#But its true that I am nigh incapable of caring about them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jenovahh · 3 years

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Wild Greens Choke Tended Gardens - Ch. 4 - Gladiolus (Sword Lily)

He’s bored.

He usually is, but something about the monotony of everyday life seems particularly...bothersome now.

It has been another day of delegating and overseeing, having returned to the Garlean Embassy within Kugane after releasing the Warrior of Light back to her friends.

“I’m A’yana Salvia, the Warrior of Light.” She huffs, her tail giving an angry flick. “And you are going to let my friends go, peacefully.”

He can’t help but let loose a chuckle then, eyes unseeing as a servant refills his glass of wine. He had to admit, it was certainly amusing to see how readily she stood up to him, how she was devoid of fear despite her defeat by his hand at their last encounter. He couldn’t help but find the entire situation...refreshing.

“You are strong, but I am willing to lay down my life for my friends. I would do whatever it takes to allow them to escape.”

He had heard of people like her. Noble. Dutiful. Selfless.

A waste, comes the thought unbidden.

He had never understood those types, those that threw down their lives for the sake of others. Those who attached their sole reason to do battle to weak concepts such as selflessness and pride.

Man should fight for the joy of it. Only man could fight for fightings’ sake.

“Why are you even here?”

He can’t help but grin to himself, remembering her rage, how her eyes flashed with unbridled fury at his insult of her skills. How he could see any desire to save her friends had bled from her eyes and turned into a wish to see him dead where he stood.

“You had come looking for me, have you not? Sorry to disappoint you once again, but I am the Warrior of Light and the Warrior of Light is me.”

A’yana Salvia, the Warrior of Light…

Standing from his chair, he excuses himself, not allowing himself to head to his rooms straightaway. While sleep was tempting, if only to spare him from the boredom of the waking hours, he had something to occupy his time if only for a little while.

He walks the halls until he reaches a door, punching in the code to unlock the latch to allow him inside. Behind the door was an office, nearly as opulent as his own back home in Garlemald, filled with all manner of books and files and maps. Upon the desk was a neat stack of paper, along with a single book, bound in leather with gold trim.

Nearing the desk he sits himself in the high backed chair accompanying it, leaning back for a bit of comfort as he takes the documents in hand and reads the note on the first page.

A Brief History of the Warrior of Light, A’yana Salvia

At his request had his men been tasked with finding out as much about the Warrior of Light as possible, from the time of her birth to what she liked to eat for dinner. He was if anything thorough, and he had failed his own standards by not being able to connect her title with the Miqo’te woman herself. He would not make that mistake again.

Flipping the page, he is surprised to find there is little known about the details of her birth. The report goes on to say how there were no official records or reports or even hearsay of her birth, no ties back to any childhood homes. Even her parents were a mystery. Despite his best efforts to remain impartial, he couldn’t help but sit a little straighter, intrigued by the concept of a hero who came from nothing, but not in the traditional sense.

To anyone who tried to delve into her origins, they would find nothing. Even nomads, even beggars of savage city-states had some history and telling of their beginnings, and yet…

A’yana Salvia had none.

And not for lack of trying, either. The report goes on to say that others have attempted to dig deeper into her past, but no one, not even those known to be close to her know of her origins. It is said that she had almost seemed to appear from the mists, an adult ready to explore the world when she had been discovered by the Scions of the Seventh Dawn to come together to orchestrate Baelsar’s defeat.

It was all rather peculiar, that someone of such power had so little known about their life, save for their deeds as the hero. Enough deeds, that someone had deigned to write an entire book practically detailing her accomplishments.

The Dragonsong War, by Count Edmont Fortemps lays on the desk still, its leather staring back at him unassumingly. Cutting his eyes back to the report, he flips through the pages, seeing more information he had known already in addition to whatever his men could scrounge up. He had already heard the Garlean side of Baelsar’s defeat, but the report managed to dig up a few more details, such as her befriending of the traitor, Cid nan Garlond.

Done with the report, he picks up the tome, flipping through the first few pages that details the author’s early life. His years as a child were oft spent in between the shelves of the royal library, the princeling easily gaining the ability to scan through tome for information he sought.

Reaching the beginning of the retelling, some of the words begin to jog his memory. He had heard of the first brood. Heard of the terrifying power of Midgardsormr and his equally terrifying children from books about the fall of Agrius. The war of a thousand years waged by one of the dragon’s sons, fueled by nothing but his hatred for mortals. He had not seen such a beast himself, but he knew that the stories were true that despite not holding their sire's power, the first brood were still magnificent in their own right.

And she had slain him, this Nidhogg.

The Warrior of Light was lucky, yes, but there was no denying her power.

How could such potential be housed in such a small frame, such gifts be given to someone so... unworthy?

Part of him whispered that she was not as unworthy as he thought. The slowly fading scar on his neck attested to that.

