#Silver is right here but he is also Full Of Hubris and it will soon come back to bite him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pulaasul · 8 months

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Silver Linings

It turns out, that getting retired from the Desire Grand Prix turned out to be the start of something new in Sumuda's life.

FFN I Ao3

A/N: This is very self-indulgent. I've always thought that because the DGP alters the memories and tweaks the desires of each contestant upon retiring. So I totally saw Da-paan being friendly and whatnot after getting retired. He even has a group of friends.

Then Beroba appeared.

---------

Sumida was with his friends, friends who he thought took pity on him for his injury and pushed them away but they were persistent.

Nowadays, he's enjoying their company, and suddenly, he doesn't view life as agonizing and lonely anymore.

Then his memories came back.

Sumida had been in the middle of a conversation when it happened. He had been laughing at a joke one of his friends made when he suddenly stopped midway. Confused about what was happening, it had been months since he was last in the Grand Prix, and he tried to act like nothing was wrong.

But of course, his friends immediately knew what was up.

Sumida passed it off as his old injury acting up, he didn't know there was a time that he could use his old injury as an excuse.

Silver Linings.

While in the middle of reassuring his friends, a really familiar voice spoke up.

"People sure change so much, huh?"

"I-is that A-ace-sama!"

Of all the times for that Geats to appear.

"Yo, Ge-Ace," He almost slipped. "What do you want?"

"Eeeeh?! Sumida-kun, you know Ace-sama?" One of his friends shrieked. "I'm so jealous!"

"I'll introduce you later, it seems like Ace-sama wants to talk to me."

"I'm so jealous! You personally know Ace-sama!" Another one of his friends gushed.

"Damn, Sumida, you know a celebrity, I sure wish I also know celebrities like you do."

"Trust me, it's not all that," Sumida smiled but he shook his head. "Please give us some space, it seems like Ace-sama wants to tell me something."

"Okay, see you in class, Sumida-kun." Another classmate giggled.

As soon as the Sumida's friends left the two of them, Sumida glared at the visitor.

"What are you doing here, Geats?" Sumida growled. "Why do I remember everything in the Desire Grand Prix, now?"

"I'm a god now so I restored all of the memories of every Desire Grand Participant." Ace smirked.

"Did you win another Desire Grand Prix and wished yourself to be a god, then?" Sumida asked. "If so, why'd you make me remember, you do still remember what I did in the game, right?"

"Because you are all entitled to your memories and desires and the DGP stole that from you." Ace shook his head.

"Let me tell you the full story."

---------

"That…"

"As you can see, I'm preparing if some of the supporters from the future would approach you."

"Will you just be visiting anyone who acted like I used to be in the games, surely I can't be the only one who wished for the world to burn." Sumida asked.

"No, Morio is overseas now, answering for his crimes, and the others, well let's just say you two are the only ones who were lucky to survive the Grand Prix."

"Their hubris got to them." Sumida nodded.

Sumida realized what could have been his fate had he proceeded to the next round instead of the runaway princess.

"So what do I do if they do approach me, it's not like you're an actual god who's omnipresent and omniscient."

"Just pretend and do what do what they want you to do," Ace stated. "It can't be that hard."

"Oi, oi, you can't be serious!" Sumida stood up in protest. "What if they tell me to shoot them? What then?"

Sumida angrily gestured in the direction his friends walked to.

"No, I'm sure they won't do that, they're too focused on themselves to be able to think that," Ace assured. "Not to worry, if anything happens Tsumuri will inform me right away, I can even have Buffa or Tycoon patrol near the school."

"Wait, Tycoon? That Tanuki guy?"

"He's a formidable fighter, Dapaan, he can even fight the Pawn Jamato untransformed."

"Seriously?"

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

"I'm sorry for attacking you!"

Sumida bowed in front of Neon and Michinaga as soon as both Ace and Keiwa disappeared and Tsumuri collapsed.

"Haaaa?!"

"So that's how Ace knew that you'd be coming for me." Neon exclaimed.

"Oi, Na-go, what's going on?" Michinaga looked at his companion.

"No, explanations can wait, we need to bring Tsumuri-chan back to the lounge." Neon shook her head.

"Am I even allowed to go there?"

"You're a Rider, your belt and ID core didn't disappear, I don't see why not." Neon shrugged.

"Wait, is that another person beside her?" Sumida cut in as he looked at the unconscious Navigator."

"Punk Jack!"

"He must have been in danger when Ace recreated the world, so he teleported him to where Tsumuri-chan is."

"Oi, Dapaan, you handle Tsumuri, I handle Punk Jack."

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

"So Ace approached you," Win hummed. "That guy really thinks steps ahead of everyone else." Win shook his head with a smile.

"You had no choice."

"If I'm understanding this correctly, you were reintroduced to Tycoon by the supporters."

"He was in rough shape," Sumida shared his observations. "From what I heard, that Kekera person orchestrated his family's second death simply by instructing the rider he approached where to attack and let him attack to his heart's content."

"And Beroba got a hold of my Akari-chan's kidnapper," Neon stated her own conclusions. "They're ruthless."

"Too cruel if you ask me." Sumida shook his head.

"So what's next for you, Dapaan?" Win asked.

"To return these," Sumida retrieved his Driver and buckles he had been given and placed them on the couch. "Na-go mentioned that everyone can be happy, I already found mine."

"I'm so happy for you, Kanato-kun." Neon smiled at the boy who had attacked her and her mother earlier in the day. "I'm genuinely happy for you, we all are, and I'm sure Ace is too."

"Are you sure, Dapaan?" Win asked. "We could use someone like you."

"I think the four of them have it handled." Sumida gestured towards Michinaga and Neon.

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

"Tycoon," Sumida had spotted the man on his way to school.

"Heh, you know the Kamen Rider Sumida-kun?" One of his friends squealed. "You also know Ace-sama, I'm so jealous."

"I've known Tycoon before," Kanato shook his head. "Go on ahead, I just want to catch up a bit."

"Okay~!" His friends nodded. "You better tell us if you know anyone else famous!" They chorused.

"The next thing that will happen is Neon-chan approaching you, you better tell us if you know her!"

"Hai, hai." Sumida shook his head.

"So, we'll go first! Don't take too long, you know how finicky the teachers are if you are even a second late."

"Hai, hai."

Sumida waved at his friends as they walked to their school.

"So, I take it you didn't have a choice when you joined Beroba that day?" Tycoon spoke from behind him, he had the decency to wait until his friends were out of earshot.

"You could say that," Sumida nodded. "I wanted to apologize for my words that day."

"No need," Tycoon smiled at the boy. "You were speaking facts and had it not been for you, I would have given my all into fighting Ace that day."

"You were holding back?" Sumida's eyes widened.

"You didn't notice?" Tycoon questioned. "Ace and I were holding back that time."

"If that fight was the both of you holding back, I don't want to see you two fight together or against each other at full power."

Sumida shivered at the thought of having to fight two powerful enemies.

"Just so you know, Neon-chan's plenty powerful as well."

Tycoon had the audacity to mention that, Sumida knew firsthand how powerful Na-go had gotten.

"I know, I had to shoot her mother to keep up appearances and gain the favor of the supporters and their audience."

"So it was like a test for you to be able to meet me?" Tycoon hummed. "I wouldn't put it past them, Kekera was viewing like a killing machine he had helped create, and Beroba just loved capitalizing on people's misery."

"Still, they're gone now," Sumida sighed. "At least, I know Kekera's dead."

"Michinaga-san also defeated Beroba." Tycoon informed.

"Your four just got more powerful since I left the game, huh."

"And we endured too much for us to gain this power, sometimes I question if this power was worth it compared to the suffering we four went through." Tycoon answered.

"You're right." Sumida realized the amount of suffering Tycoon went through, if it was comparable to his, then the others had suffered too much too.

"Shouldn't you be going to school now?" Tycoon smiled at the man.

"Crap!" Sumida's eyes widened. "I'm really sorry for everything I did up to this point!" He bowed.

"No," Tycoon pulled him to a standing position but his hands stayed on his shoulders. "You don't have to apologize for anything."

"Thank you."

"Still, I'm glad you turned out alright Sumida-kun. There's at least one thing the Desire Grand Prix has brought this world," Tycoon gave a smile. "Silver Linings."

Sumida smiled at Tycoon, it's good that he can still see something good for the myriad of bad things to happen to him.

"You should hurry to school now; I'm also heading for work."

"Crap! Thank you again, Tycoon!"

"You're welcome."

#kanato sumida #sumida kanato #kamen rider geats #sakurai keiwa #keiwa sakurai #sara sakurai #sakurai sara #ukiyo ace #ace ukiyo #michinaga azuma #azuma michinaga #neon kurama #kurama neon #story #silver linings.

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starbuck · 2 years

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I know I’ve posted this before but we just rewatched the last two eps of s3 so here it is again!

#black sails #john silver #james flint #it's still soooooooo funny to me #Silver is right here but he is also Full Of Hubris and it will soon come back to bite him #also i hate that this isn't even the only meme i've made about Silver and Ritual Sacrifice...#maybe i'll post the other one when we Get There - it's really funny and i haven't posted it before #love being an enthusiastic member of the Silver Ritual Sacrifice Fandom #i Have Some Notes but not about this one - this one was really good #well. i mean. sort of.#that's a lie - i do have notes #i'm just less harsh bc it worked out #and i think his overconfidence is funny

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maybedefinitely404 · 4 years

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Day 10: Dukexiety

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 10: You are born with a birthmark, similar to a tattoo, that is shared by your soulmate.

Content warnings: allusions to past suicidal thoughts, just bad mental health past in general, vague bullying, swimming pools, past isolation, minor injury (broken ribs), general anxiety and self deprecation.

Word count: 3.9k

I was very low on time, and very exhausted from work, so I tried something new! I first discovered the concept of ‘bullet fics’ from @illogicallyinclined ‘s hockey au, GO CHECK IT OUT!!! (It’s living in my head rent free for a couple months now)

Virgil, Patton, Logan, and Roman have been friends for as long as they can remember. The first three met at a neighborhood barbecue when they were just a couple years old, and since they all live on the same block, became each other’s go to play buddies. They all stuck together in their first years of school together, the unbreakable trio, and then they met Roman. Or, Roman was pulled into their clutches and was therefore part of the group now. Patton saw him getting bullied across the playground and ran in to help, and now Roman is ‘eternally in their debt’. But they like him, so his extravagance is okay.

They hung out constantly, all throughout middle and highschool, and they graduated together. It was a big moment for all of them; Patton, who almost got left a grade behind several times (his dyslexia went undiagnosed for several years and he was simply categorized as ‘dumb’), Virgil, who almost didn’t make it due to a mental health crisis, Logan, who was pressured heavily by his parents to move up a grade and had to fight tooth and nail to stay with his friends, and Roman, who’s bullying problems didn’t exactly lessen through the years, and was more than relieved to be leaving that behind.

That summer, they pledge (mostly by Roman’s pleading) to try and do something fun every day. While Logan says this is improbable and Virgil groans at the thought of spending every day socializing, Patton is excited for the idea and “it’s two against two so you have to at least try!”

“That logic doesn’t make sense-” “Shut it, teach, just let us have this.”

So far, they’ve gone to the amusement park just out of town, gone to the park too many times to count, visited their local arcade that they hadn’t even stepped foot into since middle school, and tie-dyed a variety of clothing items in Patton’s backyard. Today, Patton is forcing them all to go to the pool, despite Logan claiming that they’re “feces infested, germ nesting grounds” and Virgil’s argument that “he burns like an unwatched pot of milk, how can you expect this from me”, Patton’s little puppy eyes do them all in.

Unfortunately, just as they’re leaving for the pool, Roman gets a call. At first it’s civil, and then his voice raises, and then he’s hanging up and throwing his phone onto his seat from where he’s standing next to the open car door. Angrily, he tells his friends that his mom got called into work and his dad’s on a business trip, so they need to take his brother with them.

At first, this raises some confusion.

“I was not under the impression that you had a little brother.”

“How old is he? Either way, I say, the more the merrier!”

Virgil is not thrilled at the idea of babysitting, since kids generally don’t like him, but he doesn’t voice his displeasure.

Roman has to admit, with much embarrassment, that it’s actually his twin, who is just so chaotically irresponsible that he has lost Home Alone Privileges. He’s broken the TV, accidentally started fires, and lost their dog one too many times and his parents said no more.

So he drives all the way back to his house, the three friends crammed into the back seat of his two door sedan (because the seats are A Pain to raise and lower and it makes more sense to give said brother the front seat instead of rearranging when they get him), grumbling under his breath about his stupid brother, stupid work, stupid stupid stupid-

Virgil is apt to agree with him, because if being around his three closest friends is enough interaction to mentally exhaust him, adding a new person to the mess is so much worse. He’s generally unexcited to meet this new person… until they pull up to the driveway.

