#tumblr is. truly a hellhole for several reasons

[theokusgallery]

I earnestly seek your support for my family in Gaza. This fundraiser stands as our beacon of hope, our lifeline amidst the depths of despair. With profound sorrow, I implore your generosity as we endure this unimaginable ordeal. Your contribution can mean the difference between survival and oblivion for my family, and for this, we are eternally grateful. Please, help us to rebuild our life and pursue my PhD study as as there is no guarantee of safety here. kindly read my story, donate if you can, share if you could not.

This fundraiser has been vetted ! Go help if you can please

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Fractured Ice - Ch. 6/7

Xue Yang whisks a nihilistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen.

Chang Ping ducks his head slightly. “Of course, my good daozhang. Anything for you.”

“Anything other than putting that crazed monster in the ground, you mean.” Chang Ping blinks, his watery pink-rimmed eyes bulging even farther out of his head.

“I beg your pardon, daozhang?”

“Xue Yang. You let him go.”

XueXiao & XiYao - Rated M - Read on AO3! Tumblr: Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3  Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 7

A bit of blood in this chapter - brief violence onscreen and a brief graphic aftermath

Ch. 6: meaner than my demons

“I need to make sure it’s truly him,” says Lan Xichen. He stares at the spirit-trapping pouch clutched in his hand. Everything is blurred but the small brown pouch, which stands out starkly in the flickering orange torchlight. “I need to—to—”

“If he’s not in there, he’ll never be, and we have to get out of here.” Xue Yang shoves the heavy stone lid back onto the sarcophagus and steers Lan Xichen out of the tomb. The rain has stopped, and the morning star twinkles brightly through a gap in the clouds. “Fun as this is, we can’t hang around here. Those guards—”

Lan Xichen doesn’t spare a glance at the Nie guards, still lying strewn around the tomb. He’s too absorbed by the spirit-trapping pouch in his hand.

The pouch is warm. Almost pulsing. The throbbing warmth seeps into his cold hands, into his veins, flooding his numbed body with pleasant heat—

“Stop here.” Xue Yang lays a hand on Lan Xichen’s arm when he doesn’t look up. “We’ll change into dry clothes, and then you can try playing Inquiry. I’ll hold him while you change.”

Lan Xichen reluctantly surrenders the spirit-trapping pouch to Xue Yang, who sits on a boulder with the pouch set carefully on his lap, both hands cupped around it to make sure it doesn’t fall. Lan Xichen transforms back into Lan Huan in record time, throwing his hair up in a sloppy knot. Then, upon reflection, he takes the time to do it up properly out of respect for the little brown pouch on Xue Yang’s lap.

He sits cross-legged on the rocky ground as Xue Yang changes. Takes out his guqin, gently plucks a few strings.

The answer is clear, a thousand times stronger than Xiao Xingchen’s agonized murmur:

Meng Yao.

A glowing warmth suffuses Lan Xichen. Meng Yao. He’s always thought of A-Yao by that name, even after he’d received his courtesy name and title. Simple Meng Yao, the man who had risked everything to shelter him when he had nothing. Not Jin Guangyao, not Lianfang-zun, but his Meng Yao, his A-Yao, soft and welcoming and warm and bashful and giving.

And then, I didn’t think you would come for me.

Of course I came for you , he responds, then puts away his guqin out of fear of what A-Yao would respond to that.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been sitting like that, eyes closed, one hand on the guqin, the other on the pouch, until Xue Yang touches his shoulder.

“Sun’s up, Zewu-jun,” he says. “We need to put distance between us and Qinghe. Can’t bring your friend back if we’re getting dragged back to Gusu by a dozen Nie meatheads.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t bother asking where they’re going. Xue Yang’s plan has worked so far. He just follows the delinquent cultivator through the mountains. Practically floats. It’s a different kind of drifting than before, though.

He examines the sensation. It takes a while before he finally realizes that it’s happiness, of a sort.

Rule 70: Do not be overly happy.

He laughs to himself. Xue Yang shoots him a curious look but doesn’t say anything. Uncharacteristically quiet, his friend seems to be lost in his own thoughts.

They meet several Lan cultivators on the road, obviously searching for someone, but they don’t recognize Lan Xichen and Xue Yang in their peasant getups.

“They’d never imagine the great Zewu-jun, fashion icon to thousands, would stoop to this ,” says Xue Yang, flicking a finger at Lan Xichen’s ragged tunic and trousers. They’re sitting in a roadside inn, not as much as a hellhole as they would have preferred, but so far no cultivators have entered. “I do wish you were a bit shorter, though, and still had your beard. Do you think the Lans roped the Nie beefeaters in on their hunt, after all?”

“For you, perhaps, but my uncle would never allow a whisper of my defection to leave the Cloud Recesses. They're probably simply affronted by our attack on the tomb's guards, with you getting the brunt of the blame.”

Xue Yang jerks a thumb in the direction of the qiankun pouch inside Lan Xichen’s tunic. By Xue Yang’s suggestion, he’s stashed the spirit-trapping pouch safely away in the qiankun bag. “Just remember, if I go down, so does he.”

Lan Xichen frowns. “I wouldn’t abandon you.”

“Good. Remember that I have the knowledge you need.”

Lan Xichen puts down his cup of what might be actual tea this time. “I wouldn’t abandon you, whether or not that were the case.”

Xue Yang sneers. “Is that a Lan Clan rule?”

Various elements of loyalty, fidelity, and gratitude are encompassed by a good five dozen rules, but Lan Xichen chooses to ignore that. “It’s my rule. Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”

Xue Yang shrugs, idly picks up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks, examines it as if looking for bugs. “At least not until my usefulness runs out.”

“Xue Yang—”

Xue Yang shrugs again. “Don’t worry, my friend: I will make myself indispensable for as long as possible.”

Lan Xichen wonders just how strong the wine was. Xue Yang doesn’t speak for the rest of the meal.

Despite getting no sleep the night before, Lan Xichen lies awake a long time that night. He can stay awake for days by drawing on his golden core, but he doesn’t need to tonight. His heart is beating too fast for idle slumber , mind racing.

He takes A-Yao’s spirit-trapping out of his qiankun pouch and sets it on the bed beside him at eye-level. Traces the bloody symbols with his finger. Strokes the soft black tassels.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His voice catches in his throat. “I never should have doubted you. I’ll bring you back. I swear I’ll bring you back…”

* * *

“Where are we going, exactly?” he finally asks Xue Yang on the fourth day. They’re walking through the trees near the main road, keeping out of sight.

“Yueyang. We’ll arrive tomorrow.”

“Yueyang?” Something faint stirs in his memory. “Isn’t that where the Chang Clan lives?”

Xue Yang bows with exaggerated deference. “Zewu-jun is wise indeed.”

Lan Xichen smiles. “Why are we going there?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“…and?” Dealing with Xue Yang can be maddening sometimes. His flair for the dramatic and love of bantering is at complete odds with how Lan Xichen was taught to hold a conversation.

“You’ll find out once we’re there…” He makes a face when Lan Xichen raises his eyebrows. “All right, we’re going to pay Chang Ping a visit. He has something we want.”

“Something to bring Jin Guangyao back?”

“Wise. Most wise.”

“What about your…friend?”

Xue Yang unconsciously touches his qiankun sleeve. “We’ll get there, in time. But Jin Guangyao is the key.”

“You wouldn’t do anything that might harm Jin Guangyao—”

Xue Yang’s—Xiao Xingchen’s—fine black eyes are large and deer-like. “Zewu-jun—” He stops, as if too taken aback to respond. Instead he shakes his head. “Jin Guangyao’s spirit is whole,” he explains. “Xiao Xingchen’s spirit was shattered. Different methods are needed. Your friend was immersed in demonic cultivation towards the end of this life, and had access to books he didn’t let me near.”

“You think he hid those books?”

“No, but he remembered everything he saw, and I’m certain he knows something that can help Xiao Xingchen.”

Lan Xichen wants to tell him that this is a fragile hook to be hanging his hopes on, but doesn’t dare point that out to him and let it snap. The important thing is that Xue Yang is helping him get A-Yao back. And, he tells himself, he’s not taking advantage of the delinquent cultivator. Once he has A-Yao back, he, Lan Xichen, will do everything in his power to help return Xiao Xingchen to Xue Yang. From everything he’s ever heard about the rogue cultivator, Xiao Xingchen deserves a second chance at life.

“How exactly did it happen, anyway?” Xue Yang asks.

“Did what happen?” Lan Xichen is itching to get to an inn, take out the spirit-trapping pouch, tell A-Yao that they were close, so close to bringing him back—

“Jin Guangyao’s death, of course.”

It's like Xue Yang dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. Lan Xichen doesn’t realize he’s stopped walking until Xue Yang doubles back for him.

“His death?” Lan Xichen repeats.

“I need to know these things if we’re going to bring him back. The kind of death might affect the kind of spell we use, and besides, you don’t want me saying the wrong thing once he’s back, do you? I casually mention honey and find out he died after being stung to death by a horde of angry hornets—”

“You must already know what happened.” Lan Xichen finds that his feet are moving, but it’s as if someone outside him is making him walk, talk, breathe. He’s doubly desperate to sit down and take out A-Yao, but he and Xue Yang agreed not to handle the pouches unless within the safety of a locked room.

Xue Yang trots along beside him, voice low and sympathetic. “I know this is a painful subject, Zewu-jun, and believe me when I say I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to, but there are too many things that can go wrong.”

“He moved.” Lan Xichen’s voice is flat and toneless. “He moved.”

“Moved to…Koi Tower?”

“Moved. I told him not to move. I warned him. I told him not to move. I warned him. I warned him. Then—then that—that bastard —”

“Nie Huaisang?”

“—he told me A-Yao had moved. Made me think A-Yao was going to hurt me, and I—I believed him. Believed A-Yao would do me harm.” Lan Xichen’s voice is so thick he can barely push the words past his lips. “I stabbed him through the heart. Straight through the heart.”

“We ought to stop back in at Qinghe when we’re done,” says Xue Yang, “and take care of that fan-waving little plum blossom.”

“I told you, we’re not killing Nie Huaisang. Or anyone.”

Xue Yang tilts his head. “You mean anyone else .”

Lan Xichen has stopped walking again. “What do you mean?”

There’s something catlike about Xue Yang that he’s never noticed before, but his companion’s voice couldn’t be softer, couldn’t be gentler, almost as if he’s impersonating Xiao Xingchen again. “Nothing, Zewu-jun,” he says, bowing. “I was just thinking of Jin Guangyao. My apologies. It was uncalled for. ”

Lan Xichen doesn’t remember much after that, too focused on the thought of what is to come. They must have had a conversation about stopping, but he can’t recall it as he later lies on his cot, stroking A-Yao’s soft warm spirit-trapping pouch. Can’t recall eating the evening meal, or coming up the stairs, or taking off his tunic or shoes or letting his hair down, but he must have at some point.

He presses his forehead to the spirit-trapping pouch on the pillow beside him. Inside is A-Yao—Meng Yao. Not Jin Guangyao. Not Lianfang-zun.

Meng Yao.

Not the man he had stabbed through the heart with twelve inches of ice-cold steel, but Meng Yao.

It takes all of his strength to turn away from the pouch and roll over onto his back, limbs filled with mortar. Who is he fooling? No matter what name A-Yao went by, all four of them were the same person.

He had killed Meng Yao. Not Jin Guangyao, not Lianfang-zun. Meng Yao.

His Meng Yao.

He’d believed everyone’s slander, he’d believed A-Yao’s own words of self-reprobation, he’d believed that A-Yao—A-Yao!—could have ever meant him harm.

“But never have I ever thought about doing you harm!”

He dreams that night of floating, not quite flying. Floating over a river of blood streaming from his sword, with A-Yao’s hat bobbing in the current.

He wakes up numb. Dresses, fixes his hair with nerveless fingers. Gets a shave. Is too nervous to eat. Doesn’t hear a word Xue Yang says as they leave the inn and head down the road towards the Chang Manor.

“I’ve been thinking,” says Xue Yang. “—Zewu-jun? Are you listening?”

