#yes nothing is set in stone but i do think its odd they mentioned him specifically as *NOT* being picked up | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

braemjeorn · 2 years ago

Text

CHAPTER I [masterlist]

pairing: bang chan x ofc

genre: general audience (I would say fluff but... there's nothing toothrotting here), regency period drama(?)

wordcount: 4.3k

summary: son mari, at twenty-three, has a flippant understanding that entering a household as a governess is a stroll in the parks—like the mile she does everyday. (or a SKZ TheSoundofMusic!AU but push it back to the 1820s)

warnings: regency era setting; countryside; age changes; condescending remarks; jyp artists in odd occupations?; tricks and teas; very dark drawing-rooms

it's on ao3 if you prefer that format!

⚠️ All characters that shares the name of real life person in this story are represented in a fictional manner for entertainment purpose, and not to be alluded with real life.

TAGLIST: @spookykryptoniteperson

“Mari,” called the schoolmistress from the door as Mari returned to the cottage. Her eyes were relieved in finding the young teacher, and there was a letter in her hand.

“Mrs Ahn,” Mari said.

“Are you all right dear?”

Mari nodded. Though she felt little pleasure at present, it is still in a great balance to her disappointment. Her walk had provided her with little entertainment. She might be blamed for keeping her regular track, and to walk in a hurry. She had hoped there might have been interesting or novel occurrences to amuse her for the day. Yet nothing irregular happened — she encountered only a farmer on his cart, heading towards his fields. Only the winds appeased her: it never lacks to soothe her, especially on warm summer days. It was some disappointment, but little to provoke her day into vexation.

Mrs Ahn held her shoulder and ushered her into the cottage. “Come, I have some news to tell you.”

The little cottage on the hill was the schoolmistress’ house. A little before it was the school building: a large hall separated into three rooms, with doors facing the open valley. Behind both, the hills rose even higher, towards the north where evergreens thrive.

It had been Mari’s home for the past thirteen years — one of the few girls admitted to the school's accommodation. She was familiar with its stone walls, and the warm tint of the furniture under the late sun. Ahn Inha was setting tea as Mari unwrapped her hat and shawl; Junhee was outside, tending to her flowers. Inha called her inside, then turned back to the kitchen for some iced red beans. Mrs Ahn sat on the couch, and gave Mari the opened letter in her hand, taking the pot to pour the tea.

“A commodore asks for our help—he’s a retired navy officer, and requires a governess for his sons. His house is but 20 miles from here.”

The letter — almost too formal in Mari’s opinion — spoke in detail of the children (five boys aged from five to nine). Along with the expected subjects to be instructed, the offered payment and provisions, and the length of stay required, there is a notice for further instructions once the teacher arrives at the house.

“To think that he knew us from Mr Park of all people — how many new acquaintances his wife gave him! Why is he not advertising for a governess instead?” Mari asked.

“He wrote it being rather urgent, did he not?—Commodore Bang is his name, yes. I suppose he needs one experienced and capable of handling a great number of children. Immediately at that.”

��The weeks of waiting are too much to spare for him?"

“How many children again?” Inha asked, setting the refreshments on the table.

“He mentioned five boys,” Mari said, handing her the letter. “Dear me, imagine all the scruples…”

“The offer is beguiling. A more generous sum than you would find in advertisements,” Inha said, having read the letter through. “Will you go then, Mari?” she asked, with more genuine curiosity than Mari expected. “You are the more adept teacher, and idle summer has no charm on you.”

“If Mrs Ahn can spare me for such a long time. I will be gone for nine months,” Mari considered.

“Mari won’t return until next spring, at the least,” Mrs Ahn said.

“He’s allowing negotiation for the wage,” Inha said, pointing back to the lower part of the letter. "Surely that’s a reasonable compensation.”

Mari laughed, “Or to lure me into acceptance without second thoughts. But consider—” she continued after a sip of tea. “If I were to leave for nine months, and say we name the wage for 60 won instead—you can take 20 to hire one of the older girls to stay with you in autumn. They might learn to be the new teachers like you've always wanted. Even if I leave for a greater part of winter it would not be too much of a burden to you—or the school’s benefactors.”

“If you are certain, Mari—those boys will not remove themselves from your hands by sunset. There’s five of them, and boys of great masters and landlords will be different from the town boys here. And I do not know what kind of family this man has. He is affluent, certainly, we know little of his character—is he of good breeding?”

“Might not we inquire of that to Mr Park?”

“Perhaps we might—but after that? You will be entering their house—and when you are a governess, you are neither family nor servant. I fear such alienation will take a toll on your person.”

“Surely I will still have some reprieve between my days. At the end of the year, I will come home and you can see if it has done me any harm,” Mari persuaded, her voice light with humour. “And it is not like I am inexperienced in what is demanded of me—I know I can teach, I can have faith in my years of experience.”

“You are very interested in going.”

“I would not lie—the offer of a good wage and the excitement of a new place is alluring,” Mari confessed under the weight of those sharp, wise eyes. “Inha made a compelling statement: it is an advantageous prospect. It would serve me from vacancy and distress, and I do have the aptitude for it—I am a schoolteacher. And about refined companies, you have prepared us to act properly wherever it is...”

Mrs Ahn did not make a response, but it is better to let her think it over; a reminder for Mari to do the same, while an approval might be achieved.

“You think over it through until morning,” Mrs Ahn settled in the end, “I’m sure I can dispatch a note to settle some agreement with the Commodore soon enough for his liking.”

The conversation shifted to different matters. Yet when the sun rose anew Mari’s opinion and wishes remained unchanged, perhaps much more assured after a sedate contemplation in the morning. They made a call to the vicar and his wife, to gain some intelligence about the naval commodore. Mr Park assured them that he is a gentleman of genuine good breeding, and not the least inclined to any sort of folly.

“On the contrary, I remember him as being an overtly modest, pleasant young man. Though my friend Mr Kang did warn me in his letter of this offer to you: at present his young master might have a cold disposition about him,” Mr Park said. “His wife had passed away some years ago; it has affected him greatly, even if the mourning term had long passed. He is not much of a warm, amiable society, so to say—but, in others, he is an honourable gentleman.”

But of prompt nature, Mari assumed. They had sent the reply the next morning, and the confirmation letter arrived in the evening by express, with no qualms about the requested wage. She was pacckinhlg a single bag, when after an observant pause by the door, Inha joined her in the work.

She was the Ahn’s only child: a pretty sort of girl, with soft features resembling a bunny and lively speech that befits her among people. As girls, they were not intimate friends, but years of living together have driven them into some degree of civil companionship and respect.

“A new place would be good for you to clear your mind,” Inha said. “You never went with us when we visited P— during the summer or Christmas.”

“You were visiting family in P—, and I’ve settled to keep the house since your Mother had been so kind to take me in ever since my aunt’s death. Yet, this is not a holiday—I’ll be employed as much as when I was Mrs Kim’s companion.”

“And isn’t it grand to travel while you work,” Inha mused. She fussed over the dust over Mari’s chest at the end of her bed, before sitting down over the quilted bed cover.

“At least this time I will not be reduced to a mere background company and ladylike conversations,” Mari sighed. “With some boys, I may have some excuse for lively exercises and excitement. Perhaps I will regret my words later on when they’ll never leave me for my own time.”

“You must send us letters, and tell us what being a governess is like,” Inha said. “Mother would not tell of her experiences by claiming the differences of time. But Junhee might consider such occupation as well later, or any of the older girls. And of the sailor!”

“I’m sure he’s as ordinary as any other gentleman!” Mari laughed. “By the accounts of his letters and lands—and Mr Park’s intelligence of his character. Sailor indeed, Ahn Inha! He has become our benefactor!”

“I did not mean it to be condescending! But a naval man—it’s such an alien term in our little town, you must admit—we only ever did see walking soldiers instead of swimming ones.”

The words made Mari snort, and she fell upon her bed to laugh alongside Inha. “Swimming soldiers indeed! Ahn Inha, do watch your tongue!”

“I fear that it is I who will be an alien among them,” she said once they’ve calmed themselves from the giggling fits. “I suppose that is what Mrs Ahn fears: I will have to preserve if they are a lofty company who have little regard to those they pay for services, if they could barely spare some respect.”

“But you are determined.”

“Indeed. Surely it would not be so wrong of me to try something new?”

“Which is why you must take care,” Inha said.

“I’m well-practised in such matters.”

“I believe you shall do well,” Inha said after a pause. “I will think it very silly if anyone should dislike you. Even to those high and mighty lords whose haughtiness you scorn. For you are kind and endearing, which makes your sudden tempers frightening.”

“I should dislike it very much to fail,” Mari confessed.

“Nay, you won’t,” Inha assured her. “You have a habit of excelling far too well in anything you do.”

With such faith and good wishes, hugs and kisses full of blessings, Mari departed in the late morning. A carriage had been arranged to take her from the hamlet downhill, then to the east, where the great house resided. The day was warm, and the road long—the view outside the coach window soon grew unfamiliar. Such objects and landmarks she never even knew existed beyond her little town revealed themselves before her.

Yet even between Mari’s curiosity and excitement in seeing new places, she knew it was a change too swiftly done. Far too soon than any sensible consideration Mr Ahn would have given—he would have detained Mari longer in the cottage. But he had passed, and Mari was too eager of the prospect, assured and (too) confident in her experiences. There was little that could dissuade her from leaving.

Mari reached the town of D— late after dinner. The carriage stopped at the inn, and she realized little of her weary legs until she was able to settle on stable ground. The instruction was for her to wait, but it was late, and she wondered if anyone would be willing to fetch her at such hours. But soon someone did ask for her in the inn: a gentleman of a kindly and affable face. He introduced himself as Kang Younghyun, the steward of the Bang household.

“You are the governess Mr Park Sungjin recommended?”

“Yes,” Mari nodded. He called in footmen for Mari’s things and explained that they would accompany Mari into the house. She wondered aloud why a servant of such import would deign to fetch her in such a fine carriage. The steward only laughed.

“Miss Son, they’d bring you in a wagon otherwise, and our housekeeper would not hear of it.”

They drove for some quarter of an hour, the village houses exchanged for hills and woodlands. High they climbed the hills and then descended back into fields circled by forests. Mari registered how they were turning to the right, passing through tall black gates. They’ve entered the vast estate grounds, surrounded by shadows of trees and bushes. Their path circled, then they came to a stop before a looming building—the house, with only a few of its tall windows showing light. Mr Kang helped her down at the front door, telling her to follow the maid, waiting with a candle in her hand. They passed through the front gallery, up through a great set of marble stairs in the centre of the house, and from there to the right, into a grand room with a long table and rows of chairs, where at the head sat a woman.

“The new governess, ma’am,” the maid announced. “Mr Kang has taken her things.”

“Thank you, Yeojin.” The woman stood up, closing the large book she had been writing on. Her hair is copper under the sole-lit chandelier, covered with a lace cap. Her clothes are dark, without any decorative trimming to them. She smiled at meeting Mari’s eyes—refrained, either weary from the day or a contained disposition.

“Come closer, dear, that I may see you better. Yeojin, help her with the robe and bonnet. What is your name again?”

“Son Mari,” Mari said, pulling the ribbons of her hat after loosening her robe.

“Miss Son Mari, then. I hope the journey has been well.” She paused, for at that moment Mari’s hair was revealed, those cropped brown tresses. The length was at a point where she couldn't do anything significant to style it, and obvious to other people that it had been shorn instead of tucked hair. The younger maid let out a small noise behind her, but the housekeeper remained quiet. Her pause was enough to show her surprise and wonder, and she lifted a candle to observe it better.

“How becoming —your lovely eyes balanced the charm. Well, then,” the housekeeper turned away, ushering Mari with her through another door. “It is but eight o’clock, the boys will be able to see you. I’m Minatozaki Sana, the housekeeper. Minatozaki-san would do,” the older woman said as they passed through another hall. “How old are you, my dear?”

“I am not yet twenty-three.”

“Goodness! how young you are.”

“I assure you, I have the experience. Jang Haesoo-ssi must have written about it.”

“Perhaps it is I who did not recall her mentioning your age.” Minatozaki-san mused. “Either way, you must be famished. Did you stop during your travels?”

“I had some bread for dinner—it is not very far between here and the school.”

“The Commodore was much relieved at receiving your immediate response,” the housekeeper intoned. “It is rather hurried, but truly we are grateful. —(Think none of it. I am happy to have the occupation.) Of course. But indeed, he will have many expectations upon you, as a schoolteacher in this post—which we have never employed, but more suitable to our situation. —To think we had to go through so many people to consider this possibility! He went away on a call this afternoon—you might see him tomorrow altogether—before he’ll leave again in two days.”

The housekeeper opened a door at the end of another hallway. The fireplace was lit low, yet the drawing-room was brighter with the number of candles in the room. Their heavy curtains were crimson against the pale walls, the furniture of sturdy, pale wood. The floors were carpeted; at one corner was a grand pianoforte, and paintings hung upon the wall. Circling the fireplace was three long couches, a great upholstered chair, and two ottomans. Boys gathered there, some on the chairs, and some on the floor. Their chatters lowered into a hush as the two women entered. They looked warily at Mari and Minatozaki-san’s approach, slowly rising to a stand one by one.

“Boys. Your new governess is here,” Minatozaki-san announced. The ensemble starred, but some inclined their heads to acknowledge her.

“How do you do?” Mari asked.

“Let her sit, here,” the housekeeper ushered her to sit near the fire, then went away for tea, unheeding Mari’s wishes to not make much trouble upon her account.

“Nonsense, you’ve been through a long journey,” the housekeeper brushed off. The boys settled themselves on the couch. Mari soon noticed there were more than five. Seven, the other two being around ten years of age at least. A long-haired boy jumped up to the housekeeper’s side. Minatozaki-san handed the boy the saucer, and he returned to deliver the tea for Mari.

“Thank you. Oh!”

Mari jerked at receiving her tea. The content had rippled, and a dark marble orb bobbed to the surface, turning and revealing a real-like painting of an eye. It glinted in the fire, and Mari held the cup away from her while quiet snickers and giggles erupted.

“Oh dear…” she muttered.

“Bang Hyunjin! what have I told you about those tricks?” Minatozaki-san called out. “You know what apology to say for that, young man—and bring that cup back here; you shall make a new one for her.”

Hyunjin had been smiling politely the entire while, an air of complete innocence even as Mari turned to him with disbelief. He made no apology, but took her cup again, and prepared a new one under the housekeeper’s scolding. He whined as his hair was ruffled, and carried the new cup back to Mari. She stirred it first, at peace in finding only tea resisted her spoon.

“Thank you. Hyunjin.”

The boy tilted his head, and said “Weren’t you scared?”

“I’m not sure,” Mari replied truthfully. “I was surprised. It might haunt my dreams with discomfort.”

He sniffed with a scrunch of his nose, unimpressed, “That was the desired effect.”

“You could have hurt someone severely, boy,” Minatozaki-san reprimanded.

“It would always be seen before anyone could sip it,” Hyunjin insisted. He sat on the couch next to her, across from his other brothers. Their glee had dissipated, and they returned to observing Mari, altogether shy and wary. One of them leaned forward—he was younger than Hyunjin, with soft hair and eyes.

“Your hair is short,” he stated after Mari acknowledged him.

“Yes, it is,” Mari nodded.

“But you’re not a man?”

“Seungmin-ah,” scolded a brother. But the younger one heeded him not—in truth, his statement was more confused than accusing Mari.

“No,” Mari shook her head with a smile. “I’m a lady, even for my hair. Seung-min? Is that your name?”

He nodded slowly, still fixing his gaze upon her, “Bang Seungmin.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“As I am.”

The door opened again before more can be said, strong and decided steps entering the room. The boys immediately stood upright—Mari turned her head, and hesitantly followed, as silence descended further in the room.

“I see you’ve met the boys,” spoke the figure; light but manly and clear in its firmness. Mari couldn’t see the newcomer well in the shadows, but there was no question of his identity. He walked behind the chairs and approached closer to the fire before her. The light revealed dark curls falling over his broad forehead, the tall nose; he did not tower over her, but his stance was imposing. Mari saw the firm lines of his mouth and recalled the vicar’s remark about his character when she saw the grimness peering at her. She lowered her head, and made a curtsy, while Minatozaki-san made the introductions.

“This is Son Mari, the teacher you called for. Miss Son, this is Commodore Bang Chan, master of Barlnshore.”

“Commodore Bang would do,” the man said, and they shook hands. Mari’s gaze trailed when they did, and pausing at a sight behind his head; for behind the Commodore, a picture hung upon the wall across them. She realised it as a portrait of himself, his pale face striking over his dark uniform and the low-lit room.

“Ostentatious, don’t you think?” Commodore Bang asked, regarding her as if to challenge her opinion. Mari could not agree with his statement, for the portrait looks mild in its colours.

“Merely the size, sir,” she replied quietly. One of the boys huffed; the Commodore turned to his brood.

“Have they introduced themselves?”

Seungmin shook his head, looking at the others pointedly as one of his older brothers nudged him. Commodore Bang stood beside her, gesturing his hand from one boy to the next.

“Minho, my eldest (the tallest, who inclined his head). Then Changbin (a black-haired boy who stood at one end of the couch), Hyunjin (who smiled), and the twins: Jisung, and Yongbok (they looked at her, standing side by side). Seungmin has spoken with you, I saw. And… Jeongin?”

His tone lilted with some askance. The boys shifted aside to reveal the youngest, clutching a doll in serene sleep in the corner of the couch.

“There. My youngest.” The grand clock’s bells tolled right after his words.

“It’s bedtime. You’ll hear more of them tomorrow,” the Commodore said. The boys began to shuffle away, bidding their goodnights quietly. There were yawns and murmurs, but little protests. Minho picked Jeongin up, and so the seven of them vacated the room.

Commodore Bang seated himself with a deep sigh in the grand chair, then gestured for Mari to return to her seat.

“Miss Son is it, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are a teacher; so the lady has written.” Minatozaki-san approached and gave him tea, and sat with her working basket on the couch. “Mrs Ahn, was it not? She has asserted your instructive capacity in the classroom. I put faith in her judgement, but we shall see how well you’ll do here to make my own opinions of it. There was a particular remark that interested me—the respect evident in Mr Park’s words of the institution—do clarify it for me, it is not part of the church?”

“It is not, sir.”

“Indeed? Who owns it?”

“The institution is Ahn Joonhyuk’s School. He was Mrs Ahn's—Ms Jang Haesoo that is— he is her late husband.”

“He relegated the administration to her?”

“Any other would have been disagreeable to him—she is most capable for the position.”

“They both established the school?”

“Nay, Mr Ahn’s father took in students when he was vicar. His son would not continue the religious career, but an educated man of the same interest. He expanded it into a proper school for the village’s children, or from surrounding countries. The gentries and landowners of the town invested their money and stood as councils, to ensure the welfare and quality of the school. Though there was never a doubt to it under Mrs Ahn’s watch—we have been doing well.”

“And how long have you been teaching there?”

“Nearly five years.”

“And before that? How are you qualified?”

“I was a student there. My aunt sent me there; she paid for my education until she passed away when I was sixteen. But I was allowed to stay and complete my study in two years. Teaching there was to repay my gratitude for the generosity, and to earn for myself.”

“You are orphaned then?”

Mari nodded, "Yes."

The Commodore hummed. “I might have guessed. There are only two reasons any young woman would come into such a situation: for herself or her family.”

Mari could not help but bristle at the thoughtless remark, and barely managed to make a polite counter. “You must not dismiss us with such littleness.”

Commodore Bang turned his gaze away from the fire—her words had roused him, “But it wasn’t a dismissal—is it not true?”

“You must allow me to defend women in a similar position as mine against such trivialization,” Mari spoke measuredly. “We only sought to be independent by which ways are possible, in our restrained situation as women. When we have no family, no money and barely any persuasive beauty or charm—we can only rely on our heads for our preservation. You, sir, appeared to value our efforts insignificant.”

Mari was quite prepared for him to oppose her censure, to find the words an insult. But Commodore Bang remained still; he made no reply. His eyes took her in—with a look she might have vainly described as ‘wonder’. He turned to Minatozaki-san, who had paused her knitting in watching their exchange. A look was shared; she was in better humour than he was, tilting her head as if to say, “Well, that’s all there is to it.” She resumed her work, and Commodore Bang returned to Mari.

“How much did they pay for your work?”

“50 won per annum,” Mari replied

“How many boys have you taught with that salary?” Commodore Bang asked. “What is the most number in a room?”

“Sixteen boys,” Mari recollected. “Aged from nine to twelve.”

The man huffed a laugh, bland mirth that graced his face in a mere flash before his eyes returned austere.

“You are the sixteenth governess I’ve employed to rear my boys. The sixth… or the seventh governess, declared that a room of them five compares to a room of twenty schoolboys. That was six months ago. Right before she retires from her post.”

“Children require patience. And an equal amount of sense, if we are to practise sensible child rearing,” Mari replied. The Commodore made no reply—he eyed her one way, another with a tilt of his head. Mari smiled, wider than the usual polite one—more to counter her nerves than amusement. It soon lowered as she came to observe him in return.

Even being close to the fire provided little warmth to his face; Mari reckoned his dark garbs and the shadows merely emphasised it. Or it is his countenance: the set of his brows and mouth, and the sombre eyes. He had spoken to her with great interest, but she could not claim that he was pleased.

“The schoolroom must’ve been your playground,” Commodore Bang said, easing deeper into his chair. “I hope you’ll be pleased with the one I’ve prepared, Miss Son.”

what do you think? :D

I hope you've enjoyed it. please forgive any inacurraries or mistakes, I just want to throw it out for people to review and be done with😭 but FINALLY

if you have thoughts or comments to share, or wished to be tagged in the next work, send me an ask! i'll see you soon♡(like next week, I'll try!)

-braem.

23 notes · View notes

incoherentbabblings · 3 years ago

Note

Is it too late to ask for more asks? 'Cos if not how about (separate pls), 2, 20, 43, 70, 77, 87, 95, 100 if possible? Thanks, I love your writing and all your AO3 fics, they are just so well written.

Last one! Anon I won't do all of these, as some were requested in previous asks, and I have written a bit too much over this week, but here's one last one for this fic game. Consider it a preview? A taster? A possibility? Of a fic I wanna write over the winter. Subject to many changes certainly, or not being written at all. I dunno. Anyway, last one! The fics from the past two weeks will be going up on Ao3 over the weekend, thank you for playing guys!

Birthday Ask Game

70. “After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t think that I love you?”

He found her in the library. He should have expected as much. It was where they first met, where they had spent most of their time getting to know each other. It was where Tim had developed a crush on her, guiltily broken up with his boyfriend, met her boyfriend, learned she was Robin, learned that her boyfriend was about six stops from crazy town, had their first kiss, first fight… honestly, how Miss Gordon hadn’t fired Stephanie and banned Tim for life was beyond him.

Still, his heart broke as he wandered up into the reference library, and found her crumpled up on the floor, tucked away and hidden in an aisle that was so rarely visited. She had a textbook of some kind open on her lap, and her cheeks were ruddy and wet.

“Steph…” Tim whispered.

She looked up at him, mournful but not surprised, then returned to reading. She spoke quietly, and Tim stood still at the end of the aisle, listening intently to her speech.

“You know, they once did group therapy sessions, at some Ivy League school, for people with narcissistic personality disorder. It took three weeks before their first names were mentioned. That’s how self-involved they can be. I mean, it’s not malicious always. Not in that group, definitely. It just never crossed their minds to ask what the other members were called. They’re not bad people. One person left and never came back because the group leader yawned, and they thought it was at them, despite them not even speaking at the time. They were so embarrassed at the thought that they were being made fun of. And we all think like that sometimes, right? That anxiety and worry at how others see you. But you try and remind yourself, the world and its people don’t revolve around you. You train yourself to learn perspective. So… it’s not that they’re bad people, it’s just… certain behaviours can crop up. And if no-one calls it out, or, worse, if they’re rewarded for thinking and behaving a certain way… why change? You know? It can lead to entitlement, and jealousy, and manipulative behaviour. You can’t control your emotions and how you feel a lot of the time, but you can… you can control your actions and behaviour. At least, that’s what I think.”

Tim moved to sit next to her. He closed the heavy book, then took her hand.

“You aren’t responsible for him. What he did. What he said. What he will keep doing.”

She nodded, gnawing her lip. She had a feeling Bruce would disagree. Weakly, she muttered a simple, “Yeah.”

Daringly, Tim reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He didn’t miss the way she leaned towards his hand as he did so.

“And no playing armchair psychologist Steph. No good comes of that. The guy is not your responsibility. Nothing you could have said or done would have made him… made him better.”

She screwed up her eyes. “Yeah.”

Tim looked up and down the aisle, hearing no-one else wandering around. “Did you come here for the quiet?” he asked. “Do you want to go back to your dorm?”

“I don’t feel safe there anymore.”

Stephanie scrubbed at her red eyes, and Tim's heart broke.

“Mine then?”

Her expression splintered, and she gave a horrible wheezy breath, air strangling in her throat. She gaped at him, disbelieving.

“You can’t want anything to do with me after all of this.”

“What? Will you consider me as crazy as one of your psychology case studies if I say yes?”

“That’s a shitty thing to say. It’s not a joke, Tim,” she chided. “Don’t say things like that. My ex, my… my job. You nearly died. For the sake of what?”

“For you.”

What he intended to be reassuring only further distressed her. “Stop it.”

“I’m not lying,” he urged, voice rising a bit too high. “After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t think that I love you?”

“Oh! Oh! Oh my God.” She began to fidget, tossing the book far away from herself, fingers twitching wildly and gasping wildly, like there wasn't enough air in the room.

“I’m serious!”

Her eyes, pretty blue eyes, were as wide as dinner plates when she responded, voice a paradoxically loud hiss. “I know you are! But what on Earth are you doing saying it like that? You can't just... declare things in that manner!”

“What? Honestly?” He watched as Stephanie got to her feet, marching up and down the aisle. She stepped so firmly she was leaving imprints in the stained carpet. He remained cross legged on the floor. “I wouldn’t have put myself through that if I didn’t think you were worth it. I love you Steph. I want to help people. I think we can do that together.”

She stopped her incessant marching at the end of the aisle, and looked back at him. The affection was shining in her eyes.

“I love you too,” she whispered, only to resume marching. “But”-

“But…” Tim quietly repeated.

