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laurelsofhighever · 4 years ago

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Alistair x f!Cousland AU

SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE ROSE

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again.

With a sigh, the King of Ferelden stared down at the mask in his hands, the red dye a match to the velvet of his cloak and the rich fabric in the rest of his clothes, the royal colours of the Theirin line, and the finely tooled likeness of a mabari snarling out of the leather in an elegant snub for the rules of the Game. A king’s mask ought to be made of gold, after all, as a way to reflect his station, but that scandal would be nothing to the one he planned to cause by not wearing it over his face. Already from below, strains of soft, unobtrusive music drifted above the murmur of voices gathered in the vaulted ballroom of Halamshiral’s Winter Palace, preluding the night’s extravagance. He couldn’t delay much longer in wading into that seething, perfumed mass, however much he wanted to.

Next to him, Fergus Cousland stood arrayed in similar finery. The golden Laurels embroidered into the deep blue velvet of his doublet marked his identity as the Teyrn of Highever, and the shadowed line between his dark brows revealed that his eagerness to attend the party just about matched that of Alistair himself. He caught the king looking, saw the fidget betrayed in his fingers, and drew in a weary breath.

“These talks might be just what it takes to secure lasting peace with Orlais,” he offered, an empty repetition of Alistair’s other advisors. “It’s more than Cailan ever hoped for.”

The king’s lip curled. “You and I both know that’s not the real reason I’m here. I could have left that stuff to Élodie.”

The Arlessa of South Reach had proven a capable ambassador in the time since the end of the civil war against Loghain, using her connections in the Orlesian court to divert the potential wave of old resentments that would have sought to take advantage of Ferelden’s instability as it recovered. It was thanks to her efforts that dignitaries from every Marcher port across the Waking Sea had gathered under the auspicious gaze of Empress Celene in the hopes of formalising a network of trade throughout southern Thedas, and no doubt she was already gliding through their ranks, smoothing the way for her liege lord to grace the crowd and start all the ladies fawning.

Too used to the hopes of noble daughters tilting for a throne, he doubted much of the flattery would be genuine. The only change to the usual pursuit was the fact that Celene now numbered among the hunting party, her desire to win him for herself and Orlais all but common knowledge. At their first meeting that afternoon she had been perfectly polite, but the weight of her gaze on the back of his head as he was shown out to his own apartments had sent a shiver like the lick of cold rain down his spine, and the thought of what she would do with any kind of sovereign power over Ferelden had thoroughly put him off his lunch. There had been a time when, in the entrance hall of Redcliffe Castle and with the warning of a witch ringing in his ears, he had told Rosslyn that the idea of being dangled like bait for political advantage disgusted him. And she had understood his distaste, had reached for his hand with softness in her eyes. He had kissed her hand that night, for the first time.

A sympathetic look from Fergus dragged him out of his contemplation, but thankfully he chose not to repeat the platitudes that had taken to following the king like footprints.

It’s been over a year, almost two, Teagan had scolded. We allowed you time to mourn but you must think of what is best for this country.

Only Fergus really understood. He was the only one in the same position, a lord with a domain left unsecured by the lack of an heir, with those roundabout all but scoffing at his lack of stomach to get one. Shared pain and politics had drawn them together after the army’s return from Ostagar, and now, aside from being a staunch ally in the Landsmeet, he was one of the few Alistair could class as a true friend.

“If I could spurn my duty in this, I would,” he said now.

“But you’re a Cousland.” Humour bled into Alistair’s voice, cold and tinged with grief. “I notice Karyna chose not to come.”

Fergus let his eyes fall closed. “She… ended things between us. She said she wanted to focus on her clinic, but I think part of it was wanting to get out of my shadow, and the expectations of…” a wave of his hand “all of this.”

“I’m sorry.”

He had once broached the subject of changing the law to allow mages to marry, but Fergus had refused, pointing out that what Ferelden needed after a year mired in civil war was stability, not an Exalted March called down because its new king wished to flout the Maker’s supposed Word. Too many would have accused him of playing favourites, too many more who would have raged against the idea of a mage being raised above them – even if Karyna Amell herself came from a line of Marcher nobles. She might be a talented healer dedicated to her people, kind, loyal, and level-headed, but none of that mattered to those who saw any unshackled mage as a prelude to the return of ancient Tevinter.

Fergus waved away his concern and set his own mask in place, pushed back from his forehead. “Let’s get this over with.”

When they appeared at the top of the stairs, the noise level in the whole room dimmed like a door closing on the roar of a great wind. All eyes turned to follow their progress into the melee as Guard-Commander Morrence, Alistair’s right-hand and bodyguard, peeled away from her post by the door and fell into line one pace behind her charge as a dour, watchful shadow. Curtseys and coquettish giggles fluttered up to them, but Alistair ignored them in favour of searching out the form of Élodie Bryland, smiling out from the crowd. Like the rest of the Fereldan entourage, she wore her mask as an accessory rather than a second face, the emerald green of South Reach’s colours rich against her blonde hair.

He felt like a ram walking into a den of blightwolves in broad daylight. Even after so long, so many days he could no longer count them from memory, a shard of his heart stirred in the tattered remains of his chest at the unbidden thought of Rosslyn’s disdain for his current company, the tight, tiny smirk she would have worn hidden at the corner of her mouth for only him to see. Her face was beginning to blur in his mind, but the reminder only ever added more layers to the pain. The pieces flaked away one after the other like rust on a forgotten monument – the sound of her laugh, her scent, the exact shade of her eyes – and every time he noticed another detail by its absence he found himself dragged back to the ruins of Ostagar, staring across the precipice into the void all over again.

Dwelling on his loss amidst the glamour of the Orlesian court would not be wise, however, so he shook himself into courtesy as he followed along after Élodie, smiled at every breezed introduction, and let himself slip into the easy gentility that had so far served him well as king. The meandering currents of conversation carried both him and Fergus at a steady pace to the other side of the vaulted entrance hall, where his left-hand waited for them.

“Ah, there’s my favouritest sneaky person in the world,” he called out when he got close enough for his voice to carry. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself?”

Leliana’s red hair flashed like a beacon as she turned towards him. Unlike Ferelden’s ambassador, she carried her mask on a stick in her gloved hands, and she twirled it up to cover the purse of her smile as she answered. “Your Majesty – Your Lordship. This is a grand assembly tonight, no? Little compares to the full splendour of the Winter Palace.”

“At least not in the way of architecture,” he answered genially. To be polite, he let his gaze wander the rows of gilt pillars with their garlands of blush-roses, the delicate silk streamers hanging from the crystal chandelier. Even more than Élodie, who was Orlesian by birth, Leliana fit in with the glitter, the jewels and the compliments that cut sharper than daggers, and put together, the two of them made a formidable team.

Especially when they joined forces against him.

“Your Majesty, if you will permit me, may I present Lady Ellana Pontival, younger sister to Vicomte Tremane Pontival, and Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, seventy-eighth in line for the throne of Nevarra and the Right-Hand of the Most Holy Divine Beatrix.”

Turning his gaze to the two women, Alistair dipped his head in a customary greeting. If Leliana had set out to find the two most contrasted people in the room, then she had probably succeeded; where one lady seemed about to drown in her layers of ruffled lace and pastel silks, the other cut an austere, imposing figure in the formal uniform of a Seeker of Truth, and like the Fereldans, she went unmasked. The ever-watchful Eye of the Maker, cut through with the Sword of Mercy, peered out from a pin clasped to her shoulder, a sullen reminder that if things had been different, the King of Ferelden would have ended up a templar instead.

