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morihaus · 3 years

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White Hands

A single, uncoiled strand of time carries him to this moment, crossing the bridge in the shadow of the tower. The old familiar haze of un-time washes over the knight's mind as he moves with purpose through the dreamlike world of the indefinite, lit by crackling thunder and the light of falling stars.

Citizens of Rumaranth scatter around Trinimac, making war and peace with one another, weaving interlocking tapestries that become ever-shifting with the uncertainty of their cyclical lives; some pay him heed and look on in awe, others run into their homes or cast stones at him, which merely clatter harmlessly from the interlocking sheets of crystalline glass. The flawless surface of his armor continues to reflect the many warped visions of his surroundings.

He is of a single mind, however, and passes through without concern. He cuts this path through the frenzied arena for a meeting at White-Gold- he's checked Ada-Mantia, thinking the lord of that tower may have returned, but it seems that instead he lingers at the source of this calamity- and nothing gives him pause as he enters the Imperial Palace. Nothing, save for a presence in the throne room, and then, the sight of the emperor.

It's the hole in his chest. His brilliant silver armor shows a massive crack along his left breast, revealing a dark cavity, lit by the regular pulse of a red crystal within it. He lays motionless upon the throne, pale like death, placid like the sea before the storm- even like this, he grips a mace tightly in his sword-hand, letting it hang over one side of the throne as he slouches.

He notices Trinimac, regarding him with eyes of cold-fire, familiar and unnerving. "Who visits my court? Is it war?" He sits up, cutting an ill-mannered figure as a ruler as he leans in with interest. "It's been too long since I've fought a good war. It calms the storms that rage in my clouded mind." His eyes travel rapidly and he blinks not once as he analyzes the man stood before him.

Trinimac is not sure what to say to that, what to say to this figure at all for that matter. The resemblance is unmistakable, even past the conspicuous cavity; the figure sat before him struck him as remarkably similar to the frigid corpse he met in long-gone green Atmora, the cruel features of a friend who could no longer recognize, familiarity without warmth. Yet he finds no recognition in this man's eyes, which scan him as a stranger, expectant of a response.

"I'm here to see Auri-El." He says.

This appears to have been the wrong thing to say, as he suddenly darts up to his feet, raising mace to make a threatening decree. "Then you have come to the wrong place, elf! Those pointy ears, I should have known!..." He scowls across at the aedroth. "So it IS war!"

"No," Trinimac says rather quickly, the prospect of battle with this misplaced corpse failing to excite him. "I have no quarrel with you, my business is with him." Being called 'elf' is odd to him, for some reason, and the venom with which it is uttered takes him off guard. Perhaps it is no surprise he should still hold a grudge, but to not recognize his own executioner?

"'Business'? Hah! The only business of the elven god is oppression and misrule, scarcely any better than consorting with the daedra." His face is serious as he speaks, his eyes seem to flicker and spark before Trinimac's glow, illuminating the dim white halls of the chamber, decorated only with tapestries of dragons and red diamonds. "You Old Ehlnofey are bold, to walk to the feet of the human king, asking to meet with your god. Perhaps it is only my duty to do you this favor?"

He watches as the strange man grips the handle of his mace, narrowing his eyes as he harbors conflicting feelings. It should be just as appropriate, he supposes, that he be undone by that which he himself sundered. But had he not come here to meet with Auri-El? And would it not be cruel, subjecting this one to the burden he bears now, the blood of a once-friend staining his hands and his spirit? Then again, perhaps he, in some twist of fortune, has forgotten. He should only be so lucky.

"Who are you?" Trinimac asks.

The question seems to almost instantly distract the other knight, who rights his posture to proclaim. "I am the last emperor of the Nedes. I am the answer to the question put towards elven ruling. I am the succor of man. I am called Pelinal, Whitestrake, Champion of the Divines."

The flowery titles do little more than confuse the god further. "Champion?"

"And who are you, to ask this of me, elf?" Pelinal steps forward, raising his chin to meet his eyes with a challenging gaze.

Looking down at the last emperor, he lets out a soft breath as he considers his response. "...I am Trinimac. Nothing more."

Pelinal wrinkles his nose up as though he'd been insulted. "Trinimac...?" He blinks- for the first time, his visitor notes. "I have not heard your name. Are you one of their sorcerer-kings?"

"No."

"Their wizard-generals? Mage-slavers?"

"No. Who is 'they'?"

"The Ayleids! Do you serve them?"

"No." The word did not ring familiar.

"Hm..." Pelinal turns his head to gaze thoughtfully over at an empty corner, before looking back up. "Strange. I had not expected one from over the seas. What is it you want?"

"I've told you." He says, growing weary as he grows perplexed. "I'm not an elf. And you're not really a man, are you?"

The emperor looks scandalized, mouth agape, but no indignant words flutter out.

Trinimac puts a hand to his breastplate. "I am a spirit. You are too."

"No," Pelinal says. "I am not."

Trinimac lifts his hand now to point at Pelinal's breast. "You have a hole, in your chest."

Pelinal pauses and looks down at himself. "...Yes."

"You are not mortal."

"No."

"You say you are mortal?"

"Yes," Pelinal nods. "I have died."

"And yet, you are here."

Pelinal frowns at him. Trinimac feels as though this conversation is intrinsically the wrong way around, as though explaining the stars to Magnus. He also feels Pelinal is being overly stubborn, but to pretend he wasn't once the same would be untruthful.

"I'm sorry, but," Trinimac bites his tongue as he ponders on the most diplomatic way he could say this. "I feel that we've met. You're... Shor, aren't you?"

Pelinal pulls the most indignant expression yet, actually spitting at his feet at this accusation. "Wipe your tongue clean of that name! It does not belong in your mouth, nor over my head!" His incensed voice reverberates through the expansive chamber, as though he were speaking from everywhere at once.

The knight's brow furrows. On some level, he agrees, who is he to speak of the dead? Still, he presses on. "I've met Shor. We... we were shield-brothers." He steels himself to stay firm and stand rigid straight even as guilt claws at his innards.

"With *you?!*" Pelinal cries. "Don't speak such slipshod lies!"

And even if it is the truth, Trinimac's heart sinks as though he were lying. For how can he call that the truth, knowing what more there is to the story? "I don't claim to understand it. He never made things simple..." He shrugs off the acidic grip of nostalgia and looks forward to the man he sees in this moment, primed to strike like a frenzied animal. "I see you and I see Shor. These are strange... times, I thought you might..."

And at this moment, something snaps along the tangled web of confused time, a crack of thunder only just perceptible to Trinimac, one that causes the Whitestrake to drop his mace as he clutches his head, screaming out in pain and collapsing to his knees.

In a moment, Trinimac forgets himself, rushing forward to help this uncanny visage of a friend. He extends a hand, but as Pelinal opens a fiery eye to see it, it sparks to life with white-light without warning, and he bounds backwards with fear as though barreled into, clutching his hand defensively over his chest.

Trinimac recoils as well, clutching at his own wrist as the white hand trembles.

The two of them stand and sit there, chests heaving and heavy with dread.

It is minutes, perhaps tens of minutes, before either of them speak again. Pelinal lifts himself up onto shaky limbs, leaning against the throne while Trinimac holds his hand out away from his own body, regarding it with fear, and the other's rattled countenance with remorse.

"...I am sorry, Trinimac." A soft voice cuts through the silence, Pelinal wears a dour expression, displaying a humanity not yet seen. "For not recognizing you. Really, I... don't know where my mind's gone, these days." An alien smile tugs gently at his lips for just a moment, before giving way to grief.

Trinimac blinks. "I-" His face screws up as he hears his own voice, vulnerable, sorrowful, quaking once again before another corpse. "Don't worry about it. I'm sorry, I've... intruded. I'll be going now."

But before he could, Pelinal reaches out a hurried hand. "Wait, please-" His own jaw clamps up, he takes a breath. "You don't need to go. I'd quite like your company."

Half-turned already, Trinimac looks back at him. He knows he should go. He has something important to get over with. And yet, he paces back over- maintaining a modest distance for their mutual comfort- and looks down to Pelinal. "...What is this, then? This form?"

Pelinal regards himself, shifting his body around as though only just now aware of it. "It's... well, I'm an incarnate." He looks off, morose. "I'm not exactly Shor, Shezarr, Lorkhan. There's... something of him, in here," He lays a hand on his breastplate, beside the hole. "But I am Pelinal. Hero to men, enemy to elves, liberator of the Nedes, divine-sent knight of Akatosh."

Trinimac nods. "Akatosh..." He frowns. "I'd heard that's what... he, calls himself here." He looks to Pelinal, equal parts perplexed and sympathetic.

He lets his head hang in response, giving a weak nod. "Yes. Though this confession weighs on me, at this point, there is no refuting it."

"You're the champion of Auri-El then."

"I suppose I am."

Another quiet interlude overtakes their exchange as they ruminate on the irony, the tragedy, and the cruel comedy of it all.

"Is it okay," Pelinal speaks up once again, lifting his head up to address his fellow knight. "If I ask you something?"

Trinimac simply nods.

His gaze trails off now, as he begins his query. "I cannot remember all that you have done at his command. To think on it too long leaves me agitated, stricken with madness and anger, as these things I know better than grief. Whatever you've done, I'm sure there is yet worse than convention, and far greater quantities. So, it is with this knowledge that I ask... how does one forgive himself?"

Trinimac is unsure how to respond.