“But you two need to leave. We’re closing in five minutes.”

The pair jumped, Stephanie squeaking, Tim leaping to his feet. A wheelchair rolled into view at Stephanie’s end of the aisle, and Miss Gordon was staring at them, unimpressed.

“Bad breakups and tortured declarations are all very fitting of this setting, but it’s past ten. Go home already, Stephanie.”

“But Babs”—

Barbara blinked behind her thick glasses. Her hair was sticking up at odd angles, and there were distinct dark circles reaching her cheek bones. Seemed she’d had a rough day too.

“For the love of God, Stephanie. There’s a nice boy wanting to help you. Maybe say yes and stop overcomplicating things, hmm?”

The two women had some unspoken conversation, until finally, Barbara rolled backwards, away and out of sight.

“Get out of my library you two! Come on lovebirds! Hurry up!” she called. There was a threat in her tone, but also something maternal and good humoured too.

Stephanie whirled back around, having been forced into a decision by the college librarian. “I’ll go to yours if you promise no funny business.”

Tim shook his head and held up his hands. “I’ll be saint-like.”

Stephanie narrowed her eyes. “You’re not a member of some weird cult?”

“Not even Scientology.”

“You’re not interested in me because of… my-my boss… are you?”

Tim clicked his tongue. “He’s more of a negative than a perk to being with you. To be honest.”

“And you won’t go after any friends of mine if we have a fight?”

“Friends? Not… not more?”

Stephanie pressed her hands to her mouth and nose, cupping her face so he couldn’t see her blush.

“Stop flirting.”

Tim took off his denim jacket, holding out the arms for her. “Can’t help it. I said I’d be saint-like, not made of stone. Come on, it’s cold out.”

She observed him for a short while, a tentative hopefulness in her expression. Tim resolved to nurture it. Slowly, she nodded, smiling softly to herself, and allowed him to slide her arms into the sleeves. Pulling it in close, she inhaled deeply. Tim grinned jauntily.

“Let’s go home?”

She leapt into his arms. He caught her and squeezed tight. It felt like he had been doing the action for all his life, so easily and comfortably she fit in his hold. He could hear the smile in her voice when she replied,

“Home.”

#dc #my fic tag #tim drake #stephanie brown #timsteph

16 notes · View notes

birdsareblooming · 4 years ago

Text

Infinite is connected to Solaris

This is gonna be a long one, strap in.

Infinite, Infinite, Infinite. The most recent in-game villain, and the most powerful in recent history as well. Despite being only around 3 years old, he’s become extremely popular. and half of that is because of the song.

Mephiles, Iblis, and Solaris. Villains over 10 years old that haven’t been used since their original game appearance in Sonic the Hedgehog (2006)

Or... have they?

Now I want to say before all of this, this all could be coincidences, me being delusional, or something otherwise. It is ONLY a theory, but for something as crazy as I’m claiming I need to preface with this for my own sanity.

But i’m gonna cut the bullshit. You’re here to see how I am going to bs my way to saying that Infinite the Jackal is connected to a dead god from what is regarded as the worst Sonic game.

And, like most of these, I need to start with some house cleaning, some things you need to understand.

1. Time Eater is Mephiles

You might have seen me meme about this before...

...But yeah that’s exactly the situation.

I had theorized this before I knew Ian Flynn thought the same thing. Their identical color-schemes, almost identical aesthetic, and completely identical power-set.

Even the name Time-Eater, that was Mephiles, and Solaris’s goal. To eat time.

2. Ifrit is Iblis

Now i’m going to assume you have two questions

If Time Eater is Mephiles, than where’s his counterpart, Iblis?

Who the fuck is Ifrit

Long and Short,

But, more importantly,

Ifrit is what caused Silver’s Future post Sonic 06.

Ifirit was their retcon for keeping Silver’s future the way it is (even though they defeat it at the end of sonic rivals 2, causing the future to not be that way, hence why Silver was 3 conflicting backstories. Thanks guys.)

So, when it comes to fire demon that destroys the world and causes the future that Silver the hedgehog lives in, that’s a good amount of evidence already, especially with the preface that Mephiles is alive in the form of Time-Eater. If Mephiles was reborn, why wouldn’t also Iblis? and Ifirit is so uncannily similar theres no other candidate.

also, might I add:

(thanks @zorloser)

For you who don’t know, Ifrit’s story ended being re-trapped in it’s pocket dimension with Eggman Nega.

3. The Phantom Ruby

The Phantom Ruby... Oh, the Phantom Ruby.

A very new addition to Sonic, and yet very important. It was the leading mcguffin of two games, and is made out to be very powerful.

yes I know that’s a lot up there, but you need to understand the Phantom Ruby to fully understand this theory.

It’s also very important that Eggman didn’t create the Phantom Ruby as he claims. He created Infinite, not the stone attached to him. Despite there being prototypes, which does confuse me, but from what info we’re given from the wiki the Phantom Ruby seems to have come from Classic Sonic’s universe, even retreating there after the events of Forces. This is also confirmed in Episode Shadow:

Although, Eggman did name it, seemingly on a whim.

~Tangent Time~

Despite being CALLED a Ruby by Eggman, the Phantom Ruby doesn't LOOK like a ruby, despite being magenta.

Rubies CAN be dark even to the point of being Black, but never connected. They’re usually just one shade.

(And don’t you dare say “The chaos emeralds don’t look like emeralds bc they’re not green. They’re all TECHNICALLY emeralds, they’re part of the beryl family, and even if only green beryls are called emeralds, they are all the exact shades of beryl.)

But what the Phantom Ruby DOES look like, is obsidian.

note this for later.

4. Infinite

For those who don’t fully know Infinite’s backstory, it’s expanded upon on the wiki and Rise of Infinite

Now that we’re all on the same page, lets continue to him now.

Lovingly referred to as the “Masked Clown.” Infinite goes about the entirety of Sonic Forces revealing nothing of himself, the only things we know about him are from Episode Shadow and Rise of Infinite. We don’t even see his real face in-game.

Although we have enough to know that his personality changed post Phantom Ruby, it’s even mentioned on the Wiki. Although how much of that change was spurred on by being beat up by a 15 year old, we’ll probably never know.

Although his goal has always been the same. Starting the planet over as a desolate wasteland. What a fun dude to be around. Probably the life of the party.

5. Connections

(i’m using Mephiles and Time-Eater intermittently, same with Iblis and Ifrit.)

Alright, now we’re all on the same page. Let’s move on.

I’m going to play a game we’ve played before. I’m going to name something about Infinite or the Phantom Ruby, and add something that’s eerily simmilar to Solaris (Mephiles + Iblis)

All of this Info can be found on the Sonic Wiki

Phantom Ruby: -It is an interdimensional gemstone of incredible power- Ifrit: It is an interdimensional, demonic fire-creature of incredible power- (wow those are, the same description huh)

Infinite: -After Infinite's fusion with the finalized Phantom Ruby prototype, he acquired the ability to generate, destroy, and manipulate virtual realities, which he could turn into virtual reality projections to interact with reality.[32] Said virtual realities are illusions, which Infinite creates by exercising control of one's visual and depth perception by feeding the brain false information- Ifrit: -Described as capable of binding one's soul, the Ifrit can enslave others with powerful mind control powers.- -Ifrit, which manages to use some kind of mind control on Sonic and/or Tails (or Knuckles and/or Rouge, depending on which team the player is controlling), but is defeated by the other teams, and is destroyed.-

Infinite: -Infinite's newfound strength proved so great that he was able to effortlessly defeat figures like E-123 Omega and Silver the Hedgehog, and ultimately best even Sonic the Hedgehog twice. He was even able to single-handedly overwhelm the entire Resistance army during Operation Big Wave. His power was such that not even the Miles Electric was able to give an accurate reading of his capabilities.[31] Time Eater: -the Time Eater has demonstrated immense super strength; even in its incomplete form, it easily knocked Modern Sonic and Classic Sonic unconscious with a single hit. After being completed, the Time Eater was able to effortlessly repel both Classic and Modern Sonic's and knock them out using brute force alone-

Phantom Ruby: Its powers can also warp the fabric of space-time,[1] allowing it to create pocket dimensions such as Egg Reverie Zone and Null Space, as well as teleport entities from place to place. When used alongside the Chaos Emeralds' time-space powers, it transported Classic Sonic and itself to another dimension, and later sucked Dr. Eggman into a rift- Time Eater: Its signature skill however, is creating "Time Holes",[8] spacial rifts that lead to any point across time and space, including alternate timelines and across different dimensions.

Infinite: When everything you know has come and gone (You are at your lowest, I am rising higher) Only scars remain of who I was (What I find in the ashes, you lose in the fire) When there's no one left to carry on (This is an illusion, open up your eyes and...) This pain persists, I can't resist But that's what it takes to be infinite Solaris: -Much like his two halves, Iblis and Mephiles, Solaris is immortal and virtually indestructible.- -As a transcendent life form, Solaris possesses a unique state of existence that lets him exist in the past, present and future simultaneously, making him omnipresent throughout time and virtually impossible to defeat unless he is attacked simultaneously in all eras-

Possible reach:

Phantom Ruby:

Solaris:

(I’m refering to the odd red-stone in the middle, also that the wings somewhat resemble Infinite’s sword.)

~Tangent Time~

remember the first tangent? Where I meantioned that the Phantom “Ruby” looked more like obsidian than a ruby?

Well someone else looks like a certain type of obsidian, Snowflake Obsidian to be exact:

Alright Reaching time over.

Now you might have noticed that the Ifrit-Infinite connections seemed to fit just a bit more-Maybe it was just me- even down to the Phantom Ruby and Ifrit’s OPENING DESCRIPTION being almost copy/paste, which i’m still amazed at.

This get’s to the next part of my theory.

6. Where are they (Mephiles/Iblis) now?

Welcome to~ where are they now!

Mephiles, or Time-Eater, So far is undocumented. It’s said they were “Destoryed” at the end of Sonic Generations, but for all we know it was just the machine additions, and Mephiles was “destoryed” over 10 years ago and he started kicking again.

Iblis, or Ifrit, was locked in it’s own pocket dimention along with Nega, and hasn’t been seen since...or have they?

haha that’s a callback! Do you remember the beginning of this post or is it too mindbogglingly long for your brain to comprehend in one sitting?

7. The Phantom Ruby is Iblis/Ifrit

let’s talk about the power set of the Phantom Ruby. Interdimentional, very powerful, capable of some kind of mind fuckery.

Ifrit is, Interdimentional, very powerful, capable of some kind of mind fuckery, immortal and is constantly on fire,

You may be wondering about this “Fire” thing. “Solaris was a sun god and infinite has no connection-” WRONG!

sorry that was forceful.

Infinite used a very specific and strange method to destroy the planet. He made an illusion of the sun, and set it on the planet. Out of all the methods, and interesting choice to be sure. But not for a sun god.

also: “What I find in the ashes, you lose in the fire”

“What are you saying you dumb bitch?” You might be thinking. First of all, rude, second of all, I’m saying that the power inside the Phantom Ruby IS Iblis/Ifrit, hence their connection.

Before I get to timeline and other stuff, some minor things:

The decision to have Infinite take on specifically Silver, and showing Silver being able to withstand a fight against him for a good amount of time, as well as giving them a minor repertoire, which no other seemingly “unconnected” Resistance Fighters get.

the name “Infinite” fitting the naming scheme if “Iblis and Ifrit” and you know how this franchise is about naming schemes.

Now, where we last left Ifrit he was trapped in a pocket dimension with Nega.

Where we first find the Phantom Ruby is “In Sonic Mania, the Phantom Ruby appeared on Angel Island after a dimensional breach occurred in the atmosphere.” (via sonic wiki)

Now, it is kinda hard to connect those two lines, but the dimensional causation is there.

(I could add an ENTIRE subsection of me trying to connected Mephiles to the time-traveling nature of Little Planet, therefore connecting Solaris to Classic Sonic’s world ((and “fun is infinite)) but this theory doesn’t need to be any longer and I cannot physically do any more research.)

it’s possible Ifrit would be trapped, Mephiles was trapped in the Scepter of Darkness, so it’s more possible than impossible.

But, Imma be fully honest with you guys, Most of this is because of the song.

If you haven’t heard “Infinite”, What is wrong with you. Go listen to it. Oh my god.

But, some of the lyrics, don’t totally make sense knowing Infinite’s backstory. But it makes more sense seeing through the lens of the added Ifrit influence.

“And after all this time you're back for more“ (If talking about Shadow, it wasn’t a “long time” inbetween Infinite’s defeat and his rise. And Infinite has no stated relationship with Sonic. However, Solaris and subsequently, Iblis, do.) “When everything you know has come and gone“ “But that's what it takes to be infinite“

Even the name “Infinite.”

He chose that name after fusing to the Phantom Ruby and “ABAndoNiNg hIS pAsT SeLf”

But, the Phantom Ruby has no connotations of immortality. None specified. it’s possible it’s power could be used to trick the user into immortality, but it’s never specified. You’d think he’d be called “Phantom” or, even, “Zero” (his working-and possibly true-name) But no. Infinite.

Now, think back to the connections earlier, and the info I took from Solaris’s wiki.

“Omnipresent throughout time and space”

Sounds pretty “Infinite” to me.

Am I saying Infinite is the new Iblis Trigger? Yes.

Ok my fingers hurt from writing this sorry it’s so long

bye

#infinite the jackal #solaris #mephiles the dark #iblis #ifrit #theory #sonic theory

382 notes · View notes

dostthouhavenochill · 3 years ago

Text

Performance

Rating: Gen

Fandom: Castlevania (Netflix)

Word Count: 2.6k

Characters: Alucard, Greta of Danesti, Sypha Belnades, minor OCs (mentioned)

Relationships: pre-Gretacard, Trephacard (mentioned)

Warnings: none

Summary: Alucard muses on how life has changed since the head woman of Danesti, now Belmont, and her people have settled about his home.

The clearing was relatively quiet that afternoon, with the odd settler or two roaming around, enjoying a moment’s rest after doing their part in the rebuilding effort for the day. The setting sun warmed Alucard’s skin as he sat against a large oak tree. Strong winds shook the branches above his head, sending bursts of orange and red drifting about him. He brushed errant leaves out of his basket and plucked out a dark spool to finish his mending.

Aaliya and Rahim, bless their hearts, were the most rambunctious out of all of Alucard's children. So it came as no surprise when a few hours ago, Rahim came to him with pieces of what used to be a stuffed horse, “His name is Sumac, Father!”, wailing his dark eyes out. Alucard promised to make time to mend him by the end of the day. The toy was a well-loved thing, with stains and misaligned stuffing, all evidence of a boy who took his friend everywhere he went. The horse’s reddish-brown fur was now a muddled sepia and its once cream mane and markings now gray. Alucard just about had his fill of bloody horses, but he could make an exception just this once.

He wasn’t resting alone though. After depositing lumber and stone for Solomon and his building team, Greta settled beside him. She only dozed off a short while ago, but not before giving a knowing chuckle at his project and a snark about how he was finally as used to people as people were used to him. Absolutely maniacal. He couldn’t find room to complain.

So much had changed in just these last four months. Alucard would be lying to himself if he said that it wasn’t jarring to go from months of solitude to human interaction and back again, a hellish cycle that always seemed to end with him alone. But with the settlement of the people of Danesti, now Belmont, that cycle had been broken. Funny, considering how he had been hesitant towards the idea.

Except hesitant wasn’t an accurate description. Initially, Alucard had to wrestle with his desires for both solitude and companionship. As much as he longed for the latter, Alucard wasn’t prepared for its magnitude. Saint Germain, for all his scheming, offered a reasonable solution to a suffering people. Only that reasonable solution left Alucard feeling bare and scrubbed raw, as if the entirety of the world made itself at home in his ribcage before even giving him the courtesy of undoing the frog of his cape first.

Those first nights after the battle was when the enormity of his hospitality truly began to set in. He lamented the loss of his solitude. Protection, knowledge, and safety-he would never hesitate to offer, but with so many rooms holding so many personal memories, he’d unintentionally left his soul bare to all. He remembers all but dashing ahead of Greta while showing her the food supply to hide his makeshift companions from her teasing, scrutinous gaze.

But...it was nice.

It had been so long since the halls were alive, filled with laughter and with people milling about the halls. It hardly ever seemed like he was alone now. His role as champion along with Greta’s say-so granted him a founding role in Belmont and as such was bombarded with questions daily; someone asking for aid, someone asking for instruction, someone...just asking how he’s faring that day.

From beside him, Greta, with her arms crossed, snored softly. Alucard let out an undignified chuckle. For someone who had such hasty and scathing observations about settling at Castlevania, she seems quite content.

Greta wasn’t wrong when she called the Castle cold. Alucard remembers plenty of nights alone, abandoned, shivering and craving nothing but someone, anyone, to ease his loneliness. His mother. His father. Belmont. Sypha. Anyone. But after Sumi and Taka’s betrayal, Alucard began to appreciate the aura Castlevania emanated. It’s dark, cavernous windows and ominous silhouette, looming and judging those who came across it, a warning sign to all. It stood imposingly with cautionary tales skewered at its lip. Greta was simply experiencing the emotions Castlevania intended to elicit from oncomers; the cold, fear, and danger.

Even so, after everything that’s happened, Alucard couldn’t help but feel a sense of welcome and warmth in those dark, cavernous windows.

The windows that led to the study where Adrian spent years on years learning a multitude of languages, preferring the ones with lots of “s’s” because of the way it slithered off his tongue.

The windows that led to the southwestern dining room, where an infantile Adrian nearly chomped off his mother’s finger whilst she tried to stop him from swallowing a frozen carrot he’d been teething on.

The windows that led to the science hall, where he, Sypha, and Trevor spent the last few blissful days of their union getting drunk and blasting off various spells into the ceiling to see what would happen.

Yes, there had been plenty of warmth in the Castle, even before it had been graced with the people of Danesti. Almost every room he can recall with a smile and a fond tale. He’d had to convince Greta, he thinks. He can already imagine it; the disbelief on her face when he tells her he learned to shapeshift into a dire pup in a conservatory, a room filled with foliage and beakers and sunlight and all sorts of breakable things. And he can imagine telling her that Lord Dracula himself had to call for aid from his wife when their son burst through a window and pranced about nude in the outdoor sun. He can imagine that curious wrinkle in her brows before she thinks of something, immediately says it, and rarely regrets it.

He can imagine telling her so much about his childhood. About Vlad and Lisa Țepeș. About growing up the only dhampir, to his knowledge. He can imagine telling her so much about his past and about, ahem, possibly their present; what’s changed since he met her and what’s stayed the same. The tangled but firm bundle of feelings she’s elicited from him. He’ll have to ask for her time one day, one day when she isn’t exhausted from doing the work of half a dozen persons in a few hours time and taking a well-earned break.

Alucard was broken from his musings when he saw Sypha striding up to him in the distance. In the midst of Sypha’s pregnancy, her passion and spitfire were amplified. As such, she had enough of all the side looks and loaded barbs between them all.

They had talked, Trevor and Sypha and Alucard. They talked about feelings, about abandonment and betrayal and neglect, about Trevor and Sypha’s child also calling Alucard father. About how it was almost too soon to make such a leap, feelings too raw. About sentiments that could have, perhaps should have, been properly expressed before fucking off across Europe. About regrets and pain, about trust and building it back up. It wasn’t ruined, but it was worse for wear. Nothing that some regular maintenance wouldn’t help.

Alucard almost stands to offer Sypha a hand, but she politely declines, saying that if she gets down, she won’t get back up as easily. Besides, she was only here for a quick thing. Then, she took note of the sleeping Greta, and lowered her voice, saying, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so still before.” Alucard was inclined to agree. With her coat draped over her lap, and her head lopped to the side, Greta looked at peace. The tasks of a head woman were never-ending, it seems.

“What brings you out here, then?” Alucard asked, once he was able to drag his gaze away from Greta’s sleeping form.

“Rahim was looking for you,” she cocked her head, giving him a puzzled look. “He said that you would help him find some sumac?.” Chuckling into his chest, Alucard ties off the thread on the poor thing's left haunch and passes it up to Sypha.

“I believe I stitched together all the bits of his Sumac as best I could.” Alucard wonders if Sypha even heard him over all her soft albeit consistent cooing.

“Alucaaaard. I never knew you were so good with a needle,” she spoke as she ran her fingers lovingly through its sullied mane. “With the state of Trevor’s socks, he could learn a thing or two from you.”

And then the most terrifying thing happened; Sypha got The Look. To the casual observer, looking at the duo of Belnades and Belmont, one would think that the former was the sensible one. And they wouldn’t necessarily be wrong. However, what the casual observer typically fails to notice is that Sypha, for all her grace and intellect, was at least half as crazy and twice as impulsive as Belmont himself. Arguably, she was at her worst when she got mischievous, and the only tell for that was a distinct Look; one where her impossibly large eyes sparkled and her lips twitched like a kitten holding onto a canary for a little too long.

“You knoooooow,” she began, sounding like a child all too eager to tell an adult about some fact they recently learned, a fact that they had no business knowing. “It's never too early to start preparing things for the baby-books, clothes, toys and things. Perhaps little Trefor would appreciate something personal from his Alucard. Mayhaps if you had any miniature dolls of his parents lying about,” her bright eyes squinting in mischief, “Or something like that.”

Alucard would’ve liked the earth to swallow him whole or for a wayward night creature to snatch him away into the woods. He would’ve liked a multitude of things, but he was stopped by a soft snort coming from behind him. He turned to see Greta trying and failing to suppress a smirk.

With her eyes still closed, she gave up her storybook act and said, “I’m sure sunshine here could pull something off. Yours and Trevor’s resemblance is quite striking.” Sypha howls with laughter, calming herself only after Alucard throws her a glare, all the while blush painting his...well, everything. He sighs, turning back to Greta.

“I hadn’t known you were such a fan of my needlework.”

“Well, I hadn’t intended on saying anything.” Greta barely got her last word out before Alucard rounded back, still mortified.

“Quite unlike you. I ought to be worried.” Greta cracks open an eye at that, playfully raising an eyebrow at the dhampir.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said indignantly.

“I don’t know what gave you that impression,” Greta closed her eye again, crossing her arms behind her head, “ I was merely resting my eyes.”

“And your heart rate?” Alucard bent an arm against his leg, resting his chin in his palm and gazing at her through lidded lashes. “If I had poorer hearing, I would have almost certainly mistaken you for a sleeping person.”

Greta raised a single finger. “Almost. Key word: almost.”

Rolling his eyes under closed lids, Alucard said, “You would make an excellent performer, you know.”

“I am a woman of many skills.”

“Indeed. One day, I imagine you might even be able to successfully imitate a rock.”

Greta effortlessly lands a hit against Alucard’s thigh. There’s no real force behind it. It’s the same friendly banter they’ve always shared, the same heat that fills his chest, the same stir it causes in his gut, and the same burn to the spot she touched.

“Smartass.” As she draws her hand back, the smirk on her face never drops.

Alucard, chuckling and chest warming, cocks his head back to Sypha to ask if she needs anything else from him and is surprised to see an intensity in her widened eyes. Wide as they were when they first entered the Belmont hold, large and curious and flickering as she combed through every book she could find, devouring any new information at her grasp with a thrilling quickness. Before the embarrassment at being perceived settled in his bones, Greta spoke up, this time to Sypha, making her eyes softer than usual.

“How are you and the little one today, Sypha?”

“We’re well, thank you,” Sypha takes her hand and rubs it across her slowly increasing bump, giving the head woman a pleased grin. “I see you’re taking a well-earned break.”

“Nothing wrong with a little rest,” Greta shrugs, relaxing further back against the bark. Her brows get that curious wrinkle, however, and she says, “Especially for those of us with child who’ve been running about since dawn.”

Alucard takes solace in the fact that the air around Sypha tingles ever so slightly and he is, for once, not subject to embarrassment. If Greta sensed Sypha’s chagrin, as she almost certainly did, she didn’t make it known, aside perhaps from the cute crinkle around her eyes and nose.

But Sypha recovers much faster than Alucard ever has, giving Greta a self-satisfied smile. “I’ll have you know I wasn’t up and about until after the sun broke.” She then releases a long sigh. “But between Trevor, Khadijah and the other healers’ constant fretting, you’d think I was on my last legs instead of giving life.”

Mischief incarnate would do well to take note of Greta of Danesti, with a hand propped under chin, a single digit tapping her cheek, and a dangerous glint in her burnished eyes. “Foolish of them, then, to disregard the woman who battles night creatures regularly and moved an entire fucking castle as incapable of anything.”

“Foolish indeed!”

Alucard cast a sly gaze towards Greta, naughty of you to rile her up like this-Belmont is sure to get an earful later. Coy is never a word he would’ve ascribed to the head woman, but the curve of her lips and flutter of her lashes had him reconsidering.

Sypha says her goodbyes and goes to return the horse to its rightful owner. Stopping short, she looks back to Greta and says, “I don’t think you have much room to talk, however, Head Woman Greta of Danesti-now-Belmont-who-wakes-with-the-sun-and-slays-night-creatures-and-carries-lumber-and-.”

Greta ducks her head, sending the Speaker off with a wave, “Enough of that, Belnades.” She lowers her hand, her brows creasing as she says, “Thank you and be well.”

As Sypha departs, Greta settles back against the tree. With nothing to keep his hands busy, Alucard joins her in relaxing in the setting sun, hands folded in his lap. Being immortal, the dhampir never needed excessive amounts of sleep to function, per se. Perhaps he would just rest his eyes and enjoy the company.

Alucard sighs as the cool breeze passes through his hair and picks up fallen leaves, carrying them across the clearing. Then he sputters as one flies straight into his mouth. The dhampir gets no warning as Greta’s soft hands pull his hair aside, causing him to jump slightly. Her slender fingers pick out the foliage from his hair and shoulders before tossing them to the ground beneath them.

She can’t stop herself from letting out one last chuckle at Alucard’s expense. “Are you sure you don’t have anything better to do that loaf about with me, sunshine?” Her tawny eyes held still against his. Alucard arched his head back against the tree to appreciate her gaze.

“Nothing in particular springs to mind,” he doesn’t bother smothering the smirk growing on his face, “Besides, as I understand it, Khadijah has ordered you to loaf about after your mishap two nights ago.”

That earns him quite the eyeroll. “Khadijah, the worrywart, would order me to loaf about if I tripped over a stick.”

