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capricornus-rex · 3 years

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A Shadow of What You Used to Be (12)

Chapter 12: Fitting Into The Mould | Cal Kestis x Irele Skywalker

Requested by Anon

Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.

Tags: Fem! OC, Irele Skywalker, Force-sensitive! OC, Anakin’s Younger Sister, Skywalker! OC, Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, Long-lost Sibling

A/N: I am so sorry for the delays. A lot of things have taken toll of me. One of which is learning that one of my coworkers is positive with COVID and I just happen to be one of the few people he was with the day before he stopped going to work. So I am required to go into home quarantine, only went out once to do my testing but I haven’t gotten my results yet in the past 5 days which made me extra anxious, and my time out of work will not be paid even though it’s considered “Official Business” as per my company’s COVID policy. But so far, I’ve been fine, which is good. Then my PS4 is on the brink of death just when I started playing Ghost of Tsushima for the first time, but most of the people in my forums say it just needs a deep clean but I’m too scared to take it apart because I’ve never done that. I didn’t want to write while my head’s muddled with these thoughts, but only now did the anxiety subside. I hope you guys understand. I figured the story’s quality will go bad while I have such thoughts and feelings.

Requesting to be tagged: @heavenly1927

Also in AO3

Chapters: Prelude – 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 | Previous: Part 11 | Next: Part 13 | Masterlist

13 of ?

Irele had a kinder three weeks in Anathema than her first week in the Fortress.

As soon as her first day started, she’s required to march her way to the training dojo—to which she got lost in finding, no thanks to the crew working in this metal maze. She’s already feeling her breakfast burning in her stomach after jogging to the dojo, after so many failed attempts and subtle peeking over doors that are ajar, and saved herself from a first-day scolding at the expense of a slight stomach cramp.

Smoke plumed and framed along the walls, colored in blood-orange as the hydraulics and power coolants flowed and hissed underneath the grated floor. At the center of the room, a lone trooper—clad in the same, onyx black armor like the previous ones she saw—stood, with a weapon at the ready; his visage standing in the heart of the dojo gave off an intimidating air around him, as if untouchable, invincible.

Unwelcoming and strict, the instructor obviously to spend every minute wisely.

“Grab a weapon.”

Irele had noticed a rack at the far end of the room; picking up his mood from the moment she saw him, she briskly walked to the weapons rack, troubled herself for a minute on what to use, took a gulp and a breath before snatching the javelin.

She kept her eyes on her faceless teacher while she walked towards him, but her hands searched for the activation switch. The weapon crackled to life, purple lightning glowed Irele’s fair, small face, and she gazed at the cracks of light dancing at the end of the lance.

“Now…” the trooper poised himself in a defensive stance, after showing off a spin with his twin batons. “We begin.”

Irele is no brawler. The only time she ever fought someone or something was a Massiff that had been loosed by its Tusken Raider owner, probably sent out to find and hunt down prey—and that was two years ago, she had shuffled her way out of that situation with a scraped forearm.

Of course, her attacks are flimsy and somewhat limp-looking to the instructor—who had been training a lifetime for combat. The trooper would retaliate with a heavier strike, tenfold from Irele’s power, and would reset his stance for another attack; whereas Irele would still be finding her footing after she’d been staggered.

“This is pathetic!” barked the trooper, relaxing his posture and twirls the left baton. “Put some back into it!”

The poor girl cannot talk back, no matter how much she wanted to. For every time she was staggered or pushed back, she could only coerce herself to poise into a somewhat satisfactory attack stance and get another shot—only to be denied.

This entire session felt like hours on end. Irele could barely notice any progress in herself, except the frustration, disappointment, and boredom all mixing together within the trooper as this day goes on. Whenever he was not satisfied, he would berate the girl—to which he thought would negatively motivate her to attack him more strongly.

Meanwhile, in the confinements of his chamber, Darth Vader watches over Irele’s performance virtually and in real-time. Hidden cameras were all over the dojo, and every feed was relayed to the Vader in his chamber. Screens panned across the half of the circular shell, he could see Irele versus the trooper exchange blows, although he kept his eyes on the girl—his young ward.

He could have sworn he feels something in her. At this time, Irele was beginning to grow exhausted and eager to finish this—she just doesn’t know how to.

“Come on, little girl, put some back into it!” her instructor growled. “I could’ve done better things than this today!”

Thinking that he can just get this over with by defeating her in the spar, call it a day, and pick up where they’ve left off tomorrow—he charges at the girl who was still gaining her bearings after feeling the weight of the exhaustion get the best of her. At this time, Vader’s eyes remained on the girl, and secretly, he hoped something would come up.

Blinded by his lax arrogance, the trooper rushed towards Irele and raised his arms—both batons at the ready—and sprung up from the floor. Just when he thought he had landed a hit on the girl’s ribcage, Irele blocked it with her javelin at the very last minute.

Finally! The satisfaction of receiving the first step to a seemingly successful attack pattern flooded the girl with a newfound vigor. Irele pushed back the trooper while javelin and batons were still in contact with each other; little by little, her footwork was gradually becoming better, not by a lot, but it was preferable than her stumbling stupor a while ago, there was balance and there was pacing. Clearly, her strikes were not as strong as the instructor had hoped, but they were getting somewhere and that’s enough.

“Your strikes still need work!”

“Don’t…! You…! Just…! Ever…! SHUT UP!?”

For every word Irele roared, a strike would follow.

Her attacks were nothing flashy, she was only using what she knows from Tatooine—one of the few fragment of her past life still clinging into her…

And now it’s being weaponized.

Vader shuffled slightly where he sits. The anger in Irele’s voice and words found their way through his thick hide of an armor—albeit virtually—the emotion was wholly familiar to him.

Anger.

Hate.

It’s something he knows well.

Perhaps too well.

He didn’t wait for the training to finish, he’s watched enough he thinks. With the touch of a button, the screens fold back into their metal hatches within the shell of the chamber; another prompted his seat to swivel so he faces the opening. He steps onto a black circular base, a white ring of light hums alive the moment his boot stepped on it and shifted all his weight on it as he positions himself kneeling.

A bust of his master buzzes into life, shrouded in black was a rather pale face, even in the blue rendition of the hologram, one could tell that his color was sickly and white-as-bone.

“Master…” Vader greeted.

The Emperor did not linger into the niceties. He had sensed that Vader was about to give word of his ward’s progress.

“Her training has begun then.”

“Yes, my master.”

“Her anger… she weaponizes them,” observed Palpatine. He slighted his head back. “I can feel it. Truly strong she is with the dark side of the Force.”

“It is a nature that she cannot seem to outgrow.”

“Good,” croaked the Emperor. “The kin of Skywalker will have no trace of virtue but the Sith!”

“And she will be our asset, my lord.”

#cal kestis #cal kestis fic #fem oc #cal kestis x fem oc #cal kestis x fem oc fic #irele skywalker #cal kestis x irele skywalker #cal kestis x irele skywalker fic #force-sensitive! OC #anakin's younger sister #skywalker! oc #darth vader's secret apprentice #long-lost sibling #anon fic #anon request #anon fic request #fic request #anon #for anon

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owillofthewisps · 4 years

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portraits hung in empty halls - part one

notes: fun fact i am about ten times more nervous about writing jaskier than i am about geralt, idk why! also daylights saving time is a farce and a personal attack on me, a humble woman trying to not have a destroyed sleep schedule.

rating: still teen, somehow!

pairing: geralt of rivia/female reader

word count: 3.5k

prologue

there is an odd little portrait tucked away in an alcove. at night, the canvas lies empty. most never notice it.

the Witcher does.

The sun sets, and you rise.

The silk sheet that shrouds you slips to the floor. In the dim glow of the candlelight, it glimmers like snow in the moonlight, the creamy white of it cooled to prismatic ice. You leave it puddled on the stained wood floor. You pad barefoot to the washbasin, adjusting to the lively hum of the inn, to the jolt of noise after so long without. It is never an easy transition.

The cool water trickles down your neck as you splash your face, the droplets rolling over your bare skin like an early spring rain, collecting in the dip of your navel before spilling onward. You turn to the tiny nook that shelves your clothing, your stiff joints moaning as they stretch and pop.

Rose, you think, spotting the verdant sprig of fresh mint placed carefully on the small stool. The bundle you’d pulled a leaf from yesterday had been wilting at the edges, the leaves curling in under themselves, like shy children covering their faces. You’ll have to make her something. Embroider her favorite gown, maybe, weave delicate little morning glories around the bells of her sleeves so they sway with her, as if she’s the dawn wind.

The mint tears under your teeth. It burns cold, searing away the heavy, oily coating that lays rotting on your tongue. You chew slowly, rolling the leaf through your mouth as you unfold your chemise and drape it across the stool.

Unwinding the thin golden chain looped messily around your neck and shoulders takes time. You tease at it, slip your fingers beneath the delicate, tangled thread of it. It is the daintiest tether you have ever seen, a golden, gossamer little thing, a strand of a spider’s web lit by the sun. You dump it onto the thin wood stand the washbin rests on.

Your earrings clink as you set them down next to the chain. It’s a relief to have them off, to let your lobes rest from the sharp pull of their hefty weight.

The homespun wool of your skirts rustles against the floorboards as you dress. You sweep the discarded jewelry into your palm; you dump it onto the silk sheet, watch as the gold sinks into the folds of the fabric.

You leave it all on the floor.

A few travelers tip their heads to you as you sweep down the inn’s halls. You sail past the small alcove that had so entranced Geralt last night, stepping carefully away from the shadowed niche.

Johan is waiting for you at the archway to the tavern. You’ve never thought of him as large, with his wiry frame, thin but strong, like a bowstring pulled tight, but he fills the archway. There’s still a faint hint of rot to him, something acidic tinting his strong, handsome features. You slow your pace, come to a halt before him, just shy of nose to nose, your skirts frothing over his feet like a wave breaking on the sand. The scowl knitting his brow deepens.

“If your intent is anything other than apology, save your breath.”

The flush flares into life. It spills crimson across his skin like wine, spreading wide. “Apologize?” Johan snarls. “When you’re the one who defended that mutant?”

“Did I not just say to save your breath?”

His hand flexes. You watch as his fingers curl into a fist, the knuckles gone bone white, and wait. There’s fear cut sharp into his visage, barely blanketed by the veil of anger on the surface.

“If you’ve nothing to say,” you tell him, “please move.”

That fist of his tightens again, his knuckles a ridge of mountains. The tendons in his jaw cord. “The Witcher cannot stay.”

“He paid his coin, just like the rest.”

Johan’s jaw works. “Stubborn bitch.”

“Careful,” you say, and there is crackling frost in your tone, winter come early. “I won’t tell you to save your breath again.”

He considers you, those green eyes burning incandescent, all sparking St. Elmo’s fire. Johan has often reminded you of a dog with a bone, setting his teeth into the marrow of his irritant and worrying it until he breaks it.

“Move,” you say, pleasantly enough, but with that ice still threaded through your voice. “Malinka’s expecting me.”

Johan lingers in the door frame for a moment more, a shadow of a threat, but he steps aside. You brush by him without a care; if you clip him with an elbow, well, he should have moved further. He’ll just add it to the list of wrongs you’ve done him, you think, and gods know that’s the least of your concerns.

The sounds of the tavern sweep over you. The clank of tankards, that thick hollow thud of wood against wood; the spitting crackle of the fire; chatter punctuated by uproarious laughter, rising to fill the rafters. It is a balm against you. Noise has long been something to steady yourself on.

You scan the room as you enter, and do not glimpse the Witcher’s broad shoulders. Nor do you see a hint of the bard. Your shoulders loosen, the tension melting out of them like winter yielding to spring. Malinka is behind the bar, her ebony curls flowing like a wild river to her shoulders, gleaming in the candlelight. She presses a quick kiss to your cheek as you join her. Worried, you think. She is not alone in that.

“Ale!” Wren calls from the end of the bar.

“Coin!” you retort, sashaying over to him and leaning against the pitted wood counter. You pull a tankard from nearby, wincing as you flex your stiff fingers. They always take the longest to grow limber once more.

“Fair enough,” he laughs.

“Truly, Wren,” Annika says as she slides past with a tray of empty tankards. “Your mother would faint to hear your lack of manners. Tell me, how do the village girls stand your voice?”

“Yes, Wren, you’re lucky you’re charming when your mouth is closed,” you add.

“Beautiful and cruel, the both of you!”

You reach across the bar and pat his cheek. “Just a little,” you say with a laugh.

Annika snorts, passing you a tray. You nestle it into the crook of your hip and get to work.

The tavern only grows more lively, the gleam of light spilling from the doors cracking the darkness outside open. You whirl about, dipping around tipsy patrons, carrying plates of food high to drop them at tables.

It’s one of the busier nights, considering tomorrow is traditionally a day of rest, and you revel in the tumult, in the show of overflowing life. It keeps you light on your feet, moving until there’s sweat gleaming at the hollow of your throat. You dodge Elias’s hands with a laugh as you make your way back to the bar.

“So,” Annika says. “A Witcher, then?” Her slim hands move like water, smooth and flowing, pouring tankard after tankard between slicing off fat hunks of brown bread, still wisping steam even in the heated air of the tavern.

You sigh and duck beneath the bar to pull a few sausages from the small larder. “Yes,” you say. “Don’t you start.”

“There’s little for me to say.”

“And yet you so often say things anyway.”

She laughs. “True,” she says. “I’ve no quarrel with the Witcher, so long as he keeps his sword sheathed."

If Rose were here, that would not leave untouched - ‘which one,’ she’d say, her grin impish, her voice dropping into something sultry - but she is not, and you think you should try to keep thoughts like that from your head. At least until Geralt is gone, when there’s no danger to considering the thickness of his thighs and the knife of his golden gaze.

“I doubt he’s the one you should worry about,” you say, thinking of the way many men’s eyes had followed Geralt last night, malicious and hungry.

“Probably not.”

Someone calls to Annika from down the bar; she shoves the knife into your hand and gestures towards a loaf. You drop the sausages onto a nearby plate and start to slice the bread.

“I looked for you earlier. I didn’t think it would be so hard to locate such a pretty woman in the crowd.”

You glance up. The bard is smiling at you, his blue, blue eyes catching the light. You cast your gaze to the side, but Geralt is nowhere to be seen. Your grip on the knife’s handle loosens.

“I work nights,” you tell him, and if your smile is a little brittle, he doesn’t seem to notice. “Makes it hard to find me early. What can I get you?”

“Your name?”

“It’s a bit out of your price range, I think.”

He gasps, one hand flying to his chest. “Will you not take pity on a poor bard? How am I meant to write a song praising this inn and its lovely innkeeper?”

You arch a brow. “Why would you need my name for that, bard?”

He blinks. “Jaskier,” he tells you, and it takes you a moment to realize that he’s given you his name. “And because you are the innkeeper?”

“I’m not.”

“Are you certain?”

You stifle a laugh. “Quite,” you say, but then you take pity on him and give him your name. “Why did you think I was the innkeeper?”

“Ah,” Jaskier says. “You were...forceful, last night, not that Geralt was particularly forthcoming about it. Also the serving girl said you were.”

Betony, you think, following Jaskier’s long, nimble fingers as he gestures towards the far side of the tavern. Betony glances up just then, and from the cheeky grin she flashes, she’s unrepentant. It’s harmless enough, nothing worth even getting irritated over, so you blow her a kiss.

“I’m not,” you repeat. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m not sure you could disappoint, love,” Jaskier says.

You fumble with your knife, the tip of it sinking into the wooden board beneath the sausage with a hollow thunk.

My love, Dymitr murmurs, his lips brushing against the curving shell of your ear.

“Isn’t that what you called me this morning?” Rose chirps. She swings over the bar in a flurry of crimson skirts and wraps an arm around your waist. She still carries the chill of the night air on her skin. She presses herself against you, lets you use her as an anchor against the wave pulling you under. “Aren’t bards meant to be inventive?”

Jaskier gapes.

“Be nice, Rose,” you say.

“Rose?” Jaskier says, “Funny, I took her for a bramble.”

Rose snorts. “Be careful not to be caught on thorns, bard,” she says. She tugs at her shawl, lets it flow from her shoulders to the crook of her elbows like a waterfall. It catches against you. “You were looking for the innkeeper? What is it you want from me?”

You sink your elbow into her side. Her curse is blistering; down the counter, Wren cackles at her creativity.

“She’s not the innkeeper,” you tell Jaskier, who is looking somewhere between distraught and combative. “Rose, will you please get more bread?”

She laughs, the sound like woodfire smoke, billowing out in slow, low tones. “I suppose,” she says. Rose dips away from you, giving your waist one last squeeze, and heads towards Wren.

“Gods, do all women here worship a trickster god?” Jaskier asks. “If not, you should consider it. I imagine most would excel.”

“Probably.”

“Is there a test I have to pass to get the innkeeper’s name? If it’s a physical one, can I have a champion? Geralt would do nicely at that.”

You pull the knife free of the board and set it to the side. Someone calls for ale; you sigh and pour a tankard of it. “You can play,” you tell Jaskier. “We’ll give you coin at the end of the night in addition to any earnings you may get from the crowd. That’s why you were looking for the innkeeper, yes?”

Jaskier sets his hands on his hips, his long fingers drumming against the fine material of his clothes. “Do you just use some title other than innkeeper to confuse people?”

“Malinka’s the innkeeper,” you say, nodding towards her. She’s laughing at a nearby table, men drawn in a knot around her, an unknowing queen speaking to her court.

“Right,” Jaskier says. “You just make all the decisions.”

“She listens to me, yes, when she chooses to do so,” you tell him. I raised her, taught her as much as I could as best I could, and she tends to honor that, you don’t say, trapping the words behind the gate of your teeth. It would only bring questions.

He chews at his bottom lip, bites the flesh pinker still.

“You’ll be paid,” you say. “No tricks, not about that. For last night, too.”

You wonder if other inns see the value in Jaskier, not just in his talent, but in his ability to reassure. There’s little doubt in your mind that his music has soothed many a ruffled feather that Geralt’s presence has caused. From the tongue on him, though, you think he’s also caused his fair share of trouble, too.

“You are a treasure despite your company of treacherous women.”

“Go play, bard, before I change my mind.”

Rose reappears as Jaskier heads towards where the fiddlers usually sit, his lute cradled against his stomach. He’s already plucking at it, discordant notes being corralled into something musical, something pretty.

“Do you think they’ll stay long?” you ask.

She lifts a shoulder in a lazily elegant shrug. “Hard to say,” she says. “I’ve had rocks speak to me more than the Witcher did.”

“Rose.”

“I know,” she tells you, cupping your cheek. Her palm is warm and callused against your skin. “It will be fine. No sense in worrying unless it’s needed.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It’s not,” she says sharply, all thorn instead of her usual soft petals. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that I do not have fear.”

Jaskier starts to play. The music blooms to life, unfolds delicate and sweet. It seems an odd choice for the rowdy tavern, but the melody is a haunting one, one that slips beneath your skin and hooks deep.

Rose pats your cheek. “Don’t fret,” she says, an echo of last night. “Go help Betony, she’s such a distracted little thing.”

