#what if i made a warden who was so cold and practical and wounded. what then.

[potatoesandsunshine]

thinks about her.... (neria surana)

[patriamrealm]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42145974/chapters/110236594

I posted a few more chapters of the iceland ghost and recently did some drawings for it so follow the, the whole chapter, What’s in a name? will be under the cut~

With the full trust of the clan in his abilities to lead them all through the Bonechill Wastelands was far faster. Gaeric led them with confidence befitting of a warden. Jaori couldn’t be prouder of the younger man. He forged their path guiding them through the snow and illusions, assured they would avoid all pit falls into the ice tunnels, guided them around alpha pokemon territory. Every bit the warden he was supposed to be.

Jaori paused to watch his wardens working in tandem. Helping one another and the clan with practiced ease. But, he couldn’t help but notice that for the first time in years all the wardens were not missing a piece. Each warden did their duty and they did it well, covering their sides and aiding in travel but for many years they have been missing one warden. One that without them made travel so much longer. Somehow the spirit was filling that missing roll.

Not only did its flames keep the pokemon at bay but it aided in traversing up the many difficult ledges. Jaori was certain it had no need to climb, not with the way it moved like gravity was just a suggestion, but it did so anyway. Helping haul others and their supplies up and down just like the noble Sneasler wardens used to do just 5 years ago. It climbed in a way that was far too detached from gravity but climbed none the less.

Though despite how helpful it was being and how used to the spirit they were the clan was still made nervous by its presence for so long. Avoiding taking its hand when it offered assistance through a difficult spot if possible. He did not blame them.

The only ones to have no reservations to the spirit was Gaeric and Lian. Gaeric held no hesitation to telling the spirit to do something. Lian had long since escaped Irida having marched right up to the spirt demanding to be picked up. Over the course of the hours the boy had fallen asleep and the spirit had shed its shadowed body to wrap the child up securely on its back revealing pale cloth torn and bloodied from the claws of pokemon. He wondered which wound it died from, or if the cold killed the sprit first.

He couldn’t help but stare at the color of the cloth the spirit wore, pale, impossible to tell what color it used to wear in the unnatural light. Blue, purple, or pink. He didn’t like the implications. This was a man who died in the icelands long before he was ever born. If that were the case, then it’s possible the spirit’s body was never found. Even worse there was a good chance that it was never given a proper passing.

He couldn’t help but wonder as he watched the spirit fall into place with his clan. Still too tall and far too thin, blood tainting the pale clothing that only those of pearl wore. He desperately hopped that his hunch was wrong, that the spirit was that of an outsider or even that of their ancestors the Celestica. The longer he watched though the more that thought settled into his mind. The spirit was just too kind, too concerned for their clan to have belonged anywhere else and Lian sleeping soundly upon it’s back did not help at all. He really didn’t like the implications of that. Perhaps, perhaps it was time to actually speak with the spirit.

The moon had started to move from its highest point by the time they reached their new home. Everyone made quick work of setting up all the yurts, eager to get out of the cold. Gaeric breaking up the frozen ground to allow Calaba and Lord Ursaluna to dig into it to place the posts. Saini went about aiding Kei and the others unpack, focusing on creating fires and getting everything into place.

Gaeric could see that unlike the adults the sleepy children had taken curiously to the spirit, hanging around its feet basking in the warmth of its unnatural flames that floated throughout the kotan. Those same flames providing light for everyone. It had initially wanted to aid them in setting up but had been turned away by everyone. They had also tried to keep their children away but kids were stubborn. They were far too tired and too young help with anything so everyone reluctantly let the spirit become the babysitter.

It was actually kind of cute the way the children were lured closer and closer to slumber by its flames their sleepy faces calm and relaxed in the face of something so unnatual. Gaeric shook his head, it wouldn’t be much longer though. Already parents were gathering their children as their homes were set up, all they had left was Jori’s Yurt and with one last heave Gaeric put the last post into place. Stomping he froze the ground he had broken up, making it sturdy and the homes unlikely to fall even with the worst of winds.

He thanked his lord for his assistance and the pokemon rumbled happily, allowing him to pet his leg he bid Lord Avalug goodbye. Gaeric stood there watching his lord leave before turning back to the kotan, Jaori would want to speak with all the wardens. He was about to go in when he noticed the spirit making its way over to him. In its arms was Lian, sound asleep and wrapped up in bloodied shadows. He smiled and held his arms out to receive the child.

“Spirit, you are welcome to join us.” Glowing eyes of ice snapped over away from Gaeric to Jaori standing in the entrance to the home, holding open the leather curtain. Warm golden yellow light spilling out onto the glittering snow. Gaeric watched the spirit carefully. In all the moments he had interacted with the ghost he had never once invited it into his space. It stood still, frozen like a glacier.

“I do not want to be a bother.” Its voice was loud and sudden like thunder but despite that uncertainty was clear in its tone.

“Please, come in.” Jaori held open the doorway wider, not looking away from the being. It looked away towards the inky darkness of the wilderness and then down at the child soundly sleeping in its arms. It nodded once to itself and floated forward to the yurt. Gaeric trailed after it. He didn’t know what the man was thinking brining the spirit into his home but he trusted his leaders judgement.

Gaeric couldn’t help but hold his breath, he had never once seen the spirit in light. He was afraid that the moment it crossed into the bright dwelling it would vanish. If that were to happen he was ready to catch the child before he could fall.

As it crossed into the light the shadows obscuring its form solidified with the light. The shadow of its cloak and on its head turned into a dark hat and a strange cloth with red stripes. The harsh shadows created by its flames were chased away revealing what looked to be an elderly man with hair turned silver with age and eyes of a dead grey. Its pale white clothing torn and stained with blood. Gaeric wondered not for the first time what killed the spirit. In the light of the fire the clothing it wore hung off its skeletal frame, and peaking though the torn fabric  of its chest glittering glass shown with an inner light.

Gaeric took his seat around the hearth and for a moment the elder spirit stood there staring at them all, finally it settled down in an open space between Gaeric and Kei yet still kept its distance from them. They watched as the spirit carefully rearranged the torn cloak around the sleeping child in its arms. He could tell the other wardens were very uncomfortable by the spirits presence. They had only heard of it in passing once the travel restrictions had been lifted.

Jaori cleared his throat and all eyes turned to their leader.

“First of all I would like to thank you all for your assistance in moving our home, we would not have made it without you.” He bowed to them all.

“It was nothing we would do it anytime.” Saini huffed and her words were met with quiet words of agreement from all the wardens. They all sounded fond but Gaeric could feel the tension in the air, he almost believed he could cut it with a knife.

“Of course you are welcome to stay here for the night, rest up before you have to return to your duties.” It was a common offer, one that they all took up anytime they had to move the kotan.

“Thank you Jaori but” Kei clicked a few times then turned to the spirit “but I believe that something takes more precedence. So, you are the spirit that I have heard has kept young Lian from visiting.” Everyone turned to the dead man and it ducked its head, hiding its eyes behind its hat.

“I- sorry. Did not mean to keep him. Was worried, wondering alone was not safe.” The proof of its words was written in its clothing it wore like a scar.

“No, from what I’ve heard you have kept him safe, there is nothing to apologize for. I simply miss the company.” Kei sighed, breaking through the air of silence that had fallen over everyone. Calaba sat up straighter with a rumble. Light grey eyes peaked out from under the shadowed cap to look at her.

“If I may, what people do you descend from spirit?” And wasn’t that the question? If they knew which people it came from, they may just be able to help it finally pass on peacefully into the almighty’s vast space.

The elderly ghost looked away, shoulders raising and a sorrowful ring sounded out from it.

“I…am sorry. I do not know. My station has been long lost to me.”

“You don’t remember your life?” Jaori asked more gently. Leaning on his knees to try and see the spirit’s face clearer. Frown still frozen but now it felt more real.

“No.” it would not meet his eyes. Curled in on itself it held Lian tighter, closer to its glass chest.

“Can-can you at least tell us your name?” Gaeric found himself urging. He had never thought to ask in all the time he had interacted with the spirit. Had it been slowly forgetting its life and identiy as the days moved on? Had he lost the chance to learn anything about the dead man?

The spirit curled tighter around Lian, shoulders dropping. “no…” it’s voice so much quieter but it rang around them hanging in the air like a curse. Gaeric’s breath caught in his throat. How could a single word hold so much pain. All this time the spirit had helped guide a child back to his home back to his people all while wondering lost with no hope of finding peace.

Silence hung over them all. The spirit not daring to look at them. Jaori didn’t know what to do. What do you say to a man who’s lost everything? What can you do to help a man who had lost his heritage, his sense of belonging, his very life? How could they hope to send this lost soul off to peace if they didn’t even know a name to send him off to Sinnoh’s domain with?

Kei suddenly stood with a rumble. The elder warden walked closer to it. His heart broke as the spirit that had looked so large and untouchable curled up on itself, thin, hurt, lost and oh so small.

“I’m sorry that we cannot offer you any answers spirit.” The warden’s voice was gentle, rumbly like rolling stones. The ghost sagged more, flames falling sill, practically little embers with the loss of hope.

“We may not know who you were in life but it is clear our people have come to know you in the now. We may not be able to give you what you have lost, but- we can offer you a name that can become your own.”

The spirit far too suddenly snapped up. Back straight and wide dead grey eyes locked onto the living man. The flames around it burst with its shock.

Jaori stood up as Warden Kei came to kneel before the spirit. He stood by his warden’s side. “What do you say spirit?” The elderly warden offered a smile to the dead man. Its eyes darted around to everyone present then bore into Kei. Despite it’s frozen face its eyes held so many emotions, surprise, loss confusion, but most importantly, hope.

“You-what?” rang out like a bell.

“We cannot guarantee that we will ever be able to help you remember your true name but we can offer you a new one.” Jaori answered, they owed the spirit that much, If they could not help it-him, pass onto Sinnoh’s domain then at the very least they could help ease his pain of his existence now. After a moment the spirit nodded slowly.

Calaba Huffed from where she sat and met the lost one’s gaze

“Nobori, then. The way you stand above the snow, and aided in pushing us upward. Yes Nobori would suit you.” She offered it was simple but fitting. Murmers of agreement sounded from all present but Jaori did not look away from the spirit, it was to be his name, he was the one that must approve.

The ghost did not look at them, silently mouthing the new name as if to try it. Finally after what felt like ages he looked back up at them and the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

“Nobori, I like that.”

[em1ly-r0e]

Hannah flipped the switch to let the lava go down around Dream’s cell. She was the only one besides Ant and Bad in Pandora’s Vault as Sam left with Quackity for Las Nevadas, which she thought was odd, but she wouldn’t complain about it.

It had been five months since Sam gave (forced) Hannah the role of prison guard. Normally Hannah would have scoffed and maybe given Sam the bird, but that day there was something off about Sam that made her hesitate to say no. 

She was dragged to Pandora’s Vault that very same day and was given a keycard along with a list of explicit rules she had to follow before she was led to Dream’s cell.

Hannah learned two things that day. One, that Dream, the cold ruthless tyrannical man who everyone said was the scum of the earth, was a woman. 

And two, that Sam was allowing Quackity to come in every single day and torture Dream for the revive book. 

It seemed that Quackity wanted a partner for his torture scenes besides Sam. Someone who didn’t know Dream personally, and apparently, Hannah was the one Sam and Quackity had chosen. 

Hannah refused to participate, so instead Quackity forced her to watch as he finished whipping Dream, who was already disassociating at that point. When he was done he told Hannah to ‘deal with the bastard’ and left the two women alone in the cell. 

She could still remember how light Dream felt after she uncuffed her hands (that were missing fingers and nails) and the blonde practically collapsed into the brunette. How she quietly sobbed into Hannah’s chest as she wrapped up Dream’s back which was covered in so many wounds and scars. How thin Dream was that she could feel her ribs just by hugging her. 

Since that day, Hannah has been put on what Quackity called ‘cleanup duty’. She would be summoned to the main cell and forced to clean up Dream and the cell after his torture sessions. Sometimes Quackity would leave Dream horrifically wounded and Sam would only give her enough materials to keep Dream alive but not healthy. 

During those moments Hannah tried to be as gentle and caring for Dream as possible, making sure that she didn’t accidentally hurt Dream in the process of bandaging her, making sure to not raise her voice as much as she needed to, and overall being a calming presence for the blonde. 

Sometimes Quackity would change things up, Hannah quickly found out in her second week as a prison guard that Quackity took commissions from clients to film porno videos of Dream where he forced her to do sexual acts on herself. Hannah couldn’t count the amount of times she held Dream who was high on aphrodisiacs or helped pull out whatever sex toy was forced inside of her.

Dream didn’t speak much when Hannah would visit, being quiet and sometimes only saying one-word answers or thank yous every now and then. Sometimes she would engage in conversation with Hannah, but not that much.

Hannah was broken out of her thoughts to notice the lava was completely lowered and she took out an enderpearl to throw into the cell as she had no else to flip the lever to make the bridge move across the lava.

Teleporting inside of the cell, Hannah was surprised to notice that the cell was a bit cleaner than normal. No fresh blood stains, no tools or toys strewn around, nothing. Dream was sitting on the ground, leaning against the chest, and seemed to be asleep.

Hannah walked towards Dream, putting a hand on the her shoulder and lightly shaking her. Dream slowly woke up, looking confused before noticing Hannah looking at her, who smiled once the the blonde was looking at her.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, noticing how Dream’s eyes flickered to the ground for a brief second before focusing back on her.

“Tired, hungry, thirsty. The Warden hasn’t feed me all day and I ran out of potatoes.” Dream answered.

A water bottle immediately appeared in Hannah’s hands alongside a small drawstring pouch from her inventory, which she offered to Dream, who took the two things graciously. It had become a routine where Hannah would sometimes come in with a water bottle (as Dream had trouble holding down any other liquids) and some light food, that Niki prepared after she found out Hannah was a prison guard, as being on a diet of potatoes was not healthy. 

The cell was quiet with the only sounds being when Dream drank or ate before she then spoke. “I haven’t had my period in over three weeks.”

Hannah was startled, as she wasn’t expecting for Dream to say something like that. “Are you certain that it’s because of-”

Dream shrugged. “Maybe, I honestly didn’t even notice until the Warden mentioned it to Sir and the two got into a argument over that. Sir was mad and said that the Warden should have known better and if there was a possibility it could fuck things up.”

Hannah bit her lip, she knew that Sam had a…thing for Dream which started after Dream was imprisoned, but she wasn’t expecting something like this to happen as Sam seemed like he didn’t want to knock the blonde up. 

“What are they going to do about it? I mean, have they confirmed whether or not you are expecting?”

Dream shook her head. “Worse, they came to a decision to move me out of the prison and into a secret location where they can continue doing what they are doing without any worries of the other guards noticing. Apparently Bad and Ant are pestering the Warden about me screaming and they believe it’s only a matter of time until what they did is revealed to everyone else.”

I lost interest and couldn’t figure out how to write out the rest but know that Dream gives Hannah coordinates to the blueprints, who then leaves them at a secret location Niki and Hannah meet to talk. A couple weeks later Niki, Techno, Philza and Ranboo break Dream out of prison

Undetermined if Dream is pregnant or her periods stopped because of stress and Sam and Quackity forgot to do a pregnancy test to confirm as they had other things on their mind like realizing Bad and Ant were getting suspicious of the screaming

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

Whumptober Day 11: Self Done First Aid

No notes here. TW for allusions to injury and wound care.

---

Emmet was familiar with the sting of antiseptic across a scratch, but there was something deeper about this, more visceral.

It likely had to do with the fact that gashes in his palm were also deeper than anything he’d experienced prior, but that was far from the only factor involved. The water tipped over the cuts had been breathtakingly cold, even from the first few seconds, and repeatedly applied to wash any contaminates out. While he’d called the solution that followed antiseptic, it was something of an exaggeration; surely it had been refined to fill the purpose, but it didn’t have that distinctive sterile scent, and instead left a lingering pungency. He had no doubt that it was doing its job, though, because it certainly burned like a proper antiseptic, and he locked his elbows into his sides to resist the urge to flap his hands and dull the sting.

At the motion, Ingo looked up, judging what was going on, and turned back to his work.

“The burning sensation should die down.” He said plainly, “If it does continue to hurt, however, inform me posthaste; I have a persim balm that can numb the area.”

Bizarre. It was absolutely bizarre to watch. They were conductors-- and Depot Agents before that-- so of course they had some measure of medical training, but most of it only went so far as to stabilizing the affected party until professionals could arrive at the scene. He couldn’t speak for his brother, but the most Emmet had ever had to use it-- apart from treating small scrapes and cuts that happened from time to time-- had been assisting a passenger who’d gone into anaphylaxis upon departing their train.

This went beyond that. It was one thing to be able to pull medicine off of a pharmacy shelf and follow its instructions; it was another entirely to pick over unlabeled jars and confidently apply them in order.

Emmet understood that it was in good practice, but… out here? He had no qualm with the fact that Wardens cared for the territory and those who dwelt within, but the only others out here were Pokemon and that Diamond snob. This wasn’t the kind of medical attention you paid to Pokemon-- Emmet knew for a fact the potions his brother kept for that purpose were stored elsewhere entirely, having been offered access-- and he somewhat doubted pretty boy would humor it, even if the alternative was death.

Maybe the Galaxy people needed help here and there, but they seemed relatively self sufficient. And insular.

It was a running theme, Emmet had noticed; it seemed everyone needed a reason to help another person. That mindset was so incredibly far removed from everything he’d grown up with-- everything they’d grown up with. The world was a dangerous place, but inhabited by people and Pokemon who made it worth braving.

Hence the claw marks that tore through his palms and down his forearm. They were worth it, so long as that Yanma had been spared the Luxray’s ire.

A thin, slimy, vaguely green substance was spread over the cuts; a far cry from the uniform ointments back home, it had been imperfectly blended by a human hand. Emmet hated the way the red showed through the green tint, and turned his attention to the collection of bottles and jars littering the tent’s floor. There was a sympathetic hum in front of him, but Ingo didn’t look up from where he was gauging a length of bandage.

The silence that had settled over them wasn’t an uncomfortable one, it was just the natural conclusion of two people existing in the same space, focused on different things. Or, well… focused on the same thing, from different perspectives. As much as he disliked the green-whatever-it-was, Emmet quickly found his eyes drawn to the motion of bandages winding around his hand, and then down his arm. Specifically, he was distracted by the odd combination of experienced wrapping and sudden hesitation.

Almost absently, as he tucked the end into the weave, Ingo said, “That was easier than I’d expected.”

“I take it your usual patients try to poison you at some point in the process.”

His brother snorted, but didn’t deny it, moving onto the remaining palm. Strangely, Ingo hit the exact same stumbling block here as well, in the angle of the wrist. He must not have had that much practice with it-- and understandably so. Emmet notwithstanding, who out in the mountains had a wrist that would need wrapping?

Minor foible aside, it only took a few minutes for him to finish treating the hand, and, after testing the bandage’s compression, he deemed the job acceptable. There was a pop from some joint or other as he straightened up, but he paid it no heed.

“Now then,” Ingo said, settling his armful of jars and fixing Emmet with an amused look, “Would you like a pinap berry for being such a brave Sneasel?”

---

They repeated the process the next day; the only variation, at first, was a slightly more confident approach to wrists. Ingo was convinced that the cuts looked right for this stage of healing, and, lacking any real knowledge on the subject, Emmet was inclined to believe him.

It took a slightly different turn as his brother sat back on his haunches, away from the bed Emmet had been perched on, and told him he was free to go. Notably, he hadn’t gathered the jars up, or made any motion to put the various materials away.

Emmet obeyed, stepping past the setup, but didn’t leave the tent. Instead, he idled near the small area set aside for crafting, careful not to knock over the leeks resting on its surface.

Ingo didn’t pay him any attention, shuffling loose from his coat and the Pearl Clan tunic, then working his left arm free of the dark undershirt. That made sense, then; there was no point in putting the supplies away if he had further use for them. But wouldn’t he need help? He may have been working with his dominant hand, but he’d still be short one.

The thought didn’t seem to occur to the older twin, who took his scissors back up and angled them beneath the bandage winding around his bicep. Before even trying to slice through, he dipped his head and took the tied-off excess between his teeth, pulling taut, and easily cut it away. The wound it slowly uncovered didn’t look great, but even Emmet’s inexpert medical know-how told him that it was just part of the healing process, neither freshly inflicted nor entirely mended.

More than that, though, he got caught on the fact that this was routine. There was no confusion in what to do first or hesitation in the motions; Ingo hadn’t even bothered to test the bandage before leaning toward the scissors’ blade. He was used to this.

Emmet, himself, had observed that nobody lingered around Mt. Coronet seeking first aid-- and by the same stroke, there would be no one to assist in a medical emergency. You had to take care of it for yourself. This wasn’t a skill Ingo had developed as part of a Warden’s duties, was it? It was just a basic part of survival in Hisui’s wilderness.

The procedure of washing and then disinfecting went exactly as it had with Emmet’s array of wounds, but wasn’t immediately followed by the green slime. Instead, Ingo’s hands gravitated toward a separate jar-- the contents of which he’d actually created only a few days prior. There was pecha in it-- Emmet remembered that much-- and some leek juice, he thought. The two ingredients hadn’t belonged anywhere near each other in a culinary sense, but it tracked that someone who dealt with poison types so regularly would know how to mix a general purpose antivenom.

That it was being applied now suggested one such creature had been the cut’s source. Shock of shocks.

When Ingo put it away and moved onto the jar of goop, Emmet moved closer, earning himself a sideways look. The same way he’d watched the bandages wind around his palms, he watched the process of this wound being wrapped, and found none of the indecision, no awkward angles or uncertainty what to do with-- as it turned out-- an extra hand. Ever so slightly, he nodded to himself, and knelt down as the remaining bandage dwindled to the point where it had to be tied off.

“Here,” He said gently, reaching over to take the material just below where his twin held it pinned, “Let me.”

In several smooth motions, he cinched the bandage and tied it into a knot. When he pulled away, Ingo reached over and plucked at the topmost layer, then moved his arm this way and that, testing it. He glanced briefly to Emmet, then away, bemused, and with a quick word of thanks, moved to clear the supplies away.

There was an odd edge to the silence this time-- not tense, but… flustered, taken off guard. Once he’d pulled his coat back on, Ingo put the jars away one after another; his lips parted as if to say something, but he seemed to think better of it.

Eventually, though, he ran out of excuses and was forced to face the tent at large. It was alright. Apparently he’d bought himself enough time to pool his wits.

“Thank you,” He said again, properly, but still awkward in an endearing sort of way, “That was… far easier than I’d expected.”

“I am happy to assist.” Emmet said as a promise.

He took something from one pocket and offered it without opening his thickly-bandaged hand; perhaps there was some glimpse into the past that caused Ingo to hesitate, or maybe it was just an inherent part of interacting with one’s sibling. After a second, he relented and held his own palm up to accept it.

“Verrrry good! Yup, bashful Sneasels get a sitrus berry!”

[toxic-gorgon]

Yandere Dio Brando x Reader: Useless

Synapsis: You are one of the last hamon users and while the practice itself has died along Lisa Lisa, except for a tiny handful of users. While most are willing to allow their gifts to die out and go about their daily lives, you want to put yours to good use and join the crusaders.