“Tripping over a mere stick?,” he lilted, “ I’d think he’d need to examine your head if that ever happened.”

Another thwack. Another burst of heat. Only this time, Alucard held fast, catching her hand before it could completely fall away. Greta startled at his reflexes, her head teasingly cocked aside as her eyes flicked from his to their joined hands. Before he lost his nerve, Alucard placed his other hand atop hers, giving it a soft squeeze and resting it in his lap. “I’m sure. I’d much rather be here than anywhere else.”

#come get y'all juice #fanfic #who did this #castlevania #gretacard #greta danesti #alucard #adrian tepes #sypha belnades #trephacard #castlevania fanfic

32 notes · View notes

soyunaagente · 4 years ago

Text

Crossed Wires

Thank you @pridelumos for trusting me enough to write this request!

This is the first one I’ve ever done so I hope you all enjoy it!

Word Count- roughly 2,200.

Warnings- mentions of murder, guns, sex, drugs. My terrible writing.

The ticking of the office clock was the only thing breaking the tense silence. Yet another day had passed and not a single tip, clue or evidence was sent in. You sighed loudly and got up from your desk. The evening sun still flooding the room in a warm glow.

‘Someone’s in a good mood,’ Agent Roger Knapp commented on your louder than normal exhale.

You shot him a look as you poured yet another cup of coffee, The third of the day. ‘It’s been weeks Roger, weeks. We still know shit.’ You’re fresh, not three years out of the academy, still chomping at the bit to make a difference; after all you’ve heard about the emerging ‘drug war’ in Mexico. The more….seasoned agents have gotten cynical over the years. Unless it falls into their lap they don’t bother to investigate.

You dropped into your comfortable office chair and slumped over the desk. Letting out a frustrated groan. Honestly? If you knew the adventure that was about to ensure you’d wish for a few more of the lazy office days.

----------

Miguel Ángel Felix Gallardo, arguably the most wanted man in Mexico, leaned back in his office chair. Specially designed with French leather. Not for the faint of heart. He too let out a frustrated sigh. The Gulf was weeks away from overtaking most of the land border into the United States. All he’d been able to do was sit back and watch it happen.

He sighed again and stood up to look out the window. The fading rays of sunlight doing nothing to ease his apprehension. The Gulf was mere weeks away from securing the majority of the land border between Mexico and the United States. It would lead to a drop in profits; and an increase in problems. As if he hadn't had enough, Tijuana and Sinaloa were in a war, Pacho had him in a vice grip and Maria was gone. Fled. Kids and all.

Miguel lit a cigarette, as he watched the ash tip onto the stone balcony he realised there was no point in wallowing. This wasn't going to sort itself. At least this may be something he could fix. Miguel caught his jacket from the coat rack and slammed the door behind him.

If he had known the events of the next few days maybe he would have gently closed the door instead.

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

You stood at the side entrance of the offices, leaning against the door frame and watching the Guadalajara streets begin to light up with nightlife and music. You glanced back at the building you called a workplace for a moment. Your eyes scanning the stonework. When you laid eyes on him, however. your jaw dropped to the floor.

Strutting up the steps to the main entrance. To the United States DEA base in Guadalajara Mexico was none other than the man that had saved your life almost two years ago.

Miguel Ángel Felix Gallardo.

*Sinaloa two years prior*

As the first female in the DEA you felt as if you had a point to prove. This was your shot to do it. The biggest night time raid the DEA was about to undertake in the city of Sinaloa. Three houses, two down, now it was your turn to show off all you had learnt. It's not an Old Boys Club anymore.

In the end it had all happened so fast. First you lead the team tactically into the premises, cleared the perimeter. You did everything by the book. After that night you learnt that rules become blurred south of the border quite often.

There was a sudden whirr of bullets, frenzied screaming.... an odd smell of smoke. Fear overtook you when you heard the order coming from your Walkie Talkie. Two words registered. 'Ambush... scatter.'

You gripped your gun so tight it was a miracle it didn't snap in two. Barely taking in your surroundings you ran. Hastily. The streets passed in a blur. Your lungs felt on fire as you slowed your steps. Slowing to a stop, leaning against a building. The panting made the footsteps approaching behind you inaudible, it was far too late by the time you noticed.

The sickening click of a gun being drawn from its holster behind you caused your face to drain of blood. Trembling you slowly turned. You were staring down the barrel of a gun.

Seconds ticked by. The masked gunman's hand trembled. In that split second a gunshot rang out.. as you were thrown to the ground. You kept your eyes squeezed tightly. A warm hand ran down your arm. Daring to open one eye was the best and worst thing you ever did. You opened both. A pair of deep brown eyes stared back. Entranced. He helped you up, how kind of him.

Once steady on your feet you got a good look at the man. Time for round two of heart attacks of the day. One of the most wanted men in Mexico had his hand in yours, his other holding your elbow to keep you steady. He looked, well, he looked concerned.

'Estas bien mija?'

Your mouth opened and closed.

He chuckled. 'We,' he gestured to the giant of a bodyguard standing over your would be killer's corpse. 'saw what happened. He was on our hit list anyway.'

You felt your cheeks heat up. His voice was like melted butter. He squeezed your hand. 'I hope I'll see you again... agente.'

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

A bunch of roses with no name attached appeared at the office two weeks later. After getting a LOT of shit from the other agents you figured it could only be Miguel who had sent them. Two days later a necklace arrived. Your internal monologue went a little like ��Oh no Oh no Oh no no no no no no’, especially when you realised the butterflies before evening opening the little box tied with a red ribbon. He’s a goddamn Narco. You’re meant to be putting him in a prison to rot.

You threw the flowers out and hid the necklace in your wardrobe. Get rid of all keepsakes and therefore all memories. He’s not for you. It’s not right. It’s damn illegal.

Now here he was walking as calm as could be into the lion’s den. You stayed watching his cool demeanour. His cockiness. That blue suit, that jet black ha-no stop. You didn’t even notice the small smile appearing on your face as he disappeared indoors.

Realising the worst thing you could possibly do was follow him. So you waited. Hiding behind a tree. Smooth. Real smooth. He emerged from the building about twenty minutes later. You almost deflated in relief as the car turned the corner and sped off down the next street.

Naively thinking it was safe you returned to your desk. Only to have Roger and Chief Jamie Kuykendall waiting with eyebrows raised and an unreadable look on their faces. Jamie was the first to speak. ‘We-um- we had a visitor.’

You acted confused. They fell for it. ‘I- we- Felix Gallardo was here. Looking to give us information,’ he finished.

‘Wha- what? How? Why?’ you babbled.

‘We don’t know the specifics. That’s the problem, we haven’t the faintest idea why he wants to give it to us. All we know is. He’ll only give it to you.’ Roger intervened.

Your jaw hit the floor. ‘Me?’

‘No, he came all the way in here to ask for the Pope. Yes you,’ Roger snapped.

Jamie handed you a scrap piece of paper. ‘He asked to meet you for dinner. He’ll give you the information then.’

Your brow furrowed. The moral compass going into overdrive. He’s a narco. He saved your life. You’re just getting information. Pushing all the thoughts aside you nodded slowly. ‘I’ll do it. It’ll be okay.’ Whether you were convincing them or yourself is still up for debate.

You didn’t sleep at all that night. The bed was uncomfortable, the night was too humid, the pillows were uneven. All excuses you convinced yourself were the issue. Sitting straight up at dawn you stared at the wardrobe. The necklace. Sneaking up on the shelf you caught the box and pulled it down. Inside lay the most beautiful silver and diamond collar.

Slipping it on felt right, It fit like a glove. The dress you chose was a bit risqué to say the least. But you know, we have to give him something to look at. Grabbing your purse before leaving you noticed a driver and his car outside.

‘Para ti Senorita,’ He opened the door. Champagne and truffles awaited. The smell of the new leather filled you with apprehension as the streets rolled by, before long you were in an unfamiliar part of town. The filthy rich side. The driver pulled up to a villa straight out of a Hollywood movie. The old fashioned villa, complete with a football field sized yard and outdoor pool was a stark contrast to the cramped apartment you called home.

Feeling slightly out of place you followed the driver to the entrance. He pushed open the door to a beautifully ornate interior. A butler handed you a glass of champagne and led you to the outdoor terrace. A table for two was set, with a view overlooking the city. It was almost too much. Almost. You took a seat at the table. Admiring the white table cloth and, of course, the vase full of roses as a centre piece. You nervously tugged at the necklace, anxious for Miguel to arrive. Still mixed feelings on the whole deal.

‘Hola Senorita,’ that voice, It stirred something in the pit of your stomach.

‘Hola.’ There was a slight bit of tension in the air as he sat across from you. The look in his eye was mischievous, bordering cocky.

‘Antes de cenar agente. Tengo un regalo para ti.’ He pushed a brown envelope across the table. You let your fingertips touch it before he lets it go. You take another glance back at him. The cockiness is gone. This is the envelope with everything in it. Names, addresses, routes. You tapped your fingers on it for a second. Contemplating. Eventually deciding against better judgement you slipped the invaluable information into your purse. A look of relief washed over Miguel’s face.

It honestly took you by surprise how funny he could be. You felt a six pack coming on before dinner was even served. The tension disappeared. As the wine flowed you felt more at ease with your supposed arch nemesis. His shoulders slowly dropped throughout the meal. Simply enjoying the company. The butler cleared the dinner dishes away. As he did so the sound of slow classical music filled the night air. Bringing with it Miguel’s invitation for a dance. Slightly embarrassed at the prospect he put you at ease by assuring you he didn’t know the steps.

He held your hand in his. His grip around your waist was both comforting and reassuring. You simply melted into the embrace. Resting your head on his chest. The sound of his heartbeat was music to your ears. That moment, nothing could ruin that picturesque moment. The smell of his expensive cologne, the feeling of his cool shirt against your skin.

You gazed up at him, his beard tickling your upper lip. You felt a smirk, his hand around your waist tightening. Oh dear, no. You place your hands on his chest where your head once lay. He looks at you, concern filling his eyes. ‘Que pasa mija hm.’

‘I-I.’ you fumble. ‘This,we,’

He stopped dead in his tracks. Moving his hands to hold your shoulders gently but firmly. ‘What are you worried about?’

You stared down at the floor. ‘I can’t be a notch on your belt Miguel. That’s not what this is, I'm a DEA agent. Of course I’ll be forever grateful for saving my life but…. But I just-’

His grip became slightly firmer. Barely noticeable but yet, you felt it. ‘I’m not going to bring you to my room mija. If you do decide to, it'll be because you want to. Not to, what, thank me for the information? That’s not what this is.’ His tone was reaffirming. Yet Calming. His juxtapositions were almost overpowering. How could one man be so much Ying and yet, so much Yang?

You held his hand. Entwining your fingers with his. ‘This is the way it has to stay Miguel,’ your voice cracking slightly. This is the way it has to stay.

You quickly wiped a tear from your cheek. With mascara threatening to run you turned to leave. Picking up your purse you took the first steps. Before bidding adieu to the glorious villa you glanced back at the Narco standing in front of you. ‘If you have any more information you know where I am.’

With that, you bid the man that firmly held your heart farewell.

#miguel angel felix gallardo #miguel angel #miguel angel felix gallardo x reader #narcos mexico #narcos mexico imagine #narcos

78 notes · View notes

ofdragonsdeep · 3 years ago

Text

26 (Star)

This was written as a fill for the quick-prompt for the week of 13th September on the Book Club discord, which I... cannot link because I am not an ~official author~ because I'm shy.

They are supposed to be 100 words or thereabouts. This... is not.

The eldest of the Durendaire children tires of misery.

(spoilers for early SB, Firmament quests, and minor AST nonsense)

The soft sound of the waves splashing against rock warred with the hustle and bustle of Limsa Lominsa for a place in the ears. Ar’telan, sat on one of the benches in the aetheryte plaza, watched the people come and go, locals and merchants and tourists thronging between docks and markets, watched over by stern yellowjackets keen to keep the peace. When he had first set foot in Limsa Lominsa, however many moons ago that had been, someone had told him that you could tell a native from an outsider by how much the salt spray settled into the crags in their face, consonants discarded from the speech like so much unnecessary ornamentation.

The Echo had taught him that people would hear what he wanted them to hear, when it wanted to work, but he had never been able to sound like a local. Even Reyner, the commander of the Yellowjackets and perpetual ‘proper’ speaker, still sounded more at ease in Limsa than Ar’telan did. Still, he was comforted by the familiar surroundings, sun reflected off white-bleached walls, the comforting thrum of life.

With a thunk of shoes on stone, Ar’telan hopped from the bench and began his walk around the city. He was here for no reason - not one that the fate of the world dictated, at any rate. It was nice, in the space between disasters, to find himself in familiar places without a pressing cause.

The walk took him to the upper decks, past the drunks and the hopeful street workers and the festive balloons in the Aftcastle. Melkoko waved to him from the door of the Missing Member, and he offered her a nod of greeting in return, not quite brave enough to actually go into the building and risk Rhoswen’s wrath for simply existing in a space adjacent to her. It was a little quieter in the Hyaline, the vendor at the counter ceasing her attempts to sell him ‘spice’ as soon as she recognised who he was.

“Fair weather, Warrior o’ Light! You got business with the Cap’n?” Heddyn asked, Ar’telan considering the stairs he guarded and the question he asked, weighing them in his mind.

“If he is free to speak, it would be nice,” he said, and Heddyn gave him a nod and a playful salute, vanishing up the stairs to check with his Captain.

A flurry of movement escorted Ar’telan up the stairs and into the back room of the Hyaline, an open deck which looked out over the flagship of the Kraken’s Arm and the many barges that surrounded it. Captain Carvallain had any number of ventures to his name these days, from exotic ‘spice’ (Ar’telan was still uncertain what, exactly, the word substituted for) to pleasure barges to trade in mundane goods from the far-flung port of Kugane. It was only the lucrative nature of that final venture that prevented him from attempting to skin Tataru alive whenever the Scions were mentioned in conversation, or so Ar’telan presumed.

“Ar’telan. Strange to see you here,” he greeted, a nod of his head the only acknowledgement of the miqo’te’s presence. “I do hope you have not brought any irksome companions with you this time.”

“Just me,” Ar’telan confirmed, noting the way that Carvallain relaxed, if only a little. Carvallain sounded like a Limsan local, even though he wasn’t, the Ishgardian lilt to his accent universally ignored by any who might think to note it. It had been many moons ago that Ar’telan had first taken notice - walking the snow-heavy road to Gorgagne Mills, the quiet farmstead bearing the same name that Carvallain had taken for a surname. He had dwelled upon it when he had spoken with Jannequinard, at the Athenaeum Astrologicum in Ishgard proper, and helped him and his Sharlayan friend with their struggles to see astromancy of the Sharlayan bent recognised within the city. It had come as no great surprise when Tataru and Alphinaud had used the ‘subtle’ arts of manipulation to use the entirely unconnected story of Count de Durendaire’s unfortunate eldest son, lost at sea, to convince Carvallain to ferry them to Kugane.

And now here they were.

“Good. The trade that your voyage to Kugane started has been good for our coffers, but I would rather that meddlesome little woman didn’t learn that I was grateful,” he said, examining his nails as he said it, as though it were nothing. “The rumour mill has told me some very interesting things about how you’ve been spending your time. Are many true?” Ar’telan grimaced.

“I’m not sure I could name half of them,” he replied. “I have mostly been in Ishgard, when not doing the tasks which make the news.” The cloud passed over Carvallain’s face for a moment, but it cleared before it could take a greater hold.

“Yes. One of the Houses is most fond of you, aren’t they?” he said, voice light. Ar’telan managed a nervous laugh.

“Something like that. But I know them all quite well, now,” he said, hopping up onto the wall and sitting on it, tail swishing in the breeze from the ocean at his back. “The old Count de Dzemael has been building structures for dravanians in the Churning Mists. I’ve been helping Francel with revitalising the Firmament. There was a call for aid from outside sources for that.” Carvallain nodded, his expression guarded now.

“We sold a few things to some interested parties, but that has been the extent of our involvement in the matter,” he replied. “I will confess, it is odd to hear Ishgard spoken of… positively. I cannot imagine the stubborn rocks in the nobility are overly fond of it.”

“Lord Speaker Aymeric has been doing good work,” Ar’telan said. “And you might be surprised. Count Charlemend has been working as a volunteer in a hospital for the poor.” Carvallain snorted at that, then paused, a frown on his face.

“...You are serious,” he realised. Ar’telan nodded, not elaborating for fear that he would be tarred with the same brush as Tataru, even though his motives were perhaps in the same venn diagram. “Unbelievable. The times are truly changing, I suppose.” He gave Ar’telan a searching look, his stance stiff and uncertain, an unusual look for the leader of pirates. “Bah, I tire of this pointless dance. Speak plain. Did you come here to bully me like your vicious little secretary?”

“Not intentionally,” Ar’telan replied, which was true, but not particularly endearing. “I just thought you might like to know. What you do with the knowledge is not my business.” Carvallain sighed.

“I suppose I am curious as to the lead-in,” he allowed. “Very well. Tell me what you know.”

---

It was not an easy conversation. For all that Ar’telan was aiding Charlemend in his sincere desire to leave the old ways of life, the pain that he had inflicted - on purpose or not - was clear to see. Carvallain’s brow still darkened at the sound of his name, and Ar’telan thought of Ronantain, desperate to mold himself into the image of the good noble that had been taught to him for all too long in his short life. He thought of Jannequinard, so brilliant and clever, throwing himself into anything he could enjoy that was just disrespectful enough to leave his betters despairing, but not enough to have him thrown from the parapets and disowned.

He thought of the knight, lost to grief after failing his charge, who had died in the mills that gave Carvallain his name.

But the conversation had left him with something most unexpected: an elegantly penned note, the calling card of the Kraken’s Arms, an offer in dispassionate ink on the back of it.

“You may read it, if you wish,” Carvallain had said. “I don’t imagine that much goes unseen by your eyes, these days.”

Ar’telan had put it in his pocket, and kept his gaze averted.

---

The cold air of Ishgard hit like a wall as Ar’telan teleported into Foundation, and he shook his head and shivered in its suddenness. He had long since lost his need for the warmth of his home in Meracydia, but La Noscea was far warmer than Ishgard, and it hit like a shock. He took his gloves from his pockets, pulled them on, and rubbed his hands together as he walked. The aetheryte shard network would have been faster, but for all its inhospitality, Ar’telan still longed to stretch the minutes he spent in Ishgard to bells.

The Athenaeum Astrologicum was busier now than it had been even at the height of the war, students of all stripes thronging in and around its walls. A few of them recognised him, for his work with the erstwhile management in the past, but without a globe at hand most of the students paid him little heed. Ar’telan found that suited him just fine.

Jannequinard was at the desk when he walked in, eyes buried in the pages of a book. He glanced up, looked back down when he noted that Ar’telan was not a nubile young woman ready to be talked into compromising positions by a dashing young fox of a nobleman, then looked back up again when who he actually was registered with his brain.

“This is a surprise,” he remarked, and Ar’telan grimaced.

“Anyone would think I never visited,” he said, and Jannequinard sighed. A card from the sleeve at his hip was wedged into his book, in a move that would have made Leveva bonk him over the head with the nearest sufficiently weighty implement, and he leaned forwards, head rested on his hands.

“You either have terrible news, or interesting news. If it is the former, I will have to ask that you leave. I have a date this evening.”

“You do?” Ar’telan asked, surprised, and Jannequinard sagged in defeat.

“Yes, yes, very funny. An actual date, with an actual, living woman, before you get as sarcastic as those two.” He shot a venomous look at the two astrologians who served as the Athenaeum’s formal welcoming committee, who did not even seem to notice it. Ar’telan assumed they got it a lot. “So nobody is dying? There has been no attack by mysterious assailants on important personages, abducted nobles, crying orphans, anything of the sort?”

“Not that I am aware of,” Ar’telan replied. “I could ask at Rolanberry Fields if you want a crying orphan, though.”

“The Fury blessed you with a streak of humour since we last spoke, I see,” Jannequinard said, arching a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Then why have you come?” Ar’telan paused, not having actually considered how best to approach the situation. Jannequinard did not appear to be a subtle man, but he could be, when the situation called for it. Or when he thought the situation called for it, at any rate.

“I have something for you,” Ar’telan said eventually, reaching into his pocket and taking out the missive, putting it down on the desk between them before continuing. “From one of the Captains in Limsa Lominsa. An offer of trade, I think.”

“You think?” Jannequinard repeated, the suspicion plain on his face. “I will assume that you have misread the name, since you speed through all other matters, but I am not above a little spying, so I shall take this regardless.” He picked it up, looked at the sigil on the front with a mixture of concern and disdain, and flipped it over. Muttered fragments of words gave Ar’telan the very short version of the offer Carvallain had made, but it was when Jannequinard made it to the signatory that he stopped.

“Who gave this to you?” he asked, his cordial tone dropping several notches. Ar’telan felt like he might shiver despite the warmth of the Athenaeum’s fires.

“Captain Carvallain of the Kraken’s Arms,” he replied. Jannequinard shot his gaze around the room in a panic, before remembering that it was impossible to overhear the words of someone who was not actually speaking them.

“...Come with me a moment, will you?” he asked, getting to his feet. That was enough to draw the concern of the other astrologians in the room, but he waved them off irritably and escorted Ar’telan into the back of the Athenaeum.

---

The private study rooms were conservatively furnished, a small number of wooden chairs and great tables capable of holding the full breadth of an unfurled star map, and very little else. Jannequinard closed the door on the one he had appropriated, then almost forcibly sat Ar’telan in the nearest chair, despite his half-formed noises of protest.

“I know that a lot of people in this city think you are a fool with more goodwill than sense, but contrary to popular opinion, I am not stupid. You are aware of what happened to my… my brother, yes?” Ar’telan noted the way his voice caught at the admittance. It was not sorrow - Jannequinard had likely been barely more than a boy when it happened, though Ar’telan was not entirely sure how old he or Carvallain were. He knew Jannequinard chafed at the prospect of inheritance, to the degree that he had been a ‘maybe’ in the aftermath. Knew that Charlemend would not have taken his eldest’s loss well. Knew that he was opening old wounds. Maybe that had been Carvallain’s aim, after all, and he just the errand boy for it. But he had said that it was Carvallain’s knowledge to do with as he wished, he supposed.

“Yes. He was lost at sea. Pirates, they thought,” he replied. “It is why you did not wish to follow Leveva and I to Limsa Lominsa, is it not?” Jannequinard wrinkled his nose, annoyed that Ar’telan was both bringing up his past failings, and also seeing through his ruse.

“Perhaps. That is neither here nor there,” he dismissed with a sharp wave of his hand. “What matters is that you have brought me a missive from pirates, signed in the name of my dead brother, and you expect me to believe this is an accident.”

“I never said it was an accident,” Ar’telan replied, which caught Jannequinard off-guard.

“No, I suppose you did not,” he allowed, then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am going to have to cancel my date, aren’t I?”

“I do not think the Count will mind if you leave it til the morning. He is busy with his work, these days,” Ar’telan offered, attempting to soften the blow. Jannequinard looked back down at the note.

“Did he give this to you himself?” he asked. Ar’telan nodded his head. “Did he- is he- Is it really him?” he managed, voice quiet. Ar’telan nodded a second time. Jannequinard swallowed, looking down and up again, a look of the lost on his face. “How long have you known?”

“I have suspected since I first met you,” he replied. “I have known for certain since just before the War of Liberation in Ala Mhigo.” Jannequinard attempted to process this, and utterly failed to do so.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“Because it wasn’t my choice to make,” Ar’telan said. Jannequinard let out a long, defeated sigh.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” he agreed. “If I had managed to escape our father I would not want some random adventurer dragging me back under his heel. Damn all of this.” He put the card into the space on his sleeve where the Bole-shaped bookmark had previously sat, scowling down at it as though it were razor-edged. “Very well. I shall inform the Count.”

“You don’t have to,” Ar’telan said, and Jannequinard stopped short, as though he had not even considered that option. Ar’telan didn’t imagine there was anything that Jannequinard did that did not find its way back to the Count, one way or another, but he had made a deliberate choice to give this letter to Jannequinard first.

“I… No, I shall tell him,” he decided eventually. “Carvallain de Durendaire died long ago, but by the Fury’s grace, if we can make peace with the Dravanians then perhaps what is left of my family can make peace with themselves.” He got to his feet, a scowl on his face. “I would have thought that something of this magnitude just might be predicted by astromancy, but alas.”

“Maybe it would have if you paid attention to Leveva’s lessons instead of the bosom of the nearest passing noblewoman,” Ar’telan offered, and Jannequinard showed his appreciation by accidentally stepping on his foot.

---

Jannequinard had insisted on Ar’telan accompanying him on his ‘dire quest’, a task to which the miqo’te had acquiesced without argument. Though Ar’telan was used to speaking with the Count in the Firmament, given the amount of time the both of them spent there, the evening meant that Jannequinard instead returned to the family manor with his sidekick in tow, a move which gathered quite a number of concerned looks from the manor’s guard. Ar’telan weighed the pros and cons of reassuring them that he was not Jannequinard’s unfortunate cancelled date, and decided against it.

Durendaire manor was a house of wealth, but it did not feel homely to Ar’telan the way that Fortemps manor did. Shields bearing the family crest adorned the walls, pictures of Counts past and their families between them. Fresh arrangements of flowers sat on marble pedestals, a luxurious red rug covering the polished blackstone floor, and the wallpaper looked to be made from astral silk or some other luxurious cloth. Ar’telan found it to be overwhelming.

A manservant knocked on the office door for them, and Charlemend looked between the two of them in concern that quickly changed to alarm as they entered.

“What has burned down?” he asked as the door closed, and Jannequinard made a frustrated noise.

“I can bring you good news,” he protested, gesturing to Ar’telan to take one of the chairs. With an apologetic look to the Count, Ar’telan shuffled into one, noting the tension between father and son with an increasing nervousness. “In fact, I am bringing good news. Ar’telan here has been kind enough to secure us a trade agreement with one of the prominent powers in Limsa Lominsa.” The distaste in his face was familiar to Ar’telan, from when they had been there on Ishgard’s behalf, with Francel in tow.