And holy heck.

This man is GORGEOUS.

It takes a second for him to realize it’s Roman’s brother, because despite his first assumption, the two are not identical. They’re very similar, obviously related, for sure, but they are surprisingly easy to tell apart, and it’s not just because of the silver streak in the brother’s hair.

Which he should not find as hot as he does.

After Roman insists said brother does need to go get a bathing suit and no you can not go swimming in your jeans, he jumps into the passenger seat and, with as much energy as Roman has at Full Potential, introduces himself as Remus to the backseat audience.

Patton and Logan both say small hello’s, but Virgil is just stuck.

Dear lord. Princey, why have you been hiding him from me?

When they get to the pool, Virgil makes a complete fool of himself getting out of the car. He trips on his seatbelt, landing directly in Remus’ arms, and looks up to see this devil man grinning at him with all the hubris of a greek god. Before he can say anything, Virgil pushes himself up and rolls his eyes (all while internally screaming) and walks away, joining Patton and Logan where they are just entering the main gate.

He can’t help it; when in proximity of cuteness, his emergency mode is “be a dick”.

But it only gets worse from there.

When Virgil has an umbrella properly set up above a chair so he can save his skin from the sun (“I burn like unwatched milk on a stove. I’m not going in.”) and is comfortably situated with his phone and iced coffee, Remus steps in front of him to take his shirt off.

He’s pretty sure Remus didn’t even mean to. It just… happened to be directly in his line of sight.

As soon as the shirt is above his head, Virgil chokes on his drink, squirting iced coffee out of his nose and going into a coughing fit. Patton rubs his back while Roman tries not to laugh (and fails miserably), all while Remus is just watching him. Confused. (Logan is in the change rooms, because he insists on not wearing his bathing suit unless he is actively about to swim)

There’s more than just the sun issue that prevents Virgil from swimming. While his friend’s soulmarks are relatively small (Roman has a little one on his neck, Logan and Patton have a shared one just above their ankles), Virgil’s is a huge splotch that covers his entire side, reaching from just above his top rib to where his waistband usually lies. It’s all squiggles and lumps; Virgil once compared it to a storm cloud, but the lightning streaks were tentacles. It’s all in all, just… A Mess. And he doesn’t really like it. No one he’s ever met has had a soulmark like that, and he hates standing out.

When Remus takes off his shirt, in all his muscled glory, Virgil can’t miss the matching soulmark that trails down Remus’ side. It’s his, no doubt about it, but… that can’t be right, can it? Remus is so… full of life, dangerous, the epitome of chaotic; he’s everything Virgil is not. More so, he’s terrified of what Remus must think of him. He’s nothing special, he’s just an anxious ball of angst. What if he’s disappointed in who the universe decided to stick him with?

After he’s done choking on iced coffee, and Logan is back from the change room, he realizes Remus is long gone, in the deep end of the pool trying to gather as many foam noodles as he can. They check that Virgil is alright, and when he merely gives them a shaky thumbs up, they take it at face value and dive in. Except Logan, who uses the steps like a mature adult, you children.

He lets the rest of his coffee sit in the sun, until the sun melts all the ice cubes and it’s lukewarm to touch and overall, just gross, because suddenly he has no appetite. Yeah, this guy is gorgeous and he’s hopelessly gay for him, but... soulmate? That’s a lot for anyone to take in, much less someone with forty seven different kinds of anxiety. /j

If Virgil was uneasy taking his shirt off before, he sure as hell isn’t doing it now. No matter how much Patton and Roman plead with him, he stays glued to his chair, eyes flickering from his friends playing Marco Polo to watching his soulmate Remus. He’s turned the pool noodles into a giant raft and is trying to balance on it, like an absolute idiot.

An extremely good looking idiot.

Virgil can’t help but notice that… he’s all alone. Roman, Patton, and Logan barely even throw him the occasional glance, much less invite him to hang out with them in the water. Worse than that, he seems relatively fine with it. It could just be that he doesn’t want to intrude on his brother’s friend group, but Remus doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to have those boundaries. Which kind of insinuates that he’s used to being alone, and Virgil can’t help but empathize.

He notices it a lot, actually. The group meeting Remus also coincides with Roman and Virgil becoming more close; less of a frenemy relationship, and more of an actual friendship. Patton is delighted, because this means the three of them get to hang out at Roman’s huge place more often without their constant bickering (because when it got bad at one of their houses, Virgil’s was never more than a ten minute walk away when Roman finally pushed his last button. Here, they were all stuck.)

And every time they go over, he can’t help but notice the loud music coming from Remus’ room, or the man just sitting on the couch watching TV (which he tends to do shirtless, which does not help Virgil at all), or irritating Roman’s parrot. All in all, doing things alone. It strikes a chord in Virgil’s heart, which is something he’d never admit to another person.

Maybe that’s why, in the following week when Roman has the grand idea to go on a mountain hike, Virgil quietly asks if they could invite Remus. At first, Roman is adamant. “He’ll just ruin things, he doesn’t appreciate nature, he’s annoying!” But Patton claims “The more the merrier” and Logan doesn’t have any particular stance, so he begrudgingly invites Remus.

Who very excitedly accepts.

The trail Roman visited is quite a ways out of town, so they cram back into his tiny car and start the drive. Patton claimed shotgun, so him and Roman have derailed into an animated conversation about cartoons, while Logan just pops in his earbuds and leans his head against the window. For the longest time, Remus and Virgil sit in awkward silence, because neither of them could get a word in edgewise to the front seat conversation even if they tried, and they don’t… really… know what to say… to each other.

It’s Remus who finally breaks the silence (shocker).

“Roman tells more you’re the one who wanted to invite me.”

“Yeah, well, you seemed lonely. And… I mean, you’re Roman’s brother. Can you really be that bad?”

He means it as a joke, but he sees the light in Remus’ eyes die slightly. The tone of his voice doesn’t falter though, remaining as joyful and quirky as always.

“I’m a lot more fun than Roman. People just don’t like to see it that way.”

“Setting your kitchen curtains on fire is fun?”

“If you were there, you’d understand!”

And they keep talking, maybe trailing into borderline flirting, for the whole ride. Virgil is surprised at the lack of tenseness in his shoulders, because though Remus is loud and a little unsettling, he is incredibly patient when Virgil has trouble forming his sentences and doesn’t interrupt him when he’s talking; an incredible help to someone with crippling anxiety. Underneath his exterior, he’s actually… incredibly soft? What?

By the time they pull up to the trail, Remus is actually starting to grow on Virgil. Since Patton and Roman are still so into their debate, and Logan seems content listening to his music (or podcast, but who really knows), they continue talking as the hike starts. The shorter boy can’t help but glance at the other every few seconds, seeing their soulmark just peeking past the edge of his baggy tank top. If Remus notices, he says nothing.

And he learns Remus was bullied a lot through school, just like Roman was, but instead of finding a group that supported him, he broke off as a lone wolf. He came off scary or maybe just a little bit crazy to anyone he tried to befriend, since his social skills were pretty lacking due to disuse and his incredible lack of filter, so he learned early that staying alone hurt less. And in that time, he just became more and more… Like That… because he literally never had peers to mature with.

The hike is a long one. Remus is pretty eager to spill his guts, probably since he was never able to before, so Virgil feels obligated to do the same. He tells Remus about his anxiety, about his mental health issues during school, about his home life and his hobbies, and the fact that there are more people around just fades into the background. It could as well be just them, and Virgil starts to wish it was.

So of course, that’s when everything goes to shit.

A mountain biker comes ripping down the path, too quick to even process, and Virgil is caught off guard. Of course, he’s not walking near the edge of the path, because he has some shred of common sense, but the bike speeding by him causes him to flinch and stumble to the side; an instinctual reaction. Except his instincts decided to not remember until the last second that he’s at the edge of the trail.

It’s almost like happening in slow motion, his foot goes over the edge, and he doesn’t realize what’s about to happen until his other foot is already off the ground, ready to take that next step back, and he’s falling. Luckily (as lucky as one can be in this situation), it’s not a straight drop, just a decently long, steep slope that’s essentially just a bunch of rocks and weeds.

He hears his friends scream his name, sees a hand fly out to catch him, and it just snags the edge of his jacket before he’s freefalling for a split moment. One heart stopping, never ending, eternal and all too short moment of weightlessness where he twists his body, hoping to try and brace himself, and then he meets the slope.

Hard.

His breath leaves him in a wheeze and he distinctly hears a loud snap. Through his pain addled brain, he tries to stop his slide further down by grabbing anything; rocks, roots, dirt. It’s useless.

He stops naturally, on a small ledge several meters from the top before the slope continues. For a moment, he can only lay there, trying to breathe through the intense pain flaring through him pretty much everywhere, not to mention the sheer levels of pure panic numbing his thoughts. He stares at the clouds, watching them as they float by, each breath spreading fire through his torso but at the same time strangely numb.

And then, “VIRGIL!”

His eyes shoot open (wait, when did he close them?) to see Remus’ concerned face above his. If the messied state of his outfit is any indication, this man just slid down the slope to catch up to him. His hands are hovering above Virgil, scared to touch, but more scared that Virgil is going to keep falling.

“Fuck,” is Virgil’s eloquent response. He tries to take a deep breath, tries to do his breathing pattern to calm his nerves, but NOPE. Wrong move.

He immediately gasps and his hands fly to his ribs, another flair of pain shooting up them. Remus’ hands grab his, pulling them away from his torso, holding them securely. “I think you have some broken ribs. That was… one hell of a fall. We need to get you back up to the trail though, okay?”

Virgil can only nod his head, allowing Remus to help him stand, biting his lip so hard to keep from crying out that his lip splits. It hurts.

Trust Logan to come up with ideas on the fly. The biker must have stopped when he realized Virgil had fallen (at least he didn’t just keep driving), because when Virgil opened his tear filled eyes, there was a bike tire just a few feet from his face. He followed the frame of the bike, up to where Roman was holding the other wheel and standing precariously on the slope. Logan is clinging onto his hand, one foot on the slope and one on the actual trail, and if Virgil has to guess, the biker and Patton are just out of sight, keeping Logan steady.

Virgil knows it’s going to hurt before Remus even warns him that it will, watching the taller man get a good grip on the bike wheel, before holding Virgil’s wrist with as much force that can muster without actively cutting off circulation. Virgil holds onto his wrist in return, Remus gives a shout to go ahead, and the human/bike chain they’ve created begins to pull them up.

And oh lord, if Virgil thought just laying down was painful, tripping and stumbling up a steep incline is another world altogether. This time, biting his lip doesn’t work and he lets out a few muffled cries as the team works together, Remus squeezing his wrist every time a choked sound escapes his lips, mind too full of pure agony to even curse.

When they finally step foot onto the trail again, Virgil is in tears, and he is too far gone to even care. The biker is incredibly apologetic, offering his contact information and bidding them adieu when they insist that they’re okay now, and takes off, at an admittedly much slower pace than he was at before.

Logan, the only one of them with proper (and extensive) first aid training, forces Virgil to sit, giving him time to find a position that puts as little pressure on his ribs as possible, before crouching in front of him.

“Let me check if they’re broken.”

His hand reaches out towards Virgil’s shirt and all the alarm bells start BLARING. No. No, no, no, no, no. Before he can restrain himself, he reaches out and slaps Logan’s hand away, sending another wave of pain through him. The pain doesn’t matter though, not in comparison to Logan possibly revealing his soulmark.

Logan doesn’t understand this reaction properly (when does he ever), so he tries again.

“Virgil, I need to check the extent of the damage. A cracked rib means you can still make it back to the car. A broken rib would require emergency services and probable air lifting to prevent further damage, like a punctured lung.”

“Fine,” Virgil hisses through clenched teeth, bitterly understanding his logic, “Just… don’t take the shirt off.”

He tries to say it to only Logan, but it’s clear the other’s heard it by the way they exchange confused glances. Yes, they’ve never seen Virgil without a shirt, except they’d always pegged that up to insecurities. Wouldn’t those take a back seat in a possible medical emergency?

Logan complies, however, and slides his hand under the hem of his shirt without moving the fabric. He runs his hands slowly up each rib, concentrating heavily, until he reaches one midway up and Virgil yelps, instinctively flinching backwards.

Startled by the reaction (it’s his first time actually administering first aid like this, give him a break), Logan jumps back, forgetting his hand is still under Virgil’s shirt.

His hand moves up.

Virgil moves back.