Content Warning: Extremely dark themes, click the read more at your own risk! Non-con, blood, yandere Dio, depression/hopelessness, corruption kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, talks of su*cide, violence, and extremely spicy themes. 18+, minors DNI! By continuing to read, you understand the risk.

When you joined the Speedwagon Foundation, you knew the chances of you dying for Mr. Joestar’s cause was almost inevitable. Your gifts were nothing compared to the powerful and unique stands that you came across during the start of your journey. You were one of the last remaining hamon users, but instead of allowing it to fizzle out like the others who trade their gifts for normal lives, you wanted to help and be useful! Lisa Lisa long passed and you heard stories of how hamon saved the world. Allowing hamon to die was allowing a part of yourself to die. 

Hamon was useless against stands, but worked wonders against humans and vampires. However, you primarily used yours for healing and support! The crusaders could use all the help they could get, so it made sense when the directors approached you for the task. Their lives are in your hands, and if it means to put an end to the vampyric Dio’s reign, then you’ll do your part and make sure these boys stay alive.

That’s what you thought at the beginning, back before your days meshed together and all time seemed to stagnate. 

You weren’t sure how many days it’s been since you first arrived in this suffocating manor in Cairo. The dark and coldness inside the manor contrasts the warm and vibrant colors outside your window during the day. You were ever the spunky one when you first arrived, you knew your friends were well on their way and you had no problem voicing that fact loudly in Dio’s presence. He would scoff, flashing you an amused grin, after all you were (as what he puts it) like a fangless, clawless feline. You don’t pose any real threat, but it’s cute to see you try. 

Dio is every bit what the rumors said. His raw charisma and power alone should frighten you, but that’s just one piece of the puzzle that’s Dio Brando. His beauty was truly breathtaking, much more so in person, his shirtless form proudly displayed like a painting hung carefully in the Louvre. His voice charmingly suave, almost a mesmerizing melody that beckons you closer like a siren’s call that you can’t block out. Worst of all was his eyes, that piercing gaze of his that can see right through you, all your worst fears and highest hopes, nothing can be hidden from this man. 

When you first arrived at his mansion, you were awestruck. Cat-got-your-tongue indeed as you drank in the imposing monster of a man, your enemy. What could he possibly want from you? His smirk makes your chest clench as the hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You wanted to run, and you would’ve if it wasn’t for you being so goddamned weak. You were completely at his fucking mercy, all he had to do was give the word and you would meet your end. You expected to die right then and there, surely a man like Dio would take out his enemy while he had the chance, just so later down the line it won’t bite him in the ass. You weren’t sure if it was out of pity or amusement, but your death never came. Instead, the cocky asshole smriks and gives you his blessing to tour his home. Hell, he even allowed you access to his library, on the grounds that if you did decide to run, you would be all too easy to catch. You were convinced this man had no real plan for you being here, besides making things much harder for the crusaders by stealing away their healer. 

You were determined to keep your head held high and wait for your knights in shining armor. 

But now, you’re just a shallow husk of despair. All the hope and conviction you had died little by little as the days went by, as those dark thoughts that Dio would mock you with began to take root. There’s no point in brainwashing you when your conviction can be shattered so easily. During the day, Vanilla Ice and Pet Shop watch over you. You absolutely loathe Vanilla Ice. His blind devotion towards his master churned your stomach, all the while he’s looking down on you and lack of stand ability. His words stung, but now they mirror static, background noise for your chaotic thoughts. 

Pet Shop was your preferred caretaker. He’s a bird, so he can’t talk like your other wardens. However, you could’ve sworn you saw that bird smirk once or twice, and his steely gaze mirrored his cocky yet powerful master. Perhaps the bird was silently judging you, even mocking you for being more caged than he was. After all, Pet Shop was allowed to move past the mansion’s windows and enjoy the fresh air and sun, even though he stayed within his bounds. A murder hawk has more freedom than you do.

The nights are always the worst. Screams of ecstasy or pain, you weren’t sure which anymore, filled the halls. After a while of being imprisoned, they all sound the same. How long before you’re next? You felt like it was any day now, and eventually your captor will grow bored of your constant banter. Perhaps that would be for the best, you’re dead weight anyway as long as you remain here.

Your friends were on a mission to save Holly, which you admit is more important than rescuing you. You knew the risk after when you joined this crusade, you just didn’t think it would end here in the lion’s den. You contemplated jumping out the window, not caring how painful the initial impact would be. You always decide against it, and instead sit and wait, chalking it up to being a coward as well. Everyday when your saviors hadn’t come, the little bit of hope inside was crushed gradually until barely anything was left besides tears of frustration and a luxurious queen sized bed to help you sleep.

Since you’ve been here, Dio took the liberty of making sure you’re fed three five star meals a day and accompanying you with a wine glass of blood. Such a gentleman, he even made idle chit-chat while you refused to take a bite (no matter how many times he told you it would be a waste poisoning you). Dio boasted about his many achievements, including how he stole Jonathan Jostar’s body, which you weren’t sure if he was just bragging or making sure that even in a casual setting, the threat still lingered. Was this supposed to impress you? Because the only responses you ever gave him were snide remarks and silence. Sometimes he would treat this like a silly game, but on days when he was more temperamental, you wisely chose to nod your head and actually eat what’s in front of you.

He made sure you were treated well, despite your situation. You bathed in a tub fit for a princess with fancy soaps and perfume, and was dressed in the finest of authentic Egyptian gowns that money could buy. All of which were gifts from Dio. He even took the liberty to do away with all your drab belongings and anything that didn’t fit his opulent aesthetic. He even gave you art supplies once. Whenever he gave one of these gifts, he always made sure to attach a rose with it. You always throw them out.

To occupy yourself when your host is gone and taking time for himself, you like to venture to his library and thumb through his vast selection. You’re sure you read over half of his stock by now, but something new always catches your eye to pass the time with. Usually you would saunter off into your room, avoiding the underlings as much as possible, but tonight was one of those nights where Dio met you there. 

“There you are darling, I was worried I missed you.” His smooth voice did little to put you in ease. 

“What do you want?” you sighed, making your way to the bookcase and browsing through different titles. Dio playfully scoffs, as always everything you say is just a game to him, and the disdain in your tone goes unnoticed. You didn’t move an inch when he moved closer to you, towering over your much smaller frame.

“You wound me dear, I only wish to spend time with you.” He leans in close next to your ear, his warm breath tickling your lobe. “Alone.” Now that’s laughable! Dio Brando isn’t a man who did anything out of kindness or ‘quality time’ without something in return. Did he run out of bodies to satisfy his hunger? What could you possibly offer him besides a snack?

“Spend time with you? I’ve seen what you do to the men and women who throw themselves at you for a sliver of attention. Their dead carcass lay about your manor like furniture when you’ve drained them.” You barely whispered. Why were you explaining his misdeeds to him like a child? You weren’t sure if you were trying to reason or reach the last thread of humanity within, but doubt was clearly written on your face. You wanted this to end.

You balled your hands into fists and shook with rage. “Just kill me and get it over with! I’m tired of you and I’m tired of being here!” 

Dio couldn’t help but sneer at your sudden outburst. How can you say these things? He’s given so much to you, and this is how you repay him? Do you not realize what you do to him? How weak he is while in your presence? How absurd. You had to have known, and perhaps you were testing his patience on purpose.

Reaching up and gripping your chin roughly, Dio kept your gaze on him. “I ask very little of you and have given you everything you could ever ask for. Tell me darling, are you truly unhappy?” his lips brush against your own, and his voice dangerously low that it sent shivers down your spine. Your voice was caught in your throat, this tower of a man standing over you so domineering makes you seem insignificant. Like a large cat ready to pounce on his prey. 

Tears run down your cheeks and you had no will to stop them. Why was he doing this to you? As if to answer your question, the blonde captures your lips and wraps his arms around your trembling form. With a jolt of energy you tried to shove him off you in defiance for your space. “Please stop, I don’t want…” you mumble. Growling, Dio pulls away and glares into your glossy puffy eyes, his brows furrowing when you don’t give in so easily.   

“Pet.” he said through gritted teeth, his hand drifting down to your neck and squeezing rough enough to cut off air supply. “You’re being selfish. All I asked from you in return is your loyalty and to surrender yourself to me.” He picks you up by your neck and amusingly smirks when you gasp and attempt to wiggle free, your hands desperate for air. Your nails grazing his skin with little scratches did nothing to phase Dio, instead he chuckles.

“Funny, isn’t it? The man’s body I’ve taken, the only man I would ever call my equal, possesses the same power as you do.” Black dots formed in your vision and your legs grew tired from flailing. He lets you drop from his grip, and while you sit slumped over and choking on air for your burning lungs, Dio looks down with his ruby hues. “Suppose my interest in you is fate, or perhaps you remind me of him.” Bending down to kneel in front of you, Dio pulls you towards his chest and picks you up bridal-style with very little resistance from you. He smirks and leans in to whisper in your ear “However, your strength will never match his.” 

Dio took flawless strides towards the desk on the other side of the room and pinned you down on your stomach against the harsh oak surface. With the wind knocked out of you temporarily, Dio traced his long nails along the soft chiffon fabric of your golden gown before tearing it to shreds down the middle, revealing your back and ass as the now useless fabric pools at your feet. Looking back at your captor’s sadistic smirk, your bloodshot eyes widen with realization. You were observant, he didn’t need to spell out what his intentions were. 

Almost immediately, Dio parts your legs with his knee and runs his fingers along your slit, examining it’s beauty before he decimates it with his cock. Squirming, you tried to push yourself up from the desk. As weak as you were, you had to try! Even though you knew Dio had more than enough strength to overpower you. As if he read your mind, he takes both of your wrists in his strong grip and pins them against your back. 

“Careful dear, you wouldn’t want me to break your arms, would you?” You stopped your struggling and stilled. It was best to get it over with and maybe if you comply, he won’t be as harsh with you, right? Just let him do what he’s going to do and don’t make it worse for yourself. “That’s better!” He smiles. “Lay there and trust your Lord Dio. Don’t worry about a single thing.” Don’t worry? How can you not? But, you did as he said and Dio goes back to running his fingers along your pussy, this time his index flicking against your clit. 

Biting your bottom lip, you shut your eyes tight. Be strong….be strong…. You chanted, but the small shocks of having your clip played with after being in turmoil for so long, it was difficult to not give yourself over for anything that can make you feel a moment of blissful ignorance. You were convinced that either Dio was a mindreader, or you were just so painfully obvious, but he stops his ministrations with your heat and leans in closer, he carelessly grinds his clothed hardened cock against you. He was quite proportioned. 

“Let’s enjoy ourselves, hmmm?” You shuddered at his words (and sizable bulge), a small whimper escaping you. Pleased with your sudden turn around, Dio leans back and without missing a beat, undoes his pants, allowing his cock weeping of precum to spring free. You swallow down a moan when his cock rubs against your clit, teasing your lips. Your cunt quickly became sloppy, as you were beginning to come around and throw caution to the wind. Dio must’ve noticed, because chuckles and mutters. “Don’t hide your cute noises from me now.”

With his cock soaked with your juices, he thrusts in and you do as he says, allowing a hoarse moan erupt from your throat that’s muffled by your face against the desk. This wasn’t going to do, not for Dio. While thrusting at a brutal pace, he yanks your hair back and lifts your head so he can listen to your lustful melodies more clearly. While you pant like a bitch in heat whenever he hits that spot to make you see stars, Dio releases your wrists in favor of gripping your hip tightly, leaving bruises. 

Gasping, you didn’t move your wrists for fear of your lord stopping or worse. Pleased by your obedience, Dio’s pace quickens, just for him to slow down to a tortuous pace. Flustered you cry “W-Why? Please….please….m-more!” You try to turn your head, but his strong grip keeps you in place. What a wonderful development! Definitely a change in the right direction from how you rejected him a few moments ago. But, Dio wasn’t quite satisfied yet. He wanted your everything, not only your spur-of-the-moment submission. He’s Dio Brando, Lord Dio to his brood. He doesn’t settle for less than satisfactory.

With a grin, Dio knew just how he would achieve this. “You beg so pretty darling, I see you’re finally coming to understand who owns you. But begging isn’t enough.” When he started moving again, this time his cock kissing your cervix, your mouth hung agape in a silent scream. Your thoughts thoroughly scrambled with nothing but the pleasure that Dio was offering you. Hell, you weren’t even coherent when your position changed to you being on your back with your legs spread wide and exposed, only for Dio. 

He picks up his pace, your cunt constricting around him as he pounds into your sore pussy, his hand now free from your hair pressed down your abdomen. He felt the slight belly bulge from him delving into your sweet cunt, simply delicious. “Darling-” He said too sweetly. “- You’re absolutely stunning so full of my cock, but I have a wonderful idea. I didn’t appreciate your attitude this evening, but I know how we can fix that!” You were too fucked out to comprehend his words, but nodded like the dumb slut you were. His dumb slut. “I’m going to breed this pussy of yours, fill you up with my cum, and you’re going to take everything I give you. Wouldn’t that be great? You grow big and round while your breasts are full with leaking milk.” He pauses as his hips sputter, his cock pulsating with the vision of you growling his children within your womb. 

“Yes..I think motherhood will suit you well. Forever my ___.” 

Whimpering, you nod in agreement. Whatever he wanted, as long as he didn’t stop. You were so very close! You mumble a breathy fuck when Dio pushes your legs up to your shoulders, diving in much deeper than before. Chanting strings of curses under his breath, Dio’s hand on your stomach drifts down to vigorously rub your sensitive nub and in almost no time at all you cum around his member, your juices rushing out to soak the desk and his cock. 

“Oh god...oh god...oh god..” you chanted, making Dio’s ego inflate more if that were possible. Smirking, he lets you ride out your orgasm, before picking up the pace yet again, this time losing control of himself for once. Brutally he fucks you, his cockhead slamming against your cervix, as your pulsing walls from your aftershocks urges his throbbing shaft, begging to milk it. After a few final thrusts, Dio stills and his cock paints your womb with his seed. 

He wasn’t done yet. Chuckling at your fucked out expression, it was so much like Dio to push for more. He wanted to mark you, make everyone but mostly yourself to know who you belong to. Your chest will do and his mark will be on full display. Using the nail on his index finger, Dio carves his name into your chest, pebbles of blood dripping down your sweaty and spent body after each scrape was made. When he is done, he admires his work, his name etched into your skin almost makes his cock spring back to life. What was he kidding, he could go a few more rounds anyway. But first, he leans in and laps up the blood, waste not want not right?

“There you are, how stunning. Darling, I wish you could see yourself right now.” Your eyes grew heavy, you were so exhausted and ready for a nap. Dio picks you up and doesn’t bother to cover you with your shredded rags. “No, no, don’t pass out now. We have a long night ahead of us.”

[bonjour-rainycity]

Double Heart | Chapter Six ~ Haldir

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG

Word count: 4044

Warnings: None

**Read on Ao3 under the user “bonjour_rainycity” if you prefer!**

A/n Happy Thursday! Thanks for all your responses so far -- I’m so grateful! Alright, time to see what Haldir thinks of all this!

We are sixteen days into our journey when we reach the mountains.

We made good time, considering all the stops and adjusting for our human guests. Now that I know they are more capable than I anticipated, I will be pushing us to clear the ranges in five days. I do not want to travel these mountains any longer than necessary.

Everyone feels the tension. My right hand never leaves the hilt of my sword and I know my brothers travel in a similar fashion. While I am always careful when traveling through the orc-infested mountains, this time more so than usual. The stakes are higher. Lavandil is trusting me to deliver her betrothed to her in one piece. My brothers and Baranor are trusting me to guide them safely on this treacherous journey. And the humans…

Well. They can’t possibly know what they’ve gotten into, so that’s on me, too. They have no experience in battle, nor do they seem ready for a fight. I worry they’ve never even seen an orc, at least not that they can remember. I am as responsible for them as I am for the kin that accompany me.

I turn on Faervel to face my companions, trusting Orophin to watch my back as I take in those that follow me. My brothers are watchful like I am, one hand on a weapon, one hand holding the reins. Their eyes constantly observe our surroundings, never lingering on one spot for too long. Baranor looks mildly nervous — this is only his fifth pass through the mountains and I know his mind is running through his previous journey, remembering the warden we once nearly lost to a poisoned arrow. A dull ache throbs in my left shoulder. The wound is long ago healed — the memories, however, are not.

Cosima holds tight to Rumil, looking around worriedly. I never told her what we might face in the mountains, and maybe that wasn’t the right decision. Every sound makes her jump — she’s obviously expecting to be attacked at any second.

My eyes shift to Alexander, the most recent addition to our group, and I fight the urge to narrow my eyes. I don’t trust him. Not that I automatically trusted Cosima, but she hasn’t given me any reason to be suspicious. She helps with the chores and talks with us freely, even if she has been pulling back a little lately. Alexander can’t boast the same. He’s been nothing but standoffish and keeps himself isolated from the group — dragging Cosima with him.

He glowers at me, and I return his glare. Of course, mine has the force of nearly three thousand years as Marchwarden behind it, and the human quickly looks away.

I return to my inspection of the group. Cosima’s cloak is a beautiful, vibrant red—obviously made for style rather than the stealth and durability needed for travel. I haven’t the faintest idea why she would choose to dress that way if she knew she’d be traveling, nor what kind of leader wouldn’t catch it and make her change. This only serves to irritate the thought that’s been budding in the back of my mind since her arrival. Maybe she really isn’t from our world. Stranger things have happened. Alexander, too, has an unusual cloak, though not as bad as Cosima’s. His is a deep forest green — expensive, the kind that would take months of precise dyeing. Still a suitable color for travel, but not at all practical — already, it’s darkening with mud kicked up on our journey, ruining the maker’s handiwork. I don’t understand it and the mystery of their origins are too much to ponder on the road. So I resolve to deal with what I can now and handle the rest later. At present, Cosima can’t travel through the mountains in that bright red cloak.

I get her attention. “Put your cloak away in your bag, it’s too noticeable. If you get cold, someone will lend you theirs.” She visibly blanches at my words but balances herself atop Roch to do as I say. She is so clearly frightened and part of me wants to reassure her, to tell her not to worry, it’s just a precaution. But I can’t. Lying might make her feel better, but it would also set her at a disadvantage. It is better for her to be on edge. It will keep her sharp, and staying sharp can be the difference between life and death. I wouldn’t sugarcoat it for one of my wardens, so I won’t sugarcoat it for her.

Still, I can’t help myself from offering her some measure of security. I instruct Rumil to take position behind me and send Orophin to guard the back of our line. Perhaps Cosima will feel better being towards the middle of the group rather than at the very back — it is safer.

I put on my most well-practiced fortifying look and address the group. “Remember to ration your water — we won’t come across another stream for some time. With luck and perseverance, we will reach Imladris in five days. Cosima and Alexander — if we are attacked, stay on your horses. Rumil and Baranor will protect you.”

Rumil chuckles lowly and leans back in his seat to whisper to Cosima. “I can’t keep you safe if you strangle me first. Relax.”

Cosima laughs sheepishly and seems to make a concentrated effort at loosening her arms around Rumil.

I pull my eyes away, turning to look the right way down the path.

And off we go.

{***}

Weather in the mountains is unpredictable. There’s a faint breeze hinting at the possibility of rain, and I pray against it. Humans are so fragile compared to elves and I worry the two newcomers won’t do well in another day of downpour. I don’t mind the harsher conditions, my brothers, either — Valar knows how many drills we’ve run, battles we’ve fought in the extremes. But the humans, even Baranor, aren’t so conditioned.

I stop our company a little later than usual and send Rumil and Orophin to take first watch. Baranor pulls Alexander aside to redress the wound on his leg. Cosima and I stay to tend to the horses.

She glances at me from where she brushes Roch’s coat. I raise an eyebrow, cleaning my own horse. She purses her lips and I can tell that she’s scrutinizing me.

“You don’t like the mountains.”

There’s no point in lying. “No. Too many places for the enemy to hide.”

She’s silent for a moment, likely thinking through my words. Unexpectedly, I feel the bite of regret — I probably just scared her again. I should have kept my mouth shut.

Thankfully though, she doesn’t seem frightened. She smiles, a sort of serenity settling on her. “It’s kind of pretty though, if you can find a moment to enjoy it. Did you see the sun sinking over that peak way in front of us? It turned the sky purple and gold.”

I did notice the sky, but only briefly. I hadn’t even stopped to ponder its beauty, only checked to ensure no one hid on the horizon.

She sees the answer in my face and grins, shaking her head. “Maybe you’ll be able to relax once we reach Imladris. What’s it like, there?”

Now it’s my turn to smile, recalling my second favorite place in the world. “Beautiful — much more so than these mountains. There are waterfalls taller than any I’ve ever seen and they cast rainbows at sunrise and sunset. The main city rests on those falls and you can see the water sweeping under you, falling over the cliffs.”

She stares at Roch’s coat, a distant look in her eye. “How long are you planning to stay?”

You. Her question hangs between us as I analyze her use of the word. She didn’t say ‘we’ or make any reference to herself and Alexander. She’s making no promise to stay. That realization shouldn’t bother me, but, nevertheless, I feel discomfort settle in my stomach. I try to distract myself by answering her question. “A month or two, three at most. The journey home will take about three weeks and I want us in Lothlórien well before winter sets in.”

“What’s your favorite food?”

I blink, trying to follow her line of reasoning. I’ve got nothing. “How does that relate to what I just said?”

She closes her eyes, the peace leaving her and morphing into a pleading, distressed look. “Please just answer the question.”

The feeling in my stomach worsens and I hurry to say something to try and put her more at ease. “Honeyed breadrolls,” I blurt, not even sure if that’s my favorite.

She laughs weakly, looking at me from the side of her eyes. “That’s not a balanced meal.”

I grin, relieved to see the stress beginning to fade from her face. “You said favorite food, not healthiest.”

“Oh right, my bad.” She rolls her eyes, a playful light there that wasn’t present before.

Evidently annoyed with the lack of attention, Roch bumps his head against Cosima’s shoulder, snorting noisily. She giggles and pets the horse affectionately.

“He likes you,” I observe, the sight of them bringing a smile to my face.

Cosima shrugs. “He just wants snacks.”

There’s a pause and I feel a sense of urgency, needing to fill the silence before the conversation can come to an end. “What’s yours?”

She furrows her eyebrows. “Hm?”

“Your favorite food.”

“Oh.” She pauses, looking at the ground in thought. When her eyes return to mine, she looks a little lost. “I don’t know. I don’t mind the lembas bread and fruits, though I couldn’t say for sure if it’s my favorite because I can’t remember much from my homeworld. I guess—well, I do remember some food here and there, but nothing stands out as my all-time favorite.”

Her admission seems to make her sad. I can understand that — it must be terrible to not know who you were or what your life was like. Once again, I feel the need to make her feel better. “Elrond won’t let us go hungry. There will be many new things for you to try.”

She opens her mouth, a spark lighting in her eyes, ready to respond.

The loud, heavy footsteps give away Alexander’s approach. Cosima hears it too and turns to see her incoming friend.

I let my face fall into a neutral expression, not entirely pleased with Alexander’s arrival. He is a lost human in need of help, just like Cosima, so I will offer him my protection and aid, just as I did to the woman at my side.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like him.

From what I’ve observed, he has a manipulative streak that I do not trust. I can understand not being ready to accept his new reality, but Cosima is trying to move on. He shouldn’t try to interfere with her progress.