“We already have an agreement with those… with their prominent traders,” Charlemend said, the carefully-chosen words not masking his unhappiness. “Not that I expect you to know that, but it was Ar’telan who secured it.” Jannequinard looked over at Ar’telan, who offered an innocent shrug.

“There is more than one pirate in Limsa Lominsa,” he said. Charlemend made a distinctly unhappy noise.

“Yes, I am well aware. If it is worth disturbing me at this hour, and by the both of you, no less, I shall take a look at it,” he said. Jannequinard took the card from his sleeve, and passed it to his father.

“I would advise that you sit, father,” he said, stepping back as the Count took it. The suspicion was plain in Charlemend’s eyes, but he tempered it. Ar’telan was not sure if it was for his benefit, or Jannequinard’s.

“These are the same brigands we dealt with during Lord Francel’s attempts at trade outreach,” he murmured, seeing the sigil upon the front. “Their captain, ah- Gerald, was that his name? Was eventually willing to see reason.”

“Gerald is the First Mate,” Ar’telan said, glancing at Jannequinard as he said it. “But yes. I was surprised as well.” Charlemend offered a huff of annoyance, then turned over the card.

It was a harrowing transformation to witness. Irritance became disbelief, which became anger. He looked up at the two of them, Jannequinard with an uncharacteristically stony face and Ar’telan the picture of neutrality, and anger morphed to a deep and painful sadness without a single word. The card fell from his hands to hit the papers at his desk, his hands shaking.

“How long have you known?” he asked, his eyes on Ar’telan now.

“Longer than I have known you,” he replied. Charlemend’s hand curled into a fist, and he thumped the desk in despair. Jannequinard moved away from him at the sound of it - not in fear, but to head off the concerned manservant who threatened to manifest at the unorthodox summons.

“This is my fault,” Charlemend said, words uttered through gritted teeth to scattered papers rather than his visitors. “All my life I strived for the ideal that my father taught me. Accepted it - what else could I do? And in my sons, in my nephew, I passed down that same poison. Duty above all.”

“Father…” Jannequinard began, surprise clear on his features. It was not an unusual sight, not on Jannequinard, but the circumstance was strange.

“I was not ten yalms from him in Limsa Lominsa. They said he had listened in as we spoke,” Charlemend said, his voice barely a whisper. “Tell me - was it him? Was it Carvallain you spoke with?” Carefully, Ar’telan inclined his head.

“They could not believe it when he agreed to the contract,” he said. “But he had hope in Ishgard for change. In you. Enough to take a chance, but not enough to risk everything he had.” Charlemend ran his fingers across the card.

“What changed?” he asked.

“I told him of the Firmament,” Ar’telan replied. “Of your work at Saint Vandreau’s Grace.” He shook his head then, shuffling over to the side on instinct as Janneqinard returned to the second chair that sat opposite the desk. “Everything that happened with Maelie and Ronantain. If he had not heard you in Limsa the last time I do not think he would have believed me.” Charlemend put his head in his hands, and were it not for a stamina tempered by years as Count in the hostile environment of Ishgard, Ar’telan thought he might have cried.

“He will never come home, will he?” the Count said, his voice quiet and holding the weight of his years.

“No,” Ar’telan agreed. “Ishgard is not his home. It has not been for many years.” The Count let out a long breath, raising his head and running his hands down his face.

“Yes. You are right,” he said. “I will not - I cannot squander this opportunity. If he did not believe me capable of respecting his boundaries then he would never have sent this missive.” He nodded, apparently at peace with his decision. “Very well. The message speaks of a meeting, and though it does not specify a venue, I will not force him to even consider returning to Ishgard. Might I trouble you for an escort to La Noscea, Master Qin?” Ar’telan nodded, a smile on his face.

“Of course. Name the day.”

—

The sharp tang of salt in the airship’s propellors heralded their arrival to Limsa Lominsa proper. Ar’telan, possessed of far more of a head for heights than either of the Durendaires he accompanied, had watched the sea appear on the horizon over the side of the airship, Charlemend going more than a little green when he watched the miqo’te balance against the edge without so much as a rope around his waist. The Admiralty’s ships wound in and out of the harbour, the size of chocobo carts from their height, and in each separate berth sat the flagships of the three remaining bastions of pirate tradition, grand and imposing against the bleached white walls.

Both Charlemend and Jannequinard - the latter had not needed to come, but had insisted, a rare turn of events - seemed happy to get their feet upon solid ground again, even if Jannequinard eyed the creaking lift that took them down into the Drowning Wench with a dubious eye. More than a few of the Wench’s patrons eyed the Ishgardians as they passed, as even Charlemend’s attempts to be inconspicuous still screamed of his wealth, but after Baderon raised a hand and yelled a greeting to Ar’telan, they averted their gazes. Even V’kebbe, leaning against the wall and eating one of the Bismarck’s favourite sandwiches, only gave him a respectful nod of acknowledgement as they passed.

—

Every single member of the Kraken’s Arms in the Hyaline went tense as they entered. Ar’telan glanced back at the Durendaires, but even Jannequinard had picked up on the steely atmosphere enough to stop dead in his tracks.

“I see we’re popular here,” he remarked. Ar’telan sighed.

“I’ll talk to him. Wait here. Try not to get robbed,” he said. Charlemend looked offended, but Jannequinard only offered his empty pockets in demonstration of his intent.

There was a look of distaste on Carvallain’s face when Ar’telan crested the stairs, not dissimilar to the one that his father wore when discussing the topic of pirates. He, too, was as tense as his crew - not something that Ar’telan was used to seeing, not even when he had approached him to deal with the crew on Charlemend’s behalf before. His eyes, quick and clever, appraised Ar’telan as he approached, then went back to staring at elegantly manicured nails.

“The crew have told me. I suppose it is too late to change my mind,” he remarked. Ar’telan shook his head.

“He would leave if I asked,” he disagreed. Carvallain scoffed, but there was no force behind it.

“I suppose if I did not believe you I would not have extended the invitation to begin with,” he said. “Very well. Gerald, I believe the Misery could do with an inspection before we next depart.” Gerald offered a smart salute, understanding the assignment well enough to vanish down the stairs and pull the entire crew along in his undertow. “Fetch him. I will be expecting you to evict him if this turns sour, since this is your fault,” Carvallain said, his voice terse. Ar’telan did not begrudge him the order, in the circumstances.

“I will do my best,” he said, and went back down the stairs.

—

Charlemend and Jannequinard had made note of the piratical exodus, but neither had moved from where Ar’telan had left them - whether because they did not dare or out of respect, Ar’telan could not have rightly said. He could see the nervous vein ticking in Jannequinard’s neck, Charlemend’s uncomfortable posture, the way there was less distance between them than he had ever seen in Ishgard, and felt a little guilty.

“Follow me,” he said, and they both snapped to attention, Jannequinard taking a notable side step.

“I was concerned this had become a ruse to set pirates upon my person,” he said, but though Charlemend scowled at the idea, he remained unusually quiet.

—

The walk up the stairs felt like a funeral procession. Ar’telan tried not to think about how Charlemend had already buried his son, mourned his loss, and uprooted the corpse for this little dance. On the balcony, Carvallain stood with his arms folded, his trusty axe still notably at his back. At the top of the stairs, Charlemend stopped dead.

“...Carvallain,” he said, his voice quiet. There was no question in it, only the heavy weight of proof, the understanding of what it all meant - all the years, all the measures Carvallain had taken, all the times they had come so close and yet remained apart.

“If you wish for an embrace, you will not get one,” Carvallain said, but there was less of his authoritative bark than Ar’telan was used to hearing, less of his smooth command of the situation.

“Well, if I read the signs correctly, you offer them for a very reasonable price down in the docks,” Jannequinard said, and Carvallain laughed despite himself.

“I would charge a little more for one from me,” he replied. “...It has been a long time, father. Ar’telan here informs me that you heal the sick and bring orphans presents, and so forth. When precisely did the voidsent replace you?” Charlemend shook his head.

“I will not trade barbs with you, Carvallain,” he said, his once-proud posture sagging with the weight of years. “For so many years I hoped… After we buried your memory, I told myself it was cruelty to imagine. Yet here you are, a man grown and a leader both.” He did not attempt to cross the distance between them, but he did offer an inclination of his head. “You have flourished beyond any heights which Ishgard could have offered to you. I am proud of you.” Carvallain started at the words, a little of the stony facade dropping.

“I… I did not expect to hear as much from you,” he confessed. “In my earlier years, it brought me a kind of spiteful joy. Leader of a den of sin and iniquity.” He gave Jannequinard a searching look. “For all that some among our number might enjoy such things, that you can look upon all I have built and see it as the accomplishment that it is…” He sighed, shaking his head in despair at himself. “I do not regret my decision, though I did not precisely choose to be on a vessel abducted by pirates. But for the sorrow that I have caused you… I am sorry.” Charlemend took a steadying breath.

“It means the world to me that you trusted in me enough to reach out,” he said. “Thank you.” Ar’telan looked between the two of them, then to Jannequinard. The younger Durendaire still seemed ill-at-ease, but he gave Ar’telan a nod of acknowledgement, stepping to the side to let him retreat to the stairs.

From here, they could mend their own bridges.

#please don't @ me about whether Janne is a son or a nephew #I only realised my headcanon was a HEADcanon not actual canon while I was writing this #ffxivwrite2021 #gods give me strength #Carvallain de Gorgagne #Charlemend de Durendaire #Jannequinard de Durendaire #Warrior of Light (solo story)

7 notes · View notes

weissicles · 4 years ago

Text

Humanity and Catharsis: FE3H Crimson Flower Meta!

I finished the Crimson Flower route for Fire Emblem: Three Houses! Now it’s time for some meta. This isn’t spoiler-free and it’s pretty long... so read at your own risk! (Though, I’m pretty late to the party, so I’m sure you’re all way ahead of me...)

Byleth’s Ending

First and foremost, let me begin by saying that this ending has to be my favorite for Byleth. I mentioned in an earlier post that I am aware of the end results of the Azure Moon (AM), Verdant Wind (VW), and Silver Snow (SS) routes, despite still needing to play it. I still felt pleasantly surprised and very pleased to play through the CF route, especially for Byleth, because I truly believe this was the best ending for their character. Byleth loses their divine powers, becoming even more human than they were at the beginning of the game, and that’s pretty neat.

(Borrowed this image from r/Edelgard; thank you, u/BrilliantGenius)

I think the biggest reason why I love this ending so much for Byleth is because they return to being a real person. Throughout the whole game, the player gets to watch how Byleth, a traveling mercenary, realizes that they are connected to Sothis, the Goddess, and how they awaken their true powers. Byleth merges with Sothis in every route, but only in the CF route do they lose their divine powers, as killing Rhea results in the breaking of the crest stone in their heart. Why does this matter? Numerous times, Edelgard mentions how she wishes to end the tyrannical rule of the Children of the Goddess (CotG), particularly Rhea, because she perceives that humanity has moved past needing to be ruled by non-humans and the oppressive systems they’ve created. Edelgard is traumatized by her own horrendous past, which drives her to find ways to end suffering. She appears like any crazy, mad queen figure in the routes that cast her as an antagonist, but what remains true throughout all routes is her passion for finding ways for humans to be humans without unnecessary suffering. She desires to restore humanity to its dignified state by eliminating the CotG, which make sheep out of people.

That’s why Byleth--the one with divine powers, quite literally the Goddess Incarnate--returning to how she was at the beginning is so powerful. This person, who became a weapon to change the tides of war, now gets to be a normal human. The crest stone breaking and her heart beginning to beat for the very first time symbolizes the collapse of the crest system and the freedom from a system that hailed Byleth as a weapon rather than a person. What’s more, Edelgard, the lord fighting for ideals of humanity, is the first person to hear Byleth’s heartbeat. She is the first person to realize Byleth’s changes, to see how they become a person again. Her dream for Fodlan is realized first in the person she looks up to the most, the person who has fought by her side since the start of the story. If that’s not poetic, I don’t know what else to tell you.

Catharsis

Now, what about Edelgard?

Let’s not pretend that she isn’t controversial. She is, and for good reason. Presented as attractive and likeable regardless of your choice of house, Edelgard serves as the antagonist for 3 of 4 routes. She dies in every route except CF and that matters. She turns into a heartless, cold leader whose ruthlessness can no longer be justified as the bloodshed continues to worsen. In the eyes of the other lords and Rhea, there is no possible way for someone as crazed as Edelgard to live. And frankly? The way that she turns out without Byleth, that makes sense.

So, why does it matter that she lives in CF, and that we see her the way she is? In no other ending do we ever see Edelgard herself returning to a sense of being human. No other ending provides reason for why she should live. CF is the only route where we can explore her character in full, realize that she is just a girl after all, and that she is human, too. That is why it is only in CF do we see this: Edelgard crying.

Following the battle at Tailtean Plains and slaying Dimitri, Edelgard nearly cries when she talks about the fallen king. Now, this is just a headcanon of mine, but I imagine that she might have remembered something about him and their childhood at the mention of her nickname, El. (”To the fires of eternity with you, El...”) His death shakes her to the point of nearly crying, but she doesn’t. She even says that the Edelgard who sheds tears died a long time ago.

But she cries when she thinks Byleth is dying.

This is the moment when the Adrestian Emperor returns to who she really is: Edelgard. Unable to help herself, Edelgard experiences grief and reacts as any person might by crying for the person she loves. She does something she hasn’t done in years, probably since she’s been a very young child in the dungeons underneath the palace in Enbarr. Why? Because she loves Byleth and losing someone you love should break you. This scene goes to show how Edelgard cares deeply for her teacher to the point of experiencing loss. When she realizes that Byleth may yet be alive (since the crest stone broke), she presses her head to her chest, hears her heartbeat for the first time, and starts to laugh. Yes, she laughs! Quietly, and mangled with the sound of some tears, which we can assume are shed out of pure joy that their professor is alive.

Here we see that Edelgard, like Byleth, is returning to a more human state. She’s finally allowed some catharsis, a major resolution to her suppressed character. Throughout the whole game, Edelgard has been nothing but repressed, constantly wearing the mask of Emperor, bound by duty, unable to be truly free. Without Byleth, she becomes even more inhuman as she really becomes more tyrannical. But with Byleth, like her teacher, she becomes more human, able to express feelings, able to be warm, able to experience loss because she loved.

Now, this is my more personal take on it, but I have always liked the thought of Edelgard and Byleth being more romantic than platonic following the timeskip. It’s heavily hinted that Edelgard has always taken a keen interest on the professor. What initially begins as a hope that Byleth may side with her turns into an actual desire to walk with her and experience a new dawn with her. Interestingly, the Japanese version has Edelgard more explicit with her romantic feelings than in the English version. Regardless of whether you read their relationship as romantic or platonic, I think this ending makes it clear that Byleth and Edelgard are equal, humans, people who care for one another and work well together. Byleth fulfills their role as more than an advisor. They are a mentor, a friend, and even family (see their ability to call Edelgard “El”, a name only Edelgard’s father and Dimitri use in CF). In that way, this route’s final message is this: that to love is to be human, and to be human is ultimately to love. That is why I really think that this route is the best possible outcome for Edelgard and especially for Byleth.

Other Takes

While I was disappointed that it was only 18 chapters long, CF does take a more direct approach, as the tides shift significantly when Byleth sides with the Empire. I would have liked if Claude and Dimitri played a more prominent role, though I know that CF focuses mainly on Edelgard and the BE’s against the Church of Seiros. I really think there was potential for Claude and Edelgard to be something besides a warring emperor and a neutral leader. I will admit: Edelclaude is a crack ship of mine. But I find their similar views on the church, their dreams of a new dawn for Fodlan, and their odd interactions to be interesting enough. I understand why Claude either must die or leave (for Almyra). If he hadn’t, that could have changed the way the war turned out, ultimately lessening Byleth’s role. It’s an interesting thought for a canon-divergent story. And let’s be real: Edelgard and Claude somewhat flirting while they face off in Derdriu? Ain’t slick at all!

And Dimitri... Oh, poor Dimitri. My best friend and roommate just finished AM and was so defeated by Edelgard’s death because of her relationship with Dimitri. They’re a tragic set of people, Edelgard and Dimitri, and it makes sense that in both AM and CF, one of them must die. Still, I was so shaken by Dimitri’s last words before Edelgard personally executes him in CF. I would like to think that that was not easy for her at all. I would like to think that she remembered him, at least a bit, and that she felt something there as she killed him. I don’t know what else I would have wanted out of Dimitri in CF, but I know I wanted something more. AM does a great job of providing good angst from Dimitri’s side. It would have been nice to see that from Edelgard’s side as well.

----

All in all, CF was a great route and may remain my favorite route, as I’m very impressed by Edelgard as a character. We’ll see! It’ll be a while until I play another route, but suffice to say that I’m floored by FE3H’s story, characters, and world. What a beautiful game, through and through!

#fe3h #fe3h spoilers #crimson flower #crimson flower spoilers #bhu speaks #meta #byleth eisner #edelgard von hresvelg #long post #edeleth #honestly this doesn't have to be edeleth #but let's tag that anyway #analysis #personal take #bhu plays

241 notes · View notes

rainnydayzz · 4 years ago

Text

Anastasia - PaTB AU

My turn to hop on this Pinky and The Brain Disney, only this time I’m using a princess that’s Disney on a technicality. Let me introduce to you: Pikastasia.

Okay let’s meet out characters shall we?

Anastasia - Pinky (Pinkastasia)

Dimitri - Brain

Vlad - Yakko

Sophie - Dot (For obvious reasons Yakko and Dots connections with each other will be based off of their sibling relationship)

Bartok - Wakko

Rasputin - Snowball (Snowputin)

The Dowager Empress Marie - Nora Rita Norita

Phlegmenkoff - Dr. Otto Scratchandsniff

So this is the list of main characters that will be mostly in the film, extras can be whomever. Now I’d also just like to clear up for those still confused about Vlad and Sophie, yes they are in a romantic relationship in the movie and that helps them get to the Dowager, so obviously that’s NOT an option, so their sibling relationship will help them in this case.

I’m not really changing the rest of their names cause frankly I don’t feel like it, so if you want to that’s fine.

Onto the story premise!

So in this version the main story stays kind of the same. Brain, with his bud Yakko are trying to take over Russia by finding someone to impersonate the long lost princess, Pinkastasia. He’s been trying to find a suitable actor for months now, once he finds the perfect person, they will learn the part, go to Paris, and convince the Dowager and get her reward money. With this they can earn her trust and with their money, take over Russia, and then with Russia’s resources, The World. It was the perfect plan.

Pinky leaves the orphanage (Scratchandsniff kicking him out) like in the film as well. He wanders around for a bit, sings his lovely song and all that Jazz.

When he makes in to Russia he realizes he doesn’t have all the correct resources to leave Russia and an old lady directs him to a man named The Brain, who might be able to help. She gives him directions to the old palace and he sets off.

When he makes it the the palace he can’t help but feel it’s familiar to him- but that’s crazy. Of course Pinky has another musical number here and it’s lovely.

The Brain and Yakko hear something from inside the palace and go to investigate. After a bit of cat and mouse, pun very much intended, they catch the intruder, another mouse. Taken aback by the uncanny resemblance of the princess Brain and Yakko are speechless for a moment. But only a moment.

Brain notices quickly that Pinky isn’t the sharpest toll in the shed, and knows he can use that to his advantage. He briefly mentions to Yakko his plan and the two of them agree. After a little persuasion Pinky agrees, after all, he had no memory of his past life- who’s to say he isn’t the princess?

The group make their way from the scene and we see Bartok- er Wakko for the first time talking to himself about the princess, with an odd green vile next to him. It becomes alive at the notion of Pinkastasia still being alive and flys him to the underworld/purgatory. We meet Snowball/Rasputin here. We learn of his curse and his pledge, I don’t exactly remember when he sings his song but that happens eventually.

Pinky, Brain, and Yakko begin their journey to Paris, teaching Pinky how to act and talk like a princess. While Brain and Yakko are giving Pinky information about Pinkastasia’s life, Pinky offers answers and details that they weren’t aware of.

They get on a train, and it goes the same as the film, wrong passports and then a lovely fire filled compartment. They jump for it and continue their journey.

After the lovely travel song they make it to their ship.

Once on Brain offers Pinky a dress he thought he might like, only because he’d been wearing the same scraps since they met of course. YES OF COURSE THEY DANCE AND IT’S BEAUTIFUL. Anyway, when getting ready for bed Pinky notices a lovely music box, wondering why Brain would own something like that he attempted to open it, only it was locked. He put it back and went to sleep.

Pinky has a night terror inflicted by Snowputin and Brain saves him from jumping overboard during the crazy storm.

They finally arrive in Paris where they are quickly greeted by Sophie/Dot. After seeing her brother the two embrace and are let inside. Pinky gives the rundown of everything he’d been told about Pinkastasia and Dot is impressed. When asked how he could’ve possibly escaped the palace during the fire Brain realized he hadn’t told Pinky anything about that and panics. Only to his surprise, Pinky gives as answer, and a correct one at that! Brain had never told anyone about “Opening a wall”. And yet... Then it struck him. He went outside to collect his thoughts.

Yakko comes out happily explaining they could find the Dowager at the ballet later that evening, only to see Brain wasn’t as excited as he ought to be. Brain tells Yakko that Pinky is truly Pinkastasia. He tells Yakko about the “opening wall” and how he was the boy who had done it. Yakko tells Brain he ought to tell Pinky but Brain refuses, this changes nothing.

Dot invites the group to a night out in Paris! They shop and go to expensive restaurants. Pinky purchases a new dress and Brain has a hard time processing his emotions, he figured they were irrelevant, but managed to compliment him anyway. Why?

The whole night Brain couldn’t stop thinking about how Pinky was really Pinkastasia. He needed to get him to the Dowager as soon as possible- for the money of course.

After the ballet Brain reassures Pinky that everything is going to be okay after noticing how he was on edge. Pinky and Brain make their way through the crowd and Dot loudly exclaims that he is not to enter, with a wink. The Dowager is not impressed however and still refuses to see anyone else about being the princess. This is when Pinky overhears how Brain was notorious for having people impersonate the princess, and how he was probably just in it for the money and it’s not the first time. Pinky’s obviously hurt that he was lied to. Brain tries to explain himself but Pinky won’t hear it and runs off.

Hurt and desperate Brain finds the Dowager’s automobile and pretends to be her driver. After speeding through the streets of Paris with the Dowager screeching at him to let her out, Brain stops in front of where they were staying. He shows the dowager the music box he has, knowing he had acquired it from the palace all those years ago. He said he was the boy that had opened the wall, and bagged her to talk to Pinky. The Dowager was surprised by this development and agreed.

Entering the room Pinky was supposedly in, she found him packing his bags. She offered to talk, but Pinky felt guilty and didn’t want to hurt her any further. However after noticing Pinky’s necklace, the Dowager pulled out the music box. Brain’s music box! The dowager asked to use the necklace and unlocked the music box that played a quiet little tune. The two sang their song and Pinky knew he was the long lost Princess. For real.

We are now in a large plush home with Pinky and the Dowager, they’re talking about the past and its lovely being able to be with each other again. There’s also a quick mention of a ball in celebration for Pinky’s return.

Pinky is getting dressed up for the event and Brain runs into him as he’s going to see the Dowager. The exchange quick conversation and Brain goes to see Nora. She offers him his money, only for him to refuse it. She’s surprised, he brought Pinky back to her and saved their lives, and yet he wants nothing? She sends him on his way and he again sees Pinky on his way out. Pinky wishes him well with his cash and Brain leaves with a heavy heart, not mentioning he refused the cash. It was easier to leave with Pinky believing he had.

During the ball Pinky feels out of wack. Why wasn’t he happy? This was probably the most important night of his life! He was with his family, there was food and music! Everything was perfect, and yet something wasn’t right. The Dowager wasn’t a fool, and explained that while they were together again, he could still make his own choices. She also mentioned Brain hadn’t taken the reward when Pinky tried to use it against him. Pinky realized Brain must’ve had a change of heart, but if so, why didn’t he say something?

Suddenly he was distracted by a little dog who had run into the palace only to run back out. He followed the dog through the large maze behind the palace. It was dark and the dog had disappeared. An evil laugh rang through the air as Pinky was officially introduced to Snowputin in all his undead glory. He introduced himself but Pinky had a lingering thought that he’d seen him before. Snowputin confirmed this and explained Pinkastasia was the only reason he was still here, and he had a job to finish.

Fearing for his life Pinky tried to run, but Snowputin used his powers to change the surrounding scenery, and Pinky realized he was on a stone bridge. Wakko who’d been doing his bidding throughout the entirety of the sketch opted out, claiming it would only end in tears, and went to find his sibs.

Snowputin began to destroy the bridge, and Pinky with it- until he heard someone call to him. Pinky recognized the voice instantly- Brain had come to save him! Oh good!

Snowputin smiled an wicked smile and shot a spark at a stone hoarse statue (Yes this can be Phar Fignewton if you’d like) Either way it came flying down to Brain, as it had been given wings, and picked him up, only to drop him from a height and come barreling down onto him, though he’d luckily rolled out of the way before he was crushed.

Snowputin had been distracted long enough for Pinky to climb up the collapsing bridge and tackle Snowputin. Pinky was unfortunately over powered and was sent off the side of the bridge- though he felt his had get caught be someone else. Brain had made his escape from the hoarse and grabbed Pinky. Snowputin was infuriated and hit Brain out of the way, he zapped some more of the bridge and sent it crumbling down on brain, knocking him unconscious, though Pinky had managed to grab onto Snowputin and hit his vile out of his hands. Enraged Snowputin yelled and Pinky to give it back, of course Pinky was furious as well at this point and began to crush the decorated glass.

Upon destroying the relic, Snowputin began to deteriorate as his soul was fused to it. He screamed and turned to dust. Pinky didn’t have time to process that of course, Brain was hurt. He ran over to him and shook him slightly, thankfully he awoke groggily. Pinky was overjoyed, as was Brain, though his whole body hurt. Brain tried to explain to Pinky how he was sorry about lying to him, but Pinky didn’t want to hear it, he was just glad he had come back and had a change of heart. The two hold on to each other a moment longer, Pinky’s large blue eyes had entranced Brain, his feelings from earlier had come surging back at full force, he felt- well he didn’t know what he felt, but he didn’t want it to go away.