And the hem of his shirt rises up his chest for just a moment.

A moment’s all that’s needed, though. When you notice something that you’ve seen yourself a hundred times over, admiring this way and that in the mirror to commit it to memory, it only takes a glance to recognize it.

Remus only needed that split second of the shirt riding up to notice the lower half of the soulmark, and he definitely did notice it, if the way his jaw drops is anything to go off of. Virgil winces again, not from pain this time, and looks down at his shoes, abhorring the awkward silence that ensues.

The other three don’t understand, watching the two of them with varying levels of confusion, until Remus blurts:

“Are you my soulmate?”

And everything clicks into place. Virgil nods mutely, still not looking up, afraid of his reaction. Would he be upset Virgil kept it a secret? Would he be disappointed? Would he would he would he-

“Oh thank GOD!”

That’s… not the reaction he was expecting. He looks up to see Remus grinning like a child on their birthday, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I mean, if I’d want anyone to be my soulmate, it would be you! You don’t hate me, which a lot of people do, and you actually listen to me, which is nice, and not to mention you’re super hot, like the whole emo thing is just-”

“Remus!” Roman screeches, cutting him off, “You’re embarrassing him, let him breathe!”

It’s the first time Roman has ever come to Virgil’s defense, and he’s only vaguely happy about that. Truth is, he’s so much more wrapped up in the fact that Remus is actually happy that he doesn’t even notice Logan’s back to touching his ribs until another sharp pain brings him back.

“They’re definitely not broken. Fractured, at worst. Either way, you’re going to the hospital. Only question is, can you get down to the car?”

Virgil wants to nod, wants to go along with no problem, but he can barely take a step before his knees almost give out. If he could double over without making everything worse, he would.

Remus doesn’t see this as a problem, though, eagerly offering Virgil to ride on his back until they get to the bottom. The shorter is, obviously, reluctant to this plan, seeing as how it’s a decently long trail and he isn’t that light, but damn, his soulmate insists, and next thing he knows, he’s gingerly holding onto Remus’ shoulders as he pushes back into a standing position.

(If he wasn’t already super hot, he’s strong, too? Virgil has struck the literal jackpot.)

He buries his face into the crook of Remus’ neck, trying not to wince at every jolt and bump as they maneuver their way down the hill, all conversation halted so they can focus on the two of them. Roman walks in front of them and Patton and Logan behind, ready to jump into action at any sign of stumbling.

But it’s okay, it actually is, Virgil realizes as they’re making their way down the hill. Sure, they only really bonded today, but they also bonded in a day, and if that’s not telling of the future they’ll have together, whether romantic or platonic (they still need to talk that out), it’s gonna be okay.

Anyone who’s willing to throw themselves into harm's way and carry you down a mountain has got to be a worthy soulmate.

#lywrites #tsshipmonth2020 #dukexiety #remus sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #ts soulmate au #sanders sides #sanderssides #sanders sides fanfiction

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yandere-wishes · 4 years

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💝My Obsession // Yandere! Leona Kingscholar x Reader// 💝

Someone, please explain to me how all my Leona fics end up being 2,500+ words?? Also props to whoever figures out which anime got inspired by to write the ending. Any way enjoy also thanks so much to @malleusthorns their game motivated me to write this.

Warning: Gore...I guess.

🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁

There was a throbbing that wouldn't seem to go away, reverberating through the young girl's skull. Bouncing from wall to wall of her cranium just like a bouncy ball. The pain caused her to close her eyes tighter, trying to lull herself back into the numb comatose that had started to crack under the weight of alertness. Tiny fracture sprinkled around the darkness, noting to fully break her dormant mind. That was until something icy and wet splashed over her face, jolting her from her slumber.

(Y/n)'s eyes shot open, tears forming at the sides ready to slip out. She was becoming cognizant of the hammering in her head. A shiver ran up her spin before creeping over her skin, laying cutis anserina in its wake. As her sense began to awaken one by one, (y/n) started to feel a tug on her shoulder. The poor girl tried pulling her humerus forward, only for her skin to scrape against a smooth, freezing surface. Something was bounding her arms...and her legs she noted as she tried to kick her feet.

Nervously her bloodshot eyes scanned the room, it was dark and chilly. Something was causing every hair on her body to stand up on high alert, her guts where entwining amongst themselves screaming that something just wasn't right. Endless minutes flew by before a rollicking noise jarred silent darkness. A tapping soon followed, pittering across the floor. One second she could practically feel their presence less than a millimeter away from her. The next all she had was their even,never-changing noise where, she could only assume, was in front of her.

'Please talk' a timid voice croaked inside her head. 'Please say something' the nervous noise was poking at her tolerance. 'Just talk!' she couldn't tell if she'd actually screamed out the words or only hollered them inside her head. Either way, it did not matter, the footsteps only continued on their way, ignoring her presence altogether. The steps were getting further and further...the footfalls ceased and were instead replaced by a ripping noise that echoed through the emptiness.

In moments the obscurity was pierced by thin feeble rays of silver light. Despite the lights infirm nature it's brightness (y/n) still shut her eyes in an attempt to stop the stinging that had sparked from the back of her eyeballs. Endless minutes passed before a heavy sigh filled the air accompanied by the mirthless voice of the mysterious kidnapper. "Life's not fair is it?"

That question, that signature rhetorical question that had all but engraved its self in the depths of (y/n)'s memory. There was only one person, one person in the entirety of the world that could state such an overlooked fact as if it was the foundation that life was built on, one person...

"Leona..." Her whisper was as light as the air itself, the name of her beloved childhood friend mingled with the air before it was carried off into oblivion. Craning her head to the right, (Y/n)'s eyes caught the ever so familiar frame of the Savanclaw dorm leader. His green eyes glowed in the eerie rays. His posture wasn't as lax like it always was. There was an eagerness to him, an unsteadiness engulfing him. His spin was stark straight, his gloved fingers dug into his hips, scrunching the fabric of his shirt. "Surprised kitten?" his voice rumbled from his chest, echoing through the room. "You really shouldn't be, you've had this coming for some time."

(y/n)'s brows knitted together, whatever had been spilled on her earlier was starting to dry over her face. Sticking to her visage like a second skin. "L-Leona..." her voice was brittle, wither away like a dying rose. "W-what are...are you talking about?" dread was wrapping it's decaying thin arms around her, hover above the doomed darling watching the spectacle. "Wh..why am I here?" questions where bubbling inside the girl, floating out of her mouth and lingering in the stale air. It did little to phase Leona, he just kept starring and starring. Almost like a predator hunting its prey.

Slowly the lion boy stalked forward, his tail swished from side to side, almost like he was nervous about something...When he was close enough he leaned over. With one hand he tilted the metal chair backward. With the motion (y/n)'s head tipped backward. Their faces were close, far too close, (y/n) could feel every breath that Leona took. There was malice and sadness hidden behind his emerald orbs. His face was twisted into a snarl, sharp teeth on full display. "Why do you always have to be so dame clueless?"

(y/n)'s nerves were starting to snap. If this was a sick joke, then it had lost its humor the moment she woke up. "Stop it!" her voice creaked like old floorboards. Her vocal cords strained almost on the verge of bleeding as she tried to morphed her tone into an intimidating one. "This..this isn't funny Leona!!" The older boy rolled his eyes. He tipped the chain back to its initial position. Before waling behind her and undoing the restraints. Just as (y/n) came to move her arms, Leona forcefully pushed the chair into the ground. (Y/n)'s face slammed against the dirty floor, bouncing upwards from the sheer force before falling down numbly once more.

Leon watched as the young girl tried to get up, balancing herself on her hands and knees. as she stretched her neck to look up at him, he noted that blood was pooling under a few areas on her face and left eye. Creating supple red bruises. Though he would never say it out loud, she looked pretty like this, she had always looked her best when she was bleeding of hurt in some manner, it caused a sort of glow to orbit around her. But her beauty did little to make up for her insolence. There was a storm brewing inside him of him the anger, danger, and a newly awoken darkness where entwining birthing the personification of his obsession.

"By the king of beasts," he grumbled as his fingers shot up to his temple, as they always did when the iteration of the situation was planting another neuralgia in his head "I want you...no, you are mine, you have always been mine! You're just so stupidly dense that you never once realized it!"

(Y/n)'s eyes widen in disbelief, her heart was pounding against her rib cage practically breaking her ribs with each beat. Nervously she brought the back of her hand to her face, trying to distract herself. As she went to wipe the substance off her face. The substance cracked and peeled off the second her hand rubbed against it. As it fell it revealed a sticky layer underneath. Retracting her arm quickly (y/n) tried to see what it was that she had just touched...Another wave of shock rolled over her...

"B-blood?" Frantically her eyes ran up to Leona's begging for answers. The dark-skinned boy shrugged. "I didn't like your history project partner". (y/n) gulped, "How long?" her question silently floated between them, acting as a shield brightened by the dimly light. Leona only raised an eyebrow, he opened his mouth an inch but closed it once he heard the choked sobs and enraged shouts coming from his "lover". "How long?"... there was no reply. "How long have you felt this way!" It was a stupid question. (y/n) knew, if anything she had known for far too long, but she had been so happy in her hubris. So content with playing "sibling" with her childhood friend, she knew how he had felt for far too long. But everything had been so sweet, so pleasant, almost like a fairy tale. It was easier to look for a prince charming in other men and expect her "big brother" to be there and catch her once that prince inevitably broke her heart.

A sharp pain in her scalp caused the girl to look up. Leona was kneeling in front of her, pulling her hair up to look her directly in the eyes.

"Stop being so selfish and just fuking be mine already! it's not that fucking hard!" His yells held a desperate undertone, the big strong king of Savanclaw was reduced to this? A lovesick boy? Angrily (y/n) took in a deep unsteady breath before bellowing: "I'm the selfish one? You kidnapped me and tied me to a chair! You broke that beautiful illusion we had! To want to throw away our friendship for what? So we can break each other's hearts?!"

Leona remained dumbfound, his grip on her hair strengthened. "Actually I ordered Ruggie to kidnap you so that on him" he tried to keep a haughty prideful tone, but her words had left a growing bruise on his ego.

"Doesn't matter! if anything that just further proves my point! You are the selfish one! Just fess up, you're the one at fault here!"

Leona's body had begun vibrating with rage. Lifting his free hand he struck (y/n)! His claws snipped at her flesh, tearing apart skin tissue by skin tissue as if it was nothing more then silk fabric. Slashing at the muscles until there was a large enough opening for the blood to flow past. Trickling down her cheek the mood pushed away the rotten plasma caking her face, splattering on her clothes, leaving large messy circular like stains.

"No no! This! This whole fucked up mess we're in is all your fault! It's always been your fault!" Leona roared. His pupils had started to dilate, tears were forming in his eyes. Swiftly the older boy lifted his fist only to smash it onto (y/n)'s, again and again, and again...

Laughter, a sicking, and high pitch bordering on maniacal. Leona stopped his assault, his brows shot upwards, as his mouth twisted in a snarl, creases started forming on the bridge of his nose. How dare she laugh at him! How dare she mock him!

(Y/n) opened her eyes, they were harboring similar insanity as her kidnapper. Her mouth opened permitting her to cough up some blood that had pooled inside. "Why can't you just accept responsibility? You were always like this! Even when we were kids! Nothing was ever your fault because you were such a tragic little prince weren't you! If you really love me then own it! Don't blame me for your obsession! It wasn't my fault! I thought you...I thought you were happy with what we had!" Leona slowly pulled away. His green gaze never once leaving (y/n)'s damaged face. His fingers unlocked from her hair, which causes the young girl to immediately start rubbing the top of her head.

"I don't really care how you see this situation. My fault -which it isn't- Your fault -which it is- the point is...you're mine now and that's how it's going to be..." Leona's hand slithered over to (y/n)'s wrist, gripping it and pulling her into his arms. (y/n) buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in his nostalgic scent, as he calmly petted her head as if she was a pet cat.

Time had frozen, granting the two so-called lovers a break of sorts. For the endless moment. It wasn't until Leona had gotten bored of their little hug, that the two moved. Leona's hands dug into her shoulder, he leaned his head down just as (y/n) tilted her head up. Lips brushing against each other prepping for a kiss.

The quietness was disrupted by a loud banging noise from behind them followed by an airy sound that got louder and louder. Until it struck right past Leona. Cutting the fabric of his jeans and slicing through his flesh. The lion let out a hiss, jumping to his feet and pulling (y/n) up with him. He pushed her to his chest as he maneuvered his body into an attacking pose.

"Let go of (y/n)! You horrible beast!" "Ecoute a lui, roi des lions" "Don't touch (y/n) Onee-chan!"

