#vanishing stars and empty grief and a too-quiet darkness......

[maggiecheungs]

mad girl’s love song by sylvia plath // restless night (倦夜) by du fu, trans. david hinton

[graha-stan-account]

FFXIV Write Day 3: Temper

Temper: 1. Noun. an angry state of mind.

2. Verb. act as a neutralizing or counterbalancing force to (something).

---

When Azem first disappeared, she left without a goodbye. Such a departure was rare for her these days, especially so soon after returning to Amaurot. But for Emet-Selch, as was true for the others who loved her, such time always felt too short, no matter the duration.

Hythlodaeus discouraged him from thinking too much on it, insisting their beloved would turn up in short order, or collect them to herself as she sometimes did.

"Rare is it that a moon should pass without some cause for which we are singularly qualified to assist." He chuckled, in an effort to send his Hades' worries fleeing to the dark corners of the room. "Somehow Azem always finds the right sort of trouble."

Emet-Selch tried to take solace that her summoning him was imminent, but even still, something felt wrong. Even for Azem, she seemed overly sentimental, affected, on their final night together.

Worse still, so passed one moon, and several more thereafter, without any word. Convocation meetings went missed, and though Azems enjoyed extended permission in meeting absence due to the nature of their office, attempts to reach her, through official and unofficial channels, were fruitless. What had come instead appeared to be paradise's end. So too, when the sky began to rain fire shortly thereafter, and the magic which once blessed creation, instead scorched, maimed and swallowed it whole.

So Emet-Selch was fair mad with grief when he came upon Venat, who he surmised was on her way to bury herself deeper in the damned archives of the Akademia Anyder.

"What have you done?" he shouted. "On what fool's errand have you sent Astrea?" His hands were on Venat, holding her in place so that she might not vanish as her successor had lest he have his answer. 

"Handle yourself!" Venat, not so easily rattled, returned a steely gaze. "I have done nothing to your dearest. You think she walks by any other path but her own? You think so little of her?"

Emet-Selch stumbled on his words. Surely, there was no force which could change the direction of the winds that bore Azem to her destination. He began again in a more measured tone, for he knew laying blame would earn no answers. "Then where is she?"

Venat shook her head slowly, her face sincere, eyebrows upturned, a bittersweet resignation. "I know not. But wherever she is, she fights yet for the star."

"You know then she is among us."

"If she had been lost, we would not be speaking. No doubt you have already scoured the Underworld for her soul many times and come up empty."

Emet-Selch sighed in disgust. He was predictable, and if Venat could see it plain, no doubt Astrea had the foresight to shield herself at the outset from the only two with means to find her. But why?

"She is being censured. Again. The Convocation is desperate for her knowledge. They would seek her removal for failing to perform her duty."

"And what is that duty, Emet-Selch?" Venat was wistful, pained. "Spill more blood upon our beloved star to summon a god?"

"If you cannot help find her, then stand aside."

He tore past her and down the plaza.

And when he saw Venat again, her face covered in soot, her gait weary and eyes steeped in tears, she gave all she could offer as the turbulent heavens stilled.

"I am so sorry. Oh, my friend, you have given more than your fair share..."

Utterly alone, Emet-Selch could do little else but turn away from her to hide his grief.

He needed to find her, if she yet lived. Had she known? Could she feel Hythlodaeus' soul slip from its mortal shell? Feel the swell of dark aether? Did she see the skies quiet?

Perhaps if she had been here, she could have talked Hythlodaeus out of it.

The years pressed on. Had she busied herself with repopulating the star with all manner of creature, curated two by two which she now ushered out in safety? Did she truly labor only for the star, and had she forgotten these few wretched souls left broken without her light and warmth?

Few, indeed. It was only him now. He worried the blasphemous crystal in his fingers, its fractals twinkling like tears, now beheld by eyes long gone dry.

And so when they next convened, after what felt like an age since their very essences had rebelled against them and the sky cried fire, he had no answers for the Convocation. None which they deemed satisfactory. And the Elidibus shade which poured from Zodiark's breast echoed a similar reply.

"Will this sacrifice be enough? To secure everyone passage? Would that we still had Azem here," said Emet-Selch. "Elidibus, is there not value in her oft fresh perspective?"

Elidibus, once one to take such delight in Azem's mischief, her clear gaze into matters, placed his hands securely on Emet-Selch's shoulders.

"You would abandon your duty in search of a traitor? Seek the knowledge of someone who cares not for the star? No. This is not the Emet-Selch I know. See it through," he insisted. "See it through that this star may prosper and our brothers and sisters returned. See it through, until duty's end."

Emet-Selch was sure he would find a like mind in the company of the emissary, another who would not discount Azem out of hand. But it appeared he was wrong. This Elidibus was different, colored by the Convocation's want of a solution, or perhaps equally exasperated with the current circumstances. It was wrong, but it was all that remained.

"Until..." Emet-Selch let out a heavy sigh, "'until duty's end."

[inuyashasforest]

Light Me A Lantern Chapter 40. Finale.

Rating: T Pairing: Inuyasha/Kagome Summary:  Picking up the pieces after being separated for three years isn’t as easy as it may seem. A quiet, burning kind of chaos sweeps through Feudal Japan, and it’s going to take a lot more than a fairy tale ending to put things back together. They defeated a man who would become the Devil. Can they survive a man who would become a God?

Excerpt:

When the cool light faded, the dark was quick to take its place. It swallowed him whole, leaving no trace of the beach, the burning moon, the God beneath his palm - or the slender hand clasped in his. Sensation vanished, consciousness retreating  to the place behind his eyes, settling back within himself. The all-consuming shadow receded, and with its absence Inuyasha slowly became aware of a flickering, orange light pressing against the dark, not quite able to penetrate it. He became aware of the soft palate underneath his back, the scent of lingering smoke - not the smoke of a battlefield. The smoke of a hearth. Over the crackle and roar of a fire came the soft pelting of water running off a roof. A crack of thunder rumbled gentle and deep overhead. 

All at once it slammed into Inuyasha. He bolted upright on his pallet with a gasp rough enough to tear at his already aching throat, torn from grief-stricken screams. The air dragged like fire down into his chest as his eyes struggled to adjust to the room. He’d been on that grassy hillside what felt like only moments ago, his body scrambling to keep up with the shock of the loss of grass beneath him and empty stars above. He saw the fire in the hearth first, its light searing into his eyes and blotching out his vision as he stared wildly around the room he found himself in. 

“Inuyasha.” 

The firm hand suddenly gripping his shoulder nearly had him turning to attack. Miroku instantly let go and raised his hands, knowing better than to test Inuyasha when he was like this, as if he was feral with his own fear. Gradually, the adrenaline rushed away and left Inuyasha feeling the weight of his exhaustion. His vision cleared to the familiar interior of Miroku and Sango’s home. As he sat there, his chest heaving, he took in the weary faces surrounding him; Miroku next to him, his eyes steady and reassuring. Rin, Shippo and Sango sat on the other side of the flames. The kitsune boy had removed his battle dirtied clothes and was wearing a spare robe that was still too big for him, wringing a rag into a bucket of dull, rusty water as he cleaned himself off. He’d stopped, rag dripping into the pale, when Inuyasha sat up. Rin had been wrapping a strip of cloth around a long gash on Sango’s bicep, already cleaned and topped with a sweet ointment. The youngest child, the one Inuyasha had not even met yet, lay in the cradle of Sango’s free arm, while the other three children all piled together sleeping in the far corner of the room with Jun and Kei watching dutifully over them. 

Miroku reached a tentative hand to Inuyasha’s shoulder again. “Inuyasha,” he repeated, “You’re safe.”

“Where is sh-” the question was burning on his tongue with rising panic, but as Inuyasha searched manically around the room, he found the answer laying out beside him; Kagome, washed of any trace of blood in a clean white kimono.

I’m so not ready to say “the end” but this is it. The End. 

It’s everything I’ve fantasized about for the past seven years, and I hope it is for you too. Thank you all so much for coming on this long journey with me. All my love 💕

[Read on AO3] [Read on FF.Net]

[nonbinarychaoticstupid]

c or e (maybe both?) for the ask game

>:) (also he/they/she catra because i'm having too much fun with this hc)

this kinda fits the angst more than the fluff but i hope u like it nonetheless! (also. ending properly? who's that?)

Everything hurts.

Everything hurts, and he can't stop crying -

(Catra knows they're asleep, or dreaming, or dead, because there's no way any of this is real, there's no way Adora is real and Adora came back for her and there's no way Adora could possible be here right now and -)

"I'm going to take you home," she says, distantly, and if she could hear past the humming of the hive mind in her ears she might be able to -

Prime's voice howls in their ears, and it hurts, and Catra grits their teeth and forces out a choked whimper that somehow, somehow ends in "P-promise?" and oh, he's going to pay for fighting back like that, and the thought isn't their own - Adora -

"I promise," Adora says - no, sobs - and he wonders, somewhere in the closed-off portion of his mind Prime seems to have relinquished, if he'd be allowed to reach across the fragile space between them and fall into Adora's arms like he wants to, if the mind pressing hard against his own would allow him that small reprieve.

(They wonder if Adora would hold them back, if she'd let them sink into their arms like they've wanted to for years and never let go. They wonder if she'd - if she'd recoil at their touch - if -)

Something inside her lurches free of Prime's grip, that instinct that keeps her clutching at her arms and trembling and sobbing out here on this lonely platform jutting out into empty space, and Catra - stars, she just wants to be home again - Catra reaches out and chokes out a broken, soft, "Adora-" and -

It happens so quickly they barely have time to register it - pain lances up their body, they cry out, because it's - it's so much worse, it's so much more than when Prime drowned them in the pool, and then the world is white and blank and gone and they're floating in silence, in nothingness, devoid of thought and emotion and everything except vague, passive knowledge of the world trembling around them. And it's quiet, and Catra - and Catra -

When the world comes back to him, it's framed in harsh, blinding black-and-white-and-green light, in tears spilling from the eyes of the blue-eyed girl standing, frozen in terror, at the other end of the universe, in green-edged lightning and in the kind of pain he'd grown used to feeling almost every day of his life.

When the world comes back to Catra, they are screaming.

(And they could fill pages and pages of the notebooks they used to hide under Adora's mattress with every fragment of this pain, with every inch of their body being burned and turned into ash and electrified by the chip in the back of their neck. They could spend hours trying to pin down every heartbeat of it, magnified and so, so much more intense than what they grew up with.

But before Catra can form that thought properly, pushing at the barriers in her mind, before she can do anything except catch a fleeting glimpse of the cry pulling at Adora's lips through white-hot nothing, the brief flashes of the world she has been allowed to see vanish and she topples backward into nothing -

He topples backward into nothing, and he feels what fragile hold on consciousness he hand slip away, and he feels the breath rattle out of his lungs and thinks, desperately, echoing in the vast empty hollow of his mind Prime must have vacated, ADORA - )

-

Catra is dead.

She knows this with unbreakable certainty, knows this the heartbeat she pulls her broken, bleeding body against her and feels her breath stalling and shaking and shattering out of her body. And it tears something deep inside her apart.

She's trembling with the force of it, fumbling for the back of the head of the body in her arms, feeling the new ends of the hair she must have fought so hard to try and keep and the chip embedded in the back of her neck.

Catra is dead, and Adora is clinging to all that's left of her in the bottom of an impossibly vast spaceship, and in all her life she's never felt as alone, as - as desperately empty as she does right now, and -

And the pit of despair and the hole in her heart shatter wide open.

And Adora moulds that rage, that grief, into something - more.

-

It's beyond anything he's ever known. It's colder and brighter and darker and softer than anything he's ever known, and it's coursing through his veins and tugging at the fraying edges of his mind and -

Catra takes her first breath in what could have been forever and knows, instinctively, that she was dead.

She was dead, and the thing pulling at their mind and their soul and their body is what brought them back.

And said thing is holding them right now, cradling their head in her rough, familiar hands and - and crying -

Catra takes another breath, one that turns into something like a cough, and opens his eyes - and - and there she is, glowing and crying quietly and playing gently with the newly-cut ends of his hair , and it's been so long since they've been this close and smiled at each other like this and he opens his mouth and mumbles "H-hey, Adora," and she sobs and pulls them into her arms -

Stars.

They - they didn't think they'd ever be held like this again. They didn't think it was possible for someone to want to hold them like this. But Adora - Adora, who wasn't supposed to come for her, who saved her, who literally just brought her back from death - is pulling Catra against her like she's never held her before and she can't bring herself to do anything but wrap her arms around her and bury her face in her shoulder and let out a small, broken noise that turns into purring.

Purring.

Adora is holding them for the first time in years and crying into Prime's weird plastic-y shirt and Catra is purring.

You came back for me.

-

When Catra wakes up, Adora is in his bed. And his mind, for the first time in what feels like years, is completely and utterly silent. And - and there's a mess of scar tissue where the chip was, and he's warmer than he's been in a long time. (Not hot - warm, warm like falling asleep in a beam of sunlight, warm like being tangled up in Adora's arms again, warm like - warm like being home again.)

He opens an eye. Shuts it again, because Adora is staring directly at them. Mumbles, "You shouldn't have come for me, you know."

(And it's then that they realise that she's practically draped over them, head nestled in the curve of their collarbone, arms looped around their waist like they're 12 again and Adora is the centre of the world and she's holding Catra like she's her moon and -)

"I know."

She opens an eye again. It's dark in here, darker than she expected it to be, and Adora's expression is hopeful and stupid and she glows in the dark like she was when she healed her yesterday and oh-

"... Why did you?"

"Hm?"

Catra breathes out, long and slow, and shuts his eyes again. And just like that, the glow and Adora's weird bright expression and everything else is gone. And he can practically hear her thinking next to him, hand looping up to stroke his hair like they're kids again. "Why did you come back for me?"

"Oh." Adora pauses, swallows. "Well, I guess it's because I still -"

He laughs, feeling hollow. "Still care about me? After I, I don't know, tried to kill you multiple times? Almost destroyed reality?"

"Yes," she says, firmly, and rolls onto her back. Catra would mourn the loss of her warmth if their head wasn't spinning. "I told you. Yesterday. I never hated you. I never stopped caring about you."

She's lying. She's lying. She's-

"I know you think I'm lying," Adora murmurs. Catra tenses. "I know you think you're not worth being saved. I know you think I'd never come back for you, because you don't think you deserve it."

"I don't," he mumbles. "I hurt people. You aren't supposed to want me around. You - you weren't supposed to come back."

"But I did," she says, slowly, and takes his hand.

(Catra tenses again, and it strains muscles he didn't know could hurt like that, and he bites down hard on his lip and tries not to make a noise because - because then Adora would think of him as - as weak -)

"Does it hurt?"

The question - well, it sort of startles them into opening their eyes and glancing in Adora's direction, and then they have to squeeze them shut again, because she's staring at them with such a hopeful, wide-eyed expression that they -

"Huh?"

"Your neck, I mean." She lets go of their hand, hesitantly, and reaches up to the scars crawling up their shoulder blades. And, oddly, Catra doesn't flinch away when she touches them.

(Because - oh - it's been years since she was touched like that and she's almost forgotten what it felt like and -)

"Um. Kinda," she gets out, and Adora nods, like that makes sense. "Everything hurts, to be honest. Just - everything."

A moment passes, and then Adora lets out a small sigh and breathes, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm sorry you're in pain," she mumbles. "I'm sorry I can't do anything to fix it."

Well, there's no nice way they can respond to that.

Catra shifts onto their side, gritting their teeth as pain bites at the base of their tail. Adora is still watching them, eyes half-closed, lying on her back on the mattress and biting her lip like she's - nervous.

Hm. Shit.

It takes them a moment, but - but they -

"Adora?"

"Yeah?"

She breathes in. Out. "Can you - um -"

"Go?" she fills in gently. "Stay? Do you need me to - to get off the bed or get you some food or water? Do you -"

"Stars, Adora, I was just gonna ask if you could hold me. You know, like you were when we - when we fell asleep? I - I mean, it's okay if you don't want to, it's not like -"

He's cut off by a pair of strong arms wrapping around his waist, a head settling on his shoulder, and Adora's soft laughter against his collarbone.

Oh.

Okay.

A heartbeat, and then she whispers, "Is this okay?"

"Yeah. This is fine."

[wajjs]

prompt part: the taliajaybru continuation of your bb dami fic? where everyone is still soft and nothing hurts (too much) and bruce catches up on how to be with the people he loves?

omegaverse, omega!jay (ft. male breastfeeding - a very short scene at the very beginning)

continuation of this fic

-

In my darkness I search for you

Breeze comes in through the window that had been closed.

Breeze comes in, makes the curtains flutter, and Jason doesn't look up from where Dami's head is nestled in his arms, face pressed to his chest. He doesn't look up as he strokes the thin hairs on the back of the head, as he smiles down at the expression of pure concentration Damian has while staying latched onto his nipple.

Jason doesn't look up and he doesn't need to, because he knows who is standing in front of him, tense and agitated and—he wonders what kind of thoughts are plaguing that head. What kind of picture does he paint, and how is it being interpreted?

Damian's tiny hands flex on Jason's chest and it makes him laugh.

He also thinks he can hear a single broken sob coming from the pillar of kevlar, weapons and living, breathing anguish.

