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excelsi-or · 6 months

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summoned (pt. 13)

i love this part.

pairing: woozi x fem!reader/fem!OC

w.c. 3.7k (mature content warning; clearly i'm just poor at pacing and putting breaks where they should be LOL)

"Are you going to talk to her?" Seokmin whispers.

Jihoon dropped off Hansol and Seokmin at their respective homes. His human has slept the whole way. He glances over at her now. "Well, don't we think it was weird the way she was acting?"

Seokmin nods. "Of course I think it was weird. But what are you going to say? You've already exorcised her once. I doubt she'd let you do it again."

Jihoon mulls this over. "I just need to be close enough to do it. Consent is... not exactly necessary here."

This statement darkens Seokmin's expression. He adds, "You also need to be able to make physical contact. Any demon would know that. If she's possessed, her soul will be tainted already if it's not gone."

"We don't even know if she had one."

Seokmin sighs. "Call me if you need me."

Jihoon grabs Seokmin's arm. "Do you think it was Death who visited Mrs. Han?"

"It doesn't sound like Death. The strategy is too roundabout. One of the Horsemen visited her. It sounds like the other three have been roaming around already. There's been too much chaos for the humans to have conjured it all up on their own." Seokmin's eyes go to the sky. Night had fallen quickly, especially for the summer. It's put both unearthly beings on edge.

"Well, both the angels and demons were helping them along."

Seokmin chuckles, though his face is creased with worry lines. "I guess we're all to blame."

He pats the window of the car. "Good night, Jihoon." The angel looks across Jihoon at his passenger. "Stay safe."

At her apartment building, she rouses, turning her head to look at him. She's still drowsy. "We are back?"

"Yep, come on, human." He gets out of the car. "We need to talk."

Once inside, Jihoon doesn't waste any time. "What's going on with you?"

"With me?" she asks. She slips her dress off over her head as she walks to her bedroom. "What do you mean?"

Jihoon changes into something comfier as he sits on the couch. When she returns, she's slipping into one of the button-up shirts she wears painting. Except she hasn't closed it yet. And she's not wearing a bra.

He frowns. "What are you doing?"

"What now?" She buttons her shirt as she kicks her desk chair out to slip into it.

"You've been acting weird since we got to Mrs. Han's. It's worrying that angel friend of yours too. Has a demon possessed you without me knowing?"

"Seokmin was not able to heal all the burns you inflicted today." She gets to her feet and lifts her shirt, careful to keep her chest covered. She slowly turns for him. Darkened marks and red handprints cover her tanned skin. "So, maybe it has made me grouchy." Her hands let go of her shirt and she flops back into her seat.

"Are you... trying to seduce me, human?"

She chuckles, pulling her sketchbook towards her. "If I wanted to seduce you, Demon, you would already be in my bed."

Jihoon pauses to think through his next move. "And if I wanted you to seduce me?"

"Then I would be confused." She gets up to fill her water cup. When she turns, she finds herself face-to-face with Jihoon.

She tilts her head, watching his eyes flicker from the green of his cat eyes to brown. "I think," a ghost of a smile appears on her lips, "you are trying to seduce me."

Jihoon's eyes dart to her lips before reaching her eyes again. "Maybe."

A few different responses filter through her head. "Why?"

“We've spent every day for the last little while together." He shrugs. "And the world could be ending very soon.”

She’s stalling for time. Not quite understanding what has brought on Jihoon’s sudden shift in personality. Jihoon’s been tolerating her until this point. “And you think I want my last sexual encounter to be with a demon?”

Jihoon takes a step closer, unsurprised when she doesn’t back down. He can feel her breath fan across his skin. “Maybe you should try something new, human.”

“You’ll burn me.”

As if that’s the only problem with this situation.

“I haven’t heard a ‘no’ yet.” He lowers his head, his lips brushing hers. “I will stop if you say no.”

“Doesn’t sound like a demon to me,” she murmurs. Her mind is still rifling through different scenarios. Only one makes any real sense, but she lets her body take over from her mind. She lifts onto her toes to meet his lips.

To avoid touching her with his hands, Jihoon traps her between his body and the kitchen counter, his hands landing on either side of her. She manages to put her water cup down on the counter, one hand going to his chest to push him away slightly.

“Is that your no?” he asks breathlessly.

She chuckles, her pupils now blown wide with lust. “Absolutely not. That was a ‘slow down’. I don’t know what your stamina is like in this human-like body of yours, but if we go 100 from the get,” her eyes roam over him, “well, I may not get what I want.”

Jihoon snorts, pushing his body flush with hers again. “Don’t worry, human. You’ll get exactly what you want.” He dives right back in.

Jihoon understands the fun of sex, the pleasure it brings. But he hasn’t been with a human in centuries. It seems this human body that he’s prone to inhabiting is easily aroused and incredibly sensitive to touch.

So, when her hands slip under his shirt, tentative to touch him to see if she burns, Jihoon finds himself groaning against her mouth.

“So, I don’t burn you,” she mutters.

Jihoon makes an affirmative noise, swiping his tongue along her bottom lip.

“But you definitely burn me.”

Jihoon pulls away to catch his breath and holds a hand up to her. She rests her palm against his and winces. He lifts his other hand, lets it burn red hot, and then nods for her to touch him. She presses her other palm against his, her eyebrows lifting, as she comfortably laces their fingers together.

“We can work with this,” she mutters, a glint in her eye.

They find a rhythm pretty quickly. They eventually make it to her bedroom, but first make pitstops at the kitchen table, the floor, and her couch. She’s not a loud lover, but she does make little noises of pleasure, which Jihoon finds might almost be better.

And he gets immense satisfaction coaxing the noises out of her.

He found she was especially vocal with his tongue between her legs.

The following morning, she wakes with a little stretch. He’s got one of her books open in his lap. Some sort of fantasy number. Mildly interesting.

When they did wind up in her bed, she’d fallen asleep to his fingers tracing patterns over her skin. She either must have gotten used to the heat of his palms, or at some point, he’d stopped burning. Either way, he was able to touch her quite freely.

She sits up and grabs her sketchbook off the side table.

They sit together in contented silence for a while.

“You know, I just realized something.” Jihoon puts the book down to look at her.

“Hmm?” She seems to have his full attention.

Another new revelation from last night.

As long as he was good at pleasing her, she seemed to think of nothing else but him.

And it worked both ways. As soon as his mind strayed even a little, she’d move against him a different way and his focus would heighten tenfold.

Now with her awake next to him, it seems she’s already on his mind. “Your parents would have taught you about incantations and summoning spells even if you were shit at pronouncing them. They would have taught you not to use them.” He narrows his eyes. “You summoned me, a demon, on purpose.”

She chuckles, her gaze dropping back to her sketchbook. “Hm.”

Jihoon reaches over and eases the pencil out of her hand. He returns it to the side table and then the sketchbook. Though he does catch sight of the sketches she’s doing. They’ll have to discuss those later.

“So, what did you summon me for?” Jihoon asks, his lips dangerously close to hers.

Her eyes are fixed on him. “I didn’t have any reason to summon you, Demon.”

“I think you called me Jihoon all of last night.” He adjusts his body over hers. “We’re back to Demon now?”

“For now.” A finger under his chin guides him closer towards her. “But maybe I’ll remember your name again.”

Jihoon texts Seokmin later that morning.

The human is mine today. Stay away.

He’s resting comfortably with his head in her lap, watching her sketch above him.

“What’s our plan, Jihoon?”

Seems she’s remembered. “I’m thinking we stay in bed until the world ends.”

She lowers her sketchbook to get a look at his face. Her smile is cheeky, which he finds he quite likes. “While that does sound satisfying, I think I’d like to live a little longer.”

“Huh. Shame. I think a day in bed would’ve been fun. So, what’s your plan then, human?”

“There are two possible locations the Horsemen could be going to.” That’s what she’d been drawing that morning, trying to work through all the thoughts in her head. “One could be the very first reactor in the country, which closed down a couple years ago for its 40th birthday. Or it could be the first reactor that Mrs. Han… fiddled with.”

“And do we know which reactor that is?”

“No, but I was thinking we would return to the shop and check the computer.” She shakes her head. “I wish I had thought of it when we were there, so we did not have to waste time returning.”

“You want to break into the shop?”

“You sound shocked.”

Jihoon studies her. His eyes flick green a few times, but he senses nothing off. “Okay, well, if you think that will help us.”

“We are going to have to send Seokmin and Hansol to one while we check out the other.” She glances out the window as something slams into it. “And I think we are running out of time.”

Jihoon cranes his neck back to look out the window. There seems to be a tornado blowing outside, the sky darker than usual, and an odd purple.

“I think there’s a bit of time left.” Jihoon rolls onto his side, lightly kissing the exposed skin of her belly. He doesn’t know why she bothered to throw on a shirt today; she hasn’t even bothered to button it properly.

She chuckles as she indulges him, setting her sketchbook down again. “There’s a tornado outside and you want to do this.”

Jihoon hums, his kisses trailing up her body.

Jihoon timed it badly.

Granted, he’d told Seokmin to stay away. So, it’s technically Seokmin’s fault it went badly.

She had called Seokmin and Hansol after hunger surpassed her lust. She told them her reasoning about what the ‘first one’ could be, and then told them to come in an hour.

Well, that meant Jihoon had an hour to execute his plan.

They were in the process of lovemaking on her apartment floor when Jihoon pressed a hand against her chest and…

Her yelp of pain immediately causes him to jerk back. She struggles to push herself up into sitting. Staring down at the black circle on her chest where he’d tried to exorcise her, Jihoon hears her trying to even her breathing.

Jihoon stares at the black on her chest. “Sorry.”

She snorts with a shake of her head. The lust, hunger, and softness that had been in her eyes over the last 24 hours are replaced by daggers. The darkness of her eyes would worry him if he hadn’t just tried to exorcise her. “No. You are not.”

“No.” Jihoon gives her a once over. “I’m not.” He gets up from straddling her and holds a hand out to her. “You’ve given me reasons to doubt over the last day. I needed to double check.”

“You could have just bloody asked.” She smacks his hand away and stands. Then her ears register Seokmin pounding on the door. “And you angel-proofed my door.” She goes to let the angel in, buttoning up her shirt as she goes.

“JIHOON, YOU DEMON BASTARD, LET ME—”

She swings the door open and ducks before he can knock into her face. “Come in.” She winces as she turns back into her apartment.

Seokmin hurries after her. He circles an arm around her waist and helps her to the couch. He seems to take in the remnants of her and Jihoon’s argument. As well as the rest of the what they’d been doing.

Seokmin decides to ignore what they’d clearly been doing prior to the attempted exorcism. “I knew he was going to try it,” Seokmin grumbles as he checks over her wound. He holds a hand over it, but she winces and pulls away.

“It burns.”

“Lemme get some ice.” Seokmin scowls as Jihoon as he goes to the kitchen. “Hansol is on his way over. You should be…” He gives Jihoon a once over, unsurprised when the demon is fully dressed. “Well, you should both be decent.”

She stares down at the mark on her chest to gauge the burn. Seokmin healed very little of it, but it feels extremely painful compared to any other time he’s healed her.

“Healing it will hurt,” Seokmin says as he returns with an ice pack.

“Then I’m going to hop in the shower and stand under cold water for a while.” She avoids Jihoon’s gaze as she disappears into the bedroom.

“Shout if you need me,” Seokmin calls after her. Then he rounds on Jihoon. “So, what the hell did you do?”

“Exactly what it looked like,” Jihoon states. While there are no remnants of their lovemaking on him, it was all over her in hickeys, disheveled hair, and her near nakedness.

Seokmin sets the bag of ice and salt down on the table. They turn when they hear Hansol walk into the apartment. He pauses to take in the chaos. “What… happened?” He notes Jihoon and Seokmin’s aggressive stances. “Where…?”

“She’s in the shower running cold water over her burn.” Seokmin’s gaze zeroes in on Jihoon.

Hansol absorbs that. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t hurt your crush,” Jihoon huffs. “I was worried that she’d been possessed by another demon. And if we’re really trying to do what we’re trying to do, then we need to make sure that we’re all clean. I was hoping I’d have a bit more time.” He glares at Seokmin. “I told you she was mine today.”

Before Seokmin can respond, Hansol’s crossing the room.

Seokmin rushes forward and rests a gentle hand on Hansol’s shoulder. “Hansollie, calm down.”

Hansol’s gaze never wavers as he says, “I don’t give a damn if you hate me being here, but if you want any of us to be of use to you, we should be able to trust you.”

“I’m a demon.” Jihoon gives Hansol a once over. While he’s unintimidated, he’s thoroughly impressed that Hansol doesn’t seem to be either. “I don’t know where you got it wrapped in your head that I would ever be a good ally.”

“Jihoon,” Seokmin hums, “you should be careful what you say.” He eases Hansol away, putting himself between Hansol and Jihoon.

“Sollie, can you help me make some tea?” Her voice is soft, but clear, getting all the beings’ attention in the room.

She looks up from adjusting her sports bra, her eyes focused on Hansol. When he doesn’t move away, she reaches for his hand and gently pulls him to the kitchen.

As she fills the kettle, Hansol seems to snap back to reality. He grabs a few different tea bags. She tells him to grab an extra mint tea for Jihoon. He plops the tea bags into separate mugs, slamming Jihoon’s mug down a bit louder than the others.

“That looks bad.”

“It is a little painful.” She smiles at Hansol. “I’m fine though, Sollie. Thank you.” She rests her hip against the counter, listening carefully for sounds from the living room. “Can you steep the tea? I gotta deal with the extraterrestrials.”

Hansol nods. “You somehow always find the most ridiculous partners.”

The statement catches her off guard for a second before she smiles. A little sheepishly. “Obvious, huh?”

Hansol’s eyes dart to her neck, but then he says, “You have that glow in your eyes.” His voice is cheeky, and it broadens her smile, unknotting a bit of the frustration she’d built in the last twenty minutes.

Back in the living room, the angel and demon are whispering furiously back and forth. She picks up the ice bag and rests it against the skin on the side of her burn.

“Seokminnie, can you help Hansol?” she asks. Seokmin is reluctant to leave her, but with a nod of her head, he goes.

“Alright, you.” She huffs. “What are we going to do?”

“Do?” Jihoon shakes his head. “I did what I needed to do.”

“If you haven’t realized, I am pretty good at reading angels’ and demons’ emotions.”

“We don’t have emotions.”

“Not all of you do,” she agrees. “But you do.”

Jihoon straightens his spine, crossing his arms over his chest.

“So, what exactly did you think was wrong with me that you didn’t think you could just ask?”

Jihoon studies her. She stands before him in a sports bra and sweatpants. Her hair has been tamed, but the hickies on her neck stick out. As well as the black circle on her chest.

It’s annoying how beautiful she is right now.

Because there’s another truth he’s figured out. “You’re the Antichrist.”

There’s a long pause. For a second, he’s worried she didn’t know.

Then she holds both arms out. “Yes. And?”

“So, you do know.”

She nods and returns the ice to her chest. “I do.” She shrugs. “When Linnaeus told me the truth about my parents, they sat me down and told me the truth about me. Something that they’d heard rumoured in both Heaven and Hell. A child of an angel and demon would come to earth and bring about the apocalypse.”

“Linnaeus knows?” Jihoon’s a little annoyed he’s never heard this rumour before.

“Linnaeus always insists that I must be able to do something, given who and what my parents are.” She shakes her head. “I don’t think he’s ever known what exactly that something was.”

“So, you’re going to lead the Four Horsemen.”

Another pause.

Jihoon wonders whether the Antichrist is just part of her personality or if it’s something she’s fighting internally. She seems unaffected, even if the way she speaks flips back and forth.

“This morning, you said I summoned you on purpose,” she says.

“Did you?”

“I didn’t summon you specifically, but I was lucky that it was you. This plan would only work with an angel and demon helping me out.”

“So, you had a plan all along.”

“I was preparing, but no, I did not have a solid plan until yesterday. When…” She stops talking, but suddenly, she’s in his head. ‘My powers came in.’

Jihoon mulls this new information over. “So, you were manipulating me last night.”

“About as much as you were manipulating me.” Her voice goes velvety and he can feel his body melting again. “But we both had fun, did we not?”

The demon hums. He can’t deny that fact.

Luckily, she doesn’t push her manipulation too far.

“So… are you human?”

“Depends on how this turns out.” She reaches out for him.

Squinting, he laces his fingers through hers. She doesn’t pull away burned.

“That’s why I can touch you,” he realizes.

She shrugs, a smile on her face. But the smile quickly disappears when she draws his attention back to the burn. “Well, you could until you did this.”

There’s a flicker of disappointment that Jihoon waves away. “Would you have told me you were the Antichrist if I asked?”

“We’ll never know.” She tugs his hand for him to follow her to the kitchen.

Seokmin’s eyes widen at seeing the two enter hand-in-hand.

“Did we all kiss and make up?” Hansol asks. There are four mugs of tea on the table, one in front of Seokmin and Hansol.

She nudges Jihoon into the last empty seat and sets his mint tea in front of him. “We’ve made up.”

“And kissed.” Jihoon looks up at her, challenging her to contradict him.

A smirk graces her features, and it makes his body warm. “Okay, and we’ve kissed. But that’s not what we’re focused on.” She turns the demon’s head back to face the others. “We know the plan.” She looks to Hansol. “Feelings on the demon?”

“A little annoyed, a little pissed off.”

She rests her hands on Jihoon’s shoulders. “Accept that?”

Jihoon’s gaze is steady as he looks at Hansol. “Yes.”

She turns to the angel. “Seokminnie?”

“More than annoyed, more than pissed.”

She tips her head at that. She’s surprised that Seokmin’s honestly voiced his feelings rather than being surprised at Seokmin’s emotions. She squeezes Jihoon’s shoulders. “Accept that?”

Jihoon narrows his eyes at Seokmin, who is already glaring back. “…Yes.”

“Great. Then can we work together today?”

Seokmin’s narrowed eyes shift to her before returning to Jihoon. “Is she who I think she is then?”

Jihoon nods, leaning back into his chair and into her hands. It doesn’t get past Seokmin. “Yeah, angel. She is.”

Hansol looks between the three of them. Exasperated, he asks, “Do I want to know?”

She ruffles Hansol’s hair as she reaches for her mug of tea. “If I tell you, you might not believe me.” Her eyes dart up to the pendant light in her kitchen when it flickers. “Let’s finish up our tea. The end of the world is coming.”

part 14

#woozi scenarios #woozi imagines #svt #lee jihoon #woozi #woozi fic #lee jihoon scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen #seventeen scenarios

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awkwardgtace · 3 months

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What are the differences between Guardian Au and original au for Melody and Kyrie? How did they meet, their dynamic, and are the guardians supposed to fight against a bigger threat?

got this ask at the perfect time since i just finished the game i was playing tonight :D

I wrote out a thing then decide to go down the list and do major differences at the end.

So how did they meet:

Melody made a comment about Kyrie's eyes being blue when she was near him on a school campus one day (probably college). He heard her and asked if that was a good thing. Started horrible embarrassment for Melody and a lot of attempts from Kyrie to convince her to give him a chance. (lots of self doubt when it comes to people with Melody.)

Siren's song AU Has their first meeting as a story, but something to bring up with it is that Melody at that point was extremely isolated. Her voice had put her and her family in danger. She couldn't risk being seen by anyone because her creepy manager could possibly find her. It took a while for her to accept that she didn't put everyone she cared about in danger just be letting them close, but that fear puts a lot of strain on how she and Kyrie interact at first. (and after he grows considering the aftermath of when she was controlled by the stones.)

Their Dynamic:

Guardian AU has a pretty fluffy dynamic compared to most others. Both Melody and Kyrie have a history of being around guardians and are suuuper used to it. Melody kind of has a blind faith in Kyrie. She genuinely doesn't believe he'd be capable of hurting her. The thing is hoping that faith never gets proved wrong. Kyrie has the same kind of trust, but he usually shows that in the mer au too. He trusts her because she trusts him. He just sees a lot less focus on her own safety he never noticed when they were the same size. It was easy to see her as brave and confident when he wasn't aware how small she looked to any and every guardian. Their relationship is more open too. Easier for them to admit their struggles most of the time. I'd say guardian AU has a much healthier relationship the mer AU

Mer AU has a much more struggle heavy dynamic. Breaking through a lot of pain and issues each has faced. A lot of mutual healing for traumas they faced. Kyrie has the biggest complex about his size in mer au. A lot more obvious hate in this one for him and his size. Melody slowly shows him that isn't true. Melody is convinced she's bad luck. That it's her fault Caprice had to stop doing sports, that if she'd listened she wouldn't be isolated how she is. Even blames herself for Kyrie and what he'll be later. Kyrie does a lot to teach her that she isn't and that she's allowed to be happy with the people around her. Their happy moments show a lot of the trust they build together. Kind of glimpses to what the guardian au relationship already has.

Guardian AU Why guardians exist?