“With so many connections, you must be used to parties like this,” he tried. The Seeker held herself with the economy of a soldier at ease, but the pinpoint of her onyx gaze made him itch.

“Hardly,” she said, in low, rich tones. “I am here at the request of Most Holy, who appreciates the unprecedented nature of this gathering. I myself am used to less… lavish surroundings.”

“But how do you find it so far, Majesté?” interrupted Lady Ellana. “Do you find it pleasing?”

He decided not to remark on the breathy quality to her voice, nor the sidelong way she was looking at him, and shrugged. “That would depend on whether we’ll soon have any sign of those – what are they called – cannapays?”

Leliana chuckled. “I’m afraid Your Majesty’s appetite will have to be content for now.”

“I’ve never known a society where it was considered polite not to feed your guests.”

“If one is full of too much heavy food, one cannot properly enjoy the dancing,” Élodie chided, laying a hand on his arm and less amused than her counterpart at his deliberate butchery of her native language.

“Ah.” He suppressed a grimace. “Yes. That.”

The indomitable Lady Ellana pressed forward with a flutter of her eyelashes. “Are you presently engaged, Majesté? For the first dance, I mean.”

Mostly to avoid meeting Fergus’ eye, Alistair cast his gaze out over the crowd. “Oh I’m sure someone has spoken for me.”

“I myself love nothing so much as dancing – and the waltz especially.” An elegant hand rose to cover a laugh. “So charming, yet so daring, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’ll take your word for it, my lady,” he replied with a forced smile. “It’s not one of my preferred pastimes.” The last time he had danced, it had been his wedding day. If he had known –

Lady Ellana gasped. “How tragic! That truly is a shame.”

The Seeker’s mouth twitched.

“I understand your ascension to society was fairly recent, perhaps you only have yet to acquire a taste for it. Perhaps the right partner –”

“I think it’s more to do with other demands on my time,” he interrupted. “Like keeping my people safe and fed. Besides, I prefer being outside.”

An uncertain silence met his words, discomfort at the bite in his tone that couldn’t be answered without causing a minor diplomatic incident.

Leliana recovered first. “The night is young and His Majesty is fond of modesty. I’m sure he will have time and attention for all those who wish it once his duties to his host are fulfilled.”

“Has Her Radiance arrived yet?” Fergus asked.

With a smile, Leliana nodded and motioned for them to follow her towards the doors of the grand ballroom. Neither she nor Élodie dared break their façades to scold him for being so taciturn, so Alistair pretended not to notice their silent disapproval. The cloying mixture of perfumes and sweat wafting through the hall, the crowd of heat from so many bodies in a confined space, all of it pressed on his already sour mood, and if he had to be rude to get out of an awkward conversation, what did he care? Whispers followed with the eyes on him, words just loud enough to catch his ear before darting back into the throng like birds flitting through a summer hedgerow. The speculative edge to them made him clench his teeth. There were insinuations, appraisals and judgements, musings on his preference for comme les chiens before the words dissolved every time into peals of muffled laughter.

“It’s almost enough to make a man jealous,” Fergus huffed at his side. “They didn’t even look at me. Not one pitying glance.” Time had healed most of the injuries he had taken in the months as Howe’s prisoner during the war, but some of the damage had been too much and too long neglected for even magic to fix; his cane tapped along the polished floor with every other step.

“How about next time I hide behind you?” Alistair asked. “You can do all the talking and I’ll stand and look aloof and interesting.”

“You just want an excuse to – what is it?”

He sensed a change in pressure in the eyes on him, an intensity of regard that set itself apart from that of the fawning mass seeking his attention. After almost two years on the throne, the concept of assassinations wasn’t entirely foreign, but as he watched Morrence scan the room he saw no sudden rise in tension to say she had spotted any maniacs with giant weapons about to pounce. A shadow did perhaps flash on the edge of his vision, but as he turned it was lost among the sea of faces waiting for acquaintances, for their turn to be announced, or for their own glimpse at dog-lord royalty.

He put the feeling from his mind. Empress Celene, resplendent in the purple and gold of House Valmont, stood at the far end of the ballroom above the sunken dancefloor and watched the obeisance of the people being announced, in the same way a fisher might wait with their spear poised to strike at a promising target. Already, dozens of couples mingled beneath the bright beeswax candles staving off the autumn dark outside, their fans held up to conceal the judgements passed on every newcomer.

When Alistair’s own turn to pace the length of the gauntlet came after a few moments of waiting, she smiled behind her mask and floated down the steps to meet him on an equal level, which only meant he got to see the avaricious gleam in her eye up close as she held out her hand. As he bent his head over it, he wondered if the look was meant to be alluring, but her fingers were cool and fine-boned under his, lacking callouses from swordwork, and the only thought that ran through his mind was that even when warmed by the fire a stone remained a stone.

“Majesté,” she crooned in delicately accented Common. “Be welcome. This meeting has been long anticipated.”

He had practiced his response for an hour in the mirror. “Thank you, Radiance. It is my hope that this moment can be the first step towards a better accord between our two nations.”

“It is ours as well. Please, join us in the gallery.” She turned. “And when the dancing starts, might we suggest the company of one of our ladies-in-waiting? They are all very accomplished dancers.”

“Uh…” He risked tripping over the considerable hem of Celene’s gown to a glance upward, to where three women of equal height watched the two of them from behind identical golden masks set with amethysts.

“Is this surprise?” the empress asked him, and laughed. “How very forward to expect a more prestigious partner so early in the evening. It seems the manners of Ferelden and Orlais have yet to fully understand one another.”

“Isn’t that why we’re both here?” he replied. “Though I have to confess, my mind wandered from the thought of dancing.”

“Oh? And where did it wander to?”

He nodded to the three attendants waiting at the top of the stairs. “It must get awkward on name-days if you can’t tell them apart.”

For the next half an hour, guests continued to trickle in as the mixed company watched from above, the steady ream of announcements and introductions keeping the threat of dancing at bay, and each name was accompanied by a whispered summary of all the associated scandals recounted by the waiting-women at Alistair’s side. He found their sameness disconcerting, as if at any moment they might steal away his mask and then ask which of them was hiding it under their skirts like a bait-and-switch scam in the marketplace.

When the castellan finally folded away his list of names and bowed an exit, the closest of Celene’s women reached up with a smile as thick and false as her makeup. “There is still some time until the dancing begins, Majesté – would you like to take a turn through the rest of the rooms while we wait?”

“Why not?” He forced a smile of his own. “Where do you think we should start?”

“Perhaps the long hall?” She began to steer him away from the rest of the party. “There are so many people you should meet!”

Before he could be disappeared entirely, he cleared his throat and called over his shoulder to Élodie. “We’ve been offered a tour of this fabulous palace,” he explained. “I don’t think we should miss it.”

“I am at Your Majesty’s disposal,” the ambassador replied, and stepped up to his other side

The tour turned out to be less a way to introduce him to Orlais’ finest and more a way to show him off as an accessory. With both Morrence and Élodie as chaperones to shield him from the worst of their dainty manners, he managed to stumble through pleasantries and inane topics of conversation, and even gave his opinion on Grand Duke Gaspard’s mission to quell giants in the Deauvin Flats without tying his tongue in any knots. He told bad jokes and people tittered behind their hands. In one room he was drawn into speculation about the merits of breeding nugs.