Those voices, (y/n)'s mind rushed back to the situation. She had seemingly forgotten just what Leona had done to her. The kidnapping, the humiliation, the beating...somehow it had all ran away from her memory the moment her beloved Leona had embraced her.

Behind the "couple" Rook shot arrow after arrow, aiming for the lion's limbs. One lucky arrow managed to strike Leona's left bicep. The lion boy let out a pained roar, his arm falling limp to his side as blood gushed downwards. "Rook, Ortho now!" Vil's voice boomed through the chamber. Rook nodded as Ortho replied with a "sure thing". The two raced forward, Rook switching his bow for a pocket knife and Ortho punching Leona with his metal fist. Leona tried to fight back but with his wound and the gang up he mostly ended up getting punched.

Sometime before the attack had fully commenced, Leona had shoved (y/n) to the side. Vil ran up to (y/n) grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the exit. Right before he left the "king" of Pomefiore snapped his fingers, causing both Ortho and Rook to leave a bruised and broken Leona. "How did you find me?" (Y/n) asked as she was directed through the maze of hallways and staircases. Vil turned his head to stare at her for a split second before running forward. The hallways were just as dark as the room she had been kept in, the numerous windows were covered by thick black curtains preventing the moon from sharing its light. However, thanks to Ortho's built-in flashlights the gang had a clear, illuminated view of a few feet in front of them. "Idia saw Ruggie knock you out and drag you to the catacombs" Vil explained, his grip on her wrist tightened. As the group ran to the Ignhyde dorm, (y/n) couldn't stop herself from peering over her shoulder. Expecting..no, hoping that her childhood friend would pounce out of the darkness at any moment and chase after them. It was a longing to see the boy she had known her whole life chase after her, the only difference was that this time if he did catch her, she would not object to his advances. But Leona never came...

and she was beginning to think he never would.

Days have a tendency to blend when together there is nothing left to look forward to. (y/n) couldn't remember how long it had been since that night in the NRC catacombs, how long it had been since that "confession"? Time had turned into a paradox, having simultaneously stooped and sped up. Idia and Ortho had taken the role of her caretaker. Bringing her food and checking up on her from time to time. Idia had even broken his shut-in nature just for her, every once in awhile he'd bring over some games to play. Ortho would pop in every day, trying his hardest to entertain the stoic girl. But no matter how hard either Shroud twin tried (y/n) would never smile, her face would never forme any real expression. She only ever spoke when necessary, conversations with her mostly consisted of nobs and grunts. Some days after school Vil or Rook would stop by the Ignihyde dorm with treats. Hoping to return (y/n) to her old, innocent self.

Deep down (y/n) was grateful for the efforts the boys put in. But it felt so meaningless go hollow. What was the point of it all? (y/n) could feel the threads of her sanity slowly ripping. Her days and nights -granted she'd lost track of which was when- where filled with constant pondering over guilty thoughts. Every single one of her waking moments was dedicated to envisioning that damned day, dreaming of just how it could have turned out. Why didn't she just kiss him? Why didn't she jump into his arms and scream that she was his? That she would always be his? That it didn't matter how they loved each other so long as the love was there.

Earlier that morning Vil had stopped by to tell (y/n) that Leona had come back from the semester break. It had seemed like a warning after all Vil was only trying to look out for her. The thought that Leona was back had sent her heart aflutter. She may have not shown it but her nerves where a wreck, she was both excited and nervous. A nagging voice in the back of her mind kept screaming that he wouldn't care about her that she had lost her chance the night she let herself be rescued by Vil, Rook, and Ortho. But a small piece of her still begged that Leona would come for her, that he still loved her.

Sleep was something that came in waves, sometimes she would sleep for days on end, and other times she would spend weeks in an insomniac daze. Tonight was one of the later nights. (y/n)'s eyes refused to close, her brain resisted the urge to think about anything other than Leona. She spent so many nights with his face in her head, mulling over every little detail. As the hours ticked by, (y/n)'s eyes started to grow heavier and heavier. The final scene the moment he said he loved her or at least tried to was still so vibrant in her semi asleep head. She could still hear his voice, his shouts and cries....his voice why was it so clear?--

"You know~ in another life, we could have gotten married, you could have been my queen and I, your king. We could have been happy like all those other happy idiots of the world."

(Y/n) bolted upright, her hands suffocating her blanket. Her window had been reduced to dirt. Leaning against the frame of where the windowpane had been was no other than the man that had plunged her thought for far too long. Standing on her bed and walking over to him, (y/n) couldn't help the larger than life smile that spread over her face or the tears of joy that just wouldn't seem to stop.

She came to a stop in front of him. Just like that night, the moon's rays of silver light cast a surreal glow over Leona's frame. He looked almost like an angel sent to free her from her suffering. "What..what makes you think we...we could ever be normal?" A tiny laugh escaped her mouth as she wiped the tears from her face. All Leona did was smirk, he extended his arm, his open palm beckoning her to take it. Eagerly (y/n) grabbed a hold of his arm, her grip was tight, too scared to let go always this all be some illusion fabricated by her tortured mind.

"Oi shut up already idiot...just stay quiet" He pulled her up, back into his arms, right where she belonged. His embrace was nothing short of bone-crushing. But (y/n) didn't mind, the pain proved just how real how was. With a final tug, Leona pulled her out of the window. As they began to fall to the ground, Leona smiled, a genuine smile that for once harbored no ill intent nor ulterior motive and said:

"You will always be my obsession (y/n) just as I have become yours..."

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friendshipcampaign · 5 years

Text

Sweet Foods, Sweeter Words

A downtime featuring Erwyn and Palava that takes place the evening of the first full day the party spent in Wayspell after getting back from the trials.

A note: A handful of phrases have been omitted as they originally contained backstory details that haven’t yet come up in-campaign, but Scribe and I wanted to share this story anyways.

Mentally checking the address for the third or fourth time since he’d arrived following a bit of a nerve-wracking trip -- at least, for him -- through the Wayspell of the early morning, Erwyn prepared to raise a hand to knock on the door of the location Palava had told him the two planar researchers would be staying at during their time in Wayspell. Not for the first time, he half-wondered if he should have asked one of the others to come with him to find an unfamiliar place in the city, but this had been a visit he felt he needed to make alone, and he supposed so long as he had the right location now it would probably be alright.

Swallowing his anxiety and hoping this was the place, he gave three swift raps on the door.

His knocks were greeted with a skittering noise like a startled cat. This was followed by a moment of silence, several shuffling sounds, and one loud thunk. Palava opened the door, rubbing his forehead. His demeanor changed as soon as he recognized the young elf on his doorstep.

"Erwyn!" he cried. "How lovely--" He paused midsentence, apparently remembering that his normal boisterous speaking volume was somewhat less than appropriate for that hour of the morning.

"How lovely to see you!" he finished in a stage whisper.

“It’s very nice to see you as well,” Erwyn said, struggling quite a lot less with volume considerations. “I hope I’m not being a bother, coming here without exactly announcing my intention to.”

"Not at all! I said you were welcome to stop by and I meant it!"

“I hope you weren’t in the middle of anything, I’d hate… I’d hate to interrupt.”

Palava shook his head. "Nothing at all. I'd been planning to read, but I just couldn't get settled. You have to be so quiet around people who sleep, and I get so antsy. A visit from a friend is just what I needed tonight!"

Erwyn felt his cheeks flush a little at the description of himself as a friend by the far older, far more accomplished researcher. He hadn’t even known him all that long. It threw him, and he could only hope that the increased twitching of his ears wasn’t too obvious.

“That’s very… that’s… that’s good to hear,” he said, catching himself babbling. “I… You, um… I know that at one point you mentioned there were some places in Wayspell that… that might be nice to visit. I was thinking that.... I thought that might be an option tonight, just so we don’t wake anyone?”

The whole last sentence of his came out as a sort of nervous squeak.

Palava beamed at him. "I have just the place! Hold on a moment, just let me..."

He trailed off into incomprehensible mumbling as he turned back to the building, folding up his gangly frame to fit through a door which, while certainly not halfling-sized like many of the older buildings in Wayspell, had also not been built to accommodate someone of Palava's height. After a few moments he emerged again, a satchel flung across his shoulder.

"Alright, then! Follow me!" He set off through the darkened streets.

At first, Erwyn, who while well-accustomed to travel was not only not the heartiest (and never had been), but also a foot shorter in height and stride than the older elf, had some trouble keeping pace with him, but it was only a block or so before Palava drew up short.

"Oh, pardon me! Always rushing off; you'd think I would have learned by now!" He waited for Erwyn to catch up and when he began to walk again it was at a much gentler pace.

"So," said Palava as they rounded the corner, "How have you been enjoying Wayspell? Has Hue tried to convince y'all to break into the old Post Office yet? Don't listen to her; it never ends well."

“Does… does she do that frequently?” Erwyn asked.

Palava nodded. "Sure does! Don't know if there's really something she wants to find in there or if she just gets real riled up by all the "Keep Out!" signs, but she brings it up most times we're in the area."

Erwyn tried to imagine the Gatekeepers, who he still saw as such accomplished people given their line of work, even if Hubris seemed to be a bit of a baffling case, to him, at least, doing something like breaking into a post office. Even if it was a somewhat mysterious one, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Then again, the comment about it possibly being due to the “Keep Out!” signs reminded him a bit of Amaranth -- not to say he was certain he and his friends were quite operating on the same level professionally, but perhaps one couldn’t always predict their company even for important matters.

“I hope it hasn’t ever lead to too much trouble,” he finally said, a little at a loss for what else to say.

Palava laughed out loud. "Everything Hubris does leads to trouble. She'd be awful bored otherwise!"

They turned onto a wider street, and Palava gestured at the buildings around them. "Have you had a chance to explore the city at all? I know we've probably been keeping you busy."

Feeling some of his anxiety bubble back up again, Erwyn shook his head, hoping to quash it as best he could without having to confess too much to someone he’d really rather not have to risk thinking poorly of him were he completely truthful. Again, though, he could feel his ears starting to twitch more than he’d like.

“Ah, um, no,” he said carefully. “I haven’t really wanted to, it’s been sort of... intimidating.”

"Too loud? Cities are hard like that--makes me miss the Underdark."

“Among… among other things, yes,” Erwyn said.

Palava shot him a curious look, but didn't press the matter. "Well, I promise that where we're going everyone's real good about keeping calm. They put up a Silence spell around it during the day, but unless it's a festival night it's not something they gotta worry about at this hour."

“Oh, that actually sounds really lovely,” Erwyn said. “That’s very considerate of them.”

"Yeah, they're real nice! Not too many people in cities who know how to make elves feel at ease, but Anna and Marigold are real good about it. Helps that Anna's got some elvish blood herself, but even that doesn't always mean a place'll be comfortable. We're nearly there; just a few more streets!"

Palava led the way past more rows of empty buildings. For a city it was quite dark outside, illuminated only by globes of magical light mounted on the street corners, but compared to the wilderness it still seemed uncomfortably bright. Erwyn felt like, even after years of time spent in and out of some of the larger populated areas of Ashona, his eyes would never adjust to the glow of streetlamps -- like stars, where stars shouldn’t be.

Striding around a final corner, Palava flung his arms out wide and pointed at a building halfway up the next block. It was one of the only shopfronts that was still lit that late at night--or early in the morning. The building itself wasn't remarkable; it was built of the same wood and brick that made up most of Wayspell. But the sign above the door glowed with a soft silver luminance. Written on it, in both Elvish and Common characters, Erwyn could read the word "Lissecoa."

"Here we are!" Palava declared.

Suddenly, Erwyn found himself freezing a little. Of course, from the way Palava had talked, it didn’t exactly seem like they were visiting an establishment that even had any right to be giving him this kind of anxiety, but being confronted again, after some time since it had last occurred, by a place that seemed so distinctly Elvish was not exactly the easiest of things he could be doing with his evening. Especially not in Wayspell, which made him nervous for its own reasons.

While he’d certainly felt shy for a bit now, he suddenly also felt very small.

Palava paused at the door. "Are you all right?" he asked, looking concerned.

“I… I’m fine,” Erwyn said.

And really, he should be. It was silly of him to be made so anxious by something so mundane as an outing to a bakery. It wasn’t like, even if it was more of a traditional place, they would ask him about his magical abilities at the door -- or ever. But years of skirting around circumstances where someone might so much as offhandedly inquire about that sort of thing died hard.

"We don't have to stay long if you'd rather walk," Palava said. "But they make some of the best pecconelle I've ever tasted! Come on."

He opened the door and gently ushered Erwyn inside.

