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onecanonlife · 3 years ago

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Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 11,592)

(first part) (second part) (third part)

--------------------

Part Four

He blinks awake, and he isn’t sure what he’s looking at.

A ceiling, to be sure, but it’s not the ceiling that it should be. It’s paler, more uniform, and the light illuminates it more evenly. His eyes drift across it, catching on a few hairline cracks near the wall, and he wonders, vaguely, if this is something he needs to be concerned about. This isn’t his room. He ought to be in his room, if he was sleeping.

And then, he comes to full awareness, because he is suddenly very cognizant that there are other people nearby. Breathing, clothes rustling, quietly conversing, even, and panic bursts in his chest. He sits bolt upright, casting about him for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself, because he’s not going to let Dream’s men get the drop on him, not going to let him take down their revolution so easily—

He’s greeted by the sight of his friends, staring at him, visibly startled.

That’s right. The war is over. And he can relax, because none of them are likely to stab him in the back. Though that doesn’t mean he can let his guard down entirely, of course—not likely is not the same as impossible, after all, and he learned long ago that nothing is impossible, no loyalty guaranteed. And why are they here in the first place?

He scans the looks on their faces and simultaneously tries to figure out what they’re doing. They’ve got paperwork, it seems like. All of them. Is that his paperwork? Why are they doing his paperwork? And why are their expressions like that, varying between vaguely guilty to concerned to glad to—

His gaze lands on Niki. And just like that, he remembers.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, what has he done?

He can’t believe himself. Did he actually let himself have a full-on break down with her in the room? Did he actually say all of that to her? There’s no way he can take any of it back now, which means it’s out there. She knows. And with everybody else here, with Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and even Jack Manifold sitting around on his office floor, he can assume that they know too. They know how much of a failure he is.

Maybe that’s why they’re all here, going through the work that’s meant to be his. They’ve realized that he’s incapable of doing it properly, so they’re going to appoint someone else to take care of it and gently ask him to step down. He has no doubt that they will be gentle. As kind as possible with the knife that hits his heart. He’ll fade into obscurity, a slow death, and dust will coat his bones, and in fifty years or so someone will visit him and find what remains.

That is the kind of thought that would have even Technoblade accusing him of melodrama. He doesn’t care enough to rein himself in at the moment.

“Hey, boss man,” Tubbo says, peering at him over a paper that he’s holding very close to his face. To get a good look at the words, he assumes. “You feeling any better?”

“Um,” he says, and curses his tired brain. He needs a minute. Alone, preferably, so that he can get his mind up and running properly, without anyone seeing him before he can manage as much. But they’re not about to grant him that, are they? “Uh, I’m good.” He shifts, trying to release some of his tension in a non-obvious manner, and fabric falls from his shoulders. He glances down at it; it’s his coat, meaning someone divested him of it when he was asleep and covered him with it. He’s not sure how he feels about that. It’s a nice gesture, on one hand, but on the other, he doesn’t like that they could do that without waking him up.

Niki is sitting closest to him, though everyone is kind of close, actually, now that he’s noticing it. They’ve pushed his desk to the side, too, as well as his chairs, leaving the floor wide open, and yet, they’re all clumped near him, papers spread out between all of them. But Niki smiles at him. No one else does. He wishes he could smile back. His heart refuses to calm, even though he’s recognized the people in here for friends rather than foes. The problem is that anyone could be a foe, and he might not know until it was too late. Not that he really thinks that about any of them, but—he can’t not think it, either.

And he’s too vulnerable. The space is too crowded. They’re all looking at him, watching him, and even though he’s slept, he doesn’t feel rested. Doesn’t feel awake. He’s going to slip up, and they’re all going to be here for it, and he didn’t know what to do about it when it was just Niki so how is he supposed to do damage control when it’s literally everyone—

“That’s good,” Niki says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I’m glad.” She pauses, and he should say something, but his head’s too jumbled, and all the words jam up against each other before he can think to voice any of them. “It’s been about four hours.”

Oh. That’s good. He hasn’t lost too much time, then. Not that he would have accomplished much with it, probably, but there’s a reason why he forces himself out of bed, at least, even when that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Right,” he says. “Good.” Fuck, the words just aren’t coming. He has to do better than this. “Can I ask why you’re all here?”

Silence falls, thick and oppressive. He feels like he’s breathing heavy fog, like it’s filling his lungs and then staying there. And they’re all still looking at him, too, at him and at each other, and they’re having some sort of silent conversation, and he hates it. He meets Fundy’s eyes for a second, and Fundy glances away, away and down, his ears almost flat against his head, and Wilbur—he’s not going to cry again. Not going to—but he wants to know why they’re here, and he wants to know whatever it is they’re not saying to him, and he doesn’t want his son to look at him with that expression on his face. Like he’s—he doesn’t even know, and when did he forget how to read Fundy? How long has it been since he really tried?

It’s Jack, of all people, who speaks up first.

“Niki said you could use some help,” he says with an easy shrug. “So we’re helping. And you seemed like you might need the rest.”

I don’t need help.

The sentence sticks in his throat. Because it’s a lie. It’s a lie, even though he’s tried so hard to make it into truth. It’s a lie, and perhaps he’s just tired of telling lies.

Though he doesn’t much like the alternative, either. Is there no way out of this?

“We don’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tubbo tacks on. His tone is casual, but there is something knowing in it. Something slightly sharp. Tubbo is so very perceptive, even if he doesn’t always let that on, and normally, it’s a trait that he very much admires. Normally. When it’s not directed at him. “And besides, some of this is definitely stuff that I ought to be working on anyway. Since I’m in your cabinet and all. I’m not so busy with the space program that I can’t.”

Space—oh. Right. Did he approve that? He must have.

“Yeah, this is way too much for one guy,” Jack agrees. “No wonder you’ve been stressed out, man. But hey, you’ve got us. We’re paperwork champions, us.” He waves a paper cheerfully, grinning, and that’s a bit much for him at this second. There’s no malice in any of it, in anything that Jack is saying, but it’s still—too much, and he doesn’t quite know why, but his skin has started that uncomfortable buzzing again, the kind that it does when he’s feeling overwhelmed and doesn’t have an outlet.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” he tries, phrasing it as carefully as he can, “but that’s really not any of your responsibility.”

“Wil,” Niki says, and her voice cuts through the white noise in his head. He stiffens, and suddenly finds that eye contact is also too much. “We want to help. That’s all. And it’ll make us feel better too, if you let us.”

“We made you soup, too,” Fundy mutters suddenly, ears still pinned back. “Or, well, Niki did. Tommy messed it up the first time.”

“Oi, shut the fuck up,” Tommy says. He’s hunched over, curled in on himself, and eye contact is a thing that he seems to be avoiding as well, which is concerning. Tommy doesn’t tend to be avoidant when he’s angry.

In a way, though, it’s almost relieving to see clear signs that someone, at least, is upset with him.

“I did,” Niki agrees, “but Tommy tried his best. Actually, Tommy, it should be ready now, if you want to go and get it?”

Tommy lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, and the sight makes Wilbur feels a bit like he’s been shot. Because he did that, surely? That’s his fault? It has to be.

“Fine,” Tommy bites out, and then he rises, and he’s out the door before Wilbur can think of what to say to him at all.

“He actually did try his best,” Tubbo says. “When Niki said we ought to make you some soup, he was all over it. He’s just not any good at cooking things. He gets distracted, and then things are burning or boiling over and it’s a whole mess.”

He knows all of this. He traveled with Tommy for a very long time. He was in charge of meals for multiple reasons, despite the fact he doesn’t have much of an affinity for food himself. What he makes is often edible, though, which was always more than he could say for Tommy’s attempts, Tommy who is too impatient and too prone to jumping on ideas and following where they lead, discarding the old ones when they no longer interest him. Not the best mindset to have when it comes to cooking.

And then, the implications catch up to him. Soup. He’s going to have to eat.

That’s a thing he should do, he knows. He just doesn’t know if he can. Especially not with everyone here, everyone looking at him, and his discomfort at that fact has not left him, no matter how silly a thing it is to get worked up over. He ought to be fine with the attention, ought to thrive on it. He used to. He used to, once, not even that long ago. A matter of months. He could drop a deft turn of phrase and have anyone eating out of his hand, and he liked it that way. He could charm strangers and court friends. He was in control.

That control has left him. Along with his dignity, apparently.

“You know, that’s not all that surprising,” Jack says. “Tommy doesn’t really seem like the type of person who knows how to cook things.”

“Well, he can, if he really sets himself to it,” Tubbo says. “Just not if there’s anything else on his mind.”

The implication being that there was. The implication being that it was Wilbur.

His cheeks are on fire. He’s powerless to fight back the flush.

Is this what it’s going to be, now? Are they going to keep discussing him, dancing around the topic while he’s still in the room? He wonders what they talked about while he was asleep. Whether Niki spilled everything, shared all the finest details of his break down, or whether she left them to guess. He doesn’t know which would be worse, but either way, nothing will be the same. At best, they will pity him, will lose their respect for his abilities, lose their faith in his leadership, and they will feel sorry for him. Will feel dismay at how far he’s fallen. Perhaps they won’t even say as much to his face. Perhaps it will all be in sideways glances and hushed silences when he enters a room and too-gentle voices when they speak to him, and he will lose them just as surely as if they hated him.

Perhaps it will be better if they hate him. Perhaps he would prefer that, no matter how it would burn him. Because at least it would burn him quickly, and the flames would not be disguised as an open palm.

“Wil?” Niki’s voice is soft, but it brings him back to the present effectively enough. “Really, are you feeling any better?”

“I’m feeling fine,” he says, almost on instinct, even though he knows very well that he’s not going to be able to slide that past her. Not now. Not after their—

But should he be trying to? After what she said to him?

But he can’t believe her. He can’t. No matter how much some part of him wants to, no matter how much there is something in his brain and in his chest and in his bones that wants nothing more than to break down again, to let them all see the truth of him. Wants to let them take care of him, if they would.

But they shouldn’t have to. Even if they would, they shouldn’t have to.

And he doesn’t want them to pity him.

“Are you?” Niki asks, holding his gaze. He can feel the flush deepening.

“No shame in not,” Jack pipes up, still infuriatingly casual. “If you’re feeling sort of shit, you can tell us that, you know?”

“I’d say it’s encouraged, actually,” Tubbo adds on.

“I’m not feeling sort of shit,” he says, and—fuck. He has to look down. He can’t stand Niki staring at him like that. He’s lying, and she knows, and he knows she knows, but he just—earlier was a fluke. He can’t—he can’t repeat it. Can’t let himself—

So why the fuck is it so tempting to just give in? Is it that he knows he’s already doomed?

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, and even he sounds a bit doubtful, “but you know, hypothetically, if you weren’t? That would hypothetically be fine, and we’d hypothetically be there for you. If you wanted to hypothetically talk to us. Get some things off your chest, as it were. Because we’re your friends.”

He opens his mouth. And closes it again.

And then, the door swings open. Tommy’s standing there, a large bowl in his hands.

“Soup,” he announces, curt and short. He’s angry. And still angry when he looks at Wilbur, for the first time since—all of this. His blue eyes are stormy, and if Wilbur had just a little less presence of mind, he might find himself shrinking back. Which would be ridiculous. He’s not afraid of Tommy.

Just of his judgment.

He blinks, and the soup is being thrust into his hands, along with a spoon. The bowl is hot, but it’s easy to handle, and he takes it before any of it can slosh over the sides. It’s mostly broth, it looks like, with a few chunks of meat. It smells nice. Fairly appetizing.

His stomach growls.

“Thanks, Tommy,” he murmurs. “And Niki, thank you.” He stirs it a couple times, trying to work up the nerve to bring the spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be that hard, but—he’s back to the people thing, again. Eyes on him. And it’s Fundy’s, maybe, that are most unnerving, because Fundy’s barely said anything to him at all. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Can’t read him whatsoever, and that in itself is upsetting.

But perhaps it’s just as well that he waits a moment, because then, Tommy speaks up.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say something?” he demands, and once again, the room falls very silent. No one moves.

His mind blanks, unravels, almost, at the accusatory note in Tommy’s voice.

“Tommy—” Niki ventures, but Tommy shakes his head.

“No,” he snaps. “I want him to say. He’s been in here, fucking, fucking starving himself apparently, because he’s been so fucking stressed, and he hasn’t said anything about it. In fact, he’s been fucking lying about it, and I want some fucking—some fucking answers, alright? Why didn’t he tell any of us what was going on?”

No words form. He doesn’t have an answer. Not when it’s Tommy asking him these things.

His chest feels hot.

No. No, not now, not again, you’re not doing this.

“Tommy,” Niki says, “I think it’s a little more complicated than that—”

“Fuck complicated,” Tommy says. “He could’ve been dying and we wouldn’t have known.”

Tommy’s voice breaks.

And it is probably a bad thing, that Wilbur’s first thought is, I think that I was.

He has enough good sense to not say that aloud, at least.

“I was hardly about to burden you with my problems,” he says, barely above a whisper. He can’t get his volume to increase any more than that. Not in the face of Tommy’s anger. Which is odd, because usually he’s quite good at combating Tommy’s stubbornness. “Especially when I ought to be able to handle them myself.”

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Tommy says, and—it is an effort not to flinch at that, to stop himself from spiraling, to prevent tears from springing to his eyes again. He can’t be that sensitive. He can’t. But then, Tommy continues, and he thinks that all his efforts might be for naught anyway. “No, really, fuck you, man. You’re not fucking—burdening us, what the shit are you on about? Are you just stupid?”

“Not that I’d phrase it that way,” Tubbo joins in, “but Tommy’s got a point, boss man. Why’d you think you couldn’t come to us with this stuff? You have to know we’re happy to help you, right?”

It’s that same question again. He can’t go through it. He can’t explain the self-loathing, the mask he wears, the front he puts up. He can’t go through it, because he doesn’t want to see the dawning realizations on their faces. He doesn’t want them to understand him, not like that, because he understands himself. He understands himself, and he hates himself for it, and he doesn’t want them to hate him as well.

But Niki doesn’t hate him. Niki heard everything that came out of his mouth, and she doesn’t hate him.

But that’s not—

He feels so fucking lost. And he hates that, too.

“I think,” Niki says suddenly, “that Wilbur’s been dealing with some things lately. And that maybe he didn’t want anybody to know about it because he’s supposed to be the leader, so that means he’s supposed to be strong all the time, and maybe that means he’s not supposed to ask for help. And that maybe he thinks we’d think less of him if he did need help.”

He stares at her.

That’s the crux of a lot of it. And she’s just laid it out. It’s in the open, now, and he didn’t have to say anything at all. He’s not sure whether to feel grateful or upset about it.

She stares back. “You don’t have to say anything,” she says. “I know it’s difficult for you. But am I right, Wil?”

It is difficult for him. That’s part of the whole problem. If it is a problem. He didn’t think that is was, thought that it was a strength, in fact, the only thing keeping him above water, the fraying stitches that maintain the facade that he so desperately needs to keep up. But if Niki is to be believed, he should have said something a long time ago. Because his leadership capabilities and his formation of this country aren’t why his friends stick with him. Apparently.

He still doesn’t know if he can believe that.

But perhaps he doesn’t have to believe it yet. Perhaps he needs to take a chance.

Slowly, he nods, and he keeps looking at her, not at anyone else, because he doesn’t want to see anyone else’s reactions, but he does see the relief in her eyes at the motion, at the admission. At the capitulation—because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s him giving in, accepting that there is nowhere else to hide.

“Oh,” Tommy says, and he thinks that someone else makes a noise, but he can’t tell who. “Well, that’s just some bullshit, then, innit? Everyone needs help sometimes, don’t they? Except for me, because I’m so poggers, but everyone can’t be me, you know, and there’s no shame in that. And maybe, you know, just maybe I ask for help sometimes too, just to make it fair to everyone else. But you know, asking for help, it doesn’t make you any less, um, good, and if you need help you should ask for it, I think. That’s my opinion.”

Oh fuck. He’s not going to cry. That shouldn’t even be hitting him like it is, because Tommy’s his kid brother and he’s supposed to be looking after him, not the other way around, but—

Fuck. He’s tearing up. He doesn’t want them to see him crying. But his mind’s a mess.

“I know it’s hard,” Niki says, and she scoots a little closer. “But we can start with little things, okay? And we’re here for you.” Her eyes take on a certain amount of hardness, a glint that’s just a bit like steel. “And we’re going to continue being here for you.” She reaches out, then, puts a hand on his arm, and the only reason he doesn’t flinch away and spill soup all over himself is because she choreographs the motion. “How about you eat your soup?”

He finds his voice at last.

“Okay,” he says, small and broken. They can hear it, he’s sure. But they don’t leave.

He eats the soup. It’s good.

He can only get about half of it down before he feels too full to continue, but it’s something like a start.

----

They’re true to their word, all of them.

He’s not alone nearly so often these days. It’s almost frustrating, because they’re hovering. He’s well aware of that fact. Even when he wants to isolate himself, he finds that he can’t do it, that it’s not fifteen minutes before someone comes barging in, either to take him out somewhere or to stay in with him, to work on policies or just to share stories or show him a new build or a thousand other things. His office sees more traffic in the next few weeks than it has in the past few months.

But what they don’t do, he’s starting to realize, is pity him.

He doesn’t understand it at first. But they never comment on the fact that he can’t do what he ought to be able to do, and they never hint that they find him incapable, and they don’t subtly try to say that he’s unfit for the job, even though all of these things are true and wrapped up in each other. They’re just—there. For him. Supporting him.

It’s a little bewildering. He tries not to express as much, because whenever he lets something like that slip, they look angry, if they’re Tommy, and sad if they’re anyone else. Which he doesn’t want. But it truly is as if they care about him as a person and not just what he can do for them, which is a mindset he’s never been able to hold when it comes to himself, and frankly, he’s not sure whether he can trust it at all, because he’s still not good at that. Still not good at trust. He’s not sure whether he ever will be again.

But they stay with him, and they help him, and from everything he can tell, it’s not because they pity him. It’s because they care.

Terrifying. And there have to be limits to that, surely? To even the most genuine compassion?

But he hasn’t found them yet.

The first time he thinks that perhaps there are none at all comes on what he’s taken to calling one of his grey mornings, where all the world appears lifeless, colorless, and there doesn’t seem to be a point to getting out of bed, and even if he wanted to, his limbs drag heavily, as if weighted down by anchors, and his mind refuses to emerge from the persistent fog that takes it.

Usually, on these mornings, he manages to be up and about by midday at the latest, if only because his anxiety about the tasks he needs to accomplish eventually overrides the haze, and no one is ever the wiser for it.

Today, Tommy comes barging into his private quarters at about ten in the morning.

“Wilbur!” Tommy says, loud as anything, drawing out his name in the way that he does when he wants something. He wants to press his pillow over his ears so he doesn’t have to listen, because it’s grating, the sudden noise. But he doesn’t have the energy for it, so he just lies there, in bed, covers pulled over him, watching Tommy through slit eyes as he steps into the room. “Wilbur, you’ve got to come and tell Tubbo—why’s your room so shit?”

He’s fairly certain that’s a change in subject, and not what he’s supposed to come tell Tubbo.

“No, really,” Tommy says. “There’s like, nothing in here. What the hell?”

He needs to respond to that, so he sighs.

“Haven’t gotten around to it yet,” he mutters, and even just saying that much takes far too much effort. “Just—go do something, I’ll be up in a bit.”

And he will be. He always is. But Tommy doesn’t leave, stands there frowning at him, and it’s enough to make him feel self-conscious. Not as much as it would have a few weeks ago, perhaps, but still, he doesn’t like that Tommy’s seeing him like this, all slumped over and still in bed like a sad, messy sack of potatoes.

“Rough morning then, eh?” Tommy says, and—really, there’s no point in denying it.

“I’ll be over it in a bit,” he repeats, though it’s a chore, though he’s dreading the moment he steps out of bed, because the thing about days like these is that the haze doesn’t actually leave him. He just eventually uses his neuroticism to force himself to work through it, which makes for a gut-churning combination of nerves and apathy, both rolling through him at once. It’s unpleasant, and his brain never seems to work properly. Everything that’s supposed to be important dissolves, slips from his grasp, and he can’t even manage to care properly about it, and then he gets anxious about the fact that he can’t care properly about it, and then it turns into a cycle, all of his negative energy feeding itself. And he’s powerless to make it stop.

“Okay, but if I leave, you’re just going to be in here, all sad and shit,” Tommy says. “So how about I stay here, and I tell you about the crimes that Tubbo has committed against me, and then when you’re feeling a bit better, because everyone feels better after talking to me—when you’re feeling a bit better you can get up and we can go out together, yeah?”

He’s not sure how he feels about that. But he can hardly stop Tommy at the moment, since it seems he’s already made up his mind, and Tommy’s already looking around for a chair; the only one in the room is the one at his desk, so Tommy pulls that over to the bed, making a horrid, obnoxious scraping noise against the floor. And then, he seats himself, settling down like he’s not inclined to go anywhere anytime soon. And he talks.

The thing is, it sort of works.

The way Tommy’s speaking, it’s like he doesn’t have any kind of expectations. Wilbur doesn’t need to answer, just to listen. So he does, and he lets himself drift a little bit, and it’s difficult to believe that Tommy’s not judging him for it, or for any of this, but Tommy’s not the sort of kid who hides what he’s feeling, and he can’t detect any frustration or derision in the way he’s talking. It’s like he’s content enough to just talk, to be there, even though Wilbur’s hardly making it fun for him, is hardly being an engaging conversation partner. It’s like he just wants Wilbur to feel better, without any ulterior motive at all, so he’s here doing what he thinks will accomplish that.

And Wilbur does start to feel better.

Not all the way. Not by a long shot. But eventually, he finds himself able to reply, and the words come a bit easier and thinking feels a bit less like wading through mud, and it starts to be an actual conversation rather than just Tommy jabbering at him. And after that, he manages to swing himself out of bed and get dressed, and Tommy pushes breakfast on him that he manages to eat most of, and just like that, he’s up and about his day. Not at a hundred percent, not firing on all cylinders, but more than usual, on a grey day like today.

And it’s because of Tommy. Because he was here. Because he came, and he stayed, and he thinks that perhaps, what Tubbo did or did not do was never the point of this at all.

When he asks Tommy about it, a little circumspectly, Tommy stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“What do you mean, why?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t I? You were feeling shitty, weren’t you? So I wanted to make you feel alright again.”

It’s stated so simply. As if that really is all there is to it.

And perhaps that’s the truth.

“You make things way too complicated,” Tommy tacks on, matter-of-factly. “I dunno why you do that. You ought to stop it, I reckon.”

That wrings a laugh from him, and if it’s a bit wet, Tommy doesn’t comment on it.

“Maybe I should,” he says, and Tommy nods, satisfied.

“Of course you should,” he says. “I am always so incredibly correct. You should listen to me all the time.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he returns, and it feels, just a little bit, like the way things used to be.

----

The white hair still bothers him. His reflection as a whole still bothers him, but the white hair most of all. It’s broad and obvious and an irritating reminder of what everyone keeps insisting isn’t weakness, but rather a sign that he’s pushed himself beyond the point of what’s healthy. Which matters. Evidently.

He still doesn’t like looking at it. It makes him feel—lesser, in a way, though he’s no longer sure that makes any sense at all.

So he still does his best to hide it, even though there’s not much point anymore, even though everyone’s seen it and everyone knows exactly what it means. He tries to hide it, and he avoids looking in the mirror when he can, and he pretends he doesn’t see the way people frown at him, sometimes, whenever he refuses to do something like take off his coat or hat in one of the more casual settings they’ve taken to luring him out to.

And then, Fundy shows up at his door with a bucket and a pair of fishing rods.

“Do you want to go fishing with me,” he blurts out, all in one breath, and Wilbur blinks, because he hadn’t expected this at all. He’s come to expect something, most days, has come to expect someone arriving either to interrupt the monotony of his work or to help him with it, but Fundy doesn’t make appearances often. And never by himself. Frankly, Wilbur had come to the conclusion long ago that he’d messed up somewhere along the line, done something that forced his son to desire a separation from him. That his little champion has resolved that he’d rather not have much to do with his father.

“Fishing?” he asks.

He’d promised, a long time ago, that he’d teach his son how to fish one day. That day never arrived. He’d thought that Fundy didn’t want to anymore.

“Yeah.” Fundy shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. “Um, it was just an idea. But I thought that maybe? You’d want to? If you, um, if you have some time for it. It’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no. But he’s done that so many times, has denied his son again and again. Not just his son, but everyone, and now they’re all determined to make him see, apparently, that focusing on his work in the way he has been is not only unhealthy, but not necessary. He still doesn’t know that he believes that.

“Alright,” he says softly, and stands, and his heart breaks a little at the surprise that comes across Fundy’s face.

“Really?” he asks. “You want to?”

“I do,” he says. And he does, even if a bout of nerves rises up in him at the prospect. He does his best to quash them.

So they do. They go down to the docks. They get situated, and Wilbur shows his son how to put the bait on a hook, and how to cast his line out, and how to be patient, and they fish, and it’s a bit awkward. A bit stilted. There’s too many unspoken words between them, and one big subject that neither of them knows how to breach, especially not in this circumstance, and part of Wilbur doubts that they ever will.

But they’re both here. And he doesn’t want this to be their future. And he’s decided to try not to isolate himself like he was, so if something’s going to change, it really is up to him, so he takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” he says, and stares out at the way their bobbers float next to each other in the gentle surf.

“It’s okay,” Fundy says. “Or, well, I mean. I kind of thought that you were disappointed in me or something, so that kind of didn’t feel okay, but I’m glad you’re not.”

He jerks at the confession, which sounds pained, as though he doesn’t really want to be saying it.

“Why would I ever be disappointed in you?” he asks.

“Well, it’s—” Fundy says. “I dunno, you just never let me do anything, and then you kind of stopped spending time with me at all, so I sort of figured that maybe you thought I couldn’t do anything.”

His mouth is dry. His line is slack, which is just as well; if a fish came along now, he might let it tug his rod right from his fingers.

“I’m not disappointed in you,” he says. “I never—I never could be, Fundy, I promise. I—I thought you were disappointed in me, to be entirely honest.”

Fundy’s head snaps toward him, his eyes wide.

It is a struggle to continue. Confessions like this are not his forte, even now. But he’s trying to be more open. Trying not to lock himself away. Trying to reach out for the hands that have been offered to him, trying to believe that they will help him stand, will not abandon him to his own shoddy balance as soon as it becomes apparent that he’s made up of more trouble than worth.

And Fundy deserves this.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel that way,” he says, and that is difficult, too. Saying sorry outright like that. But he needs to. “Truly. I just figured—I mean, I know I’m not exactly the best parent. And especially lately, it’s been—”

He trails off, not sure where he’s going with this. If it were a few weeks ago, he’d be apologizing for his weakness as well, for his inability to remain strong under the pressure, but everyone around him keeps insisting that that’s not the right way to look at it, and he’s growing more and more open to letting himself be convinced.

“You’re—” Fundy starts, and then falters. His tail drags back and forth, and then stills. “Oh. Um. Okay, I probably should’ve—um.” His ears flick, and he glances away. “I’m sorry too, then. For avoiding you lately. I know, um, that’s what I’ve been doing. I didn’t realize that it—it wasn’t because I thought that you were, that you were disappointing or anything, I just didn’t—I didn’t really know how to react. Because I sort of always thought you were invincible, and now all of a sudden you’re not.”

Something in him wilts.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“No! Um, no, that’s not what I—you don’t have to be invincible, it’s just that I sort of needed to, to adjust to that. Because of course, no one’s invincible, right? But you’re just—you’re my dad, so I guess I always just thought that nothing could hurt you. So I wasn’t—I wasn’t really sure what I should do. Or how I should help. Or if you even wanted me to help. But I didn’t mean to—I mean, maybe I was a little upset with you but not like—it wasn’t like, for a—I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it. I guess I was upset because I was worried.” Fundy looks back at him. “‘Cause, you know. I love you and everything.”

Oh.

He’s not quite sure what to do with all of that, but the last sentence gets caught in his chest and sticks there, warmth unfurling.

All’s not lost. His son still loves him.

“I love you too,” he says, slightly hoarse. “Always.”

He can believe this. Sitting here, listening to the lap of the waves, he can believe this, can believe that his son loves him, that no matter his mistakes, his son still cares, that his son won’t leave him. Maybe he’ll forget later, but he can be reminded. And in turn, he hopes that Fundy believes him. Because there are so many words unspoken between them, but now, there are a few less.

They keep fishing. Far longer than he thought he’d allow himself, but he finds it easier than it has been, to push his duties from his mind. And at some point, he rolls up his sleeves, and then loses the coat entirely, and the hat lands on top of it, and he’s letting his hair free, and other than a few glances, Fundy doesn’t mention it at all.

And when he catches a glimpse of himself in the water, too-thin face and too-dark eyebags and a white streak of hair that’s almost skunk-like in its prominence, he doesn’t care much for it, but he doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t feel the need to hide away, or to put on the layers again, to cover up behind the mask of professionalism.

For a moment, he can just be a man fishing with his son, and all the rest is less important.

----

“There is,” Jack Manifold says, and swallows, “a man.”

Not what he expected Jack to say when he burst in like that, but alright.

“What man?” he asks. He puts down the paper he’d been reading, and decides it goes into the ‘to-delegate-to-Tubbo’ pile. That’s a new system he’s been using. Delegation. He’s not quite comfortable with it yet, but it makes everyone else happier, so he’s doing his best to actually give it a try.

“A man,” Jack says, very helpfully. “He’s at the gates. We told him to wait to come in, and he’s doing that, but um. Wow. He’s got some vibes. Dunno how to describe them, except to be honest, he’s a bit intimidating. And he wants to see you.”

That can’t possibly bode well.

“Alright,” he says, standing and grabbing his coat. Freshly washed. He’s getting better about that. He’s had a bit more energy, lately. “Show me.”

Jack takes him down to the front entrance. He keeps pace with him, matching him stride for stride, but it’s not until they’re almost there that Jack tacks on, almost an afterthought, “Oh, yeah, plus he had wings. That’s not really a usual thing.” And his heart leaps straight into his throat.

“He what,” he says, but by then it’s too late, because there’s the entrance to his nation, and standing there, talking amicably with Tubbo, is Phil.

He looks unchanged from the last time he saw him. Even though that was—well. Not actually years ago. He’s seen him in the meantime for a couple of tournaments and the like, but he’s thinking of the day he left home. The day he decided that the world was too vast, too big to leave unexplored and unconquered, the day he decided to go in pursuit of that nebulous more that he always seemed to want, but could never put a name to. The day he slung his guitar across his back and a coat over his shoulders and gave his father one last hug goodbye and promised to write, and only looked back once to the house, to where Phil stood on the porch, smiling and waving him off, proud of him.

He looks unchanged. Same robes, same sandals. Same dumb bucket hat. Same wings arching behind him, feathers black as the void that granted them to him.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Does Tubbo know him?”

He swallows.

Why is Phil here?

“Yeah, they’ve met,” he says. “He’s—not anyone you need to be worried about.”

Probably. Almost definitely. Especially if Technoblade’s not with him, since he’s heard Technoblade has a bit of a mind toward anarchy these days, so he’s not sure how well that next meeting is going to go. But there’s no sign of his father’s best friend, only his father, whose head swivels toward him on his approach, and it’s too late to turn back now. Not that he would. This isn’t something he can run away from.

“Wilbur!” Tubbo says, as soon as he’s close enough. “You didn’t say Phil was coming.”

“I wasn’t aware Phil was coming,” he says, and tries for a smile. Phil meets his eyes, and he returns it, but there is something else there. Something more complicated than a simple reunion ought to warrant. “Phil didn’t write ahead. Though that’s not to say he isn’t welcome, but I probably would’ve done a bit of tidying up first.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Phil says. “I don’t mean to drop by unannounced. But any letter I sent probably wouldn’t have gotten here much before I did.”

That is—concerning. What’s so pressing that he couldn’t have waited?

“We should probably let you guys catch up, huh?” Tubbo says, and then nudges Jack. “C’mon, we’ve got to go do a thing.”

“We do?”

“Yep.” And then, Tubbo’s got Jack by the arm, and both of them are walking away, Jack considerably more confused than Tubbo, and then they’re gone. And he’s left with Phil.

Should this feel as awkward as it does? There’s no reason for this tension. Not that he knows of.

“Hi,” he says. “Been a while.”

“Hi, mate,” Phil says, voice soft, expression soft. Is there a reason for the softness, more than just seeing each other again for the first time in—a while?

“Well, welcome to L’Manberg,” he says. “I mean it, you were welcome anytime. I’d love to show you what I’ve made here. What we’ve made here.” He pauses. He can’t not ask. Letting something like that slip by him isn’t in his nature. “Though, is there anything I should know about? Don’t take this the wrong way, because I am glad to see you, but I really wasn’t expecting you.” He finishes with a laugh, short and perhaps a bit nervous, and the corners of Phil’s eyes crinkle. His expression isn’t happy, though, not really.

“I got your letter,” Phil says, still soft, and Wilbur goes to ask for clarification, because he hasn’t sent a letter asking him to come. Except the next words make him freeze. “Both of them, actually.”

Phil dips a hand into a pocket in his robes, and it comes out holding two sheets of paper. Both written in his handwriting. One neat, clean. The other with lines and sentences scratched out, and then the rest of it rushed, an outpouring of emotion, something that he never, ever intended to send. And he wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake, would he have? Except he was so tired, and Tubbo came in and interrupted him, and couldn’t it be plausible that he’d just—scooped up both drafts, when he only meant to send the one? That he tucked both into the envelope, sent both flying off, sent them both into Phil’s hands, one a clear contradiction of the sweet lies of the other?

He’s gone numb.

“Oh,” he says weakly.