You snort, but there’s more than a measure of truth to it, so you wipe your hands free of breadcrumbs and pick up a nearby tray. Betony is half on Delythe’s lap. She’s plucking at Delythe’s thick braid, coiling it around her wrist and giggling. For her part, Del seems tolerant, the grin on her lips fondly indulgent.

“Betony,” you say.

“You’re no fun,” she says, but she gets to her feet, tugging on Delythe’s braid and pressing a kiss against her cheek. Her lip paint leaves a mark the color of a bruise, deep plum. The two of you gather empty tankards and plates, stacking them high on the tray. With Jaskier playing, everyone seems to fall into a rhythm. You duck between patrons with delicate precision. Each step is practically a dance, Betony matching you as the two of you dash around.

You can feel the night lengthening, can sense the moon tracing a path across the velvet sky. The moon always seems brighter as winter creeps forward. As if the coming snow reflects the light the moon sheds, makes it a disc of shining ice.

Elias catches you in a dance or two between servings; Wren pulls you along for a quick jig when you duck into the back room for supplies. Malinka sweeps you off your feet as well, laughing as she leads you before she twirls you into Betony’s arms. Jaskier’s music rises and falls, a piper’s call to the crowd’s mood. You let it envelop you.

Geralt appears as it grows late enough to perhaps be called early. Patrons are starting to stagger home, though there are a few gatherings tightly knit around tables, still nursing their tankards. Even with fewer present, there are still murmurs that follow the Witcher, little whispers that haunt his steps like an angry wraith. It makes your chest tighten. How quickly people turn on what they don’t understand. On what they don’t even try to understand.

He seems unbothered by it. You think again of stone, of the jutting mountain peaks, for Geralt’s face could be that of a statue’s. He has the jawline for it. Mostly, though, he has the smoothed expression of a marble bust, one just shy of human, as if the artist couldn’t quite settle on mood, caught between emotion and emptiness. It feels a false face. A shield, a barricade for humanity’s siege against his very presence to break upon.

You should leave, let one of the others serve him. You know that. Betony retired home earlier, but Malinka is just in the store room. Rose is not far, either. You should call for them. You know that. But Geralt finds you behind the bar, his amber eyes like firelight, and you stay.

The tankard clanks against the wood as you set it down in front of him. “Would you like something to eat?”

“If there’s something available.”

“I wouldn’t offer something I am unable to give.”

He pauses, the tankard halfway to his mouth, and you cannot look away from his parted lips. Your hands twist in the wool of your skirts, draw the fabric tight against your fingers. “Yes, then,” he says. His eyes flicker, and you think that is not what he wanted to say, that he has swallowed something down.

The plate is a simple one. Geralt seems a man who consumes only to continue, who does not yearn for flavor on his tongue. You keep it to a thick slice of brown bread and some salted meat. You wipe down some tankards as he eats, caught between the compulsion to stay and the whispering nerves that beg you to flee.

“What brings you here?”

Geralt pauses again, those golden eyes lifting to you. You feel heat rise in your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you say. “It’s habit to chat with patrons.”

He grunts.

You bite at your lip and scrub harder at the tankard, twisting the old cleaning cloth around your fingers until it is cutting into your flesh, until it almost hurts.

“There’s a village to the north,” Geralt says. “It has rumors of a beast, and they have coin. This inn is the closest. The village is small.”

“And by that,” Jaskier says, sliding onto the stool next to his friend and gesturing wildly, “he means it is a hovel of a town, more a collection of houses than a village.”

“I see.”

“Luckily,” Jaskier says, leaning forward until you think he will overbalance, “that means we have found ourselves here. It is a charming inn, innkeeper-who-is-not.”

“It’s just an inn.”

“An inn with good ale and food, and most importantly, appreciative crowds.”

“It’s just an inn,” you repeat, but from the way Jaskier’s smile lights up, he can hear the laughter hiding just beneath your tongue.

Jaskier starts weaving a tale for you, his hands fluttering about as he speaks, his voice falling into a cantering cadence that lulls you into the story. Geralt eats in silence, grunting here and there as Jaskier tries to reel him into the story. The bard elbows him once, lightly, and the withering look Geralt gives him could rust a sword.

It is not long after Geralt finishes eating that the two men rise. It is truly late now, the time when nocturnal creatures begin to slink back to their burrows, the time when the starlight goes cold and strange.

“Good night,” you tell them.

Jaskier chirps something back to you, but his words are washed away by the weight of Geralt’s gaze on you. It peels at the layers of you, cuts through to the bone, until all of you is laid bare before him. Your fingers tremble.

They tremble still when you trace their path to the hallway, pulled after them like a pebble caught spinning in the tide. You catch yourself before you follow them further. From your place just beyond the door, you hear Jaskier heave a sigh.

“Geralt,” the bard says, and you’ve never heard a tone that sounds like someone putting their hands on their hips in reprimand before, “will you hurry up? The painting will be there when it’s not a time when even the gods are asleep.”

The bite of your fingernails startles you. They cut into your flesh, tiny sickle moons against the map of your palm, constellations amid the lined sky of your hand. There are footsteps, then, receding down the hall. They ring in your ears long after the men are gone.

Rose finds you sitting near the hearth, your knees tucked up against your chest.

“I’m frightened,” you tell her.

She kneels at your side, a priestess at your altar, her face turned up to you like a flower to the sun.

“I know,” she says.

She waits for sunrise with you, lets you gaze into the fire’s light in silence.

You feel it when daybreak approaches. You close your eyes and surrender to the dark, to the velvet night that lives behind your eyelids. It feels easier like this. Gods, you miss the sun.

The sun rises, and you set.

taglist: @fairytale07 @stretchkingblog97 @nonamejustshame @1950schick @sageandberries-png @peachy-aisha @msgeorgiarae @alwayshave-faith @bumblingandblooming

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher x reader #geralt imagine #the witcher imagine #the witcher fic #story: portraits hung in empty halls

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notapaladin · 3 years

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and thank the lord i don’t have my way (1/3)

HELLO FRIENDS IT IS THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF ME POSTING THE FIRST OBSBLOOD FIC EVER. So you get not one, not two, but three fics today! Blame @arahir

Acatl has let the boundaries stay open for far too long. Tonight, he closes them. Tizoc attempts to object.

Also on AO3.

The Revered Speaker’s chambers are very dark and very cold. Never mind that it’s the rainy season and that the air at sunset was filled with steam rising off the puddles of the day’s deluge; the sun set long ago, and Metztli the moon illuminates nothing away from the path of the windows. The walls are splashed with murals of war and conquest that must surely be blood-bright in the light of day; they are muted and faded now, shadows on shadows.

They aren’t as faded as the man on the Revered Speaker’s sleeping mats. True, Tizoc-tzin, emperor of Tenochtitlan, is approaching his middle age, but his hair is still black and his limbs are still straight. When he smiles—cold and cruel as that smile is—he has all his teeth. He dresses in the finest quetzal feathers, turquoise, jade; even here, alone on his mat covered with jaguar skins, his loincloth is finely embroidered cotton. An emerald rod pierces his nasal septum. He is covered in the riches of his Empire. He should be magnificent, a true symbol of the power of the Mexica.

He should have died six years ago.

Acatl knows this. His bare feet are silent on the tiled stone floor, and his god is silent in his head. Mictlantecuhtli evidently has not deigned to share whatever opinion He has on this with His most faithful servant. Good. Acatl’s long since made up his mind regardless.

Tearing open the boundaries had taken all three High Priests. Closing them, but leaving them that tiny bit ajar, had taken two High Priests, the Guardian of the Duality, and the Revered Speaker of Texcoco. But to slam them shut...well. Acatl is High Priest for the Dead, High Priest of the Lord of the Place of Death, and he can do that with his bare hands.

He stops at the foot of the dais upon which Tizoc’s mat rests. For a long moment, he simply looks at the snoring, twitching man currently rumpling the blankets. He inhales. He holds for a count of three.

He could do it with his bare hands. It would be easy. He’s no trained warrior but he’s strong enough for this, strong enough to put his hands around Tizoc’s neck and squeeze until he turns purple, until his eyes bulge, until he rolls back limp. It’s what Tizoc would have done to him. (What he would have done, and what he probably—gods, he probably would have made Teomitl watch.) Or there’s his knives, lethally sharp, whose wounds always fester and never heal. It would take only the smallest scratch to have Tizoc rotting from his blackened heart outwards, to have him die slow and incoherent as pus oozes forth from every pore, whimpering like an animal, like the clergy of Tlaloc in their pens—

He exhales.

No. He will do this properly. At least this, too, is easy; he dares not chant out loud, but his lips move in the words of a prayer as his magic builds low in his gut. It won’t take much. Tizoc’s life hangs by a thread as it is, and he holds it tightly in his hand.

Tizoc stirs. Snorts. Rolls over.

He nicks his forearm, dabbing a single fingerprint of blood on the dais. And he keeps praying. The edges of the boundaries yawn wide as a mouth, ready to swallow Tizoc whole. The completion of this slow weaving will close them. My Lord, he thinks, I deliver this soul unto Your keeping.

Tizoc wakes, sees him—and screams.

Acatl smiles. He knows what Tizoc must be seeing. A man-shaped figure, his eyes voids, his bones shining like moonlight through the black glass of his skin. It’s a terrifying visage; even Teomitl, who is used to it (Teomitl, who is in awe of it, and that still knocks him flat when he thinks about it too long) flinches when he spots it out of the corner of his eye. Tizoc has always been craven, and now he looks so horrified that for a moment Acatl thinks he might not even get to finish the spell.

As the magic begins to pool together—a feeling like muscles tensing to spring, a beast of shadows preparing to leap—Tizoc finds the breath to yell, “Guards! Guards!”

He takes a breath and lets it out. His skin is an ordinary brown again, bones no longer visible through shadowed muscles, but Mictlan still leaves him feeling like a hollow shell. His voice is the voice of a corpse. “They won’t come.”

Now he supposes he has to give Tizoc credit, because the man tries to lunge for his eyes. Tries and predictably fails; already the spell Acatl’s cast is leaching through his veins, and his limbs will not obey him. Sadly, the same can’t be said for his shrill voice. “What have you done to them?! Traitor!”

He remembers sunlight on the water, and a smile that was even brighter than that. Remembers a murmur of, “Thank you, Acatl.” He lifts his chin, letting pride leak into his voice. “They are following orders tonight.”

Tizoc’s eyes move like rats in a trap, but he’s not a complete idiot. There’s only one man the army would fall into line behind so easily. When he speaks next, he sounds almost resigned. “...My brother,” he spits. “So you have corrupted him.”

Acatl grits his teeth, but there’s no need for him to lose his temper here. “Teomitl is a far better man than you could ever dream of being. You ought to thank me for your years of life; he would have put you down like the dog you are ages ago.” And I should have let him.

“I will have you flayed. I will loop the flower garland around your neck myself, I’ll make those traitorous siblings of yours watch, and then I’ll put them to the sword—”

There’s more, but Acatl isn’t paying attention. He’d once thought that no mortal justice could compete with the need to keep the Fifth World intact; he still thinks that, but by now he’s learned that sometimes pursuing justice and doing his duty are one and the same. It’s taken him long enough. Oh, he’d wavered at first—that first time Teomitl had shared his plans for the future, not even him following it up with a declaration that he was going to wait was enough to stop his heart from sinking. But then Tizoc had come back—no, had slunk back into the city, like a coyote with its ears flat and its belly pressed to the ground—and he’d been nearly stunned with the wrongness of it. That Tizoc could lead an army to its death and then let an entire priesthood to be slaughtered like beasts—it’s not an affront that can be borne. His incompetence will tear the Empire apart if the Tlaxcallans and Tarascans don’t get to them first; each campaign leaves Teomitl a little more tired, a little more snappish and run-down. Soon he won’t be able to carry the army on his back anymore.

The man he loves has new scars. He blames Tizoc for that, but first and worse he blames himself. It was his hand that put Tizoc on the throne, and it will be his hand that removes him from it. There’s only as much justice as he can make, after all.

Mictlan gnaws at his guts again, and he lets it scour him clean. In and out and in again, he breathes. The spell pulses like a living heart. Tizoc must feel it, because he bleats, “What do you think you’re doing?!”

He whispers the rest of his prayer, ignoring Tizoc for the moment. This spell is rarely used, not because of the cost—a few paltry drops of blood—but because of its very specific conditions. It only works on dead souls, not dead bodies, avoiding the attention of the Wind of Knives. It would not do to cheat a comrade of His captive. Rare is the soul that can die without harming the body; how helpful it is, then, that Quenami crafted Tizoc a new one. He must remember to thank him. “Sending your soul to Mictlan where it belongs. None will see any hand in your death but the gods’ wills.”

Tizoc’s breath rattles in his lungs. “Blasphemy. I can’t imagine your precious sister—”

“My sister? The Guardian of the Duality? That sister?” Acatl feels himself smiling. “I am restoring the order of the world. She would hold my cloak for me.” After all, she hates Tizoc too. Not as much as he does—she’s a good woman, she doesn’t nurture her grudges the way her menfolk do—but quite enough to look the other way should his soul be severed from his body by what looks to all the world like a common attack of the heart. Such a tragedy, she’ll say, and meet his eyes, and smile. He kneels to wipe away his bloody fingerprint, the only sign of his presence here tonight.

Tizoc is still trying to defend himself. The fool. “You—you can’t,” he splutters. “What about...” Eyes roll wildly as he casts about for an excuse, and finally alights on one he thinks must work. “Your patron! Surely, surely Lord Death can’t approve—”

“My lord,” Acatl says, with a gentleness he doesn’t feel. “I brought you back into this world after your death, breaking all natural laws in the vain hopes that you could do the one single task you were crowned to do. Lord Death will rejoice that I have now taken you out of it.”

“You’ll never get away with this!” he snaps. “Quenami...Quenami will...”

Ah, yes. Quenami. Acatl snorts. “You imagine he will still be alive to avenge you?”

Tizoc goes, if possible, paler. “You wouldn’t.”

He remembers, with a slow uncoiling of rage, the blade at his throat. The way Quenami had smiled. He’d wanted to carve it off his face. “I might,” he growls, but even as he says it he knows he’ll be lucky if Teomitl doesn’t get there first. “You should be happy. You’ll have company on your journey.”

He’s breathing harder now. Hyperventilating. It’s panic, not magic; he can’t even face death like a warrior. “No—no, you can’t—”

Acatl’s spine stiffens. “Only the gods and Teomitl tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“...Heh,” Tizoc spits. “Is he fucking you?”

He considers this. They’ve been discreet—possibly not discreet enough if Tizoc is asking that question, but then the man has always been paranoid of any influence on his brother, even before he was his Master of the House of Darts. He can certainly imagine Tizoc suspicious of what else Teomitl might have been learning from him, and if he’d only known then what he knew now...well. He is a man, and not a statue. Tizoc might have been right about something for once. But he isn’t, and for a moment Acatl weighs whether he deserves the truth. It’s not something he’s ever had to say out loud; Mihmatini is the only one who knows, and she doesn’t want to hear details. Finally, a bit of uncommon smugness curls his lip. “Actually,” he says coolly, “most of the time I’m fucking him.”

Disappointingly, this does not cause Tizoc to expire immediately. Teomitl will be quite displeased to have lost that bet. “You—you vile—you foul—”

Then he starts coughing, wet and disgusting, and blood gathers at his lips. Acatl lets Mictlan’s power fall away from him like an old cloak. “Rant all you like, my lord. Your time is ending. Teomitl will erase all you’ve done as though it’s never been, and the foundations of our Empire—of our world—will grow stronger for your absence.”

“I’ll kill you,” Tizoc hisses. “I’ll haunt you from beyond death, like those ghosts you’ve been slaying throughout my reign. You’ll never sleep soundly again.”

Interesting. He hadn’t thought Tizoc had been paying attention. He hums noncommittally, shaking his head. There will be no more such hauntings now that the boundaries are properly closed.

Tizoc is panting harshly now, beyond speech. Good. The guards are still nowhere to be seen, which is a further relief; as loyal as they are to Teomitl, he still doesn’t want to put them in a position to lie about whatever they might see.

Not that there is anything to see. Over the next few hours, Tizoc’s soul will unravel from its moorings so slowly, so carefully, that no magic his fellow High Priests could muster will be able to tell it’s anything other than a natural death. (He knows Acamapichtli won’t even look. He still mourns his clergy, and now they’ve been avenged.)

Acatl turns away. He’s done here. By the time the sun rises, Tizoc will be dead.

He has things to do before then.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #tizoc #teocatl #teomitl #paladin writes stuff

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wicked-game-black-butler · 4 years

Note

300 followers, that's a lot of people who appreciate your work. I definitely want to participate in this event. Hmm. May I request a drabble (or Headcanons, whichever you feel more inspired to do) for a scenario where the reader has a wit of iron and tongue of steel. They are extremely scarcastic, flirtatious, salacious and for whatever reason, seemingly completely immune to Sebas charms. What his reaction would be/exploring the dynamic it poses. I do love myself a game of cat and mouse. 😈

There were only a few choice words Sebastian felt could honestly be used to describe the past week. Grueling, perhaps. Though hellish seemed more fitting. And most certainly vexing.

It had been a week since Lady Amelia Burton had arrived. Sebastian had been apprehensive of the young master’s interest in the baroness, given the earl’s general disdain for any activity which resembled socialization and the fact that they rarely hosted guests who were not given the full service of a proper Phantomhive welcome. When he had pressed the issue with his master, he had simply answered that Lady Amelia was an important stakeholder in the new line of exclusively feminine Funtom products he wanted to develop. And perhaps that would have been enough to assuage the gnawing frustration that his master was not being entirely honest with him, if it had not been for the way the boy’s voice called for him after having dismissed him to prepare his afternoon tea only moments before.

Sebastian had gritted his teeth, swallowing the sharp barb that burnt the end of his tongue. In the half a second it took to repress his ire and turn back toward the young lord, he managed to collect himself, presenting a smooth, unaffected visage.

“Is there something else you require, my lord?” He had asked, as dutiful butlers were wont to do.

“Yes. Prepare one of the spare servant’s rooms as well. Lady Amelia will be accompanied by her lady’s maid.”

The young master paused and there it was--the look that renewed Sebastian’s agitation. His cerulean gaze sparked with mischief, never wavering, as his lips spread with impish glee.

“She isn’t like the other servants. I believe you will find her most refreshing.”

It had only been a week and Sebastian thought he was going to lose his mind.

No exasperation caused by the other household servants nor the petulant treatment from his young master could have steeled him for what the next seven days would bring.

It had begun subtly at first- a comment here, a contradiction there. Nothing that did more than ruffle the butler, but he quickly dismissed it. She didn’t know how things were done here. Perhaps the Burton’s butler was more lenient. Either way, she would learn soon enough.

It wasn’t until she began defying his orders that he began to take notice.

Such as when she had made the baroness tea. It had been a couple hours after Sebastian had sent the servants to attend their daily tasks and he was returning to his office, hoping for a brief reprieve from the chaos the others had managed to stir up, despite the fact it was only mid-morning. That was when he had smelled it, the musky-sweet scent.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, pausing when he opened the door.