Pinky lowered his face to meet Brain’s, and the two didn’t separate for several moments. Brain didn’t want to be away from Piny again. And they weren’t, Pinky decided he wanted to make a life for himself, and after finding who he was, he wanted to find out what he could become. Him and Brain decided to go their own way together, and though Brain had a change of heart from this scheme doesn’t mean he completely gave up on his lifelong conquest to take over Russia, or the world. Only this time, Pinky would accompany him, someone had to keep him honest.

So there we have it! The premise of the movie told very poorly through a Tumblr post. I like to think if this were just another sketch Yakko would point out the kiss wasn’t scripted but no one dared bring it up.

I will also be working on concept sketches with all the characters in their respected outfits, I can’t wait to draw Pinky in all those dresses, especially those pajamas Anastasia wears near the end of the film.

#PaTB AU #Pinky and the Brain #animaniacs #PaTB anastasia AU #Pinkastasia #concept #warner siblings #i spent too much time on this

60 notes · View notes

punkpoemprose · 4 years ago

Text

December 12th- A Convenient Arrangement Part 4

Universe: Canonverse Arranged Marriage AU Rating:T Length: 5336 Words A/N: Brain-rot I tell you. Brain-rot. Yes I’m aware it would be easier to catch up writing or finishing the drabbles and oneshots I have in my drafts but I can literally only think about this AU anymore. I do have other ideas I really want to tackle though, so maybe I’ll try one of those next. We sure will see won’t we?

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Anna had not been particularly pleased by the knock on her door before the rising of the sun. That was, of course, until she’d heard it open, and saw a somewhat familiar figure through her one open eye. They’d been married for just a little over a full day and a half, and already seeing him there, hearing his voice, brought her comfort.

“Anna,” he’d said quietly, “We’ll have to leave soon if we want to get back before dark. I think I’d like to show you some places on the way.”

So she’d dragged herself from bed, and now in the closest thing she owned to travel clothes, she sat at his side, watching the sun rise in his wagon. She’d offered to have the horse master prepare the royal carriage, but he’d shrugged at the idea. She could already tell that he was the sort of person who wouldn’t have others do for him, what he could do for himself.

She could appreciate that. She’d spent many years trying to dodge the staff when they’d wanted to bathe her or dress her or clean up her quarters for her. She’d given her poor governess a run for her money in her younger years, and now there was some special satisfaction she found in the tacking of her own horse or the styling of her own hair.

She wore it down today, in a pair of braids to make it almost proper. Being with her husband she supposed she should be allowed to wear it however she liked. She did feel a bit bad for the surge of annoyance she’d felt the day before when she’d watched him brushing his reindeer when she just spent time ruminating on her own insistence at doing things on her own. She was stubborn, and he seemed to be as well in many ways.

The odds of that causing problems were likely high, but she still liked their odds.

“What’s it like to live so far from the city?” she asked, just to break the quiet between them as they made their way along the road, few others traveling along as they did.

She wondered if Kristoff knew that normally she’d be accompanied by guards for any trip like this outside the walls of the castle’s gates. She wondered if he knew that he now should be afforded the same guards, and whether he knew that she’d intentionally had him exit a rear gate so as to not catch attention when they’d left.

The last thing she wanted on her first day left entirely alone with her husband was to have an entourage of guards a few feet behind them at most. She’d thought to leave a note in the servant’s quarters for Kai and Gerda, as well as one under her sister’s office door before they set out, at least so that no one would think she was kidnapped, but she was still uncertain as to whether they’d send a platoon out after her anyway.

“Simple,” he said, “Quiet. When I’m in camp with the other harvesters or in the market selling ice it’s so loud. But at home it’s peaceful. Sometimes someone who knows me well enough to know where my home is will stop by to visit, usually family or another harvester, but otherwise it’s just me and Sven and the forest.”

It sounded nice, she thought. To live out in nature and see untamed plants and animals each day. But the quiet aloneness was something that made her uncomfortable to think about. She’d spent too many years in solitude, quiet, alone. She couldn’t imagine wanting that.

But he was free to go where he liked, and he has family and he has friends.

His self-imposed solitude was different than her enforced one.

It’s better to have a choice.

His hands were on the reins, leading his reindeer off the well-traveled road and toward a smaller wooded path ahead. The city was shrinking behind them, and while she thought that it might be nice to get away for a short time, she also couldn’t help but fear what would come ahead for them. The forest was probably less dangerous than the conversations they might have now that they were well and truly alone, away from the ears and eyes of staff and dignitaries and citizens of her castle and kingdom.

She wished that he’d let a hand fall, so that she could grip it for comfort.

***

She was leaning into his side a bit as Sven climbed the familiar path up and into the mountain. Trees lined the dirt road and in some places, he felt the wagon’s wheels crunch over fallen branches and encroaching shrubs. Had he been alone, and had he had his hatchet he may have spent some time clearing the road. It was used by only a few during the summer months. There were others that lived in his section of the mountain, but they were mostly older and while they helped keep the path, it was a job he took mostly for himself.

Hermits have to stick together.

But he wasn’t a hermit, at least not anymore. She was warm at his side, and he enjoyed the contact. It was not a cold morning, the summer sun rising was already warming their surroundings, but the shade of the branches above was keeping it cool. They hadn’t been speaking for a while, and he wasn’t sure what to say. She’d been doing most of the talking, and he’d answered her when prompted. He’d told her about ice harvesting and the work it required, about his preferences for hands on work over more cerebral tasks despite doing well enough with them to keep himself and his ice business afloat.

She’d told him about growing up in the castle, being trained for duties she’d not been asked to fulfil when the gates had been closed, and how she wasn’t truly certain what was going to happen next. She’d mentioned that they’d be expected to make appearances, and that while they didn’t rule, they’d be prepared to do so in the event that Elsa could not.

“My sister has no interest in providing the kingdom with an heir,” she’d said, “The throne will be mine someday, whether I want it or not. People are going to want me to ensure someone will fill it after as well. Our kingdom is peaceful, the monarchy is well liked, but a power vacuum could be deadly nevertheless.”

It had been the last thing she’d said before the quiet had overtaken them. They’d spoken briefly of heirs and children on their wedding night, mostly to assure her that she’d never have to provide him with any, but he wasn’t sure now if it were something that she might have taken the wrong way. He tried to recall whether he’d qualified the statement with a willingness to someday have children if she wanted them, but he was uncertain.

“Do you want children?”

She was quiet, but she didn’t shift from his side. He took it as a good sign and let his hand drop from the reins, knowing that Sven knew the path ahead and that he could control him well enough with a single hand.

She took it, her fingers lacing through his as they both kept their eyes on the path ahead.

“I never thought about it much,” she said, “Well I thought about it sometimes, but not about whether I would want to or not. Princesses married, they had children, they raised future monarchs, and with Elsa being as she is… well I just always knew it would be my duty. I was very romantic as a child though, I liked to dream of weddings and things. I always thought I’d marry for love like my parents did.”

He squeezed her hand, trying to be as reassuring as possible.

“I’m sorry you didn’t have a choice.”

She looked at him then, he saw it out the corner of his eye and so he turned to her in return. Her eyes were rueful, her smile weak. “I’m sorry you didn’t either. I never asked… was there someone else that you…?”

“No.”

He thought maybe he answered too quick, especially when there was a spark of surprise in her eye. He couldn’t imagine why it would, he surely had to be blundering enough in his attempts at supporting her that she could tell he’d never been in a relationship before. But then again, she’d been alone for so long, and while he didn’t know much about her last relationship, he knew that she was also new to their situation if nothing else. Maybe she wasn’t sure of what being in a relationship was supposed to be like either.

“Sorry, I… no. I’ve never been interested in anyone before you.”

She flushed, her face going bright red. He wasn’t really sure what he’d said that elicited the response until she looked down at her feet and quietly replied.

“So you are interested? In me… that is?”

It was his turn to flush then. He looked away from her, toward the brush along the side of the path, taking note of the plants they passed, staring at trees and stones and anything but her. Because he was interested.

She’s beautiful.

She’s kind.

I’m not worthy of her.

She’s my wife.

“How could I not be Anna?”

***

The light breeze that swept its way across the small clearing buffeted the loose hairs around her face, tickling at her nose. Her sleep addled hands had done their best in braiding, but clearly she’d missed some pieces.

Kristoff’s hand was in hers again, helping her down from the wagon. It was a lucky thing too, her legs feeling like jelly with how long she’d been sitting.

She fell a bit, into his chest, and she didn’t mind at all when his other arm wrapped around her back, stabilizing her, holding her until she righted herself. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the various conversations they’d had on their way, but particularly the one where he’d told her that he was, in fact, interested in her.

It shouldn’t matter really. They were married after all. But the idea that her husband might have an interest in her beyond the title and duty to be wed, meant something. She was interested in him too.

He’s funny, and kind, and…

She had to tune out her own thoughts in order to quiet the commentary on his arms and chest and the attractiveness of his features. She lost the battle though, at least thinking about his strength, when she righted herself again and let her hand run down his chest.

“I hope you won’t be too disappointed,” he said, not dropping her hand as he led her toward one of the two buildings that filled the space. “It’s nothing fancy.”

She knew that she couldn’t possibly be disappointed. All she’d wanted from this trip was to get away from the castle for a bit, to get to know him a little better. She’d already been given that and more. His hand was in hers; he’d said that he was interested in her, and nothing had fallen apart around her yet.

The grass in the field around them was a bit taller than it was in the pasture where she rode her horse, but the ground was mostly level and easy to walk on. He’d already unhitched Sven who was munching on it happily. He wasn’t tied up, but stayed in the bounds of the space without difficulty.

The animal was smart. She could tell that he was either well trained, or had a bond with Kristoff that at least made him appear so. She wondered how old the reindeer was, and how long Kristoff had been his “best friend”.

She thought that maybe sometime the information would come up naturally. Or at least she hoped so. There were some mysteries she wanted him to answer for her naturally, rather than offer in response to her many questions.

The building was small, larger than the other that appeared to be a stable and storage space, but still smaller than even her smallest drawing room. It was built of logs, long, but thin compared to the trunks of the trees around her, and bare of bark. They were stacked high, perhaps ten feet, and appeared to be expertly aligned to create the walls. Into the face a few small windows were inset into the wood, and the roof, made of thick wooden shingles that were well aged with the sun and weather. A few appeared to be split, maybe as a result of the freezing and thawing of the winter’s snow and ice.

She’d seen winters split the flagstones in the garden path at the palace and supposed it might to do the same to shingles. She took note of the simplicity of the structure, just a rectangle of wood with the space broken only by the windows, the single front door, and the stone chimney that had been laid up the end.

Nothing about it was perfect. The logs that made up the walls were tightly laid together, and she had no doubt that it was weather tight, but the logs were cut to different lengths on the end, almost lined up, but not quite. The chimney had a slight lean to it, and the door and windows were not even close to centered on the buildings front. It had been made by eye, she could tell, and it was lovely.

She wanted to ask if he’d made it himself, but she felt as if she might be disappointed to learn if it hadn’t been. She was already imagining him, maybe a year or two younger, without a shirt and hauling the heavy supplies across the clearing himself.

She supposed his family must have helped. That’s what families did, or at least that was true to her memory of what having a full family was like. It was fuzzy around the edges, even with her parents death not having been long ago, because Elsa hadn’t really been part of the family since she was quite small.

When they made it to the front door, he opened it for her and helped her take the step up into the interior which was lit warmly by sunlight through the two windows that had been visible to her on the front of the building as well as another slightly larger one on the back. Small dust motes danced like fireflies in the light, and she realized rather quickly that it was a home of practicality rather than fashion. The main room was, less of a room and more a space. She saw a stove, a small fireplace, a table with a single chair, a chest, and a cot in the space with little else.

“It’s not fancy,” he reiterated, stepping into his home behind her, “Nothing like what you’re used to, but it’s mine.”

She thought for a moment about what it would be like to live there.

She’d want to hang curtains, maybe polish the stove a bit, and add a rug to the center of the floor, and maybe some hooks on the wall to hang jackets in the winter, but otherwise it was someplace she could, at least, imagine staying for a few nights.

She didn’t really think that she needed much. The amenities of the castle had always been nice, but she thought that she might be able to, perhaps, be happy without them. Running water was, however, one thing that she knew she’d miss if she were ever to live anywhere without it.

“It’s perfect,” she said, and she meant it, because it was his, and that’s all it needed to be.

***

He’d left her with express permission to do all the exploring and digging through his home that she liked. He had nothing to hide from her, and he supposed that it might make her happy to see his home and his things. He was getting to know her home, and while he supposed he wouldn’t be spending much time in his cabin anymore, he thought it only right for her to get to know his too. Her zeal after being given permission was something that surprised him, as if she had wanted to know if she could explore but had been too scared to ask.

I don’t want her to ever be afraid to ask something of me.

Still though, with her joy, there had been some visible sadness when he’d told her that he needed to leave for a short while. Normally he would ride Sven the moderate distance to the valley where his family lived, but instead he left the animal in Anna’s care, or perhaps he left Anna in his care. Sven was, for a very long time, the only living being other than his family that he trusted without a second thought. He was starting, even after such a short time, to put Anna in that category as well, and so he knew that he could trust the animal to keep her company or get her back to the city if need be, just as he also felt comfortable with leaving her to keep the creature from running off or getting tangled up in anything he shouldn’t.

She already seemed to like him, he’d noticed the way she’d scratched his head gently before they’d left in the morning, and somehow a small pile of carrots had appeared in the wagon while they were on the road. It may have been bribery on her part, though it was unnecessary. Sven in his own way, had already shown that he liked her too. It was another reason why he thought that being married to Anna might be something he would not only be able to bear, but to enjoy. Sven was an excellent judge of character.

When he reached the valley it appeared empty, void of everything but the occasional mushroom, tuft of grass, and bit of moss growing on the oddly placed stones in the space. He knew better of course, but to the untrained, unknowing eye, who probably couldn’t find the valley in the first place, it would just be another stretch of the mountain to pass through.

“I’m home,” he called.

He could feel the love in the space as a few stones slowly unsettled themselves from the dirt and rolled toward the shaded area of tree line he’d just emerged from. The mossy stones were large but didn’t come up much higher than his knee as he walked back into the shade to where they’d settled.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but I have something I need to tell you.”

The rocks rocked a bit, then popped apart into small humanoid figures. The one he called his mother gave him a sleepy smile as the one he called his father yawned, and the one he called his grandfather looked on expectantly. Grand Pabbie was always the first to have his wits about him when he woke, being the oldest and least effected by the exhausting light of the sun.

“It must be urgent,” the old troll said, already reaching out to grasp Kristoff’s hand in support, his brow scrunched as he tried to determine what was going on.

The two trolls that he called his parents came to shortly after, reaching for him and clasping his larger hand in between their smaller ones.

“I wanted to come and tell you yesterday, or before I even left but… I’m married.”

“Married?”

His father looked skeptical, as if he were about to start checking him for head trauma. Then rubbed his eyes with his unoccupied hand.

“Married like wed? To another human?”

His wife, Kristoff’s mother, bumped the troll with a look of cut-it-out-right-now-or-so-help-me on her face, then turned to give Kristoff a radiant smile.

“It doesn’t matter if she’s human or not… or if he is… or if it is. Our baby is in love! When do we get to meet… uh… your spouse?”

Kristoff flushed and it had nothing to do with the warm afternoon air.

“I’m not in love… or at least I’m not… I think I could be but we’re… We’re just married…” He found it much more difficult to explain than he could have imagined on his walk over, and so he just settled for the most basic information he could manage, “She’s human. Her name is Anna. Actually, well… Princess Anna.”

“Oh God,” his father said, “He’s kidnapped a Princess. I told you that we needed to stop pressuring him into finding someone Bulda. We’re going to have to move the valley, raise the protection crystals, explain kidnapping to the kids...”

The elder troll gave the other two an exhausted look, and then shook his head as he and Kristoff watched the two begin bickering. It was a loving sort of argument, but a boisterous one nevertheless.

“Princess Anna…” Grand Pabbie said thoughtfully, “The daughter of Agnarr and Iduna, yes? Is she the one with ice powers? I’m old and I can’t quite recall which one had which name. Elsa was one and Anna the other as I recall. One should be Queen by now I suppose. I know King Agnarr and his wife have passed.”

Kristoff shot the old troll a confused look. Of course, the trolls knew some of the goings on in the kingdom below and surrounding their valley, but Kristoff wasn’t aware that he knew of the girls beyond anything he’d mentioned. In the time before the last three days, he’d rarely if ever mentioned much about the human world below to his family, assuming that they wouldn’t be interested.

“I’m sorry Pabbie, I don’t understand… Ice powers? You mean those rumors about the Queen…”

Pabbie gave Kristoff an uncharacteristically wry smile.

“You have trolls for family, and you thought people telling you that the Queen of Arendelle had the ability to control ice was too wild a tale to be true?”

He would have laughed at himself were he not so confused.

“They say she froze the land, but I never noticed anything. My cabin wasn’t struck by an ice storm and while I didn’t leave home often when they say the event occurred, I’m sure I would have noticed the drop in temperature, or my clearing being covered in snow.”

“You wouldn’t have noticed a thing unless you left our area of protection and your cabin is well within it,” the old troll answered, “I forget sometimes that while you’re our kin, you’re not of our blood. You couldn’t feel the surge of magic when it occurred, or when it ended. I imagine an act of sacrifice, or perhaps one of true love. I lack the details. But you say you married the Princess then? So not the one with the ice powers, the one with the red hair. A strange thing that is given your history.”

“You don’t mean?”

His mother was the one who asked, done bickering with his father. She released his hand to cross the space to where her father, Grand Pabbie, was nodding sagely.

“I do. I doubt he recalls as we do Bulda, but there’s fate at work here.”

“Fate?”

Kristoff felt, not for the first time amid his adopted family, utterly confused. They often spoke cryptically, jumped to conclusions, or otherwise reacted to things in ways that befuddled him. They were kind, loving creatures, but he knew that in some ways they would never understand each other as completely as they loved each other.

“Kristoff,” his father asked, “How much do you recall of the day you became our son? And your wife… Anna… does she have red hair with a streak of white in it?”

Nothing can ever be simple, can it?

***

When Kristoff returned it was well into the afternoon. Anna had managed to not only fully make her way through the features and belongings of his home, but also of the stable and storage space. She’d taken in the neat rows of his small garden, and picked wildflowers from the clearing around his home, accompanied by the loose reindeer. She’d made them into a crown which sat delicately on the beast’s head, well designed to account for his antlers.

She’d seen little that surprised her amongst his things. Clothes, tools, a ledger of his business expenses and earnings, some miscellaneous personal affects like soap and linens and various things she’d never found interesting until it was his. His little home was neat, and tidy, and while a bit dusty in some places, overwhelmingly clean. She thought perhaps, from the variety of things she found of his, the worn but well cared for tools and the simple but clean stove with few pans, that he took pride in his simple life. It was reinforced by what she knew of him.

The standout in his things had been in the bottom of the chest that held his clothes. Amongst shirts and trousers and vests and winter things, she’d found three small but lovely crystals. One was blue, one was yellow, and one, which she thought for half a moment had glowed at her touch, was pink. She’d run her fingers over their facets, noted their clarity, and had then settled them gently back in with the rest of his things. She had plenty of jewels of her own, but nothing so simple and lovely. She wasn’t certain as to why they sat in the bottom of the chest, and while she thought that she might sometime ask him, she still felt nervous about the fact that she’d snooped at all, even with his permission.

She’d been feeding Sven carrots when he arrived, looking almost harried in a way she was unused to seeing him as he quickly broke through the tree line and walked towards her. She couldn’t help recoiling a bit from him in surprise when he walked up to her and with speed and little tact, lifted one of her braids from her shoulders and studied it.

She dropped the carrot she’d been holding, and the reindeer huffed as his owner held, not tightly, onto her hair and held it up a bit to the sun.

“Where did you get this?”

It took her a moment to understand. So much time away from people who didn’t know her had lead her to sometimes forget that having a shock of white hair mingled with the rest was something that was uncommon. It stood out rather well from her red hair, and while she’d often forgotten about it when styling her own hair, she supposed that they had intentionally hidden it as well as they could for the wedding. She probably shouldn’t have been surprised that it would have taken her hair being styled down for him to take notice of it.

She was just surprised to see him so interested in it while being so agitated. It almost scared her for a moment until she caught sight of a gleam in his eye. There was interest there, and nothing malicious in the least. She thought that she might be able to refuse telling him and that he would drop it, but there was no reason for it.

She wasn’t vain, and he may as well think that she was silly.

Everyone else always has.

“I think I was born with it. I don’t remember it ever not being there. Though once, when I was young, I dreamt it appeared because I was kissed by a troll.”

Kristoff ran his fingers over it gently then. She saw him look almost adoring as he did so, her eyes glancing between the soft curve of a smile on his lips, and the stroking of his fingers against her braid. He set it carefully, almost reverently, back on her shoulder before he smiled more solidly and reached down to take her hand in his.

She let his fingers lace through his and felt her heart race a bit as he moved even closer to her and loosened his grip on her hand to rub his thumb in slow circled over her palm.

“Anna.”

His face inches from hers so all she could see were his eyes, his lips. He was suddenly her whole world.

“Yes?”

Her response was barely louder than a breath. She might not have believed that she said it at all if it weren’t for the way his smile broadened. He made a sound like a soft chuckle, but seemed almost as breathless as her, when he whispered.

“Do you believe in fate?”

I want to.

“I… I don’t understand.”

He gave her an understanding look, and then took a half step away from her, still holding her hand, beckoning her to follow him back towards the forest he’d exited moments before.

“I don’t think I could explain it… But Anna… Would you stay here with me a night if it meant meeting my family? They have something to tell you.”

She knew that she should be worried, that warning bells should be going off in her head. She wondered if her parents were rolling in their graves, screaming stranger danger. She wondered if she had been crazy to trust him and follow him into the middle of nowhere.

He won’t hurt me.

You thought that once before.

Her thoughts were warring again, but her feet were following him.

Trust him.

When you trusted before you almost died.

She could feel the ice in her blood, in her chest, but she could also feel the heat of his hand, the slow circles he was still drawing, almost absent mindedly. She didn’t let the cold overtake her, the memory of someone putting out fires and laughing at her foolishness put aside until there was only this moment, there was only Kristoff.

Trust.

So she did.

“We’ll have to send word to the castle somehow, if we plan to stay longer than dark… I don’t want my sister to be worried about me, but I… I would like to meet your family. Yes.”

His grin was the brightest she’d ever seen alight his face. His brown eyes practically glowed with the afternoon light and the warmth of his expression settled on her like a blanket on a cold day.

Kristoff. My husband.

She followed him to the forest edge, leaving behind the clearing and entering the shaded wilds knowing that he would carry her through.

#kristannaadvent2020 #A Convenient Arrangement #kristanna #frozen fanfiction #arranged marriage au #I'll proofread this someday #Maybe #We sure will see

55 notes · View notes

jamiedc-they-them · 4 years ago

Text

Who you used to (and can no longer) be (Platonic)

Requested Imagine: Dany x Brother reader, maybe reader was caught by Cersei and is reunited with Dany. idk its a stretch but it came to mind. it can be angsty or nah whatever u want, B

It had been a while since you’d seen anything but the small reflection of light from a torch on the cell door. It had been a while since you had heard anything but the rats in the cell that you were thrown into months ago or the creaks of the door or the rustles of your chains.

You got a new sound, that being of the door opening. You also got a bit lighter, for a moment that was. The door was then slammed closed, and a voice that was anything but new spoke.

“Still awake? Hm, I have to give you the fact that you’ve lasted longer than I thought you would,” The taunting voice of Cersei Lannister spat as she approached you, goblet of wine in her hand as always, “Then again, you were always the odd one out, weren’t you? The little Targaryen runt? I do have to wonder though, what your whore of a sister will do to get you back?”

She came even closer to you, now towering over you, “See, the families all live up to their sigils, don’t they? Lannister’s as lions who tear their enemies apart; the Starks, the lucky wolves in a pack who can survive the winter; then there’s the Targaryen’s,” She poured the wine onto you, aggravating your wounds.

“As the feisty, fiery dragons, with so many scars. What’s one more though? Although, I’m sure to your sister, it would make all the difference between you being worth saving and you being left behind to rot. But we’ll see.”

It had been a while since Danny had been able to sleep. It had been a while since she had been able to think straight and not have her mind on something other than the fact that her brother was still missing.

It had gotten to the point where she had accidentally called Jorah, Y/N. The man hadn’t minded, of course, he politely corrected her and moved on. Still, it showed. It showed how much of her mind was chipping away at a plan to get you back and safe.

“My Queen,” Daenerys turned to Tyrion, the one who had called her name, “Maybe we should make preparations for when we get Lord Y/N….Make preparations for as to how to proceed.” He suggested, struggling to find a correct way to phrase it without triggering and setting her off.

“What do you mean?” She questioned, blunt and with a bit of fear and tremble in her voice.

He looked to the others for a moment before proceeding, “I just mean, that Lord Y/N will not fully be the same Y/N we knew before his capture…We’ll need to tread lightly. He will be traumatized.”

“But he’s still my brother.” Danny said without hesitation, firmly.

“He doesn’t mean it in offence, your grace,” Missandei said, trying to clear things up, “What he – we mean, is that Y/N will be different, and we need to be aware of that.”

Danny nodded, “We will, but I know Y/N, and I will do what is best for him.”

They didn’t meet eyes, but the others could tell that it wasn’t exactly true. She’d work on a phantom form of you.

One that didn’t exist anymore.

“Your grace!” A soldier said as he entered the throne room, holding a folded piece of paper, “I have….” He took a moment to catch his breath, have you seen how many steps their were to get to the throne room?

“.I have news on Y/N, Cersei Lannister has him! She wants to meet!” He yelled, giving a brief synopsis of the letter.

Wow, this really wasn’t royal at all, was it?

Then again, the soldier seemed to know that, when it came to you and your safety, royalty was thrown out the window.

Daenerys stared at the soldier in shock. It seemed that the plan that she had devised on her own was also out the window.

“It’s obviously a trap, if anyone knows my sister well enough to know one of her devious schemes, it’s me.” Tyrion made his thoughts on it known. Don’t go.

“Of course, it is,” Grey worm then turned to Danny, “You shouldn’t go, my Queen. Or, if you do, at least bring some guards with you. I’ll find you my best men –”

“No,” Her words stunned all the room, “Cersei asks for me, she gets me alone. I’m not risking Y/N: I’m not losing the only family I have left.”