What did he write? He can’t even remember now. It was a flight of passion, a bit of self indulgence that he hoped would relieve some of the stress. It didn’t, of course. And he didn’t consider the idea that there would be consequences for it, that it would ever see the light of day. He never intended it to.

Something about being a disappointment. About failing everyone. About being hated. Something about the Final Control Room, too, which was something he never wanted Phil to learn about.

“Um,” he says.

“I figured you didn’t mean to send it,” Phil says. “But I—I could hardly not come, after reading that.”

He sounds a little bit lost. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do in this situation either. That makes two of them.

He can’t explain this away. Even if he’s been a bit better lately, even if he’s gotten a bit better at leaning on others, at asking for help, and even if he no longer quite believes that his friends will abandon him as soon as he proves to be of little use—because if they were going to do that, they would have already, surely—even with all of that, he’s still not well. In a better state of mind than he was when he penned that, but still not well. And now Phil knows, and he’s here, and he’s going to know all the rest, and whenever he thinks he’s mastered himself, has himself under control, the universe comes and spits in his face, doesn’t it?

Niki was one thing. And then all the rest of his friends, his little brother, even, that was another, but he’s been getting accustomed to it. Has been trying to trust, even though it’s so very difficult.

But Phil. He never wanted Phil to know. Not any of it.

“Right,” he says. “Um. I was—not in a very good headspace when I wrote that. I’ll admit it. But it’s not—I mean, I am okay. You don’t need to worry.”

The words taste stale before they even leave his mouth. Phil won’t believe them; he doesn’t believe them himself. No one has believed them for quite some time, and perhaps it’s better that they don’t. Hadn’t he said that he was tired of lying?

But this is Phil.

“Wilbur,” Phil says, and he almost cringes, “would it be okay if I hugged you?”

And—that is not what he was expecting.

He’s nodding before he can really consider it. A few scant weeks ago, he would have denied the request, citing something about professionalism and maintaining appearances and no longer being a child. And that urge is still there, still present to some degree. But it is overwhelmed by the realization that it has been a long time since he was hugged by his father, and whenever Phil hugs him, he always feels safe and warm and protected, and he wants that, and if everyone around him is to be believed, it’s alright for him to want that.

So Phil steps forward, and he steps forward to meet him, and he’s not sure when he got to being so much taller than Phil, but even despite that, it feels just like he remembers, arms and wings folding around him and tugging him close. He sags against him almost instantly, and Phil holds him up with little effort.

And suddenly, there’s tears in his eyes. He’s starting to make this a habit.

“I’ve been really worried,” Phil murmurs. “Wil—why didn’t you tell me? Any of this?”

“I didn’t,” he starts, and almost chokes on his own breath, “I didn’t want—”

Ah. There go the tears. He’s less ashamed of them than he would have been, not long ago, though he still doesn’t like that this is happening. Still doesn’t like that Phil’s privy to this, now, too.

Phil hushes him, rubbing circles into his back. They must be a sight, L’Manberg’s president crying into the shoulder of the Angel of Death.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he finally chokes out. “I’m sorry I lied. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil says, his voice something like grief and something like sorrow, “you could never disappoint me.”

“I could,” he insists. “I’m very disappointing.”

“You’re not,” Phil says. “You’re not. And even if you could be, I would never, ever be disappointed in you for how you feel, or for needing help.”

Ah. Well.

That seems rather in line with the sentiments that everyone else has been expressing, of late. And there’s something in his brain that won’t let him be persuaded, not entirely, as much as he’s been trying to work past it. There’s something in his brain that insists that he is a disappointment, that he should be better at handling himself, that anyone saying otherwise is lying, trying to placate him, because if he cannot accomplish anything worthy of attention or praise then he is not worthy himself.

But Phil is not lying to him. Phil is hugging him, and in his voice, there is nothing but sincerity. And pain, perhaps. Pain born of fear, of worry. For him.

He doesn’t have a response. Not a verbal one. But he holds Phil tighter, and Phil does the same, and for a while, they just stand there, and true safety is not a thing that exists, but if it did, he imagines it would feel a little like this.

----

He uncovers the mirror.

It’s a whim, not something thought out. He barely thinks about it at all before he’s doing it, whipping the sheet off and peering at himself.

The man staring back is a stranger, in more ways than one, and yet, he is utterly familiar. There are the bags, still deep and dark. There is the thinness of his wrist, the prominence of his cheekbones, the blood shot through his eyes. And there is the hair, creeping out from under the hat. Curly, a bit longer than he usually keeps it, and streaked with white in multiple places, the most obvious of which is a broad chunk right in front.

He breathes. In and out.

He still hates it. He doubts he’ll stop any time soon. It marks him as different, as other. Gives people something to stare at whenever it’s out in the open, though his friends have stopped doing it as much. He thinks they’ve realized that it well and truly bothers him.

But at the same time—

The bags are still dark, but less so. His frame is still lean, lanky, a bit underfed, but it’s no longer so bad, no longer as bad as it was. He’s not sure he understood how bad it was, at the time, but he’s eating more regularly now, and it’s obviously made a difference. His uniform is neat, and he feels no compulsion to straighten it up further, to get rid of all the creases, to stand with a soldier’s perfect posture. There is something to be said about professionalism, of course, but the need to be perfect all the time has faded. Not disappeared, but lessened.

And the white is still present, still a sign of what happened to him. Of the conditions he placed himself under. He doesn’t like it.

But he’s not ashamed. At least, not as much as he was.

He runs his hand through his hair. Puts his hat on his head, and lets his curls hang freely underneath it, doesn’t try to shove them up under the covering.

He doesn’t love it. He’s not there yet. He doesn’t know how to love himself. Doesn’t know how to convince himself that he deserves to.

But it doesn’t look bad.

He breathes. In and out.

“Alright,” he says, and the man in the mirror mouths the words in time with him. “You’re alright.”

It’s not quite the truth, but for the first time in a long time, it’s not quite a lie, either.

----

His feet carry him to Niki’s once again.

There’s no one else there but her. Her and the warmth of the ovens, the crackle of furnaces, the bits of flour always floating on the air. He slides into his usual seat, propping his head up on his hands and just watching her for a minute, not saying anything. The prominent scent is that of baking bread, but she’s setting ingredients out for cookies. He recognizes them, recognizes the combination of flour and eggs and sugar, and chocolate chips set off to the side. She’s washing her hands, and then, she turns, and she sees him.

She smiles.

He smiles back.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” she answers. She turns back to the sink and washes her hands, and then goes back to her ingredients. It’s familiar. He’s watched this so many times. She mixes the dry ingredients, and then starts adding the wet, stirring until it all solidifies into dough, adding in the chocolate chips. She’s making them the way he knows most of the kids like them best, almost more chocolate than cookie, barely holding themselves together when they’re fresh out of the oven.

He pillows his head on his arms. Lets his hat slide to the side. He’s aware of it, but he doesn’t pick it back up.

It’s so warm in here.

It’s not long before she has mounds of dough on baking sheets. Her movements are practiced, steady and sure. To his eyes, it’s almost like magic, the way it all comes together.

He’s tempted to ask for a bit of the dough. But if he does that, she’ll smack him on the head with her spoon and warn him about the dangers of eating raw eggs, an exasperated smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. And he’ll sigh and go along with it, no matter how tempting the morsel might be. Unless he sees an opportunity to sneak some, but she catches him more often than not.

So he doesn’t ask. Just watches. It’s warm, and he feels tired, but it’s not a bad kind of tired. Not a bone-deep weariness. Not the kind that makes him want to sleep and never wake up again—and that, that is something he has not quite confronted yet, that sentiment, that desire. He ought to. He has more clarity now, and he knows himself, and he knows he ought to. But not now.

He’s tired, but it’s the sort of tired that pushes him toward a nap, comfortable and safe, and that startles him for a moment, the fact that he feels safe here, with no qualifications placed on the idea at all.

He’s not in a talking sort of mood. So it surprises him when, after she’s finished putting the pans in the oven, Niki turns to him and asks, “Do you want to help with the next batch?”

He blinks.

“I thought I’d make some sugar cookies next,” she says, and then holds out her hand. “Come and help me.”

He stands, slowly, and ventures around behind the counter to where she’s standing. He takes her hand after only a moment’s hesitation, and is rewarded with another smile, one that he can’t help but return, if haltingly.

“You do know what a mess I am in the kitchen, right?” he checks.

“You are a disaster,” she agrees. “But you’ve been in here enough that you know what to do, don’t you? You can at least follow my directions.”

“I suppose,” he says, and Niki takes that as all the affirmation she needs, because in the next second, she’s stepping away from him and into a back room, and then returns in the next instant with an apron. Plain white, and definitely far too short for him, and she shoves it at him with an expression that tells him she clearly knows that it will make him look at least slightly ridiculous.

He sighs and puts it on. It barely reaches his mid-thigh.

“It suits you,” Niki says, with a determined nod. “Now, come here.”

She walks back over to the counter, clearing off all the bowls and measuring cups that she’d used for the chocolate chip cookies and pulling out new ones. She seems to have an endless supply. And then she looks at him, expectantly, so he comes over, hovering by her as she goes to get the actual ingredients. All familiar. All things he’s seen her use before, countless times. Perhaps this won’t go so badly; he could probably even get the measurements right himself, if he tried.

Niki sets a big bag of flour on the counter with a thump.

“Measure that out for me?” she says. “We’ve multiplying everything by four.”

Alright. He—thinks he knows what that means. So he takes a few measuring cups, scoots them closer to him, and begins pouring the flour, giving Niki sideways glances so as to pick up on whether he’s doing it right or not. She doesn’t stop him, but his distraction means that the flour starts kicking up in the air in earnest, and he coughs, waving a hand in front of his face. When it clears, she’s looking at him in amusement, and he shrugs, holding out one of the cups toward her.

It goes on like that. She directs him, and he does what she tells him to do, and if he gets it wrong, she corrects him, and if he gets it right, she thanks him. They stay quiet, for the most part, little conversation passing between them, but it’s not an uncomfortable lack. There’s no tension in the air, no pressure to perform. He feels as though his words have run dry again, melted away from him in the close warmth of the bakery, but for once, he doesn’t mind. He feels, for the most part, at ease.

What a novel concept.

It’s not too long before they’ve got dough, and plenty of it. Niki moves them to another counter, spreading flour out across a couple of thin boards before sliding one in front of him, and scooping some dough on top of it. She holds the rolling pin out in front of him a moment later, and he takes it. It’s fairly self-explanatory, what he’s meant to do now.

He rolls out the dough. Beside him, Niki does the same.

“We’d freeze it first, if we wanted it to hold its shape better,” she murmurs. “But I think we’ll keep these simple.”

He hums. The motion is repetitive, almost soothing, though it takes a moment to figure out how much pressure he should be applying. It takes some, but not too much. And yet, it’s simple, leaving his mind free to drift, and for the first time in a while, those drifting thoughts don’t land anywhere too dark.

“Here, that’s thin enough,” Niki says, putting a hand on his arm, and he stops. “You don’t want it to be too thin, and you don’t want to have to roll it out again. It’s never good to overwork the dough.”

“Right,” he says, and watches as she fishes around for some cookie cutters. True to her word, they’re simple, just various sizes of circles. She pushes some toward him, and he takes one, pressing it into his dough and coming up with a perfect circle. He then pauses, watching her to see how she gets hers out of the cutter; she pushes it gently with one finger, so he does the same, and it lands on one of the cookie sheets with a light thwap.

He finds a rhythm after that. And there’s something nice in the simplicity of the design. Just circles.

But after a few minutes, Niki breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says. “It was—scary. The way you were.”

He has to chew on that for a moment. It’s still a bit odd to be thinking of it that way. He spent so long being so determined that he was doing the right thing—and not only the right thing, but the only thing, the only option available to him. Keep his head high, his face pleasant, and only let out his despair when there was no one else around to see or hear. So it’s still foreign, just slightly, to wrap his head around the fact that other people cared that he was doing that. And not because it affected his ability to fulfill his duty, but because they cared for him. Care. Present tense.

Because they’re still here. Are still with him, despite how sure he was that admitting his weakness would drive them away. That, if nothing else, is the most convincing evidence of all as to the veracity of their words.

“I think I understand that now,” he says, and cuts out another cookie. “I’m glad too.”

He’s sleeping more often. Eating more frequently. And the storm of his mind, while not gone, has calmed. It’s easier to hold his ground against the wind that batters him, and easier to recognize it for wind at all.

It’s easier to reach out for a hand to help ground him.

“I think,” he starts, almost on impulse, and then stops. How much of this is fair to say? The importance of sharing his emotions has been impressed upon him, but he doesn’t want to give anyone else a burden. Doesn’t want to—but that’s not thinking about it the right way, is it? He glances at Niki, checks to see if she is willing to listen, and she nods at him, encouragingly. That’s all he needs. She wants to hear him, wants him to speak. The only person holding him back is himself, himself and the lingering fears that anything he says will be used against him, that everyone around him is circling, waiting for a fall, that the moment he opens up they’ll pounce, tear him to shreds and then leave what remains for the crows.

But that’s not the case.

They’ve proven it to him. And more than that, they were willing to prove it, even when it was, perhaps, not fair of him to demand that of them.

“I think I got used to it,” he says, slowly, feeling out the words as he says them. “Hating myself. So used to it that I didn’t realize that I was a bit fucked up.”

“I don’t know if fucked up is quite the right word,” Niki says, matching his soft tone. “Do you still? Hate yourself?” Her voice breaks just a little bit on the last word, but when he turns his head to meet her gaze full-on, she looks back steadily.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and this honesty burns. “I really—I really don’t.”

Is he supposed to know? That’s probably a thing he’s supposed to know. A chill runs up and down his spine, but then, Niki lays her hand on his arm again.

“I think that’s progress,” she says, “isn’t it?”

“But I should know,” he says. “And—I’m aware of the fact that healthy people don’t hate themselves, Niki.”

“Well, I don’t want you to hate yourself,” she says, and her voice is a strange mix of upset and calm. “I don’t think you should hate yourself. And it’s upsetting, that you can’t see how much of a wonderful person you are, just because you’re you. Upsetting for you, I mean. Not because of you. This isn’t your fault. It’s—” Her nose scrunches. “Tommy describes people as wrong’uns. I think your brain is a bit of a wrong’un.”

He blinks. “My brain’s a wrong’un?”

She nods. “Yeah, because it’s wrong, and it—it makes you feel bad about yourself.” With the hand not on his arm, she makes a sharp gesture. “And that’s not—that’s not the whole thing, it’s more complicated than that, I think. But do you know what I’m saying? It’s your brain’s fault, but it’s not you. Am I making any sense at all?”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” he says, “but I think I understand what you mean.”

“I don’t think I quite have the words for it,” she says. “It’s just that—you’re worth so much more than you tell yourself that you are.”

He looks down at his dough. He’s pretty much cut out as many circles as he can, which means pushing the remainder together and rolling it out again. He does so, and then it’s back to making circles. Steady, rhythmic.

“I’m still having a hard time with that,” he says. “But it’s. Easier, I think. To try and accept it, than it was before.”

“And we’re with you,” Niki says. “We’re not leaving you. We’re all here with you.”

They are. Niki with her unflinching kindness, Tommy with his brashness and devotion, Tubbo with his matter-of-fact loyalty, Fundy with his awkward, honest support, Jack Manifold with his determined friendship. And lately, Phil, too, who has fit in with the rest of L’Manberg easily, smiles and laughter and a gleam in his eyes, and always a word of support when he needs one, and even when he thinks he doesn’t, always a safe haven to return to, always shelter under his wings.

They’re here. They’re with him.

They’re going to stay.

“I’m very glad,” he says, words halting, “that you all didn’t just up and decide that you’d had enough of me.”

“Wilbur,” Niki says, “we would never.”

He looks back at her. She’s smiling at him again, open and honest, concerned, but glad.

And he believes her.

“Let’s get these in the oven, shall we?” she says, and they do. They go pan by pan, one of them on each side, sliding them in to be baked. And then, they are left with no more dough and a mess of ingredients, and he’s too slow to move when a light enters Niki’s eyes, too slow to dodge when her flour-covered fingertips swipe across his cheek.

He can only retaliate from there, of course. It’s only fair. And he pays no mind to the state of his uniform as they start flicking baking ingredients at each other, pays no mind to the way his hair dangles in front of his face, pays no mind to the fact that he’s going to look a mess when he finally leaves. He’s got flour all over his clothes and sugar on his face, but Niki looks the exact same way, and when they finally have enough, when they slump against the counter side by side, a breathless laugh escapes him, and Niki looks delighted by it, so really, isn’t it all worth it?

“You look ridiculous,” he manages, and she smacks him on the shoulder.

“You look worse,” she says. “You look like you decided to wear the bakery instead of cook in it.”

“Oh?” he says. “And who started it?”

“And who decided to go along with it?” she returns, but she’s laughing, too.

And here he is, the president of L’Manberg, covered in baking ingredients, avoiding his duties so he can have a food fight with his best friend. No guilt accompanies the thought, and for the first time, he toys with the idea that perhaps, he does not need to be president forever. Maybe one day, he’ll work up the ability to set down the burden, to hand it to someone else, to let the possibilities open up before him, unconstrained by doubt and self-hatred and the cage he built for himself. Maybe his guitar will stop collecting dust.

Not yet. But maybe one day.

For now, this is enough.

So he stands in the bakery, warm as any hug, with white in his hair and the scent of cookies baking, and allows himself to feel, for the first time in a long time, that he is allowed this, and that life is worth living after all.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #wilbur soot #nihachu #tommyinnit #fundy #philza #tubbo #jack manifold #dsmp fic #/rp #cw depression #cw self-hatred #cw disordered eating #long post #cat writes fic #at last it is done #literally triple the word count it was supposed to be but it is finished

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speechlessxx · 4 years ago

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Bring Him Light - Prologue (King!Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter Summary: The Princess of York is to be sent away to marry the Brooken King.

Warnings: Steve’s not in this chapter. Patriarchy. Tony’s not winning father of the year. Possible Dark Themes (in the future).

Word Count: 1.8k

This was gonna be longer, but I wanted y’alls opinion before I went ahead and made this a series.

Hope you guys enjoy! Let me know what y’all think.

Bring Him Light Masterlist

(The gif isn’t mine and it’s kinkier than i wanted it to be sorry... no bondage in this one)

Next Part ->

The coarse ropes dug into your skin as you twisted and turned your wrists in hopes to loosen the knot. You were sure they’d leave marks. You bit your lip to suppress the pained whimper that threatened to escape but paid no attention to the tears that rolled down your cheeks. It wasn’t as if your captor would’ve seen. The burlap sack over your head made sure of that.

Every time the cart jostled due to the uneven roads, you felt the crops – your travel companions as it seemed – roll around, often smacking against you. You tried to reach backwards with your bound wrists, searching for an arrow in your quiver. But it seemed as if your captor had rid you of them.

You felt the dirt on your skin. It was all over your legs and feet – you had forgone your shoes, the heels would’ve made your escape twice as difficult. The earth had settled itself into your pores and between your toes, leaving an uncomfortable feeling that made you cringe.

As the ride became smoother, you knew you were closer to the castle. You stopped fumbling with your bound wrists and rested your head against the back of the cart in defeat. There was no use in trying to escape. You lost your chance. No one would let you go now.

Soon the cart had stopped altogether and the rider – your captor – had retrieved you, carrying you in his arms. You were exhausted. All the fight in you had been extinguished in your attempt to flee. It had been at least two days since you’ve last eaten. You couldn’t even remember if you gave yourself an opportunity to fall asleep.

“Your majesty!” The man carrying you bellowed out as you heard doors open. “I’ve brought you a gift.” The man had put you down and though you couldn’t find the strength to stand, you tried your best to steady yourself. The bag had been removed from your head – you were sure your hair was a mess – but you kept your glare as you stood your ground. The man handed the king a broken piece of wood and you felt your stomach drop in realization. “I’ve broken her bow. My apologies.”

“Thank you, Thor,” the king nodded. His face was expressionless as he stared you down. “I’ll be sure to pay you well, huntsman, for bringing back my daughter.”

The huntsman grunted in response before he bowed. He left the throne room without another word. The councilmen stood beside your father, whispering to one another as they all took in your state.

Dirt pressed into your skin. The dress you wore was days old and torn from your tussle with the huntsman. Your hair – which was normally so clean and plaited elegantly – was in shambles and stood up in various spots. Your wrists were bound together, and a skinny strand of blood trickled down your arms due to the tight knot. If the men didn’t know any better, you looked like a common peasant – not a princess.

Your face was flushed as your rage boiled inside you. Your father quipped up an eyebrow as if expecting you to scream – to shout and curse at him – but all you did was glare in silence. And if looks could kill, he’d be dead three times over.

“You,” your father finally said as he narrowed his eyes, “sent the castle into a frenzy looking for you.” He walked towards you, disappointment and exhaustion written on his face. “That was incredibly reckless.”

“Little girls tend to be so, your grace,” one of the councilmen chided. The others at his side chuckled. “Which is why they become pretty accessories, not rulers.”

“They say men who are well endowed give their wives sons. I wonder, my lord, why you and your wife only have daughters,” you snapped. The chuckling immediately stopped.

The noble glared at you. He pointed his finger at you and yelled, “you little – “before being interrupted by a woman’s voice.

“My love, is it true–“ the throne room doors opened and you carefully turned to see your mother. Her smile quickly faded the moment she saw your condition – the tattered dress, dirty feet, messy hair, arms bound. A frown settled on her beautiful face before she dismissed her ladies. “Leave us,” she ordered. Her ladies rushed away, but the councilmen stayed. Your mother scowled at the men. “I said leave us.”

“Your grace,” they murmured. “Your highness,” they bowed to you. The man you insulted moments ago gave you one last glare before following the others.

“My sweet girl,” your mother sighed, rushing towards you. She cupped your face in her hands and wiped some of the grime from your cheeks. She tutted before grabbing your wrists. She winced when she saw the blood and the reddening skin underneath the tight knot. “I thought you told Thor to be gentle, Anthony.”

“I told him to do whatever was necessary,” your father shrugged, “to ensure our daughter’s safe return.”

Your mother scoffed as she tried to unravel the rope, but it wouldn’t budge. “She is a princess, and you paraded her in front of the nobles as if she’s some prisoner, tied up like an animal.”

“If she only acted like a princess, then none of this would be necessary,” your father rebutted.

“If you hadn’t sold me like a broodmare, then I wouldn’t have run!” You shot back. You pulled you away from your mother to walk towards your father, pointing a finger at him with your wrists still bound together. “I won’t go through with this. I swear it! I will not marry him!”

Your father curled his lip and he slapped your hand away from him. “You will because it is your duty!” he snapped. “A marriage alliance will unite the two great nations of the north! No one will ever dare go to war on the northern kingdoms – not when we stand together.”

“You were at war with him nearly three years ago!” You argued. “If you want an alliance, draw up a treaty! Better yet, ask the Brooken king to meet you for supper!” You felt tears prick in your eyes. You were frustrated and angry. You didn’t like to argue with your father. “He’ll kill me.”

“Then we will have another war.”

“At the cost of my life!”

“Tony, stop it,” your mother chirped. Her hands found your shoulders as she tried to calm your anger.

“Tell him no, mother, please.” If anyone could get through to your stubborn father and talk some sense into him, it would be your mother. You prayed that she’d be on your side – that she wouldn’t send off her eldest daughter to another kingdom just to be an accessory to a prideful king. She averted her eyes from you to look back at your father. “This isn’t a lesson you’re sending me off to. This is the rest of my life. I’ll be some man’s breeder. I’ll be his whore by law and if I try to run, he can kill me.”

“Then, don’t run,” your father sighed. He walked over to you and pulled a blade from his cloak. Your mother gave him a startled look and he responded with a shrug as if to say you never know when you need it. He carefully sawed through the knot, releasing you from your bindings. “This is for your own good. This is for the good of the two kingdoms.”

“if you need a treaty so badly, then send a bloody diplomat!” You screamed and rubbed at the wounded skin. “Why send a bride?”

“He needs a queen he can trust,” your father said.

“You’re condemning me to a loveless marriage!”

“That is not written in stone,” your mother reasoned. She reached for your father and he took her hand. You watched as their fingers intertwined.

“Your bond is different. He’s a different man than father.”

“If York falls, Brooken follows… But not if we stand together. Do you not understand the threat we are all under?” Your father frowned. “The Mad King Thanos is overthrowing monarch after monarch. His empire steadily grows and I’m afraid if we do not unite the north, then we will all perish. Think of your little brother, Harvey. If I die at the hands of Thanos, he’s too young to lead a kingdom – to lead our men into war and win it. Think of baby Morgan. Your little sister brought into the world only months ago. If Thanos comes tomorrow, do you think he’ll have mercy on her? I can assure you that he won’t. He’s killed men, women, and children alike. He’ll kill her without hesitation.

“Please, my daughter, my eldest. If you will not do this for me – for your country, do it for them.”

“If I die, my blood is not on his hands. It will be on yours.” You spat. “How will you live knowing that you’ve condemned your eldest child to her death?”

Your father sighed. There was no use in arguing anymore. You got your stubbornness from the Stark blood that flowed through your veins.

“Your things have been packed and loaded into a carriage. Your ladies have already begun their journey. You leave at nightfall.” Your father nodded with clenched teeth. He gave you one last look. “King Steven is eager to meet you.”

»»————-　⚜　————-««

King Steven was said to love art. They say he often painted in the courtyard or in the gardens. He collected paintings and sculptures. He’s fond of decorations, they tell you. His favorite decorum was said to be the corpses of his enemies, strung up along the castle walls. A reminder to those who wished for his demise and those who plotted against him that he was and would always be victorious.

He was said to be cruel. You heard stories that he was a ruthless killer on the battlefield – that he wouldn’t stop slashing at his foe until his sword and armor were coated in their blood. You were told he never smiled and from the portraits you’ve seen of the man, it seemed to be true. He was handsome in the pictures you’ve seen. Short blonde hair, strong jaw, blue eyes. But looks could only compensate for so much.

He was married twice before. Queen Margaret and Queen Sharon. Both from the now extinct House Carter. Both queens died before they could give King Steven a child – a son.

You didn’t know the circumstances of their deaths, but some say the king was cursed. How unfortunate and unlucky does a man have to be to lose both his wives? But others have told you a different story. A story that was far more twisted and frightening.

Others claim that King Steven killed his queens.

The servants couldn’t blame you when you snuck away, bow and quiver full of arrows in hand. They even covered for you when you left through the kitchen’s exit.

But they were just rumors… How true could they be?

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #king steve #king steve rogers #dad tony stark #king tony stark #avengers medieval #medieval au #imagine #chris evans x reader #chris evans imagine #chris evans #captain america imagine #captain america x reader #bring him light

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sleepysailorghost · 4 years ago

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Arcade wasn't sure what he expected when the Courier asked him to accompany them. They hadn't given a name, only said they were a Courier. It wasn't much to go on, but the Courier had looked up at him with big eyes. And for some reason, it didn't sound all that crazy to venture beyond the fort with them, a natural stanger.

They had listened so reverently when Julie spoke. They had fulfilled any job asked of them by the Followers. Certainly, if they harbored ill will towards the Followers, they would have gotten to their revenge before now.

He had asked for their name, if only to be polite.

"I don't have one. Courier or Six is fine, if you'd like."

"You don't have a name?"

"I guess I probably did once, but I don't remember any more. I just remember the man in the checkered coat- an 18-carat run of bad luck-and then waking up in Doc Mitchell's house. Maybe that man knows who I was. I don't know."

"That doesn't bother you, not having a past?"

"No, not really." The Courier leaned back. "I'm just me. Sure, I can't look back on the road behind me, but I can look forward."

"Interesting. Are you going to look for the man in the checkered coat?"

"I don't know. I guess I could. I'm supposed to, because he stole something from me and shot me in the head."

"Wait, he shot you in the head?"

"Yeah, that's why I don't remember much. It messed with my head too."

"Well, yeah. Getting shot in the head would do that."

"Oh, wait, I do have one hint to who I might have been." The courier starts to undo the many closures of their armor, like a fire's been lit under them. "What do you make of this?"

The Courier drops their armor clumsily on the floor, and then goofily flexes. He doesn't really know what they're refering to, but then he sees the poorly-done tattoo on their upper arm. It's a ring of roses and thorns that raps under their bicep. Despite being very mediocre, it is legible and in color.

"Huh." Tattoos aren't really unique, but it is something. "Maybe your name is Rose?"

"Maybe. It doesn't sound right."

"Maybe you just need to try it out for a while, wear it in." He's trying to help, but the Courier is a near stranger to him. "Or, if you'd like, I could arrange for you to see Dr. Usa-"

"No thanks. Don't want to take up her time." The refusal was off faster than a bullet from a sixgun. "If you're ready to go, so am I."

"Sure." He agreed. It wasn't really healthy of the Courier to act out against the idea of visiting the clinic, but it wasn't something he could force them into. At least, not as a near stranger.

This turned out to be one of the few times the Courier's former-NCR sniper friend wasn't travelling with them. He probably wouldn't have decided to go with the Courier if he had known they had company. Still, it isn't all that bad, even if he feels a little crowded with the Courier, their robot pet ED-E (he hates that thing), the King's robot-dog, the sniper, and the Remnant medical researcher. One more person, and the Courier will have a small army.

Not that the Courier normally has all of them traveling together at once. It's too noticeable, draws too much attention. It might even sound like a joke: an Enclave eyebot, a police cyber dog, an amnesiac Courier, a grouchy NCR sniper, and a medical researcher walk in to a bar...

It makes the Courier happy to travel with him, so he does it on occasion. Those occassions become a lot more frequent after they return from a place they call the "Big Empty".

That had been months ago. Now, he felt like he knew the Courier. Not that he wasn't surprised by the Courier-he certainly was. But he was familiar with the Courier now.

It was a dangerous sort of thing, that familiarity. He was even starting to think that perhaps it would be a good idea to let them in on his own origins.

And he knew how the Courier felt about him.

Leaning against his side while they sat at a fire, the Courier's hands stripping a defeated foe's weapon, they had muttered something.

"Sorry, say again?" Arcade responded. Most of the time, it was just complaints about bent springs or whatever, more to themselves than to him.

The Courier's hands stopped, laying the weapon on the ground.

"You're my brother, Arcade." The Courier says, and then continues before Arcade could interrupt. "Not by blood. Or hell, maybe you are. It's not like I'd remember. Course you are a heck of a lot taller than I am...maybe the tall gene skipped me."

Arcade doesn't say anything, attempting to process what the Courier was trying to tell him.

"No, we're not related by blood." He agrees, although he has no real way to confirm it without knowing the Courier's identity.

"I know." The Courier put their hand up to their chest. "I just...well, I know you're my brother. I, uhh, care about you."

Arcade didn't know what to say about that. It really did feel like it had come out of nowhere to him. A few weeks later, the Courier had gone running off to a place that might have been their home.

Antietam is walking by his side now, but their gaze is drawn over to an old poster. The pre-war store was filled with advertisements for many different products, from Sugar-Bombs to the newest products from Rob-Co.

Shelves, long ransacked and destroyed, have created something of a maze. The laminate tiling on the floor has become loose after centuries of neglect. Decorations littering the area would mark this location as a raider base at some point.

His friend doesn't seem to notice any of that, moving closer to a central display that might have been made of stacked shoeboxes once. Now, the boxes lay in a crumpled heap.

"Antietam, wait-" He says, and the courier stops.

"Yeah? Do you need something?"

"You need to be more careful! This could be a trap."

"I don't think it is. I'm pretty good at finding traps and I don't see any tripwires or bear traps. I've stepped in enough of those."

"Of course you wouldn't see them! It's a mess in here."

"I'm not going far. I just wanna see if I can find some of those."The Courier pointed at an advertisement. It was of a girl with little wheels on her shoes, looking over her shoulder as she spun away. Under the picture, it read "Roll with the punches with Roller-Ray skates!".

"Do you..need those?"

"Well, no. I just think they would be cool. Just rollin around town."

"I'll go with them." Boone added, if only so he could keep an eye on them.

"Yeah, plus ED-E's sensors haven't picked up on anything. I can handle myself while looking for skates, Arcade."

On that note, the Courier and Boone go to pick through the rubble. When they returned, Antietam raised their arm triumphantly.

"We found them! A little dinged up, but I can fix that. C'mon, lets go outside to try them!" With the hand not holding their skates, Antietam grabbed at Arcade's sleeve.

"Okay, okay." He said, because Antietam's enthusiasm for things was infectious sometimes. They exited the store, entering that had once been a parking lot. Rusted-through cars sat abandoned and the sun hung low in the sky.

Antietam dropped to the floor, strapping on their skates. They were metal and fit awkwardly with their combat boots and spurs. Awkwardly, like a baby radstag on ice, the Courier stood up.

"Okay,so I just." The Courier lifted one leg as if to take a step. Their balance was offset by the movement. Next to him, Arcade saw Boone move to catch the Courier if they fell, but the Courier braced themselves on a car instead.

They took a few more awkward steps.

"Yeah, I think I'm getting the hang of this." Their movements were jerky, but in time, perhaps they'd be alright at it.

Then they hit a skid in the destroyed asphalt and took a spill. Their left side collided hard with a rusted shell.

"Ouch." they groaned, and then collapsed onto the parking lot. "I'm just gonna rest here for a second."

Arcade laughed a little, and then helpfully whined about the sun.

"Alright, alright. Okay, getting up." The Courier pushed up from the asphalt with both hands, rising from their crumpled mass.

"Nothing broken?" Arcade asked, seeing Antietam avoid putting too much weight on their left side.

"No, probably just bruised." They replied, but that was what Arcade had expected. They were still extremely hesitant to be medically examined, even if it meant concealing and ignoring injuries. It stung Arcade-someone who the Courier allegedly loved like a brother-to be held at arms' length. That being said, he couldn't be upset with them either. The Courier had suffered greatly and been stripped of agency by doctors. It was a mark of pride that Antietam trusted him.