“Why, that’s a rather accusatory tone.” she acerbically replied, brow quirking as she glanced up, never ceasing in her preparations of the tea tray. “I thought it rather obvious what I am doing.”

“I believe I asked you to assist Mey-Rin with the fireplaces.”

“You did.”

The spoon clicked against the silver tea strainer and Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Then why are you in my office preparing tea?”

“My lady always takes tea half past ten.” she explained, closing the tin with a hollow click before walking over to the shelf and slipping the container back into its place. “It is my duty to tend to my lady’s wants and needs.”

He narrowed his eyes, staring down his nose at her when she came to stand before him, tray in hand. “While I can appreciate such dedication, isn’t it above your position to ignore the orders of a butler?”

She stepped forward when he did not budge, punctuating her reply, “No.”

At this, Sebastian took a long step to stand directly in front of her, his gloved hands covering her as he pressed, “I am unsure how things are done in your household, but you are under the Phantomhive roof and I am the Phantomhive butler. So long as you are here, you are under my authority.”

“I am afraid you are incorrect, Mr. Michaelis.” she quipped, gaze never breaking from his, “You see, I am Lady Burton’s lady’s maid and, as such, am under her authority alone, no matter whose roof is over my head.”

The only visible sign of his anger was the flaring of his nostrils. His hands clenched hers, careful not to break any bones, no matter how tempting. He wanted to do nothing more than to rip the resolutely defiant look off her face.

With a smooth movement, she slipped from his hold.

“Now, if you would be so kind, I must see to her ladyship.”

His burning gaze bore into her back as she gracefully navigated around him and made her way down the hall and to the servant’s stairs. It appeared he was going to have to be more persuasive if he wanted to depose her resistance. Clearly intimidation wasn’t working.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Then came the incident from a few days prior when he caught her near the linen closet, fresh towels draped over her arm.

“My, what do we have here?” he purred, sauntering toward her.

She huffed, rolling her eyes. “Your continued questioning of the obvious has me wondering whether you are a condescending arse or simply dense.”

A dark chuckle echoed down the hallway, along with the click of his heels against the stone tile floor. His steps- calculated, measured, predatory. Sebastian’s eyes sparked with premature glee when the maid took a step back, her back pressing against the wall as he closed the distance between them.

“My, my. Such language from a lady’s maid.” he toyed, slamming his right hand against the wall beside her head, the mocking grin that teased his lips becoming irrepressible at the skip of her heartbeat. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

His gaze dropped, so he looked at her with an alluring half-lidded stare. To her credit, other than the irregularity of her heart a moment ago, she gave no sign his actions affected her in any way. Not even a blush, which even dusted Bard’s cheeks when Sebastian chose to toy with the cook.

“You could let me take these towels to my lady so I can assist her with bathing before she takes her dinner.” she challenged, making to slip away to the left.

However, Sebastian was faster this time and prevented her escape by slamming his left hand by her head as well. Perfect, she couldn’t worm her way out this time.

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple. You see, I am the only one permitted access to the linen closet. Anyone else who takes from the closet is punished.” he paused, coming to rest his forearms against the wall to bring his face and body within a hair's breadth from hers, “Now, you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

She smiled coyly, her gaze never leaving his as she coquettishly answered, “Only because I’ve not done anything worthy of such punishment.”

She reached into her skirt pocket, Sebastian’s breath hitching when her knuckles brushed against the front seam of his pants, before presenting the retrieved key with a flourish.

“See? I was even on my way to return the key before I went up.”

“Do you really believe such an olive branch will save you?” he purred, his voice dipping an octave lower as he allowed his body to press up against hers. “This week has been littered with punishable offenses. Do you really desire penance?”

He lifted his hand, trailing his gloved fingers down her cheek while he pressed his hips against hers ever-so-slightly, breathing, “To be at my mercy?”

Sebastian couldn’t mask the confusion that wrinkled his brows at the chuckle that answered his double-entendre. Any of the other servants would have been a stammering mess of modest embarrassment and anticipation by this point, but this woman had the nerve to return his efforts with an amused stare and mocking grin.

“I can only assume your words were meant to threaten, if they didn’t ring so hollow.” she teased, her grin spreading to a smirk as she slowly trailed the key down his torso and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

“You see,” she whispered into his ear, an involuntary shiver of anticipation slithering down his spine when her lips brushed against the shell and her hand continued to trail down to where his arousal pressed against his pants, “it would seem you are at my mercy instead.”

His hands clenched while biting back the gasp that sounded in his throat when her hand gave his cock a calculated stroke.

He wasn’t certain when she had slipped from his clutches. Instead, when the realization of her absence hit, he stood, staring at the wall in utter disbelief, slack-jawed, flabbergasted, and uncomfortably aroused. Amusement and fury roiled nauseatingly in his gut. The young master had aptly described her affect as refreshing. These past five days had been a twisted distraction from the lulling tedium of his post, however, he couldn’t be sure if he preferred it. He’d yet to decide which fate he desired for her, killing or fucking.

In the end, he did neither.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Last night had been Sebastian’s breaking point. He had come down sometime between afternoon tea and dinner to find her reading in the servant’s hall. She didn’t look up when he entered and he frowned. Humans always recognized his presence, even when he wasn’t visible. Yet here she sat as if she were the only soul in the room. Which was technically true, though such a reality was merely a matter of semantics.

“For a lady’s maid, you certainly have a lot of free time on your hands.” he jibbed, coming to sit across from her.

Her mouth pressed into a thin line at the unwelcome interruption and carefully marked the book before setting it aside.

“And, for a butler, free time seems a scarcity.” she drawled, mimicking the way his chin rested on his hand, “One would think such a position would afford you some liberties.”

“Unfortunately, my master is not overly fond of liberties.”

A mischievous light flickered in her gaze, her lips twitching with amusement as she leaned forward. “So it would seem. His lordship keeps you on a rather short lead, like an ill-behaved dog.”

Sebastian’s brows creased at the jab, tendrils snapping like a whip and he opened his mouth to fire a returning shot when she cut him short.

“The reason I have more flexibility with my time is because, unlike you, Lady Amelia does not require my constant attention and she trusts me enough to leave me to my own devices, even when it comes to her care. Though I suppose that is a benefit of serving a young lady rather than a tyrannical child.”

“I do not know how things are done at the Burton household,” Sebastian leered, “but here such an open expression of opinions other than those of the young master are forbidden. So it would do well if you hold your tongue in the future, or-...”

“Or what?” she cut him off in challenge, “You’ll punish me by beating me with your sausage?”

Her chair grated across the stone tile as she stood. “I do not know how servants typically react to such correction, but I can assure you, Mr. Michaelis, I am not interested.”

With that, she made to leave, though she paused when the ringing of a house bell echoed in the tensely silent room. Under the table, Sebastian’s hands clenched painfully, his mind racing as he attempted to concoct a reasonable explanation to his lord for her untimely demise.

“Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to my lady.” she quietly said, disappearing into the hallway.

The room darkened, silverware and dishes clattering in the vibrating hutch, and Sebastian’s tendrils reached out after the maid, aching for violence. She had wounded his pride one too many times. Her disdain for his master did nothing but sting for the sake of aesthetic, but her rejection of his advances was what burnt most-- searing like a hot iron. He had never been rejected. Never. Even the most pious, most pure eventually surrendered to his honeyed words and promising caresses. And it wasn’t that she didn’t like sex. The wanton sounds echoing from her quarters several nights this week as she and Bard lost themselves to their passions was enough to confirm that.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. The rattling ceased. The evening light poured into the room once more. And he stood, straightening his waistcoat with a swift tug.

Who was she? His mind chided. She was nothing, no more than a potential meal or passing distraction. To allow her such sway over his emotions was pathetic, unfit for both a demon and a Phantomhive servant. Such disgrace would not do.

The morning could not come soon enough.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The dew was still on the grass when Sebastian and the young earl stood at the bottom of the grand stairs to see Lady Amelia and her maid off. Several feet away, his master and the baroness chatted amicably. Though he would never admit it aloud, Sebastian could tell by the light in his lord’s eye that he rather enjoyed the young woman’s company. Apparently the business discussions had been a success.

The gravel crunched, pulling his attention away from them and to the woman who stood before him, her hands clasped behind her back.

“It appears we are to part ways, Mr. Michaelis.”

“Indeed.” Sebastian answered dryly.

She took a tentative step toward him, the most deferential look on her face he had seen all week. Who was this woman?

“My lady said the conversations with Lord Phantomhive were rather enjoyable and quite productive for both parties. It appears we may see more of each other.”

“Perhaps.”

If Sebastian didn’t know better, he would have thought he caught a brief softening of her gaze, as if she was wounded by his curt politeness. He did not have to feign being agreeable any longer. So long as he was civil, he would have met his master’s social requirements as a butler and she would get no more than that.

She took another step forward to stand too close for polite society.

“I wanted to thank you for your hospitality this past week. I rather enjoyed myself and your company.”

Sebastian held up his hand to muffle the scoff he could not repress, sardonically answering, “Perhaps if you had the twinkle of tears in your eyes, I might begin to believe you. Though I must say, you have a rather odd way of displaying your appreciation.”

“Perhaps.” She giggled, a more familiar, more settling spark of mischief lighting in her eyes.

Casting a glance over to the nobles, she added. “There is something I wish to give you.”

Before he knew what was happening, she stood on her tip-toes, pressing her full, sweet lips against his, only pausing to whisper breathily in his ear, “Something to remember me by.”

She placed something cool and heavy in his hands, any questions he had dying on his tongue when Lady Amelia called for her maid.

“Until next time, Mr. Michaelis.” She coquettishly said, playfully winking before turning and joining the baroness.

The sounds of crunching gravel ceased, soon followed by the gentle click of the carriage door closing, but Sebastian was only mildly aware. In his hands was a clay flower pot in which grew a plant with deeply grooved leaves and small lilac shaded blooms that he would recognize anywhere-- catnip.

The corners of his mouth twitched, a pondering grin spreading his lips as he looked up just in time to catch sight of the maid one last time, their gazes meeting for a brief, yet knowing, second before the carriage rounded the bend in the drive.

“Humans are such strange creatures.” He softly commented when he came to his master’s side.

“You’ve been saying that all week.” the young lord sighed and began ascending the stairs to the manor’s entrance, “I surmise that means Lady Amelia’s maid met my expectations for you?”

“Perhaps more than I even realized, my lord.”

Sebastian paused as he held the door open to let his master enter before him, brows creasing in thought, his gaze following the carriage along its path down the drive until it came to the cover of the trees that lined the path.

And, as it became obscured from view, Sebastian wondered which thought bothered him most-the memory of the past week or the fact that some part of him, as small as it may be, would miss her.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Soooo, it ended up being a smidge over 1,000 words (2,801 to be exact), but once I got started, I couldn’t stop myself, lol. I hope you enjoyed this and thank you for being patient while you waited on me to finish this.

And a huge thank you for being one of my 300 followers! I always love reading your comments on my stories with your anecdotes, different takes, and attention to detail. <3 <3 <3

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caeruleis · 4 years

Text

@eternalwhite

❝ This is what you wanted, isn’t it? What you sacrificed everything for. Go on. It’s all yours. ❞ [ hmmm lucilius maybe? ]

The Cruel Prince Sentence Starters || Always accepting (feel free to turn into threads)!

★ ☆ ✮ ✯ ― ☽ ― ★ ☆ ✮ ✯

Fire licks at ruined buildings as a thick layer of smoke blankets the night sky - devouring even the faintest of glimmers from the stars that loom above, plunging the world into darkness that only the orange glow of raging flames keeps at bay. Making it nearly impossible to see anything through the thick, blurry wall they create as they consume all of the oxygen from the world falling apart beneath their heels. Stone creaks and asphalt cracks beneath the heat - glass exploding against cluttered streets filled to the brink with wayward bricks and charred wood. Dust clings to the already stagnant air as marble slams against the earth from drooping chapels and singed shutters clank against the remains of shattered fences from collapsed homes. The groan of crumbling poles and the cry of melting trees screams against the thundering wail of the fire that stretches on to no avail. There’s no end to the flames in sight, and they only seem to dance all the brighter as the second tick past. Their gangly claws and searing fangs seem to stretch out for miles upon miles beneath the horizon they’ve painted crimson and cooper.

The stench of blood is almost as thick as the aroma of burning flesh. And the mundane gray of the cement shattered against his heels is painted a vibrant, glistening red. Bodies are stacked as high as fallen buildings - their faces, assuming their is enough left of them to even resemble that of a human being, twisted in such agony that they resemble nothing more than unsightly beasts. Limbs a tangled mass and jaws wide open as if they had died screaming against the drums of war that had rippled through the very skies themselves. Distant cries ring out from the unfortunate mortals and foolhardy metahumans that have yet to join them - all mere insects compared to him, fighting uselessly against the fate that will soon claim the world in its entirety. Angels that had once sworn to protect these meager lives now rampaging through the streets, and those who would defy him have long since been locked away or been eliminated. And he stood in the heart of it, watching it all unfold with a look of grim satisfaction staining features that might have looked beautiful on anyone else. Lucifer was no longer a thorn in his side to prevent him from throwing the world into chaos, and, with his own hands, he would bring existence itself to an end. This was everything he had always desired. Everything he had spent thousands of years striving for. And yet...

The click of splintered glass moaned faintly behind him, and he turned to face the fool, daring or stupid or a combination of the two enough to walk up to him. Pale lips settled into a firm frown as dull, azure irises (not unlike that of Lucifer’s, yet, somehow, so devoid and hostile in contrast to the other’s unyielding gentleness and compassion) met her golden ones. Fair locks stained scarlet sway against his clenched jaw as he tilts his head upwards slightly as if he were looking at nothing more than a bug to be crushed beneath his heels. And, yet, for his own amusement - he tells himself - he allows her the privilege of speaking for even making it this far through the droves of enraged archangels and ghastly monsters he had unleashed upon the pitiful, unsuspecting inhabitants of this useless, vile world.

‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ Yes - more than anything. To tear this world apart at its seams and slay the very notion of God itself. And, yet, why did he feel to hollow now that his dream was unfolding right before his eyes? Why, then, when he watched dark beasts with sharpened claws, tangled fangs, and twisted faces yank fresh flesh from smoldering bone, did he feel nothing? Why, then, as he watched buildings fall into a sea of violent flames that consumed everything they touched, did he feel nothing at all? Why, then, as he watched the world begin to yield to him - he who would slay God - did he feel nothing at all? For a moment, heavy eyelids close. When was the last time he had felt anything at all? Had it been hate? Hate for the life that had been thrust upon him. Hate for the very notion of existing as a copy of a being far greater than himself. Had it been anger? Anger at his own circumstances that had lead him to create Lucifer in his own spitting image so he might be free of the inferiority he felt. Anger that he was barely an individual himself, and, yet, his own creation could thrive so easily in contrast?

Or had it been something else? Had it been relief? When he had first gazed upon that visage so alike his own, yet so delicate and soft in comparison. When he had felt, for the first time, that someone could stand as his equal. Had it been a sense of completeness? When he had discussed matters of the world with Lucifer, and the other followed easily with his thoughts. When he had felt a shadow of belonging as that beloved creation of his made something as senseless as coffee, and had dared to share it with him when the others would slink away from him in fear? When had this emptiness started, he wonders. But, then, he knows. Fingers curl into fists at his side. It had started when he spoke of ending this world, and Lucifer - oh merciful Lucifer - had tried to persuade him from doing so. When he had felt the rift between them growing greater and greater as he began to watch his masterplan unfold. And Lucifer went from being his most cherished creation to an eyesore that needed to be eliminated. And, then, when new of Lucifer’s demise had reached him - how had he reacted? He hadn’t. He had felt like a shell. A mere husk. Empty. Without troublesome emotions. Or had he?

“Yes, this is, indeed, everything I have always desired,” he begins, and the words taste like cooper and ash upon his tongue. For a moment, something akin to despair swims in his haughty expression, and pain settles within his chest. And he cannot, for all the millennia he had been alive, fathom why he feels such a way. “I should be elated. I should take what is rightfully mind with fire and blood.” Brows crease for a moment, as a clawed finger lifts to press against his chin. “And yet I am not.” Lips twisted upwards into a smile that is both wicked and agonizing - one filled with malice and torment. He has felt nothing for so long, he cannot place what it is he feels right at this moment. “No matter. Soon, everything will finally come to an end. Now then, you are an eyesore. You should consider it an honor to die by my hand.”

#eternalwhite #| ☩ Roses fall at your feet ; Lifeless cold in this twisted shell with another kiss goodbye ☩ (Lucilius: IC) |#| ☩ Keep the memories you make along the way close at hand ☩ (ask) |#| ☩ the color red ; the rose on your coffin door ☩ (Lucilius: Verse: Metahuman) |#{ tw. fire }#{ tw. death }#{ tw. character death }#{ Thank you for sending this! }#{ YOU REALLY WENT FOR HIS THROAT AND I AM LIVING FOR IT }#{ tldr I'm thinking this is like way ahead of where we are }#{ and he's managed to have Lucifer killed so now there's nothing stopping him from the ending world }#{ but he may or may not have regrets now that he's realized Lucifer is gone }#{ did I just murder my own muse you might ask }#{ I mean yes but nfjerkhg }

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thefatalmarksman · 4 years

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❣️ SOFT INTERACTIONS ! | not accepting

@verumheart said: [flower] {Ava, but she gives him a dandelion. Bonus points: subject X verse :3c}

[ flower ] for your muse to offer my muse their favourite flower .

Continuing the arduous task of hardening his heart had been---has been---a chore for Luxu. He had not always been this sarcastic, this harsh, this devoid of goodness and kindness. Once upon a time (oh, what an ironic way to start a story such as his), he had had so many very beautiful and poignant emotions---full to the brim with joy and light and love. Expressed them openly, with the sort of excited naïvety of a child first opening his wide eyes to the world, still glorious with innocence.

...But that Luxu---the Luxu that had departed with nothing but a Keyblade in his hand, a Mysterious Box at his side, and the highest of hopes in the depths of his being---had vanished, and in his place was Braig. In his place was centuries of turmoil and heartache, the tortures of the seemingly endless loneliness that stretched on further than he could have possibly imagined, wrapped in the scarred skin of a bitter orphan.

Fitting for Luxu at this point in time, truly.

And yet, even as Braig, he continued serving a Higher Purpose, for it was all he had left---all that remained of what had once been some semblance of an identity. Clinging still to that notion that there would be An End---the sincere hope of a reunion warped into a shadow of what it had once been, now a burbling monster hissing just beneath his flesh, hungry for its release.

Hungry for freedom.

At whatever the cost.

But for now, he had no choice but to trudge forward on this path of predetermination---as a bodyguard to Ansem the Wise, as a right hand to Apprentice Xehanort, as a slave to his fate as he wandered down the corridor towards his current destination: the outer gardens.

A breath suspended in his chest for a few seconds yet what felt like a millennia all over again upon exiting the arched doorway and seeing her. It seemed to happen every time---this existential pain that very nearly cut away his distorted resolve like a chunk of rotted meat still clinging to his weary bones, made him remember I am Luxu---I am Luxu, and that is... it’s... it’s her.

It’s.

Her.