I have had a document in the works for a lore drop like mafia au and I'm stuck on the dumbest part of it (spoilers it's the name for smallest guardian class. something, titan, colossus. I'll figure it out eventually though ideas are welcome. Genuinely considering giant rn lol)

Anyway, yes they exist to defend against bigger threats. Evolutionary protection for humans on a planet that had threats. Basically humans are small, but the planet isn't. There's environments that match each public class of guardians. Originally guardians would be pure defense against predators, which is the origin of the name lol. Then when there was enough they would go get necessities from the larger environments. Evolutionary need has kept the guardians popping up, but it's still kind of just a common ancestor trait so the government haven't found a way to tell if someone will be one. Just locked it to a general age range it can happen.

Kyrie is literally just in an extremely populated city where guardians do pop up frequently. The goal being to stop any from causing trouble while growing or if the 'wrong' person grows. Especially with the changes to memory that could encourage some people to see the average human as something lesser. Generally the days of pure protection have passed, but that still holds the main focus of most of their jobs.

Now the differences in the relationships for siren's song and guardian au melody and kyrie:

Biggest is Melody's blind faith. She doesn't have that in the siren's song universe, but she could after enough time which might be relevant to something I'm working on

Kyrie's comfort in his relationship with Melody is a difference too. He's a lot more confident as Melody's partner in siren's song since he has that promise of 'destined' backing him. There's no one better for her, but guardian au has a lot more insecurities about staying once he grew. Especially since most of the time relationships between a guardian and the average human only works when the guardian can take the medicine without pain.

Time of their relationships is different too. Melody and Kyrie for guardian au had already been to a point of living together before she went away for work. Basically the size difference was viewed as an added roadbump to an established relationship rather than a uphill battle to starting one.

Melody and Kyrie are different in the two universes too. Guardian!Melody is a lot more well adjusted. She has her traumas and struggles, but not to such an extreme. This Melody has friends and people to rely on outside her brother and Kyrie. People who support her and her choices that lets her feel confident enough to have the blind faith in Kyrie. Siren'sSong!Melody is extremely isolated. She has online friends, but keeps them at arms length. A strict distance is kept so they don't know enough to find her past. She could open up, but she doesn't know how. By the time she does, most of her life focuses on merfolk and she can't tell humans. Guardian!Kyrie had a much more normal life too. He wasn't abandoned or treated badly, his parents were pretty decent. Until he became a guardian, but that's another story. For the most part he's formed his own push to isolate himself out of fear of people seeing him as a monster. That's something he'll work on now that Melody is with him again. He can be talked out of spirals about his own actions and what he might have done by accident or on purpose. Siren'sSong!Kyrie is terrified of hurting anyone. Even by accident. He'd run and never return if he thought he hurt Melody. It's harder to convince him that he's worthy of the trust others have for him. In a way he's much more cowardly than the other versions of him. It's all because he's been told so much how he's a danger. He's fiercer at the same time. Much more willing to be the monster than his guardian au counterpart.

Mostly the difference is just in them and their comfort with each other. I def rambled again lol. But it's a lot of just established relationship and relatively healthy lives versus new relationship and heaps of trauma. I think I covered all I could, but if there's anything you wanted to know I missed just send another ask <3

#awkwardanswers #oc lore #oc: melody #oc: kyrie #long post #lore dump #lots of stuff on these two #def helps i currently have one piece prepped to post and another wip about them right now #in said aus too lol #ty for the ask as always <3 <3 <3 <3

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ambiguouspuzuma · 10 months

Text

Liberation

The Other Palace lay sprawled over the middle of the city, just across the river from the royal residence from which it took its name. It was a reflection that rose up from the waters to spread low along the opposite bank, an undulating mass of domes and arches tiled in gentle pastel shades, presenting an enticing view to any prince or princess gazing out across the way.

The title was well deserved, for both palaces were almost equal in their grandeur, though the second had been careful not to quite upstage the first. Its proprietors sought beauty, not power, and had no wish to pose a challenge to the king. After all, their aim was always not to threaten, but seduce.

Some patrons were drawn in by the beauty of its marble face alone, without a glimpse of the human beauty inside. The imitation palace soared across the waterfront, a vision in towering spires and undulating domes, the arch of its entrance arced in an entrancing ecstasy, enough to make even a viscount pause. But Daria was unfazed. After all, she had just come from the real one.

She padded silently through plush carpeted halls. Inside, the Other Palace held a labyrinth of satin pillows and velvet sheets, palatial suites and private boudoirs, but she navigated them with ease. Daria's visits were frequent enough to know her route by memory, like the silk gloves on the back of her hands - and every bit as luxurious.

She kept them on for the duration, together with the rest of her clothes. Darla's appetites for coming here were rarely carnal: not because she was the princess, and such things were undignified, but because she was the princess, and they came so easily elsewhere. There wasn't a soul in the city who wouldn't recognise her, and few that would turn her down; a thousand potential liaisons with far more excitement than those on offer here, transactions without risk, the dull reliability of services rendered.

But there were other kinds of intimacy. Whilst the sort of lover found in an alehouse or armoury might come with authenticity, a breath of fresh air out of these perfumed rooms, festooned with vases of dried flowers and the gentle smoke of burning censers, she couldn't trust in their discretion. They would no doubt boast of their conquest, as if Darla hadn't chosen them, and lips loosened with pride would also betray any trust she offered up - any vulnerability she deigned to share. Which was why she didn't.

For that, she needed a professional. The denizens of the Other Palace could be relied upon for more than just the physical, and many of their other patrons came in just to talk. They consoled young nobles, for example: sons of distant fathers, who might never otherwise have been held, coddled, loved. It was healthy, for the good of the realm, to have such a service; the next generation might be less distant, and cruel leaders were prevented at their source, with an education on the perks of being soft.

This was also a place that warriors could find peace, providing rooms filled with sweet nothings and soft pillows, silence and darkness. After healers stitched them up and sent them home, they came to the Other Palace, where courtesans could heal the scars inside. Battle-shocked knights who were reluctant to be touched, even to let their squires undress them, found themselves waking in a tangled mass of limbs.

This was a house of love. There was no buying the real thing, of course, but the imitations grew more convincing by the day. Darla's favourite was a woman named Fali, a courtesan with gentle eyes and a gentle touch; an understanding listener with a soft, lightly-accented tongue, a lover who would stroke her hair with careful hands and brush away frustrated tears. The only person that Darla felt she could talk to, at least about a lot of things.

"It's all about Aria back home," she grumbled. "She's the heir, she's next in line, and I'm just the spare assigned to live as her shadow. I want more from life than that."

"You deserve it," Fali reassured her, offering up another grape. They were plucked from the vines with a delicate pair of silver shears, peeled with manicured fingernails, and fed to occupy Darla's mouth between her kisses and complaints. She was trained for this, as much as other things, and these rooms were well-prepared to withstand any moaning from their guests: there were soft furs for Darla to hold, combs to brush her hair, silk handkerchiefs to wipe away frustrated tears. "I'm sure that they'll soon see your value too."

They grew close, over her increasingly frequent visits, always asking for Fali by name. There had been many days spent walking the walled gardens along the riverside, many nights spent breaking down the walls inside her soul. The young princess and young courtesan, each at a formative time in their life, each learning the steps of their new role: discovering who they were in each other's arms, not quite knowing who they were without them.

They often spoke of Aria. The Other Palace held many women worthy of comment, but Darla seemed consumed by the one she'd left at home. The problem of an older sister. Above her in the esteem of their parents, the line of succession, and the royal pecking order when it came to choose their chambers in the palace, their crown jewels, their personal arms - even real suitors. She would get the best match, the best gowns, the best life. Darla would be lucky to receive her hand-me-downs.

It was different, with Fali. Whilst the order of the palace had always made her feel secondary, disposable - a stark contrast to the deference she'd grown used to in the city's inner streets, before such things became important - here she could be special once again. Their cushioned room became her home away from home, their bed her satin throne, and Fali's fingers rode her hair like strands of woven gold. Here, she was the only princess of their own private realm. Here, she felt more of a queen.

For a time, Darla was happy. She still had to go home for family meals, sustenance beyond grapes and figs and honeyed pear, for formal receptions and balls and fittings - but, in the silent gaps between the pressures of her life, she found some solace in their land of dreams. Her and Fali; a realm all their own. It was strange, how small a world could be, and yet entirely complete. One person. One room. One bed.

For a time. But, as she grew older, those gaps became fewer and farther between. Darla was required more often at home, across the water, steadily becoming more involved across the royal court - and moving deeper into Aria's shadow. There were still moments of freedom, hours she could steal away and race across the bridge to paradise, but steadily her world came to revolve less around Fali, and more about her sister.

Then, one summer, everything changed. Worst of all, there came a day which was all about Aria, entirely her own. Not her wedding, as expected; nor an engagement party; nor her formal investiture as heir. Her funeral. The princess royal had caught a sudden fever and died overnight, and the palace became consumed with grief for a week, draped in black lace and the fallen petals of the flowers brought as tribute.

Darla took it hard. Devastated by grief, she had never needed Fali more, and never had access to her less. There was no sneaking out to go to the Other Palace at a time like this, with all eyes on the family, with the family needing her, and with the impression that would make: running away from her responsibilities, and to there of all refuges, seeking selfish pleasure at a time like this. Nobody would understand.

When the day of the funeral arrived, Darla couldn't bear it any longer. There had been too many mornings crying in any empty room, too many evenings left alone with bitter memories: all of the times she and Aria had fought, all of the ways that she'd resented her. Summoning up fragile reserves of strength, she asked that Fali be invited as her partner, for emotional support, to see her through the service - she couldn't go to the Other Palace, but she didn't need to, if only Fali could come here.

It had been a long shot, and Darla had expected protests from her parents - no doubt already trying to pair her with her sister's match, now that she was the one who needed suitors, as if her funeral as a perfect first date - but their own grief had made them understanding. What she hadn't expected was the Other Palace's denial of her request. As a princess, Darla wasn't used to being told no - and especially not there, where service was normally provided with a smile.

There was only one thing for it: she bought Fali's freedom. The proprietors were reluctant to let her go, and haggled over the price, but for Darla that was immaterial. For the first time, Fali was hers, in more than just her heart: her own companion, exclusive to her eyes, her touch, her lips only. She installed her in the royal palace, within her own private quarters, and there was never again need to slip away across the bridge. She had here everything that she could ever need.

The funeral rites were protracted - a month of being told what to do, how to dress, and so on - and even when the traditions of mourning had been sated, her new responsibilities carried on. Darla was heir to the throne, now, and that meant her whole life was bathed in ceremony - and, having lost one daughter, her parents were unwilling to take any risks with the spare. She was encased in a protective cocoon, to focus on her metamorphosis into a future queen.

Sneaking out into town was no longer an option. Darla had grown too great to find the cracks in the palace's defences, too grand to flit between the breaks in the stone. Where once she'd been left to walk amongst her people, now they had become her gaolers, a thousand pairs of eyes to bolster those of the royal guards, alerting them to her presence even as they parted to honour her approach.

She was the princess royal. There wasn't a soul in the city who wouldn't recognise her, and few who wouldn't react in some way, rushing to fawn over her appearance or plead for royal patronage, bowing in submission or submitting a bow for her approval. She couldn't make it five steps from the portcullis before her name began to echo from the walls.

The prospect of a normal life had vanished. Where once the city had been her freedom, now it was an extension of her cell. Where once she'd looked across the water to the Other Palace, gazing from a window in the tallest taller like a damsel in a fairy-tale, now Darla's dreams took her further afield, beyond the treeline, into the forests to the east. A place where she wouldn't be the princess, and there would be nobody to call her name.

"I just feel trapped," she confided in Fali, one night whilst she was combing her hair. Darla's own routine was imposed from above, dressed and styled and powdered by expert hands, and she lived vicariously through the life of her companion, who could present however she wished, knowing that she would always be beautiful.

Fali nodded. "The cage is difficult for those who have known such freedom," she said. "Cushioned or bare, four walls or four posters, the yoke still chafes against the skin."

"Oh, but of course you understand!" Darla exclaimed, holding her tight. Fali had been her only comfort through these times, and she'd kept her closer than even the most paranoid of her parent's guards. "I mustn't forget that you were trapped as well. Oh, how I wish that you could buy my freedom in exchange."

"What do you mean?"

Darla's face grew serious. "I can trust you, can I not?"

"I'm yours," Fali said, in that way that always made Darla's heart swell twice its usual size. Not as an empty profession of romance, but as a simple matter of fact.

"I'm thinking of making a break for it. Not into the city, this time, but far away. Out into the forest."

Fali considered it. "Okay. And you want me to come with you?"

"But of course!" Darla said. "Come, let us plan our great escape together. Oh, this is just perfect, isn't it? I bought your freedom from your goalers, and now you can help to win me mine."

In the end, the hardest thing to do was pack. They made their way through Darla's wardrobe, Fali also picking out her own clothing to wear, not having much to bring of her own. They stole their way into the kitchens, preparing a bundle of their old favourites, figs and pears and even those silver grape scissors, home comforts for the new one they would build together.

Then, draped in the least conspicuous of those outfits, they slipped out of the gate for the final time, passing the Other Palace on their way across the dark river, with just one final farewell glance from Fali as they hurried on. Darla didn't look back. Her eyes were fixed on the treeline ahead of them; one hand tight around the knapsack slung over her back, the other holding the love she was taking with her.

They made their way into the midnight forest, and didn't stop until they were deep within the canopy, finding a copse of trees in which to break their fast. They supped on wine plundered from the palace stores, a final banquet for the newly impoverished, knowing that they would soon need to learn to find food for themselves, or at least find their way to another city, one where they could start again, take up a trade, live the normal life they'd always been denied.

Darla couldn't take her eyes off Fali. The way the pear juice dribbled down her chin, the way her hair shone in new hues under this natural light, the way she smiled in relief, as if a lifetime of weight had been removed from her shoulders. This had been the right decision, for both of them. Poor Fali would never have found the courage on her own, but it had taken Darla to save her, again.

That was her responsibility, to make those difficult decisions, and she would keep making them until they were secure. Whilst Fali had spent her life in a cushioned room, Darla had been trained for leadership. She resolved to use those skills for good. Once again, she would serve as queen of their kingdom of two, and she would see it liberated, prosperous, and happy. This had always been her destiny. For the first time, she looked away, up into the star-strewn skies above. The blank slate that was their future.

She looked down to find the grape scissors in her throat, and Fali's delicate fingers on the embossed handle. Darla tried to gurgle out a protest, but her love placed one of those fingers on her lips, as had once so frequently preceded a kiss. She doubted one would be forthcoming now. Perhaps she had been right to keep her eyes on her. Perhaps Fali had been watching her in turn.

"I helped to free you from your gaolers," she said, and that smile of relief seemed to have widened. "Now allow me to free myself from mine."

#writing #short story #creative writing #original writing #writeblr

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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 2 years

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KHONSHU.

Oh this bitch.

Let’s do this. I’ve tried to do this three times and I keep giving up like halfway through this. You know why? Because of two reasons:

Khonshu was already broken down so amazingly well in this post HERE. Seriously, go read it. It talks about the three different aspects of the moon good and why choosing Marc/Steven/Jake was so perfect for him. The Pathfinder, the Embracer, the Defender. It WORKS.

Holy shit can he be more all over the place? Can he be more abusive? He’s such an aaaassssss.

But you know what? You can’t have Moon Knight without the Moon. So let’s go somewhere new.

First, I want to talk about Harrow. Harrow who blames Khonshu for everything wrong in his life. His trauma from being abused. How nothing he did was good enough for him. How his body was broken along with his mind.

What’s interesting is that Khonshu never denies any of this. When Khonshu sees Harrow, he tells Steven to “Break his windpipe”. He argues with Harrow. He is angry. He is betrayed.

We already know that Khonshu chooses his avatars, but he has to ask them first. He has to have permission. And though he may protest, the Avatar can refuse him at any point and break it off. They could, in theory, even go to the other gods and call him out. He could have told them he felt threatened by Khonshu and they would have probably imprisoned him.

So now I have to ask: What sort of fist of Khonshu was Harrow? What made him become his avatar? What broke them apart? Was it mutual? Did he break the tie? Did Khonshu dump him? Did Khonshu dump him for Marc? Did Harrow push it too far?

We have so little on what drove Harrow. Did he have some sort of traumatic past that made him seek out vengeance? Did Khonshu’s idea of vengeance not go far enough for him? Did Harrow bring out the wost in Khonshu? If the trio of Marc, Jake, and Steven was enough to eventually balance Khonshu’s different aspects, did Harrow lean too heavily on one aspect and did the relationship then become a toxic cycle of pain?

So let’s go back further and look at the giant pigeon himself.

Khonshu was never really as popular as the other gods. He’s no Ra or Osiris. He’s not even part of the Ennead! But he did enjoy a cult following or three.

It’s hard to say what made Khonshu fall in love with the idea of humanity. And I say Idea, because he does not actually respect humans. He doesn’t care about their fragile bodies or weak minds when compared to a god’s. He doesn’t seem to enjoy humanity. He isn’t in awe over their ideas and isn’t humored by their beliefs or daily lives.

Khonshu is more often than not depicted as a child. He wants his way, he wants justice, he wants to play with his toys till they break and he always breaks them.

Khonshu is bitter that his fellow gods let go of their hold so easily. He watched the stars drift and his friends and family lose their values. They faded away, were banished, imprisoned, or became simple observers.

So how does he treat his Avatars? He doesn’t tell them the whole story. He doesn’t outright lie to them, but he lies through omission. He manipulates. He cheats.

When he takes over their body to speak to the gods, he is brutal. He wears them down. He booms and yells. The body is hardly able to contain all of his emotion. He bullies Steven and terrifies him in an attempt to chase him away and bring Marc out.

Yet… He lashes out when the honor of his avatar is up for debate. He calls Harrow a liar. He refuses to admit that Marc is ill. He attacks Harrow even though he knows it is not allowed. He breaks the rules to give Steven a chance to help him. He asks for Marc to find and free him. He gives them a healing suit. He lets them choose their suit (I’ll do a post about the suit later).

He revives them. He seems saddened when he senses that Marc has died. It’s brushed off quickly and he looks for the next avatar, but there is a very brief small moment when he gives him the benefit of the ‘Hero’s death’. “He died fighting no doubt”. A great honor to his people from back in his time.

So what about his body? Why is he in such disrepair compared to the other gods? Taweret and Ammit are nearly perfect looking. Ammit even asks what’s become of Khonshu.

He’s been banished. Self inflicted and/or by the other gods. He does not keep his powers to himself. He gives his powers in full to his avatar. I’m sure that has a toll over time. Perhaps he has lost sight of his original self. He is decayed and fallen. He has died and risen over and over. Waning like the moon, he has chosen and lost Avatars over and over. He probably went through them like candy. I’m sure many did not survive his battles. Some crumbled away while others just died brutally.

Other Avatars could only hold one aspect of Khonshu. More likely than not, it was his rage and thirst for vengeance that drove them. Wearing them down. Wearing him down.

Perhaps this explains his misplaced anger at Steven. Marc is Khonshu’s anger. Marc is his drive for justice. He wants to keep Marc and Steven apart. He tries to drive a wedge between them. Yet, when he is with Steven alone, we see his rage deplete. He’s softer. He’s nostalgic. This is a side he has not been in a long time. Certainly not with Harrow, that’s for sure. But we don’t start to see Khonshu soften until Steven puts on the suit and accepts Khonshu’s power.

When Marc and Steven return together and fight together, despite Khonshu’s protests, he does seem stronger. He is able to hold his own against Ammit at least for a little while.

With Jake, we see a cool and collected Khonshu. He’s less angry. He’s cocky. He’s suave and patient. Embracing the moon boys lets him feel whole. It lets him be all his sides again. At some point in the future when he somehow manages to get all three of them together to accept him, I think he will be at his most powerful.

He’ll probably still be an absolute ass and manipulative as hell because he does not know how to handle his Avatars, but he’ll be more balanced. I think depending on who is wearing the suit at the time, he might start to learn to be more careful with his avatars. More attached. More protective. Which could be a good thing… or dangerous.

Then we have a god who suddenly understands that this is an Avatar that is perfect for him in more ways than he initially imagined.

In the comics, Khonshu doesn’t really manifest until the more modern takes. He’s blood thirsty. He’s angry. He dotes on Marc while also demanding too much of him. He manipulates and threatens. Marc is constantly trying to get rid of him. Every time he ignores him it gets worse.

Khonshu has been all over the place in the comics. At times helping him and acting caring and at other times using him to try to take over the world. He breaks Marc and also heals him.

Marc continues to serve him despite Khonshu being banished. Eventually Marc always crawls back to him. He asks him for help. He accepts the punishment and price over and over again.

One might argue that in the comics, Khonshu is often just a manifestation of Marc’s guilt. Perhaps even another alter that acts as Persecutor. Silenced over and over again, he keeps coming back. In the Lemier run, we see his battle with mental illness and his battle with Khonshu. Khonshu was a manifestation of his mental illness.

Something that will always be with him. Something that he will never be truly rid of, but he can have moments of peace. Moments of quiet. Moments where they might be friends and understand one another.

In the show, Khonshu is obviously more than that. He’s a true supernatural being, but one that has the ability to drive and encourage the good and bad aspects of Marc’s mental health.

Now that Marc and Steven are free, I wonder how long letting Jake drive alone will be enough for him. He is going to need more eventually. He is going to need Marc’s anger and desire for justice. He’s going to need Steven’s passion and drive for compassion. He can’t just feed on Jake’s protective needs.