It had been years since he sustained such an injury, his fingers constantly drifting to his neck anytime glanced at himself in a mirror. It had long since healed, the scarring not an angry red, but pale and silvery, as if dust from the moon itself had been imbued in her magic.

His eyelids fall close as he relives the rush of pain, the rush of feeling his blood well up into tiny pebbles at the small cut on his skin. He was strong enough to withstand her magic without difficulty, but even the discomfort it gave told him that the average man would find it nigh unbearable.

Their gap in power was not as large as it first seemed. Unlike him she lacked training, lacked control.

Somehow that was part of his unintentional obsession. He had built himself from the ground up with power, doing all he could to become a better hunter. The prestigious prince who had the best instructors in the land brought to his home to teach him, versus the feline warrior from shrouded origins with nothing but a blessing and luck to her name.

It was almost laughable really, and yet he found himself more intrigued than he cared to admit. He continues to flip through the pages, eyes dragging across the Ishgardian cursive script with the barest hint of detachment, his eyes steadily drifting closed.

He's dreaming again.

The usual warmth surrounds him, melding into his bones in a way that is frighteningly comforting. It has always been like this, yet only now does he consciously realize it is so.

It feels akin to--

The feeling of her in his arms--

"Thinking of someone?"

The dreamspace shifts and coalesces into another dense forest, though this time it is dark and moonlight drifts through the trees. His friend is behind him, their presence still formless and yet not, their energy seeming much looser and not all there.

"Why would you draw such a conclusion?" He asks, brows furrowed, not even bothering to turn to face what is not there.

"That woman," they begin, "the Warrior of Light. Was she not in your thoughts?"

He remains silent gazing up at the moon. It's milky surface stares back at him, shining brightly and illuminating the depths of his soul. He closes his eyes and allows himself to bask in its glow, the strange sense of comfort drifting across him again.

A minute passes before he realizes he's not given an answer. "Yes."

He hears tinkling sounds behind him, but still he does not turn to face them. "I like her."

Frowning, he responds in monotone. "That makes one of us."

Silence sits between both of them for another beat. "Do you feel nothing when you look in her eyes?"

He does whirl on them then glaring at their misty form. "I thought we already discussed this." he growls.

“Discussed what?” They question nonchalantly.

“Discussed this...soulmate nonsense--” he grounds out, glaring harder as their tinkling laughter surrounds him and their form solidifies a little more. “And what is so amusing?” he snaps, crossing his arms across his chest. “Do you find my innermost thoughts a source of entertainment?”

Though they don't have the form to manage it, even he can sense them shrugging nonchalantly. "I have only ever wanted you to be happy Zenos."

His lips move to form the words that he is happy, but he cannot bring himself to state such a blatant lie. Not to himself, not to his friend, because whether he liked it or not, they always found out the truth.

“And how would she make me happy?” he questions, regaining a little more composure. “She is weak. Untrained. She is used to having her equally weak companions throw her at whatever god arises and vanquishing it with raw power and sheer luck.” he scoffs, lip curling at the thought. “How could such a weakling make me happy?”

“You question how she could make you happy, yet you have spared her twice.” They respond, not at all bothered by his lofty tone.

Wrinkling his nose, he turns away from them again, trailing off into the forest. “A mistake I will soon rectify when next we meet.”

“Did she not say herself that you have caught her out of her element?” They press on, following behind him at a safe distance.

“What good is someone incapable of fighting on any battleground?” Zenos asks, uncaring as water from the creek soaks his pants leg. “Either she will prove that she is the challenge I seek when next we meet, or she shall die by my hand.”

His friend giggles behind them then, and he can’t help but turn once more to see their form a bit more solid. Were they always so much smaller than him? “And just what is it that you find so humorous?” He grumbles, sighing as the breeze caresses his skin.

“If only you could see it yourself, Zenos.” They giggle, their laughter like the tinkling of bells. “Try as you might, you're more invested than you let on.”

Frowning, Zenos finds that that thought resonates with him a bit more than he’d like. “You have known me this long. Am I anything other than thorough?” He asks, coming to a stop as he gazes out at the greenery before him.

“You are right, I have known you this long. Long enough to know when you are nearly obsessed. Long enough to know you thirst for more.” They echo, the dreamscape once again fading, his friend’s voice drifting away as it becomes indiscernible from the wind whispering through the trees.

Blinking away sleep, moonlight pours through the window, signaling he had been sleeping for quite some time. Shifting to a standing position, rolls his shoulders, preparing to retire for the night until he sees some of the Kugane guards running about in the streets.

Drifting closer to the window, he watches their paper lanterns light their path as they scuttle along, their voices muffled but Zenos can gather enough of what is going on. They seem to be trying to apprehend someone.

No longer interested, he prepares to turn away until a particular group’s conversation is loud enough to drift up to him.

Scions of the Seventh Dawn…

Garlean traitors…

The Warrior of Light--

His feet have carried him out of the office and toward the main entrance before he can even stop himself to ask what he’s doing. His soldiers question him, but he only feels his lips form the orders to not follow him if they wish to remain living. Grabbing a single sword, he stalks out into the night, noting that the guards have moved further into the city.

