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naffeclipse · 2 years

Note

Hi, hi!

I once again am having a couple of Bounty Hunter Eclipse thoughts and come with a couple of questions!

We know that both Sun and Moon love Eclipse. They have showed it a lot of times in this very AU and it's apparent in the finale of SJ. That said, it's clear that the rift between the detectives and their older brother has caused them a great deal of hurt and worries (one of which caused them to agree to not hide things from each other, period), not just because of seeing him go down a dark path, but because it feels like a betrayal and there were several fights between them that left some strong resentment in them.

So I was wondering, after that point of Eclipse finally seeing what needs to improve, how do conversations between each of the brothers individually and Eclipse go? I imagine there have to be several and that at the start they would mostly be Sun and Moon together when talking to him, but thinking about the ask response where the detectives way of coping with his death in SJ is different, they probably need to have their own individual talks with him in order to set some things straight right?

(sidenote: I have not read white coat and really need to get on that kdjhgkfdjh probably should have before asking this XD)

Sun and Moon tend to be on the same page, but I imagine they have different needs that require individual attention in this recovery period. If I remember correctly, after Eclipse's death in SJ Sun tended to overthink and try to find a way they could have saved him, guilt and regrets always lingering there. How would that talk go in this version where grief isn't the main drive for his thoughts? Not to say that he wouldn't know that the effort has to come from Eclipse, or that he would actually blame himself for all that happened, but maybe he would insist in talking about the things that went wrong? Or finally seeing an opportunity in Eclipse's newfound willingness to listen to correct past misunderstandings and finally get some closure from previous fights?

And Moon! Moon seemed to be the angriest, and even though he does still love his older brother, perhaps his resentment would bring about more tense one on one conversations? Because it is very hard to just let go of any feelings of betrayal even if there is a willingness to help. I'm sure Sun feels similarly, but perhaps it would be a bigger issue to address for Moon? I'm sure Moon is also relieved that Eclipse is making an effort to change and that he is very much active in helping him, but stuff like this would probably come up eventually right?

And ahhhh, last question (for no reason at all, don't worry about it, and never mind that it's a complete change of topics XD), when they were back in the daycare, was there a reason the staff would get particularly trigger happy with the controlled shocks, or was it more of a depends-on-the-employee's-mood kinda thing?

Ahhh, this is a big part of mending the brothers' relationships—though, of course, the love is still there, it's not exactly without strain because of past choices.

Sun always longed for a way to fix things before they got bad because after learning everything Eclipse did for them, he's appalled and shocked because that's Clip. That's his brother who is protective and caring, but he's doing this to take care of Moon and him? He doesn't understand how Eclipse could do these things, much less justify them, even if it was for their sake. He doesn't want to believe Eclipse is capable of cold-blooded murder like the monsters Sun so often takes off the streets.

Sun's and Eclipse's conversation doesn't start out like it should in the midst of Eclipse's journey to bettering himself. It's rough and both immediately misunderstand what the other is trying to say exactly which has hackles raised and then they're both on guard before Sun bursts out that he wishes he could have done more so Eclipse didn't have to, but Sun was out of battery the first night Eclipse helped them escape the daycare. Eclipse did everything he did so Sun could keep going and he just... he just wonders if he had been aware that night, if he could have stopped Eclipse from leaving and figured something else out for all three of them.

Eclipse is speechless. He never knew that. He never knew his brother felt guilty as Eclipse never once regretted it but Sun still doesn't understand. Sun thinks he could have done something more, but Eclipse knows the truth. They all would have run out of power and been left abandoned if he did not act like he did. Eclipse says it's not Sun's fault—it never was. Eclipse made his choice, and he would do it again for them, but that doesn't lay the burden on his little brothers. It's still his choice, but he's so sorry that his choices affect them like this. Eclipse never wanted that, never wanted Sun to suffer the consequences—that's exactly what Eclipse was trying to protect him and Moon from—but it seems even that isn't enough.

So, all Eclipse can tell Sun is that he needs to stop blaming himself because it was only Eclipse's choices that brought them all here, even if they were hard, even if they were wrong. Eclipse knows better now, and he can't undo the past, but he can ask for his brother's forgiveness for all the misery and woe he unwittingly and ignorantly brought upon them. He pulls Sun close and comforts him as he should have been better at doing, like he was so good at before, and lets Sun know that he always had a good heart (celestial wire).

Moon is a hard nut to crack as Eclipse has to go to him first. It's a dreaded conversation he has to have, and one Eclipse resisted for a long time because he knew it wouldn't be pretty, but he needs to. He needs Moon's forgiveness. Moon doesn't make it easy on him, either, He's still angry, still hurt, and he's gonna make it known when they immediately jump into an argument that boils down to Moon still not getting over how far Eclipse went when Moon trusted him to do the right thing—because he used to always do the right thing, but Eclipse betrayed him. He betrayed his trust and expected loyalty, regardless, and that angers Moon so much because Eclipse never acknowledges his actions as wrong.

Eclipse, however, is trying to, but it's a touch difficult when his ego is getting flattened underneath Moon's heel and though every word is true, Eclipse still remembers every reason behind his choices and he fights between the urge to fall back into old habits and defend himself or finally see what he actually did to his brother and accept that, maybe it wasn't entirely as justified as he once told himself it was. He has to look his mistakes and little brother in the face. He does. It's painful, like pulling teeth, but Eclipse is so tired of the tension and conversations quickly turning loud and harsh and he just wants Moon to look at him again like he once did.

Eclipse apologizes. He acknowledges that he hurt Moon and that he never, never should have asked Moon to lie to Sun, and that he did so much wrong. He's understanding now that it was all wrong. He's sorry he wasn't a better bigger brother. That, at last, lets Moon let down his walls and let go of resentment enough to finally say that Eclipse hurt him, a lot, but he's watching him become better, and that he forgives him. For the first time in a long time, they embrace.

After that emotional double punch, now for the last question! :D

Employees would get trigger-happy if Sun/Moon/Eclipse would hesitate or try to 'talk back'; the smallest thing that was deemed unsatisfactory in the animatronics, they'd get zapped. Eclipse learned how to keep those down to a minimum, but when Sun and Moon were added to the daycare, he would cover for them frequently as they learned the ropes. He, however, couldn't protect them from every mistake or 'act of defiance'. The owners were especially harsh. They never liked the idea of the animatronics being sentient, or the thought of paying them like they're employees, like they're people, so they were especially cruel because they could hurt them because they own them, so that means they're not people. Flawless logic for the owners.

#basically anything that wasn't strictly 'robotic' or obeyed flawlessly was a one way trip to getting zapped #but whoo i hope you like this one because i about cried ;-;#sleuth jesters #bounty hunter!eclipse #chaotikanvas

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confetti-cat · 2 years

Text

Each, All, Everything

Words: 6.5k

Rating: PG

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love, Romantic Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A retelling of Nix, Nought, Nothing.)

The giant’s daughter weeps, and remembers.

—

She remembers the day her father first brought him home.

It was a bit like the times he’d brought home creatures to amuse her while he was on his journeys, away on something he called “business” but she knew was “gathering whatever good of the land he wanted”. Her father had brought back a beautiful pony, once—a small one he could nearly carry in one huge hand. One for her, and not another for his collection of horses he kept in the long stables. She wasn’t as tall as the hills and broad as the cliffs like he was, so she couldn’t carry it easily, but she heaved it up in both arms and tried nonetheless. (And—she thought this was important—stopped trying when it showed fear.) She was gentle to it, and in time, she would only need speak to it and it would come eat from her hand like a tame bird. She’d never been happier.

(The pony had grown fearful of her father. Her father grew angry with anything that wasted his time by cowering or trying to flee him. There was a terrible commotion in the stables one day, and when she sought her pony afterward, she couldn’t find him. Her father told her it was gone, back to the forest, and he’d hear no more of it if she didn’t want beaten.)

(There was a sinking little pit in her stomach that knew. But when she didn’t look for the best in her father, it angered him and saddened her, so she made herself believe him.)

The final little creature he brought one day was so peculiar. It was a human boy, small as the bushes she would sometime uproot for paintbrushes, dressed in fine green like the trees and gold like her mother’s vine-ring she wore. He seemed young, like her. His tuft of brown hair was mussed by the wind, and his dark eyes watched everything around him, wide and unsure and curious.

When he first looked at her from his perch on her father’s shoulder, he stared for a long moment—then lifted a tiny hand in a wave. Suddenly overwhelmed with hope and possibilities (a friend! Surely her father had blessed her with a small friend they could keep and not just a pet!), she lifted her own hand in a little wave and tried to smile welcomingly.

The boy stared for another long moment, then seemed to try a hesitant smile back.

“This,” boomed her father, stooping down in the mist of the morning as he waved away a low cloud with one hand, “is what I rightly bargained for. A prince, very valuable. The King of the South—curse his deceitful aims!—promised him to me.”

“He looks very fancy,” she’d said, eyes wide in wonder. “How did the king come to give him to you, Father?”

“How indeed!” the giant growled, so loud it sent leaves rattling and birds rushing to fly from their trees. He slowly lowered himself to be seated on the weathered cliff behind him and picked up his spark-stone, tossing a few felled trees into their fire-basin and beginning to work at lighting them. “Through lies and deceit from him. When he asked me to carry him across the waters I asked him for Nix, Nought, Nothing in return.”

The little boy shifted, clearly uncomfortable but afraid to move much. Her father scowled, though he meant it as a smile, and bared his yellowed teeth as he laughed.

“Imagine his countenance when he returned to find the son he’d not known he’d had was called Nix, Nought, Nothing! He tried to send servant boys, but I am too keen for such trickery. Their blood is on the hands of the liar who sent them to me.”

Such talk from her father had always unsettled her, even if he said it so forcefully she couldn’t imagine just how it wasn’t right. Judging from the way the boy curled in on himself a little, clinging meekly to her father’s tattered shirt-shoulder, he thought similarly.

