picked it up examining it.

“Do this for thomas. He deserves to be happy, doesn’t he.”

Yes he does, Anx thought and raised the gun.

“Stop!” Prince called, letting the door fall open with a thud.

Anxiety jumped so hard he dropped the gun, turning to look at Roman. He looked fierce standing in the doorway. His hair was still a mess, dirt caked to him along with smears of blood. Even with his hands wrapped in white bandages until they were all but useless, he looked ready to fight the world and win.

“Prince this is best for every one, Hope will be a much better trait to have around. “

“Hope? That's not hope, don’t forget I dreamt him up. That’s Invincibility and trust me we do not want him around. Do you really want thomas swaggering around without a survival instinct, becoming some sort of crazed dare-devil adrenaline junkie?”

The thought caused a cold sweat to break out across his body, but Invincibility’s serene voice was still echoing through his head. “He will be happier.” He said in a broken whisper picking up the gun again and pressing it to his head.

“I swear to God, Anxiety, you pull that trigger and I will just kill him and bring you right back.” Anxiety could only stare, trying to figure out what to do. Carefully Roman tried to step closer to him. The movement caused Invincibility to Pick up Anx’s own gun and point at Roman. That was the only push Anxiety needed. While Invincibility’s attention was fixed on Prince he swung the gone around and shot his opposite. His body dissolved into grey smoke and Anxiety dropped the gun and heaved. Roman gathered him in his arms, rubbing soothing circles and whispering to him. It to Anx a minute before he could hear what Prince was saying. He was apologizing, over and over again.

“Why are you sorry?” Anxiety whispered, wiping tears from his face and turning so he could face Roman.

“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault, I know I can never do anything to earn forgiveness for this. I’m just so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

“What?”

“I forgive you, of course I do.” He pressed a kiss to Roman’s forehead, realizing he was shaking just as much as he was.

“Come on we should go back to the others, they sent me to find you because you had been gone so long. “

In the hallway they ran into Morality, he smiled brightly at them despite the fatigue that was written into every line of his face. “Come on you guys, you had me worried. Get inside.”

Inside the room Chaos was waiting for them. He raised a finger to his lips pointing to Logan still asleep on the bed. “Isn’t he sweet.” He cooed, reaching out to sweep Logics bangs off his face. Morality bristled and would have charged forward if it weren’t for Prince’s hand on his elbow.

“Your bow is still down in the kitchen.” Anxiety whispered.

“I don’t care.” Morality growled, as Anxiety expected. Roman, however, had not seen mid-crisis Dad and was very surprised. Quietly Anx passed the gleaming white gun still gripped in his hand to Dad. Morality grinned an awful grin, calmy leveling the gun at Chaos. The wild traits face fell and he quickly lifted his hand off Logan who was now awake and frozen on the bed. One last shot rang out, the grey smoke that was once Chaos quickly dissipated.

Silence was all that filled the room for a moment. Prince propped an elbow on Anx’s shoulder and leaned heavily on him. “You should get some more rest.” Anxiety said giding him back to the bed.

“Yes,” Prince said, “I’m exhausted.” A look of horror passed over his face as he realized what he had done.

“Hi Exhausted,” Three matching groans filled the room. “I’m Dad.” The groans resolved into chuckles.

The four of them crammed together on Prince’s bed, quickly falling asleep. Yes there would be nightmares, yes there was a long road of healing ahead for Them and Thomas, but they were safe and warm and for a moment everything was okay.