His hair trails behind him as he makes his way to where the general populace of Kugane resides, sticking close to the alleys as he keeps track of the guard’s movements through the streets. They are rather disorganized, and already he has spotted the two women the warrior calls her friends sneaking through the city to their destination. He does not doubt the Warrior of Light is far behind, taking the backstreets to keep a low profile. While not in his full regalia, there was nothing else he could be but the prince, and any guard that did happen to spot him wisely overlooked his presence.

It would also not do to have the woman know he was out looking for her as well. She’s doing a surprisingly good job of hiding from him; surely he would have spotted her at least once by now.

He keeps up his search until a group of guards begins shouting, their exclamations turned into coughs as a cloud of smoke erupts in the city street. Hurried footsteps barrel toward him and with all the grace of a predator does he reach out and snag the would be intruder, dragging them into the shadows as the smoke clears. They struggle against him but go still as the guards begin searching the area, failing to notice the two huddled together under a dark alcove.

As the sounds grow quieter, they renew their struggle, prompting Zenos to let them go.

“What are you doing?!” The Warrior of Light hisses, fangs catching the faintest bit of moonlight, sapphire eyes gleaming up at him in the darkness.

“Protecting my investment.” He responds dryly, watching as that riles her further.

“Your investment?!” She whispers harshly, looking as if she would love nothing more than to raise her voice.

“Letting you live was not without cost. Until I duel you under more...favorable circumstances, then it would be in my best interest to make sure no misfortune befalls you.” He sighs, watching as her eyes go wide with shock before narrowing once again.

“I did not need your help!” She growls, preparing to leave, but he blocks her path.

“I am inclined to disagree.” He purrs, unable to keep himself from poking the hot embers before him, in hopes that he’ll be burned. “Kugane may be a state of neutrality, but even they know that they must bow to the emperor, or risk their way of life being upset.” He hums, watching the gears turn in her head. “I would hate to bring attention to your location, or worse, your friends who I saw pass by earlier…” he trails off, unable to keep amusement from suffusing his words.

Her expression steels immediately.

Ah...there it is.

“You wouldn’t dare.” She whispers, the sound so sinister and low that he can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine.

“Would I?” he goads, eyes darting to how she flexes her claws. “While I have endeavored to occupy my time with more important matters, I find you have too many mysteries surrounding you for my curiosity to ignore.” He continues, watching an unreadable expression pass through her eyes. “Answer my questions truthfully, and I will allow you to return to your friends. Refuse…”

“Right, right, ask your stupid questions.” She snaps, crossing her arms across her chest.

He had expected more arguing from her, but he’s pleased to see that she is at least practical. “The first: why are you running?”

His eyes have adjusted to the darkness sometime ago, able to see her tail give an angry flick. “My friends and I were looking for a comrade of ours. Unfortunately we trusted a stupid fish who tried to turn us into your soldiers.” She grumbles, ears flicking to and fro as if still listening for guards.

“A comrade? For what purpose?” He continues on, unconsciously taking a step toward her. The alley is narrow and already one step has him nearly looming over her.

“To liberate Doma, what else?” She retorts, not at all afraid of him.

“You mean to free Doma?” He laughs, taking another step closer. She does take a step back then, though he can tell it is not from fear. Her eyes have not left his, fierce and unafraid. “While I applaud your ambition, I believe I have shown you twice now where standing against me will bring you.” He rumbles, voice thrumming in his chest. “What primal will your friends throw you at next, little Warrior? What tasks will they place upon you to bear alone?” He presses on, smirking all the while. “I have heard of Eorzea’s Savior, though a more aptly named title would be...Eorzea’s Errand Girl. Barring she is not killed first.”

“You…” she seethes, not even flinching as he backs her against a wall. He stands tall above her then, but she does not tremble, does not shake even though most people cower in his presence, his proximity notwithstanding. Even in the dark he can see the slits of her eyes have widened to let in more light, giving her superior vision in the night. Her fangs capture his attention with how sharp they actually are, but most of all…

It is the rage he feels from her that makes him shudder.

“Is this all you sought me out for? To insult me and make me question how my friends care for me?” She huffs, standing her ground.

“I have asked questions, but not made you question anything, Warrior of Light.” he chuckles, her title sounding like silk on his tongue. “I am merely curious about your endeavors, as any enemy would be. Is that so wrong?” He taunts, hoping for another violent reaction, but his smirk fades as a determination enters her eyes, one that stills his breath.

“You will listen and listen well, Garlean.” She hisses, reaching for his hair and yanking him down, the movement surprising him so thoroughly, his brain is still struggling to catch up. Never had anyone dare to take such liberties with his person. Even the servants whose job was solely to take care of his hair asked for permission to do their job.