Pelinal takes his silence as an opportunity to elaborate. "The things I have done under the dragon... they horrify me, and horrify those that I love. Perhaps it is true that I despise the elves and would see their Auriellic pantomime stricken from this world not meant for kings, but... in his hand, I was a sword, an instrument made to play myself. He directed me, but I carried out what I did with terrible enthusiasm. I wanted for nothing else but bloodshed, for it was bloodshed that best suited his needs. And now, though rage still burns within me, and madnesses still take me, I am left sometimes with my own thoughts, and I contemplate what I have done. It... it haunts me." He looks to the god with a pleading hope. "It's been so long for you- you must know something, some way to face yourself and your deeds."

Trinimac looks to him gravely. "...I do not."

This puts Pelinal to silence, and his gaze is put back to the floor.

There is a briefer silence this time, before Pelinal utters another question. "You came here to see Auri-El. Is this how you pursue your penitence?"

"...In a way." Trinimac turns away from him, staring off at the doorway out. "I came to... make my peace. Just to speak to him, say what I never got to say."

"And what might that be?" Pelinal asks.

Trinimac pauses. "I... it's not really the sort of thing you can rehearse." A boldfaced lie, he thinks, remembering all the times the uncaring world of creation played audience to his heedless cries to the heavens. "It's something that I can only do right now. Something that I have to do. In the moment, I'll know." Again, he lies.

"You're going to antagonize him?"

"Maybe." He says.

"He could kill you."

"...He could." He says.

He glances to see Pelinal stare at him, face difficult to read. In his face, he sees the both of them, dragon and scarab, disappointed in him. It's the last pair of expressions Trinimac wants to see right now. He begins to step away, content to drift to whatever ending awaits him.

"You would let go so simply?" Pelinal asks. "What of your existence? Your life?"

"I've seen what this life has to offer. Death could treat me no worse."

Pelinal sighs at this, Trinimac stops in his tracks and turns to look at him. The man's brow is furrowed, not with the disapproval of a lord, but the worry of a friend. "Anuics have such a perverse fixation on death. They look to this world and see only what they have to lose to it, blinding themselves to what could be gained..." Pelinal begins to step forward, slow and deliberate. "You do not need to think in their logic, Trinimac, your spirit is your own, it does not belong to them nor to me."

The other knight is just before him now, reaching up with his off-hand to press it against his breastplate. His formerly cold eyes become lit with a dull warmth; if not comforting, it's at least familiar.

"I do not know you like they do, but, I know what it is to be like you through them; I know how it feels to be torn in this way, to march to war against the rhythm of a ticking clock, or a beating heart, and to struggle for my own spirit." Pelinal's hand travels up to his shoulder, lifting further to brush against his cheek; Trinimac stands still, like a statue. "And I am sorry, for I know what it feels to be dragged into being- being one thing or another, or even being at all. But this world is not Auri-El's, it is scarcely Lorkhan's, because it is ours, we humble nirnbound spirits. Do not let one name rule you, do not let one moment define you, for you are so much more-" The hole in his chest glows bright red as the gem hums rhythmically behind his words, and in the same instant, pain sears across Trinimac's face.

He recoils, and Pelinal retracts his arm as his eyes go wide, frantically flitting between his hand, glowing with white light, and Trinimac, who clutches at his own face, his own off-hand glowing in response.

"Look at me!" Pelinal shouts. "See this mark of sundering! Spark from body, limb from limb, lord from tower, look and see it in yourself and in me!"

And Trinimac scowls, perplexed as he stares over at Pelinal's white hand, glancing at his own as well.

The Whitestrake outstretches his hand, which shone to illuminate the chamber. "Take it! Sunder the mark of my station, and I will yours!"

And in that moment, many things take place, winding around each other in strange sequences, though not strange for the time. In that white-lit chamber, there is a battle, an embrace, a retreat, a vengeance, but in the end, there is penitence, or at least an attempt.

White hands- an impossibility, what is and always has been but one appearing together by grace of confused time- join together, and create, for a moment, something so violent in both separation and unity. Alone, they are rent from the limbs of their wielders, together, they unmake themselves and vanish from the world forever, and the hands of Auri-El would never again find purchase within creation, only his voice. No champions such as them would ever blight the world.

In this, they collapse with relief, the tower shakes, and the string ends, or comes undone, feeding back into everything else.

#moriada #mori writing #PRESENTING: second fic about pelinal meeting some guy he has some things in common with ft. trinimac from the trinimac series #BIG shout out to kendra for helping w trinimac's characterization <3 we love you legend

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miekasa · 3 years

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do share your thoughts on the SnK final chapter and ending if you read it! <3

OKAY!! Here are just some of my thoughts, none of which are uniform lmaooo and are subject to change if I think about it long enough <22 lots of stuff I haven’t completely figured out or reconciled with yet, but here we go

Eren’s death

I wanted him to die, and one way or another, he was destined to die; so this is kind of the ending I asked for.

I wanted him to die for a few reasons, most of which revolve around my desire for him to finally rest and not have to shoulder all the burdens that have been put on him for any longer. So, his death definitely did that for me, and I wouldn’t change it.

BUT it was heartbreaking to see that, for once, he genuinely did not want to die, and wanted to have time to spend with Mikasa after everything. Eren has asked to die multiple times in the past, and his death was inevitable at some point in time; so to see that in his final moments, he finally said/realized he didn’t want to go made it so bittersweet.

The thing I’m happiest about the most is that he achieved his original goal: to kill all the titans. As a titan himself, he was always a part of that plan, so, again I’m okay with his death. But it’s a twisted, beautiful sort of tragedy that in wanting to kill himself to achieve his dream, he found a sense of personhood that made him think life was worth living [even if his goal wasn’t achieved].

Another important reason I believed he needed to/should have died is because I didn’t want him to have to suffer at the hands of any other government or empire again. Even if none of the shit with Marley or the other nations happened, and he found away to “free” everyone without murder, the government of Paradis wouldn’t have trusted him. They never really did.

Eren has been locked up and/or under constant supervision since he was 15. And when he wasn’t, it’s because he was kidnapped and somebody else was preying on his death. Even when he desperately pleaded to help and showed that he wanted to use his titan to help, he was treated like a criminal, and less than human.

You can’t... you can’t treat a kid like that and expect him to turn out normal 😭😭 or to not want to go to extremes, or to become a pacifist, or to spinelessly hand over his own life and ambitions. (Honestly... think he should have started with murking a few people in Wall Sina, but whatever 🙄)

This is all to say, that if he continued to live, free of the 13 year curse, he wouldn’t have been free in any nation. He probably would have been executed, or at the very least, locked up until he died. So, I’m happy that he was able to die at his own hand (and Mikasa’s, too).

Eren’s character

I obviously still love his character, and I don’t think his actions in the final season ruined him for way. There’s a lot to come to terms with, but I like that about him. I’ll work through all the details one day, and I’m okay with that. In fact, I don’t think Eren even ever got the chance to figure himself out independent of his titan.

His secret keeping was questionable, but not out of character. He’s always ruminated until he figures something out, or gets stuck and needs help—he’s always had the whole thing about doing everything on his own.

Until that one conversation with him, Mikasa, and Armin after the fight with Jean in s3. I’d always read that as him beginning to understand that he didn’t have to everything on his own, and that he was going to be relying on his friends from thereon out. But, sometimes, I feel like that realization got erased...? I don’t know, maybe the more I think about it, the more it’ll make sense, but that’s one part I’m still working through.

The only other thing I didn’t understand is how he got so smart LMAOOO. His plan and actions required quite a bit of thought, foresight, and sacrifice that he’s never really shown before; at least not to this degree. Like I said though, if you factor in how his was treated, and how his life always had an expiration date, it begins to make sense why he was so quick and insistent to act, so it’s not completely out of left field for me—and I could even make the argument that he wasn’t really that smart and was just as impulsive (ish) and hot-headed as he’s always been; but like I said, I’m still figuring it out. Not sure what it was that awakened his braincells but I’ll get there LMAOOO

Eren + Mikasa

Fuck y’all I like Eremika goodnight. I can’t help it, I’m a simple bitch: I see childhood friends to lovers, and I fold. You should too smh.

I... don’t think the little cottagecore timeline from 138 was out of character for either of them. I see the arguments that it was, and that’s cool, but I see it as something very real and plausible.

Eren showed that he did all of this to ensure that even if he couldn’t bring peace to the whole world, at the very least, he could do his best to make sure his friends live long, happy lives. An alternate way for that would have been to give Mikasa the opportunity to spend his remaining years with him.

Eren has always done his best Mikasa and Armin, even if his methods seemed harsh or apathetic. The way I see it, running away with Mikasa in his final year is not only becoming and telling of the kind of friend/person his is, but it would have been his way to atone for being an idiot and not acting upon his feelings [in a more traditional sense] earlier.

He knew either way it was too late, but he also knew that he owed her—and himself—even a piece of peace before it all ended, whichever way it was going to end. And I think that’s a part of Eren’s character that’s often overlooked.

Mikasa’s ending

I think that Eren ultimately killed himself, but it’s undeniable that Mikasa helped, and I’m glad she did. If Eren was going to die by anybody’s hands, I wanted it to be Mikasa’s or Levi’s.

I think Levi would have been symbolic, given his speech in the courtroom in s1, about how killing Eren is the best he could do, and that there was no in-between. But I’m happy with Mikasa doing it too, because, in a way, I think she ended up being able to do the one thing Levi didn’t have the physical strength left to do. I also like it as far as Mikasa’s relationship with Levi goes; she kind of becomes him in this complicated way, and it shows how far they’ve come in terms of trust. They’re a pretty good team.

I don’t see why anyone would give her shit for sitting at Eren’s gravestone. It had been only three years since he died, and regardless of the amount of time that had passed, if it was the anniversary of his death, that’s a perfectly normal thing to do...? So many people hate her for being in love Eren and I don’t get it. She’s just mourning, and she’s well within her rights to do so.