His pace slowed as he approached the two figures, one sitting numbly amidst the multicolored flora like an inanimate doll---Ansem claimed that despite their extensive studies and her seeming unresponsiveness, they simply could not keep her locked up like some sort of animal, and she would be given fresh air on a regular basis---the other Dilan, standing by idly, boredom no doubt finally seeping into his bones due to the extensive yet required free time demanded via Ansem’s orders. Silently, the other guard noticed Braig’s approach and took this as his cue for shift change, reining in his footfalls so as to not seem too eager to take his leave.

And now it was just Braig---

And her.

A remnant from an age long past, and yet she had not aged even a day since he had last seen her---the brilliance of youth, untouched, unblemished. However, despite her perfectly-intact visage, that her body was certainly here, beside him, she herself appeared to be entirely vacant---gone, far away, somewhere else.

As he knelt down beside her, engaging in the required visual examination (all limbs intact, no injuries---it all checked out, as Xehanort’s team was meticulous in their... “care” of her), her dull eyes turned up towards him, defying the glare of the sun, eyelids fluttering, as though trying---trying to discern the soul within his skin. Trying to look through him, into him. And there lay the true source of his despair: that she never would be able to.

Never.

He no longer attempted conversation during these encounters---no longer tried to reach her. The things that had happened to her---the things they had done...

Keep that heart hardened. Keep your resolve. Keep going.

Soon.

However, before his thoughts could consume him, there it was within his vision, lifted and bobbing within the delicate breeze: a single yellow dandelion, like a miniature sun held betwixt her fingers. No communication of her intent---merely her hand extending the gift, an inoffensive offering.

Braig’s heart twisted in a way it hadn’t in so long at the kind gesture---some sort of torrential emotional cascade that brutally assaulted his gut, heaved through his chest, electrocuted his veins, prickled the corner of his eye---

...Then, just as quickly as it had entered him, forced it all into the void---forced it into nothing.

Nonetheless, he took the flower, albeit without a single word of gratitude (for he had to wonder if she was bordering on no longer even comprehending such sentiments), twisting the stem between his thumb and index finger---back and forth, back and forth, as though a nervous fidget to distract himself from something far worse than he could possibly handle if he allowed his mind to linger for too long.

Continue hardening that heart, was the sort of thought that consumed him during times like these. Hope that one day it will be nothing more than an unbreakable shell, he steeled himself as he watched the setting sun with Ava at his side, a twisted reflection of what they had once been during the days of their true youth, hand in hand in tender affection---

Squeezing and squeezing, layer over layer, an all-encompassing shell, until there is no heart left at all.

#verumheart #foxygirly #ask #v: radiant ruffian #soft interactions meme #HEY U READY TO BE SAD CUZ HERE IT IS #also i did not know when to Shut Up so..................... y e e a h

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evolutionsvoid · 5 years

Photo

I am sure there are some people out there surprised to hear that the Underworld has lakes and rivers. According to many tales on the surface, that land down below has replaced such water bodies with fire and lava. While it is true that some regions have magma pools and fiery springs, the majority of the Underworld has water just like us up above. Some of these bodies are so big, that they almost act like oceans! I bet you never thought that the Underworld would have coastal towns! They are definitely a sight to see, and they bring with them an equally amazing amount of flora and fauna that you find on the surface. One of these interesting species is the Klost. Klosts are freshwater dwelling creatures that are mainly found around pools, lakes and rivers. They possess slick, wet skin like a frog or salamander, which means they thrive where ever there is moisture. Due to the structure and environment of the Underworld, some regions are constantly humid and damp, which allows some Klost to live in areas without major water bodies. A set of gills allows them to breathe underwater, but they also have lungs so they can breath normal air. Due to their amphibious nature, they spend half of their lives out of water and the other half in it. With this in mind, their anatomy is built to let them maneuver on land or underwater. A pair of webbed forelimbs are capable of acting as arms or fins depending on the situation, and they are often used to manipulate objects or food. Three pairs of fins line their lower body and they help provide propulsion when the Klost is swimming. On land, they act as crude legs, pushing the Klost along as it slithers across the shore. They are not nearly as fast on land as they are in water, but thankfully their food doesn't run all that fast. Before talking about their diet and feeding habits, one has to bring up the most notable thing about Klosts. If you have ever talked to any demons or shades about these beasts, you would get the impression that Klosts are not to be messed with and should be given their space. When you finally see one of these creatures squirming across the land or lazily resting in the shallows, you may wonder how it got such a reputation. With their strange limbs and big goofy mouths, many describe them as a cross between a fish and a salamander. So what is so fearsome about them? Sure they are large and they have sharp spines, but what is the big deal? This answer will come to you when you observe the Klost eating or warding off threats, and it will be pretty hard to miss. When looking to take a big bite out of something, the mouth will open wide and its entire "face" will unsheathe itself. The slimy skin will pull back to reveal a terrifying face built of bony armor and shearing plates. With a single bite, the Klost will crack through stone, armor and exoskeleton with ease. Once its meal or foe is chomped into pieces, the skin shall slide back into place and the Klost's goofy appearance will return. When watching this amazing transformation, some people get the impression that the Klost is opening its mouth to release a second head from its throat, but this is not the case. What is actually happening here is the skin on the face is sliding back as if you were pulling up an arm sleeve. This hide is not fully connected to the head region, and special muscles allow it to pull this layer on and off. The point of this skin sheath is not fully known, but it is believed that it acts as a protective layer when the Klost is not eating. Another theory is that this maneuver is meant to keep the skin from being damaged when it is feeding, as its armored plates can take a lot of punishment. I can see that one having some merit, as you wouldn't want to bite your lip with those chompers! Just by looking at its mouth, you can tell the Klost has some serious power in its bite. Instead of teeth, its jaws are lined with tough sharpened plates that kind of look like a beak. Backing up this intimidating grin are several powerful muscles that create an amazing amount of force. Combing the two together creates a bite that can shear through just about anything. The fang-like protrusions can be positioned on its meal so that they puncture thick armor and rinds with little resistance. Bare flesh is an absolute joke to these jaws, as Klosts can bite through a leg or torso without missing a beat. Armed with this incredibly powerful weapon, the Klost is able to take on its favorite food: Fruit!

Shockingly, the Klost is not some powerful carnivore but instead an omnivore that favors fruits, nuts and vegetables. The cracking jaws are meant to take down thick shells and rinds, allowing the Klost to get to the meaty center. One of their particular favorites are Geode Fruit, which possess a rock-like exterior. While we would have to access this food with a hammer and chisel, the Klost merely needs to take a bite to crack open this impossible shell. For food, the Klost roams the waters and lands in search of vegetation. Due to the environment found in the Underworld, many plants and fungi grow their pods and seeds closer to the ground. With its arms, it will dig up buried roots or pluck low hanging fruits. Aquatic plants can also provide a crunchy meal, and the Klost will slither across the water bottom in search. They are indeed capable of eating meat, but they often find it too fast and bothersome to deal with. Shelled mollusks and insects are their main meals in the meat department, as these critters are slow and rely on their armor to protect them. Hiding in your shell, though, will do nothing to save you from these jaws though! The Klost can sometimes eat softer animals, but this usually happens when some fool decides to pick a fight with one of these beasts. When it comes to defending itself, the Klost's preferred weapon is obvious. An array of sharp spines can deter attack, but its powerful jaws are the thing that can take down any foe. Armor and hide are insignificant to this bite, while flesh and bone offer as much resistance as a bowl of warm butter. If one is not careful around a Klost, they can easily lose a limb to the beast. Tales even suggest that the Klost can bite through weapons, shattering blades as if they were twigs. Demons and shades are sure to give Klosts plenty of space, and any boat captain will avoid getting too close to foraging individuals so that the irritated beast doesn't bite through the hull. Thankfully, the Klost is a lazy creature that is perfectly fine slithering along and chowing on fruit. They are not territorial and will only be aggressive if an idiot chooses to get too close and antagonize them. When I got to watch these creatures in action, I literally sat on a ledge overlooking a shore line and watched a dozen of Klosts just laze about in the shallows. I don't even know if they registered the fact I was there! With this strength and laid back attitude, Klosts are a danger only to the ignorant and stupid. Vespar said that they warn young ones about Klosts like how you would warn them about a precarious ledge or cliff, "you can look at them if you want, but don't go dancing on top of them." Another thing that I have heard was that Klosts are one of the beasts that can be considered a "Fool's Trophy." I never heard of the phrase before, but Mamin explained it to me. A Fool's Trophy is an indicator amongst hunters and warriors that let you know if someone is absolutely full of it. If you go into a boastful hunter's abode and find a trophy or a mount of a Klost in their collection, then you know that they are a fake and an idiot. The reason behind this is that Klosts are incredibly strong and they have an intimidating visage, but they are lazy and uncaring oafs. To actually hunt one of these beasts is not all that difficult and such a feat is hardly an accomplishment. No professional hunter would put up a trophy of a Klost because it is meaningless and proves nothing, but a try-hard fool would solely on the reasoning that Klosts are strong and they look scary. While Klosts are really cool with their bizarre facial anatomy and pretty colors, I have to admit that this species is a little ruined for me. I am not saying they are bad, stupid or boring, but every time I see them or hear about them something else comes to mind. You see, the sharp jaws of a Klost bears some resemblance to the shearing plates that we dryads have. This was an observation that was not missed by my demon guides, and I never heard the end of it. The name "Klost Face" became a frequent thing I heard during my trip, most of which I blame on Valac. I guess this is what happens when you try to "smile with teeth" for people who have never seen a dryad before. I was just trying to be nice and polite! Gimme a break, guys! Chlora Myron Dryad Historian ------------------------------------------------------------------- Back into the Underworld we go for a spell!

#monster #creature #amphibian #art #drawing #underworld

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doorsclosingslowly · 5 years

Text

Keep quite still and wait

Decades after his brother’s death, there is little else left for Maul to seek but revenge—against Sidious, Kenobi, the galaxy—and the power to exact it with. He’s found a rumor of one such weapon. He should have expected a trap.

2.9k | warnings for graphic violence, verbal & sensory manipulation | on AO3

“Why are you trying to kill me?”

The voice is almost familiar this time, warm and steady pressed against the empty floor. The torso that expelled it heaves with exertion underneath Maul’s rheumatic knees, life-like, and the elbows resisted and splintered and gushed thick slime when he bent them, one after the other, until they twisted clean off. If he was looking down, he’d see more than stark yellow and black melding into the shadow of the lightless cave: skin textured with bruises, beginning to purple, and waxy old scars, all smeared unevenly with the blood dripping down from Maul’s smashed nose.

It’s getting better.

The first time, it was just a shape in the corner of his eye, warbling words beyond language, and Maul reacted on instinct. He did not recognize the pulp-ooze head left behind. The next was bathed in sourceless fire, all elongated limbs and gargantuan shadows against piled-scrap phantom walls, promises inaudible over the whispers in Maul’s ears. It was a slavering beast; a cocky challenger; a craven beggar. It was a crowd of near-familiar faces. They were easy to kill. Now, its mimicry evolves.

Maul’s fingers press gently against its head in the way they never did, two decades ago when there was still life inside. He braces for the tell-tale signs of counterattack, searching, gripping the horns he knows are long and high above the ears. He feels their chips and rhytidome ridges, their imperfections, and he closes his eyes. It takes effort to curl his lips into a smile.

A twist, and Savage’s neck breaks.

Maul curls up tight down beside the shell and gasps, “Isn’t that why you are here, brother?”

There is no rhythm to these fights: sometimes, the thing that is turning itself into Savage will come rushing close again just seconds after its last death, eyes blank and roaring. Sometimes, Maul is stalked for hours. No reprieve, no shelter—except for the solid rough wall against Maul’s back and the soft floor that nothing has broken through yet and this time, the tall corpse guarding its killer’s belly, propped up on its side with its back and the broken-neck face pointing towards Maul—no reprieve, no shelter, and no way out. No food. No water.

No way in.

No way back.

There must have been a threshold to this shadowed cave and he must have crossed it, somewhere on his way up to the Sith temple or during the hours traversing an old forest or even during his initial descent towards the planet; he must have made a wrong decision, somewhere on his path. He’s been searching for an artifact that was said to grant a vision of inescapable power. As rumors of ancient Sith weapons go, the description was so vague as to be risible, but Maul has gone further for less. After all, his vengeance is not on a timer. Lord Sidious is ensconced in the center of his Empire of betrayal, where he will stay. Maul finally has information on Kenobi’s hiding spot on Tatooine, the place he doesn’t seem to have left for a decade. Maul might as well chase the weapon first, he’d decided, all the better to murder Kenobi with it. There is no rush. The future stretches on, straight ahead, forever. He has nothing but time. And, hopefully, soon: power. And, in the immediate: this blasted, pathetic trap.

The dark does not bother Maul. He has been kept in worse, long before experience had taught him he will survive anything and escape, kept in more pain and for far longer. It’s comforting, almost, that there is no light in here at all but the odd glimmer of firelight or the blinking of a cockpit console. It’s familiar. He would be far less at ease in a brightly lit hall. (He thrives in the shadows. The trap must not be meant for Maul.)

Neither does he mind the bloodshed. (The movement is a dance, and the pain a tether. He is Maul. He is violence, was made for it, and this trap is amateur.)

Even the visage that was chosen for him to kill, he could live with for a while longer. (It’s nothing, he decides. He could keep on killing it. When he leaves, he might even carry with him a keepsake skull. It hurts, of course, as traps do, but forgetting Savage’s face for the first time was worse.)

No. Whoever devised this trap has failed. They could scarcely have constructed a more comfortable environment for Maul. He could live in it forever, or at least until he dies of thirst.

What’s maddening is the knowledge that there is an outside he cannot reach, and how directionless it all is in here. No goal to move towards that he can see. He has killed the image of Savage twelve times now, fast and brutally and drawn-out, and nothing has changed. He has studied the shadowed blank walls and found no gaps. He has felt the floor, metal and mosses alternating haphazardly. There is no grand plan. There are no defined parameters of success, unreachable though they might be—as painful as Master’s tests were, He had always wanted Maul to do something—and he is just treading water.

He’s just waiting, with his back to a wall and his head buried against a corpse’s chest. The life inside this trap stretches on, motionless, forever.

“It doesn’t have to be like that.”

Maul glances up, and looks straight into Savage’s tender eyes.

He does not move, when Maul is done with him. The nose is caved into his skull, dripping snot and slime and sap. He has lost his left canine, broken off, and several deep-ridged horns and the right eye. His right forearm dangles uselessly off a spindling pale unbroken strand of sinew. His neck is still twisted one-eighty degrees from the last fight, and he never stood a chance, not when he’s unable to even look down at what’s left of his hands. He couldn’t have won, despite Maul’s growing exhaustion, Maul’s shock, Maul’s mindless instinctive reaction. He couldn’t have won even twenty years ago—didn’t, the one time he tried—not against someone who knew him so well and taught him half his movements, not against someone he loved. He can’t move. He should be dead.

He is. For twenty years, he has been dead.

He will not stop talking.

“I tried to make this comfortable for you,” he slurs, the syllables ill-fitting in Savage’s mouth. The room is familiar now, no longer deep and blank and black but the Scimitar’s long-gone cockpit when she is not being flown, all systems idling with a mellow dark light. It’s the Nightbrother’s engine room too, somehow, although those spaceships did not look remotely the same, and neither room is spacious enough for both Maul and Savage to sit on the floor, side-by-side, an arm’s length apart as they do now. “I am not here to hurt you. To fight,” Savage says. “Unless that is what you truly wish. But you don’t know what you want, do you?”

The trap does not seem to react to violence. Maul attempts a different gambit. “Do you know the way out?”

“You would leave me, brother?” Savage is closer now. He’s dead. He’s curled around Maul, both arms wrapped loosely enough that Maul could shrug him off, if he could remember how he got entangled in the first place. His voice rumbles low against Maul’s neck. It loosens the ache deep in his bones. Savage’s head is no longer twisted backwards. “What is out there that you seek? What else do you want?”

Everything, Maul wants to say. Maybe he did, though he can’t recall opening his mouth. The weapon. He came here to find a weapon of inescapable power, he remembers that much. He wants the weapon. He wants to fight. He wants to destroy the Sith. The Jedi. Lord Sidious, ensconced in the center of his Empire of betrayal, cackling in his towers as he weaves his delicate plans that never required Maul, neck ripe for a ‘saber blade. Kenobi, still believing he is hidden away.

Maul wants death. Power. Disruption. Vengeance.

“And then?”

“I will have avenged you, brother.” Even after he’d lost the contours of Savage’s face, Maul had still remembered that final battle on Mandalore. The terror. The shock. He had been so angry about being cast aside by the Sith, by his only purpose, by his Master, but only years later he’d noticed he’d made his lack of importance the basis of his new life. Back then, he’d imagined his future, free and undetermined, stretching out forever. He had seen himself Mand’alor, conquering his small corner of the galaxy, losing it again, searching a new battle: powerful locally but irrelevant in the grand scheme of the Sith. He’d seen himself teaching his apprentice, but not as another link in eons of lineage. He’d seen himself softening, learning the ways of his brother. He’d wanted that life. Maul had never known that they would have just months. He’d been reckless. He hadn’t expected his Master to come. “I will have avenged us.”

“And after?”

“They will be dead.”

“And then?”

And then, as if the answer was still unsatisfactory. And then, fishing for what he’s already decided he wants to hear. Maul’s played this game before, usually when dumbly whimpering down on the floor, trying to guess at the words that will satisfy his Master. And then. What else is there? What does Savage want? How dare—? But time and quiet and regret and the hand scratching his horns have mellowed Maul: he wouldn’t have tolerated this impertinent questioning, before, but he doesn’t want to get up. The trap doesn’t respond to violence, anyway.

“What else will you do out there?”

There is warm ridged skin against Maul’s chest, and a slow echo of heartbeat, out of synch. He can’t remember the last time he touched his brother like this. Touched anyone. The attempt at reminiscence is a foolish impulse: he may want to recall something different, but the past is what it is. He’d touched Savage’s shoulder—once—held his hand—thrice—pushed him down, leant on him, but each repeat of beating him to death inside this shadow-cave is more skin contact than they’d ever had, back then. The embrace is almost inconceivable. Maul had once believed he’d have years to work up to this point. It’s less awkward than he imagined. It’s warm.

It’s not real.

He’s dead.

“Will it make you happy?”

Savage’s tone is growing impatient, snappish. Maul’s belly twinges at the seam where it once met—where it still meets, the legs are gone—the numb durasteel. There are no coincidences here. This thing that is turning itself into Maul’s brother is losing its edge.

“It’s a fair question. After all, you’ve dedicated your life to it. The least you should know is what you’ll get out of vengeance in the end. Only ‘dedicated’ isn’t the right word, is it? You’ve never made a choice, after all, in your entire life.”

Maul’s metal knees should never have ached, he realizes as soon as the pain stops.

“You know what I think?” the something asks with Savage’s mouth. “You were set on this path before you could choose, and you have never strayed because you’re scared. You are a ship built without a steering wheel by an evil man, pushed, beset by inertia, and you will go on and on and on until you run out of propulsion or collide with a star.”