That his body almost moves at her will, bringing him face to face with her so that she can glare at him from her level, sets something alight within him. A burn he had not felt his whole life. In this moment his entire being is tuned into her, tuned into the quiet conviction in her eyes.

“You may insult me all you like, but I will not allow you to insult my friends. Yes, they may be unable to fight a majority of battles without my help, but it is help I give gladly, it is help I give willingly.” She seethes, his eyes paying close attention to how the curl of her lip keeps her fangs displayed, almost as if in reminder of how she could sink them in his throat. The thought makes him shiver with an unnamed emotion. “As I had informed you at my capture, I don’t have time to play with a spoiled prince. My friends need my help and if it means giving up my life to help them, then so be it.” She growls, giving his hair one more tug and it goes straight to his groin.

“Now, you will be letting me go, without any fuss.” She demands, and just like that, he can see it.

The Warrior of Light in all of her glory.

She releases his hair, but he makes no moves to stand back to full height quite yet, still staring at her in muted wonder. She stares back until confusion slowly seeps into her gaze, unsure for why he has remained silent for so long. Silence continues to stretch between them, until her impatience finally gets the better of her. “Are you quite done staring? You are more than welcome to have me come sit in for a portrait if you so wish. I don’t have time to stand here with you gawking at me.”

Eyelids fluttering closed, he releases a single chuckle, standing back to full height as his hand absentmindedly runs across the strands of hair she had abused but moments before. Once he opens his eyes, she gasps, unsure what she sees there, but caring little.

If she had wanted him to leave her alone, there was no way he was doing so now.

“Very well, Warrior of Light.” he hums, stepping from her personal space. Giving her a forceful shove into a dark corner in the alley, not giving her time to complain as he calls out into the night. “Guards!”

He can hear her go stock still behind him, quiet as a mouse as nearby guards rush over to him.

“Lord Zenos!” they exclaim, bowing profusely in his presence. “How may we assist you?”

Glancing down the street, he remembers what direction her friends were heading before speaking once more. “While I am loath to help you bumbling savages...I would rather not have my rest interrupted by you shouting all over the district. While unsure of your targets, I last saw a suspicious group of people head south west of here.” Resting his hand on his sword, he can hear them all audibly swallow. “I would also suggest you be quick about it. I would like the district clear by the time I arrive at the Embassy to rest.”

“O-Of course, my lord!” they hastily bow, rushing down the streets like their lives depended on it. Turning to speak with the Warrior of Light, she stares back at him almost equally mystified, though her skepticism is clear on her face.

“As I had informed you earlier...I must protect my investments.” He grins, lips pulling into a genuine smile that stuns her even further. “Run free, Warrior of Light. Our next meeting may be sooner than you think.”

She shoots him a distrustful glare without hesitation, pushing past him as if he were just another man and not her sole enemy. The change is so refreshing he cannot find it in himself to even think of punishing her for her disrespect. To do so would be counterproductive.

“Oh, my wild, untamed beast…” he purrs to himself as he watches her hurry to her destination, skirts trailing behind her as she disappears into the night. “There is no escaping me now.”

When he returns to the Garlean embassy it is with purpose, his men nearly jumping out their skin at the look in his eye as he begins rattling off orders. His father hasn’t approved any action to march on the savages in Gyr Abania, giving him a copious amount of free time to do as he wished. If his father really did begin to ask after him, he could always feign that he was putting the Doman wench in line; which would not be far from the truth. She had failed him by letting the Warrior of Light reclaim the Ruby Sea, and yet he cannot be too harsh on her.

She had brought him a challenge after all.

When morning comes, he feels a drive he had not felt since he was a boy. A zest for life that was blooming within his chest, barely able to contain the sheer joy he felt. It was not hard to arrange for his entourage to prepare him a vessel to depart for Doma the next morning. Using the information he had gleaned from the Warrior of Light the night prior, he was walking the halls of the dilapidated castle in no time at all.

The Doman woman kneels before him, subservient as the rest. Her hatred had intrigued him before; it was why he had seen fit to ascend her to a position that allowed the subjugation of her own people. But looking in her eyes now, all he can feel is disappointment.

Blue, feline eyes glare back at him in his mind’s eye, and a rush of heat runs through him.

“Have you anything to say for yourself?” he questions, not even deigning to stand up. Prostrated before him, he is glad she does not tremble before him at least, but the lack of defiance is rather uninspiring.

“Nay, my lord.” she replies, not even bothering to look at him to give her answer.

Rolling his eyes, he studies her for a moment longer. “Tell me then, in detail just how you failed me. Have you not heard of the Warrior of Light? Is your network so under utilized that you could not quash a rebellion well before it started?”

She flinches under his criticism, and remains kneeling before him. “I had not, my lord.” she answers, throat tight. “She was like a storm; a typhoon, making landfall before you could even do anything about it.” She does rise up to look at him then, most likely in hopes that he will see how sorry she is. “She had rallied the Confederacy so quickly, and I had tried to stop her...but suddenly those Kojin...she had slain a god.”