-

When he goes back to the manor, he's carrying a small travel bag with diapers, a few onesies, towels, and Damian's favorite toys. It's clear he's not here for a prolonged stay. He also doesn't come back to the family house through the cave in the middle of the night, like a ghost from days past that descends upon everyone present like a curse. Instead, he walks up the steps to the front door and bounces his baby in his arms. And he waits.

Not for long, though. Because there it is Alfred, looking like he always does and if Jason notices new wrinkles, he doesn't say a thing. He smiles, a small, shy thing, and shifts Damian to just one arm, propping him up on his side.

"Hey there, Alfie," Jason says. If there's a pang of nostalgia clanging in between his ribs, he stays quiet about it.

Alfred's eyes are wide open. This is the most caught he's ever looked.

"Master Jason," he gasps, hand shaking around the doorknob. The lack of steadiness becomes even more obvious when the older man's eyes drift until they are focused on the baby.

Jason understands the surprise. But also, it's getting cold and Damian is still getting better from that trip to—

"I apologize," Alfred quickly recomposes himself, stands to the side as he opens the door as far as it goes, "please, master Jason, please come in."

He smiles and steps inside. Familiarity rushes through him. The house seems stuck in time, as always, and he… he's changed so much.

-

Bruce can't stop looking at him. The man is pale and silent and he looks at Jason and his baby like they are both going to vanish the minute he blinks. Jason doesn't reassure him that this isn't a half-crazed delusion, this isn't a vision, he's here, he's real. No, he makes no attempt at comforting him. Jason knows more than well it would fall upon stubborn ears.

Alfred is the one sitting by his side and smiling as he watches with an avid eye while Damian plays in his baby chair. Well, not his, but the one that's never left the manor, much like everything else that ever entered here. Still sturdy as ever, and Jason sits next to his child and he kisses the soft hairs.

Sometimes he can't believe this is his reality.

"How," Bruce finally asks.

Even with the fireplace lit up, the room drops to sub-zero temperatures.

"I think you're well acquainted with how babies are made, B."

That's not it, though. The three adults present know.

"How did you come back?"

At least they are talking, Jason thinks, and Bruce has yet to force him into completing one medical scan after the other. It's only a matter of time for that, though. Everyone is well aware.

-

At the end of the day, well into the night, he's sitting by the small table in the kitchen, Damian dozing off in his arms, waiting for the kettle to start whistling. It's late, now. Late enough for Batman to be expected to be seen prowling the city, and yet the man under the cape is here, by Jason's side. Closer, so much closer than before.

"He looks like Talia," Bruce says and the air he exhales as he speaks brushes Jason's cheek.

"I know," with a rogue smile, he turns towards the other, shifts his hold so his intentions are clear. "Do you want to hold him?"

In typical Bruce fashion, the answer he gets is: "Stay."

And there are so many things left to be said. So many silenced truths waiting round the corner for their best moment to strike. Speeches Jason has rehearsed, over and over, in front of a mirror—fueled by fear and pain and anger and… and grief. Things he's thought about in the middle of training around the world with Talia's guidance.

Things that moved to the very back of his priorities when he discovered that he was—

And so he resigns himself to be, for once, the bigger person.

"I'll stay for the night."

-

Talia's a beauty that escapes definition, elegantly sprawled on the couch, and Jason feels warmth when he sees her the moment he crosses the door. It's as much his instincts telling him that's my alpha as it is him loving her beyond all that. There's a soft noise forming deep within his chest that has Damian reacting as well, and she laughs with such a wonderful melody.

"We missed you," he says as Damian tries to reach out, both arms extended towards her.

"I'm happy to see you doing much better," Talia stands and picks the baby in her arms. He belongs there as much as he belongs in Jason's hold. "I apologize I couldn't help when you needed me."

"Nonsense," Jason huffs a little, his cheeks getting warm, "you help us all the time. We wouldn't—"

She shushes him with a soft kiss on his lips. It makes Jason's blush grow darker, stirs up half asleep needs and wants and…

He exhales shakily, slumping against the nearest wall and letting the bag fall to the floor. Talia's eyes shine with a new light, one he's seen quite a few times before. They both know what this means.

"I shouldn't," he swallows, runs his hand over his forehead to push his hair out of his face, "I shouldn't go through one so soon, right?"

"You've been with him," her words are not reprimanding. They never are, when she gets it so well, "you've been around him more and more, lately. There are even rumors going around in high society circles. Gossip."

"But," looking at her face, taking in her expression, he shakes again, bites his fist because he needs a distraction. It's not happening just yet, but it's coming. The one thing he did not miss at all. "That… that couldn't be it…"

Talia smiles. She steps closer to him so she can kiss him again. "You've always loved him, dearest."

Jason's knees get a little weaker. He tries not to cry.

"I love you," he says. Desperation adds weight to his voice.

"I know you do," cradling Damian in her arms, she brushes his cheek with her lips, feels his exhale close to her ear, "and I love you, too, dearest."

What Talia doesn't have to say out loud, because he gets it, is: worry not. I'll find a solution.

-

The ridiculous thought of he's too big for this room keeps repeating itself, like a blinking neon billboard, inside Jason's head. Over and over, till words lose meaning and—

His breath hitches high in his throat and Bruce, god, Bruce Bruce Bruce, he gives him a twitch of his lips that passes for reassurance, an almost smile that Jason used to live for. He's different now, he's grown, he's, he… Talia is right, and Jason looks for her, sees her sitting by the edge of the bed, right next to him. He feels exposed, vulnerable in ways he hates, but he's safe. He's the safest he can be, here, with them paying attention to him.

"Jason," Bruce's voice is soft yet commanding and their eyes meet again. "I can leave if you—"

"No," he says too quickly, reaching out, sitting up on the bed so he can hold onto the other's clothes, "no, don't."

"Beloved," Talia scolds Bruce from behind Jason's shoulders. She's the one pushing him back down onto the mattress, the one massaging away the lines of tension taking over. "Don't tease him like this. Surely you know he's been waiting for you all this time."

Forced into view, being made to be seen, Jason gulps, closes his eyes so he doesn't get to see whatever expression is forming on Bruce's face. He's. He's embarrassed but there is warmth simmering low and insistent in his gut, warmth that gets stronger the more he's made to wait. All the scents, the smell of alpha, they are all making him dizzy, making him want. And he's achingly empty. Why aren't they…?

"I'm sorry, Jason," Bruce whispers and Jason gasps, there's the dip in the mattress, the line of heat of a body broad and big like his own laying on top of him.

Then, then there are the touches. The softest drag of fingertips over his cheek, the line of his jaw, the dip of his collarbones.

"I didn't mean to make you wait so long."

When he blinks and looks at them, at Talia, at Bruce, he's both lost and found. He needs. Legs falling open in the most natural of invitations, he bares his neck, presents himself, shivers and swallows back breathless gasps that betray just how much he craves. Like this, in the cradle of their embrace, like this Jason doesn't have to think of his fears, his anger, the wounds that never heal.

With Bruce on top of him, shedding their clothes, with Talia's fingers in his hair, with all this thorough attention, Jason doesn't have to think about all that he's lost or given up.

Like this, for this moment, he can pretend.

-

In the peak of winter, bundled up in worn out sweaters, cheeks red and an easy smile on his face, Jason sits on a cushion on the floor, watching as Damian plays next to him. He's giggling, babbling, round and soft and so happy, it's like there are actual stars in his eyes. The two of them paint the most incredible and magical of pictures. An allegory of second chances and new beginnings, of love, of dedication. Of loyalty.

Talia stands by the door, she's always looking, always from a certain distance, like someone who's always protecting. And there is much to protect, here. Much to keep safe.

Bruce stops by her side and his eyes follow the line of her sight. The smile that he gives, it's the most natural smile he's shown in years.

"You saved him," Bruce speaks barely above a whisper.

"Beloved," Talia sighs, leans into his side like all three of them are indeed normal people, like this arrangement won't bring problems, like they get to have a chance at a normal life, "I didn't do anything. He actually saved all three of us."

[polaroid15]

Febuwhump Day 1: Mind Control

It’s heeeeeere! 

Summary: The one where Parker luck is proven to be the worst luck. But hey, at least he's got the best family in the world to help him through it all.

Read at https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138196/chapters/71533821

Love you guys!!  Thanks for joining me on this journey! 

---

Chapter One

Peter doesn’t realize that something has gone terribly wrong until the last alien hits the ground.

At first he’s excited, body thrumming with adrenaline as he sidesteps over their victory. The fight had been, for lack of a better term, a satisfying study break. He takes a moment to stretch out the tightness in his back and shoulders, relishing in the cold air as his heart rate calms.

Satisfied, he sweeps his eyes across their small battlefield in search of a familiar flash of red and gold. Though the fight had started on the ground, they’ve ended up on the rooftop of some ritzy skyscraper, the city stretched far beneath them and painted gold in the dark light of the moon.

Aside from all the alien guts, it’s not a bad view.

“Tony?”

The man had called him just over an hour earlier asking for his help in scrambling up a couple of rouge aliens from their last big mission. Being close by and more than ready to assist his hero, Peter had been in his suit and by Tony’s side in a matter of minutes, hardly believing his luck. Somehow, despite everything they’ve been through, he still managed to get nervous every time he fought alongside his hero.

To his relief, however, the fight went off without a hitch. Unlike their normal brand, neither sustained any injuries, ‘finishing off the fight with flare’, as Tony would say.

But where is he now?

“Tony?” Peter calls again, slipping off his mask and looking around with enthusiasm. “Where’d you go?”

His voice carries and dies in silence.

“Hello?”

Confused and a little unnerved, Peter spins on his heels in a full 360 and debates putting his mask back on to ask Karen for Tony’s location. It’s out of character for Tony to vanish like this, and it makes his stomach tighten in worry.

“Mr. Stark!”

“Here.”

Peter jumps and turns towards the noise, feeling relief leak into his limbs. “Oh. H-hey man. There you are.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, stiff as a board and levitating a few feet off the ground. There’s a chunk of metal missing from his helmet, ripped clean through so his right eye and nose are showing.

“You’re mask-”

“Peter Parker?”

“What? Yeah Tony. Are- are you okay? You look a little off. Did one of the aliens hurt-”

But there is no ‘you’, because before Peter can finish his sentence, Tony is flying towards him at an alarming speed, repulsors glowing bright. Startled, Peter jumps out of the way and shouts in alarm. “Tony! What the-”

A fiery blast of hot energy hits the ground between his feet. Yelling out once more, Peter scrambles back, hands raised in frantic defense at the sudden rush of heat. “Tony! Stop! What are you doing?”

He doesn’t get an answer. As Tony progresses forward, Peter tries desperately to connect with the man, but his eyes are as blank and empty as the night sky behind him. It’s then that it all comes together, and Peter feels his heart stutter in his chest.

“Oh- oh no. Did you breathe in any gas? Oh God. You did, didn’t you?”

Another blast of energy is fired towards him. It barely misses his shoulder and the material of his suit begins to smoke. Not good. So not good. The aliens were known to produce an aerial toxin that triggers the brain to be particularly inclined to violence. Someone would kill their own family if exposed to it.

And right now, Peter is the only target.

Just his luck.

“Snap out of it Mr. Stark! Wake up!”

Peter feels his heel catch on uneven cement and he stumbles, falling hard on his butt and using the momentum to scramble backwards on his hands and feet. The fear hits him now. He feels it in the sharp sting on the back of his tongue and the inability to fully breathe, his spider-sense screaming and making his head spin. He moves to pull on his mask and realizes in detached wonder that he no longer has it in his hand.

“Peter Parker,” Tony says again, his voice monotonous and void of everything Peter is used to. It’s chilling, and Peter lifts a shaky hand in warning.

“D-don’t come any closer!”

But Tony does. Without blinking an eye, he closes the distance between them and encloses his gauntleted hand around Peter’s outstretched wrist. Before Peter can comprehend the pain, his web shooter sparks with electricity as the gadget breaks under pressure. He screams as his wrist snaps along with the mechanism and arcs his foot up in a reflexive kick. It hits Tony in the abdomen and succeeds in forcing the man to let go, pushing him back a couple steps.

Breathing heavily, Peter scrambles away, broken wrist pinned to his chest protectively. He can feel Tony following him closely and gasps when his metal fingers close around his shoulder, halting his escape.

Peter uses his remaining web shooter to fire a web at Tony’s oncoming fist, pulling the force of it off course so it slams into the concrete at their feet. It breaks like ice around the impact and the shock of knowing it had been directed at him leaves him weak.

“Tony please-”

Undeterred, Tony swings his arm with the web out to the side, throwing Peter off his balance. As he stumbles, Tony uses his other hand to throw a hard punch into the boy’s ribs. He hears them crack but hardly feels the pain, tears welling in his eyes.

“This- this isn’t you. Look at me-”

Peter gasps as his undamaged wrist is pinned against the roof, the metal crushed just like the first. As he screams, Tony finds his eyes, staring blankly and completely unaffected by Peter’s pain.

“It’s me. It’s- It’s Peter. This isn’t you! Fight it!”

The panic and fear in his body has made him numb. When Tony closes his hand around Peter’s throat, he can barely blink, let alone fight it away. The very real possibility that he’s about to die races through him like lightning.

“T-Tony. Mr. Stark.”

The pressure on his throat increases as the man lifts him off the ground. Peter manages to lift his hands to the vice grip, fingers curling around Tony’s in an attempt to relieve the strain. It makes his wrists shoot in pain and for a moment, all he can see are stars.

When his vision clears, he’s hanging by Tony’s hand over a 100 story drop. The city swarms like an anthill beneath them and Peter tightens his hold against Tony’s. His web shooters are shattered.

If Tony drops him, he will die.

“Tony,” Peter chokes. With every ounce of being he can muster, he searches Tony’s eyes. Just as before, they hold no resemblance to the man Peter knows. His hero. His friend.

His family.

“Don’t drop me.”

The grip tightens so dramatically that Peter thinks his neck will be crushed before he even gets the chance to fall. Despite the pain, he refuses to break his eye contact with his mentor. They glimmer against Peter’s reflection, glassy and distant.

“Not your fault,” he chokes. It’s hard to speak around the vice grip and nearly impossible to pull together sentences through the thick fog in his head. But he tries, even when his vision tunnels. It’s important. “I- I- forgive you. Don’t- don’t blame yourself, okay?”

He needs Tony to understand. This could be his last chance, and more than ever, despite hanging above certain death, he knows it to be true.

“I l-love you.”

There’s a flicker of recognition in Tony’s eyes. A glimmer of himself that almost has Peter believing that it’s over, that they’ll be okay.

But then Tony drops him.

He doesn’t have the breath to scream.

Though Tony disappears quickly from his view, Peter keeps the man’s face in his mind as the ground races up to meet him. It fills his eyes with tears, the injustice of it all.

Tony will never forgive himself.

And Peter is going to die.

The wind rips through him viciously as he plummets. He’s fallen through this same skyline countless times and can hardly believe it’s his last.

He closes his eyes and sees May’s face beside Tony’s. Ned and MJ’s, too.

Though he’s never prayed before in his life, the words come to him now.

Help them be safe. Help them be okay.

He wants to be brave. He wants it more than anything.

Eyelids dark, it’s impossible to tell how close he is to the ground. The sounds of traffic draw closer, he thinks he hears a scream.

The impact is jarring.

It hits him all at once, stealing his air and lighting every broken bone on fire. For one soul wrenching second, he thinks the pain of it is his last conscious thought. That just like that, his short sixteen years have expired into dust.

Then he feels metal arms under his shoulders and thighs, hears through the static the distant roar of repulsors. Swears and sobs echo through it all in a delirious cocktail of grief, and Peter comes to the realization quite slowly that he hasn’t died after all.

“Tony?” It’s weak and breathless, like he’s just hopped off the world’s fastest roller coaster. With the last of his energy, his eyelids separate and he sees Tony’s face, covered in tears and unmistakable horror.

He had caught him.

“Tony-”

They crescent their journey on the top of a different, much shorter building. Peter feels himself being laid on his back and for some reason beyond his current comprehension, can’t find the strength to move from it.

Above him, Tony has his head in his hands. He’s shaking and Peter tries to reach out towards him, to show him he’s alright, but all he can do is twitch his fingers.

“Nice- nice catch.”

Tony’s shoulders still, going dangerously quiet. Peter watches with blurred vision as his face appears from behind his hands, the eye Peter can see bloodshot and brimming with an emotion he’s too tired to fully recognize.

“Pete-”

“Not your fault,” Peter breathes, exhausted. He closes his eyes and almost can’t find the strength to open them again. His body feels like the plane he had crashed in Coney Island.

“It is my fault,” Tony says. There’s tension and remorse coloring his voice, which tremors violently. “Christ, Peter. I hurt you.”

“You- you saved me.”

“No!”

“You always save me.”

“Peter-”

“S’okay.” He tries for a smile, but it must look like a grimace because Tony stifles another noise of regret. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“Oh kid-”

With a rush of vertigo, Peter feels himself being pulled up into Tony’s arms. It’s only until he feels the warmth of Tony’s skin that he realizes he’s removed himself from his suit. It’s nice, familiar, and the last of Peter’s resolve vanishes like smoke.

His hero.

His friend.

And in some ways, his father.

If he hadn’t known it before, he sure as hell knows it now.