“Nix, Nought, Nothing?” She observed the small prince, unsure why disappointment arose in her at the way he seemed hesitant to look at her now. “That is a strange name.”

Her father struck the rocks, the sound of it so loud it echoed down the valley in an odd, uneven manner. He shook his head as he worked, a stained tooth poking out of his lips as he struck it again and again until large sparks began alighting on the wood.

“His mother tarried christening him until the father returned, calling him such instead.” He huffed a chuckle that sounded more like a sneer, seeming to opt to ignore the creature on his shoulder for the time being. “You know the feeling, eh, Bonny girl?”

The boy tentatively looked up at her again.

The fire crackled and began to eat away at the bark and dry pine needles. A soft orange glow began to creep over it, leaving black char as it went. With a sudden, sharp breath by her father, a large flame leapt into the air.

“It is good that she did so. He is Nix, Nought, Nothing—and that he will remain.”

—

Nix Nought Nothing grew to be a fine boy. Her father treated him as well as he did the prized horses he’d taken from knights and heroes—which was to say that the boy was given decent food and a dry place to sleep and the richest-looking clothes a tailor could be terrified into giving them, which was as well as her father treated anything.

Never a day went by that she was not thankful and with joy in her heart at having a friend so near.

They spent many days while her father was away exploring the forest—Nix would collect small rocks and unusual leaves and robin’s-eggs and butterflies, and she would lift him into high trees to look for nests, and sometimes stand in the rivers and splash the waterfalls at him just to laugh brightly at his gawking and laughing and sputtering.

Some days she wished she was more of a proper giant. She wasn’t large enough for it to be very comfortable giving him rides on her shoulder once he’d grown. She was hesitant to look any less strong, however, so she braided her golden curls to keep them from brushing him off and simply kept her head tilted away from him as they walked through the forests together.

He could sit quite easily and talk by her ear as they adventured. Perhaps she would never admit it, but she liked that. Most of the time.

“I’m getting your shoulder wet,” he protested, still sopping wet from the waterfall. He kept shifting around, trying to sit differently and avoid blotching her blue dress with more water than he already had. “I hope you’re noticing this inconveniences you too?”

“Yes,” Bonny laughed. “You’re right. I hope there’s still enough sun to dry us along the way back. Father won’t be pleased otherwise.”

“Exactly. Perhaps you should have thought that through before drenching me!” he huffed, but she could hear the grin in his tone even if she couldn’t quite turn her head to see it. He flicked his arm toward her and sent little droplets of water scattering across the side of her face.

Her shoulders jerked up involuntarily as the eye closest to him shut and she tried to crane her neck even further away, chuckling. Nix made a noise like he’d swallowed whatever words were on his tongue, clutching to her shoulder and hair to steady himself.

“You’d probably be best not trying to get me while I’m giving you a ride?” Bonny suggested, unable to help a wry smile.

“Yes. Agreed. Apologies.” His words came so stilted and readily that she had to purse her lips to keep in a laugh. As soon as he relaxed, his voice grew a tad incredulous. “Though—wait, I can’t exactly do anything once I’m down. Are you trying to escape my well-earned retaliation?”

“I would never,” she assured him, no longer trying to hide her smile. “I’ll put you in a tree when we get back and you can splash me all you like.”

Somehow, his voice was amused and skeptical and unimpressed by the notion all at once.

“Really? You’d do that?” he asked, sounding as if he were stifling a smirk.

She shrugged—gently, of course, but with a little inward sense of mischievousness—and he yelped again at the movement.

“Well, it would take a lot of water to get a giant wet,” she reasoned. “I doubt you’ll do much. But yes, for you, I would brave it.”

He chuckled, and she ventured a glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Bonny and brave,” he said, looking up at her with a little smile and those dark eyes glimmering with light. “You are a marvel.”

It would probably be very noticeable to him if she swallowed awkwardly and glanced away a bit in embarrassment. She tried not to do that, and instead gave him a crooked little smile in return.

“Hm,” was all she could say. “And what about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m Nothing.” The jest was terrible, and would still be terrible even if she hadn’t heard it numerous times. “But you are truly a gem among girls.”

If by gem he meant a giantess who still had to enlist his help disentangling birds from her hair, then perhaps. She snorted.

“I don’t know how you would know. You don’t know any other girls.”

“Why would I need to?” His face was innocent, but his eyes were sparkling with mirth and mischief. “You’re the size of forty of them.”

The noise that erupted from her was so abrupt and embarrassingly like a snort it sent the branches trembling. She plucked him off her shoulder and set him gently on the ground so she could swat at him as gently as she could—careful not to strike him with the leaf-motifs on her ring—though it still knocked him off his feet and into the grass. He was laughing too hard to seem to mind, and she couldn’t stifle her laughs either.

“Well, you are really something,” she teased, unable to help her wide smile as she tried futilely to cast him a disapproving look.

That quieted him. He pushed himself to sit upright in the grass, and looked out at the woods ahead for a long moment.

“You think?” Nix asked quietly.

She smiled down at him.

“Yes,” she laughed softly. “Of course.” When he looked up at her, brown eyes curious, she held his gaze and hoped he could see just how glad she was to know him. “Everything, even.”

A small smile grew on his own face, lopsided and warm. He ducked his head a bit and looked away from her again, and embarrassment started to fill her—but it was worth it.

It often weighed on her heart to say that more than she did. She supposed she was the type of person who liked to show such things rather than say them.

She had a cramp in one of her shoulders from trying to carry him smoothly, but the weight on the other one—and on his—seemed far lighter.

—

She remembered the day her father came home livid.

She couldn’t figure out what had happened. Had he been wounded? Insulted? Tricked? He wouldn’t say.

He just raged. The trees bent under his wrath as he stamped them down, carving a new path through the forest. He picked up boulders and flung them at cliffsides, the noise of the impacts like thunder as showers of shattered stone flew in all directions.

She was tending to the garden a ways off—huge vines and stalks entwined their ways up poles and hill-high arbors made from towering pines, where she liked to work and admire how the sunset made the leaves glow gold—and suddenly had a sharp, sinking feeling.

Nix was still at his little shelter-house at their encampment. Her father was there.

Dread washed over her.

“Riddle me this, boy,” her father boomed, in the voice he only used when he wanted an excuse to strike something. “What is thick like glass and thin as air, cold but warm, ugly but fair? Fills the air yet never fills it, never exists but that all things will it?”

There was silence for a long moment.

...Silence. The answer was silence. Her father was trying to trick him into speaking.

Her hands curled around the bucket handle so weakly it was a surprise she didn’t drop it. Her father could crush him if he felt he had the slightest excuse.

Hush, hush, hush, her mind pleaded. Her hands shook. For your life and mine, hush—

There continued to be silence for a moment—and then, Nix must have answered. (Perhaps in jest. He tended to joke when uncertain. That would have been a mistake.)

There came the indescribable sound of a tree being ripped from its roots, and the deafening thunder of it being thrown and smashing down trees and structures.

Her whole body tensed horribly, and all she could see in her mind’s eye was nightmares.

No, she thought weakly.

Her father kept shouting. But not just shouting, addressing. Asking scathing rhetorical questions. She felt faint with relief, because her father had never wasted words on the dead.

I should have brought him with me. The thought flooded her body and left room for nothing else but dread and regret. I could have prevented this.

The stables were long and broad and old. Once, they had housed armies’ steeds and chariots. Now, they were run-down and reinforced so nothing could escape out the doors. The roof was broken off like a lid on hinges at intervals so her father could reach in to arrange and feed his horses.

Her father had seen no reason to keep the stalls clean. When one was so packed with bedding it had decomposed to soil at the floor level, the horse was moved to the next unused stall. There were so many stalls that she barely remembered, sometimes, that there were other ways of addressing the problem.

“The stable has not been cleaned in seven years,” her father boomed. “You will clean it tomorrow, or I will eat you in my stew.”

She couldn’t hear Nix’s response, but she could feel his dread.

Her father stormed away, more violently than any storm, and slowly, after the echoes of his steps faded, silence again began to hang in the air.

That night, it was hard to sleep. The next morning, it was hard to think.

She did the only thing she could think to do in such a nervous state. She brought her friend breakfast. His favorite breakfast—a roast leg of venison and a little knife he could use to cut off what he wanted of it, and fried turkey-eggs, and a modest chunk of soft brown bread.

When she arrived with it, he was still mucking out the first stall. There were hundreds ahead of him. He was only halfway to the floor of the first.

“I can’t eat,” Nix murmured, almost too quietly to hear and with too much misery to bear. “I can’t stop. But thank you.”

The pile outside the door he’d opened up was already growing too large. Of every pitchfork-full he threw out, some began to tumble back in. He was growing frustrated, and out of breath.

Why would her father raise a boy, a prince, only to eat him now? Her father was cunning; surely he’d had other plans for him. Or perhaps he really was kept like the horses, as a trophy or prize taken from the human kingdoms that giants so hated.

Was this his fate? Worked beyond reason, only to be killed?

Pity—or something stronger, perhaps, that she couldn’t name—stirred in her heart. A heat filled her veins, burning with sadness and a desire to set right. Would the world be worthwhile without this one small person in it?

No.

This wouldn’t end this way.

She called to the birds of the air and all the creatures of the forest. Her heart-song was sad and pure—so when she pleaded with them, to please hear, please come and carry away straw and earth and care for what has been neglected, they listened.

The stable was clean by the time the first stars appeared. When she set Nix gently on her shoulder afterward, he hugged the side of her head and laughed in weary relief for a long while.

—

She remembered the lake, and the tree.

“Shame on the wit who helped you,” her father had boomed. He’d inspected the stable by the light of his torch—a ship’s mast he’d wrapped the sails around the top of and drenched in oil—and found every last piece of dirt and straw gone. Had he known it was her, that she could do such a thing? She couldn’t tell. “But I have a worse task for you tomorrow.”

The lake nearest them was miles long, and miles wide, and so deep that even her father could not ford it.

“You will drain it dry by nightfall, or I will have you in my stew.”