With a tremendous effort, Lan Xichen turns his attention towards Xue Yang.

“I’ve been wondering if you should dress in your Zewu-jun getup, or not. I figure that—”

“Yes.”

“Yes—?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t know how to explain that he wants to look presentable for A-Yao. He remembers how Xue Yang had put on his best clothes for Inquiry at the Cloud Recesses and hopes he’ll figure it out on his own.

Xue Yang smiles. “I understand. But on the off-chance something goes wrong, we don’t want it known that Zewu-jun was there.”

A surge of desperation. “I won’t wear my ribbon or give my real name. Although—you’re only getting in on the strength of Xiao Xingchen’s name, and the people after us know we’re traveling together.”

Xue Yang sighs. “I suppose they would have figured we came this way sooner or later, after tonight.”

“Is whatever you're planning absolutely necessary? If it will give us away…”

An odd look creeps over Xue Yang’s face. “It’s Chang Ping or nobody.” He turns away slightly. “Do what you want about your clothes.”

In the end, Lan Xichen puts on the best robes he brought, dressing while hidden in a copse of cypress trees up the road from the Chang Manor while Xue Yang puts on the green-and-white robes he arrived at the Cloud Recesses in.

They’re let into the manor soon after Xue Yang sends in Xiao Xingchen’s name. The grounds are dark and empty, very quiet and very still.

“Where is everyone?” Xue Yang asks the servant as they’re led through the courtyard into the discussion hall.

“The great Phoenix Mountain hunt, daozhang.”

The servant’s words pierce Lan Xichen’s numb shell. If Chang Ping isn’t here, their entire trip was for nothing—

“And, of course, Clan Leader Chang avoids Koi Tower as much as possible since that sickening miscarriage of justice,” says Xue Yang.

The servant ducks her head. Xue Yang winks at Lan Xichen.

He must have known Chang Ping would be mostly alone, thinks Lan Xichen, and he knows this should alarm him but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Please don’t tell anyone else about our visit,” Xue Yang tells the servant. “It is of a highly sensitive nature.”

“It’s just my husband and I right now, daozhang,” bows the servant. “Clan Leader Chang is not a fussy man.”

“Or a rich man,” says Xue Yang, glancing around the room after the servant hustles out. “This place was a lot nicer sixteen years ago.”

“What are you going to do to him, exactly?”

Xue Yang’s face is serene, but there’s something decidedly unquiet flickering in his eyes. “Nothing he doesn’t deserve.”

Lan Xichen winces. “Yes, but—”

Xue Yang unwinds the bandages covering his hand and rips off his glove with his teeth.

His left hand is a mass of scars, as if the original wounds that had once covered it had been badly infected at some point. The delicate bones along the back had healed all wrong, crooked and painful-looking. Worst of all is his little finger. It’s missing from the first joint, a ragged stump, looking as if—as if it had been bitten off with small weak teeth.

“He did this to you?”

Xue Yang is staring straight ahead. “I was seven.”

“Xue Yang, I’m—”

“Don’t.” He tugs his glove back on. “I don’t care about my hand anymore. But he’s the one responsible for Xiao Xingchen’s death—”

Chang Ping bustles in before Lan Xichen can ask questions. “Xiao Xingchen! I did not expect to see the daozhang again.” He makes ridiculously large gestures as he bows, sleeves flapping. He’s small and fat and, despite what the servant had said, quite fussy-looking. He has a rather unfortunate beard and mustache combination and reminds Lan Xichen of Wangji’s pet rabbits. “And—ah—Zewu-jun! What an unexpected honor!”

That’s right. Chang Ping tends to avoid Cultivation Conferences, but they’d met once before at Lotus Pier.

Chang Ping seats himself on his seat of office. His eyes dart to Lan Xichen’s face, observing the lack of forehead ribbon, but he’s too polite to ask about it. “What can your humble servant do for Zewu-jun and the esteemed daozhang?”

“Funny Clan Leader Chang should ask,” says Xue Yang, calm again. He bows low. His glove is still exposed, but he’s in full Xiao Xingchen mode, down to his posture and the way he holds his head. “There is something I need.”

Chang Ping ducks his head slightly. “Of course, my good daozhang. Anything for you.”

“Anything other than putting that crazed monster in the ground, you mean.”

Chang Ping blinks, his watery pink-rimmed eyes bulging even farther out of his head. “I beg your pardon, daozhang?”

“Xue Yang. You let him go.”

Chang Ping’s obsequious smile freezes on his face. “I beg your pardon?”

Lan Xichen senses something different in Xue Yang’s voice. It’s Xiao Xingchen’s voice—there’s not a trace of Xue Yang’s teasing, overly casual tones—but there’s a harshness to it belonging to neither Xue Yang or his usual Xiao Xingchen impression. A metallic tang, a brittle bitterness.

“You let Xue Yang go,” Xue Yang repeats. He’s slowly walking— gliding —back and forth in front of Chang Ping, a leopard stalking its prey. There’s a certain poise, a slight arch to his back, a grace to his step that Xue Yang perhaps intentionally lacks when he’s not Xiao Xingchen. “And do you know what that lowlife bastard did?”

Chang Ping licks his lips nervously. “Daozhang, you know I had no choice! My clan was in ruins; I needed the Jin Clan’s support—”

Shuanghua flies through the air, plunging deep into the chair cushion beside Chang Ping’s head. “ ‘No choice’?”

Chang Ping shrinks away from the blade. “I—I had a duty to my clan!”

“What clan? They were all dead! Wiped out by that maniac!”

“Not—not all—”

Xue Yang is up on the dais, retrieving Xiao Xingchen’s sword. At Chang Ping’s words, he grabs the clan leader by the collar and throws him down the dais’ steps, floating gracefully down after him like a flower petal on the breeze.

“Do you know what that monster did?” he repeats. His foot is on Chang Ping’s bulbous Adam’s apple. “Slaughtered my partner’s entire temple, blinded him for no reason other than his own petty revenge and amusement—”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I had a duty to my clan—”

Xue Yang stabs down with Shuanghua, skewering Chang Ping’s hand. “You wanted to be a clan leader—” He twists the blade, tearing the wound open, separating the bones in the back of the clan leader's hand.

Tears of pain stream down Chang Ping’s face. “I had to honor my father—”

“By setting free the man who exterminated his family?” Xue Yang walks around the quivering man, trailing the bloody sword tip over the stone floor with a scraping sound that sets Lan Xichen’s teeth on edge. “Not that he deserved your honor. Your father was as much a monster as Xue Yang. Chang Cian’s entire bloodline deserves to be wiped out!”

“Please! Please don’t! I did what I thought best—”

“You did what you thought best for you.” Xue Yang crouches before Chang Ping, grabs him by the throat and jerks the cowering clan leader’s head up so he’s forced to meet his eye. “You blinded my partner,” he says in a flat, toneless voice. “I gave him my own eyes, and then I met him , and because I couldn’t see I let him stay, and it’s all your fault— everything that happened; all your fault —”

Chang Ping’s face is a mask of fear and confusion. “I—I think you might have the wrong—”

“It’s all your fault, you and your whole tainted bloodline—”

Lan Xichen slips out of the room. He knows Chang Ping must be screaming, but Xue Yang obviously learned a silencing spell while at the Cloud Recesses, because Lan Xichen feels an energy barrier springing up around the room as soon as he exits and hears nothing.

The servant from earlier is waiting nearby.

“I need writing materials,” he tells her.

Bowing, she leads him to what appears to be Chang Ping’s study.

Lan Xichen settles down before the table. “Please go tell your husband to pack your bags. Return in ten minutes for the letter. Thank you.”

“Zewu-jun?”

“I discussed it with your master. Hurry!”

She hustles out.

Lan Xichen picks up the brush and removes a folded section of paper from the carved wooden stationary box on the desk.

The letter is ready when the servant returns with her husband and a little girl, traveling packs slung over their shoulders.

“Go straight to the Cloud Recesses in Gusu. Deliver this letter to the Chief Cultivator, and the Chief Cultivator only. This letter is for Lan Qiren, and Lan Qiren only. Take this as well.” He passes them a purse full of silver pieces. “Speak to nobody along the way. Now go!”

“With all due respect, Zewu-jun, we ought to see our master first—”

“If you do not go now,” Lan Xichen says, “you will never leave this place at all.”

He doesn’t think they quite pick up on what he means, but they hurry out. He follows them, making sure they leave, waiting outside the manor as they disappear up the road leading to Yueyang.

He remains on the side of the road for a bit, breathing in the crisp night air. The stars are particularly bright tonight, the moon full. He has a sudden urge to strip off his robes, stretch out middle of the road and bathe in the starlight. Be fresh and clean and glowing when A-Yao sees him again.

His heart beats faster at the thought.

A-Yao.

For reasons he can’t explain he feels suddenly like walking down the road, walking until his legs give out, walking off the edge of the world, leaving everything in this one behind, dissipating into a cloud of starlight.

Ridiculous. Just because he let Xue Yang execute a man who thoroughly deserved it is no reason to feel—feel unworthy of A-Yao’s return.

He turns quickly and heads back into the manor.

“A-Yao. A-Yao.” He repeats the name to himself, focusing on the word’s warmth on his lips. “A-Yao. A-Yao…”

“Not if you don’t get back in here.” Xue Yang is leaning against the door to the ancestral hall, himself again. “Where did you run off to?” He’s grinning broadly, eyes bright. Too bright. Shuanghua gleams in his hand, wet with blood. “The main event is about to begin.”

* * *

Chang Ping deserved it, Lan Xichen reminds himself. Over and over. Chang Ping deserved it. Chang Ping deserved it…

The clan leader’s naked body is hanging from ropes attached to a ceiling beam, a bucket set directly beneath his feet. The body is swaying slightly, as if Xue Yang gave it a playful push before going to wait for Lan Xichen. The corpse is a mass of pulpy red and oozing pink, exposed bone and ruptured fat and flayed muscle, an inhuman horror glistening wetly in the lamplight.

Chang Ping’s eyes are missing.

“Not bad, if I do say so myself.” Xue Yang is cleaning his blade with Chang Ping’s robes. “Considering how out of practice I am.”

“Did you have to—have to—”

“Give him the full experience?” Xue Yang laughs. His laugh is a bit too high and a bit too long. “I needed that resentful energy, my friend. Do you think I enjoyed torturing the good Chang Ping?”

Lan Xichen looks at Xue Yang’s left hand.

Xue Yang wags a finger at him. “What his father did to me had nothing to do with any of this. But believe me when I say he was just as guilty.”

“His father? I thought it was Chang Ping who…” Lan Xichen remembers what Xue Yang said about Chang Ping’s involvement in Xiao Xingchen’s death. “Never mind. What do you need the resentful energy for?”

Xue Yang points to the floor beneath the swinging corpse. Drawn in blood on the floor is a large, complicated array, with a new-looking spirit-trapping pouch near the bucket. “Three guesses. Now, I’ll be back in just a minute...Have you seen that servant woman?”

“I sent the servants away.”

The grin slips from Xue Yang’s face. “You what?”

“I sent them away.”

Xue Yang is staring fixedly at a spot just behind Lan Xichen. “And why did you do that? Pang of conscience?”

“I needed someone to deliver a letter to my brother. That’s all.”

“Suicide note?”

“Suicide is forbidden—”

Xue Yang jerks a thumb at the corpse. “So is murder.”

Lan Xichen swallows hard. “I could never do that to my family, or demean the gift of life given to me.”

Xue Yang keeps staring at that invisible spot, then bursts out laughing again. “We’ll get there eventually,” he says, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?”

Xue Yang pats his arm. “Not the suicide, my friend. Don’t worry. I want you whole and healthy. I’m talking about your sticking your nose in with the servants. It was my own fault. I thought you…ah, never mind. We have time. We have time.”

Lan Xichen moves out of arm-patting range. “Time for what?”

“Time to bring back your friend, of course .” Xue Yang sheaths Xiao Xingchen’s sword in the scabbard strapped to his back. “The pouch, please.”

“You mean—”

Xue Yang is grinning again. “I told you this would be worth it.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t remember him having said that, or given him any forewarning about what he’d done to Chang Ping, but he’s too nervous to think about it.