“I love you too, kiddo,” Tony whispers, and Peter feels their hug tighten, as if it’s the man’s sole intention of never letting go.

And maybe, Peter thinks, it is.

[alpaca-writes]

Mystics, Chapter 25

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by the strange shopkeeper Lyrem Nomadus, everything seems to be going well- in fact, their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as perfect as it seems….

Read Chapters 1-24 and more HERE

Taglist: @myst-in-the-mirror, @livingforthewhump

CW: Crying baby and darkness, drug mention and grief. That is all.

It’s Labyrinth time! We catch up with Charlotte and Arthur as they make a very startling and disturbing revelation.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: POOR THING

         “I wandered for… Oh… I don’t even know how long. Wishing I could be home again- feeling so guilty for how I treated Arch… Thinking about you as well- I mean, I forgot you, Arty! How does a sister forget her little brother overnight- and for months!?”

        “It’s not your fault, really.” Arthur said, “besides, with the way we left things, I wouldn’t blame you for wanting me gone.”

        There was an island countertop dividing them that Charlotte stared up at him from. An amount of betrayal crossed her browbone.

        “How could you think that? I still care about you. I always have! But what I did, I did for Arch. It wasn’t safe for them to be around you when…”

        “When I was high? Or when I was dealing?” Arthur finished, admittedly. “Well, I guess that’s one gift that came from this terrifying place. There’s no coke in hell. It forced me to get clean and gave me a clear head… I suppose I should have thanked Lyrem before…”

        He sighed, “not that it matters much now.”

        There was a bout of silence.

        “There’s a baby here,” he continued, shooting his sister a look to indicate that she ought to elaborate for him.

        “Yes. Rosanna, I think is her name. At some point during my aimless wandering, I came upon the house, and the light, and… her.” She pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “She was all alone, and crying. Poor thing. I have no idea how long she’s been here.”

        “You have everything you need,” Arthur commented, sitting up from the stool and winced as his leg still ached. “There is nothing else in the labyrinth- I was lucky to come across a door to Hades and Persephone. That was the only reason I was able to get out and back to Earth.”

        “I’m sorry, who?”

        “You heard me right the first time,” Arthur spoke directly. He fiddled with the pictures sitting upon baby grand piano.  The images were blurry, like vague reconstructions of photographs without any identifiable subjects… except one. He picked up the photo in its faux oak frame and furrowed his brows.

        “I’ve seen her before.”

        Charlotte followed him to the parlour, noting the photo in his hand.

        “It’s the only clear one in this place. It’s… like I’ve been stuck in a dollhouse. Everything is fake, or a simple vague memory of what this place once was. I don’t understand it. I wish I did.”

        Arthur’s head spun with theories. The pink elephant onesie, the blue starred baby blanket, the soother he found at the bottom of the bins…

        “This could be her house… I saw a photo- not this one, but a photo with the same woman, standing over a birthday cake in the back room of Mystics. She was about the same age, I think.”

        “In Mystics?” her mind burned with the sudden reminder of the grotesque shop owner and hissed. “Arch told me about Lyrem… How he used to have a wife that worked with him. That’s why they were hired. She was gone. I wonder if she’s here somewhere, lost or… dead?”

         “Did Lyrem ever mention having children?” Arthur asked.

        Charlotte shook her head. “I’ve only spoken to him a couple of times, but he never talked about family.”

        Arthur looked to the phone hanging off the kitchen wall with the long beige winding cord attached to it. The appliances weren’t new by any means and the style of the house, with its hardwood, and updated linoleum areas caused his mind to stir.

        “Mom’s house,” he said. “In Knoxville… It was brand new when she moved in. Do you remember the year?”

        “’85, I think,” she confirmed. “Why?”

        “She had the same stereo system, brand new too,” he mentioned, pointing off to the opposite wall where the unit sat beneath a Panasonic television set.

        “You’re right, she did, didn’t she?” Charlotte agreed, “I’ve already tried to play it- it only repeats A Spoonful of Sugar from Mary Poppins… Hold on…

        Let’s say the earliest Rosanna could have been born was 1985, that means”-

        “Well, it’s more than reasonable to assume that”-

        Rosanna started crying over their heads. Both Charlotte and Arthur were thinking the same thing. Lyrem had thrown his own daughter into the Labyrinth as a baby, and never once thought of her again.

        Charlotte broke herself off from the chilling realization and pulled a bottle of milk from the island counter that wasn’t there before. Arthur stared at her oddly.

        “It just keeps refilling,” she explained, shaking it up in her hands. “It’s like everything just resets once she wakes up… And she never stops crying.”

        Arthur followed his sister back up the stairs again. This time, to investigate the rooms. The nursery was quaint and painted in a calming lilac. A sunflower was painted on the ceiling around the light fixture. The small inconsistencies in the shape of the petals caused Arthur to assume it was done without a stencil. Probably by someone who was very excited to welcome their child into the world. A slim acoustic guitar sat in the corner, and a small wicker chair right next to it.

        He wrinkled his nose as he moved around the room. The scent of a baby’s bottom made him gag. Charlotte didn’t seem to care.

        “Lightweight,” she taunted after him.

        Arthur proceeded to the master bedroom across the hall. It was stark. Everything was placed in an orderly fashion throughout which was not a cohesive pattern for the rest of the house. The sheets were perfectly tucked, the pillows, untouched and undented. To the left side, there was a set of glasses and a yellow book. There was a scribble on the front of it, as though it was meant to be English, but it wasn’t convincing to a literate person.

        A lamp on either side of their bed, a window, off to the right that overlooked the front yard and a trembling aspen whose branches swayed in the breeze also gave the impression that this was a house that only belonged in someone’s dream. It was perfect.

        He opened the dresser drawers only to find nothing inside. He found the closet door next, that was set into the wall. There were shirts, all the same color of cream button ups with flared collars, and a few dark pants hung neatly beside them. This had to be Lyrem’s. But where were his wife’s things? Where were his photos?

        Why did Rosanna only remember bits and pieces of the house? And more than that, how the hell did she create all of this? She was only a baby. She couldn’t have been more than a year old.

        These were questions that needed answering one day. But for now, Arthur had to remember that he was still in the middle of his task. He needed to bring Charlotte back to Earth and he needed to find Arch.

        He glanced to the empty doorway. Charlotte was humming a song from their childhood. A sweet and mournful tune as she fed them from the bottle in the room over, he could hear her whisper the melody’s words-

“Goodnight, goodnight sweet child,

Why don't you dream with the angels,

To forget for awhile.

To forget of the life,

That's been handed to you

Where everything's real,

Yet nothing is true”-

        Arthur wondered how easily Rosanna would be able to travel. He didn’t have much experience with young children, but he knew that even in the best circumstances they could be a challenge to bring along anywhere- especially if one wanted to remain quiet.

        He turned his back on them, and raised his hand. Hades had given him the Abysmal Flame to help him kill Lyrem, and it had come in handy when faced with Paimon.

        Maybe it would help them find a way out of here.

        Thinking back to that moment- where that power rushed through his head and into his hands and lit up his bowie knife with blue flames- he could feel it again.

        “Come on,” Arthur started. Encouraging himself to feel the same rage, to feel the same force as before that had lit Paimon up blue. He almost had it… In front of him, in the closet, a pool of darkness formed. He watched it closely become larger and larger until it was about the size of a basketball.

        “Come on, come on, come on…”

        “Arthur?”

        His concentration broke, and he turned, the void closed instantly. Charlotte’s face was red with panic, sheer terror, but not about him or what he had done.

        Rosanna was gone. The baby blanket laid in Charlotte’s elbows with nothing else inside. Though, now, Arthur could see the faint yellow embroidery of her name on the outside edge.

        “W-what happened to her?” Charlotte shook.

        Arthur put himself in front of her, and looked around, like he expected to find Rosanna simply lying on the ground or hiding beside a banister.

        “I- I don’t know. Has she ever vanished before?”

        Charlotte shook her head tearfully and shook out the blanket. Maybe she’d just hiding in one of the wrinkles. Charlotte placed a hand over her mouth and cried out. Her back fell into the door jam as she crouched into a ball on the floor.

        “No. No! I-I can’t do it again! I can’t lose my baby again!”

        Seeing her this way was crushing. He bent down, and placed an arm around her shoulders.

        “You haven’t lost your baby…” he spoke calmly. “Arch is still out there and they are waiting for you. They’re waiting for us to find them… For now, we need to keep it together, for their sake. We need to bring them home- together.”

        Charlotte continued to weep. The thought of facing more heartbreak was unbearable, but Arthur was right. She needed to find her child. Her real child. While she took her time recovering, Arthur removed himself from her side. He was able to create an opening. Leading to where, he didn’t know, but it worked, and to him that was a success.

        The room darkened, like a rain cloud passed in front of the sun. The tweeting birds fell silent. He looked outside, only to find the darkness of the labyrinth closing in on them very quickly. Without Rosanna here, there was nothing left to be remembered.

        “Char! Grab hold of me!” He rushed to her side. “The Labyrinth is erasing the house. Hold onto me and don’t let go!”

        Charlotte did as he said and soon enough, they were both consumed by the deep and dreadful darkness.

-

-

 -

  -

   -

    -

     -

      -

        A blue flame, small but visible, sat in the center of Arthur’s palm. Charlotte clinged to his other arm as he concentrated. He could feel his created void grow larger and larger around them until he saw a very familiar and spritely looking face staring down at them from above and nothing else.

        “Persephone,” Arthur greeted her with a relieved and exasperated smile. “Long time, no see.”

[themousefromfantasyland]

The Ballad of Lenore

The Dead Travel Fast

By Gottfried August Bürger

Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

This is an old ballad written by german poet Gottfried August Bürger. It was later referenced in Bram Stoker's Dracula, as Jonathan Harker cites "For the dead travel fast", here translated as "Bravely the dead men ride through the night."

Charles Dickens too alludes to this line in A Christmas Carol, during an exchange between Scrooge and the ghost of Marley ("You travel fast?" said Scrooge. "On the wings of the wind," replied the Ghost.)

The Aarne–Thompson–Uther Index classifies this tale as 365: "The DEAD bridegroom carries off his bride"

Up rose Lenore as the red morn wore, from weary visions starting; "Art faithless, William, or, William, art dead? Tis long since thy departing."

For he, with Frederick's men of might, in fair Prague waged the uncertain fight; Nor once had he writ in the hurry of war. And sad was the true heart that sickened afar.

The Empress and the King, with ceaseless quarrel tired, at length relaxed the stubborn hate which rivalry inspired. And the martial throng, with laugh and song, spoke of their homes as they rode along. And clank, clank, clank! came every rank. With the trumpet-sound that rose and sank.

And here and there and everywhere, along the swarming ways, went old man and boy, with the music of joy, on the gallant bands to gaze. And the young child shouted to spy the vaward, and trembling and blushing the bride pressed forward. But ah! for the sweet lips of Lenore the kiss and the greeting are vanished and o'er.

From man to man all wildly she ran with a swift and searching eye, but she felt alone in the mighty mass, as it crushed and crowded by.

On hurried the troop, a gladsome group. And proudly the tall plumes wave and droop. She tore her hair and she turned her round and madly she dashed her against the ground.

Her mother clasped her tenderly with soothing words and mild:

"My child, may God look down on thee. ⁠God comfort thee, my child."

"Oh! mother, mother! gone is gone! I reck no more how the world runs on. What pity to me does God impart? Woe, woe, woe! for my heavy heart! "

"Help, Heaven, help and favour her! ⁠Child, utter an Ave Marie! Wise and great are the doings of God; ⁠He loves and pities thee."

"Out, mother, out, on the empty lie! Doth he heed my despair,doth he list to my cry? What boots it now to hope or to pray?The night is come, there is no more day."

"Help, Heaven, help! who knows the Father ⁠knows surely that he loves his child. The bread and the wine from the hand divine shall make thy tempered grief less wild."

"Oh! mother, dear mother! the wine and the bread will not soften the anguish that bows down my head, for bread and for wine it will yet be as late that his cold corpse creeps from the grim grave's gate."

"What if the traitor's false faith failed, by sweet temptation tried? What if in distant Hungary he clasp another bride? Despise the fickle fool, my girl, who hath ta'en the pebble and spurned the pearl. While soul and body shall hold together, in his perjured heart shall be stormy weather."

"Oh! mother, mother! gone is gone, and lost will still be lost! Death, death is the goal of my weary soul, crushed and broken and crost. Spark of my life! Down, down to the tomb. Die away in the night, die away in the gloom! What pity to me does God impart? Woe, woe, woe! for my heavy heart!"

"Help, Heaven, help, and heed her not, for her sorrows are strong within. She knows not the words that her tongue repeats. ⁠Oh! count them not for sin! Cease, cease, my child, thy wretchedness, and think on the promised happiness. So shall thy mind's calm ecstasy be a hope and a home and a bridegroom to thee."

"My mother, what is happiness? ⁠My mother, what is Hell? With William is my happiness, ⁠without him is my Hell! Spark of my life! Down, down to the tomb. Die away in the night, die away in the gloom! Earth and Heaven, and Heaven and earth. Reft of William are nothing worth."

Thus grief racked and tore the breast of Lenore, and was busy at her brain.Thus rose her cry to the Power on high, to question and arraign. Wringing her hands and beating her breast, tossing and rocking without any rest, till from her light veil the moon shone thro', and the stars leapt out on the darkling blue.

But hark to the clatter and the pat pat patter! ⁠Of a horse's heavy hoof! How the steel clanks and rings as the rider springs! ⁠How the echo shouts aloof! While slightly and lightly the gentle bell. Tingles and jingles softly and well. And low and clear through the door plank thin comes the voice without to the ear within:

"Holla! holla! Unlock the gate; ⁠Art waking, my bride, or sleeping? Is thy heart still free and still faithful to me? ⁠Art laughing, my bride, or weeping?"

"Oh! wearily, William, I've waited for you, woefully watching the long day thro'. With a great sorrow sorrowing for the cruelty of your tarrying."

"Till the dead midnight we saddled not. ⁠I have journeyed far and fast, and hither I come to carry thee back ere the darkness shall be past."

"Ah! rest thee within till the night's more calm. Smooth shall thy couch be, and soft, and warm. Hark to the winds, how they whistle and rush thro' the twisted twine of the hawthorn-bush."

"Thro' the hawthorn-bush let whistle and rush. ⁠Let whistle, child, let whistle! Mark the flash fierce and high of my steed's bright eye, and his proud crest's eager bristle. Up, up and away! I must not stay. Mount swiftly behind me! up, up and away! An hundred miles must be ridden and sped ere we may lie down in the bridal-bed."

"What! Ride an hundred miles tonight. ⁠By thy mad fancies driven! Dost hear the bell with its sullen swell. ⁠As it rumbles out eleven?"

"Look forth! look forth! the moon shines bright. We and the dead gallop fast thro' the night. 'Tis for a wager I bear thee away to the nuptial couch ere break of day."

"Ah! where is the chamber, William dear, and William, where is the bed?

"Far, far from here: still, narrow, and cool; ⁠plank and bottom and lid."

"Hast room for me?"

"For me and thee. Up, up to the saddle right speedily! The wedding-guests are gathered and met, and the door of the chamber is open set."

She busked her well, and into the selle she sprang with nimble haste, and gently smiling, with a sweet beguiling, her white hands clasped his waist.

And hurry, hurry! ring, ring, ring! To and fro they sway and swing. Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground, and the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

Here to the right and there to the left, ⁠flew fields of corn and clover, and the bridges flashed by to the dazzled eye, as rattling they thundered over.

"What ails my love? The moon shines bright. Bravely the dead men ride through the night. Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"

"Ah! no;— let them sleep in their dusty bed!"

On the breeze cool and soft what tune floats aloft, while the crows wheel overhead? Ding dong! ding dong! ’tis the sound, ’tis the song:

⁠"Room, room for the passing dead!"

Slowly the funeral-train drew near. Bearing the coffin, bearing the bier; and the chime of their chaunt was hissing and harsh, like the note of the bull-frog within the marsh.

"You bury your corpse at the dark midnight, with hymns and bells and wailing. But I bring home my youthful wife to a bride-feast's rich regaling. Come, chorister, come with thy choral throng, and solemnly sing me a marriage-song. Come, friar, come, let the blessing be spoken, that the bride and the bridegroom's sweet rest be unbroken."

Died the dirge and vanished the bier. ⁠Obedient to his call. Hard hard behind, with a rush like the wind, came the long steps' pattering fall. And ever further! ring, ring, ring! To and fro they sway and swing. Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground, and the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

How flew to the right, how flew to the left, trees, mountains in the race! How to the left, and the right and the left, flew town and marketplace!

"What ails my love? The moon shines bright. Bravely the dead men ride thro' the night. Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"

"Ah! let them alone in their dusty bed!"

See, see, see! by the gallows-tree, as they dance on the wheel's broad hoop. Up and down, in the gleam of the moon, half lost, an airy group.

"Ho! ho! mad mob, come hither amain, and join in the wake of my rushing train. Come, dance me a dance, ye dancers thin. Ere the planks of the marriage-bed close us in."

And hush, hush, hush! the dreamy rout came close with a ghastly bustle. Like the whirlwind in the hazel-bush, when it makes the dry leaves rustle. And faster, faster! ring, ring, ring! To and fro they sway and swing. Snorting and snuffing they skim the ground. And the sparks spurt up, and the stones run round.