The next morning, soon as her father had gone away past the hills, she came to the edge of the lake. She could hear the splashing before she saw it.

Nix stood knee-deep in the water, a large wooden bucket in his hands, struggling to heave the water out and into a trench he’d dug beside the shore.

When she neared him and knelt down in the sand, scanning the water and the trench and the distant, distant shoreline opposite them, Nix fell still for a moment. She looked at him, hoping he could see the apology in her eyes.

“Can I help?” she asked.

He shook his head miserably.

“Thank you. But even if we both worked all day, we couldn’t get it dry before nightfall.” He gave her a wry, sad smile, full of pain. “The birds and the creatures can’t carry buckets, I’m afraid.”

It was true. They could not take away the water.

But perhaps other things could.

She stood and drew a deep breath, and called to the fish of the rivers and lake, and to the deep places of the earth to please hear, please open your mouths and drain the lake dry.

With a tumult that shook the earth beneath them all, they did. The chasm it left in the land was great and terrible, but it was dry.

Her father was livid to see it.

“I’ve a worse job for you tomorrow,” he’d thundered at Nix as the twilight began to darken. “There is a tree that has grown from before your kind walked this land. It is many miles high, with no branches until you reach the top. Fetch me the seven eggs from the bird’s nest in its boughs, and break none, or I will eat you before the day is out.”

She found Nix at dawn the next day at the foot of the tree, staring up it with an expression more wearied than she’d ever seen before. She looked up the tree as well. It seemed to stretch up nearly to the clouds, its trunk wide and strong with not a foothold in sight. At the top, its leaves shone a faint gold in the sunlight.

“He is wrong to ask you these things,” Bonny said softly. Her words hung in the air like the sunbeams seemed to hang about the tree. There was something special about this place, some old power with roots that ran deep. “I’m very sorry for it.”

“You needn’t be,” Nix assured her. His countenance was grey, but he tried to smile. “But thank you. You’re very kind.”

She looked up the tree again. Uncertainty filled her, because this was an old tree—a strong one. Even if it could hear her, it had no obligation to listen. “Will you try?”

He laughed humorlessly. “What choice do I have?”

None. He had none.

He could not escape for long on his own—he could not be gone fast enough or hide safely enough for her father not to sniff him out. The destruction that would follow him would be far more than he would wish on the forests and villages and cities about them.

She, however, bit her lip.

She slipped the gold vine-ring off her hand, and rolled it so that it spiraled between her fingers. It was finely crafted, made to look like it was a young vine wrapping its way partly up her finger.

“This is all I have of my mother,” she said quietly. “But it will serve you better.”

Before he could speak—she knew him well enough to know that he would bid her to stop, to not lose something precious on his account (as if he weren’t?)—she whispered a birdlike song, and pleaded with the gold and the tree and the old good in the world to help them.

When she tossed the ring at the base of the tree (was it shameful that she had to quell a sadness that tried to creep into her heart?), it writhed. One end of it rooted into the ground, and suddenly it was no longer gold, but yellow-green—and the vine grew, and grew, curling around the tree as it stretched upward until it was nearly out of sight.

Nix stared at her with wide eyes and an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it made her ears warm.

She smiled slightly and stepped back, tilting her head at the vine.

“Well?” she said. He was still staring at her with that look—some mix of awestruck and like he was trying to draw together words—and it made her fold her arms lightly and smile as she looked away. She quickly looked back to him, hoping faintly that her embarrassment wasn’t obvious. “You’d best hurry. That’s still a long way up.”

He seemed to give up finding words for the moment. Nix glanced up the tree, now decked with a spiral of thick, knobby vine that looked nearby like uneven stairs.

“Give me a boost?” he asked with a bright grin. “To speed it up.”

She laughed and gently scooped him up in both hands. “A boost, or just a boost?”

He beamed at her. “As high as you can get me,” he declared, waving an arm dramatically.

She laughed and shook her head. ”Absolutely not. Ready?”

Nix nodded, and she smiled thinly and poured all her focus into a spot a good distance up the tree. With a very gentle but swift motion, she tossed him upward a bit—and he landed on his feet on the vine, one shoulder against the bark, clutching to the tree for support as he laughed.

“A marvel!” he shouted down to her as he climbed. “Never forget that!”

The sun was nearly setting when he descended with the eggs bundled in his handkerchief. He was glowing.

He triumphantly hopped down the last few feet to the ground.

A moment after he landed, a soft crack sounded. He froze.

Slowly, he drew the bundle more securely into his arms against him and looked down. There, by his foot, was a little speckled egg, half-broken in the grass.

She put a hand over her mouth. Nix clutched the rest and stared.

A grievous pain and numbness slowly filled her heart, and she knew it was filling his too.

His shoulders began to shake, and his eyes were glassy.

“Well,” he laughed weakly. ”...That’s it. That’s... that was my chance.” The distress that overtook him was like a dark wave, and it threatened to cover her too. He only shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for—for helping me.”

For everything, she didn’t give him a chance to add. He was looking at her with the eyes of one who might say that. She couldn’t afford to be overcome with the notion of saying goodbye now.

“No,” she said. Her voice was quiet, at first, but it grew more resolute. “It won’t end this way.”

He blinked up at her, still clutching the other eggs to his chest. She looked down at him, then across the stretch of forest to their home.

Without a word, she gently picked him up and set him on her shoulder. Her jaw tensed as she strode quickly through well-worn paths of the forest, walking as fast as a horse could run.

Once home, she set him down. He was still looking at her questioningly. Her heart beat faster in her chest, and she hoped he couldn’t see the anxiousness rising in her and battling with the excitement.

“I will not let him have you,” she announced firmly. The trees and hills all around were witness to her promise. “Grab what you need. We’ll leave together in the hour.”

—

She‘d barely had time to fix her hair, grab her water flask, and decide it would be best this time of year to go south.

Her father’s footsteps boomed closer across the land.

—

They fled.

They ran, and ran, and struggled and strove, and she called for the help of anything she could think of that would have mercy on them.

Her comb grew into thorns, her hairpin into a hedge of jagged spires. Neither stopped him. Her dress’s hem was in tatters and sweat poured from her brow when they were finally safe.

Her flask lay behind them, cast down and broken, its magic used up.

Her father—her father—lay stretched out motionless in the flooded plain behind them, never to rise again.

—

There was a tiny spark of hope they had that they clung to. A hope of a future, of restoration, of amending the past and pursuing peace—of a life worth living, perhaps far, far away from things worth leaving behind.

(“I’ll go to the castle,” he’d said, his voice brimming with nerves and hope and uncertainty and sadness and an eager warmth. It made her heart try to mirror all those emotions alongside him. “I can tell my mother and father who I am. I’d still recognize them, even if they don’t know me. They’ll take us in, I’m sure of it.”)

He set out into the maze of village streets, assuring her he’d ask for directions and be back promptly. She stayed back by the well at the edge of the town so not to alarm anyone, too exhausted to go another step, but full of hope for him. She would wait until he returned.

(And wait. And wait. And wait and wait and wait and dread—)

The castle gardener came to draw water, and—as if she weren’t as tall as the small trees under the huge one she sat against—struck up a conversation with her about the mysterious boy who’d fallen unconscious across the threshold of the castle, asleep as if cursed to never wake up.

(The spark didn’t last long.)

—

She remembered when he could move.

“Please,” she whispered, as soft as her voice would go. “Please, if you can hear me. Wake up.”

(“Oh, dearest,” the gardener’s frail wife had murmured to her when the kind gardener brought her home to partake of a bit of supper. “I’m afraid they won’t let you in as you are. Would you let me sing you a catch as you eat?”)

The gardener’s wife was frailer by the end of it, but her heart-song could change things, like her own. Instead of towering at the heights of the houses, she was now six feet tall by human reckoning, and still thankful the castle had high halls and tall doors.

(Their daughter, a fair maiden with a shadow about her, had watched from the doorway.)

Nix Nought Nothing lay nearly motionless in the cushioned chair the castle servants had placed him in. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was in a deep sleep.

He was still smaller than she was, but not by much. He seemed so large, or close. She could see details she’d never noticed before—his freckles, the definition of his eyelashes, the scuffs and loose threads in his tunic.

The way his head hung as if he could no longer support it.

She held him gently—oddly, now, with both her hands so small on his arms and an uncertainty of what to do now—and wept over him. She sung through her tears, her heart pleading with his very soul, but to no avail. He did not wake up.

He didn’t hear her—likely couldn’t hear her. All around him, the air was sharp and still and dead. Cursed.

Still, her heart pleaded with her, now. Try, try. Don’t stop speaking to him. Remember? He never stopped trying.

“You joke that you are nothing," she said, with every drop of earnestness in her being. "But I tell you, you are all I had, and all I had ever wished for.”

There was power in names. She knew that. But was his even a proper name? It really wasn’t—though it was all he had.

It was all she had as well. She had exhausted everything else close to her. There was nothing left to call on, to plead with, but him.

“Nix Nought Nothing,” she said softly. “Awaken, please.”

Her voice, no longer so resonant and deep with giant’s-breath, sounded foreign in her ears. It was mournful and soft like the doves of the rocks, and grieved like the groan of the earth when it split.

“I cleaned the stable, I lave the lake, and clomb the tree, all for the love of thee,” she said, her voice thickening with tears. A drop of saltwater fell and landed on his tunic, creating another of many small blotches. “And will you not awaken and speak to me?”

Nothing.

—

She didn’t remember being shown out of the room. Her vision was too blurred, and her mind was too distraught and overwhelmed. The next thing she could focus on enough to recall was that she was now seated on a stiff chair in the hall. Someone had been kind enough to set a cup of water on the little table beside her.

The towering doors creaked softly behind her, and at last, someone new entered. She looked over her shoulder, barely able to see through the dry burning left behind by her tears.

A man and a woman stood in the door. They were dressed in fine robes, and looked like nobles.

"What is the matter, dear?" the woman asked, looking over her appearance with eyes soft with pity. She came close, and her presence was like cool balm, gentle and comforting. "Why do you weep?"