Actually, I think that Mikasa being shown to have loved and mourned for Eren so outwardly were the most profound displays of bravery in this whole series.

It takes so much courage to love, especially in her world, but Mikasa has never shied away from it. I would even go so far as to argue that she is the character with the strongest sense of self and self-worth. I don’t think people realize how much it takes to know anything about yourself that assuredly—so many characters are left with unanswered questions about their world, themselves, and their place in it—but Mikasa has always known that she loves Eren.

That’s an insanely hard thing to know and to do. And she wasn’t blind about it either, nor did she believe her love was unconditional (and if she gets shit for having hope for Eren, then so should Armin, but we know why he doesn’t get the same heat for it). She heard out the concerns of her friends, she let go of the scarf, and she killed him in the end.

I would have liked to see her talk to Kiyoomi again, and perhaps see her being associated with that nation/country/whatever it was. But she’s still thee baddest bitch and the best girl.

Levi

WE IN THIS BITCH!! WE ABSOLUTELY IN THIS BITCH!!

ROUND OF APPLAUSE LADIES AND GAYS AND THEYS FOR THE MAN, THE MYTH, THE LEGEND HIMSELF!!

If he died, I would have rioted. On god.

This is the EXACT ending I wanted for him. I’m so happy that he gets time to rest knowing that none of his decision were in vain; and that he shouldn’t regret anything he did.

l know the wheelchair was literal in the sense that he was injured, but I also think it’s metaphorical in that he no longer has to standing on his own two feet, and carry everyone on his back. For once, for fucking once, he can literally sit back and read a fucking book in peace.

Also Gabi and Falco taking care of him is so fucking cute, I loved that so, so, so much.

Others

I don’t think Hange needed to die, goodbye. I get why they did, and I’m glad they went out in a way they wanted do, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it BYE.

Pieck is far too sexy for her titan to have been that ghastly. Porco, too. Speaking of Porcupine, I fucking love him. I didn’t think I would like him this much, but I do, and now I miss him.

When did Connie get so s*xy

I stand by the belief that this wouldn’t have happened with Erwin around—and for the worse. Yes, I think Hange waited longer than they should have to act; but I understand they were overwhelmed, and had a lot of responsibility, and regret, clouding over them.

That being said, I think Erwin would have been 10x worse LMFAO with all his secret keeping and mystery. With all the shit going on, all the information being revealed to Paradis, and with Eren’s own secret keeping, I don’t think Erwin’s character and way of planning would have been conducive the new environment. RIP tho Erwin, you a legend for the shit you did, big ups on that my guy.

I... guys, I like Reiner. Like, a lot. What goes on.

I still hate H*storia and I think she caused a lot of problems that could have been resolved relatively quickly if she left 😐😐 yeah, yeah, girl power or whatever, but I don’t like it. I don’t like her. Bye.

I have more thoughts on Marley and the other nations, but that’s a whole separate rant that I will spare you from for now

#anonymous #snk spoilers #aot spoilers #aot 139 #snk 139 #sometimes.... i have thoughts 😌

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fanesavin · 5 years

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The Inquisitor takes some time to ruminate on his newfound position before a friendly face gives him a small measure of confidence.

@faye-andrews

Faye had stepped into a corridor to catch her breath before she hyperventilated from all the chaos and noise. She had her head between her knees, sat on the floor in her white robes, when she the sound of boots. She fell quiet, trying to not be notice, as the figure walked by.

Fane didn’t bother stopping as soon as he had left the council chamber, what a god awful debacle. Eyes downcast he walked with absolutely no direction as quickly as he could. Anywhere would do so long as it was the furthest possible point from playing childminder to squabbling Lords and Ladies. He wasn’t sure he could take it. Ultimately, Fane walked until he came upon one of the balconies of the keep that overlooked the bay pausing momentarily he took a swig from the jug before hitching a leg over and bringing the other to join it. Not the safest seating arrangements but the stone was wide enough for a man to stand on it comfortably so sitting as he was presently wasn’t so difficult.

Faye looked up from her moment of internal panic to see the tall form of lord savin walking by. He looked… gods he looked weary. Faye couldn’t imagine the weigh on his shoulders right now. To be more or less de facto leader until another was found. How long would that take? Days? Weeks? Months?? And she’d not been kind to him either. Not that she realized how he felt about her internally, since they hadn’t spoken since… since then.

Feeling the pull of her conscience - for she truly liked Lord Savin - Faye got ahold of herself and stood. She followed his footsteps, feeling drained herself but not certain why. Other than she’d been scared out of her mind for the duration of the meeting. And holding in all that fear was physically and mentally exhausting.

Turning the corner to the balcony, sighing at the feel of the breeze on her face, Faye moved out onto the dark balcony. She froze, however, as she saw Lord Savin… sitting on the railing, legs on the wrong side of a very long drop. Her heart fluttered into her throat, and she stepped forwards. “My Lord…?” she said quietly, fearing to startle him.

Fane liked the chill of the sea breeze, it was a welcome relief following the stuffy council chamber. Combined with the wash of wine he found some of the tension finally leaching out of his frame. He let his eyes drift to some far off point, tired and unfocused. He'd been feeling that way since the previous night adding all of this on top?

He sighed, to himself mostly but also to the gods. Who had seen fit to put him in this position. He'd like a good word with whichever ones idea it was to put him here. He may have been a leader of armies of marshalling them on the field of battle but not this. He could barely keep the peace in his own household as had been thoroughly demonstrated not ten moments prior. As if his situation hadn't been difficult enough without the additional undermining of those around him. People who were meant to help and support him?

He grunted silently too lost in his frustration to particularly notice the presence of someone behind him. But when they spoke a ripple of tension went through him tension and sadness. Idly he was glad she couldn't see his forlorn features as he took a sip of his drink. "Aye? Come to give me more of a rollicking about how badly that went?" where once there may have been humour in is tone presently it was flat.

Faye knew little of House Savin or Blackspire. Only that it was a large hold with lands and people under it’s care. A great many it seemed. Faye often wondered what it would be like to have people that loved you. People that cared. People that were loyal to you and believed in you wholeheartedly. Yet what a burden it must be as well. To have that much responsibility. To have to make decisions that could affect the lives of thousands. And affect the future for generations to come. Faye wouldn’t know.

He didn’t turn as she called out to him. But neither did he plummet to his death. His acknowledgement of her presence seemed to be permission to stay if she wished. Though the humor she’d come to associate with him over their short acquaintance was gone.

“No.” Faye moved up to stand at the railing and look out over the bay. The breeze was cool and smelled of salt. She turned her face into it. “I came to say that I-.” She spoke quietly, looking out on the slowly moving lights of the ships floating at port. “I wish… I wish to help. If you’ll allow me.” Not just with the investigation into the Raj’s death, but help him as well. Whatever that may mean. An apology sat on the tip of her tongue as well, but she couldn’t quite make herself say the words. Not just yet. She was still hurt and angry. And more than a tiny bit humiliated.

There was a lot on Fane’s mind, too much honestly and while he wished to have had the opportunity to speak with her earlier. To settle their differences and apologise for how he had behaved, well, they all knew what had happened. And so here they were, or well, here he was. Nursing a drink and contemplating the path he’d led that had brought him here.

He sensed her approach more than anything in particular, not that he turned around presently, the view was pretty and he wanted to enjoy it for the time that he had it. Her iteration of her help caused him to look down at the flagon in his hand, “considering the task ahead of us, we’re going to need to get all the help we can get.” He grew quiet, more pensive as he sat there looking down thoughtfully. But before she could apologise he sat up a little straighter mulling over something.

Eventually, he lifted his head and a moment later was swinging himself back over, still perched (but the correct way) he looked at her. “I beg your forgiveness for my behaviour last night and this morn’. While I regret that I wounded your pride and hurt your feelings… I’d rather that than a hastily made decision made while utterly filled to the gills.”

Faye hummed in agreement. “I won’t lie and say a part of me wishes I hadn’t... hadn’t come back.” She gazed out over the dark water. “I’m not made for… councils and the like. No one listens anyway. Except you. And one or two others.” Though it would take more than that to make any headway on this debacle.

Honestly, Faye was still frightened. A death such as the Raj’s would call for vengeance. And although there seemed to be order at the moment, it could all fall apart at any moment. All it needed was the proper catalyst. A spark to start the fire. Faye’s family wasn’t a huge fan of fire. And it wasn’t that she thought herself overly important - quite the opposite in fact - or that she held any relevance in the grand scheme. But history always repeated itself.

Faye stayed where she was, glancing slightly aside as Lord Savin turned back to the safer side of the ledge. His apology caused her features to tighten slightly. “There’s nothing to forgive, my lord,” she said nearly before the echo of his words died out. “I should not have acted in such a manner. The fault is mine.” For thinking someone such as the High Inquisitor would ever look at her as anything but a novelty. A curious thing to be studied.

"A part of me wishes I never came here in the first place," he admitted honestly. "Perhaps the only good thing to come from this is a new friendship…" if what they shared could even be called such "but the rest?" He lowered his head, curling his finger into the stone and letting his mind wander. "It's a shame… and… I know it may not mean much but, I am sorry for how people treat you."

Fane didn't doubt her, she had good cause - better cause perhaps than most to worry. How could she not? Attacked one day and at risk the next. They all were. Who could say if they would survive the ordeal or not at all?

"Perhaps, but I should not have put you in that position in the first place" he grew quieter as he looked at her. "But… perhaps... it isn't so bad. If we make it out of this… I'd like to think that it isn't so hard for us to consider perhaps being friends, hm?" Perhaps it was wishful thinking but he needed a friend right now.