How flew the moon high overhead, in the wild race madly driven! In and out, how the stars danced about. ⁠And reeled o'er the flashing heaven!

"What ails my love? The moon shines bright. Bravely the dead men ride thro' the night. Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?"

"Alas! let them sleep in their dusty bed."

"Horse, horse! meseems 'tis the cock's shrill note, ⁠and the sand is well nigh spent. Horse, horse, away! 'tis the break of day. ⁠'Tis the morning air's sweet scent. Finished, finished is our ride. Room, room for the bridegroom and the bride! At last, at last, we have reached the spot, for the speed of the dead man has slackened not!"

And swiftly up to an iron gate with reins relaxed they went. At the rider's touch the bolts flew back, and the bars were broken and bent. The doors were burst with a deafening knell, and over the white graves they dashed pell mell;

The tombs around looked grassy and grim, as they glimmered and glanced in the moonlight dim.

But see! But see! In an eyelid's beat. Towhoo! a ghastly wonder! The horseman's jerkin, piece by piece, dropped off like brittle tinder!

Fleshless and hairless, a naked skull, the sight of his weird head was horrible. The lifelike mask was there no more, and a scythe and a sandglass the skeleton bore.

Loud snorted the horse as he plunged and reared, and the sparks were scattered round. What man shall say if he vanished away, or sank in the gaping ground?

Groans from the earth and shrieks in the air Howling and wailing everywhere! Half dead, half living, the soul of Lenore fought as it never had fought before.

The churchyard troop, a ghostly group, close round the dying girl; Out and in they hurry and spin through the dance's weary whirl:

"Patience, patience, when the heart is breaking. With thy God there is no question-making. Of thy body thou art quit and free. Heaven keep thy soul eternally!"

[the-blind-assassin-12]

in the arms of the ocean- four

A/N: Oh hi there, don’t mind me just casually dropping off this new chapter at 1 am as if that were a normal thing to do... actually... it kind of fits for this one. you’ll see why. Anywho, this part is a little different. It only focuses on two time periods as opposed to the normal three, and we finally get to see Reader’s POV on some things!  

Word Count: 4,187

Warnings: death, trauma 

Present Day

NO! 

Your mind screamed the word as though it was the only one it held. Beneath the surface, the water was a brackish, murky brown, and the salinity stung your eyes as it churned around you. But you kept them wide open and trained on him, refusing to blink out of fear that if you did, you’d lose him to the frigid fathoms forever. He seemed just as reluctant to take his eyes off of you, just as afraid of what closing them might mean- that any second could be his last, or yours, and he wouldn’t waste that second blinking. 

No! No. I won’t let that happen. I have to get to him.   

The current was stronger than you’d ever felt, angry and deliberate as it tried to drag you further away from Caspian. You fought to free yourself from the pull, arms slicing and legs kicking as hard as you could. Ignoring the burn in your chest reminding you that it had almost been too long since your last breath, you thought only about reaching him before it was too late. Just as you swam close enough to see him clearly through the muck of the swirling sea though, your eyes widened even further as you watched thick, algae covered ropes snake up and around his wrists and ankles.  

Caspian, no! 

He thrashed against his bonds as they wound around his limbs, but the more he tried to shake them loose, the more tightly they twisted. You knew that you had to cut him free, and you knew that you had to do it quickly. Reaching down into your boot with your right  hand,  you pulled out a small knife, your left hand cutting through the water to find his. Fingers linking together, you squeezed his hand, and to your relief you saw some of the terror vanish from his eyes. Despite the way your chest was begging you for air, you let go some of your own fear and began sawing at the rope around his wrist  with your blade. You always kept it sharp, so it took only a few passes to sever the woven strands, and your heart thumped joyfully as his freed hand immediately found your face.

Caspian… It’ll be alright. I Just have to… 

You squeezed his hand once more and then tore it away, turning to his other arm. Repeating the same method you’d used before, you laced your fingers with his, and began to cut the tethers. But as soon as his second hand was free and he tried to reach out to touch you again, he was jerked backwards before he could make contact, the ropes you’d just cut wrapped back around his wrist as though they’d never been damaged at all. Surprise overtook him and he shouted out loud, and though you couldn’t make out the sound, you were certain that the stream of air bubbles rushing from his lips was the shout of your name. 

No. No, no, no! 

You knew that Caspian could hold his breath for longer than most men, but you also knew that he was dangerously close to his limit even before he called out to you. Frantically, you began working at the bonds around his ankles, hoping that you could somehow move more quickly than the enchanted ropes could knit themselves back together. But even as you moved from his right leg to his left, you could see the ropes slithering through the murky water like eels to encircle his ankle once more. 

Hopelessness began to take root in your heart, and it ached worse than your burning lungs as you realized you couldn’t save him; that he would die and that there was nothing you could do about it. You released the knife, useless to you now, and let it drop down to its new home on the ocean’s floor. The only thing left to do was to be near him, to hold him one last time so that he knew that he wasn’t alone, that he was loved. He continued to try to free himself, if only just to touch you, body writhing this way and that, but his movements became weaker and less determined with each passing second. As you wrapped him in your arms, you felt him slow, his breath choking it’s way out, until finally he was still and heavy. 

“NO!”

A despair that you had never experienced sliced at your soul as you felt the emptiness and the silence where his heartbeat should have knocked against yours, and you let out a cry that emptied your lungs of oxygen. The burning ceased as you involuntarily inhaled a breath of salt water, but instead of sputtering and drowning, you breathed freely, gulping and sobbing in grief. 

“Caspian,” you couldn’t understand why you were able to breathe and speak underwater, but it didn’t matter. He was gone, and all you had were the icy waves. “I’m sorry.” 

The ropes that were still wound around his limbs began to sink, pulling him down to the floor and out of your grasp, and as you watched him fade into the darkness, your gaze fell upon your own lower-half. Despite the gaping hole in your heart, your eyes widened in shock as they took in iridescent purple fins where your feet should be, delicately fanning out like lace in the current, your legs replaced by a tail covered in scales of the same striking shade. Before you could scream or cry or panic, a familiar voice filled your ear, the words you’d never forget echoing softly around you.

“Close to you I’ll always be to keep you safe upon the sea.” 

Mother? You absently touched the star-shaped pin in your hair as your tear-tired eyes strained, trying to cut through the dark water, searching for Sereia. But instead of the mother you hadn’t seen in twenty five years, you were met with a glowing green pair of eyes and the end of a sharp trident that the green-eyed being was thrusting in your face. 

“Choose.” It hissed, moving closer to you, close enough that you could make out its pallid, nearly translucent skin. “You must choose who will be saved.” Snarling, it rushed at you, the sharp points of the trident aimed at your eyes as you screamed…

A strong pair of hands gripped your biceps as another voice registered in your ear, this one closer, and concerned. “Shh, it’s alright. Breathe, you’re alright.” 

Caspian! Your eyes flew open and found his immediately, even in the dim light of the single lantern that lit his cabin. The Dawn Treader. We’re aboard...we’re docked at Isle Lorley and…He’s safe.  You blinked furiously, as though trying to confirm your surroundings. I was sleeping...dreaming. You looked over Caspian’s shoulder, eyes darting to the hammock hanging in the corner, blankets strewn on the floor and the colorful pillows overturned. You realized that he’d been asleep, too, and that he’d sprung awake, hurrying to get to you at the first sign of your distress. Breaths coming in gasps and pants, you tried to swallow the fear you’d felt while you slept. But he was… You shuddered, knowing that it was something that would stick with you for some time. 

He sighed your name as you returned your eyes to his, relieved that you were finally awake. “It was just a dream,” he told you, running his hands up and down your arms as you fell shaking into his chest. “You’re alright,” he murmured, lips burying in your hair to press a kiss to the crown of your head. You felt his warm breath on your scalp, heard his heart beating steadily in your ear, but still your eyes welled with tears to dampen the collar of his nightshirt. “You’re safe, I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’ll always be right here.”  

“No. It wasn’t me…” You whimpered the words between quiet sobs. “It was you, Caspian.” Muffled by material and watered down by tears, you knew that he couldn’t hear you clearly, but the words kept tumbling out. “It was you…”

“What did you..? I can’t…” He kissed your hair again and you felt a few strands get caught in his beard. “Can’t hear you, just…” One hand came up to cradle the back of your head as he held you. “Just breathe, please, it’s alright.” 

Your sharp breaths burned your throat, chest shuddering as you let the pain you felt in your dream pour out of you. You were vaguely aware of a rough knock on the cabin door followed by Drinian’s voice. “Your Majesty? Is everything..” 

Caspian’s lips were by your ear to drown out the rest of Drinian’s worried call. “I have to let him know we’re okay.” Of course.  He kissed the skin behind your earlobe as you nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, dragging his knuckle under your eye to rid your cheek of a stray tear. 

You watched him cross his quarters in two long strides, pulling your knees to your chest and hugging your shins. If you hadn’t been so terrified, so convinced that you had just watched the man that you love die in your arms, you’d be embarrassed at the fact that your nightmare had caused you to scream so loudly that the Captain must have assumed you or the King were under attack. Nightmares were uncommon for you, though, and this one had been powerful. Your chest felt tight and sore as you tried to calm yourself, and you knew that you wouldn’t completely calm down until Caspian’s arms were around you again. He looked back over his shoulder at you as he spoke to Drinian, convincing the man that it had only been a dream and that the two of you were not in any danger. You heard Caspian’s closest friend sigh in relief, and soon enough the door was clicking closed and you felt the mattress dip as he came back to your side. 

“Drinian is a good man.” Caspian moved to lean against the headboard, then reached for your waist to pull you into him. “He heard you and,” you circled your arms around him and he reciprocated the hold, pressing his lips to your temple. “He needed to make sure you were safe, that we were.” You nodded again, still unable to find words. Your breathing was still shaking your body, but it wasn’t as rapid and shallow. It was easier when you could feel him; strong and warm and real. “I told him it was just a dream.” 

Just a dream? It was by far the worst thing your subconscious had ever conjured, and you shuddered again as the icy remnants of the fear your mind had put you through raced down your spine. You had no idea where the nightmare had come from. The two of you had spent the day celebrating your engagement with your father, the revelry spilling out of the small house and onto the beach to include the entire crew of the Dawn Treader. Vash had shared his casks of berry wine, fueling the merriment as Grivez and Timmin fueled a large bonfire out of driftwood. Cheepimeek, who had had his fill of the deep purple drink, heartily spilling as much from his thimble as he swallowed, was regaling your father with the tale of his first voyage for the third time that evening. Takos had even joined Ropen in playing music, the Minotaur proving to be quite the virtuoso with a lyre despite his large hooves and somewhat oafish demeanor. You had danced with Caspian, your bare feet slipping through the sand as he twirled you under his arm, both of you laughing as you collided and collapsed. It was a perfect night...why did I… where did this come from? 

After a few more minutes had passed and you’d relaxed your body against his, Caspian’s calm but concerned voice was in your ear again. “Do you…” He adjusted his hold on you, moving his arm so that he could see your tear-streaked face. You peered up at him and he frowned, his brown eyes weighted with worry. “Can you tell me what happened? In your dream?” I can but… You closed your eyes for a beat as he continued. “You were screaming and I…” Your eyes opened in time to see his head shake. “Please, tell me what happened.” 

..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  .. 

One Year Ago 

“So,” Caspian glanced side-long at the three ships that were docked, their masts rising high above the cobalt waves, and then let his eyes wander to the other masts just slightly up the beach; the ones that he didn’t see when they first came ashore. “Are you going to tell me what happened there?” He gestured to the cracked posts and shattered pieces that lay scattered along the shoreline, some poking out of the sand at odd angles as the surf surged around them. “Were those all ship-”

“Shipwrecks,” you finished the word with a nod as you led him back out of the small house and towards the larger workshop. Your nonchalance was a shock to Caspian. She says that like they’re commonplace. “You were luckier than most, Caspian the Tenth. You only split one crossbeam, and all of the Dawn Treader’s masts are intact.” 

Despite the warm breeze, a chill trickled down his back. Luckier than most… we almost- he shook his head and looked away from the bones of those less fortunate vessels, and back at you as you continued. 

“Sure, you’ll need new sails, and we’re making some adjustments to the beams,” you ticked those things off on your fingers as you spoke. “But the shipbuilders who built your ship?” Your forehead creased and you looked straight into his eyes, a serious, almost melancholy tinge to yours that caught him off guard. “If they hadn’t done such good work… In a storm like that one, lives could have been lost.” 

I know. He winced, the faces of every crewman flashing through his mind before another realization dawned on him. If she’s seen multiple shipwrecks… Caspian counted the remains of at least six ships of varying sizes. Then she’s seen…  

“We save more than we don’t.” Your voice was quiet beneath the rush of the waves, but he heard you clearly and he snapped his attention back to you. She’s seen sailors die. “The men aboard the ships we-” you swallowed, eyes darting out to the ocean and then quickly back to his. “We try to save them all, but sometimes we...can’t.” You sighed and looked quietly out at the water. 

Caspian felt a weight drop into the bottom of his heart. He knew how it felt to carry what you spoke about, and he wished you didn’t have to. But he also knew that the odds were next to impossible that every soul would be saved in a bad wreck. And those were bad. Before he could think, he reached over and placed his hand on your arm just as you had done earlier. Oh. But he didn’t pull away, hoping that he was able to give you even a fraction of the comfort that you had provided him. You both looked down at where his long fingers curled around the back of your bicep, his thumb falling into the crook of your elbow. “You try to, though. And that’s what matters most.” He gave a small squeeze before letting his hand drop, and you watched it fall to his side before looking back up at him. You save so many lives, keep so many families whole. “You try to do as much good as possible.”

You smiled then, a warm surprise softening your eyes. “Thank you, Caspian.” You nodded. “We do try, very hard.” 

Suddenly, Caspian was overcome with curiosity and simply couldn’t keep from asking the question that had started burning in his brain the moment he met you. “I-” He paused, tongue slipping out to wet his lips as he tilted his head to the side. “I don’t... quite understand,” though tempted to look back out over the skeletal remains of the ships that had run ashore, he kept his eyes on you instead. “How have there been so many…” he shook his head, your name shaking loose with it. “What is this place?”

Your eyes narrowed and he watched a lump move in your throat as you swallowed again, and Caspian worried that he’d offended you with the way that his question came out.  I shouldn’t have asked like that, I just- But you didn’t let his worry hang in the air, your voice cutting off his thoughts. “Isle Loreley is…” chewing your bottom lip, you turned your face towards the cloudless sky. “Think of it as a safe harbor, one that could...appear, when a ship most needed one.” 

Magic. Caspian was no stranger to things that were not so easily explained. He’d met with wizards and magicians, seen curses and spells both cast and lifted. He’d sailed to the edge of sea, defeated witches and fought alongside Narnia’s kings and queens that had been sent from other realms. He knew of magic, and it never ceased to amaze him. So that’s why it isn’t on any map… that’s why she doesn’t acknowledge Narnia as her home or me as her King. “The island...what, moves?” 

You sighed with a shrug. “I know how it sounds and...I’ll admit that I can’t explain it all, but to put it simply? Yes.” 

To put it simply? “And...do so many ships really…” He trailed off, the answer obvious. 

“The sea is… it contains great power, Caspian.” You shook your head and the sunlight caught the pearls dangling from the starfish hairpin that held your hair back. “Isle Loreley represents some of the good, but not all of the ocean’s intent is pure. We…” You motioned for him to follow you, seemingly unwilling to stand in full view of the broken masts, as you continued on towards the workshop doors. “We do our best to try to balance the tide of...ill intent.” 

“You’re heroes.” He followed just a step behind you, as eager as you were to be clear of the sight. “You-” 

You turned then, and he nearly collided with you. Staggering back, he blinked in surprise, but you didn’t flinch. “Not heroes, Caspian. Just...doing our best.” Eyes flicking over his shoulder to the lapping of the surf, they returned to his face. “There are heroes in this world. Ones that make sacrifices so that others can be...can…” You sighed again. “There are heroes. We aren’t.” 

You are to us… Before his frown could cut too deeply into his face, you changed the subject, spinning back around in time to open the workshop’s large wooden door. “But we’re here to talk about sails, aren’t we?” 

..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..   

Present Day 

Caspian tried to keep the worry from his voice because more than anything, he wanted to offer you comfort. He’d never seen you so frightened. Reluctant to talk about certain things when first you met, sure. But since you’d made Cair Paravel your home and certainly since the two of you had started to become close shortly thereafter, he’d never known you to be afraid. I’ve never heard her scream like that. He stroked your hair, hand trailing down to your back and silently hoped he’d never have to again. Just as he wondered if you hadn’t heard what he’d asked, you started to answer.  

 “I couldn’t-“ another sharp inhale cut your words short. Beneath his palm, Caspian could feel your lungs fighting to find a natural rhythm. His frown deepened but his touch never faltered, and after a few more passes of his hand up and down your spine, you took a much more even breath and continued. “I couldn’t save you, Caspian. I-“ Your fingers curled more tightly, bunching up the fabric of his nightshirt, and he responded by tightening his hold on you as well. “There were ropes, winding around your arms and legs and,” you pulled away from his shoulder then, wiping at your eyes before training them on his. “And I tried to cut you free, but every time I cut through one, another would appear, even more tight, and,” you brought the hand that you’d just swept under your eyes with to his face, fingertips still damp with your tears. “And then you were dragged down, and I couldn’t...I just...I had to watch you d-” But you couldn’t finish the word, shaking your head and tucking yourself against his body again. 