And throughout it all, the weight of the same mysterious scrutiny from before itched across his shoulders, making his clothes too tight, too coarse against his skin. Somebody watched him, or else he was in the first stages of some illness. In a move disguised as a readjustment of the faded leather bracers at his wrists, he checked the pair of daggers hidden in his sleeves, and then eyed the extra sword buckled at Morrence’s waist. Being his bodyguard permitted her to carry weapons where he could not, but he rarely went unarmed himself and the idea of being completely defenceless struck him as foolish – and so, the compromise, with the strict understanding that Maric’s runed blade would stay sheathed except in direst need.

The feeling followed him back to the dancefloor as the castellan announced the first cotillion and a charming smile appeared before him, attached to a name and a title that he forgot instantly. When the first notes cascaded down from the court musicians he took his partner’s hand and fell into the steps to distract from his unease, the beats f the dance like the repetitions of a battle drill that kept him turning, and facing, and weaving through the room. And then the music ended. Someone thrust another woman into his path, and then another, until he was breathless and overheated from the exercise, and relieved that he had yet to trip over his own feet.

In a pause between the sets, he tried to catch Leliana’s eye in the gallery above to ask to be rescued before he could be forced towards a refreshments table. To his dismay, she was too intent on the crowd to notice, watching for advantage or threat so that he could make a show of festive enjoyment – no easy feat considering how the entire room was staring at him.

No, not the entire room.

There. The flash of shadow that had followed him all night resolved itself into a woman who turned her face away from him as soon as their gazes met. Pearls were pinned in her dark hair, and the silk of her gown flashed with the violet-green iridescence of starling feathers, dazzling enough that Alistair wondered how he had missed it before. She retreated up the stairs, trying all too hard to disappear into the crowd in a manner that deliberately kept him out of her line of sight.

“Majesté?”

His current partner had noticed his distraction. He smiled down at her, but like the needle of a compass his gaze swung back to the strange woman, whose exit had been waylaid by a man with a shock of thin, greying hair poking out from under his yellow chevalier’s feather. He bowed over the Starling’s hand, boorish and insipid, and through her reluctance she cast her gaze around the room as if seeking an excuse. Her eyes lit on Alistair again, before skittering away up to the ceiling when she caught him looking.

Gotcha.

“Will you excuse me, my lady?” he begged of the young woman on his arm. “I have to talk to my advisor. You there, Ser! I’m afraid this beauty has been bereft of a partner, if you’ll oblige me? Thank you.”

He forgot the girl as soon as he handed her off. The music started. Leliana, noticing his approach up the stairs, nodded and plucked a glass of Antivan white from the tray of a passing server, handing it to him with a subtle gesture that let him sidle close enough to not be overhead.

“Have you seen her?” he asked.

“The woman in the dark colours?” She tilted her head in amusement. “Of course. She has been watching you, and does not care for the crowd flowing around her. She knows how to walk through a room of nobles but subterfuge is not her strength. And yet… there is something familiar about her. It worries me.”

For a moment, they watched from their vantage point in the gallery. The Starling moved through the room with grace enough to catch the eye, but with too much economy to fit in with the flounces of the rest of the dancers, the poise of a warrior more than a courtier. Still, the patience with which she dealt with her partner had to be admired. Alistair winced every time the old boor overstepped the bounds of propriety to tread on her toes; part of him wanted to step in between them and pull her from the line, if only to save her feet from bruising, but the strange urge didn’t stop him noticing how she cast her gaze to every corner of her room to avoid the man in front of her – every corner, except the place where he himself was standing.

“Find out who she is,” he grunted to Leliana, and pushed away from the rail.

Momentarily freed of his obligations in the dancing, he wound his way through the press of nobles, exchanging pleasantries, until he spotted Fergus resting his legs in one of the gilt-backed chairs that had been set at the edges of the room and made for him, worried about the guarded expression on his friend’s face. The reason for the scowl became apparent when the couple standing between them turned and stopped Alistair dead in his tracks.

“Ah – Your Majesty, it is good to see you. You’re looking well.” Eamon, the former Arl of Redcliffe, straightened from his bow as if the man he was addressing hadn’t been instrumental in his exile from Ferelden over two years before. He wore a mask like an Orlesian, with only the grey trim of his beard visible beneath its swirling, enamelled lines. On his arm, the once-Arlessa Isolde wore one almost identical, save for the extra decoration of feathers around the rim.

“What are you doing here?” Alistair blurted.

“We are guests of Her Radiance, of course,” Eamon replied with a blink. “I can see time has not been generous in your perspective towards me, but I would not quarrel with you here and mar Ferelden’s standing.” He swallowed. “Though it is late to say it, please accept my condolences for your loss.”

“Condolences?” Anger coiled in Alistair’s gut, kept at bay only by the interested stares of the people around him. Eamon had done his best to make sure he and Rosslyn were separated – had nearly succeeded – and now he dared to offer remorse?

“How are you enjoying Orlais, Your Majesty?” Isolde asked before he could storm away and blow all their diplomatic efforts.

“The weather’s nice. Please excuse me.”

Below them, the dance finished. Leliana slipped into the dispersing crowd with the ease of a master and cut the Starling from the crowd like a shepherd singling out a ram. Fergus joined him as he leaned over the rail to watch their conversation, Eamon and Isolde already forgotten, and caught the direction of his gaze.

“Has someone caught your eye?” he asked.

“No.” Alistair waved a hand. “No, it’s not like that.”

The Starling was turned away from Leliana, shrinking back as if to avoid a blow, but his left-hand could not be outmatched so easily and peered closer nonetheless. And then she drew back. Her mask flicked up with a twitch of her wrist to fully cover her face, and the Starling reached out for her elbow in an urgent gesture that conveyed as much familiarity as alarm. They knew each other. The words that passed between them were too far away to hear. Leliana paused, then nodded, and together the two of them retreated from the bright lights of the dancefloor into the shadows at the furthest corner of the room.

Fergus noticed. “Well that was strange.”

“I don’t like it. Will you be alright here?”

“For now.” He shrugged. “Holding court in the corner holds much more appeal than sweating about with people I don’t care for. A younger version of me might have tried to forget myself in one of these pretty smiles, but now…” The liquid in his glass caught the light as he tilted it for inspection.

“It’s not so easy,” Alistair agreed.

He left his friend still contemplating his drink and rounded the gallery with Morrence in tow, not straight for Leliana but angling for Élodie, who had taken up entertaining the delegates from Ostwick and made a nice middle ground. He barely registered the answers he gave to their polite enquiries as he approached. The Starling had disappeared and Leliana was wending her way towards one of the quieter hallways, where there were balconies with doors that could be minded by one’s guards to glare at any passing eavesdroppers. She flashed him a brief glance and a nod.

He thought quickly, turning to his ambassador.

“My lady, you’re looking a little warm, and I’ve neglected you.” He shot her what he hopes was a winning smile. “I hope you’ll forgive me, you’ve worked so hard, after all. Why don’t we get you some fresh air?”

Élodie frowned at him, but nodded. “Your Majesty is very kind. I am a little flustered, now that you mention it. If you will excuse me, sers.”

Threading her hand through his arm, he hustled her away with as much nonchalance as he could muster, while she, sensing his mood, kept quiet. They met Leliana a few moments later on a trellised balcony overlooking the gardens, or as much as could be seen of them beyond the torchlight.

“Well?” he asked, almost before the door closed behind him.

“Have you two been hatching plans?”