Faye nodded, giving a small smile. She doubted they would be able to remain friends, even if they wanted to. “It’s not your fault. People will always fear what they don’t understand. They’ll always find a scapegoat to blame for the next plague, famine, or death. Someone to take all the anger and fear of the masses on their shoulders, and pay for it with their blood.” It meant more than he could know, but words failed her when it came to telling him how much.

She merely shrugged, agreeing that perhaps it was on the both of them. Though Faye still felt responsible for the first of it at least. A frown crawled over her features after that, but it turned to something that was nothing if not sad. “It’s a lovely thought,” Faye said sincerely. “And I would like that. To be… friends.” If she lived through all this, that is. Though who knew what he would think of her once it was done.

Perhaps they would, perhaps not. Only time would tell on that front. Fane couldn’t foresee the future. If he could, well, none of this mess would have happened would it? The culprit would be in jail and they would all be celebrating the coronation of the High Raj. Unfortunately, they were here and that was not the case. “Then it’s a matter of helping them to understand, and I’m not saying that’s an easy task… It isn’t, but it’s not a hopeless cause.” Fane didn’t believe so at least. “And… if what I saw tonight was any indication, you’re hardly a witch compared to that… Queen.”

Fane wasn’t sure what to make of Queen Bellamy, not having spoken to her enough to form a genuine opinion. “Then… let it be so, if we make it through this…” But opinions went both ways and who knew what Fane would have to do to get the answers he needed to the questions he would have to ask. “If we make it out of this… You should come to Blackspire for a little while, see what real snow looks like hm?”

“I know not everyone hates me. I’ve met several people that are kind and who seem… genuine. I believe I might have even made an ally or two. But it only takes a few to incite to lust for blood.” Faye knew that all too well. As for the other woman, she merely shrugged. “I cannot say. Though her talk of… wolfmen… I don’t like it.” A shudder moved through her that she couldn’t control.

When he offered her to visit his home at Blackspire, Faye was taken aback. She looked at him full on for the first time since she’d come after him. Would he really want her to come? Or was he just asking because he truly didn’t expect either himself or her, or both, to survive? Either way, the offer was… a first.

“I would… I think I would like that. Very much.” If they survived. A blush lit her cheeks and she turned back to the water. “I would invite you the marshes, but it’s nothing to see. Just withered trees and fog.”

“Aye, they’re not all bad… Trying times can bring out the best in people just as it can their worst.” It was simply the unfortunate way of the world but they would make do this he believed wholeheartedly. “No, it’s curious…” he’d heard tales of course but he’d always thought them just that. Tall tales just like those whispered about Lady Lacroy.

The idea of keeping her as a friend after all this was a nice sentiment, whether they would get out of it, that he couldn’t rightly say. But he was happy to make the suggestion, considering her mention of never having seen snow. Proof that he’d been listening to the things she’d said and shared with him. Not just because he was curious but because that curiosity stemmed from genuine interest.

“Very well then, it’s settled… Though I’d say it’s hardly fair for you to visit my home and me not to visit yours…”

Curious wasn’t what Faye would call it. But she was careful with her thoughts, lest she sound no better than the ones accusing her of things that weren’t true. It would be easy to lay blame somewhere else. To shift attentions in another direction. Faye had her own suspicions about who was behind all this. But she kept her own council for now.

Faye smiled as they seemed to make some sort of tentative plans for after all this. “You’re more than welcome, M’lord. I don’t have much, but… my hearth is warm and I have plenty of wine. One thing I’ve never run out of.”

“Then, I suppose we’ll have to hope we see the other side of all this,” Fane conceded with a slight exhale. He looked at her for a moment, “it’s a kind offer, perhaps I’ll take you up on it sometime…” Fane raised his cup of wine with a small nod of acknowledgement. Unfortunately, much as he wished to linger he knew he could not. “I appreciate your company here tonight Lady Lacroy… It’s been… a welcome relief to discuss anything other than the situation at hand.” His eyes drifted back to the looming castle, what did its walls have in store for them all? “That being said… There’s no rest for the wicked hm?” much as he wish there was, “hopefully together we can solve this mystery that looms over our heads.” Pushing off the railing he lowered himself gracefully into a bow, “may the evening keep you well m’lady.”

A look passed across Faye’s face, one that might have been sadness. Or even something bittersweet. Longing for a thing that had not yet come to be. “I suppose so.” There was a moment that passed between them then, and Faye was glad when he seemed to accept the offer. “Though I fear the wine may not be as good.”

His thanks for her company was met with a small nod, and Faye swallowed as she followed his gaze up to the walls of the keep. “You’re not wicked,” she told him softly, even though she knew it had been said with humor. “The people who did this are wicked. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.” Returning the bow with a small one of her own, Faye met his eyes once more as she moved to leave him to his work. “And you, Lord Savin.”

#got scene

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pocket-anon · 7 years

Text

The Long Way Home (7/10)

I am so, so sorry this chapter is coming out this late in the day, guys. Real life has been very hectic this week between work and lecture slide prep and doctor's appointments and car issues and mommyhood. I'm pretty physically and mentally exhausted right now, so I hope my last-minute editing choices for this chapter aren't terrible, LOL. We'll see. Anyway, thank you all for your wonderful feedback and your serial reblogs and your flailing tags. I really hope you continue to enjoy! Please remember the nautical terms glossary linked below - it's newly updated for the events of this chapter! Happy reading.

As always, thanks to my beta, @captainstudmuffin, and to @lifeinahole27, @clockadile, and @ladyciaramiggles for their additional feedback. Additional thanks to my wonderful CSBB artists, @waiting-for-autumn and @giraffes-ride-swordfishes for providing some gorgeous artwork to accompany this fic! Links to their illustrations of certain scenes (*) will be in the text - go show them some love!

Find it on AO3. Nautical term glossary here.

Missed a chapter? Get caught up here.

Summary: After an unnaturally long life fraught with personal tragedy, Killian Jones has become known throughout the realms as the infamous Captain Hook, an opportunistic ne’er-do-well and one of the most formidable pirates to ride the waves. When he crosses paths with a mysterious young woman with no memory of who she is or how she arrived there, he recognizes the chance to claim a monetary reward that will constitute his biggest score yet. But a journey across the world to get her home leads to a series of adventures that reveal that her value lies in far more than gold and jewels. A Captain Swan Anastasia AU - sort of. (Captain Swan Enchanted Forest AU. Romance, Adventure, & Eventual Smut. Rated E.)

Warning: Brief but graphic depictions of violence, peripheral character death, and smut.

The Jolly alters course to make for the nearest port large enough to have a surgeon in residence. Swan begins to devote a couple hours a day to reading to Alec, and Hook even allows her to assume some of the waylaid sailor’s responsibilities, including his shifts as lookout high up on the fore-mast.

Despite the seriousness of the circumstances, she has to admit she enjoys being useful and trusted aboard ship, and though Hook continues to insist she wear the tether, she doesn’t miss the proud light in his eye each time he watches her scamper up the rigging.

“To your post, Swan,” he says with a smile one morning as he reaches out in passing and gives the knot on her harness a playful tug.

She flashes him a grin over her shoulder and swings up onto the shroud. “Aye aye, Captain.”

Her hours spent perched upon the top and staring out at the horizon from between the sails are largely uneventful, but they afford her more time to enjoy the view and to be alone with her thoughts. She’s disconcerted to find, however, that most of those thoughts seem to center around Hook, and the more she tries to focus on other subjects, the more annoyed she is each time her brain finds a way to wander back to him.

There’s something different about him since their encounter with the slavers. He’s quieter, slower to anger. When Thomas collides with him and nearly spills a can of paint, the way Hook simply receives the young man’s effusive apology with a patient nod and moves on leaves Thomas’ jaw on the deck. It’s as though he’s found a small measure of peace somewhere, and every time Swan spies that contented, introspective look on his face, it tempts her to believe that perhaps even a man as tortured as Captain Hook can find his good heart again.

She should be pleased for him, she thinks. And she is. But if it was hard not to find him irresistible before, it’s nigh impossible now.

He’s a charming bastard, isn’t he? You certainly aren’t the first to pine after him.

She won’t be the last either, she knows. She’s just one in a long string of starry-eyed wenches, smitten harlots, bored wives, and who knows who else. But unlike those women, she’s stuck in close quarters with him, and the burden of being forced to spend so much time with a man she shouldn’t want but does wears on her more acutely as the days march on.

Is that what you’re hoping for? A life of unfulfilled pining?

It isn’t, Swan thinks bitterly. But it’s looking more and more likely all the same.

She’s ruminating on this for the hundredth time and staring glumly at the endless waves on her third afternoon on duty when a sudden disruption in the distance causes her to squint. She frowns, wondering if her eyes are playing tricks, and reaches for the lookout’s spyglass, her curious gaze fixed on the water as she extends the scope and raises it to her eye. The area in question jumps into clear view, and she searches the churning waters for a few moments before she sees it again – a short spurt of mist that shoots upward out of the sea. She glances below to where the Captain and a few of the men are sparring. “Hook?”

The clanging of steel stops. “Swan?”

She raises the glass to her eye again and tries to relocate the disturbance. “There’s something in the water,” she calls. “I can’t tell what it is.”

She hears Hook sheath his cutlass. “Where, love?”

“Um…” She peers through the lens and points. “There. Off the starboard bow.”

The rigging shakes as he scrambles up to join her. He’s halfway to the top when she spies another spray of water.