She knew it was risky. She knew that this could just be something that would end up with the two last Targaryen’s being killed. But she also knew that she couldn’t just leave you.

She had to bring you home, to make you feel safe once again.

It was the dead of night but hearing Tyrion gasp and knock chairs over made everyone rush to the meeting room. There, it held everyone bar one.

Daenerys.

“She left.” He announced in a solemn tone.

There was no stopping her now.

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

Being the youngest made Daenerys’ motherly side show itself so much more than it ever had. Or, unfortunately, more than she ever got the chance to show it. Losing her child was hard, don’t get her wrong; to lose a life she would never know and that would be her own by blood and fix the mistakes.

Now, you were that. You were the thing she had to protect, no matter what. It had started with your brother, his abuse that went more to you as a way to punish her; two birds and all that.

Her maternal instincts made her help comfort you; it helped her help treat your wounds; it helped her be more empathetic; it helped her get through it, putting her mind of helping her younger sibling through the pain kind of helped her through her own.

She had to admit, the small crew she had brought for the boat did a good job. Was it the most royal of arrivals? No, but she couldn’t play the trump card of the dragons yet. She had to get you back with as little hassle as possible.

Power play’s from her could wait. It could wait until she had you to help council her on it. You were always a smart one smarter than her and always willing to listen to others while arguing your own view.

She was losing it, she had to admit. Hell, she’d sailed all the way with barely any protection, so that wasn’t nothing. Still, if this was it, she didn’t want to make it worse for you.

If this was it, at least you’d be together in the end. The Targaryen siblings vs the world; the world might win, but it wouldn’t win without you both giving it one last chilling smile of acceptance.

“You’re hear to see Queen Cersei?” The guardsman asked. If he had any other right to speak, he probably would’ve mentioned the lack of guards. Still, part of Daenerys appreciated the fact that he didn’t, that he simply let it go and led her up at her nod.

Yes, she was here to see the queen. No, she was not there to burn it all down.

At least, not yet, anyway.

The stones were sharper here. In Dragonstone, it had a smoothness to them that made it feel like you were almost gliding on them. It definitely helped make it not feel as big as it did, steps wise.

These were different, these were jagged and edgy; small bits pointing out that dug in a few instances. Definitely not well kept.

Still, that was put aside when she reached the top. In reaching it, she saw you on the floor. She finally got a good look at you. In the dreams (and nightmares) she’d have of finding you, it’d always be you either looking normal or you being too bloodied to recognise.

This was a mix but leaning a lot more towards the dreams than the nightmares (which, unfortunately, came more often than the dreams did). You were bloody, just in your nose and a cut on your lips; your eyes weren’t too bad, if not a little fucked up from punching.

Over than that though, you were breathing and alive. When you met eyes, you looked scared more than relived. Then again, she was riding a high of relief at just seeing that you were ok.

Now came the part where she kept you and herself that way.

“I must admit, I didn’t expect you to arrive,” Cersei said as she sipped her wine, “Then again, when one of your flock are hurt, the others huddle around them, don’t they?” She taunted.

However, the fire in her eyes died a little when she saw that it was just Danny, “Came alone, did you? It could’ve been a trap.”

Still could be, “It may have been, but I wasn’t going to just abandon my brother. Just as I’m sure you wouldn’t.” She knew it was borderline flattery. But she had to not piss her off.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” Danny asked, fire completely gone from her eyes and a soft gaze replaced it; one filled with love and familial concern. She was dead certain that these types of looks (ones of comfort and respect and love) were something that you had been sorely missing.

There was silence at her answer. You looked as if you hadn’t even heard her question. She, however, didn’t lose hope. You were still in there somewhere.

“Boy,” You looked to Cersei with a shaking body, “Answer your sister.” She commanded.

You looked at Danny, eyes fearful and slightly unfocused. You only nodded, all-be-it slowly.

“Verbally.” Cersei said, not in a snap, but a calm voice.

“I’m alive.” You croaked out.

“Louder.”

“I’m ok.” Your words finally reached Danny, and she could hear just how unused your voice had been. It was raw, and it had cracked.

She could see that you clearly weren’t. But she could deal with that later.

“Why did you ask for me if it wasn’t a trap?” Daenerys asked.

Cersei paused, her face showing that it was a valid question, “Because, I wanted you to see what a broken Targaryen looks like. The mess that they can be. The pain that they can be in. You see, when you do fully come here, to try and take what you believe is yours, maybe you’ll remember this.”

“He hit me.” You were shaken, still shaking as you sat on your bed and your older sister knelt in front of you.

She took your shaking hands in her own, “He did, yes.” She said, regretfully.

“Why? What did I do to make him hate me.” Your question broke her heart a little.

“You did nothing, dear brother. Nothing. It’s all his ego,” She comforted. She knew, sadly, that the damage had been done. But she knew one thing, she wasn’t going to let it destroy you.

Not you.

“You can have him,” Danny looked at Cersei in shock, “Take it as a warning. As a precautionary tale.”

Danny didn’t waste any time in coming to you and picking you up. She didn’t look at Cersei, only you. She then hugged you. You stiffened but didn’t hug back. She didn’t seem to mind much though. She just held you tightly.

She had you, and you were back with those you belonged with.

Now she just had to return home.

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

The ride back, you sat in your room. Well, you laid in your bed, more like. You only ate when she would bring you food. She wanted to be the one to do it, she knew that you wouldn’t respond to anyone else.

She didn’t try and get you to speak. She knew that you wouldn’t want to and trying to force you to would only lead to more problems.

Still, at least she didn’t have to order the crew not to bother you: they seemed to just know from the get-go.

“I have no choice in this.” She told you, trying to not allow her voice to tremble and show you the fear she felt. She had to be strong for you.

“I can’t just lose you.” You said in quiet voice. Your fear ruled you. Whenever you had been hurt, she had been there to help you; to help you rise back up when you fell.

Now, that would be gone.

She glided to you, kneeling once more to your level. She put her fingers under your chin and lifted it up, “Whatever happens, we go together. I’m never leaving you, little brother. Never. I’ll protect you as much as I can.” She promised you and pulled you into her arms.

You hugged her back, fearfully.

The boat arrived, and there stood four or so angry advisors. Well, angry and relieved. Danny walked slowly, holding your hand and arm, and helping you walk down the ramp. She had almost not done this, as you had flinched and pulled your arm away when she went to touch.

However, after a moment, you had allowed it. She led you down, fully concentrated on your wellbeing. She didn’t take any notice of her friends. She only said one thing to you.

“We’re home.”

The tent was big, but that didn’t matter to you. It was lonely. You were lonely. However, you didn’t tell her; you knew she had enough on her plate, and your issues would only add to that.

“Hey,” You looked up at her soft eyes that seemed to notice your turmoil, “We’ll be fine. We’ll make it through this to the other side, together. I promise, you’ll be fine.”

“I kept it the same. I didn’t want to touch anything just in case you wanted to make any changes yourself.” You nodded mutely as you entered your room. In the past, it would be a place of comfort, a place where you could feel almost free. This was not that. This place felt foreign and the warmth was something you were used to, just in a torturous way.

The first thing you did was close the curtains.

“You used to love that in the morning.” Your sister didn’t know why she said those words; but she still had.

“Maybe, but not anymore.” You used to be quiet, but this was the quietest she’d heard you.

She remembered the first time she had been forced to have sex with Drogo. The way he was in charge and she whimpered. She had still been holding out some sort of hope that she could get away from his.

She knew she wouldn’t be able to. She knew she had to adapt.

So, she did. She gave into it. She gave into him. Deep down, she was still the scared little girl who had been dealing with her own trauma. But that girl was repressed more and more.

In the name of survival.

She had woken on a brand-new day. She woke up with some vigour this time, just happy to have everything back to normal in a way.

She got up and ready for the day, taking in the view from her room.

She then left to fetch you. She felt like a walk would maybe help you a little. They had in the past after all.

However, when she knocked on your door, she received no answer.

“Y/N, it’s me.” She said softly, hoping that announcing that would help you.

Still, the door did not open.

When she went to knock again, she stopped herself when she put her ear to the door only to hear nothing inside.

She put her hand on the handle, turning it. It went all the way; the door was unlocked.

She opened it fully, and her eyes widened, and her breath quickened at what she saw, an empty room.

She didn’t think she could run this fast, yet here she was. She was yelling orders, “Find Y/N!” Was the main one she was able to track.

You were missing again, but this time it was voluntary.

Now, she just figure out where you had gone. Where you had taken yourself to.

She stopped, letting oxygen fill her lungs. As she took deep gulps, she pressed her back against a wall and took a moment to think; to actually think.

“Come on!” You cried out in excitement as you led your sister by the hand to your destination.

“Slow down, Y/N.” She tried to be serious, but your happiness made her have a smile of her own at your enthusiasm. You had always been a more pessimistic one, but these moments that could last for a while and bursts of happiness made herself happy.

“Here.” You said, stopping and lowering your hands, pulling her towards you.

Ahead of you laid a lake. It wasn’t the largest, or the deepest. But, still, a small lake was a small lake.

The sun seemed to catch the water just right and it shimmered.

“Oh, Y/N, it’s beautiful.” She said, softly. She took the view in. This beat anything from her window for sure.

That was the day before you were taken. It was a memory that she both played over and over again, but also wanted nothing to do with it.

Now it was the key.

She knew where you were now. Only thing was, the context of your visit had changed. Just like you had had.

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

She was right, you were there. You were sat down instead of stood. She watched you for a moment. Actually, saw you for who you were now. Yes, you were still her brother, but you had changed.

She approached you, taking a seat next to you. For once, she didn’t try to force anything. Instead, she just looked at the view, taking in the head and the peacefulness of the place. It was nice.

“I started to have visions while I was there,” She was the now the one looking up at you. However, she didn’t talk, “I couldn’t tell you when I started to do that. It just kind of….happened. Moments where I would see things that a rational part of me knew wasn’t there, but that part was destroyed by the part that wanted it to be real.”

“Who did you see?”

“A mix of you and the others. To be honest, mostly you,” You looked at her as you continued, “You’ve always been the one to look after me. And I appreciate it, so much. But, since I got back, it’s….it’s just been too much. You’re acting as if I’ll snap right back to who I was, but I won’t. I can’t.” You confessed.

“I know….I know,” She let her voice shake this time. She wasn’t going to hide her emotions anymore. You were old enough and knew enough about to world to know the feelings she had, the fear, the pain, and the loss.

“I’m sorry that I did that.”

“We’ll get there. We’ll get there.” You assured; but it seemed it was more so for yourself.

“What can I do right now?” She asked.

“Just….just stay.”

“Of course.” She assured.

#daenerys targaryen #daenerys targaryen imagine #daenerys targeryan x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones x reader

86 notes · View notes

realisaonum · 3 years ago

Text

book meme

thank you, jen @det395 !! i feel like this meme got away from me a bit, but no shame! i love talking about books and writing so onward ~under the cut~

1- how many books are too many books in a series?

mhmmmmm i guess it depends on the objective of the series, right? is the plan to have x number of books in the series and if so, when we finally get to the end will it be satisfying considering all the books we’ve read leading up to it? OR is the objective of the premise / characters just to exist doing whatever? both can be done well. i would say a lot rides on how much i trust the author.

2- what do you think about cliffhangers?

so this is meant for cliffhangers in a series like between books? i don’t really care if there’s a cliffhanger as long as i have the next book sitting right next to me. otherwise uh, only if the wait between books is tolerable, because at that point you need to know that the author can clear this mess up, right? there’s this other thing, like you know how if the entire series was already written, then they might release the books a month apart or a quarter apart - that could be alright too. but years in between? not especially a fan. is anyone a fan?

3- hardback or paperback?

jen, you and me are complete opposites here. paperbacks stress me out. i will go out of my way to buy a used hardcover if given the choice. of course, there are some publications i don’t mind in paperback —thinking poetry and super indie books that don’t have a hardcover release OR books where the spines are thin enough they won’t break and i won’t be holding them long enough for them to wear. hardcovers are sturdy and i don’t have to worry i’ll accidentally bend the cover in some damaging way. I am invested in keeping my books nice to the point that i create covers for my books out of kraft paper or brown grocery bags while i am reading them. this is something i started when i was in college and didn’t want these books i was hoping to probably resell get thrashed coming in and out of my bag for all these classes. My home library is probs more half and half paperback/hardcover but if given a choice usually it’s hardcover.

4- least favourite book?

i think it’s good to at least attempt to meet a book on its level. there are lots of books i didn’t like, but i wasn’t meeting them on their level and i know that so we’re ignoring those. i do however have a shelf on my goodreads dedicated to books that i have beef with so i’ll just go off on two of them.....

tana french’s the likeness for being plagiaristic shit. it is essentially poorly concealed alternate universe OC insert fic of the secret history. you’ve got french’s dublin murder squad folks and then this group they are investigating who bear a STRIKING resemblance to the greek students in tsh 🤔. this would be one thing. it is pretty well acknowledged that nothing is original and there are enough changes to The Likeness that MAYBE i could let it slide if not for this other thing: french’s book, the likeness, has lines that are just basically reworded quotes from the secret history and french positions these lines so they are said by the counterpart (essentially same!) character that gave them original life in tsh. i cannot stress this enough: you can HEAR how similar the sentences are and their core intent is always the same. it’s thinly veiled theft! it astounds me that French hasn’t been sued frankly. it is one thing to want to capture some of the genius that tartt’s debut novel holds, but it is completely lazy and disgusting theft to go about it in the way French did with this book. and YES the secret history was published before french’s book. if i could stomach how fucking goddamn boring the likeness was to read it a second time and cite every one of these offenses i would, but that’s yet a third strike against it—it’s too boring to be worth it.

T. Kingfisher’s second book of the Clocktuar War duology : The Wonder Engine. this is a book that i feel violated the contract between writer and reader. the first book feels almost like a YA book. the stakes while described as very high are treated, as actions unfold, as very low. nothing truly irreparable happens until the climax of the second book and the fallout of that action is so off-tone of everything that came before i felt deeply betrayed. no, like, completely betrayed as in it ruined the rest of my afternoon, i am still viscerally angry eight months later, and i will never trust this author again. sure, maybe none of those actions that led to the climax were out-of-character, but there was nothing NOTHING in the proceeding action that even came close to that level of consequence. it’s a pity because right up till that point i was having a really good time. the entire vibe of the rising action to the climax of book one all the way through the rising action of book two was just a quippy fun version of roadtrip/quest - it felt like a comfort read. the abrupt tone shift had all the subtlety of dropping a graphically, brutal murder into Blue’s Clues. you don’t do that - this is a basic tenet of a writer / reader relationship. i’m not touching this bitch’s shit again.

5- Love Triangle, yes or no?

not so much. i like jen before me will scream ‘just be poly.’ love triangles that lead into poly relationships? yes, awesome will be glad i read. but i am at a stage in my life where your standard will-they-won’t-they-love-triangle is just fucking pointlessly frustrating to me. an example: i read a Nic Stone’s book Odd One Out a couple years ago and something about the synopsis or the hype made me think that it would resolve the love triangle that way, so when that did not happen i was incredibly frustrated and immediately wanted to resell the book. it’s the potential of the thing. stone’s book could have been the perfect vehicle for opening up the concept of polyamory to a ya audience but instead just really squandered that potential with weak floundering — in my opinion!

6- the most recent book you just couldn’t finish

uhhhhh i’ve got two and i’m not sure i’ve entirely given up quite yet buuuuuuuut

fucking dune. i got really pissed off with this book. So just…setting aside the whole vaguing at a pedophilically inclined queer coded villain - it’s done so poorly, that it's almost funny? like it doesn’t (as of half way through) actually have any consequence on…anything at all and is tacked on like an afterthought to the end of his scenes. honestly it all could just be cut out entirely with no recourse to the larger story. So my actual beef with this book is the pacing is ATROCIOUS. like yo, not only do you expect me to give a shit about these Atreides cunts, when we just met them and we spend the same amount of time with them IF NOT MORE with the antagonist? but you also expect me to believe Paul was able to just convince the leader of the Arrakis people —the leader of an entire planet!!— with a single fucking sentence??? yeah, not so much. it was not set up for me to believe that Paul could do that! maybe if Kynes hadn’t died immediately after—or at least not died at that moment? baring the fact I thought he was by far the most interesting character, IF he had been convinced by Paul in that scene, it would have been great to see some actual work done around that - with a transfer or a liaise of power between Kynes and Paul and the Fremen. By not having any substantive scene that does it - it begs the question of what the fuck was the point of the character in the first place? unplumbed potential!!! over all there seem to be some key scenes missing to get the reader to where the narrative expects us to be? but the choices made of the characters we spend time with and the moments we see with them, the benefit to the larger story…is not always there. hey herbert, these words you have written aren’t doing what you want them to?? i feel like i should finish it but i reaaaaallly don’t want to :) the only thing i can say is it looks like from the trailer, villeneueve is giving space to these moments so that the viewer can foster a genuine connection with the characters? radical concept.

our lady of perpetual hunger - i started this one optimistically bc i like chef memoirs, but i am at the point where she has just given birth to her son and honestly DON’T CARE. i still haven’t officially given up on it yet since i actually fucking bought it like a dope. i certainly would not have if i knew how much NOT about working the line this was gonna be

7- book you are currently reading

Aside from the failures mentioned above, I am working on the second book in B. Catling’s Vorrh trilogy, The Erstwhile. Also very close to finally finishing Iain Sinclair’s The Last London - there’s a review of his work from the LA Times that goes “One of Sinclair’s greatest skills has always been his ability to take diverse if not chaotic source material and refashion it in a way that sometimes seems downright alchemical” which captures some of the wonder I experience when reading his work. His style and how he creates atmosphere and setting is just unique and astounding.

8- last book you recommended to someone

The Secret History by Donna Tartt. Before that I told my brother to read Eat a Peach, as we both love Anthony Bourdain and David Chang talks about him a bit here, plus it’s just a fucking great book. any book that gives insight into Chang’s methodology and paradigm is worth a shot.

9- oldest book you read

I think it might have to be Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night (which apparently according to wiki premiered on the stage a whole four months before Hamlet so that’s what we’re going with) and if plays don’t count, I don’t care. I think they count and that’s what we’re going with.

10- the most recent book you read ?

Given the previous question, the most recently published book, right? It’s gotta be the one I just finished: The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic - Revised and Expanded edt., which like just came out this summer. I watched Jessica Hopper’s promo zoom, curtesy of my local indie bookstore, and went ahead and bought it. This was a great decision! It was just what I needed to read these last couple of weeks. i love there’s lots of short pieces that made the read quick and the fact that it’s non-fiction so there was no pressure of a plot or the emotional weight of character investment when I had a lot of big stressors dragging me down irl -it was such a relief. Hopper’s criticism is fun to read and there’s some real art in her appreciation of music here.

11- favourite author?

These are the top in a kind of order but not really: Donna Tartt, Jeff VanderMeer, Megan Whalen Turner, Flannery O’Conner, Chuck Palahniuk, Anthony Bourdain

Other faves very much worth mentioning: Emily O’Neill, Richard Siken, Brandon Sanderson, Warren Ellis, Nathan Englander, Stephen King, Eddie Huang, Carl Hiaassen, Anne Carson, and Iain Sinclair.

12- buying books or borrowing books?

Depends on if my library has it, of course! I nearly always see if my library has a copy first if i have never read it or the author before. If i’ve read the book before or trust the author, I’ll buy it. Like I’ll straight out buy new stuff from Jeff VanderMeer even though with him it’s either this-hits-exactly-and-is-my-new-fave or i-really-disliked-this-but-admire-the-boundaries-you’re-pushing-my-dude - so it’s always a gamble but a worthy one.

12- a book you dislike that everyone else seems to love

a little life (just bc it's torture porn elevated to art doesn’t negate the fact that it’s torture porn. Yanagihara’s project here is repugnant and the fact that this book is lauded as moving lgbt fiction makes my skin crawl)

sharp objects (good writing, compelling story, BUT typographical scarification doesn't work like that - i am not going to get into it but i know from first hand experience how Flynn described it is not accurate)

nesbø’s the snowman (what kinda dumbass detective would think THAT when a woman finds her missing father’s corpse? absolute idiocy - so obviously reverse engineered with that end in mind)

the raven cycle (fuck ronan lynch to start and then fuck him to end as well - there’s some other stuff but mostly he’s a total CUNT and if i don’t say that once a day i have probably died)

14 - bookmarks or dogears?

Bookmarks and sticky notes. Then I can place it pointing directly to the paragraph I last stopped on.

15- The book you can always reread?

This is my question because I reread all the time. ALL THE TIME. Books I reread often: The Secret History, Medium Raw (especially chapter 17 The Fury), Crooked Kingdom, The Violent Bear It Away, and The Goldfinch. Every year like clockwork (since it came out apparently) I will reread Stephen King’s The Outsider.

Other books I feel the urge to reread: VanderMeer’s Acceptance, Englander’s Dinner at the Center of the Earth, Frazier’s Nightwoods, Fresh Off the Boat, the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, the Peter Grant Series (which is queued up for another go here soon I think), any of the stories from A Good Man is Hard to Find, Sanderson’s Wax and Wayne Mistborn books, simon vs the homosapiens’ agenda, and there are two of Alan Morinis’ books on Mussar that I am technically always revisiting—when i need a reminder, i’ll jump around and read specific sections to get centered again.

16- can you read while listening to music?

Yes, but only ambient or near ambient (only usually one track on repeat) or a soundtrack I am extremely familiar with. No new music. I do usually need some audio stimulation or my mind will wander terribly.

17- one POV or multi POV?

Multi pov can certainly be done well (looking at the soc duaology and VanderMeer’s Acceptance) but working a multi-pov means there are more plates spinning, it’s more of a challenge, and some authors pull it off better than others.

18- do you read book in one sitting or in multiple days?

I don’t really do this anymore. that might have something to do with me picking up thicker books? but also i have a full time job now and let’s be real the book has to be hella good if i don’t want to put it down. the last book i attempted to shotgun was the final installment of my favorite series and it still took me two days so....i can get through a lot of books but none of them are ever in one sitting anymore.

19- who to tag:

@sybilius @mouth-rainboy @iwonderifthatisart @phereinnike @magnificentmoose @wambsgangs @moriarteaparty and anyone else if you feel so inclined!

Bonus Question: What’s on your to-read shelf?

As for me, I am excited about one i just picked up, Danforth’s Plain Bad Heroines, which i might start tomorrow and I will be taking Paul Madonna’s Come to Light on my trip to see my brother this coming weekend.

#this took a while but was fun #thanks again jen #very excited to read other folks responses #also like a general content warning? i mention/refer to things in the books but nothing's unpacked here #still to be cautious reference to mature themes #the narrator feeling posthumous

5 notes · View notes

kettlequills · 3 years ago

Text

the burning fire within

Henon's shirt rips while he is cutting wood. He takes it to Tinoryn to be mended.

My entry for TES Fest 21, prompts family and apotheosis. CW: referenced character death, fantastic racism - it’s set in Windhelm, you know the drill. I also wrote this in about an hour at 2am last night so, uh, enjoy. On A03 here.

Henon Virith was angry. Nothing new, that. He hefted the axe over his shoulder and brought it down with a satisfying crack. Two neat halves of firewood fell away to collapse perfectly onto the growing stack either side of the chopping stump. He swung the axe again. Crack. Again. Crack.

He could do this with his eyes closed. Sometimes he did, imagining sneering Windhelm guards under the axe’s blade. Imagined he’d found the insincere bastard that had come swaggering into the Grey Quarter one day, to inform Henon his mother had been ‘found dead’.

“Hunting accident, looks like, no sign of her partner,” the guard had said. Had the temerity to look at Henon softly. Henon remembered the words like they’d been burned into his soul.

“My-” Crack. “-condolences-” Crack. “-lad.” Crack.

Three more logs joined their split fellows. He rolled his neck until it cracked and kicked the piles in just the right spot to have them topple down neatly so it looked like he stacked them. Another log went on the stump.

Henon had anger enough to fuel him for years.

His next chop was powerful enough that his axe stuck into the chopping stump. Helon grunted. Placing one foot on the stump, he grabbed the axe handle and yanked. The burning muscles in his shoulders bunched under his shirt. He tugged, once, twice, then heaved as hard as he could. With a crunching rip, his shirt tore across the shoulders. The axe came loose.

Henon bit down on his knuckled fist and the molten fury that ignited the sleeping fire in his body. Deliberately, he lowered the axe onto the stump. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled slowly through his gritted teeth, tried to remember the breathing exercises the Priestess had taught him last winter to control his anger. Henon inhaled, exhaled.

Once. Twice. Three times.

In his mind’s eye, he pictured the searing rage inside of himself as a bonfire. It would be wild, messy, sparks ripping off the crackling wood like arrows. Heat would roll from it like a wall, and the flames inside would laugh and leap like crackling tongues.

“That sounds like a good fire, Henon,” the priestess’ encouraging voice was gentle in his memory. “It’ll keep lots of people warm. But an unchecked fire will set beds alight at night. How much fire do you think we need right now?”

“Not much,” Henon muttered aloud.

Henon imagined, carefully, lovingly, pressing soft cold soil over the edges of the fire, tightening its circle. He kept going, shovelling handfuls round the edges, shaping the fire he saw until it was bright and strong, but no bigger than a hearth-fire, banked and safe for the night.

One final time, Henon exhaled, then opened his eyes. Calm settled like a blanket onto his stiff shoulders. Without the punishing ache of the anger he’d used to fuel himself, Henon suddenly became aware of just how sore he was, how sweaty, how his arms trembled with fatigue.

He glanced at the sky. The sun was halfway down the sky, hovering almost directly over the Palace of Kings. No wonder. He’d been chopping wood for hours.

Henon cast an eye over the piles of wood. His mind ran quickly over the calculations as he vaulted the ice-slick rail onto the steps of Candlehearth Hall. The sums came easy to him; he didn’t need to look twice.

No Susanna to watch him today, calling laughingly for him to take off his shirt; he’d have to go in and ask for his earnings directly. A shame. Henon liked Susanna. Liked kissing her even more, when she leant down over the railing rosy-cheeked. She was soft, everywhere soft, like bitter anger had never found her. She made quiet animal noises, warm breathy sighs, when he touched her, her breasts, her hips, between them. It was fun, and casual, and she was always happy to see him.