Xue Yang takes A-Yao’s spirit-trapping pouch from him delicately, holding it with as much care as if Xiao Xingchen himself had been inside the pouch. “Your hand.”

Lan Xichen extends his hand. Xue Yang uses his needlessly large knife to prick open the now-healed little wound he’d made back at the tomb, using his blood to create a number of talismans, which he hangs on Chang Ping’s body.

Then he picks up the new spirit-trapping pouch from the floor and takes a curved, palm-sized chunk of black-and-gray metal out of his sleeve. He grips it in the same hand as the new spirit-trapping pouch and A-Yao’s pouch, black smoke pouring off the metal piece and curling around the pouches.

Lan Xichen’s eyes widen. “That’s—”

Xue Yang puts a playful finger to his lips. “We know what it is.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry. I don’t use it often enough to go the way of Wen Ruohan or Wei Wuxian. I don’t want to lose my mind any more than the next person wants me to.”

“But—”

“Do you want me to continue or not?”

Lan Xichen ducks his head and steps back.

The black smoke twines around Xue Yang’s fingers. He sends the chunk of metal at the body, drawing a rapid-fire sequence of glowing red symbols in the air, then opens the new spirit-trapping pouch.

A blast of resentful energy escapes the bag, so potent that Lan Xichen is sent flying across the room. So Xue Yang had trapped Chang Ping’s resentful energy in the new pouch—

Xue Yang reaches for the metal, releasing a second burst of dark energy so powerful that Lan Xichen loses consciousness.

He awakens almost immediately. Sits up and looks around, heart beating wildly.

Xue Yang is kneeling before Chang Ping’s body, not in an act of contrition but as if using the…the chunk of metal had taken more out of him than expected.

But Lan Xichen barely notices him. His eyes are riveted on the naked, shivering figure lying curled up inside the array.

Lan Xichen rises, trembling, and takes a few shaky steps towards the small white figure.

“…A-Yao?”

Up Next: The final chapter! Things come to a head.

Or: The night sky sure is pretty and stars are cool.

Chapter 7

[missjosie27]

The Other World- Part 1

Ladies and gentleman, I’d like to say my customary few words before you read this fic. As most in the HM community know on here, there are many who have drawn or written out our characters for this extremely flawed game that we’ve come to love one way or the other. One of the best and most thought out is the one created by @hogwartsmysterystory better known as Ethren Whitecross. I think we can all agree how incredible his writing is and how it’s inspired many people, including myself. This is my own way of saying thank you and to pay homage to his MC.

The following story is split into two parts, since the whole story is too long to release all at once. It is my tribute to him and his writing and I hope you all enjoy reading it. Part 2 will be released tomorrow. 

If anyone needs background on my MC, please visit my tumblr page and MC info. I realize not everyone will get the context right away. 

Enjoy!

A ringing in David Grant’s ears echoed as though it were the loudest noise on the planet. It was also hardly the only commotion going on at the moment. Within the confines of the Ministry, the scene could be described as quite chaotic.

It’s to be expected. Especially given that You Know Who has been dead for less than forty eight hours.

Standing within the spacious halls of the atrium, the once precocious curse breaker of Hogwarts was a much different man from the days of chasing after his long lost brother. Gone was the easy going smirk, the baby faced features of a teenager ready to take on whatever the world had to throw at him. What remained was a tired, unshaved, long haired ex-Auror who had suffered the trials of war, intrigue and then some. The once warm hazel-blue eyes were dulled to a flint like cynicism unrivaled even by the hardiest of warriors.

With the exception of Harry Potter (the stories were certainly true about his exploits), the law enforcement of Magical Britain had suffered more than most. Some had kept up the charade of the blue robes by staying in the Ministry after Voldemort’s takeover, others were placed under the imperious curse (poor Dawlish), while others yet defected and joined the resistance. But to David, that mattered not. The end of the battle of Hogwarts only brought a simple question to his mind.

Where was his wife?

Memories of the battle against her parents flashed in his mind once more- the sickening crunch of Matthias Snyde’s neck breaking, the unhinged screams of his wife, Lyra, who ordered her daughter to kill him. The battle for the soul of Merula Snyde. It had taken every once of his willpower to break through to her and he was certain she had been placed under the imperius curse herself. No one could control his wife, not unless they were prepared to do so by using the Dark Arts. However, that did not change the fact that she still carried the Dark Mark on her forearm and that in turn marked her as a Death Eater and a traitor.

Funny how fast things can change in the span of two days, he thought humorlessly.

There was no joy in his heart, no consolation to be had. He had stepped into the halls of this Merlin forsaken place for a single purpose and would not leave without knowing that Merula would not spend an eternity in Azkaban for crimes she was not culpable for. Consequences be damned, he would spend an eternity in there with her if he had to.

He needed to see someone with the authority to release her. Someone close to the newly appointed Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, his mentor and friend. Surely, he would listen.

Finally, amongst the crowd of hectic witches and wizards, he spotted a familiar face, Williamson, one of the few Aurors that had actually been clever enough to escape the Ministry and resist the dark regime before it happened. He was also a protégé of Kingsley and was probably in a position to speak to him given the circumstances, even if they were not the closest of blokes in the past.

He grabbed the shorter man by the shoulder as he hurried by.

“Williamson.”

“Grant?” the dirty blond haired Auror exclaimed. “Is that really you?”

“No, it’s the Archbishop of Canterbury. Of course, it’s me.”

Williamson shook his head.

“Still haven’t lost that infamous sarcasm, have you Grant? It used to be a lot funnier.”

David’s patience, already on thin ice, showed signs of cracking. He had not gone traveled thousands of miles and collected numerous bounties across Europe and the U.S. to bandy words with a lesser Auror.

“You know why I’m here, Williamson. I need to speak to Kingsley.”

The man gave a haughty sigh, though similar to everyone else, he too showed signs of immense fatigue and stress.

“The Minister,” he corrected. “Is not seeing anyone at the current moment as he has quite enough on his plate. Namely, the envoys from France and the United States.”

“He can make time for me. My wife is currently locked up in a cell somewhere in this fucking hellhole and I want assurances she’s not going to be charged with anything.”

Williamson tried to tug himself out of his grip, but David was much stronger and much more seasoned than his counterpart. The former recognized this and attempted to placate him as best he could.

“For God’s sake David, let me go,” he said, shaking his shoulder away. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to your wife. And I don’t think the Minister does either.”

That evasive response got his blood boiling again. Even with Britain and shambles, red tape and bureaucracy still impeded him.

“She’s innocent,” he growled. “She was under the imperius curse and nothing she did was voluntary.”

“We can’t prove that one way or the other. She’s got the mark and is the suspect of several crimes perpetuated against muggle born families.”

David could feel himself going numb, refusing to believe that Merula ever did anything so horrific under her own willpower. It wasn’t possible. Even as young children, when she was at her worst, he never truly believed she was capable of such atrocity.

“You’re wrong….”he managed to choke out. “You’re wrong and I can prove it. I just need to see Kingsley.”

This time it was Williamson’s turn to get serious as he received a hard stare.

“Frankly, you don’t have much to stand on either. Your own conduct in this war is under scrutiny as well. We’ve received word from the American, German, and Russian governments about various undertakings that occurred under your watch. Bounties, assassinations…”

“I did what I had to,” David replied with quiet fury. “You have no right to judge me for anything, Williamson. I’ve suffered through enough, I’ve…” he barely contained the lump in his throat as thoughts of the deceased permeated through his mind, people he’d never talk to or interact with again. People he loved.

“I just want my wife back. Please, she doesn’t deserve to be treated like the rest of those monsters.”

A flicker of sympathy appeared on his colleague’s face, but it was clear from his defeated posture there was nothing he could or was willing to do.

“I’m sorry, Grant. My hands are tied. The dust hasn’t even settled at Hogwarts nor on this new Ministry and you come barging in here demanding a Death Eater be released? Not only can I not guarantee such an action, but the question of your reinstatement among the Auror office remains to be seen as well. I’m sure the Minister will see you when he has sufficient time. Until then, there’s nothing I can do.”

And with that he walked off without another word, leaving David with no prospects or immediate solutions to his problem. He was completely and truly alone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Quiet. Then again, this place was always quiet.

In the aftermath of his plea falling on deaf ears, David did not heed Williamson or any other Ministry official. Given the chaos surrounding Britain, there was no one to stop him from going into the Department of Mysteries, namely the room of death.

He had only been in here once. And that was in the aftermath of a massive battle between the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters over some ancient prophecy that You Know Who had desired for some reason or another (the circumstances surrounding his connection with Harry Potter were still dubious). That basically had been mop up duty and ensuring that Tonks was not too seriously hurt.

A massive lump formed in his throat at the thought of the pink haired witch, one of his best friends and partners in crime. Seeing her body- pale, cold, and fragile body on the stone floor of Hogwarts- was too much to bear. Despite Tulip’s attempts to console him, there was no consolation to be had.

David shut his eyes as silent tears rolled down.

Tonks, Fred, Talbott, Badeea, Ben….they’re all gone. They’re gone and I’ll never be able to see them again.

If there had been a stray rock or pebble, he would have flung it into the archway itself. But there was none to be had. The emptiness was symbolic of room itself, black and devoid of life. Personification of death, the lives robbed by its random cruelty. Because that’s what this was in his mind: simply cruel

Dropping to his knees, he ran his hands through his almost-shoulder length hair, the tears dripping off the stubble of his chin and onto the floor. By now the shock of the battle had well worn off and the only thing remained was the unadulterated, raw pain that marked its end. Hundreds were dead, including numerous friends and coworkers. And now his wife was essentially condemned to live out the rest of her days in prison, victim of a family legacy forced upon her.

It’s my fault, he thought to himself. I couldn’t protect her. I let her fucking manipulative, piece of shit parents get their hands on her and now our entire lives are bloody dead on arrival.

After all the fighting, after all of his efforts to find Merula and end the pestilential war that plagued the U.K. for almost twenty years, he had failed. Even with You Know Who dead, the ideology he perpetuated took a piece of himself and his life with him.

What was the point? What was there left to live for or hold onto? Merula wasn’t dead but she might as well have been- a fantasy of something that wasn’t coming back. Just like Tonks.

Like Ben….

Like Badeea…

Like Talbott….

There is no point, came the internal conclusion.

Suddenly, David felt another presence within the room. At first, he believed it to be some stuck up official who was about to order him to leave (in which case he would have been in for a rude awakening) but he found that the feeling was much different than sensing a person sneaking up behind you. No, this was…supernatural.

The presence was not one entity, rather it felt like multiple. Even more unsettling was that these entities seemed to speaking to him.

David Grant…..David Grant

It was barely more than a whisper, but it was extremely audible, as though the message was specifically designed for his ears only.

David Grant….David Grant

He looked around and realized that this voice, or voices, were coming from the mysterious archway itself. Even more mysterious, he felt drawn to it, despite his own fear.

“Who…who are you?” he said standing up walking towards the archway.

Come….Come….

“Come where? I don’t understand.”

Come see….come see….

At this point, David was so delirious, so filled with grief and emotion he didn’t even consider he might be going mad. Who were these spirits that desired to speak with him? What did they want to show him?

“Tonks?” he asked aloud, swallowing his throat. “Ben? Talbott? Grandpa? Is that you?

He reached his hand toward the shadowy, white substance that moved about within the archway, all rationality forgotten. The knowledge that this door was the veil to a world beyond life, to death itself, did not register.

I can see my friends again. Maybe I can go to a place and be with Merula again and start over. No war, no pain. Just a life worth living, a life better than this…

As the tip of his index finger touched the veil a white, hot flash blinded him as a force more powerful than he had ever experienced tore into the very soul of his being. Time and space seemed to be ripping itself apart and back again as he was plunged into an unknown cosmic channel that seemed to go faster than the speed of light, yet slower than the oldest tortoise. Just as David thought he might go mad from the insanity around him, everything went black.