“There!” she says excitedly. “Did you see that?” Her heart pounds as she catches sight of a dark form that breaks the surface briefly and disappears beneath the waves. Another similar form bobs into view seconds later.

Hook pauses to pull out his own spyglass and search the horizon for a glimpse of what she sees. At last he chuckles. “Whales!” he yells to the rest of the men on deck. “Two points off the starboard bow and approaching. Helmsman!”

“Aye?”

“Maintain our heading but move us a bit to port! Let’s give the beasts some room!” He stows his glass and climbs the rest of the way, pulling himself up onto the top with a boyish grin.

Swan scoots over a bit to make room on the small platform. “Whales?” she asks with fascination.

“Quite,” he says, settling next to her, his knee grazing hers. “It’s just a small pod. I take it you’ve never seen their kind.” She shakes her head, and he nods in return. “They’re generally peaceful creatures, but they’re large and powerful. Best to give them a wide berth unless you’re trying to hunt one.”

She looks through her glass again and spies the distinct shape of a broad, lunate tail arcing out of the water, her mouth curving into an awed smile.

“There’s a young one among them,” he observes. “In the middle. Do you see it? The tail that’s smaller than the others?”

A moment later her eyes widen. “Oh! Yes!” The miniature fins flap above the waves as if waving hello, and she coos. “It’s a happy little family.”

“Indeed.”

She falls silent for a few breaths, watching the whales as they draw closer to the Jolly. “I wish I could remember my family,” she says at last, her expression growing wistful.

“You’ll be with them again soon enough, Princess,” he assures her quietly.

Swan casts a sideways glance as she considers him. “You’re still confident.”

He chuffs. “Of course I am,” he quips, straightening a little. “It’s my business to be.”

“Right. Dashing rapscallion.” Swan smirks.

He flashes a winning grin on cue and leans toward her a bit, his low chuckle generating a shiver deep between her shoulder blades. “Always knew you were a fast learner.”

She hates herself for the way her face grows hot and her heart accelerates, and she feels the sudden impulse to flee and try to regain her faculties somewhere where this stupidly handsome man isn’t being so stupidly handsome. Remembering she’s technically on duty as lookout and unable to flee anywhere, however, she settles for forcing her gaze away, raising the spyglass with both hands and making a show of trying to find the whales once again.

One of the creatures abruptly launches out of the water, a hulking dark shape that somehow manages a graceful twirl in the air like a dancer in slow motion before crashing back down to the waves. Swan lets out a cry of surprise, and she reaches out blindly to give Hook’s arm an excited shake. “Did you see that?”

The rich sound of his laugh greets her ears. “Aye. They do that sometimes,” he says. He dares to lean in further. “Keep watching. We might see it again.”

The warmth of his breath on her skin makes Swan turn from her spyglass to find his nose inches from hers, and her stomach swoops as they stare at one another for what feels like a protracted moment in time. Hook searches her face, the mischief in his eyes fading into something almost earnest, and he swallows, the movement of his throat drawing her eyes down. Her gaze alights on his mouth before she realizes what she’s doing, and her pulse stutters.

A sudden shout from one of the men startles her, and her head whips around in time to see another huge whale leaping out of the water, this one only a few hundred feet off the starboard bow. It returns to the ocean with a great whump and a huge white cloud of spray, and Emma chuckles nervously, praying that her cheeks are not as pink as she thinks they are and willing her heart to stop thundering in her ears.

She turns to offer Hook a weak smile, but he isn’t looking at her, instead distracted by something between them. She follows his eyes down to see her hand still resting on his brace. “Oh!” She pulls away, now fairly sure she’s blushing up to the roots of her hair. “I’m sorry.”

She’s not prepared for the way he colors in turn. “It’s quite alright, love,” he murmurs, looking both touched and a bit sad. He bumps his knee into hers half-heartedly. “No need to stand on ceremony.” He clears his throat and tips his head toward the pod. “I’m glad you’re here to see this. We sailors are accustomed to seeing whales now and then, but I imagine there are few others who get the chance.” He smiles. “Perhaps our friends have come to pay their respects to a certain alleged princess.”

They watch in silence as the pod nears the Jolly and begins to pass down along her starboard side. Swan sets her spyglass down and turns, rising up on her knees to be able to see over Hook’s head. She gingerly steadies herself with a soft hand on his shoulder as she watches the dark bodies slipping above and below the waterline. “They’re so beautiful,” she breathes, peering down at the enormous silhouettes just beneath the surface.

He nods wordlessly.

Swan looks down at her hand on his shoulder. She bites her lip before gathering up the courage to give him a squeeze. “Hook?”

He turns his head to blink up at her soberly.

“I’m glad I’m here, too.”

A slow, warm smile spreads across his face. She drops her free hand onto his other shoulder, and he reaches up to cover her fingers gently with his, breaking her heart just a little bit further as they watch the whales drift away.

* * *

The next few days are cooler and colorless, with showers covering everything and everyone in a constant state of damp. Hook offers to excuse Emma from her shifts as lookout so she can remain below deck, but she stubbornly refuses, merely choosing to wear her blue cloak to try to keep dry. Her mood seems to reflect the weather; she grows increasingly distant, more preoccupied, and not as inclined to smile or engage him in their usual banter. She spends less and less time with him outside of their meals together, busying herself with her duties and reading to Alec during the day and finding excuses to return to her cabin in the evenings instead of lingering over the dinner table with him. Hook notes these changes in her with concern. Whatever is troubling Emma, she seems determined to keep it to herself, and though he catches her looking sad on more than one occasion, she does her best to perk up a little whenever she’s aware of an audience.

He watches her hooded figure as she sits up on the top one afternoon, his brow almost painfully furrowed and raindrops smattering his face as he longs for the power to see what invisible weight is sitting on those slender shoulders. He wonders if she’s worried about Alec’s worsening condition or if, like the rest of the men, she’s simply tired of the rain, and he sighs, trying to think of a way to lift her spirits a little. Perhaps he can grant extra rum rations for morale and coax her into an evening of cards or dice with the crew. Or perhaps he can find something she’ll like when they arrive at port later this week – a new book or a spyglass of her own or something pretty to brighten her day. She’d once mentioned her fondness for the color yellow. He wonders if it would be difficult to find yellow flowers at this time of year. He’d pay a king’s ransom for them and let her put them all over her cabin and his if she liked – anything to make her smile, really. He glowers at the overhead clouds and grumbles at no one in particular. If the bloody skies would clear, that might also be a good a start.

The waters grow choppier around sundown, and the Jolly rises and falls like a rearing horse as she crests over the increasingly tall waves. Hook keeps a watchful eye on Emma when she climbs down from the mast, and he comes to meet her at the bottom of the shroud, glad he’s continued to insist on her rope tether as he notes the extra time it takes her to navigate the rigging with the ship lurching beneath them.

“What are you still doing out here?” she asks, gritting her teeth and waiting for the deck to level before carefully hopping down.

He pushes his wet hair out of his eyes and does his best not to look cold and miserable. “Can’t a gentleman escort a lady to dinner?”

The corner of her mouth twitches, and it’s the closest thing to a smile he’s seen all day, but there’s no time to savor it before they pitch over another swell and Emma stumbles forward with a little yelp. He catches her against him, wrapping his arm around her waist and snagging the shroud with his hook in order to keep them both upright. They struggle for a moment to right themselves, eventually managing to regain some semblance of balance while still tangled up together. Hook stares into her pensive eyes, his heart refusing to slow as he registers the desperate way one of her gloved hands is gripping the collar of his coat while the other is buried in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Emma’s face grows red, a spot of bright color in their drably-lit surroundings, and she bites her lip. “Um, thanks.”

She recoils adorably when a huge raindrop hits her square in the forehead, and Hook suddenly notices that her hood has come off. With a sigh and a resigned smile, he releases her and reaches out to lift it back onto her head. “Let’s get below and dry out a bit, yeah?” he says, delicately smoothing one side of the hood down with his hook. He gestures toward the nearest hatch, and they make for it, the ship still rocking beneath them. “After dinner, I thought perhaps we could enjoy some extra rum and cards with the crew in the mess. What do you think?”

His heart falls at the reticent sound she makes, her face hidden as she keeps her eyes on the boards. “You go ahead. I think I’m going to go to bed early tonight.”

He stops mid-step, frustration rising in his gut. “Are you avoiding me, Swan?”

Emma freezes, the guilty stiffening of her shoulders answer enough. “I… No, of course not,” she says, shaking her head and giving him a small, unconvincing smile as she leads them down the ladder. “I… I’m just tired this week.”

Hook frowns at her obvious attempt to deflect him. “I can reassign your duties if you need more rest,” he suggests, pulling the hatch closed behind them.

“No!” She winces at how loud her voice now sounds out of the wind and in the quiet of the shadowy passageway. “No. I can do it. I don’t mind. I just want to turn in a little earlier tonight.” She walks briskly past him toward his quarters. “Come on. Dinner.”

Hook grants the crew the extra rum but elects to spend the evening alone, retiring to his berth with The Odyssey in order to take his mind off of Emma’s notable absence. After nearly fifteen minutes of staring, unseeing, at the same paragraph however, he closes the book and petulantly tosses it aside. His mind races as he dims the lamp and flops down on the mattress.

Has he done something to upset her? Or is she simply trying to avoid interrogation about whatever is on her mind? He gives his pillow a few vehement punches and resettles his head. Before these rainy days, things had seemed to be going well between them, and he’d started contemplating how he should go about confessing his feelings for her. But now… now he doesn’t know where he stands, and it irritates the bloody hell out of him.