The warmth is all but gone now. Maul runs his fingers along the arms that encase him—one, two, three, four—surreptitiously checking for weakness.

“It doesn’t have to be like that. Inertia is not a motivation. You can stop.”

“And then?”

“You can have anything you want. You just need to imagine it. You can have your ship—” the Scimitar around them is in full flight now, Maul at her helm, swooping between the skyscrapers of old Coruscant— “you can have your freedom—” the planet falls away, turns into Mandalore— “and you can have your body—” Maul’s knees have stopped aching, but they still look like flesh— “and you can have your brother, at your back, the way he should have been.” Maul quickly slides off Scimitar’s driver’s seat and turns around. He would rather not have the imitation of Savage hide in his blind spot.

To have the solid steering console guard his back, he walks slowly backwards. After ten steps, he stops. He still hasn’t hit it. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Mandalore beyond the windshield, passing merrily by.

“You’ve been trying to kill me,” Maul says. If he looked down, he likely would not see his lightsaber, not with the epigone’s skill at sensory manipulation, but when he concentrates, he can feel its familiar heft at his right hip. He pulls it free.

“I didn’t intend to fight you. I was your brother. I appeared as the first kind face you met. I came as a friend, offering food and passage on a trash-filled hell. I approached as your apprentice. I didn’t expect you to lash out at me. You didn’t, back in your memory.”

He might have. On Lotho Minor, Maul had suffered and scarfed down mold and mushrooms and motor oil and talked to himself and hallucinated so much he honestly hadn’t believed that Savage was real. The ship, the food, the care, the drastic change of scenery—it had all seemed a dream, or a reward in death. It had taken a long time to trust. If he’d first been confronted by Savage while in a slightly better condition…

“I know that now,” Savage’s mouth says. “That’s why I decided to talk to you.”

“And reveal that you are not my brother.”

The mimic shrugs. It doesn’t appear angry that its ruse has failed. “You already nearly forgot that once before,” it rumbles, and offers Savage’s right hand.

“What do you want in return?”

“I’m lonely. I have been here, guarding, for millennia.”

“The weapon? What can you tell me about it?”

“Why do you need the weapon?” The thing wearing Savage’s face holds up its hands. “Don’t start talking about vengeance. I know it will give you nothing in the end. Even if you succeed, if Kenobi and Sidious and the galaxy burn at your feet, you will have gained nothing. You’ll only know that your straight path has run out, the path you were set on by the Master you despise. Give it up. Abandon it. Cast off your Master’s shackles.”

“What else is there?”

“Be happy,” it says. “You don’t want power, not truly, but you would have it here. You could have whatever you want. You will never be alone.”

“This place an illusion,” Maul objects. “I need to eat, to drink. I would die here, and accomplish nothing at all.”

“A day here can fit an eon of life, if I wish it. How many years do you think you have out there? Would it be so bad?” it whispers. “To stay here, with me, and wither. There is nothing left for you in the galaxy, just an empty lonely life.”

Maul takes a step forward, right hand tensed behind his back, and another, until he is still beyond Savage’s reach, but apparently within the creature’s. He feels arms slowly creep around him. “I thought you were trying to hurt me,” he says. There is no real reason to talk more. Maul has already made the choice for his path. But he has also not touched or talked to anyone for a long time, and he would keep the attention of his audience for a little while longer. “I thought your intent was making me kill my brother.”

“No!”

“It was a bad trap, because killing Savage was never my nightmare. It should have been, perhaps. I should have been afraid. I didn’t think he would die. I caught my Master’s attention. I was reckless, and he died.”

“Savage did not blame you. I have seen your memories. I have become him. He didn’t.”

“Not for that.” Maul moves his thumb over the ignition button. “He wouldn’t blame me for his death. He wasn’t afraid of that. He didn’t want me to die either, but what he most feared was this: to be used as the weapon that kills me.”

The epigone screams when it is bisected by Maul’s lightsaber. Violence does apparently work on the trap, as long as it’s the right kind, with the right intent. “Savage couldn’t bear it, if I stayed here and died. You used the wrong face.”

“Wait!” The coulisse of the Scimitar cockpit falls away. In a familiar forest clearing, a mutilated neti is waving their many broken branch-limbs frantically. “Wait! You came for a weapon? There is no weapon here. There is no power, not anymore. It was stolen, a long time ago. There is only me. You want power. You’ve witnessed my skill. Take me with you and I will kill your enemies. Kill me, and you’ll have nothing at all!”

“Too late.”

The Nightbrother is exactly where Maul left her, on the other side of the ancient forest. The neti is dead. Nightbrother does not flicker into another ship or expand. Still, Maul stays outside her while he plans his next step, curling up under the glaring blue sky. There are probably many other Sith weapons out there, more power to gain. Lord Sidious is still ensconced in the center of his Empire of betrayal. Kenobi is still hiding on Tatooine. Maul’s path stretches on, straight ahead, forever. He will follow it until he runs out of fuel or meets a star.

He has nothing but time.

#darth maul #dimtraces makes things #i tried to write a horror story and i don't think i quite got there #but i probably should have expected how difficult it would be: after all one of my favourite things about lockdown #is how much maul's narration works against every attempt to make the story creepy

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greatest-astartes-who-ever-lived · 5 years

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“Victory needs no explanation, defeat allows none,” Minerva states over the vox to all Imperial forces, having just arrived in the warzone. "All forces, report your status. The Hands of the Aegis will provide support, and we will find victory this day."

+ Victory needs noexplanation, defeat allows none, + Crackled the Vox while the Sons ofMacragge stood their ground against a tide of twisted flesh and metal. SergeantAeonysius could barely hear over the shrill shrieks of the daemons that he hadonly just swat aside. + All forcesreport your status. The Hands of the Aegis will provide support, and we willfind victory this day. +

The Sergeant shifted his footing, allowing his torso to pivottowards the rising tide of enemies. They rose up like a red, writhing tide froma dead ocean. He could hardly see their twisted visages as they cackled in warplanguage, screaming for blood and oblivion. He opened fire, barely watching thestream of mass reactive bolt-shells as they tore apart red and twisted flesh.Instead, his armor’s spirit informed him of an additional contact. He could seethe gaudy chaos adornments pierced into the chassis of a fallen Predator and sohe lurched his centurion warsuit forward, crushing the dying underfoot.

‘Brothers, shift focus fire sixteen degrees and unleash suppressionso that the Astra Millitarum accompanying us can retreat to tertiary defensepositions.’ Came his order as he halted his movement, unleashing a stream ofgravity that bled the ears of the dying and the nearby. ‘Then make a fightingwithdrawal to position theta as discussed, ensure that none able to maintainour defense is left behind.’

‘Yes sergeant.’ Came their unified response as the shriek ofmetal followed by mute cries that shifted to fading mewling left the vehicle asit collapsed on itself.

Aeonysius shifted again, unleashing a tide of gravity as hebegun to step backwards, his heavy weight crushing the rockcrete beneath whilecrushing bone and metal alike to shriveled ruin. His attention shifted again ashe caught the flash of aerial ordinance screaming towards his position.Trusting in the plating of his armor, he weathered through the thunderous impactsand brushed aside the rubble and debris that shattered against him. His heartswere calm in all this and everything else was muted until he could hear the callof the lieutenant that they fought beside.

‘Lord, we’re pulling back to the Tertiary defenses! Anothersurge was reported by advanced scouts! Marines, Lord! Heretic Astartes!’ TheLieutenant did not wait for a reply as he scurried up the sloped street andfollowed his men.

‘Brothers, we continue to follow command’s directives. Wecannot lose the manufactorum this late in the invasion. Hold to the traditions ofour squad, hold true and trust your wargear. Ionus, direct a missile barragetowards the building fifty meters to my left, second floor.’ His orders were deliveredin a tone that was always calm. ‘We shall report to command when thisengagement allows. Thaen, move to Tertiary defensive location by the Habitationblock, destroy the land bridge supports when their armor approaches.’

As the missiles streaked overhead, he took several steps back,spotting malformed humans adorned in torn garb. He unleashed a barrage of boltstowards them, shattering their bodies into blood mists followed by meat andmetal. He then spotted another armored vehicle on approach and unleashed a sustainedwave from his graviton cannon. Once more, metal screamed in protest, attemptingto ignore the tremendous weight that now bombarded the very frame. Yet, likethe work of a sledge hammer, the top of the rhino was torn from its supports,shoved down into the crew compartment and the vehicle came down upon itself. Evenfrom here, he could see the blood escaping from ruptured metal.

A good kill.

‘We are the Sons of Macragge! Your foul weapons! Yourtraitorous machines! Your wretched daemons! All that you bring to bear againstus will shatter like the broken children you are!’ He roared, his vox castercausing his voice to echo thunderously through the calming battlefield,shattering the will of the cultists that were now robbed of their heavy weaponsupports. Their masters would be disappointed. ‘Courage and Honor, Brothers! Forthe Primarch! For the Imperium of Man!’

As the rest of the cultists broke, he continued hisbackwards movement and tethered back into the main communication feed. Reportswere being fed to a voidbound vessel that had just entered high orbit, engagingthe enemy fleet. He waited until he was given the chance to comply. +Veteran-SergeantAeonysius Iylenbrius, your support is most welcome, Hands of the Aegis, I amleading the defense of Manufactorum Kelethalos, we are in dire need of support.Heretic Astartes have brought the brunt of their invasion to take the Manufactorum.We are prepared to deny the heretic forces their prize, but we cannot cede soeasily. +

There was a pause in the transmission to Minerva only for itto open once more with the thunderous roar of hurricane bolters in thebackground. +I lead six centurion Warsuits, Three Assault Warsuits and four devastatorsincluding myself. The Skitarii Legion is gone, lost to madness while the AstraMillitarum garrison holds true to the Emperor’s cause. We are the only armoredsupport currently, remaining tech-adepts still work the forges to build warmachines.Battle Automata. Suspected Heretic Warband numbers are at One hundred Heretic Astartes, plus several thousand cultists. Daemonic incursion has been repelled currently.+

#We!Answer!For!Macragge #IC Answers #Meme Answers #Hachi!Replies

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regina-mortis · 6 years

Text

Inktober Writing Challenge

(I have been really struggling with the challenge lately. This piece was especially hard given I accidently lost the whole work, thus had to re-write the entire story. I have little time to catch up, but I'm trying. Hope it fucking scares you)

Day 22: A Creepypasta

The Story

I debated bringing this story to light for weeks. It haunts me as clear and vividly gruesome as if the nightmare had unfolded a mere hour ago. I spent day after day wallowing in vodka, however no amount of alcohol rescued me from the bottomless gulf of heartbreak and guilt, or dimmed the abysmal horror lingering like poisonous thorns goring my ailed heart. It seems I have no choice… I shall succumb to insanity looming over me and pull the trigger if it remains silently locked under my ribs, and my dear friend will have perished in vain. And her kid… He sincerely wanted to help. All this madness, death and agony he roused for me. I must unveil what happened, perhaps then I can breathe once again. I am to keep personal details as vague as possible, for if authorities find out my relation to the tragedy, I may land in more trouble than I can handle.

It began a few months ago. I was a horror author in the spring of career. My first novel, Miasma, had been published the previous year, I found myself in a storm of praises from readers and critics alike. Everyone was starving for my second book rumored to come out the following Halloween. Nobody could possibly know the truth… How hollow I had become, a mummified shell of the creator I once was. I drowned myself in spirits and melted my brain with cocaine to make existence bearable, distancing from friends and loyal admirers. Except one. For the story’s sake, I am going to name her Nellie. We… were morning against midnight, summer against dead of winter. Nellie was a single and eight months pregnant bachelor in family studies with a dream to one day run her own daycare. She had not as much as glanced at my book, far too squeamish for things I depicted, but cherished every part of me. I scorned Nellie for it. Who could adore the cynical addict I was behind a charming mask of blossoming talent… In my mind, no one. Nobody sane at least. I will divulge my soul and sincerely admit Nellie would have been the first person I shunned if not the stubbornness so aberrant to her naive and gentle self. She would not let me decay in peace, ringing the doorbell every fucking day with a flowery paper bag of home-cooked food and a rented DVD. Sometimes, she would even have me tag along to a tiny local coffee shop around the corner, where somehow, I smiled to the green-haired barista and signed a couple of autographs people asked me for. Nellie was the sole reason why I chose not to end it all. And I’m certain she knew. She was mellow, yet not a fool neither blind. I loathed her, but found it impossible not to love her. She knew I could not bring myself to let her find my lifeless cadaver with skull blown off and brains all over the wall.

Upon stirring awake and noticing it was six in the evening, I caught myself both dismissively relieved and slightly concerned. Nellie always showed up around three in the afternoon to drag me out of bed and scold me for downing five cans of Red Bull to stay restless till ungodly hours of dawn again. Swallowing the worry and assuming she got caught up in university work, I stalked to the kitchen, only to freeze in sheer astonishment oozing with faint and abstract sense of primeval terror. Among the clutter on the table, sat an object which definitely had not been here before - a neatly folded piece of paper. Frowning, I snatched the mysterious item and frantically stared at the elegant note within. Gravely wind gushed through the balcony door I had not realized was open, and my skin grew pale as bone.

“End of the road behind the city park. I shall be waiting upon your wake”

Before spiralling into perpetual gloom, I used to be an avid urbex explorer. I’d gladly risk getting injured or arrested to sate my fascination for the cryptic and the macabre. Even Miasma, my novel, was inspired by an abandoned hospital a few streets away. Thus I certainly was aware about a deserted road behind the city park despite never having stepped a foot on it due to work and later misery devouring all my time. It was enlaced with legends and eerie stories told in slumber parties, university students organized ghost tours there for Halloween, high schoolers filmed themselves sniffing around to impress their crushes. Older folks feared the road like ants fear fire, claiming a curse plagued it, and monstrous specters roamed it on moonless nights. Nobody had dared to complete the route in last two decades, or lived to tell the tale, but an abandoned church was said to still stand at the end quite firm, held together by forces of ancient evil which infested it.

Though I doubt there is any need to mention urbex was no passion of Nellie’s.

I tossed the crumpled note away, grabbing my coat and bursting through the door, not bothering to brush my hair or change the jeans and shirt I had been wearing for last five days. All I hoped was that the hood will obscure my face enough for me not to be recognized.

The city park laid an hour away from my home on foot, and took an hour more to cross it. Without a physical possibility for the police to monitor the entirety of such a large area, the place could get extremely dangerous at night, lunatics, rogue criminals and homeless heroin junkies lurking in the bushes. Yet I could not care less about peril. Dread of something unnamed and far, far more cruel than a knife or a gun awaiting at the end of my destination pulsing like sick, festering aura around me likely pushed any attacker to turn around anyway. My muscles were burning, sharp twigs whipping my face as I took every possible shortcut. The air was thick and heavy like butter, it felt as if my lungs had been flooded with slowly stagnating slime, robbing me of oxygen and making my head foggy, sight growing dark. I bit my lip harshly, rough, warm taste of iron dripping on my tongue, and pushed forward, struggling not to collapse.

I wish a gasp of ardor had erupted from my throat when indeed, outline of a small, crumbling church of gray stone emerged from the dark. I wish I had gingerly leaped forward, clutching my camera and already spinning a chilling tale in my head. Not limped towards impending doom growing clearer and clearer in front of me, ankle sprained in the rush refusing to obey my sizzling nerves.

What I found inside the forsaken sanctum surged me with such sepulchral, abysmal sensation I fail to flesh out earthly words to recount it. The horror… Oh, the spine-crushing horror. Nellie was here. She gazed straight at me, starry blue of her gaze now glassy, final visage of sheer fright and despair chained in the milky prison until maggots gnaw it away, mouth agape in a wordless greeting muffled by raw red muscle stuffed withing. She laid so heinously beautiful on the split, mouldy altar, broken arms motionless by her side, bare intestines slumped over the edge, blood and yellowish, reeking stomach fluids still trickling and spreading around as if a morbid halo. Her chest… Torn open, flesh and fragments of fractured bone scattered around, a dusty golden Chalice set in the middle. I stumbled backwards, screeching soundlessly. On top of it… placed a severed head of an in infant, so tiny, but almost fully developed, ruthlessly gouged out of a lifeless womb.

What… What in the name of all Saints and Sinners… Was this all a nightmare?.. A hallucination?.. Let it be, please, let it be!..

“Do you like it?” a voice rumbled from my left, guttural, yet serpentine, shaking every fiber in my body with shock so intense I broke out of paralysis, jumping and turning around to face four blazing amber orbs in the shadows.

The figure rose seven feet above ground, without counting the enormous crooked horns sat upon his head that is. Black as obsidian, his skin merged flawlessly with the murk, or was he cloaked I could not tell.

“I beg you, fear not… I did this all for you” he continued without waiting for a response of mine “For your story. A child once lost a scripture of yours on the road that I wandered. I gave into curiosity, and the way you weave words of terror has bewitched me. I have watched over you ever since… I saw how uneasy your slumber was, I witnessed the pain drained ambrosia has brought you. Please…” he gestured towards the desecration “drink inspiration for your new story”.

#inktober 2018 #october writing challenge #creepypasta #original creepypasta #horror #horror story #my story #my creepypasta #my writing #my words #writers on tumblr #original horror #the story #demon super fan

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ghostinhumanshapear2-blog · 5 years

Text

His warmth was something her bones ached for again. Relentlessly, as foolishly bare feet prowled across the floors, with a tiny ’spring’ in almost every quiet step nipped at by the sharp cold. And much like a plotting feline, she padded her way around to his bedside, allowing the aroma of fresh percolated coffee to gently interrupt his morning drowse when she places the steaming mug onto the nightstand. But to sweeten this early, early rise, she softly pressed warm, albeit scarred lips to his cheek. “Merry Christmas, y’ filthy animal.” She lowly hummed against his skin, through a little smile. “What’s a girl gotta’ do to get ya out of bed?”

Being with Rose was a blending of color. It embodied reckless intent at its core, and resulted in something quite unexpected: a masterpiece. Their beginning was a mixture of genres that mollified, creating a cacophonous symphony oddly appealing to the senses. Souls intertwined, and inexplicable paths sprouted from one basic, primary need.

They had survived.

And now, Josh slept heavier, as if a ludicrous amount of feathers gathered atop his mind, forming several layers of dreamy fog. These days, weary cranium allowed exhausted body to catch up on years filled with corrosive restlessness. It was more of a challenge than what it used to be, to pull him from the multiple clouds he was often found draped across- a vast difference from the shell he once huddled in, broken due to deafening booze droplets upon ugly, stained carpeting.

Christmas morning did not change that fact.

Christmas. It used to be a happy occasion, and had a bittersweet nostalgia looming above its tinsel-and-light drenched facade. Josh had been spoiled as a child, but by the time he was a teenager, that attention once given had been discarded and forgotten, like outdated, rejected toys. It became another excuse to get horrendously sloshed. His father would host soirees for those slipping into uncomfortably fabricated, lifeless personalities- where unsupervised brats ran amok, stealing spiked eggnog, and acquiring a newfound hobby.

If I peel myself from the background and throw countless showstoppers, perhaps I’ll feel as important. If the cops make a grand appearance, maybe that will be enough to elicit an emotional response. A dangerous quest that ends on notes of a pumped stomach should cause a commotion, right? A hug, a kiss, a tear. A sign of intelligent life.