It didn’t take Henon long to collect his wages and stack the fruits of his efforts by the fireplace. Even sour old Nils was grudgingly silent at the amount, though the door closed on a snappish comment when he saw the rip in Henon’s shirt baring his shoulders.

Henon jogged down to the Grey Quarter, letting the surge of annoyance work itself out through the drum of his feet on stone. He’d get his sparking shirt fixed. Nils didn’t need -

Exhaling raggedly, Henon focused on the hearth fire, the little curl of smoke that would lick out the chimney. By the time he had made it to Avalathil Tailoring, he was clearer-headed.

The tailor’s was poky and small, and the old sign’s paint was curling. Below it, a brazier sat, thickly fed with coals and fire-runes. Henon paused by the brazier, looking down at the soft red glow of the runes, and felt a little surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the brazier.

Tinoryn. He always left a little flick, right at the end, like a signature.

Henon went inside.

“Welcome to Avalathil - oh, hi, Henon.” Tinoryn was bright and cheerful as ever. He bounced up from his stool behind the counter with a wide, infectious grin. “How are you? I thought you were working today. Did you finish early? I’ve heard the ships are coming in, they might want more help unloading if you want extra work. We’ve had two sailors already come in with mendings, and one of them mentioned getting a whole new outfit commissioned, if you can believe that!

Apparently they went to Solstheim, you know, that island off the coast, you can see it from the Point when it’s clear out? Anyway, well he liked the look of the clothes they wear, and he wanted something similar that wouldn’t ‘have him freeze to death faster than a skinned horker’.”

Something in him settled at Tinoryn’s chatter. He was always the same, always happy, always with a story to share. Henon found himself smirking as Tinoryn imitated the sailor’s dour tones.

“I’d want to see that,” he said.

Tinoryn’s nose wrinkled. “Eurgh! A skinned horker? That’s gross, Henon. It would be all wet and red in there, like muscles! It would bleed everywhere! Though I suppose they do have to skin them to get the furs off. But definitely not while they’re alive! That would be horrible. We add clothes, not take them away here. Speaking of,” Tinoryn’s smile, somehow, became even brighter, until Henon swore he could see each and every one of his teeth, “Can I do anything for you? Ruvene’s not here, so you just have me.”

“That’s just what I want,” Henon said, and shrugged off his shirt. He had to wrestle with the buttons for a moment, and when he looked up, the highs of Tinoryn’s cheekbones had flooded with pink and his soft lips were parted. He didn’t react when Henon thrust the ripped shirt towards him, his gaze trapped somewhere at Henon’s chest. “Tinoryn?”

Self-consciously, Henon rubbed at his chest. He couldn’t see anything there, apart from maybe a bit of sweat in his chest hair. Tinoryn was much more fastidious than Henon, but it was just sweat. Tinoryn’s attention made him feel odd, prickly-warm, like he wanted to square his shoulders and straighten his back. He’d been shirtless around him plenty before.

Tinoryn blinked, then his eyes refocused on Henon’s face and he was back to beaming. “Yes! Of course, I’ll take that. Just another fix? Hmm, yes, you’ve torn it, right across the shoulders. Nasty! But it won’t take that long and it’s been dead in here today, all of our orders are all done that I can do without Ruvene’s permission, and you know I’ve read everything I brought. I have been so bored I started talking to the mannequin. I’m calling it Dolly. Because it’s a doll? Or a mannequin, I suppose. A doll for clothes. I can do it for you right now! We’ll have to add in a panel here for you if you keep broadening up though.”

“Not now,” Henon interrupted uneasily, “Just - can you fix it? Like it was?”

Tinoryn’s eyes softened. “Yes, just like it was. I know how important this is. It suits you, by the way. It’s the last one, isn’t it? From your father, Azura keep him.”

“Thanks. And yeah.” It sounded a bit strangled, but Henon couldn’t bring himself to care.

It was stupid, probably, but he trusted Tinoryn not to mess it up. Ruvene would have just added the panel to the back, grumbling at Henon for sentimentality. But of the shirts that Henon had inherited from his father, the others were gone, all torn, ripped, mended to oblivion by Tinoryn, or lost over the years. When he wore it, he thought of their shapes, how they were probably the same in the arm, but that his father’s wrists had maybe been thicker, because it was stretched there. Henon didn’t remember much of his father. Henon had not been that old when he’d been found dead on the docks, sitting on one of the crates he was meant to be unloading, frozen to death with a peaceful smile.

“Uh, how much?”

He fumbled awkwardly for his belt pouch, but Tinoryn was already waving him away with a sunny smile.

“Ruvene’s not here,” he said conspiratorially, “No one will know, let me just fetch my needle and thread. Besides, no need to charge for such a simple fix.” He hopped up and rummaged around under the counter, fishing out a small wooden box with a triumphant, “Ha! There you are. I swear it hides… You know I can teach you to do this, if you want.”

Slipping a silver thimble onto his thumb, Tinoryn pulled Henon’s sweaty shirt into his lap. He eyed the rip critically, holding the needle between his lips as he threaded it. Henon watched, impressed by his dexterity.

“I don’t need to know,” said Henon dismissively. “You’ll do it.”

Tinoryn smiled down at Henon’s shirt. “That’s true.”

Henon rounded the counter and dragged Ruvene’s unused stool over with a clattering scrape of groaning wood. He slumped onto it and rested his tired arms on the countertop with a groan. Their knees pushed together under the counter for space, Tinoryn’s bony leg warm against his even through layers of clothes.

“You don’t have to stay, it’ll take me a moment,” Tinoryn added, glancing at him from under his eyelashes as he stitched. They were thick and dark, curly like his hair.

“I’ll wait,” said Henon. He didn’t have many other shirts, and besides, whenever Tinoryn’s bright eyes strayed to Henon’s bare torso, the tips of his ears flushed cherry-red. It made Henon feel powerful in a way he couldn’t describe, like how he felt when Susanna clung to him brokenly when he touched her. Like Henon was the only ship in a storm he had created.

“Alright then,” said Tinoryn, and then he quieted, concentrating on his work.

Henon fiddled with a coin as he waited, a septim from this morning’s earnings. It flew, golden gleaming, around his slate-grey knuckles, spinning over the countertop like he held it on an invisible string. Idly, he played a counting game with himself, one taught over long hours of solitary boredom. One, two, three spins to the right, seven, eight, nine, to the left, one flick up, twelve. Then back around again, adding each number of spins, until he tired of it. Numbers were easy, but soothing, too. They were predictable.

He was beginning to feel tired, sleepy, even. His fatigue was catching up to him. The pressure of Tinoryn’s leg against his was comfortable, the sound of his breathing familiar. The shop was warm and quiet, a little dusty in places, with thick bolts of fabric hanging down from the walls. The mullioned windows were frosted white, dim shapes passing by and setting distant shadows to chase each other across the rolling hillocks of prepared cloth. Dolly the mannequin waited patiently in one corner, crowned by a glorious confection of gull-feathers and snowberries wrapped in stained jade silk, someone’s earnest attempt, Henon thought, at making spring into a hat.

Henon flipped the coin into the air and caught it, a shining disc like the sun held between his thumb and forefinger.

“Wow,” said Tinoryn from beside him. “How did you do that? That’s amazing! You just caught it, so fast!”

Henon glanced over, and Tinoryn’s expression was unreserved and inquisitive, brilliant with pleasure at the trick. “It’s not hard,” he said, uncertain how to name the feeling that Tinoryn’s eagerness aroused in him. “You just, look, like this,” he demonstrated.

“Can I try?” Tinoryn asked, eyes round, and Henon handed the coin over.

Tinoryn made a valiant attempt at throwing the coin, but it hit his hand as it fell, rebounding sharply off his knuckle and disappearing into the darkness below the counter. “Ouch!” exclaimed Tinoryn, “Oh, that is much harder than it looks. You made it seem so easy! Do you want me to find your coin - oh-”

Henon had already slid off the stool into a crouch, scanning the darkness for a glint of gold. He grunted, it was dark, and dusty under the counter, cluttered with boxes and cloth scraps. He spotted one or two needles, but no coin.

“Here, let me help,” Tinoryn said above him, and Henon looked up at the gentle snap of fire crackling into existence.

What he saw then arrested him completely.

It was Tinoryn, just Tinoryn, but… Tinoryn was leaning forward on the stool, his boot planted on the floor to stop him from falling. Henon reached to touch his calf, felt the muscles engaged in supporting his weight through his trousers, and had no words for the nameless surge of feeling that pooled in his gut.

In one hand, Tinoryn held Henon’s shirt, the other, a crackling fire spell, humming with magic and energy. He was smiling, as always, bright and soft, and the flickering firelight shimmered off his dark, curly hair, the hint of wetness on his lip. The ties that held his shirt (soft green, like grass) were loose, leaving space for the shadows of the fire to race over his collarbones, a smooth triangle of soft grey skin of Tinoryn’s skinny chest. Henon felt his mouth flood with saliva, felt the strangest urge to lave his tongue along the arches of Tinoryn’s collarbones, scrape his teeth over the skin until it reddened like the tips of his ears.

Tinoryn’s eyes had always been bright, ever since they were children. It was one marker of being a strong mage, that slight lambent glow, like the magic couldn’t quite be contained within him. But now, they looked like the heart of a fire, or maybe lava, brilliant, burning, changing everything in its path. Like a beginning, like being reforged anew, into something divine, Henon felt blood rise warm on his cheeks, knew Tinoryn could see how it flushed his chest ruddy. He wanted -

“I think I see it,” Tinoryn said happily, breaking the spell. “Down there, see, just under that - yes, you’ve got it, there!”

Henon cleared his throat, feeling bizarrely awkward as he slipped the coin back into his pouch. It was just Tinoryn. He straightened up, stretching his back until his spine popped.

“Thanks,” he said, “for the light.”

“Thank you for the practice!” Tinoryn’s face lit up again. “I finished your shirt, by the way! All done, good as new.”

Henon traced his fingertip over the mend. He could barely see it. Tinoryn had done a great job.

“Thanks,” he said again, and reached out to clasp the back of Tinoryn’s neck, his thumb pressing into his curls. They were soft. Tinoryn’s neck was warm and solid under his palm. “It looks good,” Henon added, not wanting to be churlish, but as he stared down at Tinoryn he was not quite sure if he could even remember what the shirt looked like.

“Oh,” said Tinoryn, and his hands clenched oddly in his lap like he was holding them down, and his face flamed red. His ears were pricked forward though, clearly pleased. “It’s my - pleasure, Henon, really.”

“Say,” said Henon, “you want to get out of here? I reckon we could go and nail some helmets with rocks down in the training yard round this sort of time.”

Clearly tempted, Tinoryn bit his lip. Henon watched his teeth press down on the soft flesh and catch on tiny ragged edges of skin, saw how it made his lips flush pinker, saw the wet dart of his tongue. He tightened his grasp on Tinoryn’s neck, thumb smoothing down his hairline, feeling the tiny feathery hairs there tickle his skin.

“I can’t,” said Tinoryn, sounding truly disappointed. “I have to watch the shop for Ruvene.”

“Alright,” shrugged Henon. He grabbed the edge of the counter and heaved himself up to sit on it, grinning at Tinoryn’s delighted surprise. Now he was here, Henon found that he didn’t particularly want to leave. After all, the tiny tailor’s shop did have something in it that held his interest. “Guess I’ll teach you that coin trick while we wait.”

Tinoryn’s radiant smile in answer was more than enough.

#tinoryn othravel #henon virith #skyrim #tesfest21 #inkwrites #tinoryn/henon #dawn #apotheosis #my fic the burning fire within

10 notes · View notes

thefreelanceangel · 4 years ago

Text

Shadowbringers Is Finally Ended

With Patch 5.55 and the official end of the Shadowbringers story, setting up now for Endwalker in November, there are now a few months ahead to grind gear, finish content and reflect on the most recent expansion.

And, without any hyperbole, I can say definitively that I have never in my life been as impressed with a game's writing as I have that of Shadowbringers, both the original expansion and a lot of the patch content. I have... thoughts.

I'm a bit of an outlier; I skipped Stormblood (oops) and went straight from completing Heavensward (which greatly impressed me at the time and still does) into Shadowbringers because I wanted to get a max level character already.

Within the first few cutscenes of Shadowbringers, I was absolutely hooked.

First, let me just say that "monstrous angels" is 100% My Thing. I ADORE the reinterpretation of the standard "Renaissance art angelic figures" into something closer to incomprehensible beings taking on twisted, terrifying appearances. The human mind is a finite thing and comprehending an angel would be as difficult as comprehending infinity; these are things so alien to our experience that assuming they'd be easy to grasp and familiar feels disingenuous to me.

So the sin-eaters and the Lightwardens? SLAP.

Also, the intent behind the usage of "Light" in Shadowbringers was deliberate and purposeful. Our Lord and Savior, Yoshi-P, stated this clearly in his Forbes interview.

"The inception of this idea was very simple: in recent fantasy works, the perception that light equates to good and dark equates to evil is very set in stone, we wanted to shake this up a bit.

"Until this point in Final Fantasy XIV, our players have been Warriors of Light: the hero. However, with Shadowbringers, we leave the Source and embark on a journey to the First, and through this I want our players to discover the truth of the world, as well as think about the real nature of light and dark. That is the theme of Shadowbringers.

"In any case, a light too strong could potentially become evil. Darkness and night are also necessary for the world to maintain its balance; that's the kind of theme we will be shedding light on."

And the themes in Shadowbringers had such an amazing resonance that they were both painfully clear and masterfully executed. Not only was the theme of "balance" clearly executed in the "returning Darkness to a world flooded by Light" goal, but the desire for players to "think about the real nature of light and dark" showed in a multitude of ways.

The Warriors of Light (who we met as the Warriors of Darkness in Heavensward) are, in their home world, reviled. They directly caused the Flood which nearly destroyed their home and although they were able to save it with personal sacrifice, the populace at large is unaware of that sacrifice. The motives behind what the Warriors did is essentially lost to history; all that remains is the perception of their actions and the results thereof.

Motives, however, which you (player and WoL) are privy to.

"At long last, you see. To save our world, we gave our lives. We were just adventurers trying to make our way. An odd job here, a favor there—we never aspired to be Warriors of Light. But word of our deeds spread, and soon people were calling us heroes. They placed their hopes and dreams on our shoulders and bid us fight for all that was good and right. We fought and we fought and we fought...until there was no one left to fight. We won...and now our world is being erased from existence. We did everything right, everything that was asked of us, and still—still it came to this! You of all people should understand! We cannot—we will not falter. We brought our world to the brink of destruction, and now we must save it."

You had that fight with the Warriors of Darkness. You heard Ardbert explain exactly what happened, how they came to the point where they faced off against you, and you saw what happened when they were given the choice to hold back the Flood. And you were there when the one favor Ardbert asked was for the Warriors of Darkness to be taken home.

You see how the First remembers them and it's stark contrast to the heroes you met who were fighting desperately to save people who now spit on their names. History quite clearly has two sides and which you believe is dependent entirely on what information you have.

This becomes even more of a clear theme when you meet Emet-Selch and learn more about the Calamity which led to the entire Zodiark/Hydaelyn duality. Here, your previous experiences with Ascians has painted them solely as "villains." They are established enemies, manipulating events and people in order to attain goals which, to you, are nothing but Calamities.

And yet, as you learn more about the original Source and the Amaurotines that once lived on it, these goals are painted in an entirely new light. Instead of merely seeking to wipe out "the world" for no apparent reason or, at best guess, greater power for their deity Zodiark, the Ascians were striving to repair the damage done by the original Sundering. They, in a manner of speaking, were doing what the Warriors of Darkness were. What you, the Warrior of Light, have been doing. They were trying to restore what was lost.

Which leads into another of Shadowbringers' major themes: grief and loss.

The earliest touches of this are in Alisaie's questlines where you learn about what happens to people tainted by the Light. Families are destroyed, people are transmuted into sin-eaters and those who avoid that fate must stand by and watch as their loved ones fall to something far worse than death. "A Purchase of Fruit" shows you exactly what the end result is while also highlighting something very specific: with no hope of removing the Light's taint, knowing that all that awaits the tainted is a painful transmutation and existence as a sin-eater, those untainted make the best they can of those last days and end the tainted individual's pain before it begins.

Grief, yes. Loss? Absolutely. And yet, this is a loving, compassionate thing that those in Amh Araeng are doing. They face their own grief and loss. Rather than refusing to accept the actuality of their circumstances or refuse to weigh themselves down with taking a decisive action, they make the choice to face their grief and loss directly, even willingly taking on the guilt of their actions rather than leaving the tainted to suffer.

Magnus in Twine lost his wife and son, which immobilizes him. He can't find solance in anything save alcohol and brooding over their graves. It takes outside interference to pull him directly from his grief, to help him see past the loss of his family and look towards the future where life might once again be worth living. His struggle with grief is painfully familiar and so very, very close to many real life struggles that it's extremely poignant.

This struggle with grief is the fight the Ascians are, without question, losing. Let's set aside the "tempering" argument when it comes to Emet-Selch and Elidibus for the moment, largely because it's actually quite true that grief can spur people into committing horrific acts either as a desperate attempt to assuage their own pain (revenge) or make 'things right' in some way (vengeance).

Emet-Selch does not, in fact, properly grieve for Amaurot and the Ancients he knew. He clings to them, as Hythlodaeus tells us, weighed down by an aching sense of loss.

"And though he may carry himself with a certain glib ease, Emet-Selch is not a man to bear his burdens lightly. In fact, I imagine they have only grown heavier with every passing century. ...T'is truly a terrible weight he has chosen to carry."

Quite significantly is the word "chosen" in that. Grief is a process that involves, eventually, letting go of the pain and living with the memories of what was loved and what no longer is. Emet-Selch chooses not to do that. He does not grieve for Amaurot and his lost loved ones; he refuses, no matter how often he mentions his loss, to admit that what is gone is gone.

Elidibus, rather similarly, refuses to accept that the duty he took on when called upon to become Zodiark's heart is finally at an end. That the world he and Emet-Selch originated from is gone. Although he admits that he can barely remember why he's set on this path, he refuses to turn away from him.

One won't forget, one can barely remember--neither will grieve and let go.

Even the Ascians' characteristic arrogance and disdain for what they consider "lesser beings" is easy to read as their long-lasting struggle with grief. Considering the Sundering, all the beings that the Ascians are so disdainful of are, in fact, echoes of that which they once knew. If they acknowledged that, accepted those beings as what they are and perhaps even admitted they had worth... well... Rather like realizing abruptly that you've spent a whole day without thinking of someone recently departed, it feels like a betrayal.

To find value in the worlds as they currently are, to turn away from the duty they were asked to uphold, to choose to lay down the memories of the past are all, in essence, choices the Ascians will not make because to do so would be to let go of what's lost, to move into the acceptance of grief and that can feel like betraying those whose memories are slowly fading.

Emet-Selch's end--"Remember us."--is directly tied to his refusal to forget. To let himself have even one day without hoping for an eventuality that's highly unlikely regardless of effort, without remembering the Sundering and the Final Days. He remembered, forcefully and tenaciously, and wishes that legacy to live beyond him.

While Elidibus, in remembering, unable to deny failure any longer, finally expresses grief and loss. "My people. My brothers. ...My friends. Stay strong. Keep the faith. At duty's end, we will meet again. We will. We will. The rains have ceased, and we have been graced with another beautiful day. But you are not here to see it."

And coming from villains, quite specifically from villains that have been largely indistinct "puppet master" figures throughout the previous expansions, these story arcs were a punch to the gut. (Yes, I had to pause writing this to cry helplessly over Elidibus again because my gods, that last line just...) Villains are at their best in fiction when they're relatable. When it's so very easy to see that thin line between villain and hero.

Faced with the loss of everything you'd ever loved, with the faintest possibility of getting it back, what would you do? What wouldn't you do? Yes, the Ascians did terrible things and that's undeniable. Stopping them was necessary to save hundreds of thousands of lives. And doing so, being victorious, didn't feel like a victory and that is such a rare, rare thing in media. The Warrior of Light does the right thing, but in doing so, must face the fact that those they've been fighting have hopes and dreams and feelings and pain as real and as motivating as theirs.

And Shadowbringers does such an impressive job of turning those standard tropes around. Heroes are a dime a dozen because if you just awaken them, as Elidibus did with the starshower, well, there can be dozens of Warriors running around. Villains have heart-wrenching motivations and relatable reasons for their goals. History is multi-faceted and no one person knows what the "truth" truly is. Grief can spur people to helping others (i.e. the tank Role Quest ending) or it can fester and go unhealed and create nothing but more destruction.

There is so much that Shadowbringers did beautifully, I don't have the time to touch on all of it. The lack of "breaking the flawed system fixes everything" trope following Eulmore's liberation from Vauthry and the struggles that Eulmore faces in trying to build a functional, working social order for themselves. Embracing the value of childish dreams and tending to the smallest, most overlooked victims of trauma with the Pixie Tribal Quests. Dealing with a commander whose soldiers died and seeing Lyna's survivor's guilt. Seeing how having a single, unified goal can inspire and rally people into putting differences aside and helping each other.

Shadowbringers has finally ended with Patch 5.55. The story on the First ended with Patch 5.3. And all I can say is that this is a game that I will never forget.

#Shadowbringers #FFXIV #OOC #Yes I had A Lot of Thoughts

12 notes · View notes

glimmerglanger · 4 years ago

Note

So I’ve been plagued by this since I read mirror AU. For your spice week, how would you feel about obikin sex with an audience? Can be purely for pleasure or a ritual thing or an accident, but like, thinking of Anakin staking a claim in front of Cody in agaptfaa may have awoken something in me? Ditto prime Anakin and mirror Anakin with either Obi-Wan. I know Obes would think it riduculous/primitive but maybe find it hot anyway?

Anonymous said:

hmm this isn’t particularly spicy on its own but it can be added to a spicy september fic? like ur prompts are the ice cream and this ask is the extra toppings haha. but like obi wan’s pale skin being marked up with finger shaped bruises and hickeys and his own flush? bonus points if he’s ‘pleasantly sore’ 🥺

Mmmmm, I like these ideas very, very much! I went with ritual sex with an audience because I’m legitimately so, so weak for that. Marking ended up fitting in very well with this particular plot bunny. Hey, if we’re staking a claim…. No reason for half measures. Established relationship set during the Clone Wars (close to the end, with Anakin’s mental state being frayed).