His eyebrows raise as she sounds almost stupefied, as if trying to make sense of how it all went wrong so fast. “It was as if the fear of the empire no longer mattered. Her and her friends had organized and planned, she had instilled the people with a will that even the empire could not suppress. She is formidable, my lord.” she finishes, and her words make him think.

The conviction he saw within her eyes, a will not easily broken. That even as he stood before her, out of her element, her life in his hands by the prospect of her being in his presence alone…

It was this will that inspired the masses to rebel as he had hoped the Doman woman could do.

Begrudgingly he had to admit that she knew how to inspire the masses. She accomplished in days what the woman couldn’t even accomplish after several moons and imperial forces at her disposal.

It was also clear that between her and her two comrades, she was not the strategist. He would not go as far as to insult her intelligence, but there was no denying that just as his presence evoked fear, hers inspired hope. He doubted she gave speeches, doubted she gave orders. Simply by existing she was an inspiration, a morale booster of the highest caliber.

He can’t stop himself from smirking, even if the action makes the woman before him fear for her life. He envisions those fierce blue eyes again, whispering her name on his lips.

“The Warrior of Light, A’yana Salvia…”

Her name on his lips tastes heavenly.

As much as she warned him to stay away, to threaten his life in the hopes he would take heed to her promises…

It only made him yearn for their battle more. Without trying, his prey had gotten snared in his trap--

And he would not suffer to let it go.

#zenos #zenos yae galvus #ff14 #FFXIV #Final Fantasy XIV #WGCTG

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miqojak · 4 years

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Massacre

(( I have been in such a SLUMP with Jak lately, and I haven’t even sat at my computer in something like two weeks. So, here’s to me knocking the dust off my writing, and hoping I can figure out how to get Jak back into RP again. Big-time mentions of @ketsuchikotetsu and the fellow who hurt her. It’s a bit gorey here and there, be warned. Also, enjoy MUSIC - if you want. ))

A gristly, wet sound of bones grinding broke the silence - followed by the clean snap of, at last, the shoulder being cracked from the socket in which it belonged. It was less enjoyable when they’d already died, however. The hunt was the evocative part - the savagery of the struggle was the true beauty.

She’d haunted the Shroud, while the girl buried herself deep in her own mind - Kesri - she’d made the mistake of ignoring her own common sense, and the warnings of the Wolf, and now she paid for it. Not that she wasn’t part of Kesri - but she was the part that had loudly protested against affections. That had insisted that if she must care, then at least not to care for the Fuckboy Sailor. A waste of time and energy, as her Wolf had said.

She liked the Wolf, that ‘Beast’ of Jak’s - if she was capable of such an emotion, even. If there were anyone to insist on being loyal to, why not the creature just like her? Someone else that the world had left fractured, someone else who had picked up those pieces no matter how they made him bleed, who dared to exist when - time and again - the world had tried to break him, or tell him he was wrong. Like her, he was fury unbound. Rage. Cruelty. Ferocity. Control, even in the heart of chaos - but then, the chaos was typically of his own creation; yet another trait to aspire to. The flash of fangs made sense, the guttural ripsnarl in his throat, the rumble in his chest. It was the way of things. It was honesty. It was savagery at its most exquisite. It made sense. He spoke the same language.

The girl had cost them even that, in her ignorant, prideful insistence on clinging to the Fuckboy she thought she could...what, change? Make worthy of her? Force to grow up? A man at least a decade her senior was not a kit, and shouldn’t need a young woman coming into her own to teach him how to exist, how to function with a degree of maturity and intelligence. And when, at last, he’d rampaged past her walls, torn them down with both ferocity and charm...he’d stuck the knife into the softest part of her, as she’d always known someone would do, if she didn’t maintain those abrasive walls. Even that Dog of hers had done likewise - gotten to the center of the labyrinth, where a modicum of affection still trembled within her...and then he’d done what they’d both always anticipated: he ran.

“Not until you let the village idiot hold you under until you stopped breathing. Not until everyone you held close, few as they were, left you. You cower, terrified of the stark, frigid loneliness of their sudden departure - when you should never have let them in to begin with.”

The Beast furiously brought the girl forth, with this thought in mind - loomed, a beast of shadow and crimson...all eyes and teeth, a thing maddening to witness.

Wild-eyed and half-feral, herself, ‘Jak’ swept her panicked gaze about the bloodied forest clearing, strung as it was with various bits of what were once organs. Kesri, birthed once more into a world rife with cruelty, lifted a tremulous gaze to the Beast that towered in a way it never had prior...but then, it had never been left to feed itself as much as it would have truly liked. At least, not until...not until...