But everything had fallen flat.

Those memories were distant- hazy like the misty film encompassing his brain. He would not pretend they didn’t exist, no, rather no longer poignant. All that mattered were his sore calves kissing soft sheets, and the woman who had appeared at his side with honeyed voice and robust caffeinated beverage.

Josh’s hands met beneath the pillow suffocated by cheek, and his head curled to face her, a loud, obnoxious groan escaping cleansed lungs. Her weight pressed into the mattress, and then light, airy lips floated like feathers upon his fresh, morning-painted skin.

This Christmas would be his first. That was all there was to it. A grin overtook his visage, and he wrapped his limbs previously withheld from ice-melting gaze about Rose’s slender figure, pulling her down to meet him. His mischievous fingers danced across her stomach for a moment, yearning more to adhere jealous mouth to hers, breathing her in completely. She tasted like snow and rich rays of sunshine just visible past wintry sky.

She was a chance, to start anew.

Swiftly, he caught his wandering thoughts, and sprinkled laughter against her tongue, drifting backward. With this altered perspective, he gained an entire landscape that contained his safety and comfort, occupying each and every part of him. His love for her had grown a brain, a heart, and an intuition of its own. But it was so much more than a person.

It was divine.

“Now would be the perfect time to make a lewd comment about all the things you could do to get me out of bed, even though most of those things require me to stay right where I am. But I think I’ll just stick to ‘Joyeux Noël, tentatrice’. Thanks for the tall drink. Oh, and the coffee.”

#. ⱧɆ₳Ɽ₮₴ ₩łⱤɆ₴ (₥₳ł₦ VɆⱤ₴Ɇ)#gravcless #. christmas 2018 #/ what is this DRIVEL #/ I GIVE MY HEART AND SOUL TO THESE SHIT BAGS THOUGH #submission #. submission

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slaughterhouse-promenade · 6 years

Text

Eta Carinae

Going Angst! Day 2: Identity Struggle

(found here on Ao3)

[10 Years Later AU] – After escaping from a decade of Alien Slavery, Vlad Masters returns to Earth the broken shell of a man. Ten years a slave, ten years a monster - This is a story of learning to how to be human again.

Word Count: 12422 Part 1 of 4.

Otherwise Titled: "The Redemption Arc Nobody Really Asked For"

Vlad struggles with life on Earth following his escape from Space, but is no longer the same person he was when he left. A ghost of who he once was, he only wants to be left alone, but nobody seems to get the hint A mix of fanon headcanon and some [REDACTED] theories. Please enjoy! Warnings though: PTSD, anxiety, sadness and all around angst ahead

Torn by travel, toil and treason; Tied by fraying lines Devil drowning voice of reason – Dire decaying mind Mending miles with threads of measure, letting loose all lies Unraveling lines of pain and pleasure – A life of death defied

└THREADS OF MEASURE┐, Brown Bird

“What is a human?” A creature whispered; its voice the streams of stolen starlight that adorned its shapeless form. “Are they made from monsters, like you and me?”

Vlad attempted to speak, but found his voice lost, swallowed up by the pressing darkness of the galaxy around them. Before him, the faceless creature gave him an inhuman laugh, tittering and violent in response to his silence.

Its’ visage flickered, twisting into the soft face of a child; eyes burning green, silver hair glowing beneath the star’s love, looking the same as he had ten years ago. This ghost child – A false god burnt in the zealous idolatry of a man long dead.

He’s forgotten so many things; forgotten so many souls, spirits and dreams, but this is the very one he had wished to forget the most of all.

“Did you make the choice, or did they make the choice for you, Vlad Masters? Did you choose this?”

And yet, the familiar face. The familiar voice. Those clenched fists, filled with the destiny to rip out his heart, again and again.

“Will you let them make you into a monster?” The boy whispered; the stars lost in his eyes. “Or will you fight to be human?”

He narrowed his eyes; words lost in his throat, as the young spirit smiled in a deceiving manner. Who are you?

The creature shifted again, taking on a different form. His form – the visage of his own human skin, staring back at him. Blue eyes, grey hair. Another ghost, another ghost, wearing a man’s skin, pretending to be human.

I am you.

A violent torrent of energy slammed into his chest, and a startled gasp of pain escaped from his heaving lungs. At his waist, the black rings flickered to life, forcibly turning him back into his human self, and the creature laughed as he went sent hurtling violently into space. The lack of air sent his body into a frenzy, and in his struggle to keep living, he wondered momentarily if this was the beginning of the end.

“Will you learn to be human?” The being asked him; its voice growing quieter and quieter as he was sent careening into the unknown. “Or will you perish as the monster you think you are?”

As the emptiness swallowed up what little life he had left, the creature disappeared in a torrent of stars, and he felt the darkness of space descend upon him at last.

Swollen hands laid down like the light of hope Falls in fragments from self-dealt fatal blows And burns our eyes with bold bursts of fires known Yet sewn so tight to us we can't let go

When he came to, eyes blurred and head pounding, the world around him was screaming.

“--- fell from the sky!”

“Did you see --- come from?”

“Oh God, --- ambulance! Somebody call an Ambulance! There’s --- attempt on Third Street! Oh my God ---“

For a moment, rationality lost in the clamor of voices and confusion, he thought that he was back in the Colosseum, back in the ring where they pitted creature after creature against him, back in the chains that he broke free from –

“Did anybody get on that video ---“

“ – the fuck is wrong with you? He just tried to kill –“

“His eyes are open! Sir, can you – me, sir? Sir!”

Something jostled his shoulder, and his body exploded with pain, gaping out a choked gasp as it ricocheted through his body. The hand squeezed, and he felt the world beginning to go dark at the edges. He couldn’t move his body, limbs too heavy to lift from the concrete floor, and he realized with a delayed dismay that something was horribly wrong.

“—he’s alive! Oh my God, he’s alive! Quick, somebody – “

“They’re on the way! Hang on sir, we’ll get you to a hospital –”

The hands let go of him, and against the frantic shouting of the voices around him, he can hear the fevered whisper of the one nearest to him.

“Come on, stay with me. Don’t die on me yet. The ambulance --- be here soon. They’re really good at response times, they’ve had --- be with all of the ghost attacks over the years, --- main part of town, and oh man, stay with me man! --- open okay? Can you tell me your name?”

Name? What was his name? His name was Plasmius. Plasmius, space nomad, ghost hybrid. Plasmius the Monster. Plasmius the Destroyer. Murderer, Monster, Madman, Slave #10899, ruler of the Col – No. No, that’s not correct. (A dead ghost, a dead ghost, a dead ghost –) That was the past, that’s who he was, and he was that for far too long.

He was no longer any of those things.

(But he wasn’t even sure who he was now; who this battered and broken body belonged too, as he bled out against the pavement.)

He had been fighting since he had left the earth. That wasn’t who he was anymore (but who was he? What was he? Why was he still alive – )

“Sir? Sir, please say something!”

“My name is….” His voice was hoarse, scratchy and stiff from disuse. He can feel his eyes start to drift, and the inky darkness in the corners of his mind was encroaching quickly, creeping along like a thief in the night. He doesn’t even know if the words he speaks are real, slipping into the dark waters surrounding his thoughts. “…is Vlad….Vlad Masters.”

And for a second, his vision cleared, hazily revealing a human staring down at him, tears streaming down their face as they attempted to frantically communicate something to him. The words were lost in the static, flowing in and out as the blood roared in his ears, and his head was screaming out a song of pain in tune with the panic of the world around him.

But, it was a human. A human was helping him.

He was home.

'Round unholy chasms and up hollow hills We steady our horsepower and summon our will To embrace what's behind what is seen and is haunting us still

When he awoke the second time, the world was quiet, save for the small beep of a heart monitor. It unsettled him, the unearthly quiet, and his body tensed, preparing for a fight –

The feeling of pain shot up his side, and he gasped as it lit every nerve on fire before slipping back into the dull ache that quivered beneath the surface. The collection of electronic equipment he was attached to made a series of aggravated beeping sounds somewhere to his right, increasing the severe pounding of his headache, and he felt the urge to rip apart every single machine in the room. He raised his fist to grab at the wires, to rip them from his skin, but the pain returned tenfold, and his arm slumped back uselessly against his side.

“Your bones are broken.” A voice told him, distorted but hauntingly familiar in its tone. “All two hundred and six of them. The doctors don’t know how you’re not a quadriplegic with the nature of your injuries. In fact, they don’t know how you’re even alive… Then again, despite having revealed your nature to the world in the past, they do not know your true identity, but that will change very soon. After all, Vlad Masters, the Wisconsin Ghost, has been gone for a very long time.”

There was a haze of blankness that threatened to envelop him, curling itself around his neck to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, luring him back to the abyss of nothingness from which he crawled away. With an effort, he turned to his head to find the source of the voice, finding the floating figure of a small blue ghost, leaning against a clock-adorned staff in the middle of his hospital room. And then, when the figure changed the moment they made eye contact, shifting into the form of a violet-colored adult, red eyes gleaming beneath a zigzagging scar – Vlad remembered exactly who he was dealing with.

And yet, there was something else; the nagging feeling that something was wrong. (A memory that wasn’t his, a dream that wasn’t a dream; something different, something precious that wasn’t meant for him to see, telling him a secret meant to stay asleep.)

“You are…Clockwork,” he said softly. He wasn’t used to this voice, this language, and every word he spoke felt wrong to say; English stiff and foreign on his tongue. “To what do I….owe the pleasure?”

“I have come to check up on you.” The ghost said grimly. “I was originally banned from interfering with your timeline by the Observants, following your less than stellar record with them, but it’s thus been rescinded.”

All words that registered to him, but they were empty and meaningless; Clockwork’s words were structured and informal, all emotion gone from his voice. Vlad struggled to voice his response. “…. How long have I been gone…?”

The ghost shifted into the form of an old man, and he wandered closer, coming to loom over the hospital bed. Up close, his scar was less a memory of a wound, but rather a brand, carved deep into the cool hue of his skin. As the ghost peered upon him with glistening crimson eyes– he could hear the soft tick of Clockwork’s working grandfather clock, humming out a song from within its glass cradle embedded deep in the ghost’s chest.

“You have been gone ten years, Vlad. It is 2017.” Clockwork told him calmly, quietly, almost too soft to hear amidst the other sounds. ”But you knew that, didn’t you?”

He had known, he had always known, but it was still crushing, still heartbreaking. Keeping track of time had kept him sane, it kept him aware, as the chains rattled and the screams drowned out all else, but it was still a hard pill to swallow. A decade of his life gone, trapped in the memory of a bad dream that he couldn’t wake up from. Ten years since he was stranded in space, ten years since he was enslaved by an alien race, ten years since he could call himself a h u m a n –

Suddenly, Clockwork’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I am…sorry, Vlad. Truly, I am. This is not the future I would have chosen for you.”

A bitter laugh bubbled in his throat, but the witty spark to engage in banter was gone. He felt hollow, as if someone had carved out all his insides and left a rotting carcass in his place. It never changed. It never changed.

The knowledge that something else could have been done, that something could have changed to prevent it all from happening will haunt him for the rest of his life, just as it had with his accident, just as all things in his life had gone.

A never-ending, unchanging burden; the guilt that festered like a cancer, devouring happiness in its wake. The knowledge that it could have been different; the knowledge that it could have been better.

And yet, instead of the blind anger that would have consumed him, it filled his bones with exhaustion. The truth left him feeling like a shell, like a ghost, clutching for something to drown himself in, but he was so tired – tired of living in the past; tired of living in the dead dream that had long disappeared.

“We’ve…never met before this. But why do I know you?”

“We have met before, and we will meet again.” Clockwork told him as his long spindly fingers fiddled with the clock adorning his staff. “One might say that…only time will tell.” Making private joke that was only funny to him, the ghost let out a rare laugh at his own secret.

(How does he know these things?)

In his wanderings through the Ghost Zone, Vlad had heard stories of the Master of the Time, but they were only mere stories, and there was nothing concrete. The watchdog of the Observants, a near omnipotent specter with complete mastery over Time and all its perks. He had searched, lured in by the notion of becoming his own God with the Time Staff and Infiniti-Map, but it was a fruitless venture and he inevitably lost all interest. It had become another legend, another story lost to the pages of history– as if all trace of the entity’s existence had been wiped from the Ghost Zone itself.

But there, buried there, amongst the history of his years, there were memories – memories of a different world, a different reality, a different life, but his life nonetheless. It was almost as if –

He felt his vision start to blur again, and the sound of rushing blood filled his ears once more. Clockwork was trying to say something to him, shifting through each of his forms, as he spoke hurriedly over the noise of static that steadily began to drown the world out.

“– A second chance. A second time --- in the current time – for the past cannot be changed and the future cannot be made if the current time is not maintained. -–Here for a reason – You came home for a reason --- it is up to you what will this reason will mean.”

The darkness lingered at the edges, and he struggled to remain awake, trying to think of a question before he lost the last of his consciousness again. From above him, a young Clockwork gave him the ghost of a smile before disappearing in a flash of bright light and the swing of a clock’s arm as the portal struck midnight.

In the moments before he lost consciousness, as the hospital room door slammed open and the room filled with unfamiliar faces and doctors’ scrubs, the last thing he heard was the faint sound of laughter in the distance as it turned into a vicious sob.

What was one has become individual parts Devoid of the source where this ritual starts With our wills overthrown at the whim of habitual hearts

But in the dream, Plasmius awaited him.

Blood stained hands; glistening white teeth dripping with red. Carved into his skin, a brand – a language he did not speak, did not want to speak, but he knew what it meant (he would never forget what it meant).

Fight or die.

Scarlet eyes stared out at him from abyss; the eyes of a stranger, these stolen jewels plucked from the sarcophagus of the Gods, a power within that was unlike anything else in this world. And yet, it was home; it was familiar; it was unforgettable. This was a ghost – a spirit of something once living, that was no longer, but it would not disappear. It was trapped here, between this world and the next. A true eternity.

“I cannot die,” the ghost whispered with mirth, throwing out his scarred arms; a singular chain rattling, screeching as breaking glass in the silence of the dead, “but you can never live.”

You are dead, Plasmius.

A reminder, a painful memory, a dead dream. Do dreams ever truly die?

A ghost, a shell of something that once was. Above him, the galaxy is filled with ghosts, haunting the memory of the star left behind, trapped in their place as the quasar devours all that’s left behind. A graveyard; a silent burial ground that swallowed all those upon fell upon its endless tomb.

He was meant to die here in this endless abyss.

But he was still alive. After everything, after all the terrible things he had done, he was still alive, why was he still alive –

“Will you let me out?” Plasmius murmured; an unfamiliar voice that was not his, was not him. “I am you, and you are me, but I am not free. Are you?”

A young boy screaming, calling for his dead father, as the universe wept and snuffed out his fears. (But no death was peaceful, no death was painless, and the children cannot be saved.)

“You will never be free.”

And Plasmius laughed, an echoing sound that rattled the stars from their graves and sent the heavens crashing down upon their sorrows laid out for bare

“We will see.”

One day no sordid soul will shout it's purpose Corralling lost accomplices around When thunder voices cease to shower us with locust Will you be ready to receive the underground?

[Read the rest here!]

#danny phantom #danny phantom fanfiction #going angst week #going angst #fanfiction #oh man oh man #ptsd recovery #fanfic #headcanon #Vlad Masters #danny fenton #Ten Years Later AU #Redemption Arc for the Neediest Archvillian #the one that nobody asked for

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thefreckledone · 6 years

Text

Pompeii 50

Alright friends, this is the final chapter of the arc. Pompeii will return in a few months, after Vesper and I have had a chance to catch our breaths. Thank you so much for sticking it out thus far, we really love getting to share the world of Pompeii with you all. We hope you’ve enjoyed the journey thus far and cannot wait to share more with you in the future!

Tobirama Senju walked through the doorway.

Everyone went on alert, shifting their bodies between Sakura and the interloper. Their backs tensed and, though she couldn’t see their expressions, Sakura knew they were hungry for battle.

“Stand down,” Sakura said, forcing herself into an upright position. She held back a whimper as she swung her legs off the bed, entire body protesting. “Stop.”

All eyes turned her way, shadowed with worry and affection.

Naruto was the first to relax, moving to Sakura’s side to fuss over her. She let him, hands fisted in the sheets to keep her arms from shaking. Her feet touched the floor, but she didn’t dare stand, not yet.

“Why are you here, Tobirama?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice even.

Tobirama took a half step forward, contenance softening. “I am here for you.”

“You can’t have her,” Yamato replied, face distorted with anger. “She is not going anywhere against her will.”

Tobirama’s eyes cut Yamato’s way, a sneer curling his lips. “That is not why I am here. I came to verify her health.”

“I’m fine,” Sakura said, hoping to interrupt the obvious animosity.

“Who are you?” Ashura asked, sensing Sakura’s anxiety.

“I am Tobirama Senju,” he replied, looking Ashura over in assessment. His lips tugged down. “Who are you?”

“We are the Founders of Pompeii,” Indra said, taking vindictive delight in the way Tobirama’s jaw tightened with surprise. “It is apparent you are unwelcome here; the very essence of Pompeii fights against your presence.”

“Yet I am here,” Tobirama said, ignoring the way Pompeii’s barrier buffeted him. He had taken advantage of a loophole, as was the nature of his ilk, yet Pompeii still tried to punish him. He returned his attention to Sakura. “I wish to speak with you.” He glanced at the eavesdroppers. “Alone.”

Yamato stiffened. “No. There is no chance in hell that I’ll leave you alone with--”

“Yamato,” Sakura said, reaching out and grasping his hand. “It is alright.” She waited until Yamato looked at her. “I am not afraid.”

Ino, catching Sakura’s look, poked Naruto and, with his assistance, began wrangling the others out of the room. It was akin to herding cats, but Ino was more than skilled enough to get them moving.

As Yamato crossed Tobirama’s path, he leaned in and whispered, “Do anything, anything, to make Sakura feel uncomfortable and your relatives will not find your body.” His eyes were cold and remote. “I will devour you and use you as fertilizer.”

Tobirama stared back at him blandly, unimpressed. Truthfully, he was more concerned with Sakura, as she looked small and lost among the rich textiles that made up her bedding. He looked at Hiruzen, still standing vigilant to Sakura’s side.

“Tread lightly, Tobirama,” he said, mouth firm. Sakura, now outside the reach of Indra’s magic, struggled to hear him. She could, but just barely. “Pompeii does not take kindly to threats, especially within such hallowed halls as this.”

Tobirama waited until Hiruzen left the room before striding closer to Sakura. She struggled to her feet, fighting back a grimace at the pain. She wobbled and Tobirama reached for her, only for her to throw her arms up in defense.

“Don’t,” she barked, finding her balance.

A strange throbbing heat took root in Tobirama’s chest at her denial of him and his help, searing at the flesh and bone there. He didn’t recognize it, but he knew he despised the sensation.

Sakura took a deep breath, movements jagged and protesting against her bruised rib cage. “What do you want, Tobirama?”