The gold roses woven in the green of the woman's dress swam in her vision as she dropped her gaze, unsure what to say. These people seemed kind. But were they? Would they send her out from here, unable to return to him?

They would be right to do so. She was a stranger here, and Nix could not vouch for her like he'd planned.

"No matter what I do," she finally said softly, "I cannot get Nix Nought Nothing to awaken and speak to me."

In one moment, only the woman stood there—in the next, the man was beside her. The air was suddenly still and heavy like glass, and it felt as though there was a thread drawn taut between them all for a moment.

"Nix Nought Nothing?" they asked in unison, their voices full of something tense and heavy and sharp. When she looked up, nearly fearful at the sudden change in their tone, their faces were slack and pale.

Something stirred in her heart. Look. What do you see?

Green and gold. Their wide eyes were a familiar warm brown.

—

Now, things are changing.

According to the servant who'd been keeping an eye on him, all from the kingdom had been offered reward if they could wake the sleeping stranger, and the the gardener's daughter had succeeded. It was a mystery how it had happened—by whom had he been cursed? Her father? Then why could she not wake him, but a maiden from the castle-town here could?—but now, with the King and Queen hovering beside her and unable to stay still for anticipation, no one cared.

The gardener's daughter was fetched, and bid to sing the unspelling catch for the prince. (Prince. He was a prince, while she was a ruffian's daughter. She kept forgetting, when she was with him.) It was a haunting one that grated on her ears, as selfishly-written magics often did—and as if bitterness still crept at the girl's heart at the sight of all who were here, she left as soon as it was finished.

Nix Nought Nothing awoke—he awoke! He opened his eyes and sat up and looked at her as if seeing the sunrise after a year of darkness, and how her heart leaps high into her throat at the sight—and true to form, only blinks a few times at her as he seems to take her in before coming to terms with it.

"You look a bit different," he remarks, tilting his head slightly. "Or did I grow?"

She chokes on a snort.

"Hush," is all she can say. What had been an attempt at an unimpressed expression melts into a wavering smile. "Are you done napping now?"

He opens his mouth to retort, but a grin creeps onto his face before he can. He snickers. "Have I slept that long?"

"Nigh a week," the Queen says—and when Nix turns his head and sees her, his eyes grow wide. The Queen's smile grows broad and wavers with emotion, and the King's eyes are crinkled at the edges, and shining. "It has been a long time."

Her own father had never shown love like this—like the way Nix tries to leap from his chair at the same moment his parents rush to hold him, all of them laughing and sobbing and shouting exclamations of love and excitement and I-thought-I-would-never-see-you-agains. So much joy rolls off of them that she thinks she could have stood there watching forever and been content.

The first thing he does, after the first surge of this, is turn and introduce her to his parents, who had barely finished hugging him and kissing him and calling him their own dear son.

"This is the one who helped me," Nix says, already gesturing to her in excitement as he looks from her to his parents. "She sacrificed much to save me from the giant. Her kindness is brilliant and she blesses all who know her."

She tries not to look embarrassed at the glowing praise as Nix comes and stands beside her as he recounts their blur of a tale to his parents.

"Ah! She is bonny and brave," says the King. By the end of Nix's stories of their escapes, they're smiling warmly at her with such pride that she dips her head and smiles.

Nix Nought Nothing glances sideways up at her and raises a brow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

"I've tried to tell her that," he agrees. "I don't think she's ever believed me."

She purses her lips and glances down at him. "I'll believe it the day you believe you are not nothing."

"Alright." Simple as that, he folds his arms and raises a brow at her. "I believe it. Fair trade?"

"Fair enough," she decides, with a crooked little smile. He beams, as if she's done something worth being proud of, and looks to his parents, who indeed look proud of them both.

"We would welcome you as our daughter," the King declares heartily, and both the Queen and Nix brighten, which makes her too embarrassedly fixated on the thought of family? Starting anew? to register what comes next. "Surely, you should be married!"

Nix looks at her, arms still folded, his eyes twinkling. There's something hopeful in his eyes that makes her certain this diminutive new heart of hers has skipped a few beats.

"Should we? Surely?" he asks, as if this is a normal thing to be discussing.

She works her jaw and swallows a few times, unable to help how obviously awkward she still likely looks. A flush tickles her face, and the queen seems to put a hand over her mouth to smile behind it.

"I... don't... suppose... I would mind," she manages, and—with those bright eyes so affectionate, and on her—Nix starts snickering at her expression. It's rude, but so, so warm she can't mind. She only discovers how broadly she's smiling when she tries to purse her lips and glare at him but is unable to. "Oh, go back to sleep!" she chides, too gleeful inside to truly mind, even as she makes a motion as if throwing one of the chair-cushions at him.

"Never!" he declares, pretending to dodge the invisible pillow. He makes broad gestures that she presumes are meant to emphasize how serious he is about this. When he stands straight and tall and sets his shoulders, she thinks that the boy she's explored the forest with really does look like a prince. "I have my family and my love all together in safety at last. We have much to speak of, and much time yet to spend with each other." He's a prince, but of course, he's also still himself. He immediately gets a mischievous glimmer in his eyes and puts a hand to his chest nobly as he does what he's done for as long as she's known him—jokes, when his emotions rise. "I shall never adhere to a bedtime as long as I live!"

My love, her heart still repeats every time it beats—as payback, likely, for her calling it diminutive. My love, my love, my love.

She doesn't let it out, for she doesn't know what it will do. But the words weave a song within her, so vibrant and effervescent and strong, brighter and clearer than any she's had before.

"I am glad to see you are certainly still my dear son," the Queen says, her own eyes twinkling. "I'm certain you both need fed well after such a journey. Come, perhaps you both can tell us more of it as supper is prepared."

They fall into an easy tumble of conversation and rejoicing and genial planning, and her heart is so light she thinks it must be plotting to escape her chest.

On the week's end from when she brought him here, Nix Nought Nothing and his family welcomes her into their home. It feels natural. It feels warm, and homey, and so pleasant and right that she often has to stop tears of weary joy from welling up as she considers it all.

Once upon a time, she thought she'd known happiness well enough without him. She had known what it was like to be without a friend, and without love.

Now, it’s hard to remember it.

#inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale retelling challenge #each all everything #theme: philia #theme: eros #story: complete #Nix Nought Nothing #fairy tale retelling #And there we have it!! A THING that is now FINISHED #Some changes have been made from the original fairytale #such as: no one’s losing their toes like that on my watch!!#please note that having everyone keep their toes actually improves the story #by letting the characters be happier thanks to having toes #you’re welcome #edit: I forgot it was fingers AND toes #oof??#this is an extremities-safe zone #Bonny and Nix #There are some parts of this I’m not sure are the best they could be BUT it’s FINISHED and that was my main goal!#(I don't finish things I start writing near often enough; so whoo! Small victory!)#wait a minute did I include all four types of love??#I DID #that's hilarious that was not intentional #at the discretion of the contest runner to include; as doing all four sounds a bit extra:#theme: storge #theme: agape #This was supposed to be a friendship/romantic love combination that would surprise no one who has read my writing #imagine my own (retrospectively unwarranted) surprise when it turned into an excuse for me to write all the kinds of love??#Anyway this was so much fun to write! I hope you enjoy! <3 #salt and light

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portokali · 2 years

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here's another tag game cause @pinknoisemp3 is a real one and tagged me to share 9 books i wanna read in 2023!! it's a game ive been tagged in before so pls don't take offense i never did it when you tagged me, i always meant to 🙏🙏

tagging some besties i talk abt books w but no pressure! @quillsand @soupbi @pherelpis @mousmoula @catboypranparakulisaro @darkside-cookies @byrons @teabox and anyone else who wants to!

#my first thot when i saw the arrangement of covets was aww i wish they looked prettier together :(( and then i had to stop myself like!!!#this isnt an aesthetic!!! anna you actually like reading remember???!?!???!!??!!#ok quick runthrough of the nominees: bloodchild - v v excited 2 read more butler whoo unsettling horror stories and the short story #collection tht features in this lineup!!#calling a wolf a wolf - every quote or individual poem ive read of kaveh akbar has been 🤯🤯🤯🫡🛐🛐 i definitely should read a full work!#beloved - SO excited to read another morrison LOVED jazz which i read this summer her writing is some of the best ive read!!!#the brothers karamazov - ill read this in greek definitely looks v challenging size wise but i rly wanna read it!!! has been so long since #i fully sank my teeth into a huge dostovyevsky novel n esp reading dos. in greek feels soo satisfying idk why..#i read crime n punishment in english n kt was NOT the same! wish i spoke russian 2 go str8 2 the orginal but alas #THE NAME OF THE ROSE this n the brothers are a case of my mutuals pick my tbr for sure!!! gi thats largely your doing tbh #her lover/i eromeni tis a greek lesbian classic thats also v hard 2 find in print form!!! hopefully i get it in my hands this year..#i ordered it on metabook so hopefully i havent just been scammed!!! lol #love in the time of cholera another classic I'll read in greek.. this and the monstrous regiment are alice recs ALICE I HOPE YOURE HAPPY #and arcadia by stoppard which is almost exclusively kaanu teabox propaganda!!! and as a play here to add to the mix yahoo!#tag game #2023

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efingart · 2 years

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Just What I Needed - Chapter 20

ao3

The metal folding chair squeaked under his weight as he shifted to lean his elbows on his knees. They were in the lab, which made him uneasy. But Hudson hadn’t wanted to give this talk around Bell.

Everyone began to shift in their seats as the briefing wrapped up. Anxious to get back to their work. Or grab a smoke.

Mason wanted to take the chance to talk to Bell. And maybe convince Woods to come with him.

Hudson brought the briefing to an end and nodded to Adler, who approached him.

He spoke in a low voice, and Mason caught a few words. From what he could gather, the Amsterdam Police had ID’d a body they fished out of the Amstel a few months back.

Might have been one of Adler’s guys.

Marshall Something. Or Something Marshall.