There is something both sad and almost forgiving in Khonshu. Almost. He is still a manipulative and abusive creature. But his soft spot is Moon Knight, even if he won’t admit it.

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight meta #Khonshu #Marc Spector #Steven Grant #Jake Lockley #It's 1:30 and I have to get up in 4 hours for work #the choices I make weeee #ugghhhh I still don't think I articulated what I wanted well enough #why is he such a stubborn and difficult bird

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another-whump-sideblog · 2 years

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Jane’s Pets Pt. 27: 911, What’s Your Emergency?

TWs in the tags

Masterlist

Sloppy bandages | Self done first aid | Makeshift splint

It’s familiar, having Dollie help you manage the wounds all over your body. It reminds you a lot of after your punishment for running away.

It’s different in a lot of ways, too. Kit isn’t avoiding you this time, and you can walk on your own, even if it hurts. You need help with a lot of things you wouldn’t normally need help with, especially with your broken fingers, but it’s not so bad with Kit and Dollie helping.

Dollie has started to take you on daily walks. Kit joins sometimes. The fresh air is nice, and you really missed the sun after so much time in the basement. It doesn’t even occur to you to run. You can get out of this, but that has to be through getting rid of Jane’s powers or killing her. Running won’t help.

Your body heals. You eat fresh, human food. You sleep in a bed. Jane makes threats and does things to make you uncomfortable, but at least you have Kit and Dollie again.

At first, you were too exhausted to have nightmares. You’d pass out the instant your head touched the pillow and sleep until someone managed to wake you up. But it was too good to last, and you’re back to waking up screaming at least once a night. Kit and Dollie comfort you through it.

You wish they’d let you take care of them the same way. Maybe eventually. Maybe when you’re strong enough to take punishment for them.

The more you heal, the more apparent it becomes that something’s wrong. Your wounds turn to scars and your bones mend, but you still have near constant headaches. You get dizzy out of nowhere, sometimes spending whole days in bed because walking makes you motion sick. Your ears ring in response to any loud noises.

It’s not a concussion. That would be healed by now. There’s something really wrong, something more wrong than normal.

Kit and Dollie help the best they can, but you’ve run out of ibuprofen and there’s only so much ice packs can do.

Through all of it, though, you’ve started to develop a plan. It’s frustratingly difficult, but eventually you have a plan that might work. Not a plan to escape, but a plan to inconvenience Jane. At the very least, it will help you figure out more about Jane’s powers.

You don’t tell the others about your plan. There’s always risk of Jane listening. So, when you tell Jane that you want to play the escape game, everyone is equally shocked.

“Bunny, you’ll get hurt.” Kit pleads.

“I know.”

They pause. “You really want to do this?”

You nod. Kit looks to Jane.

“Why don’t we make it more fun, then? Bunny gets 24 hours to run, like normal, but after that, you only get 24 hours to find him. If you can’t within the 24 hours, you leave him alone.” They’re clearly trying to look confident, but you can tell they’re nervous.

Jane hums thoughtfully. “I guess it’s more fun if there’s some actual challenge… Okay. Does that sound good to you, Bunny? Do you understand the rules? You know that, when I bring you back, you’ll still be punished for the escape attempt?”

“Yes, master.”

“Alright. Your time starts now.”

It takes it a second to sink in. You’re starting now.

You sprint out of the house. You have a lot to get done in 24 hours.

Getting to somewhere with people will be the hardest part, but you know it’s possible. Dollie buys the groceries and there’s no car, so there’s somewhere within walking distance with people. You head in the direction you see Dollie always go when she goes shopping and hope you’ll get to civilization quickly enough.

Jane said dealing with worried neighbors is inconvenient, and Kit says Jane can’t create things with her powers, only move them.

She must’ve put a bunch of effort into the house, if that’s the case. You doubt there’s any legal knowledge she’s out here, but there’s still water and electricity. The basement is a complex labyrinth and none of the doors in the house lock from the inside. If Kit is right, it must’ve taken a lot of effort to get that place set up. So if you could ruin this place for her, force her to start from scratch…

It’s not a perfect plan. Not even close. But you need something, some sort of win, even if it means you’ll get hurt. Your head hurts, but you keep running. You trip and get hurt over and over, but you keep running.

—

You were right, you were right! You stop, staring at the small town, before falling over.

Your head hurts and you’re dizzy, but you pull yourself back to your feet. You only have 24 hours. Less, now.

You run to the nearest house and pound on the door. The person who opens it seems annoyed at first, but that quickly gives way to concern. You must look pretty bad.

“I need! I need…” The world keels to the side. There was something important you were going to ask for, why can’t you remember?

The person at the door catches you before you fall. “Should I call an ambulance?“ they ask urgently.

“No!” That’ll just waste time. Wait, you’re not supposed to say no, you’ll get in trouble.

No, you’re in a town, you had a plan, you’re not in trouble yet. “Can I- can I borrow your phone?”

The stranger nods and hands you a phone. You shakily dial 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“There’s- there’s this girl-“ You had a whole plan of what to say that they’d believe. Why can’t you remember it?

“I was kidnapped! I just managed to escape, but there are other people there still. Please, she’s dangerous, she has… weapons. Bad weapons. She’s planning to uh, to do something really bad, she has a bomb, she’s really dangerous and you need to bring. A lot of people. Please.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that Jane will manage to handle it, somehow. You’ll still be in her captivity in 48 hours. But she won’t have her fucking torture basement anymore. She’ll have to find somewhere new.

The operator asks where you are and you don’t know. You look to the stranger.

“Where am I?”

They give you the address, which you repeat to the operator. “It’s, it’s in the woods next to this house, to the…” you point to the woods helplessly. You’ve never been good with directions and right now your brain is fried.

“East.” The stranger supplies.

“East! It’s in the woods to the east of the address I gave you. Please hurry.”

The operator promises to do the best they can and asks if you’re okay to end the call.

“…yeah. Just hurry.”

The operator tells you help is on the way and ends the call.

You hand the phone back to the stranger. “Thank you. Do you have some bandages?”

—

The stranger let you into their house, which you weren’t expecting. You sit in one of their chairs and carefully bandage cuts you obtained in your wild run out of the woods. You… haven’t applied bandages to yourself, before. It’s harder than you expected. You also apparently need some level of balance to do well at applying bandages, because the dizziness makes it very difficult.

Your bandages come out extremely sloppy, but they’ll work for now.

You thank the stranger again and start to leave. They seem worried, but you brush them off and start running again.

You can’t waste the opportunity Kit gave you. You need to get as far away as you can. You still think she’ll find you, but you want to make it as hard as possible.

After a few minutes of running, you realize that you are not going to be able to run for 24 hours straight. You need a vehicle. You briefly consider stealing a car, but that would make you easier to find. You find the road that leads into the town, and then follow it until you spot someone driving in the direction away from Jane, and wave them down.

“Where are you headed?” The stranger asks.

“I… away? I just need to get as far away as possible. Not because I’m running from the law or anything.”

This does not make the stranger less suspicious. “Why do you need to get away, then?”

“I just… I only just escaped. From a place where I was getting tortured. Um, look.”

You roll up the sleeve of your left arm, revealing a bunch of nasty looking scars, including your brand. The stranger’s eyes widen.

“I called the police, but I still want to get as far away as possible. It’s kind of in the middle of nowhere, where I was being held, and I’m worried she’ll hunt me down and kill me before the police find her. Please.”

“Shouldn’t you be… with the police, if you want to be protected?”

“She’ll find me if I stay in one place, I need to move.”

The stranger sighs. “I guess I can give you a ride. I’m headed quite a ways away. I don’t really believe you, but it’s clear something’s happened.” They stare at your arm. “You want to ride shotgun?”

—

There’s a clock in the stranger’s car. You haven’t seen a clock in quite a while. You watch the minutes tick away and wonder how much time you have left.

The stranger repeatedly tries to start conversation with you, but you only give one word answers.

As your dizziness and headache fade a bit, you start to get suspicious. This person had no reason to help you, and in fact, shouldn’t have. You were acting extremely suspicious. Are they just going to bring you to another torture basement? Are they pretending to rescue you because that will make torturing you later funny?

It’s funny, the worst case scenario isn’t any worse than what you’re running from. They might as well torture you. It won’t be a huge change in the status quo.

Well, you wouldn’t have Kit and Dollie. That would suck. But Jane would probably find you anyway.

Hours pass before the stranger stops at a gas station.

“This is as far as I can take you. Are you going to be okay?”

You nod and hop out of the car. You’ll use the gas station bathroom and then come up with a better story for when you try to hitchhike again.

The sky is getting darker. You’re running out of time.

After you finish using the bathroom, you walk along the main road again. You want to get a ways away from the gas station before trying again. You’re… not sure why. It just seems right. Maybe you just need to stretch your legs.

A wave of dizziness overtakes you, and suddenly you’re on the ground and your wrist hurts in a very familiar way that brings tears to your eyes instantly.

She hasn’t broken your wrist, before, but you’ve gotten very familiar with the feeling of broken bones, and you know that’s what’s happened. You look around for a stick, and use one of the bandages you applied earlier to tie it to your wrist in what’s hopefully a good position. You scream as you adjust your wrist into place, almost falling over again. Your whole arm hurts. You try to ignore how gross reusing a bandage is.

The dizziness is starting to make even standing dangerous. Your body is working against you.

On the bright side, your makeshift splint will make people more likely to take pity on you and help you get away.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else! Also, let me know if you want me to write something from the perspective of the strangers that help Liam in this chapter. I won’t be able to get to it until after whumptober, but I’m curious if anyone would be interested.

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @ghostsinthecloset

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agentbeeswrites · 1 year

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I haven't seen a lot of talk about Lilith's arc in s2 of Warrior Nun on my feed. I was all for it up until that scene where her relationship with Adriel changed.

I loved seeing how horrible her mother is. It put her struggles into perspective to see the source of her trauma.

Lilith's continuing quest for power. The vulnerability she showed to anyone she thought might be able to help her.

And I was angry at the Order for being so incredibly shitty to her. Just come back and fall into line, they tried to tell her. Swallow all of your hurt and doubt and mistrust and do it all again. For no other reason than she was one of them. No one would listen to her. They had no idea what she was going through, and honestly didn't care enough to bother finding out. She was just an asset to them at that point.

I was 100% with her up until that moment. Girl is a badass and got really fucked up in her quest for power. Her trauma created a hole that she never figured out how to fill. All it gave her was a need for control and trust issues. And when she lost control over her body, who actually helped her?

Adriel.

He was a narcissist who obviously manipulated her to join him, but I think he was honest with her. Adriel was the only one who embraced what she had become, what she was becoming. He made her feel special (and she was!), told her that she had a role to fill, that she was powerful all in her own right and that he wanted her to use that power in his quest to save the world.

I bet in the end he was doing what he thought best to help humans survive the coming war. I'm not excusing any of his atrocities. I'm just saying that there was something he feared beyond being captured by Reya. He seemed to think his takeover of humanity was a way to buffer them from extinction. Because, in spite of all the horrible things he did, he seemed to really like it on earth and all of the technology and earthly pleasures he could take part in.

Anyways, Lilith did not deserve a terrible romantic interest. She was already down with his power play. It was completely unnecessary.

I wouldn't cut a second of the wonderful character moments we got with nuns and Ava this season, but I do wish that Lilith had a little more time to struggle with the morality of what she was doing. To find her own limits and ideals and how to exist in the world with them. She's always been a grey character. (I love complex characters of questionable morality.) Until she has a reckoning with herself and owns everything that she is and has done, I don't think that she's going to find the stability she needs.

I hope that she finds healing one day. As much as the Warrior Nun is supposed to be a beacon of light against the darkness, Lilith could be a power on that same level from the shadows.

#warrior nun #warrior nun s2 #warrior nun spoilers #lilith

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mystalwartheart · 19 days

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Something else I think about a lot when it comes to Jill and romance is reciprocity.

In a healthy relationship, all parties involved should be willing and able to take care of each other equally. We all have our old wounds and we all need TLC, but if we find ourselves in a situation where we're spending most of our time attending to someone else's pain while they're doing nothing or very little about our own, that's a lopsided and destructive dynamic.

I have to say it. It's almost a cliché at this point to reiterate how it's not a woman's job to fix a broken man (and any additional genderfluid permutations of this), but it does need to be said.

There is a trend I've noticed in some (not all, and maybe not even most) portrayals of the Jill/Chris relationship that Chris is a shattered man barely holding on because of what he's been through over his life, but Jill is the one who can soothe and heal him and remind him of his humanity. It's enough of a theme that when Death Island tried to invert it the result felt weird and out of character for them both.

Jill's been through the ringer just as much as Chris has, if not more so, regardless of whether or not you follow canon or my divergent biography for her. And the portrayals of Jill I gravitate to, and that I've based mine on, show her handling it in a far healthier way: She has her wounds and her scars, but she's still alive. She keeps coming back to do what she's devoted to, and more or less takes life in stride.

But that doesn't mean she doesn't need love and softness. Even the strongest of us still need a safe space to be vulnerable. She has her own needs that must be met, and I have healthy doubts that most portrayals of Chris I come across in canon or fandom would be capable of meeting them. And that just wouldn't be fair to Jill.

That's also partly, I think, why my story has ended up the way it has. Chris certainly could be the person Jill needs: He absolutely has it in him, and I'm always down to ship my Jill with any Chris who recognizes this. But that self-destructiveness has unfortunately become a huge part of the canon character and derived portrayals over the years, even if the endings of neither Resident Evil (1996) nor Resident Evil (2002) necessarily imply that's the road he's destined to go down.

This is something that's built into Ashley's character by default though: It's simply part of who she is as a person that's established as early as Resident Evil 4 (2005), and Resident Evil 4 (2023) more or less makes it her entire character arc. Her relationship with Leon is almost the complete opposite of the unhealthy Valenfield takes: Ashley spends the entire game practically throwing herself at Leon, begging him to let her help him and take care of him. She's afraid she can't do much, because she's a scared and traumatized kid, but she recognizes the severity and desperation of the situation they're in and still wants to do what she can.

She knows what she has to do when the chips are down, and that's what makes her a true Survivor.

Leon though, brushes her off at almost every opportunity, only relenting in the emotional climax where she saves them both from Las Plagas (and again, this is elabourated on in RE4make when there are a number of puzzles Leon and Ashley have to solve together). Leon has his own special cocktail of self-destructive traits, but I'm going off on a tangent: The point is, Ashley would do the same for Jill if she were in that situation with her, and Jill would immediately pick up on and be receptive to that.

It might even be novel and unexpected enough for Jill to momentarily wrongfoot her: She likely wouldn't have been used to that kind of treatment, at least on this team. Ashley's pure care, concern and affection takes a decidedly different tone to Chris' overprotectiveness or the professional camaraderie and loyalty of O'Brian, Billy and Rebecca.

#OOC.#Headcanons.#Ali writes.#Ali on writing.#With Chris.#With Ashley.

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fromprison2002 · 6 months

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Sci-fi

Unstable Orbits in the Space of Lies

GREG EGAN

I always feel safest sleeping on the freeway—or at least, those stretches of it that happen to lie in regions of approximate equilibrium between the surrounding attractors. With our sleeping bags laid out carefully along the fading white lines between the northbound lanes (perhaps because of a faint hint of geomancy reaching up from Chinatown—not quite drowned out by the influence of scientific humanism from the east, liberal Judaism from the west, and some vehement anti-spiritual, anti-intellectual hedonism from the north), I can close my eyes safe in the knowledge that Maria and I are not going to wake up believing, wholeheartedly and irrevocably, in Papal infallibility, the sentience of Gaia, the delusions of insight induced by meditation, or the miraculous healing powers of tax reform.

So when I wake to find the sun already clear of the horizon—and Maria gone—I don’t panic. No faith, no world view, no belief system, no culture, could have reached out in the night and claimed her. The borders of the basins of attraction do fluctuate, advancing and retreating by tens of metres daily—but it’s highly unlikely that any of them could have penetrated this far into our precious wasteland of anomie and doubt. I can’t think why she would have walked off and left me, without a word—but Maria does things, now and then, that I find wholly inexplicable. And vice versa. Even after a year together, we still have that.

I don’t panic—but I don’t linger, either. I don’t want to get too far behind. I rise to my feet, stretching, and try to decide which way she would have headed; unless the local conditions have changed since she departed, that should be much the same as asking where I want to go, myself.

The attractors can’t be fought, they can’t be resisted—but it’s possible to steer a course between them, to navigate the contradictions. The easiest way to start out is to make use of a strong, but moderately distant attractor to build up momentum—while taking care to arrange to be deflected at the last minute by a countervailing influence.

Choosing the first attractor—the belief to which surrender must be feigned—is always a strange business. Sometimes it feels, almost literally, like sniffing the wind, like following an external trail; sometimes it seems like pure introspection, like trying to determine ‘my own’ true beliefs… and sometimes the whole idea of making a distinction between these apparent opposites seems misguided. Yeah, very fucking Zen—and that’s how it strikes me now… which in itself just about answers the question. The balance here is delicate, but one influence is marginally stronger: Eastern philosophies are definitely more compelling than the alternatives, from where I stand—and knowing the purely geographical reasons for this doesn’t really make it any less true. I piss on the chain-link fence between the freeway and the railway line, to hasten its decay, then I roll up my sleeping bag, take a swig of water from my canteen, hoist my pack, and start walking.

A bakery’s robot delivery van speeds past me, and I curse my solitude: without elaborate preparations, it takes at least two agile people to make use of them: one to block the vehicle’s path, the other to steal the food. Losses through theft are small enough that the people of the attractors seem to tolerate them; presumably, greater security measures just aren’t worth the cost—although no doubt the inhabitants of each ethical monoculture have their own unique ‘reasons’ for not starving us amoral tramps into submission. I take out a sickly carrot which I dug from one of my vegetable gardens when I passed by last night; it makes a pathetic breakfast, but as I chew on it, I think about the bread rolls that I’ll steal when I’m back with Maria again, and my anticipation almost overshadows the bland, woody taste of the present.

The freeway curves gently south-east. I reach a section flanked by deserted factories and abandoned houses, and against this background of relative silence, the tug of Chinatown, straight ahead now, grows stronger and clearer. That glib label—‘Chinatown’—was always an oversimplification, of course; before Meltdown, the area contained at least a dozen distinct cultures besides Hong Kong and Malaysian Chinese, from Korean to Cambodian, from Thai to Timorese—and several varieties of every religion from Buddhism to Islam. All of that diversity has vanished now, and the homogeneous amalgam that finally stabilised would probably seem utterly bizarre to any individual pre-Meltdown inhabitant of the district. To the present-day citizens, of course, the strange hybrid feels exactly right; that’s the definition of stability, the whole reason the attractors exist. If I marched right into Chinatown, not only would I find myself sharing the local values and beliefs, I’d be perfectly happy to stay that way for the rest of my life.

I don’t expect that I’ll march right in, though—any more than I expect the Earth to dive straight into the Sun. It’s been almost four years since Meltdown, and no attractor has captured me yet.

* * *

I’ve heard dozens of ‘explanations’ for the events of that day, but I find most of them equally dubious—rooted as they are in the world-views of particular attractors. One way in which I sometimes think of it, on 12 January, 2018, the human race must have crossed some kind of unforeseen threshold—of global population, perhaps—and suffered a sudden, irreversible change of psychic state.

Telepathy is not the right word for it; after all, nobody found themself drowning in an ocean of babbling voices; nobody suffered the torment of empathic overload. The mundane chatter of consciousness stayed locked inside our heads; our quotidian mental privacy remained unbreached. (Or perhaps, as some have suggested, everyone’s mental privacy was so thoroughly breached that the sum of our transient thoughts forms a blanket of featureless white noise covering the planet, which the brain filters out effortlessly.)

In any case, for whatever reason, the second-by-second soap operas of other people’s inner lives remained, mercifully, as inaccessible as ever… but our skulls became completely permeable to each other’s values and beliefs, each other’s deepest convictions.

At first, this meant pure chaos. My memories of the time are confused and nightmarish; I wandered the city for a day and a night (I think), finding God (or some equivalent) anew every six seconds—seeing no visions, hearing no voices, but wrenched from faith to faith by invisible forces of dream logic. People moved in a daze, cowed and staggering—while ideas moved between us like lightning. Revelation followed contradictory revelation. I wanted it to stop, badly—I would have prayed for it to stop, if God had stayed the same long enough to be prayed to. I’ve heard other tramps compare these early mystical convulsions to drug rushes, to orgasms, to being picked up and dumped by ten-metre waves, ceaselessly, hour after hour—but looking back, I find myself reminded most of a bout of gastroenteritis I once suffered: a long, feverish night of interminable vomiting and diarrhoea. Every muscle, every joint in my body ached, my skin burned: I felt like I was dying. And every time I thought I lacked the strength to expel anything more from my body, another spasm took hold of me. By four in the morning, my helplessness seemed positively transcendental: the peristaltic reflex possessed me like some harsh—but ultimately benevolent—deity. At the time, it was the most religious experience I’d ever been through.