He addresses Cosima only. “I’ve got dinner for us both. Meet me on the rock when you’re done?”

She shifts her feet, looking uncertain.

“No, you will stay with the main camp.” I hear my voice before I make the actual decision to speak. Cosima nods automatically—and, is it my imagination, or does she look a little relieved?Alexander only grimaces.

“Why?”

A muscle twitches in my cheek. I’m used to leading wardens that follow my every order. In this environment, one that is fraught with danger and requires constant attention and strict regimentation, I don’t like my orders being questioned. It’s not only a waste of time, but a danger to us all. I know well from the battlefield that hesitation—that single moment of questioning—can be the difference between life and death.

I raise an eyebrow, meeting the human’s challenging gaze. “The danger is heightened in these mountains. While you travel with my company, I am responsible for your safety. I will not have you all spread out — it makes it more difficult to protect you should the need arise.”

“I don’t want to sleep on a rock, anyway.” Cosima surprises us both by speaking up.

Alexander squints, looking quite caught off guard that she’s sided against him. “What—“

“Haldir’s right. It’s too dangerous and besides, the grass is softer.”

Alexander opens and closes his mouth a few times, then exhales, shaking his head and stomping back to camp. Cosima turns to Roch and resumes brushing his coat, a new tension in her jaw.

I try to broach the subject delicately. I’m not entirely sure it’s my business, but I suppose any information into the pasts of these mysterious humans is useful. “Do you remember much of your relationship with Alexander from before? Do you know what he was like?”

She closes her eyes—something she does when she’s stressed, I note—and sighs before opening them again. “I’ve been asking myself that a lot recently. I get that this whole…whatever it is, is impossible. I know that. And he does, too, which is why he’s having such a hard time adjusting.”

I bristle at the insinuation that I and my world aren’t real, but then make myself relax, putting myself in Cosima’s shoes. How would I feel if I woke up in a world completely different from the little I could remember?

She continues. “But I like it here. It’s beautiful and exciting and there’s so much to explore…I’m making friends.” She smiles up at me shyly, and I immediately return it. We are friends. I don’t know when or how it happened but we are. I like having her around.

“But with Alex…” She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m having a hard time not accepting my life here because it’s all I really know. I don’t have anything else to hold on to. Alex can’t seem to do that…I wonder if he remembers more than he lets on.”

I keep my expression carefully blank. I’ve been pondering the same thing. Something she said does bother me, though. She didn’t say she’s having a hard time accepting our world, but not accepting it. What’s holding her back? I try to dig around. “Cosima, this is your world now. Why wouldn’t you want to accept it?”

She shakes her head slowly, the sadness creeping back. “I can’t accept my life here because there’s no way it’s possible. I trust you and your brothers and Baranor, but something about this place is off. It’s completely unnatural—from what I remember of my world, we don’t have elves. We have cars instead of horses and ways to communicate that stretch across the globe.” Her voice rises in pitch, the first misty hints of tears entering her eyes. “And there’s only one world. There’s no way to go back or forward in time or hop to another planet or—”

“That you know,” I correct, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer. Seeing her struggle is not only upsetting, it’s frustrating. She is here, and this world is as real as she is, as real as I am. All this back and forth is pointless. “You said it yourself—you don’t remember much about your home world. And even if you remembered everything, who’s to say that you could know everything? For all you know, you fell asleep in your world and woke up in mine. And, at present, I don’t know of any way to send you back. Elrond or the Lady might, but that’s not a question we can answer until later. So for now, you need to accept this world. Because you are here. This world is real and your life here is real.”

She takes in a shaky breath.

I freeze. Oh Valar. I’ve made her cry.

I hurry to try to undo it. “Cosima—”

“No.” She cuts me off, wiping the corner of her eyes with her sleeve. “I needed to hear that. You’re right. I’m only wasting time and stressing myself out with all this. Because regardless of what I think is logical or possible, the fact remains that I am here in Arda and I feel real and alive. And so does this world. And so do you.” Her eyes, still shiny with tears, meet mine and she offers me a watery smile.

I accept it with a breath of relief and work consciously to soften my tone. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to make you cry.”

“Oh,” she chuckles softly, still wiping away her tears. “I don’t think it’s your fault. I’m just tired and stressed and—what was it you said again?” She throws me a teasing look and I know she’s about to bring up my earlier comment. “You said I was sensitive. That’s right.”

I hold back a groan. Probably not the most well-advised thing I’ve ever said. “I only meant that you are more expressive with your emotions than I or others that—”

“Nope. I’m gonna stop you right there.” She holds up a hand, thankfully still in a joking mood. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

She’s probably right. So I halt my attempts, shaking my head and laughing at myself. “I suppose I should apologize for that too?”

She shrugs off-handedly. “Nah. Because for the record, about the time you decided I was sensitive, I decided you’re way too serious.”

And, with that, she sets Roch free to graze and jaunts back to camp.

{***}

Aside from the brief interlude with Cosima, I don’t allow myself to relax as we continue through the mountains. There are too many peaks and rocks and caves and crevices where the enemy can hide. All it would take is one well-aimed arrow to fell one of my companions, or myself. I have to be vigilant. They’re trusting me, and I must not let them down.

{***}

On the third night in the mountains, Rumil and Orophin stage a sort of intervention, trying to force me into a full night’s rest.

“Brother, you have stood watch every night for the past five nights and most of the nights before that.”

“I am fine,” I retort, straightening my back. “I am perfectly capable of sacrificing rest to keep watch of our surroundings.”

“But without rest you will grow weary and slow,” Orophin adds, planting himself to stop me from walking past him. “You will not be at your best and cannot keep us safe as you could if you had proper rest.” He raises his voice to drown out my protests. “Rumil and I will stand watch all night—we will be vigilant.”

“Now, go lay down and get a full night’s rest willingly, or Baranor is prepared to drug you.” At this, Rumil smiles broadly. He is only joking. And, capable though Baranor is, I have no doubt in my ability to stop him from forcing herbs into my mouth.

But my brothers have a point. Though I am used to many restless nights from battle and my patrol of the borders, I have not slept for more than a few hours in many nights. I feel the heaviness in my eyes, the weariness in my bones, and, though I know I could push through, it is of no benefit to my company. So, reluctantly, I sheathe my sword, nodding to my brothers. “Wake me if there is any trouble.”

Orophin agrees readily. “Of course. You’ve trained us well.”

At this, I must grin, remembering the countless hours I put into developing and perfecting their skills. “I know.”

I leave the outcropping of rocks that has become our watch station and jog the short distance back to camp.

“Wow, look who’s decided to join us for a change,” Cosima jokes. There’s a note in her voice that tells me she had knowledge of, if not a hand in, my brothers’ plan.

I roll my eyes, matching her teasing tone. “I couldn’t leave the three of you unattended for long—who knows the trouble you could have gotten in?”

“Oh, yeah. Baranor  was about to redress Alex’s wound — troublesome, indeed.”

I sit on the empty mat in between her and Baranor, greeting my elven friend with a nod. Alexander doesn’t acknowledge me, so I don’t acknowledge him.

Cosima passes me a bundle of leaves containing a ration of lembas bread and a handful of blackberries. I smile my thanks and take the food eagerly—I haven’t eaten since morning.

“Glad to see you resting, mellon nîn,” Baranor nods in my direction then returns his attention to Alexander’s leg. The herbs and healing power in Baranor’s spirit have done wonders, but the traveling aggravates the wound. Really, he should take a few days to rest, but we do not have that luxury.

Cosima breaks a piece off her own bread. “How long until we reach Imladris?”

“Within three days, I imagine.” It’s an estimate, but a fairly accurate one, I’d wager. After many journeys, I know these mountains quite well.

She smiles. “That’s not too bad.”

“Agreed.” Baranor sighs and nods, indicating that he’s done dressing Alexander’s wound. He returns to his mat on the other side of our bags, completing the circle we lounge in.

A particularly strong gust of wind blows my hair around. Cosima shudders, pulling her blanket tighter over her shoulders — her cloak is still in her bag. Temperature doesn’t bother elves in the same way it does humans, I remember. I shed my cloak of deep grey, holding it out for her to take. “Here.”

Her eyes go wide, and she shakes her head vehemently. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I don’t want you to be—”

“Take the cloak, Cosima.”

She bites back a smile, and I know why. Even as I was trying to be nice, I still ended up making it an order. Oops. But it did the trick. She takes the cloak, wrapping herself tightly in it and then adding the blanket for an extra layer of warmth. “Thank you.”

I only nod in response. After all, it’s my job to see that each member of my company is cared for.  That includes fragile humans who could possibly die from exposure to the elements. And, thankfully, she does look much warmer now — her shivers have subsided and the wind only has the chance to bother her face, as the rest of her body is encapsulated in a cocoon of cloth.

“So Haldir, what do you do?” Alexander’s direct question catches me off guard, as well as the suspicion behind it.

I bristle. “Pardon?”

Alexander raises his chin, eyes narrowed at me. “What is your job? Because you seem awfully comfortable ordering people around.”

I forget how immature humans can be. I push against the annoyance that rises within me. “I am charged with the protection of my realm.”

“So you left it unguarded?”

I speak through clenched teeth. “I took leave.”

“So if you’re on leave then why are you still in charge? We’re nowhere near your realm.”

I feel my pulse quicken. “The others have accepted my authority. I am the most experienced—”

“Have I accepted your authority? Has Cosima?” He raises a challenging eyebrow.

“Uh, don’t bring me into this,” Cosima practically yelps, pulling the fabric tighter around her.

“Yes, this is a good time to stop,” Baranor interjects, looking completely serene — the exact opposite of how Alexander and I must look.

“It’s getting late,” Cosima agrees, darting nervous looks between me and her human friend. “We should all get some sleep.”

Alexander and I stare each other down. I feel no small amount of pride when he breaks his gaze first, then admonish myself for my immaturity. I should have handled that better — I know better than he does. Unbidden, my eyes dart to Cosima. Has my arguing with her closest friend upset her?

But thankfully, she smiles at me when my eyes meet hers, then reclines on her mat. Her voice rings over the small clearing, effectively ending any discussion between us all for the evening. Probably for the best. “Goodnight.”

And, though I am still angry, my body and mind cannot ignore how exhausted I am after days of insufficient sleep. It doesn’t take long for me to find rest.

A/n Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs make my day :) Let me know if you would like a tag! And if you’re having trouble being tagged, try subscribing on Ao3! That will notify you automatically when I post there. 

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[emerald-amidst-gold]

*pokes head in through your door* Did someone request OC asks? :D

How did your Warden react to Zevran’s failed attempt on their life? Were they amused? Angry?

Did Alistair’s parentage surprise your Warden? How did your Warden’s feelings on the nobility affect their relationship with Alistair?

How did your Warden respond to Wynne’s comments if your Warden romanced someone? Did they tell her it was love or that the relationship was purely physical?

Did your Warden believe that Leliana was telling the truth about her vision from the Maker or were they skeptical?

How did your Warden speak to Sten? Did they fight with him often or were they more humorous in their responses?

How did your Warden react to Loghain’s fierce love for his daughter? Did they share a strong sense of loyalty to their own family?

*whips my head around smiles* That's meeeee! The OC asker in the flesh! Or well, digital. But, pah! 'Tis I! >:D

*rubs hands together* Let's do this! I've itching to share more of Elise, so thank you so much! X3

How did your Warden react to Zevran's failed attempt on their life? Were they amused? Angry?

Gonna be completely honest, Elise found it amusing. XD

At first.

She's lived her entire life in the Circle, a dismal cage with gilded bars. When she was conscripted, Elise looked at the world around her and went, 'I love it. I love it.' Tomes and stories that told of grand assassinations, trysts, and all manner of political intrigue were riveting to a mind that only knew stone walls and high, unreachable windows. So, when Elise found herself apart of an attempted assassination, a Crow assassination no less? Her heart sped up, her palms turned sweaty with excitement, and her magic sparked to life with more ease than she had ever thought herself capable of.

Obviously, when faced with Zevran after the fact, questions and answers holding dark shadows, Elise snapped out of her romanticizing. She saw that pretty bound books and an author's 'personal' representation of events they knew nothing about was merely fantasy; they weren't true, they weren't idyllic. They were cold. They were hard. They were just veneer to paint over the atrocity of war and power-mongering. People suffered for what she found so enthralling, and Zevran's attack, and later his past, makes her realize that she is truly naive of a world that she claims she loves.

Elise knew nothing about the outside world. Just like those authors knew nothing of the suffering of the people caught in the crossfire of war--those that had to do ungodly things just to survive.

Did Alistair’s parentage surprise your Warden? How did your Warden’s feelings on the nobility affect their relationship with Alistair?

Alistair's lineage did surprise Elise somewhat. However, in Ostagar, when she had met Cailan, and then went on to meet Alistair, something...stuck. There was a resemblance; Elise could see it in the faces of two seemingly different men. Cailan and Alistair don't look exactly alike, of course, but there are a few characteristics that made Elise pause while speaking to Alistair and go, 'Where have I seen the slope of his nose before?' or 'If his hair was just a shade lighter, he would be..' So, when Alistair finally shares the truth of his birthright, Elise takes it in relative stride, but it also makes her heart sink a bit.

By Redcliffe (in my play-through at least), Elise is beginning to development feelings for Alistair. She finds his presence comforting, his views refreshing, his resolve endearing, and his gentle awkwardness lovable. He's been with her since the beginning, when she was mildly frightened and unsure of a cage with no bars, but still a cage due to what she was; a mage. Alistair saw that, knew what she was, and still, he treated her like an equal--reaching out when nightmares took her, offering her a witty quip or a playful smile to try and lift her back up from the mud, and reassuring her she wasn't alone in this long and bloody task of their's.

Alistair treated Elise as a person, and Elise offers that same kindness when he reveals his connection to the throne. However, she can see the warmth in his eyes fade a little upon telling her, a crooked, wry smile replacing the jovial air of another, and Elise knows that Alistair knows.

She's a mage and he, a king. There is no happy ending in store for them, but love is as persistent as it is fleeting, and they fall into each other's orbit despite the pain it later brings them both.

How did your Warden respond to Wynne’s comments if your Warden romanced someone? Did they tell her it was love or that the relationship was purely physical?

Elise was kind of belligerent, not going to lie. It's actually the first time I envision that hardened side of her beginning to shine through.

When Wynne points out the fact that she and Alistair are both Wardens, and that he's the son of a king destined to follow in those heavy footsteps, it only succeeds in bringing those painful fears to the fore and reasserting to Elise that she can't be happy because of what she is. This conversation happens after the Broken Circle quest, so Elise is still haunted by those horrors of a home sundered, and most of all, Cullen and his words towards her. So, two sources have said to her, 'You can't have this because of what you are.', and that tears into Elise's slowly hardening heart. She knows her duty, she knows what she is and she's proud of it, and Elise believes that shouldn't bar her from what others are freely given.

"I am a mage. I am a Warden." Elise spat, fists clenching and unclenching sporadically as she glared into the elderly mage before her. "But, I'm also a woman--a person, Wynne. I have feelings, and I won't sweep those aside just because you think it's best, because the 'world' somehow suddenly demands it!" Magic tingled at her finger tips, sparks latching onto tiny energy nodes of the Fade as her hands began to shake. "I care for Alistair. I want to see him happy because this world hasn't let him be so! So...so, fuck your concern and wisdom! I have choices, Alistair has choices, and if that's irresponsible to you, then leave because my heart won't change. No matter what pain it could bring me!"

Did your Warden believe that Leliana was telling the truth about her vision from the Maker or were they skeptical?

Now, I think I've mentioned that Elise is somewhat religious. She believes in the Maker and Andraste, but like Dorian says in Inquisition, she doesn't believe in the Chantry's rhetoric.

In regards to Leliana's vision, the magically curious side of Elise comes out and she ponders if the vision was the work of it. She doesn't outright ask Leli that, knowing that it would probably be rebuffed or met with a, 'I'm...not sure.', but it lingers in the depths of her mind and Elise tries to do some research into similar occurrences, to no avail. All Elise knows is that Leliana finds strength and hope in what she saw, so she doesn't challenge it and spoil it with practical applications. After all, the nature of faith is shaped by the unknown, and Elise always did like a good mystery. So, even if she didn't completely believe it herself, Elise knows what it meant to Leliana to have that warmth long denied by a Chantry brazier.

How did your Warden speak to Sten? Did they fight with him often or were they more humorous in their responses?

Elise was fascinated by Sten. She had only read of the Qunari in the few meager tomes she could find--most struck from the records by the Chantry due to 'heresy'. So, when at camp, Elise took the time to learn from the stoic man. She asked questions, listened to his answers, sat, mouth agape at some of the more profound stories Sten would opt to share, and soaked it up like a sponge. Elise would challenge some viewpoints of Sten's, those concerning mages and the general people of Ferelden, but mainly because she wanted to hear his side. Elise was eager and undeterred by Sten's brusque, aloof, and outwardly annoyed demeanor. She just saw a person--a person who she could learn from. And I think Sten responded well to that curiosity and open-mindedness, even if he didn't show it all that well.

How did your Warden react to Loghain’s fierce love for his daughter? Did they share a strong sense of loyalty to their own family?

So, to start, Elise doesn't remember her family very well. She was taken to the Circle at young age, barely able to remember how she even came to the tower. But, her found family is everything to her and she would die, be tortured, and branded every manner of beast if it kept them safe.

And I'm not lying when I say that Loghain's love for Anora, and she for him, was what made Elise want to spare him.

In that moment, as the teyrn knelt upon the floor before her, sword limp, eyes downcast with all manner of emotion, and blood dribbling from wounds she had managed in a duel unnecessary, unfair, Elise didn't see a traitor, a murderer of Wardens and kings, or even a man whose sense of duty had been so warped that it led him astray.

No, she saw none of that. Instead, she saw a father--a father of both daughter and country.

Elise drew her lips tight, tasting the salt of her sweat and a hint of iron. Her hand shook upon the hilt of her sword, suddenly feeling too heavy, too much as she continued to keep it trained upon the defeated man. All eyes were upon her, their gazes like wildfire and bramble--burning, piercing, anticipating. Yet, she could not move. She could not do it.

She could not take a father from his child! She could not! Not when it wasn't necessary! Not when the Queen had asked, pleaded with tears in her blue eyes for a way out of this foolishness, for an end to the constant suffering! There was a way! There was!

"I--", Elise began, as shaky as her arm that brandished a sword instead of a staff. The tremors increased as the wildfire upon her back blazed, and her grip faltered, sword plummeting to the ground with a harsh clang. "I...won't kill you. I accept your surrender. I accept."

There were gasps and whispers of disbelief, but she blocked them out as tired eyes traveled from that abandoned weapon to her face, searching, seeking, and quietly suspicious. But, before any words could be uttered between them or explanations could be voiced, there was a shout--a familiar, but dreaded shout of anger, of disbelief, of betrayal most foul. One word. Just one, and it was sharper than her sword that lay upon the ground, coated with blood of thought up foes.

"What!?"

----

*drags hand down in front of my face in an elaborate fashion* And scene!

Thank you so much, friend! I hope you like the answers even if they are a tad long! :D

[storiesfromthedas]

So, I started another playthrough of Dragon Age and therefore I have a number of thoughts that I will now annoy all you with. I just...I love these characters so much. Full length fics will be more formally titled and put together, but have some ramblings on this fine day 

Blood dripped out of Cassandra Amell’s soft leather boots as she took them off and set them gingerly on a stone that still held some of the sun’s heat. As someone who had worn soft flat shoes throughout the tower all her life, her feet did not appreciate the confinement of boots or the constant walking she had been doing for the past week. It didn’t matter how many times she had healed herself throughout the day, the blisters continued to form, and by the time they camped on the road outside Lothering she had given up entirely. A hiss escaped her lips as she dipped her feet in the cold water, attempting to get them clean and the swelling down. 

Cassandra snorted a little as she took some of the water and rubbed it against the back of her neck. Of all the things that had happened since she was taken to the Harrowing chamber, and she was complaining about her feet. The rational part of her knew that it was because she had suffered so much loss and pain that all she could do was focus on the present, but it still made her laugh. She told First-Enchanter Irving she wouldn’t do well outside of the Tower of Magi. It seems as if she was correct. 

Alistair and Morrigan had stopped squabbling with each other like apprentices and Tempest, her newly acquired Mabari, was out hunting in the field around the camp, so Cassandra finally had some quiet if not peace. After seeing all those dead bodies, all those darkspawn, Cassandra didn’t know if she would ever know peace again. All because Knight-Commander Greagior thought she was a blood mage because of Jowan. 

Jowan. Cassandra replayed him pulling the knife from his robes, plunging it into his palm, the blood streaming down his skin before it floated around him and was flung at the Templars to try and kill them. How had she missed that he was practicing blood magic? True, she had been focusing on her studies and branching into the Entropic spells, but one didn’t become skilled in blood magic overnight. Who had he learned from? And then he had the gall to lie right to her face when asked. 

True, she had lied to him about keeping his secret to escape with Lily a secret and told First-Enchanter Irving, but she had hoped to come up with a plan to stop the rite of Tranquility. There was no way their plan was going to work, but if she could get him some leniency and help him master his magical abilities instead of fight against them...She knew it was all a lie, she knew that Jowan wouldn’t survive outside of the tower and if he escaped suspicion would have been cast on her as his friend. Cassandra was already on thin ice due to her friendship with Anders, another mage that was constantly resisting the yolk of the Circle. Only a week outside of the stone walls and Cassandra couldn’t understand why anyone would want to leave. Her feet throbbed in agreement. 

There was no going back to the Circle, not now that she was a Grey Warden. Cassandra felt a weird pang in her chest, not fear or longing for the Circle, but more of an untethered feeling that she had no idea who she was or what she was supposed to be doing anymore. Alistair, for all his kind nature and courage, was not leader material and was more than happy to follow her lead. Cassandra’s confidence was born out of the routine of the Circle and the knowledge of what was expected of her, she had none of that now. 

It would be so easy to blame Lily for her current predicament, she had never liked the initiate and she was the one who fed Jowan’s escape fantasy. Cassandra actually thought she was going to betray them both until Knight-Commander Greagoir appeared with all his anger. Still, she had been lied to as well by Jowan and submitted to her punishment with very little fuss. Jowan had betrayed them both with his use of blood magic and for that, she couldn’t entirely blame Lily. 

Now, Cassandra had darkspawn blood flowing through her, a bounty on her head, and no idea how to stay alive for another week let alone kill an Archdemon. There was nothing about this in the Circle library and no one for her to consult. Morrigan thought she was useless because she was only Circle trained and Alistair was just as locked up as a Templar Cassandra had been growing up. Honestly, the Mabari had more world experience than all of them combined. 

Cassandra pulled her feet out of the stream and healed all the open wounds, before wrapping them, slipping on her stockings, and then putting her disgusting leather boots back on. Alistair was attempting to make some sort of food over the fire and Morrigan had set her tent up as far away from the rest of them as possible. While she was completely unfit for this task, there was no one else who would do it. As she limped over to the fire, the words of the Pride Demon during the Harrowing rang in her ears. True Tests Never End

[1phoenixfeather]

Blackmail #3

Sorry for being so late, but some of you might not even noticed. I messed up, realized for real that timezones were real can effect me. So I just kind of have to get through this.