If it was a name Adler recognized he wasn’t showing any sign of shock. He just nodded in response.

Mason glanced back at Woods, who was leaning back in his chair, arms folded. He raised his eyebrows at Mason and shrugged. Then Woods stood up and stretched out his back.

“Damn folding chairs. Who designed these things?”

Woods kicked the chair closed and leaned it against the wall. Mason followed suit.

He opened his mouth to say something to Woods when Park stopped him.

“I need to talk to you about Bell,” She said.

“Oh yeah? I was just about to-”

“Then you should hear me out first.”

Park glanced between Mason and Woods.

“She’s not doing well,” Park added in a grave tone.

Mason sensed hesitation from his friend. For a fleeting moment, he thought Woods might stay, at least hear Park out.

But then Woods placed a cigarette between his teeth, tapped Mason’s shoulder, and said, “Meet you outside.”

Mason could only nod back. Park’s shoulders sank. She had likely been hoping the same thing Mason had. And now they both were left disappointed.

Then Park straightened up, ready to carry on with or without Woods’ help.

Brits can’t keep them down for long.

“What do you want me to do?” Mason asked her, not hiding the edge in his voice, “I'm not going to help you to get her fall in line.”

His concern was helping Bell get through this. She seemed to want to be better. She was sacrificing everything, and it felt like he was the only one on her side. No way would he help make things easier on Park and Adler. Let them manipulate her again.

Park shook her head.

“That’s not the problem.”

She stepped to the window and pulled the shade cord up. Through the glass, Mason could see Bell sitting at a desk. Headphones perched on top of her head. From this view, it looked like she was working diligently. Likely trying to decode whatever was on that recording they had found at Duga.

Adler’s evidence board was positioned just next to her. Instead of the usual intel, several maps had been pinned in place. Multicolored markers dotted the surface of the maps.

“As you can see, getting her to work isn’t the problem. But she’s not herself. Before a few days ago, she was at least lucid. Talking to people who weren’t there, but I could carry on a conversation with her. Now she’s a shell of a person.”

“I thought you would like having a little puppet to manipulate.”

Park ignored this jab.

“A few days ago, I found her passed out in the locker room,” She relayed this information impassively.

That was the thing about Park. He never knew if she was just good at keeping her feelings to herself or if she really was just a cold bitch. He didn’t really like to think anything about her, but he hoped she wasn’t so heartless.

Especially since Park was the only thing between Bell and Adler most of the time.

“She wouldn’t wake up. It was like before. Except when she had left this room, she was functioning as expected,” Park let out a heavy sigh, “We were able to rouse her using the trigger phrase.”

“Adler-” Mason corrected.

“Adler used the trigger phrase. But now, she seems only to be a shell of her former self. Sometimes I get glimpses of her personality, but then she’s gone again.”

Mason frowned. He looked at Bell again.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?” Mason shot at her. He was angry.

They should have never continued with this bullshit.

“I am, and I’m telling you, I can’t get through to her. It’s almost like she’s retreating inside herself. I’m worried we might lose her entirely.”

“Stop fucking drugging her then,” He slammed his fist on the window frame. It rattled the glass.

Bell sat straight up as if alerted by the sound but didn’t turn to look. After a moment, she continued with her work.

“You know that’s not an option. Not for the CIA. Either she continues to give them information, or they bury her. By any means necessary.”

“They might just do that anyway.”

Park nodded.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I don’t want that to happen.”

He didn’t quite buy it. He was sure people like Park and Adler were always looking for an angle. With Park, he didn’t know her deal. He knew Adler well enough that the guy definitely felt justified in his actions.

Mason was the only one who could really speak on what having your mind fucked with was like.

Not a picnic.

But Park? With all her experience, she probably had a clue.

It felt too generous to think that maybe she did have some empathy for Bell.

Probably just a guilty conscious.

Mason approached Bell. The sound of the recording leaked out of the headphones, her voice becoming clearer as he moved closer. He reached out a hand to gently touch her shoulder but stopped short.

The sound was not coming from the headphones.

The reel-to-reel was running, but it had reached the end of the tape, who knows how long ago.

It was Bell. She was speaking in a low voice. At first, he thought, maybe she was working out some problem with her decryption. But her tone sounded conversational. It was unsettling.

He wondered if this is what people experienced when he thought he was talking to Reznov.

Who was she talking to? Adler?

She couldn’t get away from him, could she?

He reached out again to touch her shoulder. She didn’t jump or react in the way he would have expected from someone who was being roused from deep concentration.

Instead, she just turned her head to look at him.

There was nothing there. No emotion on her face. It’s not like he expected her to hug him or anything. But he had at least thought she’d be angry, tell him to get away.

The lack of reaction was unnerving.

“Mason,” She finally acknowledged him.

Bell slipped the headphones off her ears and allowed them to hang from her neck. She looked at him expectantly.

Deep dark circles had settled in under her eyes.

Had she been sleeping at all?

Her skin was so pallid he had to wonder if there was still blood pumping in her veins underneath it. He resisted the urge to check her pulse.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

He pulled up a chair and sat close to her.

“I’ve called. You won’t take my calls.”

Her expression remained even and impassive.

“I know.”

“Bell, what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

Her tone was straightforward. Matter-of-fact. Emotionless.

Shell of herself.

She turned and picked up her notes, handing them to Mason.

“I’ve made a lot of progress,” Bell continued, “Do you recognize any of this?”

He scanned the page in front of him. The sequences were familiar, but some had been altered. New locations and dates, same directions?

Mason didn't know if the CIA had ever fully decoded the Ascension sequence. They knew enough to figure out at least part of it. He wondered if Hudson had authorized passing some of that information on to Bell.

Not likely. Hudson trusted Bell the least of all of them. Even less so than Adler.

Reviewing the page again, he realized it might have some insight into her mental state. There were obvious signs of attempts at decryption. Scattered notes in Russian. Like someone trying to solve math problems. It seemed like a pain in the ass to have to work backward.

While he might not have been able to read them, there was nothing in those that stood out as a red flag to him.

But here and there, wedged in the margins, crammed into small spaces on the page as if they were trying to hide, he could see something odd. These had a chaotic quality to them.

It could be nothing. But just like her body language, it felt off.

“What’s this here?” Mason asked her in a casual tone. He pointed to one of the more prominent sets of strange notes.

Bell’s dull eyes followed his finger to where he was pointing, and then she looked back at him.

“What do you mean?”

“These notes here.”

Bell placed her finger just above his on a set of notes that looked like a decryption process to him.

“You mean here?”

“No, just below that.”

She blinked and looked again.

“There’s nothing there.”

He pointed to another set of notes, “What about these?”

She shook her head.

Then moving his finger, he pointed to the normal notes.

“An attempt at decryption.”

Trying one last time, he indicated a different line of chaotic writing on the page.

Mason flipped the page around to examine it, confirming that there were, in fact, notes there.

It was like she couldn’t see them. He handed her the notebook back, and she turned to continue with her work. Or whatever she thought she was doing.

Mason’s gaze traveled behind her to look at the maps pinned on the evidence board.

One was a map of the world.

He recognized some of the pins.

Yamantau, Rebirth Island, several markers clustered around Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam.

He stood up to examine one of those.

Khammoune, Laos.

“These pins-”

Bell looked up and lazily followed where he was pointing with her eyes.

“Why these locations?”

“They were on the map at the CIA airbase in Cambodia.”

“You remembered all of these?”

“Not at first. I’ve visited it a few times now. I think they’re accurate.”

She rose to stand next to him.

She pointed at the pin in Yamantau, "You've been there. This year."

“Believe it or not I've been to all of these places. Yamantau was a crumbling mess at that time,” He said before adding, “Still is.”

He and Woods had left it in a worse state than they had found it, but no one had done more damage than Hudson’s team back in ‘68.

And Woods had gone there in ‘77 to take care of some scientist. Both times it had been suspected to be the site of Nova 6 development.

In fact, from what he knew, many of the sites she pinned were related to Nova 6 in some way. He wondered if Hudson had a chance to take a look at this yet.

“What do you mean you’ve visited?” He asked her.

Bell tapped her temple.

“It’s all in here now. It’s very helpful. I can go back and look around.”

Revisiting some of her worst nightmares.

Of course, isn’t that what they all did?

But for her, they were not just a distant memory. Everything she remembered now must have felt like it happened to her as recently as this year. It was all fresh in her mind. It must be completely overwhelming. He could understand why she might want to disassociate from that on top of everything else.

“Hey, I’ll be right back, ok?”

Bell nodded, though he guessed it wouldn’t have made a difference to her either way.

Mason walked outside. Woods was waiting for him, finishing a cigarette. He exhaled a puff of smoke before crushing the cigarette under his work boot.

Wordlessly he raised an eyebrow at Mason.

“Can you look at something?” Mason asked, throwing his thumb over his shoulder at the Safehouse door.

Woods’ shoulders dropped, and he moved his neck side to side as if trying to crack it.

Then he sighed in annoyance before asking, “What is it?”

He already guessed. He must have been standing out here waiting for Mason to join him and to ask him something about Bell. But he had to try.

“Some of Be-”

“No, no,” Woods cut him off, holding up a hand to stop him.

“Woods-”

Woods ran his hand over his beard, smoothing it out.

“No.”

“Look, Woods, she’s in trouble.”

“So Park said.”

“I talked to her. I looked at her notes. I don’t know what her they say but-”

“If you need a translator, ask Adler.”

Mason would rather get Woods’ opinion on it than Adler’s. And if he were being totally honest, he suspected that Adler wouldn’t bother sharing any details from her notes unless Mason needed to know them.

“Woods, you know he’s not going to help.”

“How many names, Mason?”

“What?”

“It’s been days. Can’t get it out of my head,” Woods explained, “That was a CIA base they hit. How many names you think we’d recognize? How many of our guys?”

“Most of them. Maybe all of them,” Mason admitted, “She was a soldier, too.”

“An enemy soldier. Russians supplied the VC. Trained ‘em. How many guys were shot down by AA guns she trained someone on?” He paused, thinking things over. It was plaguing him.