All across the city, competing belief systems fought for allegiance, mutating and hybridising along the way… like those random populations of computer viruses they used to unleash against each other in experiments to demonstrate subtle points of evolutionary theory. Or perhaps like the historical clashes of the very same beliefs—with the length and timescales drastically shortened by the new mode of interaction, and a lot less bloodshed, now that the ideas themselves could do battle in a purely mental arena, rather than employing sword-wielding Crusaders or extermination camps. Or, like a swarm of demons set loose upon the Earth to possess all but the righteous…

The chaos didn’t last long. In some places seeded by pre-Meltdown clustering of cultures and religions—and in other places, by pure chance—certain belief systems gained enough of an edge, enough of a foothold, to start spreading out from a core of believers into the surrounding random detritus, capturing adjacent, disordered populations where no dominant belief had yet emerged. The more territory these snowballing attractors conquered, the faster they grew. Fortunately—in this city, at least—no single attractor was able to expand unchecked: they all ended up hemmed in, sooner or later, by equally powerful neighbours—or confined by sheer lack of population at the city’s outskirts, and near voids of non-residential land.

Within a week of Meltdown, the anarchy had crystallised into more or less the present configuration, with ninety-nine per cent of the population having moved—or changed—until they were content to be exactly where—and who—they were.

I happened to end up between attractors—affected by many, but captured by none—and I’ve managed to stay in orbit ever since. Whatever the knack is, I seem to have it; over the years, the ranks of the tramps have thinned, but a core of us remains free.

In the early years, the people of the attractors used to send up robot helicopters to scatter pamphlets over the city, putting the case for their respective metaphors for what had happened—as if a well-chosen analogy for the disaster might be enough to win them converts; it took a while for some of them to understand that the written word had been rendered obsolete as a vector for indoctrination. Ditto for audiovisual techniques—and that still hasn’t sunk in everywhere. Not long ago, on a battery-powered TV set in an abandoned house, Maria and I picked up a broadcast from a network of rationalist enclaves, showing an alleged ‘simulation’ of Meltdown as a colour-coded dance of mutually carnivorous pixels, obeying a few simple mathematical rules. The commentator spouted jargon about self-organising systems—and lo, with the magic of hindsight, the flickers of colour rapidly evolved into the familiar pattern of hexagonal cells, isolated by moats of darkness (unpopulated except for the barely visible presence of a few unimportant specks; we wondered which ones were meant to be us).

I don’t know how things would have turned out if there hadn’t been the pre-existing infrastructure of robots and telecommunications to allow people to live and work without travelling outside their own basins—the regions guaranteed to lead back to the central attractor—most of which are only a kilometre or two wide. (In fact, there must be many places where that infrastructure wasn’t present, but I haven’t been exactly plugged into the global village these last few years, so I don’t know how they’ve fared.) Living on the margins of this society makes me even more dependent on its wealth than those who inhabit its multiple centres, so I suppose I should be glad that most people are content with the status quo—and I’m certainly delighted that they can co-exist in peace, that they can trade and prosper.

I’d rather die than join them, that’s all.

(Or at least, that’s true right here, right now.)

* * *

The trick is to keep moving, to maintain momentum. There are no regions of perfect neutrality—or if there are, they’re too small to find, probably too small to inhabit, and they’d almost certainly drift as the conditions within the basins varied. Near enough is fine for a night, but if I tried to live in one place, day after day, week after week, then whichever attractor held even the slightest advantage would, eventually, begin to sway me.

Momentum, and confusion. Whether or not it’s true that we’re spared each other’s inner voices because so much uncorrelated babbling simply cancels itself out, my aim is to do just that with the more enduring, more coherent, more pernicious parts of the signal. At the very centre of the Earth, no doubt, the sum of all human beliefs adds up to pure, harmless noise: here on the surface, though, where it’s physically impossible to be equidistant from everyone, I’m forced to keep moving to average out the effects as best I can.

Sometimes I daydream about heading out into the countryside, and living in glorious clear-headed solitude beside a robot-tended farm, stealing the equipment and supplies I need to grow all my own food. With Maria? If she’ll come; sometimes she says yes, sometimes she says no. Half a dozen times, we’ve told ourselves that we’re setting out on such a journey… but we’ve yet to discover a trajectory out of the city, a route that would take us safely past all the intervening attractors, without being gradually deflected back towards the urban centre. There must be a way out, it’s simply a matter of finding it—and if all the rumours from other tramps have turned out to be dead ends, that’s hardly surprising: the only people who could know for certain how to leave the city are those who’ve stumbled on the right path and actually departed, leaving no hints or rumours behind.

Sometimes, though, I stop dead in the middle of the road and ask myself what I ‘really want’:

To escape to the country, and lose myself in the silence of my own mute soul?

To give up this pointless wandering and rejoin civilisation? For the sake of prosperity, stability, certainty: to swallow, and be swallowed by, one elaborate set of self-affirming lies?

Or, to keep orbiting this way until I die?

The answer, of course, depends on where I’m standing.

* * *

More robot trucks pass me, but I no longer give them a second glance. I picture my hunger as an object—another weight to carry, not much heavier than my pack—and it gradually recedes from my attention. I let my mind grow blank, and I think of nothing but the early-morning sunshine on my face, and the pleasure of walking.

After a while, a startling clarity begins to wash over me; a deep tranquillity, together with a powerful sense of understanding. The odd part is, I have no idea what it is that I think I understand; I’m experiencing the pleasure of insight without any apparent cause, without the faintest hope of replying to the question: insight into what? The feeling persists, regardless.

I think: I’ve travelled in circles, all these years, and where has it brought me?

To this moment. To this chance to take my first real steps along the path to enlightenment.

And all I have to do is keep walking, straight ahead.

For four years, I’ve been following a false tao—pursuing an illusion of freedom, striving for no reason but the sake of striving—but now I see the way to transform that journey into—

Into what? A short cut to damnation?

‘Damnation’? There’s no such thing. Only samsara, the treadmill of desires. Only the futility of striving. My understanding is clouded, now—but I know that if I travelled a few steps further, the truth would soon become clear to me.

For several seconds, I’m paralysed by indecision—shot through with pure dread—but then, drawn by the possibility of redemption, I leave the freeway, clamber over the fence, and head due south.

These side streets are familiar. I pass a car yard full of sun-bleached wrecks melting in slow motion, their plastic chassis triggered by disuse into autodegradation; a video porn and sex-aids shop, façade intact, dark within, stinking of rotting carpet and mouse shit; an outboard motor showroom, the latest four-year-old—fuel cell models proudly on display already looking like bizarre relics from another century.

Then the sight of the cathedral spire rising above all this squalor hits me with a giddy mixture of nostalgia and déjà vu. In spite of everything, part of me still feels like a true Prodigal Son, coming home for the first time—not passing through for the fiftieth. I mumble prayers and phrases of dogma, strangely comforting formulae reawakened from memories of my last perihelion.

Soon, only one thing puzzles me: how could I have known God’s perfect love—and then walked away?

It’s unthinkable. How could I have turned my back on Him?

I come to a row of pristine houses: I know they’re uninhabited, but here in the border zone the diocesan robots keep the lawns trimmed, the leaves swept, the walls painted. A few blocks further, south-west, and I’ll never turn my back on the truth again. I head that way, gladly.

Almost gladly.

The only trouble is… with each step south it grows harder to ignore the fact that the scriptures—let alone Catholic dogma—are full of the most grotesque errors of fact and logic. Why should a revelation from a perfect, loving God be such a dog’s breakfast of threats and contradictions? Why should it offer such a flawed and confused view of humanity’s place in the universe?

Errors of fact? The metaphors had to be chosen to suit the world-view of the day; should God have mystified the author of Genesis with details of the Big Bang, and primordial nucleosynthesis?

Contradictions? Tests of faith—and humility. How can I be so arrogant as to set my wretched powers of reasoning against the Word of the Almighty? God transcends everything, logic included.

Logic especially.

It’s no good. Virgin births? Miracles with loaves and fishes? Resurrection? Poetic fables only, not to be taken literally? If that’s the case, though, what’s left but a few well-intentioned homilies, and a lot of pompous theatrics? If God did in fact become man, suffer, die, and rise again to save me, then I owe Him everything… but if it’s just a beautiful story, then I can love my neighbour with or without regular doses of bread and wine.

I veer south-east.

The truth about the universe (here) is infinitely stranger, and infinitely more grand: it lies in the Laws of Physics that have come to know Themselves through humanity. Our destiny and purpose are encoded in the fine structure constant, and the value of the density omega. The human race—in whatever form, robot or organic—will keep on advancing for the next ten billion years, until we can give rise to the hyperintelligence which will cause the finely tuned Big Bang required to bring us into existence.

If we don’t die out in the next few millennia.

In which case, other intelligent creatures will perform the task. It doesn’t matter who carries the torch.

Exactly. None of it matters. Why should I care what a civilisation of posthumans, robots, or aliens, might or might not do ten billion years from now? What does any of this grandiose shit have to do with me?

I finally catch sight of Maria, a few blocks ahead of me—and right on cue, the existentialist attractor to the west firmly steers me away from the suburbs of cosmic baroque. I increase my pace, but only slightly—it’s too hot to run, but more to the point, sudden acceleration can have some peculiar side effects, bringing on unexpected philosophical swerves.

As I narrow the gap, she turns at the sound of my footsteps.

I say, ‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’ She doesn’t seem exactly thrilled to see me—but then, this isn’t exactly the place for it.

I fall into step beside her. ‘You left without me.’

She shrugs. ‘I wanted to be on my own for a while. I wanted to think things over.’

I laugh. ‘If you wanted to think, you should have stayed on the freeway.’

‘There’s another spot ahead. In the park. It’s just as good.’

She’s right—although now I’m here to spoil it for her. I ask myself for the thousandth time: Why do I want us to stay together? Because of what we have in common? But we owe most of that to the very fact that we are together—travelling the same paths, corrupting each other with our proximity. Because of our differences, then? For the sake of occasional moments of mutual incomprehensibility? But the longer we’re together, the more that vestige of mystery will be eroded; orbiting each other can only lead to a spiralling together, an end to all distinctions.

Why, then?

The honest answer (here and now) is: food and sex—although tomorrow, elsewhere, no doubt I’ll look back and brand that conclusion a cynical lie.

I fall silent as we drift towards the equilibrium zone. The last few minutes’ confusion still rings in my head, satisfyingly jumbled, the giddy succession of truncated epiphanies effectively cancelling each other out, leaving nothing behind but an amorphous sense of distrust. I remember a school of thought from pre-Meltdown days which proclaimed, with bovine good intentions—confusing laudable tolerance with sheer credulity—that there was something of value in every human philosophy… and what’s more, when you got right down to it, they all really spoke the same ‘universal truths’, and were all, ultimately, reconcilable. Apparently, none of these supine ecumenicists have survived to witness the palpable disproof of their hypothesis; I expect they all converted, three seconds after Meltdown, to the faith of whoever was standing closest to them at the time.

Maria mutters angrily, ‘Wonderful!’ I look up at her, then follow her gaze. The park has come into view, and if it’s time to herself she wanted, she has more than me to contend with. At least two dozen other tramps are gathered in the shade. That’s rare, but it does happen; equilibrium zones are the slowest parts of everybody’s orbits, so I suppose it’s not surprising that occasionally a group of us ends up becalmed together.

As we come closer, I notice something stranger: everybody reclining on the grass is facing the same way. Watching something—or someone—hidden from view by the trees.

Someone. A woman’s voice reaches us, the words indistinct at this distance, but the tone mellifluous. Confident. Gentle but persuasive.

Maria says nervously, ‘Maybe we should stay back. Maybe the equilibrium’s shifted.’

‘Maybe.’ I’m as worried as she is—but intrigued as well. I don’t feel much of a tug from any of the familiar local attractors—but then, I can’t be sure that my curiosity itself isn’t a new hook for an old idea.

I say, ‘Let’s just… skirt around the rim of the park. We can’t ignore this; we have to find out what’s going on.’ If a nearby basin has expanded and captured the park, then keeping our distance from the speaker is no guarantee of freedom; it’s not her words, or her lone presence, that could harm us—but Maria (knowing all this, I’m sure) accepts my ‘strategy’ for warding off the danger, and nods assent.

We position ourselves in the middle of the road at the eastern edge of the park, without noticeable effect. The speaker, middle-aged I’d guess, looks every inch a tramp, from the dirt-stiff clothes to the crudely cut hair to the weathered skin and lean build of a half-starved perennial walker. Only the voice is wrong. She’s set up a frame, like an easel, on which she’s stretched a large map of the city; the roughly hexagonal cells of the basins are neatly marked in a variety of colours. People used to swap maps like this all the time, in the early years; maybe she’s just showing off her prize possession, hoping to trade it for something worthwhile. I don’t think much of her chances; by now, I’m sure, every tramp relies on his or her own mental picture of the ideological terrain.

Then she lifts a pointer and traces part of a feature I’d missed: a delicate web of blue lines, weaving through the gaps between the hexagons.

The woman says, ‘But of course it’s no accident. We haven’t stayed out of the basins all these years by sheer good luck—or even skill.’ She looks out across the crowd, notices us, pauses a moment, then says calmly, ‘We’ve been captured by our own attractor. It’s nothing like the others—it’s not a fixed set of beliefs, in a fixed location—but it’s still an attractor, it’s still drawn us to it from whatever unstable orbits we might have been on. I’ve mapped it—or part of it—and I’ve sketched it as well as I can. The true detail may be infinitely fine—but even from this crude representation, you should recognise paths that you’ve walked yourselves.’

I stare at the map. From this distance, the blue strands are impossible to follow individually; I can see that they cover the route that Maria and I have taken, over the last few days, but—

An old man calls out, ‘You’ve scrawled a lot of lines between the basins. What does that prove?’

‘Not between all the basins.’ She touches a point on the map. ‘Has anyone ever been here? Or here? Or here? No? Here? Or here? Why not? They’re all wide corridors between attractors—they look as safe as any of the others. So why have we never been to these places? For the same reason nobody living in the fixed attractors has: they’re not part of our territory; they’re not part of our own attractor.’

I know she’s talking nonsense, but the phrase alone is enough to make me feel panicky, claustrophobic. Our own attractor. We’ve been captured by our own attractor. I scan the rim of the city on the map; the blue line never comes close to it. In fact, the line gets about as far from the centre as I’ve ever travelled, myself…

Proving what? Only that this woman has had no better luck than I have. If she’d escaped the city, she wouldn’t be here to claim that escape was impossible.

A woman in the crowd—visibly pregnant—says, ‘You’ve drawn your own paths, that’s all. You’ve stayed out of danger—I’ve stayed out of danger—we all know what places to avoid. That’s all you’re telling us. That’s all we have in common.’

‘No!’ The speaker traces a stretch of the blue line again. ‘This is who we are. We’re not aimless wanderers; we’re the people of this strange attractor. We have an identity—a unity—after all.’

There’s laughter, and a few desultory insults from the crowd. I whisper to Maria, ‘Do you know her? Have you see her before?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’

‘You wouldn’t have. Isn’t it obvious? She’s some kind of robot evangelist—’

‘She doesn’t talk much like one.’

‘Rationalist—not Christian or Mormon.’

‘Rationalists don’t send evangelists.’

‘No? Mapping strange attractors; if that’s not rationalist jargon, what is it?’

Maria shrugs. ‘Basins, attractors—they’re all rationalist words, but everybody uses them. You know what they say: the Devil has the best tunes, but the rationalists have the best jargon. Words have to come from somewhere.’

The woman says, ‘I’ll build my church on sand. And I’ll ask no one to follow me—and yet, you will. You all will.’

I say, ‘Let’s go.’ I take Maria’s arm, but she pulls free angrily.

‘Why are you so against her? Maybe she’s right.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘Everyone else has an attractor—why can’t we have one of our own? Stranger than all the rest. Look at it: it’s the most beautiful thing on the map.’

I shake my head, horrified. ‘How can you say that? We’ve stayed free. We’ve struggled so hard to stay free.’

She shrugs. ‘Maybe. Or maybe we’ve been captured by what you call freedom. Maybe we don’t need to struggle any more. Is that so bad? If we’re doing what we want, either way, why should we care?’

Without any fuss, the woman starts packing up her easel, and the crowd of tramps begins to disperse. Nobody seems to have been much affected by the brief sermon; everyone heads off calmly on their own chosen orbits.

I, say, ‘The people in the basins are doing what they want. I don’t want to be like them.’

Maria laughs. ‘Believe me, you’re not.’

‘No, you’re right, I’m not: they’re rich, fat and complacent; I’m starving, tired, and confused. And for what? Why am I living this way? That robot’s trying to take away the one thing that makes it all worthwhile.’

‘Yeah? Well, I’m tired and hungry, too. And maybe an attractor of my own will make it all worthwhile.’

‘How?’ I laugh derisively. ‘Will you worship it? Will you pray to it?’

‘No. But I won’t have to be afraid any more. If we really have been captured—if the way we live is stable, after all—then putting one foot wrong won’t matter: we’ll be drawn back to our own attractor. We won’t have to worry that the smallest mistake will send us sliding into one of the basins. If that’s true, aren’t you glad?’

I shake my head angrily. ‘That’s bullshit—dangerous bullshit. Staying out of the basins is a skill, it’s a gift. You know that. We navigate the channels, carefully, balancing the opposing forces—’

‘Do we? I’m sick of feeling like a tightrope walker.’

‘Being sick of it doesn’t mean it isn’t true! Don’t you see? She wants us to be complacent! The more of us who start to think orbiting is easy, the more of us will end up captured by the basins—’

I’m distracted by the sight of the prophet hefting her possessions and setting off. I say, ‘Look at her: she may be a perfect imitation—but she’s a robot, she’s a fake. They’ve finally understood that their pamphlets and their preaching machines won’t work, so they’ve sent a machine to lie to us about our freedom.’

Maria says, ‘Prove it.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got a knife. If she’s a robot, go after her, stop her, cut her open. Prove it.’

The woman, the robot, crosses the park, heading north-west, away from us. I say, ‘You know me; I could never do that.’

‘If she’s a robot, she won’t feel a thing.’

‘But she looks human. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stick a knife into a perfect imitation of human flesh.’

‘Because you know she’s not a robot. You know she’s telling the truth.’

Part of me is simply glad to be arguing with Maria, for the sake of proving our separateness—but part of me finds everything she’s saying too painful to leave unchallenged.

I hesitate a moment, then put down my pack and sprint across the park towards the prophet.

She turns when she hears me, and stops walking. There’s no one else nearby. I halt a few metres away from her, and catch my breath. She regards me with patient curiosity. I stare at her, feeling increasingly foolish. I can’t pull a knife on her: she might not be a robot, after all—she might just be a tramp with strange ideas.

She says, ‘Did you want to ask me something?’

Almost without thinking, I blurt out, ‘How do you know nobody’s ever left the city? How can you be so sure it’s never happened?’

She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t say that. The attractor looks like a closed loop to me. Anyone who’s been captured by it could never leave. But other people may have escaped.’

‘What other people?’

‘People who weren’t in the attractor’s basin.’

I scowl, confused. ‘What basin? I’m not talking about the people of the basins, I’m talking about us.’

She laughs. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean the basins that lead to the fixed attractors. Our strange attractor has a basin, too: all the points that lead to it. I don’t know what this basin’s shape is: like the attractor itself, the detail could be infinitely fine. Not every point in the gaps between the hexagons would be part of it: some points must lead to the fixed attractors—that’s why some tramps have been captured by them. Other points would belong to the strange attractor’s basin. But others—’

‘What?’

‘Other points might lead to infinity. To escape.’

‘Which points?’

She shrugs. ‘Who knows? There could be two points, side by side, one leading into the strange attractor, one leading—eventually—out of the city. The only way to find out which is which would be to start at each point, and see what happens.’

‘But you said we’d all been captured, already—’

She nods. ‘After so many orbits, the basins must have emptied into their respective attractors. The attractors are the stable part: the basins lead into the attractors, but the attractors lead into themselves. Anyone who was destined for a fixed attractor must be in it by now—and anyone who was destined to leave the city has already gone. Those of us who are still in orbit will stay that way. We have to understand that, accept that, learn to live with it… and if that means inventing our own faith, our own religion—’

I grab her arm, draw my knife, and quickly scrape the point across her forearm. She yelps and pulls free, then clasps her hand to the wound. A moment later, she takes it away to inspect the damage, and I see the thin red line on her arm, and a rough wet copy on her palm.

‘You lunatic!’ she yells, backing away.

Maria approaches us. The probably-flesh-and-blood prophet addresses her: ‘He’s mad! Get him off me!’ Maria takes hold of my arm, then, inexplicably, leans towards me and puts her tongue in my ear. I burst out laughing. The woman steps back uncertainly, then turns and hurries away.

Maria says, ‘Not much of a dissection—but as far as it went, it was in my favour. I win.’

I hesitate, then feign surrender.

‘You win.’

* * *

By nightfall, we end up on the freeway again; this time, to the east of the city centre. We gaze at the sky above the black silhouette of abandoned office towers, our brains mildly scrambled by the residual effects of a nearby cluster of astrologers, as we eat the day’s prize catch: a giant vegetarian pizza.

Finally, Maria says, ‘Venus has set. I think I ought to sleep now.’