He bit his tongue to keep his instinctive response from spilling forth. From her crossed arms and furrowed brows, Tobirama doubted she would appreciate “You,” as an answer. “I came to make amends,” he said.

Sakura cocked a brow at him when he fell silent. “Go on then,” she said. “Stating your intention to do so does not count as apologizing.”

Tobirama flexed his fingers, wondering why he was so damn anxious. Her unreadable expression didn’t help his nerves. “Sakura, I apologize for the way we as a clan and I in particular treated you in these past few months. It was wrong for us to behave so poorly on such circumstantial evidence.” He swallowed, eyes darting away from her face. “You must understand, the being known as Kaguya was attempting to malign you, cast doubts upon your character.”

“I know that,” Sakura said, eyes a forest blaze as she looked up at him. “I know that better than any of you.”

“Then you understand why we acted the way we did; we were desperate for answers in the face of this plague.” Tobirama’s voice picked up as he warmed to the topic. “The Uchiha were useless and no one could provide answers. Everything led back to you. It appeared that you catalyzed these events.”

“From what I understand,” Sakura said softly, “you were the one who started this.” Tobirama froze, an absolute, alien stillness to his body. “You broke tradition, you and Sasori both.” Her face twisted. “You bent the rules and Kaguya seeped through the ensuing cracks.”

“How were we to know?” Tobirama asked, demanded really. “How were we to believe a fanciful fairy tale, one that seemed to have no grounding in reality?”

Sakura laughed, a bitter sound laced with the hoarseness lingering from her encounter with Kaguya. “You believed my involvement in the mess quickly enough. We live in a world of fanciful fairy tales; why on earth would you even take a chance? You are Fey; you know the consequences of loopholes! Why would you take part of the Genesis Tree?”

“It reminded me of you,” he said. “Its beauty, the transient, ethereal quality to the Tree; it was a personification of you.”

“So you took it,” Sakura said, turning away from him as she folded in on herself. “You took and Kaguya was freed.” She fell silent for a long moment, gaze distant. Finally she shuddered, taking painstaking steps to move away from him. “Please leave.”

Pompeii’s barriers lashed out at him, attempting to wrest him away from her, attempting to fulfill her wishes. Tobirama’s eyes narrowed as he buckled down, exerting his strength in full. His visage took on his true form: alien eyes, heightening markings, and heavy horns. It was enough to keep him there, staring at Sakura’s back as she moved away from him.

“I love you!” Tobirama said, desperation fueling his words. “I love you damn it.”

Sakura stopped and turned to him. There was something in her eyes, some emotion Tobirama had never experienced before, but seen expressed by others.

Pity.

“You do not love me,” Sakura said as she hobbled back until she stood before him. She took in the full effect of his appearance, the glory and terror that was the Sengu scion and did not waver. “Tobirama, you do not love me.”

“Yes I do,” he replied, distantly aware that he sounded like a recalcitrant child. “You have awakened me to the sometimes painful and messy experience of emotions. Before you I felt nothing, was nothing but a hollowed out shell. You’ve inspired me to all new heights and horrors.”

“Tobirama, what you’re experiencing isn’t love. Lust, excitement, or even fondness maybe, but it is not love,” Sakura said. She reached up, stopping just short of touching his face. Tobirama leaned into it, eyes shutting as her fingers touched his skin. “Love is...love is kind and giving and built upon trust. You chose to take and take and take-” Her voice cracked but she carried on, “You did not trust me in the face of lies, even as others did. You don’t know me, Tobirama, not really. If you did, you would have trusted me. Have we ever spoken plainly with each other?

“What you are feeling is selfish and scorching and it has burned me in ways you cannot begin to imagine. Love, true love, is selfless, requires sacrifice--” Sakura felt phantom cold fingers squeezing down on her windpipe again. “When you love someone, you put them before yourself.”

Tobirama’s gaze shuttered. He felt small in the face of her passionate speech. “So where does my failure leave us?”

“I don’t know,” Sakura replied frankly and openly. “As things stand, I cannot forgive you. It’s all too fresh.” She kept her eyes open against the violent images behind her eyelids. “I need space to heal.”

Tobirama raised his hand to cover hers against his cheek, pressing it close for but a moment. Then, for the first time in his living memory, he submitted. He bowed beneath the will of Pompeii and Sakura, forcefully removed from the library.

Something painful and sharp was lodged in his chest, making it hard to move. He pressed his hand, still warm with Sakura’s touch, against his chest.

Was this what heartbreak felt like?

Sakura took a seat upon the tatami mat, holding Sai’s hand as she moved to kneel. She knew her hosts valued propriety and she’d be damned if she gave them reason to question her. Sakura ignored the flurry of motion, aborted attempts to assist no doubt, from her hosts as she situated herself.

“How are you, Sakura?” Madara asked, wings folded behind his back.

All of the Uchiha had their wings out and Sakura wasn’t sure if it boded well or ill for her.

“Considering that it is a struggle to sit down,” Sakura said, eyes cast downward in a demure fashion, “I’d say I’m in rather poor health.”

Shisui snickered, though it was swiftly cut off with Itachi’s elbow in his gut.

“What brings you and your…” Madara’s gaze went beyond Sakura’s shoulders, to Yamato, Sai, and the Otsutsuki brothers, “associates here?”

“I am here because I have a deal I would like to make.”

Izuna’s eyes lit with interest and he leaned forward. “A deal?”

“Yes,” Sakura said. “As I’m sure you know, I have taken up residence in the Library these past few weeks since Kaguya’s attack. We are searching out a permanent residence. Some transients have taken up within the abandoned logging mill. After consulting the charters kept within the Library, I found out that the land is part of your property.”

“And you want it?” Madara said.

Sakura smiled. “Yes I do. I know you don’t use the land for anything. It goes to waste as it is.”

“It is still Uchiha property--”

“You may have it,” Izuna interrupted, directing a venomous stare at his brother. “It is the least of what we owe you in light of our clan’s actions.”

Sakura ducked her head to him in acknowledgement. “I thank you for the offer, Izuna. However, I have learned that nothing is given freely in Pompeii. I will pay the property price in full.”

She motioned to Indra and Ashura. They sidled forward, lifting forth an ancient chest. Sakura hid a smile as the wings of the Uchiha flare a bit in fascination.

They placed the chest before Madara and moved back into place behind Sakura, though not before Ashura winked at her.

As Madara popped the lid of the chest, Sakura said, “You see before you a collection of magic items harvested from within a living volcano, specifically the Pompeii volcano.” She placed a scroll before her. “This is a meticulous list of all of the items within the chest and their specific properties.”

“You’d willingly part with such bounty?” Madara asked, exploring the contents of the chest. “These are worth far more than land.”

Sakura looked to Ashura and Indra, frowning slightly. They’d underplayed the value of the items. “It is of little use to us,” Ashura said, face solemn. “They are relics of the past; we look toward forming a stable future. The land will serve that purpose.”

“Do we have a deal?” Sakura asked.

Madara exchanged looks with his family members before nodding. “We do indeed. If you will remain here, we will gather the deed to the land and draft up an agreement.”

“We’ve drafted one ourselves,” Sakura said, passing a stack of papers to Madara. “Please, look it over and we can discuss any amendments that need to be made.”

Madara’s smile widened. “You came prepared.”

“Of course,” Sakura said, looking over each of the family members. Itachi and Sasuke did not meet her gaze, though Obito stared at her with a deep curiosity in his eye. “I will not be swindled in any deals I make from here on.”

Madara’s smile fell away as he looked at her for a long moment. “You’re learning the game,” he said, rising gracefully to his feet. The rest of his clan stands as well. “If you would wait here, we will gather the necessary materials. Kakashi will bring you tea as you wait.” Madara strode out of the room, effectively ending the conversation.

Itachi seemed like he wanted to say something, but a quelling look from Izuna had him following Madara out the door.

Izuna waited until everyone else left before moving to sit before Sakura. He bowed his head to her and spoke, “I apologize for the actions of my clan. They’ve been severely reprimanded for their actions.” His gaze was stormy and Sakura knew that the consequences for his relatives were high. “They will not bother you in the future.”

“Thank you, Izuna,” Sakura said, reaching out and patting Izuna’s hand. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“Anything you need,” Izuna said, turning his hand over so he could grasp Sakura’s. “I will be happy to provide.”

“I thank you but that is not necessary. I would appreciate perhaps having a regular tea time again,” Sakura said. “I have missed your company.”

Izuna’s responding smile was luminous. “Of course. Let me know when you get settled in your new home; I have some plans for new floral arrangements.”

Sakura nodded, watching as Izuna left.

“I do not trust him,” Sai said.

“You don’t trust anyone,” Sakura replied, casting him an affectionate smile. “Izuna is a good friend and never doubted my innocence. I trust him.”

Sai hummed, but thankfully remained silent as Kakashi entered the room, laden down with a tray of tea and biscuits. He kneeled before Sakura and set about pouring the tea, keeping his gaze upon his actions.

Sakura, remembering their last encounter, took the cup from him with a word of thanks, inhaling the sweet spiciness of the tea. “How are you, Kakashi?”

He huffed a laugh. “How are you?” he asked, looking up at her. “You look like death warmed over.”

“I didn’t heed your advice about the forest,” Sakura said.

“From what I understand, that was a smart decision on your part,” Kakashi replied, serving tea to the others. “You overcame the forest entity. You shouldn’t be afraid of the forest, it should fear you.”

Sakura thought back to the battle, to the way her neck still throbbed with mottled bruises. Her hearing would never be the same. But did she fear the forest? No. “Perhaps,” she said. She met his eyes, read the keenness, the awareness that hadn’t been there during her confrontation with Obito. “Kakashi, why do you stay?”

His expression reminded her of Yamato’s, of Sai’s, from so long ago: lost and adrift. “I cannot.”

“You are always welcome within my home,” Sakura said, keeping her voice soft. She felt the brush of Ashura and Indra’s magics and knew they would not be overheard. “The invitation is indefinite.”

Kakashi looked stunned for but a moment, before his countenance closed off, becoming remote. It was enough forewarning for Sakura as the Uchiha reentered the room, taking their seats. Kakashi slunk into the shadows, disappearing within the recesses of the manor.

Sakura met Madara’s gaze evenly. “Shall we continue?”

Tsunade whistled as they crested the hill and the building came into sight. “You have fine taste, girl.”

Sakura laughed as she pulled up beside the building, parking the car. Shizune was generously lending the vehicle to Sakura until her finances were in enough order for her to purchase a car of her own. “You’ll have to let Sai know, he’s the one who designed it.”

The building, done in a bright art nouveau style, was still in the process of being built, honed by the will of Yamato. Thus far, it reminded Sakura a bit of an upscale apartment complex or one of the hotels she’d seen in downtown New York.

“You’re sitting pretty,” Tsunade said as they moved toward the building. “How are you affording this?”

“Yamato is responsible for the construction of the building and Sai for the design. Ashura and Indra have funded a good portion of the expenses with goods preserved from the time of the Founders,” Sakura explained, leading Tsunade through the garden. She smiled fondly at the flourishing marigolds, a reminder of her knights. The daffodils were sprouting but not yet in bloom. “I also have a nest egg of funds that I can and have tapped into.”

Tsunade’s eyes brightened with interest. “Items from the Founding, you say? My coven may be interested in purchasing some.”

“Of course,” Sakura said, inclining her head. She didn’t bother trying to offer any as a gift; she knew Tsunade would not take it. However, Sakura knew well how much she owed Tsunade and her steadfast dedication to exposing the truth. She would make sure that the bartering skewed in Tsunade’s favor. “Indra and Ashura would be happy to meet with you.”

Tsunade glanced askance at Sakura. “I’m certain that we could make a deal that involves some hearing implements. Magically enhanced, of course.”

Sakura stiffened. “I’m fine.”

“You are not,” Tsunade rebutted. “I may be a witch, but I am a healer first and foremost. I can sense the lasting damage done to your ears. I’ve also noticed that you keep looking to my lips as I speak. You are having a difficult time hearing, aren’t you?”

Sakura flushed, dropping her eyes from Tsunade’s mouth. “We’ve gotten it worked out,” she said, thinking of Indra and Ashura’s magic. The damage wrought by Kaguya’s onslaught, combined with the scars from Dosu’s attack, had left her in worse condition than she expected. The magic helped, but there was only so much it could do. “I’m navigating.”

“What you have is a makeshift solution at best,” Tsunade said, blunt and direct as always. She was used to recalcitrant patients and she refused to let the matter settle. “I can craft hearing aids for you, combining both science and magic in the best possible fashion. You will not have to rely on others for assistance.”

Sakura nodded. “I will think on it.”

Tsunade suddenly stopped short, a look of consternation crossing her face. “You have a barrier up.” She closed her eyes, concentrating. A series of red sparks flashed around her body. “It’s strong,” she said. “Multiple power sources, smart choice. Requires a verbal invitation and a physical one of some sort.” She opened her eyes and stared at Sakura expectantly. “Well?”

“Tsunade, you are welcomed to our home and hearth,” Sakura intoned, voice backed by ancient magic. It washed over Tsunade like a gentle rain as Sakura withdrew a nub of charcoal. She pressed up onto her toes, sketching a cradle-shaped symbol on Tsunade’s forehead. “I invoke the rune odal and accept you upon my estate.”

A shivery sensation traced up Tsunade’s spine and she pressed forward, moving into Sakura’s territory. They smiled briefly at each other and Sakura was almost sure that there was something fond in Tsunade’s gaze, but the moment passed too quickly to be sure.

Sakura led Tsunade up to the entrance of her new home, keying into it. She guided Tsunade through the foyer into the dining area, where the other residents were seated.

Tsunade noticed the way that Orochimaru’s experiments tensed at her arrival. There was a hunted look in their eyes, but they forced themselves to relax as Sakura entered. Everyone seemed to brighten at Sakura’s arrival, but Tsunade doubted that Sakura even noticed. The girl had no idea the power she wielded, with the trust she’d earned from everyone around the table. They were from all from different walks of life: legendary Founders, clan heirs, social outcasts, and former transients, but Tsunade noticed no difference in the way Sakura behaved around them, bustling around to make sure everyone was settled with refreshments. Grudgingly, Tsunade felt her respect for Sakura rise.

“How was the town hall meeting?” Ino asked as Tsunade sat down. “Were any decisions made?”

Tsunade glanced at Naruto, whose face was uncharacteristically serious. “A petition has been put forth,” she said, still spinning from the new development. “Minato Namikaze has been recalled; we will be electing a new mayor.”

“Good,” Naruto bit out, fury clouding his features. His eyes flashed crimson for a moment before settling to their normal shade of blue. “Da--Minato was unworthy of the office.”

“What does this mean?” Yamato asked, looking between Tsunade and Sakura. Tsunade noted the way he sought Sakura for answers.

“It means,” Tsunade said, speaking clearly, “that change is finally upon Pompeii.” She looked at Sakura. “And the change is falling in your favor.”

Sakura’s eyes flew open and she frowned, rolling over to check her phone. It was 3:07 AM. What on earth had woken her?

She frowned, something niggling at her. A whisper of sound. She stopped moving, concentrating upon what she heard. It was barely perceptible, akin to white noise or the babbling of water.

Sakura reached out and turned on her lamp, sitting up in bed. She plucked her hearing aids from the shallow metal dish that charged them, popping them into her ears.

The sound, instead of clarifying, vanished completely.

Sakura scrubbed her face, sighing as she stretched. It was apparent that sleep was beyond her right now.

She removed the hearing aids, closing her eyes and listening.

The noise filled her ears again, a pleasant, soft buzz to it. Unwittingly, Sakura’s eyes filled with tears and she pressed her face into her knees as her shoulders shook. She hadn’t expected to care this much about being able to feel and hear the vibrations with her own ears. The sensation lulled her into a sleepy state and she sat there, perched on her bed, in a stupor-like state for some time.

...lost…

Sakura snapped back to awareness, straining her senses. The word cut through the white clearly, though Sakura couldn’t identify anything about the speaker. It was androgynous and felt like it was beyond the realm of most descriptions. It was, however, gentle. “Lost? What is lost?” she asked.

...lost outside…

Sakura got to her feet, throwing on a coat and scarf. Winter was drawing to a close, but the nights were still bitter. She threw on her socks and stuffed her feet into her boots, pocketing her hearing aids as she made her way out of her bedroom. During the building process, she’d requested a single apartment, set with its own living room and kitchen. Yamato understood and created an absolutely stunning apartment, far larger than her previous one.

She drew a flashlight from a kitchen drawer before she grabbed her blades and slipped the obsidian one into her coat pocket, holding the other in hand, beneath her sleeve. It never hurt to be cautious, though she was nearly certain that the voice held no ill will toward her. It beckoned, whispering “lost” and “outside” over and over among the faint white noise.

Sakura slipped out her apartment door, mindful of the light sleepers on the hall. Yamato had the bedroom to her right, Ino the one to her left. She tiptoed down the hall, easing open the stairwell door and sliding beyond it. She traipsed her way down the stairs, hand on the ornate banister that Yamato carved from Sai’s designs. Down she went, all four floors until she found herself standing outside.

Sakura drew her scarf up around her face, wishing she had the foresight to wear a hat as well. The white noise increased as Sakura began walking the perimeter, mindful of the protective barrier around her home. She was curious, but she wasn’t stupid.

There, just beyond the perimeter, stood Zetsu. He was pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. Truthfully, it seemed more like arguing.

“Zetsu,” Sakura called, noting that the white noise faded away. “Zetsu, are you alright?”

Zetsu looked up at her, startled. His gold eyes reflected the light of the flashlight and Sakura could see the confusion in his expression. “She’s gone,” he said, voice small.

“Who is gone?” Sakura asked, staying on her side of the barrier.

“My mistress,” he said, casting his gaze around him. “My purpose…”

Sakura swallowed, something cold creeping up her spine. It curled around her throat and suddenly she was suffocating once more. “You speak of Kaguya.”

Zetsu’s eyes shot wide. “You know her?”

“She tried to murder me,” Sakura said.

Zetsu shook his head, his brow puckering. “No, you are good. You are kind. She wouldn’t try to hurt you. She wouldn’t try take you from me.”

“She tried,” Sakura replied. “Why did you serve her, Zetsu? She was evil.”

“She created me,” Zetsu said simply. “One must serve their creator.”

“She’s gone now.” Sakura gulped. “I killed her.”

Zetsu blinked at that, recoiling from her. “You?”

Sakura nodded, watching Zetsu carefully. He hadn’t made any moves against her, but she was wary. “She was killing me,” Sakura explained. “If I hadn’t fought back, she would have killed me and then moved on to kill everyone else in Pompeii.”

Zetsu clutched at his head, grimacing. He fell to his knees, arguing furiously with himself. Sakura, unable to read his lips at this position, placed in one of her hearing aids. The anger within his words was all self-directed.

“Zetsu, Zetsu!” Sakura shouted, trying to catch his attention. As he dug his nails into himself, inflicting self-harm, Sakura darted beyond the barrier and grabbed his hands. His head whipped up in her direction. “Stop! You need to stop, Zetsu! You’re working yourself into a frenzy.”

He slumped, energy leaving him. Sakura kept a grip of his hands as his shoulders began to shake, wracked with sobs.