Actually, he could still be angry with them for concealing injuries.

The sun was beating down as steadily as it always did in the Mojave. A bead of sweat formed on Arcade's neck.

"Oh shoot." The Courier murmured, looking over their hands. They wore fingerless gloves, and a pip-boy on one arm. Arcade examined the injury. It would be a lot of work if the Courier came down with tetnus. "It's just a scrape, Arcade."

"It's not just a scrape. It's dirty and could get infected."

"Hottest part of the days coming up. We should wait it out in the store." Boone added, helpfully.

"C'mon, listen to your big brother, ok?" Arcade tried with a smile. The Courier looked up at him with their wide brown eyes.

Arcade was not above emotional manipulation.

Half a year ago, if someone told him that he was going to play big brother to a Courier who knew nothing about their past and hated doctors, he'd have likely sent them to see Dr. Usanagi.

The Courier ran their gloved hand through their short white hair. It fluffed up their bangs (despite the pin staying in place) and revealed the twin scars on their forehead and the surgical scar that ran around their skull.

"Okay." The Courier responded, sticking their wrist out to him for treatment.

"Oh, that's a nasty cut." he said, "Let's head inside so we can get this treated.:

In the end, even if the Courier was a hassle sometimes, he was glad to be their brother. He was turning into such a sap.

#arcade gannon #courier antietam #fallout new vegas #fnv #ED-E #craig boone #roller skates

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callboxkat · 4 years ago

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Those Long, Lonely Nights (part 4/6)

Author’s note: This is a retelling of the story These Deep Dark Woods, but from Roman’s perspective. I recommend reading that story first, but this can also stand alone.

Summary: Roman, a knight, insists on accompanying his best friend Logan, a potion maker, when he decides to head into the notoriously dangerous woods bordering their home to find some rare herbs and minerals for his apothecary. They find much more than they bargained for when they encounter Remus, a bloodthirsty giant. Logince. Angst with a happy ending.

Fic Warnings: food mention, blood, injuries, death mention, killing mention, gun mention, mild body horror (it’s Remus), disturbing imagery (it’s Remus), character death, temporary/believed character death, kidnapping, guilt, attempted self sacrifice, talk of giants, vampires and other monsters. Very unsympathetic villain Remus.

Word Count: 3910

Part 1 : Part 5

Writing Masterpost!

...

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” the giant called in a sing-song voice. “I know you’re theeerrrre, little bugs!”

Roman and Logan were pressed against an outcropping of rock, panting, trying to be as quiet as they could while they caught their breath. Logan, in his darker attire, was peeking through the small gap between the cliff and some undergrowth, towards where the monster was. Roman watched as he shuddered. He went to put a hand on Logan’s shoulder, as if to comfort him, then thought better of it, and took it away.

The giant was well and truly angry now. It was clear that he had been toying with them before—despite having very, very nearly killed Logan once already—and he had at least then wanted them to last a while, while he had his fun. But that was before. Now, he was still definitely trying to have some sick, twisted version of fun, but he did not plan to keep either of them alive for long.

Remus had a club with him now. An enormous weapon that someone of his size should not have reasonably been able to wield—even standing at four times the height of a normal man, with hands large enough to wrap around entire human limbs and with shoulders the width of a decent-sized supply cart, the pink and black boulder wrapped over and over again to that thick, gnarled log serving as a handle was enormous. Had the giant had human proportions, he shouldn’t have been able to lift it, let alone swing it like a bat.

One good hit, and they were both done for.

The giant was getting closer. Logan silently tugged at Roman’s sleeve, and the pair snuck further away as quickly as they dared, doing their best to stay silent. Roman’s ears were still ringing a little, so he could only hope his training was paying off, and that he was being quiet enough. Logan didn’t say anything, but watching how he listed heavily to one side as they went, Roman didn’t really trust him to be a good judge either.

They pressed themselves against the next outcrop. Old Haven was sometimes called Stony Cliffs in older manuscripts, and it was easy to see why—the forests here were filled with these outcroppings, especially to the south and west. They were useful both for Logan’s work, seeking (relatively) easily accessed minerals for his apothecary, and, it seemed, for hiding from homicidal giants.

Roman’s head was spinning, but he was much more worried about Logan. They’d tied a makeshift bandage around his head wound, although the bleeding had mostly stopped, but he was not in good shape. It was still shocking to Roman that he had survived this long at all. Thinking back, it seemed almost impossible. Perhaps he had gotten lucky, being bundled into the giant’s bag after Roman, that his head had been pressed into Roman’s side. Tied up and probably concussed as he was, Roman had been in no shape at the time to try to stop the bleeding, even if he had known that Logan wasn’t already dead at the time. That small, random chance might have been what kept Logan alive.

Roman decided that he really did not want to think about that, actually.

But he could not stop thinking about how pale Logan looked, nor the way he seemed to be just barely keeping himself from collapsing.

The giant was getting closer.

“Come on,” Roman reluctantly whispered, hating that he couldn’t give Logan more time to actually rest. They had to keep moving. He listened for a moment just to be sure he knew where the giant was—although Remus’s movements were hardly subtle—and began to creep out in the opposite direction, pausing to be sure Logan followed.

The dull thuds and crashing of Remus’s movements paused. Roman and Logan both froze.

“Come on, don’t be that way,” the giant called, his voice echoing through the trees. “Where are you trying to run off to?” He cackled, and Roman heard a rustle, the whoosh of air, and a few loud cracks, like Remus had gestured around the dark forest with his club and broken several branches in the process. “Don’t you know what could happen? You could fall and break your legs! You’ll be completely helpless! And then you’d get eaten by birds! Ooh, do you think they’d peck out your eyes first? Or would you get to watch the whole thing?”

Roman and Logan waited, terrified, until it was safe to move again.

Boom!

The sound echoed through the forest. A tree only a dozen yards away fell to the ground. A single bird let out an alarm call as it finally realized that this was the last place it wanted to be, and fled.

“At least we know where he is,” Logan whispered.

That was true. Remus did not seem to be prioritizing stealth in the slightest. Probably, this was because he was certain that Roman and Logan wouldn’t escape either way, but it was reassuring all the same. Roman would take what he could get.

They made it to the next outcrop of rock. At the base of it, in the mud, was the unmistakable impression of an enormous footprint. It couldn’t have been very old. Roman thought he could see more of them, deeper in the trees, visible even in the dimness. Probably, the giant had come this way not long before he’d captured Roman and Logan.

How long had the giant been watching them? Waiting for them to let their guard down, so he could strike?

Roman thought of how he’d slowly grown bored, pacing the perimeter of their camp, and eventually gone to simply sit sleepily on a boulder. Stupid.

They should have turned back when they had the chance. They never should have gone so deep into the woods at all. They could have been home right now, eating peach tarts by the fire in Roman’s cozy cabin, ostensibly because it was closer to the South Tower and thus less of a trek for Logan that night, but really just to spend time together, listening to the lively music drifting from the pub down the street.

It was too late, now, though. Now, Roman could only hope that he could get them both out alive.

…

As they stumbled as fast as they could through the trees, breathing harshly, hardly caring if they were even going in the right direction, the sky gradually began to lighten. The dawn made it easier to see where they were going, so they were able to move just a little faster, but it also made it all the more obvious just how far they had to go. And the giant was not a welcome sight in the light of day.

“FEE, FIE, FOE, FUM!” the giant called, slamming his feet down on the ground with each step, hard enough to make the ground shudder. “Come on out and let’s have some fun!”

The words, delivered with such a promise of violence, sent a fresh curl of fear into Roman’s chest. It seemed even when he thought he couldn’t be more afraid, he was wrong.

Logan’s hand tightened around Roman, gripping his coat, an effort to keep them from getting separated. Roman was glad for the proof that Logan was there with him. He was afraid to keep looking over his shoulder. Partly because he needed to see where he was going, and partly because he was afraid of knowing just how close Remus might be.

Occasionally, the giant would pause in his pursuit, and just listen. Roman knew that the giant was tracking them, or attempting to do so; he knew that they should be trying harder to be quiet. He also knew that they had no time to slow down. He wasn’t sure either of them was in good enough shape any more to do anything to muffle their footsteps, if they tried.

“Come on, come on,” Roman panted, looking around in desperation as they continued on. Not a moment later, the knight’s foot caught on something, and he and Logan were both sent sprawling.

Roman hit the ground hard, landing on uneven ground strewn with stones and tree roots. His head spun, and a long second passed before the world began to settle around him. He lifted up a hand and touched a newly sore spot on his head, practically on top of where Remus had already flicked him.

He heard a shout in the distance.

Logan was leaning over him, one hand reached out, gasping. “Let’s go,” he said.

Roman blinked, watching the way Logan’s hair drifted slightly in the faint breeze. Now that the sun was coming up and he could see better, Logan’s hair looked kind of amusing. Half of it was sticking up in all directions, while the other half was pasted to his skull. Why would he wear it like that?

And then, suddenly, Roman remembered exactly where he was, and exactly what he was looking at. He shook his head, clearing some of the fuzziness. “Yeah—yeah, let’s go.” He reached up and took Logan’s hand. Logan did his best to haul Roman back to his feet.

A sharp pain told him that something was very, very wrong with his ankle.

No time to worry about that.

They continued onwards on clumsy, exhausted, painful limbs, desperately trying to reach safety. Roman thought he could just barely make out the flags at the top of the South Tower’s turrets. Maybe even part of the castle. He hoped it wasn’t his imagination. Logan seemed to think that was also the correct direction, although it was possible that he was just following Roman, trusting the knight to know the way.

No—Roman had to believe that they were going the right way. They couldn’t turn around if they wanted to. If he let doubt in, he would not make it. Logan wouldn’t make it.

Roman chanced a look back at his friend, who still had one hand fastened on Roman’s formerly snow white jacket like a lifeline, and was alarmed to see blood soaking through the makeshift bandage, dripping down his face and leaving a trail of ruby droplets in their wake. They stumbled to a brief halt. At the alarm on Roman’s face, Logan himself seemed to notice the reopened injury, and he stowed his dagger before reaching up to press the palm of his now free hand to the wound. They took off again, with no time to stop. Remus was still crashing through the woods behind them, all too close, and all too happy to keep up the chase.

They just had to break the tree line. They just had to get close enough to the wall for help to arrive. They only had to make it that far. The knights, with their numbers and weapons, would make quick work of the giant. Roman and Logan just had to get to them. The knights would help, would bring them home.

Roman sent up a silent prayer to the gods. Please, help us.

As the sun rose higher and the sky lightened further, Roman grew surer and surer that he really was seeing signs of Old Haven. The trees were thinning—it was imperceptible, at first, but compared to how densely packed they had been nearer the giant’s lair, the difference was clear. Yet their pace was slowing. They simply couldn’t keep running. Roman wasn’t sure that their pace could even be called a run, at this point.

Logan’s grip on Roman’s jacket slipped, sending a jolt of alarm through the knight. It tightened again, briefly, but moments later, he felt as the apothecarist stumbled, and fell to the ground.

“Logan!” Roman gasped, turning around.

Logan looked horrible. Pale and flushed through the blood and dirt and ash on his swollen face, his eyes unfocused and only half open.

Roman pulled him up, put an arm around him, and they continued on as best they could, adrenaline numbing their pain. Their speed was hardly faster than a walking pace, but Roman simply could not go any faster. Logan seemed to be growing rapidly weaker, now leaning heavily on the knight.

Please, Logan, just hold on a little longer.

They were so close. So close. They only needed to—

SNAP!

The sound of hysterical laughter came from off to their left, and the giant materialized. “There you are! Oh, there you are! My new friends!”

Roman took a step back, stumbling on his injured ankle as he pulled Logan with him.

The giant had not escaped Logan’s brilliant distraction unscathed. A patch of hair had burned away on his scalp, he was streaked with ash, and his clothes were a charred mess. He smelled even worse than before. Yet, he smiled when he saw them, his lips cracking apart into a soot-stained grin. “I missed you,” the giant whined. “But… I’m afraid I have to kill you now.” He raised his club up over his head. “Don’t worry! It’ll be exciting! It’ll be so fun; you’ll be like meat pancakes!”

Roman’s adrenaline spiked as the giant brought down the club. Square over where Logan stood.

Roman yanked the apothecarist back, screaming as the effort set his ribs and ankle on fire, flinging them both away from the club.

He wasn’t quite fast enough.

There was a sickening crack, and then Logan was letting out a cry of pure agony, tears of pain in his eyes as he clutched at his leg.

Oh, gods. His leg.

But the giant wasn’t finished yet. He was cackling, getting ready to raise the club for the finishing blow.

Only for the tree trunk of the handle to come away in splinters, and for the boulder to roll several feet away.

Finally. Finally, some luck. Roman sent up a hasty thank you and quickly knelt by Logan, patting his coat in a fervor until he found what he was looking for—Logan’s dagger.

He spun around and brandished the weapon towards the giant, steeling himself. “Get back!” he shouted with all the strength he could muster.

Remus, meanwhile, seemed confused by the state of his club. Apparently, he had not expected it to break. He was trying to nudge the pieces together as Roman spun around. At the knight’s commanding voice, though, the giant looked up. He dropped the broken log. And he laughed.

He reached towards them, and Roman slashed the dagger across the giant’s palm. It was little more effective than a deep papercut, but the giant yelped and backed up, rubbing at his hand with a wounded look.

“That’s not very nice,” he said. “I was just trying to crush you!”

Logan was moaning in agony. Roman chanced a glance back. Logan still clutched at his leg, his face pale and slightly green. No way was he walking out of here on his own.

“Oh, you’re alive!” the giant cried, seeming to notice, for the first time, that it was Logan who lay on the ground at Roman’s side. Perhaps he had thought a third human had come to Roman’s aid—it was unlikely, of course, for more humans to be out that far, but even less so for one to come back from the dead. “I get to kill you twice! That never happens!”

Roman remembered the sound of Logan’s head cracking against a metal chain. The way his body had gone instantly, utterly limp. Those horrible, horrible hours when he had thought Logan was gone.

Roman’s hand tightened into a fist. “And it won’t!” Roman he declared. He didn’t know how, but he would stop Remus. He would fight off the giant, alone, barefoot, his body bruised and exhausted, because he had no other choice.

There was a shuffling from behind Roman, another moan of pain. Roman blinked away tears at the sound. He stayed put, the dagger brandished before him, the dull bronze blade all that held back the monster.

“Hey, Re—Remus?” came a weak, slurred voice.

Roman actually flinched, he was so surprised. What was Logan doing?

“I have something… to show you. You’ll… you’ll like it,” Logan continued, his voice wobbling with pain. “It’s… nasty, and gross. Just like you.”

Far from being insulted by the man’s words, the giant appeared intrigued. His rancid green eyes narrowed suspiciously, but still, he crouched down. He let out a heavy breath, and so close, the smell of decay was overwhelming.

It took everything Roman had not to attempt to gouge at the giant’s face while he had the chance. He hoped Logan knew what he was doing. Half dead or not, Logan was still the smartest guy he knew.

Remus leaned forward even more, so his face was less than a foot from Logan. “Show me,” he crooned.

“Of course.” Logan sounded far calmer than Roman felt. Logan’s arm came up from behind his back, holding… a small bag of powder. Which he hurled straight into the giant’s face. The bag exploded, sending out a cloud of white dust.

Remus howled, clawing at his eyes, rearing back and all but uprooting a nearby evergreen in his haste. He tripped and fell to the earth, screeching as he tried to get the dust out of his eyes.

Roman shoved the dagger in his coat pocket and dashed to Logan’s side, hauling him to his feet by the underarms, being as mindful of Logan’s leg as he could in what little time Logan had bought them.

“No,” Logan moaned, hitting out weakly at Roman. “No—put me down, put me down!”

“It’s me!” Roman said, holding Logan’s arms away from his face. “It’s me, Specs, it’s me!”

“Leave me here—go!”

It dawned on Roman. Logan expected him, wanted him to leave him behind. That was not happening. Even if both of them died because of it. Didn’t Logan know that Roman would never—absolutely never—do something like that? Hadn’t they known each other long enough for that to become obvious? Roman knew that Logan didn’t know how he felt, but he had to know how important he was to him. Didn’t he know that?

Logan kept fighting as Roman dragged them away from the giant, trying to get Roman to drop him. Logan’s leg was completely useless, and Roman bore nearly all of Logan’s weight.

“I can’t even walk,” Logan cried.

“But I can!” Roman growled. “I can walk for both of us! Dammit, Logan, I am not leaving you here to die! I—I need you! I can’t do this without you!”

Logan’s protests paused at that. Roman hauled them both onward, putting all of his focus in making it to that tree line. Finally, Logan seemed to accept that he was coming along whether he wanted to or not, and rather than trying to stop Roman or simply be dragged along, he started trying to help them move along. He couldn’t do much other than hold on to Roman and try to hop along on his one usable leg, but he was trying.

They could do this. They had to do this.

All too soon, Roman heard the sounds of the giant beginning to follow after them once more. He must have cleared his eyes enough to see, or perhaps he was simply following the sound of them crashing through the undergrowth. It didn’t matter—the result was the same.

To Roman’s immense relief, the trees were definitely thinning now. The giant already knew where they were, so Roman saw no harm in it as he began to shout and scream for help, desperately hoping that the guards on the wall would hear, that they would come to help.

Logan was not doing well. He was getting weaker and weaker, hardly managing to hold on. Roman was all but carrying him. They needed to get the bleeding in his leg stopped, but there was just no time.

“Don’t give up, buddy, come on,” Roman said, between shouts for help. “Come on.”

He could see clear grass up ahead. Just there—through the trees. He could see clean gray stones. He could see the sky. Roman cried out for help again, then turned to Logan as they scrambled over loose stones and broken branches. The jagged edge of one of the stones cut deep into Roman’s foot. He paid it no mind.

“There it is!” Roman said to Logan, desperately trying to keep him awake. “Do you see it? There’s the tree line. We’re almost there, buddy. Just a little further!”

“Almost there, buddy,” Logan echoed blandly. Roman could hardly understand him anymore.

Remus was still yelling behind them, bounding through the trees, getting closer and closer. He threw a boulder, and it crashed to the ground just beside the pair. The ground shook, leaves and pine needles raining down from nearby trees. Roman nearly fell, and Logan lurched forward heavily. The potion maker’s eyes briefly rolled up into his head, before the lids fluttered, and he seemed to come back, just a little.

Roman regained his footing and dragged them on. They were so close. “HELP US!” he screamed, shouting so loud it felt like his vocal cords would tear from the strain. “HELP US, PLEASE, WE’RE HERE! THERE’S A GIANT! PLEASE, WE’RE HERE!”

Mercifully, mercifully, he was heard. For the first time, Roman heard other human voices. He heard horses whinnying. He could hear the grinding of gears and the screech of metal as one of the gates on the wall opened. Shots rang out, and he could hear people shouting orders.

They had made it, Roman dared to think. And then Logan became dead weight in his arms.

“No—no!” Roman cried. Not again, no, please, not again.

Knights were breaking through the trees, some on foot, some on horseback, each armed either with a sword or with a rifle. Many swarmed towards the giant, while others made a beeline for Roman and Logan. Roman kept shouting until he was sure, absolutely sure, that they had seen them, and that help was coming. Please, they had to help them—they had to help Logan.

At the sight of the knights finally arriving, the fatigue and pain all seemed to hit Roman at once. He grew suddenly lightheaded. His stomach flipped, and his vision began to swim. Every second he stayed upright was torture, taking a monumental amount of effort, but he would not drop Logan. He wanted to run to the knights, but it was all he could do to stand there. He stood firm until the knights had reached them. People were talking, shouting, but Roman just stood there, swaying, as they neared. Roman could see medics among the knights. Good. Logan was badly hurt.

Finally, finally, Logan was taken from Roman’s grip. He hardly noticed the arms that came to help support his own weight.

The sound of gunshots and the clang of swords on armored skin filled the air. The giant roared. There was a huge crash, and then… nothing. The gunshots went quiet, and forest was still. There was a howl of victory, echoed by cheers that Roman hardly noticed.

The giant was dead.

“Please be careful,” Roman murmured in the newfound quiet, watching as the medics began to tend to his friend, ignoring the medics and knights who were trying to speak to him. He blinked, long and slow.

Then, he collapsed completely.

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askkrenko · 4 years ago

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Krenko’s Guide to Pokemon: Poliwag Line

Ah, Poliwhirl, the main character of Pokemon.

...What, you thought it was Pikachu?

Well, sure, Pikachu became it, because people didn’t like Poliwag, Poliwhirl, and Poliwrath enough, but if you go back and look at the earliest Pokemon promotional material, you’ll find the Poliwag line everywhere, because Satoshi Tajiri himself wanted to push it as the big symbol of Pokemon and Evolution- the tadpole turning into a frog.

Back in the day, Poliwag’s line was inexplicably everywhere. There’d be toy lines of “Bulbasaur, Charmander, Squirtle, PIkachu, Meowth, and Poliwhirl.” Poliwhirl was on all the promotional material. Hell, when Pokemon was on the cover of Time Magazine, guess who was front and center.

But nobody actually liked Poliwhirl all that much so eventually the Pokemon company stopped putting it in everything. Eh, they can’t all be winners. DESIGN: Poliwag is actually super cute. It’s a tadpole with a spiral reminiscent of real tadpole intestines (visible through translucent skin) but not gross at all. Feel free to google that on your own time. I’ve decided not to share the picture here. The little feet show it’s just starting to turn into not-a-tadpole and it’s got a cute little mouth for blowing bubbles. I love Poliwag. Poliwhirl is... fine. Trading the tail for arms makes sense, but what I don’t really get is losing any semblance of a mouth. It just looks weird. Incomplete maybe. There’s something inherently offputting about Poliwhirl’s appearance and I honestly think it’s that it has no mouth, so it’s not clear that that big swirly thing is supposed to be its tummy.

Poliwrath is just a design I don’t like. It’s just Angry Poliwhirl. It’s thicker and has bicep, but it still suffers from the weird mouth issue that Poliwhirl does, and it doesn’t actually look like a different creature. It might just be the least noticeable change in an evolution in all of Pokemon. Seriously, look back and forth between Poliwhirl and Poliwrath quickly and tell me those are two different Pokemon and not just, like, the male and female variant of one. At least with Poliwrath I think I see where its mouth is sort of SUPPOSED to be, but with it closed so tight I can’t really tell. Its made even more confusing because Poliwag shoots “Water Gun” out of its mouth, but Poliwhirl shoots it out of its belly.

And then there’s Politoed. Politoed has a mouth! I approve. Unfortunately, I feel like Politoed diverges too much from Poliwag and Poliwhirl.

The coloration is entirely different, which would be fine if Poliwhirl wasn’t the exact same color as Poliwag, there’s suddenly a huge mouth, the hands and feet are three-fingered instead of whatever’s going on with Poliwhirl, and while there’s still a stomach swirl it’s not only less pronounced, it’s a different color. Now, I will say that overall I do like Politoed’s design. I think it’s a cool frog monster that’s clearly a frog but also has enough unique traits to be interesting. I just don’t feel that it looks like the frog Poliwag was destined to become.

Now, Shiny Politoed actually goes a long way to fix this just by being the same colors as Poliwhirl, but my general feeling here is that if Poliwag to Poliwhirl’s transformation involves big gloved hands and raised eyes, then the Poliwhirl to Politoed evolution should’ve kept those. Also, I don’t get why it has a single long hair. The Pokedex says that hair is proof of its status as a King, and it does evolve via King’s Rock, so maybe there’s some Frog Prince shenanigans going on there, but I just don’t see it. EVOLUTIONS: I love Branching Evolutions, generally, especially ones where you just get a choice. Poliwag to Poliwhirl is a normal level 25, and Poliwhirl to Wrath or Toed is Water Stone or Traded With King’s Rock... And I gotta say, I kind of hate “Trade with King’s Rock.” I don’t think I’ve gone into this yet but I’ll definitely say it a lot in the future: Trade evolutions that require additional items are a pain in the butt, a waste of everyone’s time, and there’s too many different items for them. Also, Trading is already a bit of a thing. Why not just make Poliwhirl evolve into Poliwag by using the King’s Rock like an evolution stone? You know there’s like 40 evolution items and most of them only apply to one Pokemon? And King’s Rock only applies to two.

Look, I understand and begrudgingly respect that, until they came to their senses in Sword and Shield, Pokemon didn’t want to include evolution methods that were attemptable and failable in an earlier game, like using a Leaf Stone on Eevee, but I will never understand while Sneasel needs a Razor Claw but Gligar needs a Razor Fang even though both work by being held items that trigger evolution on level up. And King’s Rock, Metal Coat, Upgrade, and Dragon Scale were what started this mess. And why the devil can’t Seadra become Kingdra with a KING’S Rock? Somehow Politoed is more king than Kingdra? Anyway, split evolutions are cool when they’re sufficiently different. Though Politoed and Poliwrath seem similar, they have a decently different move list and, most importantly, Poliwrath leans Physical while Politoed leans Special. TYPING: Poliwrath is a rather unique Water/Fighting combo which gives it a whopping seven resistances. Sure, this comes with five weaknesses, but if you play smart it means you can switch Poliwrath into a lot of attacks. Also, a Water/Fighting combo gives super effective coverage against seven types, and nothing resists both types. This is a really comfortable place to be. Politoed is pure water, which is fine defensively with four resistances and only two weaknesses, but with only three types of STAB coverage and three types that resist all its STAB attacks it’s going to have a much harder time putting out damage.

STATS: You know what’s weird? Poliwhirl has speed 90. Both Poliwrath and Politoed have speed 70. While it’s not unheard of for a Pokemon to have a stat decrease, especially a speed decrease, on evolution, Poliwhirl is the only Gen One pokemon to have this issue, other than Caterpie and Weedle who lose Attack and Speed upon cocooning but got it back in their final forms. Some Gen One Pokemon retroactively got it later, like Onix and Scyther both losing speed when they become Steel types, but Poliwhirl was the first. Anyway, actual stats. Both Poliwrath and Politoed have above average HP and below average speed. Poliwrath has comfortable defenses at 95 and 90, and a decent 95 attack. It’s not exactly a heavy hitter, but it’s good all around. Politoed has 75 Attack and Defense, just a bit below average, but a Special Defense of a good 100. Its Special attack at 90 is just a smidge lower than Poliwrath’s attack, but it’s still fine.

ABILITIES: For main abilities, both Poliwrath and Politoed have Water Absorb and Damp. Damp, as mentioned for Psyduck, is basically useless. It shuts off self-destructing moves, but those don’t really come up enough to matter. Water Absorb is just good. Water Absorb replaces their Water Resistance not with Immunity, but the ability to heal any time they’re hit by a water attack. In a normal battle, this lets them catch Water attacks even better than they’d be able to otherwise, and jump into them late game to heal. In a 2v2, this allows your ally to spam Surf, healing your Poliwhatever while also damaging both enemies. We’re going to see Water Absorb a lot in the future, and it’s always an entirely solid ability.... but both hidden abilities are worth talking about. Poliwrath’s Hidden Ability is Swift Swim, which doubles it speed in the rain, and it’s another ability a lot of water Pokemon have. Obviously this takes some setup to use, but Poliwrath’s speed is right at the level where it’s poor normally but suddenly really good with Swift Swim up. If your team can reliably trigger it, it’s a serious boost to Poliwrath’s overall effectiveness. Whether this is better than Water Absorb absolutely depends on your team. Politoed... gets one of the greatest abilities in the game. I said this when Ninetails came up, but if a has Drought, Snow Warning, Drizzle, or Sand Stream it’s automatically useful. Politoed is one of only three Pokemon with Drizzle, and while Kyogre is the Obvious Best of the three, it’s a Legendary that’s banned in many tournaments, so the competition is just Politoed and Pelipper- and honestly, they’re both entirely reasonable options. Drizzle is a free action Rain Dance. That’s it. And that’s all you need. Politoed comes out and oh look it’s raining. Now water attacks do more damage, fire attacks do less, and all those other fun rain abilities are triggered. Politoed is a strategy in himself, and even if his stats were much worse, Drizzle would still be reason to use him.

Unless you’re in a format where Kyogre’s legal in which case, to hell with the little frog.

MOVES: As always we start with our attacks. Poliwrath has two main fighting options, the defensive Drain Punch or the offensive Close Combat. As Poliwrath is a bit on the bulky side and not really strong enough to reliably one-shot things with Close Combat, I’d lean toward Drain Punch. For Water, Poliwrath gets.... Liquidation. It’s not impressive, but it’s STAB Physical. Poliwrath actually has a serious move problem in that many of its best moves are Special rather than Physical, but it’s physical attack stat is much higher. With a Swift Swim Poliwrath, Waterfall becomes a lot more desirable than Liquidation, as it’s likely to outspeed its foes, but if your Poliwrath isn’t built for speed, that Flinch is unlikely to happen. Politoed has this question a lot easier. It can learn Surf, Hydro Pump, and Scald, depending on which better fits your tactics.

Poliwrath’s coverage options are Darkest Lariat, Earthquake, Ice Punch, Rock Slide, and Poison Jab. Of these, Darkest Lariat works against Ghost and Fairy, Earthquake against Poison and Electric, Ice Punch against Flying, Grass, and Dragon, Rock Slide against Flying and Bug, and Poison Jab against Grass and Fairy. Obviously there’s no way to win them all, but Poliwrath can reasonably threaten a lot of types.

Politoed’s coverage options are Ice Beam, Psychic, Earth Power, and Focus Blast... But with guaranteed Rain Dance and STAB, it’s better off using Water against anything that isn’t Dragon, Grass, or Water. Nothing it has hits water, so Ice Beam is the only secondary attack it needs to pick up. (Politoed would be utterly busted if it could learn Thunder, but it can’t so... Ice Beam it is.) And then there’s the question of utility, and Poliwrath has a lot of it. Option A is Belly Drum. Belly Drum punches your pokemon in the gut, hard, dropping their HP in half... and raises their Attack by six stages. It’s a dangerous gambit, but Poliwrath is bulky enough and has enough resistances to give it a shot. Option B: Rest. Poliwrath can take a nap and heal to full. Lots of Pokemon can learn rest, but most Pokemon don’t have above-average defenses and seven resistances. Poliwrath can combine Rest with Sleep Talk (but don’t combine Sleep Talk with Belly Drum or you’ll just kill yourself,) in order to keep performing moves while asleep. Of particular note, Circle Throw changes from -6 Priority off of Sleep Talk to using Sleep Talk’s priority, making it a solid option that keeps your opponent from properly fighting back against your sleepy frog. With this strategy, using Scald over Waterfall or Liquidation becomes reasonable. The damage is much less, but Burning an opponent cuts their Attack and deals damage over time. Option C: Bulk Up. If you’re worried about the HP loss of Belly Drum, just Bulk Up instead. It’s weaker, but it raises Defense too, and then you can get back to Drain Punching. Politoed doesn’t have that much for utility options (though Perish Song, Protect, and Encore all have their uses) but that’s fine because the goal here is to just set up rain and then blast enemies with a water attack and Ice Beam or switch out into something that can better take advantage of the rain. You don’t need other utility when you have Drizzle. Take Splash for all I care. It doesn’t matter: Hydro Pump, Surf or Scald Ice Beam Whatever. Maybe take Rest and Sleep Talk, too. Politoed’s pretty bulky. It doesn’t really matter. Drizzle means that Politoed is secretly one of the strongest Special Attackers in the game. Just make sure you have a Ground type on the team so you can safely switch when you’re staring down an Electric type, because you do not want to eat a Thunder. OVERALL: Poliwrath and Politoed, despite being counterparts, are very different pokemon. Poliwrath’s near-unique typing, shared only with Legendaries, and solid bulk gives it an interesting defensive position, with a wide range of attack coverage. Meanwhile, Politoed has Drizzle, which makes a pokemon on its own. Everything else is just gravy. And I seriously wasn’t kidding about Poliwhirl being on EVERYTHING.

#Krenko's Pokemon Guide #Poliwag #Poliwhirl #Poliwrath #Politoed

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thenightgazer · 5 years ago

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The Epistle of Forgiveness

Almost a month after the event of The Finding of Almagest, Vergil takes his visit to the library. Instead of reading, he wants to apologize to Lyra. What will Lyra do? Will Vergil get his forgiveness?

The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

-Oscar Wilde

The Literarium looks a little bit crowded today.

It’s not a regular view for Lyra.

Some guests are reading and enjoying coffee at the reading sections. Others are gather around sale section. Some of them approach her to ask for book location or her book recommendation. While walking around the reading sections to offer coffee refill, she spots her co-worker—Nate— is busy flirting with a group of school girls, completely forget his duty to rearrange book display. Lyra rolls her eyes in disgust, but do nothing since she doesn’t like being bossy.

Lyra was going to change her direction to the Rare Section before she remembers the loyal guest of that section isn’t present today.

Almost a month, she ponders. New record.

She starts to think that maybe she made a mistake for trusting a stranger.

Because the truth is, she knows that Vergil gave her a fake ID on their first meeting.

A true bibliophile won’t betray another bibliophile, Mr Steiner had said that. A way too innocent perspective, but this time she believes it.

Maybe because it’s Vergil, not anyone else.

“Your eyes, Librarian,” she remembers Vergil’s odd words. “Those eyes spoke nothing”

Lately, she finds herself drown to those vague words. No, more like haunted. Why did he say that? What does he mean about ‘I’ve seen thousand stories behind every eyes, but yours telling me nothing’? Does he sees something in her that she herself can’t see? But whatever it is, Vergil said that with suspicious tone. A kind of tone which Lyra translates as a potential danger.

But how could that man be a danger to her? He is indeed an intimidating man, but what she sees is just a gentleman who has a divine passion in literature and using poems as his unique way to express his perspective towards the world like a man of letter. A man with profound knowledges who held flowers delicately— a lenient manner which reflects nothing like his stern appearance at all.