I nod. ‘I’ll wait up for Mars.’

Traces of the day’s barrage drift through my mind, more or less at random—but I can still recall most of what the woman in the park told me.

After so many orbits, the basins must have emptied…

So by now, we’ve all ended up captured. But—how could she know that? How could she be sure?

And what if she’s wrong? What if we haven’t all, yet, arrived in our final resting place?

The astrologers say: None of her filthy, materialist, reductionist lies can be true. Except the ones about destiny. We like destiny. Destiny is fine.

I get up and walk a dozen metres south, neutralising their contribution. Then I turn and watch Maria sleeping.

There could be two points, side by side, one leading into the strange attractor, one leading—eventually—out of the city. The only way to find out which is which would be to start at each point, and see what happens.

Right now, everything she said sounds to me like some heavily distorted and badly misunderstood rationalist model. And here I am, grasping at hope by seizing on half of her version, and throwing out the rest. Metaphors mutating and hybridising, all over again…

I walk over to Maria, crouch down and bend to kiss her, gently, upside down on the forehead. She doesn’t even stir.

Then I lift my pack and set off down the freeway, believing for a moment that I can feel the emptiness beyond the city reach through, reach over, all the obstacles ahead, and claim me.

0 notes

strangerstoryteller · 1 year

Text

It's been a while. Isn it? How are you doing?

I guess doing pretty well since you succeeded in ignoring me even in my dreams. You have successfully passed the test. I am proud of you!.. Anyways,

It feels empty now that you're gone. Honestly I hate this version of me. I know I have done wrong. If only I was aware that the boundaries you had made were for me. I did felt that love you had for me. But I guess I was delusional to not realize it earlier, to think otherwise, to doubt it... I feel like I barely told you about me and there is so many things left to tell you. I feel like so... A part of me I kept hidden cz I didn't want that part to be seen by you.. I thought if I did, it might give you the wrong idea and thought time would heal and tell and probably when I'll be comfortable enough to talk about it I will tell you .. And now maybe I won't be able to show that side to you anymore as it's not that necessary.... However as usual it's always been that side of me that keeps messing on with my life. I'm trying,,I'm trying to heal to be a human. But it seems so hard to do so.

I have always talked with you in English cause with it the words didn't felt that heavy... The words seems to have it's own way to express me....

I love the idea of being in love. I want to be in one as well. But getting loved by someone, it just never felt right for me. I have always fancied this, the emotions, the feelings, and everything. With it I was able to hide and create my own world. You know everytime someone said 'I love you's to me I was able to find the reasons behind those words coming from them. Whereas I couldn't find the reason behind yours. Thank you for being the person.

For me, I have always seen the world differently. I guess you noticed some of it. The way my thinking works. I can't really control any of it..

You see I'm just some pathetic complicated human being who's too easy to read for the closed ones.. Tapi once said that I'm a people pleaser. I always had been. I can't say no to someone that easily. Since then I could connect the dots that how badly I have been treating myself. Even though I have been trying to fix this part of me for more than a year or so. It's painful to be selfish when half of your life passed pleasing people. It just never felt right, being selfish for my ownself. Idk how much you have got to see those parts of me. Cause while with you I tried to be better. I guess I just failed everytime.

I always had to understand elders situations. And with you I did the same yet I failed to know you like that... While trying to know others, I forgot to understand me. How to be me. How was I supposed to react. What exactly am I. I'm still searching.

Before, whenever there was something painful going around me. Those nights with tearful eyes you would just show up like an angel . Those pains started to feel like less heavier to me. Even during the day, I would just try to find something interesting to tell you at night. From being a depressed human being I started becoming more cheerful. Trying to be more adventurous... Trying to get better, to get to love myself.. to enjoy the life to its fullest... My whole universe started to depend on you. Which is why I even started to tell you my thoughts which I used to keep to myself. You see whenever someone is less appreciated, find someone who's eager to listen to them, to know them, they just can't help but pour everything. There were things I couldn't tell my friends but I was able to tell you. I'm grateful for that.

I overthink a lot. I always tried to understand others but no one did that for me. Yet that day I only asked you that question that, what if I get into a relationship was to see how you'd react. You behaved as usual, giving mixed signals that you wouldnt care. The next I remember you talking about risk, you ain't gonna accept if your wife, if she turns out to be in love before or something like that.

I figured that it won't last yet I told you cause I thought what if I'm just assuming the love you had for me.. I still told you cause I thought if I don't tell you what happened I won't feel good. I would keep on feeling guilty for not being the perfect one for you. Even though I didn't planned it to happen this way, still it would eat me up in the future if by any miracle I get to be with you.. I hoped that you would understand me. I know my way of words were wrong all these time. I was not playing with you neither with the other guy.. Instead of being clear to you I kept on messing cause I was so afraid to loose you. I was afraid of the fear I had since the last 2 years. It seems like I already lost you.. like the saying whatever you're afraid of happening will happen... I really needed your help,,,pretty bad.. but that one sentence literally broke me, left me feeling like I'm unworthy of everything... Unworthy of being someones first priority... And once again reminded me that I failed... Before you losing me,,, I lost you...

For a normie it's not even that huge of a reason to grew apart. Yet I knew that it would affect both you and me. Remember when I said "ভালোবাসা টের পাওয়া যায়।" believing this I told you to stay clean... I thought what I had was true and no matter what you'd understand...

I have always been conservative. And that rickshaw thing, I grew up going to school with some outsider of my family..he was our manager... He was like a brother to me. He left when I was in 9 or 10 I don't remember... And bhaia, I still ride his Scooty .. Riding a rickshaw with a friend who was like a brother to me, I barely give it a second thought that it could be like this or it could hurt you like this.. I do maintain my gap but still it barely came to my mind that it would or might hurt you..

This time I know I made a huge mistake by not saying no strictly. I wanted you to talk with him. Cause I had trust in me that I didn't do anything wrong like giving him hint or something. And yes you pointed it out that I called him over. But while calling him over I made this clear in the call that look brother it's not like we're on a date, you can come over casually. We're just hanging out as friends. Yet he gave me those flowers. I was in no position to run away from it cause he would follow me or could have made a scene. I kind of got nervous and afraid at the same time. Which is why I had to take it and then give it to Dia. I thought of throwing it away but since I went to her house and she needed to cheer up for her exam I thought it's the same whether I threw it or give it to someone else. Which is why I gave it to her. Cause I didn't want to keep that flower with me.. He was planning on sending me off.. If it wasn't for the money short he probably would have done that. So when he was busy making short notes I took a rickshaw and came home. If it was normal I would have just give you photos to make you jealous and then tell you the whole story properly. But I guess it wouldn't work since you're having trouble with the rickshaw thing. I can't change the reality but with all my heart's respect to you, I never cheated on you. Even if I had to swear,, I would have done that. But it seems like I can't really erase this matter from your heart. People always get hurt from those whom they loved the most. And unknowingly but true that I had hurt you more than ever.

You always have been reserved about your emotions and barely told me things that hurt you.. I tried to make these words out from your mouth but you kept on running. And I ended up getting mixed signals, got unsure about your love... And I assumed that even if I told you out that night you would have your ways out... I don't know I'm not sure but my assumption said you would run... I'm sorry for not being able to believe in your intuition..

Nevertheless it turned out to be a hell for me. And I couldn't handle it. I was flabbergasted by his behaviors and mine, as well as yours... Even though I stayed strict to my values I couldn't control the situation. Later whenever we talk about it with you, it kept annoying me. I became more afraid to lose you and at some point I was sure of it that I might loose you. I'm sorry I couldn't keep it. And to save it I accidentally added more fuel to this situation losing control of my everything...

I know It was wrong of me to compare you with him. It does sound that way even if I didn't mean it. I didn't meant to hurt you. I knew your situation and mine as well. Yet at that time I was furious that you kept on bringing this when you could have been the person to give me flowers. You could have been the person to fight the whole world if someone wanted to chase me... It never mattered to me whether I get flowers from you or not until that day I only wanted to make you feel good by saying you could have given me flowers and that flowers from that other guy would never mean anything to me. Besides unlike my wish he gave 4 different flowers ... You could have been the person to give me 3 different color flowers or a dolonchapa,, or anything which you'd give would have been special to me..... But it turned out to be like I was comparing you to him... I never meant to... He was not even on my list cause I had you in my whole brain and everywhere.

As a girl getting flowers or proposals is normal however girls only stick to the ones they love, ones proposals or flowers. They might get those from friends but those barely meant anything to them. I never had any feelings for the other guy and I'm sure I'll never had that. You see when one loves someone dearly no other human nature can make heed to them or change that feeling...

And before all this when I told you he was a playboy during that time I thought he was. Later he seemed mature and not giving playboy vibes. His father died and as always my people pleaser or empathetic side told me as a friend you should give him strength. He once talked about hanging out. After his father's death. And I thought maybe this could console him. It was a better way for me to kill two birds with one stone. And that's what I did. I was never planing to hurt you. Whether it's to know how you'd react or not and also at the same time being a good friend. I didn't thought that this gonna hurt you this bad..

They say maybe I have made a mistake but it wasn't that strong enough to leave me. They said if he loved you he wouldn't have left.. They said I don't love myself either which is why I'm like this. I'm letting myself treated like this...They try to give me strength by saying that I didn't deserve any of it. And I know as a friend I had suggested you to leave me as well...

I have had high expectations but these girls would literally make them more higher like getting a hold off the moon. Yet look at me. The moon I had, tormented me in a way that I can't love myself anymore... Even though I haven't done anything wrong still I can't forgive myself for loosing you. They says that it's bad, I'm putting you first instead of myself. What shall I do?? You were the light who made it full. And then you stole that light away... Am I really that cruel to you? Really that bad to give up? Did I really broke your trust? When I could have keep this whole thing to myself even after knowing that you would never tolerate this...

You see the moon itself is full of scars. Yet the sun gives it light to get full once in a month or so. Aphrodite, the beauty goddess she's also full of scars. Yet loved by many. I still wonder whether I had any scars or not but still I couldn't be someone dearest to you that it will make you feel afraid of losing me!? I sometimes feel the need of asking you how was I to you...

Shahrukh Khan once said in one of his talk shows that "love is showed, felt, expressed ... however once you feel the need of expressing it using words that's when you loose it." And at some point I felt the need of it. I felt that if I don't tell you, you would go away like sweet nothings... And I couldn't stand that.. I could never be happy if I didn't told you how much you mean to me. I have done this with my father and ever since then I have regretted that why I couldn't hold him in my hands why I couldn't tell him that I loved him... It's always been a regret... And with you I didn't want that to happen...

I know I'm complicated in some cases but you made me believe that I'm hard to love as well. And reminded me not to pull down the walls of my high expectations. I don't know if I would ever be able to love someone or not. But everytime I'll happen to like someone you will be my frame of reference for loving that person and I would compare you to them and they would fail... Even though I was sure that I always had to do arrange marriage I accepted the reality before you,, but after you I'm sure that nobody will be able to reach to my that high expectations. Be able to reach your standard. And I'll have to accept which could have been the bare minimum and been written in my fate..

You remember the very first meet? Ever since then I have been trying to be better... Like you said you hated makeup I didn't even bother to put up one in that meet... And in the second that was my casual look... Since the very first meet I had this feeling that if I mixed with you I would fall for you. Even though I wanted to stay neutral I couldn't cause I was wonderstrucked by you ... Your behaviors, ethics, moral, ambitions even before I met you... I could feel it change day by day... Which is why I tried keeping distance... Until I realized the more I would keep it to myself the more disaster it will be for me.. I couldn't say a word without being awkward or uncomfortable around you cause I had these emotions bottling up... I wondered that slight touch from second meet for almost a year... I couldn't get over it.. and as always I would run back to you... the massages ... I tried to run away from you but your one single massage would turn my whole world upside down...

They said I deserved better... But I had always wanted you... And now that you're gone. It's hard to even accept that someday, someone else will marry you, will occupy your ring finger and you will have a girl who would resemble her and you would completely forget me. From each and everyday to once in a while to never I suppose... I'm not ready to accept that even though I know that's how it's supposed to be. Which is why I wanted to be the best for you. Even though I failed I wanted to be better to be the person for you..

Like all those stories I wrote,, I somehow knew that we wouldn't last like those thousands happy ending stories... And I think that you did it too..

I believe in Marilyn Monroe once noted, " I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together. "

Deep down I knew you were never going to be mine. Yet I tried... I wanted to change my fate with you... I prayed. But when I started asking that does it worth it. Whether you're really in my fate or not. Whether I'm the one for you or not whether you have anything for me or not. Asking what were we??..That's when I started losing you... And that quote being said, everything happens for a reason happens to replay in my head.. And maybe, maybe this is falling apart so that better things for both of us can fall together...

I suppose you regretted to meet me. How I wished we met somewhat different circumstances.. where I could at least have a happy ending with you. Where I could accept you without any worries or where you were able to be accept me the way I'm. Where I had the chance to make everything alright. Where I would make a box of letters to remind us once again why we fell for each other and everytime we broke up, the next we get to see each other, we will throw a glass of water as a revenge come back... How I wish I could say that sentence once again in every stories of mine about you that you're the only man I love... And people getting cringed over my expressions telling me not to fell hard cause the breakdown will be deeper than the falling... How I wish I was your first priority... How I wish to relive each and every moment of falling in love with you. Observing you.. I'm sorry my observing or obsession is different... I can literally watch your vids or photos all day long.. and those staffs like checking out your ig followers those barely mean anything to me.. I wish I loved you just the same way you wanted me too.. If only we were same in real life to collide and stay together until the end. If only we were truly meant for completing each other....

Remember the last time when you asked about being friends.. I couldn't cause I can't look at you like a friend do... I can't erase this from me... And no matter how much I still wanna have something with you, some kind of relationship or bond except being lovers or friends I would rather choose death than being friends with you... cz it's the same for me, being devastatingly broken, dead or being able to be friends with you once again... I can't pull that shit twice for which I had experienced the love in your eyes... Imagined you to be the one for more than a year.....

I know this should not make a huge difference in you. I'm sorry if writing this letter annoys you, gives you more pain. I'm sorry for everything.

One last thing I wanna wish for you, from this day, that you get the girl who loves you thousand times more than I did and that time you accept her the way she is, make her your first priority... and when we cross our paths I wanna see you smile while holding her close to you with your one hand with the little girl or boy.. Just be happy. I hate goodbyes... Hate losing peoples I love... you know that people had left me/us at some point of my life... Which is why I wished to meet you whether it's only you or with your girl in the coming future ... If that's possible...

Make sure you be happy and don't make me feel regret of losing you or making you unhappy for whole life .. I only need some excuse to see you for the whole life... If possible please show up even if it's for once in a while... Whether it's in my city or somewhere else...I won't be asking for too much except this excuses to see you once in a while...

This was the answer to your YouTube video... Thank you for loving me...

Diary log: 5th may 2k23

Edit-1

A letter to you, which I'll never send. A letter to clarify myself. If only you had prioritized me more maybe than I would have been able to send this to you thinking it still gonna work between us. But you left the seasore. You left even before the boat came. I only asked for your time to tell you these to make things work after when my home gets quite... It took me so much time cause I had to deal with family matters and by the time I was ready to talk about this, you had left.

"End it." I couldn't end it. No matter where you are or what your doing. I'll always honestly, truly, completely love you. And I hope that the end it phrase you have used , you never have to use it once again.

I'll learn to love myself. To make me my top priority so that I would be able to forgive you for when you didn't prioritized me. For each and every moment when you had given me mixed signals. I'll love myself to complete myself all alone. So that no one ever gets to empty me the way I got emptied by you.

I love you but I'll let you go. Be happy and healthy always.

Edit-2

Although I thought of not showing or sending it to you. But still if you ever notice this page or blog do leave a dot or write "Okkay" for me to confirm that it's you.

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meg-moira · 3 years

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The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind

Sequel to Eindred and the Witch

In which Severin, the golden eyed witch, learns that his greatest enemy and truest love is fated to kill him.

Dealing in prophecies is a dubious work. Anyone who knows anything will tell you as much.

“Think of all of time as a grand tapestry,” his great-grandmother had said, elbow deep in scalding water. Her hands were tomato red, and Severin watched with wide golden eyes as she kneaded and stretched pale curds in the basin. “You might be so privileged to understand a single weave, but unless you go following all surrounding threads, and the threads around those threads, and so on - which, mind you, no human can do - you’ll never understand the picture.”

Severin, who was ten years old and had never seen a grand tapestry, looked at the cheese in the basin and asked if his great-grandmother could make the analogy about that instead.

“No,” she replied. “Time is a tapestry. Cheese is just cheese.”

And that was that.

By fifteen, Severin who was all arms, legs, and untamable black hair, decided he hated prophecies more than anything in the world. He occupied himself instead with long walks atop the white bluffs well beyond his family’s home. Outside, he could look at birds, and talk to the wind, and not think about the terrible prophecy which followed him like a shadow.

His second eldest sister had revealed it - accidentally, of course. Severin lived in a warm and bustling house with his great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, two aunts, and three sisters. All of whom were generously gifted in the art of foretelling (a messy business, each would say if asked), and every one of them had seen Severin’s same bleak thread.

He would die. Willingly stabbed through the heart by his greatest enemy and truest love.

Willingly. That was the worst part, he thought.

Severin, who had no talent in the way of prophecies, but plenty of talent in the realm of wind and sky, marched along the well-worn trail, static sparking around his fingertips as the brackish sea breeze nipped consolingly at his face and hair.

I will protect you if you ask me to, it blustered, and Severin was comforted.

He didn’t care who this foretold stranger was. When this enemy-lover appeared, Severin would ask the wind to pick them up and take them far, far away. Far enough that they could never harm him. The wind whistled in agreement. And so it was settled.

At seventeen, he was still all arms and legs, though his eldest sister had managed to tame his hair with a respectably sharp pair of shears. The wind, who had delighted in playing with his wild, tangled locks, did not thank her for it. Severin did thank her; in fact, he’d asked her to do it. He was of the opinion that his newly shorn hair made him look older - more sophisticated. And he left his family home with a new cloak draping his shoulders and a knotted wooden walking stick in hand, thinking himself very nearly a man. He was far from it, of course. But there was no telling him that.

He set out on a clear, cool morning to find his own way in the world, and was prepared to thoroughly deal with anyone who so much as dared to act ever so slightly in the manner of enemy or lover.

He discovered, soon enough, that this was not a practical attitude to take when venturing into the world. Severin spent his first months away from home making little in the way of friends and plenty in the way of thoroughly baffled enemies.

When you meet his gaze, you’ll know, the wind chided as it whisked in and out of his hood.

“His?” Severin said aloud, lifting a single dark brow. “Do you know something I don’t?”

The wind whistled noncommittally in answer.

The wind did know something, as it turned out. At twenty, Severin stood on the warm, sun-loved planks of a dock. As gulls cried overhead, he pressed his fingers to his lips. The young sailor had touched his lips to Severin’s in a swift, carefree kiss before departing on the sea. And though the feeling was pleasant enough, Severin knew that his enemy-lover was not on the great ship cleaving a path through the cerulean waves.

“When I meet his gaze, I’ll know,” Severin said, golden eyes sweeping the horizon. The seaward breeze blustered in such agreement that the gulls overhead cried out in alarm.

What will you do? The wind asked, delighting in whipping the gulls into a proper frenzy.

“Get rid of him, of course,” Severin replied.

What if you don’t want to?

Severin thought that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “He’s going to stab me through the heart. Why in the world wouldn’t I want to get rid of him?”

People are foolish, the wind answered, shrugging the nearby sails.

“Not me.” Severin leaned on his stick and looked out at the sea. “I won’t let anyone get away with stabbing my heart.”

When he was twenty-two, Severin knelt at the bedside of a withered, wilting woman. She was a stranger, but the town’s herb witch was away, and Severin happened to be passing through. Though his true strength would always remain with the wind and the sky, the youngest of Severin’s two aunts had a special way with plants, and she’d taught him a fair bit about the many healing properties of the region’s hardy, windblown flora.

He boiled water, adding the few herbs he carried to make a rejuvenating tea. He helped the woman drink, his hand supporting her head and fingers tangling in her sweat drenched hair. After, he pressed a cool cloth to her head, and in the half dark room, she murmured, sharing delirious fears that she would accidentally speak cruel dying words and lay a curse upon him.

Kindly stroking her forehead, Severin assured her that he was not afraid of curses. Even uttered by the dying, a true curse was rarer than the superstitious soldier’s and barbarians liked to believe. Besides, she wasn’t going to die. Severin, who’d seen just enough of the world to have a taste of wisdom, was certain he could save her.

She died within the day.

Whether her condition had been beyond help, or Severin lacked the skills to twist the herbs to his bidding, he would never know. The wind rustled reassurances through the sparsely-leaved trees, but Severin was beyond consolation. Clouds gathered on the horizon, and by nightfall, great branches of lightning crackled across the sky.

He spent the next year and a half in the wilds. Beneath the jubilant light of the sun, he collected plants, acquainting himself with the earth. And beneath the soft, watchful light of the moon, he whispered to the wind and dared to wonder at the shape of his enemy-lover’s face. He could never seem to summon the slightest picture in his mind. Though it really didn’t matter, he supposed. Their eyes would meet, and Severin would know. And then he’d use all of the power at his disposal to send his enemy-lover away.