Then he knew no more.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The scent of daisies and wildflowers wafted in the air, carried by a soft breeze. The air was warm and tender as it was on a summer day in Britain. The chirping of birds signified the season and the promise it offered to all creatures.

Hazel blue eyes fluttered open.

Thinking back to what just occurred, David sat up and saw that he was in a meadow on the edge of a forest of some sort. Tall grasses partially obscured his view, and the ground itself was so soft, he almost wished to remain there. However, curiosity got the better of him.

Standing up, the scene became more familiar. This was no ordinary meadow. It was a place he and someone very dear to him had once visited during a weekend at Hogwarts. A peaceful place that had been the spot of one of the greatest moments of his life.

This is Hogwarts. Or at least the edge of the grounds.

He saw the forest, the same one he once saw Fenrir Greyback emerge from in his first year, its tall trees just as imposing as ever, though less so in daylight. To his north, was the castle itself, its massive presence right where he left it…except it wasn’t. There were no visible signs of damage to the longstanding magical institution, at least none that he could see. It was as if the Giants who had wreaked havoc with their clubs on the towers, never existed in the first place.

Frowning, David turned his gaze downward. Though the day was cloudy, visibility was still strong. The hoops of the Quidditch pitch could be seen even from this distance. Sloping all the way across the hill was Hagrid’s hut, the fire damage to its roof also gone.

“What on earth?” he muttered to himself. This couldn’t be Hogwarts, he was just there. The state of the school was a mess and the physical damage immeasurable. How could it have been gone in the span of one day? Come to think of it, how long had he actually been out for after he touched that veil?

“Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, after all,” he said aloud. “But how in the hell did I get here?”

Whatever the case, he needed to find out what exactly was going on. If a significant amount of time had passed, Merlin only knew what happened since his absence.

But before he did, another marking caught his eye, one that he was unfamiliar with. To the untrained eye, it looked like a piece of dark granite stuck in the middle of the ground, but David knew better. Whatever it was, it warranted a closer look. As Kingsley always told him- “Check every aspect of your surroundings. If something is out of the ordinary, investigate with caution and care.” As David often joked, it was his own version of ‘constant vigilance’ employed by Mad-Eye Moody. Really, it wasn’t a surprise the smooth and capable man became Minister.

Deciding to test apparation this far from the school itself, he discovered that there were no wards and saved himself the walk.

Upon closer inspection, he saw that the gray semi-obelisk was actually a monument. A monument to those who had died in the fighting against Voldemort and his forces during that fateful night. He read the inscription.

Here lies those who willingly gave their lives in the face of the greatest evil our world has yet seen. May their sacrifice never be forgotten, and their memories preserved by the love of family and friends. This monument is a tribute to them and the day of May 2nd, 1998.

David could feel goosebumps rush down his body as he glanced at the names engraved on the stone. There was at a least a hundred, which thinking back to the official dead count was about the number killed in the battle. His heart sank as the casualties remained unchanged, ‘Nymphadora Tonks’, ‘Remus Lupin’, ‘Fred Weasley’, ‘Ben Copper’, and others were all listed. Curiously, however, there were others he didn’t even recognize while some were conspicuously absent. Badeea’s name was not among the dead nor was Talbott Winger. One of the names, a man by the name of ‘Ethren Whitecross’ had the stars and stripes flag next to it, signifying he was American.

“There were no Americans at that battle as far as I know,” David said to himself. “I spent the last two weeks of the war trying to bloody well convince them not to intervene, didn’t I?”

It suddenly occurred to him, that this monument had to have been created after the epic battle and sure enough when he checked the creation date, his guess proved to correct.

“Commemorated September 1st, 1998,” he said. “Paid for by the Board of Governors with the consent of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.”

David almost had to sit down again and suddenly felt very disoriented.

I’m…I’m in the future, he realized. But how is this possible? Has such a thing ever been confirmed?

Sure, there were stories, but they were usually old wives tales, legends that carried no bearing on reality. Though time turners technically had the ability to send someone back in time, they were all destroyed three years prior and besides, it could only send you to the maximum of thirty-six hours back in time not forward.

There was no question, he needed answers. And the sooner he received them the better. What year was it? Were people wondering where he went? What was the state of the Ministry? Was Kingsley still in charge? Were the Death Eaters given trial or executed? His stomach then dropped a few notches.

Merula

Above all else, the fate of his wife was the most important aspect of this investigation. If something had happened to her without him there to defend her honor…well he didn’t want to think about that just yet.

“She’d come and find me no matter where she was and tear my ear off,” he said with a dry chuckle.

Wasting no more time, David decided to visit the Ministry first. They would surely hold the records and documents about all trials, prisoners, and even the status of current, ex, or retired Aurors. People might be shocked or incredulous to see him barge in randomly, but it was worth a shot.

Making sure he maintained the necessary distance from the wards, David apparated away and in a flash was gone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Unbeknownst to everyone aside from the Minister and the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, there was a secret entrance to the Auror Office in a random pay phone booth in Manchester. As part of their training and oath, they were not allowed to use it except in cases of extreme emergency such as an attack or during a war. And though David’s situation didn’t qualify under either circumstance, he figured that going missing for God knows how long and not knowing what happened was enough of an excuse. Besides, if Tonks didn’t get caught for sneaking a whole case of beer during training, it was a safe bet no one would give him grief over this either.

Trying not to think about Tonks and making sure no muggles were looking, David stepped into the booth, awaiting to be transported to the main Auror office. It was quite a simple process. The old muggle machine had been charmed to recognize the magical signature of any law enforcement officer in its ranks. All you had to do was place your wand in the tray, say aloud your name and you’d be whisked away to the halls of the Aurors.

David did just that, as he could feel the magical sensors checking him over including multiple dark detectors.

“David John Grant,” he said, showing his badge.

However, instead of finding himself inside the Ministry in the next second, a wave of green slime appeared out of nowhere, drenching him from head to toe in a disgusting ooze.

“ACK! What the f-”

He quickly exited the booth to the curious glances of some muggle onlookers, who were no doubt attracted by the minor commotion. Giving them all a quick smile and a wave, David ducked behind one of the brick buildings the city was known for, cursing himself and the booth.

A few cleaning charms later, there was little trace of the substance on him (save for his vans) but the incident only brought more questions. Why had the secret entrance denied him? Technically speaking, he hadn’t officially resigned from the Aurors when he went into hiding and took up being a vigilante. His magical signature and badge should have been more than enough to avoid the pitfall of having that odious slime dropped all over him. It was merely a safeguard against dark wizards, but it also revealed something else.

Whatever the reason, the Ministry no longer recognized his credentials. That in itself was an ominous sign. If he wanted answers, he would have to go about it the old fashioned way.

Ensuring no one was peering into the alley, David apparated out of sight once more.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

One trip to London and a red phone booth later, David was finally inside the Ministry. Walking down the sleek, marble halls, it was almost exactly as he had remembered- the same statues, same fountain, same amounts of flying memos zooming in and out of their respective stations. The hustle and bustle was back and there was no sign of any damage from the war.

If the Ministry looks this good, it must be a fairly long time since the last battle.

Even more promising was the person sitting at the front entrance desk. David recognized those dark features and orange sideburns anywhere: Talbott Winger. He was wearing the blue robes most Aurors did while on duty and that was also a good sign. He, Tonks, and Talbott were the last ones accepted for mentorship in 1991 which meant he would know just what the hell was going on.

He was just about to greet his old friend, until he stopped dead in his tracks, recalling the monument and how Talbott’s name wasn’t on the list of the fallen. Seeing him alive and well at the Ministry all but confirmed this was the case. But this only brought more confusion to David’s already very bamboozled mind.

He died during the battle. I witnessed it with my own eyes. So if this is the future, how can he still be alive?

None of this was making any sense at all. Nevertheless, David knew that he had to try and do something to figure this mess out. Though naturally reserved, Talbott did not hesitate to help the rare few he called ‘friend’. Perhaps he could provide some assistance, whatever the reason for this madness.

“Hey, Talbott.”

The ebony skinned wizard looked up, his sharp eyes penetrating him like the hawk of his animagus form.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice betraying no hint of recognition.

David rolled his eyes playfully as he leaned on the desk.

“Come on, mate. Quite having me on. It’s Dave.”

An awkward silence followed as he sought to clarify.

“David Grant.”

Again, the name did not compute as Talbott merely gaze a polite look of bewilderment.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Okay, now this was definitely getting weird. How did Talbott, even if he was somehow not dead, not even know who he was?

“Talbott, I’m your friend. David Grant. We went to Hogwarts together. I helped you find your lost necklace that your mother gave you.”

That statement lit up the dark, brown eyes of the animagus though it was not out of familiarity, rather the emotion seemed to be pain and shock.

“I don’t know how you know about that, but I can assure you, you were not the one to help me find my necklace nor did I attend Hogwarts with you. Now, is there something I can help you with?”

David was practically reeling. How was it possible that the man he had gone through so much with didn’t even so much as recognize him? It didn’t make sense. Nothing about this made sense.

Alright, at the very least, I can get in here, find my old office and pour through some old files. I’m sure whoever’s in charge now can clear this up.

“Yeah…uh…I’m an Auror,” he said showing his badge. “Listen, I’ve been gone awhile for reasons you wouldn’t believe anyway but I just need to get to my old office and talk to someone. Is that possible at least?”

“Give me your badge and wand.”

Short and to the point, no time for idle chit chat. That was Talbott alright, which made the situation all the more disconcerting.

Talbott took his items and examined them, muttering a few standard identification and security spells, before getting up from his chair.

“One moment, please.”

David raised an eyebrow but didn’t object. Though he didn’t know why a simple identification spell required going into a backroom, he was sure whatever issue popped up would be cleared soon enough. After what seemed like half an hour (it was only ten minutes, but it seemed longer), Talbott returned and handed his wand and badge back to him.

“I’m not quite sure what the issue is, sir. But there’s no record of any David Grant of having worked for the Auror Department, or any other Ministry job for that matter.”

The twenty five year old leaned forward slightly, as if not hearing him correctly.

“I’m sorry what?”

“Your badge is authentic but there’s no employment history of anybody with your name here. When I applied more tests to your wand, it didn’t match any current witch or wizard in the entirety of the United Kingdom, nor anything ever sold from Ollivanders.”

This time the confusion was shared by both men, as David looked incredulously at his wand and badge as though he no longer knew what they were, while Talbott appeared to be a cross between dumbfounded and even a tad sympathetic.

“Nothing at all? No David, or John Grant or anyone with that name?”

“Nothing. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never seen anything like this before. I want to believe you. But as far as the government is concerned, you don’t exist.”

David let those words hit him a few times before even contemplating a course of action.

As far as the government is concerned, you don’t exist

You don’t exist…

You don’t exist….

“I-I don’t understand,” he finally spoke aloud.

“Neither do I,” Talbott affirmed. “But unfortunately, I can’t let you in the Ministry at this time. I’m sorry.”

David didn’t even bother to argue the point. It seemed as though every time he found a simple method to answer his questions, the end result would just add more to his ‘to-do’ list. The revelation that the British Ministry held no record of anyone with his name was the icing on the cake.

“Well…uh…thank you anyway.”

Turning around to leave, there was one more question burning on David’s mind, one that he was sure even this version of Talbott wouldn’t mind revealing.

“Would you at least mind telling me this? What day and year is it?”

Talbott gave him a questioning look but gave him a straight answer.

“May 4th, 1999,” he answered.

So a whole year has passed? That explains why the war damage has been fixed. But not everything else. Including my own status as living, breathing person.

Then he noticed something else. A small pin attached to the front of Talbott’s Auror robes. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was an American Flag, the second one he had seen today.

“I beg your pardon but why do you have a lapel of the United States flag?”

“Full of questions, aren’t we? It’s a commemoration.”

David didn’t understand but then again what else was new. He needed to ask for more.

“What does America have to do with the commemoration of the end of the war?”

There was no mistaking the obvious look of pain and sorrow on Talbott’s face this time. So distraught that look was, he shifted his gaze to the side.

“The citizens of the United Kingdom weren’t the only ones who gave up their lives in order to stop You Know Who.”