Is it a mistake, she laments. To offer him a friendship?

“Lyra!” Mr Steiner shouts from receptionist table. “A little help here, please.”

“Just a second!” Lyra hurries her steps back to the receptionist table, making mental note to not accidentally spill anything about Vergil and Almagest in front of the owner of the library or she would get herself into bigger trouble.

The elder son of Sparda is furious.

He was on his way to take a brief visit to The Literarium after weeks of exhausting mission at Fortuna before a sudden demon attack ruins his day. Doom will always come upon those who try to mess with him, and that demon chooses the wrong person to deal with.

But this time is different.

Because the demon scatters something important for him.

He slaughters that demon out of rage, unlike his usual calm demeanour when he’s fighting. He wasn’t just stab it; he sliced it into dusts.

I was angry with my foe

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

He sheathes the Yamato and mentally curses himself.

Will I ever get my atonement?

As much as she loves her job as a librarian, Lyra loves closing time more than anytime.

It was almost an hour since Nate left this place, and yet Lyra hasn’t finished her task to account today sale. Tomorrow is Saturday, so she takes no haste in her work. Not that she has plan for weekend—in fact, she rarely has any plan for anything— she just prefer to do her things in her own pace. That’s why working in this small library suits her. It grants her more personal space without abandoning her passion of literature.

She grunts in annoyance whens she hears the doorbell is ringing.

“Sorry, we’re closed.” Lyra says, her eyes still focus on her paperwork.

Her suspicion grows when the person says nothing as she sees a shadow of a tall man looms behind her. She turn around to see the man and gasps excitedly.

“Oh! Hello again, Vergil!” Lyra greets him. “What a surprise! You know it’s closing time—wait, tell me it’s not blood on your glove.”

Vergil glances at his stained glove, “It wasn’t my blood.”

“Uh… good then,” Lyra nods anxiously when she sees Vergil is holding the Yamato. “I thought you were hurt.”

“I did not,” the hybrid assures her. “And you may put that thing away. I mean no harm at all.”

Lyra lets out a sigh and reveals a cutter she hides behind her back, “My apologies. You look like a hitman who wants to rob this place, by the way.”

“So I’ve been told,” Vergil admits, sending the Yamato into thin air. “I didn’t mean to scare you in any way. Please put that thing down. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“I don’t fear you, Vergil. I’m only making a prevention. Though I assume the cutter won’t have any effects on you,” Lyra lowers the cutter and put it back on her desk. “So… what brought you here, all that with katana, blood stain, and pale face?”

It’s difficult to instantly get a direct answer from Vergil’s stoic face. For a moment, the hybrid doesn’t say anything but flip his hair frustratedly. Expressing feelings isn’t easy for a man who avoids any interactions like him. He’s a man of action, not words. He might have the ability of memorizing and reciting poems in splendid way, but poem is poem. He recites because he can’t find any better words for himself. For once in his lifetime, he regrets his choice of mastering demonology and martial arts rather than improving his communication skill.

He sighs more than three times in less than a minute, must be a terrible problem, Lyra thinks suspiciously. She actually wants to rant about how Vergil could send his katana into thin air like magic, but she holds her tongue.

“Uh… do you want a cuppa? If that could help you a little bit relax,” Lyra offers. “I can brew it now if you—“

“No, thank you,” Vergil declines hastily. “I need to tell you some—“

They hear a crack from the office door. Mr. Steiner’s whistling as he wears his coat. The old man stops his whistle when his eyes catch the presence of a tall, menacing man who looks like he wants to murder someone. He glances doubtly to Lyra, who’s hiding her panic behind a polite smile.

“Mr Vergil here wants to return a book,” she explains in white lie. Her hand quickly grab a book from her desk as she reads its title, “The Interview with the… Vampire? Right, Mr Vergil?”

She counters Vergil’s unapproval glare by glares back at him, like she’s trying to tell him to be quick and answer before Mr Steiner suspicion gets any higher.

“Yes,” he finally answers without stopping his glare to the librarian.

“I’ll take care of this quickly, Mr Steiner. Don’t worry,” Lyra reassures her boss.

Mr Steiner nods slowly, “Alright, then. I want all the entries done for Monday. Lock the door when you’re about to leave.”

“Understood.”

“See you around, child. Don’t sleep too much.”

“Be careful on your way back home, Mr Steiner.”

“Good day,” Mr Steiner says to Vergil as the hybrid steps back to let the old man make a way. He and Lyra wait in anticipation until the owner of The Literarium heads out from the library and they can’t see his figure anymore.

“Whatever is that vampire book from all the books you could come up with?” Vergil scolds.

“I just grabbed whatever book I could grab at that moment!” Lyra surveys the front cover of The Interview with The Vampire. “Anyways, do you still want to tell me your unfinished story?”

“… about that… I’m obligated to tell you… my sincerest apologies.”

The man looks terribly grim, like he’s choked by his own words. Whatever reason behind his apology, Lyra can spot a heavy guilt inside his voice. His absent for almost a month and the sudden, buffling arrival give her an amount of hunch. Perhaps he lost the Almagest? If that’s true, I swear—

“For what? You lost the Almagest? Or broke it into pieces?” she chuckles jittery, half-hoping that her hunch is nothing but a mere negative thought. But her smile is fading when Vergil says nothing, confirming her question.

“I didn’t lost it,” Vergil takes out the Almagest from the back of his coat. The book looks horrific with the front cover is almost ripped off entirely, revealing the front page of the book. “I was attacked. A demon clawed the cover off. I managed to save the rest of the book, but still…” he sighs frustratedly. “I will pay the fine, no matter how much it takes.”

Much to his surprise, Lyra doesn’t even make a sound. She takes the book and inspect it carefully, flipping pages in silent. Her silence isn’t really a new thing for Vergil, since she isn’t a loud person. But this time is different. The silence is colder. There is no serenity behind it up to the point he finds her demeanour… almost intimidating.

Look at that eyes, Vergil surveys. It’s getting more hollow than usual.

“… well, well,” she mutters after a quite long silence. “Aside from the front cover, the contents are still complete. I guess this is your lucky day.”

“Which means?”

“I won’t charge you the fine.”

“… thank you?”

“You’re welcome. But you are not going anywhere before I fix the cover, sir. Hurry up!”

He follows her to the office, which is larger than he thought it would be. There are dishwasher, pantries, coffee brewer, old bookshelves, a large desk and a set of traditional bindery tools. Lyra tells him to take a sit while she collects some equipments.

“So… you are a devil hunter?” she asks.

“Apparently I am.”

“Ahh! Now I remember where I thought I’ve seen you around before! About five months ago, there was a devil hunter who has the same hair colour as you exterminating demons in the neighbourhood. His stature somewhat looks like you, except he has longer hair and rugged face. But I know it can’t be you. He talked too much.”

The picture of Dante bragged around this neighbourhood makes Vergil gets dizzy, “How unfortunate for you to meet my brother in such a manner.”

“Oh that’s fine. I wasn’t the one who call for his aid,” Lyra giggles as she cuts the strands of old binding threads of the Almagest to separate the old cover and the sections of assembled pages with a scalpel before she realized that Vergil just said something about ‘brother’. “Wait! That man was your brother?!”

“A younger twin brother, to be exact.”

“Ahh, so both of you are sons of Sparda!”

The half-devil narrows his eyes, “How do you know that?”

“The wealth of information of this neighbourhood is quite impressive. When your brother was around, they whispered something about ‘son of Dark Knight Sparda’, ‘strongest devil hunter’, ‘owner of Devil May Cry’ and ‘the legendary devil hunter’. I remember they mentioned his name, but I can’t recall it…”

Dante would blabbered rubbish if he heard this.

“Then you realized I’m a hybrid,” Vergil concludes.

“Righty-ho.”

Vergil waits in anticipation. People who know about his true identity mostly will pretend he doesn’t exist because being a descendant of Sparda means danger and dangerous. Only a few of them will taking interest in him for the sake of power and benefits, like Arkham and The Order of Sword to Nero. He’s ready for whatever Lyra’s reactions after this confession, but the librarian does nothing but cutting strands from Almagest. He catches no apprehensive reactions from her.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” he murmurs curiously.

“Should I?”

“Most of people do. A common reaction when they discovered that I’m son of Sparda.”

Lyra shrugs, “I don’t find any reason to fear you.”

“Even when you saw the blood on my gloves and my sword mere minutes ago?”

“Told you already, I was only making prevention. And to be honest, I actually suspected it since our first meeting. I heard Sparda’s human form had white or silver hair like yours. No wonder you try so hard to cover your true identity.”

“You know my ID card is fake.”

“Yup.”

“And you still made me a member card, knowing I could be a threat to this library.”

“I just wanted to know what are you going to do in this library, yet nothing happened. You read and borrow books like normal people. You were never late to return the books and never complained. You bought one and two books with real money. Had you do something malicious to this library, I would’ve report you to the authorities. Though I doubt they could handle you, but at least this library has insurance,” she giggles mischievously.

“You could let a man cause trouble because of your curiousity, Librarian.”

“But you didn’t. And that’s that,” she winks. “Now I’m going to make a new cover. We don’t have modern equipments to make this process quicker. So this is the only way. Cutting the strands of all seven-hundreds pages.”

“I… uh… sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. It’s been a long while since the last time I do the bookbinding. It’s fun, actually. Strengthen the philosophy of never judge a book by its cover, because cover is replaceable.”

“All readers have different understanding of the book,” Vergil adds.

“Ahh, you are right!” Lyra glances at Vergil. “Like all books, you may find people who’s not interested in you, fear you, taking advantages from you. But it will take fewer people to really understand you, flip the pages carefully and waits for another chapter from you. You could change your cover, Vergil, but you are what you are now. As you said earlier, all readers have different understanding of the book. But that doesn’t mean the book is ill-favoured. The reader can only concludes the essence of the book, and decide whether they’d like it or not.”

“Your point is…?”

“That you being a hybrid and all doesn’t change anything to me. You’re still my friend.”

Will you still consider me as a friend, Vergil recalls all horrible things he did in the past. If you know I almost destroyed this world twice?

Yet he can’t deny the relief in his heart when she said that. Once again, he finds her philosophy charms him. He admires how she always perceives things in different point of views, never judges anything easily. Her silvery voice always calm him, as if it assure him that everything’s fine. His lips curve up into a subtle smile as he thanks her for her understanding. She just give him a playful wink in return.

“Let me guess then. Your brother’s name is…” she watches Vergil’s stoic expression attentively, searching for a clue. “… Dante?”

The half-devil says nothing.

“For real? Dante?!” Lyra laughs. “I was just having a thought about The Divine Comedy and guessed if you are Vergil—or Virgil, then your brother must be Dante!”

“It’s a common deduction,” Vergil’s eyes are soften. “My father fancied Dante Alighieri and my mother had an odd obsession of Virgil. She recited Aeneid for our bedtime story.”

“It’s better than those silly bedtime stories. My mother once read me Cinderella and I told her the prince was an idiot, because he searched for a girl based on her shoe size! He was supposed to be a king! He could have describe her face to a painter or distributing pamphlets, anything but running around the whole country and wasting resources only for searching a girl whose glass slipper was lost!”

Her cynic commentary amuses Vergil up to the point where he practically covers his mouth with his palm to hide his uncontrollable smile, “Since you said that, I guess you’re right about the prince.”

“Ugh—!”

“What’s wrong?”

“This shear machine is broken,” Lyra tries to operate the machine, but it fails to properly cut the papers. “I need to cut the extended part of pages to make the edges neat. But it looks like the shear wasn’t sharp anymore.”

“Let me handle this,” Vergil summons the Yamato and draws it. “Where is the part you want it to be removed?”

“Over here,” she points her mark on the page, then gazing to Vergil’s sword. “Please be careful. You don’t want the cut goes too far from the mark—“

— and a second later, the pages are already neat and free from the extended parts.

Vergil puts the Yamato back into its sheath, “Was that enough?”

The librarian blinks her eyes in disbelief, “That was… quick. Thank you.”

A smug grin curves on Vergil lips when he watches an awestruck Lyra, who’s still processing how fast Vergil’s slash was that her eyes alone can’t even follow its motion.

Lyra puts the pages into a book presser and draws lines across the spine of the book. Then she saws each lines carefully to make a groove of binding cord. Once she’s done, she reconnects the pages on a sewing frame. She sews a linen thread horizontally, looping it around the cords, linking each pages.

“Do you want to try sew it up?” Lyra offers, notice Vergil is silently observing her work. “It might seems complicated at first, but soon after you try it, it will get easier.”

Vergil doubtly glance at the sewing frame. His experience of sewing is zero, moreover to sew a book he just broke a moment ago. But again, guilt consumes him. He takes off his gloves and approaches Lyra as she immediately teach him how to sew and connect the pages. He feels something weird in his heart when his hands accidentally touches Lyra’s fingers. It’s getting weirder when his eyes meet Lyra’s. This kind of physical encounter always torture him since his body isn’t familiar with any physical contacts with humans for years except with Dante and Nero.

“You’re getting better, Vergil. Keep it up!” the librarian praises him, oblivious of Vergil’s reaction. “I’ll make the cover. Let’s hope we still have some leathers left here… ha! Here it is!”

As he sews, Vergil silently observes her measuring the cardboards and leather. She seems to enjoy her work, despite the fact that she should’ve leave for home at this time. I guess I owe her a little too much.

“By the way,” Lyra says all in sudden. “Speaking of Dante, I know a book that has the same theme as The Divine Comedy, but approximately 300 years older than it.”

“I thought The Divine Comedy was the first of… eschatological tourism in literature?”

“Well… according to the historians, this book was composed by an Arabic poet named Al-Ma’arri around 1033 while Dante’s The Divine Comedy begun circa 1308.”

“And what, pray tell, is the title of this book?”

“It’s called Risalat al-Ghufran in Arabic, but here we call it The Epistle of Forgiveness, or A Pardon to Enter the Garden. Some academics say that Dante was inspired from Al-Ma’arri, but there’s no evidence of it. The Epistle was completely unknown in Dante’s time, but those books have something in common; the journey of the protagonists through Heaven and Hell, as well as the encounter with the souls of illustrious people.”

“Curious… I’ve never heard about that book.”

“The book was banned for hundred years from its own country because many considered Al-Ma’arri as a heretic. He was famous for his skepticism and nihilism towards common beliefs and religions. Even his statue was beheaded by fanatics out of hatred!”

Vergil furrows his eyebrows, “Fascinating.”

“I can understand his bitter perspective. He was blind, bullied and underestimated by fellow poets. But in my opinion, he was one of the greatest freethinkers and his works are extraordinary!.”

The half-devil smirks, “Then prove your conversance. Recite one of his works for me.”

“Wha— no!” Lyra blurts. “Declamation isn’t my… thing.”

“Then I will take your explanations as nothing than a babbling chatter,” he grins smugly. He knows the librarian doesn’t like being considered as incompetent. His smirk grows wider as she stops her work and cross her arms.

“Fine. One poem it is.” Lyra clears her throat fitfully. She holds the urge to not slap the hybrid’s smug face as he pauses his sewing work. He leans himself on the chair in challenging demeaonour, ready to hear the librarian’s recitation.

The librarian takes a heavy sigh before she starts to recite :

“Had men followed me, confound them,

Well had I guided them to truth

Or to some plain track

By which they might arrive there soon.

For here I’ve lived until I’m tired

Of Time, and it of me;

And my heart has sipped

The cream of life’s experience

What choice has a man but solitude and loneliness,

When fate grants him nothing that he craves?

Do what you will, make peace or war

The days with arbitrary hand bestow

Their measure to warrior and man of peace.”

Lyra takes a slow exhales once she finishes reciting, her head turns over to Vergil to see his reaction. Poetry has never become her speciality, even though she is fond of it. That’s why she admires Vergil’s way of recitation. She pins it in her head, how remarkable he was when he recited poems on their last encounter. Her self-confidence drops to the lowest point when she notices Vergil isn’t even looking at her. His eyes focuses to nowhere in a weary manner, as if her recitation bores him.

“Ummm… Terra to Vergil?” she chuckles and waves her hand in front of Vergil’s face. “Am I that bad?”

“Interesting…” the hybrid mumbles. His voice is low and his brows are still drawn together in a frown, yet the blue eyes of his spark in enthusiasm.

“Pardon?”

“This poet Al-Maa’rri… he welcomed death and loneliness like old friend,” Vergil states. “He even craved for it. Even if he was blind—“

Lyra’s brown eyes widens as she continues Vergil’s statement, “—he saw things in the opposite perspective—“

“— and that lead him to see the true beauty of life itself. His bitter point of view wasn’t precisely tell people that everything is meaningless, in fact it was the other way around—“

“— he tried to correct human’s hypocrisy with his irony. Telling them that everything they do, it will measure—“

“— and create the person they are right now.”

There’s a quiet pause among them before the room surrounds by laughter.

“Blimey, Vergil! Did you just read my mind?” Lyra tries to hold her giggle.

“I thought you were the one who read mine,” the half-devil grins. “Now you are successfully making me want to read the book.”

“Oh, we have it! Have a look at it on the sale section!”

“Is this how your marketing technique works? Alluring your customer into deep discussion and out of nowhere, you mention a book you want to sell and trap them with your enthralling knowledges?”

Lyra’s giggle turn into louder burst, “That’s what all salesmen do!”

It’s strange for him. This small talk, the joke, the easiness of letting himself to interact with a human. Hell, he smiles and laughs even more than he ever did in his life! He watches Lyra laughs while she continues her cover-making work, wondering why he doesn’t even get annoyed of any jokes she throws at him. Maybe this is how friendship works—enjoying each other company by talking about anything and wisecracking. He thinks it’s good for his mental health, keep him sane and grounded.

Don’t ruin this, Vergil warns himself.

“I’ll give you The Epistle for free,” Lyra’s eyes twinkles in mischief. “Only if you agree with my terms.”

“I’m listening.”

“There will be syzygy tonight. Commonly known as ‘planetary alignment’. We can visibly see Jupiter, Mars, Saturn, Venus and Mercury at once. All the planets sit on a flat plane but have different yearly cycles, so for those planets to line up is something worth seeing! The trouble is, it isn’t visible from this town. Thus, if you still interested in obtaining The Epistle of Forgiveness, join me to see the syzygy as my bodyguard.”

“And why would you need a bodyguard?”

“Because I should see it from nearest city that has a clear landscape and it’s quite… dangerous.”

“Which city?”

“Red Grave.”

Speak of the devil and he doth appear.

“The city was abandoned since the tragedy of mysterious tree nearly two years ago. It’s basically a necropolis now, but I heard there are still some homeless people looking for shelter and fortune there. Not to mention demonic presence that still haunts the town. But since it will took only 30 minutes with train from here, I guess I have no option left but choose Red Grave.”

If anything in this world that Vergil wants to avoid the most, it will be returning to his hometown. Not because he hates his childhood memories, but mainly because Red Grave was his most abominable sin. He destroyed that city and killed hundred thousands of the citizen for the sake of the fruitless Qlipoth Fruit.

“Well… what say you?” Lyra asks. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

One must deal with his sin. It’s settled. He can’t run off forever from the past, “Alright then. I do believe we have a deal.”

“Great! You can go take The Epistle. It’s on the first line of left shelf. Here, I’ll continue the sewing. I’ve finished measuring the cardboard and the leather anyway.”

“It’s already done.”

Lyra examines Vergil’s work in awe, “Bee’s knees! This is the fastest book sewing I’ve ever seen! Thank you, Vergil. Now give me some space to work.”

The hybrid shrugs as he takes his step to open the door and goes to pick the book from the sale section. It takes him no time to find The Epistle. His knowledges about Middle-East literature isn’t much, although he did read Rumi in his youth at Red Grave library out of boredom. Luckily, the book has comprehensible footnotes and glossarium to help his lack of understanding about Middle-East references and vocabularies. He takes the book back into the office as he spots Lyra creates a headband and sew the threads in order to attach the headband to the spine of the book.

“Do you need help with that?” Vergil offers.

She shakes her head, “Thank you, but this pattern is a little bit complicated. I’d like to handle it myself. This won’t take long.”

“If you say so.”

While waiting for Lyra to be done with her work, Vergil starts to read The Epistle in silence. He appreciates Lyra’s understanding for being always super quiet whenever he reads. For a moment there is only the sound of their breath and flipped pages. Occasionally, he will glance to Lyra just to see what’s she doing right now.

“It’s written in prose,” Vergil mutters. “I thought The Epistle was just for the title purpose.”

“Yes, it’s an epistle written for a grammarian named Ibn Al Qarih who mocked Al Ma’arri. He replied Al-Qarih’s hypocrisy by imagining he has died and arrived in Heaven but had difficulty to enter it, thus he must seek the answer from poets and philologists from the past, various heretics, and the Devil.”

“This book is rich of linguistic complexity and concentration in grammar rather than depends on precise language like Comedy.”

“That because in Al Ma’arri’s age, writing became complex in its methods and syntax. Most academics see the complexity of language was intentional to hide his irony,” Lyra answers while sticking the book on the cover she has just made. “In the Comedy, Dante used simple and direct language in the poetry, which is easy for common reader to grasp his ideas. The Epistle, however, depicts Al Ma’arri proficiency but prevent the readers from understanding his real beliefs and intentions.”

Vergil’s nod concludes his approval for the explanation. He continues to read until Lyra finishes her work.

“Behold, the new face of Almagest!” she announces proudly. She shows Vergil the entirely new leather bound hardcover with beautifully written typography on the front cover; Almagest by Claudius Ptolemy. “Since you are the tallest person in this room, would you mind to put it back on Rare Section? I’ll clean up here, then we can go to Red Grave.”

It’s not a secret anymore that Vergil is a man of proud. If Dante or someone else asked him to do something, he will absolutely grumble and mostly refuse to do the favour. Why should he do something for anyone? He should be the one who tell people to do. He is the master of himself! Yet, right now, he put the book to the shelf just like Lyra’s instruction without any hesitation although he mentally curses himself for obeying a human.

“Ready?” Lyra says as she prepares to head out from library.

“Where are you going?”

The librarian furrows her brows, “To lock the door, of course. Then we go to the station.”

The hybrid sighs, summoning the Yamato and open a portal, “Get in.”

On four seconds, Lyra fixes her gaze from the Yamato to the dark portal. Her face show a mixture of excitement and confusion, “Is that…?”

“A portal. The Yamato cuts anything, including the space. The portal will lead us directly to Red Grave. Now, do you want to stare at it for eternity or free yourself from wasting your time for running to the railway station?”

“No—no, wait! You made an Einstein-Rosen bridge only with your sword! It’s not something I could see everyday! How could you do that?!”

The hybrid rolls his eyes, “We can discuss about it later. Now get in. Don’t waste my time.”

He leads the way to reassure the still-in-awe librarian that he mean no harm and that the portal is really heading to Red Grave. He can senses Lyra’s creeping behind him until they’re arrived at the exit; a wide, flat horizon at Red Grave. A bit far from the city’s ruins.

The dark sky is clear and free from any light pollution. For a minute in silence, Vergil solemnly admires the night sky. He immediately catches the syzygy; the five planets almost align in a straight line with Jupiter being the pole of the alignment. They look brighter than the rest of the stars.

“In Roman mythology, the god Jupiter drew a veil of clouds around himself to hide his mischief,” he mutters. “It was only Jupiter’s wife, Juno, who could peer through the clouds and reveal Jupiter’s true nature.”

“Must be easy for her. The clouds on Jupiter are only 50 kilometers thick. Below those clouds, it’s just hydrogen and helium, all the way down.”

“And even though it’s rich of hydrogen and helium, Jupiter can’t become a star,” he adds, remembering some astronomy facts he read on the internet. “It doesn’t have nearly enough mass to trigger a fusion reaction in its core.”

“You did your homework,” Lyra affirms as Vergil observes her takes out a binocular from her backpack. It seems to him that even though he can clearly see the syzygy with his advanced eyes, it won’t be satisfying for human if they don’t use binocular or telescope to look at it even better. “And the Red Spot on Jupiter’s surface is a huge storm on Jupiter. It has raged for 350 years.”

“I wonder if my father witnessed the origin of Red Spot 350 years ago.”

“Surely he told you bits and bobs?”

“He never talked about himself and back then, I didn’t know he was a demon until one day I found a book of folklore about him. Here, at Red Grave Library.”

The fact hits Lyra immediately, “You should’ve tell me this city was your hometown. I should’ve realized it when I saw your hesitation at my office! Now I’m making you sad.”

“I’m not sad,” Vergil shrug off.

He really doesn’t feel sad about his family. The memories are always too far off like a shattered dream with a glimpse of familiar faces; Dante, Eva and Sparda. It’s getting worse after Mundus and his life in the Underworld, yet he cherishes it. He just can’t tell anyone his fear and guilt for going back to his hometown, Red Grave. The silent witness of his crime.

“Why didn’t the Dog Star laugh at the joke?” Lyra abruptly asks after a long silence.

Vergil narrows his eyes, “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a riddle.”

“Didn’t I tell you I don’t like riddles?”

“You did. So, what’s the answer?”

If you are not a person worth my time, I’d certainly eliminated you. “I give up.”

“I never thought you would give up this quick!”

“Because I refuse to play your game.”

“That explains why you look like the gloomiest person in the world. Anyway, why didn’t the Dog Star laugh at the joke? Because… it was too Sirius.”

The hybrid can’t help but try his best to swallow his laughter, “That was the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

“But it makes you smile!”

“I am most certainly not!”

“You are!”

After a minute of struggle, finally the half-demon has retained his stoic face, “You are an annoying little creature, Lyra.”

“I take that as a compliment.” Lyra snickers before she looks at Vergil’s icy eyes. “Pardon my terrible joke. You look terribly sad. I thought I should breaking the ice. I’ll think for better jokes later.”

That wasn’t your fault! Vergil screams in his head. Is his sadness too obvious that it reflected on his face? Whatever it is, Lyra clearly notices it. She turns to observe the syzygy with her binocular, but in truth, she actually waits for him to spill his burden. She’s just too polite to ask. Vergil almost could sense the flight or fight instinct around them.

You tell her, and it will be endgame.

Yet he says, “I was here when the mysterious tree appeared and destroy the city.”

Lyra puts down the binocular, her brown eyes fixates on Vergil.

“In fact,” he continues, sensing the change of atmosphere between them. “I was the one who summoned the tree.”

He tells her everything. His childhood, his resentment towards Dante, his regret for not being able to save Eva, Temen-ni-gru, his defeat from Dante, his years of torture in the Hell, the creation of V and Urizen, Nero, and his time in Hell again with Dante. All of his sins. Unfiltered.

If Lyra hates him after this, it will be perfectly normal. Vergil appreciates Lyra so much that he couldn’t bare to hurt her in any way, so if leaving him could spare her from the burden for being his friend, he will do it. His sins were too despicable, repugnant. He feels like he doesn’t deserve any form of kindness, moreover from her.

Much to his surprise, Lyra still stands beside him. Her head motions small nods as she lost in her own mind.

The hybrid waits for her to say something. Anything is better than a dreadful silence. At least he will know what to do rather than just standing there like a statue.

“You… just….”

Here it is.

“… described me the extreme effect of a whole new level of dissociative identity disorder.”

What in the seven hells— “Pardon?”

The librarian shrugs, “Dissociative identity disorder. Some people call it multiple personality disorder. In the case of human, it characterized by alternating between multiple identities. Often this identities may have names, characteristics, mannerisms, and voices. It usually develops as a way of dealing with trauma and long-term abuses. Of course your case was different, not an actual DID but similar… splitting yourself into your human part, your nightmares and demon part because trauma and abuses…”

She’s still describing the overview of DID in almost child-like manner, a contrast with Vergil’s perplexion. He just told her about his sins, and all she does just describing a mental illness? She doesn’t even react to his crimes! Is she always this oblivious whenever someone tell her their secrets?

“I’m afraid I have to interrupt your explanation,” he says. “But, with respect, didn’t you think—“

“Do you expect me to get angry and insult you for your horrendous crime?”

The hybrid can’t find any words to reply the question. He doesn’t want her to get furious and leave him, of course. But he deserves it, and it’s totally a normal thing to do if anyone knows his secret. Yet her reactions aren’t exactly what he expects from her. She’s unpredictable and Vergil should’ve hate it, for the uncertainity is dangerous thing. Yet with Lyra, he doesn’t know why he let her surprise him.

Realizing Vergil won’t answer, Lyra continues, “Alright then. You are obviously a nutter. All those massacres and efforts only for a power fruit. You slaughtered thousands of people who weren’t even responsible for your family drama.”

Dante had mocked him about that too, and it still stings Vergil— he caused the devastation of thousands people and he might never get away from his sins—

“But that’s a good thing,” the librarian adds in softer tone.

“How could you say that?” Vergil bristles, his tone is harsh. “What is the good thing of massacre?”

“None,” she replies. “But should you never do that, you wouldn’t have realized what a scroundrel you were once.”

Vergil sighs dismissively, “It justify nothing.”

“It justify nothing,” Lyra repeats. “Yet you helped those humans in that tragedy. Trying to atone your crimes. You realized, if I may quote, ‘the gravity of crime’ you made. Your selfish agenda of using your son to defeat your demon turns into compassion and a vow to protect him forever. You put down your pride and rekindled your relationship with your family.”

“That’s still nothing but a selfish action. The fact that I did the genocide won’t change anything.”

“It won’t. It’s unexcusable, but I can’t fully blame you. Sigmund Freud said, ‘unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways’. And here is why; you are the eldest child and supposed to be the protector of your family since the disappearance of your father. You were not in the condition to know that the death of your mother was not your fault and clearly not your brother’s fault. All of you were attacked abruptly and there was nothing you could do but survival. You hate yourself for not being strong enough, and that lead you to swore an oath to never be powerless again and you will gain more power, no matter what the cost. Now I understand why you hated humans, because you saw them as a powerless being—a reminder to you that your mother was a human. And you were all alone that time. No one guide you. No one to support you or correct your mistakes. You thought you were right all along.

When Dante defeated you, he also defeated your ideology, your path of life, your beliefs. I won’t judge your resentment towards him. It’s normal, because what are we without what we believe? Then you jumped to the Underworld to validated your beliefs, yet you lost and tortured in Hell like… 20 years? No human would survive for two seconds there, but you did and still wanted to prove that you are right. That Dante was wrong. That humanity part in you is unneeded. That your nightmares are just obstacles. See, your humanity part, V, was everything you wanted it to be wrong and perished, but then your son showed up, proving that you were wrong. That even Urizen, your demon part, can’t even defeat Dante and Nero’s beliefs and forced to re-emerged again with your human part. Because you are one and the same. That you wouldn’t become Vergil without each other.”

Vergil stands astonished. It’s not just that Lyra shows no sign of anger or disgust towards him, but she also depicts his subconsciousness and predicaments in simplest way. She admits his crime, yet she also sees the reason behind it.

“Now, you see,” she continues after taking a deep breath. “I can’t really blame you. You already wrote your epistle of forgiveness.”

Then she does something which Vergil never expects her to do—she smiles at him. A warm, genuine smile, not a polite or playful one like her usual habit. She turns to look at the sky again, “Do you know what I like about syzygy?”

He can’t bring himself to answer.

“I always believe in the concept of synchronicity rather than calling it ‘coincidence’. I know the existence of time itself is debatable, but it still doesn’t change the fact that everything will happen in time and in sync. No matter how far those planets are from each other, they will be always synchronized in alignment eventually,” she states. “What you did was just in time, Vergil. Should you never do that, you would never find yourself again.”

The irony bites him, all these years he wanted to get rid of his humanity yet humanity saved him over and over again. All this time, and you still don’t get it, Dante had said to him—as Urizen. Now he’s being psychoanalyzed by a human who barely knows him but capable to summarized his entire journey in five minutes. It bites him, how humanity always give him more point of view to see the world.

“Thank you,” he finally says it sincerely. “You see right through me.”

“Think nothing of it. I was just trying to give you some insight.”

“And you did. You never fail to surprise me with your wit and the use of apotelesma philosophy.”

“Apo- what?”

“It amazes me that you, an enthusiast of astronomy, have no information of what apotelesma is,” he remarks. “It means the influence of the stars on human destiny.”

“Aah! Apotelesma… that’s an exquisite word!” Lyra exclaims. “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? What stars could give to humanity? Whenever we look at the sky, we look at the past— the very relics of the universe.”

“They guide humanity by simply existing. We are stardust brought to life, then empowered by the universe to figure itself out—and we have only just begun.”

“We are stardust brought to life...” she repeats.

Vergil shrugs idly, “I read it somewhere.”

“Speaking of the stars, I have another riddle.”

The hybrid groans in frustration, “I don’t want to hear another of your terrible riddles.”

“Why did the star get arrested?” she completely ignores Vergil’s caution.

“I’m warning you—“

“Because it was a shooting star!”

“I’m leaving,” Vergil walks away without waiting for Lyra, but he’s just teasing her. He hears her following him, giggling and pleading to wait for her.

“Alright, no more riddles then. But I have this short story,” she offers, following Vergil’s steps. “Copernicus’ parents might deserve some credit for his discovery.”

“How so?”

“At his teenhood, his parents said to him; ‘Copernicus, one day you will realize that the world does not revolve around you!’”

“Your jokes have potential to cause severe headache.”

“But you laugh at it!”

“Because no one will laugh at your jokes except me.”

“Is that a compliment or sarcasm?”

“Go figure it out yourself.”

“A compliment, then.”

“Whatever.”

They walk on the dark footpath through the ruins of the city. Vergil spots some homeless people taking shelter inside a building. They watch him cautiously, but do nothing. Those people just want to survive and live in peace. This view stings him. Even though he embraces his human part, he is still indifferent about human life. He cares a little about them, except for his family and a few of his acquaintances. But these humans in this ruins are victims of his greed. It’s his responsibility. He looks away, thinking of how tremendous the effect of his destruction, before he quickly catches a group of children. Lyra notices this too—glancing to them sharing their food. One of them approaches and gives her a stargazer lily hairpin. She realizes the boy hopes for a trade.