His left-hand let the mask fall from her face, though she kept it close, fidgeting with it. “The lady… presents no danger.”

“Lady?” repeated Élodie.

“There’s no need to look so hopeful.” Alistair rolled his shoulders. “We caught someone acting suspicious. Did you find anything out? You looked like you were surprised when you found out who she was.”

“I… knew her in another life.” Leliana hesitated. “She thanked the King of Ferelden for his regard, but said she would rather not become a spectacle.”

“A disagreement with family, perhaps,” Élodie supplied.

The corner of Leliana’s mouth lifted. “I did not ask.”

Without even waiting long enough for him to draw breath, she bowed and swept back into the hall. He caught sight of Morrence, watching her go with something very like suspicion written in her features, but the expression flickered back into a blank before he could be certain.

Behind him, Élodie cleared her throat.

“It is a shame this woman is not what you hoped,” she said. “I would see you happy.”

He snorted. “I didn’t hope anything – and I was happy.”

“You could be so again, if you allowed it. You cannot fight your duty forever.”

He bit back the retort squeezing past the sudden lump in his throat. Reminding her that her own husband had died in the siege at South Reach would be rather ungallant, especially considering the genial nature of the evening so far, and he had tried hard to curb the spiteful edge to his temper over the past two years. He wanted to be better. Rosslyn would have wanted him to be better.

As the thought spiralled and led his mind towards the dark precipice that would mean yet another sleepless night, the nature of the sound inside the ballroom changed. The music died away. The thump of the castellan’s staff reached his ears, followed a moment later by the announcement of Celene’s arcane advisor, the mysterious apostate who had managed to charm her way to the centre of the Orlesian court and who now, according to some, whispered spells in the empress’ ear.

“No doubt people will want us introduced,” he muttered.

Élodie nodded. “We should not keep Her Radiance waiting.”

Just inside the doors, however, he stopped. Even from across the room the Starling drew his gaze with the furtiveness of her movements, the deliberate indifference with which she moved against the flow of people, and his patience ebbed.

He touched Morrence’s elbow, leaning close. “Do you see her?”

“Aye. I want a chat with that one.”

“Get her out to the terrace garden and make sure she’s alone. Hopefully it’s cold enough outside that any interested bystanders will be discouraged.” He sighed. “I’ll get away as soon as I can.”

“I shouldn’t leave your side. The danger to you –”

“What if she’s a danger?” he pressed. “What if Leliana’s wrong? Something is going on here, and I won’t be kept beyond the chain – or don’t you think she was acting strangely before?”

At that, his right-hand let slip a curse. “I’d still be leaving you in a nest of snakes.”

“I’ll be alright.” The hilts of his concealed daggers sat snug against his wrists.

“Fine – but if you die, I get to kill you for it.”

Nobody commented on his lack of a bodyguard when he once more joined Celene and her waiting-women at the head of the room. Morrigan, her advisor, spoke Common like a Fereldan, but she had clearly spent enough time in Orlais to learn the dismissive nature of their manners. For a long moment, Alistair was distracted by a nagging familiarity he could not place, until the witch rose from her curtsey and turned a pair of piercing yellow eyes on him. The breath stopped in his lungs. His hands clenched into fists. Even the smirk was recognisable, catlike and secretive, and the instant it appeared he was shunted back to a campfire in a glade under a star-strewn sky, and mocking laughter in his ears.

“You’re Flemeth’s daughter,” he said.

The smile froze. “I did hear you encountered my mother – during the war, was it not? What did she tell you of me?”

“Only that you didn’t like living in the Korcari Wilds.”

“She resented my wanting to make something of myself outside of her influence.” She drew herself up for better display of her plum-red gown, the gold links around her throat. “And now here I am.”

“I can see the appeal,” he offered, to laughs from those gathered around them.

Celene clapped her hands. “Ah, this is delightful. You must have many things to talk about, given you share a homeland.” Her head dipped in what Alistair presumed was amusement. “Though we must ask that Your Majesty does not steal her away from us! No promises of Ferelden’s new leniency towards mages, if you please.”

He made sure to chuckle along, schooling himself not to look round to see whether Morrence had caught the Starling yet. All he could do was wait for a break in conversation and make excuses to be allowed away for some air.

When his chance finally came, a brief interlude during an influx of new people wanting introductions, he slipped through the crowd and met his right-hand at the door to the terrace. The fresh, cold scent of the night washed in, frost and damp earth, and beyond the lighted windows a dark figure stood at the balustrade that separated the garden from the sheer drop to the ground below.

“She’s waiting for you,” Morrence said.

“Any trouble?”

“Only until I threatened to draw attention to her,” came the reply. “And she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Good luck.”

He steadied himself with a breath as he stepped into the open air, a pause in which he studied the woman so invested in not being noticed. She faced away from him, hunched over as if still trying to make herself invisible, picked out by a rime of moonlight that glowed in her hair and reflected in the pearl beading on her skirts, rippled along the silk gloves that covered her arms to the elbow. Her head turned as he approached. Breath fogged silver in the night but the tension didn’t leave her shoulders and he felt it draw him along a knife’s edge as he realised too late how it might appear, a king ordering a woman to wait for him beyond earshot. A jab of self-disgust coiled in his stomach.

And yet, like Leliana said, there was something familiar about her.

He cleared his throat, set his hands behind his back. “You won’t come to any harm here, not from me.”

The Starling only flinched further away from him.

“Who are you?”

He waited, patient, until it became clear he wouldn’t simply give up and leave. The Starling’s fists bunched against the stone of the balustrade, and her shoulders heaved with a deep, almost panicky breath.

“Désolée, Majesté, le Marchandesse est –”

“In Orlesian, then,” he answered. “What’s your name?”

She paused. The line of her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I’m afraid… the only name I can give you is Laurienne, Majesté. Laurienne de Savrenne.”

“Laurienne.” He risked a step closer, and she angled even further away from him, determined to hide her face even behind the mask. “You know, it’s strange – most people here tonight have been falling over themselves trying to catch my attention, but not you. You’ve tried very hard to remain unnoticed, not just by me, but by my guards and entourage as well. Why?”

“I might point out that of all those who wanted the king’s attention, I am the only one to have it bestowed.” She licked her lips. “Perhaps that was my plan.”

The sharp mockery ignited his temper. What was this but yet another sly courtier throwing jests at his expense? All night he had been nice, he had smiled, danced, dressed himself up in pretty words so the nobility would chase him for something he didn’t even want to give, and now he couldn’t even get one straight answer when he asked for it.

“A lot of people think I’m a fool,” he bit out. “It might come in handy sometimes but I assure you I’m smarter than I look, and I don’t appreciate being messed about, especially not after such a long day.”

“I’m…” Was that a fraction of a move towards him? Her head dipped towards her hands, and her eyes pressed shut. “I’m not here under my own power. In truth, Majesté, my debtor bid me come, but did not say you would be here as well.” A distinct note of bitterness entered her voice. “No doubt the thought of us meeting amused her.”

“Do you know me?” he asked.

She fell utterly still. “Do you know me?”

“Are you an assassin?”

“No.”

“But you are hiding something.”

At that, she scoffed, and again that frustrating tingle of familiarity, though it was gone too quickly for him to examine. “We are in Orlais, are we not? Everyone is hiding something. I am no different to any other noblewoman, we are all the same. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His heart stuttered. His mind conjured a sweep of raven hair, the scent of jasmine, warm lips soft against his. “There are exceptions.”