“You know how many pilots I met in there? How many guys in that hell hole were there- died there because of her? Doesn’t that matter to you? Keep you up at night?”

It did.

It kept him up at night.

Helping the enemy.

But how many people had they worked with before who had switched sides?

They never talked about the bad things they had done. Never had to.

No one was constantly diving into those guys’ brains dragging up their past sins.

And up until now, neither of them had ever felt the need to ask any questions.

Just glad to have the help.

If they weren’t dredging the depths of Bell’s subconscious right now, would either of them have a problem?

“Doesn’t it matter that she’s helping us now? She’s trying to change?”

Woods sighed. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it.

He chain-smoked more when he was stressed. That might be a good sign.

Woods handed him the pack, and Mason fished out a cigarette for himself.

He knew that if Woods was still willing to debate things, still working it over in his mind, this wasn’t his final absolute word on it.

But loyalty was paramount to Woods.

Part of what kept him awake at night was likely him going over each person in turn in his mind.

What would Bowman say? What would that kid on the boat say?

Each guy he met in the Hilton? Every SOG member who didn’t come back. Every one he had to leave behind in Da Nang as he crawled through the shit or whatever he had to do to get himself out of there.

That already ate him up on the daily. Not that they had talked about it. But Mason knew Woods.

Even though he himself had been half dead and starving, even though he could barely drag his own body out of there, the fact that he couldn’t do it for anyone else was always in the back of his mind as a personal failing.

Survivor’s guilt. Mason knew it too well.

And Woods was likely working through whether helping Bell would be an act of disloyalty to all of them.

But Mason wasn’t sure they had the time for Woods to debate it.

If what Park said was true, Bell was deteriorating fast.

And Mason knew that if something happened to her, Bell would be another name to add to Woods’ roster if something happened to her.

Woods finished his cigarette.

“Ok. I’ll look.”

He didn’t move. So Mason went inside to ask Bell if he could borrow her notes. And, of course, the dead-eyed girl gave them to him unquestioningly.

When Mason returned outside, Woods wordlessly held out his hand for the notes. He watched his friend intently as his eyes scanned over the page. Occasionally he would turn the notes sideways, following a thought trail where it had plowed through the page.

Woods’ brow furrowed as he quietly moved his mouth to work out the words she had written. Trying to decipher meaning from Bell’s madness.

Finally, Woods handed it back to Mason.

“It’s nothing, just venting,” He said, finally.

Mason frowned. Woods was holding back.

“Look, she doesn’t need us. I know you wanna make up for not knowing. For not seeing what Adler was doing right under our noses. I’m still pissed about that, too. But she came here to get away from us.”

“Or keep us away from her-”

“All right then, she’s saying she’s dangerous.”

“Woods, you didn’t see her. Go talk to her-”

Woods shook his head.

“Give those back, and let's go.”

Mason pressed his shoulder against the sticky front door to force it open. He staggered into the entryway of the apartment building, turning as he did to look at the door.

Its constant sticking had been a point of frustration for him. He could only think about what a hard time Em must have getting through with both the baby and the groceries.

Mason set a mental reminder to make a call to get it fixed.

And at the same time, he found himself examining the hinges.

Maybe some oil lubricant would do the trick.

Or graphite?

Wasn’t that just typical? He couldn’t fix anything else, so he felt the impulse to focus his energy on fixing the front door.

Why not just try to rehang the fucking thing?

He stepped away from it.

Vowing to contact whoever and not try to do it himself.

After checking the mail, he headed up the large stairwell.

He reached his door and tucked the mail under his arm before unlocking it. The scent of home cooking welcomed him inside. Kicking off his shoes and tossing the mail on the table, he stepped in.

Em was just inside the kitchen, trying to encourage David to eat apple slices, but he seemed more inclined to toss them on the floor and giggle.

A fun game for him, but Em clearly had had enough, and she let out an exaggerated sigh.

David only giggled in response.

“Mommy’s funny isn’t she?” He said as he mussed David’s hair.

“I think Daddy thinks he’s hilarious,” Em responded, tossing apple slices into the trash.

“He’s just telling you he’s ready for a big old steak,” He said, leaning against the counter and eyeing whatever was roasting in the oven.

Em laughed in a way that made it clear she wasn’t all that amused.

“You know, it’s humbling to go from interrogating a terrorist leader to being completely unable to get a baby to eat.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you want to switch places?”

“You’d have to work with Frank.”

There was that laugh again.

Woods and Em may get along now, but that wasn’t without effort.

When they had first met they were constantly butting heads.

She had her way of doing things, and Woods had his. Still did.

But it had left Mason with a dilemma. One, it was difficult to work closely with two people who were so at odds. And two, well, maybe he had been harboring a bit of a thing for Em at the time.

And he couldn’t even tell Woods about it, then.

But as it goes, one saved the other, and suddenly everything was copacetic.

Well, most everything.

Em rooted through the fridge and pulled out a block of cheese, setting it on the counter. She sliced a couple of thin pieces off and sandwiched an apple slice between them.

“I’m not sure who’s more stubborn, Frank or this little guy,” Em said.

David reached for the food and took a bite. After a moment of chewing that ended up on the floor as well.

Mason ruffled David’s dark hair.

“Ugh, I give up,” She said, throwing her hands up, “I think we have a winner.”

“I dunno about that.”

“What? Don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise?” Em asked. She looked at him curiously as she combed her fingers through her dark hair and pulled it into a ponytail.

On the drive back, he debated whether he would tell Em about what was going on with Woods. He couldn’t tell her everything, but he could give her the gist. She was pretty good at helping him work these kinds of things out.

“We don’t exactly see eye to eye on something. He’s fixated on this one aspect of the problem that he’s decided to wash his hands clean of the whole thing.”

“You’re kidding, Sergeant Woods, being a stubborn ass about something?”

“Yeah yeah, it’s just. Look, there’s someone who needs our help. And I think,” Mason rapped his fists on the counter in rhythm as he thought over his words, “I think I can’t do it alone. I need his help, and he just refuses.”

Not the best summary.

Em frowned and folded her arms as she leaned on the counter across from him, waiting for him to continue.

“You know how he is. Trust doesn’t come easy with him.”

She nodded. She knew what he was talking about.

“So this person hurt him?”

“No, not intentionally. She-”

“She?” Em raised an eyebrow, “God, can’t Frank get along with any women?”

Mason shook his head.

“It’s not like that. He did. They did get along.”

“So what-”

“Some stuff from her past is coming to the surface. Things she might have said or done.”

“I see.”

He could imagine what Em might have been thinking. It wouldn’t blow her mind to know they were working with a member of a terrorist group. She’d worked with agents of the CIA before. Many of them were double agents. So that could be enough.

He couldn’t elaborate on who Bell was.

“You know Frank and I don’t always see eye-to-eye, especially regarding work. But I’ve never known him to turn his back on someone in his team who needed help. He probably just has to work this- whatever it is- out for himself. Give him time.”

“I’m not sure if we have it.”

“Well, if he’s talking about it, that’s something, isn’t it? He hasn’t shut down yet.”

That was the conclusion Mason had come to as well.

“Seems like it might even be more complicated than you can tell me,” Em said.

He nodded. At least Em understood classified.

Civilians always think they get it. But they don’t. When they want to know something, they hope you’ll make exceptions. And get pissed when you don’t.

Em stepped forward and gently brushed an errant hair out of his face.

“If it’s the right thing, he’ll come around. He always does. You know how he is. He has to do things his own way.”

When he returned to the Safehouse the next day, he found Bell in the same spot. It was like she hadn’t moved since he last saw her. She and Park were in conversation.

“I saw it last night,” Bell’s voice sounded wooden.

“You went back?”

Bell nodded.

“The folder- what did it say?”

“Нова-6.”

“And the map?” Park asked, “Have you figured that out?”

“Pinpointing various locations where Nova-6 was stored or manufactured.”

“And this was at the airbase, you’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Do you know what happened next? Did you report your findings to Moscow?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you were in trouble. Do you remember with who?”

“The government.”

“Because of Nova-6?”

She shrugged, “I can’t be sure.”

“You hijacked a US helicopter and helped take out an airbase in a matter of minutes with minimal casualties. What the hell could you have been in trouble for?”

Bell shook her head.

Whatever they were talking about it had to be related to a recent session. He’d read the report later.

Park acknowledged him and handed him a folder as she walked back to the lab. Taking the folder he nodded to her.

“Hey, Bell.”

“Mason.”

“How are you feeling?”

Bell shrugged.

Again his eyes were drawn to the map behind her. Someone had pinned a map of the United States up just below the World one. There were no markers in it yet.

“What’s going on here?”

“Nothing new. I wanted to be prepared. I’ve requested a copy of the list we took from the KGB, but Hudson hasn’t approved it yet. It would help with the decryption.”

“You think these are related?” He asked, pointing to both the map of the United States and the Nova-6 locations.

“It’s the only lead I have.”

The locations of the sleeper cells and the Nova-6 containers scattered around the US were thought to have died with Dragovich. And with Steiner dead as well, concerns regarding someone using them and the chemical weapon against the US had been mitigated. The threat was always out there, but it hadn’t been imminent. Of course, had always thought that the KGB might know more than they let on. But with US nukes in Turkey pointed directly at Moscow, they weren’t about to act so recklessly. The stalemate, as tenuous as it was, was keeping them all alive for now.

Then Bell and Adler broke into the KGB and stole the sleeper agent list. And finally, they were able to neutralize them. Another crisis averted.

Mason wondered to himself what had happened to the Nova-6. Likely the government had it all locked up in a warehouse for safekeeping.

So is this what Bell’s job had been?

Wouldn’t it would make sense that Perseus might want to finish Draovich’s original plan?

That may have been his initial goal before he got his hands on that Greenlight nuke.

Mason could only imagine the devastation if either of those plans had succeeded.

But had she known what she was doing? She had to, right?

How many times had his own government concealed its true actions from him?