“Here,” Lyra takes out some of her money and a packet of gummy bears from her backpack. “Share it with your friends.”

The boy timidly turns his sight to Vergil, hoping for some trade too. His innocent face reminds him of Nero and Kyrie’s adopted children whose cheerful behaviour isn’t compatible with Vergil’s cold nature, but he tolerates them because children do childish things. The hybrid’s hand reaches inside his coat, then he hands the boy an amount of money.

The boy smiles delightfully, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

As the boy takes his leave, Lyra turns her head over to Vergil and takes the palm of his hand, much to his surprise. Then she pours a little amount of gummy bears on his palm, “For you. It’s blueberry.”

The half-devil frowns and presses his lips, “This is the most childish thing someone had ever gave to me.”

“If you don’t want it then return it to me.”

He eats them all in one swallow, “Absolutely not.”

Lyra smiles smugly and eats her candy.

“It’s been almost two years after I escaped the Underworld and I still can’t get used to these taste of food…” Vergil contemplates, chewing the candy as his tongue tastes the strong mixture of sugar and blueberry extract.

“Do hybrids need to eat?”

“Physically hybrids don’t need to eat. But we can eat human’s food if we want. My foolish brother has an appetite for pizza and anything included strawberry.”

“I see…”

The two of them head out to the empty road as Vergil unsheaths the Yamato and open up a portal back to The Literarium. This time she allows him escort her to her house, which is quite far from the central of the town, located in a secluded suburban. He takes a note the distance between Devil May Cry office and Lyra’s house, calculate and store it inside his brain, just in case he needs a portal to her house someday. After almost forty minutes of walk, they arrive in front of a minimalist house, but seems comfortable with a small garden and pleasant fragrant of homemade foods. This house belongs in The Shire, Vergil ponders.

“Thank you for today,” Lyra smiles. “Next time maybe I’ll hire you as my bodyguard again.”

“I’ll think about that,” The hybrid says. “Besides… you are a pleasant person with whom to… spend time.”

Lyra chuckles, “I’m glad to hear you chose the word of ‘spend time’ rather than ‘waste time’.”

“Probably because you’re less infuriating than the rest of the people.”

“Well… thank you?”

“You are very welcome.” Vergil shrugs, silently happy to see a delightful smile on Lyra’s mouth. He notices the eyes of her twinkle in amusement. That suits her, he thinks. I’ve never imagined I have to do this ridiculous bodyguard roleplay to spark some joy in her eyes.

“Thank you,” the librarian cackles, tightens her grip on the strap of her backpack. “For being a great company.”

“The honour is mine.”

“See you tomorrow,” Lyra gives him a small wave before she turns around to get inside her house.

“What happened to your leg?”

The question sounds like a storm inside the librarian’s ears.

“Oh right, I forgot you’re a hybrid. You must’ve easily recognized my limp,” Lyra glances at her right leg. “I fell from a tree when I was seven. My landing position wasn’t exactly very comfortable. Then… voila,” she mimics her limping. “It was getting better time to time but somehow I could never get rid of this limp. Thankfully, it’s too subtle for human eyes, so people won’t notice.”

The hybrid has seen too many scars and injuries to know that her limp will be most likely permanent. The fall changes her bone and joint structure. Even if she was transfused by demon blood or planted demon cells, it won’t change anything because it was an old injury. Although magic or witchcraft might manipulate her leg to work properly, but it won’t cure the wound.

“I’ll get inside then,” her solemn voice shatters Vergil’s contemplation.

“Very well. Auf wiedersehen, Lyra.”

“Auf wiedersehen, Vergil.”

As the librarian closes the door, Vergil turns his back to the lonely road. The moonlight illuminates his way as he receives a call from Dante, who invites him for dinner with Trish and Lady. By dinner, he means more pizza and beer. Before Dante could finished his question about his twin brother’s whereabouts, Vergil quickly answers he’ll soon arrive at Devil May Cry. He draws his sword, staring to the dark portal. His face is somber.

Because when she told him the story behind her injury, he knows those eyes of her speak different thing. It’s not sadness nor joy. Not even a void one.

It’s the eyes of humans when they feel threatened. Or worse, when they tell lies.

“You didn’t finish your story,” his voices sounds like a whisper wind as he walks through the portal. “What are you not telling me, Lyra?”

We grow accustomed to the Dark

When light is put away

As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp

To witness her Goodbye.

List of mentioned poems and quotes:

A Poison Tree by William Blake

What Choice Has Man? by Al Maa’rri

Astrophysics for People in a Hurry by Neil deGrasse Tyson

We Grow Accustomed to the Dark by Emily Dickinson

In case you wonder Vergil’s expression when Lyra gave him gummy bears, @drusoona captured the perfect angle :

And thanks to @andieperrie18 for this extraordinary work of art!

Special tags : @queenmuzz @drusoona @harlot-of-oblivion @andieperrie18 @shiranyaaww @lovemadnessharleyquinn

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kathyprior4200 · 4 years ago

Text

Hazbin Hotel: That’s (Alastor’s) Entertainment!

“The Pilot is here! Follow Alastor, the Radio Demon as he pursues his goals of taking over Hell and messing with demons to keep his reputation intact. After seeing Princess Charlie announce her plan to rehabilitate sinners at her hotel, he arrives at the hotel to assist her. Along the way he meets porn film star Angel Dust and Charlie’s devoted girlfriend Vaggie. While Alastor seeks out new forms of entertainment, he also seems to have more sinister plans in mind.”

The scene started with black curtains opening to a silhouette of a city. The words SpindleHorse Presents was written in white cursive before fading away.

The building shadows were against a gray background with eye designs on it.

A man with a radio voice sang a song.

“At the end of the tunnel, there’s craziness.”

A figure of a person was falling downwards through the darkness until ending at a tunnel of light. Shadows of demons falling into Hell were shown: Baxter, Angel Dust, Sir Pentious, Niffty, Robo Fizz, and others.

“And to meet me, how often one dies…”

A silhouette of a human man with glasses and short hair looked to the left, speaking from a microphone with one hand while using a knife in the other. To the far left were cowering human silhouettes. A white smile shape was shown were the man’s mouth was.

The man turned to the right in a running motion where a shadow of a policeman, a hunter and a growling dog were staring at him. The dog bared its shadow teeth and the two men aimed long shadow guns at him. Black splatters appeared from near the shadow man’s head and the figure collapsed to the ground.

“Yes my life is a game

Just a quest for fame…

And my foes all smashed up like flies…”

White spinning silhouettes of Exterminators, weapons pointed, flew around the shadow city, as a glowing pentagram was created in the center.

The shadow of the killer man appeared again, this time growing shadow deer ears and little antlers. His eyes were glowing red and a shadow staff appeared in his hand.

The killer stood small within the towering shadow of a man with large antlers and glowing red eyes: his father. A woman wearing a dress and her hair in a bun stood off to the side with a hand on his shoulder: his mother.

“Why have I always been such a killer?”

“What can the reason be?”

Tentacles and sharp mouths overtook the scene.

“I wonder if the world’s to blame

I wonder if it could be me…”

A spinning globe was surrounded by large watching white eyes. Rising up were silhouettes of the Exterminators, grinning faces, xs over their right eyes, stained with blood, holding swords and spears. One Exterminator grinned as its white face, eyes, smile, and halo glowed in the darkness before fading.

In Hell, a small planet had a glowing pentagram on it in the crimson colored sky. “Fuck you Heaven!” and “cleanse!” were written in red graffiti by a broken window. A paper with an Exterminator drawing blew away. Other red signs read “Punishment” and “Your days are numbered,” in big letters. Spears stuck out of dead demon’s mouths in the street. A light spun around from a tower.

Another Extermination had ended. Dead bodies of demons and horned creatures littered the streets. Some of them had spears through their open mouths. Charlie had sadly strolled on her balcony and shot fireworks from her finger to signal that it was safe. Everyone gradually emerged from inside buildings and other hideouts. Already, turf wars were in full swing as demons fought over new territory. Other denizens disposed of the bodies while the more sinister ones ate them.

One sinister demon was tall and slender, with grayish skin. He wore a red suit, red dress coat and wine colored pants. His shoes were black with red hoof prints on the soles. The dress coat was dark red and decorated with small vertical lighter red stripes. His undershirt was lighter red with a black upside down cross design. A black bow-tie with a red center was below his long neck. Finally, his thick hair was red and black, with fluffy deer-like tuffs poking from his head like ears. Two small black antlers were between them. He even had a red and black deer tail, which was hidden under the fabric of his suit. An oval monocle was under his right eye, connected by a chain. His large glowing red eyes and smile of sharp yellow teeth was enough to scare even the toughest demon away…and for good reason.

He was Alastor, the Radio Demon, one of the most feared and powerful overlords in Hell. Possessing supernatural abilities and shadow manipulation, he had conquering many areas of Hell and defeated overlords who had been in power for years. Using a red vintage style microphone staff, he could broadcast his carnage and victories at will, hence why sinners called him the Radio Demon. He thrived on domination, trickery, and deceit…always in search for the next entertaining event. Alastor’s dark qualities were balanced out by his love of music, dancing, singing, and the finer things in life.

Emerging from his underground lair in the shadow spirit realm via portal, Alastor sang a merry song as passerby cowered when he approached. It was around the same time when Charlie sang her lament.

“At the end of the tunnel, there’s craziness

And to meet me, how often one dies

Yes my life is a game

Just a quest for fame

And my foes all smashed up like flies”

“Why have I always been such a killer?

What can the reason be?

I wonder if the world’s to blame

I wonder if it could be me?”

“I’m always seeking power

Basking in light, for the show

My schemes match up to my dreams

No one else shall know”

“Some people mope and find sadness

I always laugh and show my grin

Some people fail and rest in their sin

With that I’ll always manage to win

Believe me”

“I’m always seeking power

Waiting to hunt the gullible brown deer

Again”

Several signs read “Welcome to Hell: population, a fuck ton.” There were advertisements of drugs, food, casinos, weapons, and porn everywhere. Demons of all shapes and sizes roamed the streets, one flying demon caught a smaller one in its talons. Vox, Valentino and Velvet sat together in a Porn Studios building. A scientist and a wild haired demon picked up weapons to sell on the black market. Rosie crossed out the name “Franklin” on her emporium sign with a grin. It was now Rosie’s emporium. More demons picked up the dead remains and put them in shopping carts.

The clock tower rang out as the counter changed from 0 to 365 days until the next purge.

“Next cleanse” was over the counter in fancy letters.

Against a black screen, the title “Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel” appeared on a pink sign. A black winged key made up the letter T in “hotel.” A red eye was in the circle of the key.

Sadly, the other characters didn’t get as much screentime as they did in the original episode. Instead of Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb fighting Sir Pentious in turf wars, we see Alastor and Vox in an intense argument before blasting each other with electricity, moving wires and tentacles and exchanging insults. The scene cuts to Angel Dust fighting Sir Pentious and the Egg Bois in the background as Alastor shakes his head.

In fact, the blue demon that says “I’m alive!” gets immediately run over…but by a different vehicle owned by the self-proclaimed main character.

And it’s not Charlie.

Yep, the Radio Demon did have a car. A blood-red 1929 Packard modified and slightly modernized. Thanks to magic, it could go at fast speeds and even morph into shadow. It had regular tires instead of the typical wheels for the model and a metal step to get inside (though Alastor didn’t need it). The round headlights in the front hummed with bright red light, making them look like angry eyes that could stare into your souls. At high speeds, black radio dials would appear and move in the headlights. Since Alastor was so tall, there was no square roof overhead, just nice leather seats inside and of course, a car radio. Small Voodoo symbols decorated the sides of the vehicle and sometimes glowed in the dark.

There was a metal grate in the front between the headlamps and below that was a row of sharp yellow teeth, reminiscent of Alastor’s smile. A little gold metal deer head was displayed and attached over the grate. The license plate in the back read “RDO DMN 666” for Radio Demon 666. The car could also morph into newer vehicles as illusions. It wasn’t uncommon for demons to grow envious when they spotted the Radio Demon cursing around in a cherry colored convertible, sneaking around in a burgundy limo, or racing around in a crimson Porshe.

That is until they saw the headlights and the Radio Demon’s grinning face before facing a harsh crushing impact before seeing darkness.

Alastor would smirk like a bigshot with Rosie, Mimzy and several demon women in their seats. Of course, he would hold open the door for them when stepping in and out. He would take them to clubs for dancing or to theaters at night. Other times, his shadow would appear in the seat next to him and shoot people from the shotgun spot. It was one of his classic jokes he liked to make.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m opening the first of its kind! A hotel that rehabilitates sinners!”

The audience stared in stunned silence after Charlie had finished talking. Not even the flesh-eating crickets were chirping through the awkward quiet.

A bloodstained logo “Radio Hack” was displayed above a window which provided a stack of dozens of TVs inside. One demon watching had deer antlers and a flaming blue face, one of the many cruel overlords. Crymini, the 90’s hellhound, stood with a little demon wearing a jester hat upside down. Two hellhound twins stood nearby, one with dyed red hair, the other purple. A neon sign nearby read “Bar” “Klub Kanji,” and “used TVs.”

In a bar, dark demons wearing cowboy hats were playing pool, not even paying attention. The lead demon wore a cloth over his grinning face and had a large barrel gun for an arm. His friend looked like a demonic bug, and another looked like a mustached villain from an old film. Meanwhile in a bar, purple and blue dragon-like demons sat and drank while casually watching the TVs overhead.

Charlie stuttered, “Ya know…’Cause hotels are for people passing through…temporarily…”

A tattooed dark blue reptile demon stood up and let out a loud laugh.

“Is this girl for real? She thinks, you hear what she thinks? She…heh, heh, heh, oh she’s nuts.” The demon walked away with a small lavender creature and a tall maroon being wearing punk rock clothing and crazy neon hair.

Charlie added, “I figure it would serve a purpose…a place work toward redemption!” She weakly added, “Yay.”

With a tapping of his shoes, Alastor walked and stopped right behind Crymini, the flaming deer overlord and a demon with eyes and a couple mouths on his face. Hatchet, the white skinned red-haired Zoophobia dragon, smartly left the scene.

He had heard of the demon princess before, but he wasn’t expecting her to appear on TV. He certainly never heard of an idea so crazy before. Making sinners good people was even less likely than making pigs fly (which was one magic trick he could do on occasion).

Charlie stared around her, concerned. “Look, every single one of you has something good deep down inside. I know you do.”

A light bulb went off into her head as she smirked. “Maybe I’m not getting through to you…”

Vaggie face palmed, knowing what was coming next. “Oh no…”

Charlie snapped her fingers and her bodyguard demons appeared. One sat and began to play a grand piano.

Alastor stood behind two hellhound twins wearing crop tops and a hanging jester. Next to him was a poster that showed him in his demon form terrorizing the circus, demons trapped within flames inside the tent. His army of voodoo horned imps carrying knives and skulls on pikes surrounded the tortured sinners. The words were bold and full of warning: “BEWARE HIM!” “DO NOT FUCK WITH HIM!” In tiny letters off to the side on the wall read: “for a good time: 666-373-9494.”

Alastor tilted his head to the side in curiosity. His shadow appeared off to his right, morphing into a snarling wendigo deer-like creature. He couldn’t help but tap his foot and hum along as she sang.

He even started to sing to himself, making his own version of the song.

“Inside of every demon is a lost cause

Inside of every sinner is a foolish failure

Inside of every godforsaken drug addicted manic…”

Dude,” moaned a stupid demon with a boar head, “I’m trying to watch the show.”

“Here’s a show I’ll give you,” Alastor thought as he snapped his fingers and sent the boar flying through the air and into a lava pit.

“They’ll turn around

Dead in the ground

With just a little time

Down at her crappy hotel…”

He did feel a bit unnerved at the part where she cuddled with a dog and then threw the dog away.

After Charlie had finished singing, Alastor laughed out loud. That was quite the performance he had seen! He particularly enjoyed Charlie’s demon transformation and her conjuring of fire for the special effects. And he had to admit that she was a good singer too, despite her ridiculous idea.

But his favorite part came up next.

In the blaring red lights, Charlie and Katie fought each other on the desk. Katie was in her insect demon form, crawling on her hands and limbs. She briefly held Charlie down, who dodged and then leapt at Katie, knocking both of them off the table.

“She’s pretty and has a feisty spirit,” Alastor thought.

“Why won’t anyone help me?” Tom Trench yelled as flames rose from his body.

“You’re on fire, Tom Trench!” Alastor exclaimed, while laughing at his own joke.

Befriending the princess, and doing something different seemed like a good idea. He glanced over at a faraway Happy Hotel building.

He knew where he would go next.

After following the white limbo to the hotel in his car, he got out and made his way up to the double stained glass doors with the apple designs on them. Upon further inspection of the hotel, he noticed it was a unique design if not a bit under wear and tear. From the Titanic-like ship off to the side to the hanging carousel that made up a balcony…and perhaps his favorite part, the circus tent overhang in the front decorated with eye designs.

He had never actually met Charlie before but he heard that she was powerful and different among the demons. For one, she was born in Hell, and two, she was the daughter of Lucifer and Lilith, king and queen of Hell.

He would have to tread carefully around members of the royal family. Though he thought of them as amusing, he knew how powerful they were.

Sweat formed on his forehead and he found himself glancing around.

Why was he suddenly…nervous?

Somebody like him couldn’t afford to let any sign of weakness show. Of course He wanted to make a good first impression, plus he was sort of curious as to why she would pursue this rehabilitation idea. His nervousness faded away when he imagined Charlie as naïve. Maybe he could easily trick her and not have to be caught by anyone?

The best thing he could do for the moment was be polite and offer to help. As any good charmer and manipulator knew, first impressions and the process were everything…

And a nice big smile was the crème de la crème.

Puffing out his chest, he knocked on the door.

It was a very slow “Shave and a Haircut knock.”

The knocking from outside interrupted Charlie’s thoughts. She opened her eyes.

An ice cold feeling of dread spread through her veins. No other demon would ever do that kind of knock.

Unless…

She tentatively reached out her hand to the door handle, and quickly pulled it open.

Sure enough, the most feared demon in Hell was standing right outside her door. A couple of shadow spirits poked their heads through.

Charlie’s face morphed into sheer terror, eyes wide as saucers.

Yes, there she was, right in front of him. Alastor opened his eyes as they glowed red, a radio sound emitting from him. His eyes dilated playfully as he raised a finger in greeting.

“Hell…”

The door abruptly slammed shut.

Brief silence.

Charlie opened it again…

“…oooo!”

Slammed it again.

Alastor could hear Charlie’s muffled voice from inside.

“Hey Vaggie!”

“What?”

“The Radio Demon is at the door!”

“What?!”

“Who?” asked Angel.

“What should I do?!” Charlie asked.

“Well, don’t let him in!” Vaggie said.

A growl formed in Alastor’s throat.

He stood there, shocked in front of the stained glass door, smile still plastered on his face, hand and curved claw in the air.

“Well… that was…rude,” he thought. “Usually people are too sacred to answer when I come by. Or they rush to try and please me because they know I could slaughter them at any time. I’ll just wait here then…or maybe break this door down…”

He had been turned down not once but twice by her! If she had been an average demon, she would’ve been a bloody heap on the floor. The princess should know better than to reject anyone like that, especially a prideful demon like himself.

Any offense to his pride would not go unnoticed.

Charlie opened the door again.

“May I speak now?” Alastor asked, hiding his anger.

“You may,” said Charlie.

Alastor held out his right hand to her, which briefly glowed. He half expected her to reach out and shake it right away…which would’ve proven her naïve nature…but instead she just stood there.

“Alastor, pleasure to be meeting you, sweetheart, quite a pleasure.”

He eagerly grabbed her wrist and leaned his face close to hers before strutting inside. Charlie stood, dumbfounded, her hand still out.

“Excuse my sudden visit,” he went on, “but I saw your fiasco on a picture show and I just couldn’t resist. What a performance!”

Audience cheers came from his staff as he turned around.

“Why I haven’t been that entertained since the stock market crash of 1929!”

He bobbed his head side to side and burst into laughter. He glanced back at Charlie who was by the door. “So many orphans!”

A sharp spear was suddenly pointed at him. He froze in fear, his smile still on his face.

“Stop right there!” It was Vaggie.

She swore in Spanish under her breath: “Carbon hijo de perra! (Son of a bitch!) I know your game. And I’m not gonna let you hurt anyone here, you pompous, cheesy, talk show shitlord!”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed and glowed. He made a low noise of warning.

“You have a lot of nerve to stand up to me like that, girl,” he thought. “You don’t know anything about me, and you certainly aren’t going to stand in my way.”

Alastor merely laughed slightly and nudged the weapon away with his fingers. Charli and Vaggie were in front of him.

“Dear, if I wanted to hurt anyone here…”

He added in a low creepy tone, “I would have done so already.”

His red eyes briefly turned to red radio dials and radio static filled the room. He tilted his head slightly, letting his chaotic magic roam. Vaggie and Charlie were frozen in fear as they caught glimpses of red Voodoo symbols, static, and warped reality.

Then just as quickly, the noise and magic ceased and Alastor shook his head, eyes back to full red. For a brief moment, they had been small red pupils inside black sockets.

“That scare should teach them to remember their place,” he thought.

He bowed. “No, I’m here because I want to help!”

Charlie was sure she hadn’t heard him right.

“Say what now?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Help!” he responded with another laugh, leaning in close before moving back.

He held up his microphone staff.

“Hello?” he asked with a laugh. “Is this thing on? Testing, testing…”

He tapped it and a glowing red eye appeared in the center. “Well, I heard you loud and clear!” the microphone responded, eye shaking in fear.

“Um…you want to help?” Charlie asked.

Alastor appeared behind the demon girls, hands on their backs, switching from a shadow to his regular self. Both Vaggie and Charlie flinched.

“With…” he mentioned in an imitation of Charlie’s voice,

“…this ridiculous thing you’re trying to do!” finishing in his normal voice. “This hotel!”

Charlie could hear the call bell ding twice on the table, even though no one was there to ring it.

“I want to help you run it.”

“Uh…why?” Charlie asked, confused.

Alastor laughed again. “Why does anyone do anything? Sheer absolute boredom! I’ve lacked inspiration for decades!”

He placed his elbow on an annoyed Vaggie’s head.

“My work became mundane...lacking focus…”

He then shoved Vaggie aside. She was clearly an inferior little doll he could push around.

“…aimless!” he continued. “I’ve come to crave a new form of entertainment!”

He laughed again.

Charlie looked downcast. “Does getting into a fist fight with a reporter count as entertainment?”

Alastor laughed again.

“It’s the purest kind, my dear! Reality! True passion! After all, the world is a stage! And the stage is a world of entertainment!”

Charlie brightened a bit. “So, does this mean that you think it’s possible to rehabilitate a demon?”

Alastor help up a hand and laughed. “Of course not. That’s wacky nonsense! Redemption, oh the non-existent humanity! Nononono, I don’t think there’s anything left that could save such loathsome sinners!”

He glanced at Vaggie and Angel Dust sitting on the sofa, mischief in his eyes. They would be fun to mess with.

“The chance given to them was the life they lived before; the punishment is this!”

He spread out his arms, turning away. “There is no undoing what is done!”

His eyes glowed red, pupils constricted. There really was no way to change the past. All the sinners were destined to suffer in a matrix of pleasure, illusion, and the threat of a second death. For Alastor, every demon was a lost cause…and paradoxically, that also included him.

He had dealt with authority figures before in his previous life…those racist religious folk who believed that God and the elite had complete control over his fate and the fate of everyone else. Now here it was again, in the form of God, the angels, Vox, Lucifer pretty much anybody he hated. It wasn’t his fault he killed and ate all his victims. If certain people hadn’t pushed him over the edge…

He glanced over when he heard Charlie’s voice.

“So then, why do you want to help me if you don’t believe in my cause?” Charlie asked.

Alastor smirked and looked at Charlie over his shoulder. “Consider it an investment in ongoing entertainment for myself!”

He pulled her close to him with his arm and twirled her around in a quick dance. Charlie narrowed his eyes at him and gave him a look. He ignored her. “I want to watch the scum of the world struggle to climb up the hill of betterment! Only to repeatedly trip and tumble down to the fiery pit of failure.”

His eyes glowed red and his left eyebrow raised slightly. Just the thought of having the fates and lives of demons in his hands was enough to get him excited…or perhaps even aroused.

“Right…” Charlie began, slowly removing his clawed hand from her shoulder. Alastor’s hand flinched at the sudden touch.

Alastor chuckled and took her aside for a walk. “Yes indeedy! I see big things coming your way, and who better to help than I.”

He impressed her further with some charm and making his staff appear in his hand.

Vaggie walked up to Charlie and pulled her aside.

“Charlie, listen to me. You just can’t believe this creep! He isn’t just a happy face! He’s a dealmaker, pure evil! He can’t be redeemed! And is most likely looking for a way to destroy everything we’re trying to do.”

Alastor drummed his fingers against his palm, listening in on their conversation with a grin.

“I…” Charlie began. “…we don’t know that. Look…I know he’s bad, and I know he probably doesn’t wanna change, but the whole point of this is to give people a chance! To have faith things will be better! How can I turn someone away? I can’t. It goes against everything I’m trying to do. Everything I believe in.”

Alastor stared in fascination at a family picture on the wall. It showed Lucifer dressed in white, Lilith in a dark purple dress, and Charlie as a little girl wearing a brown and white dress in the middle. The picture border consisted of branches and yellow eyeballs and a dried rose in the upper right hand corner.

“Such a lovely portrait! A picture of perfection! It’d be such a shame if something awful were to happen to them…”

“Just trust me,” Charlie added placing comforting hands on her girlfriend’s shoulders, “I can take care of myself.”

Charlie,” warned Vaggie, “Whatever you do, do not make a deal with him!”

From a distance, Alastor opened up the palm of one hand, claws curled inward, hand glowing. From his viewpoint it looked like he was grabbing onto both girls. They glanced in his direction, worry on their faces.

“I’ll have these two in the palm of my hand…”

“Don’t worry, Charlie replied to Vaggie. “I picked up one thing from my Dad…” she spoke in a manly voice, “Ya don’t take shit from other demons!”

Gathering her courage, Charlie marched over to the Radio Demon.

“Ok, so…Al. You’re sketchy as fuck, and you clearly see what I’m trying to do here is a joke. But I don’t.”

Charlie turned away. She was so close and so vulnerable.

Red Voodoo symbols floated around Alastor as his eyes glowed.

“If you could stay turned around so I can knock you out…” he thought.

Charlie narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously and the symbols vanished.

“So close,” he thought in frustration as she turned around to face him.

Charlie continued. “I think everyone deserves a chance to prove they can be better. So, I’m taking your offer to help. On the condition that there be no tricks or voodoo strings attached.”

Alastor twirled his cane and held out his hand. “So it’s a deal then?”

Flashes of eerie green light surrounded him, electricity snaking up the walls.

“Nope!” Charlie yelled, holding out her hands. The energy stopped. “No shaking! No deals!”

Alastor’s eyes constricted. “She rejected my deal,” he thought. “This will be more challenging than I expected.”

He walked forward a step.

Charlie continued. “As princess of Hell, and heir to the throne, I uh, hereby order that you help with this hotel, for a long as you desire.”

A moment of pause…he brushed his hair back.

“Sound fair?” she asked.

“Hmm. Fair enough. Cool beans.” Alastor shrugged, walking on and making his cane disappear. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and even did a thumbs up.

Alastor stopped and spotted Vaggie off to the side. How pathetic she was, frowning like that. He smirked in a way outside observers would describe as lecherous. He tickled her under her chin with a finger.

“Smile, my dear! You know you’re never fully dressed without one!”

Alastor hummed happily on his way, while Vaggie growled in disgust and rage.

“So…where is your hotel staff?” Alastor asked.

“Uh, well…” Charlie began. Alastor peered at Vaggie through his monocle. “Oh ho ho ho, you’re going to need more than that.”

He walked over towards Angel.

“And what can you do, my effeminate fellow?”

Angel grinned. “I can suck your dick!”

Alastor could almost scream in disgust after hearing that.

“Ha! No.” Alastor deadpanned.

“Your loss,” Angel said with a slight laugh. Alastor summoned his cane.

“Well, this just won’t do!” Alastor exclaimed. “I suppose I can cash in a few favors to liven things up!”

The spell came easily in his mind: “dife sèvitè, reveye.”

He snapped his fingers and a fire sparked to life in a small circular fireplace. Animal skeletons decorated either side of the wall. The wall and fireplace were repaired.

A dark figure plopped down onto the chimney floor.

Alastor walked over and picked up the creature with his hand. A large single yellow eye was revealed. Angel, Vaggie, and Charlie peered at the creature. In a puff of smoke and a squeak, the creature revealed herself. A cute cyclops girl was wearing a pink dress with a poodle on the front, her short wide hair dark magenta with a streak of yellow.

“This little darling is Niffty!” Alastor introduced, before dropping her. She landed on her feet. She was an adorable little thing.

“Hi! I’m Niffty!” she greeted with a wave. “It’s nice to meet you! It’s been a while since I’ve made new friends!” She laughed slightly and her pupil grew smaller, darting in circles.

“Why are you all women?” she asked. “Have any men here?! I’m sorry, that’s rude.” She missed the fact that Angel was male, for obvious reasons.

She briefly picked up Charlie, while Vaggie held her spear defensively at her.

“Oh man, this place is filthy!” she exclaimed, running around and lifting up couch cushions. “It really needs a lady’s touch, which is weird, because you’re all ladies, no offence.” She chewed on a black spider she found, then rushed toward some stained glass windows.

She darted around, using a dust ruffle to clean them. “Oh my gosh, this is awful! No, no, no…Nope!”

She raced around, removing cobwebs, then poking at a piece of a voodoo doll. Well, it was actually a live blue beetle doll that Alastor had stabbed with a clothing pin for Niffty to play with. Alastor looked amused, while the others stared in disbelief.

“So fortunate of me to have met her in Hell. A former chimney sweeper in the 20th century. Heard she died from too much smoke. Services are still good! Though, I didn’t give her much of an option to begin with…” he thought.

Meanwhile, at a casino, a cat demon placed a joker, an ace, a 2, and a fourth card down on the table. He had black and white fur, wore a black top hat and had red wings with card suits decorated on them. He also had long red eyebrows and wore a red bow tie.

“Ha!” he declared in triumph. “Read ‘em and weep, boys!”

He suddenly felt himself being forcefully pulled out of the room through space and time.

“Full…whoa!”

“Transpòte ganbadeur la.”

He ducked as a curtain of red energy surrounded the existing space. Voodoo symbols flashed in the background along with eight yellow eyes, a creepy voodoo skull and a purple skeleton of a worm-like creature. Another voodoo skull with horns appeared for a moment not too far from tan ghost-like spirits with creepy faces and a row of jagged teeth.

The cat demon figured he must have had too much booze to drink.

“…the hell?”

As the images faded, he soon found himself at the hotel bar, not in the previous room at the casino. A large “Come and play Blackjack” sign took up much of the wall behind him. Most peculiar, the gray wood walls were missing halfway up, replaced by the red themed décor of the hotel. Husk was sitting in a portion of the casino he was in. It felt like he was in a house with no roof surrounded by the outside world.

“What the fuck is this?”

He saw Alastor and pointed an accusing claw.

“You.”

“Ah, Husker, my good friend!” Alastor cheerfully greeted. “Glad you could make it!”

Husk could have at least been polite for once, but Alastor decided to let it slide.

Alastor’s head briefly had the appearance of large antlers sticking out from either side. When he moved it, it was revealed to be an antler skull with glowing green eyes hanging in the background. Snakes were wrapped around one of the white curtains supporting a bar stand. “Big Booze,” “Welcome” and “Big Soul” signs were placed overhead on the stand. Neon green card suits consisted of the designs at the bottom of the stand.

“Don’t you “Husker” me, you son of a bitch!” Husk spat, and swiped Alastor’s hand aside from his shoulder. “I was about to win the whole damn pot!”

Husk stared in anger as the stacks of money and chips on the table vanished in static.

“Good to see you too!” added Alastor.

Husk face palmed. “What the hell do you want with me this time?”

Alastor grabbed hold of him, startling him so much that cards fell from his hands.

“My friend, I am doing some charity work, so I took it upon myself to volunteer your services! I hope that’s okay.”

Husk was taken aback. “Are you shittin’ me?!”

“No, I don’t think so,” Alastor replied. He casually brushed off his sleeves.

Husk shoved the Radio Demon off him. “You thought it would be some kind of big fuckin’ riot just to pull me outta nowhere? You think I’m some kinda fuckin’ clown?”

“Maybe.”

Audience laughter emitted from the microphone.

“I ain’t doin’ no fuckin’ charity job,” Husk protested.

Alastor appeared next to him, startling the cat demon. “Well I figured you would be the perfect face to man the front desk of this fine establishment.”

He pointed toward the bar stand with the staff. The sound of audience clapping came from his radio staff.

“With your charming smile and welcoming energy…”

Alastor spread the corners of Husk’s mouth upward into a demonic smile of yellow teeth. Husk frowned seconds after he let go.

“…this job was made for you!”

Alastor strutted over toward the bar stand, the soles of his shoes revealing red hoof prints as he walked.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Alastor continued, “I can make this more welcoming…if you wish.”

With a curve of his fingers, a green bottle of cheap booze appeared on the counter.

Husk stared with wide eyes, suddenly very thirsty. He swore he could hear the sound of a slot machine.

“What, you think you can buy me with a wink and some cheap booze?!” He took the bottle on anger. “Well you can!”

He immediately guzzled it down and walked away.

“Too easy,” thought Alastor.