This is NOT SAFE FOR WIZARDS. No real warnings beyond that. We’ve wrapped up Spicy September Week with this fic! I hope you all enjoyed it! Thanks for all the wonderful prompts! I’ll be posting all the fics over on ao3 to make sure they don’t get lost etc. Hope everyone has a great rest of the week, time for me to get back to prepping for Whumptober!

~~~~~~~

They landed on Tuls on a clear, cool morning, with frost across the ground. Technically, Anakin wasn’t even supposed to be on the mission, but he’d been working with the 212th when Obi-Wan’s orders came through and…

Well. They’d had enough things go wrong for Jedi sent on solo missions from the Senate. He’d decided he ought to tag along, and Obi-Wan hadn’t protested. They’d even had some time to sleep, on the flight to Tuls. Anakin had hoped they might have time for a bit more than sleep, but Obi-Wan had still been recovering from...whatever the kriff had happened to him over Raydonia.

Anakin took one look at the fading bruises all down his ribs, and lost the urge to press the issue. It was more than enough to hold Obi-Wan close while they slept, to pour healing energy down into his skin, hoping to ease as much of the damage as he could.

By the time they arrived on Tuls, most of the marks had faded away. Obi-Wan had stretched that morning, when he woke, and looked down at his side with a surprise written all over his expression. “Feeling better?” Anakin had asked, dropping a kiss against his ribs, and Obi-Wan had smiled at him, looking soft and still mussed from sleep.

But that had been earlier, when it was just them. Obi-Wan looked nothing but professional as they set foot on Tuls soil, met by an entire delegation of tired, stooped humanoids, who looked at them and said, “Thank goodness you have finally arrived, Jedi. There is no longer much time.”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, after the Tuls delegation had hurried them along, out of the cold and into a finally appointed meeting chamber. There was a fire crackling in a large hearth along one wall, which was a relief. There was a bitter chill in the air, which seemed odd. Anakin was almost sure Obi-Wan had said that it was supposed to be late spring on the planet. “I was not informed we were on a time-table, but you mentioned--”

“We are very late to bring the spring,” an older man said, rising heavily from a chair by the fire. He was solidly built - Anakin guessed he’d probably been all muscle, once. Time had added a healthy girth around his waist. He wore a crown of dark stone cut through with pale lines.

Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin, and Anakin shrugged. Obi-Wan looked back at the man and said, “And you… require our help, to bring the spring?”

The man nodded. He said, “Forgive my manners. I am King Urtus. And, yes. We need your help, specifically, Master Jedi.” Anakin could feel the relief radiating off of all of these people, even as their leader spoke.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, shifting around, loosening his shoulders in a little movement that Anakin wasn’t sure anyone else would identify as the first step towards a fight. “May I ask why? I’ve not heard of such assistance being required before.”

Urtus grimaced, looked to the side, and spat into the fire. “We did not need outside assistance. Not before the Separatist attacked us. The Keeper of Seasons was killed in the attack. Her apprentice…” He gestured to a boy standing to one side; the kid looked to be in his early teens. “Is not yet of age to bring the spring.”

“I think…” Obi-Wan said, as a creeping feeling ran down Anakin’s back, “that you ought to tell us, exactly, how one brings the spring, here on Tuls.”

“Are you serious?” Anakin said, after Urtus finished explaining exactly what it was they wanted Obi-Wan to do. He felt a prickle across his shoulders as everyone in the room turned to look at him, including Obi-Wan, who raised an eyebrow for good measure.

“We are quite serious,” Urtus said, as though he had not just suggested that - that Obi-Wan come down to some - some kind of ritual chamber and take off all his clothes and--

“Getting kr -- engaging in intercourse doesn’t make the seasons change,” Anakin said, feeling his cheeks getting far too warm. He, abruptly, didn’t like the way any of the people in the room were looking at Obi-Wan.

Urtus shrugged. “It ever has on Tuls,” he said.

Anakin looked at Obi-Wan, hoping for support on how mad the entire suggestion was. He got a shrug, instead, and a thoughtful look, as Obi-Wan said, “I can feel the Force flowing through the core of this world. It is possible the seasons have become tied to… rituals, of a sort. And carnal relations are often tied to the advent of spring.”

Sometimes Anakin wanted to shake him. Not everything had to be a science project.

Urtus cleared his throat, before Anakin could point out that now was not the time to get curious about the ecosystem of some new world. “Please,” Urtus said. “It should be nearly summer now. We beg for your assistance with this matter.”

“Why does this have to be Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked, shifting to put himself between them and Obi-Wan, just in case they got grabby.

“We can feel his connection to the Force,” Urtus said, straightening and meeting Anakin’s gaze for the first time. “The planet responds to him, already.” Anakin figured he’d have to take Urtus’ word for that.

And Anakin knew damn well there was no way Obi-Wan was actually going to decline. He’d be full of concern about the fate of the planet and the safety of these people and if it meant him getting fucked on an altar to set things to rights, then so be it. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise when Obi-Wan said, “Of course, I will assist in any way I can.”

Urtus sagged with relief. Anakin felt the emotion vibrating through the rest of the crowd, and fine, he supposed they could make this work. He could help and they’d just get this over with, and-- Urtus said, “We will prepare you and arrange the melee immediately, then.”

The back of Anakin’s neck prickled, even as Obi-Wan asked, “Melee?”

Urtus nodded. “Indeed. To determine who shall have the right to assist you. So you may remove winter’s veil and bring the spring.”

Anakin tightened his grip on Obi-Wan’s arm; he felt Obi-Wan’s emotions shift, some hint of worry entering his feelings for the first time. None of it came through in Obi-Wan’s tone when he said, “Surely, I select who has the...right?”

Urtus shook his heavy head, making a deep humming sound. “No. It must be whoever is touched most deeply by winter, as decided by the Force,” he said, “it has ever been thus.”

Anakin looked over the crowd in the room. He really disliked the way they were eying Obi-Wan, and wondered, if he picked Obi-Wan up and bolted, what his odds were of getting to the ship. Probably not high, if Obi-Wan decided to fight him. Which he almost certainly would.

Anakin blew out a breath, instead, and said, “Is anyone allowed to join this melee, then?” Because, kriff, if it was a fight they wanted… Well. He was more than happy to give it to them.

In the end, the Tuls were agreeable to the idea of Anakin joining the melee. He had no idea what they meant by ‘touched by winter’ and he didn’t really care. He was taken to a chamber to prepare with all the rest of the entrants, while Obi-Wan was spirited off elsewhere. They were only to use weapons with blunted edges, apparently, but that was fine. Anakin had long ago learned how to fight with whatever was to hand.

He cracked his neck side to side, selected a weapon that fitted his hand, and waited, ignoring the chatter around the rest of the room.

It seemed to take an age and a half before the doors were opened again and they were led out, across a frozen expanse of ground, and into a small entryway, directly into the earth. It was dark inside, and warmer. There were steps, leading down, and Anakin followed the figure in front of him, flexing his fingers in and out until they, finally, reached the bottom.

They were… in a large, open space, ringed with seats stretching upward, many of them filled. The walls glowed, faintly. Anakin barely noticed any of that, because, in the center of the… well, the arena, there was a familiar figure.

Someone had taken Obi-Wan’s tunics and left him wearing…pieces of white fabric, tied in bands around his body. His eyes and mouth were both wrapped. There were more bindings around his arms and hands. He was standing in front of a tall lump of stone. Anakin assumed, with a hot lurch of his gut, that this was the altar.

Which meant the Tuls fully expected someone to fuck Obi-Wan right there in the center of this arena and, well. There was no way Anakin was going to let anyone else touch him. He took a breath, adjusted his grip on his weapon, and waited while Urtus made some kind of speech that he didn’t care about.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for the moment when the melee started, and then springing into action. The Tuls were determined, he had to give them that. And they seemed to have decided that they didn’t actually care who won the right, as long as it wasn’t him.

They swarmed him, and Anakin snarled. Even with numbers, they were not a match, and he knew it. They had not a fraction of the practice and experience he’d gained, and he knocked them aside, one after another.

One almost cracked him over the back of the head with a cudgel, only to slip on nothing a moment before the blow could land, falling into one of his fellows, instead, and Anakin half-laughed at the feeling of Obi-Wan’s presence against his skin.

The Tuls woman in front of him balked at his laughter, and Anakin took the opportunity to elbow her in the gut, listening to the sound she made as she folded up, flinging himself back into the fight. There was no real strategy to it, it was nothing but a brawl, fierce and vicious, devolving, finally, into a bare knuckled scrap between the last contenders.

Anakin had something of an advantage in that area, and grinned fiercely at the sound his fist made hitting the jaw of the last Tuls standing between him and Obi-Wan. The man had a half a head of height on Anakin, but went over backwards with a satisfying thump.

Anakin stood, for a moment, in the midst of the groaning fallen, breathing hard. His clothes were torn and bloody, he noted. He throbbed from a dozen different places, wounds aching. He tasted copper on his tongue and turned his head to the side, spitting, even as drums started around the room.

He distantly remembered being told about the drums, and grinned, because they meant he’d won.

He met Urtus’ eyes across the arena, nodded, and stalked towards the center of the space. Obi-Wan hadn’t moved, standing there still as a statue. There were, Anakin noticed, as he got closer, clothes wrapped around his knees and ankles, too. His feet were bare on the stone and there were strange tendrils of light winding away from him, out through the stone.

Anakin decided he didn’t care about the light, right at that moment. His blood burned in his veins, his gut full of fire from the battle. He was already hard, when he stopped in front of Obi-Wan and reached out, grabbing the wrap around his eyes and pulling it away.

Obi-Wan blinked open his eyes, so clear and blue, and did not look surprised to find Anakin before him. Anakin grabbed the wrap over his mouth, hoping he was doing an adequate job removing winter’s veil, and Obi-Wan said, quietly, something tense in his expression, just for a moment, “I knew it would be you.”

Anakin shivered and could not stop himself from sliding a hand back into Obi-Wan’s hair and leaning closer, kissing his mouth, aware he was leaving smears of blood behind and - and liking it, liking the way it marked Obi-Wan’s clean, perfect skin. “I think I had some help,” he murmured, against Obi-Wan’s mouth, and felt Obi-Wan smile.

“Maybe a little,” Obi-Wan agreed, and Anakin kissed him again, pleased to know it had been him Obi-Wan wanted with him, here in the middle of an arena, here at this crude altar.

It made his pulse beat faster, instructions for what he was supposed to do jumbling together in his head. The Tuls had been specific about some things, but it was hard to focus on what they’d wanted. He’d needed to - to take Obi-Wan out of these bindings, definitely.

Anakin could do that, He kept one hand in Obi-Wan’s hair, aware of all the eyes on them. He expected a prickle of anxiety across his nerves, he even anticipated, in a flash of worry, that he would not be able to maintain his current state of interest, not while knowing so many people were watching.

But these people had thought they could have Obi-Wan. Thought they could just use him for their ritual. And he, abruptly, quite liked the idea of showing them all just how wrong they were. He slid his mouth to Obi-Wan’s neck, nipping at the skin and then sucking, hearing Obi-Wan make a loud, surprised sound.

He slid his other hand down, tearing at the white wrappings, careless and rough. He just wanted them off.

“The altar,” Obi-Wan ground out, his hands freed to come up, to grip at Anakin, pulling him closer. “We need to--the stone is Force-reactive, we need to be on--”

Anakin got the idea. The altar was the size of a large table, rising directly out of the floor. It came up to his thighs, he noted, even as he pulled the last of the wrappings away, grabbed Obi-Wan’s thighs, and lifted him.

The stone lit up beneath Obi-Wan, when Anakin turned and put him down on the altar. Veins of color shot through it, so bright they were almost blinding. A murmur went up through the crowd, relief and joy, but Anakin barely noted it.

Obi-Wan lit up, as well, and that was far more interesting. Trails of light stretched under his skin, glowing. He looked like something out of a dream, something magical. But then, he always had. Anakin groaned and crawled onto the altar, falling forward to kiss him, hands all over his skin, warm and soft and perfect.

He left behind smears of blood, marks that showed where he’d touched, and groaned at the sight of it. Everyone on Tuls had wanted Obi-Wan, but he was the only one who got to have this, the only one who got to touch, and he wanted, suddenly and fiercely, for them all to know it.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan panted, tugging at the closures on Anakin’s tunics. They were hanging off of him already, and Anakin yanked the outer tunic off, tossing it aside. He cared little about the under tunic; it wasn’t in his way. He slid a hand down, curled his fingers around Obi-Wan’s cock, and watched the light beneath him shift, spreading away from the altar, out across the arena.

Obi-Wan’s hands clenched at his belt. He made a sound, thick and pleasure-drunk, as Anakin stroked him, setting a fast, brutal pace. He had not patience within him, at the moment, he just wanted. Wanted to watch Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter, wanted everyone in the arena to see what he got to do.

He bent forward, kissing Obi-Wan deep and filthy, the drums pounding around them, almost drowning out the sound Obi-Wan made when he spilled all over Anakin’s fingers.

“Force,” Obi-Wan panted, and Anakin grinned, rubbing his fingers together and considering. They’d not given him anything to ease the way. He shrugged, decided to make do, and slid his fingers back, between Obi-Wan’s legs.

He found Obi-Wan slick already, slick enough to slide two fingers in at once, and the revelation punched a groan out of him. “I thought,” Obi-wan gasped, deliciously flushed and glowing, “I’d better, ah, be ready.”

Anakin nodded. He felt quite beyond words, aching with so much want it felt hard to think. He wanted, so badly, to stretch out over Obi-Wan like this, to touch his glowing skin and let all the Tuls see how good he could make Obi-Wan feel, show them his beauty, the light of him--

The Tuls had warned them both that they might be...affected by the ritual. Anakin was willing to blame the hot jump of his pulse on whatever the kriff the Force was currently doing, whatever was making Obi-Wan light up, the glow off of his skin chasing away all the shadows in Anakin’s head, leaving him… singularly focused.

The urge to make everyone see swallowed him. Anakin took another kiss, hard, and then rocked onto his heels, batting Obi-Wan’s hands away - he’d gotten Anakin’s slacks open, that was more than good enough - and gripped at Obi-Wan’s hip.

Obi-Wan made a thick sound, surprised, when Anakin dragged his fingers out. His gasped beautifully, his skin all aglow, brighter spots of light at his freckles. Anakin ran a hand over his chest, awed, and then settled his hands, pulling Obi-Wan’s hips just so, gripping tight.

He heard the sound Obi-Wan made over the drums when he pushed in. Around them, the light started picking up colors, purples and pinks and blues, greens, spreading around the room, spreading across Obi-Wan’s skin, like an aurora, a celestial event, right in front of him.

Anakin jolted at the feeling of being in him. It was always amazing; he could have happily fucked Obi-Wan for the rest of his life, but-- Sinking into him on the altar felt like something else, the sensation spreading out to each nerve, clearing his head, leaving nothing but want and need and desire behind.

Anakin needed to fuck him, needed to drive into him, needing to make him gasp and cry out. Anakin gripped him, hard, keeping a hold on him, knowing he was leaving marks behind and - and liking it. He wanted marks, his marks, all over Obi-Wan’s skin, wanted everyone on Tuls and all the other worlds in the galaxy to know that Obi-Wan was--

Obi-Wan’s trembled, light spreading out from him, through the stone, the colors getting brighter, sharper. And Anakin wanted everyone to see, deeply. Force, he loved the way Obi-Wan looked when he was getting fucked, loved the way Obi-Wan’s mouth got soft, the way he flushed all across his cheeks and down his throat.

Every inch of him was beautiful, and Anakin groaned, driving into him as the light curled and flowed around them. He wished he had another hand, to curl around Obi-Wan’s cock, and in that moment saw no reason not to utilize the Force.

Obi-Wan jerked, full-bodied, when Anakin curled tendrils of the Force against his skin, pressure and sensation. Anakin thought he heard his name - it was hard to tell, the drums had gotten louder and his blood was pounding in his ears - and he took it as encouragement.

It felt like encouragement, through Obi-Wan’s emotions, overspilling into Anakin’s head.

He touched and touched and groaned when he felt Obi-Wan quake, come spilling across their skin and the altar and--and something shifted in the air around them, in the presence of the Force through the room. Anakin felt like lightning grounded down through his spine, pleasure and primal want swimming up through him.

He lost himself, for a moment, aware of nothing but pleasure, but needing to fuck into Obi-Wan, desperately, but the sheer joy of spilling within him. Anakin groaned, cock pulsing, and slumped forward, over Obi-Wan’s glowing form.

He held Obi-Wan - almost limp - and buried his face against Obi-Wan’s throat. He sucked hungry kisses against the skin, wanting to leave more marks, wanting to stain the pale flesh, wanting to leave no room for doubt that Obi-Wan was--

Was breathing shakily, trembles moving through him.

Anakin swallowed, hard, wrestling back control of all his riotous wants. He was aware, distantly, of cheering and the brilliant lights filling the chamber. But that all felt far away as he stroked a hand comfortingly across Obi-Wan’s stomach, pressing softer kisses to his skin, and holding him, there on the altar.

He managed to ask, as he got his breath back, “You think that did it?”

Obi-Wan laughed, tilting his head further to the side in what Anakin took as an invitation, and said, “Darling, you may have overshot us right into summer.”

#obikin #glimmer replies #ask me anything #Spicy September Week #public ritual sex #marking #spicy #not safe for wizards #established relationship #seriously thank everyone for all the prompts and support through this week #i was very nervous about doing so many spicy fics #i still remember that comment i got about my writing being good even if the sex is bad #so #thank you all of you #see you next year for another spicy week?#or maybe we'll do one in the spring #WHO KNOWS

89 notes · View notes

yeet-me-dad-dy · 4 years ago

Text

The Witch in the Woods

Note: Placeholder Title

Summary: You have one last hope for saving your sister, and it lies with the reclusive witch that lives deep in the forest.

Warnings: Mentions of blood

Characters: Marvin, Gender Neutral Reader

Words: 2,788

You trudged through the thick green underbrush of the overgrown forest outside of town, muttering to yourself in frustration as you fought with the branches that snagged your clothes and the pickers that got stuck in the bottoms of your shoes. You had been searching for two weeks now, spending whatever free time you had wandering the woods with your satellite GPS and a crude camping site map, intent on finding help.

Help…

You hoped he would be able to help; the barista who told you about him insisted he would. You weren’t sure what you would do if he couldn’t. You were out of options.

Out of options, out of time, and out of patience.

As the watch on your wrist ticked over to show 3 o’clock in the afternoon, you leaned against a gnarled old tree with a heavy sigh, panting and sweating from the exertion of trying to find your way through a forest with no footpaths. You were starting to think that this miracle worker you had heard rumors of was just that… rumors. Rumors, squashed hopes, and disappointment. You shrugged your backpack off of your shoulders and took a moment to sit against the tree to have a drink. It was as you tipped your head back to take a swig from your water bottle that you saw something you definitely hadn’t expected to see.

There, above the trees in the distance, was smoke. Not the kind of smoke from a forest fire, but the kind of smoke from a chimney. A chimney meant a house, and a house meant people, but… a house? Out here? Who on earth would build a house in the middle of this wild place?

Regardless, you put your water away and pulled your backpack back on, then set off in the direction of the smoke. If nothing else, maybe the residents would have a bathroom you could use.

Roughly half an hour later, you stepped out of the densely packed trees and into a small clearing. Across from you, on the edge of the clearing with its back against the trees, only fifty meters or so from you, was a little square stone cottage. It was the very picture of serenity, there in the sunlight, with a little wind chime hanging from the porch roof above a rickety looking old garden swing, a hammock set up on a wooden frame to the right of the house with a small table beside it, a variety of odd looking decorations hanging from the trees on the edge on the clearing. The cottage itself was small, made mostly of stone, with vines crawling up the sides, wooden shutters, and yellowing old glass in the windows. A chimney stuck up from the right, reaching into the clear blue sky and puffing out gray smoke like an old boat captain with a pipe.

Despite its fairy tale appearance, you approached cautiously. You had come into this forest to find a powerful witch, and this was the home of a witch if ever there was one.

The three wooden steps that lead up to the porch creaked and groaned beneath your weight, and for a moment, you thought you might collapse beneath you and trap your legs, leaving you at the mercy of the witch in the woods, stuck and helpless. The steps didn’t collapse, however, and your heart pounded in your chest as you stopped before the front door. It was painted a very deep shade of royal purple and there was a strange symbol painted roughly head height in black pigment. You swallowed your apprehension and knocked.

You couldn’t stop the flood of images that rushed through your brain as you waited for someone to answer. You were scared of who or what exactly was going to answer the door. You expected some gnarled old man, clad in dirty brown robes, with a twisted jewel-topped staff and one blind eye, with a crow perched on his shoulder. Or perhaps a withered old hag with a wart on her long, crooked nose, and a feathered shawl, with a mean black cat at her feet.

Minutes passed, and you had knocked three times with no answer. You had no intention of leaving, not after you had come this far. You were considering going and relaxing in the hammock while you waited for the cottage’s owner to arrive, but the door swung open before you had a chance to turn around.

The person who answered the door was absolutely not what you were expecting.

He was young and fit, with long brown hair that you were sure would fall well past his shoulders if he didn’t have it up in a very messy bun. He wore a puffy white Shakespearean shirt and high-waisted black trousers, all very vintage, but also very comfortable-looking. His outfit, however, was not what caused you to take a step back in surprise.

No, that would be the skeletal cat mask he wore, with piercing green eyes gazing out at you through the eye sockets.

“What?” he asked sharply, and you jumped.

It was as you struggled to remember who you were and why you were here that you noticed how tired and quickly put together he looked.

“If you woke me just to stare at me, I will absolutely turn you into a toad for it.”

“No!” you answered quickly. You definitely want to be toaded. “No, sorry, I was just…” You cleared your throat. “I came to ask for your help.”

“Yeah, that’s usually why people end up here,” he responded, more softly now.

He pulled the door open and stepped back, gesturing you to come in with a flourish of his hand.

“Come in then.”

You took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold into the cottage.

Before you was a very quaint little home, with one large main room and a much smaller one in the back left corner, the perfect size for a lone witch living in the depths of the forest to exist comfortably in. Directly in front of you was a table and chairs, just big enough for two people, and to the right of that, the fireplace sat smoldering against the wall. It was a comfortable temperature, despite the heat outside and the burning coals. The witch made his way into the kitchen to the left, which was nothing more than a long counter with a sink and oven, and a fridge at the end. It was as you watched him open the fridge and pull out a pitcher of what you assumed was strawberry lemonade that it dawned on you that this place had electricity… somehow.

“Make yourself comfortable,” the stranger said as he made his way back to you with the lemonade in one hand and a tray with cakes and honey in the other. He set both down, and you took a seat. He took the one across from you, poured himself a drink, and stuffed nearly an entire cake in his mouth at once.

You shifted nervously in your chair and eyed the food. Your stomach rumbled, but you would be damned if you were going to eat anything a strange forest witch offered you.

“It’s not gonna poison you,” he said, as if reading your mind.

Your face heated up in embarrassment and you chuckled dryly.

“I didn’t think it would…” you replied, only half lying.

“So have some.” He pushed the tray toward you.

“Thanks. Um, I’m not hungry.”

“Yes you are, I can hear your stomach. Eat.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m… I’m not really…”

It was rude to refuse food, especially from a witch, right? What would he do if you said no again? What would happen if you ate the food? There didn’t seem to be a good answer to this.

He leaned back in his chair and studied you with those bright green eyes of his. And then his lips twisted into a grin and he began to laugh. You stared at him, utterly confused at this sudden outburst.

“What-?”

“You think it’s like faeries, don’t you? You think if you eat the food you’re never gonna be able to leave, right?”

“I-” You didn’t finish your sentence. You weren’t even sure what that sentence would be. He was right, you couldn’t argue that.

“I’m not fae, I’m a witch. And why would I want to keep you here anyway? I want you to LEAVE so that I can go back to bed. I’m not offering you food to try and steal you away to some fantastical realm, I’m offering you food because it’s here, I’m eating it, and it would be rude not to.”

He grinned as he nudged the tray even closer to you.

You hesitated only a moment before you gave in and enjoyed one of his cakes. You’re glad you did. Not only did it taste wonderful, but you had run out of snacks a few hours ago and you were starving. He poured you some lemonade and you washed the crumbs down before you finally got to the reason you were here.

“My sister is sick,” you started.

He nodded and devoured another cake, seemingly uninterested.

“The doctors can’t seem to tell us what’s wrong with her, but she’s in so much pain she can barely sit up in her bed, let alone do anything else. It’s gotten so much worse lately, and she’s fallen into a deep depression. She won’t eat, she can’t sleep because of the pain, and she’s starting to go septic because she can’t get out of the bed and she’s in too much pain to roll over.

“Mmhmm.” He took a sip of his lemonade.

“I don’t want her to be in pain anymore.”

“So put her out of her misery.”

“What?” You were taken aback that he would even suggest something so barbaric. “I’m not gonna kill her! I want her to be better! I don’t want her to be in pain anymore! I want her to be able to do the things she used to do, like riding horses, and hiking. I want her to be able to go back to school or hang out at the mall with her friends!”

The witch sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Alright, alright, calm down. I have something.”

“Good,” you snapped angrily.

“I assume you brought some form of payment?”

“Of course I did.”

You reached over and unzipped your backpack, then dipped an arm in to rummage around. Your hand brushed against the soft fabric bag you put the “payment” in, and you pulled it out.

“Here.” You handed it to him.

He took it from you without hesitation, loosened the drawstring to open the bag, and dumped its contents out in the palm of his hand. It was a knife in a well-worn leather sheath.

He tossed the bag aside, nearly into the honey cakes, undid the button to pull back the sheath’s safety strap, and pulled the knife free. He froze when he saw the blade in its entirety.

“It was my great grandfather’s. When he died, my grandmother put it away with some of his other things. It hadn’t been touched until I fished it out of the old trunk. The blade is silver and the handle is made of elk bone. It’s a full tang hunting knife.”

“A silver hunting knife…” the witch mused. “What exactly was your grandfather hunting, I wonder… There didn’t happen to be wooden stakes in that trunk of his, did there?” he joked with a smirk.

You didn’t return the gesture.

“Yes,” you answered plainly. “There were.”

The man’s smile dropped and he looked again at the blade, still as sharp as the day that your grandfather had last sharpened it.

“That knife has killed quite a few monsters, I suspect,” you said.

“Yes, I suppose it has…”

He ran the edge of the blade down his thumb. He didn’t even wince when it cut into the flesh, just sucked his finger into his mouth to lick it clean. He slipped the blade back into its sheath and then tucked it respectfully into the bag.

“This is sufficient payment. Stay here.”

He rose from the table and made his way to the back of the cottage, toward what looked like a little library area. You watched as he stopped in front of a bookshelf, crowded with old, dusty tomes and all manner of oddities, from carved figurines of animals to something that you didn’t want to know the identity of floating in a jar of murky liquid.

As the witch rummaged around in his belongings, your eye was drawn to the rickety little staircase - if it can be even called a staircase - near the kitchen that led up into a loft. You thought you could see the end of his bed, with a handmade quilt bunched up, hastily thrown back by whoever had been lying there. It seemed you had indeed woken him, and you felt a pang of guilt. He looked disheveled and tired when he answered the door.

“Here,” his voice came from the back, drawing your attention back to him.

He was kneeling on the ground on an ornate looking rug, surrounded by pillows, with his hand in a large black wooden box. He clutched something in his right hand, something you couldn’t quite see, and used his left to close and latch the box. He pushed himself to his feet, set the box back on its dusty shelf, and then returned to you.

He didn’t sit back in his spot, just stopped beside you and held out his hand. In his palm was a small glass vial with a liquid inside that looked suspiciously like blood. Hesitantly, you took it from him and turned it over and over, inspecting it uncertainly.

“What is it?” you asked, that same uncertainty evident in your voice.

“It’s your cure,” he stated plainly as he tucked his hands into his pockets.

“Looks like blood.”

“It’s got blood in it, but that’s not all it is.”

“Whose blood?”

He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes behind his cat mask.

“Look, if you don’t want it, then give it back.”

Quickly, you held it close. “No!”

“Then quit asking questions. It’s what you wanted.”

You rose to your feet to stand before him.

“Look, I’m in the middle of the woods in a creepy witch’s cottage. Excuse me for being a little bit uncertain!”

He huffed.

“YOU came to find ME. I’m just giving you what you asked in return for the payment you gave me. Alright?”

You squinted at him, not entirely sure you wanted to argue.

“How do I know it’ll work.”

“Oh my gods,” he mumbled, and wiggled his fingers up under his mask to rub his eyes. He dropped his arms back to his side and took in a deep breath. “You gave me the knife, I give you the potion,” he said more calmly, though there was still an edge of frustration in his voice. “Give it to your sister or don’t. I don’t care. Just get out of here so I can go back to bed.”

You hesitated.

“It’s not gonna kill her?”

“It’s not gonna kill her.”

“How long will it last?”

“Forever.”

You hesitated again, then nodded and reached down for your bag. You set it on the table, pushing the honey cakes aside so that you could unzip it and tuck the vial safely inside.

“Don’t break it,” the witch warned. “Unless you want to pay for another one.”

You didn’t respond. There were other things you could give, sure, but you really didn’t want to make the trek back through the forest again. You weren’t even sure you would be able to find this place a second time.

You shrugged your backpack on and held out your hand.

“Thank you for your help and the food. I hope you get some sort of use out of the knife.”

He looked down at your hand, but didn’t move to shake it.

“Sure, uh… You’re welcome. I hope I never see you again.”

You scoffed, but weren’t able to contain the playful smile that pulled at the corners of your lips.

“Ditto,” you chuckled. “Here’s to never meeting again.”

You returned your hand to your side and then turned to go. He followed you to the door, and you could feel his eyes on the back of your neck as you stepped out of the clearing and back into the shadows of the trees.

It was a few minutes later, as you were struggling once more through the underbrush that you had forgotten to ask the witch if you could use his bathroom.

#marvin the magnificent x reader #marvin the magician x reader #marvin x reader #jacksepticeye marvin x reader #jacksepticeye egos #jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye egos fanfiction #marvin the magician #marvin the magnificent

35 notes · View notes