“Is it the exception you were trying to find tonight?” The Starling’s tone rang cold. “All evening you have danced with one after another and tossed them aside afterwards like a wine-taster who finishes his sip and spits the rest away. How delightful the passage of your days must be to never want for such company.”

“How dare you.” He stepped closer. “What do you know about what my days are like – or what it’s like being passed around by all those magpies in there who only care about the shiny crown I could get for them? It’s all, ‘remember it’s your duty, Alistair’ and ‘just pick one and get it over with’. If I could even have one night where I could complain about it, or – or say no – that would be something, but everyone seems to think I should be flattered by all those people pawing at me and never giving me a moment to myself!”

He paused for breath. The tirade had winded him, as much for the emotion it let loose as for the wild gestures flung out with the words. The Starling had remained still, taking the onslaught like a tree against a howling wind, though now only fatigue was left in him she shrank as if he’d struck her a physical blow.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, horrified. “I wasn’t angry at you, it’s just…” What words could he say? “I wouldn’t expect you to understand – but don’t worry. You can go. Do as you wish, my guard won’t detain you any further.”

Still she didn’t move. Cursing, he pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed back the lump in his throat as he turned for the door. He needed sleep, he needed –

“I understand better than you would think.”

Her voice. Common, not Orlesian. The quiet servility deepened into a clarion note – it stirred his heart from its withered slumber, called it like a dog to heel. Her voice. With pulse thundering, with hope and disbelief and horror wadded into a tight ball in his throat, he looked back.

The Starling no longer shrank into herself but stood tall in defiance of the cold, her shoulders thrown back, chin lifted, in the attitude of a general. He drank in the arch of her throat, the pale skin that gleamed like marble under Satina’s light, the shine of raven-black hair gathered in an Orlesian knot at the back of her head, all details he had ignored before because it was impossible. When he didn’t move, her head tilted, and he recognised the sorrow in the gesture, the self-deprecation in the curve of her mouth.

“The man I love is at this ball tonight,” she told him. “He’s the centre of attention, but I’ve had to watch and do nothing while everyone covets what I cannot touch.”

Her voice.

“Why not?” His tongue fumbled the words through the fog in his brain, the steps he took back towards her shaky and numb, desperate, his chest constricted trying to hold his breath in case it broke the spell somehow cast around him. “Why hide?”

“I owe a debt. Until it’s paid, I can’t – my life is not my own and I have to pay it back. Besides,” she added, with a new wobble in her voice, “what would I say? He – everyone thinks I’m dead.”

They stood so close now he could have reached out to touch her hand, but he hesitated, worried that that, at last, would make her disappear and prove him mad. She was shaking; her fingers had raked lines in the frost on the stone as she clenched them into fists.

“But you’re not dead. You’re –”

Their breath mingled heavy under the moonlight as he leaned in, his hand braving night-chilled skin where her glove had fallen to her wrist, and finally she turned into him, drawn, like him, and while he closed his eyes seeking in vain for the familiar scent of jasmine and sweetgrass, the weight under his fingertips and the stulted breath that left her lips made her solid, and all that was left was to beg her to say something, to let him hear her voice again.

“I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” came the whisper, so full of doubt.

“Never –” He caught the side of her face, pressed a kiss to her temple though the rim of her mask cut into his lips. “Never.”

“I – I thought you’d hate me.”

The absurdity of it made him giggle even as he shook his head in denial. He stroked her hair. Kissed her again. And then, because it was too much to have such certainty without proof he pulled back, searching for the ribbons that secured her mask in place, her pulse flying under his fingers as he worked at the knots. When the mask finally came free, he pushed it up over her forehead – and found himself looking down into a pair of eyes that were the grey of cracked ice on a winter sea.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair theirin #king alistair #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #f!cousland #cousland #rosslyn cousland #queen cousland #the falcon and the rose #the mysterious falcon sequel #smoke and mirrors #guys it's happening

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a-yellow-book · 5 years ago

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Favorite Things

In the years after Wei Ying's death, Lan Zhan poured all his heart and soul into protecting his legacy and raising A-Yuan.

I saw a fan-art of Lan Zhan standing in front of a bookshelf full of Emperor Smile's bottles and thought it would be hilarious if he openly displays them in the Jingshi for all of the Cloud Recesses to see instead of hiding them under the floorboard or something. Then it morphed into this. There will be a happy ending, I promised. We just gotta wade through some angsty moments first.

Part 1 of 2

[read on ao3 instead]

Year One

Lan Zhan stumbled on a loose cobblestone and almost lost his grip on the bottle of Emperor’s Smile. The path leading back to the Cloud Recesses was in need of repairs, and Lan Zhan wasn’t strong enough yet to fly. While the wounds on his back had scabbed into rough and dark scars, the damages done to his golden core were not yet healed. Even so, Lan Zhan walked all the way to Caiyi Town and back to the Cloud Recesses to procure a bottle of Emperor’s Smile. He fully intended to smuggle it back to his room, rules be damned. It was Wei Ying’s first death anniversary, and Lan Zhan wanted to get his favorite things to remember him by.

The two junior disciples didn’t say anything to Lan Zhan as he passed them, the liquor bottle tucked neatly inside his sleeve. As he got closer to the Jingshi, Lan Zhan heard an excited squeal coming from the gardens just beyond the gate.

“Father! You’re back!” A-Yuan ran toward him with his arms raised, expecting to be picked up.

Lan Zhan bent over to grab A-Yuan after reminding his son, “Lower your voice while you’re in the Cloud Recesses.”

“Sorry, Father,” A-Yuan said, leaning his head against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “I missed you,” He whispered.

“I missed you as well,” Lan Zhan replied. He brought both the child and the liquor bottle into the Jingshi. Brushing off the loose leaves that somehow found their way into A-Yuan’s hair as he played in the garden earlier, Lan Zhan set him down.

“Father, where did you go?” A-Yuan asked.

“A-Yuan, do you remember when I told you about your other father?” Lan Zhan lowered himself on his knees to be at eye-level with his son.

“Father Ying!” A-Yuan nodded enthusiastically, “Is he coming to visit?”

“No,” A pause, “He has passed away,” Lan Zhan said softly. “Do you know what that means?” He had tried to explain to A-Yuan before, when he first recovered from his fever - no doubt gotten as the result of hiding in a humid cave for days with no food or water, but the small child was quick to forget the things that hurt him.

A-Yuan’s bright face took on a sad look as his eyes welled up with tears, “It means...It means he’s not coming back.”

Lan Zhan pulled A-Yuan in for a hug, patting his head gently, “It also means that we get to keep him in our hearts forever.” A-Yuan snuggled deeper into Lan Zhan’s embrace, and he could feel his son’s tears seeping through the collars of his robes. “Will you help me to remember him?”

A-Yuan brought his head up and nodded weakly.

Lan Zhan showed him the bottle of liquor, “I left earlier to get this. Even though Wei Ying is no longer of this world, we can remember him through the things he loved. This is Wei Ying’s favorite wine.” Lan Zhan booped A-Yuan’s nose with his own and added, “And you’re Wei Ying’s favorite son.”

That made A-Yuan giggled, “Are you Father Ying’s favorite too?” He asked amidst his giggles, not knowing how much that question weighed on Lan Zhan.

“I am his keeper,” Lan Zhan said. “I protect his favorite things.”