Tall as the towering trees of the Shroud that enveloped them, that nigh-formless creature whose form vaguely resembled that of a jackal...though constantly shifting and reforming, that inky shadow substance that comprised it was incapable of holding a truly static shape for any length of time. The girl bowed her head, tail limp in the moist decay of the forest floor, fur full of clinging needles and leaves - long, slender ears fallen in their entirety; a beaten little beast, herself. The faintest of murmurs accompanied the hang of her head, “I know.” A rasp - she hadn’t used her voice in...a moon? Despite the taste of blood on her tongue, the appendage felt foreign in her mouth; a writhing worm, a maggot in a corpse.

“Did you actually believe in your own lies? Your mask - that of the dragon - you came to feast on your own ego, as those fools filled you up with praise; a false goddess, built on false love, on false hope...set upon a false altar. A mockery of the throne you COULD have.”

It shifted shapes - first, to that of a dragon...which also bore too many eyes. Far...far too many - wings covered in them, all staring, twisted, blinking erratically, before it shrank down to a jackal-headed figure that towered over her. A clawed ‘hand’ extended, the eyes in its palm staring as it coiled those twisted fingers about her throat, to lift her aloft.

“You’re...me, you can’t - ”

“You’ve never been above self-harm. Why start now? You try to emulate me, you speak of the Jackal, but LOOK AT YOU.”

It took her shape, now - though that sucking blackness that devoured the light of the stars filtering through the trees was heavily threaded with sanguine ‘veins’, sanguine eyes. Its mouth full of too many teeth, still, as it berated her...as she tore at herself. The Beast wasn’t wrong - she was pathetic. A wretch, well and truly. What was it Ketsuchi had called her...a wide-eyed kitten? Perhaps she had been. All ego, and no sense, she’d thought she’d known better. And when she’d realized she didn’t, in fact, know any better at all...she’d borne down on her point even harder, for fear of admitting failure.

“The only one among them who ever truly invested in you. That one stung the most, didn’t it? We’ve never begged ANYONE. Not of our own accord, not outside of a role, and yet - how do We rectify this? Forget your runaway Dog. Forget the Fuckboy. As he forgot YOU, when he so desperately sought someone else who would tell him that his insignificance was enough - someone who wouldn’t push him, but accept how WORTHLESS he was - and after we gave him EVERYTHING. After he lied, and told us he liked how we pushed him to excel, and be better. You mourn what was never true...so pursue what was: the Wolf.”

The thing’s fury - her fury! Her indignation, rage, and pain! - was choking the life out of her, ripping her own aether right from her, as it had done to the once-living bodies strewn about the glade in which her own life now trickled away.

“I don’t...know how! I was just...a project. Besides, I don’t...deserve...”

“You don’t know how?! NO one knows how to begin, little robin. No more excuses. Make a choice, for fucking once. Own your mistakes...and don’t make them again.”

The use of that ‘nickname’ - that, that saw the Beast begin to shrink, as inky tendrils swam up the little woman’s body, in turn “I...I have been. Maybe...maybe I still am. A jackal pup, a little bird beating her wings. But I...cannot be my own...enemy. No more. No more hiding. I will hurt, but I will...be me. Us. You, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known. The only one who will ever love me, never leave me...me.”

When she fell to the gore-soaked forest floor, gasping for breath, the little calico shook with...power. It had fed incessantly, nigh-constantly, as she’d licked her wounds - the Beast had terrorized the Shroud, an unknown horror in the trees...stealing the unsuspecting from their homes, snatching any fools brave enough to venture into the forest’s belly. But Jak was tired of hiding. Tired of crying over spilled milk. Tired, she was so fucking tired - and angry. Furious, at the wounds her supposedly loyal hounds had left her with. She was unstable, still, sure; the Beast would re-claim control, in time, and it would remain a struggle for the foreseeable future - but Jak excelled at survival. She would not let the ignorance of men put her fire out. She would not waste away in the depths of her own mind, to become nothing but a mindless creature.

She would rebuild her walls - and fortify them, this time. Paint them in the blood of those who even thought of seeing what lay at the heart of J’kesri - put their heads on spikes, and show them just what happened when you cared for a beast.

No more naivete. No more living among the sheep - no more pretending, as they did. The Fuckboy had thought it weak, to set aside one’s emotions, but he was more the fool for indulging his, wasn’t he? They made a good weapon - a good tool - and nothing more.

#tw:gore #tw: blood #volatile emotions #depression #anger #betrayal #pain #fear of moving forward #loss #coping with loss #stop hitting yourself #[Becoming]#[The Jackal and the Wolf]#[Brimstone and Blood]

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glitchinthesystemspiderbyte · 6 years

Text

[36] Glitch in the System - Start to Finish

Some additional followup to Venganza.

Recovery happens.

Recovery was something of an uphill battle for Widowmaker — a Sisyphean task at best, equally irritating, boring, and detrimental to years of diligently honed physical ability.

Though otherwise regarded as exemplary with regard to following orders, the assassin approached her recuperation with uncharacteristic impatience and quiet disregard of Moira’s stern but simple directives. The geneticist’s orders were by no means complex or burdensome; far from either, she simply instructed Widowmaker to allow herself ample downtime between their now-daily physical therapy sessions.