He hadn’t questioned it.

Maybe it was wishful thinking to believe that she had found herself in a similar situation.

“Had to have known,” Bell said softly. She was studying the maps as well.

“What?”

She turned to him. Her eyes were clear. This might have been one of those lucid moments Park had mentioned.

“I had to have known what was going on. I was ready to help Perseus devastate the world.”

It was like she had read his mind.

“Maybe, maybe not. We don’t know yet.”

“Come on, Alex, the evidence just keeps mounting against me. Look at what I’m decrypting. Look at the connections I’m making. It’s all somewhere in my head, even if I can’t remember it.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“No? And Frank? How does he feel?”

“I don’t think he believes it. Not really.”

She gave him a sad smile, “Alex, come on. If that were true, then why isn’t he here with you?”

He opened his mouth to argue, but a placid expression had appeared on her face.

And she was gone again.

Mason sighed and walked to the kitchenette. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat in the red chair. Opening the folder Park had given him, he reviewed her report.

The latest deep dive into Bell’s subconscious was something out of an action movie. His eyes were glued to the page.

When he finished reading, he found himself stunned.

So this is why Park had been so concerned about Bell being in trouble.

Hell, from the report, it sounded like her punishment came straight from the top.

This was exactly what Mason needed.

If this wouldn’t convince Woods, nothing would.

tgas: @sogdads @shieldsbucky @scumbagg @quizzyisdone @stupid-stinky

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bumblebee-cuttiefish · 2 years

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You know what.. I have a feeling I have to get this out of my chest before big announcements (renewal as I belive it should or the other word that should not be named). I really think this show and especially show runners got us a big deal. First season was exceptional not even gonna talk about this one. Like everything that was said and done and.. Like I literally have no words because I remember when I first decided to give warrior nun s1 a chance (don't get me wrong but the title.. It sounds so freaking funny, dumb, interesting and unbelievable at the same time😅.. For someone who has no idea) I fell in love with it.. So much..with every aspect of the series

It was my comfort show since the first time I watched it, and I belive it will be after whatever news we get in the next weeks.. Just the concept of the show, characters, the way it was filmed, scenes, aesthetic, cinematography, action! EvERYTHING is so great it hurts

Anyway to the point (getting sentimental here sorry)

In s2 they gave us everything they could (whole team of WN) and I mean it, if you watched season 2 you know what I'm talking about. Not just the facts (the fanfic tropes, amazing moments, fight scenes, real characters - which none of them were forced-everything feels so natural! Like backstories? None of them was like straight forward.. Like this character is like this because this and this happened in their life, no. They gave us space, entire warrior nun team gave us space(our own fictional world we can create) to only imagine what happened in-between. I cannot appreciate and thank them enough.

To the point again.. Even if (I pray to God/Netflix for not doing this to us) we.. I don't want to say it.. If the end of the season two is all we get.. We have so much space, by we I mean fans, writers, artists and so on.. To make the most of it (hyperbole) I think in the way the writers team prepared for it-for us as well. The hell! Simon even fought for the after credit scene because he could not let the fans hanging in the unknown. So they've tried to make the best they could.

So with this statement (which is propoably the longest I've ever made) I beg you not to compare avatrice with clexa because trust me I've been there when it happened and it's not the same. Not the Bury your gays trope nor the love story. (not bubbling here. I'm still carrying this fucking pain with me).

With this afrer credit scene they gave us hope they gave us so many stories we can carry on with.. even if it's not on screen.

So with this confusing pep talk I want you to carry on- make art, write fanfiction and so on..

Warrior nun team- They gave us all they could and even more

#warrior nun #Netflix is just fuckin mystery #Carry on watching and spreading the world #renew warrior nun #thank you #If It was possible to get all my feelings out there about this series it would be #.... Really long #Much longer than this post #Whoo #I feel like I forgot to highlight so many things and aspects #Hope it all makes sense #I cannot put my thoughts to words #At lest not in underdtendable way #Gehehe

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raetttriestowrite · 2 years

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Rating:Mature Archive Warning:Graphic Depictions Of Violence Fandoms: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Desmond Miles/Heights Characters: Desmond Miles, Andy | Andromache of Scythia, Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Additional Tags: Canon Typical Violence, Desmond has PTSD, Abstergo kidnapping, Mission Fic, Rescue Mission, panicking in the Assassin style, Travelling in the Assassin style, cheating via eagle vision, Bleeding Effect, Dreams, The Existential Horror of Clay Kaczmarek, the mating rituals of immortal soldiers, Devil's Advocate, Assassin Obsession with Heights, Desmond doing as Desmond Does, Storming the castle, Opinions on guns, Bombs, Stealth in the Assassin style, Stealth in the marine style, who leads?, White Clothes in the Assassin style, Restraints, Medical Restraints, Drug Use, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Joe is the real MVP, Identity Issues, Real Action Heroes Don't Look Back, Emails

Chapters: 1/1 Series: Part 10 of the Bless This Mess, This Mess Is Mine series Summary:

Booker's been kidnapped and, exiled or not, there's no way the team are leaving him there.

#You'll Find a Man Once Lost at Sea #bless this mess this mess is mine #btmtmim #assassin's creed #the old guard #raetttriestowrite #fanfiction #desmond miles #andromache the scythian #nile freeman #joe al kaysani #nicolo di genova #quynh #booker #whoo! new part!#honestly i'm just back on my bullshit here w/ like. too many subplots and fucking w/ Desmond's head #anyway i hope you enjoy!!

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onepiexe · 2 years

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anyways. hi :-)

#logbook #every time i make a post its usually abt work now. but work has become my life bc im fulltime and augh its a lot.#we are getting like. 15??? deliveries this week. maybe more. most i've had to deal with.#i get to check them all in. .lol. also c started on wed. so we're coworkers again.#honestly its been almost 2 months and im like. still going in every day smiling and like this is my job!! i work here!! whoo!!#also i bought 2 new plants on fri. another syngonium and a new cactus<3 #today im going to clean and do plant things. spring cleaning if you will.#hope everyones been doing well<3

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bloodydeanwinchester · 2 years

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okay last night at 2am i read the sobsicles i want to do with you fic confession scene and wow it was so much worse than what happened in canon. and it was already so late so i couldn’t keep reading but i also COULD NOT sleep after reading that

#jenna reads i want to do with you (what spring does with cherry trees)#this fic is kinda killing me. like i really hope the happy ending is coming soon because whoo boy the angst has been next level

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redmoonwanderer · 4 months

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Wondrous Tails of FFXIV 2024 Prompt: Discovery Continuation to this. Summary: The twisted beast forces Qhol’a to risk his life for the twins; the battle draws something unexpected out of Alisaie. Warnings: Violence and all that pertains, body horror (or something similar, anyway). I’d rate this M to be safe. Music. There's another piece linked within the story for when its time comes (though honestly, it could be timed earlier. Or later).

______________________

It’s the loud thud of flesh running against the wooden structure that is the shack that wakes Qhol’a up. He jolts, and is up in an instant when he hears the deceivingly human screech ringing from the outside of the building. He’s not sure how long he slept, but he still feels tired, devoid of aether that he knows he would need too soon.

He looks over to see the twins in the same room, both up, brows furrowed as they look to the direction of the living room as if they could see right through the walls. Alisaie looks well considering she was ilms away from passing onto the next world not too long ago, but he picks up on the slight slouch, on the bags under her eyes and her brother’s. He takes note of the rapier at her side, the way it’s been made tells him she used to be able to cast, as well.

The siblings (twins?) notice he’s up, and Alphinaud speaks, “What should we do?” he asks, and Qhol’a wonders why he looks at him like he has the answers. Because he can still cast? Because he’s older than the two?

Another thud, and the sound of breaking glass, and screaming as the shards pierce the Desperate. But it keeps slamming itself against the wall, the sense that would direct it to a door long since having abandoned it.

He’s not sure it knows they’re actually here, but if it doesn’t, they could hope that the building would hold until the Desperate would grow bored and go seek its prey elsewhere. But if it knew, if it had sensed them somehow, or it had clung to some remnants of humanity to take note of the tracks outside… they would have to run or fight, and with it this close, they would not be fast enough.

Qhol’a points at himself, then to the direction of the living room. After that, he points at the two, holds one finger up as a sign of waiting, then towards the door he’d come through earlier.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Alisaie hisses, though it seems she would much rather scream. “You cannot win it, not as you are.” And likely not even at your full strength, that she doesn’t say, but she doesn’t need to.

“She’s right”, Alphinaud says. “We can’t let you sacrifice yourself. There must be another way.” Qhol’a really wishes there was, but the creaking of wood could as well be the shack screaming that it could not hold on any longer, that it was about to break and let in the evil that it had been holding at bay.

Qhol’a shakes his head sharply. There’s no time, he wants to say, no time to argue if even some of them are to make it out alive! He points at the two again, and more pointedly towards the exit, hoping to convey the message well enough.

“Maybe it will break through one wall, but that one, as well?” Alisaie says, nodding to the one that Qhol’a had slept against. “And to make a hole big enough for it to –“

The loud crash interrupts her, and they hear wood clattering on the floor and the furniture dragging as the Desperate destroys the wall and manages to squeeze in.

They were trapped. The only way out of the room was the hole in the wall, the door was blocked.

They all stand quietly and listen. Heavy thumps of the large feet as the creature turns around to find life that it could destroy. Wood clatters as it gets kicked by its many legs, and some break under its heavy weight.

Qhol’a gestures for the twins to move to the back wall. He sees the shadow move past the hole, and knows he could see the Desperate if he was standing at an another spot and kneeling.

It could be moving out, Qhol’a thinks, giving up on finding anything from here.

Then the fingers curl around the edges of the hole.

Three, four times larger than a hyur’s, red as the sky after the Last Dusk. Black sharp claws that sink into the wood like it was butter and pull. The wall creaks and groans, and Qhol’a takes his staff, ready to cast despite not having many spells in him.