It was there that David ceased, prudently unwilling to press the matter further. Talbott wasn’t going to speak more on the subject anyway and to do so would have been inappropriate anyway.

“Thank you for your help, good day.”

David didn’t turn to witness Talbott’s reaction. He had seen enough. From being thrusted a year forward in time, to seeing an old friend alive, right down to his own seemingly non-existence, this whole scenario was becoming positively ridiculous. And if he couldn’t find information at the Ministry there was another source he could turn to.

It was a time for a trip to Diagon Alley.

[thelemstar]

Rusty’s Trivia #1 - “The hells is a Nightkin  - and how did it happen?“

aka: oh boy, time for me to delve into his family history

Seems like the research isn’t going too well on his end. A short while ago, I’ve made the page for the bio of Rusty, my Final Fantasy XIV character. Fact is - beyond a bit of personal information and a few RP hooks, I very much deliberately omit backstory from character bios if I can help it. The reason for that being that a) I like people finding things out for themselves and b) there’s way too much I could possibly go into and I am absolute garbage at condensing things. However, as I figured none of this stuff is coming up in RP directly - as there’s no real way he’d ever find out all of it in person - but I still really want to write lore and condense it with already existing lore to give form to my complicated thought processes. Both to share it and to have motivation to get everything down on paper for myself, because dear freakin’ lord. Ultimately, I figured I might as well use Tumblr for doing so. This is going to be a long one, so bear with me.

To first of all explain in detail what these terms are properly - Nightkin are those that have made blood pacts with Voidsent, as well as their descendants, and Voidsent in turn are beings whose souls have been corrupted by astral darkness - a type of aether. That being said, the term Voidsent is apparently attributed by the people of Eorzea to everything that seems like it just couldn’t belong to their world. Astral aether / darkness is aether that causes chaos and is made up of wind, lightning and fire - as opposed to umbral aether / light, which causes stagnation and is made up of Water, earth and ice. Basically, there’s a whole order vs. chaos dichotomy going on - and normally, your soul needs both. Now, Voidsent have so much astral darkness they they might as well be astral darkness, driving them to insanity and giving them an insatiable hunger for living aether in the futile search of reattaining a normal balance of soul. Meaning they can and will eat you. Their home world - the Void - is entirely devoid of living aether, thanks to all of it being in constant flux. Voidsent are basically this verse’s version of demons, which so happens to be the name of one of the many subtypes of them, as well as an alternative way to refer to their species as a whole. The other side of the spectrum - Sin Eaters - can and will also eat you, and they’re the angel equivalent of this verse. Yikes.

The eternal night of the Void. Actually very pretty for a post-apocalyptic hellhole in which no life can survive. Then they get summoned from the Void and people enslave or make pacts with them to attain more power in black magic - meaning astral magic, meaning chaotic magic made to destroy things really hard, judging by the DPS a good Black Mage can do. So far, so good. Unfortunately, a certain whole nation of black mages - Mhach - ended up causing a war and summoning a whole lot of Voidsent to do it. And unlike the Allagans before them, who created the art but had no countermeasures in case things went wrong - and they eventually did - the Mhachi made void magic kind of their big thing. Mhach summoned weaker Voidsent by weakening the fabric between worlds to create a gate. However, to summon stronger Voidsent of their hierarchy, they needed to use corporeal vessels - so the Voidsent that was intended to be summoned could enter their world by means of possessing their body and taking their soul as tribute. Buon appetito! As you might be able to guess, this will be important later. They fought with the nation of white mages - Amdapor - and basically ended up causing the Great Flood because none of them cared enough to actually use water magic. Fittingly, the offensive toolkit of player black mages is fire / ice / lightning, and earth / wind for white mages. Water magic is only part of healing and support abilities, meaning Amdapori white mages forgot to actually heal while they were doing damage. Thus, the Amdapori were shitty white mages. Q.E.D. Seeing as the rampant, uncontrolled use of magic caused an apocalypse, the last few remaining mages of the time banned black and white magic and instead developed red magic in the country their ark ended up in - Ala Mhigo. Red magic uses a balance of both black and white magic and balances it with sword fighting techniques to limit the use of aether - in red magic, aether is only drawn from your own body instead of directly from your surroundings, thus requiring a significantly more efficient design of the discipline instead of “big explosions = big damage” - as is the black mage creed.

Yes, this ark is a real thing. It’s somehow still in decent shape - even after more than 1500 years! However, as we find out in the actual quest line for red mages investigating the Ziggurat in the Peaks, the earliest forms of it experimented with a lot of interesting things. Interesting things such as blood pacts with Voidsent to defy the physical limits of the mages. Clearly the result of some lingering Mhachi influence - and after considering that maybe this is a bit too dangerous, as it will end up with enslaved Voidsent freeing themselves and rampantly devouring everything they can get their hands on, as well as gradually corrupting the souls of your entire bloodline, this was promptly outlawed from the discipline. And this is where Rusty’s family comes into play. The last remnants of his family - who came over from the island nation of Aerslaent because everything there got flooded over - partook in research with blood pacts, thus causing their entire bloodline to be cursed with Voidsent blood. And unless the pacts were to be forcibly severed by using a Mhachi device called the Nullstone - their final solution to Voidsent troubles - the taint doesn’t truly go away, instead staying dormant until any further interference happens. Unfortunately, the Nullstone was still in the Mhachi capital - guarded by the immortal void mage Calofisteri, who is not exactly thrilled to give it up and be at risk to lose her power. To make everything worse, Rusty’s ancestors decided that their Voidsent target of choice was to be one of the highest rung - a Voidsent king they called Ba’al. Meaning they sacrificed one of their own to pull the soul of Ba’al into their body - offering up the soul of said poor person in the process - then took his blood for their research. Ba’al was eventually banished back into the Void - his now completely deformed host body included. Again, yikes. Naturally, they weren’t keen on still sticking around in Ala Mhigo and being witch hunted for good reason and thus eventually went back to their homeland - migrating across the continent Ilsabard, to the Far East, across the New World and then back to Aerslaent. They and their descendants continue to inspire stories of witches and monsters all across the globe. Probably.

No. Not you, Rusty. Try and act scary all you like. Rusty Axe is just another descendant of that family of black mages, born in Ala Mhigo more than a millenium and a half after the Great Flood - his father having previously left said family in Aerslaent and traveled the continent of Eorzea as a warrior mercenary. As to what happened next - that’ll be explained once I decide to do Trivia #2. Which may be whenever I get enough inspiration. Stay tuned! If you seriously just read this entire essay on this entirely fictional science and history and how it ties into my OC lore-wise, kudos to you. Seriously.

[ausllygo1direction]

Instrument of Darkness

So I’ve decided that I’m going to use my tumblr to kind of promote some of my fanfiction.  For those who aren’t aware, I’m Austin And Ally Go 1 Direction on fanfiction.net, and AAG1D on AO3.

The following bits are some excerpts from my latest fanfiction which was set in the Star Wars universe but with the Sherlock characters.  It was originally meant to be a short 8,000 word Sherlolly fluff one-shot, but the Sherlolly fluff dies pretty quick (It still ends with Sherlolly, but the story was kidnapped by a plot-line so the fluff got thrown out the window), and in the end it turned into an 80,000 word three-shot monstrosity of epic proportions.  I don’t know if anyone would be interested in checking it out, but if you like the following excerpts I’ll place the link to the story at the end so that you can go read the whole thing :)

Without further ado, I give you some bits of Instrument of Darkness.

///

The wind whipped harshly across the planes of the desert, sand scrapping unforgivingly against the weather-worn figure that stood amongst the nothingness.  The lean body was wrapped in scraps of beige fabric and nearly blended perfectly in with the environment.  It was only the shock of dark hair and the crudely made staff that contrasted the figure with the dunes of Jakku.

It didn’t matter though.  Sherlock Holmes was always out of place in the desert.

Why he had been abandoned as a child on such a wretched planet was beyond him.  The desert had hardened any soft edges he had once had, and the physical demands of survival were more than evident in the leanness of his form and the callouses on his hands.

Sometimes he wondered what he had done in a previous life in order to have been dealt such a cruel fate. A life as a scrapper was barely a life at all, and the endless sand had washed Sherlock’s mind of any good memory he might’ve had as a child.

The only thing he could remember was Molly.

The name was his only constant companion in his solitary, and the image of a face that time seemed unable to erase.  The edges were blurred almost as though something had tried to rid him of the memory-

A sharp pain caused Sherlock to grit his teeth and close his eyes against the harshness of the sun, seeking a reprieve to the headache that flared up when he reflected too much on the emptiness of his mind.  There was something missing, but he didn’t know why.

His only hope seemed to lie in this Molly woman.

For as long as he could remember, his only goal in his meager existence was to get off the back-water planet he had the misfortune of calling home, and search for the woman he was sure held the answers to his questions.  The name itself brought a wave of incredible longing to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind, and he was certain that he loved-

Another burst of pain. This one caused a grunt to break the stillness of the desert.

Putting his musings aside, Sherlock carefully unclasped his water skin, before allowing himself to enjoy a few refreshing drops of the too-little supply of water. They did little but coat the grittiness of his tongue, but Sherlock knew better than to indulge in any more. Refreshed as he was ever going to be, he resumed his trek across the barren wasteland.

There were too many holes in his memory to truly understand his past.  Thus, it only made sense to try and move forward.  He had a plan.  Get off Jakku.  Find this Molly.  And then hopefully the rest would come with time.

But for now, to focus on the present.

Besides, the smoking wreck up ahead looked promising.

///

JN-1871 was not having a good day.

On top of breaking some rebel pilot out of prison, commandeering a ship to escape the only hellhole he had ever known, and then having said escape plan go marvellously to hell, he also had somehow managed to crash land on Jakku.

To top it all off, he wasn’t used to being in harsh environments without the protection of his Stormtrooper armour, and he could just feel his skin beginning to burn.

Life was just peachy.

At first, his plan seemed foolproof.  Break the pilot out of prison, steal a ship, use said pilot to fly said ship, and finally be free from the hell known as the First Order.  It was a stellar plan.

Except for the variables he hadn’t factored in.

Variable one: The pilot was a cheeky tosser.  Mary Morstan, as she introduced herself as, did not take orders and apparently had a sense of sass that outweighed her sense of self-preservation.  By the time that they had finally gotten to the ship, JN-1871 was already wishing that he had left her in Kylo Ren’s interrogation chamber if only to have saved himself a headache.

Then there was variable two:  The First Order wasn’t exactly, well… you know, pleased with his escape attempt with their Resistance prisoner.  Hence resulting in a red alert being signalled before they had even reached the bloody ship.

He really, really hated shooting.

Especially when he was on the active end of the barrel.

By the time that the (ex)Stormtrooper and (ex)prisoner had made it to the TIE fighter all hell had broken loose, and Mary had jabbed several buttons on the control panel before shoving something into JN-1871’s hand and shouting “I’ll distract them. If I don’t make it you need to go to Jakku and get my droid.  It has the map that Lady Smallwood needs.”

“What- wait!  I don’t have a bloody clue how to fly this thing! That’s why I broke you out in the first place!” JN-1871 protested from where he had been all but shoved into the pilot’s seat.

Mary rolled her eyes as she continued punching buttons and yanking on wires.  “I’ve enabled autopilot and set the coordinates for Jakku. I’ll keep anyone off your tail.” With that the lights for the ship flicked on and the hum jolted JN-1871’s bones.  The pilot flashed the (ex)Stormtrooper a cheeky smirk.  “See you on the other side.”

“No- wait!” It was too late – before JN-1871 could so much as move the top of the fighter closed and Mary was running towards the next TIE fighter, JN-1871’s gun going off in her hands (When did she get that?).  The (ex)Stormtrooper barely had time to click his seatbelt on before the ship was whooshing out of the corridor, blasters going off behind him.

The rest had been a blur (And admittedly his eyes had been shut for, like, ninety-five percent of it).  There were explosions.  He was vaguely aware of another TIE fighter following his that seemed to keep the enemy fire at bay, until something went wrong, there was a blast of fire, the looming yellowness of Jakku, and enough tumbling to make JN-1871 puke more than enough for an entire lifetime.