“A precaution, if you will,” Moira explained, draping her lab coat over one primly-crooked forearm. “The reduction of unnecessary stress will only expedite your convalescence. ”

Rationally, Widowmaker knew the doctor’s statement was true; still, their one- to two-hour sessions felt painfully insufficient of so much inactivity, no matter how challenging they proved.

At first, the sniper managed a handful of early morning runs, bookended by the brief, two- to three- hour interlude tucked surreptitiously into Moira’s otherwise sleepless schedule. Hidden among the smallest hours of the day, Widowmaker ran circuits around the garden perimeter, avoiding not only the doctor’s suspicion, but that of the rest of Talon’s elite. Though she reliably completed her first few laps with no issue, the assassin was often forced to cut those nigh-sacred excursions short, then end them entirely. Try as she might to secure it, her right arm - still confined to a sling - seemed incapable of tolerating the combination of areal cold and even the barest minimum of movement as she ran. Despite her best attempts at concealing the resulting discomfort, her inability to perform even basic therapeutic exercises the following day made Moira palpably suspicious.

“You’re sure you haven’t done anything to bother it?” she asked coolly as she completed the adjustments on her patient’s brace. “Anything?”

“Of course not,” Widowmaker lied, holding the doctor’s unwavering gaze.

Moira merely stared at her a long moment, offering Widowmaker a narrow-eyed glare that told the sniper with little ambiguity she knew she was lying.

“You will need to be more careful, then,” she replied, straightening. “Even small, simple movements can upset distressed ligaments. Do be gentle.”

As the geneticist waved her out of her office, Widowmaker felt less like she dodged a bullet and more like it had been intentionally, strangely misfired.

Foregoing the calisthenics, she attempted the familiar, practiced motions of barre within the safety of her bedroom. It was hardly a workout, but it was something. In that, too, she met resistance from her own body as broken ribs and the unyielding knot of damaged muscle along the line of her stomach refused more than a half-hour’s exertion. Even yoga - which she hated, regardless - proved untenable.

Every meter along her road to recovery felt like an endless trek across the landscape of her own personal hell. When part of her worked for more than an hour, she was lucky - and that was rarely the case. More often than not, what limited functionality Widowmaker could seize upon often left some other part of her screaming, a traitorous screech that prevented the establishment of any plan or regimen to which she could adhere. All there was were scattered insufficiencies, pain, and compounding agitation.

That, and her daily meetings with Moira, punctuated by her recurrent admonitions against anything strenuous.

“I don’t like her, either, but she knows what she’s doing,” Sombra murmured late one evening, face tucked against the sniper’s thigh as she curled, mink-like, about the other woman fuming at the edge of the bed.

“It is not enough,” Widowmaker said flatly, slipping long fingers through her hair to prod delicately at the tender trail of stitches along the right side of her skull.

“Spider,” the hacker chided, headbutting the other woman’s leg. “She could have you running marathons and it wouldn’t be enough for you.”

Widowmaker only huffed her resignation - a wordless acknowledgement of the truth.

“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you ask her to do more?” Sombra asked.

“No one asks Moira to do anything.”

With a heavy sigh, Widowmaker stood and moved across her room, pulling drawn curtains aside to reveal the dark of the winter’s night beyond, its otherwise impenetrable shadows illuminated by a mix of lamplight and its refraction off gentle, persistent snowfall. Somewhere between each individual flake, she saw that same restlessness staring back at her.

“Walk with me?” she asked, peering over her shoulder.

Sombra lifted her drowsy gaze to meet the sniper’s, blinking away the looming threat of sleep. “Right now? In the snow?”

“You can wear my coat.”

A slow smile crept across the hacker’s lips. “Such a lady.”

Once her starting volley of protestations against the cold subsided, Sombra allowed Widowmaker to guide her arm in arm through the garden, now a composite of snow-white geometry reaching toward the sky. Clearing its borders, they meandered aimlessly about the edge of the estate, then to its gates and beyond. There, a stretch of road yawned before the expansive Talon outpost, almost entirely devoid of signs of life save for the evenly-spaced streetlamps lighting the way toward Venice proper. As they followed that linear path, Sombra glanced up to her colleague, one eyebrow quirked in an expression of pointed curiosity.

“So.”

“So?” Widowmaker parroted, briefly meeting her eye.

“Moira.”

With a dismissive grunt, the sniper retrained her gaze - still somehow so bright even amid the darkness - on some nonexistent point ahead of them, buried amid the city lights. “What about her?”

“She’s something.”

“That is a word for her, yes,” Widowmaker replied. “I assume you have done your requisite digging.”

Sombra grinned. “You know me so well.”

Widowmaker did not return the gesture. “Then you understand why she is given so wide a berth.”

Shrugging her indifference, the hacker released her partner’s arm, shoving faintly shaking hands into the pockets of her borrowed coat. “I guess?”