By this time, Charlie, Vaggie and Angel Dust had arrived to see what the commotion was about. Vaggie rushed toward the bar, furious.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey!” yelled the moth demon. “No, no bar, no alcohol. This is supposed to be a place that discourages sin! Not some kind of…mouth, brothel, man-cave…”

Angel lunged himself into her, knocking her to the floor.

“Shut up! Shut! Up! We are keeping this.” He pointed at Husk with multiple gloved hands.

He slid up to Husk. “Hey,” he said in a flirtatious voice.

“Go fuck yourself,” Husk deadpanned, drinking his booze.

“Only if you watch me,” Angel retorted.

To make matters worse for Husk, Charlie leaned in close to him, excitement and red stars in her eyes.

“Oh my gosh! Welcome to the Happy Hotel! You are going to love it here!”

“I lost the ability to love years ago,” Husk replied, gulping down more booze.

Alastor walked in, an ever-present grin on his face.

“So, what do you think?”

Charlie ran over to him. “This is amazing!” she beamed.

Alastor’s eyes blinked rapidly at the sweet sight of Charlie rubbing her cheeks and smiling at him. He could watch it all day.

“It’s okay,” Vaggie said from nearby, arms crossed.

Alastor laughed and pulled the two girls close to him. “This is going to be very entertaining!”

He shoved Vaggie again and his laughter mixed with the sound of an old radio.

Alastor conjured fire in his hand…Charlie stared in wonder at the flames and the voodoo symbols. He threw the flames in the air, distracting Charlie from him shoving aside her friend hard. Alastor then changed his attire with magic. He now wore a fancy red suit with a white undershirt and a black bow tie. A red top hat appeared on his head, complete with small spikes along the black band and two needles sticking out from the top. He twirled Charlie around in a dance, the princess looking stunned. Pointing his finger over her head, he transformed Charlie’s outfit. Her blonde hair was now short and wavy. She wore an elegant black and red dress, black gloves, a pink hat with a small black bow and black heels. She looked like a dapper lady from the early 20th century.

Charlie stared at her conjured clothing in amazement.

Vaggie was on the floor, fuming.

Alastor began to sing as he danced with Charlie, a new spring in his steps.

“You have a dream

You wish to tell

He turned to the fuming Vaggie on the floor, letting her know that he thought Charlie’s idea was silly.

“and it’s so laughable…”

He turned back to Charlie.

“But hey kid, what the hell!”

Alastor picked Charlie up and threw her into the air. She yelped in delight and landed gracefully next to him. Two glowing apples and a skull with deer horns flashed in the background.

Reality had been altered to the Radio Demon’s liking. The entire room was lit in psychedelic colors. Voodoo symbols and shapes were etched in every nook and cranny, including a pair of pink claws reaching for the door. Alastor and Charlie waltzed in the spotlight as electro swing music began to play in the distance. The all-encompassing noise, though, was the signature radio-static sound.

Charlie found herself sliding down one of the apple-etched railings, Alastor leading the way. They landed on the lower floor as Alastor continued his reprise.

“Cause you’re one of a kind

A charming demon belle!”

Deer statues and painted antlers were everywhere.

Back at the bar stand, Husk sat looking bored. Vaggie hissed at Angel grabbing onto her shoulder, while Niffty stared in wonder. Alastor snapped his fingers and their outfits changed as well.

Angel was wearing a neon pink suit, Husk a pink bow tie, Vaggie a dark dress, with her hair now smooth and long, and finally Niffty, with a cute top hat with small flowers.

“Now let’s give these burning fools a place to dwell

(Take it, boys!)”

Alastor snapped his fingers once more and shadowy imps rose to life from a hole in the ground. The happy spirits played a trumpet, a tuba, and a drum set. Charlie snapped her fingers to the beat, while Vaggie watched with worry. She reached out to her friend but was pulled away by Alastor. He enveloped the group into a tight hug with a laugh, followed by glowing images of dark spirits staring at them. Niffty watched in amazement, but not the other three.

“Inside of every demon is a lost cause…”

Alastor pulled Husk and Angel close again. He rubbed Angel’s head with a white hat and went on his merry way. Husk gave him the bird as he left.

“But we’ll dress ‘em up now with just a smile!”

(With a smile!)

Vaggie stood, annoyed in the spotlight. Using his cane, Alastor added a feathered peacock hat and a white fox fur to her outfit. She looked ridiculous. Then out of nowhere, he slapped her butt.

Vaggie seethed in rage after he walked away.

Alastor danced some more, kicking a horned skull to the side. In the background, Niffy happily swept up the bits of bone.

“And we’ll chlorinate this cesspool

With some old redemption flair

And show these simpletons some proper class and style!

(What’s in style? Oh!)”

He made his way to the circular fireplace, where he waved his staff. Shadows arrived to join the party, including a shadowy version of himself, with large antlers and fangs. He made it disappear in a poof, then snuck toward Charlie. He led her in an upbeat dance, spinning her around, helping her match her steps to his. Charlie blushed when Alastor toyed with her cheeks. As Charlie was led away, Vaggie stood in the background, horrified and disgusted. What was happening to her friend?

Charlie and Alastor laughed as they danced, the princess locked in a happy trance. Alastor was in his element, his pupils dilated, a joyful demeanor.

Maybe this could turn into something more? Could it even be…love?

“Here below the ground

I’m sure you’re plan is sound!

They’ll spend a little time

Down at this Hazbin Ho…”

Alastor was about to finish his song, when an explosion burst apart a window behind him. He stood frozen, pupils constricting, his body going alert.

Whatever, or whomever had interrupted his song was going to pay dearly.

Niffty stared in amazement, shouting “Whoo!” before she was blasted backwards, the door hitting her in the face.

Alastor’s spell soon wore off and everyone was back in their regular clothes. Alastor, Husk (still drinking), Niffty, Charlie, Angel, and Vaggie, peered out of the hole to see what was going on. Vaggie had her weapon at the ready.

Looking skyward, the group saw a cracked blimp in the air. It had a small random band aid with a sad face on it along the rim. A familiar snake villain popped out of his hideout.

“Ha!” Sir Pentious laughed. “Well, well, well, look who it is harboring the striped freak! We meet again, Alastor!”

Apparently, he was also rivals with Alastor.

But Alastor simply asked, “Do I know you?”

The snake boss looked disappointed. Then he said in anger, “Oh yes you do! And this time, I have the element of…surprise!”

The villain raced toward his pink velvet chair and pulled a lever. A metallic cannon lowered to the ground. The cannon fired up with pink energy as pink smoke appeared around them.

“He laughed manically. “I’m so evil!”

Then he added, “I have an Egg army!”

“Well, we have an Alastor,” Charlie responded.

Alastor snapped his fingers, red tendrils of smoke rising from his hand. The weapon froze in mid fire and a fiery portal opened up below the blimp.

A horde of black tendrils rose from the hole, latching onto the ship. One tentacle ripped off the cannon and threw it into another smaller portal, causing it to explode in pink smoke. One of the tentacles had already smashed a hole in the large round window.

Sir Pentious looked on in shock as his Egg Bois slammed against the wall (one of them read #Ouch.) One of the eggs cracked open, spilling out yellowish brains and small organs among the stains of yok. Sir Pentious and another minion were thrown against the wall.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he screamed before he was slammed against the ceiling by a black limb.

“Oh, that hurt!” he cried.

Sir Pentious screamed as he was dragged along the floor and lifted up slightly. He was held in place, surrounded by the wrapped up tendril. At once, the tendril shrunk and squeezed the helpless snake. The Egg Bois ran around screaming as black cracks appeared on the floor and walls.

From the outside, more black tendrils were closing in. Red voodoo symbols appeared around the blimp.

“Ede m 'sèrviteur.”

Four horned shadowy spirits with red auras floated around, wearing toothy grins.

The tendrils were now wrapped around the entire blimp, holding it in place like thick black vines.

Red radio waves filled Alastor’s eyes as he circled his fingers and worked is magic. Voodoo symbols appeared all around him as he altered the state of reality. Radio static consumed the air.

The vines thickened and completely enclosed the blimp. The spirits swooped around it in excitement, with echoing shrieks. The aura around the tendrils glowed a fiery yellow, the same color as the portal rim.

“Kalfu! Destriksyon pa bra nwa.”

Alastor closed his four-fingered hand which began to glow. A red drop of blood fell from his glowing hand. The tendrils proceeded to crush the blimp. Pink rays of light shot from the center and the blimp exploded in a loud BOOM!

Pink smoke spread everywhere as the spirits sped away. The tendrils broke into severed bloody pieces that rained down to the ground. Alastor smiled victoriously, while behind them, the group of five stared in utter terror and shock. (Save for Niffty who had a small smile on her face).

Alastor’s angry, bloodlust eyes spoke volumes.

“And stay out of this hotel and from my friends you pathetic excuse of snakeskin.”

A sharp pain throbbed on his hand and bags appeared under his eyes. Magic had taken some work from him…and it also made him hungry.

“Well, I’m starved!” Alastor exclaimed, turning around to face the group, happy again. “Who wants some jambalaya?” He spread his arms out. “My mother once showed me a wonderful recipe for jambalaya! In fact, it nearly killed her!”

He laughed as he led the way back to the hotel. The others followed.

“You could say the kick was right out of Hell!”

He added while laughing at his own joke, “Oh, I’m on a roll!”

From up above, the hotel looked like a mashed-up haunted house. An old dark train was perched on a balcony, with some monstrous faces carved in. A ship, reminiscent of the Titanic, was leaning upwards against the building as part of the structure. An old carousel served as part of the upper balcony and windows. Skull designs decorated the small windows in a row. Finally, on top of a giant yellow eye, was the sign “Happy Hotel” supported by pillars of worn wood.

Alastor continued, “Yes, sir, this is the start of some real changes down here! The game is set! Now…”

He glanced up and pointed his finger toward the sign. Pink electricity shot out and made contact with the sign.

The sign now read “Hazbin Hotel.”

“Stay tuned,” he finished with a low sinister laugh.

#alastor #hazbinhotel #radiodemon

5 notes · View notes

mirroralchemist · 4 years ago

Text

Untitled FFXIV Trash pt.4

I think at this rate Imma forego my monthly writing update for this month since LOOK AT ALL THIS WRITING I’VE BEEN DOING

Notes: Still in ShB spoilers hell. This is after pt.3 and just after WoL and Ryne reunite with the others. That and the Thancred scene(tm) before it are my absolute favorites from the expansion (so far) so it was inevitable that I would write Ami’s feelings about him almost dying. This is just more me being wishy-washy on will they or won’t they.

Also more sad times.

“ ‘Filia, we have to go.” she said.

“But Thancred!” the Oracle of Light cried.

Blue eyes stared at his form. He was ready to fight the Eulmoran general, she could see that. This was a fight that he was adamant on having. His words earlier still ringing in her head. He was going to protect the resolve of this Minifilia with everything he had.

“He knows what he’s doing.” she finally said.

The Warrior of Darkness took a deep breath as she focused her energies into her speed. She nodded towards him before taking Minfilia’s hand and running towards their destination. She didn’t look back. Not even as the sounds of battle began. She couldn’t look back, lest the temptation to fight by his side win out.

He trusted her to protect this child.

That was the least she could do.

‘Don’t you dare die on me Thancred I swear to the Twelve.’

* * *

The Warrior of Darkness stopped. She and Minifilia were well on their way to their place. Minfilia stopped as well, seeing her pause. Blue crystalline eyes looked at her in worry.

“Ami? Is something the matter?”

Ami said nothing at first. She could only look down, her hand touching her chest. Something felt wrong. She soon felt a pair of hands reach up to her cheeks, wiping the tears strolling down her face.

‘Tears?’

“Ami, please speak to me.” Minifilia pleaded.

Something felt very very wrong.

She shook her head. It was just the worry coming through, she reasoned. She had every right to be worried. Ran’jit was a foe not to underestimate. The few skirmishes she had with the man well warranted her fears. She knew her Scion couldn’t die. He had cheated death so many times already. When this was all over, they would all meet up again and have a laugh over this.

The pang of emptiness gnawing at her chest didn’t go away.

“I’m fine? We’ve been running for a while, lets take a small break.”

* * *

“Your hair, it’s different.” Ami remarked.

Minfilia took a lock of her hair, blue eyes staring at shock. Not only did the Minfilia she had known changed this girl on the inside, to give her full reign over her abilities, but on the outside too. If no one had knew before hand, the girl standing before her now could never had easily figured out as the Oracle. Worry etched on Minfilia’s face.

“Thancred is pr-”

“He’ll be fine.” Ami assured her, “I’ll walk with you to meet him. He doesn’t stand a chance if we double up on him.”

That brought a smile to the young woman’s face.

“You care for him deeply, don’t you?”

Ami froze at that statement. She let out a small sigh. Whether some residual feeling from the Minfilia she knew or just the girl’s excellent observation skills, she couldn’t decipher how she knew. But Ami would not deny it. Not to this girl who shared so much with her.

“I do.” Ami admitted, “He most likely didn’t tell you this, but he was the one who recruited me to the Scions.”

She stared towards the sky, its unyielding light a reminder why they had set out here on this day. A feeling of nostalgia washed over the Warrior of Darkness. Back before all of the battles she would soon face, she was just a novice Pugilist sent to find a noble.

“It feels such a lifetime ago. We have changed in those times since we took down a voidsent together. As comrades and friends we have grown. I can scarcely imagine where I would be in this moment without him.”

She shook her head to will away those thoughts. She soon turned her gaze towards Minfilia, letting a small smile appear on her face.

“The others should be waiting. Let us go meet them.”

* * *

Words failed to express what I am seeing before me. We were all together again. But sitting at the steps of an abandoned station was Thancred; and he looked worse for the wear. His pristine white coat caked with dirt and tears at the tails. Dried blood and dirt smudged his skin as well.

I thought back to that moment earlier, where the emptiness had started to hit my chest as he recounted the tale of his encounter with Ran’jit.

He had nearly died.

If it wasn’t for the quick timing of our friends’ healing arts, he would not be standing here.

I took a deep breath as he reunited with Minfil-no, it’s Ryne now. We had said goodbye to a dear friend, one that brought us all together. But we welcomed a new one into our fold.

But it picked at my mind that I could have lost two friends this day.

My hands balled into fists as the realization set in. For the sake of not souring the relieved atmosphere, I kept my emotions hidden. We were so close to the possible location of the Lightwarden here, we couldn’t afford more delays than what we have already.

I let myself fall back as we traveled through the trolley tracks towards Malikah's Well. Ryne was really taking to her new abilities. Regardless of other events, seeing her with this new found confidence made me proud.

“We’ll have to go deeper.” she said.

We all gathered at the opening to the mining area. It was expansive, so it was ideal that we took a small break to prepare ourselves before exploring its depths. I still couldn’t take my eyes off of Thancred’s current state. It was a harsh reminder of what could have happened.

I dug into my pack and pulled out a bolt of cotton cloth and a vial of filtered water; leftover material from my crafting ventures. I bit into the fabric, making a haphazard strip before pouring the water over it. It was an automatic process as I made my way towards him and began my attempts to clean him up a bit. My hands trembling as I wiped the soaked cloth against his cheek.

It must have took a full minute for him to realize what I was doing before he grabbed my wrists.

“Ami?”

“You look terrible.” I could only say, voice wavering.

There was that smirk that I had come to get used to over the time of knowing him. Any other time, however, I would just play along in a knowing smile too. But I was drained mentally. I dropped the items in my hands on the ground as I lowered my head and the tears pooled around my eyes. It didn’t take long before they soon fell. By some small grace, it wasn’t as obvious I had begun to cry.

It was reminiscent of watching Haurchefant die in front of me; the thoughts of regret and guilt ready to consume me.

Once again, you almost were too late.

How pitiful, you cannot even save those you hold dear.

The stoic mask I had carefully constructed had cracked. The silent tears gave way to muffled sobs, growing louder and louder. The hold on my wrists lessened only to move to my shoulders. Words were being said to the others but I couldn’t discern what was spoken. I was too wrapped up in my emotions to be fully aware of the situation.

“Come now, Warrior of Darkness, no more tears.” a whispered voice spoke.

“I know the others said you are fully healed.” I said, “I don’t trust my healing capabilities but I have some alchemic knowledge. Maybe some of my medicinal remedies could help?”

“Am-”

I shook my head. I was aware that Thancred was speaking to me, but his words seemed foreign in my mental state.

“Your coat is tattered,” I continued on, “I’m no armorer, but the tears should only need a basic stitching. I can do that at least.”

“Ami look at me. I am fine.”

I glanced up at him. The tears still running down my face. His hand gripped my shoulders just a little tighter.

“Please let me do something, anything.” I pleaded, “I can...I cannot-”

His gaze lowered. The concern on him was obvious for me. It would only feed my guilt more. He almost died, and was concerned for me?

He picked up the cloth and pressed it into my hands.

“If you insist, my dear.”

I nodded before setting to work on cleaning his face with whatever clean cloth I had. The tears still didn’t stop as I wiped down on his skin. Normally I would assure him I was fine.

But I wasn’t.

Something was happening to me with each instance of primordial Light I had absorbed.

The battle at Lakeland still weighed on my mind.

Knowing definitively that Minfilia has passed; someone I felt a kinship to understand my Echo.

All that to top it all off with the realization that I could have lost Thancred too? It was too much. It must have been minutes before the tears eventually slowed. The transition of my guilt to anger coming in as fast as I shift my fighting forms in battle.

“If it wasn’t for the fact that you almost died and my weapons are my hands, I would hit you right now.” I admitted.

My hands balled up into fists as my eyes narrowed into a glare. Thancred was surprised at the sudden lowered tone of voice. I took a deep breath before poking his armored chest.

“I don’t know if I should be angry at the fact that you almost died or that you are so nonchalant about it. Godsdammit, this is the fourth bloody time and I don’t think my heart can take much more. I don’t want to keep worrying if the next time I see you is going to be my last. I lost too much to get where I am, I will not lose any more. I...cannot lose any more. If I did, then I-”

I put my arms around his waist as I hugged him. At the time I didn’t care that this was considered out of character for me. I wanted, no needed his presence. I needed to feel that he was here. I felt him stiffen, but eventually he arms circled around my waist too. There was only a head difference between our heights, but I still felt so small in his embrace. Even as the grime rubbed off on the bare parts of my skin, even as the buckles and the metals of his armor dug into me I was content.

If only for a moment.

Regrettably, the reality of the situation has sunken in thus we separated.

Now I couldn’t meet his face.

Sobered up from the crack of my emotional mask, I had come to realize what I had done. I felt myself flush in embarrassment. Whether he took the moment as a response to a friend in need or a different matter entirely, he didn’t comment on it.

I remain hopeful that he is blissfully unaware of what I had unintentionally revealed.

“Ready to rendezvous with the others?” he asked.

“Yes...and thank you.”

I stayed a comfortable distance from Thancred as we walked to the others. Belatedly, I realized that I had cracked in front of them too. I couldn’t meet their gazes as well.

An apology was right on my lips, for slowing them down. For making them concerned over me and my feelings I should be better at controlling. For ruining a genuine heartfelt moment.

Almost as if she knew what I wanted to say, Y’shtola put a hand to stop me from uttering a word.

“I take it you have had your fill of making maidens cry today Thancred?” she quipped.

I snapped my head up, shock clear on my face. She smiled at me while having that mischievous glint in her eyes. I didn’t think it was possible for me to blush even deeper. But somehow I was. If it wasn’t for the fact that we had a Lightwarden to slay, I would have hidden away by now. I felt Thancred’s hand on my shoulder, patting it lightly.

“You wound me Y’shtola. I have you know that I am quite used to making maidens cry. Albeit for a different reason.”

“Please, no.” came the dry response, “We need not to enrich the others with that kind of knowledge.”

I snorted at the conversation. The embarrassment giving way to a smile before I laughed. It was reminiscent of old times back home. How, regardless of what mission we went on or how far it would take us, this familial warmth would always be awaiting for us.

“There,” she said, “that’s the look I am used to.”

“Thank you.” I spoke in earnest, “Full glad am I that I am making this journey with you all.”

“Come now, the sentimentality can wait until after we bring the night back.”

“Alisaie is right.” I said, “Let us be off everyone.”

#shit writing #writing things #fan fic #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction #final fantasy XIV #final fantasy 14 #FFXIV #ff14 #shb spoilers #Still more WoL/Thancred wish fulfillment #LOOK I'M JUST-#sad times with WoL #Ami is a depressed gal okay #And she don't have her dark self to work it out with #This took longer than I expected to upload

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the-quiet-winds · 6 years ago

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Cathedrals in My Heart (part 2)

old foes have new faces. @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts and i worked hard.

like, reblog, y’all know what’s up.

[part one]

[Part 2: The Bullets Catch in her Teeth]

they all make their way downstairs, where jane is staring forlornly at the front door which katherine just slammed.

"jane," parr says quietly, bringing her out of her reverie, "we have something to discuss with you."

jane looks at them, the four of them, all gravely serious. she brushes the invisible dust off her pants and shakes her head lightly, clearing her mind. "what can I do for you ladies?"

“I'm sure you’ve noticed that there’s been some... disturbances lately,” parr says, voice as calm and soft as she could make it. “with people’s property being damaged, and well...” she glances sideways at boleyn, who pulls out her phone.

“you should watch this,” she says, uncharacteristically serious. the video is loaded on the screen as jane takes it, and she frowns, pressing play.

the video was clipped from its original state. the nearly hour long video was chopped to thirty seconds, the thirty seconds of katherine opening the door and tearing the bible to shreds. "this was from last night, when I went to sermon," says aragon. "we don't know why she's doing this," says parr once the video concludes. she can't bring herself to meet jane's teary eyes. "but it's all her."

jane doesn’t do anything for a few seconds, just stares down at the phone with tears in her eyes. “I don’t-“ she begins, before choking on her words and stopping. she looks up at the others, absolute devastation in her features. “that’s not- she doesn’t-“ she falls silent again and grips the phone tightly. “what did I do wrong?” she finally asks.

parr puts both hands on her shoulders. "you've done nothing wrong, jane," she says firmly. "katherine just...doesn't always know how to deal with her feelings," parr chooses her words carefully.

“that's why we showed you," cleves pipes in. "if anyone can get to the bottom of this, it's you seymour."

jane rakes her nails down her cheek and her hand rests on the side of her neck. "you heard her when she left," she says very quietly, "she doesn't want me"

“no, of course she does!” boleyn bursts in, then continues slightly quieter when she realises how loud she was. “she loves you, jane. she’s just, like... lashing out for some reason.”

jane doesn’t look convinced and she looks back over at the door hopelessly.

"it's up to you, seymour," cleves says without malice or jest or anything resembling her typical voice.

"she'll talk to you, you know she will." boleyn looks down to the floor. "especially when she gets back and realizes there was no dance class at all."

“wait...” jane says slowly. “that was you?” boleyn nods slowly and jane sighs. “oh, she’s not going to be happy when she gets home.” she puts her face in her hands and closes her eyes for a moment. “i’ll talk to her, or i’ll try at least. she’s angry with me right now, and I don’t know why, but I can’t...” her voice breaks slightly. “I can’t lose her.”

"you won't lose her, jane," aragon says fiercely. "we'll barricade all the doors so she has no way out if we have to."

boleyn smirks and chuckles under her breath. "never stopped her before." she looks at jane's shocked and pale face. "not the time?"

“really not the time, boleyn,” cleves says, patting her on the back. boleyn shrugged apologetically.

“what we mean,” parr says, shooting boleyn a Look, “is that we’ll do everything we can to help.”

jane gives them a weak smile. “thank you, girls.”

it isn't all that much later when the car appears back in the driveway and katherine enters the house, raving and ranting about how she was "scammed" and how "they thought I was crazy". but no one is listening, because everyone is gone. the kitchen and living room are all completely empty. a voice, a very quiet voice, speaks up from behind her. "hello, kat."

she freezes for a moment, then turns around slowly. “I guess you’ll wanna gloat about being right,” she huffs, throwing her bag down onto the floor.

katherine looks in her in the eye with a steely gaze. jane looks timid and afraid. “well? is there something you wanted to say jane?” she pointedly and purposefully uses the woman’s first name.

jane looks like she’s going to speak for a second, then stops. katherine holds her gaze for another few moments before breaking it. “whatever,” she says dismissively, turning away.

she’s taken one step away when jane’s voice, heartbroken and trembling, asks “why are you doing this, kat?”

katherine freezes. she's conflicted. part of her wants to crumble to the floor and cry about jealousy and trauma and let jane pull her into those reassuring arms and tell her that she will chase all the demons away...but she doesn't. some other part of her, a darker, crueler part, cultivated from years of betrayal and abuse, wins out today. she straightens her spine and turns back towards jane, holding a cold and unwavering gaze. "doing what, exactly?"

jane sighs, trying her best not to give into her tears. “I know what you’ve been doing. to everyone’s things, I mean. the others showed me proof. and now, with the shouting, and the arguing, it’s all-“ she stops herself. “it’s not you, kat.”

katherine folds her arms. “well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought.”

something inside of katherine's mind is screaming at her to let loose and just talk to jane, but her mouth won't cooperate. seeing jane like this, so upset and confused, it's like a tiny victory to her. ‘revenge is best served in turn,’ a tiny voice whispers in her head. "maybe you don't know me as well as you thought. maybe you saw some broken little girl who needed a parental figure and you thought that was you. well guess what jane, I don't. I don't need you." somehow, her voice doesn't waver or crack or shake at all. she pretends not to notice the painful clench in her throat or the angry tears threatening to well behind her eyes.

jane manages a single “kat-“ before the tears and the sobs make it too hard to speak. it’s a double edged sword to katherine: the part of her that just wants to sob with her and cling to her like a lost child is heartbroken, but the angry vengeful part of her is pleased that someone finally gets to share her pain. she doesn’t know what she was planning to say next, but she doesn’t get a chance to say it anyway. parr bursts into the room and katherine rolls her eyes. of course the others were listening in, because they were always sticking their noses where they didn’t belong. parr goes straight to jane and sees just how distraught she is, before turning her head to look at katherine and for a moment katherine is taken aback. parr looks furious. the angriest she’s ever seen her, and it makes her take a small step back.

“go to your room,” she hisses. katherine opens her mouth but parr doesn’t give her the chance to speak. “or the park, or anywhere, I don’t care. just stay away from her. you’ve done enough.”

katherine wants to scream. she wants to yell and cry and just let every strange and unfamiliar emotion in her body burst out but she can't. she squares her shoulders and clenches the keys in her fists. "fine." she makes for the door and opens it, before turning around one final time and glaring into parr and jane's backs. "it seems that no one wants me here anyway." with that, she closes the door behind her and pulls the car away from the house.

jane tries to pull away, to run after her, but parr holds her firm. “she’s not being rational, jane,” she says gently. “there was no way she was going to listen to you in that state. all she was going to do was hurt you more.”

“but-“ jane started. “-but where’s she going? I need to get her, I can’t let my girl be all alone like that!”

“she’ll be back,” parr says firmly, hoping with all her might that she herself was right. “she just needs time to cool off.”

the other three hovered uncertainly in the doorway. they’d clearly heard what had happened, and if the look on aragon’s face was anything to go by, they could tell it was serious.

“that little brat,” aragon hisses, gripping the doorway hard. “she needs someone to knock some sense into her.” boleyn, however, was looking at jane.

“is she gonna be okay?” she asks parr. parr closes her eyes briefly.

“I don’t know,” she mouths behind jane’s back. “I hope so.”

katherine is angry as she drives. even as aragon's (and jane's) voice echoes in her head about never driving mad, she can't help it. she doesn't know where she's going or what she's doing until she pulls over and parks the car in a random lot. she sits behind the wheel for a long time. her phone is buzzing incessantly, messages from cleves and boleyn and aragon patching through with angry words (though boleyn's seem slightly softer, more telling her about jane's condition) and it pulls at her heart. she's royally screwed up and she knows it. she slams her fists against the wheel before getting out of the car.

she starts walking. she doesn’t really care where she’s going, she just needs to be moving. it’s a particularly chilly afternoon and she shivers. she didn’t bother to grab a coat before she left, and she shoves her hands into her jeans pockets as best she can, but for some reason whoever designed them decided that tiny pockets were in style, and it’s a tight enough fit to get her phone in there. she wants more than ever to run home to jane but she knows that it’s too soon, that she’ll just make things worse by going back now. tonight, maybe, but not now. all her mind can think of is the horrible things she said to jane, not just then, but the night before, when she got the phone call in the first place, and the morning before she left. god, she really messed up.

she keeps walking until she hits lake. it's glassy and cold and very, very still. katherine sits by the water and stares at her reflection. her hair is messy and her face is red, but it's nothing compared to the turmoil inside of her head. she wants to throw something, anything. she can't find a rock or stick and before she can think it through fully, she chucks her cellphone as hard as she can and watches it fall into the lake with a soft plop. then she curls her knees into her chest and sobs her eyes out, sitting alone by the lakeside.

the self-conscious part of her knows she must look pathetic right now but she’s too emotionally exhausted to care. she thought it would feel good to finally give everyone a taste of her pain, and it had for a few moments, but then it made everything so much worse. she doesn’t care if anyone can see her, doesn’t care about anything except how she treated jane. jane, who cared for her, and katherine just threw it back in her face.

"hey, are you alright?" a voice calls from behind her. she turns and sees a man, tall and thin with neatly trimmed brown hair. he held a fishing rod and wore faded jeans and flannel. "I saw you from down the lake." he extended a hand to help her up. "my name is thomas. what's yours?"

she looks up, attempting to wipe the tears away with the back of her hand. she sees the hand he offered her and doesn’t take it. “i- I don’t think I should tell you my name. you’re a stranger, after all.” katherine gets to her feet herself, immediately on edge. she can’t help herself; she knows he probably doesn’t mean any harm, but men named thomas aren’t at the top of her list for people to befriend. she glances about quickly. there’s nobody else around, which worries her even more.

thomas casts the fishing rod aside, holding his hands out. "are you alright, lady?" he takes off his gloves and throws them on the ground. he takes a cautious step forward. "you can trust me."

katherine steps back immediately without even thinking. “please-“ she starts. “just- just don’t come any closer, please.” her blood pounds in her head and her breathing quickens, as she internally curses herself for throwing away her phone, how could she be so stupid?

thomas is still confused and holds his hands up in a surrender position. "do you live around here?" he asked well-meaningly. "do you want me to call someone for you?"

katherine can barely hear him, breathing so fast she’s almost hyperventilating. “leave me alone!” she chokes out. she tries to back away from him, tripping over in her haste and falling backwards.

“miss-“ thomas says, concerned, and reaches out towards her, but katherine sobs and scrambles back. her nails are digging into the dirt and her clothes are filthy but she doesn’t care about that, doesn’t care about anything except getting away. thomas isn’t just thomas right now, he’s both henrys and francis and another thomas, all looming in front of her, reaching out to her.

thomas is fed up with how this woman is reacting to his obvious attempts to help. he knows that he should back off and let her be, but some self-righteous part of him won't let him do that. he reaches down and hauls her back to her feet, keeping his hands on her shoulders to steady her. "lady, do I need to call someone?"

“get away from me!” katherine sobs, and with the full strength of her slim frame she shoves him hard. he stumbles slightly but recovers quickly enough to look at her incredulously.

“what is your problem?! I'm trying to help you!” thomas grabs her shoulders again and katherine struggles, trying to get away.

thomas holds her shoulders tightly, trying to get her to stop moving. she hopelessly and pitifully whacks at his chest, doing whatever she can to get him to let go of her. “lady, you’re obviously crazy and need help. just tell me who you are!” he says the last sentence slowly yet forcefully, sharply enunciating each word in hopes that they get through to the sobbing and thrashing woman

“what’s going on?” a voice cuts through, a female voice, and thomas turns to look. katherine stills her struggling and turns to see a concerned looking woman with her young child on her hip. thomas lets out a sigh of relief. “i’ve been trying to help this girl and she just keeps freaking out on me! she won’t tell me anything.”

the woman looks at thomas, gripping katherine’s shoulders, then to katherine herself, sobbing and covered in mud. she steps closer. “son,” she says slowly, “i’d recommend you take your hands off the girl this second or I will rip off your arm and beat you with it.” thomas roughly lets go, gathers his stuff, and moves on. katherine, meanwhile, dissolves into fresh sobs because she can remember jane saying that exact thing once before.

the woman approaches her slowly, eyes soft. “did he hurt you, sweetheart?” she says gently. katherine shakes her head once, tears still streaming down her face. the woman nods. “that’s good, sweetheart. thank you for telling me. now, do you want me to call someone for you to come and get you? any friends or family? you can talk to them yourself on my phone, is that okay?”

in a tiny voice that feels like it belongs to someone else, what’s ripped from katherine’s throat is a small whimper of “I want my mum”

the woman smiles softly and sets the child down as she reaches for her pocket. "let's call her, yeah? she can come get you." katherine shakes her head profusely. "I have our car," she mumbles out. the woman carefully puts a hand on the younger girl's back. "lets call her anyway. what's her number?" katherine lists it off automatically, and the woman starts the call. "hello? is this miss jane seymour?"

jane had exhausted herself crying over the past hour, and would have fallen asleep if it weren’t for the worry that katherine wasn’t home yet. the other queens had retreated to another room and were no doubt talking about what happened.

jane’s phone rings and she glances hopefully at the number. when it says an unknown number she sighs in disappointment, but she answers it anyway. when she hears her own name she frowns slightly. “yes, I'm jane. who’s calling?”

the woman sighs in relief at hearing a kind and concerned voice pick up the line. "my name is mary, and I am here with your daughter," she realizes she doesn't even know the girl's name. "katherine. I am here with katherine. we are at the lake."

“katherine?” jane asks, immediately rising from her chair although she’s not entirely sure why. “is she okay?”