He rumbles and rolls over, his eyes scanning the beams above his head as he exhales heavily. Emma might be trying to shut him out, but he’s always claimed to love a challenge. He’ll confront her tomorrow, he thinks, coax her secret out. They’ve always been open with one another before.

That’s what friends do, isn’t it? Emma’s voice echoes in his memory.

He snorts. Friends. If only that were enough.

Sleep comes to him fitfully, and when Hook is aroused from bed at first light by a very panicky Smee shouting down the hatch for him, he sits up in a foul temper. “What the blazes is it?” he demands, rubbing a hand over his face. Within a moment of opening his eyes, however, the cause of Smee’s distress becomes clear. His quarters are cast in strange hues, and Hook’s eyes snap to the windows to note the ominous red-orange glow of the clouds to the east and the relative darkness to the west. He swears an oath and leaps out of bed, dressing at record speed before flying up the ladder.

The sight that meets him above makes his stomach drop. To the southwest lies a solid wall of enormous storm clouds that appears to have coalesced under the cloak of night. It stretches as far as the eye can see, and when the wind begins to pick up and the first rumbles of thunder come rolling across the water toward them, alarm spreads across the Jolly like wildfire.

“It’s a hurricane!” Roberts hollers, hurrying to clang the ship’s bell.

Cold fear trickles down Hook’s back as he stares at the telltale skies. He’s survived many dire straits in his long life, but few things drive terror into the heart of a sailor more than being faced with a hurricane at sea. Vivid memories of the massive storm that destroyed the ship Hispaniola back when he and Liam were young men flash before his eyes. That storm had sent their last master, the hardy Captain Silver, and the rest of his experienced crew down to their watery graves. The idea of the Jolly, of his men, of Emma meeting the same fate makes him feel sick, and not knowing whether he can do anything to prevent it makes him feel sicker.

“All hands!” he commands at the top of his lungs. “Get everything you can below deck and lash the rest down! Pump the bilges and batten down all but the main hatch!” He takes the wheel from the helmsman and grits his teeth as he wrenches it starboard. “We’re going to try to outrun it.”

“Not even the Jolly’s that fast!” Smee protests at his side. “That thing’ll be on us in ten minutes!”

Hook seizes the front of his first mate’s shirt and yanks him forward. “If you have a better idea, Smee, now would be the time,” he snaps. “Otherwise, get below and tell the Lady to stay down in the crew quarters with Alec until someone comes.”

The next several minutes are a bedlam of activity and a torturous march toward the inevitable as the storm, moving at twice the ship’s speed, swallows her up like a great monster. The seas grow more turbulent, the rain begins to pour, and the gusts howl around them like the voice of a great foe heralding its wrath.

“We’ll have to heave-to – see if we can ride out the storm!” Hook yells frantically, handing over the wheel and charging toward the main deck. “Helmsman, come about to beam reach! Roberts, Thomas, clew up the mainsail! Everyone else to the main-mast to brace the yards square! Back ‘em winward!”

With the men on his heels, he scrambles across the swaying, rain-slogged deck. They position themselves in teams around the mast and prepare to haul lines to rotate the yards overhead. Hook cranes his head upward to watch Roberts and Thomas, the most nimble members of his crew (save Alec), scale the ropes as fast as they can to tie up the mainsail.

Emma is suddenly at his side, soaked to the skin like the rest of them with her wet ponytail limp over one shoulder. She reaches toward the rigging and wraps both hands around the line in front of him.

The sight of her disobeying his orders and risking her neck yet again fills him with rage. Bloody. Impossible. Woman. “What the devil are you doing?” he bellows. “You were supposed to stay below!”

“We’re not having this argument again!” she hollers back indignantly, squinting up at him in the face of the rain. “You’re a man down, and you need more hands! Let me help!”

His growl is lost on the wind, but he hasn’t the time to argue. Hook grits his teeth and positions his hand between hers on the line. Smee joins them, and Martin assumes position behind them to keep the line taut as they pull.

Hook glances around at his crew. “Alright, men!” he calls, using his hook to untie the line and pass the end off to Martin, “Heave! Heave!” The others join with him, chanting in rhythmic unison as they tug on their lines and the yards above their heads begin to rotate about the mast.

They nearly have the sails backed to the wind when an enormous wave hits the ship, sending water sloshing across the deck and causing her to list violently. The men stumble sideways, clinging to the lines for dear life, and Emma shrieks as her footing falters.

“Swan!” Hook throws his left arm around her waist and drags her back to his side with a deep grunt. The muscles in his right shoulder burn as the line begins to pull away without their collective strength to help anchor it. “Tie it off!” he barks over his shoulder at Martin, and the cooper’s large hands are a blur as he throws the knot back in place.

Seconds later, another wave strikes, and a scream rings out from above. Hook looks up to see Thomas thrown from the yard arm, his body flung clear of the ship and out toward the waves.

“No!” Emma yelps and twists in his grasp, one of her hands stretching into the sky in Thomas’ direction.

And like that, Thomas’ body disappears in a swirl of white smoke.

A moment later, a second swirl of smoke leaves the lad lying face-down on the deck at their feet, coughing and gasping for breath.

“Swan?” Hook gapes and looks down at Emma, who retracts her arm and stares at her upturned palm in disbelief.

“What?” She trembles. “What just…?”

“Magic,” he breathes. He’d heard rumors that the Princess of Misthaven was secretly a sorceress, but he’d always taken the reports with a grain of salt, aware they might be the exaggerations of adoring subjects or lies spread by denied suitors.

“Look out!” Martin booms behind them.

A shadow looms overhead, and they turn and gasp at the sight of the most massive wave Hook has ever seen cresting overhead, the roar of the water like impending doom as it rushes down upon them. A profound fear like he’s never known seizes his heart, and he draws Emma closer to him, letting go of the line just long enough to wind it around his forearm.

“Hook?” she cries, terrified.

“Hold on to me!”

Her arms wind around him beneath his coat, and as she buries her face in his shoulder, he clutches her tighter and prays to whatever gods will listen for her salvation. “Stay with me,” he whispers, his cheek pressed to her temple.

White smoke suddenly clouds his vision, obscuring the wave from sight, and the thunderous rush of the the water and the drone of the winds vanishes so quickly, he’d have thought himself struck deaf if not for the ongoing yelling around him.

Then the smoke dissipates, the darkness fades, and the Jolly heaves beneath their feet, surprised shouts ringing out from the crew as she drops a short distance and hits the water with an enormous boom.

And then all falls still.

Hook lifts his head, still clutching Emma’s shaking form and his fingers stinging with rope burn as they continue to clench the line. The early morning sky is the palest blue, and a strong but manageable wind whispers across their bow port to starboard. He straightens slowly, baffled, and there’s only a moment to notice the dark storm clouds retreating to the east before Emma begins to shiver uncontrollably and buckles in his embrace.

“Swan?” He lowers her gently to the deck, his brow bent with concern. “Are you alright? Swan!”

She gazes up at him with bleary eyes, and her face is white as a fresh sail as she pants, exhausted. “Hook?” she mumbles. Her lids grow heavy, and she faints dead away.

* * *

He can feel it – the surge of energy in the distance. He can feel it all over the Earth – the push-pull of magic – like a spider sitting atop a great web with his legs poised on the strands to sense the vibrations that register even from far, far away. Not every shift registers with him, of course, but this, oh there’s no way to miss this. Someone somewhere far from here has just done something significant, martialing a great amount of energy in the process, and he can sense the echoes of it, feel them like small waves generated by a remote tsunami.

He pauses his current task, setting the flasks in his hands down and turning his head to try to focus on the disturbance. It smells like light magic, he thinks. Fairies? His mouth twists in a distasteful sneer. He only knows of one other being powerful enough to generate light magic on that scale, and she’s indisposed.

Isn’t she?

Dismay lines his distinctive features as he turns to go consult his crystal.

* * *

The muted sound of another person moving about the room is the first thing to creep into Swan’s consciousness.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n, but I thought you might want some dinner. You’ve hardly had anything to eat the last few days,” Thomas murmurs. There’s the sound of a tray sliding onto the table.

At her shoulder, Hook gives a low rumble of assent.

“Any change, sir?”

Familiar, calloused fingers slide over the back of her hand, and a heavy sigh is the Captain’s only response.

Thomas’ footsteps retreat, and the cabin door latches gently behind him.

Swan feels the comforting rise and fall of the ship and notes the softness of the Captain’s pillow beneath her head. His bed. She’s in his bed. How did she get here? She gives a soft grunt and cracks an eye open. The last rays of the setting sun supplement the lamplight that glows around the cabin, and a wind rustles through an open pane above her head, the warm air wafting across her skin like a caress.

“Swan?” Hook’s voice rings with quiet disbelief. His hand folds around hers, and his blurry silhouette sits forward in the chair he’s pulled up next to the bed.

She moves to squeeze his fingers back only to find her palm resting atop something smooth and hard. It takes her a few moments to recognize her sand dollar, and she turns her head toward him with a quiet moan as the muscles in her neck protest what seems to be their first movement in a while. Forcing her eyes further open, she blinks away the cobwebs, her forehead wrinkling as his haggard appearance comes gradually into focus. He’s wearing only his shirt and trousers, gray circles line his eyes, his hair is a hand-raked mess, and he’s allowed his usual scruff to darken into a beard. “Hook?” she croaks. Her mouth feels impossibly dry, and she recoils and tries to swallow. “What happened to you?”

His brow twitches. “What do you mean?”

“You… look…” she searches for the right words, and her lips form a wry grin, “less dashing than usual.”

The smile that curves his mouth transforms him back into the man she knows. “You must still have some sleep in your eyes, darling,” he croons. “I’m fairly certain I’m as handsome as ever.”