#1, #2

enjoy! Antagonist couldn’t help but panic and fight, the chains were to tight and this reminded Antagonist too much about their childhood. Constant screaming and when you didn’t do as told you were locked into your room.

“Antagonist, there’s no use…” Villain tried to calm Antagonist down, but it was useless. The knife to their throat didn’t help either but would work as an effective threat. Not that that would change Antangonist mind of doing anything for them. Their mind was just that, theirs and their alone.

“Easy for you to say…” Antagonist whispered in despair, “YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!” Not like the warden of the orphanage, abusive and never forgotten. “Free me or kill me.”

Villain had never seen this side of Antagonist, afraid and angry. “No, you will be mine and do exactly as I want.” 

Antagonist knew Hero would look for them, but with Villains resources, it might be hard to free them. At least Hero could reach their weapons, but what scared Antagonist was that their personal gun was at Villain’s side. “I will never give in to a tyrant ever again in my life. Either you’ll free me or I’ll die.” That was the two choices, but both already knew the other’s thoughts.

“Again?” Villain asked and Antagonist realized what they had said, “maybe we should start with getting to know each other better, don’t you agree?” Antagonist shook their head and kept quiet. 

The knife cut through Antaonists skin, a small wound in their arm. Then they took the gun and Antagonist tensed. What that gun was capable of doing was scary and the reason they rarely used it. “That could kill me…” Antagonist stated, moving their feet nervous.

Villain laughed and aimed the gun at their torso. “This little toy could kill you… But mainly it would hurt you a lot first and you know that better than anyone.” Villain shot Antagonist in their leg and they gasped, “you really like your toys don’t you… Start talking or it will hurt.”

Antagonist knew the bullet still was in their leg, it was what it was designed to do after all. After a while of silence, Antagonist got electrocuted and screamed loud. “Talk to me Antagonist!” 

Antagonist shook violently and wheezed and hissed. Then the electrocution stopped and Antagonist dropped down, “that’s hurt more then I remember…” They hissed and all Villain did was laugh, “you think I would do that to someone without trying that on myself first? I’m not a monster, Villain.”   

Villain pushed the button again and Antagonist felt cold and warm at the same time. Sweat runs down, “stop…” They would never have begged if not to stall or… They took some deep breathing after the torture, “I was left at an orphanage… They were abusers, like you. Using me and when I didn’t do what they wanted I wasn’t worth it.”

Villain smirked and touched Antagonist smooth, “so you practically grew up with a warden who locked you up. Did they refuse you food or hit you?”

Antagonist lowered their gaze, “why do you think I do what I do? Nobody will tell me what to do.” 

Villain forced Antagonist to face them, with the gun aiming for their throat. “Rebellious kid with a hopeless dream of freedom. Just do yourself a favour and do as you told already.” If not Antagonist’s legs would be chained to the floor they would kick Villain. Only if they weren’t helpless.

“Hero will come for me…” Antagonist whispered and earned a slap, “they will.”

Villain pushed the button again and Antagonist scream echoed in the empty cell, “Hero might find you and if they do that. With what army would they save you with? You’re mine now, just accept it and then I don’t have to hurt you.” 

Antagonist remembered the feeling of emptiness and pain. They preferred to fight and fight for something, even if it is mostly for themselves. “My past isn’t enough to break me or torture. If I have to live like a slave I rather die then feel that helpless again.” Their promise of never leaving in someone else’s shadow again held them to the ground and yet made them more creative than ever before.

Then Villain pushed the button only to leave the gun on the floor and walk out. Antagonist fought the chains to reach the gun and turn off the electric, but it was useless and every scream came with a curse they couldn’t stop from coming out. 

If this was what Villain wanted so be it, they would tear them apart as soon as the opportunity would come.

Do you like what you read send me an ask or a message. I would love to hear from you.

[divineluce]

You’re Sworda Wrong || Mina & Luce

Location: Excalibur

Tagging: @drowningisinevitable & @divineluce

“Alrighty, wrap it up folks. Nice job today.” The instructor said. Luce pulled her fencing mask off and gave her sparring partner a high five, sweat dripping down the side of her face. Throwing her gloves and helmet into her bag, she gently laid her training sword inside before zipping the whole thing up neatly. “We still on for this weekend?” She asked. When she received an affirmative thumbs up, Luce nodded and headed out of the practice studio. Still warm from spending the last hour smacking people with blunt swords, she kept her jacket slung between the shoulder strap of her equipment bag as she entered the main storefront of Excalibur. Did she really need another sword? No. But did she want to look at them? Yes, yes she did. Besides, if she ever got the nerve to try and go all flame-on with one of her swords… she’d need a replacement, right? Humming to herself, she looked at the various display cases before noticing a young woman standing off to the side-- she’d been in the practice room, watching, hadn’t she? Tilting her head to the case in front of her, Luce spoke up, “See something you like?”

Sometimes, Mina liked to watch the fencing classes at Excalibur. Not often; being around that many people who could possibly be wardens and not understand that she was also a warden made her incredibly nervous, especially without her dad around to help her. But she liked watching sword fights, and she liked looking at the swords in the main shop as well, so she occasionally allowed herself to come in and watch. She was always glancing about, trying to blend into the wall, hoping no one would take too much off an interest in her. She’d been eyeing a set of daggers, wondering if she could get a nice pair of gloves so that the metal wouldn’t burn her too badly, when a woman spoke up and almost startled Mina out of her skin. Literally; with all the weirdness going on in White Crest, she’d been jumpy and nervous and one second away from forming scales and jumping in the nearest body of freshwater just about any chance she got. “Oh!” she yelped. “I mean, not really. Or just looking! I mean, it all looks nice!” She looked between the woman to the swords and then back. Could she just disappear into the wall, please? But the other woman was intriguing to Mina, the way she carried herself. She reminded Mina of a few of the hunters she’d met during her day.

When the other woman jolted, Luce flinched in response, shifting away. “Christ!” She swore, hand tightening around her bag. “A bit tightly wound there, huh?” She commented with a slight shake of her head. Eh. She probably didn’t mean anything by the response, there was a lot of shit going around town and it had everyone on edge. Even her. Which is why she was here in the first place-- nothing like doing some sparring and sword training to calm down after a long day. Rubbing her forehead, she sighed. “Sorry. Kinda on edge.” She said before laughing at her dumb sword pun. Folding her arms in front of her, Luce scrutinized the woman for a moment. There was something about her that seemed familiar. “You’ve come by here a couple times before, haven’t you?”

Mina laughed nervously. “Ha! Yeah, um, sorry! I’m sorry! I’m. Yeah.” She ran her hands through her hair nervously. God, she was making a terrible impression. She watched the other woman closely, the way she reacted. “On edge, yeah, same here. Lots of, um, weirdness going on lately. I’m sorry. I didn’t. I didn’t mean to startle you for startling me.” She laughed a bit breathlessly. “Not that I think you did it on purpose! I know you didn’t! I’m pretty sure!” Mina was going to go crawl in the lake as soon as she left her and just die. She was sure of it. As the other woman looked at her, Mina tried to shrink back a bit more. “Ah, well, yes! Yes, I come by and I watch and I look around. Sometimes. It’s a nice store, a cool store.” 

Listening to the younger woman ramble, Luce tilted her head slightly in mild amusement. “Fair. There’s a lot of shit going on. Hope you’re staying safe out there. And, if you’re looking for a little extra protection, this place isn’t a bad shop for it.” She said with an easy grin. Maybe that would help this anxious lady just chill out a little bit. Not that Luce couldn’t deal with anxious-- she had an anxiety ridden cactus cat living with her that honestly needed prescription meds. But, she didn’t super need that energy around her either. “It’s a good place. They do swordsmanship lessons in the back throughout the week, they have a calendar posted with times, if you want to check it out. It’s a good way to stay in shape and meet people.” 

“I know how to stay safe, yes,” Mina said, the half-truth coming easily. Lying made her feel ill, but she’d spent twenty-three years figuring out ways to work around it. And, even if she didn’t stay conventionally safe, Mina always did what she thought was safe for her. Unless people needed help. “Extra protection would be nice, though! I’ve always thought about getting more protection.” She had plenty, especially when it came to firearms, really, but she liked blades; they were so shiny. “I like coming by, but, um, I’m a much better observer. I’d be a bit silly, trying to sword fight. It’s been awhile.” Not that she couldn’t. Mina had more than enough scars to prove that she’d learned and become more than capable at handling bladed weaponry. But no one really needed to know that. “You come here pretty often, too, don’t you?” 

“Glad to hear it.” Luce said with a nod at the taller woman. If she said she knew how to stay safe, she’d take her at her word. And if she was bluffing, well. The girl would figure out what it meant to bluff about being safe in White Crest all on her own. “Well, there’s plenty to spare. I bought this,” She said, sticking her hand in the pocket of her joggers before pulling out one of her silver knuckle dusters, “here. They have a lot of variety.” Putting the weapon away, she quirked an eyebrow. “Been a while? You know swords, then?” She asked, intrigued. There weren’t too many people who already knew how to fight before they started taking classes at Excalibur. And the handful that did were really good at it. “Mhm, a couple times a week. Like I said, it’s a good way to stay in shape.”

Hoping her smile was reassuring, Mina nodded back. “Totally. All about safety!” She looked around the store at all the different blades.Yes, there was certainly a lot. “You could probably arm the entire city and still have plenty to spare,” she murmured, more to herself but loud enough to be heard. She glanced at the knuckle dusters; silver, a nice metal, not one that stung. She knew what steel knuckle dusters felt like to the temple. She wondered if this woman was a beast hunter. Silver was an interesting choice. She scratched at the back of her neck. “My, um, my dad. He had me learn different types of weapons growing up. We sparred a bit with swords, daggers, the like. I wasn’t,” she laughed, “I mean, I wasn’t great.” Yeah, it would make sense if this woman was a beast hunter. Frequented Excalibur, silver, training in swordsmanship. “Well, you’re very good! You seem to win more than you lose.”

Catching the other woman’s words, she laughed. “Calling it a city’s generous. It’s a college town.” Luce said with a shrug. “But, the college helps keep us going. Though, I’d kinda hate to see what some of the college kids I’ve seen would do with a sword.” She said with a shudder, thinking back to her latest trio of dumb fraternity brothers who had decided to get their frat’s letters tattooed. They totally weren’t going to regret that at all. “Huh. Cool. Sounds like a fun father-daughter hobby.” She said with a nod. Better than what her parents had pushed upon her. Studying fire magic and flaunting it for gain, not giving it the respect it deserved. The other woman’s observation caught her off guard-- yeah, she was pretty good. But, it was surprising that she noticed. “Yeah, thanks. I’ve been doing this for a bit now.” Extending a hand, Luce offered a polite smile. “I’m Luce, by the way.”

“Ah, well, yes, I suppose city is kind of gracious,” Mina said, smiling a bit and running her fingers through her hair. “Yes, the college is actually one of the reasons I’m here. I’m a masters student and thought White Crest would be as good a place as any to settle in the states!” Nothing like a supernaturally invested town to really encourage you to study math. And hunt monsters, but that was another story. “Yes, I wouldn’t give very many college students swords, especially not freshmen. Perhaps,” she looked around the store, tried to do some mental math, “Suppose there’s about fifty to a hundred people in town who actually know what they’re doing with weapons. They could be armed to the teeth with plenty to spare if they all came by here!” Mina thought a bit about fighting with her dad, the cuts and bruises and burns. She smiled. “It was pretty fun, yes. I learned a lot. He’s a great teacher.” He taught her how to survive, even if she wasn’t always that good at it. Mina perked up at the other woman mentioning that she’d been doing this for awhile. Yes, definitely a hunter. Mina wondered how long. “Really? That’s so neat. What got you into this? I’m Mina. Mina Fitzroy.” She took Luce’s hand, hoping her own wasn’t too cold and clammy. “Ah, it’s very nice to meet you!”

Nodding along, Luce smiled politely. College, as she’d found out, wasn’t here thing. She’d given it a whirl, hated every second of it, and get lucky as all get out that she’d found Ink Inc. when she did. “Cool. What do you study?” She asked. “Fifty to a hundred? That’s a lot, don’t you think?” She asked, gesturing to the people who were coming out of the training room. “Out of the folks here, there are about… eh. Let’s say 25-30 competent people with a sword. Maybe UMWC has some fencers hiding around I don’t know about, but I’d say fifty tops.” She said. “Neat. Well, if he ever comes to visit, you should bring him around here. I’m sure some folks in the class would benefit from a lesson or two from him.” The woman’s hand was a little cold, but most people felt cold to her. Fire magic had a tendency to do that-- it made her run warmer than everyone else and, as a result, everyone else felt just a bit chilly to her. “Nice to meet you too.” This normally would have been her out to leave the conversation, but Mina’s question had her stuck. “Ah, it just seemed like something interesting to stay busy. Besides, it’s something that tests your mind and body, which not a lot of other activities do.”

“Ah, well, math,” Mina said a bit sheepishly. She’d fooled around in undergrad, only really studying things that struck her interest, and had ended up with a general studies degree in three subjects that couldn’t be more different: German, math, and music. When applying for a masters program, she’d just gone with the one that might possibly be useful (and with the least amount of people in it). The degree was just a cover anyway. She knew what she was in White Crest to do. “Well, you know, a hundred might be a bit much, but I’m certain there’s more than fifty. Say that between twenty-five and thirty attend classes here. Then there’s people like me,” hunters who don’t do classes, “who might be a little shy about this kind of thing. There’s approximately 15,000 people, plus 5,000 university students. Say another ten to twenty are like me. Factor in the people that think they know what they’re doing, and the number might be a bit larger than you think.” Mina hoped she didn’t sound dumb. She was blushing a bit as she went through the numbers off the top of her head. She paled a bit at the thought of her father coming back anytime soon with her not even being close to fulfilling her promise. “Oh, well, I mean, he’s on business, probably won’t be here for some time. But I can ask!” She thought he’d probably like a chance to show off. “Oh, totally, it’s really good exercise!” She cocked her head a bit. “Have you always lived in White Crest, or are you fairly new, like me?”

Listening to the woman rattle off all the mental math, Luce did her best to hide her grimace with a strained smile. Math wasn’t her thing. Sure, her art might have some basic principles of math interwoven into the designs, but she mostly just went off visual balance. How did it feel when she stepped back and looked at it? Was it still identifiable from a distance? “I can see why you’re in grad school for math. Better you than me, I never finished college.” She said with a slight laugh, folding her arms across her chest. Noticing the way that the woman seemed to balk at the idea of her dad being anywhere, Luce made a mental note not to bring that up again. “Makes sense. If he happens by in that case.” She said with a nod. Glancing over her shoulder pointedly, Luce nodded. “I’ve lived here my entire life. Probably live and die here.” She said with a wry grin.

Mina was probably a bit splotchy from blushing, just a bit. “Yes, well, college isn’t for everyone, and it’s kind of lame, most of the time, and then you’ve got to figure out what to do with your degree or whether you want to pursue something more or where you’re going to get money and…” She trailed off, noticing Luce’s tattoo sleeves as the other woman crossed her arms. “Your tattoos are really lovely, by the way,” she said distractedly. She blinked, smiled. “But, yes, certainly, yes. I’ll ask him the next time we talk if he’d like to come teach a class or two. He, ah, he likes to show off, occasionally.” She smiled just a bit at that, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Mina loved her father, but she’d never broken a promise before. She dreaded to think what would happen if she did. But it was interesting that Luce had lived here her whole life. Made sense. White Crest would be a hotbed for hunters. “It’s a nice place to grow up, yes? A little strange, but it seems nice.”

Mina continued to ramble on, which at least meant that Luce didn’t have to say anything. It was easier for her to just listen and nod. “Yep. It sure wasn’t for me.” She shrugged. When she pointed out her sleeves, Luce nodded. “Thanks. I designed them myself. Didn’t do it myself, obviously, but yeah.” She said with a grin. She was proud of her sleeves-- the geometric line art of her left arm and the flowers on her right, they were very different but worked to balance out each other. Give and take, nature and man, it was all a balance. Which reminded her… she needed to get another tattoo on her thigh to balance out her most recent one. “It’s a cool place. Definitely weird, though, for sure. There’s a lot of odd stuff that happens around here, but you get used to it after a while.”

“They’re very pretty,” Mina murmured. She liked tattoos, liked seeing art on skin. However, between a fear of needles and a desire to not stand out anymore than she had to, She’d never gone through with actually getting anything done. “You’re very talented. Are you an artist?” A side gig, maybe? Most hunters had those, though, admittedly, artist was a new one for her to hear about. Still, she was working with math of all things; definitely not a traditional hunter pursuit. Not that she was a traditional hunter by any means. Luce did seem a bit different from the usual hunter type. It was kind of neat, actually. “Right, yes. The twenty-four hour night. The fish rain.” She had, admittedly, tried some of the sky fish. It was actually quite good. “Blood puddles, a few months back. Definitely an odd place, but interesting. I can see why people would want to live here and never leave.” Plenty of hunter grounds, at the very least.

“Mhm. Of the tattoo variety, specifically. I work at Ink Inc., best tattoo parlor in town. Only one too.” Luce said with a smile. Ulfric would probably not like that joke, but he wasn’t here right now. Her boss was a nice guy, but it was always good to watch your words around him. She’d heard of more than a few nosey customers getting just a little too in his business and paying for it. “Ah, yeah. Good old fish rain... “ She said, wrinkling her nose at the memory. The entire town had reeked for more than a month, the decaying fish bodies littered all over the streets. Even her cabin hadn’t been spared by the rain. “Mm. Some people want to leave, but can’t. There are things that keep us here, you know?” Luce said with a shrug. Her family, mostly.

“Oh neat!” Mina said. A tattoo artist actually seemed a bit more, well “kick-ass” than just a regular artist. It seemed like a cool job indeed, and Luce had the skills for it. Mina mimicked the other woman when she scrunched up her nose, “Yes, it did smell rather bad for awhile after it stopped.” The fish was nice, though. Which, Mina lived next to (and, on some nights, in) a lake; getting fresh fish wasn’t a problem. But she didn’t do saltwater fishing much. That had been nice. Her eyes widened minutely when Luce mentioned that things kept her in White Crest. What could possibly be keeping her in White Crest besides hunting? This was suddenly becoming very real for Mina. What if Luce was a warden? What if she mistook Mina for some sort of evil Fae? Her abdomen was still healing from where Montgomery tried to slice her open. “Right, yes, of course. People stay in towns like White Crest for all sorts of reasons, I suppose.”

“Eh. It’s a job.” Luce replied. A lot of people found her job to be something “edgy” or “alternative” but, at the end of the day, it was just another form of art. Just because it was permanently on someone’s skin, that didn’t make it any less than any other sort of art. “Yeah. But, at least it’s over. Which, you know, I’ll take it.” She said with an offhand gesture. Shifting the weight from her foot to stand in a more comfortable position, Luce nodded affably. “Yeah. It be like that sometimes.” She said, resisting the urge to continue the rest of the meme. Sometimes she forgot that it wasn’t “socially appropriate” to just talk in Vine and meme references all the time. “Anyhow…” Luce said, voice petering off, hoping it would give her an out from the conversation. 

“Still, you get to make art for other people and see them enjoy something beautiful on their bodies. It’s neat,” Mina said. She wondered if they’d been talking for too long. Had she said anything that would give her away? Something that marked her as inhuman? She couldn’t remember. “At least the darkness doesn’t smell.” She probably hadn’t. Probably? Distractedly, she said, “It really do.” She missed Vine. What if her cold, clammy hands gave her away? Did she have any lingering scales from her swim that morning? As Luce trailed off, Mina saw her out. “Right, yes! You’re probably very busy. And,” she looked at her phone, not even really looking at the time. “Oh, my, it’s getting a bit late. I should. Homework! Very nice to meet you!” Giving what she hoped was a pleasant smile, Mina darted out of Excalibur. Well, she hoped that her first interaction with a hunter went well.

[somedayonbroadway]

Fandom: Newsies

Rating: T

Characters: Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins, Crutchie, Medda Larkin, Warden Snyder.

Featuring: Oscar and Morris Delancey as “The Dogs”. It doesn’t specify, but they’re the dogs. The “other maniacs” can be named “Dee” and “Dum”.

Word Count: 7K

Warning: Graphic. Blood. Violence

“Impaled Palm”

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

The whimpers were too much. Jack knew his little brother was trying his best to be quiet. He knew that was impossible. He knew that the boy could’ve been screaming bloody murder and that would be completely and totally justifiable.

But he couldn’t. Not right now. Because He’d find them. And He could not find them. Not yet. Not after what just happened.

“Racer? Hey...” he coaxed gently, looking down at the boy cradled in his arms. The boy was fourteen. And Jack could still carry him. That worried Jack. “Hey... tell me about... tell me about somethin’...” The plea was quick and desperate. He was so panicked he could hardly even think of a topic, anything to distract the child from the pain. “Tell me... tell me about that book you’re readin’? Yeah? Tell me about the last chapter you read...”

All the small teenager could manage was a quick shake of the head as his breaths came in faster. His whines were quiet. Just, not quiet enough for Jack’s liking. He knew it was taking everything inside the boy not to scream, but if they were found it would only get so much worse. There was already so much blood. Jack didn’t think he could keep the child this calm if there was more.

“Yeah? Yeah, c’mon, kiddo... talk ta me...” The boy was almost feverish. His entire body was trembling. And he shook his head again as more tears rushed down his face.

The attic was their only shot. He hated the attic. No one ever went up to the attic. It was practically forgotten about. The only thing that worried Jack was how dirty the place was.

But then again, the entire place was filthy anyways. It might not look that way on the outside. But it was.

The boy in his arms was hyperventilating. His young face was soaked through with panicked and pained tears. Jack did his best to support him the right way as he ran through the halls. Race’s head was pressed against his shoulder. Jack had an arm beneath his knees and under his back, and he had a small trash bag gripped in his hand underneath the boy’s spine. The kid was not holding onto him in anyway. So Jack gripped him tightly as he found the opening.

“Racer, tell me about the letter ya got from Charlie...” He was so desperate for the boy to say something. He didn’t care that it hurt so much that Charlie wasn’t writing to him. He just wanted the kid to be distracted.

A louder whine was the only response that Jack got.

Maneuvering the boy so the child’s legs hugged his hips, Jack reached up with a free hand and pulled down the ladder. Somehow, with a fourteen year old sobbing again him, Jack began to climb the thing.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. That’s it. It had to be the adrenaline. Racer had always believed he was strong. The kid had always looked at him like he was bravest person in the world. He wasn’t. Jack was just as scared as he was.

The room was small. Jack could hardly stand up straight in it. And it was cold. Colder than Jack would’ve liked. But it was all they had. He pulled the ladder up. He moved the boy in his arms over into the far corner of the room and set him down on the ground. And he reached for the boy’s left arm.

Racer was quick. He pulled away, cradling his entire arm to his chest and trying his best to turn around.

Something inside Jack broke. He’d done this. Race shouldn’t have been there. His little brother should not have been there. He had one job in this house. Well, only one that mattered. And that was protecting this kid. Protecting him from things like this.

“I know that it hurts, bubba... just... please let me see it?” he asked quietly. The young child was biting down hard on his lip. Because he knew he couldn’t scream. It would give them away. “Please, Tony... lemme see it. I need ta see it,” he urged, looking directly into the boy’s eyes.

Another sob escaped the child. It was quiet and broken. Every breath he was letting out came in the form of a whimper. Every single one broke Jack’s heart a little more. But, eventually, the boy complied.