The Desperate rips of a chunk of the wall and they can hear it toss somewhere behind it. Next, they see the face as it lowers its body to look in. The human face, eyes black, teeth bloodied, and skin full of scratch marks from its final moments as something sensible. The face looks almost like it’s been pushed into the red flesh that surrounds it, like a poorly fitting mask, with black tufts of hair or fur growing like a mane along the spine on its neck thick as a tree. Fresh, bleeding wounds all over its lower throat and likely chest, too, from where it broke the window. It sees them in an instant, and lets out a scream that gets the twins slap their hands against their ears.

It hurts. It’s like something is trying to tear free from within, something that’s much greater than Qhol’a is, like he’s too small a suit ripping at its seams. As he draws of his aether to form a lightning that crackles as it grows into a bolt, the Desperate begins to claw and rip at the walls with four hands, all equally massive. It sounds like its beast-like feet are kicking somewhere behind it, destroying what little was left of the room.

And it’s crying. Not weeping like it was sorry that it had become this, regret filling it even as its bestial side continued its rampage. No, the black rivulets underneath its eyes were likely no sign of emotion like that, if of any emotion at all. Perhaps hunger, desire to sink its claws and teeth into flesh, rip them open, bleed them on the floor like it was a dying garden and they the water it so needed.

Maybe, he thought, it was crying because it was desperate.

He releases the ball of magic, and the Desperate screams as it pulls back, hitting the wall behind it in the narrow space it had forced itself into. Already, fires begin to gather close to its face, and it looks at it with wide eyes as it explodes, burning it.

The hands return, and its working twice as quick, like if it had been promised a meal unlike anything else it had ever caught.

He needed to get the twins out. He had to save them.

Burning the door would be of no use, they’d have to walk through the flames.

He’d have to force the Desperate to move away from the wall.

The hole keeps growing as the hide of the creature burns under magic it has likely never faced before.

It should’ve been scared, but perhaps the need for whatever it was that it sought from those that still remained was stronger.

As ice briefly takes two of its hand out of commission, Qhol’a looks over at the twins, who are looking at the scene ahead of them in awe and fear in equal measures. They meet his eyes, and must somehow read that he has a plan, because before he can even begin to sign, they’re nodding in unison. That, or they think they know what he wants, and will do something he would rather not have them doing.

No point in trying to guess.

He turns as the ice shatters and realises the hole in the wall is already sizeable. Not enough for the Desperate, and it would take some bowing so he wouldn’t hit his head, but he would be able to manage it.

Getting past the creature, though… that would be difficult, perhaps impossible. Only one way to find out.

One last flash of an explosion, and while it’s briefly blinded by it, Qhol’a runs. He bows, jumps onto the neck of the thing and runs along its spine. The Desperate, while it can’t see him, can still definitely feel him, and it begins to scuttle backwards, away from the wall.

It straightens, shakes itself to dislodge the nuisance from its back, and Qhol’a jumps down, on to the side of the broken wall, and bolts.

When he feels the hand wrap itself around him, he’s only taken a couple of steps.

It brings Qhol’a closer to it’s face, eyes still squinting as it’s recovering from the attack. Qhol’a can barely breathe. His hands are still free, however, though it would be impossible to cast with his feet off the ground and concentration waning as the Desperate is slowly squeezing him.

He turns the butt of his staff towards the Desperate, and pushes.

It hits the eye, and again, it screams. It stomps its legs on the ground and throws him against the wall like a child having a tantrum. He hits the floor, but before he can gather himself, the crying, howling beast is upon him. It grabs him by his lower torso and throws him again, but only to its feet. It tries to hit him with one of its other arms, but he manages to roll out of the way. A sweeping arm pushes him even further away from it. He rolls through the wall and into the dirt outside. and gives him the distance and time he needs to clamber onto his feet.

Casting would be difficult, now. To gather the aether takes time, and he no longer has the wall to give him cover.

The Desperate turns around, and one of its hands grabs onto to the couch. It tosses it at him like it weights nothing to it. Qhol’a barely manages to dive out of the way, finding himself on the ground once more.

The ground trembles as the beast runs over towards him. Qhol’a tumbles but gets back on his feet just in time for it to get him within its reach. He manages to put his staff between himself and the oncoming overhead blow, but it leaves his legs unprotected, and another hand takes hold of them.

He’s hanging, head down, yalms above the ground. This time, he’s not brought close to the face. This time, he’s struck against the ground.

His hold on the staff fails, and when he’s lifted, it’s left behind.

This time, his vision is blurry. His neck hurts. His heart is beating, beating, beating

The scream is louder, this time, than when it saw them

His ears are flat against his head, he brings his hands to press against them

Anyone else would feel their skin tearing apart

Feel the need to tear themselves open to ease the sharp pain from within

But not him, and it feels like he’s in all Hells all at the same time and he’s sure the people that succumbed only felt relief

This time, the screaming doesn’t end. This time, as he’s slammed against the ground again, the world fades. Not for long, but he doesn’t remember being lifted up. His hands are hanging uselessly, the other shoulder is burning with pain. His legs, too, in the vice grip.

This time, it lets go, throws him with all its might. There’s nothing to break the flight but ground. He hits it, bounces into the air a couple ilms, then down again. Rolling, rolling.

He feels sick and the world keeps rolling even after he’s stopped.

He forces himself on his knees. He can’t straighten his back, can’t properly open nor focus his eyes.

But he can feel the trembling of the ground, he can lift his head enough to see the moving, blurry figure galloping towards him.

Only the right arm obeys him when he tries to force them both up. He presses it against the left. The cooling energy feels relieving in the broken arm as it’s set back to how it should be. The silhouette it nearly there.

He might be able to pull off another spell. He doesn’t think so, thoughts have since left him like there was no hope left, anymore. It’s more of an instinctual thing, same as when a cat sees a bird and knows it must catch it.

He lifts his arms, and this time both obey him. He draws all that he dares without snuffing out his own candle of life. It’s slow. Too slow. The ball of fire grows but it’s too slow, the Desperate is already upon it, running through as if the flames do not matter.

He releases the energy upon its back and neck as the claws rip him open because he wouldn’t do it himself.

From shoulder to chest to hip, two gouges deep enough that it must be a miracle he doesn’t die right then and there.

Anyone else would scream, but he, somehow, manages to not do so. He thinks.

He hits the ground, the shadow of the Desperate falling over him. The dirt underneath him is already thoroughly soaked with his blood. He tastes copper, smells it. His ears are ringing.

But he barely feels anything. Barely sees as the hand moves above him to cover the bloodied skies from his view. He draws in a breath, shallow, raspy.

He sees something move above the Desperate. Thinks he hears screaming, but more like human.

Like Alisaie.

The Desperate backs away with a roar. There’s furious, wordless screaming, that kind which comes out mixed with desperation, and Qhol’a thinks he sees the young elezen stab the beast in its back again and again and again. Ceaselessly forcing the tip of the rapier through the thick hide. When the beast shakes itself, she must dig the rapier into its flesh and hold on to it because she doesn’t fall.

When the Desperate tries to turn itself enough to see her, she stands up and leaps. When gravity beckons her back, the Desperate turns its face to the heavens to see her. She falls from the skies and towards it like a comet of fury.

Qhol’a watches as the weapon sinks in deep into its face, all the way to its hilt. There’s no death holler, no stumbling this way and that. The Desperate’s legs give out under its massive weight, and then, it keels onto its side. Alisaie manages to land safely, and then, when silence has barely graced them with its beautiful presence, she shouts something as she begins to run. The words are hard to make out.

Only when she drops down on her knees right by him can he hear the repeated, “No, no, please, no”’s that fall from her lips.

Qhol’a would smile, but nothing obeys. Shudders move his body and it hurts some. He just looks at her in the eye. There are tears, clear, and while he feels joy over something so simple, it also aches to see this youth he barely knows weep.

“Alisaie”, comes the voice of Alphinaud. “Alisaie, what were you thinking…” The last word fades as he reaches his sister and sees Qhol’a. “By the Heaves”, he mutters as he looks eyes wide with horror.

“You can’t die”, Alisaie sobs. There’s anger in her thickening voice as she continues, “You have so much to explain, you don’t just get to go and leave us here in this rotten world!”

Ah. Their hope. He was their hope. That something could still change, that the world could still perhaps be saved, returned to what it was.

She must be weeping not for a stranger but for the brief moment that she held newborn hope in her hands, warm in the cold existence, only to watch it dim and fade into darkness.

He wants to apologise. He swallows, would cough but there’s not enough air in his lungs for it.

Alisaie takes his hand like Alphinaud had taken hers when Qhol’a was healing her. A prayer.

He closes his eyes.

“Please”, Alisaie chokes out.

Her hand is warm against his cold, and he thinks he can remember how the sun felt against his skin when there was still sun.

It feels like it’s spreading everywhere, and he feels at peace. It’s easier to be, now.

To breathe, to exist.

He hears a gasp from Alphinaud. “Alisaie, how –“ he begins but falls quiet.

The pain, suddenly, feels worse. Like a blanket of numbness is torn away from him, exposing him to the cold. The blood in his throat feels like the only thing stopping the moan that follows the sensation, and he opens his eyes a little.

There’s glowing light where their hands are joined. Magic.

But not his.

Somehow, in this dead world that had been drained of magic, Alisaie was manipulating aether.

It can’t stitch him back together, there’s no single person capable of that, but as he closes his eyes again, Qhol’a thinks that maybe, maybe, he’ll get to open them again.

#ffxiv #ffxiv writing #wondroustailsofffxiv #wondrous tails 2024 #I wrote this in one sitting and I fear what I might find when I eventually go through this #though for me to publish this in ao3 (whole point of the going through) would require me to... write another chapter??#I was hoping to make it in two but apparently it will take at least three and why?#though at least I likely don't have to worry about keeping folk waiting!#but if you did read this kudos to you because this is the first version #I barely went through to find the worst typos #now let's see if I can yet again push out some more last moment stuff for the event because #whoo boy has work drained me for the past months #and last moment's the best moment anyway!

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