A-Yuan looked a bit confused at that, but before he could ask more questions, Lan Zhan stood up to place the bottle of Emperor’s Smile on the empty bookshelf. He didn’t care what others would say. There was no reason to hide what was the unchanging truth - his love for Wei Ying.

Year Two

It was a chilly afternoon. Lan Zhan was busy writing replies to the pile of letters on his desk when A-Yuan tumbled in.

“Father!” A-Yuan cried out.

Lan Zhan immediately dropped the brush and hurried over to his son, “What is wrong?”

“Father!!!” A-Yuan cried louder as he ran right into Lan Zhan’s arms, “The others... they...”

“A-Yuan, take a deep breath, gather your words, and explain to me what is wrong,” Lan Zhan said calmly, hand rubbing soothing circles on his son’s back to ease his cries.

“The others... they... they were saying bad things!” A-Yuan said in between hiccups, “They were saying bad things... about.... About Father Ying!!!”

Lan Zhan froze. He should have expected this. Although spreading gossip was forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, it was still impossible to stop the disciples, especially the younger ones, from doing so. Brushing the stray hairs from A-Yuan’s tear-stained face, Lan Zhan asked, “What did you tell them when they said those things about Wei Ying?”

“That lying is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses!” A-Yuan said petulantly, “They were spreading lies about Father Ying and I had to correct them. But no one believed me!” He continued, no less tearful.

Sighing, Lan Zhan pulled A-yuan into a hug, “I am sorry that happened. While it is very difficult to change the opinions of others, it is crucial that we do not let their hearsay dissuade us from our truths.”

“It makes me so sad...” A-Yuan whispered, defeated.

“I know - it makes me sad too,” Lan Zhan admitted

“Why do they hate Father Ying so much?” A-Yuan asked, sniffling.

Lan Zhan froze, entirely at a loss on how to unpack years of resentment, misfortunes and political machinations that led to Wei Ying’s demise to a five-year-old. At the same time, Lan Zhan did not want to lie to A-Yuan; it would only make it harder when the truth resurfaced.

“Wei Ying was a brilliant cultivator who surpassed everyone in his generation,” Lan Zhan began, “He also was unconventional in his thinking. Do you understand?”

“Un..conv..?” A-Yuan tried to repeat the word, shaking his head.

“Unconventional - it means that Wei Ying often did things that were different from what was considered normal,” Lan Zhan explained.

“And that is bad?” A-Yuan scrunched up his nose in confusion.

“No, it is not,” Lan Zhan shook his head. “Wei Ying followed his beliefs and did what he thought was the right thing to do, despite what others said at the time.”

“Because lying is prohibited!” A-Yuan perked up, understanding dawning on his young face.

“Yes, because lying is prohibited,” Lan Zhan smiled gently, heart warming that A-Yuan was able to connect the dots so easily. “So no matter what other people say, we will always cherish Wei Ying and all that he was, and is, in our memories.”

A-Yuan nodded as he leaned his head against Lan Zhan’s shoulder, “Can we go play with the rabbits, please? They always make me feel better.”

“That is a lovely idea,” Lan Zhan agreed. Then, with one fell swoop, Lan Zhan scooped a squealing A-Yuan up into his arms. “And I heard that there is a little boy who needs to be buried among the rabbits!”

“Hehe...Father!” A-Yuan giggled and tried to wiggle free to no avail.

Lan Zhan was grateful that A-Yuan was still young enough for these simple distractions to work. He knew it would only get more complicated as A-Yuan grew older, and there would be questions that required a more nuanced approach than this. Nevertheless, as he carried his giggling son towards the Rabbits Hill, Lan Zhan felt a rush of affection and a renewed sense of determination. No matter what, he would make sure that A-Yuan would grow up to be a brilliant man just like Wei Ying. And more importantly, he would make sure that A-Yuan knew how much he was loved and treasured.

Year Three

The Mid-Autumn Festival celebrations were in full swing in Caiyi with stalls selling colorful lanterns and sweets everywhere. A-Yuan, for all that he was trained to master the Lan’s brand of restraint, was still a six-year-old. So when he jumped up and down in excitement as they walked through Caiyi, Lan Zhan just nodded and smiled along indulgently.

“Father! Look!” A-Yuan waved his arm and bodily dragged Lan Zhan toward a stall that boasted a huge display of beautifully painted lanterns. “Bunny!” He pointed at the ones with bunnies painted all over, “Can I have one? Please?!”

Smiling softly, Lan Zhan reached out to touch the brushstrokes that formed a particularly fluffy bunny on the lantern closest to them. “We’ll take this one,” he said to the seller. Next to him, A-Yuan was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Thank you, Father!!!” He squealed and grabbed hold of the lantern with both of his chubby hands. “I want to show Jingyi! Can I show Jingyi when we get back home please?”

Lan Zhan nodded in agreement, and A-Yuan rewarded him with a bright smile in response. It lasted for a brief moment before A-Yuan’s attention was taken by other brightly lit stalls.

“Father! Look!” A-Yuan pointed at another stall selling lanterns, but this time, he pointed at the string of lotus shaped ones. “Can we get one for Jingyi please? He doesn’t have anyone to buy him things....” A-Yuan trailed off, frowning.

Jingyi had come to the Cloud Recesses barely a season ago when both of his parents died during a night-hunt. His mother was Lan Zhan’s distant cousin and whom he remembered mostly for the troubles she got in while she was studying at the Cloud Recesses. Lan Jingfei and Wei Ying would have gotten along splendidly in another life.

At first, stricken with grief and fear of an unfamiliar environment, Jingyi had mostly kept to himself outside of the classes and training sessions. A-Yuan, being a sensitive and caring child by nature, had tried to befriend Jingyi when everyone else had left him alone. It took a few rocky weeks of A-Yuan offering Jingyi treats, sitting next to him in classes, and eating meals with him before their friendship took roots. Lan Zhan suspected the final straw was A-Yuan showing Jingyi the Rabbits Hill, which had been off limits to other disciples.

Honestly, Lan Zhan was glad to see A-Yuan making friends and showing his innate compassion for others. In time, Lan Zhan hoped that would dispel all the negative association the Wen name might have had on A-Yuan.

*****

The moment they arrived at the Cloud Recesses, A-Yuan immediately ran off to find Jingyi with the lanterns in his hands. Lan Zhan went back to the Jingshi to meditate. Before long, the voices of the children drifted through, pulling Lan Zhan out of his meditation.

He heard a soft knock amidst the shuffling of feet and whispered voices, “Come in.”

Jingyi pushed the door open and stepped in. Bowing deeply, he said, “Hanguang-jun, thank you for my lantern.”

“You’re welcome, Jingyi,” Lan Zhan nodded. The two boys looked up at him and smiled.

“We’ve finished our training for the day, Father. Would it be ok if we visit the rabbits to show them our lanterns?” A-Yuan asked.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan always found it difficult to say no to his son.

The two boys quickly bowed in goodbye and headed out towards the Rabbits Hill hands in hands, the lanterns swaying along with their movements.