He hadn’t stopped his soothing touch, even though he himself felt far from soothed. Burying his lips in your hair, Caspian pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Shh,” he hushed you, not sure of what else to say. “I’m right here. I’m alright, and you’re safe and no one is going to hurt us.” I won’t let it happen… He looked down at the way you were curled close to him, and though you looked small and fragile, he knew otherwise. You won’t let it happen either. 

“That wasn’t all,” he felt your breath against the skin at the opening of his collar as you spoke. “In my dream I... I heard my mother’s voice and I never…” You sat up then, turning to lean back against him. He immediately switched the position of his arm, wrapping it around your shoulder and coming around your front as you settled into his chest. “I never dream of her, Caspain. I never hear her. I… you know her words as well as I do now, but I never hear her…” 

His free hand ran up and down your arm and your side, the soothing touch and the low, flickering light and the gentle rock of the boat beneath you starting to finally lull you back away from your fear. He wanted to know more about your mother, but he never knew how to ask. She doesn’t know much about her either, he’d tell himself, not wanting to bring up the fact that she was taken from your life so long ago; that you’d spent most of your life without the woman. But she’s going to be my wife, my Queen, and I need...I want to know these things about her. “What do you-” he swallowed, fingers freezing midway up your arm before spreading out to cover your bicep with his palm. Squeezing gently he turned to press a soft kiss to your temple. “Will you tell me what you remember? About her?” 

You inhaled through your nose, your closed eyelids wrinkling as you clamped them more tightly shut before releasing the breath in a rush of air through your lips. I know. He winced, wishing he hadn’t had to ask, that somehow he could just know, without having to make you relive it. I know, you don’t want to talk about it but I- 

“I don’t remember much, Caspian, I was only three when she...when…” With a sigh, you leaned into him, your back pressed against his chest and your head resting on his shoulder. He hadn’t moved his lips from your hair, and he kissed you again, whispering your name and resuming the motion of his fingertips over your skin. “I…” You flipped the hand that was resting in your lap and Caspian filled it with his free one, knuckles sliding between yours. “Laughing. I remember laughing with her. All the time.” 

Though he still felt unsettled to know that your nightmare had been so realistic and frightening, the way that your voice changed when you spoke about the few happy memories you held onto with her made him smile. He slid down so that he could rest against the pillows, pulling you with him. You made to say something, likely questioning whether he was sure about falling asleep in the same bed, but he dragged the tip of his nose around to your cheek before kissing away the last of your tears. “Shh,” he said sleepily, still pulling you down to lay with him in the small bed. “I’m sure.” He kissed you again as you found your position, waiting until you were comfortable before speaking again. “What else do you remember?” 

Far outside the small windows of the cabin, leagues and fathoms away, the ocean churned. Cold currents clashed with warmer ones, icing them down and turning them tumultuous as storm clouds gathered above them. The night sky hid the way that the water changed from deep blue to harsh gray, and the rumble of thunder was so low and so far away from any pair of human ears that it might as well not have happened at all. But it did, and so did the flash of lightning that cracked right on it’s heels, illuminating the swirls of greenish tendrils stirring up the sea. 

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As always, thank you for reading! If you would like to be added or removed from the tags please feel free to let me know! 

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @malionnes @suchatinyinfinity @gollyderek @pheedraws @russobill @thesumofmychoices @beautifuldesastre @fific7 @dearmarii @tartiflvtte @ificouldhelpyouforget​ @vetseras​ @manymanymanyenvelopes @alraedesigns​ @valkblue​ 

[areiton]

i'll fall alone in the dark

He meets Spiderman on a battlefield but he meets Pete while he’s on his back in the compound. Tony is gone, chasing Rogers and Barnes and Rhodey aches to follow him and a kid is sitting in the corner of his room, his face a mess of bruises.

~*~ 

Read on A03

~*~ 

Tony comes home. 

For days, weeks--since the dust coated that Wakandan battlefield and they realized just how much they’d lost--since Tony vanished without a trace and everyone decided that meant he was dead like Tony fucking Stark hadn’t made a lifelong habit of living just to spite the assholes who said he wouldn’t--

For too long, Rhodey had been quiet, faithfully believing when arguing with Rogers and the rest did shit. 

Tony comes home, because Tony always comes home, and Rhodey is there, a step behind Rogers, fury burning through him because Rogers is the one taking him from Nebula, Rogers is staring at him, all hungry and desperate and incandescent, and that--that is Rhodey’s job. 

Rhodey brings Tony home. 

Since that first night at MIT when he dragged a belligerently drunk billionaire out of a party and poured him into his bed, that has been his job, and he’s good at it. 

Rogers holds him up and Rhodey’s eyes skip past Tony, up the walk where Nebula stands staring sadly at Rocket, and--

“I lost the kid,” Tony says and the world fucking stops.  

~*~ 

He meets Spiderman on a battlefield but he meets Pete while he’s on his back in the compound. Tony is gone, chasing Rogers and Barnes and Rhodey aches to follow him and a kid is sitting in the corner of his room, his face a mess of bruises. 

“Who are you?” he asks, his voice a rough rasp. 

“Hi, um, Colonel Rhodes. I thought--um. If you want. I can stay with you,” he says, bright and innocent in a way no one in this compound ever is. “I--if you want? I can call--” 

“There’s no one,” he says, before the kid can offer. Mama died, and Jenny--it’s better to leave her outta this. 

Tony is the only family he’s got. 

He doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud until the kid says, “My aunt--she’s all I have. And I know I’d want her, if I were where you are. I’m not Mr. Stark. But I’ll stay, until he gets back. If you want.” 

The kid looks braced for rejection and he aches, a bone deep hurt that has nothing to do with his spine and everything to do with the team. 

Tony is the only family he’s got. The rest of them--

He opens his mouth to tell the kid to go. What he says is, “Pick a movie, kid. The silence is gonna get awkward.” 

~*~

Rogers dismisses it, says they all lost. 

It’s something he keeps turning over in his head, because he believes that. And yeah, ok, he’s not wrong. They all lost in a spectacular sort of way. 

But Tony reached out, confided in him--and Rogers didn’t even understand.

“What kid?” Natasha asks, once Tony is in medical and they’re waiting to debrief. She’s looking at him, and Rogers does too, bland curiosity on his face. 

The kid, Rhodey wants to say. 

Because there are kids--Harley, Riri, even the bots. 

But there’s is only one kid. 

How the hell does he explain Peter? How does he explain that Peter saved Tony, saved them? How does he explain a kid that was so damn good, so damn brilliant, that it brought Tony back? That losing the Avengers, Rogers betrayal almost broke Tony, did break Rhodey, and Peter was there, eager to learn, anxious to help, impossible to resist, and it was Peter who coaxed Tony out of his depression, who grinned at Rhodey when he came back, exhausted from PT. 

It was Peter, the need to protect him, the inability to stop him, that made Tony rework the Accords, that  made Rhodey step back into the War Machine. 

Peter wasn’t just some kid. 

In the end he explains it the only way he knows how, and he doesn’t give a damn how Rogers and the others take it. 

“Peter,” he says. “Tony’s son.” 

~*~

Peter was Tony’s first. 

But somewhere along the line, between movies and villains and science projects and lab experiments and takeout at three a.m., he became Rhodey’s too. 

He knew Tony would be a good dad. He’d seen the way Tony was with the bots and with Harley, with his niece until-- 

Tony was always going to be an amazing father, and Rhodey--Rhodey was always going to be that uncle, solid and steady, who spoiled the kids rotten and dragged them into and out of trouble, just like he always had for Tony. 

~*~ 

He sits by Tony’s bed, the same place he’s always sat when Tony was hurt, and waits. 

Because he has always been the place where Tony falls, the place he crashes apart, and Tony is being piece back together, is alive, even if the doctors aren’t sure how, even if he’s more fragile than Rhodey has ever seen him.

He sits by Tony’s bed, and he waits. 

And after twelve hours, Tony blinks, stirs restless on his bed and Rhodey shifts. 

It hurts, watching Tony’s face, the way it crumples, heartbreak and grief writ so sharp in the lines on his face, in the emptiness of his eyes, in the way he reaches out, blindly grasping and chokes out, “Peter.” 

Rhodey catches him. 

Rhodey catches him, holds him together while Tony sobs against his chest, and he never once cries himself. 

~*~ 

He watches Tony throw his heart at Rogers, watches him fall apart. 

He watches when he tells Pepper about Peter, watches grief age her pretty face in a way that he can feel in his own bones. 

He listens to the mad plan to rewrite time, and he goes with them, because there’s a chance, thin and grasping and he doesn’t trust Rogers, doesn’t trust any of them, but he can’t back away from the chance. 

It fails. 

It fails, and they fail. 

~*~ 

He doesn’t know if it’s worse that Tony doesn’t look surprised, crippled, by their failure, or not. 

~*~ 

Tony is different, after Titan. 

The world is different, and that matters, but Tony has been the epicenter of his life for over thirty years, and this is no different. 

He’s withdrawn, quiet, refuses to engage with the remaining Avengers at all. He’s touch starved in a way Rhodey hasn’t seen since college, spending long hours in Rhodey’s lap or curled into his side. 

He never talks about Peter, though. He clings, and sometimes, he cries, and Rhodey is steady and solid and holds him together when Tony is falling apart. 

Once. 

Just once. Tony looks at him and says, softly, “I miss him, platypus.” 

Rhodey holds him tighter. “Me, too, peacock.” 

~*~ 

The truth is--he does. 

He misses Peter so much it aches.

The whole world lost, the whole fucking galaxy did, but Rhodey’s world has been small since Mama died, and Jenny walked out of his life. 

His family is Tony, and the people Tony gathers around him. And all of them--Pepper, Happy, Tony--survived. 

Peter is the gaping hole in their world, the missing piece that no one can look past, and he misses him, a visceral aching loss that he can’t get past, and doesn’t know how to live with. 

~*~

Mama died. 

She died in a home invasion that made no goddamn sense, a random act of senseless violence.

Jenny didn’t. 

Jenny didn’t but she walked away. Rhodey was a superhero who couldn’t keep his family safe, who had chosen a rich white boy and left their family behind. 

And maybe that wasn’t the whole story, wasn’t the true story--but it’s the story Jenny told, and she scooped up his niece and vanished and he lost his Mama and his baby sister and his baby niece and he never quite got over that. 

He couldn’t get over losing his entire family in less than a month. He lived with it and through it and he carried it with him. 

Losing Peter is like that. 

He carries it with him. 

~*~  

The world is a crumbling mess and the Avengers are broken, scattered. Tony doesn’t care and Tony doesn’t care, long enough that Rogers comes to Rhodey, intent and earnest and concerned. 

“He almost died,” Rhodey says. 

“His son died in his arms,” he says. 

“He isn’t going to fix this,” he says. 

“Fix your own goddamn mess,” he snarls. 

He leaves Rogers there, starled and shocked and Tony curls in his lap and neither of them talk about it. 

~*~ 

Sometimes. 

When the Compound is quiet and the world is still and the grief is swamping, he will go to Peter’s room, curl in a corner and cry, silent and shaking, for the child that they lost.

His grief is an immense and private thing, small in comparison to Tony’s all-consuming loss. 

He grieves alone, falls apart in the dark where no one can see him, and in the morning, he smiles and he nudges Tony to eat and he puts on the suit and goes out to piece the world together. 

~*~ 

Tony tells him. Pepper is asleep on the couch and they’re sitting outside, the eerie silence almost familiar after a year. The air is clearer, and as he stares up at the star spangled sky he dreams he can see Titan. 

“We’re moving,” Tony says. Rhodey closes his eyes. Unsurprised, but still--it stings. “I can’t do this anymore,” Tony says, soft, plaintive. 

“I know,” Rhodey says. 

They’re silent, Tony leaning against his shoulder and the stars overhead. 

~*~ 

The night before they move, Rhodey finds himself almost at a loss. Pepper is already gone, supervising the movers. Tony is awkward and anxious at a team dinner for a broken team he doesn’t trust. Rhodey--Rhodey feels torn between two worlds and he misses Peter so much it hurts. 

He slips into the boy’s room in the dark, when the Compound is quiet and it doesn’t smell like Pete anymore, but it still looks like him, layered in every surface and space, and he feels familiar tears prickle the back of his eyes. 

He’s only a little surprised when Tony slips in behind him, curls on the bed against his back. 

“You never said you missed him,” Tony whispers. 

“He wasn’t mine to miss,” Rhodey says, and it’s true and it’s not. 

“Pete belonged to all of us,” Tony says, fierce and sad. “He loved all of us.” 

Rhodey shudders, twists and hides his face against Tony’s chest, and cries. 

Tony’s arms around him hold him together as he falls apart. 

~*~ 

It never stops hurting. 

It never gets easier. 

But the dam breaks, and Tony talks about Pete, sometimes. 

Rhodey does. Pepper does. 

Sometimes, Rhodey can think about him and it’s a familiar ache instead of a needle sharp stabbing pain. Sometimes, he can think about him and he smiles. 

~*~ 

The world spins on and he does what he can to fix it, to put it to rights. 

Pepper has a little girl and she isn’t Peter, won’t ever replace him, but she’s brilliant and beautiful and Tony smiles at her, holds her like she’s precious and grins, proud and pleased and eager to share this miracle with him and Rhodey holds her, holds his niece and blinks back tears. 

“You’ve got the best daddy in the whole world, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

~*~ 

Scott comes and he brings hope with him and Tony--

Tony kisses the sweetest smartest baby in the world and puts on the suit and lays it all on the line, his eyes bright and fiercely determined, and Rhodey thinks, again, the same thing he’s thought so many times. 

Tony was always going to be an amazing father.

[dokuhebi]

Word prompts, [secrets] or [run]? ~~ for Dan @shatteredxlookingxglass

word prompts compilation [ run ] for your muse to run their fingers through mine’s hair [ secrets ]   my  muse  sharing/confiding  a secret // @shatteredxlookingxglass