He is. Bastard. Swan chuffs and rolls her eyes, savoring his chuckle. She holds up the sand dollar and raises her brows in question.

His eyes grow oddly emotional, but he merely shrugs. “What can I say, love? A seafaring man doesn’t take superstitions lightly.”

She hums. “I thought you said I make my own luck.”

“Aye, that you do,” he acquiesces with an affectionate grin, “but no harm in stacking the deck in your favor.”

Swan smirks. “Pirate.” She motions for him to take it so she can push herself up to a sit with a groan, noting that she’s still in her shirt and trousers, her jerkin and gloves draped neatly over the back of a chair at the table and her hair down over her shoulder.

Hook sets the sand dollar out of the way and leaps to his feet. “Easy now.” He leans down and wraps her in a hug, gently hauling her upward in the bed. The warmth of his strong arms feels like sunshine after a rain, and her fingers curl into the wrinkled fabric of his shirt of their own accord. He pulls back much sooner than she wants, but the tenderness in his expression is enough to make her breath hitch, and her heart skips a beat as he gingerly reaches forward to loop a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. Then he colors and hastily redirects his attention to building a mound of pillows for her to lean back on. She collapses against them with a grateful sigh, and he clears his throat, turning toward his dinner tray and splashing a little wine into the goblet. “What do you remember?” he asks, setting it in her hand.

Swan contemplates his question as she drinks, the liquid heavenly on her parched tongue. The corner of her nose wrinkles as she swallows away the rank taste of prolonged sleep. “We were in the storm, and Thomas…” Her eyes narrow with uncertainty over the top of the glass. “Did I save him?”

Hook resumes his seat, scooting around a bit to face her. “You saved us all,” he corrects. “Swan, you have magic.”

She blinks up at him anxiously, taking a small degree of comfort from the encouragement in his eyes before looking down at the palm of her free hand as though she’s never seen it before. “I remember the wave,” she says haltingly, “And I thought… I thought we…” She bites her lip and tries to shake off the memory of that overwhelming fear. Her hand falls on her belly, and she heaves a sigh, giving a shake of her head. “And all I wanted was for the ship to be clear of the storm, and there was this…” her face scrunches up, “this rush and… and then we were there.” She glances back at him for confirmation.

He nods. “That’s when you passed out.”

She hums, taking some more wine. “How long was I asleep?”

“Nearly three days.”

Her mouth falls open. “Three days?” she echoes. Her eyes flit down to his jawline, a crease forming on her forehead. “That explains your beard. What’s happened? Is the ship alright?”

“The ship is fine, Swan,” he assures her with a gentle grin. “Waterlogged and in a bit of disarray, but you got us out in one piece. We’ve had calm seas since.”

Her shoulders relax a fraction, but she cocks her head. “So why do you look as if you haven’t slept?”

Hook scratches behind his ear and looks away. “You aren’t the only one who’s allowed to worry.”

Understanding finally dawns, and her throat tightens, her brows peaking on her forehead. “You’ve been here with me… for three days?” She darts a glance at his chair.

He raises his weary eyes to hers, his face solemn. “Aye.”

The intensity of his stare puts Swan’s heart in her throat, and she tears her gaze away from his, her lashes grazing her cheeks as she preoccupies herself with her hands. “Careful, Captain,” she says with a shaky smile. “Your men are going to start to think you have feelings for me.”

There’s a moment of silence. “And what if I do?” he asks quietly.

She looks back up, startled, and tries to process the raw honesty in the shadows that dance across his face.

Hook rises, gently taking her cup and setting it aside. She swallows hard and shifts over in the berth to make room as he seats himself on the edge of the mattress, gathering her hand in his and pausing, as though trying to decide what to say. “Do you remember that first night we danced?” he asks at length.

Swan folds her lips, emotions welling up in her chest, and manages a small nod.

His gaze grows distant. “That was the first time I’d danced in over a hundred years,” he admits. “The first time I’d felt like dancing since I lost Milah.” He gives a rueful shake of his head. “The truth is, I never thought I’d be capable of letting go of her, never believed I could find someone else...” He raises his eyes back up to hers, looking sad. “That is, until I met you.”

She’s barely breathing, the extremes of happiness, apprehension, and surprise simultaneously washing over her as she listens desperately for the lie. But it’s all truth. She can feel it coming off of him in waves. “Hook,” she murmurs weakly, “you don’t even know who I am.” She bites her lip. “Or what I am.”

His crow’s feet crinkle in that way she adores. “Yes, I do,” he replies, the timbre of his words sending a shiver down her spine and his thumb drifting affectionately over her knuckles. “You’re Emma, Princess of Misthaven. Your powers are only further proof of that. There have long been rumors that Snow White’s daughter was born with magic.” He uses the curve of his hook to gently tip her chin upward so she meets his gaze. “But you could be an orphaned beggar without any powers for all I care. I know your heart, Swan,” he says, his blue eyes burning with conviction, “and I intend to win it.”

Swan blinks rapidly in the face of his stare, her emotions rising in her chest. “You…” she breathes, “you mean that.”

He nods.

The warmth of tears rushes upon her, and she looks away, her eyes falling to their joined hands and her brow wrinkling. A sniffle escapes her. “I didn’t think… I mean, I don’t…” She shakes her head again, the fingers of her free hand tracing the contours of his rings as she struggles to keep from dissolving into a blubbering mess. When she glances back up, her heart melts at the wounded uncertainty that hints on his features, and she reaches out to palm the angle of his jaw, her thumb alighting fondly on his newest scar and her mouth curving into a tremulous smile. “I don’t know if a princess is allowed to kiss a pirate.”

Even without her memories, there’s no doubt that the way his face illuminates with awe is one of the most wonderful things she’s ever seen. “I think,” he murmurs, swallowing hard, “when it comes to this pirate, Your Highness can do as she bloody well pleases.”

Swan bursts into nervous laughter and nods, winding her fingers into the collar of his shirt and hauling him forward, her lashes falling closed and a happy tear sliding down her cheek as she presses her lips softly to his.(*)

Suddenly she feels so many things at once she can scarcely process it all. The glorious sensation of his mouth moving against hers becomes amplified by a rush that surges through her – the same kind of powerful, emotional rush she felt when she moved the Jolly. It overwhelms her senses, and then the memories come, cascading upon her like a tidal wave, her mind so instantly saturated by images and thoughts and feelings that she gasps and blanches, her face contorting into a pained mask.

“Swan?” Hook pulls back in alarm, his hand coming up to wrap around her shoulder. “What is it?”

The mental onslaught ends as abruptly as it started, and her eyes spring wide. She gapes at him in wonder, chest heaving. “I remember,” she whispers.

His jaw drops. “You remember?”

“I remember!” Her voice cracks somewhere between a hysterical laugh and a relieved sob.

He cups her cheek, glowing with excitement. “Emma,” he tries, searching her face.

“Yes.” She chuckles and nods vigorously. “Emma.”

He crows with triumph and pulls her to him for another kiss, slanting his mouth across hers and stealing her breath with abandon this time while she sniffles, her body suffused with pure joy. The enthusiastic press of his lips, the dive of his fingertips into her tangled tresses, the snake of his left arm around her waist – it’s as if he can’t get her close enough, and she mewls, completely content to let him possess her in whatever way he desires.

After what seems like an eternity (and not nearly long enough), they come up for air, their combined breaths hot and insistent. Emma sucks one kiss-swollen lip between her teeth, feeling ridiculously giddy at the satisfied hum that emanates from his chest as he brushes his nose against hers and moves in to kiss her again.

Someone pounds on the door. “Captain!”

They break apart and freeze, swapping a chagrined look as the knocking persists. Hook gives an impatient growl that makes Emma giggle before shooting an icy glare in the direction of the disturbance. He huffs. “Hold that thought,” he mutters, bumping his forehead softly against hers and stealing another quick kiss before he straightens, rotating to face the door and swiping his thumb at the corner of his mouth. “Smee?”

The door bangs open, and the first mate lunges in. ��Did you see it?” he pants. He skids to a halt when his enormous eyes fall on them. “Milady!” His face brightens. “You’re awake!”

Emma smiles and gives a small nod.

“Yes, she’s on the mend at last,” Hook concurs. “Now what are you talking about? What did you see?”

Smee seems to remember himself. “The—the…” Smee gestures nondescriptly behind him, “The wind. The light? Like a rainbow?” He looks back and forth between their blank expressions incredulously. “It looked like magic, sir. Went out in all directions from the Jolly.” He glances at Emma anxiously. “We thought perhaps Milady had something to do with it.”

Rainbow light. Hook opens his mouth to protest, but Emma interjects, trying to keep her voice from wavering even while her heart starts to race. “It’s alright, Mr. Smee,” she says. “I… I think it was me. But I’m fine now.”

His shoulders relax. “Are you sure, ma’am?” he asks, sounding concerned. “Is there anything you need?”

She flashes an appreciative smile. “Not right now. But thank you.”

“Privacy tonight, Smee,” Hook orders. “The Lady has been through an ordeal. I’ll call if she requires anything.”

Smee nods. “Shall we continue on course?”

“Aye. Thank you.”

Smee gawks at the Captain’s expression of gratitude. “You’re—you’re welcome, sir. Ma’am,” he stammers, looking pleasantly confused as he slips out the door and pulls it shut behind him.

As soon as the latch clicks, Hook turns back toward her. “What the devil was he talking about, Swan?”

“Rainbow light,” Emma murmurs, her gaze far away. “I’ve heard about something like that.” She raises her eyes to him nervously. “The dwarves say that’s what they saw when my father woke my mother with True Love’s Kiss.”