“she’s... shaken up,” mary says, glancing at katherine. “she’s not hurt, but she’s rather upset.” she lowers her voice and turns away from katherine slightly. “there was a man holding her when I found her. he hadn’t done anything as far as I could tell, but he’s given her a scare for sure.”

jane's heart stops, only for a second, before she's able to speak again. "can...can I speak to her?" there's some shuffling on the other side of the line and suddenly she hears it. her girl's voice, barely above a whisper "mum."

katherine’s voice is wobbly and unsteady. “mum...can I come home? do...” she remembered that mary was there and amended what she wanted to say. “does everyone else still want me gone?”

“oh, sweetheart,” jane says, voice trembling. “of course you can come home. nobody wants you gone, I promise you.”

“but parr-“ katherine starts, but jane interrupts gently.

“-was worried about me. she doesn’t want you gone either. we’ve all been worried sick about you, sweetheart.”

katherine stifles her sobs as best as possible. “i’ll be home soon. I have to go.” the call ends and katherine folds back into herself to cry

mary looks at her kindly. “do you need any help getting home? I could drive you if you wanted me to.”

“I can do it,” katherine sniffles, “I just... need a moment.”

“then i’ll stay with you until you’re ready to go,” mary says firmly, and katherine again is reminded of jane in the way she speaks

katherine never though she would miss jane as much as she did in that exact moment. she wanted absolutely nothing more than to be in her warm and comforting embrace as she held her and told her everything would be alright. all she had to do was get home and that would be waiting for her. six miles away. only six miles between her and the thing she wants most. with that thought in mind, she puts her emotions aside and stands on shaky legs. “thank you, but I need to go home now.”

Mary doesn’t stop her, but she looks concerned. “are you sure you’re okay to go now? you still seem in shock.”

“i’ll be okay,” katherine insists. “I- thank you.” all she wants is to stumble back to the car and finally get back to her mum, to feel safe and warm in her arms again.

#six the musical #six musical #jane seymour #katherine howard #anne boleyn #catherine parr #anne of cleves #catherine of aragon #julie and jess write #cathedrals in my heart

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asteraegis · 5 years ago

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PART 2 to that evandra smut i wrote idk how long ago haha

part one here (this is my deviant art link, you will need an account i know and i am sorry). Tags are: YEARNING FUCKING BIG TIME, told from Kassandra’s POV (first was from Evie’s), Kingdom AU (not modern day, not a game setting, just wanted Evie to be a princess I have no justification), cunnilingus, fingering, lmao accepting yourself. idk i tried to write something tender then just said fuck it kass eat out evie. 3190 words. if you wanna skip the yearning the pussy stuff is toward the end.

I breathed in slowly, my nervous gaze crawling up the castle's walls. My eagle companion, Ikaros, chirped at me, taking my racing thoughts back into reality.

"You're right, Ikaros. I won't know unless I speak to her," I sighed, peeking around the dark courtyard. Luckily the window was at a point invisible by guards. "Hopefully she is alone."

Ikaros chirped again then flew off to circle above the palace. I shook out my arms and cracked my neck. Here goes nothing.

Clutching each ivy coated stone carefully in my gloved hands, I was silent in my journey up to her window, aside from my anxious heartbeat. I couldn't stop thinking about her. Her name rang through my mind every second of every day since we met: Evie. Oh, how the name felt on my lips when I would whisper it alone, her voice still echoing in my ears like an angel's hymn. How her freckled skin felt in my fingers' grasp, how she tasted on my tongue...

I shook my head rapidly. Not now, Kassandra, I thought to myself. I had to get a hold of myself. We had only spent one evening together, there's no reason to be this desperate with a woman you barely know. What an evening that had been, holding her so close to me. I felt my cheeks warm and flush red. She really had infected my being.

As I climbed upwards, I noticed her window had a slight glow behind the stained glass. A light must be on. With luck that just means she's awake. My fingers grasped the windowsill but I couldn't seem to convince my body to move further. What if she's with her fiancé? What if she becomes angered with me for coming here? I hadn't been invited; she has the justified right to feel so. My heart sank picturing her scold me for my arrival this late. She'll definitely be mad. As I went to retreat back to the woodlands, a voice in my head seemed to whisper: You don't know that. I stared at the ground, a long way away from me here. That was true, Evie could be angry with me, but it was just as probable as she could be glad, dare I say it overjoyed. But still...

I looked up at the stars, Ikaros' shadow gliding under them and swallowed my fear. There was only one way to know her feelings for certain. I pulled myself up, resting a knee on the ledge, leaning my face toward the glass and peering through.

My heart fluttered at the sight of Evie's bedroom. She had a large bed, much bigger than my own, adorned with burgundy silk sheets and satin pillows, both decorated by intricate golden vines. And the sparkling scarlet cloth draped over her bed, I was at a loss for words. A black fur rug stretched out from under her bedframe, leading my eyes to her desk. Despite having multiple bookcases with a few empty spots, she still had journals upon novels upon papers stacked surprisingly neatly on the desk, her chair pushed in and an ink well resting next to a lovely vase of stargazers. My heart almost leapt from my chest when I saw Ikaros' feather among the flowers, she must have noticed the tokens I slipped in her purse. My eyes darted about to find her, looking over an elegant partition with floral patterning engraved into the ebony wood, a daunting-sized tapestry of rough seas hanging behind it, and a wide wardrobe, presumably where her dresses are hung out of sight. My wandering gaze halted the moment I saw her, standing aside a lit fireplace.

Evie was rubbing a towel over her body; she must have just finished her bath. I gasped as she tossed the cloth over the partition. She was naked and although I had seen her like this before my heart still began beating faster and my face got hot like it was the first time. She moved to her wardrobe, taking a sheer silver gown out and sliding into it. From where she stood as she closed the wardrobe the fire's flickering light outlined her silhouette through the fabric. I felt lightheaded as she began brushing her hair, dazed from seeing her again. My chest ached. Oh, how I wanted to feel her against me again and have her scent on my skin once more. I leaned in closer to the window, my forehead against the glass now. I had to speak to her before I drove myself mad.

I took a deep breath and moved away from the opening so she wouldn't think I had been watching her. I knocked on the glass gently, waiting eagerly for her to open the window, my heart in my throat and my ears pounding. I saw a faint movement inside as Evie walked over to investigate the sound. She opened the window at first just to peek out, then her azure eyes got wide as her jaw dropped, swinging it open all the way now.

"Kassandra? Kassandra!" she gasped. "What—what are you doing here?"

I smiled at her, slightly worried my arrival scared her a bit. "I came to see you, my princess. Might I come in?"

She blinked for a moment, looking over her chamber. "Uh, um, yes! Yes! Of course! Come in!"

I thanked her then crawled through, taking my gloves off so not to dirty her hands as I took them in mine, lowering myself a little so I wouldn't intimidate her. "I apologize for my sudden appearance, milady Evie, but I simply could not get you out of my mind for the weeks we had been apart. I missed you dearly, despite my wishes not to mettle with your love life. I wish there to be no conflict between you and your true lover, I just must know one thing before I go."

"H-hold on, Kassandra, please, sit with me. I have some tea still in the pot, I can heat it for you while we talk," she said, pulling her hands away and rushing to lock her door.

I watched her take the kettle to the fireplace, her silhouette illuminating once again in the light. I shook my head. By the gods, I need to snap out of it.

I moved to her side, placing my left hand on her shoulder and with the right taking the kettle. "Please, dearest, allow me to heat the tea, you needn't fret to give me your hospitality."

Evie nodded, looking up at me. "Um, yes, if you're okay with doing it yourself."

She sat in her chair, braiding her hair back in a tight bun, loose strands framing her face. I couldn't shake the smile from my face as I poured the tea for her and I. My thoughts and heart were racing to quickly to control my expressions. We sipped in relative silence, low crackling from the flames being the only noise between us.

Evie set her cup down on her saucer. "Now then. You were saying, Kassandra?"

I placed my cup down as well. "Yes, uh, Evie. I must know if..." The words faded off my lips as she watched my eyes. I was freezing up, the fear of her answer holding my tongue.

"Yes?" she pressed on.

"I need to..." I was so tense. Why was this so difficult? I've faced loads of foes in battle and reigned victorious each time, why was I so frightened to speak to a kindhearted princess whom I had made love to before?

Evie touched my knee, her soft fingers caressing me. "Kassandra..."

I blinked away tears I felt swelling from her touch. "I... I must know if you feel it too," my voice cracked and I felt a tear slip out and cascade down my cheek. "If you think of me as much as I think of you. If you feel the tight ball in your throat when you do, like I do. If your fingertips ache when you catch a hint of my scent as you go about your life as I do whenever I smell rosemary. If you sometimes long for the day we met to happen again and again and again like me. If your dreams are clouded by my image as mine are of yours. My dearest Evie," I gave up controlling my eyes and began crying softly. "I must know if you yearn for my love as I yearn for yours."

Through blurred eyes I watched her face turn pink. I think I saw the corners of her mouth turn upwards, but I also think she had begun crying as well. Her hand moved from my knee to my cheek and wiped a tear.

I pressed my face closer to her palm, closing my eyes. "Evie, I'm sorry, I—"

I flicked my eyes open, shocked by the sudden pressure against my lips. She had kissed me, pulling me nearer as her other hand also rested on my cheek. She held my head in her grasp, her fingers entwining themselves in my hair. My body was frozen, eyes wide. I didn't understand how what was happening was happening. Evie pulled away then wrapped her arms around my neck in a tight embrace, sobbing into my shoulder.

I hesitantly hugged her back, unsure what her reply meant. "Evie...?"

"Kassandra, I'm sorry. I'm such a harlot, I love my fiancé but yes, I do think of you constantly, even when he's beside me. I don't know what to do about it," she cried, tugging on my shirt's collar. "I—I know he's understanding and I'm sure wouldn't be angry if he found out about us, but I'm afraid his heart would break and I can't bare that. Kassandra, please know that while I am also in love with you, I'm afraid of what will become of my marriage."

I caressed her heaving back, nuzzling my head against hers. "Shh, shh, dearest. I understand your worries, but if you truly believe your betrothed would be understanding, you must also be able to see that he may not mind as much as you think he would. He quite possibly misses you dearly when he's away and wants the best for you, and if what's best for you is what your heart wants, then follow it," I pulled her away to look her in the eyes. "You are not in the wrong, my sweet, for you see more than just your own emotions in this affair. You're quite considerate in putting the feelings of those you love afore yourself. And you are not a harlot, many rulers have come and gone with more than one lover at a time, even the queen from my kingdom has her own harem of women, whom all are treated fairly and justly by her and her subjects. What matters is not the question of your polyamory being disgraceful for no such question belongs. What matters is you show respect and equal love to your partners, and they return it to you."

Her eyelashes fluttered as I wiped her tears off her cheeks with my thumbs. Her breathing seemed to be calming down, her hand moving to hold my arm. "You... you think so, Kassandra?"

I smiled at her, standing with her and pulling her head to my chest. "I know so, my dearest Evie. You are a good woman; good things shall come to you when you speak your truth."

She sniffed quietly. "Thank you, Kassandra..."

"Anytime, my love."

We stood like that for a while, clutching each other like we had become one. Evie was strong for being so vulnerable with me. I'm sure from how she sobbed this isn't how she typically sorts out her problems, likely keeping to herself and bottling things up alone. I stroked the back of her neck. Poor girl.

When we parted, Evie laid her hands on my shoulders and giggled, her tear-streaked cheeks blushing. "Would you mind staying longer, my warrior? I don't want to be left alone quite yet."

I'm sure she saw my eyes brighten but I didn't care to show her I was delighted. "Of course not, Evie, I'll be with you as long as you need and out the window once you've had your fill of my company."

She tittered, leaning into my chest to hide her face. I felt her smile against me as I adjusted my arms to pick her up by her thighs. I carried her across the room with her chin resting on my shoulder, both of us laughing as I backed onto her bed. I tilted my head in front of hers and kissed her neck up her jaw to her lips where she eagerly kissed me back. We both were grinning messes when our lips parted, but it seemed the princess was just getting started. Evie pushed me by my shoulders down onto her bed, holding my wrists down. She was much stronger than her size would have me assume, though if I wanted to, I could shove her off. But why would I want to do that?

Evie pressed herself into me as we made out again. Her kisses caused my stomach to stir, I could hardly believe how lucky I was under her. She moved a hand from my wrist to stroke my hair, playing with my braid as my free hand slid up and down her back over her soft gown. Evie laid herself on top of me, straddling my waist still between her thighs as she rested her head beside mine, facing me. I turned to look at her, a goofy smile spread on both of our faces. Her freckles dotting her pale skin reminded me of the night sky's thousands of stars. She was a galaxy against me and I were just an astronomer studying her magnificence with wonder. Oh, how I loved her.

I moved my hand to stroke her cheek. "By the gods above, how I wish we could lay here forever, Evie."

She nodded, resting her fingers on my arm. "I feel the same, Kassandra."

I could tell she was thinking about something, the way her eyes weren't meeting mine and the way her smile turned sly. She pulled herself sitting up right again, both her hands on my shoulders. The candle light flickering on her skin and eyes made her expression intense as she stared down at me. I was on the verge of fainting when I heard a shy chuckle from her.

"You wouldn't mind 'working your magic' again, would you? I've missed you terribly and upon your arrival here I can hardly contain myself," she cooed, not meeting my eyes.

I grinned, then tilted her chin in my hand to face me. "Of course, I wouldn't, my dearest Evie."

She laughed a little as I pulled her by the waist over to straddle my jaw. I pushed her skirt up, feeling a soft shiver travel up my body upon the sight of her clit in the dim light. Immediately, I tugged her forward by her hips like she was the first meal I'd been offered in centuries. I heard the wood of the headboard creak as her hands gripped it to brace herself over me. I kissed her inner thigh then wasted no time moving to lick my way up her lips to her clit. Her posture tensed for a moment upon my contact and I did my best to stifle a chuckle. I'm glad her body remembers me.

My hands clutched her smooth rear as my tongue managed a comfortable pace for her. I heard her voice heightened when I touched the left side of her clitoris. She must be more sensitive on that side. I smiled against her lips and moved to focus on that side of her. Oh, was I ever a great guesser.

Evie moaned louder and her pussy twitched, her thighs shaking slightly. Damn, like this I could finish her off in a matter of seconds. I decided to tease her a bit, licking the right side and center then down the slit. She was already sopping wet, practically sucking my tongue inside her. She did say she missed me, I thought as I sucked her back. Her pelvis began thrusting ever so slightly, more of a quiver than anything else. I adjusted my right arm so I could insert my middle and index finger inside her to replace my tongue, flexing them upwards and stroking her skin. The feeling of the grooves inside a woman against your fingertips couldn't feel dreamier, how the heart beat felt pulsating, how you could tell how into your actions she was just based on how much she dripped onto your palm. How her thighs clench up when she's really feeling it, how her moans seemed to echo in your ears when you were below her. It's heaven.

I flicked my tongue back over her clitoris, returning to toying with her left side as she rode my fingers. I might get a sore wrist from this but hey, it's worth it. The only thing that matters at this instant is that Evie is satisfied, I can fix up a brace for a sprained wrist later. She purred when she moaned, obviously biting her lip to keep from alerting any patrolling guards to her late-night rendezvous. Evie began to quiver more in my mouth and one of her hands wrenched my face against her as she grasped my hair. I spread my tongue fully against her, slipping my fingers out of her when I felt her tighten around them while she gasped. I licked her while her legs were shaking, savoring the taste of her on my tongue. Evie finally released my head and scooted over my chest, panting lightly with a gentle smile.

I tucked my moist fingers in my mouth and winked at her as I pulled them out. "So, how was that little trick?"

She giggled, swinging her leg over my torso to lay beside me. "Splendid, Kassandra."

I nuzzled her under my chin, flipping onto my side to hold her close, laying a quick peck on her forehead.

---

I haven't the slightest idea when I dozed off with her, I just remember one moment listening to her breathing then the next hearing Ikaros chirping outside Evie's window at me. I glared at the bird. Would he ever let me have some privacy? After Evie woke up, the two of us decided to write her suitor a letter explaining the situation at hand. A pigeon took the message off and Evie told me in one week's time to return. If he understood and was accepting of her truth, she'd leave the window open so I could just crawl through this time.

And sure enough, the next week, as I climbed to the windowsill, instead of being greeted by a stained-glass barrier, I had her lips planted against mine. At last, I knew her answer for certain. She did feel the same love for me as I did for her.

#i write #evandra #acs #acod #kassandra #evie #assassins creed barely #yes her fiance is henry #yes the queen of kass's kingdom is xenia #yes i yearn too #its 10:36pm #this one's title is Hiraeth

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hollyleafdeservedbetter · 5 years ago

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Swiss Clans Deities: War, Strength, & Justice

The clans of Switzerland have several deities who are prayed to and given tribute. You can recognize the deities from size alone, as they are the three times the size of the average cat. But each one has their own unique appearance and personality. Below is a more in-depth look at one of them.

Battle Ender: The Goddess of War, Strength, & Justice

A molly who claws are permanently unsheathed, ready for a fight. She is the strength of all cats in battle.

She takes the form of a huge shaggy tortoiseshell and white cat, with fangs that go just past her chin, much like a saber-toothed tiger. Her tail is a mere stump.

Known for her quick temper and sharp tongue, she has little patience for beating around the bush, preferring to get to the point. She has a brutal honesty, and sees no reason to sugar coat things.

She does however, also have a playful teasing side, though she is more likely to share this part of her with her children rather than anyone else.

Battle Ender joins the side of a battle that she most agrees with, some see this as unfair, saying that she should remain neutral, giving her strength to all those who fight.

To these cats she would shred their ears and give them a tongue lashing before reminding them that she is not just the goddess of war and strength but of JUSTICE, and what goddess of such would lend her strength to a cause she does not believe in?

She is the mother of Life Giver and Death Bringer, and the eventual mate of Prey Finder.

To find out more about Swiss Clans, click here!

A Story involving the goddess has been written under the read more

The sun sunk slowly over the horizon, hanging almost as low as the shoulders of the warriors that were slowly making their way back to camp.

At the front of them was their leader, Troutstar, a defeated yet angry expression on his face. He took a brief moment to request Newttail meet with him once he was done looking over everyone for injuries, before slinking off to his den.

When Newttail joined his leader shortly after, he was met with a scowl. Troutstar’s tail twitched irritably as he tried to keep his voice calm

“Well?” he asked.

“No major injuries” He replied, “other than to Otterpelt’s ears, but she’ll be fine. You retreated before things could get bad, so most of our warriors have only a few scratches”

Troutstar stood up and began to pace around the den “I don’t understand, Snowclan is acting unjustly, fighting unfairly, we’re doing the right thing by defending our borders.”

Newttail nodded silently, waiting for him to continue.

“So why isn’t she with us!?” he hissed, the hackles oh his spotted pelt raised and teeth bared as if facing an imaginary foe.

“She?” the medicine cat inquired

“Battle Ender!” he cried, losing his patience “She’s supposed to fight with side she feels in the most just, correct?” he paused in his pacing to glance at Newttail, waiting for conformation. The medicine cat nodded and Troutstar continued,

“Well what in the name of the Gods is more just than a clan defending itself from another clan that clearly lot all sense of reason and honor!” Newttail flinched, he had never seen his leader, his friend, so angry.

“Perhaps she is with us, and its just not enough to-”he began but was quickly cut off

“I know what it’s like to fight with her by your side, I’ve felt it before, when...when Silverstar lost her last life...” he stopped pacing and sat down, dejected. Newttail padded over to him, placing a paw on the other cat’s shoulder. He knew how much Silverstar’s death had affected his friend, having to lose not only his leader but his mother to battle.

“She died protecting her clan Troutstar, any warrior would be honored by such a death” Newttail mewed, trying to soothe the leader’s agitation.

“I know but...but maybe if I had-” he sighed before shaking his head “regardless, when I was effectively leader in that moment, I...I felt her Newttail, the strength, the...energy, like I could take on a thousand cats so long as I was doing it for the right thing” he chest swelled up with pride before he slumped again.

“I haven’t felt her with us since that moment” Troutstar was no longer seemed angry, just defeated. “Perhaps my mother was wrong to make me her deputy” he murmured.

“Don’t say that old friend, you are tired and frustrated, but you are still a great warrior” Newttail rubbed his head against his leaders “get some rest, tomorrow we shall discuss visiting the Moonfall. Perhaps starclan has the answers we seek, goodnight Troutstar”

“Maybe you’re right, goodnight Newttail” he called as the medicine cat left his den.

-----

Troutstar awoke to the feeling of wind on his cheek, he sat up to find himself not only outside his den, but outside of camp all together. He stood up and frantically began looking around him, trying to place where he was.

“Feeling a little scared there, Troutfur?” a voice called, he spun around to find himself face to chest with a huge tortoiseshell behind him. Her fangs were as big as bear claws and she laughed when Troutstar fell over himself trying to back up from this enormous cat.

“You mortals are such scaredy mice, it be adorable if it weren’t so infuriating” she snorted. “Makes it so annoying to try and give you bee brains prophecies when you’re too busy looking like you’re going to make dirt where you stand”

Mortals? Prophecies? The leader’s eye’s widened with realization.

“Ah, finally getting it are we?” The goddess asked “Yes, yes, I am the all mighty and powerful Battle Ender in the flesh” she laid down on the grass with a ‘whomp’ “Well, not exactly, buuut you get my point. This is a dream by the way, in case you haven’t figured that out all by yourself Troutfur”

Troutstar’s awe was replaced with anger “Where have you been? Is Snowclan really in the right to be attacking us this way? Are they really the most just side in this fight?” he snapped

“Oh no, not at all, what they’re doing is terrible, really wish you’d put a stop to their little power hungry land grabbing Troutfur” Battle Ender said casually, inspecting her claws.

Troutstar was seething, grinding his teeth as he dug his claws into the ground “What do you think we’ve been trying to do!?” he hissed

“See how fast you can retreat?” She asked, grinning as she saw the other cat’s fur stand on end “Listen Troutfur-”

“Stop calling my that! I’m a leader and-”

“Then maybe you should act like one!” in one swift movement Battle Ender had him on his back, pinned down with one massive paw on his chest. Fear replaced the anger on his face as she opened her jaws

“Oh, grow up you worthless scrap of a kit, what do you think i’m going to do? Bite your head off?” she hissed “How can you expect me to join you in battle if you never actually fight!?”

“We have gone to battle with Snowclan multiple times-” Troutstar cried, struggling to argue from his position.

“And yet at the first sign of blood you turn tail and flee!” The goddess countered “You were such a great warrior before, I saw you take countless blows and yet you continued to fight even with blood streaming into your eyes! You were almost reckless! Always the first into battle and the last to leave! You’d take on cats twice your size and send them crying to their mothers!” she pushed her paw down harder onto his chest, her claws threatening to pierce through

“What happened to you? When did you become such a coward? What are you afraid of?”

“I, I dont...I just-” he stuttered, having trouble getting the words out while struggling to get air into his lungs

“Answer me!” she yowled, pressing harder

“Because I don’t want to lose anyone else!” he screamed, flipping over and gasping for air as Battle Ender removed her paw. Her expression softened

“Of course, your mother.” she sighed “Troutfur, I understand you are still grieving, and that you will never truly get over her death, but that is the life of a warrior-”

“but does it have to be?” The leader asked, his eyes pleading

“You and I both already know the answer” she touched her tail to his shoulder “I know you’re scared, but it’s time to stop being so mouse hearted and start being a leader. Your clanmates trust you. It’s only fair that you trust them”

“But how can they trust me if they killed?” he asked, looking at his paws

“They took an oath when they became warriors, same as you, to defend their clan even at the cost of their life” Battle Ender mewed “they know the risks. Are you really going to let them lose their home, your home, because you don’t believe they can handle themselves in battle?”

Troutstar was silent for a moment before he met the goddess’ gaze “No, Battle Ender, I’m not” he stood up “I’m done moping around like lost kit. It’s time to be a leader”

“It’s about time” she chuckled and looked to the horizon, where the first signs of morning approached “First light approaches Troutfur, what are you going to do?” she asked, turning back to him

He stared at her with determination burning in his eyes “I’m going to gather my warriors and we’re going to take back our territory”

“And will you turn back the moment someone gets hurt?” she mewed, he shook his head

“No. We’ll stay and fight, like warriors” he mewed back. Battle Ender smiled at him

“Then you can count on my strength to guide you, Troutstar.”

#swiss clans #battle ender #dieties #warrior cats #wc #erin hunter

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umbralich · 5 years ago

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One long evening

It was about closing time in the Second Circle. Even the worst drinkers had left about half an hour ago. A few people had accidentally left their property behind. Asagi picked the belongings up and hid them under the counter, so that their owners could ask after them later. She was cleaning tables, and getting ready to lock the door. Just another similar day among many. Next she would go home, do some quick paperwork and then take a long bath. Despite liking her work, at this time of day she was always really waiting for the bath part. She was just about to finish, when suddenly a tall man with messy black hair stepped in, carrying a long, curved blade on his hips. His appearance was shabby, like he'd been having a long drinking-bout recently. His shirt was ripped, worn out jodhpurs had miscellaneous looking stains all over them and his boots were beyond saving for even the most skilled shoemaker. His jacket was perhaps the best looking of his garments and even that looked more like rag. Asagi recognized the man. He had been one of her "contacts" some months ago, but the man had turned out to be quite a heavy drinker, and had messed up contracts, almost blowing his cover on the side. Asagi had ended the business with the flammable subject.

"...We are closing, so make it quick. What can I get for you?" she asked politely. Without warning, the man jumped over the table between them. Before she even properly realized what was happening, he had taken her with him onto the floor. The man partly pressed himself against her so that she couldn't get away, while he started to pull out his sword. However, taking such a lengthy blade from scabbard gave enough time for Asagi to reach for her short knife she used to carry within her skirts. In panic, Asagi attempted to stab the man on his neck, but missed. The blade hit the man on his collarbone and ricocheted onto his shoulder. Asagi twisted the blade in wound, making the man howl in agony. Still, he didn't get off her. He seemed very determined to end her here and now. Forgetting his sword for a moment, the furious man hit Asagi with his fist. The first hit was the worst. It broke her nose and made her see black and white dapples. The man took a better position and continued pummeling her with both fists. "You filthy, lying whore! You've ruined my life! You've taken everything I care about from me!" he screamed while crying. Asagi didn't hear everything he said. She tried to protect her head with her hands, but the man fought like possessed. Her head kept pounding the floor at the same time while the man's fists hammered her from above. "- special place for the likes of you in the deepest shiteholes of hells! You took my job! My wife left me and took our kids with her! It's all your fault, scabby viera bitch!" During the moments Asagi didn't fear of losing consciousness, casting spells crossed her mind. She could burn him into cinders easily. But there was always the possibility she would lose control again. That would be the end of her. And not only her. Putting her down would be a task handed over to mages, and in the worst case Silke would be among them. Right now there was two ways she could go, and despite the messiness an angry drunk would, in the end, be the less painful option. Vaguely she realized the door was opened, and someone stepped in. The brute stopped for a moment and turned to look behind him. Asagi couldn't see much anything at first. She tried to wipe some blood away from her eyes at least to see was the comer friend or foe. She cursed in her mind after noticing it was a male au ra, over two meters tall, with long, silvery gray hair.

***

Varg marched promptly through dark alleys and streets. He was furious. It wasn't like him to forget things, yet it had happened. There had been a sudden backlog of emergencies at Ishgard's public hospital and he had been summoned to help. Varg had spent there the whole day healing folks and mixing potions. Only moments ago, after he had slammed his home door shut behind him and tried to find the papers from the locked drawer of his desk, he had noticed a couple of his documents, which authorities would've without a doubt deemed suspicious or questionable, were missing. Also, a vial of his elixir experiment was missing, which too, he was certain, authorities would be interested in if they learned of its existence. He hadn't taken them with him on purpose, so he suspected he had forgotten them into his briefcase, which he had left into the hospital, where he was supposed to return next morning. The emergency had been sudden, like they always were. He had just grabbed some necessary instruments he had thought he'd need and tossed them into his briefcase, without even looking inside. He cursed himself into the depths of hells. Was this how it felt like to grow old? This was unacceptable, preposterous, completely and utterly - Noises of a sudden ruckus from somewhere nearby caught his attention. He almost guessed where it was coming from, and instead of continuing his way, he turned into another street and headed towards the alley where The Second Circle was located. First he would see his chances around the night club, and if there was nothing to gain, he'd hurry back to the hospital instead. Varg didn't get his hopes up too much. He had tried to collect some evidence against the Circle's mistress and her illegal business for years, but the viera woman had been slippery like an eel. From her loyal customers he hadn't managed to squeeze out any information, but the discontent ones... oh yes, they'd be just perfect. He didn't have his armor or weapons with him, only a dagger for self-defense, but he was certain he'd be recognized even without his signs of authority. ***

Asagi had usually seen him only in heavy armor, not in this medic garb of his: white blouse with black vest and slacks, high heeled leather boots and silver monocle. He was also carrying white, long coat on his arm. Asagi had hoped the au ra would have sense to leave the door open and get help, but to her horror Varg stepped in and closed the door behind him. "What is going on here?" he asked calmly, his gaze moving from the man to Asagi. "Something I should know about?" He didn't even lift a finger to pull the man off her. "NO! I'm not going to jail!" the man shouted, suddenly got up, completely ignoring Asagi and rushed towards the knight. This seemed to surprise him at least partly, and he had his dagger quickly ready. Asagi couldn't help but to feel a fleeting hue of schadenfreude, while she wobbled on to her feet and backed off towards the back door. No matter how skilled swordsman he was, he wouldn't have a chance against katana with such a toothpick. Perhaps this wasn't misfortune after all, but a wonderful stroke of luck? Blacksoul would be a perfect bait for the man, and Asagi could flee and alert the guards. Though she wouldn't hurry too much, but let the brute get rid of one of the biggest threats to her in Ishgard. Varg raised his dagger-free hand and there was sudden, blinding flash of light. Asagi wasn't sure did the spell do anything else. It didn't slow down the man, but at least his first attempt was a miss. Varg crouched, dodged the katana and thrust his dagger into the man's thigh. The brute howled in pain. "Would you stop fooling around?" Asagi yelled at the knight. "Just kill him!" "I need him alive!" Varg shouted, when the man attacked again. I wonder why, Asagi thought to herself and rolled her eyes. Varg barely dodged this time and stumbled. He tried to keep his distance and cast another spell. Asagi didn't have much clue about conjurers’ spells, but this one looked like bright, gleaming shooting stars. The spell hit the man and apparently did some damage, since he screamed again and stumbled in the middle of his attack, crashing to the floor only a couple of inches away from Varg. However, the knight didn't have his staff with him. Mage's spells were significantly weaker without their enchanted weapons. The desperate man suddenly managed to collect remains of his strength, rose onto his knee and slashed. Varg had just turned around and been about to get on his feet. It all happened so fast Asagi couldn't have warned him, even if she had tried. The blade sank deep into his left calf, and it was the au ra's turn to shriek. Varg had been very careful until that point, trying to keep the man alive for capturing, but the situation changed in an instant. He turned around, not giving a damn about the blood gushing onto the floor under him, lifted his trembling hands in the air and yelled something. Another blinding light, even more so than the previous one, filled the night club. Shock wave fluttered Asagi’s hair and clothes as it hit the man, who didn't emit a sound this time. After the light dispersed, his huge corpse stood there for a moment, before it fell with a loud crash. It hadn't been a full scale holy, but without a doubt the most powerful one mage could cast without a staff. Another crash, and Varg fell onto the floor opposite the brute. Asagi quickly strode closer just right to see, how the majestic inquisitor of Ishgard, who now had turned chalky, tried to heal his poor leg with a shaky hand he could barely held above the leg, but the spell just wouldn't come. "You know, if you had just killed him immediately, this wouldn't have happened", Asagi scoffed. "To hells with you", Varg gasped, glaring at her with blurry eyes while she came closer. Then he went limp. At first Asagi felt triumphant. Then to her horror she realized she couldn't just let this happen. Silke's best friend cared deeply for this demon for some reason. Silke and Lareine both knew Asagi and Varg hated each other. She'd be the one held responsible for Blacksoul's death, if it were to happen here. She was anything but certain about her decision, but it had to be done. She had a first aid kid under the bar counter. She fetched it, took the nearest chair, lift the leg on it, poured some booze on it and wrapped it up as tightly as she could. Despite knowing some basics of sewing wounds, this was far beyond her skills. She dashed out and ran towards the hospital. He'd need a healer if he wanted to walk again. There had been something wrong with the leg to begin with. It was divided by an asymmetrical scar, like it would've been ripped partly loose and then tacked back together. There had also been parts that were slightly different color than the rest of the skin. Like they had been close to necrosis, had been barely spared, but still hadn’t regained their normal circulation of blood. Asagi could only imagine the surprise of the staff. Since the Dragonsong War Ishgard had been quite a peaceful place. It had been a good while since someone had run into the hospital and awakened people up by yelling "Medic! I need a medic!" *** "No one knows", Asagi asserted, amused, while offering hot coffee by pushing the cup along the small, round, wooden table towards the suspicious au ra. "I only fetched one healer, and when they insisted you to be taken to the hospital, I managed to persuade them to leave you here and shut up about everything they had seen by shoving some gil into their hands. You'd probably be surprised how far people are willing to go for some coin and skilled sweet talk." Varg sat in an armchair by the fireplace, eyeing the cup with narrowed eyes without touching it. The only thing he touched was the cane the medic had fetched after he was no longer in danger. "Why, pray tell me, would I poison your coffee right after saving your arse?" Asagi asked. She also pondered perhaps Varg imagined he was currently squeezing her throat instead of his cane. Despite everything, this was probably the closest one ever they had been to a normal conversation. Asagi had a hunch she shouldn't just throw it away. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, I hate to admit it, but you also saved me tonight. We are even", she forced herself to say. "Nothing personal against you anyway. All of us just can't settle in on the right side of the law. There isn't room for everyone, not in the current world, and I think you know it as well." She wasn't usually that talkative, especially not with people she didn't get along with, but some primal instinct kept telling her she should speak as much as she could now that she had this rare chance. "And I couldn't care less about the rumors about you", she continued. "They're not my business and I'm not planning to make them my business. Speaking of businesses, I also couldn't care less about your interrogation methods. My only problem with them is however, when you use them on my customers and ask them questions about me and my business. Like, could you stop? Would remove a whole lot of tension between us, I'm sure." Varg finally took the cup, gulped it down with one go and grimaced. Asagi was about to suggest he should've waited until it cools down, but she didn't even get her mouth open, when Varg all of a sudden forced himself to stand. He grimaced again, leaning onto his cane. "Leaving already?" Asagi asked in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how much blood you lost? There are a couple of rooms here -" "I will manage", Varg whispered. "If I am not at home when Arsene wakes up, he will go looking for me. I did not tell him I left, so he will treat my sudden disappearance as an emergency. Precautions usually needed, but not now..." Slowly but stubbornly he limped towards the door. "A ha", Asagi noted, trying to hide her amusement as well as she could. "And you appearing in the middle of the night all bloody won't result in any questions?" "Nothing new to him", Varg stated. Asagi still had one more question, but the au ra had already opened the door and scuffed outside. She couldn't follow him. Walls always had curious eyes and ears around these parts of the Foundation.