At some point his seat must’ve ejected, and then, pain, and death, and oh my goodness he had just wanted a quiet retirement.

He had woken up to a mouthful of sand, an unforgiving sun burn, and the scattered remains of the fighter littered around him.

His mind was in a numb state of shock as he watched the bulk of the wreck begin to disappear beneath the sand.  

He was stranded.

On Jakku.

JN-1871 wanted to cry. Not only did every single part of his body ache, but he was now also a fugitive of the First Order and was stuck on a planet that was uncomfortably close to the Finalizer.  

His eyes travelled down to the odd thing still clutched in his hand.

It was a scarf. Specifically, the Resistance pilot’s scarf that she had shoved into his possession before running off.  He wasn’t sure why she had given it to him – perhaps it was a way to find the droid she had mentioned?  His head hurt, and it wasn’t just from thinking about his predicament.

Perhaps the droid was his way off the planet.  Yes. The pilot had thought he was with the Resistance anyways, and perhaps if he got the droid to this Lady Smallwood they’d offer him amnesty.  Besides, the pilot made this map thing sound important, right?  So it was almost guaranteed that they’d bargain for it.

New plan in mind, JN-1871 turned his back to the wreckage.

Time to find a droid and a way off this back-water planet.

///

On the whole, Mary Morstan was a fairly adaptable person.  She had to be – as a pilot for the Resistance it might as well have been a job requirement.  In all her years of service, she had been in her fair share of sticky situations and had seen more than enough trouble for a lifetime.

There was a reason she was so cocky.

And yet out of everything that she had seen and done, getting captured by the First Order and being personally interrogated by Kylo Ren certainly took the cake – and the wind out of her sails.

That said, if anything was able to raise her spirits it was the sight of a specific YT-1300. Even if it wasn’t being manned by its original owner, the ship and its cargo were the best thing that the pilot had seen all week.

“What- Mary?!”

Offering a slightly sarcastic salute with her good arm, Mary took that as an invitation to waltz further towards the duo.  “Hello boys.”

Although the ‘Trooper she had escaped with had lowered his pistol (Mary had to hold back a snort – he hadn’t been fooling anybody with his whole Resistance impersonation), the tall stranger only tightened his grip on his staff, eyes narrowed.

“Who are you?”

Mary eyed his fighting posture warily.  Despite all her bravado she was in no condition for a fight, and the other man knew it.  Thankfully, the ‘Trooper responded for her.

“It’s alright, Sherlock.  She’s Redbeard’s pilot.”

Mary’s eyebrows hitched at the name.  “Did you name my droid while I was gone?”

The other man – Sherlock – finally lowered his weapon, though he managed a somewhat haughty sniff. “I wasn’t going to call him a sequence of letters.”

She rolled her eyes. Mary had a feeling that she would be doing that a lot around these two.  “Where is he?”

The ‘Trooper took over once again, turning to head back down the hall.  Mary stayed close to his heels, overtly aware of how Sherlock’s eyes followed her every move – and not in the good sort of way.

“He’s up in the droid port piloting the ship.  We ran into a snare, hence why we’re currently out of motion.  Sherlock was fixing the wiring when you showed up.”

Mary made a humming noise of acknowledgement in the back of her throat.  “I take it that means you haven’t had the map delivered to Lady Smallwood yet.”

The ‘Trooper shrugged awkwardly.  “The coordinates are set for D’Qar, we just need to recalibrate the-”

“Nevermind D’Qar,” Mary asserted, slipping into the vacant pilot’s chair and ignoring Sherlock noise of protest as her fingers began flying over the wires.  “We have a new destination.  The map can wait; There’s some more pressing issues at hand.”

It was only the weight of something very solid suddenly upon her collarbone that caused Mary’s fingers to freeze their musings.  The ‘Trooper’s sudden protests were lost to her as her senses directed solely at their current danger.

Sherlock stood menacingly beside them, his staff held dangerously against her chest.  Any sudden weight, and Mary was certain that he could snap several of her bones without even batting an eye.  There was something in his eyes, a kind of… madness that made Mary’s flesh crawl.  The ‘Trooper was still going off the rails.

“…Sithspit Sherlock, she’s on our side!”

Sherlock didn’t pay him any heed, his eyes still trained dangerously on Mary.  Finally, his baritone cut off the ‘Trooper’s ramblings.

“I was told we were going to D’Qar where I would be given transport to go my own way.  I am not interested in taking a detour.”

Mary raised her hands, and turned slowly so she could face him better, though her own eyes were narrowed.  “Well, if we don’t get to Sector 7G pronto, there may not be much of a galaxy left for you to fly through.”

The staff didn’t move.

“What are you talking about?”

“A weapon,” Mary was irked at sharing the information with someone with an obviously different agenda from the Resistance, but the weight on her collarbone hadn’t left her with many options.  “The First Order has designed a weapon that they call Starkiller Base, and it doesn’t just take out a single planet, it can take out an entire system.  If we don’t get over there and sabotage it now, we might not get another chance before half of the galaxy’s gone.”

A moment of stillness as her words sunk in.  Then:

“Sherlock if that’s true then searching for this Molly person would be pointless.  She could be dead before we’re even to D’Qar.”

Mary’s ears perked at the information, but she was more intrigued by how Sherlock responded to it, his eyes hardening in resignation while his mouth twisted in dislike. After a moment’s more of silence, the metal was finally removed.

Sherlock didn’t look any less defensive.

“Fine.  We go to this Starkiller Base” He said the name derisively, and Mary couldn’t blame him, “And destroy it before it can inadvertently kill Molly.  And then I expect to be transported somewhere and given a ship and the supplies needed for my search as thanks for saving the galaxy.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted between the other two people dangerously, as though daring them to contest his statement.

Neither did.

Giving a sharp nod of his head, the strange man spun on his heel and disappeared down the corridor. The ‘Trooper gave her a half-muttered apology, before dashing after the errant man who had threatened her life just a moment before.

Within a breath Mary Morstan was left alone with the circuit board, still trying to process what was happening.  She blinked, before a scowl marred her pretty features.

“So I’ll just fix the ship myself then, shall I?” She shouted into the empty space.

Unsurprisingly, nothing shouted back.

///

Destiny could be a funny thing.

Some people felt that it was set in stone, that once a future was determined it couldn’t be changed. Others felt that while the future wasn’t exact, the fundamental attributes of a person would always result in them making the same choices, leading to an inevitable destiny.

Sherlock thought that destiny was garbage.

And that the Force was too.

He remembered waking up to ash.  Pain had coursed through his brittle flesh that had been all the wrong colours in all the wrong places, and his lungs had seized at the filthy air around him.  He had tried calling for help, for his parents, for Myc, but his body couldn’t take the sudden movement, and instead he found himself curling up in the ash and soot, sobbing silently as the world passed on in silence.

That was how Lestrade had found him.  Broken, and helpless, and covered head to toe in fiercely angry burns and black, black ash.

If he had believed in destiny, he might’ve even said that the state in which Lestrade had found him in had foreshadowed that which he would become.

Destiny was bantha fodder though, so Sherlock dismissed the thought.

For a while, though, it was near impossible to believe otherwise.  The darkness had simply been so all encompassing that Sherlock struggled to keep afloat.  The other Masters and students had been rightly terrified of him, and more than once Sherlock had overheard stray thoughts throughout the Force, wondering when he would be lost to the darkness for good.

For a while, Sherlock had felt that he had no other option other than to forever be entrenched in the darkness.  He was a monster, an abomination, a sithspawn, and he had lost any hope he might’ve once harboured.

After all, when everyone else fears the darkness within you, it hardly seems polite to disagree.

Then, he had met Molly and everything changed.

For the first time in his life, he had felt like he could be good.  That perhaps he wasn’t destined for a future drowning in darkness.

His mistake, however, was in thinking that he could learn to swim.

For although he tried, the darkness never left.  And although he went through the motions, he never truly could be a Jedi.

After all, he had all but thrown himself at the darkness in order to save Molly.

Now, as he traversed the uneven ground with the bitter breeze threatening to blow his hood off, Sherlock still didn’t give destiny any credit.  After all, what had it done for him?  But he did have to admit that if it did exist it clearly had an ironic sense of humour.

Why else would Sherlock be on his way to find the one person who had betrayed him when it was most important?  The one person who could hopefully save the galaxy and answer some very pressing questions. The one person who had found him over twenty years prior.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes didn’t believe in destiny.  

But destiny believed in him.

And that was why he was always meant for the darkness.

Because destiny knew that he could also be more.

///

In the throne room, Sherlock was doing very, very badly.

With his attention split between the fight and his Force Bond with Molly, he didn’t stand a fighting chance on his own.  Molly had momentarily stepped back in her attacks as the two Praetorian Guards kept him busy, but if he didn’t figure out how to get through to her soon, his momentary relief would not last long.

In the end, it was his own stubbornness that did him in.

Mentally chanting that he was strong enough to keep up with the attacks despite the fact that he most certainly was not, Sherlock didn’t have the energy to pay attention to his form.  As a result, his right elbow clumsily was left out of position at the tail end of one of his blocks, causing a solid hit to the arm from one of the guards to loosen his hold on his saber.  

In the next moment, the blue was extinguished and Sherlock’s lightsaber went clattering to the ground, stopping next to the ugly throne where the Supreme Leader was watching the events unfold with an unsettling grin.

Weaponless, Sherlock barely managed to duck in time, the vibro-voulge of one of the guards skimming too close to his head for comfort.

Panicking, his body went on Jakku survival mode as his foot swung out to catch the guard closest to him, sending him to the ground.

Somewhere in his head, the Jedi part of him was shouting to use the Force to reach for his weapon.

But a much larger part that had witnessed first hand dirty fights in old wrecks of starships was muddling any useful thoughts.  He grabbed the vibro-voulge of the fallen guard, the shape familiar enough to his staff that the Scavenger part of him was able to relax slightly in ease.

It lasted about a half a heartbeat before he was bringing the voulge up to block the oncoming attack of the other guard.

Which was, of course, when Molly had to join the onslaught as well.

In his haste to stop the lightsaber from separating the top half of his body from the bottom, he forgot about the body of the fallen guard, and his foot went out from under him.  His eyes widened and his breath got caught in his throat, but it was like he was a child again and unable to control the Force.

He hit the ground hard, vision slightly blurry.

It was mere reflex that had him bringing the voulge up to block the lunge of the guard.  He blocked each attempted swing desperately, his grip on his temporary weapon weakened due to the awkward position and constant assaults.

His head lolled to the side slightly, and his eyes caught on the handle of his saber.  

Trying to fight down the panic, trying to regain some semblance of control, Sherlock reached his hand out.

He was a dead man if he couldn’t rely on the Force.

Please.

The handle twitched and the blade went flying.

…Right past Sherlock’s hand, and into Lestrade’s waiting one.

///

John and Mary were panicking.

Read: Mostly John was panicking.

It had been over five minutes and they were still as stumped as they had been before.  Mary had taken to reading every single label for the switches (Luckily for them, Stormtroopers were bad at nearly everything, meaning that the labels for each switch was incredibly precise).  Unfortunately, however, there was simply such a multitude of switches that she was still nowhere near finishing.

John was in a corner muttering to himself.  Up until a minute before he had been reading the labels too, but then he suddenly stopped without explanation and took up an almost trance-like murmuring about the plan.

Mary was getting fed up with the useless play-by-play.

“This would go a lot quicker if you helped, you know.”

John blinked owlishly at her.  Her vocal intrusion seemed to finally break him of whatever spell he was under, but then he opened his mouth and hollowly said something that Mary never expected to hear.

“I think Sherlock’s dead.”

Mary froze, the words on her label suddenly spinning.  Then her head snapped towards John with horrified precision.  “What?”

John gulped, a shaking hand coming up to card through his hair.  “The, uh, Force, thing.  It- it-” He shook his head in an attempt to gain control of his actions.  “Someone powerful and important just died.  It was as though the Force cried out for a moment before settling.  I don’t know how else to describe it.”