Cold were the streets of the Hidden Leaf, when civilians hid themselves in their homes and the sun hid itself beneath the horizon. Dull was the moon that hung in the sky and meekly tried to banish the darkness, as stars all but disappear behind clouds. Orange were the assisting lights of buildings and houses, keeping the town from the shadows in the form of lamps, streetlights and still bustling households. Quiet was the home the serpent climbs short stairs toward, and hesitant was the pale hand curled in to a ball awaiting the nerve to knock at the impolite hour of night. They break down every detail, they analyze every aspect from paint colours and textures of walls, to sounds and sights of the village around them. For it was what their mother had once taught them to do when their emotions got the better of them. How to perfect the age old shinobi trick of overriding basic feelings to instead focus on something more beneficial. Being extra perceptive, detailing the cold roads, dull moon, vanishing stars and orange lights, all served to take their mind off what may otherwise haunt them. And so the serpent persists with this ingrained and taught habit, counting those steps all the way up to Dan’s door, chatoyant eyes bounding off every surface available to seek out the next analysis that may drive away incoming thoughts of less desirable and clinical emotions. What they don’t stop to think about, despite how deep the thought may run if they allow it, was why they had chosen to come to his house in the first place. Why in the moment of stifling grief they had fled their hidden den and found themself outside his door. Wondering if they dare knock, wondering if they should back out now before they have to explain being here to him before they have even explained it to themself. The door clicks open, jolting them from their thoughts. Jarring was the noise of the hinges creaking when the door opens its mouth to offer entrance. Blue were the eyes to greet them, a second spent counting those shades of mingling blue and green. Cheerful was the sound of the songbird they only now notice, sitting on a nearby tree, coated in the darkness from overhanging branches, tattling on their arrival to its summoner. So much for being more perceptive, they realize, far more distracted by this trick their mother so vouched for. They take a step back, no longer requiring such close proximity to the door when he had rid them of any need to knock. Only for his figure to step aside to grant them entry, as their slender hand falls back to their side. Still wearing their Jounin attire, still speckled in what looks like poorly brushed off mud, debris, ink and the potential faded splintering of blood. They hadn’t done much else than haphazardly draw a cloak over their figure, and that in itself gets swept by the wind, drawing open the front of the fabric to reveal the stains. They find their way inside, a quiet apology for disturbing him so late, taking the seat he offered to them, declining the offer to remove their cloak. Ghostly is the way they make themself a part of the furniture, half there, half somewhere else, trapped between worlds. Warm was the porcelain cup offered containing herbs and leaves mingled in hot water. Patient is the gaze that watches them, as his form takes residence on his own couch, as his hands eventually take up the task of drawing the residue of dried blood from their silken hair. Counting the patterns in the room, in his eyes, it no longer serves to distract them at all, as they take a sip from the tea he had just told them was still too hot to drink. Allowing the burn to bite at their tongue without so much as wincing, irritable when the pain only serves to shake them from their thoughts a mere moment. “What do you believe happens to the dead?” the question falls from their lips almost scathingly, as if the topic itself had angered them for years, and the quiet lull of displeasure would forever scar their throat, “I’ve never heard a man sound sane when speaking about what happens after this life,” they say, and such a short and fleeting life the human body was offered, “I have heard shinobi say that the dead eventually come back in new vessels, reincarnation. As if it may be even slightly believable that in all the centuries, not one shred of evidence exists of returned loved ones. I have heard shinobi speak of the pure lands, as if they feel they are owed some sense of peace, as if being disillusioned in this life might somehow equate to them being saved in some next one. I have heard of shinobi speak of gods, gods who they swear to be all powerful, yet for all the suffering our people are wrought by, must either be cruel, or incompetent.” They haven’t noticed his hands running gentle strokes through their hair, combing out the mess that had tangled itself in silken locks. At least, their mind has not noticed. Too accepting of his presence beside their own, too unquestioning. Their body however, starved of touch and the conditioned to cope only with the isolated habits they bring upon themself, notices instantly. Takes advantage perhaps, as their svelte form leans against him. Their smaller frame tucked neatly in to the curve of his body, fitting there rather perfectly, as they unconsciously seek the contact of reassurance he offers. As he rids them of not only the messy little leaves and speckled blood, but of the tension that had gripped their shoulders when such soothing combing proves a rare show of trust in their presence. “If reincarnation is real, it means we live one pointless life after the other. Never remembering the lessons we learnt to begin with, never remembering the people who supposedly return to us. If the gods are real, we ought to want nothing to do with the creatures that can do so much, but do so very little, that we might question their existence,” they say, before golden eyes move across to finally spot and acknowledge the hands running through their hair, where their own slender fingers move to coil around his one wrist, drawing his hand toward themself and turning it over, so they can expose the vein running along his wrist and up his arm. Hidden beneath pale skin, skin that had suffered countless lacerations, yet persistently heals, “why should we bother think about what being dead might be like anyhow? Why are we so accepting of the idea that dying is the only option?” He must think them mad now, for all their ramblings without context. For showing up looking as if they had returned from some assignment when he had indeed seen them in the village that very morning. Looking elegantly refined and neat, reserved and evidently lost in their own thoughts. If only they had the excuse of alcohol being in their system, when their next idea surfaces without a moment of consideration. If only they could blame carelessness on some overindulged and mind altering poison controlling their inhibitions. It is only the disturbed state they are in after staggering and startling failure that had propelled this idea however. As they run their finger over the vein they know needed the smallest cut to cause him to lose too much blood to recover from. Fragile was the body gifted to the ones they loved. They allow their light grip around his wrist to instead tug him to his feet when they stand. Where they bring the man to his own dining table, before releasing his wrist so their hand can dip in to their cloaks hidden pocket, and retrieve a single scroll. Grey had been the engraved stones of countless memorials and tombs, housing lines of bodies in Konoha’s cemetery. Deep had been the holes dug to retrieve the remains bundled in cloth at the heart of their parents graves, barely distinguishable as human with how little was gathered from the blown up war grounds years ago. Quick had been their departure from robbing those graves, after sampling dna and covering their tracks by putting back the earth they had disturbed. Erratic had been the behaviour of two captured criminals, men who were meant to be escorted to prison by the serpent during their last assignment, but who had been abducted instead and caged away, only for the viper to lie and feign having killed them during the mission due to dangerously uncooperative behaviour. Terrified were the sacrifices fighting back, two men unable to escape the smaller serpentine shinobi, who’s skill in the art of killing and destroying exceeded their entire generation. Pained had been the screams when both men became a part of a greater experiment, when their bodies began to give way to the new souls the serpent decided to replace them with. Empty had been the agonized eyes of the men as they helplessly waited for the serpent to complete Edo Tensei, as the serpent desperately waited to see their parents faces start to overtake the sacrifices. A life for a life. Unfamiliar had been the faces to finally greet the necromancer, when they realize in a jarring moment that buried within their parents graves were two strangers. Agonized had been those strangers faces when they were torn back to the living world unsuccessfully. Unable to die, but far from alive. Tormented had been the resurrected shinobi, crying for their ends as they crumbled in to paper in ruination, only to remain alive despite the cracking, decaying and crippling forms. Fumbled had been the serpents attempt to dispel the ritual and dismiss the souls back to the unknown. Ten minutes had been the time needed to finally empty the room of the living dead, that felt more like hours in their overwhelmed shock. Layers of failure had made that experiment a shaking experience. Failing to find their parents remains, realizing they now had no dna to even attempt this ritual in future. That they had been visiting the graves of strangers for years when error was made on the battlefield, and the wrong blown up and mutilated bodies had been placed in the holes dug for their mother and father. Failing to even complete Tobirama’s abandoned project, when the sacrifices suffered a gruesome fate and the resurrected suffered just the same agony, only to be banished after finally collapsing lifelessly. It might have put them off Edo Tensei, if the devilishly ambitious streak in them did not hiss it had not given them the right to give up. Now, the scroll of Tobirama’s work, revised by the serpent in Dan’s home, is presented. Placed in the middle of the dining table, as golden eyes look to the pale haired shinobi beside them. Forbidden techniques were something they knew Dan found fascinating, but whether he would be on the same page as them regarding one so cruel, one so actively defying all that was thought moral, natural and doable... well, they are yet to see. But they trust him enough to know that either way, their secret, their obsession with the dead coming back to them, would be kept safe. And so it is rolled open, for his eyes to see the detailed ritual, the inked sigils and the hand written demands. “Why seek out pure lands, when we can make this our home eternally... and why pray to gods, when we can become them.”

[talesfromthegameff14]

When the Past Breathes:  Part 3 - Final

[Part One, Part two]

[Writing Music: https://youtu.be/CdhqVtpR2ts ]

[Content Warning: PTSD Flashbacks]

Costa del Sol, one of the prettiest places Aya’s ever been in the world. Well prettiest civilized place that is.  It was warm with sparkling, clear water that shone silver in the moonlight as he ran along the edge of the incoming tide. Bare feet pounded the damp sand, leaving imprints of his passage that quickly filled back up with water before they were washed away with the next wave.  The tepid water that lapped around his ankles was strange.  It should be icy cold and punishing, his breath should turn the dark air white with frost, he should have gooseflesh along bare skin as he sprinted, trying to outrace something that would never leave him.

He wasn’t home.

Dunrai was gone.  The spot where the stocky xaela had always been within the Aya’s mind was empty, hollow, echoing only with the Uyagir’s thoughts for some time now.  It wasn’t a violent thing this blank space, just a slow slipping away until there was nothing left.  What it meant beyond Dunrai being gone?  Aya wasn’t certain, he wasn’t certain of anything beyond the prickly chill that felt like it was going to consume him from within when he probed at that spot for too long. 

Normally he could ignore it until something reminded him of the quiet, silver haired man.  Finding a pair of missing glasses unexpectedly, Terbish asking for lemon tarts, seeing Twi’s puppy, or watching a sailboat pass by on the horizon were all bittersweet moments indeed.  

Tonight was different.  Tonight it was the full moon that taunted him.  The moon that had seen their heartfelt vows given to Nhaama under her serene gaze two turnings of the seasons ago.  Not the wedding that had been for friends and family, but the private time for just them, when they made promises that they swore they would never break. 

The promises play through his mind like a broken reel, the sparkling stars above taunting him just like they did when Dunrai left him for the Bhazkaran to save his husband.  Save Aya from what?  Some elusive thing that the Bhazkaran insisted was a threat? A lie told by the silver eyed Eikon that stole Dunrai from him, that was the only thing that made sense.   The stars didn’t heed Aya’s thoughts.  Instead they descended from the sky like a plague of lotus, surrounding him and blocking his view of anything else.  The swarm turned all he saw into swirling silver edged in crimson, threatening to drown him in the memories and rage.

<"Like Chinua, who always knew the heart of the wind, our hearts are known to each other.">

<"Like Okoe, Nhaama has given you to me and me to you to protect each other.">

<"Like Tuya, we carry on each other's memory should one of us fall.">

<"Like Narankhuu and Gantulga, we share our strength and work together, for each other and for our family.">

Aya abruptly stumbles to a stop, staring into the night in wild eyed grief.  He could see them, the constellations for each of the vows standing out in the chaos of the memories that attacked him. The heroes of the Dazkar, the names sacred to the tribe, used to teach and guide and learn, for oaths that should not be broken. 

Finding the stars for Narankhuu and Gantulga, fixed and gloating within the silver sea that has his breath coming fast and ragged, Aya snarls, fingers wrapping around the hilt of a blade mostly unseen.  The aether katana conjured without effort in response to the threat only he can perceive.  <”You.. You.. you promised them to me.  Damn you, you promised that we’d work together.  Not that you’d run away.  Over and over you ran into yourself, leaving me to deal with everything alone.  Or leaving us to do it without you.  Then you left again, did you die?”>  He spins, drawing the blade through the constellation that taunts him, the points of light flare then disappear, leaving a jagged hole in the vapor trails of the stars that still dance too close in his mind.  It leaves a view of the moon hanging in the sky, katana lifting to point at it with a low growl, <”Or did you take him from me?  Are.. are.....”>  

The unseen blade vanishes, Aya bringing his fists up to the sides of his head with a frustrated sob, knees giving out so he lands heavily on the wet sand.  <”I wish I could forget.”>, is whispered by a voice strained and cracked into the uncaring wind that was bereft of guidance, the stone around his neck staying dark and silent for once.  Fingers clenched around his horns, the painful scrape of claw that made his brain itch was something real in the moment where the xaela couldn’t find anything else to hold onto.  It was paired with heaving breaths interrupted by tears and unintelligible words, too broken to be understood.  Two years, it should have been a celebration tonight, not this.  Not the rage and pain and heartbreak and.. fear.

Fear is what drove Aya out of the warm bed and away from Tolemy’s side.  The pattern of the memories that assaulted him shifted.  The pinpricks of light turned dark as they showed his sisters laboring to deliver their children.  Zareen almost dying, Sana struggling to the point that it seemed she might slip away too.  Then the points of darkness turned into an inferno, scalding Aya from within as his soulbound burned to nothing.  The flames turned knife edged, tearing C’tolemy away as something irreparable shattered into shards so sharp they cut deeply into what was left.  <”Don’t take him from me too, again.  Please.”>, the heartfelt plea cast towards the moon by a mind that was too battered to endure another heartache.  <”Please Chaand, please.  Let us have this life, let it be long, let us find the happiness that neither of us had when young.  Please.”> 

Aya looked up to the orb shining high in the sky, the shades given life by his mind finally fading away.  They left behind the shape of the moon, blurred and indistinct from his tears.  The xaela stared up into it as if it held all the answers to banishing the fear that turned his blood cold in his veins. Aya shivered from the chill within that didn’t numb him, there was no peaceful Grey this time, hadn’t been for months now.  Instead everything was sharp and brittle in this moment, hovering on the edge of slipping further into the anger and paranoia that’s been nipping at his heels these past months.  <”Please?”> 

A sleepy and worried voice comes from behind Aya, answering the question that wasn’t meant for a mortal’s ears to hear.  >”What are you asking for Sajanavaa?”<  The words aren’t in Xaelic, but the warm tones of the Coeurl.  It isn’t Tolemy that Aya sees when he turns to stare in the direction that the sound came from.  No, the form is liquid, androgynous, moving in a way that makes him feel like the world is distorting from the afterimages that follow the sinuous path of each comforting gesture offered to the floundering xaela. 

>”Cha..”<, no, that wasn’t right, the voice wasn’t right, or was he finally losing his mind entirely?  The brush of fingers along his cheek that wiped away the remnants of Aya’s tears grounded him.  The warmth was known, beloved, needed.  With a sigh that echoed in his soul the Uyagir leaned into Tolemy’s fingers,  >”You. I’m asking for you Fire of my Heart.  For us to grow old together, be happy together, be strong enough to survive whatever may come, together.  It’s all I want. I want to look to the future, not drown in the past.”<

Tolemy smiles, reaching for Aya with both hands, flickers of afterimages showing in the pale gold eyes and along the edges of his hands, >”And I you my songbird of the steppes”<  Even the words echoed after being spoken, >”He is yours as only he can be West Wind.”<, Tolemy’s voice distorting into something both familiar and queer, reverberating within Aya’s horns almost painfully. 

Despite the confusion, Aya leans into the dark skinned hands edged in silvery white, both too small to cup his cheeks and large enough to wipe away the tears at the corners of his eyes while calloused palms cradle his jawline.   >”Come back to me Sajanavva.”<, was murmured close to a horn, soothing the nerves jangled by terror, pain, and something more until the words warped once more. >”Go to him West Wind, he is your gift and salvation.”<  A nudge from within and without cease the distortions of a weary and wounded mind, leaving Aya kneeling before Tolemy as the tide washed over Aya’s calves and along Tolemy’s ankles. 

>”Come to bed.”<

Aya nodded mutely in response to Tolemy’s request, tears drying and his vision clearing, allowing him to clearly see the figure of his beloved in the shimmering moonlight.  Impulsively Aya leaned in to press a kiss to the gravid round of Tolemy’s belly before standing up and reaching out to tangle his fingers with the Seeker’s. 

His Gift.

His Salvation.

His Home. 

Somewhere far off, a woman whispers, >“You can’t make homes out of human beings Seni.”<

~fin~ [Tolemy, Chaand, and Arha are all owned by @ala-mhinyan Zareen by @yzareenxiv  Sana by @songsofbloodandfire]

[sunnylh]

╭╯  ﹅   LIKE STARDUST.

     ▬▬   tw: death, homophobia                homophobic slur, blood,                violences,  murder,  etc.                a self (para) memory   !

     If memories could bleed, if dreams could scream..

     "Jiah?” Her short heels clicked against the cracked pavement as darkness surrounded her closest vision. The night continued to grow heavier like it always seemed to do, or was that because of how firm her heart thudded against her ribs? “Jiah? Where are you?” was repeated once more after no responses were echoed her way. “Jiah.. It’s cold..”

     Ding, ding.. Sunhee’s phone chimed through the silence of faltered waterfalls, the phone illuminating a bronze-colored light as if a candle. Various messages arrived on the screen that depicted friends reciting words of confinement or amusement due to the fact on which the other girl has not yet seemed to arrive. Something inside the youngest of them all deemed to wish, to desire, that the sweetest wouldn’t be revealed ─ but bright stars of a smile and freckles that etched stardust across cheeks appeared in-front of her face, the phone nearly dropping to the floor.

     “Sunny! I’m sorry I’m late, I ran into something with my uncle.”

     Anticipation reeked inside the female’s body, breath rapid and shallow.  The wind seemed to become more ponderous, coldness wiping through her nerves as she fell breathless. At this point Sunhee desired for nothing but to be swallowed whole by the waterfalls of Jeju; since her heart developed into a wall of fire with flushed cheeks swimming through the bitter air. This.. This was a bad idea, but it was far too late to be backing out now.

     Today was the day Sunhee and her friends developed a plan. This plan was enticed to be a childish high-school prank in order to prevent Jiah from continuing her lesbian flirts towards her, to end the crush that bloomed inside of the targeted female. This prank was simple, easy, at least from what they decided. Sunhee wasn’t ever told the full details of such a prank, nor did she want to know the entire thing due to the fear that stemmed in the back of her mind. She was only explained to ask Jiah to meet her by the waterfall cliffs a few miles from their school with promises of a loving relationship of mutual feelings. Just ─ girls, girls can be cruel.

     “Ah, no, it’s okay! I haven’t been here lo─”

     “Did you mean it? Your feelings for me?”

     “Of course,” was mumbled just barely above her breath, feigned confidence received through a twist of her hair and lick of gloss tainting her lips. “W-Why would I lie to you?”

     That previous silence returned as the two stood beside each other. She tried best to keep still from shivers that ran down her spine, but the best case scenario was to avoid any and all eye contact by gazing towards the dim-lit stars gassed around like a plague. Who would have guessed that such a beautiful omnipresent sight would become so difficult, so .. suffocating?

     Sunhee froze. Everything began to spin, to fuzz out. A previous distraction was blocked by the view of Jiah forcing her chin upwards, thumb glacing over delicate skin. She could see nothing but those very stars yet traced over the tan hues that is Park Jiah instead of the expansed skyline. Phantoms swirled around auburn hues to haunt dilated pupils pulsing to the quick pattering of her heart. To see her so up close caused a swell inside her body with knowledge of what’s to come.

     “Isn’t this the part where you kiss me, Jiah?” Those words forced themselves more empty handed, but those phantoms turned to positive gleams if only for a few moments.

     “The thing is, Sunhee. If I kissed you, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

     A pause.

     “Then it’s a good thing she doesn’t actually want to, faggot.” Another voice coming from behind that forced the hand from her chin to drop, Sunhee instantly scuffling away to cover herself by the four new figures appearing forth. What else was she meant to do? Because the last thing on her fuzzed mind was to not involve herself more in the situation.

     The next thirty minutes, or what seemed to dwell on for hours, came by in flashes. Sunhee blocked these flashes out of her closest consciousness as best she could. Violence coming from an unfair match of four against one made her flinch yet she only stood still. This.. prank.. altered towards mistreatment as blood tainted the slick sheet of ice against the pavement. Various punches, kicks, possibly a knife tuning in ─ but she couldn’t fully develop that memory properly since her mind deemed itself more focused on the abusive words foaming at the edges of her friends’ tongues, faint screams of help pointed towards Sunhee’s way; although her body remained frozen just like the cold breeze.