The interior of the bakery swept over him in several stages. First, of course, came the smell, as it would with any place serving food, but this time especially so due to the assorted layers of ingredients and flavors mixed up in the air that Erwyn didn’t think he’d caught in those particular combinations since maybe even thirty years or so prior. But the rest of the inside, too, conjured other memories -- the foliage growing directly up from the floor in much the same way as the walls of the Isilmë family home, the minimal, lower-to-the ground furniture than you would find in a human or halfling tavern so very like the kinds he’d grown up around.

His breath caught in his throat.

"Mae govannen, Palava!"

The speaker, a plump, red-haired woman with slight points on her ears, waved at them from behind the counter. Still in Elvish, she continued, "It's been a while since you stopped by. Lovely to see you again. You'll be having the usual, I take it?"

Palava returned her wave. "You know, I just can't decide yet. Everything smells spectacular, as always!"

"Well, take a seat and consider as long as you want. And your friend, too!"

Palava contrived to fold himself up onto one of the low benches. Erwyn just followed him, numbly, feeling like if he thought too hard even about trying to take a seat, it would be too much.

"I don't know about you," said Palava, "But I always feel like having a little nibble of something after I finish trancing! They do a lovely little sampler if you'd care to split it. And the teas really are to die for!"

“That… that sounds nice,” Erwyn said. Doubly so, because while he was sure it would be delicious, he also didn’t think he’d really be capable of browsing their offerings all that clearly himself.

Palava unfolded and strode back to the counter, where he had a characteristically excited conversation with the baker. When he returned, he was carrying a tray laden with a low, round teapot, two small cups, and several pastries neatly arranged on a leaf-shaped ceramic plate. He placed it down on the table in front of them with a flourish.

"You know," said Palava, pouring himself a cup of fragrant tea, "It was interesting for me, growing up in the Underdark. All surface food seemed so exotic, even the elvish stuff. My amil would get packages sent from her family and it was the most exciting thing when they arrived. Now I miss the mushrooms and the móriyávë, but I still feel so decadent getting to eat nuts and aboveground fruits all the time! Have you ever been to the Underdark?"

Shaking his head, Erwyn cautiously reached for some tea himself -- he hoped it was the kind that would be calming, and not the other way around. It seemed that his hands were also shaking, and some of the drink sloshed unceremoniously as he tried to pour it into a cup of his own. As if he wasn’t feeling out-of-place enough all of a sudden, the less-than-perfect attempt made him feel as though invisible eyes were boring into him from all sides, critical of the fact that he couldn’t even do such a small thing properly, much less recall all the intricacies of all the ceremony he was used to being tied up with Elvish tea.

“No I… I’ve only ever been to, um, some of the places where there are entrances,” he said, voice wavering. “But not that far into any of them, beyond… beyond the markets that sometimes spring up there.”

"Well, if you ever do go," Palava continued, giving no sign he'd noticed Erwyn's mishap with the tea, "Let me know and I can give you some pointers! Not that I think you'd be on the tourist track, but it's nice to have some local knowledge regardless, and some of the folks down there do like to mess about with upworlders. The Svirfneblin are always pranking people with ghost stories!"

He reached out to snap one of the pastries in half, taking a dainty bite out of one end.

"Fabulous as ever, Anna!" he called out to the woman at the counter. She chuckled under her breath in response.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Erwyn took another deep breath.

“I… I’m sorry. I don’t seem to have as much of an appetite as I was expecting,” he told Palava.

It was true -- he’d really hoped this could be nice. He’d wanted it to be nice. But if that had even been possible in the first place, he seemed to have messed up the part where he made it happen, because instead he was just feeling shaky and awful and a little sick, and it wasn’t Palava’s fault, or the fault of the people who ran this place who seemed very nice, and he didn’t want to feel like it was his fault, but he wasn’t sure how else he could end up feeling so sad.

Tears were pricking a little at the corner of his eyes. Erwyn wished he’d just stayed and done some reading back at the inn.

"Hey," said Palava softly. "It's all right. We can get these wrapped up to go if you think you might get peckish later. Should we just head out, then? I know some paths around the edge of the city that are real nice for walking around at night if you'd rather be outside."

“I don’t know,” Erwyn said, quietly.

One of Palava's hands hovered in the air by Erwyn's shoulder for a moment, as if the older elf wasn't sure whether contact would be comforting or not.

"Well, that's all right too. We can sit here until you know how you feel; there's no rush. Would you like to hear some more about the Underdark?"

Erwyn nodded. He clutched his tea a little tighter, trying to focus on the warmth of the cup instead of everything else. Warmth was nice.

Palava launched into a story about how the Deep Gnomes near where he grew up had stymied a ring of mushroom smugglers that the local halflings had been trying to get rid of for months. He was an engaged if not a particularly linear speaker, waving his hands animatedly as he talked.

As the story went on, Erwyn realized he was only feeling worse -- usually, hearing someone talk about their home or their family couldn’t have this effect on him alone. He often even liked it, hearing Kriv offhandedly mention one of his siblings, or Ditto babble excitedly about a Gnomish holiday he wasn’t himself familiar with.

But right now he felt a little too surrounded by things that reminded him of his own home, and was still, even if he’d been trying to quash it down, reeling a little from the whole mess in the trials with the simulation of Carceri, and everything just felt like too much. He clutched his cup so tightly he could feel an uncomfortable warmness in his fingertips, and the little tears that had pricked at his eyes earlier got bigger, and escaped. He bit his lip, wishing he could keep himself from being quite so visibly upset, but it wasn’t to much avail.

Palava stopped talking. He pulled a large purple handkerchief from one of his pockets and handed it over to Erwyn.

"I'm sorry, Erwyn. I shouldn't... give me a minute to have Anna wrap these up and we can go for a walk. All right?"

Erwyn nodded, unthinkingly wiping his eyes with his sleeve before it really registered what he’d been handed. He blinked, then wiped them again with the handkerchief.

He could hear Palava saying, "Anna? My friend and I will have to head out a little earlier than I thought... if you could, that would be just dandy... yes, actually, I do, hang on..."

After a moment Palava re-appeared, this time slipping the wrapped-up pastries into his satchel. He offered Erwyn a hand.

"Shall we?"

Still feeling like being quiet -- or really, like quiet was the only thing he could be -- Erwyn accepted the offer and rose shakily to his feet.

Palava shepherded him out the door and back onto the street.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "It was too much, wasn't it?"

“It’s not your fault,” Erwyn said, sadness creeping into his voice once more. “I hoped it would be okay.”

Palava started walking down the street, this time keeping a gentle pace from the outset. Erwyn moved with him, feeling almost as though if he didn’t he would get lost in the night.

They walked in silence for a while. Palava seemed to be leading them away from the center of the city towards where the outer walls loomed against the sky.

"Let me know if you want to go back," he said gently. "I find walking helps but I don't know what helps you. And I don't intend to pry, but if you do want to talk I'm good at listening. Fenmarel thinks that's pretty important, at least as I was taught."

It took a moment for Erwyn to decide to say anything, and once he made up his mind that he was going to, he found himself perched somewhere between wanting to say very little and say everything. After all, he didn’t tend to talk about these things at all, if only because he didn’t see much point in opening up old wounds he couldn’t heal. He’d been with his current traveling companions for some time now, and said much less about much more important things.

But he also wasn’t really tight-lipped out of a desire for secrecy -- mostly, he just didn’t say things because he thought they would hurt, and he preferred to keep them inside, the same way people very much preferred their blood and things to be inside their bodies and didn’t go seeking ways to get them out. Every once and a while, he did come across someone he actually talked about his past to. At least, about certain things. He’d already shared more with the party in just the last couple of weeks than he’d said to most people about himself in the same number of decades. Maybe it was time for him to rip himself open a little in the presence of the kind of person that he felt, or at least hoped, would be able to patch him up. He’d done it before, in bits and pieces -- to Lissë, to Sermë, to Rayne, and to a handful of others. It made as much sense as anything to spill some of the hurt loneliness inside him to someone listening on the behalf of the god of the lonely.

“I miss my home,” he said finally, and as soon as the words tumbled from his lips, they wouldn’t stop. “I miss the way that the trees smelled there, and the birds sounded, and I miss the way it always felt familiar even when the seasons were changing. I miss the songs you could hear being sung from the temple to Sehanín, and I miss when Hrívecala would come around and I would share my birthday with the celebrations, and I miss the taste of lissemasta and the smell of freshly-picked olospië that we would gather around our house. I miss watching Atya make notes in his spellbook, and Amya playing her harp, and... and...”

He was crying again, a lot this time, and even though it still felt like there were a million words on the tip of his tongue, he bit them back, because it also felt like he’d said too much already.

Palava had stopped walking when Erwyn began to speak, and now he stepped closer, resting a hand on Erwyn's shoulder. "Hey," he said, carefully watching Erwyn's face for a reaction. "How do you feel about hugs?"

“They’re… they’re rather nice,” Erwyn said, sniffling.

"Oh, good," said Palava. "I think so too!"

And then Erwyn found himself enveloped in Palava's wiry arms. The other elf was so much taller that his chin rested on the top of Erwyn's head. He didn't say anything, just stood there holding him while he cried.

Erwyn, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to muster much ability to return the embrace. He brought his hands up as if he intended to, but it was like all the strength had tumbled out of him along with his words, so instead he just sort of buried himself into Palava and limply fell into the hug, dimly aware that he was probably getting both their clothes wet with his tears, but not particularly in any state of mind to even try to do something about it. Eventually, they slowed, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of any actual catharsis or if his eyes had just decided they didn’t have anything left to cry.

Palava made little soothing noises and petted his hair, like someone trying to soothe an upset child or an injured animal.

"How long has it been?" he asked quietly.

Erwyn sniffled, gathering himself together. “I… I don’t know the exact number of years. They all sort of blurred and I didn’t think to keep careful count until it was too late. It’s been several… several decades at this point, though.”

He felt Palava stiffen, just for a second.

"You've... been on your own all that time?"

“Most of… most of it,” he said. “Sometimes not. Sometimes people help. Having a group like my friends now is fairly new, though.”

"Your friends seem like real good people," said Palava. "I'm glad you have them. I know it doesn't help, though, with the missing."

Erwyn shrugged. “It helps a little. At least… well... it means I’m not alone.”

Palava nodded. Since he hadn't yet stepped back from the hug, it meant that his chin bobbed gently against the crown of Erwyn's head.

"Being alone isn't good for folks like us. Of course, I don't think it's really good for anyone, but the loneliness does tend to hit us awful hard. I'm sorry you've had to face it for as long as you did."

While Erwyn’s tears had stilled at least a little, or at least enough for him to hold the conversation they were having, Palava’s words suddenly felt like they’d hit something critical in him -- like the psoglav, tearing him open, or another onslaught he had no way of weathering without help -- and suddenly they were back, ugly and wracking and all trying to rush out at once.

It was still a little bit due to memories he felt like he’d been fighting. But this time, he mostly felt like he couldn’t contain all his emotions inside himself because it was like getting hit by the chill of Rose’s breath all over again, the shock of hearing someone tell him they were sorry about it. He was used to feeling like it was his mistake, or instances like recently, when Maudlin seemed to imply it was his own fault for ending up so far away from his home and family. Rarely -- if ever -- did anyone say that they were sorry he’d had to weather it at all.

Palava held him tighter, rocking the two of them softly back and forth. "Hey," he whispered, over and over. "Hey, it's okay. You're allowed to be sad; you're allowed to be sorry. You shouldn't have had to live like that."

The reassurances blurred as Palava kept talking, words tumbling into each other until they were nothing but soothing background noise. Erwyn leaned into him, letting the older elf’s kindness wash over him until his tears started to fade away again, leaving him feeling the weird sort of hollowed-out that being very sad often did, even when you started to feel a little less so.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled eventually. “I… I can’t imagine this was how you intended for tonight to go.”

"Well, no," Palava admitted. "Not intended, certainly. But Erwyn, it's all right. I wouldn't have taken up the service of a god who watches over the lost and the outcast unless I was prepared to watch over them myself as best as I can. Gettin' a few tears on my robe is hardly the worst thing I've gone through. It's happened before, and I'm sure it'll happen again before too long. And I'm the one who asked you to talk in the first place."

Had he not already, effectively, dried himself out, Erwyn was sure the additional kind words would have caused him to cry too, but at this point he just felt his lip quaver a little. He nodded, then pulled himself away to wipe some of the remaining tears off his face. He went to use his sleeve again and only remembered about halfway through the handkerchief that he’d been given earlier, which he’d crumpled in his pocket.

“I think… I mean… I think that I mostly just cried at you.”