Hesitantly and so, so slowly, Race looked down at his own arm. Blood was dripping across his skin. A lot of blood. Even in the dark they could see it. The boy began to loosen up. Jack could see his shoulders sag. He could watch every breath the boy took as his entire body moved with it.

The second the kid’s arm was moved from his chest, Jack reached for it. Gently and carefully, but as quickly as he could. The boy bit his tongue when he began to cry out. Jack didn’t know if it was because he’d felt more pain or he was simply anticipating the pain that they both knew was coming.

This was going to hurt like hell. And there was nothing Jack could do to take it away from his baby brother.

With tears in his own eyes, Jack looked down at the wound and he turned the blond boy’s arm so that his palm was facing the ceiling. The kid’s hand was what was trembling the most. Careful to not touch the source of the blood, Jack’s fingers made to steady it.

Race whimpered again, squeezing his eyes shut. It hurt worse when he looked at it. He couldn’t look at it. “It’s okay, buddy... It’s alright...”

Only it wasn’t. None of it was.

The boy’s palm was the real disaster. It had been a through and through shot. The wound wasn’t as wide or long as Jack had expected it to be. He supposed Race’s hysterics might just be more from the shock. But there was one thing Jack knew for sure.

They wouldn’t be in a minute.

”Jackie, there’s more than just one ball. It’s just that whoever gets the Snitch almost always wins.”

“Then what’s the point of actually scoring any goals if whoeva’ catches that otha’ one wins?”

Jack laughed when Race looked up and gave him an annoyed look. Yes, Jack knew the rules of Quidditch. He’d read the books too, when he was younger. But it was always worth the teasing to see that smile that spread on Race’s lips. 

They were rarer now. Any kind of joy they could find in this place was a miracle. But the thing that Jack was most grateful for was that neither of them had been moved here alone. There was no way they could survive this alone.

It was labeled a group home. Some had called it a boy’s home. It was big. An old building that was falling apart at the seems. It was almost like an orphanage that Jack thought he’d seen in an old movie.

They made sure to keep to themselves. Kids here weren’t exactly the friendliest. Jack was one of the oldest boys. He was almost out. And he was taking Race with him. No matter what.

“You’re so annoyin’,” Race muttered as he went back to reading his book, pushing his reading glasses up further on his nose. Jack wasn’t even sure which  the last one he’d snuck in for him. It was the fifth, maybe the sixth. All he knew was that his brother loved to read. And their guardian never wanted to let him.

They were sitting in the kitchen. Well, the younger boy was. Jack was supposed to be cleaning it. He was. Although, it was a bit difficult to focus. He hadn’t eaten anything. Not since yesterday. He’d been barely able to make sure Race had eaten something that night.

He was scrubbing the dishes right now. Race had offered to help him, but Jack always hated it when the boy actually did. He didn’t deserve to be put to work like that. Chores were not something new. Chores were fine. But these were more than chores. These were a sort of way to keep all the boys in line. And they all knew it.

Jack tried to blink himself awake as his hands ran under the warm water from the sink. There was something about this place that always made him so tired. Maybe it was that it was so dark. Maybe it was all the cleaning he had to do. Maybe it was that he couldn’t eat too much. Maybe it was all of it.

He turned around, planning on talking to his brother who was definitely supposed to be in his room upstairs. He wanted to start a conversation just so that he’d stay awake. But when he turned, he found the boy reading. Not the book. Something else. A letter. So Jack turned back around, trying to hide the slight frown that he couldn’t help.

Too bad he hadn’t quite been fast enough. He heard the chair slide backwards. In a matter of seconds, he felt a weight on his back as arms encircled his torso. “I’m sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t have brought that out here, I forgot I put it in there and I ain’t read it yet n’-“

Jack put a hand over one of his brother’s arms. “It’s okay, Racer...” he sighed, looking down at the sink he stood in front of, clearing his throat a little. “I’m... I’m sorry. Ya shouldn’t have ta feel bad about hearin’ from him...” he stated. Reaching to turn the water off and grab a towel to start drying the plate he’d just washed. “Is he... is he doin’ okay? His home is-“

“He’s doin’ good... he’s got a good foster mama...” Race promised quietly, releasing Jack from his hold. “He misses you... just don’t know what ta say...”

Swallowing hard, Jack nodded. He didn’t really want to talk about this. He just wanted to know that the other boy was okay.

He missed him too.

“You should go ta bed, bubba... before-“

“What the hell are you two doing down here?!” Jack winced. Too late. He hadn’t even truly thought they’d get caught. He just wanted to finish this and not have to think about Charlie. Not have to think about the last time he’d seen the boy. Just a year younger than him. Damn, he missed him.

Quickly, Jack dried his hands and turned to take a subtle step in front of his brother. “I’m sorry, Sir. I was tryin’ ta finish cleanin’ the kitchen and Tony couldn’t sleep. I told him ta come out here,” he stated, taking full responsibility. Because this wasn’t his brother’s fault.

The man wasn’t even that old. Mid-thirties at the most. But he looked older. He was big. But it wasn’t exactly all muscle. He knew the only way to get the upper hand on a lot of these boys was to starve them.

And Jack was starving.

When the man took a step towards them, Jack took a step backwards, immediately putting out an arm in front of his little brother. A smirk formed on the old man’s face. “What’s the matter, Kelly?” he asked, a glint in his eyes as he knew every boy in that house feared him. He took another step forward and Jack took another step backwards. It was no use trying to fight. He didn’t want another fight.

Looking behind Jack, the man glared hard at the little boy behind him. “You. Go to your room. Now.”

The order was quick and pointed. And Jack looked down at his brother. Those big blue eyes were teary behind those glasses that were almost too big for his face. Jack just gave him a nod, silently telling him that it was okay, to just go. Race quickly glanced back up at the man and then down at the floor as Jack allowed him to step around him. He lowered his head as he walked past their guardian.

So he didn’t see the man reach to shove him.

“You don’t need his goddamn permission to follow orders, boy!” His head was shoved down even further, the push hard and deliberate. The boy lost balance, tripping and falling flat on his face. He grunted as his nose hit the floor. He could feel it begin to bleed. And the crunch of his glasses made his heart drop. He reached for them, watching one of the lenses crumble from the frame. He rolled over, about to push himself up, when the old man’s fist went up above him. The child gasped and raised his hands over his head, waiting for impact.

It never came.

Fighting never led anywhere good. But, Jack supposed it less of a fight than it was a beating. He hated to think of it like that, though. A beating meant Jack wasn’t fighting back. Jack had always been a fighter. But, in his mind, a fight should always be fair. This fight wasn’t fair. And yet, he reacted the only way he could when he saw his foster father raise a hand at his little brother.

He grabbed the man’s arm, pulling it back and forcing the guy to spin around. He didn’t care what this guy did to him. But Race couldn’t be the target. Not ever. “Don’t touch him, Snyder!” Jack demanded, the fear in his eyes melding together with anger as the man turned on him. ”Don’t you dare touch my little brotha,” he hissed, his grip still firm on the man’s arm.

The seventeen year old hardly had a second to panic before Snyder was whirling to face him fully, his other fist completely free and ready to punch. The hit came for Jack’s left eye and the boy cried out at the impact, falling against the sink and barely able to duck and dodge the next blow.

This was Snyder’s favorite game. Whenever Jack did something he didn’t like, he’d try to knock him out. All the boy could do was slide down to the ground as the man tried harder and harder to hit him.

“Stop it! Please! He didn’t do nothin’!” Race begged, wishing beyond everything that Charlie was there. Charlie knew what to say. Charlie always knew how to calm him down when Jack couldn’t. Charlie always knew how to get Jack out of trouble. How to keep Jack out of trouble. And Lord knows Jack was good at getting into trouble.

“Go to your room! Now!” Snyder screamed at him. But Race only stood and tried to rip the man off of his big brother. He was just shoved backwards as the man somehow got the older boy to the ground. Jack curled up, protecting himself as best he could as the kicks came.

Counting was the only way Jack got through it. It was like when kids got angry and adults that didn’t know them at all told them to count to ten to calm down. Jack wished Snyder would try that. Maybe he’d actually realize that he could actually kill someone.

Sometimes Jack swore he saw Snyder’s eyes widen after he hit them. Like it didn’t happen everyday. Like that hadn’t been his intention.. But he never told them he was sorry. He told them it was for their own good. It was for them to learn that stupid mistakes could get them hurt worse in the real world. It was messed up. 

He could only do this once. There would only be one opportunity to strike back. So Jack counted. He sat and he forced himself to breathe as he counted, wishing that Charlie was there.

Charlie always knew how to keep him out of trouble.

Snyder lifted up his fist again as his leg was probably getting tired. So Jack stood fast, pushing the man back into the center island of the kitchen. The man’s back hit it. Jack’s plan had been to run. That was always the best way to go.

What he hadn’t expected, was for the old man’s hand to curl around something that lay behind him. A knife. And Jack didn’t dare run when the thing was pointed at him.

It was a sharp knife. A new one, by the looks of it. Newly used just that night.  

It hadn’t been cleaned yet. “Snyder... put the knife down,” Jack said calmly, raising up his hands in surrender. He’d reasoned with the man before. When he went too far. Snyder would normally just frogmarch him to his room and lock him in for the night. It was fine. Better than this.

But the look in Snyder’s eyes was different tonight. It did not look like he was going to back down. “Please, Sir. I’m sorry! Just... calm down-“

“You do not get to give me orders, boy,” Snyder spat. Jack couldn’t hide behind anger anymore. He was scared.

“I’m sorry! Just please don’t-“

It was too late. Snyder was already coming at him. He closed his eyes. Waiting for impact.

It never came.

Race’s mouth hung open as everything moved in slow motion. The pain was excruciating. He hadn’t really been expecting it. Truly, he didn’t know what he had been expecting. All he could do was stare with wide eyes and a fallen jaw at his own impaled palm before the knife that had gone all the way through his hand was pulled back from it, only hurting all the more.

A scream ripped from his throat as he stumbled back into his big brother. Arms wrapped around him immediately. They both looked up in shock at the man before them, whose own eyes were wide at the blood on the kitchen knife in his hand.

Snyder’s eyes were shocked before he looked up at them. He’d never stabbed any of them before. Sure, he’d cut one or two of the boys on occasion. But normally it was just a threat. An empty one.

Not anymore.

And he couldn’t let them know it was a mistake.

Jack’s eyes widened when Snyder took another step closer to them. The boy did the only thing he could think of. There was a frying pan laying next to the sink, newly clean. He latched onto the handle and swung hard. The thing went over Race’s head and hit Snyder square in the jaw. He went down. But he wasn’t out.

The man was relentless. He stood back up, growling. Jack held Race close to him. The boy was still crying out. His sobs rang throughout the house. The guards would be up here soon. They ones that kept all of them from running. Some local thugs that Snyder had hired. And there dumb as hell dogs. “When I’m though with you, James, you’ll wish you’d never been born,” he promised.

The young teenager screamed again when Snyder reached out for Jack. And Jack swung again. Harder this time. The sound of metal hitting bone echoed. Jack pulled Race further away from the man as his eyes rolled back in his head. He fell to the side, unconscious.

Race was still crying. Jack was breathing hard. He stood, completely stunned for a moment as he stared at the body of his guardian. He didn’t have the will or the energy to check for a pulse. The man’s chest was moving shallowly. That was good enough for him. So when his baby brother cried out again, Jack turned to him, kneeling down in front of him. He gently reached for his brother’s hand.

“Hey! What’s goin’ on up there?!” That authoritative question was followed promptly by a couple of barks. Jack’s heart dropped.

The blood was moving fast. “Okay... okay...”

Jack was no expert. He was seventeen. What he was, was a foster kid. A foster kid who’d had a lot of odd foster parents. Including one who just so happened to be going to school to become a doctor. All she talked about was medicine and how to clean out wounds with or without it.

That house hadn’t exactly been a keeper. But damn, if it wasn’t useful...

The teenager gave his little brother a sorry look before he stood up and looked around the kitchen quickly. His eyes landed on Snyder’s liquor cabinet. Locked. But Jack knew it was all they really had. They wouldn’t be going to a hospital. Not yet. Not if those guards and their dogs found them.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of them went in for a bite.

Jack grabbed a trash bag from under the sink. He grabbed dish rags, a pencil, duct tape, scissors and Race’s book after neatly tucking the letter inside of it, all the while the younger boy was sobbing by the sink. Then Jack looked up at the cabinet and rushed up to it, turning so his back was facing it. He brought his arm in front of it and hit the glass hard with his elbow. The glass shattered.

The whiskey was the first thing he grabbed.

After that, it was just a matter of getting out. Jesus, Jack wished Charlie was here.

He rushed over to his little brother and scooped him up in his arms, gripping the trash bag tightly as he began to run. They couldn’t go downstairs. They’d be caught downstairs. The dogs would attack downstairs.

Upstairs was the only option.

So Jack ran.

It was dark. A little too dark. Jack frantically looked around for some kind of flashlight. He found a lantern a few feet away, sitting on an old kiddy table of some kind. Jack has never seen most of this stuff. It looked like a lot of it was made for a little girl. But he grabbed the thing and flicked it on, reaching for the trash bag seconds later.

“‘M-m s-sorry...” Race sobbed out, making Jack pause. He looked up at the boy who was trying like hell to stay quiet as they heard barks below them. The whole house had to be awake by now. “I... I shoulda just gone ta my... my r-room-“

The older boy cut him off quickly, shaking his head and resting a trembling hand on his cheek. “No, no... this is not your fault, baby brother... take a deep breath, okay? I’m gonna take care of it...” he promised, reaching for the bag again and pulling it closer to him.

The book was the first thing that came out. Jack didn’t want to get blood on it. So he put it to the side. Next, he carefully began to pull out every other item, one by one placing them on top of the bag so that he could see them all. Race looked up at him in fear. Jack leaned forward to press a kiss to his head. “I want you ta know that no matta’ what happens right now, I love you... so, so much...” 

All the child could give him in response was a shaky nod. So Jack sat back, picking up the bottle of whiskey and opening the thing. He stood, crouched over as he moved to his brother’s side. Then he pressed the bottle to his lips. “Take a sip. It’s okay...” he promised, petting the boy’s head as he did what he was told. After a second, Jack pulled the bottle back as Race coughed and stuck his tongue out in disgust at the bitter taste. “It’ll help, I promise.” His brother didn’t argue, he just choked back another sob.

“J-j’st leave it-“ the child began to beg, knowing whatever was about to happen would hurt like hell.

But Jack cut him off. “It’ll get infected. That knife wasn’t clean. I have to do this, kiddo. It’s gonna be okay...” he promised, gently taking the kid’s wrist in his hand. He reached back for the tape and looked around for something, anything to lay the hand down on. And he spotted a stool. Two of them, actually. They seemed to go with the table that Jack had found before. He slid them towards him.

Carefully and slowly, he lay Race’s forearm down over both of them. The back of the boy’s fingers were all that touched the one closer to Jack. And then Jack began to unroll the duct tape and carefully pin the kid’s fingers down to the thing.

The look of pure panic did not go unnoticed by Jack. “It’s okay, Racer. Breathe... I just need ta make sure ya don’t move it...” he explained. He made sure the boy’s fingers were secure against the stool nearest to him and then he taped down the kid’s wrist to the other. The wound hovered over the ground, in between them both. The boy was still hyperventilating. “Hey... Hey, what’d Charlie say? In his letter? What’d he say?” he asked, putting the tape behind him and grabbing the whiskey and one of the cloths. The thickest one he had.

Again, not something Jack truly wanted to talk about. But he knew Race did. They both missed their brother. So much. “H-he... uhm... he said that... that he’s got some friends he wan-nts me ta m-meet... c-cause he kn-nows I-I ain’t good at makin’ friends,” Race forced out with a bitter smile as more tears streamed down his face. “N-n’ he said... he s-said h-he misses you... n-n’ th-that I-I should h-hug ya f-for him...”

Blinking back his tears, Jack nodded, opening up the bottle and reaching to run a hand over Race’s hair before he picked up the rag. “You know what we’re gonna do when this is ova’? Huh?” Jack asked. Race shook his head, his lip quivering. “We’re gonna go see Crutchie n’ you’s gonna hug him, okay? Ya just gotta get through this, yeah?”

The hope that sparked in Race’s eyes was enough to make Jack melt. He smiled at him. He set the bottle down between them and reached to move the rag towards his little brother’s mouth. “Bite down on this. I know this’s gonna hurt, but ya gotta try not ta scream, okay?”

Race bit down hard on the thing. Jack nodded as he squeezed his eyes shut tight. The older boy reached for the bottle and quickly poured it over the wound flinching when Race cried out through the cloth in his mouth. “Okay! It’s okay! I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, baby brother,” he rushed out brokenly. It was taking everything in him not to start sobbing. “Please try not ta scream. I know it’s hard, but ya gotta try, okay?” The child did not open his eyes. But he nodded.

The worst was yet to come.

Jack turned for the pencil. He felt a pain stab through his own hand at the thought of what he was about to do. He gripped the thing tightly with his left hand and then grabbed for a thinner cloth from the bag.

Whiskey was poured over the thing, making Race wince at the smell. Jack sighed, pulling the metal eraser off of the pencil and making sure the edge wasn’t too sharp. He wrapped the cloth around the small wooden stick as tears came to his eyes. He sucked in a breath as he sat up on his knees to lean over and give his brother a kiss on the head. “Okay... okay, baby, I’m so sorry! Don’t move, okay?” he rushed out in a breath as he tried to prepare himself for this.

Jack didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need Race to know what he was about to do. He let the tip of the covered pencil hover above the wound. And then, he slowly began to push it through.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for the muffled scream Race let out at that.

Moving slowly was the only option. Jack made sure the cloth spread out so it could fully disinfect the entire wound. He was careful not to tear even more skin apart. He didn’t want that. He just wanted his brother to be okay. “I’m so sorry, T... I’m so sorry... It’s almost over, I promise...” The boy was mumbling. Race was screaming. Trying to hold back, but still screaming. 

They’d find them soon. Jack knew they would. Those dogs were dumb, though. All they had to do was get past those stupid dogs and get out of this damn house and maybe Jack could even run. With his brothers. Both of them. Maybe Charlie would finally forgive him or at least want to be with Race enough that he’d just go with them. Because Jack was not losing Race. Not a chance. 

The pencil was still in Race’s hand. The boy’s whole body was tense as he bit down hard on the cloth in his mouth. He was sure his teeth were going to break. It hurt. “Almost there, bubba, I swear... it’s almost through...” 

Race shook his head. He didn’t believe him. It hurt so bad. But he felt Jack’s hand hover below the back of his own. And the pencil was now being pulled rather than pushed. In a matter of moment the thing was gone and tossed aside and Jack was grabbing for another cloth. A longer one. One that he quickly began wrapping around the child’s hand.

The cloth fell slowly from the child’s mouth. Saliva and blood stuck to it as it fell to the ground. Race had forgotten his nose had been bleeding. It must’ve stopped by now. He didn’t care. All he cared about were the quick gasps that were all he could take in for air. 

Jack sighed as he tied the makeshift bandage and lowered his head in defeat. He hated seeing his brother in pain. It was the most painful thing he’d ever felt. He wanted so badly to take it from him. To carry all the pain himself. He couldn’t. Life didn’t work that way. 

He scooped up the duct tape again, making sure it didn’t touch the wound, but securing the bandage around his brother’s hand as best he could. And then, with the scissors he had, he cut through the tape that pinned the child’s hand down to the stools. 

The hand was cradled against his brother’s chest again in an instant. Race was breathing shallowly. He was still sobbing. And all Jack had to offer him was what was left of the bottle of whiskey he’d stolen from a man who would be more than angry when he found them. 

“Here... drink a little bit... it’ll help,” he coaxed. Race took the bottle quickly, taking a swig and coughing even more than he had the first time. “Okay...” Jack breathed, taking the bottle back and placing it behind him. “You did so good, kiddo... so, so good...” 

Sniffling, Race looked him dead in the eyes. Jack always loved Race’s eyes. They were so different from his and Crutchie’s green ones. They were the purest kind of blue Jack had ever seen. But right now, they were so, so scared. “C-can we g-go see Charlie now?” he asked desperately. 

Feeling his heart just about shatter, Jack took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah... yeah, we can go see Charlie now...” he whispered, reaching to run his fingers through the child’s hair. Race let him. And Jack called that a victory. 

They could still hear people below them, looking for them. Jack moved to pull his brother into his lap. The weakened boy let him. The dogs were barking and the other kids were groaning and all Jack could do was hold his brother as the younger boy began to fall asleep in his arms. Well, pass out in his arms. 

Not daring to doze off, Jack looked around for anything to distract himself. He looked around for anything to do while he waited for the search party to die down. And his eyes landed on Race’s book. But Jack had no interest in reading about a magical land with a magical train station or a flying car at the moment. No... what sparked his curiosity was that letter sticking out from inside it. And Jack couldn’t help himself anymore. 

He grabbed the thing. And he couldn’t stop himself from reading it. 

Hey, Racer, it read, in their brother’s neat handwriting. Jack took a deep breath.

I miss you too, buddy. I miss you so much. And, don’t go telling old Jackie-boy this, but I miss him too. Make sure to give him a big hug from me, okay? 

Jack sniffled. He held his brother tighter. 

Look, I know you didn’t want me to ask. But... how’s the new place? Are you both safe? I know you said you can’t sleep in the same room, here. I’m sorry about that, kid. I know how much you hate that. But do you have a nice bed? Do you sleep at night? Are the other kids nice to you?

I know you don’t like to talk about it. But, I need to know that you’re both okay. Clearly whoever your with doesn’t let you use your phone too much, otherwise I’d be talking to you everyday. Just let me know that you’re safe and warm and you have a new book to read. 

My foster mama is great. Her name’s Miss Medda. She’s a doll. A singer. You’d love her. She loves you already. And Jack (even though I told her he can be a bit of a handful).

Jack actually laughed at that, though he knew it was true. 

Think of it, kid. All three of us in the same house again. She wants to take you guys in. She wants to meet you. Maybe the next time I get to visit you at the park, I’ll bring her along. 

And.. maybe bring Jack. I know he thinks I’m still mad at him... but bring Jack. 

Oh! And I’ve got some friends that I want you to meet. I know you don’t like meeting new people, but you’d love these guys. They’re just as annoying as you are. 

Your brother,

Crutchie

P.S. In case you need it ~ 332-555-6147. 

P.P.S. I love you, baby brother.

Oh what Jack would give just to see his little brother right now. The boy was always so level headed and smart. He needed that right now. Someone level headed. Because Jack swore the next time he saw Snyder he’d actually run a steak knife through his hand. 

He sniffled, closing his eyes for just a minute. He leaned down to press another kiss to Race’s head. It amazed him that the boy was asleep. He might’ve had more whiskey than Jack had thought. But it didn’t matter. Jack was glad for that. It was better that the boy be asleep than be awake to feel the throb in his hand. So he let him rest, silently swearing to keep him safe until it was okay to move. 

It wasn’t until hours later that Jack and Race were able to slip from the house unnoticed. It had to be close to two in the morning. The guards had long since moved on from the house. They were on the streets now. No way that Snyder was calling the cops. He couldn’t have that on his record. 