During this time, Severin sometimes saw bands of barbaric warriors crossing the plains. He kept his distance, but he doubted any of them were interested in either recruiting or killing a scrawny young man in a worn woolen cloak. Few he encountered ever suspected he had any great abilities, and Severin certainly didn’t go out of his way to advertise the fact that he could command the wind and sky when he wished. The barbaric companies had their eyes on more obviously lucrative targets, anyway. A handful of city states which spread across the great peninsula were openly at war with the barbaric tribes from the north.

It was when Severin was returning from his self-imposed isolation that he had his first real encounter with war. He held his sturdy walking stick in hand and carried a bursting bag of herbs, poultices, and leather-bound journals over his shoulder. Severin was so surprised by the sudden, brutal clash of metal and the primal cries that erupted nearby that he halted where he stood. His curiosity both outweighed and outlasted his fear, and after a minute or two of tense consideration, he pressed cautiously onward in the direction of the noise.

By the time he arrived, the battle was done.

It had surely been an ugly, bloody affair, if the splayed out bodies of the city soldiers and barbaric warriors were anything to judge it by. Holding a hand over his mouth, Severin gingerly navigated the carnage and valiantly resisted the impulse to be sick right there in the field. He was nearly on the other side of it when movement caught his eye. Squinting, almost afraid to look, he glanced from the corners of his eyes, sure that it was some grotesque remnant of warfare which awaited him.

Instead, it was a man.

Just a man.

The movement Severin had spotted was the rise and fall of his chest.

Only after turning a careful look around the terrible and silent battlefield did Severin approach the fallen man.

The barbarian’s eyes were closed and his pale brows drew together, as if reflecting pain. His face would probably have been handsome in a rough, simple sort of way if it weren’t smeared in dirt and blood. His light hair, braided and pulled away from his face, was bloodied as well, and Severin frowned at the sorry state of him. After a second wary look around, he knelt with a sigh.

The barbarian’s leather vest was cut, and his thick, scarred arms had earned several new slices as well. Severin, who had more than enough herbs and poultices on hand, reluctantly tore his only spare shirt into bandages. Within the hour the stranger was fully bandaged and muttering in fever addled sleep.

“Don’t worry,” Severin murmured, knotting the last makeshift bandage. “I’ve learned enough from the plants and trees to save you from both fever and infection.”

Behind closed lids, the barbarian’s eyes flitted anxiously to and fro and he mumbled something that sounded like no. Nose wrinkling, Severin leaned in. He heard the sleeping barbarian say, his voice low and cracking, “The curses will take me.”

Severin frowned down at him, unimpressed. “No they won’t,” he snapped, and yanked the bandage tighter.

The barbarian silenced then, and Severin stared at him a moment longer, pursing his lips in consternation. It wasn’t that he minded using his supplies to heal a stranger. But a part of him worried that healing a warrior made Severin responsible for whatever slaughter he resumed when he rose.

Severin abhorred warfare. It was such a terrible waste. But he supposed there was no helping what he’d already done. The barbarian was already on his way to recovery, and Severin certainly wasn’t going to murder him in his sleep. He reached out, intending to test the temperature at the man’s temple, but no sooner had Severin’s fingers touched his overheated skin than the world bled around him. In its place: a vision.

Shock echoed through him, because he was not like the women in his family, able to see phantoms in time. He’d always simply played with the air. The vision dancing before his gaze, however, didn’t seem to care.

Like droplets of ink spreading in water, a prism of colors twisted, threading together into nearly tangible shapes. From the chaos, rose a blond child holding a knit sheep. He was ruddy cheeked and pouting up at his mother. Then ink and water swirled and the images collapsed and shifted. Hulking shadows loomed over the child. The mother wailed her grief. The formless ink shivered, morphing from one scene to the next, nearly too quickly to follow, and Severin was swallowed up in it, overrun and overwhelmed by violence, blood, and pain. Beneath his fingers, Severin felt the movement of shifting, slipping thread.

Just as abruptly as it had started, the vision ceased. Severin’s knees ached where they pressed against the dirt and the barbarian’s skin beneath his hand was no longer overheated. How long had he been within the vision’s grasp, he wondered?

As Severin shifted back, the barbarian groaned. Severin watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered - and at once, the air turned heavy, as if the wind had drawn and held an anticipatory breath.

Dread flooded Severin and he rushed to stand. The barbarian had not yet opened his eyes, and Severin knew with a terrible nameless certainty that he must not be here when this man awoke. Severin could still feel those elusive, unknowable threads beneath his fingers, and his hands shook as he rose. Awakened by his urgency, the wind roared, lending him speed as he fled the clearing.

By the time the barbarian cracked open a single, world weary eye, Severin was long gone, heart still safely beating in his chest.

Severin endeavored to forget about the barbarian. He convinced himself that the vision had been the hallucination of an overexerted body, and that the sensation of inexorably moving threads beneath his fingers was nothing more than a flight of fancy. Severin did not think about how the threads had felt - certain and unyielding - beneath his fragile, very mortal hands. If he did, he feared he might ask the wind to whisk him away from the world altogether, and that, surely, was no way to live.

In a deep, secret place, however, Severin suspected the reason he was granted such a vision was because the stranger’s thread was woven perilously close to his own. Because of this, he set upon an easterly road, endeavoring to put a healthy distance between himself and the pale barbarian.

After nearly a month of travel, he arrived in a small village which sat nestled in foothills, tucked beneath the shadows of great mountains which stood like sentinels above. Severin hadn’t intended to stay, but when it was discovered he had some skill with plants and medicine, the villagers eagerly led him to a hut some distance from the village. It was empty, they explained, and had been for some years. A healing woman had occupied it, some years back, before she’d passed on. The villagers had been saving it, hoping the space would be enough to entice a new healer to make their isolated village a home.

Severin had nowhere else to go, and he supposed a distant, mountain village was as good a place as any to avoid a blade to the heart.

Two years passed, and Severin settled into his little hut. He spent his mornings taking long walks around the surrounding lands, collecting herbs and specimens. Returning home, he’d throw open the windows to allow his friend the wind a brief but wild rampage through the hut. With the air freshened, Severin spread plants across his square dining table and sorted them into jars to be sealed, dried, or preserved in vinegar. His neighbors in the village visited frequently, just as often for his company as for his medicines, and Severin delighted in visiting the town on market days and making the streamers dance in the wind for the children. Evenings were spent in his rocking chair, with a book in his lap and his feet pressed near to the low fire in the hearth.

He was happy, and hardly thought of the barbarian he’d found bleeding in the dirt. That is, until fate caught up with him.

One day, when he was foraging for moss on the hillside behind his hut, Severin felt the whisper-soft touch of thread against his palm. He sat upright at once, and turning and craning his neck, he absently rubbed his palms against his robes.

A company marched into the village. From up on Severin’s hill, they appeared a swarm of ants overtaking the miniature thatched roof homes. The slipping, shivering feeling beneath Severin’s palm intensified, and he stood. His heart drummed a frantic beat against his ribs, and Severin felt with a terrible certainty that fate, like a hunting hound on the scent, had sniffed him out at last.

When Severin called out, begging the wind’s help, it rushed to him, howling atop the hill.

I am here. I am here.

Cradled in the gale, he begged the wind to take him and hide him away, so that the tapestry’s relentless threads might cease dragging him toward the one he never wished to meet.

So be it, the wind said. If that is truly what you wish, I will take you and hide you away forever.

In that moment, nearly caught as he was, Severin was willing to do anything to avoid meeting this man who would kill him - until the screams rose from the pastures in the valley beneath his hut. Severin’s heartbeat was in his throat, on his very tongue, as he held up a hand to stay the wind.

“Just a moment,” he murmured, and turned bright, pained eyes toward the village. The terrified screams of his neighbors pierced him as surely as any blade, and with a mournful twist of his fingers, he bade the wind disperse.

By the time he reached in the pastures, the shepherd, the blacksmith, and Helvia’s two sons lay dead. At the sight of his friend’s bodies, grief and rage stirred within Severin, and the wind, always nearby to him, trembled in sympathy. Gaze sweeping the warriors, he marked the five whose weapons were stained red. Severin was not violent by nature, but if he was to die this day, he resolved to remove from the earth at least these five men, who with bloodied blades, uncaringly spoke of feasting upon the village’s few precious sheep.

When the warriors turned and finally noticed Severin, he lifted his chin and prayed his voice did not betray his fear. “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”

The men glanced at one another, eyes filling with a cruel sort of mirth. They laughed at him, and Severin steeled himself for what must come next. He was friends with the wind, but to call down the heavens was an entirely more serious matter. And he’d never done it. At least, not like this.

Severin turned his palms up and glared at the heavens, daring them to refuse him now when he needed them most.

For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened.

And then, the skies erupted.

He had never felt pure, visceral power in such a way, and as it whined and crackled, Severin, with splayed fingers, used all of his strength to tear the lightning from its home in the sky. It rained upon the warriors, screaming in wild, untamable fury. Severin watched the men cry out in agony, and he felt horror and satisfaction in equal measure.

When a single figure broke from the group, agile enough to evade the lightning and charge across the field, Severin could only look on in exhausted realization. It was the pale barbarian. The man from the battlefield. The child in the vision.

The barbarian charged like a beast, his thickly braided hair bouncing. His brows were drawn down in focus and his lips poised on the precipice of a snarl. It was with a hopeless sense of finality that Severin met the stranger’s gaze.

He met eyes of icy gray, the color of hazy, snow capped mountains in winter, and Severin knew, he knew with a certainty that was sunken into his bones and twisted in his marrow, that this barbarian was the shadow which had haunted him. And he knew, more than anything, the crude blade in the man’s scarred-knuckle hand was fate’s exclamation point at the end of Severin’s ephemeral existence.

Watching as the barbarian pivoted, drawing back his blade, Severin only wished he understood why the women in his family had persisted in calling this man Severin’s truest love. If this was love, the man had a spectacularly terrible way of showing it.

Time slowed to a crawl, and sunlight flashed, reflecting off the blade. As the jagged edge touched the fabric of Severin’s robe, the wind whispered at his ear. Let me show you a piece of the picture.

The wind around him froze, and so too did the world.

Look up, said the wind, a rustle within his ear.

Severin did.

The complexly woven image was shaped by currents in the air - all but invisible to any whose eyes are untrained to look for them. But Severin had a born understanding of the wind and sky, and when he looked up, he saw bits and pieces of an impossibly complex tapestry.

He saw scarred knuckles gently shaping wood. A small child that sat upon broad shoulders. Rocking chairs placed side by side before a glowing fire. Warm hands enveloping his own. Safety. Home.

It was...everything, and Severin’s heart ached with a strange and complex longing for a future that surely could never be.

It’s not impossible, the wind whispered. But the threads will have to tangle and untangle just perfectly so.

“How?” Severin asked, and wondered if he was a fool to feel so desperate a pull towards this life glimpsed in impressions and half images.

The warrior must weep and repent. And a curse must come to fruition.

“And if these things do not happen?”

Then your soul will fade from the earth.

Severin felt torn in two.

The blade has not yet struck your heart, the wind murmured, kind and conspiratorial. There is time still for me to secret you away. I could pull your thread from the tapestry altogether.

“But there would be no hope for that life,” Severin said with a last wistful glance at the scattered mosaic above.

No, none, the wind agreed.

“Okay,” Severin whispered, “okay.” And it felt terrifyingly like surrender.

The wind stirred, and a breeze like a kiss tousled his dark hair.

The blade struck.

It was an intense pressure and then swift, vibrantly blooming pain. Severin wavered on his feet, and looked up. For the second time, he met the warrior’s gaze. And Severin saw and understood that there was no malice in those wintry eyes. Not even frustration or anger. But, instead, an exhaustion deeper than Severin could conceive.

When Severin toppled backward, it was concerning to realize he could no longer feel the grass beneath his body. The man knelt down, and Severin blinked tiredly up at him.

It seemed as though the man were waiting for something. Severin’s slipping mind struggled to think of what - until he recalled the dying woman and her talk of curses. And hadn’t the barbarian said something about curses when he was fever addled and hurt? What had the wind said? Severin was struggling to remember. As his life trickled away in red rivulets which stained the grass and soil, he thought of the boy in the vision - lost and afraid. And he thought of the man he’d become, kneeling stonily over him.

And Severin knew exactly which words should be his last.

Swallowing, he mustered the strength to whisper, “-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over. In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”

For the barbarian would have to stay if he were ever to show remorse. He couldn’t very well continue going about fighting and murdering his way across the peninsula. Which brought Severin to his final words. It took all of his remaining strength to lift his hand. When he reached out, the barbarian startled, as though he expected more lightning to spring forth from Severin’s fingers. But Severin merely tapped his chest and smiled. “May you live a life of safety and peace.”

It was a fitting curse, he thought, feeling particularly clever. And there, on the field, surrounded by sheep, Severin’s heart stuttered and stopped.

It was an abrupt, slipping sensation, like losing your footing on iced over earth. Raw existence rushed around Severin, and he was battered and blown about, like a banner torn loose in the storm. This continued for a dizzying moment, or perhaps a dizzying eternity - Severin really had no way of knowing which. But it stopped when a familiar presence surged around him, blowing and blustering until the wild chaos of existence was forced to let him be.

The wind could not protect him forever, Severin knew, and so he focused his energies until, like a wind sprite, he swirled about the hillside. Below him, he saw the barbarian, his great head bent. Severin, as incorporeal as a breeze, could not resist blustering over the barbarian’s shoulder and observing himself, limp and pitiful in death. Whipping around, he beheld the barbarian - because surely this sight would bring him at least to the verge of tears.

The barbarian frowned down at Severin’s body and rubbed a scarred hand over the patches of stubble on his chin. And then he rose with a great sigh and set off down the hillside, away from Severin and the village.

Severin, who was nothing more than wind and spirit, watched him and despaired. He could do nothing more than whip and howl through the hills as his murderer left him without a backward glance.

Months passed.

Severin did not follow after the barbarian. What good would it do? In this form, it wasn’t as though Severin could speak to him. And if he was doomed to fade and dissolve from existence, he would much rather do so here in the hills he loved than in some strange land trailing after an even stranger man. The wind kept him company, at least, and Severin spent his days whistling through the black, porous stones at the base of the mountains and blowing bits of dandelions across wild tufts of grass.

One day, long after Severin had begun to feel more spread out and thin than was entirely comfortable, the wind rushed to him, carrying with it the scent of dust and dirt and faraway lands.

The barbarian had returned.

Severin was an icy breeze that whipped around the edges of town, and he watched with cool distrust as the man trudged through the streets. His shoulders were slumped and his blond head was turned down. He looked utterly defeated, and any sympathy Severin might have felt was eclipsed by petty spite. He didn’t hold any of the pettiness against himself, though. He was dead, and therefore felt he’d earned at least a little pettiness.

When the barbarian crossed the field, stopping to stand before the place where Severin had fallen, Severin swirled around him, newly curious. The man didn’t look grief stricken, but his face was difficult to read. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and lines of exhaustion around his mouth. Mostly, Severin thought he just looked tired.

When the man approached Severin’s home after having ignored the invitation for months, Severin had a second moment of pettiness and whipped the wind up on the other side of the door, sealing it closed as the barbarian tried to open it. Only when the man shoved it with his great, muscled shoulder did Severin retreat, allowing the door to swing open.

It was with a strange sort of melancholy that he watched the barbarian’s silver gaze sweep over the room. The man looked first at the damp, unkempt hearth before slowly making his way across the room. He glanced from Severin’s well-loved walking stick to the bookshelf built into the wall. He fumblingly ran the backs of his fingers along the spines of the books, as if he was unlearned in the ways of a gentle touch.

Severin was still very much put out about the whole being dead business, but as he watched the barbarian’s almost reverent inspection, he unthinkingly twisted the air in the room, drawing out the cold and pulling in a bit of sun warmed breeze.

By the second day, the man was sitting in Severin’s chair. Severin stewed, swatting at floating dust by the window as his killer rocked to and fro in Severin’s favorite seat. Later, the barbarian stood, stretching his strong arms overhead and twisted his back experimentally. Brows lifting in pleasant surprise, he gave the chair an appreciative pat.

By the third day, Severin had no more dust to swat about. The barbarian had rolled up his ragged sleeves and set about scrubbing every inch of Severin’s little hut. When the hulking man worked open the stiff windows, the wind rushed in, delighting in whipping about the space once more.

He’s done a better job of cleaning than you ever did, the wind sang, slipping once more outside.

He was dead and that meant the wind had to be nice, and Severin told it as much. It’s reply was a soft rustling of chimes that hung from the house’s eaves, and the sound was almost like laughter.

Days passed, and the man began reading Severin’s books. This was probably the most surprising development yet, in Severin’s opinion. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading, just - well, he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading particularly well. But the man seemed to be doing just fine, and sat in Severin’s rocking chair, putting a far greater strain on the sturdy wood than Severin ever had, as he thumbed carefully through the book’s smooth pages.

When little Mykela took ill, Severin knew it well before anyone else. He’d taken a spin through town and as he rode the wintry wind past where she played in the yard, he’d felt the rattle of air in her lungs. But at this point, Severin was little more than a memory on the breeze, and though his worry was agony, he could do absolutely nothing. He spent the rest of the day roaring about the mountain peaks, sending snow flurries spilling down the far side of the cliffs.

Two days later, Severin was idly observing the barbarian, watching the crease between his brows twitch as he slept, when a great pounding broke out against the door. The barbarian rose at once, and Severin watched him cast a brief glance at the walking stick before turning instead to the candle on a nearby shelf. With warm light cupped in his palm, the barbarian approached the door.

When Dormund, Mykela’s father, entered the hut, carrying a limp mound of blankets, Severin felt a spike of icy terror. As the barbarian poked and prodded the fire, Severin carefully stirred the wind to better feed the flames. Severin would have shouted instructions, had he lungs to shout, but the barbarian already had two jars in hand. He held them up, looking a little lost, before he hurried to the bookshelf and selected a thick book. Muttering under his breath, he flipped hurriedly through pages until he found what he was looking for. And then he was kneeling before the pot of water he’d set over the fire, and Severin watched as he scooped careful measurements of Severin’s dried herbs into the roiling water.

Mykela was saved, and as the barbarian sent the girl and her father off with a bag of herbs, it occurred to Severin that he wished to know the barbarian’s name. He wouldn’t learn it until two days later, when Old Cara arrived at the hut, seeking the barbarian’s help for her arthritic knee. After supplying her with the appropriate poultice, the barbarian helped her to the door, and looking up, she patted his shoulder and asked him his name.

Eindred, was his answer.

Eindred.

Severin wished he had lips to test the shape of the name.

Months passed, and was easier now to watch Eindred move about Severin’s hut. In fact, Severin had even begun to enjoy riding the soft breeze from the windows as it wafted around Eindred’s shoulders, curiously observing whatever small thing he happened to, at any given time, be doing with his hands. One day, Severin was surprised to find Eindred’s hands at work, deliberately whittling the curved back of a rocking chair. When the chair was done, Eindred set it carefully, almost reverently beside the first. At the sight, Severin had a bright, nearly overwhelming flash of recognition, and he thought of the image the wind had shown him - of the rocking chairs before a warm, crackling fire.

Severin was fading, he could feel it. To hope was to court a greater disappointment than Severin could rightly comprehend, and yet - he watched Eindred set out with Severin’s walking stick to join the festival, and saw when Mykela took his hand. The barbarian’s stony expression softened, then melted as the girl tugged him after her.

It was the strangest of sensations, because while Severin didn’t strictly have a heart these days, watching the great Eindred meekly follow little Mykela made something in Severin’s incorporeal being ache with unexpected warmth.

Whatsmore, Eindred had been reading Severin’s journals and he would sometimes stop and stare about the hut, as if trying to picture the ghost of Severin’s life there. Once, Eindred draped a thick blanket over the back of one of the rocking chairs and ran his rough hands over it as he frowned contemplatively into the fire.

Summer had come and gone and Severin feared that parts of his soul had already begun to slip into that other-place. And so, with a tender sort of weariness, he drifted on the sunbeams cutting through the clean window glass, and watched with only mild annoyance as Eindred carefully tore a blank page from one of Severin’s journals.

Lips pressing together in focus, Eindred wrote in with small, precise letters, what appeared to be a list.

Confused, Severin drifted closer.

May your every loved one die screaming in pain.

I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.

You will never know happiness.

Your existence will be suffering.

It was a list of curses, Severin realized. Morbid curses, by the looks of it. The last two, however, caught his attention.

May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.

And,

May you live a life of safety and peace.

And Severin understood.

When Eindred set out from the hut, looking drawn but resolved, Severin began at once to gather his energy. It had been nearly a year since his death, and he feared that there might not be enough of him left to make a return. The second to last curse would help things along, but Severin knew it would be a mistake to rely on it.

And so, as Eindred entered the village, Severin stretched upward and out, calling wind and storm clouds with reckless, hopeful abandon. For his entire life, Severin had lived, certain in the knowledge that love and happiness were not meant for one such as he. How could they be? When a blade was foretold to make a home in his heart?