#the untamed #the untamed fantics #my writings #wangxian #angst with a happy ending #eventually

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simonsmilee · 3 years ago

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It’s hard to believe that today marks 6 years since you died. In some ways, it feels like a lifetime has passed, and in other ways, it feels like it was just yesterday. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think about you. How I remember you varies from day to day, sometimes from moment to moment. It has gotten easier to think about you in life, to hold some of the more joyful moments that we shared. It took so many years of wading through layers of trauma to reach that place. And if I am being honest, each day is still touched by the way in which you died. It can be a fleeting thought that comes on its own, or it can be a trigger that brings about a tsunami of remembrance and pain. I have learned that triggers about suicide loss lie in wait around every corner and navigating them can be exhausting. Some days when I am stronger they are like a painful jab, and when my wounds are open, they can take hold and bring me to my knees. The good news is, I have learned that I have the resilience to pick myself up again each time. But I have also done the very hard work through therapy and I know it is not resiliency alone that has carried me forward. There has been a lot of grit and determination involved on my part. Grief work is hard dad. It’s really fucking hard. Trauma work makes it even harder. But I have not given up, though there are times when I’ve really wanted to.

I’ve been thinking about how grateful I am that I got to visit you at the cemetery just weeks before this pandemic really took hold. There was so much I needed to say to you, so much I needed to release and forgive in those moments I spent at your grave. I cannot imagine carrying those burdens along with me this past year. I am not sure I could’ve held myself upright amidst the collective grief, trauma, loss, and anxiety that surrounded and at times enveloped me. I’m not mad at you anymore dad. I was so mad for so long. I was angry at the wreckage your suicide had left behind. I was angry that you left. I was angry that it was so hard for me to pick up the shattered remnants of the person I was before. I was angry at God and I was angry at myself for all that I did not see, and for not saving you from yourself. I let all of that go when I wept at your graveside last year. I released it. There was no more room for it in my heart. It took up the space I wanted for more fond and joyful remembrance. Remembering you as you lived, in all of your complexity, not just as you died. That’s been a gift I gave myself.

I miss you Dad. And you missed so much. You would be so proud of the girls. Yes, you would be proud of their achievements and aspirations. They are going to accomplish amazing things in the world. But more than that, you would be so proud of the very fine human beings they are. They are filled with compassion and empathy, they believe deeply in justice and working for change. They are a force for good in a world so often longing for that. They are brave and bold, not afraid of trying new things and stepping into new and uncomfortable spaces. I know you would have admired that kind of courage. I dare say you would’ve envied it as well.

It’s been hard not having a place to remember you here. If I lived in New York I could visit your grave. When I go to Florida, I stand on the beach and feel you in the sounds of the ocean. And of course, if we were still in Atlanta, I’d sit on the porch swing you loved so much and stare at the magnolia tree to feel your presence. But here in Colorado, I have struggled to create a place and space that I can go to and be with my memories. After all, you were never here. My life here is all firmly rooted in the chapter that came after your death. I think I finally figured it out though dad. This year, I’ve asked for a front porch swing and it is being built as I write this.

You see, the hardest part of your suicide is thinking about all of the pain and turmoil you carried into your last moments on this earth. It haunts me that at the end of your life, the voices in your head drowned out all of the beauty of the life and legacy that surrounded you. But when I think of you on that front porch swing at our home in Atlanta, I have a vision of you at peace, content, finding joy in the quietest and simplest of things. And that is what I want to cleave to. I want to sit on my swing, stare at the trees we are planting this spring, and think of you at peace. And won’t it be lovely when mom comes to visit and she can sit beside me? We’ll swing and reminisce together.

Dad, I’ll always be sad and sorry that you felt so alone at the end of your life. I will always regret not seeing how deep your wounds were. I saw only what you let me see. If you had revealed it all to me, I would’ve helped you. I loved you as you were. I love you still. I hold deep within me all of the good and happy times we shared. And I hold the harder truths of our relationship, the times of deep pain, conflict, and hurt. But I hold those parts with greater compassion and understanding for us both. And I am grateful that in the end, love gave us a few more years together and forgiveness brought us closer. We were stronger at the broken places Dad. And in the world I have navigated in the aftermath of your suicide, I have come to embody that as well. I am wounded. I have scars that will never heal. But a new hero of mine, Dr. Edith Eger says, “healing isn’t about recovery; it’s about discovery. Discovering hope in hopelessness, discovering an answer where there doesn’t seem to be one, discovering that it’s not what happens that matters-it’s what you do with it.” I have discovered that I can do more than survive your suicide, though I will always be a survivor of suicide loss. I have discovered that I can thrive. I have discovered that posttraumatic growth is real. As Victor Frankl put it, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” I couldn’t save you. But I could save myself from living in a sea of guilt, despair, and pain. And I have. You’d be proud of me dad. I’m proud of me.

I miss you and I love you always. I pray that you are at peace and that there is a porch swing in heaven from which you can look out and see us all. I hope that makes you smile dad. Your beautiful living legacy continues to grow and thrive and you will always be a part of us.

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gastricpierrot · 7 years ago

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“Are you really sure about this?”

He takes a deep breath, and another. Rain soaks through his clothes, making it difficult to breathe under his mask. He’s shaking; from fear, grief, determination. He reaches up, tugging the bag off his head in a sharp jerk before turning to look at the older man.

“Yeah,” he manages to say without messing up his words, the first time that week. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Urie and Saiko nod assent.

Marude gives him yet another one of his many judging looks, like he still couldn’t believe how much of an idiot he could be despite all the time they’d spent working together. Hide grins at him in response because, hey, he’ll be fine. He’s sure he’ll be.

“We’re getting you kids right out of there as soon as anything doesn’t seem right—with or without Kaneki Ken.” Hide nods, holding up the alarm trigger he’s taking with him in case things go south. Marude sighs, making a shooing motion with his hand.

“Proceed with your stupidity then.”

And they’re running, taking off towards the direction of the monstrous roars echoing throughout the Ward, possibly even the entire Tokyo. The longer Hide listens, the more it seems to sound like some sort of wail as well; anguished, haunting. Hide feels his heart crumble just a little more. What could’ve happened to push Kaneki so far beyond breaking point? What else could he have lost to make him this desperate?

It’s huge, this dragon as the general public has begun calling it. Evacuation sirens howled in the distance, glass windows of numerous buildings shattered simultaneously, concrete cracked and fell apart in a hundred different places. In all honesty, Hide has no idea what’s going to happen after this. What can happen. The future seems so bleak, so frighteningly uncertain. But he can’t think about that right now. He has to take things one at a time; there’ll always be chances to work things out.

His breaths are coming out in ragged pants by the time he’s gotten close enough. Cold wind whipped through his hair as he stands on the rooftop of a building, raindrops like icicles stinging his eyes and face. At this proximity, Kaneki’s downright terrifying. Monstrous eyes mottle the skin of his current form; some darting everywhere as if unable to decide what’s most interesting, some staring unblinking into space, some simply spinning wildly. The especially large ones seem to have... are those bodies bursting out of them? Among them are also mouths of various sizes; some muttering fervently, some screaming shrilly, some busy chewing.

Despite the graveness of it all, Hide nearly laughs when he finds himself recognizing the dragon’s (centipede?) head. Isn’t that what Kaneki drew as his expected appearance of a ghoul or whatever all those years ago? Perhaps he too, has lost some of his sanity over time and the accumulated stress, but that one moment of mirth grants him a surge of courage. He guesses he has always been the type to deal with fear through humour. Hide takes a deep breath, forcing himself onward before it all fades, before the sheer insanity of his plan dawns on him and makes him a coward once more.

And cupping his hands around his mouth, he yells with all his strength. “KANEHGHI!”

Fire ignites in his throat, blood runs up his mouth and he thinks he’s probably torn at least half of whatever vocal cords he still had left.