So Jack scooped his brother up in his arms, shoving the book and the letter beneath his sweatshirt and he began to make his way to the front door. 

He didn’t really know what to do next. All that he could think about was Charlie. What would Charlie do? Would he be subjecting Race to this kind of cold? Would he take the kid to a hospital? Would he report Snyder and risk them all getting separated? 

Jack was scared. 

So, without much else to do, Jack found a payphone. He couldn’t answer these questions. He wasn’t Charlie. Only one person would be able to tell him what to do right now. Besides, he’d made Race a promise.

Grabbing a quarter out of his pocket, Jack typed in a number and waited, letting Race cling to him with arms around his neck and knees around his hips. He swayed slightly, trying not to wake the boy up too much. 

“Hello?” a tried voice answered. Jack blinked back his tears once again, leaning his cheek against the back of Race’s head as he held the phone up to his ear. “Hello?” the voice asked again. 

Clearing his throat, Jack managed to come up with a small, “Hi...” He never was the best with words. 

But apparently, that was all that was necessary. “Jack?” 

Forgetting for a moment that the boy on the other end of the line couldn’t see him, Jack nodded. And then he shook his head, trying to focus. “Look, Charlie I don’t have time ta apologize, but know that I want to, okay? Right now... right now Tony needs you... so-“ 

That was all it took. “Where are you?” 

Fifteen minutes later, a nice black car pulled up to the curb Jack stood on. And a sixteen year old with wispy blond hair and worried green eyes was standing from the passenger seat and rushing towards them. Well... limping towards them. With a silver crutch beneath his right arm. 

Jack didn’t say anything as Charlie immediately began to try and check over the boy in his arms. His eyes only lingered on the kid’s bandaged hand for a moment. Race was almost fully asleep now. Jack couldn’t blame him. “Get him in the car,” the boy ordered calmly, going to open the back door for him. Jack did as he was told. 

Gently and carefully, he sat Race in the backseat, mindful of his hand. He buckled the boy in, watching as his head lulled to the side a bit. He carefully pressed a kiss to the boy’s shoulder before he stood back up and quietly shut the door beside him. He barely turned around before he had arms thrown around him. Jack couldn’t help but return them. “Hey, Crutchie...” he whispered, sniffling and pressing his face up against the side of his brother’s head. 

“Hey, Jackie...” the boy responded, tightening his hold. 

They stood there for a long while. It was odd. Something that hadn’t happened in a long time. And Jack had missed it. “I’m so sorry, Charlie...” he breathed, a single stray tear falling down his cheek. “Thank you for coming...” 

“I’ll always come for you guys...” the younger boy swore, pulling away and offering Jack the most innocent smile he’d ever seen. “Now get in the damn car,” he instructed. 

And Jack smiled too. 

The car smelled like new. Jack hadn’t been in a new car in years. He rarely ever had foster parents on the richer side. But this car was nice. He pushed that to the back of his mind though, as he turned to his baby brother again. He pet the boy’s hair gently and smiled as he watched the boy sleep for a moment. 

“You must be Jack.” Jack turned at the female voice that met his ears. He smiled sadly and nodded. “And that’s Racer...” she stated, gesturing towards him. She was twisted around in the driver’s seat. She was a woman with chocolate skin and pearly white teeth that shined even in the darkness. She was smiling. She was smiling even though it was 2:25 in the morning and she’d had to get up, get in her car and pick up two complete strangers. “I’m Medda. It’s so nice to meet you two, Charlie tells me about you all the time!” she smiled. 

“So what happened?” Crutchie asked as Miss Medda began to pull back onto the road. 

Hesitantly, Jack looked down at the boy right next to him and then back up at the two people in the front seat. “Um... he... he got stabbed...” 

It was a miracle that Crutchie didn’t somehow jump back there. He whirled around even further. “What?!” he hissed as Medda pulled back over so she could turn around. His green eyes were wide and terrified. And Jack could see the anger in them. He assumed it had to be directed at him. After all, he was supposed to protect Race. He was supposed to keep him safe. 

Suddenly, Jack felt himself getting more and more uncomfortable. He shrunk in on himself a bit as Race’s head rolled onto his shoulder. “Our foster dad came at me with a knife. Racer jumped in front of me and put his hands up to defend himself and the knife went right through his palm,” Jack explained quietly. 

“And you didn’t take him to a hospital?!” 

These were the kinds of things that were the start of the arguments. It always was. Because they both loved Race so much. And they both thought they knew what was best. “It ain’t that simple, Charlie-“

“What ain’t that simple?! Takin’ our baby brother ta the hospital when he gets stabbed through the hand?!” the sixteen year old demanded. 

Jack scooted forward in his seat. “When I’m bein’ hunted down by dogs n’ two maniacs who’re there ta keep us inside?! No! It ain’t that simple!” he shot back. That seemed to shut Crutchie up quick. He sat back down in his seat with wide eyes. He hadn’t known. Jack hadn’t meant to make him feel bad. Not really. He’d just wanted him to understand. “We hid for a while. I... I disinfected it as best I could n’ I waited until I could call you...” he explained. 

A groan made its way through the air. “Please don’t tell me you did what I think you did,” Charlie begged, sounding sick. 

“What did you want me ta do, Crutch? Just leave it like it was?” 

“You didn’t have ta put him through that-“

“He’s stronger than you think he is! All I did was try ta keep it clean-“

“I can’t believe you did that ta him-“ 

“I am not the one who hurt him-“ 

“Jack, would you just-“

“We’ve been together for two minutes and you’re already on my back-“

“Boys!” 

Miss Medda’s voice was quiet but somehow it was still booming. Jack and Crutchie stopped arguing immediately. Charlie actually turned back in his seat and faced forward. Jack just sat back, leaning his cheek on top of Race’s head. “I’m sorry, Miss Medda,” he mumbled. 

“Honey, I’m going to take him to the hospital, alright? We’ll all go together. I’ll make sure neither of you are going back to that house,” she promised. And Jack’s heart melted. He felt warm teas fill up in his eyes. But he didn't want to let them fall. Not yet.

All he was able to say was, “Okay...” as the car pulled forward. 

It was then that Charlie turned around again. “Can we wake him up? I really wanna talk ta him,” he asked quietly. His eyes looked the sleeping child up and down with a sort of longing. Jack had heard an old foster parent of theirs once say that they all had a certain “love language.” And that somehow, theirs had miraculously all turned out to be touch. Charlie wanted to hold Race. And Jack wanted to hold them both. 

However, in all honesty, Jack didn’t truly want to wake Race up. But he supposed, if they were in fact going to the hospital, it might be best for them to tell the kid that. So he lightly pressed a kiss to the child’s head. “Hey... Tony, can ya open your eyes for a second?” he asked, reaching over to squeeze his arm a bit. 

Smiling as his baby brother stirred a bit, Charlie sighed. “Racer...” he whispered. “Wake up, kid...” 

Without even opening his eyes, a very sleepy fourteen year old sucked in a quick breath. Like he was shocked. “Charlie?” he whimpered. 

The older boy nodded, reaching back to rest a hand on his little brother’s knee. Jack smiled. The boy did flinch. “Hey, buddy!” Charlie whispered. “Can ya open your eyes for me, pal?” 

Slowly but surely, those big blue eyes opened up and a sleepy grin spread over the kid’s face. “Hi, Char...” he breathed, curling further into Jack. “What’re ya doin’ here?” he asked, confused. He thought they were still at Snyder’s. Jack pressed another soft kiss to his head. 

“I’m here ta see you, silly,” he laughed, smiling over at Jack. “You’re gonna be okay, baby brother...” 

Jack nodded, reaching to place a hand over Crutchie’s. The sixteen year old looked over at him with a kind of forgiveness in his eyes. Jack felt his chest warm a bit. And Race nodded into his shoulder, believing that maybe everything would be okay.  

Medda watched them through her rearview mirror. It was the first night that she’d ever get to spend with all three of her boys. And she’d treasure it for the rest of her life. 

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

A/N: This was so different for me in so many ways. Writing Crutchie as older than Race possibly being the biggest one. But, jeez, that was fun as heck.

Anything specific anyone would like to see with these prompts? Lemme know!

Thanks for reading!

[7deadlycinderellas]

If the summer of lives could just come again, ch 15

Ao3 link

Over the Wall

Jon would have never believed he would miss Ygritte busting his chops. Ever since they’d reached the cave she had been nearly sedate. If he hadn’t seen her receive her wound, he would think the blow to the head had been much more severe than he had thought.

The cave is safe, and warm enough (but not really warm at all). Jyna manages to get a small fire going at the mouth. Rowan finds them food (as much as that green moss could be considered food). And they all spend a few days recovering from their journey.

The first night, over their meager meal, Gilly sits by his side, feeding her son, and he finally asks her how the all of them ended up with Rowan at all.

“Did anyone tell you about us? Any of the crows?”

Jon shakes his head. He’d overheard a bit about what they called Craster’s Keep, but didn’t really understand what it was.

Gilly takes a deep breath, and launches into her story. About her father’s...peculiarities. The sharp intake of Jon’s breath brings a flush of something over Gilly’s face that he can’t quite identify, but she doesn’t stop her story. She tells him about her most recent pregnancy, and about what Craster would do to her child if he were born a boy.

“I couldn’t let that happen. So when I could stand again, I grabbed him and staggered out into the forest.”

She had hidden, still bleeding and exhausted, for three days. After those three days, she had found one of Rowan’s caves, and found herself face to face with a creature she had only heard of in stories.

“I told her what my father would do to my child. And she took my hand and asked if I was willing to help her. That if I did, it would not only protect my babe, but thousands of others as well.”

She spoke of Rowan leading her back to her home in the dead of night, giving her a poultice of herbs similar to the one they’d used on Jon and Ygritte to use on her father, and helped her wake and lead her sisters from the shack.

It hadn’t been hard, she said. Though none of them had ever had the bravery to flee before, they had all hoped somehow she would make it away.

And with their father in a drugged stupor, all of them had lit fire to the keep. Nearly everything in it was wood, aged and dry. Rowan had provided the spark, from the strange sort of orb she’d conjured, and in the dry wintery wind, it had gone up in seconds.

Her story takes most of the night, but it’s not like theirs much else to do. All they seem to have now is time.

And in that time, Jon finally finds the time to ask Rowan some of the dozens of questions that have spent the past year  

“What is this place?” is the first.

“This cave used to be known as the cave of the three-eyed Raven,”

Jon flinches at the memory of what his sisters had once called Bran. His eyes follow Rowan’s gaze, which lands on a spot on the inside wall that is littered with twisted tree roots.

“It was once the home of the last remaining alive of my people. Now it’s just me, and now it’s just a cave. But it also holds the last bits of our magic and culture. And our last hope.”

Rowan had gazed out the opening of the cave, over the hillside.

“Even the weirwood above is merely one of our wards, the last things to protect this place.”

Her eyes suddenly take on a deep, faraway sadness. It’s like the one Jon once saw on his own sisters’ faces, but heavier, more lasting.

“The last greenseer once led your cousin, Brandon Stark, here, in the hopes of passing on his skill and knowledge, in the hope that it would be enough to stop the rise of the Night King.”

“It wasn’t enough?” Jon asks, with a note of darkness to his voice.

Rowan shakes her head.

“It was never enough. Brandon Stark was a child, ill-prepared. Brynden Rivers was human once, but he hadn’t been human in a long time, and I believe he had truly forgotten what it meant.”

That fits perfectly with the what the girls had said had happened to Bran. They had seemed very disturbed to speak of it.

“Brynden Rivers’ powers gave him an entire view of humanity, of it’s past and present, but sometimes it’s future as well. I don’t feel that all of that was necessary.”

“If you…” Jon cuts himself off, “If you don’t think that needed to happen, then why am I here?” Rowan waits a time before answering.

“As a child of the forest, I have certain abilities that protected me. As the rest of my people died around me, I slunk off and hid. This is just one cave, but the deeper you go, you will find more and more. All of this land, in fact, beyond the wall, is connected. I can cross the frozen landscape without ever seeing the sun. And so, while my people were slaughtered, I hid.”

Her eyes bear witness to her shame. Jon can only imagine, having everyone you knew, everyone you loved, wiped out so wholly. To truly be the last of your race. She should be proud, he muses, to have survived, to still be alive, but it must be so lonely.

“After what happened, I began practicing, stretching what magic I knew I could still use. It’s not much in the grand scheme of things, but I had a few tricks left. So I built a plan, something that I thought might give you all a second chance.

The children of the forest aren’t bound by time like humans. Sometimes we live very long lives, lives that you would call generations. And in my life, I learned to pull the land back with me. So I used that, I pulled it back. I pulled it back far enough that humanity would have a chance.”

“But..but if you just pulled the land back, how come it’s not just you who remembers? Why do my siblings too?”

He won’t call them his cousins. Though they may be what they are, it’s not what they are to him.

“Jon Snow, have you ever pulled a piece of fabric? Have you ever pulled it as far as it would pull? What happens?”

Jon tries to picture her words. He imagines a piece of clothing stretched too long, pulled desperately onto someone it no longer fits.

“It tears.”

Rowan nods.

“What I did took a toll. The magic we have is deeply tied to the land of this world. And bits that are the closest to the old world- such as the swamps you call the Neck, and for that matter, even this cave too- took the brunt, and when I pulled, holes formed. And where there is a hole, things can travel through.”

Jon is silent for a time, trying to wrap his head around her words. While he mostly feels like a gaping fish, he notes that Rowan’s gaze has moved to where Ygritte sits, silently.

“What about her?”

Rowan frowns, her ears drooping.

“Like I said, my magics are not great, and I cannot speak to all of the effects it might have. Perhaps it had something to do with her wound, perhaps it was because she came into contact with where the weirwood stood. Perhaps it was even a side effect of the wards on this place. “

She nods in her Ygritte’s direction when she stirs.

“But if you want to hear her story, I suggest that you ask her.”

Later in the evening, when the fire begins to burn down to embers, Jon takes Rowan’s advice. He sits beside her and offers her a bowl of that awful green moss. She takes it without a word. He doesn’t even have to prompt her.

“You said you would never betray me, and you left. And I swore I would kill you. And I tried, and I couldn’t. We stared at each other, but couldn’t kill each other. So some little fucker came and did it for you.”

Jon silently dwells on her words. She reaches and takes his hand, with surprising tenderness. There’s no mockery in her words.

“If they hadn’t taken us, we’d have gone back to Mance Ryder’s camp, halfway on the way there.”

“We aren’t though,” Jon insists, “We’re here.”

Ygritte raises an eyebrow in Rowan’s direction.

“Has she told you why we’re here?”

“A bit.”

“Has she told you why you?”

Rowan had used words, big words, about Jon. Those words had been on the way here, and have seemed to nearly disappear now that they’ve arrived.

“No, but I’ll ask her. She said we’ll start tomorrow, start with whatever it is she wants to teach me.”

Ygritte rubs her thumb along his hand.

“It better not be because you’re pretty. Because I still saw you first.”

 Winterfell

Autumn has turned starkly cold. The streams in the wolfswood have begun to freeze.

Arya returns home after the start of the year. She returns with many things. Names of wildlings within the walls who seem to have influence over the others (Tormund is among them, she had discovered. While she is sad he won’t recognize her, she knew he was never a kneeler). Names of guards who probably should be reassigned (She’d given them to the warden before leaving, with a few sickening details). And a dozen or more stories of death at the hands of the wights.

And a desperate desire to wear her own face again.

It was strange really, she’d never felt very possessive of her own face. She never thought it was all that great. But after months of wearing the face of a man twice her age who apparently liked to pick fights, she just wants to be Arya Horseface again.

“Did we ever get word from Davos?” she asks anxiously once she’s   greeted, and settled with everyone back at Winterfell. There’s venison for supper, and she gobbles it down. It tastes amazing after weeks of jerky and foraging.

Robb nods solemnly, and Arya is suddenly apprehensive at his answer.

“When he and Osha made it to Castle Black, the mutiny had already tipped off. Jeor Mormont is dead, and Alliser Thorne has taken control. They wouldn’t listen to a word Davos tried to tell them. “

“I sent Una after you left to find them.” Bran interjects, “Davos sent word to his second eldest son, and he set sail North. They’re trying to evacuate those they can south via sea.”

Arya is alarmed.

“The Watch at Eastwatch-by-the-sea patrols the sea looking for wildlings trying to sail south!”

“And Davos was a smuggler.” Robb tells her, “If anyone can evade the sea patrols, it would be him. And besides, Father always said the East Watch was a bit more lax than the others.”

She tells him of the talk she heard from the men and women within the Dreadfort. They’d taken to calling Robb the Young Wolf. And even though they still spat at calling him a king (which he wasn’t, she reminded some of them a few times) they at least seemed accepting that he wanted to stop the dead as much as they did.

“They may not have kings over the wall,” Arya tells him, “But they pick who will lead them, and they feel they know a good leader when they see one.”

“That still feels like a compliment I don’t deserve.”

Arya smiles and shakes her head, “Can you imagine them meeting King Robert?”

There’s laughter all around.

After supper finishes, she leaves to the forge to have a proper reunion with Gendry. Despite Meera’s best efforts, she told Arya he was still skipping meals.

He’s alone, and so when she sees him, obviously the best course of action is to tackle him. He’s off guard enough that she still can. She’s near all grown now, her head reaching his chin, and she doesn’t want him getting cocky.

When his back hits the floor, she rests her elbows on his chest and props herself up on them.

“Miss me?”

His eyes are tender despite the sting of his back hitting the floor. His lazily throws an arm across her back.

“More than you could imagine.”

After a bit, during which she sneaks back to the Great Hall and brings him some proper food, she asks him how everyone else has been holding up.

“Bran’s raven got back from Essos two moons ago. She made it fine, but he can’t navigate the land easily because he doesn’t know it. Him and Jojen keep pouring over books trying to figure it out. “

Arya nods, “I can help him with Braavos, but beyond that I’m no more use.”

“Rickon’s been spending nearly all his time with the wildling children. You’d think he was one.”

“That’s nothing new”

“He did manage to lodge an arrow all the way to the top of one of the ramparts the other day.”

“Oh, I’m almost sad I missed that.”

“Meera and I spent a long time trying to figure out how to get it down, but when everyone left, she just climbed up and pulled it down herself.”

“She doesn’t like climbing in front of Bran, she thinks it makes him feel bad.”

“I also heard Johnna and Willa arguing the other day about which of them gets to steal him.”

Oh, that might be a much bigger problem.

“Don’t they know….”

Gendry nods grimly.

“Right after you left, one of the wildlings working down in town tried to steal one of the kitchen girls. It ended with him with a broken jaw and one of the men who intervened losing a hand. “

At least no one had died. When Arya had left, she had thought that most of the women in Winterfell were cautious of the wildlings because of the stories of their cultural rituals.

“Robb made it terribly clear that we do not steal brides in this land, but I fear the girls might have just assumed that meant we stole husbands instead.”

This was going to be a fun one to undo. Both of the girls like Arya, so she might be able to break it to them.

“Also, you’re mother’s been giving me talking-tos lately. You should go spend some time with her.”

He doesn’t tell her that Lady Catelyn had pretty much tipped him over and shaken him loose as soon as Arya wasn’t near.

She had interrogated him as to near everything; his prospects, his dreams, his name.

“I like my work well enough. I could see spending my life doing it.”

“I understand you’ve learned yourself to be of royal blood, baseborn or not. Haven’t you ever thought of pursuing anything higher?”

Gendry grimaces. His younger self would have wanted nothing more. To have a name, a stake. To have something to offer. To show the world he was more than a bastard.

“I used to, but anymore...I have a skill, a skill I am good at. Your daughter doesn’t need me to have a name, she has one, one she’s terribly proud of. She knows her worth, and I know mine.”

Catelyn had studied his face, and found no dishonesty in his words. She can’t admit it out loud, she even scarcely can to herself, that she’s seeking in Gendry the same ambition she so feared in Jon. But she finds none.

She tries to keep this in mind in the following moons after her younger daughter returns home.

They are going over the paperwork together again.

“Food’s going to be a problem,” Arya comments, “We’ve been setting aside plenty, but with the influx of new people everything’s going to be stretched tight.”

“We may have to import, from the Reach likely, or perhaps Dorne. Your sister’s friendship with Princess Myrcella may curry us some favor.”

It seems ridiculous, Arya thinks, that something as necessary as food stores was put aside as ‘women’s work’.

There’s a bit of silence, before Catelyn asks her daughter.

“I suppose you’re approaching the age at which you married before.”

“Not quite yet, I think I was eighteen by then, I definitely wasn’t any younger than seventeen.”

“Well it is nearly four months passed your fifteenth name day. You were gone then.”

Arya suddenly pays attention to her mother’s tone.

“I had a cloak made for you then, but I can wait to give it to you.”

Arya had a creeping feeling she knows where this conversation is going.

“Mother, that’s redundant. We married properly before, in the Godswood. Ser Davos was there…”

“And no one else was.” Catelyn says, “And despite what you say, people will talk if you don’t follow certain customs...“

As if Arya had ever cared about other people talking, and their customs. Then again,

“...And none of us got to be there the first time.”

Catelyn reaches out and rubs Arya on the shoulders.

“You’re my daughter. I’d like to see you wed.”

She sighs deeply. She can’t fight her on that.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy, it can just be family. We’ll do it before the end of the year, the day of the last harvest feast. “

The last harvest feast hangs over the year. It gets dark earlier and earlier in the day, and on even the clear days the wind howls through the trees. The streams are frozen and the snow heavy, and the woods have gone quiet. Arya and Meera sometimes join the men on their hunting parties, but every time they return to Winterfell more and more empty handed. Winter might as well be already here.

Everyone trains more. Arya had begun insisting that Robb let her practice with her sword with both him and Theon. The dead will not go easy on them. The weapons stock hold grows. More and more wildlings trickle in, and must be accommodated.

At least, she thinks, once her and Gendry are married properly and will actually be expected to share a bed, there will be one more room to go around.

“It won’t be so bad,” Gendry muses when the morning comes, “At least you’ll have proper family here this time.”

“You just say that because you’re glad the Hound isn’t here.”

“Well he did find reason to call me a twat every other sentence.”

‘That doesn’t make you special. He called everyone a twat.”

Arya’s wearing the blue dress Sansa made her all those years ago. It fits like a glove now.

“Sansa’s going to kill me. She was mad enough she missed it the first time.”

And Father too, she thinks.

Everyone else in the household is bustling about with preparations for the harvest feast. The buck the hunters had returned with two days prior is being roasted, and everyone else runs to and fro with other foods, and furniture and all the other necessities, to notice the small group approaching the sept.

Meera’s the one who approaches with her cloak. It’s her old one, too short and worn. It will do for her maiden cloak. Meera’s also wearing the dress Sansa started for her all that time ago.

“Mother finished it? It looks nice.”

Meera fusses with the skirt.

“I guess it was too much to hope it was forgotten. I don’t know how to sit down in it.”

Arya laughs.

“You can kind of tuck it under. Be glad it doesn’t need a petticoat, I still never figured out how to manage those.”

They walk into the sept side by side. Arya pulls at her own sleeves.

“Sansa was so close about my size. I can’t believe it. Yours looks like it fits perfect too.”

“I was basically already grown when we left home. I guess anyway, that’s what people say. I don’t feel grown.”