Mary fought to keep control of her own panic.  “But we don’t necessarily know that it was Sherlock.  Couldn’t it have been the Supreme Leader?” She reasoned.  “He’s also powerful.”

But John merely shook his head.  “They were good in life.  Otherwise the Force wouldn’t have acted as it did.  I don’t know how I know that, but I just do.”

The weight of his words was crushing, and Mary felt as though the room they were in had just shrunk several feet.  “If he’s dead… then we’ve failed.  The Supreme Leader lives.”

But John was already spiralling into grief, his having said his fears aloud allowing them to solidify into as good as reality in his mind.

“He was my best friend,” His eyes were distant, ears unhearing.  “I didn’t know him that long, but he was my best friend.  And now he’s gone.”

Mary was having none of it though, her grief doing the opposite and surging through her with new-found determination.  She stepped forward and grabbed John’s shoulders, giving his loose frame a good shake to snap him out of it.

“Listen to me,” Her voice was steady, for which she was grateful.  “Perhaps he is dead, okay?  But that doesn’t mean that we are.  Not yet, at least.  And I can bet every last unit I have that he wouldn’t want us to give up now, you hear me? I believed in Sherlock Holmes,” Here her voice did crack, ever so slightly, “And now, we must live for Sherlock Holmes.  You understand?”

Despite the haze that settled behind his eyes, John nodded ever so slowly.

“Good,” Her bravado was slowly slipping away, so she turned around so that John wouldn’t see.  “Now let’s get back to work.”

///

A/N:  Okay, so a lot of that doesn’t make sense because I had to cut a lot to avoid spoilers, haha.  But if you want to read more (With a much more cohesive plot, I promise) please check out the full story.  It’s set post-original trilogy, and basically follows Sherlock from age 7 till age 27.  The first chapter is completely set at the Academy, with the second and third being set within two weeks of TFA and TLJ timelines.  Hope you guys enjoy!

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16282052/chapters/38077163

ff.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13078770/1/Instrument-of-Darkness

-AAG1D

[i-read-good-books]

yoi lotr au

this is from several centuries ago but i think i never made a tumblr post for it and it’s my favourite fic that i’ve written so you know fuck modesty ayy

Title: "The Adventures of Sparkly Elf and Soft Hobbit, Endured With Great Patience by The Bright And Powerful, Best In The Land, Yuri Plisetsky."

Word Count: 4k

Summary:  Critics have always considered "The Adventures of Sparkly Elf and Soft Hobbit, Endured With Great Patience by The Bright And Powerful, Best In The Land, Yuri Plisetsky." one of the most faithful descriptions of Legend Victor Nikiforov, the greatest elven fighter for more than eight centuries. Although it is narrated by Plisetsky as an adolescent, and thus contains strong language and spends more time ridiculizing his travelling companions than giving thoughtful insight into Nikiforov's psyche, it still remains as an essential reading in every scholar that decides to study Nikiforov [...] //

Day 95: Caught Nikiforov writing love poems. Am appalled at bad writing more than anything else. Example: “I really like your dark eyes / and all the other parts of your face. Your butt is the perfect size / and I would love to see you in lace.” Hope the Hobbit cannot read, or am afraid this love story will not have a pleasant ending.

Alternatively: Elf!Yuri talks shit about Elf!Victor and Hobbit!Yuuri in his diary.

Link to ao3: here

Actual fic under the cut:

"The Adventures of Sparkly Elf and Soft Hobbit, Endured With Great Patience by The Bright And Powerful, Best In The Land, Yuri Plisetsky."

Critics have always considered "The Adventures of Sparkly Elf and Soft Hobbit, Endured With Great Patience by The Bright And Powerful, Best In The Land, Yuri Plisetsky." one of the most faithful descriptions of Legend Victor Nikiforov, the greatest elven fighter for more than eight centuries. Although it is narrated by Plisetsky as an adolescent, and thus contains strong language and spends more time ridiculizing his travelling companions than  giving thoughtful insight into Nikiforov's psyche, it still remains as an essential reading in every scholar that decides to study Nikiforov, as Plisestky was his protégé and closest friend. It is also, admittedly, an incredibly honest read, compared to some stories that overglorify Nikiforov and paint him as overworldly. The beginning of his relationship with Yuuri Katsuki, famous hobbit adventurer, is also illustrated in the book.

- Excerpt from "Victor Nikiforov: Legend and Truth", by scholar and famous entertainer Minako Okukawa.

Day -24: Nikiforov barges into my room in the middle of the night, wearing a pink frilly nightdress that I am quite convinced belongs to Mila, and announces, terribly loud, “Yuri! I have found my next adventure!” Proceeds to leave the room immediately, leaving glitter on my floor. My brethren and I have had our sleep disturbed for no conceivable reason. If this happens to be similar to the Human Pleasure Device Incident, will slit Nikiforov’s throat in the night.

Day -23: Nikiforov appears to be convinced that his adventure will be worthwhile. He has promised me he will not request me to undress a human female again. I have politely asked him not to ever mention the Incident again. Might have to invest in more of my daggers, as they have proved to be extremely useful. Nikiforov cheerfully informs me this adventure will involve hobbits. Do not see how this is supposed to encourage me to join him in his mad tourist trips across Middle Earth. Will ask Mila if hobbits are edible. Am unsure if she will know either.

Day -22: Hobbits are not edible, Mila is a terrible tattle tale, and Yakov is considering bringing me to a “place with other elves your age, lad”. If I am found dead come morning, Grandfather, ensure my fellow warriors find a safe place.

Day -21: Nikiforov will not consider my polite request to “leave me the fuck alone”, and continues to bother me at weapons training with plans for his reckless endeavour. He tells me there’s a magic hobbit in the Shire who can attract ancient creatures. Am glad, maybe this hobbit will get devoured before Nikiforov tracks him down. It would be fortunate.

Day -20: The Devil Himself (Yakov, Grandfather, I mention him sparsely, as I rather dislike him. He is too loud and much too tall) has declared he considers the idea of me joining Nikiforov’s wild trips marvelous, instead of repugnant. Do not know if simply stupid or just senile. Will consider murdering him to avoid leaving. Rivendell is not terribly disgusting at this time of year, and my warriors are comfortable here.

Day -19: Got caught trying to sneak into The Devil’s chambers. Mila informs me that “killing is not nice, baby”. Am not a baby. Am nearly 50 years old, you wrench.

Day -17: Neither threats nor pleading have persuaded my instructors. Am supposed to leave in two days’ time to get to the hellhole called “The Shire” to kidnap a prepubescent hobbit and force him to do our bidding. Have informed Nikiforov this sounds remarkably like “sexual harassment”. Nikiforov replies that I should stop reading Mila’s psychology novels. Am offended. I only read them for the plot.

Day -16: Hobbits are apparently smaller than dwarves. Cannot wait to be taller than someone. Am properly excited.

Day -15: Nikiforov apparently packed his whole wardrobe for the journey. Cannot truly say I did not expect this. My warriors hide in my cape, ready to spring on unsuspecting enemies and claw their eyes out. They are not “so cute!” as Nikiforov implies. He is an ignorant, and must be eliminated as soon as possible.

Day -10: Nikiforov has run out of natural glitter. Have never seen someone so utterly devastated. Must make sure to steal the glitter more often back in Rivendell.

Day -5: Nikiforov tries to tell me about the mysterious hobbit we’re supposed to abduct and manipulate. He says I will be happy, because the hobbit is slightly younger than I am in human years. I tell him I will not be happy, because I will be with a hobbit. Nikiforov has nothing to say to that.

Day -3: Arrival at The Shire. It is disgustingly cheerful. Nikiforov tells me to “keep still” until he finds the our target. I tell him to “go fuck yourself”, and proceed to wander around the Shire. Have discovered that hobbits are, in fact, quite shorter than me. They also eat ridiculous amounts of food. I approve of both these facts. Have written down several interesting recipes for Grandfather to make when I am back in Mirkwood.

Day -2: Nikiforov comes back with our kidnapped hobbit. He does not look like much of a magical creature. He is also, indignantly, called “Yuuri”, which amuses NIkiforov to no end, and ignores my attempts at being at peace, alone , insisting that I eat far too little. Am astounded he thinks I consider his opinions about me relevant. Believe the disgusting hobbit and Nikiforov are carrying on an illicit love affair, if their repugnant longing looks are anything to go by. I fear for my virtue.

Day -1: Hobbit: “Well, Victor, I don’t -” Nikiforov: “Did you...did you just call me by my given name?” Hobbit, while an alarming shade of red: “I’m so sorry, please, excuse me -” Nikiforov, the same shade: “No, uh, it’s fine.” I wish for the sweet relief of death.

Day 0:  After a day of making eyes at Nikiforov, like only the blind do, Frighteningly Cheerful Hobbit invites us to sleep at his “hobbit hole” before our journey… I do not know what his “hole” refers to, and do not wish to know. Grandfather...hobbits are such deviants.

Day 1: We set off. Hobbit has forgotten his Pork Cutlet Bowl knife. We return to his “hole” (a type of house in the ground, I was mistaken, Grandfather, although it was painful for the height of the ceiling. Nikiforov, I am happy to say, was hurt much more badly than I was. But he did share a room with the Hobbit, which is a greater punishment than any creature needs) and get it. We set off once more. Nikiforov has forgotten his hairbrush. I throw one of my warriors at him to end his life. Warrior just meows. Am tired of this journey already.

Day 5: Have finally reached Bree. Easily Terrified Hobbit fidgets incessantly and clings to Nikiforov’s arm like a pest. He, disgustingly, seems to enjoy it immensely, smiling besottedly at the creature and making the hobbit get flustered in increasingly obvious ways. Have decided to find some poison in case they act any more smitten around each other. Bought food and blankets for my fellow warriors, although it was of an abysmally low quality. Strangely, miss Rivendell, in a It-was-terrible-but-familiar way. Must make sure to never grow attached to any place again.

Day 12: Hobbit has learnt about elven mealtimes, and is horrified. “How dare you, Victor?” he shouted at Nikiforov today, “Yuri is a child , he must be fed much more than this! I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible! How many meals does he have a day, huh? Huh?!” Nikiforov, looking terrified and backing up, even though he is almost twice the hobbit’s heights, replied, “Um...three, four times per day?” This is my only source of entertainment, Grandfather. The Hobbit is currently not speaking to him, refusing to even look at him, and treats me like a newborn elf, which offends me greatly. Am glad he has seen the light regarding Nikiforov, although he is completely mistaken. I am not a child, and do not need feeding.

Day 17: ....the Hobbit’s cooking is surprisingly edible. Am fine with being a child for him. Hope Mila never finds out. Must destroy all evidence. Hobbit is elated, and calls me “dear”. Must kill him, too.

Day 18: After reflecting on it for a day, cannot believe hobbits are so advanced in the culinary department. Although they lack many other attributes (like basic intelligence and a sense of common decency), they certainly have a great amount of talent and ingenuity regarding sustenance. Truly remarkable creatures, these hobbits, even if they are inferior to us. They eat seven meals a day, Grandfather. Must market this. Inform the Financial Advisor, Yuri Purrsetsky.

Day 19: As of today, have been attacked by orcs, most of them riding drooling wargs (utterly repulsive), trolls and several unpleasant inebriated humans. Nikiforov is ecstatic that Hobbit attracts them to us. The Hobbit does not look as pleased with the confrontations, and has resumed his desperate clinging to Nikiforov, apparently forgiving him for starving me. I enjoy myself while making clever jokes about how the hobbit should learn to handle Nikiforov’s ��sword”, and cackle evilly when he flushes.

Day 35: Mila has sent me a letter. It says: “LOL VICTOR SAYS YOU EAT HOBBIT FOOD YOU FUCKING NERD”.  Nikiforov will die tonight. Am prepared to run from the law.

Day 48: Hobbit insists my brethren are “adorable”. I inform him it is a slight on his part, as they are fierce warriors who could kill him in his sleep. Warrior Dreaded Claw discredits me by purring while the Hobbit pets him. Feel betrayed by my comrades.

Day 50: The Hobbit keeps touching my warriors. Get your hands off them, you filthy mongrel .