She also had another problem: how to get rid of the body? It was huge. Normally one would go and get the guards, but they'd demand a full report of what had happened and why, as always. Asagi had some friends with benefits, who were professionals in cleaning such messes, but if Varg told in the congregation there was a body in the Second Circle, and they came to pick it up, it would naturally be nowhere to be found. She'd be in the trouble of her life. Still, if she was fast, he wouldn't have any other evidence than his word, Asagi thought. Let them come. She certainly wouldn't watch - and smell - a damn body on her floor any more than it was necessary. She tossed her long, black leather jacket on her shoulder, locked the doors and disappeared into the night.

Though to her surprise, the guards didn't come. Not in the next morning, or the one after that.

They never came.

#final fantasy xiv #au ra #viera #asagi #stories

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hellxdoctor · 6 years ago

Text

OS - He’s your nightmare

Hey ! So, this is the first time I post something I wrote about HellDoctor... I hoped you’ll like it. For information, I blend comics/MCU/Series about John and Stephen so If you don’t have the references, that may be normal. I just had an idea after an episode of Legends of Tomorrow, and I did it my way. I also translated it from French - because I’m French - so sorry in advance for any errors. Hope you’ll like it !

It must have been a month since Stephen hasn't gone out. He couldn't rally tell actually, he didn't count. It has just been a while. He was the Sorcerer Supreme, yes he had duties, things to handle, yet… He has just stayed locked up in his room, or on the second floor for at least a month. But sometimes, just not to bother and escape Wong, he took the passage of the windows, to be alone.

The Doctor just wanted to be alone. Once again. And today, he was lonely as well, in a forest but he had no idea where precisely. Few meters behind him, a window was opened, leading right back to the Sanctum. He had been sitting here for hours, his gaze fixed at some point. He often did that. Maybe too often. What had happened so that the great Stephen Strange stayed like this, forgetting his duties, and even his needs ? Well, something happened a month ago. And this had been too much. He couldn't even meditate. His mind wasn't focused at all. Even with the cures Wong had been giving him, he just couldn't do it. He bearly sleept either. Even if he was immune to Nightmare's power, at some point, he saw horrible images in his mind, endlessly, when he was trying to sleep. So he was bearly sleeping, and stayed occupied just not to see thoses images. But he had to go back.. Wong would surely wonder where he was at some point. The forest was calm, there was a peaceful atmosphere. There was nothing except a windbreak, that made the leaves move, only the sound of nature could be heard…

Stephen got up hardly, then he headed himself to the Sanctum's window. Nothing would made him forget. Nothing. Maybe he was doomed to stay like this… Maybe he was just doomed. He got back, closing the window behind him and then changed the view of the windows with the mecanism next to them. The forest became a mountain.

He had in mind to go back and lie down, but first he wanted to go in the little library to took some grimoire. If he was lucky, he might read it until he falls asleep… Or he would stay awake. When he entered the room, he noticed his collegue wasn't there. At least, that was good point, he wouldn't have to listen to whatever he had to say, of feel that judgment in his eyes, telling him to pull himself together. Stephen just couldn't do it. Then, he walked in front of a mirror as he was heading to a shelf but… He stopped. Had he just dreamt or he had really seen a figure in the mirror, that wasn't him ? As he hesitated, he got back in front of the mirror, and he froze. Indeed, he wasn't seeing his reflection. This person, he thought he would never see her again, and seeing her in this mirror broke his heart. The object wasn't an artefact though… So why was Stephen Strange looking at John Constantine's reflection in the mirror ? " John ? " He gently said, getting closer from the mirror. He couldn' have mistaken, it really was his lover in front of him. But he couldn't be there. Stephen knew it couldn't be possible… Whatever this was his soul or his spirit. The one who was in the mirror looked exactly as the brit, excep he wasn't wearing his famous trench-coat. The man had his hands in his pockets and look at the Sorcerer Supreme for a moment before he smiled.

" Ha.…You really believed it didn't you ? I knew you'd love to see him again.." The look Stephen had showed immediatly that he was lost. He should have known, this wasn't the one he had loved. And yet, he only had one question in mind. " Who--" " Take a guess Sorcerer Supreme." He didn't take long to guess actually. Yes, he had many ennemies… But few knew who had been John Constantine for him, and less knew what had happened to him. Stephen took bearly a second to deduce, and as he was sure he took a serious tone to answer.

" Nightmare.…"

This seemed to be the good answer because the blond man started to laugh, and that wasn't one laugh Stephen knew. This one was evil, mocking, cold. The reflection kept a smirk on his face. " Not bad this form is it ? I knew I could reach you like this…" " If you want to speak to me, do it with your real form." " But this is kind of my real form don't you agree ? I'm a real nightmare like this…" The Doctor blew slowly, as he stared his opponant in his eyes. " John's not my nightmare." " Isn't he ? I was practically sure I hit a nerve by the reaction you had…" He made a fake sad face, as Stephen was tightening his fists, no matter how painful it was. This couldn't be compared to that pain, to see one of his terrible foes, looking like his missing lover… Nightmare was, indeed, called that way for a reason. The Sorcerer Supreme at least wanted to look as if everything was normal.

" Get back where you come from." " Or what, Stephen ?"" Otherwise I send you to Hell, right where you belong." " Oh.…If you do, do you want me to say hello to your dear John ? "

Strange's fists tightened even more as Nightmare laughed again. And Stephen was doing everything he could to not show that this little trick was making him suffer really hard. His enemy knew. He knew exactly what had happened and he came to laughed at the sorcerer, with John's appearance.

" Oh my.��That must be the first time that I see you showing your emotions. Has the fact that you sent Constantine to Hell changed you ?" " Stop this." " Why ? Because it hurts you ? You know, I had to make an alliance with Nergal and I have to say : he'll take good care of him. Well, he'll take care in his way, I mean, by the time he wanted this… But as I'm seeing how much you care about him…" " Shut up." " .… I told myself that after a month I could visit you to celebrate this half-victory. If you're lucky you could…" " I said shut up !" Actually, Nightmare did stopped talking. But he didn't because Stephen had gaven him the order no. He stopped because he saw the sorcerer's sorrow. The latter had shiny eyes, he was angry… And Nightmare knew he was blaming himself. Guilt was a nightmare he knew very well. And now, he could use it against his worst foe, to torture his mind.

" I was right… John is your nightmare. You sent him to Hell to save the world, and you have to live with it. Considering all his sins, it must be some incredible party down there… And soon, it'll be your turn Stephen Strange."

The sorcerer looked away. It was the first time he acted like this. But it also was the first time since what had occured a month ago, that he was reminded what he had done, furthermore by an enemy.Yes, in order to protect the Earth, Stephen had to send John to Hell. The one he loved. Oh, he knew long before that the exorcist was doomed to it. The sorcerer had just shorten his time on earth, by throwing him through that portal. He didn't have the choice. The world had depended on it. The worst thing was, he hadn't told anything to John at that moment.

Stephen Strange, the only living being who had truly loved John, and who had been loved in return by the latter, had succeeded in what nobody had until now : He had sent John Constantine to Hell, where he was expected. And it has been eating him alive for a month.

" Don't make that face my old enemy. Even if your soul is not complete, you might join him… To see him being tortured because of you. I'll take care of you too. By the meantime… I thought about staying with that appearance. What do you think ?"

" I forbid you to-"

" There nothing you can do." " I swear that-" " You can't do anything against me right now. And I'll manage to come back in your dream, to make you live this moment again. The one where you doomed John, willingly, because you had prepared it all. I'll make you live you worst nightmare, over, and over…"

Thoses words were too much for Stephen, who didn't want to hear more. His fist almost immediatly crushed the miror, breaking it. John's reflection disapeared, but he heard this crooked laughed once again.

" Enjoy your life Sorcerer Supreme… And, weither you sleep or not… Sweet nightmares !" The Doctor pulled his fist away from the miror. His fist had some pieces of the miror inside his skin, making him bleed. He moaned in pain, as he squeezed his jaw. He fell on his knees, tired, as he looked up at the miror to check if John's reflection was really gone. He was alone, once again now. Alone with his sorrow, with his pain, both mental and physical. He lowered his head as he heard again Nightmare's words in his head, and the flashed of the events that occured a month ago come back again. Thoses words were more painful than ever, because he had heard them with the voice of his lover…

He didn't moved, he stayed on the ground, his hand shooked even more than usual. He hasn't been over this for a month. And he'll never get over it. He had lived things, trials… Losses and tragedies… And until now, he had always stood up again. Even if in general he handled this kind of things, or he provoked them. This time was different. He had doomed the one he cared about the most, willingly. Even if, yes, he didn't have the choice, he had done it. And he couldn't even have said good bye to the brit.

Many demons had waited John Constantine's soul. And thanks to his lover, he had joined Hell before it was his time. Now, many demons were waiting for the incomplete and darken soul of Stephen Strange.

#helldoctor #john constantine #hellblazer #legends of tomorrow #fanfic #doctor strange #dc comics #marvel #stephen strange #Constantine #John Constantine x Doctor Strange #Strange x Constantine #Stephen Strange x John Constantine

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whisker-biscuit · 6 years ago

Text

Stay With Me Awhile

Fandom: Bendy and the Ink Machine

Rating: T for language, violence, and implied body horror

Summary: Henry is caught in a never-ending loop of running through the studio and running from an ink demon who might be in a similar position. He would probably feel bad for him, if he wasn’t trying to stay sane.

It’s about the 4th time around that Henry feels real sympathy for his nemesis.

Maybe he would have – should have felt it sooner, but the man has been a little preoccupied the first time with the fact that a furious amalgamation of his beloved creation is actively trying to kill him. And then the next few times he’s too busy trying not to freak out about being stuck on a loop in this nightmare of a studio.

A never-ending, never-changing studio.

So Henry doesn’t pay much attention to his largest foe, beyond the usual run-like-hell-and-hope-you-don’t-get-caught kind of attention, until maybe the fourth or fifth go. Because that’s when he notices the chains.

They’re broken near their base at Bendy’s throne; large rusted loops that hang grievously like a twisted rendition of plastic children’s toys. Henry dares to look closer at them, sees the dried ink coating their ends, and feels sick. It’s the kind of sick he first felt upon seeing Sammy in the music department, or stumbling across that entire room full of silent, haunted ink people.

Was Bendy wearing cuffs? He wonders. Did I see them and not care enough? But no matter how much the man wracks his brain, he can’t remember gleaming metal or jingling iron.

The answer comes soon enough. The glove and mismatched hands hid the evidence a little too well, but when the ink demon stands over him and transforms once again, those mangled holes in his palms aren’t spaced out like character design.

Henry stops feeling sick when Bendy kills him seven times in the next room.

It’s about the 12th time around that Henry makes a tangible mistake.

He’s barely survived Sammy’s second, crazed attack, and the onslaught of distorted inky lives who may have wanted help, once upon a time, but who now can only reach out with the intent to harm.

Tom and Alice are at his side, despite the rocky start to their repeated first meeting. They never remember anything, as far as Henry’s aware, but Alice is always willing to trust his judgement fairly quickly and Tom never objects much at all.

Until the unexpected happens.

Alice asks Henry to go first along the broken floorboards. Henry doesn’t want to for good reason – he’s sick of falling down entire flights. Usually it doesn’t matter what the man doesn’t want, because he’ll do it anyway, repeat the sequence and loop again. Nothing changes.

But this time, Henry is tired enough to put his foot down.

“I’d rather one of you go first,” he mumbles, still sore from a Searcher’s heavy blow to his back. Alice has the decency to look surprised.

“Why do you want to do that?” she asks while sheathing her sword. Tom watches without comment. His axe is gripped tightly in hand.

“I’m not as young as I used to be.” It’s meant as a joke, but something a little too genuine leaks through because the toons look at each other in hesitance. Henry can’t help but straighten; this is something new.

“I don’t know…” Alice looks between Henry, Tom, and the poorly-lit hallway. “This is uncharted territory for us. We can’t risk getting caught by the ink, or its monsters. You’re a lot more resilient than us, Henry.”

“I’m well aware,” he almost snaps. Almost. “But you do have a sword, and an axe. And you’ve obviously been fine for a while.”

Henry doesn’t know why he’s arguing. He’s tried it before, briefly, to no avail. But this time he’s absolutely floored as Alice seems to reach a decision that’s not ‘don’t be silly, Henry’.

“Alright,” she says, flicking hair out of her face. “I’ll go first then. You guys can stay behind me.”

Tom looks vaguely alarmed by this change of script. He reaches out as if to put a hand on Alice’s shoulder, but stops short of touching her. She doesn’t notice, already plowing ahead into the hallway.

There’s a bit of hope flickering in the back of Henry’s mind as he follows the toon. Maybe Alice won’t break the board, because she’s less heavy. Maybe she can reach the end of the hall and throw him a rope, and then he won’t have to fall again, won’t have to repeat everything again, he’ll finally be –

A board snaps. Alice falls.

“Henry!” She screams up at him, in the exact tone as when their roles were switched. There’s a distant splash and an echoing thunk of something solid far below.

Tom is already pushing Henry aside to stare into the empty abyss, unable to call down for his partner. Henry opens his mouth, to reassure him or maybe say what the toon cannot, but then a horrible thought comes up.

I fell into a pool of ink.

It’s enough to send the man scrambling. He clamps one hand onto Tom’s arm and turns him around; the wolf is so startled by the movement that he almost lashes out on reflex. Then he scowls and points accusingly at Henry.

“I know, I know, it’s my fault, but we need to get down there now! Do you have a rope or, or something?”

He’s stuttering, nearly incoherent for the first time in a long time because this is brand new, exciting in that way like at the top of a roller coaster ready to plummet. Terrifying and horrible and free.

Tom fumbles at a compartment in his robotic arm, pulling out a length of rope that is maybe long enough to make it all the way to the bottom. He ties it to the doorframe and lets it drop, then without reluctance pushes Henry closer to the edge.

It’s not a request. Henry takes the rope.

Inching down the line is slow and torturous. There’s nothing to protect his hands from rope burn and, even for his decent physical shape, the descent works muscles in ways they’ve never been used to. Tom is also pacing impatiently at the top, shaking the floorboards just enough that the rope wiggles precariously. But he’s making good progress, and he’s quietly proud of that.

Henry makes it about halfway down when Alice starts screaming.

The sound makes him jerk sideways and almost let go entirely. Tom must have heard it too, because then the rope creaks in a way it’s not supposed to as the toon clambers on and adds his own weight. They both slide down as fast as they dare.

When Henry sees the inky pool below him, he releases his hands and feet and falls the rest of the way. Hard on his knees, sure, but that doesn’t matter.

Alice isn’t screaming anymore.

Tom is still climbing down though, and he can’t land in the ink, so Henry grabs the end of the rope and carries it with him to the wooden steps on his right. It’s here that he can see how Alice might have survived the fall; her sword is stuck in the ground, its hilt easily clearing the dark basin. She probably landed on it like that.

He only takes a few seconds to appreciate this because Tom has finally gotten close enough that he can jump to Henry’s position, which he does easily. They rush out of the room together.

By the time they finally reach the far end of the lobby, it’s too late.

Henry knows the ink demon likes to spawn nearby when he picks up the first pipe. He still hasn’t physically seen him yet, so he’s been thinking it wasn’t actually dangerous.

He thinks this right up until they find Alice.

She’s been torn apart – there’s no other way to describe it. The mass puddle of ink left all around her tells them that she didn’t have the luxury of bleeding out quickly, either. Whatever happened here, it was done very painfully.

Tom collapses beside Alice with a clank of his prosthetic, unable to make another sound. He quivers just a little bit as he picks up the biggest part left, the one still connected to her head, and cradles it close. The quivering stops only because Tom closes his eyes.

Henry looks away, and it’s then that he sees the trail of ink leading from her body to a wall four feet away. His brain stalls as he stares at what Bendy has left behind. Something ugly twists in his gut.

This wasn’t just a one-track urge to attack whatever moved, a mindless call for violence. There was nothing mindless about it.

The wall is dripping ink words, fresh and angry and jagged.

BETWEEN US

It’s the 13th time around, and Henry knows this for a fact because Tom killed him that last round and he wakes up in front of the exit door instead of a Bendy statue.

He stands there for a good thirty seconds, dazed and swaying on his feet, before promptly trying to escape again. It’s futile as always – the damn thing won’t budge no matter how much he works the lock or pounds at the door. He screams and threatens and begs for Joey Drew because he knows that man has got to be listening, has to know what’s going on, but nothing comes of it.

Not even the stupid whistling.

Eventually Henry gives up – as he usually does – and then starts the whole spiral over again – as he always does. He thinks that maybe that last run was just a glitch in the system, maybe a 1-in-a-million chance that he happened to catch, and that it’s gone now.

This thought is thrown out the window when he runs into Alice and Tom again.

Before now, they have been shocked by his appearance and wary of his intentions, but ultimately the three would always come together within a few days (…?) of meeting. This time, they save him from the corrupted Alice, as expected.

Then they lock him in a cell, which is completely unexpected.

Alice is more hesitant to trust him than she was before. Tom is openly hostile and brandishes his axe like it’s going to scare Henry. It doesn’t.

What does scare him is that they leave him for dead when the ink demon shows up, which has never happened before. He knows about the hidden pipe behind the wall only because he’d explored it on a past run, back when his friends still trusted him.

So he escapes, and he encounters Sammy alone, and learns that Alice and Tom are still willing to trust him, albeit reluctantly. He asks them why; why don’t you trust me, why do you trust me now? But Alice can’t come up with anything beyond that she’s feeling conflicted, and Tom just glares until Henry loses his nerve.

When Alice asks Henry to take the lead, he does so without protest, afraid of changing anything else right now yet eager to see what changes have come up now anyway.

The writing on the wall isn’t there. Bendy doesn’t act more or less aggressive than he’s always done. It’s as if the only indication of difference is Henry’s relationship with his toon friends.

It’s enough for him, knowing there’s still hope he can change something, even in a small way. But images burn in his mind – of Alice splattered into ink chunks, of Tom murderous in his grief, of furious words scraped into wallpaper – so he doesn’t try it again for a long time.

It’s about the 95th time around that Henry finds a way to make invisible ink.

It is during one of his more daring routes, when he’s so bored that he’s doing everything he can to piss off the inhabitants of the studio, barring the ink demon. When he steps off the creaking gondola lift and moves into the next hallway, the hallucinations of grabbing hands reach out to him as they always do.

He’s gotten close enough to be touched in past runs. Hell, he’s let them touch him, tried to touch them back. Nothing ever came of it except feeling grime on his body where nothing could be seen. This time though, he’s daring enough to try something else.

He grabs the nearest wrist and pulls hard.

The entire arm is torn off from its owner and falls slack against Henry’s body. He stumbles, caught off guard by the release of force, and stares at a lump of mass that he can still feel in his hands, even when the hallucination wears off and the arm supposedly disappears.

Henry hefts it between his palms, bending invisible fingers and wondering what he’s supposed to do with the thing. It still feels just as grimy as always and the sensation makes him shudder. He ends up tucking the arm under his left armpit and trudges on.

As a joke, he finds a wall near the carnival hub, where he has to distract three Butcher Gang members, and awkwardly uses a finger from the ghostly severed arm to trace a few words out. It’s hard to hold and he’s pretty sure he used ’to’ instead of ‘too’, but he doubts anyone is going to notice considering he can’t see the message.

A few hours later he’s sitting in a cell, and Alice offhandedly mentions a weird glowing message she saw through a glass panel in a room upstairs. Henry, having long-since discarded the arm and forgotten about the joke, asks her what it said.

“It was so strange,” she hums, dreamlike. “The words were bunched together and I think it had a word wrong, but I’ve never seen handwriting like it. It said, ‘Dreams too big and you will fail’. What an odd message, don’ t you think? Henry?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely.”

The next time he’s going through the studio, Henry wastes no time in taking every glass window he can find into that room, where he looks at that one wall through each pane. By the eighth try he’s about ready to give up, but then a glass square shows him the message, shining and messy and still very much intact.

It’s almost relieving, if he’s honest with himself. This is something only he knows about, that only he can do, and it seems to stick even when he’s repeating the sequence. So he goes back to the ‘shadow hallway’ as he’s dubbed it, and doesn’t hesitate to rip another arm out of the wall.

Henry starts leaving messages for himself everywhere, and clutches the special glass pane like it’s a lifeline. He spends two hours creating a little frame for it in Lacie’s workshop and steals spare lightbulbs out of several supply closets to give it pizazz. A handle is eventually added when he almost drops the thing as he’s chased by a Searcher.

He tallies every round through the studio in that first hallway, pretty sure he is close to the magical 100th only because that’s what his gut is telling him. This fact is discouraging, even when he has the ability now to keep track of it all. Sometimes he’ll go ten loops through without writing anything, and then he’ll find something he forgot he did and it brings a rare chuckle to his lips.

On his 179th run, he’s writing “WHY AM I DOING THIS” beneath one of the triple pipelines he has to fix for the corrupted Alice. It’s taking forever, and he’s really pissed off for once, so he gets so focused in the message that he doesn’t realize how deathly silent the room has gotten.

Henry is fixing the lone ‘I’ because he’s not satisfied with it when suddenly an inky, wispy pattern splashes across the pipes like a death sentence. Dropping the invisible hand in shock, the man whirls around to find Bendy himself looming right behind.

The ink demon rasps, head slumped forward in broken puppetry and deadly hands limp at his sides. He stands less than a foot away and could kill this human in barely a second. His eyes aren’t visible, have never been visible, but Henry knows that he is being studied.

Then the head lolls to the side, in the direction of the looking glass still in Henry’s left hand. The grin vibrates as it always has, but there is a growth to it that’s sharp and unpredictable.

Henry doesn’t know what to do. In all the time he’s been here, Bendy has only expressed cruelty and bloodshed. What times he’s felt pity or sympathy is often snuffed out by multiple horrific deaths, usually of either ink suffocation or a snapped neck.

Right now all he feels is fear.

Bendy has yet to kill him, so the man slowly lifts his looking glass in an attempt to keep his attention on it. The demon doesn’t move and doesn’t acknowledge that Henry has moved, so he takes it as a good sign.

Once the glass is at chest level, he’s not really sure what else to do. His nemesis hasn’t even twitched. Cautiously, aware he is on borrowed time, Henry extends his hand out and offers the thing to his twisted creation. Bendy looks at him. Looks at the tool.

Then he takes it.

Henry blinks, arm still outstretched, as the demon’s gloved hand pulls the looking glass away without touching human skin. With a delicate grip in dark contrast with his history, Bendy holds the thing between three fingers and turns it upside down so that the glass seems to magnify his smile. But then Henry realizes that’s not because of the glass, it’s because Bendy’s smile is actually growing.

“No –!” He has just enough time to blurt out before the demon smashes the tool against his temple, knocking Henry to the ground.

His ears are ringing and something leaks out of his nose with the smell of copper. He stares in a blurry haze as the looking glass is dropped in front of his face in a shattered heap. Bendy groans somewhere above him, and then there is a gloved hand poking at his bruised temple.

Henry locks his jaw to keep from crying out as the ink demon taps at the glass shards stuck in his hair and scalp and ear, pressing them into bleeding and agitating his senses even further. Then the touch disappears and Bendy stalks off without another word.

By the time the man’s blood stops pounding and he can sit up without falling over again, a Piper comes screeching and bashes his head in. He wakes up at the exit door instead of a Bendy statue, and comes to the realization that he’s not carrying the looking glass by default anymore. He thinks it’s lost forever until he’s stuck back in that stupid holding cell however many hours later and Alice shows the device to him like it’s just another mystery of the studio.

It’s in this way that Henry learns two things.

The first is that Bendy can also manipulate changes in the loop, because from this moment the looking glass is only available through Alice; sometimes it respawns with him at the beginning and other times he has to meet her again to get it back.

Whether the ink demon is aware he can initiate these changes is up in the air, as is the question about how much he can change at a time. But he’s just sporadic enough that this would be impossible to find out without a lot of trial and error, and Henry isn’t desperate enough to ask him for help.

The second thing he realizes is that Bendy is a jealous, jealous creature. He didn’t like the fact that Alice joined him instead of Henry all those runs ago. He also apparently didn’t like that Henry was too busy playing with invisible ink to give the demon a proper chase scene.

Well, Henry decides as he hums to the radio in Sammy’s office, if he wants my attention, he’s got it. Let’s see how long that lasts.

Things get more aggressive for a while.

Where once the trapped man was willing to test everything except the ink demon, now it’s his only goal. He’s out to annoy, provoke, irritate, and confuse Bendy at every possible moment. In turn, his nemesis gets more creative in his annihilations.

Henry traps Bendy under the elevator, so Bendy drops him down the elevator shaft. Henry shoots Bendy with the Tommy gun from atop staircases and balconies and hides before he gets caught, so Bendy waits patiently next to the Little Miracle Station until the man is forced to come out for food, then promptly crushes Henry’s ribcage with the gun’s butt because he doesn’t know how to pull its trigger. Henry waits to destroy each cardboard cutout until Bendy is already in the room, so the ink demon corners Boris and pulls him apart while Henry watches in horror from a Station.

Henry shows Bendy why he shouldn’t look for attention, and Bendy shows Henry why he shouldn’t be underestimated.

So it goes, back and forth, forward and rearward. Man and ink demon trying to destroy each other in their own ways. For superiority, perhaps, or to prove a point, or simply just to break out of that never-ending boredom, that bottomless sense of ink and despair.

It’s about the 450th (…?) time around that things begin to crack.

The throne room is quiet when Henry slips in through the front door with a bag over his shoulder. He knows for a fact that he’s a lot earlier this time, so Bendy isn’t due here for at least two minutes.

Fine by him; he’s trying a new approach.

He puts the bag on the ground and pulls out one, five, fifteen audio logs. They’re bulky and weren’t very fun to tote around for this long, but it’s something he hasn’t tried yet which makes it worth doing. Once they’re all out the man sits down cross-legged and starts sorting.

Five from Wally Franks, set together on his far left. Thomas Connor over here, a little closer to the right. Lacie and Bertrum, Shawn and Norman, Grant and Jack. The Susie and Sammy tapes get put back into the bag after a moment of consideration.

He hasn’t brought any of Joey’s.

Then Henry plays them all at once, creating a raucous blend of sad voices, angry voices, confused and concerned voices. It hurts his ears, but he remains patient in his spot. Soon enough, two pointed horns appear from behind the throne as Bendy pulls himself up. He cocks his head very slowly, as he has always done, but instead of transforming again, he slinks around the chair with a throaty hiss.

Henry stays sitting with his arm crossed and one eyebrow raised, as if daring the demon to make him turn off the racket. He doesn’t flinch even as Bendy steps forward and tilts his upper half into an arc, matching his grin parallel to his nemesis’. The creature wheezes into Henry’s face, tossing scraggly bangs into the air above his forehead.

In all honesty, the man fully expected this exchange to go differently. Surely playing most of the audio tapes at once would be annoying enough to warrant a new creative death. And in the beast’s own lair too – how disrespectful! He figures it’s just a matter of time until cold hands are around his neck.

But then one of the shorter tapes stops playing, and Bendy has a full body spasm. He makes a strange gasp low in his throat and points at Henry, who only raises his other eyebrow in bemusement. Another tape stops and the gasp becomes a dangerous rumble.

Not sure what he’s looking at, Henry reaches out carefully with one hand and presses play on the two stopped tapes. As they rejoin the voice cacophony, Bendy retracts his finger and stops rumbling. He drops onto the ground with a heavy thud and nearly mirrors Henry’s crossed legs. They jut out too much and his knees are tangled high in the air, but it’s the thought that counts.

So they sit together like that. Every time a tape is done, Bendy points at Henry and Henry obliges by starting it up again. At one point his foot falls asleep and he’s pretty sure both of his calves will cramp the minute he moves. The ink demon just sits with his hands laying limp against his feet, and pants.

Eventually this gets to be too much for even Henry to bear, so he stops replaying the tapes and shakes his head ‘no’ when Bendy starts rumbling. The creature lets out a large huff, as if Henry is a disobedient child, and then stands up abruptly. His hands begin stretching into claws and the glove pops clean off, which Henry takes as his cue to get up and run.

His legs cramp up as soon as he’s off the ground, and he wakes up two doors back with the memory of a quicker, less painful death than usual.

It’s about the last time around that someone finally snaps.

But it’s not Henry.

The ink demon is already in the throne room when Henry arrives. It surprises him into falling backwards on his butt; Bendy has never, ever made his appearance early, no matter the run.

“Hey buddy,” Henry says warily, fingers tensing into the floor. His nemesis is already transformed into the more monstrous version of himself, all arms and teeth and nothing else.

Or – maybe something else, because Bendy moans in a tone Henry has never heard before. It’s low and despondent like a sickly animal. Which is pretty similar to what he is, really.

Henry doesn’t know how to take this latest development, so he simply sits on the floor with his sack of audio tapes like he’s been doing for the last twenty loops or so. He starts to pull one out but a giant maimed hand grabs ahold of the bag and tugs it away with frail finality.

Bendy drops to his elbows and lays his chest on top of the sack, crushing the tapes effortlessly. He points at Henry. The man doesn’t understand. Bendy moans again, louder this time, then turns around and grabs the Joey Drew tape with a single stretch. He brings it around and drops it on the floor between them.

Henry stares at the tape, hesitant to turn it on, and looks up into the pointing finger of a subdued ink demon. Knowing that demand by heart, he presses play almost grudgingly, and his shoulders rise to his ears as Joey’s voice echoes in the room. He fights the urge to look at all the TV screens.

Bendy listens to the entire message without a sound. His breathing is labored as usual, but he has slowed it just enough that it’s barely audible under the recording fuzz. When Joey’s declaration of ‘The End’ comes out, the ink demon curls in on himself and keens.

At this point, Henry really isn’t sure what to do. He decides that the Drew tape isn’t doing either of them any favors and shoves it aside, bringing Bendy’s attention back to him. The man sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Listen, uh…I don’t know what you want from me. I really don’t.” He stares at his creation. “I don’t know what Joey wants either, I guess, from both of us. Maybe we’re stuck here forever, or maybe we’ll escape someday. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m tired of doing this over and over. I’m tired of fighting.”

He looks at Bendy, who hasn’t uncurled yet.

“It looks like you’re tired of fighting too.”

Bendy keens again.

With another sigh, Henry stands up and stares down at the crushed tapes. Something wiggles at the back of his mind; something he remembers finding a long, long run ago.

“You know, there’s one more I haven’t shown you yet.”

The ink demon shifts and it’s enough to keep Henry going.

“It’s a long trek from here. Honestly, I’m not even sure we can reach it at this stage. But we can try if you’d like.”

He waits patiently as Bendy considers this. The creature’s lips pull back, showing more teeth than ever, but Henry is well aware this is a sign that he’s pleased. The man takes a step backwards without taking his gaze away from the ink demon.

“You, uh, wanna help me find it?”

There is a hiss in response that almost sounds like ‘yes’.

They walk side by side, two long-time enemies with more in common than either has wanted to admit. The elevator doesn’t work at this point in the story but that’s okay, because Bendy knows almost every secret way upstairs and Henry has found the rest of them.

The tape is hidden away behind the Projectionist’s lair, through stairs and shadows and waist-deep ink. But neither of them have been afraid of these things for a very long time. Henry picks it up from its isolated space on the table, turning it this way and that. He considers just playing it here, but doing that doesn’t feel right, so instead he tucks it under one arm and takes Bendy’s curled claws with the other.

He leads the ink demon back up, all the way to the first floor where the nightmare always begins, and miraculously finds his old work desk completely intact. He runs his fingers along the edges and invites Bendy to do the same, which he does. Then Henry places the audio tape on the desk and sits in the neighboring chair with a slow exhale.

Bendy sits on the floor. His shoulders still clear Henry’s head with ease.

Then the creation reaches forward, tentatively, and manages to start the tape. A familiar voice washes over both of them as they sit close enough to stay in their respective space, if they want. Bendy leans his head against the back of Henry’s chair. Henry sets his hand at the base of Bendy’s horns.

“Only two weeks into this company and already it’s gotten interesting…”

A/N: I FINISHED IT. For some reason I was always really close to finishing this thing and then either I’d have to go do something else or I’d realize that the story wasn’t done being told. But it’s here, and it’s technically still Saturday when I’m posting this, so HA. I might do more with this someday, detail a few of the other runs or explore something else in BATIM, but for now I’m done. The end.

Thanks for reading!

#squigglydigg #batim #bendy and the ink machine #bendy the dancing demon #henry stein

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