But Eindred had changed. And the patchwork pieces of tapestry were there, a life Severin had never dared to dream of, right there - if he could only summon the strength to reach out and grasp it.

Below, Eindred bowed his head before the townsfolk, confessing his part in the tragedy which played out on their soil. Above, Severin swallowed the skies and became the storm.

Severin felt it, distantly below, when the people in the village forgave Eindred. And he felt when Eindred’s bittersweet tears tickled the earth. He felt Eindred return to the hut, and then after pacing restlessly about, return at last to the pastures where it had all begun.

And then came Eindred’s pained voice, calling out from the fields below. “Severin!”

Eindred had never said his name before, and Severin, who was the clouds and the wind and the rain and the sky, rumbled his joy at the sound of it.

“It was my hand which ended your life,” Eindred continued. His deep voice was shaking. “And with your dying breath you gifted what I thought was a nightmare. Did you know that it would turn out to be a dream? I think you did.”

Just wait, Severin wanted to tell him, because he’d seen a future better still. The only question that remained was whether he had strength enough to reach it.

Rugged face upturned, Eindred called to Severin and the sky, which were one and the same. “Though it’s a dream, I’ll never know peace. How can I? When I live in the home of the one I so coldly murdered? I would leave, but the villagers have my heart - as they had yours. In this state, I don’t think I’ll ever truly know true rest or true peace - despite the great power of your curse.”

You will, Severin said, and lightning streaked across the sky. I will.

“Even now,” Eindred said, through wind and rain, “I’m not sure if you are my greatest enemy or ally.”

There it was.

His greatest enemy.

Severin, with every ounce of power he possessed, claimed the title. For he was the greatest enemy the old Eindred, warrior and killer, had faced. With his parting curse, Severin had forced the old Eindred to do the one thing he’d feared most of all: to live and face all he’d done.

Severin felt a rushing, coursing energy thrumming within and without and he knew that he must catch it and hold it, though he wasn’t sure how.

The tapestry threads, the wind whispered. Severin had spread so thin, his old friend was nearly a part of him now.

Severin listened, and felt for that thread which had teased and tickled his palm. And when he was sure he felt it, he wrapped himself around it and pulled. The sky around him screamed as he dragged himself forward toward something - something -

White light was all around him, and then it wasn’t. The air was cool and damp, and the evening sang with the wind’s gleeful gusts and the soft patter of rain on grass. Severin lifted a hand, and looked it over in tentatively blooming relief. Pressing the hand over his heart which beat with a strong, steady rhythm, Severin breathed a relieved, ragged sigh.

Eindred stood in the field, turned away from him. Drawing in a breath, Severin delighted in the sound of his own voice. “May your greatest enemy rise from the grave, Eindred, and never leave you alone.” He smiled as he spoke, and very nearly pressed his fingers to his lips to feel the shape they took when saying Eindred’s name.

Eindred turned. “So you are my greatest enemy then?” He sounded wary.

“I don’t think it’s so simple as that. Do you?”

Eindred’s expression shifted and he shook his head. When he next spoke, it was soft and fumbling, as if he still hadn’t fully adjusted to a world which was kind. “I made a chair,” he blurted out. “A few actually,” he added, rubbing a hand over the back of his head.

Severin wanted to say, I know. I saw. But that would require more explanation than he cared to give at the moment, so instead, he replied, “Do I get the new rocking chair or my old one?”

“Any,” Eindred stammered, “Either. Both?” He looked at Severin, and the earnest weight of his gaze held the promise of all the chairs Severin could want and anything else Eindred could possibly make with his scarred hands.

The fondness that bubbled up within Severin was so abrupt and filled him so thoroughly that he wanted to laugh with it. “Lucky for you, I only need one chair. You can keep the old one if you like it. I trust your craftsmanship.”

Severin turned then, because it was cold and every part of him felt so entirely bright and buoyant that he thought he might die if he didn’t move. However, when he realized Eindred was not following, he stopped. “Well? Are you coming?”

Eindred looked up, as if he’d been startled. “Where?” he called.

Standing there, sodden in the field, Eindred looked after Severin, as if he was afraid to hope - as Severin once had been afraid to do. And it occurred to Severin that Eindred would need to hear it said aloud.

“Home, of course. Where else?”

“Home,” Eindred repeated, as if confirming it to himself.

And when Severin turned again towards home, Eindred followed.

By the time they reached the hut, both were shivering from the cold, and as they crossed the threshold into the warm space, Severin swayed on his feet. He’d almost forgotten the immense power he’d used, and now the harsh ringing in his ears was a stark reminder. Warm, rough hands steadied him and when Severin tilted his head up, he saw that Eindred wore an expression of poorly concealed terror.

“I’m not going to die all over again,” Severin assured him. “I just used a lot of magic.” As he said it, he swayed once more, this time falling forward.

Eindred caught Severin again, one arm wrapped around his back and his other hand braced against his chest. Beneath where Eindred’s palm pressed, Severin’s heart thrummed. And Severin watched, curious, as Eindred’s expression twisted. He no longer claimed the title of warrior, Severin knew, but it was nonetheless with a warrior’s gravity that Eindred met Severin’s gaze.

“These hands will never again harm you. I swear it.”

“I know,” Severin replied, and pressed a hand over the back of Eindred’s rough knuckles. “Help me to a chair?”

Eindred did, and helped to remove Severin’s thick outer robe before Severin sank gratefully in front of the fire. Eindred left him a moment, and Severin closed his eyes.

He intended to just rest them for a second - maybe two, but when Severin next opened his eyes, the room was darker and he was draped and bundled in blankets, softer and thicker than any he recalled owning. The fire was still crackling, and the warm light made soothing shadows dance across the hut’s wooden floor. The other chair was occupied, Severin realized, and he watched as the hearth’s orange light played across Eindred’s sleeping features. Compared to Severin’s mountain of blankets, he had just one draped over his lap, though he didn’t seem cold. Nonetheless, Severin shifted a bit, and peeled a soft fleece blanket off his own pile to toss it onto him. The blanket fell short, and with a quick whispered word, the wind slipped under the door and flipped the offending blanket up onto Eindred’s chest.

“That’s better,” Severin said.

The wind played a little with the fire before tousling Severin’s hair and departing with a sibilant, save your strength foolish human. You’re still recovering, and slipped out the way it had come.

When Severin turned back to Eindred, he saw the large man was sitting up and his eyes were now open. Blinking, Eindred rubbed a hand over his face and then, stiffening in sudden shock, he whipped to look at Severin. Heaving a great sigh, he rocked back in the chair. “Still breathing,” he said.

“I don’t plan on stopping.”

Something almost like a smile twitched at Eindred’s lips and Severin was enchanted by it.

“You were dead and now you’re alive. Forgive me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“You’re the one who believes in silly curses.”

Eindred’s brows rose. “Silly? Says the one who was brought back from the dead by one.”

Severin waved a dismissive hand. “The curse might have set the stage, but I was director, crew, and cast.”

And there was another smile, like a glimpse of sun between clouds. Severin was beginning to fear there might be no practical limit to the lengths he’d be willing to go to see another smile.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Eindred replied. “I get the feeling you know a great deal more about the world and magics than I.”

“Well Eindred,” Severin said, scooting his chair a little closer to both Eindred and the fire. “What do you know of grand tapestries?”

Eindred, looking more than a little lost, shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one.”

“Well,” Severin said, and grinned. “What do you know of cheese?”

EDIT: A novel based on Eindred and the Witch and The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind is in progress! I will post news about it on my Tumblr and my Patreon as news becomes available :)

#my writing #original writing #my story #Eindred and the Witch #original story #fantasy #fantasy story #love story #eindred the warrior #severin the witch #writing #writeblr #short story #long short story #7000+ words #fantasy short story #amwriting #story

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vilithshaven · 2 years

Text

How the harbingers react to the 'Imposter' /// Il Dottore, La Signora

Warnings: Mild descriptions of gore, angst, implied death (of the Creator/Reader)

Synopsis: This is how I think those two harbingers would react to finding out that the 'Imposter' is in truth the Creator before anyone else.

A little A/N: Big thanks to @nicebonescomrade for being a big inspiration. Honestly, I may be looking at your blog way more than I should, haha.

- Lilith

Il Dottore

Dottore starts looking for the Imposter after hearing his fellow harbingers talk of them. Truth be told, he doesn't care about the Creator or the way all the Archons, including his own, crave their attention and light. He isn't even bothered by the fact that there is an Imposter walking around. All he wants to know is how someone managed to carve their face and body into that of the One. Was it Khemia? Alchemy? Or were they simply born that way, to make a mockery of the God? He would find out.

Finding the Imposter turns out to be a lot easier he expected. They had been fleeing from Liyue's adepti last, citizens talking about how they saw them run across the border into Sumerian territory. A death wish for those who have no knowledge about the local insects and animals surrounding the main city.

He finds the Imposter lying flat on the ground, sweat coating their skin and a sickly colour to their skin. They look just like the statues had depicted them. But to his surprise and utmost glee, their blood isn't red. No, it's a striking golden that pools below their dying body.

Dottore finds it amusing that noone apparently noticed it before. The golden ichor is a stark contrast to the dirty and ripped clothes. But perhaps they had been in too much of a hazey rage, all their focus being on their one wish: get rid of the person daring to impersonate their Creator. Childe had been just one of many prime examples of the acolytes' animalistic wrath.

Dottore runs a hand through their knotted hair, a crazed smile growing on his half-hidden face. "Guess I'll be the only one to ever know the truth, (Name). Just my luck, isn't it? I'll heal you right up and then we can start."

Dottore takes the Creator to the nearest hidden laboratory of his, chaining them down to the table. He doubts that they were strong enough to take him on, but he rather wants to stay on the safer side. Although they appear to be completely human, he doesn't want to take any risks. At least he doesn't have to worry about anyone looking for them.

And so the torture begins.

(Name) is barely lucid half of the time. Pain is all they start to know, they can't even remember how they got to be where they were now, chained and treated as nothing more than an experiment. They were lucky enough whenever the Doctor deemed it necessary to feed them and keep them tethered to this world just this longer.

The Doctor is the name he told them to call him. (Name) knows that it isn't his real name. Distant memories hid in the back of their mind, just out of reach. Bringing them forth is too painful. They eventually stop trying.

The experiment Dottore puts the Creator through are diverse. He starts simple: taking blood and finding out its components, checking their bond to the elements of the world.

Slowly they get worse. Does this organ function as it should? Is that an extra organ he sees? What does it do? What happens if he was to force cryo into her body, or any element at that. How do they react to a Delusion?

By the time he is satisfied, (Name) is broken. He would have discarded them if it hadn't been for a thought that struck him just as he was leaning above them, hand glowing with his element.

Why end the fun now? When instead he could make the Creator another toy of his.

He has more than enough time to play around more. After all...he is the only one who knows the truth, isn't he?

La Signora

La Signora, too, doesn't care too much about the Creator and their Imposter at first. In fact, she hates the Creator. If they were truly the loving, compassionate being everyone makes them out to be, why have they forsaken her so? What has she ever done to deserve her afte? All she had wanted was to love and be loved, while studying in Sumeru. Even as she forgot her painful past over time, the hatred never ceased.

She hadn't planned on looking for the Imposter despite the Tsaritsa's order to kill them on sight. Yet she still found herself wondering off just before her meeting with Inazuma's resident Archon, letting her feet carry her to one of this region's many crevices. Which is where she's standing now, looking down at what she assumes is the Imposter. Or should be.

Golden ichor flows out of their many wounds and pools on the ground below them. One hand bends to a weird angle. Their eyes slowly move up from the ground they'd been focused on until they meet Signora's visible one. And the Harbinger finds herself freezing to her spot.

Long-forgotten feelings bloom passed the pain, reminding her of what she used to be. An outsider, a monster, a traitor. Just like the human creator in front of her, she also had been called those words and worse. Perhaps the Creator hadn't forsaken her. Perhaps they had put her through that trial in preparation for their own descent to Teyvat, to have one person understand. For surely they must have known what would happen if they were to come into this world without warning and as a human no less.

Even as the Creator reaches out a tentative hand covered in golden blood, Signora continues to stand frozen in her spot. "Can I...ask for one thing before you end it all?", they choke through the coughs raking their body, more blood splattering onto their tattered clothes. "Can you...call me by my name? It's...it's (Name). Please...it's been so long...it's all I ask for."

This breaks the Harbinger out of her rigor. She squats down in front of the Creator, a smirk playing on her lips. She moves to caress their cheek, looking at them with fake sympathy. "Poor thing...it must have been awful to have each and every single person hate you."

"It's a shame, isn't it? That noone ever realized the truth", she mused, taking their chin in a tight grip. "You truly are the Creator."

A pitiful whine escaped their cracked lips. "I...am not. I'm only...(Name). Not...a god or...whatever you think me..."

Signora doesn't listen to their words, feeling the red hot spikes of anger engulfing her heart. In response to that, her hand's temperature increased until it becomes too much. The Creator tries to pull away, face scrunching up in pain.

"I hate you. I truly do. You put me through so much pain, and for what? To have someone sympathize for you in the future? Help you? Well, guess what. I'm not going to. I'm not even giving you the pleasure of saying your name. Oh no. You'll die here, by my hands, as the imposter you've been dubbed."

Signora laughs in pure, unbridled glee. "It's what you deserve! You're no god of mine. You're simply the reason for all my suffering."

#genshin impact #genshin impact sagau #sagau #genshin impact au #golden blood au #headcanon #genshin impact hc #il dottore #dottore x reader #signora x reader #la signora #fatui harbingers #tw implied death #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #genshin impact imagines

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cherienymphe · 2 years

Text

Spellbound (Druig x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, mind control, kidnapping, forced pregnancy

➥ banner by @maysdigitalarts | divider by @firefly-graphics

summary: Druig can control minds, but he’s the one who’s fallen under your spell.

Druig knew that it was wrong to take you.

Despite the fact that beings like him lived by their own rules, and the morals and laws of mortals rarely applied to his kind, he still knew that it was wrong. He was wrong to do a lot of things. He was wrong to watch you like he did, to trace every inch of your frame with his cerulean gaze while you were none the wiser. It was wrong of him to follow you, studying your habits and movements as you interacted with your friends and family, wishing that it was him who held your attention.

It was especially wrong of him to imagine what it would be like to have you gaze up at him with perfect trust, eyes glassy and lips parted under the influence of his gift.

But these were just thoughts, and thoughts had never hurt anyone before. Druig heard plenty of thoughts in passing that made him raise an eyebrow, and he had been around long enough to know what was alarming and what wasn’t. His daydreams—fantasies weren’t alarming in the slightest. At least, that was what he told himself when he found his fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and touch you. Or when he would catch himself taking one gentle step forward with the shallow intention of stealing you away.

These were just thoughts. Thoughts that consumed him when his brothers and sisters were a bit too suffocating. Or when Ikaris’ self-importance became a bit too much. Or when doubts started to creep up on him about all of this and his purpose here, especially while watching mankind become more and more depraved. It both disgusted and frightened him, and those were times where his thoughts became overwhelming.

Druig would look around at the mess this was all becoming, and he’d want nothing more than to hide you away from all of this. He couldn’t bear the thought of any of this touching you, tainting your smile and darkening your aura, your weak mortal body cracking under the pressure of your inherently flawed human nature. But then you would catch his eye, and you would smile in that way that told him you were untouched by the true horrors out there, and for a moment, Druig was convinced that everything would be okay.

Only you could do that, and that was when he’d find himself gravitating towards you. Even just being near you made him feel that way, and so he’d shadow your footsteps, just far away enough to be careful, but close enough to satisfy him. Naturally, he grew addicted to that feeling, and soon enough, he got his fix.

“Druig,” he’d told you when he introduced himself, and you had smiled.

He was so entranced by it that he’d almost missed the sound of you telling him yours, a smile on his own face as he repeated it to himself. Of course, he already knew it, but he liked the taste of it on his tongue, nonetheless. Your smile had widened at the action, a soft laugh escaping you as you showed him the plants that you were growing.

He knew all about those too, but he was more than content to make you believe that you were teaching him something new. His gaze rested on the side of your face as you pointed, drinking in your skin and your lips as they moved, and the way the sun hit your eyes just right.

“My mother,” you murmured, voice quieting. “She’s very sick, you see…and… If I cannot find something to heal her, then she’ll die.”

His own face had fallen at that, and before he had time to register just how much that would break your heart, you were turning towards him again with another smile.

“I’ll save her though. I have to.”

You said that last part more to yourself than him, and it should have come as no surprise to him when he was angrily staring at Ajak that night. Her denial to help you had upset him more than any of her other refusals, and it was the first night that Druig had been struck with the almost crumbling urge to outright defy her.

“We do not interfere,” she repeated to him in that tone that he was beginning to hate more than the Deviants themselves.

He had begged and begged, so unlike himself, and even humbled before her, she still turned him away. He’d told her that selflessness drove his actions, and maybe he truly believed it at that time, but in truth, your happiness fueled his happiness. It was why he was determined to see your mother live too, but fate had other plans, and if he regretted getting close to you when he knew he shouldn’t have, they were long gone when you threw yourself into his arms.

You had no one, and he knew that the best thing for you was to marry a man who could provide for you, but the thought angered him more than anything Ajak or Ikaris could ever spew. You were beautiful, and he would have to be a fool to miss the way you were admired. To miss the yearning gazes that followed you, identical to the one in his own eyes.

Druig was a lot of things, but a fool was not one of them.

And when he’d reached his breaking point, when he was being honest with Ajak and standing toe to toe with Ikaris, he made the decision right then and there. He wanted to save these mortals that Ajak had convinced the others were destined to die before their time. He just wanted to get them away from the violence and bloodshed, giving them another chance at a safe life. He wanted to get you away from it all. That was what he’d told himself at least, but when the gold of his eyes returned to their natural blue, watching in satisfaction as the rest of your kind walked off to build a new life…

You did not follow, hand held in his as his gaze grew bright once again, and you turned to him with a mesmerized smile.

Druig was a rapist.

He could spin it any way he wanted to and tell himself all of the comforts in the world, but it couldn’t be viewed as anything other than what it was. You smiled at him and looked up at him with blind adoration, thighs eagerly parting to accommodate him, but it was rape all the same.

As much as he couldn’t stand Ikaris at times, Druig was officially worse than him, and that left a sour taste in his mouth.

He didn’t want to call himself that, call it that, but that was what it was, and he’d made his peace with it. It had eaten away at him at first, and that was why he’d fed himself lie after lie. You had liked him before all of this. You had smiled at him and leaned into him, so he was not making you do something you weren’t already going to do.

He’d had every intention of dropping his influence, eager to let you fall for him as naturally as he did with you. Everyone had good intentions, he supposed, but then he’d had the irresistible urge to kiss you, and when he did, the taste of you on his tongue triggered a frenzy in him. You had stolen his breath away without even trying, and he was convinced that you were the one to put a spell on him as he mauled you in a way that should have made him feel shame.

Your own hands had been unsure, even with his voice in your head telling you to accept his ministrations. It had hit him then that you’d never been touched like this before, and his desperate movements suddenly turned into languid touches. He hadn’t wanted to miss a single part of you, and the sound of your sighs were like music to his ears.

Your head had been thrown back in ecstasy as he kissed down the column of your throat. Your skin felt like flower petals beneath his fingers, and when you pulled him closer, he’d thanked Arishem that he’d plucked you. Your mewls egged him on, and Druig had almost come on the spot when you’d happily opened your legs for him.

He hadn’t hesitated to taste you, drinking from you like he was dying of thirst. Your fingers in his hair and the taste of you on his tongue and the sounds falling from your lips had made for an intoxicating combination. He wouldn’t have been able to stop even if he wanted to…

And he hadn’t wanted to.

You both barely registered your pain, too wrapped up in the feel of him inside of your warm walls. He’d caged you in beneath him, forearms pressed to the bed as he curved his hips into yours, sinking into you without abandon. Your hands had grabbed at him in desperation, slipping and sliding over his skin from the sweat that clung to it, and yours faired no better. He’d been chasing something that night, and he’d found it when you came around him.

The mixture of shock and bliss in your eyes would haunt him in the best way forever. The breathlessness of your voice, the tremble of your body, the flutter of your core around his hard cock. He had done that. He was the one who had led you to that, and if he had it his way, no one else ever would. And in that moment, Druig wanted to have it his way.

He had fucked you for hours that night, holding you down and tasting your skin with a hunger that frankly scared him. Your legs had been wrapped around him, nails pressing into his skin while singing for him in a way that soothed him. He only ever pulled away when your legs and arms would drop to the bed, exhaustion snatching you away from him.

In those moments, he’d pulled away to look at you, slipping out of you with a groan before settling beside your prone frame. He’d propped his head up to get a better look at you, reaching out to trace patterns into your dewy skin, charmed by the way the moonlight hit it. There would be the most relaxed smile on your face, and despite how much he wanted to make you squirm in your sleep, that was too far for him.

Because that would really make him what he didn’t want to be, right?

He told himself that you would have wanted this. It was like a prayer on his tongue, a mantra he told himself that was really nothing more than wishful thinking. He repeated it to himself until he couldn’t anymore, and he’d held his breath as his influence left you, desperate to know the truth. Your confusion and fear had been as clear as day, and despite your familiarity with him, it hadn’t been enough to ease your worries.