"Hey now, there were a few words there at the beginning!" said Palava. "And as long as you're in Wayspell, if there are more you want to get out, you know where to find me."

“I feel a bit like both everything’s already been said and like there’s still so much else that I couldn’t say it all in a hundred years,” Erwyn said, sadly. He didn’t know how else to put it -- it was like being emptied out and hungry for someone to listen all at once.

It was one reason he didn’t usually share too much about himself -- it always left him feeling very strange whenever he did.

"Well," said Palava, "Being an elf I ought to be around in a hundred years if it really does take you that long." He smiled tentatively. "Should we finish the loop I was taking us on or just head back? Or are your legs too wobbly to start moving just yet? I know I turn into a jelly-jar after I've been crying."

“I’m… I’m usually a little wobbly,” Erwyn admitted. “But I do feel sort of extra so right now.”

"All right." Palava plopped down onto the pavement. "Let's rest here for a bit, then. We've still got those nibbles if you feel up to a bite, and I brought some water if that would help with the wobblyness."

The sudden shift from being a foot shorter than Palava than wildly high above him was slightly disconcerting, and Erwyn looked around a bit to see if anyone else was awake in the early morning and had noticed them as he felt a bit self-conscious, but the streets of Wayspell were fairly inactive at this point in the morning, so eventually he gently lowered himself to sit as well.

“Water would be… I mean if you’ve got it on you… I’d… I’d like some water, yes,” he said.

Palava rummaged around in his satchel, which, judging by how far he stuck his arm inside, appeared to have some extradimensional qualities, and eventually emerged, triumphantly holding a waterskin. He handed it over to Erwyn.

"There you are!"

Erwyn accepted it gratefully, taking a long drink and then just sort of cradling it once he finished. It was nice to sit there, in the dark, and hold it while he slowly started to feel like a person again. But eventually he decided he was up for asking another question.

“What… what food did you bring from the bakery?” he asked. “I’m sorry, I was a little distracted -- I didn’t actually catch much of a look at what you brought over.”

"Well!" said Palava, "We've got some pecconelle, mírinci, a nísimacornë, and half a lirincalë."

“Could I maybe have one of the mírinci?” Erwyn asked. “I still haven’t got much of an appetite, but that does sound nice.”

Palava excavated the pastries from his satchel and unwrapped the outer layer of paper carefully. He held the box out towards Erwyn. The mírinci glistened in the light of the streetlamps.

Erwyn selected one gently, holding up the little candy in his hand and watching the light dance around over its surface. He hadn’t meant to end up taking such a long look at it, but of course, like everything, it felt more complicated than it ought to.

“There was someone back home who knew how to make really beautiful mírinci,” he said, slowly, moving the one he held in his fingertips so it would catch the light at a particularly nice angle. “I think he must use magic, somehow, but he always liked being secretive about it.”

Palava took a candy of his own and turned it back and forth in the light for a moment before popping it into his mouth.

"I know my amya's family used magic when they made them," he said. "No way to get them to glitter properly in the dark without it. I don't know how they did it, though; amya was useless in the kitchen so she never taught me."

Putting his own candy in his mouth, Erwyn rolled it around with his tongue for a bit, somewhat contemplative before he said anything else. The little explosion of sweetness was nice, especially after having ended up getting some of his salty tears in his mouth earlier.

“I think that… I think I might like to go back to the bakery, sometime before we leave Wayspell. It was too much tonight, but the tea seemed very nice and I really have missed Elvish food,” he said, though his cheeks flushed a little as soon as he said it. “Assuming I didn’t make too much of a fool of myself, getting so upset tonight.”

"You're fine," said Palava. "I'd love to go back with you. Just let me know when. And hey, if you ever feel like checking out some of the other Elvish places in the city, I'd be happy to show you those too! There's a couple other bakeries, and one or two real nice restaurants that do proper meals, and it wouldn't be your brand of Elvish but I really do think everyone should try this great little Drow fusion place at the edge of Oldtown! If you and your friends are helping us out, you ought to be back in Wayspell a fair bit. Can't guarantee where Alembic and I will be, but we try to get back when we can. I do hope we'll get to see each other often enough that I can show you around to all my favorite places in Wayspell."

“That would be really lovely,” Erwyn said, giving him a sheepish smile. “I’d be happy to see more of you, too. And thank you for listening tonight, I know I’m often not the best at talking.”

Palava flapped a hand in his general direction. "This kind of talking isn't something you have to be good at. I'm happy to listen to whatever words you get out. And I know it ain't the same as having someone here with you, but Fenmarel's good at listening, too. I don't know if you're the sort to do much praying or if it's any kind of comfort, but I promise you he does care for wanderers like you and me."

Erwyn was quiet for a moment.

“I used to be a little more the type,” he said. “Sometimes, when I was younger, I would try speaking to Sehanín -- she was the primary goddess of the community I grew up in, and has her whole sphere about journeys, which I figured I was on. But while I certainly consider them frequently, I don’t talk to any of the gods all that much anymore. I… I feel like I’ve turned out to be a bit disappointing. They’ve probably got more important people to listen to than me.”

"But that doesn't mean they won't listen to you," said Palava. "The gods may have to pick and choose how they apportion their powers, but they don't pick and choose who they listen to. Especially not the ones I serve. I'm not saying you have to speak to them, of course! Everyone's free to make that choice on their own. But you shouldn't be ashamed to reach out to them if you do want to. And it may not be the path you thought you were headed for, but . . . given what I saw you do with the breach today I have a hard time seeing you as any kind of disappointment."

“Well, ah, you have to admit that last part’s at least rather new,” Erwyn said. “I think even if I did have rather better self-image it would take some adjusting to.”

Palava laughed and patted Erwyn on the shoulder. "True, very true!" he said. "And I sure don't mean to sound like that's the only thing that matters. We were real impressed by it, is all."

Feeling his cheeks flush again, Erwyn looked down into his lap. “Thank you,” he said. “That… that means a lot to me, even if I still have a bit of a hard time believing I was able to do anything all that special.”

"You're welcome!" said Palava cheerfully, smiling and squeezing Erwyn's arm. He glanced around at the empty street that they were still sitting in the middle of. "Those legs feeling any less wobbly?"

Erwyn took a deep breath, then nodded.

Palava paused for a moment to re-wrap the package from the bakery and put it away. Then he stood, his gangly form silhouetted against the starry sky. He held out a hand. Still a little bit shakily, in the way that crying usually left you for a bit afterwards, Erwyn accepted it and pulled himself up tentatively, too.

Palava gave him a few breaths to find his balance again. "Any thoughts on where we're headed?" he asked once Erwyn seemed a bit more steady.

“I… I don’t know, actually,” he said. “Though I don’t particularly want to impose, of course.”

"Well," said Palava, "Depending on just how un-wobbly you're feeling, I do enjoy walking at night. And I especially enjoy it with company."

“That would be nice, I think,” Erwyn said.

"All right!"

Palava started down the street, brushing some of the dust from his robes as he walked. He moved slowly--deliberately so, Erwyn was sure--and they meandered through the streets towards the outer walls of Wayspell. As they neared the outskirts of the city, they could begin to make out the flickering of fireflies around the tall outer Hedge, and occasionally in the streets around them. Every time one got close, Palava paused to coo at it excitedly.

Gently, Erwyn held out his own gloved hand, trying to project to the creatures that it was safe for them. It wasn’t too long before one of them took him up on the offer, landing gingerly on his outstretched finger. He watched as the light it carried with it blinked several times before a pause, and then repeating the same cycle.

Palava leaned in close, being careful not to move too quickly and startle the creature.

"Those eggs we found," he said quietly, his face illuminated by the firefly's soft glow. "The Caftner. Did you get them somewhere safe? I keep meaning to ask but of course we've all been... busy."

“Oh!” Erwyn said. “Yes, we… we took them to a friend. The one who taught us about the Caftner in the first place. I was a bit out of it at the time so I didn’t hear everything about her preparations, but it sounds like she’s put together a good, safe place for them once they hatch.”

Palava smiled. "Oh good! I was hoping. In this line of work I don't always get to see how things turn out once we leave. It's nice to hear when they go well."

“There was… a spot of difficulty after you left,” Erwyn said, a hand unconsciously trailing to his neck. “I’m worried that…. I don’t believe we’ve seen the last of Hayel, and that’s a concerning prospect. But the Caftner babies shouldn’t have to worry about any of that, and hopefully neither will the people of Folly’s End. It’s rather satisfying to think -- or at least to hope -- that we did a bit of good, ultimately.”

"I dare say you did," said Palava. "And I'm looking forward to seeing what else you do. All of you, really, but..." he paused for a moment and winked at Erwyn. "I may have a particular soft spot. Hey! A couple blocks over there's a tree with some really great moths; d'you wanna go see?"

Blinking, and still somewhat processing what Palava had said first, Erwyn slowly nodded.

“That… that sounds nice,” he said.

#downtime #Erwyn #Palava

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jastral · 6 years

Text

Funeral Pyre

Joseph Seed / Reader, Joseph Seed / the Deputy

Rating: T, mostly for one death and for Joseph being rather creepy.

I will purge your soul from the sin of pride and replace it with virtues of humility and gratitude, Joseph thought darkly as he stared at your unconscious form inside the car. You are all I have left now, you are my family.

What happens during the time the deputy is unconscious after the car crash.

Cross-posted on AO3. One-shot.

God protects and guides.

Joseph blinked a couple of times when he came back to the reality mere seconds after the car crash. For a fleeting moment, he had felt disconnected from his body, as if he had not really been there but floating off to somewhere else, ready to be embraced by God and his siblings, only to be dragged back down into his cage of flesh and blood.

The cult leader found himself wondering if he had in fact died in the crash and somehow ended up in hell, but every sensation and thought told him and reassured him that he was indeed in the books of the living. All he had was few scrapes and bruises.

It is not my time.

His eyesight was somewhat blurry at first but it quickly focused. The hellish vision that opened before Joseph's eyes was enough to make almost anyone weep and fall into utter despair and hopelessness, but oddly enough he found himself just staring at it all mesmerized.

Through the broken windshield he saw the world of gold, black and red, a sight of a dying world that was being burned and erased. The horizon was blood red and darkening each passing moment as more and more smoke, ash and dirt filled the air, blocking the sun effectively. Golden and red flames licked the blackening trees and he could taste the ash and smoke on his lips. The world was on fire yet all he felt was pure tranquility and peace, even contentment.

I was right, the charismatic cult leader thought with a solemn smile on his face, the look in his blue eyes unhinged. Everyone who had doubted, everyone who had criticized his family was either dead or dying.

Joseph looked around himself and saw that the others inside the car had not been as lucky as him. He felt barely nothing as he saw all of the sinners unmoving and covered in shards of glass. The sheriff's corpse had even been smashed through the windshield. Though it was hard to tell whether the sheriff and deputies were alive or dead in the darkness, he could smell the fresh blood despite the overwhelming scent of smoke.

They were either dead or dying.

The sheriff and the two deputies had been overwhelmed by fear, despair and hopelessness, whimpering and wailing in terror like children when facing death. You and him had been the only ones who had remained calm and in control. Joseph had kept his gaze fixated on you the whole time and what he had seen was a person too proud to give up even when facing the wrath of God. Truly, your arrogance had no limit.

You had driven through the flames, believing firmly that if you just remained in control, you'd be able to make it out alive and take your friends to safety.

If it hadn't been for the panicking young man who had distracted you, perhaps all of you would have made it into the bunker, but alas, God had decided otherwise.

Joseph found himself sitting completely still and just listening to the roars of the bombs for a moment. The earth trembled underneath their terrible weight and each explosion ushered the world deeper into the insanity and pandemonium.

Seed could feel bitter anger starting to burn inside him. He had worked so hard to prepare for the Collapse. He had collected so many followers and built shelters with Jacob, John and Faith, yet in the end it had been for nothing.

I waited so long for this, for the prophecy God whispered to me to come true. I prepared my family for this moment, Joseph thought darkly and his gaze shifted to the one responsible for everything, you. You took them away from me.

You had brought nothing but ruin and destruction with you and it seemed to follow you wherever you went. Every tortured soul and life lost was the result of your pride that had etched itself on your soul, tainting your very being with hubris and arrogance.

Jacob, John, Faith, I wish you were here to see this, Joseph found himself thinking, feeling rather reminiscent of his family. The old world is on fire, turning to nothing but cinders and ash.

After few fleeting seconds, Joseph realized that if he wished to survive the Collapse like he had planned, he better move and get himself free.