Day 53: Nikiforov has joined the warrior shaming, most likely to get points from Hobbit, who is delighted someone supports him.  Nikiforov takes advantage of this by putting his hand on the Hobbit's shoulder and walking him everywhere to "get stuff for your kittens, Yuri!". Hobbit makes a point to coo every single time he sees me with my warriors. Am offended this behaviour is allowed to continue without any repercussions, and consider it a baseless infantilization of my noble and solemn partners. EDIT: Must remember to heat the milk I bought for Sharp Fang, as she is sensitive to cold liquids and too young to be risking her health.

Day 60: The Hobbit Yuuko (AKA The Least Unbearable Hobbit I Have Ever Met) has sent me a letter. It is three feet of parchment long, and she explains in great detail how goats are raised in different climates. Am unsure what she means by this. Will ask Hobbit if this is part of some sick courtship ritual between these creatures.

Day 62: Not As Annoying As Most Hobbits has sent another letter. Apparently, the first one was for somebody else. In my letter, she tells me how to take care of my “luscious, glorious hair, Yuri!” and gives me advice on proper elven fashion. ...do not know which of the two was worse.

Day 73: They have not kissed. They very pointedly do not sleep in the same tent. I can feel the gods’ anger. Cannot deal with the residual traces of sexual tension in the air. Am unable to sleep for fear of them starting to become... intimate while I find myself in deep slumber, ignorant of the horrors happening next to me. Am considering calling the Furry Wizard to take me in, such is my desperation.

Day 80: Fought a dragon. Meh, could’ve been better. Hobbit rewarded us for saving his life by giving us some of its Pork magic dish.

Day 95: Caught Nikiforov writing love poems. Am appalled at bad writing more than anything else. Example: “I really like your dark eyes / and all the other parts of your face. Your butt is the perfect size / and I would love to see you in lace.” Hope the Hobbit cannot read, or am afraid this love story will not have a pleasant ending.

Day 105: The Hobbit has sewn pockets into my Tiger Monster cape to keep my warriors there as we travel. Hobbit is extremely worried for my health and that of my brethren, so I allow him to live one more day. Must use him as blackmail against Nikiforov.

Day 110:  "I wonder about all the eros you can give me." The hobbit thinks this is an intercultural thing, and is blushing in a ridiculous manner. I am concerned about the education received in the Shire. I fear for Nikiforov’s blood pressure. Do not know if I will escape to a safe place before he inevitably jumps the Hobbit.

Day 117: Fifty Shades of Gandalf visits us. He says, “Victor Nikiforov, the greatest fighter in the realm, whose name is feared and revered alike. What is your destiny, what dream are you chasing with this strange ensemble of companions and felines?” Nikiforov tells him some bullshit about becoming his better self and chasing something to challenge himself. Am convinced he thought, “Getting da booty.”

Day 134: Am sitting on a moderately comfortable rock, because this is the luxury a young, outstanding elf can find near the Misty Mountains. The Very Hungry Hungry Hobbit comes up to me. “Yuri,” he says. He is clearly nervous, fidgeting and glancing around us to see if anyone is in the area. I understand this because the Hobbit is incapable of surviving on his own (it is a miracle he has reached his age without being murdered) and I feel for him, the same way I do for small rodents, cockroaches, or Victor Nikiforov. “Yuri,” he says again, while I daydream about squashing him immediately after making him reveal the ‘Most Glorious Katsudon’ recipe, “Do you think Victor likes me?”

I…

I am going back to Mirkwood.

I cannot be expected to stand this. I’m out. Grandfather, I’m coming back.

Day 141: “But, like. Do you think, um, an elf and a hobbit would like, work ? Cause, um, I’m just… very out of my depth? I really appreciate you listening to me, Yuri.” I hate my immortal existence.

Day 158: Yuuko The Most Tolerable Hobbit sends me a portrait of her minuscule hobbit triplets with straw in their head and wearing animal skins, and writes below it, They have a new idol! Am unsure if I should be pleased with this or not. Must write to them about how to improve their fashion skills. Hmmm. On second thought, might be a good idea to have some minions.

Day 173: Nikiforov has decided to teach the Hobbit how to dance, and thinks that the best way for it to go is to educate his worryingly tiny mate in some elven dancing and rites. He has failed to take into account that the Hobbit’s head barely reaches his waist. Watching them flail is the best fun I’ve had in ages.

Day 174: Nikiforov has decided that, since I am only slightly taller than the Hobbit (a fact that I am immensely proud of) we must dance together. Although I thought it terrible and meaningless at first, am now greatly entertained when Nikiforov flinches the moment I put my hands on the Hobbit. Cannot control the urge to smirk. The Hobbit is, of course, completely oblivious.

Day 192: Wake up to the sounds of the Unpleasant Hobbit moaning Victor's name. Proceed to whack them with a stick and scream, yelling profanities at them. Human raiders attack us because of it. I regret nothing.

Day 193: Hobbit is sheepish and refuses to make eye contact with me (good for him), flushing and turning away, giggling, every time That Wretched Elf touches him. Nikiforov, on the other hand, enjoys pulling his undershirt down to show the disgusting marks he left on him. Retreat to eat dinner with my brethren, huffing.

Day 206: “I hope you know that… it won’t change things, that me and Victor are together. I know you two are close, and I don’t want to get in the way of that, Yuri. It would be great if you could come to like me, too. I think you’re a great warrior, and an even better elf.” I fucking hate Hobbits and I do not tear up, no matter what Nikiforov claims. I long for the day I can murder him without repercussions.

Day 218: Nikiforov decides to adopt some rabbits. Do not know if Hobbit will be okay with having children so early into their relationship. My warriors are not unhappy with the development, although Obscure Fur is still on the fence about the bigger one.

Day 219: Hobbit grows a spine and makes Nikiforov release the rabbits. “Victor, they need to be free!” “But you let Yuri keep his kittens!” “They’re his family , Victor, and they are adorable !” Am growing to like the Hobbit more each day. What a pity that he is such an inferior creature.

Day 226: Nevermind. Must remember to always sleep with my whacking stick in hand to avoid a repeat. Will be scarred forever. Did not expect the Hobbit to be this... adventurous . Will stop thinking about the Hobbit in that context.

Day 248: "Yuuri, I...I think you've changed me. I've never felt like this before, never wanted to be with someone else so badly that my heart ached. You're...you're a shooting star across the dark night that is my life, lighting my path." "Uh...yeah, um, me too, Victor." Do not know how hobbits are still alive, if that is their standard reproductive behaviour. Will inform Grandfather not to invest in the hobbit gardening industry, as it might end in the near future because of hobbit shortage. My stick has been graced with another whacking, and Nikiforov coincidentally has another bruise, this time not because of his disgusting deviant tendencies, which are quite unbecoming of an elf of his breeding.

Day 253: I…

Another dragon found us today, while we were travelling. I was not worried, as I have grown used to Nikiforov handling every monstrous creature thrown our way without trouble. The Flamboyant Elf didn’t disappoint this time, of course, but he took longer than usual. Hobbit, in his stupid panic, tried to help. Hobbit...Yuuri (I might call him by his given name, as he might be dead by tomorrow) got injured. I… Saw Nikiforov crying for the first time. Do not want to see it again. Grandfather...have you seen this before? The way an elf fears for their mortal lover? Is this pain the one the stories talk about, woven in the songs? Will Nikiforov, too, die with the Hobbit? ...Will I be left alone?

Day 255: The Hobbit hasn’t woken up. Nikiforov does not leave his side. The ingredients for the past two nights’ dinner are still in the Hobbit’s bag, but I am not hungry. My brethren refuse to eat, as well. That wretched Hobbit should die, as stupid and careless as he is. He will do nothing but bring us grief.

Day 279: After weeks of fever and incessant worrying, the Hobbit is once again healthy.  I tell him it would be a shame if he died before I could torture him to punish him for his misdeeds and insults to my person. He insists on fussing over me, as I am, apparently “too skinny, oh god, did Victor even feed you?”. His desire to take care of me (as if I needed it, the self-centered bastard) must wait, given the fact that Nikiforov hasn’t let go of him for the past twelve hours. Am shocked and repulsed to find that I do not find it as disgusting as I once did. Must be a side effect of living with these deviants.

Day 284: Send poison, Grandfather, I beg of you. My dutiful army of terrifying kittens, it is time to fulfill our destiny and end the suffering in this world. I cannot bear this any longer. Grandfather, you might be disappointed in me if I become a murderer, fleeing the law and taking refuge in the dwarven mountains, but I will not witness the Irritatingly Red Hobbit feeding Victor that Precious Katsudon once more. No more .

Day 290: The Hobbit insists on us visiting the Shire for some time. He says he must give news to his family, and it has been too long since he was home. Nikiforov immediately agreed with the Hobbit and disregarded my protests, because he is whipped. Heard the Hobbit talking about introducing Nikiforov to his family. Am slightly impressed with how manipulative he can be.

Day 302: One of my warriors gave birth to more of our troops last night. Hobbit is delighted, and helps me care of them. I watch him carefully to make sure he does not try to harm them, although I doubt he has enough of a brain to have ulterior motives. Nikiforov enjoys teasing me about them, “Weren’t they supposed to be fearsome warriors who needed no assistance, Yuri?” I retort with, “Weren’t you supposed to be pretty , Nikiforov? People lie.”

Day 305: Nikiforov is still sulking about the comment I made. Hobbit tries to reassure him he is pretty with an endless stream of compliments, and kisses an unnecessary amount of times in my presence. I do my best to ignore them, and fantasize about  tearing them apart limb by limb.

Day 317: Have finally arrived at the Shire, and am quite excited to see Yuuko, The Almost Pleasant Hobbit once more. Perhaps will enjoy my time with my “fans”, the triplets. Have received a letter from Mila. It reads: “Is it true Victor’s banging that Hobbit? Omg, take pictures!”. Did not reply.

Day 319: I take all my nice words about my fans back.Children are demons and I cannot wait to leave the Shire. Why must they exist? When I voiced my complaints to Nikiforov, who looks like an extremely suspiciously happy elf after leaving  Bumbling Fool Hobbit's room in the morning, he cackles very unattractively and says, "But you are a child, Yuri." Grandfather, this is harassment.

Day 321: Have caught a ‘cold’ from the fiendish triplets. I fear for my life. Grandfather, it has been good knowing you. Must say goodbye to my brethren. Wish to die surrounded by them, in proper elvish attire, while Nikiforov’s body burns on a spike.

Day 324: The Hobbit has established himself as my own physician, and pretends to know any knowledge about basic medicine while sharing his observations with an actual medical professional in the Shire. Have made peace with the Hobbit’s overwhelming stupidity. Nikiforov tries to  help, but Hobbit hisses at him and possessively calls me “his patient”. Am overjoyed that this makes the Drama Queen Elf pout.

Day 328: Am feeling much better, and do not think I will die soon. Yuuko brings me pie, which I feel is the least I deserve after her devilish children got me infected.

Day 330: Today, the Bondage Wizard With A Pointy Hat came to the Shire. He informed us that the Hobbit  does not in fact attract any magical creatures at all, and it was all his doing. Therefore, this journey was a road to self-realization (except I somehow got strung along. Funny how it is never wizards that get caught up in “destiny”.). Nikiforov looks slightly annoyed, but is disgustingly happy with the Hobbit. I am not blinded by these trivial matters, and proceed to whack the Bondage Wizard with my stick. Cannot believe I wasted a year of my life on this useless adventure. Will be back soon, Grandfather.

Day 373: Am back in Rivendell. Mila is calling herself “a huge Nikatsuki shipper”, which could possibly be her new cult name. Yakov yells at me, which is normal. Miss the Hobbit’s cooking, if not his presence. Definitely do not miss Nikiforov, not in the slightest.

Day 458: Have received an invitation to the Hobbit and Nikiforov’s wedding. Have advised Mila to bring arsenic in case they engage in intimate activities while in the presence of others. Will consider taking Grandfather with me, so he can inspect the culinary developments in the Shire. Yuuko says the couple is “so adorable, Yuri!”. Poor deluded hobbit.

fin