     “I thought you were different, Sunhee,” were words previously stated yet they continuously echoed into her mind as Jiah feel backwards towards the edge of the cliff, motions so deafeningly slow until she vanished faster than possibly processable.

     That night, that night, would be Jiah’s last. The last hefty breath passing her lungs once the fall claimed her life instantly with a piercing of ice through her skull and her deceased body draining down the stream. Not even the glittering city lights or nostalgic scent of the waterfall could aid in such a situation.

     The water hears and understands, but the ice never forgives.

     Sunhee fell to her knees once the feeling of emptiness adapted her view of the world. A quiet sob quivered towards the end of her glossed lips. It seemed as if the cracks in the ground below her bruised knees grew larger, like they were going to take away the guilt that tripped over in a storm cloud. Every crevice of her being shattered in seconds. The young teenager doesn’t think the view of Jiah’s lifeless body bleeding into the saccharine blue depths, eyes open but the previous golden stars turned to black holes that lead her to white lights. That view would never leave her mind, it’d haunt her like those phantoms that previously consumed Jiah’s star dusted expression.

     This isn’t what they planned. No ─ it couldn’t have been. They wouldn’t plan to strip someone of their life, to remove them from others’, to hand grief to loved ones on a silver plate. She didn’t deserve gratitude, not even satisfaction of feeling the weight lifted off of her when it came to the uncomfortable flirting. She didn’t deserve to mourn or feel the guilt vibrating through her nervous system. And she definitely did not deserve her own life as it has taken another’s.

     “Is she dead?”

     “Why does it matter? We need to get the fuck out of here before someone shows up.”

     “Sunny. Sunny. Sunny get your ass up.”

     They’d never know her secret that was whispered down the hallways of the high-school. A secret so intense, so scandalous. One that entailed that Sunhee, too, maintained feelings for the deceased, feelings so intense that she believed those very freckles and shined smile had become one with the milky way. But, she wanted to fit in. She chose to fit in. She didn’t deserve to love another as much as she actually loved Jiah’s enchanting perfection. Although, no one would ever know that.

     No one would ever know what even happened that very night. Not even the police could classify or accuse those for the death of Park Jiah. The only one to ever know would be the dreams that glued themselves into Sunhee’s very essence. 

     Like the moon, nothing can ever be so forgiving.

[sunstar-of-the-north]

The Quest

          It was a cold and cloudless night. Bright stars cascaded the sky like fall leaves on a forest floor. The heavens seemed peaceful in their quietness. Down below things were the exact opposite.

          A fierce fire illuminated the night as it ravaged the podling village. The grass huts were swallowed in the flames, consuming everything within them. Those who survived were running toward the forest, their screams echoing throughout the darkness. Near the outskirts of the village a lone figure stood. His brown eyes were hot with wrath, clawed hands firmly grasping blood soaked swords. Every inch of his being was on edge. He loved everything about this. He craved it. He lived for the thrill of cutting his opponents down like they were nothing put flimsy saplings. He relished the look of fear in their eyes as their begged for mercy.

           However these last few days he felt like something was—off, missing even. If he was honest with himself though, he felt this way for far longer than just a few days. He was able to ignore this feeling for trines by distracting himself. Recently though the feeling hit him hard. It made him irritated and angry, even more so than usual. The warrior thought by coming to this village he would be able to shake off what has been plaguing him. It didn’t however. If anything the feeling grew more. He turned his gaze to his blades, watching the blood slowly slid down the cold steel. He started to contemplate if any of this was meaningful. The warrior hated when he started to question things, question himself. He knew who he was. He knew his purpose. But now…he wasn’t sure.

           A noise from the grass brought the warrior back into reality. He swiftly pursued, his tattered cape flying behind him. He realized it was a stray podling as he got closer. It was constantly tripping over itself, too scared to coordinate itself. The warrior grinned wickedly, the fire making his teeth shine menacingly. He ran harder, getting closer to the poor creature. When the podling fell down again, the warrior stomped his foot hard on its back, making it cry in agony.

           A cruel chuckle escaped from the warrior’s mouth. “Thought you could get away little podling,” he asked mockingly. He pushed down harder, the podling shrieking in more pain. He grinned more as euphoria rushed through his body. “You creatures are so pathetic! Don’t you know that no one can escape the Empire! No one can escape ME, SkekGra the Conqueror!” He raised his blade, preparing himself to slice his next victim in half.

           Pain erupted from the back of his head, causing the Conqueror to squawk in pain. He was distracted enough for the little podling to wiggle free from his foot and scamper into the forest. With hot anger, the skeksis turned around, barking into the night, “Who DARES get between me and my conquest!” His wild eyes searched in the dark for his assailant. He saw movement in the corner of his eye. SkekGra whipped around, swords in defense mode. Another person slowly made his way into view, the grass gently parting as he came closer. He was much shorter than the skeksis, clothed in robes of grey, contrasting his robes of yellow and red. Long, pepper hair adorned his head and neck. In one of his four hands he held a wooden staff decorated with carvings. And finally his long, armored tail followed behind him, almost looking like a creature of its own. He brought his solemn eyes to SkekGra. “I dare,” the creature said softly but with a twinge of defiance.

           The skeksis hissed in rage. He pointed his sword at him. “YOU,” he seethed. This Mystic has been following SkekGra for unums now. He tried to not make himself seen but the skeksis noticed him since day one. Did he honestly think that a seasoned warrior like himself would have not seen him? The Mystic would only watch from afar, never interfering with SkekGra however. Until now that is.

           “I’ll tear you apart!”

           He then lunged at him. The Mystic quickly dodged the attack, surprising the Conqueror. Thankfully SkekGra was able to regain his footing. He turned around, snarling as he circled the urru. “What do you want from me,” he asked threateningly. The Mystic glared at him. “I want you to stop this!” He motioned to the burning huts. “This ruthless slaughter is unnecessary!” SkekGra couldn’t help but laugh. “These disgusting podlings deserved to die! They insulted the Emperor for not contributing to the tithe! If they are too selfish to give us tribute, then we will take their lives instead!” He swiped his four blades at the urru who was able to block the blow with his staff. The grey robed creature grunted in pain as SkekGra dug the swords deeper into the wood.

           “I know you have been spying on me, you little worm. You have seen me kill hundreds of creatures and yet, you decide now to intervene.” The skeksis knew his words cut the urru, his eyes dark with regret. SkekGra felt himself being flung back, alarm ringing through his head. He nearly fell over but was able to still stand. He sensed movement and was just in time to block a blow from his opponent.

             “I thought Thra decided to silence their song,” he said sorrowfully. SkekGra noticed that there was a hint of anger in his tone as well. The lord was slightly perplexed by this but he didn’t have time to think. The Mystic’s sent him flying. SkekGra landed on the ground hard, dropping three of his swords. He was about to sit up when the urru slammed his staff butt into him. Thankfully the armor he was wearing blocked any serious damage but it did prevent him from squirming away. He glared at the grey skinned urru who in turned glared back. “I realized that it was not the will of Thra to watch these people needlessly die for your sick enjoyment.”

               SkekGra growled at him. He then kicked the urru in the stomach. He doubled over in sharp pain. The skeksis grabbed the urru’s hair and rammed his head into his enemy’s. This caused the urru to be disorientated and allowed the Conqueror to grab him in a bear hug. He tackled his opponent to the ground. Using his three hands he grabbed the Mystic’s arms, preventing him from using them. SkekGra’s other hand held his last sword. He brought it to the Mystic’s bearded neck, smiling evilly in victory. “I am going to really enjoy slitting your throat open, you annoying fool!” He slowly raised the weapon, glee from before returning in full force.

                The skeksis gazed into the urru’s deep brown eyes. Instead of looking scared, they were full of acceptance. SkekGra glared into them in confusion. None of his previous prey ever looked so ready for death. The lord couldn’t understand this. As he continued to stare something startling happened. Strange visions rushed through his mind; bizarre creatures he never seen before but there was something familiar about them, something whole. Then a blinding light followed by extreme pain. Other images that the skeksis didn’t quite understand also came to him in a breakneck pace.

                As quickly as he started, it ended. SkekGra was back, still towering over the urru who seemed equally as bewildered. The emptiness the skeksis felt before seemed to have vanished now as he gazed more at the creature.

           It finally clicked for him.

           The Conqueror unceremoniously dropped his weapon. He then cupped the Mystic’s cheek with a shaky hand, causing him to slightly flinch. “You,” SkekGra croaked out. The urru blinked at him in utter confusion.

           “You are my quest.”

           The Mystic was too shock to speak. The cheek SkekGra was holding felt warmer for some strange reason. SkekGra let out shaky sigh. “All this time, I thought I knew who I was…what my purpose was…but now I see I was wrong.” He took the urru’s hands in his. “You knew, didn’t you?” He swallowed before speaking. “I—I had a hunch but—I did not fully understand until now.”

           The skeksis cocked his head in disbelief. “You had a HUNCH?! I thought you urrus were supposed to be all knowing!” The urru shrugged. “We do not know everything.” SkekGra face palmed. “Oh for the love of-“ A hissing like noise silenced him. The duo looked back to the village, at least what was left of it. The fire was almost dying out, leaving behind shallow husks of former homes.

           For the first time in his life, the lord felt overwhelming grief and guilt. He got off of the urru and stood up. SkekGra’s eyes were welling with tears as a lump formed in his throat. “What have I done?” He was visibly shaking, trying his hardest to fight back his tears.

           He felt something warm slip into his hands. The Conqueror looked down to see the urru holding his hands. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at him with those same brown eyes. He gently squeezed his hands in assurance. SkekGra didn’t know why, but that made him feel better, at least a little.

           The duo silently watched the fire die out for the rest of the night. The Three Brothers were making their morning descent, filling the world with light. SkekGra turned to urru who was watching the suns. “What…do we do now?” He let out a slow sigh. “First we bury the dead…then we will find the answer to the visions you and I shared.” The Conqueror raised his eye brows in surprise. “Find—the answers?” The Mystic nodded. “Yes. We are somehow connected. We need to know why and how that affects Thra…how it affects us,” he said the last part softly. The urru let go of his hands as headed for the village. SkekGra felt a twinge in his chest when he let go. The skeksis watched him leave, head buzzing with so many questions. What would the other lords think? Would they see him as a traitor for fraternizing with the enemy? Where would this new quest take him? One thing was for certain though.

           He would follow this Mystic on this quest, no matter where it would lead him.

Week 2 is Angst so...yup this is gonna be fun.  (Send help. ) Characters (c) Jim Henson/The Jim Henson Company  

[caffeinatedtimdrake]

In a Garden of Blue Violets

I’m gonna start on requests this weekend in between studying but until then!!! 4k of angst?? new territory for me. ft a happy ending. 

Jason x Reader. You are always trying to heal from the loss and move on with your life, but Jason finds ways to remain tangled in your soul. 

Sorrowed, and the day for me will be as the night (tomorrow, at dawn by V. Hugo)

Two days after Selina finds you at an ungodly hour on a rooftop, bare feet dangling off the edge and shoulders drooped, as if one more ounce of melancholy might pull you into the deepest depths of the Earth. Maybe that’s where you could find Jason. She wants you to know she’s there – you can hear it in her uncharacteristically audible footsteps because you know her heart is heavy, too. You stiffen a little and rub at your cheeks with the heel of your palm, sticky tears and fresh wave of grief, before turning around to face her. She taught you to never look away, so you meet her eyes with a shaky exhale. A sentimental sorrow glimmers in the twist of her mouth and the subtle, maternal warmth reflected in orbs of jade and wisdom. “Y/N, you should come eat.” Selina’s voice is a soft caress above the cacophony of late-night traffic and Bruce’s words still echoing in the space between your ears. You nod meticulously and sniffle, gaze shifting to your toes. She looks at you for a long moment of bated breath before she sighs and slinks down the stairs. Now when she moves, she’s silent. You weren’t supposed to find out this way, but Bruce called the landline and your heart did a funny little flip when the caller ID read Wayne. You and Selina had been off on a drug ring bust for the past four days and she was only just catching up on calls and intel. You were supposed to hang up when Bruce asked for Selina, but you didn’t. Instead, you barely breathed and stayed on the line. When Bruce’s words caught in his throat and he whispered one of your worst nightmares into existence, your mind blanked. You don’t even know if the phone turned off – you only comprehended that you had to go somewhere Selina couldn’t immediately find you. After Bruce had called, his voice a static rasp over the phone, you’d thrown yourself up the stairs and onto the rooftop, sobbing against an empty crate until you were dizzy. Eventually you’d ended up on your back, staring up at threatening storm clouds. The concrete beneath you was cold and jagged, marred by time and rain and sun. You don’t understand how you drift off to sleep with your heart so impossibly heavy, but you do. You don’t know how long you sleep, minutes bleeding into hours, but when you wake the world is much darker. When you remember why you’re on the roof in the first place, you have to shove your first into your mouth to keep from bawling and rousing the whole city. This is an awful breed of despair, thick and frantic, filling your lungs with coal and your blood with acid. Now, you stand and stretch and crane your neck to look at the stars, but nothing shines. The expanse of darkness makes your heart ache impossibly more. Each contraction is an echo of loss. You’re a bit lightheaded as you make your way down the steps, but you barely notice the throbbing in your temples or the taste of sandpaper on your tongue because the weight of Jason’s death presses so severely on your chest. Selina waits at the bottom of the stairs. You don’t think twice before collapsing into her arms and dissolving into tears once more. 

Two months after When the doorbell chimes and you peek through the peephole on a rainy Friday afternoon, you expect to find either your cranky downstairs neighbor or Maggie – certainly not Dick Grayson. Hot tears well in your eyes upon the sight of his damp hair and five o’clock shadow, and you have to take several deep breaths before you open the door and welcome him inside with a tempered grin. “Nice to see you, Dick.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes in the way that’s so defining of Dick Grayson. “You, too, Y/N.” “Selina’s just upstairs, I can – “ “Actually, I came for you.” You blink up at him, surprised. “M-me?” He nods and swallows hard. “I was gonna go, um, visit Jason. And I was wondering if you wanted to join.” At the mention of Jason, you freeze. You feel as though you’ve been plunged into the Arctic, so intensely frigid that you feel pinpricks of heat down your spine. Breath dissipates from your lungs and your language skills completely vanish. You ogle at him, mouth slightly parted and eyes suddenly very watery. Dick takes immediate notice of your shock and flaps his arms frantically, like he doesn’t know whether to fan you or hug you. “But you totally don’t have to! There is no pressure at all! Only do what you’re comfortable with!” A reply lodges itself in your throat. “Maybe you should go, Y/N.” Selina drawls, rounding the corner and slinking towards the pair of you. You can’t offer much of a coherent response, so instead you nod tensely and turn robotically on your heel to grab shoes, an umbrella, and three packs of tissues.

The car ride has been largely devoid of discourse, but Dick’s radio plays what sounds like circus music and you’re quite certain that opening your mouth will evoke either a torrent of tears or hysterical laughter. Possibly both. Dick’s voice is like the faint fog hovering in the air. “He cared about you a lot. I hope you know.” You swallow the lump in your throat and squint out the window, where blue violets wilt on the side of the road. “I cared about him, too.” You don’t think you could ever stop caring about Jason; he’d become too deeply threaded into the very muscle fibers of your heart. Falling for Jason had come easily, refreshing and natural like spring rain. The pair of you tagged along with your mentors or operated solo on less severe missions, often crossing paths and ending up back-to-back, battling chains of criminals and otherworldly creatures. When you weren’t training to lead the next generation of heroic vigilantes, you often found yourself in a cozy corner of the library with Jason and many textbooks. You were not his and he was not yours, but a sweet sort of chemistry flourished between you and Jason, a quiet relief from the pressure of mentors and successors and evil. It never blossomed into a garden – it never had the chance– but an undeniable warmth, an indisputable maybe one day, had existed between you and Jason, sprouting like roses in April. Dick stops at the florist and grabs a bouquet of flowers; lavenders, anemones, and gladioluses. You hold the bouquet as Dick continues driving. You tell him they’re beautiful and he tells you that next time, you should pick out the flowers. The prospect of a ‘next time’ is like cold glass cracking within your chest because there hasn’t even been a first time yet, but you say okay and stick your nose in the lavender bunch. 