Keys... the cult leader realized the first problem he needed to solve. He looked around himself inside the wrecked car, trying to figure out who had the keys to his handcuffs. Perhaps it was by a miracle, or pure luck that he noticed a glint of silver in the growing darkness. The light of the fire reflected from the silvery key that was half hidden underneath deputy Pratt's arm. With calm and well planned movements Joseph turned so that his hands reached the small metal object and after a moment of working, his hands were once more free.

Joseph then reached over the dead young man to open the door, only to find it stuck. With a solemn look in his eyes, the man in his forties kicked the door open. The metal creaked and gave in, granting Seed freedom from the car.

However, just when he was about to climb out of the car wreck as the only survivor, he noticed you move slightly in the front seat of the car. For a moment, Joseph thought you were just twitching in throes of death, but as you continued to move, swaying slightly as if trying to find a way out and remain conscious, you quickly gained his full attention.

Are you still with me?

Joseph slowly reached out with his hand to feel your throat and much to his surprise and perhaps even malevolent delight, he could feel a steady pulse and breath.

Of all the sinners possible, God leaves me with the most wretched one, the one whose sins brought ruin to the world.

You had just hit your head and though a concussion could be very dangerous, you had made it out with rather minor injuries while the rest of your friends had died.

Is it fate that ties us together? Joseph wondered and was tempted to strangle you to death, to feel your pulse grow before fading away completely, but if he did that, you wouldn't be able to repent for every sin you had committed. No, he was not only going to spare your wretched soul but also save it. You brought this upon us all because of your pride, the cult leader thought as he gripped your throat lightly, feeling the steady pulse. He had your life in his hands and it was an exhilarating feeling. I really should kill you for everything you've done , but you are all I have left in this world. You are my only family now, Joseph thought as he pulled his hand away and finally climbed over deputy Pratt's corpse to leave the car. I will have you beg for forgiveness from God and me.

Joseph found himself staring at the horizon and the hellish landscape that opened up before him; it was both beautiful and horrendous at the same time.

“A funeral pyre of the old world,” he whispered and closed his eyes for a moment. Joseph could feel the scorching heat on his skin and the hot, smoke filled air that burned his lungs with every breath he took, yet all he felt was tranquility and contentment.

When Joseph finally opened his eyes he turned his gaze to the car wreck and you who were still trapped inside. If he tarried a while longer, the fires and heat would burn the both of you to death.

The knowledge that he could make you repent for the sins you had committed against his family for the rest of your life soothed the anger and hatred inside Joseph soul. He'd have your heart, body and mind. You'd be a perfect puppet, a follower and devoted child. He'd strip you down from that ruinous pride and tear your mind to shreds layer by layer until everything that made you you belonged to him.

We will wait out the end of the world together, Seed thought as he gazed at the car that was being quickly approached by the searing flames. For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to just walk away, but letting you have the release of death was out of question.

Joseph tilted his head every so slightly to the side when he saw the bunker entrance just about 10 meters ahead of him. For a moment the middle aged man wondered how his nor Jacob's men had never found the hatch door especially since it was close to the church where he guided his flock, but let it go since it no longer mattered. Perhaps this was just another sign, that all of this was in God's plan. The shelter would provide and protect him and his new and only child

Joseph found himself whistling softly the tune to amazing grace as he opened the car door and saw you still fighting to stay conscious, although it seemed like you were losing the fight. You looked so weak and vulnerable.

No one is coming to save you. How wrong and right Joseph had been about those words at the same time. He found it absolutely ironic that he of all people was one to save you from burning or choking to death...but then again, no one was going to save you from him. There would be no soul left alive in the world who'd even know where the two of you were...all you had was him and vice versa.

The more Joseph realized what this meant for you and him, the more vindictive, possessive and exhilarated he felt.

I will purge your soul from pride and replace it with virtues of humility and gratitude, Joseph thought darkly as he stared at your unconscious form. I will guide your lost soul back into my flock whether you want it or not. You will become my new family.

Hearing the tune to Amazing Grace seemed to stir you slightly from the state of unconsciousness, but the concussion you had suffered from the impact made sure you would not wake up properly any time soon. No doubt Joseph preferred it that way. The last thing he wanted was for you to regain consciousness and start struggling. The charismatic cult leader took a firm hold of your body and pulled you free from the car wreck. It was a miracle that aside from some nasty looking bruises and minor cuts, you were completely alright.

Hush now, it is alright, you are in my hands now: I won't let you die... Joseph thought darkly, almost possessively when you let out a small and fearful whimper, trying to stay awake. I will take care of your wretched soul. I will mend it along with your body to health, child. He carried you towards the bunker that would protect the two of you until the world was ready for them to begin anew. For a someone whose sins were painfully heavy, you weighted surprisingly little.

Joseph descended down the stairs and saw the heavy door to the bunker that was closed. However, to his surprise, it opened and he saw an aging bald man, Mr. Roosevelt if he recalled correctly, staring at him all suspiciously and warily.

“Where are the rest?!” Dutch demanded all agitated, but seemed to relax somewhat when he saw that you were not dead but merely unconscious. Despite knowing everything Joseph had done, seeing that he was trying to save the life of the person who had destroyed everything he had held dear seemed to convince Dutch that perhaps Joseph's character had changed. Oh how wrong he was.

While Joseph had certainly decided to save your life and soul, welcoming you into his family, one could argue that getting saved by him was almost a fate worse than death to you. Everything about you belonged to him now.

“They are in God's embrace,” Joseph said dryly, indicating that they had all died in the crash, albeit he had not bothered to check anyone else but you. Well if they hadn't been dead back then, they certainly were now.

“God damn it!” Dutch said grit his teeth. He looked like he wanted to just take you and leave Joseph outside his bunker...but he was not someone to let a person burn in a nuclear explosion, no matter what they had done. “ Fine! Get inside,” Dutch grunted and stepped aside to let Joseph carry your unconscious form inside Dutch's...no, Joseph's shelter.

“Come, this way,” the older man said and Joseph followed silently, his eyes boring into Dutch's back and the look in his blue eyes grew more murderous each step he took.

He has no place in my flock, Joseph found himself thinking and found himself in grips of cold, controlled anger.

The voices urging him to remove the sinner who had sheltered a wretch like you instead of handing you over to him. Oh he understood now why his men had not found you. The car had fallen into the lake and this bunker was close...no doubt the man had brought you here and provided support the whole time. Joseph knew very well where traitors belonged to; the ninth circle. If Dutch had only brought you into his care, his flock and family would not have died.

They passed a room and Joseph turned his head enough to glance inside. The wall of the room was covered in a huge map of the region, his and his herald's photos placed over their corresponding regions. It was clear to him that Dutch had to die. If it wasn't for him, you would have ended up in his tender care from the very beginning.

Their steps echoed forebodingly inside the empty bunker made of concrete and metal. The moment they'd reach their destination, the older man would die. Finally, Dutch led Joseph into a small room with a bed, some radio equipment and a couple of lockers.

“In here,” the aging bald man said and Joseph rested you down onto the floor next to the bed instead on it. If a sinner like you wanted comfort, you'd have to beg for it.

I will purge you of all sin and make you part of my family, Joseph promised as he stared at your face that looked almost angelic....even if you were an angel filled with sin. Joseph could feel something dark stir inside him, a desire to see you broken, your eyes filled with devotion and love for him. He wanted you to give him your mind, body and soul willingly, desperately even. He was going to hear you beg forgiveness, to admit to him that you were filled with sin; that all of this was your fault. I will take everything from you, child. You will become my new family. Fighting will do you no good.

The cult leader moved his hand to caress your head gently, trailing his fingers along the few bruises and cuts that bled slightly. He couldn't get enough of the sight and sensation.

You took John, Jacob and Faith away from me...it is only fitting you take their place, child.

Dutch was raving about something but Joseph had completely zoned him out, barely hearing the older man anymore. He wanted to be all alone with his captive and get rid of the noise and the unwelcome sinner.

You were his child, the only one he needed or wanted.

Joseph's gaze slowly shifted on the long bead chain around his wrist. It was all he needed to silence the bothersome noise for good.

“How could this have happened? I...I need to contact my family!” Dutch said as Joseph stood up and uncoiled the prayer beads around his hand. They were durable and would not break, after all Jacob had made them for him.

The beads were from Jacob, the tattoos from John and the concentrated Bliss he carried inside his pocket meant for you was from Faith. His family lived with him. They were all down there in spirit, welcoming you into their family.

Dutch had his back turned to Joseph and was clearly miles away, thinking of his family.

Joseph approached the old man from behind without making any noise, his expression cold and remorseless. Though not as tall as his older brother, Joseph was still taller than Dutch and 20 years younger; the doomsday survivalist would be no match for him.

By the time Dutch sensed Joseph behind him, it was far too late for him. He had no time to react or raise his hand to prevent the bead chain from getting around his neck.

Joseph's blue eyes were dead and void of any feelings as he tightened the improvised garrote wire around the older man's throat, effectively strangling him. Dutch croaked and tried to fight, but he was past his prime and despite being a survivalist and a doomsday prepper, he was no match to the psychotic younger man to whom human life had little value.

“There is no place for you in my flock,” Joseph whispered and though his body and arms were strained from controlling the struggling and dying man, his voice was calm and steady, like he wasn't really there. Joseph hummed Amazing grace softly as he listened to Dutch's dying croaks and withstood his desperate attempts to break free easily.

It was over in less than a couple of minutes. Joseph just stood there, waiting for Dutch's pained noises and hopeless struggling to die down completely. After a moment, the distant roar of the bombs was all he could hear along with your soft breathing.

When Dutch was finally gone, his arms and body limp, Joseph loosened his hold and let go of the chain of beads, letting the older man's corpse fall onto the floor. His emotionless blue eyes lingered on it for just few seconds as he recoiled the chain around his hand; a sinner such as him was not even worth a prayer.

Joseph slowly turned his attention back to you, the look on his face cold and without any mercy. The two of you were no the only living souls inside the shelter. No one would come and save you. The cult leader's steps echoed in foreboding manner as he walked over to you and knelt down.

He took hold of your hands, ready to shackle them into the bed post, but found himself stalling when he realized how soft they were despite the weeks of survival and fight. Joseph brought them to his lips and kissed them softly, despite you being a sinner and a wretch. The scent of smoke, ash and fire was mixed with your own and Joseph couldn't help but feel something stir inside him, a sin he had tried so hard to get rid of and lock away; lust.

As his eyes lingered on your lips, he could feel the desires he had locked away inside his heart start to creep back into his soul, filling him with desire, lust and greed. They scorched his soul more painfully than the flames of the nuclear fire. He feared, that no matter how much he'd take from you, he'd always want more.

For a moment, Joseph wondered if he had actually saved a demon's life rather than human's. The destruction and the pain you had brought with you could certainly make you one in his eyes.

“If you turn you to be a demon, I just keep you down here forever...I won't let you die and be free.“

Joseph finally cuffed your hands to the bed post and the sound of the metal tightening around your wrists made him feel almost dreamy. It was a sensation akin to weak hit of Bliss. With your hands cuffed, you couldn't even fight him. He was going to tear down your mental defenses and make you his most devoted and loving child.

You are my child, and I am your Father, Joseph thought as he leaned in, his lips inches apart from yours. “I will make you repent for everything, for every life lost, for every tortured soul....Mark my words, you will confess everything to me.”

Though theft was a sin, Joseph decided that he'd let the temptation take him just once. He pressed his lips against yours, stealing a kiss from your unconscious form. What had meant to be a chaste kiss was soon touched by greed and tainted by lust.

When he finally pulled back and stood up, he felt wrecked by sinful desire, lust that would send him into inferno's second circle if he let it consume him completely, and he knew he'd let it.

Joseph knew Bliss would never be enough again.

#joseph seed #the deputy #fanfiction

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‘Norman said the president wants a pyramid’: how starchitects constructed Astana

Architects have a thing for strong humen, and the big global practices from Norman Foster to Zaha Hadid have piled in in a bid to help Kazakhstans dictator, Nursultan Nazarbayev, build himself a trophy city

If you could see through the forest of selfie-sticks, the position from the upper part of the central pavilion of the Astana Expo was a prospect like no other. It was strange enough to be standing on a glass footbridge at the summit of the tallest spherical building in the world- nicknamed the Death Star- with glass bubble elevators zooming up a central neon-lit atrium behind you and a precipitous void plunging beneath your feet. All that was missing was Luke Skywalker hanging from the bridge.

But then you looked out to the horizon to see an assorted collection of pyramids, golden cones and bulging mirrored towers, lined up like a row of awardings in a particularly gaudy trophy cabinet, stopping abruptly to give way to the rolling grasslands of the Eurasian steppe. Expo sites are always surreal affairs, as souped-up fairgrounds of nationalist hubris, where novelty pavilions compete for attention with multicultural buffets, marching bands and cavorting mascots. But the weirdness on show here wasn’t the Expo. The chief novelty was the city of Astana itself.