“Neither do I, “ Arya adds, glancing inside the sept, where the old Septon stands, having arrived from the village that morning. Her siblings and mother have lined up, and Gendry stands at the front. Despite everything, her heart still skips a beat. She’s about to marry, a second time, but inside she still feels like a girl half the time.

The candles are lit, and the seven prayers said, and the seven blessings. Robb removes her cloak, and Gendry wraps her in the new one her mother made, thick and lined with fur.

The septon wraps their hands in the cloth, and they say the words and kiss, and everyone claps.

Five seconds later, Arya asks, “So can we all go eat now?”

Mother has respected her wishes to keep things quiet. The feast goes on as usual. There’s venison and pies and all sorts of food. This will be the last time of true abundance before winter sets in.

Robb teases her at one point over a tray of buttered carrots.

“You’re just happy to have escaped all the ceremony a marriage usually entails.”

“Exactly,” she tells him, “No fuss, no fancy gown, no bedding ceremony for me.”

“You know that once the word gets out, most of the household will assume you’re already with child.”

Arya winces, and says rather forcefully,

“No. I’m not doing that. No children for me, at least until this is all over.”

Her voice thins, at the idea of a babe born during the long night.

“If she’s scared of one of us having a bastard, it’s not going to be me.”

Their interrupted by Gendry standing up, and reaching for her hand.

“Well, it seems I am at least being forced to dance at my wedding,” she tells Robb when Gendry pulls her to her feet.

Bran sits on the edge of the dancefloor, watching everyone. Robb’s being passed around to what must be each woman in the village. Rickon is being pulled on each arm by Johnna and Willa. Even Jojen’s been pulled out, by the kennel master’s youngest daughter.

He was never one much for dancing, but it would be a lie to say he doesn’t feel like he’s missing out. Only mother sits at the head of the high table, alone.

“Not much for dancing myself,” Meera tells him when she approaches, handing him a cup of cider. It warms him, but doesn’t make his head as fuzzy as ale or wine.

“I saw the white raven pass King’s Landing today,” he tells her. Suxn had been returning with a letter from Sansa, “Winter’s weeks away.”

“I guess this will be the last celebration for a while.”

The silence between them is bordering on melancholy. After a long moment, Bran asks her,

“Want to get out of here?”

They end up back in the glass gardens again, though it’s a long walk by the back of the keep. It’s neither the first nor the last time. It’s functioned much like the Godswood in the last life, but Bran lacks the three-eyed-Raven’s resistance to the cold. They both sit on the ground to the front, slowly. Meera mutters softly that her dress is taking up too much space.

“It’s too close,” Meera admits, “I hate the idea of seeing one of those blue eyed fuckers again, but it just keeps getting closer.”

“We’re prepared, as much as we can be. And like I said, they shouldn’t be able to get over the wall yet.”

Meera shrugs, but doesn’t seem all that mollified.

“It’s nice to see Jojen having fun again,” she comments, thinking back to him dancing with the kennel-master’s daughter, “He’s spent too much of his life thinking about it ending.”

“I think all of us spend too much of our lives doing that.”

It’s a clear night, and there’s starlight peeking through the glass.

They were talking, and then they weren’t. They weren’t even touching, and then suddenly, they were kissing. If asked, neither of them would be certain which of them moved first.

Meera’s lips were soft, and she makes a soft laughing noise deep in her throat that goes straight to Bran’s heart. When they part for a moment, it explodes out of her, and he finds it infectious. She rests her forehead on his as they both laugh.

“We’ll be missed if we stay too long,” she says.

“Yes...yes we will,” Bran agrees, his hands finding hers, and then reaching to touch the side of her face.

“But not quite yet?” He asks, and she nods, still giggling.

Winter has come, he thinks, and they must find ways to stay warm.

The white raven comes two days later, to a solemn breakfast table.

And two more days later, the regular raven.

Robb reads the message with a grave face. All the others are frozen, waiting.

“King Robert is dead,” he tells them.

Everyone is silent, in remembrance. Arya’s stomach flip flops. Bran wonders what it will mean for Father and Sansa.

And Catelyn maintains her face, ever the lady.

[luminashdawnwing]

Shared Words

“Any news from the field, Magister?”

The voice of Luminash’s Ren’dorei prisoner was muffled by the folds of space that kept Lithendras contained within a corner of the magister’s ruined spire. Further distorting his voice was the soft hum of runic wards surrounding the makeshift cell.

As Luminash entered through the open arch, the sun just beginning to set as it had days ago when Lithendras had first made his presence in Nazjatar known, he grimaced.

“You are still awake? I had hoped you had nodded off again so I would not have to hear you prattle on,” Luminash said dismissively, setting a few scrolls carried under his arm on his desk.

Ignoring the jab, Lithendras continued, “Are your friends well, the small ones, those Kelfin? They seem a helpful sort. A shame they made contact with the Horde first, hmm?” The Ren’dorei laughed, an empty sound.

Luminash tensed, and took a deep breath, “They are well enough. They constantly poke and prod, practically begging to provide more and more aid. Much like you, in fact, but far, far more bearable.” He grimaced again as he made his rounds, touching a hand to each magelight orb in the chamber and bringing their light to life.

“Hm,” the Rift Warden uttered, leaning back against the cold stone wall of his prison and touching a hand to his cheek. The wounds he had sustained in Luminash’s assault had healed, but the marks yet remained.

Nearly an hour passed, and the sun fell the rest of the way under the wall of water, the shadows stretching across the salt-sprayed ground outside, but held at bay within. Luminash had set to work long before, scrolls unrolled on his desk, his curious naga runestone beside them. So absorbed was he in his work that he visibly started when Lithendras broke the silence.

“I have a proposal, Magister.”

Clenching his jaw, Luminash turned over his shoulder to look at his prisoner, “Do you? Must you interrupt my work with this?”

“I am surely to be put to death, yes, once all is said and done here, and you drag me back to Silvermoon?”

Luminash nodded assent as he stood, soft footsteps carrying him across the ever-damp marble to the bent space walling off his captive, “Unless you believe a tribunal of the Sin’dorei would let a Ren’dorei war criminal walk free, yes.”

Lithendras, too, stood, “My proposal, then?”

“You truly have come to speak. It seems it is all you do.” Luminash sighed, “Fine, then.”

“Information for information. I am cut off from all aid, both my allies and my magic, beaten and bruised and held captive. Satisfy my curiosity, and I will satisfy yours.”

Luminash’s eyes went wide, and then he laughed, deeply, richly, echoing in the nearly empty ruin, “You expect me to spill my secrets! For what? So you can run back to the Alliance with them? Do not think me a fool. The Unshackled now watch these roads, these hills, these crags, for any sign of Ren’dorei. You will not be escaping this place.”

The Rift Warden’s face was flat, serious, as he replied, “I know. No one else knows I am here. How many, I suspect, know exactly where you are, either?”

Taken aback by the frankness of the Ren’dorei’s speech, Luminash’s mirth evaporated.

“You came here for the same reason I did, Magister, I suspect. The nightmares, no?”

The magister’s eyes went wide once more, not out of surprised amusement, but a twinge of fear.

“Staring out over the Nazmir swamp, choked with corpses, watching as they are dragged below, swallowed up by something unknown, something unknowable. And there you are, watching me. Though, I predict...”

Luminash interjected, “I saw you, watching me.” He shook his head, eyes narrowing, “How. Did you send these dreams?” He raised his right hand, pulling off the ever-present glove to reveal the blue-black scars spider-webbed across his hand and forearm, voice rising in anger, “What, precisely, did this do to me?”

“No,” Lithendras replied, shaking his head, “I did nothing. Your scars are only scars. I came following a call, as did you. It has led us here, to that,” the Rift Warden raised a finger, pointing at the runestone on Luminash’s desk, “Knowledge.”

“It led me to the Tidestone, Rift Warden. The disturbance I felt, the power of the Titans abused. Not this naga relic, though there is undoubtedly...” He shook his head, as if dispelling some unwanted thought, “It seems we are playing your game after all, as I have answered your question. Answer mine, then: What is your interest in it?”

“As I said before, Magister: Knowledge. Power and knowledge unending.” He quirked a smile, its cast strangely familiar to Luminash, though he could not place his finger on it, “Early Shirakess, or at least once in their possession. The ability with the Void surpasses most practitioners, and it is of continuing importance to us that we expand our knowledge of its capabilities. It could even spread the gift of true clarity that we have received.”

Luminash recoiled slightly in disgust, a grimace on his lips, “I suspected as much, when you said it could free Silvermoon from its so-called servitude. It is fortunate that you will never lay a finger on it, you or any other of your kind.”

“Would it truly be so atrocious, Magister? To be whole again, part of a unified Quel’Thalas, the great High Kingdom, joined to all your kin once more? Was that not your vision once, too?”

He narrowed his eyes, voice growing cold, “Cut off from the Light of the Sun, starved for the Arcane without our Sunwell, and forced to battle the whispers in our heads? No, not like that. It was my vision once, yes, you are right, but that was...”

“Before the Purge, wasn’t it? Much changed that day.”

Luminash sighed heavily. He remained silent for a long moment before speaking, his voice softer, almost shaky, “You said before, in Nazmir, that you were there. On Pandaria. When you saw the Horde as a force of destruction. What happened to make you turn your back on your people, Lithendras?”

“I never turned my back on them.” The Rift Warden hesitated as well before continuing, “Luminash. I would ask how you could stomach watching them become what they have, party to great crimes and great evil.”

“Simply? We must survive. Divided, we cannot stand against our enemies.”

“And so you cut the Quel’dorei away, a limb, lopped off from its body, and tell yourself you are whole. And so you cut away the Ren’dorei, too, merely for taking a different approach to the same end. I agree. We must survive. But splintered?”

“I am loathe to admit, but you are not wrong. I believe that is where the similarity ends, however. Your methods are repugnant, and our - my - people will not accept it,” Luminash answered, quickly correcting his slip, “You avoided my question, though. I will answer one of yours in return.”

“Ah, yes. Pandaria, the Purge. As I said, I was there during the Pandaria campaign. In fact, I was there in Dalaran.”

Though his voice and manner had grown softer, Luminash tensed, hands curling into fists in spite of himself as Lithendras spoke.

“I watched as Sin’dorei and Quel’dorei warred in the streets, watched as the Quel’dorei went too far in sending their message, but also watched as the Sin’dorei rejected it as a message needing to be sent, and continuing to harbor darkness within their ranks in the name of unity.”

“And which were you? Do not think I haven’t noticed your deflection any time that bloodbath has come up,” the magister interjected, voice continuing to shake as memories came flooding up unbidden.

“Does it matter, truly? Would you be satisfied one way or another if you knew, or is your mind already made up? A hypocrite or a murderer, which would you prefer?” Lithendras’ voice grew distant, his tone resigned.

Gritting his teeth, Luminash took a breath in an attempt to still the shaking of his hands, “What is done, I suppose, cannot be undone. You have made your point, loathsome as it still is.”

"In time, there would be a third way forward, one that has already bound Sin’dorei to Quel’dorei in a mutual pursuit of knowledge. One that I had hoped you would be more sympathetic to.”

“Sympathetic? I understand, Lithendras, what the Ren’dorei sought, but to have followed in the footsteps of the great traitor, to threaten the very Sunwell, it is too much to simply let go. And Nazmir, what you have done...” He shook his head, “They died for me, Lithendras. And you are the one who killed them. Innocents, just like in Dalaran. And yet you claim I serve Death. That makes you a hypocrite as well a murderer, does it not?” Luminash’s tone remained measured, calm, even civil, but it had once more grown cool, rage simmering just below the surface.

“I understand, Luminash. Do you think I feel nothing for them? No regret, no wishing it could have been different? No, do not answer, I already know. All the same...” Lithendras continued, “My intelligence indicated a military encampment. Many were civilians, though, I will concede that now. But innocents? What were your goals in the swamp, Magister?”

Luminash drew his lips tight, foreseeing the trap being laid, “Seeking Titan technology for research and cataloging.” He measured his words well, saying no more than needed.

“To what end?”

“We aimed to keep it out of Nazmani hands.”

“Only the Nazmani? Why bring a contingent of skilled fighters for a threat almost entirely neutralized?”

“Fine, Alliance hands as well. Are you quite finished? Pleased?”

Lithendras shook his head, “What, then, would you have done? Cataloged and moved on to the next site, with no further goals?”

“Knowledge is its own reward, Lithendras.”

“Now you are dodging my questions. I told you my goals for the runestone - or whatever it leads to, or whatever larger whole it is a part of. Why not indulge me? The expedition is, after all, over and done with.”

Luminash sighed heavily, admitting defeat, “It could have been weaponized, in some way. An advantage, any advantage. The facility was containment, research, designed to purge Void corruption. It could have helped us against...”

“The Ren’dorei.”

The magister nodded in silence.

“Innocents, then?”

“They still died for me, Lithendras,” Luminash snapped, “I painted a target on their backs with my work, whatever its potential outcomes, knowledge for its own sake, defense, whatever it may have been!”

The Rift Warden crossed his arms and leaned back, more relaxed, against the wall, “We both have blood on our hands. Whether here and now, or in Dalaran, or in one of the many other wars our broken people have fought. It will not wash away, Luminash. But we may be able to cover it up, to find a new way forward.”

Luminash turned away from the Ren’dorei, once again finding his mannerisms oddly familiar, “I do not believe we can, Lithendras. I admire that vision, that you can still have that vision even after everything, but...” He shook his head, “We must survive, that above all else. If it is broken, fractured, then so be it. At least we will survive.”

“An understandable viewpoint, though you may find those fractures are less severe than you think, should you care to look deeper.”

The magister raised a brow, half-turning back to his captive, “And I suppose you expect me to, here and now? No, I believe we are done for the night. I am...” He sighed heavily, his breath still a bit shaky, “I am tired.”

“So be it, then.” Lithendras shrugged and pushed himself off the wall, moving towards the stone bench he used as a bed, “So, that was a no on news?”

Luminash could not help but laugh, which he immediately stifled. As he walked away, back towards his makeshift study, he replied, “The Palace is breached. This will all be over soon.”

[bloody-delicious]

Hey I loved your fic with Buhguul and a stressed reader. Can I please ask for the same but instead it would be with how Patrick Bateman or Harry Warden would care for a reader?

thank you! 💕

(also im sorry these took so long-im afraid their quality doesnt make up for it lol, i hope these are okay)

patrick bateman x stressed s/o

you had been sitting there for what felt like, and, in all probability, most likely was, hours. patrick’s usual spotless living room was now in disarray, folders and papers with scribbled unintelligible shorthand and crude sketches littered everywhere, with you, a picture of haggard exhaustion, eyes drooped with dark circles and painted with red lines that displayed your dilapidated state of being for all to see, positioned in the center of the chaos. body slouched over the heap of work before you, the crinkle of papers was the only sound audible in the empty space, besides that of the gentle hum of the new york city’s night life beginning to emerge from the shadows for a period of lawless play, sin hidden from the eyes of the exposing rays of daylight as the sun dipped below the crimson skyline.

you knew that you would eventually have to surrender to your aching body and clean up the mess you had made, as patrick would be home soon, and you knew that the sight of his apartment in such disorder would not spur a pleasant reaction. not wishing to flirt with such a dangerous notion, you decided that you should return the space to its original immaculate state sooner rather than later. with a heavy sigh, you picked yourself up from the floor, bones cracking and muscles stretching with a stab of pain, resisting the sudden movement. one by one, the work is picked up from the floor with aching hands, stuffed into their according folders, and though the incessant work disappears from sight, it lingers in your head like a throbbing tumor, keeping you from enjoying any moment of real peace. the folders are placed lazily on the coffee table, and you slump to your previous position on the floor, eyes glazed and staring at the now organized stack of unfinished papers.

even when the shuffling outside the door becomes audible and the sound of keys fitting into the lock reaches your ears, the door opening and the sound of tom ford oxford loafers stepping into the apartment pierces your silence, you remain in your trance, all of your senses numbed by your prostrated condition. heels clicked sharply on the floor, patrick walking further into the room, his sense of authority almost materializing as a tangible presence, his cold and almost foreboding demeanor suffocating the air. your partner was a powerful man, and though you were well aware of the threat he posed at all times, you had grown used to his degenerated mien, and became accustomed to his constant attitude of superiority, the perverted manner with which he held himself.

“what are you doing, y/n?”

patricks voice sounded peculiar, more peculiar than his normal tone. the facade of the typical upper class businessman had not yet faded away, his voice still carrying the faux sincerity that every yuppie in the entire state spoke with.

“work,” you mumbled, rubbing your inflamed eyes with weary hands.

“what did you say? i cant hear you when you mumble.”

his voice developed a more sinister undertone, a threatening connotation that you knew was not to be provoked further.

“work,” you repeated, this time fully articulating yourself. you didnt look over at him, head still resting in your palms.

your heard the heels begin to click across the floor again, increasing in sound as the man made his way over to you. you felt him sit on the couch behind you, body stiff, tense, like a predator ready to claim its prey. he was always like this. you had no idea how he maintained such a defensive state around the clock, how his mind could handles such endless rigidity. after a bit of an awkward silence, patricks hand finds its way to your hair, smoothing stray strands and feeling them on his skin. he continues to play with your locks, starting to almost pull on them, though it isnt to the point of pain. you sigh and try to relax your body, leaning back into his strong hands. his begins to pull harder on your hair, occasionally wrapping fistfuls in his palms, and small twinges of pain begin to take root in your scalp.

you say his name in an attempt to signal to him that hes hurting you, but he doesnt seem to hear, or he just doesnt listen. his hand wraps around your soft hair, suddenly gripping it and tugging on it with force. you let out a surprised cry and instinctively jump away, your hand going up to touch your head.

“patrick!” you scold, looking back at him. you can barely muster the energy to reprimand your lover, and youre sure that your words are not very intimidating, with obvious exhaustion laced in your voice and written on your face. patrick sits with his elbows resting on his knees, observing you with no expression. it appears that both of you are lost in your own little worlds.

“that hurt,” you say, hoping to reach him this time. nothing. he watches you still with emotionless eyes. the two of you sit in silence before he suddenly speaks.

“do you want to go out to dinner? wherever you want.”

his lips twist into a smile, but you do not reciprocate it.

“if you want to,” you sigh, knowing that trying to bring up the previous topic is useless. “im feeling really tired today. work is getting to me.”

there is another period of silence, and you see patricks face begin to change. it almost becomes darker, menacing.

“we could…do something else,” patrick suggests, his words practically dripping with a malicious nuance, immediately alerting you as to what he has in mind.

“no, patrick. you might like butchering people, but i dont. thats youre thing, not mine.”

patricks grin only grows wider at your words.

“whats the name of your boss again? i cant seem to remember.”

“no.”

“you said work was stressing you out, didnt you?”

“yes-“

“so let off a little steam, y/n, it’ll be a blast,” he interrupts, a wild look beginning to form in his eyes, excitement growing in his voice.

you let out a groan and turn away from him, putting your aching head back in your hands.

“im gonna call it a night, patrick.”

you gather yourself from the floor and attempt to leave the room, but a wrist grabs your hand with a tight grip, stopping you from going any further. you turn you gaze to patrick, who suddenly stands, bringing himself closer to you, his breath hot on your neck.

“dont you want to let off some steam, y/n?” his smile is wolfish and predatory, eyes locked in on his prey held firmly in his grasp. his free hand grazes the skin of your shoulder, his deviant intentions clear even through something as innocent as a slight touch. “you know i can make you feel better.”

his advances are appealing, but any activity with patrick is rather risky, and youd rather not wake up with the task of covering hickey after countless hickey, wrapping bite after bite, cleaning scratch after scratch. still, he is right in one aspect: you really do need to release some of the tension inside. his smooth, strong hand reaches your throat, gently caressing the skin before abruptly tightening his grasp, essentially choking you. you let out a startled gasp, and patrick only presses a rough kiss to your lips to silence you, teeth biting your lower lip. you begin to melt into his touch, knowing that youll be tired in the morning, knowing that it will be a rough night, knowing that god, you really do need this right now.

——————————

when you woke, it was still dark, your room illuminated only by the glow of the city outside the window. the sheets were tangled around your bare body, and, when you attempted to move, you felt the pangs of pain from the wounds given to you by patrick. eyes still heavy with sleep, you looked to your side to see him, still submerged in the bliss of sleep. when you looked closer, however, you noticed something odd covering his body. upon further inspection, you saw that your lover was painted with splatters of blood. panic rushing through your veins, you were about to wake him when you spotted something in your peripheral vision. laying before your bed was a body, surrounded by a pool of blood. slowly crawling over the bed to get a better view, you realized that the body was that of your boss. stab wounds littered his body, his striped suit tainted with a deep red pigment, eyes closed and blood trickling down his lips, his face pale as the moon in the midnight sky. you looked back to patrick, lying so peacefully in bed, covered in the blood of your (now former) boss. the man you had come to recognize as your partner seemed to have displayed the body before you as a gift, a sign of love, perhaps. his rather gruesome way of showing his devotion. you extended your hand to him, stroking his dark hair. you would deal with the consequences in the morning. the light would make everything clearer.

harry warden x stressed s/o

it was cold in valentine bluffs. winter was beginning to settle into the small town, extending its icy fingers through every corner and into every home. snow had begun to fall and formed a thin sheet over every surface, carrying with it a bitter wind that left most of the people within the town closing their doors and favoring a warm day inside, with heat flooding from their furnaces and hearty food cooking on the stove. you were among those who sheltered themselves from the cold weather, though your home was less comforting as opposed to the latter population. you sat at your desk, filling out paperwork that was meaningless to you, wishing for nothing more than to be done with such a tedious task. while you had accomplished quite a bit, there was still so much more to be done. a stack of papers as thick as a textbook sat adjacent to you, a constant reminder of how you would most likely be seated there for the rest of the day. not to mention the fact that you still had to fix that creaky hinge on the door that had been pestering you all week, along with the knowledge that tomorrow was monday, which meant that you would have to face the frigid outdoors to reach your workplace. a large sigh escaped your fatigued body, and you slumped down onto your desk, resting your head on the hard wood. it was hard to say how long you had been lying there before you heard the floor creak behind you. you raised your head lazily, turning around in your chair to see a man clad in a dark miner’s outfit and mask observing you from the doorway. you huffed with amusement, a small smile forming on your lips.

“harry, i dont think you need to wear that suit in here.”

still, he stood, his only movement the rise and fall of his shoulders with each heavy breath. since you two had begun your rather…odd relationship, and harry had moved in with you, he rarely took his uniform off, though you were sure it was quite uncomfortable. you knew that the man you loved was very troubled, and would need time to heal his wounds, you wished that he could at least feel comfortable in your own home someday. you rose from your chair and walked over to him, stopping right before your face was inches from his. the man never moved, or even flinched, simply stared down at you, his powerful form towering over yours. you raised your hands to cup his mask, and his hands instinctively grabbed yours, ready to push them away.

“wait,” you relented, keeping your grasp on the dark fabric. “what if i give you something in return?” harry didnt give in, and pried your hands off of him.

“okay,” you said softly in response to his movements. “i have to finish up some work, we can do whatever you want when im done, yeah?” you smiled at his expressionless mask, turning to return to that awful desk, that endless pile of paperwork. suddenly, a gloved hand seized your wrist, and you looked behind you to see harry, who had moved forward and grabbed you to stop you from leaving.