Three years after You decide this time of year is your favorite in the company of rain clouds and the white heathers and violets sprouting on your windowsill. Spring blossoms into summer easily, in the same way that you turn the worn page of your textbook. Things are different now. Instead of saving the city by battling villains, you enroll in nursing school to help heal the people of Gotham. You still see Selina often – she mandated that you two have dinner at least once a month – and occasionally bump into Dick on weekends at a coffee shop. Once in a blue moon, Catwoman, Batman, or Nightwing will request your help relaying intel from the Batcave or patching up a team member. Time has been the best remedy for you. As months bled into years, the searing anguish melted into a dull ache. You drive with Dick to place flowers across Jason’s grave every once in a while, whenever he gets a moment away from the office and you can afford a study break. You still need to bring tissues, but now the visits only require a few stuffed into your pocket instead of several packets. This evening, your schedule is free of any obligations for the first time in ages. You work nights at the local hospital and when you’re not working, you’re in class or at the library. Work has been especially taxing lately. You’ve treated more criminals than you’re comfortable with due to the thoroughly wounding work of a rancorous vigilante who calls himself Red Hood. You don’t necessarily mind that he targets the worst of the worst, but you are less than thrilled when you end up changing gauze for gang leaders. At the same time, you don’t feel any less rabid anxiety when a convicted murderer has a seizure due to brain damage and flatlines in front of you in comparison to when the same happens to an elderly mailman. Death is death; there is no return from her cool embrace. And a patient is a patient, even if you know their soul is less than human. Sometimes, you struggle with this and when you voiced the thought to Selina a few weeks ago, her answer was unsurprising. “Right now, you are obligated to save people. Some are so horrible; I know you don’t think they should be saved. You can always come back to me, Y/N. We save good people by getting rid of the bad ones.” But tonight, in the company of your cat and a light drizzle, things don’t seem so morbid. Admittedly, you do feel a little lame for spending your night off buried abnormal psychology notes, but quickly shrug it off when your cat bumps her head against your ankle encouragingly. You scratch beneath her chin and she purrs like a motor. “I’m not that lame. I’m working hard so I can buy you the spiffiest cat trees. And I have the whole night to cuddle with you, can you believe it?” She meows, probably in disbelief.

You take a break from studying and make the executive decision to pick up your favorite Chinese food. “Hold down the fort for me, baby.” You tell your cat as she bids you farewell with a soft chortle, shutting the light off. She doesn’t do a very good job because when you return twenty minutes later with a large brown paper bag and a Disney song stuck in your head, there’s a man sitting at your kitchen table. And your cat is in his lap, purring. You see red – not because you’re angry, but because the color of his mask is the color of blood, something you’ve always been too familiar with. You let the door shut behind you with a soft click and when he turns to look at you, you have a vision of your body, bruised and broken at the hands of a man who had done the same to so many others. Dick and Selina are on speed dial, but if Red Hood wants to murder you, that would not matter very much.   It’s been a while since you’ve had to punch anyone in the mouth or land a swift kick to the back of a knee, but the rush of adrenaline fizzing in your head all the way down to your toes is relatively reassuring. If nothing else, you could scream. His face is angled towards you and his chests moves with steady, untroubled breaths. Your face is still a bit cold from the way the rain kissed your cheeks, but you feel heat rising to the surface of your skin. You swallow hard. “What do you want from me?” He’s quiet for a long moment, tilting his head in a disarmingly casual, pensive manner. “I’m…not sure. I’m still trying to figure that out, Y/N.” His voice rumbles like distant thunder and you blanch when he utters your name. “How do you know my name?” You say hoarsely, fighting the building panic in your throat. “I know a lot about you. You’re a nursing student and you work at the hospital.” “And?” You subtly stick your hand in a pocket, hoping to dig for pepper spray in a less than obvious way. “You used to live a different life, under the guidance of Selina Kyle. Catwoman. Adoptive mother figure. And, occasionally Batman.” Your shirt sticks to you uncomfortably with rain and sweat. “You left that life after a bad incident with The Joker a year and a half ago.” You exhale sharply, goosebumps erupting across your arms. Instinctively, your hand goes to fiddle with a necklace at the base of your throat, one that hides a tiny but terrible scar. “You’re also probably waiting for the right moment to pepper spray me or call Selina.” You practically jerk in surprise. Red Hood shrugs, looking down at his lap. “Didn’t know you have a cat, though. She’s cute.” “Leave my cat out of this.” You manage. He sighs complacently and gently places her on the ground. She has the gall to meow in protest. You clear your throat and move towards the kitchen table like you’re walking on ice even though you feel like you’re on fire with fear, setting the food down and fixing Red Hood with what you hope is an unwavering, intimidating look. “If you don’t know what you want from me, you should leave. If you do know what you want from me, you’re already aware of my history. It won’t be an easy fight.” He bristles at the threat and the implications. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He bites out, leaning forward microscopically. His arms rest on the table and his gloved hands are clenched tightly, as if his sense of composure will unravel if he relaxes his fingers. Your strong front dithers at this. “Then what?” Red Hood exhales like he’s never been more exhausted, shoulders hunching, and head cast downward. He’s quiet for what must be an eternity before he responds. “I just wanted to know if you are yourself.” You don’t know what his eyes say about his soul in that moment, but in his voice, you hear a very human sense of hurt. You pay no attention to the ambiguity of his mortality and ability to feel pain. “Somehow, that’s the most cryptic and creepy thing a villain has ever said to me.” He barks out a laugh at this and the sound startles you because it’s nothing like The Joker cackling or Ivy giggling. “I think I have my answer now, though.” He stands up and you’re further startled by his size – over six feet of toned muscle, brutal tendencies, and a remarkably light laugh. Instinctively, you step backwards, poised to fight if need be. He raises his hands in surrender, walking slowly toward the window. “I’m leaving. No trouble.” You proceed to propel yourself across the room and land with a soft thump in front of the window, shoulders squared, and hands clenched. “I don’t think so, Red Hood.” “Huh?” “You don’t get to break into my apartment, spew facts about my life, and leave.” He leans back a little, seemingly resigned. You imagine he arches an eyebrow at you skeptically beneath the mask. “What do I get to do in addition to that?” You frown. “Answer some questions.” “Like?” “Who the hell are you? And are you aware of the fact that I change bed pans for high ranking drug dealers because of you?” “You’re not going to like the answer to either of those questions, Y/N.” “I still want to know!” “I’m no hero, but I don’t think I qualify entirely as a villain. And, no, I was unaware. You’re showing them a kindness they do not deserve.” “And why do you know my name? He shrugs; a deliberate, slow movement. “For a bit, it was the only thing I did know.” A sensation of dread begins knotting tightly in your stomach, sending your heartrate skyrocketing even higher. You watch him through wary, wide eyes, drinking in the unbothered slouch in his shoulders. “I-I don’t understand.” You take a tiny step backwards, anxiety slithering up your throat. He looks directly at you and his voice is almost haunting. “I don’t think you want to.” It feels a bit like you’re climbing a mountain, except without any equipment or preparation. Your breathing becomes more erratic, just shy of outright hyperventilation, and there’s a funny buzzing sensation in your head. Your cheeks are flushed with warmth and your hands are cold, no matter how tightly you curl them into fists. If you fall off this cliff, there’s no hope. It’s perhaps a bit unwise when you suck in a deep breath and say, “Try me,” but you’ve never been one to accept anything at face value. Red Hood goes still for a few moments before reaching up to place his hands on the helmet. “Okay, Y/N, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Red Hood slowly removes the mask to reveal a mop of dark hair, olive skin, and ocean eyes. You see burning sapphire and then, darkness.

You wake with a frantic gasp on your couch, a damp cloth falling off your forehead and into your lap as you look around in a frenzy. “Mittens, I just had the worst dream of my l- OH!” When your sight lands on a man reading your favorite Hugo criticism, you fling yourself off the couch and against the front door in a whirlwind that leaves you dizzy and nauseated. He nearly jumps off the armchair and moves towards you but freezes in place when you put out your hand. “No! P-please.” You inhale a ragged breath, lungs aching as you slide down the cool wood onto your butt with shaky legs. “I need y-you to stay over there. For now. Please.” You can barely make out a nod because your vision is so blurry. You squeeze your eyes shut and take in big gulps of air that make your chest burn, leaning your head back. Inhale. Red Hood. Hold for four seconds. Jason. Exhale. Alive. Repeat. You don’t know how long you stay like that, quelling rampant thoughts and waiting for the blood to stop rushing around in your ears. When you open your eyes, you notice that tears have begun to stream down your cheeks, but your vision is less blurry than before so you can see at the man in the armchair properly. He looks like he’s going to jump out of his skin, a concerned frown etched into his dark features. “Maybe you should drink some water.” He suggests. You nod numbly, struggling to pull your guard up. “Is it okay if I stand up and get it for you?” You sniffle a bit before croaking, “Okay.” He fills up a glass – it’s your favorite, one with dancing frogs – and ambles over to you cautiously. He remains over an arm’s length away from you and you are grateful for the space. He squats down and hands you the glass. You barely look at him, muttering a thank you and chugging it down. When you finish, you shut your eyes again and take several more steadying breaths before sitting up and looking him in the face. This is a different kind of heartache. It’s like your best dream and worst nightmare to have a man in front of you who looks an awful lot like the boy who left a gaping hole in your soul. But he’s certainly not the same. His face is hardened by unforgiving edges. The hair atop his head is wavy and dark, save for the streak of white curling over the center of his forehead. His earthy skin is inscribed with a litany of scars; one curves across his cheek and you feel a swarm of anxiety loom closer to your head because you can read the marred skin like it’s the only language you know. There’s a darkness in those eyes, as though his demons had swallowed any sliver of light, leaving a fire of anguish instead, and a weariness in the bags beneath the stormy sea of sapphire. “Who are you?” “Someone you’ve always known. Someone you’ve never met.” You shake your head slowly. “This can’t be happening.” There’s a shade of panic in your voice that makes him sit down completely in front of you. He crosses his legs and wrings his hands, visibly nervous and almost boyish. Red Hood – Jason – radiates heat and smiles bitterly. “If I had a dollar for every time I said exactly that…” But this isn’t the time for smiles. “You’re different.” You say in a way that says much more. The implications are clear. He hears them, you’re sure, because his face briefly scrunches in pain. You were killed. You came back. Your soul is darker. “There is no way I could be the same as before. Or maybe this has always been me. I don’t know, but I wish I did.” “How long?” You ask meekly. “A little over two years.” You blink at him, lashes wet. “Oh.” Seconds of silence ebb into minutes. You think about the past two years of your life and all that’s changed; your path, your home, your hair, your fears, your hopes, even your little pot of flowers on the windowsill, but never the space in your heart for Jason. You think about how he’s changed; from a lanky, brash teenager into a dauntingly powerful man; a hero that once lay bleeding into nothingness on the floor of a warehouse, one who now has blood on his hands. You think about the dulled pain of the past two years and you wonder about his pain; if he wants to clean the blood from his hands, if he wants to turn back the clock, if he wishes he had never been brought back at all. You’re quiet because you can’t find words and because you’re looking for a flicker of familiarity, of the Jason who always felt like home in a meadow of gentians. In those stormy eyes, you see him. A sailor lost at sea, trying to find his way home in the dead of night. Your hand is a bit shaky, but you reach out to place your palm against his cheek, if only to ensure that he exists outside of your memories. His face is warm, and he places his own hand over the back of yours, large and calloused. His name on your tongue tastes like hard liquor and ripe fruit, but you can’t bring yourself to speak it aloud, into the air, beyond the cascade of tears and a torn heart. “Y/N,” His voice is thick with emotion. Your bottom lip quivers. “J-Jason.” It almost burns to say it and a fresh wave of tears crashes to the shore to put out the fiery pain in the same way that you crash into his chest. You clutch at worn leather and thick hair, tighter still when you feel tears drops on your head like the early evening rain. He holds you to his chest securely – too much has changed in his life has been unsteady and he’s spent too long without you, he doesn’t know if he’s capable of letting you go. But you don’t seem to mind, keeping your head tucked under his chin until you can breathe without weeping, almost going limp beneath the way he rubs the pad of his thumb soothingly against your hip. “This whole night has been longer than the past three years of my life.” “Time is relative.” “Says the guy who’s been dead.” “And brought back to life, don’t forget that part.” You squeeze him tighter when he says this. Unanswered questions hang in the air, but you know they will find answers in time. For now, your eyes find his and he seeks your mouth with a tenderness you haven’t known in this lifetime.  

[wanderingalicewrites]

The Truth Remains - Chapter 13

Read the whole thing on AO3

“No. You can’t come in here.” Raphael stands in the door to the Halls of Healing, wings spread wide to prevent Azrael’s entrance into his domain. “I’ve got patients in here who will be upset by your presence.”

 I know, Azrael says. I am sorry, Healer, but I must. Despite his words, he makes no move to enter without Raphael’s permission. He just stares down at the archangel with his eyeless gaze, and waits.

 Raphael glares up at him for a moment more, making his point, but he knows he has to let him in. He knows who he’s there for, and as much as it hurts to admit it, there hadn’t been anything he could do. This was always going to be the end result.

 “I tried to save him,” Raphael says, and his wings droop in exhaustion. He’s used all of his power, ever last shred of it, trying to save the three lives his healers had brought him. He’s even borrowed power from those under his command, draining several of them to fill the life patterns of their patients. “I thought… I had hoped he wasn’t so far gone.”

 I know, Azrael repeats, voice surprisingly gentle. He was mine even before he entered your halls.

 The healer sighs, and steps aside. His healers vanish into other rooms as they walk through the long building, afraid of the specter of Death that follows at his heels. Soon enough, they reach the room where the dying angel lies. Two beds sit empty, their occupants moved as soon as the healers knew they would be unable to save this one. There’s still blood on the floor, dark scarlet stains of his corporeal body, mixed with the golden ichor of a bleeding angel. Splotches of a darker color mix with the red a gold, a viscous fluid Raphael has never encountered before. It fell with the ichor from his patient, and it feels almost the same - except for the faint aura of evil within it. He doesn’t know what it is, but he doesn’t like it.

 “Liriel,” he says, quiet, though he knows his patient won’t wake, even if he shouts. “I’m so sorry.” His pattern is grey and fading fast, the lines unraveling despite everything Raphael and his healers have tried. The golden lines of the archangel’s own pattern are wrapped around it, feeding it with the healer’s own life force. It’s the only thing now that’s keeping him from death. Raphael takes his hand, squeezing it gently. It’s one of the very few parts of the young angel that aren’t covered in bloodied bandages. The other two are only a little better. He doesn’t want to know what could have caused these wounds. What could be so powerful it could overwhelm three Guardians - posted to guard the armory, found when a new shift came to relieve them.

 It is time. The angel of death comes to stand behind him, wings like the night sky filling the room.

 Gently, Raphael withdraws his pattern from Liriel’s, taking back his power as the grey lines flicker and fade. “Rest now, brother,” he says in the ceremonial language of the archangels, a phrase he had never thought he would have to use. He brushes a hand across Liriel’s forehead, using just a touch of power, to ease the last of his pain. “It is time to return to the fire, from which all things are made.” He blinks back tears. He has never before lost an angel as a patient. Mortal creatures, yes. Rarely, but it has happened. He’s never even seen an angel this badly wounded before.

 Azrael moves to the other side of the bed, and his wings flare out around him. One boney finger touches the exposed skin of the fallen Guardian’s neck. Raphael watches as his pattern unravels, flowing up to be absorbed into Azrael’s own.

 He has gone, Death tells him. But you may yet save his fellows.

 “I don’t understand.” Raphael looks up at him, stepping away from the remains of the angel and ignoring the throbbing in his heart. “What happened to them?”

 It is Her Plan, Azrael says. I can say no more than that.

 He thinks about the book. Lucifer’s copy of the Great Plan, left behind in Her throne room just days ago. About the wounds on his three patients. About the missing weapons from the armory - the third such break in and theft since Lucifer first went missing. About Lucifer himself, and the Plan his brother claims he wants to thwart. About that first incursion into the armory, and the guard that claimed Lucifer had led the band of thieves.

 “Is it true then?” he asks. “Is She really planning a war in Heaven?” Will he have to see more angels like this, wounded, fading, patterns unraveling as he tries to save them?

 Azrael focuses on him, that eyeless gaze somehow seeing into his soul. I will not answer that question. You already have the information you seek.

 “Then what about Armageddon?” Raphael demands, staring right back. He’s drained, exhausted, but he won’t show weakness to this ancient being. “Will you truly destroy everything She has created?”

 I do as I am bid, he says. Whether now, Armageddon, or the end of the universe. There is only one fate for you all until only God and I will remain. And then even She will cease to be, and I alone will be left. He turns away from Raphael, folding his great wings against his back.

 He stops and turns when he reaches the door. You should not assume the truth is as you see it, Healer, he says. And then, in a blast of cold wind, he is gone.

 Raphael retreats to his office. Liriel’s body will be taken away, to be buried by his battalion. The first angel he has lost. The first casualty, Raphael suspects, in the coming war. He sits at his desk, head in his hands, and lets himself feel the grief of loss. Of failure. The grief of a healer who could not save a patient. The grief of an archangel who could not protect one that looked to him for guidance. The grief of a younger brother who suspects his oldest sibling has done something unforgivable. Within the bond, his younger siblings flood his mind with their sympathy and love, but even that is not enough to take the edge off of his pain.

 A knock on the door. Raphael looks up to see Aziraphale standing there, hesitant, blue eyes wide. The healer suddenly realizes how he must look, slumped in his chair, hair wild from running his fingers through it, deep purple bags of exhaustion under his eyes, his white robes spattered with blood and ichor from Liriel and his other two patients.

 “Aziraphale?” he asks, frowning, too drained even to cast the small miracle that would clean up his robes.

 The principality comes into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Michael said you might need me,” he says, frowning as he surveys the archangel. “I can see she was right.”

 “I-” Raphael stars, then his voice breaks. Aziraphael’s expression softens.

 “Come here, my dear,” he says, walking to stand beside the archangel and pulling him into his arms. Raphael wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, burying his fast against his chest. His friend holds him close, running soothing hands through his hair as he cries.