“You guess?” the sniper asked, suddenly sharp. Sombra was, if nothing else, remarkably perceptive; that she could regard Moira with such a staggering lack of concern - especially knowing as much as the other woman likely did - was startling.

Confused, Sombra stopped mid-step and turned to face the assassin. “She’s a genius, sure. But, come on, araña - any of you could take her. Hell, I could shut her down with a wave of my hand.”

Widowmaker stared at Sombra a long moment, expression unreadable but for the faint purse of her lips indicating she was at all engaged in their discussion, weighing her response. From an objective standpoint, she could almost see how one might consider Moira relatively innocuous: monumentally smart, yes; dangerously cunning, sure. Her dedication to progress at any expense was known the world over, equally revered and reviled. On paper, these traits could, she supposed, seem harmless on a broader scale. But Moira - real, flesh and blood Moira - was more than just smart; she was ruthlessly innovatory. Through that ingenuousness, she channeled that singular quality into a unique strength - one that anyone less privy to her experiments would, Widowmaker realized, likely fail to see.

With a leveling breath, she stepped closer to Sombra, lowering her voice instinctively despite their being otherwise alone.

“Moira does not need muscle or superior firepower to be a threat,” she explained. “She made Gabriel what he is, and played a significant role in my reprogramming. That is smart. Now, extrapolate: she decides whether Gabriel remains as is, or whether his condition is amplified more cancerously than it already is. She is the arbiter of his health, just as much as she is the proprietor of my autonomy. She decides whether I retain any ounce of humanity, or whether I am just another machine in Talon’s employ. That is strength.”

Sombra balked at the explanation given her, brows knit in accompaniment of the frown creasing her face. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“You would not have cause to do so,” Widowmaker replied. “You lack the lived experience beneath her thumb we possess. I suspect those whose lives you change might view you in quite the same way.”

“Hey, now,” Sombra interjected, pointing an accusatory finger even as her frown evanesced into a fey smile. “You comparing me to Doctor Human Rights Violation? That hurts, araña.”

This time, Widowmaker did return the smile, albeit it much smaller as it replaced the concern from moments ago. Sombra’s deflection made it clear she understood her point - a disarming tactic the sniper appreciated for its efficacy in pulling her from the edge of detachment. “Yes. The two of you have so much in common. Very tall—,”

“—spider—,”

“—and brilliant, and eminently capable.”

“Better.”

Offering the hacker her arm again, Widowmaker turned on her heel and started back toward the mansion, now a looming shadow. “Thank you,” she offered at last.”

“For?” Sombra asked, tilting her head.

“Walking with me. It is difficult, all this waiting.”

“Clearly.”

Widowmaker gave the other woman the slightest shove, tightening her grip so as to not throw the hacker off balance. “I am not good at being patient with myself. I never have been.”

Sombra walked silently beside her, the world around them peacefully quiet but for the crunch of snow beneath their shoes. “You gotta’ be careful about that,” she said at last.

“Oh?”

Pulling the sniper closer, Sombra curled her fingers into the sleeve of Widowmaker’s sweater. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to hurt yourself more. Then this whole thing starts all over again.”

Widowmaker chewed on her words, myriad replies tumbling through her mind. At the core of the matter, she knew Sombra was right. Injuries, improperly nursed, only begat more injuries as barely-healed ligaments and bone gave way under even regular duress. She’d seen it in ballet as much as she had in the field: dancers with broken ankles rising en pointe only to fall; soldiers, their wounds still fresh, charging headlong into a fight despite their inability to support basic combat armor or even their own weight. It never ended well, and she knew it.

Still, that intemperate loathing for too much relaxation and rest persisted; in that persistence, Widowmaker considered her having never expressed it to Sombra. “I am afraid I will complete my recovery only to find myself incapable of doing my job,” she admitted.

“Makes sense,” Sombra nodded. “And you’re gonna’ need some work to get back on track. But you’ve got two pretty big advantages on your side from what I can see.”

“Go on.”

“One: you were literally reprogrammed to be good at the things you’re good at. Sure, you need to keep up with it, but they basically made you an expert.”

Widowmaker blanched.

“Two - and this one’s more important, so stop making that face: you’re you. You care about being the best, so I don’t think anyone doubts you’ll make sure you end up back on top.”

With the most imperceptible of smiles, the sniper released Sombra’s arm to take her hand instead, shoving both back inside her coat pocket. “You are very kind, cherie.”

“Just stating the truth. Now, do me a favor.”

“Hm?”

“Please take it easy so we can get that woman out of here.”

*Read from the beginning or check out our intro post! All stories tagged under #glitchfic. Table of contents located here.

#spiderbyte #sombramaker #widowsombra #sombra x widowmaker #widowmaker x sombra #sombra #widowmaker #olivia colomar #amélie lacroix #amelie lacroix #moira o'deorain #overwatch #overwatch fanfic #overwatch fandom #overwatch fic #glitch in the system #glitchfic

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