But it works. The massive head turns towards the three of them, all eyes suddenly trained on nothing but them. There’s no recognition in them, and Hide just manages to keep his legs from turning into jelly and leap forward before it has the chance to open its monstrous maw.

Yeah, Marude’s right. He’s definitely lost it at some point.

Hide uses his momentum to sink the Quinque deep into the creature’s forehead, though he's promptly flung off with a howl of pain or annoyance, he honestly can’t tell. For a few terrifying seconds he’s freefalling in the air, then thick appendages are grabbing him by the ankle and pulling him back to safety.

Hide detonates Nutcracker before he’s even fully upright, knowing there’s no time to waste. The special armed forces could be arriving any minute. An area of the dragon’s head explodes upon the detonation at maximum output, and it reels from the sudden impact. Hide and the Quinx literally jumps on its moment of stillness.

Saiko’s kagune bursts from her back in tendrils, some digging deep into the flesh of the dragon’s head while the others wrap around Hide and Urie’s waists to stop them from falling off. Hide drops to his knees, hoping with all he has that they’d managed to open up a hole deep enough to reach Kaneki. That Kaneki is in the head at all and it’s not just Hide risking everyone’s lives over a wild guess. His heart sinks when all he sees is dark, pulsating flesh; shifting and mending itself at an alarming rate.

It’s too soon to give up—he has to make sure he really isn’t there before they retreat. He claps his hands twice to signal for the Quinx to hold their breaths, emptying a couple of canisters of enhanced RC inhibitor gases over the wound. It seems to work to an extent, slowing down the weaving flesh fibres, but at the rate things are Hide knows even this wouldn’t buy them much time. He motions for Urie to dig deeper with his kagune, and just as the Quinx has his weapon ready, the dragon regains its bearings.

And it's not happy with them hanging around on its head.

It lets out a furious roar, thrashing so violently that it would’ve probably thrown all three of them to the opposite end of Tokyo had Saiko been any less stubborn in holding on. Hide could only pray that amidst this madness it wouldn’t occur to the creature that the easiest way to get rid of the pests on its head was just to smash them repeatedly against the ground or building. He struggles to keep up with the world going over and under all around him, trying to fight against physics with sheer will and move because if they don’t keep going it’s going to be too late. If only it could stay still long enough, if only they could sedate the dragon somehow—

For once, it’s as if the universe hears his desperate pleas. The dragon’s movements abruptly begin turning sluggish, enough for those on it to find their balance and continue from where they were. Hide guesses it’s probably Marude and the team dosing it with enough sedatives to take down two or three whale-ghoul equivalents—but he can’t put much thought into that now. He joins Urie in hacking through the disproportionately supple flesh compared to the seemingly brittle composition of the rest of the dragon’s body, soon covered almost entirely in gore and rain as they dig deeper and deeper.

There’s no sign of him even after what feels like an eternity. With that reaction earlier he’s almost certain Kaneki’s there, yet why...? Urie’s sense of smell is muddled by the rain and blood, so they can’t use that to their advantage right then. Hide grits his teeth, biting down his impatience. Maybe Saiko could use her hearing somehow? It’s worth a try.

In a quick, clumsy succession of signs, he manages to ask her to see if she can hear anything unusual—like, say, a heartbeat or something. Some part of him feels terrible for putting so much burden on a single person—they’re already relying on her so much—but he knows Saiko’s just as determined as him to drag Kaneki out of this mess. He chews on his lip as she kneels down and presses an ear on an undamaged part of the dragon’s bark-like skin, hoping against all hope that it’ll work.

Saiko frowns in deep concentration; Hide notes how tightly her fists are clenched and how white her knuckles are. He could only imagine what she could've been hearing; screams of the people swallowed alive, the crunch of bones, the wet chewing of meat. Yet she listens, and listens and listens until suddenly she gasps and points, warning the rest just in time before they're skewered by the onslaught of appendages sprouting from somewhere Hide doesn't really have the chance to pinpoint.

Urie gets himself busy on defence just as they'd planned, deftly deflecting and slicing through the warped, malformed kagune with his own. Did you hear anything? Hide signs to Saiko, knowing they're desperately running out of time. Saiko presses her ear firmer against the dragon's skin, squeezing her eyes close—

And "He's here! Maman's here!" she exclaims, and if Hide didn't feel like he's got a golf ball stuck in his throat he would've cheered with her. " He's near the back of the head!"

Hide turns to gauge the hole they've made; they're not far off. They can do this. There's no stopping now.

Thank you. He reaches to give Saiko’s arm a light squeeze. Even with the rain, he could see she's crying again. She smiles shakily at him, giving him a thumbs-up.

"Go get him, Hide-san."

Wading through the dragon's flesh is like wading through a pool of mud, only bloodier, sticker, and the mud's kind of trying to digest you. Hide pays it all no mind, his nose already so accustomed to the stench of iron that he can barely smell it. Stab, slice, part. His arms ache from the repetition. He's afraid he'll end up digging his blade too far in at some point and impale Kaneki instead, so he could only progress foot by foot, bit by painful bit.

Until finally, he sees it; a sort of hollow pocket within the flesh.

White hair, dyed in red.

Hide thinks he's forgetting to breathe—that doesn't matter, doesn't matter. He's cutting through, tearing forward with his bare hands, the world around him muted, faded, non-existent. He sees his face, his torso, arms—

His heart stops. Oh, no. No, no, no—he's feared this, feared this outcome so much that he hadn't even dared bring it up for fear he'd jinx it because what if it comes true? What happens then? Yet he's staring at it right now, the absolute worst case scenario.

Nearly half of Kaneki's body seems to have fused with his serpentine form, not just his arms and legs where Hide knows he's been replacing with kagune ever since he lost them in his previous battles. He's wrapped completely in raw flesh from the waist down, fibres of it clinging and melding with parts of his head, shoulders and arms as well. His eyes are open, though unseeing. His lips move in fervent, undecipherable utterances.

Hide stands frozen for far too long, utterly at loss because even though he worried about this he hadn't had the time to properly look at his options if it came to it. Even if they sedate him and cut him out, would Kaneki survive? Would he submit so easily to the lull of sedatives when he's in such a state? Hide knows there's no other choice. From the start, the plan is just to extract him and stop his rampage, regardless if he's going to be alive at the end of it.

Hide’s fingers close around the syringe in his pocket as he approaches his best friend, trembling. Kaneki, I—

"I don't want to die."

He registers them then, the words Kaneki's been muttering like some mantra for the past who knows how long. And gosh, he knows—he understands he's just doing this to keep living but at what cost? What would’ve been the point of fighting so hard when he’s just going to destroy everything he’s built? He's already crossed a point of no return and even Hide's mission could very well be futile—but he refuses to give up and he's not letting him give up as well. Not when there's still hope, there are still chances.

He stops before him; brushes his hair away from his eyes, leaning forward in hopes of letting him see him.

"It's not over yet, Kaneki," he whispers, the only way he could speak without distorting his words. "You've still got us. Don't throw it all away just yet."

Maybe it’s Hide’s imagination, but the rhythm of the pulsating flesh around him seems to falter for a moment, just a fraction of a second.

Then he sinks the needle into Kaneki’s neck.

#Hidekane #-ish i guess #maybe i shouldnt have tagged that but i crave validation so #a real rush job and honestly not my best work but i got it out of my system so??? Eh #It felt really intense when i started on it gho like holy shit #I got so worked up i had trouble falling asleep #id like to thank nier automata's ost for giving me the boss fight vibes lmao #fanfiction

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