Hook’s handsome face goes slack. “Bloody hell.” He stares at her, dumbfounded, and gathers her hand back up in his. “So this…? You…?” His voice threatens to crack, and he searches her with shining eyes. “Do you actually…?”

Emma breaks out in a watery smile and nods, leaning forward to bury herself back in his arms with a contented sigh. “I think so. I mean, you were right. I’ve never been in love,” she concedes, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “But this… I was so miserable thinking you’d never feel the same.” She smiles as he reaches up to smoothe his hand over her hair. “Plus, I guess it’s kind of hard to argue with a broken curse, huh?” she chuckles.

He rumbles against her. “What happened, Swan? Who cursed you?”

Emma chuffs and pulls back a little, looking up at him sheepishly. “I did.”

Thanks for reading! Ready for the next chapter? Click here!

#csbb #cs ff #cs fic #captain swan #captain wench #captain duckling #cs ef au #cs anastasia au #cs au #cs au ff #ouat ff #ouat fanfic #my writing #the long way home

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dinosrpg · 7 years

Text

Nerevarine: The Reprise - Chapter Seven

Rain lightly fell as Sheev-La and Sevana ventured down the road to Riverwood, making their way to the road along the town's namesake river. By midday, according to Sheev-La's estimates, they would arrive at the town where they could continue their trek to the barrow. Plenty of time, Sevana thought, to probe the hero for information, learn more about the mysterious woman.

"So... shall we talk tactics? Specialties?" the Dunmer started, giving her companion a gentle nudge. The Argonian had been rather quiet since her outburst in the middle of the night, almost despondent, even. "I mean, you're obviously an accomplished warrior. It's almost laughable that I would be the one you would be assis--"

"I'm not that good," Sheev-La cut in, perhaps too harshly by her own judgment. Sevana bit her tongue, simply hoping she hadn't pressed too hard. "More swords are always welcome. As with eyes and ears. Keeps flanking and placement from getting too out-of-hand. But yes... I'm good with a bow and swords. I know some magic as well, but nothing involving the elements or healing. What about you?"

"I was schooled in Destruction, Conjuration, and Restoration," Sevana started, relaxing a little. "As you've seen, I keep myself in good physical condition, as well. That extends to some weapon-based martial arts involving two-handed weaponry. I prefer to summon such weaponry to give myself an offensive option once I've felt my magicka has depleted."

"That's quite the set of skills," the Argonian offered, forcing a smile despite her low spirits. "I almost feel outclassed," she chuckled.

"Me? Outclassing the Nerevarine?" Sevana jested in turn, smiling back at her. "I think that might be added to my list of qualifications, if you don't mind."

"By all means. Can't wait to see a prospective employer look at you as though you'd told them you were Tiber Septim." Sevana laughed.

"I trust you'll be watching through the window, then?" the Dunmer teased, the Argonian laughing in kind.

"Indeed," Sheev-La giggled, glad to have someone to talk to again. It had been so long since she had spoken earnestly with anyone.

Further down the road, after a comfortable lull in the conversation, the Dunmer began to fidget, something clearly bothering her. Sheev-La couldn't help but suspect she had questions. Everyone had questions for the Nerevarine.

"You don't have to hold back, Sevana. Tell me what's on your mind."

"I don't want to overburden you with questions, Sheev-La. I can only guess what the nightmare you had last night contained, and I doubt my imagination can even touch on what would terrify a hero."

"It was Red Mountain. The... last time I went there."

"You don't have to talk about this if you don't want to," Sevana reaffirmed, a hand on the Argonian's shoulder.

"Thank you... but I think two hundred years is too long to hold onto these thoughts alone. So long as you're prepared for knowing what only a handful of people know."

"It's almost like signing a pact with Hermaeus Mora," Sevana remarked, taking a deep breath.

"It very well may be. Be cautious with this information, alright? I'm not sure my heart could take another life lost to my story."

"I will. Promise," she nodded, the Nerevarine taking a deep breath of their own in relief.

"Now... ask what it is you wish to ask. Hold nothing back."

"Are you... actually Indoril Nerevar? I understand you are Nerevar reincarnated, but... what exactly is the nature of your reincarnation? His reincarnation..."

"I am indeed Nerevar, as they once stood and breathed. For decades, I lived as Sheev-La, unaware of my memories until I returned to Vvardenfell and learned of my past self. Nibani Maesa, an Ashlander wise-woman, was the one to awaken my dormant self, to unlock those memories I had hidden from myself. Or... perhaps that Azura had hidden from me. In either case, I awoke. In that moment, and in all moments, I became and remain both Indoril Nerevar and Sheev-La. In some moments, I affiliate with my past self. In others, I am very much Sheev-La. My self-image changes accordingly, and I know that must be strange, but... that is the way of such unusual things, it seems. To return from the dead is no small feat, and Oblivion only knows how difficult it must have been for Azura to conjure my very soul."

Sevana blinked, feeling weighted by such an answer. And yet, relieved in a way. Such a mystery was never truly explored in the short time Sheev-La had remained among the Dunmer, and to have been one to ask such an intimate question, let alone to be met with such an earnest answer, was an accomplishment few could have aspired to achieve. "Is... your existence a burden on yourself? I can't imagine how difficult it must be to handle two lives' worth of memories, if not more..."

"Only when I think about it," the Argonian sighed, rolling their head back. "Sometimes I'm reminded of events long past. Terrible memories. But, there are good ones there. They... surface more rarely than the tragedies, sadly. In fact... speaking about such philosophical concepts reminds me of Sotha Sil. In the days of the First Council, we often ruminated on the meaning of fate, of destiny."

Sevana held her tongue for a few moments, giving them a moment to collect themselves. She couldn't say if such a reminder was one to be cherished or one that brought them pain, but whatever they thought, she felt she couldn't interrupt that moment without their approval.

"Please, continue," the Nerevarine reassured her, managing a smile.

"I just wanted to give you a moment," Sevana comforted them, the Argonian nodding appreciatively. "So... I suppose the big question is what truly happened at the Battle at Red Mountain?"

"Alandro Sul's account was... not too far from the truth, if you've read it."

"I haven't read it in years, if you don't mind recounting it. I just don't want to push this too far if you feel you're not ready to relive it aloud."

"Thank you, Sevana, but in all honesty, I should have spoken up about this long ago. People deserve to know the truth, and it was selfish of me not to publish my own firsthand account while I had the ears of the Dunmer. But the story was as thus:

"King Dumac and I held the peace together, despite everything that happened. It was Kagrenac who threatened everything, and Voryn Dagoth was the one to learn of the Heart of Lorkhan's discovery. While Kagrenac toiled in secret, I confronted Dumac, flanked by my council and retinue. I feared the worst. But he denied knowing anything about the damned thing. History confirms his account, but the pangs of perceived betrayal clawed at my heart after all we had done together, after the love we had shared. I had the council call upon Azura to confirm Voryn's findings... and with her confirmation, I declared war on my lover.

"It pains me to this day that I didn't hold myself and the council at bay... To think of all that could have been different... But alas... we warred. And in the ultimate battle, I had Vivec, Almalexia, and Sotha Sil direct my forces to draw out Dumac's own while Voryn and I crept into the Heart chamber. Dumac and I battled fiercely, and I... I slew him... but he wounded me. Mortally. Voryn and Kagrenac battled alongside us, but Voryn was the clear victor, acquiring the accursed tools that had been used to make the Dwemer near-unstoppable. Azura came to us in our hour of need and told us how to use the tools, which Voryn did. However, in his workings, something... went awry. Something no one could have anticipated. The Dwemer disintegrated. Or... at least their bodies did. In an instant, the war was over. I was bleeding, exhausted, and terrified at what we had done when Voryn came to me with the tools, begging for me to give him the order to destroy the things. In that moment... I panicked. I told him to wait for me and safeguard the tools... and he obeyed... By all that is good and just in this world, he obeyed..." The Argonian sniffed and shuddered as they thought back to that moment, their eye burning with tears begging to be shed. Sevana gripped their shoulder, looking more than a little worried, but the Nerevarine collected themselves, clearing their throat and rubbing their eye.

"You can stop if you want..." the Dunmer insisted.

"No... no, it's fine," they assured her, groaning and doing their damnedest to power through the pain. They had done it for so long; this was nothing compared to what they had suffered in the past.

"Voryn stayed... and I went to summon the council. I'd ignored them for too long when it came to my alliance and intimacy with Dumac, and I was loathe to act without their guidance again, for fear I would make things worse. I told them what happened, and then we returned to Voryn to consider our... our next course of action. But he had already succumbed to madness... to lust for power. Those cursed tools twisted his mind. I can't remember who brought it to blows, but... we drove him off. We took the tools back from him. I was distraught... I made my councilors swear to Azura not to sully his honor or memory by using the tools. They swore on Azura... and Azura heard. And then, when I... when I turned to face the Numidium... I felt something pierce my back and push further until everything went dark. I was... I was betrayed..."

"You did what you felt was best," Sevana reassured them, turning to place her hands on the Argonian's shoulders and look into that tired, clouded eye. "It had to be done. To have your wits about you in that moment is a feat of endurance that songs are written about. The fact that you were able to do anything so decisively after such a battle is nothing short of legendary. You... are a hero, Sheev-La. You stayed true to your station and your people in a moment of vulnerability."

"I didn't feel like it... I still don't feel like it..." they whimpered, lip quivering. The Dunmer hugged them.

"We're all still standing here today because of you. If nothing else... take solace in that."

#Nerevarine: The Reprise #Elder Scrolls #Morrowind #Skyrim #Sheev-La #fanfic

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