“come on, harry, i have to do this,” you told the masked man, a yawn nearly interrupting your speech. still, harry didnt move at your request, still keeping his grip on your arm tight.

you raised an eyebrow at him, turning around to make it easier to face him.

“itll only take a little while,” you lied. harry tugged on your arm this time, pulling you back towards him.

“harry-“

he shook his head, gazing down at your tired eyes. your hand in his, harry led you away from your desk, away from the incomplete stack of work that nagged at the back of your mind. harry brought you to the living room, simply bringing you to the couch in front of the radiating fireplace. you sat down next to him, the warmth from the hearth soothing your aching muscles. harry settled beside you, his eyes transfixed on the flames that blazed before the two of you. the image of the fire reflected in the eyes of his mask, and you stared, watching them flicker. harry turned his head as he felt your eyes on him, and a moment passed before harry took your hand again. this time, he brought it to his mask, and you suddenly realized that he was giving you permission to remove it. with anxious hands, you pulled off the mask, revealing harrys face, the fire giving his skin a warm red tint. you smiled at the image of your lover, and held his face in your hands, pressing a kiss to his lips. you thought you had felt the hint of a smile form on his lips. pulling away, you rested your head on the mans shoulder, the heat from the fireplace, the sound of harrys steady breaths, the warmth of the entire setting providing a calming lullaby that relieved all of the growing stress in your body and mind, until nothing remained but pure, simple peace.

[ironforgedrp]

♛   ARRYK LANNISTER

↳ details; male, 33. (b. 473) ↳ status; heterosexual, married, one son (aemos, 1yr old) ↳ faceclaim; chris hemsworth ↳ hails from; kings landing, the red keep ↳ loyalty; house lannister, the crown, the iron throne

↳ official title; king arryk i lannister, king of the andals, the rhoynar, and the first men, lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realm. ↳ unofficial title/s; the lion king, the golden lion, king of the iron throne & united kingdoms

↳ religion; faith of the seven ↳ spoken languages; common tongue, conversational high valyrian ↳ reason for being in sunspear; attending the summit as king of the iron throne & united kingdoms; accompanied by his wife, son & family

♛   PERSONALITY

↳ type; the executive (ESTJ-A) ↳ alignment; lawful neutral ↳ star sign; cancer ↳ positives; steadfast, respectful, protective, logical, dedicated, honourable ↳ negatives; tightly-wound, suspicious, proud, stern, rigid, combative

♛  BIOGRAPHY

↳ family lineage.

arryk was the first child born to his parents, the perfect heir and the first of three trueborn children. there was a golden haired trio born of the fair-haired lady alyson lannister (formerly of house sunglass) and the lord of casterly rock, lord tristifer lannister - the eldest of the previous lannister golden trio; tristifer, younger brother emrick and their sister nayah. there never seemed an end to the youthful, yellow-haired faces in the halls of casterly rock; arryk (dubbed lord lion as the heir to the rock), his brother; the middle child, lysella his younger sister (known as the golden flower), and frequent faces at the rock were willem and miranda of house clegane. young willem would grow to be close friends with arryk and become his squire when they reached manhood. miranda clegane, however, was arryk’s betrothed before either two had even been born: a marriage arrangement made after lord sandor iii clegane intervened and saved tristifer when a mountain lion suddenly attacked the lannister lord in their youth. arryk didn’t mind, it was his normal and he was his parents golden child; he was eager to be the leader of house lannister and warden of the westerlands.

despite the ringing of childrens laughter, and the radiant sun of lady alyson’s pure heart - a dark cloud hung inside the walls of the rock.  tristifer lannister was the lord commander of the lannister armies before his own father died and tristifer became the lord of casterly rock: he had been a storied knight and warrior and as such his reputation as the grey lion (due to his early-greying hair) cast a longer shadow than the height of the man himself. tristifer was fiercely passionate about house lannister, and about his children propelling themselves into the heights of the monarchical society. he firmly believed in the fact that house lannister, the golden house, were the superior of the great houses and also that house lannister should be the rulers of westeros. while he did try to instil this in his children, he was not as successful as he may have believed and hoped, but never the less arryk showed prowess in many ways, and so he was often considered the perfect golden lannister child.   arryk idolized his father, the mighty and proud grey lion of the west, and did everything he could to earn higher and higher praise but no matter how hard he did try, he always knew that the approval and the smile and the praise was… hollow.

none the less, when they could, the lannister boys ran riot with their cousins and wards: by the time they were all able to run they would drive their mother, maesters and septas mad with their tricks, their adventures that would see them missing for hours and their constant mischievous shenanigans. however, there was a strange dark shadow over the house lannister of casterly rock; after two healthy and strong sons lady alyson bore lysella, the last of the trio of golden haired children that tristifer had insisted upon having. lysella was not strong from birth, there was a rumour that she didn’t cry for a worrying about of time after she was born - but arryk was never sure, he had only seen six namedays when his sister was born and tristifer always snapped at his eldest son when he asked about how lysella was.   ‘you are a child, you understand nothing! she will be dead soon enough anyway so stop asking after her.’ was what tristifer would often shoot out as a reply, and it broke arryk’s heart. though, as long as his mother stood statuesque and proud of her children, arryk knew he could trust her to not allow their father to do anything to harm his sister.

through adolescence & manhood arryk began to take up more of the harsher pastimes than he had before, with sword and hammer wielding and practice two of his favourites. as much as he wished he could have spent his life on the battle field, having even considered both the kingsgaurd and the nights watch at one point if only so he could fight, his father made sure that arryk learned the history of his house and made it very clear that arryk was expected to carry on the lannister line as the golden son.  ‘house lannister is proud: we are mighty and we have gold in our veins’, his father always reminded him, and though they were a house with more than a few historical sins to it’s name - arryk made his peace with that, because he was always proud of his family. the dark cloud of the demanding, cold grey lion of the west seemed to grow and grow inside the walls of casterly rock, and it was almost unspoken rule to never antagonise the strict and stern and dogged man that tristifer had become in his years as warden of the west. it was such a slow decent into the stony, uncaring man that arryk to this day does not fully conceptualise it.

arryk and miranda had waited longer than most expected to set a proper date for their marriage; arryk and miranda both wanted to ensure that lady lysella was more than well enough to join the ceremony; arryk was twenty-five when he was certain and happy that no one would dare cast a crooked look at his sister.   then arryk’s mother fell ill, when she recovered the planning was then set in motion again as tristifer near demanded that all the westerlands finest would attended (arryk didn’t particularly care for the grandeur of a ceremony, but he could not refuse his father).   then again, it was postponed, and then again - though arryk and his betrothed were well settled into the life they both assumed to have planned out for them; lord and lady of the rock, wardens of the west. when, in early of 502AC, word came from the capital that the princess of house targaryen was actively looking for suitors after her brother had seemingly abdicated; arryk received an inquiry as to if he would be interested in presenting himself as a suitor from a great house, but he politely refused as he had already a betrothed. he was, for all intents and purposes, half-way down the isle when his father summoned him and informed him that he would not be marrying lady miranda clegane, but he was to be sent to the capital as tristifer and king maegor targaryen had apparently orchestrated his eldest son to marry into the crown and take it over.   faced with insurmountable pressure and unable to refuse his father, nor be the lannister who let the crown slip through his houses fingers… he departed obediently for a wedding to a woman he had never met.

wed and bed and crowned in a matter of weeks in 503AC, arryk’s life was completely changed, and another curve ball was thrown at him when word came from the westerlands that his former betrothed, miranda clegane, had suddenly passed in her sleep, the maester deeming it natural causes, despite not being ill. it rocked him, but as the new king and the face of the crown and his own house - arryk persevered. his father bragged the loudest and the longest about how his ‘golden son’ had, thanks to him, swiped the crown from house targaryen and taken over the lannisters ‘rightful’ place as the ruler of the seven kingdoms. a blessing in disguise (though not yet revealed to this day), lord tristifer lannister died shortly before his grandchild, prince aemos lannister, was born in 505AC, and the ruling of casterly rock was passed to his brother in arryk’s stead as he took the reigns of the entirety of westeros. or so he thought.

the schism, as he calls it, happened six months after his son was born and was set in motion by an unseen enemy that would not be found until after the murder of a dornish prince, the murder of several civilians and palace employees, the kidnapping and assault of nobles from the great houses of westeros, arson and finally, kidnapping and taking hostage the infant son of arryk & rhaena and the five year old daughter of lady wylla stark. damage done and offence taken at the crowns inability to protect it’s guests; the stormlands, the vale, the reach and the riverlands all withdrew from the iron throne and declared themselves independent kingdoms. the  bubbling tension was held off by the combined manhunt and rescue of the children and capture (and subsequent execution) of the traitorous lord of barrowtown; edderion stark. arryk’s thoughts are towards the future now, and how he can reestablish himself and his family as the true rulers of westeros, without bowing to the violent pressures of his family’s name.

↳ personality.

at his core arryk has always been optimistic and eager for goodness, he is by no means naive to the worlds problems nor does he think that the world is an inherently good place, but he has always been driven by a desire to do good by others. he balances this out with a strong sense of self, pride in his house and loyalty to his family, kin & those who earn it. however, the last few years have been frequented by death and loss; the broken betrothal and the guilt that weighed in his mind, then the sudden death of miranda, the loss of his father and the decline of his mothers health… it all took a toll on his pysche.

his optimism was slightly dimmed by the time he wore the crown, but lifted dramatically at the birth of his son aemos. it reinvigorated him tenfold, and despite all that has happened; the dothraki, the riots and the kidnapping and the treason of the barrowtons as well as the splitting of the kingdoms, he feels strengthened by his sons continued survival and the support he gathers from having his kin by his side, and a wife he believes wants what he wants for their son.

↳ the splitting of the kingdoms.

at the time, all arryk could feel was an impending sense of doom. the splitting happened before his son was taken, and thus before the enemy had been revealed - and even as he tried to conceptualise it all, the domino effect of it all would take his mind away from the treason against his kingdom and set it to the panic of a first-time father with a missing child. aemos safe and sound, edderion executed and all nobles returned to their homes, he is driven to bring himself back into the mindset of a king and ruler.

he looks to fortify the council of the iron throne with the best and brightest of all of westeros, and beyond if need be, and to ensure that going forward the kingdom of the iron throne would regain it’s rightful place as the head of the seven kingdoms - and hopefully without bloodshed.

 ♛   STATUS: TAKEN.

[allisondraste]

Temperance (5/?)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary:  Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:    Now a Grey Warden, Nathaniel soon learns that it is impossible for him to dislike everything much less than he wants to.

First Chapter Previous Chapter [AO3 LINK]

Vigil's Keep, 9:31 Dragon

Nathaniel did not loathe being a Grey Warden entirely as much as he had expected, although, that wasn’t saying much considering that he’d initially asked for death instead.  When he’d awoken after his Joining, nauseous, head pounding, but otherwise alive and unscathed, he was disappointed. After all, what reason did he have to live when his family was dead and he, disgraced?  

Now, he was indebted to the Grey Wardens and their commander, Lucia.  He wasn’t sure whether he should thank her, or resent her. However, the bitter taste in his mouth suggested the latter.  It reminded him of the darkspawn blood he drank, and he shuddered as he recalled the cold, sickening feeling that had overwhelmed him.  He wondered if that ever went away.

It felt more like hours than days, as time had flown in the process of clearing out the darkspawn from the Vigil.  It unsettled Nathaniel to walk the halls of his own home as a stranger, to see barracks and armories where bedrooms used to be.  Occasionally, flashes of faces of those he once knew crossed his mind, and he wondered at their fate. Standing in the dank basement dungeon, surrounded by dead darkspawn and charred remains, it wasn’t hard to guess.  

“Andraste’s arse, that stench,” exclaimed Anders, one of the other Wardens, a mage whose flippancy did him a disservice.  He covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm.

“What? You never smell a pile o’ dead bodies before,” Oghren, prodded with a low gravelly voice.  The dwarf had about as many manners as a boar’s backside, but he generally meant well. He sniffed the air deeply, and laughed. “What do you think, Commander? Squeamish?”

“It only smells a little worse than you,” she stated, expression flat as she continued to look about the room intently, “I’m used to it.”

Oghren laughed again, unbothered by the less than flattering remark.  He turned to look at Nathaniel. “Holding up alright over there, Howe?”

The question caught Nathaniel off guard, as he had not expected the dwarf to check on him, or anyone for that matter.  The bodies were just bodies to them, but to Nathaniel they could be people he knew. Friends, family members, even. He still didn’t know what became of Delilah and Thomas.  Were they among the dead here? Had they fled during the Blight? The thought of his little brother and sister being slaughtered in their own home sickened him more than the odor that filled the basement.  

Nathaniel opened his mouth to answer when the sound of a dog, whimpering in pain, filled the room.  In the far corner, Lucia knelt by the limp form of a young Mabari. He walked over to them and knelt down beside her.  The hound had several deep wounds from darkspawn teeth and claws, infected and festering. It appeared to be corrupted and close to death.

Lucia turned to him, her piercing eyes brimming with tears, though she fought to hide them.  “We can’t save her, can we?”

Nathaniel shook his head, somberly, “I am no healer, but those wounds -.”

“Anders,” she shouted desperately.

Anders, who was a healer,  approached and examined the dog, before shaking his head as well. “I’m sorry, Luce,” he said with a degree of informality that baffled Nathaniel, “Even if I could heal the wounds… she’s been exposed to darkspawn blood, and that is beyond my expertise.”

“Better to put her out of her misery,” Oghren added, “Give ‘er a quick death.”

“Damn it,” she hissed, closing her eyes, brows pressing together as she inhaled a shaky breath.  She pulled a dagger from her belt, and held it in her hand, the blade trembling despite her effort to keep it steady.  She let the blade hover over the hound for a few moments before dropping it to her side, “I can’t do it. I can’t.”

Her grief was puzzling.  It was impossible to believe that this woman, unable to bring herself to kill a hound out of mercy,  could be the same ruthless, power-hungry tyrant Nathaniel pected her to be. How could someone who seemed so gentle and practical murder his father in cold blood? It was one of a few things he had learned in the days since his Joining that did not quite add up.  

He shook his head and picked up her dagger that lay beside him.  “I’ll take care of it.”

Lucia looked at him, stunned at his offer.  He couldn’t blame her, as he had done little in the past few days that did not suggest he hated her.  Still, she nodded and stood, walking over to Anders, who placed a hand on her shoulder.

Nathaniel held the dagger tightly, his own shaky hand betraying him.  As a trained assassin, it should have been a simple matter. He knew the exact place to stab, to assure an instant, painless death.  Yet his confidence wavered. Mabari were highly intelligent, and this one was barely more than a pup. It felt uncomfortably close to what he imagined it would be like to kill a child.  He understood his commander’s struggle.

The dog whimpered again, and he reached out to pet her head with his free hand, careful not to touch any of the wounds.  “Shh,” he soothed her “You’ve been such a brave girl fighting off these darkspawn.”

The Mabari calmed,  her little tail wagging weakly behind her, and a pang of guilt surged through Nathaniel’s chest.  He continued to pet and comfort her, until he sank the blade into her with one clean motion. When she fell limp immediately,  he exhaled his relief and wiped the blood from the dagger. It was then that he noticed a small scroll of paper attached to the dog’s collar.  He tugged it free and stood with the scroll and dagger in hand. He could hardly believe his eyes as he opened the note and read the hastily scrawled words.  

“Adria,” he muttered under his breath, and his heart leaped with excitement.  Someone he knew might be alive after all. He returned the Lucia’s dagger to her and showed her the note.

Offering him a slight smile of thanks,  she nodded and put the dagger back into her belt, before turning her attention to the note.  “Do you know this person, Nathaniel?” Her voice was weak, emotions clearly still raw.

“Yes,” Nathaniel answered quickly, eager to find the woman who wrote the note, “Adria was… like a mother to me, once my own mother passed.  We have to help her.”

“If there’s a her left to help,” Anders stated dryly.

“ Anders ,” Lucia scolded, darting her eyes toward the mage, before turning back to address Nathaniel, “We’ll do what we can.”

Nathaniel could hear the doubt in her voice as she headed toward the steps that led to the lower levels of the Keep, but he appreciated her thoughtful response, and followed after her.  

The lower floors opened up into a cavern Nathaniel could not ever remember seeing, not that he had been allowed the run of the entire Keep when he lived there.  At the far edge of the room, near a stone blockade stood a cluster of hurlocks, and in the middle of them, a woman.

“Adria,” Nathaniel called out and she turned around slowly, her posture slouched.  Her face was that of the woman he once knew, now marked and deformed by patches of corruption, her eyes milky white and hollow. “Adria… no.”  He turned to the commander and the others. “There must be something we can do, some way to-.”

Adria interrupted him with a ghoulish scream, and rushed forward, followed closely by the darkspawn. Nathaniel cursed, readied his bow, and nocked an arrow.

“I hate to say I told you so, but...”

“ Anders ,” Lucia scolded again, this time more harshly.  “Nathaniel, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.”  She took out one of the hurlocks with her broadsword, and cast a wave of ice toward another. Oghren then promptly shattered it with his axe.

“I understand,” Nathaniel answered, drawing his  bowstring back. He took aim at the monster with Adria’s face, yet he couldn’t bring himself to release the arrow.  He stood frozen for several moments before relenting, turning to shoot the last hurlock. His arrow hit the creature right between the eyes.  He nocked another arrow and made a second attempt at Adria, but his hands shook, and the arrow missed the mark.

Adria lunged at Lucia, clawing at her with black, corrupted fingernails.  The commander offered Nathaniel and apologetic glance before running her sword through the ghoulish woman.

“Sorry,” he said, looking down at the dirty floor beneath his feet, “I froze.”

“I noticed,” she replied as she attempted to catch her breath,  “I wish we had gotten to her sooner. Are you going to be okay?”

“I will be,” he sighed.  He should have known better than to expect Adria to be alive, after all.  “I think I need some air.”

“Go ahead, we can finish things up down here.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

When Nathaniel finally exited the basement, reaching the crisp air of the open courtyard, he headed directly for the makeshift archery ranges set up in a grassy corner of the area.  Filled with nervous and angry energy, he knew he needed a distraction, something to focus on intently and forget the horrible state of his life at present. As long as he could remember, shooting had been his release, his escape, and even now after several hours of battling darkspawn, he wished nothing more than to practice his bowmanship.

Time passed quickly while he stood alone firing off arrow after arrow, each one hitting the target, mostly clustered toward the center, with a few straying further away. His younger self would be proud.  Retrieving the arrows from the target, Nathaniel noticed that the light had begun to fade against the horizon, the chill in the air becoming colder with each passing minute. It was nearly time to turn in for the evening.

“There you are,” a voice rang out behind him, causing him to flinch.  He turned to see the Lucia standing before him, her nose reddened by the cold. She appeared to be holding something behind her back.  “When I couldn’t find you inside, I thought you might be here.”

“Am I that obvious.” He crossed his arms, both annoyed at her observation, and amused.

“Not particularly,” she said with a shrug, “I just pay attention.  It’s good to learn those you work with, the sooner the better.”

“Smart.” He laughed, despite himself.  He couldn’t pretend to despise her anymore. Not after everything that happened. “Is there something you needed?”

“”Yes, actually.”  She pulled a large, ornately carved wooden bow from behind her back, and extended it out toward Nathaniel.  “I found this while we were cleaning up in the basement. I thought it might be of interest to you.”

“Is this what I think it is?”  He took the bow in his hands, tracing the carvings with his fingertips. “It is.  This is the Howe family crest, right here.” He pointed to the image of the bear carved into the wood.  “It belonged to my grandfather, or at least he was the last one to use it. It was crafted for an ancestor long before that.”

“It’s beautiful,” she remarked, a small smile at the corners of her mouth, “It’s such a shame that it sat in storage for so long, collecting dust.”

“I found it once, when I was just a boy, and used it to practice.  Father was furious, and took it from me. Hid it away, I suppose. This is the first time I have seen it since.”  Nathaniel’s chest swelled with a mixture of emotion the bow’s memory brought. He was glad it had not been destroyed after all.  “I don’t know what to say. This is… thank you.” He brought his gaze up to meet the Lucia’s.

“I’m glad I was able to return it to you,” she said politely before looking down, and kicking at the grass with the toe of her boot.  When she looked up at him again, a pensive expression had crossed her face. “I actually wanted to thank you, as well, for what you did earlier, helping that Mabari.  I couldn’t bring myself to kill her, even though I knew it was the kindest thing to do. You must think me weak.”

“Not at all,” Nathaniel assured, surprised by her willingness to speak so candidly, “Compassion is not a weakness, Commander.”  

“That is… good to hear.”  She breathed in deeply and sighed, as if relieved.  “And Adria, are you-.”

“I’m alright.  I should never have gotten my hopes up,”  he admitted, “ I’ve lost so much, I was just hoping that one person may have survived.  Just one. I suppose that is too much to ask.”

Lucia opened her mouth to respond, but  she was interrupted by a man’s voice, calling out as he waved and moved in closer to them.  It was an elderly elven man, dressed in worn breeches and a dirty, linen shirt.

“Nathaniel Howe?  Nate? Is that you,” the man shouted, excitedly.  As he came closer into view, Nathaniel could see his features, kind and familiar.  “By the Maker, it is! I’d recognize that face anywhere.”

“Groundskeeper Samuel?”  Nathaniel rushed to meet him.  “You survived!”

“I’m tougher than I look, son,” the man snapped, playfully.

“Tell me Sam, do you know how my brother died? My sister?  I have heard nothing of them since I returned from the Free Marches.”

“Thomas died in the Battle at Ostagar, fighting in the King’s Army, the poor lad.”  Sam shook his head, and Nathaniel’s stomach churned. It was one thing to think his brother to be dead, but another thing entirely to have it confirmed.  It comforted him to know that Thomas had at least died honorably, fighting in the name of Ferelden’s leadership.

“Your sister, well,” Sam continued, “Lady Delilah’s not dead, Nate, at least as far as I know.  Last I heard she was living in Amaranthine, married to a merchant in town.”

“Are you serious?” Nathaniel was so overcome with relief he nearly cried. “Delilah’s alive?”

“Aye.”

“Thank you, Sam.  It is good to see you.”

“Don’t mention it.  It is good to see you, too, son.”  The elf smiled, and gave Nathaniel a rough pat on the shoulder.  “Don’t be a stranger.”

Nathaniel’s mind buzzed, torn between so many emotions.  It was difficult for him to truly mourn Adria and Thomas, when he was so overwhelmed with joy and relief that his sister was alive, and married no less.  Sweet Delilah, who had always endured his needless teasing, and who understood more than anyone else his conflicted feelings toward their father. He clutched at her ring that he wore around his neck before turning to face Lucia, whose eyebrows were raised with curiosity.

“My sister is… alive,” he finally spoke, stunned laughter lacing his words, “ I was beginning to wonder if it was possible for good things to happen to me anymore.”

“That’s wonderful news, Nathaniel.”  

“I know that we are busy, but do you think we will have time for me to pay a visit to my sister?”  His own groveling annoyed him, and he wasn’t even sure if it was necessary. It wasn’t as if Lucia were the heartless Warden-Commander of his imagination.  No, she had surprised him in plenty of ways in such a short period of time. He was not afraid to ask for a favor.

She seemed to sense his apprehension, offering him a warm smile and a nod. “Sure.  We will make time if we have to.”

Nathaniel breathed out a sigh of relief and thanked her, again.