Where were you? Where did everyone go? Why couldn’t you remember anything?

Those were the questions that met him, and with every one fired his way, the façade he’d made for himself crumbled more and more. He could see it in your eyes that you were afraid of both him and the situation you found yourself in, and in that moment, he’d accepted his role as the villain in your life.

His selfishness had won.

With a clench of his jaw, your fear was gone. Your tears no longer fell, and Druig gently brushed away the ones that had. There was nothing left in your eyes but perfect love and perfect trust, and there was no amount of guilt in his heart that could stop him from capturing your lips with his own.

Druig knew the first time you threw up.

It was just after breakfast, and you had apologized profusely, confusion coloring your tone as you told him that you hadn’t felt sick. He had cleaned it up with a smile, reaching out with his other hand to brush his thumb along your bottom lip.

“It’s alright, my love. It just did not agree with you,” he told you.

Still, his soothing words did not calm you, and he’d had to bribe you with a book to get you to forget about it. You had nodded with a smile, and as your back rested against his chest, your fingers playing with the sleeve of his shirt as he read to you, his free hand had found its way to your stomach, a fierce possessiveness filling him that he had never felt before.

You had almost seemed nervous to tell him once you realized the truth, and he’d eased it by falling to his knees. His arms circled around your waist to pull you closer, his lips pressing against your stomach through the thin material of your dress. He’d looked up at you, and from his place on his knees, he thought to himself that if he believed in angels, he would probably mistake you for one.

Sex with you was different now, and if Druig thought he was addicted before, it was laughable in comparison to his desire for you while you swelled with his child. He wanted to live inside of you, and for the most part, he did. He woke you up with languid thrusts, and if it were possible, he would choose to wake up with you moaning underneath him.

Your stomach was barely protruding, only just starting to show, and his hands pressed themselves to your stomach as he pushed himself into you. Your own hands reached back to hold onto him, gasps leaving your parted lips as he stretched you around him. His hands slid over your frame, unable to remain in one place for long, longing to touch every part of you.

“Tell me you love me,” he whispered against your ear, desperate to hear it.

You told him that you loved him all the time, eyes bright and sparkling, but he really wanted to hear it now for some reason. He wanted to hear how much he meant to you and how much you desired him. He wanted to hear you vowing your devotion to him, and only when you did, did he come inside of you.

He was always coming inside of you. When you bathed together, when sleep threatened to take you, even in the kitchen. There were times where he would have you sit in his lip while he read to you, and his hand would find a home between your legs before making you sink down onto his cock, snugly sitting inside of you before moving beneath you, forcing you to take his thrusts.

It never waned. In fact, his desire for you only reached knew heights as you swell, your dresses falling around you like water from the roundness of your stomach. You were glowing, a warmth in your skin that had nothing at all to do with his powers but instead the child growing in your stomach. Your happiness came from that, and despite the lie he was clearly feeding himself, it made him feel a little better.

You were excited to feel the baby kick, and Druig could not keep his eyes off of your face as you pressed his hand to your stomach. He stroked your face as you mulled over baby names, teeth sinking into your lip and brows drawn together. There was a fond smile on his lips as you would tearfully ask him if he still thought you were beautiful, and he’d chuckle before taking your face into his hands.

“My beautiful, beautiful Y/N,” he would murmur. “How could you ever ask me something so silly?”

You would shrug, suddenly unsure of your thoughts, and he would wrap his arms around you.

“Am I not inside of you every chance I can get?” he whispered into your ear, and he took great pleasure in the way you shuddered in his hold.

He happily spent the next few hours showing you just how beautiful he thought you were. It was hard to feel remorse for his actions in moments like this. It was hard to linger on just what he was doing to you and how disturbingly awful it really was. He was taking away your will and consent to make him happy, and no matter how happy you were too, it was not real. It was a farce. A lie, and if his brothers and sisters could see him now, the disgust and horror would be more than enough to bring him to his knees.

But Druig loved you.

He loved you and desired you more than anyone he had ever met, and any minor guilt that still lingered was long gone the moment you brought his daughter into this world. She had your eyes and his hair, and her cry was his second favorite sound in the world. With her in his arms, he pressed his lips to your glistening skin, telling you how great of a job you did and other praises that granted him a weak smile.

You were obsessed with her. She was never out of your sight, and you loved to watch her as she slept, and he loved to watch you. You were childlike in your own right as you marveled at every sound and movement she made. He ran his eyes over you, a mirthful smirk on his own lips when you hurried to pull him along to see her do something as mundane as make spit bubbles. You were in love with the mere existence of her, and Druig made sure that you knew that that was exactly how he felt about you.

It was love.

He watched you and coveted you and loved you when it was all he could do, and even though he shouldn’t have, he stole you away. He had no right to, but perhaps you were his long before even he realized it. If he had it his way, he would keep you until the end of time, and Druig had grown accustomed to having it his way.

tags: @xoxabs88xox @mcudarklibrary @notyourtypicalrose @sebabestianstan101 @opheliadawnwalker3 @pinkzsugar @villanellevi @cheeseburgersstuff @my-favorite-fics-and-imagines @nightsinneverland @alexakeyloveloki @grayxswan @undecidedsworld @fanfic-fangirl @peach-buns-unicorns @vicmc624 @weird-mumbling @outlawedmando @izzfizzh @everything-is-awesomesauce @donutloverxo @wondergal2001 @rosalynshields @mandiiblanche @stinkywhore @lunaticgurly @shippers-heart @local-witch-of-mn @youlovetkay @eralen @chimaeracabra @dontbescaredtosingalong @lokislastlove @coconutqueen21 @hurricanerin @trinittyy @hyoyeoniie @gotnofucks @oneoftheprettynerds @doozywoozy @melli0112 @buckybarnesplumwhore @kvzctam @mansaaay @thanatosfic @emberenchanted @sgt-seabass @harryspet

#dark!druig #dark!druig x reader #druig x reader #eternals fanfiction

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violettelueur · 3 years

Text

RYŌMEN SUKUNA || PROUD

| featuring : ryōmen sukuna from jujutsu kaisen

| warnings : grammar errors, swearing and mentions of injuries, blood and death.

| form : imagine

| word count : 1574

| published : 18 november

| request : Aaaa,, I really love your Sukuna imagines! Can I request an Imagine where it’s related to ‘kind hearted’, the reader gets hurt and sukuna gets upset? Thank you so much! Keep up with the great work!! 💞🦦

| barista’s notes : let me admit this, i’m not confident with this imagine ʕ ㅇ ᴥ ㅇʔ i tried changing it a few times but i was really doubting myself every time and this was the result of it, so i’m so sorry if you don’t like it ʕ； •`ᴥ•´ʔ also i’m not really good with fight scenes so if there are any advices that can be given to me, thank you so much ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ i hope you love your classic cup of black coffee and come again soon!

To say that you were screwed was more than an understatement.

Right now wasn’t the ideal situation to be in for any jujutsu sorcerer that wasn’t Gojo’s level.

At this moment and time, standing in front of you was a special grade curse.

What made the situation worse was that Kugisaki was separated from the whole group making the mission more complicated than it needed to be.

“Itadori! Fushiguro! Go find Kugisaki and find the exit to the building, I’ll keep the curse in place!” you demanded, as you knew you didn’t have much time to explain the risky plan you came up with.

“Are you crazy? It’s a special grade there is no way you could defeat it right now!” Fushiguro shouted, trying to know what was going on in your head, thinking that you were utterly crazy for what you just stated to him and his classmate.

“I don’t care! Look, it’s having fun and underestimating us meaning it will use weaker attacks on me, buying time shouldn’t be too hard, just give me a signal when you and Itadori are safe, okay?”

Looking at you with widen eyes, Fushiguro continued to look at you like you had gone completely insane before closing them to clear his mind. What you were saying had much sense in it. Compared to the remaining people in the room, you were the one that had the most potential to defeat the special grade curse if you could, even when you and him were both grade two sorcerers.

“Okay,” Fushiguro muttered quietly - still reluctant to leave you - before turning around and grabbing Itadori to go along with your plan, leaving you completely alone to defend yourself.

Turning back around to look at your opponent, you reached to the side of your hip to grip on the halt of your katana before slowly pulling the sword out from its sheath. From what you could observe, this special grade wasn’t a normal special grade, there was no way it could be deemed one yet it was. From what was going on around you, the curse hadn’t been able to construct a complete Domain Expansion, more of an Innate Domain at best making you come to the conclusion that it must have eaten a cursed object at best to become as powerful as it is - most likely Sukuna’s finger for one example.

Lifting your sword in front of you, you aimed the pointed tip at your opponent before tilting your head to the side to see what else you could observe from your distance.

“Would cutting your head off look best or would cutting both of your arms first be more sufficient?”

Of course, the curse couldn’t reply to you leaving it to only physically answered you with an immense amount of curse energy forming within the palm of its hand, ready to throw it at you.

“Looks like your arms are the first thing I gotta get rid of,” you answered yourself, as you quickly dodging the attack, only to suddenly appear in front of your opponent, leaving yourself enough space to swing your sword down to fully slash its left arm off as you then went ahead and spun behind its body to slice off the other off before pulling yourself back to gain some distance away from the curse.

However, what you had completely forgotten was that special grade curses were able their curse energy to heal themselves, as the curse’s arms suddenly regenerated as if you didn’t cut them off seconds before.

“Damn, I should have gotten your head first ha?” you rhetorically questioned, before using your free hand to pull a long black chain out of your pocket and attaching one end to the hilt of your katana. “Let’s see how fast you can catch,” you commented, as you then threw your katana while aiming for it’s head, using your curse energy to increase the speed it was going at. However, much to your dismay the curse unexpectantly grabbed onto the metal blade, leaving you no choice but to let your curse energy slowly flow through the chain all the way up to the blade causing a large red orb form at the end, quickly exploding before the curse could even react to stop it.

Swiftly, you pulled the chain back so you could retrieve your sword only to then suddenly see the smoke clearing and a large wave of curse energy coming towards your direction.

“Shit!”

In sheer panic, you use your feet to push yourself to the right to move away from the blast before your whole vision was concealed by the rubble and dust.

Pain. That was all you felt. Pure pain.

Were you going to die? Wasn’t you expecting that once you told both your classmates to find Kugisaki and run? You couldn’t lie to yourself, it was too painful to think about death right now. You couldn’t think straight at all.

Once the smoked cleared, all that the special curse could see was your standing figure panting heavily with your left sleeve completely gone due to the blast as blood gushed down your left arm. You had barely managed to get yourself out of the hands of instant death and luckily nothing of your body was disintegrated, just some burns and cuts here and there - to say it was surprising to see you standing was an understatement.

“From our battle so far, you lack the form of curse technique, but you still can pack a punch, ah it hurts,”

The blood loss was getting to you. Yes, having no limbs was not the better option but you could still live with that. What humans couldn’t do was stay alive with no blood and here you were quickly losing your live source the flowed in your body. You couldn’t even cover the wound as there was nothing you could cover it with and even if you did, the wound was too large to be covered.

You were losing the strength to stand.

You were losing your balance.

You were losing consciousness.

Suddenly, you heard a loud sound of a howl from a distance. Instantly, you knew that Fushiguro and Itadori were able to find Kugisaki and get out. It was his signal.

However, you weren’t so lucky in that factor, from the state that you were in, there was no way in hell you were able to escape now - but you were okay with that. If the other’s were safe, that was better than not knowing if they made it out alive. Slowly, you were starting to lose the feeling in your legs, causing you to completely losing your balance.

‘Damn,’ you thought, as you felt your whole body suddenly dropping leaving you no strength left to even brace for the impact, leaving you to close your eyes and admitting defeat.

However, just as you were able to fall to the ground, you suddenly felt a pair of arms catching you before you were quickly lifted up bridal style and pulled into a warm embrace surprising you completely from the sudden comfort of what you thought was your lonely end. Who was still in the building? You thought everyone got out, so who was carrying you right now?

From your limited sight, you could slowly make out someone in a dark uniform similar to the colour you wore, meaning it had to be someone from the team. However, the extreme pressure of curse energy that was somewhat suffocating you determined otherwise - no one within the area right now had this much power, no one at all. Unless…..

“Were you the one that caused this?”

Sukuna…

All you could hear right now a shaking tone as well as the couple droplets of water that was within the Innate Domain that surrounded you.

“For a grade two sorcerer, she really blew half of your body up with that little curse technique she used on you, I’m quite proud of my little one,” Sukuna uncharacteristically complimented you, as he gently pressed a little kiss on top of your head before gently smiling at you - knowing you won’t be able to see this rare expression on his face.

“You see, I’ve grown fond of this little human in my arms right now, and for you to do this much damage to her body, really weirdly angers me,” Sukuna stated before he turned around and began to walk away. “Wait there for a quick second would you? I need to take care of this one right now,” Sukuna commented, before gently placing you down at a safe spot to which he then started to use his curse energy to quickly heal your wound once he sat you up straight.

Brushing away some of the hairs that were in your face, Sukuna placed one last light lingering kiss on your forehead before saying, “I’m proud of you, just wait a little longer, I’ll be back,”.

What was going on?

This had to be a hallucination. There was no question about that. There was no way Sukuna could have saved you let alone kissed you in any way. This was all a hallucination. Wasn’t it?

However, you didn’t have the power to stay awake any longer, resulting you to surrender to the tiredness that was taking over you, letting the darkness invade your whole surroundings, but not before letting out a little mutter under your breath.

‘Proud ha?’

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livingalifeofasimp · 3 years

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☘️𝕲𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖓 𝕴𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖈𝖙

𝕴𝖓

🎀𝕴𝖘𝖊𝖐𝖆𝖎 𝕸𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖆🎀

You got teleported into a Novel called Love or Hate, where a villianess of an influencing family gets jealous of people around Crown Prince and tries to kill everyone especially his beloved and meets unfortunate death.

𝔽𝕠𝕣 𝕀𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕠𝕕𝕦𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟

𝕎𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕡𝕒𝕕 𝕒𝕔𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥

Click on the link for more information, If the link doesn't work then please be kind enough to inform me, Thank you💮💮💮

🖤 𝓩𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓲

*:･ﾟ♛ ﾟ･:* On getting into the novel as Villianess and not being able to go back to your world you decided to stop going down the path of original Novel Plot but make your own and live a life in luxury away from all the characters. Your first step was to break the engagement with Crown Prince, who was surprised when he heard you say that to him, you were just so in love with him and then after being unconscious for almost a week you decided to break off the engagement.

*:･ﾟ♛ ﾟ･:* Zhongli could not understand why you would do such thing and you knew he will fall in love with the Heroine when she appears, you told your father to annual it, since you understood that the affection holds no value in Crown Prince's eyes, but Zhongli wasn't able to digest this piece of information, when he tries to approach you, you run away, avoid him at any cost, he realizes how important you are to him, so he rejects your request to annual the engagement even after you nearly begged him and promises you that he will cherish you now on, leaving you thinking what went wrong.

*:･ﾟ♛ ﾟ･:* You sat with pen and paper tried to sort everything out, although Crown Prince was trying to win your favor back by sending you gifts, letters and asks for your audience only to get ghosted by you, getting involved with him will give you nothing but a miserable fate, no matter how handsome the Characters are you refused to acknowledge them any further. Now it felt like Zhongli clingys to you more than anything.

💛𝓐𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻

ﾟ･:*༻*:･ﾟWhen your carriage stopped infront of your state you saw Aether was there waiting for you, he told you that he heard you were trying to annual the engagement, for a minute you forgot how fast news spread in this era, Aether had a happy glow on his face, he told you that you deserve better. At some point you knew that Aether grows distant from Villianess in Novel Plot but the case here was totally different now he invites you or comes to you uninvited.

ﾟ･:*༻*:･ﾟYou don't stop him tho, he became your bestfriend, he taught you horse riding, sword fighting and helped you in all those things you were interested in. Thanks to Aether your bad dancing got better, you always wondered how he never go tired dancing with you, when you step on his foot unintentionally during practices. Physical touches increases slightly, you don't doubt it since it's normal for friends to hug a second more right?

❤️𝓓𝓲𝓵𝓾𝓬

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ Since there was nothing better to do, you started to put your hands on family business and was sent to pay visit to the business partner. To your surprise when you saw Diluc, he looked just like the Novel described him to be, stern, stoic and cold. His presence was intimidating but you had to win this opportunity so you confidently placed your views even when your legs were shaking under the gown you were wearing, you put your hands together and pursued him.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ Diluc seemed so lonely, he had no one to worry about him, just him and his thoughts. So you decided to greet him with smile and ask about if he ate his meals properly because he skipped them for one or two days due to his loads of work, which was bad for his health, if he needed to fight with Crown Prince for Heroine then he should be healthy, so you took care of him while you were staying in his Mansion.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ At first he was wary of you but he eventually warmed up and when Diluc laughed in one of your jokes, you felt grateful to witness that because no one saw him smiling other than Heroine, he looked really beautiful. He said you were way too different than what the rumours described you to be, you were perfect.

💚𝓧𝓲𝓪𝓸

✥ ۪۪۫۫◃ ✤◃ ۪۪۫۫✥ Bandits attached your Carriage, it was difficult to defeat them but with your escort and Aether's sword fighting training it became quite easy, even though you are not much of a sword fighter than Aether but you could protect yourself for once. When Crown Prince heard you were attacked he immediately assigned you his Loyal Knight who later becomes Imperial Knight respected by citizens, to which you obviously rejected but as persistent as he is you were made to accept the Knight for the time being since all the knights in your family are either afraid of you or not want to serve you and you had no fetish with working with someone who is not willing to be with you.

✥ ۪۪۫۫◃ ✤◃ ۪۪۫۫✥Xiao was very quite and skilled Knight so he was very attentive to your needs, and once caughted you, when you tripped on your gown while climbing staircase, due to which he got on his one knees and asked for your forgiveness. It left you speechless why would he do such thing? Ask for punishment instead of a thanks for saving your bones, you couldn't help but ask him, Xiao's answer made you clutch your fingers, he thought you, a noble lady would get disgusted by his touch since he is lowly born.

✥ ۪۪۫۫◃ ✤◃ ۪۪۫۫✥ You asked him to stand, Xiao is your favorite character who suffered so much and was never able to voice his love for Heroine, you holded his hands in yours, ignoring his body flinching and told him how he should not look down on himself, he is equal, everyone is equal since you all are humans and that you cherish him, he put his life to protect you. You said him all those things you wanted to when you read the Novel, not everything really but it left him blushing while you laughed walking ahead of him what a tsundere.

💙𝓚𝓪𝓮𝔂𝓪

☽༓✮･*˚ A handsome Mage Master kept on disturbing you, the smug looking guy who you meet in Local bars when you were out exploring about the Novel world, he helped you with your case to find out the solution to obtain the land for the project with Duke while giving you many riddles that exhausted you but seeing a worried Xiao was worth it when he says I don't care after nagging you for hours.

☽༓✮･*˚ You doubted if this guy was the one of the Male Leads who was owner of Mage tower because he was exceptional handsome, for a side Character to be so good looking is quite rare, but he debuted after the Grand ball so it couldn't be him, you debated. In Original Novel Plot they never described how he looked, but it was for sure he was popular among ladies. The guy introduced himself as Kaeya, who sometimes requests your presence in Mage tower, only VIP guest were allowed and when you asked him how he managed to get the permission he says it is one of his ways, suspicious enough.

☽༓✮･*˚ You eventually spend more time with him than required which sometimes anger Aether since your time with him reduced, of course you haven't told anything about him to anyone. To save himself, he once introduced you to the group of women flirting with him as his girlfriend. Kaeya sends his familiar in butterfly form for the most stupidest message through your window to which you react differently depending on your mood.

"How are you my Lady?"

"Am I allowed to miss you?"

"When will you visit me?"

"Have you been using me all this time?, I am heart broken T_T Heal me!"

🧡𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭𝓮

❀⑅*⋆༶⋆❀⑅* Strong hand holded you securely, as you danced with him, who was wearing black laced mask in Masquerade ball organized by King for a yearly festival which you were forced you to attend by your Father and Crown Prince. One of the guys asked for you to dance with him, as per tradition one cannot reject the another requesting party, otherwise you would have been eating the food served for guests, imperial food is on another level, Zhongli sometimes tries to lure you to spend time with him by making such excuses.

❀⑅*⋆༶⋆❀⑅* The stranger pulled you even more closer saying that you are looking much more prettier than before, your first meeting but you did not recognized him or so you thought, and he told you that you are known as the most beautiful woman in the Kingdom, neighboring Kingdoms takes interest in you. You do remember the guy who helped you in fighting with Bandits both of them have the same hair color and playfulness in their voice.

❀⑅*⋆༶⋆❀⑅* When you asked him about it, if he was the guy from before to which he replied maybe, leaving you in the middle of the dance and bended in the crowd, Mysterious as Childe you thought, whoever he was, you hoped for him to not bring more problems than you already have. A groaning voice of Crown Prince from behind made you turn around questioning you why you danced with other guys than your fiance, you never thought a composed man as Zhongli would whine to you for such a small thing.

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