At one end of a monumental axis stands the biggest tent in the world, the Khan Shatyr shopping center designed by British architect Norman Foster in the form of an inflated plastic yurt that glows pink and green by night. Housing dodgems, a rollercoaster and an artificial beach( with sand imported from the Maldives ), it is a tacky pleasure dome that Kublai Khan could only dream of.

At the other end of the boulevard rises an enigmatic silver pyramid, also by Foster, the Palace of Peace and Reconciliation, conceived as a meeting place for world religions, crowned with a stained-glass lantern of plunges. It stands on a grassy knoll like a venerable tomb, on axis with a pond in the shape of a bird in flight.

Foster’s Palace of Peace and Reconciliation pyramid, with the city of Astana behind. Photo: JTB Photo/ UIG via Getty Images

Between these totems of the sacred and profane are the mechanisms of state. There is the presidential palace, modelled on the White House, but eight times larger and topped with a big blue dome; a gateway of conical gold mirror-glass towers for the nation bank and insurance money; a polished grey egg for “the member states national” archives. At the centre of it all rises an observation tower, a golden orb at the top of a splayed white steel tree, like a Ferrero Rocher chocolate nestling in an upturned shuttlecock.

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Secret Stans: where are the Stans?

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Guardian City is exploring in depth the oft-ignored- and exceedingly difficult to report from- the two cities of the five Central Asian ” Stans “: Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan, a quarter of a century when they are became independent from the former Soviet Union.

From the bizarre architecture of the” trophy cities” to the pleasure and fights of everyday urban life in some very unequal societies, our goal is to engage with the people who actually live in the Stans cities by publishing some of our reporting in the languages spoken there: not just Russian, often considered the language of the elite, but Turkmen, Kazakh, Uzbek, Kyrgyz and Tajik.

You can read the rest of the Secret Stans series here.

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This unbridled architectural fantasy is the singular vision of Nursultan Nazarbayev, the first and only president of Kazakhstan, lifelong leader of the nation since 1989 and chief designer of the capital, who has expended the past 20 years constructing a city-sized monument to himself in the middle of the Asian steppe.

” Like people, cities have fates ,” wrote Nazarbayev in the Heart of Eurasia, his treatise on architecture and city planning, which reads a little like the booklet of an architect out to secure future run.” Each has a name and an individual biography of its own, a character which cannot be confused with that of any other place on earth .”

Nazarbayev’s presidential palace- modelled on the White House but eight times larger. Photo: Jane Sweeney/ Getty Images/ AWL Images RM

Walking the street of Astana, “youre feeling” definite echoes of elsewhere. It has the petrodollar glitz of the Gulf and the monumental axial planning of Pyongyang, but each mirror-glass facade is drenched with a more explicit desire to hark back to an imagined past, searching for legitimacy in the forms of ancient civilisations and Kazakh folk motifs.

” No other modern-day leader has utilized the myth-making power of architecture to construct a sense of national identity like Nazarbayev ,” says Frank Albo, author of a new volume on the Kazakh capital, Astana: Architecture, Myth and Destiny.” What you see here is a blend of postmodernism, Central Asian art, Islamic decor, Russian baroque, neoclassicism, orientalism, all melded into something that looks like Las Vegas fulfills Disneyland on nationalist steroids .” In a bid to cast off the shackles of the Soviet era, the president has embraced practically everything else.

Architects tend to have a thing for strong humen, and following the arrival of a dictator with a gushing pump of oil fund and a keen interest in architecture, few big practices have managed to resist beating a path to Nazarbayev’s door. Japan’s proudest export, Kisho Kurokawa, was the first to be employed, conjuring a cosmic masterplan for the city that has mostly been dismissed. Italian designer Manfredi Nicoletti designed the city’s concert hall, a mess of turquoise glass wings that writhe like a crash-landed kingfisher near the presidential palace. Calatrava Grace, the company run by Santiago Calatrava’s son Micael, is in discussions with the president about constructing an elaborated canopy the full length of the main boulevard.

The competition for the Expo site was won by Adrian Smith and Gordon Gill- long-time darlings of authoritarian regimes, as writers of Dubai’s tallest tower- while runners-up included Zaha Hadid, Moshe Safdie, UN Studio, Snohetta, Mecanoo and others. Newspapers are shut down, critics locked up and protesters tortured, but cor merely look at that parametric blob.

The new Khan

Building work begins in 2006 on the Khan Shatyry entertainment centre in Astana, designed by Norman Foster. Photo: Antoine Gyori/ Corbis via Getty Images

Nazarbayev decided to move the capital in the early 1990 s, soon after taking office. His reasoning has been the subject of considerable supposition ever since, particularly among the civil servants forced to move here. Home to the town of Akmola (” the white graveyard “) since the 1830 s, this uncovered plain, which ranges from -4 0C in winter to +40 C in summer, was an unlikely option, hundreds of thousands of kilometres north of the balmy former capital of Almaty.

Some say it was to shift the centre of gravity away from the border with China, while others argue that it was to cement Kazakh presence in an area that was predominantly ethnically Russian. Either route, it was primarily an opportunity to start from scratch, a blank slate on which the new leader could engrave his new world, following in the footsteps of Darius the Great and Persepolis.

As if there was any doubts concerning his self-image, at the inauguration of Astana in 1997 Nazarbayev performed an “alastau”, the ancient Mongolian fire-purification ritual culminating in a processional stroll along a white carpet, of the same kind used to elevate the great Khans to their position of power.

Astana by night, with Foster’s Khan Shatyr- the biggest tent in the world- light up on the left. Photo: Oliver Wainwright

The origin story of the city is say at some length in the Nazarbayev Centre, a gigantic stone bowl topped with a bulbous glass lens, tilted towards the presidential palace like an all-seeing eye and surrounded by a high-security perimeter fence patrolled by soldiers. Another product of the Foster office, it homes an exhibition of the president’s personal effects, from the suit he wore on inauguration day to the gold fountain pen with which he co-authored “the member states national” anthem, each reverentially illuminated in its own glass case.

Gifts from adoring nations fill more vitrines on the cascading levels of the building- a silver model of an oil pipeline from China, a bejewelled develop carriage from Turkmenistan- along with a 3D holographic presentation of medals that Nazarbayev has received from world leaders. My young guide was particularly keen to point out the signed photo of Margaret Thatcher, who wrote the foreword to another of the president’s works, The Kazakhstan Way, and he was eager to show me the leader’s personal collecting of 4, 000 volumes, housed in a special glass shrine.” He has read them all ,” he added diligently.” He is a very learned man .”

The centrepiece of this eerie mausoleum is a showing of architectural models, worked in silver, gold and semiprecious stones, shown alongside some of the initial napkin sketches drawn by Nazarbayev himself. There is his scribble of the shuttlecock-shaped Bayterek Tower, designed to represent the magical tree of life where Samruk, the mythical Kazakh bird of happiness, laid its golden egg. There is also the original model of Kurokawa’s masterplan, designed according to his principles of” metabolism and symbiosis “. He proposed an organic model of developing that would integrate the existing Soviet-era town on the right bank of the river with the new city on the left, surrounding the capital with a dense belt of trees to protect it from the icy gales. They have never been planted.

Zaha Hadid’s rejected proposal for the Astana Expo site. Photo: Zaha Hadid Designers

Walking the gaping boulevards of new Astana today, it is clear that Kurokawa’s plan was abandoned from the very beginning. The new city is an alienating place of six-lane roads punctuated by vast object builds, conceived with a total absence of human scale, making the former Soviet centre across the river feel like a cosy village in comparison. It is a place obsessed with sizing: Nazarbayev even had the Ishim river widened, so it would have the majesty of other capitals’ rivers, like the Thames, Danube or Seine. If you look at the map, the watercourse shrinks back either side of Astana, only bulging out in the centre of the city, like a snake digesting its lunch.

Adil Nurmakov, a political scientist and co-founder of Urban Forum Almaty, who lately relocated to Astana for his wife’s work, with their young child, is still reeling from the move.” I am honestly so embarrassed by our capital ,” he says.” I don’t understand how it is possible to build a city from scratch and make it so unfriendly to people. It is too monumental and car-centric and has no sensitivity to the harsh climate. The builds are so far apart that there can be no life on the street. In winter, it’s just about getting from one underground car park to the next, while in summer there’s no shade in these barren open spaces .”

On a warm August evening, there is little sign of life in the city centre. Groups of teens are to be found straying the promenade along the old right bank of the river, while across the water, a handful of households stroll down the central Nurzhol boulevard, admiring the illuminated builds, which twinkle like the battery-operated toys being hawked by a few lonely street vendors. Nazarbayev’s face looms from a five-storey high video screen, intercut with lurid fly-through films of the city’s weird houses, merging the monuments and their manufacturer together in one candy-coloured montage.

Santiago Calatrava’s son Micael, co-CEO of developing company Calatrava Grace, in talks with President Nazarbayev. Photograph: ADG

” The whole place is a combination of Kafka and Orwell ,” says Yevgeniy Zhovtis, director of the Kazakhstan International Bureau for Human Rights and Rule of Law, an NGO based in Almaty.” It has cost dozens of billions of dollars to build this vanity project, yet there are towns and villages a few kilometres away which don’t have proper roads, energy or basic civic services. All the money that is spent on heating these huge houses in wintertime and cooling them in summer could be used to fund decent services and infrastructure for the rest of the country .”

It is a common sentiment for which the$ 3bn Expo has become a potent focus, as a painful emblem of profligacy when nearly half the population still lives on $70 a month. The project was mired in scandal from the beginning, accused of diverting money from “the member states national” pension fund and subject to claims of public sector employees being forced to buy tickets to bolster visitor numbers. Three top Expo officers were arrested for theft.

” The Kazakh people are now very angry ,” says one primary school teacher, visiting the Expo with her class of children from the cities of Esil, six hours’ drive away.” We are proud that the Expo is here, but the leaders of our country have expended far too much money on it, trying to show off to the world .”

The chosen theme of” future energy” also jarred with an event that is mostly sponsored by petrol companies, in a country where oil and gas accounts for 70% of exports. I was greeted into the Shell pavilion and invited to generate my own kinetic energy by running inside a Zorb. I was invited to ponder the effects of global warming in the French pavilion, with the Total oil logo looming above a glowing Earth.

Following the Expo’s announcement, heralding the country’s transition to green energy, chairman Nazarbayev was quoted saying:” I personally do not believe in alternative energy sources, such as wind and solar ,” adding that” oil and gas is our main horse, and we should not be afraid that such is fossil fuel “.

The flags and mascots have now been swept away, and the 174 -hectare site is being converted into the new International Financial Centre, intended to seduce foreign companies with the promise of English law, tax exemptions and an independent fiscal court. It is the usual free zone model favoured by dictatorships around the world, creating a thin bubble of republic that evaporates as soon as you leave the compound.

The PR pays off?

Nazarbayev on a big screen in Astana. Photograph: Oliver Wainwright

The western-friendly mirage is something Nazarbayev has been at great pains to cultivate over the years, cementing his position as the best use of a bad bunch of autocrats in charge of the former Soviet states of central Asia. Following in Thatcher’s footsteps, Jonathan Aitken wrote a fine hagiography of the president in 2009, while Tony Blair famously enjoyed a PS5m-a-year bargain advising Nazarbayev on such matters as how to deal with the massacre of striking workers in the oil town of Zhanaozen in 2011. (” These events, tragic though they were ,” Blair wrote in 2012, advising on a speech to be given at Cambridge University,” should not obscure the enormous progress that Kazakhstan has built .”)

Some of the PR is paying off. Between 2016 and 2017 Kazakhstan leapt from 51st to 35 th place on the World Bank’s ease of doing business rankings. Yet, on the world press freedom index, it languishes at 157 th out of 180 countries and stands at 131st on the corruption perceptions indicator. Now aged 77, Nazarbayev is cracking down more than ever before, stillness critics and crushing opponent, his advancing age accentuating his paranoia and passion for control.

Bjarke Ingels’ design for the Astana National Library. Photograph: BIG

Kazakhstan has not had an election that could be considered free and fair by independent monitors in 25 years of Nazaybayev’s rule, according to Human Right Watch. The chairman has exempted himself from laws limiting presidential terms and received 97.7% of the vote in the recent elections. The main opposition newspapers were all banned in 2013 and the internet is now closely controlled. Peaceful protests against the government’s proposed land reforms in 2016 conclude with the two organisers being given <a href="http://ift.tt/2zCFgVg