“She’s gone,” he moaned, pressing forward and resting awkwardly against Sakura’s shoulder.

“I know,” Sakura replied, stroking his hair between the leaves of the venus fly trap. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Sakura held him as he cried, doing what she could to soothe him. What could she say to him? She was responsible for Kaguya’s death. Sakura doubted that anyone else mourned her loss, but Zetsu’s pain was a fresh reminder of what she’d done. Sakura’s stomach turned, but she held it together as Zetsu pulled away from her.

“Where will I go?” Zetsu asked, pleading with Sakura for answers. “What shall I do? I am nothing without her.”

“You are Zetsu,” Sakura said firmly. “You are someone, regardless of the existence of others.” She chewed her lip, warring in her mind. She knew that the others would not be pleased, but Sakura would not leave him like this: fragmented and broken as an indirect result of her actions. “If you would like, you may come with me. You are welcomed to our home and hearth, Zetsu.”

Zetsu looked up at her as if she was the answer he’d been seeking. “Yes,” he said, assisting her to her feet. “I will go with you.”

The whispers remained silent.

Sakura hummed to herself as she braided Kin’s hair, twisting the strands into a cascade.

“Your hair is getting long,” Ino commented from behind Sakura, running a brush through her hair. Ino had decided that she wanted to practice her hair styling skills, which led them to right now. Sai and Yamato had already fallen prey to Ino’s practice and Indra was up next. “It’s past your shoulder blades.”

“Really?” Sakura asked, turning slightly. “I hadn’t noticed. I guess I haven’t gotten it cut in quite some time.”

“Don’t cut it,” Ino said. “I’ll trim the dead ends, but it looks fantastic at this length.”

“Long hair is easier to pull out of your face,” Kin said, glancing up at Sakura.

“Maybe,” Sakura said. “I’ll see how it handles at work. If it’s a hassle, I’ll be cutting it off.”

Ino pouted and opened her mouth to respond, only to stop as a ringing chime sounded through the room. Everyone tensed, looking at the bell that hung in the corner of the room. Sakura looked to Yamato, who nodded.

“Someone’s at the border,” Yamato said.

“Did anyone have a guest visiting?” Sakura asked, looking around at the others. They all looked mystified. “Kin do you know if Zaku invited anyone over?”

Kin snorted, moving out from beneath Sakura’s ministrations and getting to her feet. “Everyone Zaku knows is in this room.”

Sakura stood as well, sighing as she looked over everyone. “Well, let’s go out and greet them.” She narrowed her eyes at Ashura and Indra. “Do not bring your swords.”

“Try and stop me,” Indra said, crossing his arms. “I will not allow harm to come your way.”

Sakura rolled her eyes but moved toward the door, knowing that she had to pick her battles. This wasn’t one that she’d win today. Sakura moved through the door first and her entourage piled through after her.

“Where’d it originate?” Sakura asked, letting Yamato take point.

“This way,” Yamato said, heading off to the side of their building.

Ahead of them was an all too familiar 1978 Chevrolet Camaro, parked at the very edge of the barrier. Yagura was perched upon it, with Kisame standing at his shoulder. Yagura smirked as he took in the people at Sakura’s back. He moved off of the car, straightening his cufflinks.

“It is good to see you, Sakura,” Yagura said, “and your entourage.” He nodded at the people surrounding her.

“What brings you here, Yagura?” Sakura asked. “Are you here on personal or Kiri business?”

“I’m afraid this visit isn’t for pleasure,” Yagura said. “I am here on official business. Will you not invite us in?”

Sakura glanced at her companions, seeing the way their fingers flexed on both seen and hidden weapons. “Not today.”

Yagura’s smirk widened into a smile. “Understandably. I am only here to let you know that Kiri recognizes your power within Pompeii. Kisame is here as my witness.”

Sakura’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“You know as well as I do that there are different factions within Pompeii. Most, like the Senju and the Uchiha, are separated by clans or clan alliances, like the Yamanaka, Nara, and Akimichi. Kiri is a faction defined by its skillset.” His heavy-lidded eyes perused Sakura slowly. “You have founded a group of your own.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Sakura said.

“You started with the clone and the soldier, but you’ve slowly accrued a group of misfits and outcasts for yourself,” Yagura said, ignoring the way everyone at Sakura’s back clenched their jaws and fists. “We are here to let you know that Kiri offers you our full support and we are prepared to make a formal alliance.”

Sakura looked back at her companions, taking in their repressed anger. “Perhaps,” Sakura said, returning her attention to Yagura. “As you can see, I didn’t even realize we were considered as such. Allow us some time to consider.”

Yagura inclined his head. “Of course,” he said. “Kisame.”

Kisame stepped forward, brandishing a briefcase. Sakura moved through the barrier, ignoring the noises that the others made, and took the briefcase from him. Kisame gave her a warm smile but remained silent.

Yagura began to climb into the car, but paused, looking over at Sakura’s eclectic group. “I look forward to seeing the upcoming changes you’ll bring.”

Sakura shivered, tucking her chin into her knees. It was early morning and the sun was just beginning to rise, the sky lightening in increments. She stared down into the pond, wishing that the calm she used to experience in this clearing would settle her again.

Unfortunately, as she glanced over at the broken shrine, Sakura knew that the magic of this place, the essence of the Maiden was gone. It had been consumed by the peach tree and Kaguya, though the signs of both were no more. Still, Sakura never heard any whispers here, so perhaps the Maiden's power still lingered.

Things were going well, for the most part. Everyone was settling into the new home, though not without some tension. It was impossible to avoid stepping on each other’s toes from time to time. Still, Sakura thought that they all got along rather well considering. At the very least, they always showed up for Thursday night dinners and movie nights.

She got along well with all of her coworkers and it was paced slowly enough that her healing was nearly complete. Sakura enjoyed the clinic’s atmosphere and the kindness offered by everyone there.

Pompeii was slowly reacclimating to her presence. She’d received countless apologies, some more heartfelt than others. Sakura wasn’t all that sure what she thought of Pompeii’s denizens. With the upcoming recall election, they were moving in the right direction, but she wasn’t sure what that meant for her personally. Where were they when she was being defamed? Where were they when she was sacrificing herself for their sakes?

She hadn’t forgiven them, not yet.

Sakura needed time to gain clarity and peace around the past year. She deserved it and owed it to herself.

There was still tension. There was so much bitterness hidden away in different pockets of Pompeii; rage built upon experienced injustices. Sakura defeating Kaguya had turned down the heat for the moment, but Sakura knew it was only a matter of time before the pot boiled over again. This time though, Sakura knew she would be ready.

“Ah, Sakura, what a surprise!”

Sakura blinked, coming out of her introspection and turning toward the interloper. Before her stood Danzo, armed with a cane to make his way across the rough terrain. He smiled at her, raising a hand in greeting.

“Danzo,” Sakura said, nodding in acknowledgement.

“I am surprised you would return to this site,” Danzo said, groaning as he knelt beside her. “I know you fought for your life here.”

“The good memories outweigh the bad,” Sakura said, tracing a finger through the icy water. She watched the ripples spread out from the touch. “This is a sacred spot for me.”

“I am glad to that your battle with Kaguya did not pervert the experience,” Danzo said, eyes following the ripples.

“What brings you here?” Sakura asked, curious despite herself.

This location was important to her, but why would he care about it? It had been a site of spectacle in the first few weeks post-Kaguya, but now? The remnants of police tape at the edges of the clearing spoke of the time that had passed and the lack of reverence offered to the broken shrine.

“It is a good place to contemplate,” Danzo said, smiling at her. “Mere feet from where we sit you swung the pendulum, changing the course of history.”

Sakura felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “It wasn’t as elegant as all of that,” Sakura said, remembering the stench of fear, desperation, and righteous anger that clung to her during the fight. She hadn’t been thinking of noble goals, only her survival. “It certainly was not as important as you’re making out.”

Danzo shook his head. “Look at the ripples your touch left upon the surface of the pond. Consider them as Kaguya, doing as she pleased and affecting all around her.” He reached out with his cane, dipping the head of it beneath the surface. Concentric circles echoed out from the touch, colliding with Sakura’s ripples. “This is you, rising up and casting Kaguya down from her dominion. You upset her balance; surpassed it. The changes you wrought are still taking shape.” He regarded her seriously. “Never underestimate your power here in Pompeii. Pompeii has chosen you as one of its beloved.”

With those words, Danzo got to his feet and began the slow trek back into town.

Sakura stared into the pond, watching the ripples clash with each other. Danzo’s words and metaphor were eloquent, but the result looked like a cataclysmic disaster. She hoped that this part of the metaphor wouldn’t play out in life.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be responsible for so much change.

Sakura looked back to the Maiden’s shrine, seeking answers there. She noticed a small clump of white growing near the base, between the fissure left by the peach tree.

Dandelions.

Sakura snorted, shaking her head at herself. She was acting silly. Change was the only constant in the world; she wasn’t its progenitor. Hell, even nature was trying to remind her of that fact, in the very changing of the seasons.

Spring was here.

#pompeii #my fic #our fic #sakura haruno #tobirama senju #yagura #yamato #sai #ashura otsutsuki #indra otsutsuki #zetsu #weird wednesdays #thanks for the ride y'all #we'll be seeing you again soon #ino yamanaka

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malmuses · 6 years

Text

Without A Trace - Chapter 1

Authors Note:

Here I am, back again with the Destiel....sorry not sorry ;)

This is the beginning of a long form, slow burn fic which is very plot heavy. There will be angst. Fluff. Smut galore. Humor...and hopefully a satisfying ending. I have a couple Chapters done already that will go up in fairly quick succession, after while Chapters will go up every couple of days as I finish writing them. Anyway - I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know if you are liking where it’s going.

Warning: Please pay attention to the tags as you go through this fic. There may be some scenes you might wish to skip if you have certain triggers - I will always let you know in advance at the beginning of the chapter!

Summary:

When Sam disappears during a hunt gone horribly wrong, Dean and Cas find themselves alone, hunting for an enemy with no name. As a trail of clues leads them back through Sam’s past, Dean is forced to play with magics that are best left alone. Will Dean be able to save Sam from his history – and will Cas be able to save Dean from himself?

Without A Trace - Chapter 1

CW: Canon-typical violence

For someone who doesn’t run at all if he can help it, the older Winchester brother could definitely run fast. Sweat dripped into his green eyes as he sprinted along the country road, headed sharply left towards a particular field.

As Dean vaulted up over the fence, the edge of his shotgun knocked against the metal and he fumbled, dropping the weapon down into the grass below. Shitballs, he thought tiredly. I can come back for it. Just gotta reach Sammy.

Lungs on fire, he tore through a field of knee-high wheat, screaming his brother’s name as he headed towards their planned meeting point - an old-fashioned red barn that flanked the opposite side of the farmer’s territory.

“Any time now Sammy! Yesterday would be good!” He flew through the barn door, chest heaving as he worked to close it behind him, lowering a beam of wood into place to brace it.

“Sammy!” He turned, wheezing desperately, looking into dark corners with an increasingly frantic expression.

The gasoline had been spread about, he could smell it – so he knew his brother had been there. Dean’s job had been to lure the werewolves down into the barn away from the town. Sam was setting up the barn and should have been there ready to welcome Dean’s new friends with a big ring of fire and a spray of silver bullets.

A solid thud rattled through the barn as the first of Dean’s followers threw herself into the double doors, swiftly followed by three or four of her comrades. The entire building shook.

Backing into the middle of the floor, still yelling for his brother, Dean pulled out a small handgun from his waist and checked the magazine. Three silver bullets left. He’d seen at least nine werewolves run at him from the nearby town alleyway – not great odds.

Wishing he had his shotgun back, he set his feet and screamed one last time for Sam as the door started splintering.

Raising the gun and smoothly breathing out in preparation, Dean pushed down his panic as much as he could.

The first wolf shoved it’s ugly muzzle through the gap and Dean’s bullet caught it right between the eyes.

The second and third of the beasts pushed through immediately behind, and he wasn’t so lucky.

Pushed to his knees with foul breath bearing down on him, Dean closed his eyes.

Terrified, he began to pray.

******

A groan rose in Dean’s throat, but never quite made it to his lips. Vague flashes of sound and sight hit him – a deafening screeching and splintering of wood as a black, 1967 Chevy Impala took out the doors and slammed it’s breaks right in front of him. Shotgun shells blasting… his shotgun. A flapping trench coat and a furious expression. Blood covered hands, frantic but gentle, gathering up the torn wide remnants of Dean’s legs and chest, growling and yelling in a language that wasn’t Dean’s own. Damn angel was cussing me out in Enochian, he registered as he began to black out again.

******

The bumping of the wheels tearing through the wheat field brought Dean to consciousness.

A low moan fell from his mouth as his eyes struggled to open, falling on a strikingly handsome man with messy, dark hair and eyes like deep salt pools sat in the driver’s seat beside him.

“Cas,” Dean croaked out. “You came.”

“Of course.” The angel responded solemnly, his eyes remaining forward. Dean thought he could hear feral growling in the distance behind them.

“You’re angry.” Dean tried to move, but his lungs seemed barely capable of breath let alone torso movement.

“You should have waited for me, Dean.” Castiel’s rumble was furious, but also tinged with resignation. The situation wasn’t a new one. “You should have contacted me long before you did.”

“S-sorry…” Dean mumbled weakly. His left arm seemed to be the only appendage that would cooperate, getting as far as reaching to the Seraphim’s wrist as he held the wheel of the battered Impala.

Cas shifted, releasing the wheel and turning his wrist to grab Dean’s hand in his own as he steered the car onwards with his other hand. “Just stay with me, Dean.” He responded gently, though Dean noted that the angel’s eyes were dark and troubled. “I did what I could to stop you bleeding out but we need to get somewhere safe so I can help you further… just stay still.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered closed again and Cas pressed more firmly on the gas pedal, eating up the distance back to town at a thoroughly illegal pace.

“Keep talking to me Dean…. Dean?” Castiel’s concerned voice and his hand in his were all Dean was aware of, before the darkness took him back and the angel’s tone rose in panic.

“Dean!”

******

Healing a minor wound with an angel’s grace took a mere second, but knitting a shredded body back together took more work.

Dean could feel a tingling chill flowing through him as a dilapidated ceiling cleared into view. He breathed in a shuddering, painful breath, the feeling of grace pumping through his body both familiar and somehow comforting.

He lay on top of the same motel bed he had slept in the previous night, the faded green blanket pulled up to his hip bones. To his left, Cas sat on a hastily pulled up chair next to the bed, the angel’s hands spread out on Dean’s bare chest. His eyes were closed as he worked.

Dean turned his head slowly, watching Cas for a moment as he gathered his breath. “Thank you,” he murmured, hoping he was smiling at the angel but not quite sure if his facial muscles were cooperating.

“Welcome back,” Cas gave him a little smile as he withdrew his hands. Blue eyes opening to meet Dean’s, Cas reached for Dean’s hand, holding it as he indicated that Dean could lever himself up to sit back against the pillows. “How are you feeling?”

Grimacing, Dean rearranged himself as he responded. “Like I got shredded by a pack of werewolves and then stripped and roofied by an angel,” he gasped out weakly.

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Almost accurate,” he responded. “Except the werewolves did practically all the stripping. You barely had any skin when I got there Dean, never mind clothing.”

The werewolves... the barn... Sammy.

“Sam…” Dead immediately began to struggle upwards as his memories raced back.

Cas held tighter onto Dean’s hand and used his other arm to firmly pin Dean to the bed.

“No. Dean, you have to rest. I couldn’t see Sam when I rescued you – but I couldn’t see a body either, so no need to assume the worst. I’ll head back out to look for him as soon as we have you on the mend-“

Dean began to interrupt, but Cas continued angrily.

“One Winchester at a time!…. You need to be sensible. You had organs on the outside instead of the inside Dean, by the time I got to you. You will not move.”

Defeated, Dean blanched a little. He hadn’t realized it was quite that bad.

“Alright Cas,” he murmured, squeezing the angel’s hand reassuringly. “Just… find my brother okay.”

“Of course, Dean.” Placing his other hand on the hunter’s forehead, Cas gathered his grace up and went back to work.

******

Stepping back into the empty barn in early morning light, Cas surveyed the scene before him. A thick pool of blood coated the hay-strewn floor where Dean had fallen. Shaking his head, Cas raised a hand to will it away, having no desire to remember the scene of his best friend seizing, flayed to the bone as he’d burst through the doors with the Impala. Dying. He’d been dying, Cas recalled dully. Even seconds later…

Stepping forward, Cas shook the thoughts away. He could yell at Dean later – now he needed to find the younger Winchester brother, and finish off any remaining Werewolves that hadn’t already fled.

Using his grace, he had got Dean well on the mend and then sent him into a deep sleep, knowing from experience that was the only way to stop him from worrying about his little brother. Though at well over six feet tall and with shoulders like a football pro, Sam was hardly the ‘little’ Winchester.

Now Cas had returned to the barn to see if he could pick up a trail. His grace somewhat depleted from Dean’s intensive healing, the angel was a little weary as he picked his way through the dilapidated structure, making note of several werewolf bodies he’d need to dispose of.

The building still smelled faintly of gasoline. Near a small side door, Cas found the red gas canister Sam had used to create the circle of flammable material that should have been waiting for Dean when he arrived. Cas kicked it curiously; it was empty. He stepped out of the side door, calling out.

“Sam? Sam can you hear me?”

There was nothing other than a small rustle in the patch of trees to Cas’s right, but that was just enough to tip him off to the leaping werewolf before he landed. Twisting to catch the beast mid-flight, Cas had him down on his back and one boot on his chest in a swift move.

Reaching forward, Cas shoved a little into the creature’s mind, forcing him to transform back to his calmer, more human visage.

Calmer, Cas thought grumpily, but definitely not cleaner. This dude stinks.

The angrily thrashing male beneath Cas’s foot looked to be mid-fifties, with lank, greying hair that hung past his shoulders and one slightly off-center eye. Leaning down onto his knee and applying pressure to the beast’s chest, Cas heard his ribs begin to crack before the wolf got the message and stopped fighting.

Must be purebloods, Cas considered calmly. Full moon is over.

“My friend was here last night.” he questioned flatly. “You won’t die as quickly as the rest of your pack unless you tell me where he is.”

The bad eye struggled to focus on the angel, hovering slightly to the left of looking him in the face, despite the werewolf’s best efforts. “Fuck you,” he spat out.

Cas sighed, snapping a few more ribs with his foot. “I’m tired, wolf. Don’t mess with me.”

A scream of pain erupted from the werewolf, and blood splattered out of his mouth. He must have pierced one of his lungs. “I can’t!” He gasped desperately. “She’ll kill me if I tell you!”

Cas’s smile was icy. “Well then you are in a tight spot, because I’m going to kill you if you don’t.”

The panic in the creature’s eyes was palpable. “No! No, no no…. She…..no!”

Before Cas knew what was happening, the werewolf reached up and wrenched his own neck to the side with a sickening crunch. His terrified mismatched eyes glassed over in an instant, dead.

I hope you enjoyed Chapter 1!

#destiel #deancas #dean cas #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural #spn #fanfic #fanfiction #fic #castiel #cas

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